The sky cast a murky, grey mood on the river and an echo hung silent in the air. It was a dank Saturday morning and my team was preparing for an upcoming race. As we launched the boat into the river, the turbid water crawled over and seeped into my socks. I sighed, peering through the heavy blanket of mist knowing that this would be a long practice.

Just as our boat hit the middle of the river, the light pitter-patter sound of rain started playing a quiet tune with the dancing, charged water. Desperate to squeeze in an extra session, the dour voice of our coach said, “No stopping.” We all groaned. As the rain continued to cascade down, the salty storm trickled through my thin jacket and soon I was soaked to the bone. The cold then slowly crept in, possessed to make me as uncomfortable as possible. The boat was becoming water-logged and my face was pink and raw from the whipping rain. Though my arms were burning, we continued to row on through a deafening silence. The atmosphere was taut and the tension continued to build in the air, spirits whispering secrets.

Suddenly, a crack tore the sky open and a hot flash of white glared before my eyes. Then, as soon as it came, it ceased to exist. But the aftermath of the strike was undeniable. Right in front of our very own eyes, an old rail-bridge was severed down the middle. The smell of burnt wood drifted through the air and overwhelmed my senses. I wrinkled my nose frantically trying to remove the taste while attempting to row at the same time. Then, all at once, the water surged and the wind started howling. We accelerated, frantic to get out, and the boat heaved and groaned under the strain.

And then, it happened.

My arms hung loose and my clothes felt as if they were torn from my corpse. We had lost control of the boat and it pitched over, hurling my team into the river. I was sinking. Thinking back now, all I could comprehend was a sensation of zero gravity and my mouth flooded with the taste of lightning and zucchini. At that time, shards of thoughts flashed through my head, some of which were fish pee, mermaids swimming through the Hudson River, and how I could get rid of that awful zucchini zest. And in that cloudy water, I thought to myself, what a bad, bad day to go rowing. Later on, recounting this story, I realized it was not the river that tasted like the terrorizing legume, but rather my upset stomach remembering that for breakfast, I had zucchini bread.