The waves rock the thin boat. Splashing and hitting your skin. Your clothes become wet but you still row on, the oars clutched tight in your hands. You ponder wistfully about those simple times. When you would wrinkle your nose at the scent of the brackish water. When you would heave in and out while pushing and pulling the long wooden sticks. The green grass that surrounded your watery oasis. You could see the plants sticking out from the rich brown soil, the white poisonous fungi. Those thousands of mushrooms that littered the beautiful plain. Those poor little plants ruled by the looming trees that billowed in synchronous with the waves.