According to the New York Times, “on Wednesday, a team of researchers at the University of Chicago reported that our hands share a deep evolutionary connection not only to bat wings or horse hooves, but also to fish fins.” Using molecular markers, they found conclusive proof that human beings share a common ancestor with fish and that, ultimately, (or make that originally), we all come from the sea.
So, it’s not surprising that most of the people in the world live near coasts, nor that, by and large, humans are drawn to water, whether it be to swim, surf, boat, fish, float, or any number of other one-syllable activities.
What is unusual, however, is how enthusiastically three dozen or so cyclists can pedal across and to the eastern shore of their city’s most prominent body of fresh water in order to dunk themselves in the drink (and the Lake, as well) and, even more amazingly, do so with sufficient alacrity to arrive in time to catch the last rays of sunlight as our planet’s star sinks behind the horizon on a summer evening almost two months after the longest day of the year.
The glassy surface of the water glowed pink while pale bodies rose above the rosiness like mayonnaise mangroves in a happy human swamp.
Feet were challenged during the rocky ingress and egress, but if you floated for as long as possible, the worst could be avoided—literally, of course, as well as figuratively.
Fireball gymnastics were assayed without success, but with plenty of LOLs; I myself found it to be an effective governor on my consumption of the whiskey to only allow myself as much as I could handle while floating on my back.
Eventually, the full moon appeared in the east and silvery shadows assembled for the ride back across the water.
Hands and feet that once were fins connected with handlebars and pedals, back from whence we came, onward to the future.
So, it’s not surprising that most of the people in the world live near coasts, nor that, by and large, humans are drawn to water, whether it be to swim, surf, boat, fish, float, or any number of other one-syllable activities.
What is unusual, however, is how enthusiastically three dozen or so cyclists can pedal across and to the eastern shore of their city’s most prominent body of fresh water in order to dunk themselves in the drink (and the Lake, as well) and, even more amazingly, do so with sufficient alacrity to arrive in time to catch the last rays of sunlight as our planet’s star sinks behind the horizon on a summer evening almost two months after the longest day of the year.
The glassy surface of the water glowed pink while pale bodies rose above the rosiness like mayonnaise mangroves in a happy human swamp.
Feet were challenged during the rocky ingress and egress, but if you floated for as long as possible, the worst could be avoided—literally, of course, as well as figuratively.
Fireball gymnastics were assayed without success, but with plenty of LOLs; I myself found it to be an effective governor on my consumption of the whiskey to only allow myself as much as I could handle while floating on my back.
Eventually, the full moon appeared in the east and silvery shadows assembled for the ride back across the water.
Hands and feet that once were fins connected with handlebars and pedals, back from whence we came, onward to the future.
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