By late morning the boathouse had a basket of knitted palms on the counter, each pair small enough for a paddle blade. The attendant fitted them one oar at a time and asked the water, very quietly, whether it was ready.
We asked at the kiosk by the dock. "They used to slap the surface like they were late for lunch," said a man waiting for a rowboat. "Now they smooth the pond first. My sandwich didn't even wobble."
The lilies began nodding back. A note from the park keeper asked visitors not to hurry the gloves: a stroke is better after a greeting, and the pond likes to be introduced. By evening a second boat came around just to watch the oars wave, and the lilies kept their places as if they had been expecting company.