When you have spent a quarter of a century with someone, nearly everywhere you go (unless it it for the first time), you carry a knapsack of memories. And, even when these memories are of your failures together (on several occasions) to peacefully navigate Kealakekua Bay in a little yellow kayak as a team to snorkel in the shadow of the Captain Cook monument, you can laugh now.
Thus, you reminisce into the ocean about the several trips you took together and the salt that crusted your skin and how sore you were and the sun and the complaining into the wind. You didn’t see spinner dolphins, your partner was paddling on the wrong side, something was wrong with the craft.
Then you marvel at the afternoon your saw your parents set off, moving together as a shadow does, as if they were just strolling across the choppy water.
And, you think: It takes time and practice to move like that together. So you keep practicing.