Woke early, writing in bed. No visitors, children mysteriously silent. In sleep? The whole world is outside, a full complement of God's grandeur and a sprinkling of man's. Birds at the feeder, the downy woodpecker vying for alpha-bird with the bluejay. No mist rises from the river. It is flat and calm. The valley is still sleeping. There is a hint of sunlight through the white, opaque sky, an idea of day.

This morning I had a vision of a time when the train that runs through town will be a high-speed commuter train, traveling to and from the city. That may come in my time; I don't clamor for it. Now, I love the hum and rumble of the freight as it slows through the town and the whistle as it blows its greeting. The bridge to PA has that hum and rumble, too. We have taken to calling it the Rumble-Hum Bridge.

We find ourselves in the naming game a lot in our new digs. The islands that sit in the river here in the flats have become: Innisfree, Brigadoon (often submerged) and Roan Inish, which means seal island. In fact we have seen river otter swimming down along the island, looking much like the seals off the coast of Galway. We are told that Innisfree is also known as Deer Island. To be sure that we are clear when identifying the areas the children are allowed to swim or kayak in, we named them as well. The swift canal that runs between the mainland and Innisfree is called Inishowen, which means island river in Gaelic. The smaller and safer area between Innisfree and Brigadoon is Iskebeg, or little water.

Our house, too, has found a name. After much discussion, the name Dunowen satisfied us all. It means fort on the river, which, along with the close proximity to Fort Delaware, seemed fitting for a family fresh from a roots-seeking trip to the Emerald Isle. We neglected to notice, however, that it names a state we are not likely to be in for the foreseeable future, i.e., "done owing." Our city friends, who visit regularly to fish and kayak from our backyard, call their lower Manhattan loft, "Still rentin'" in mockery of our homesteader status.

Our first foray into the river was hastened by a particularly warm day in April. We hoisted the boats across the precarious suspension bridge that links our property to the big island. Finding a muddy bank sloping down to Iskebeg, my son and I managed to ease him and the kayak into the water. It was warm and placid. His immediate joy was evident. Defying my suggestion that he stay in Iskebeg, he rounded Innisfree and headed for the more exciting Inishowen. Our neighbor, Ray, had his dock in, so Conor tied up there and he and his sister spent the day frolicking in the cool water, daring each other to go too far.

Meanwhile, I persuaded my husband to join in the recreation. Wresting the kayaks from our distracted children, we sank into the shells and felt the river life surround us. Kayaking, as I suppose is true with canoeing, is unlike any other boating experience. You are a creature of the river, not a flailing, splashing human, but a silent, living part of nature. The river sounds different from up-close; a kind of humming mixed with the trill of birdcalls.

We had ignored our own good sense and were moving down-river into open water. Jim wanted to circumnavigate the big island. I was ahead and soon heard a rushing sound. I figured it to be the waterfall, but thought it was farther down. Intense concentration as I searched the banks, the water, even the sky for the source of the sound. Soon, it showed itself to be rapids caused by the shallow water.

With thoughts of the children still swimming up-river and my own inexperience on this river, in this craft, I called back to Jim to turn around. He hadn't heard the sound yet; he kept on paddling. I turned and paddled hard against the current; in an instant Jim was farther downriver. As he turned and paddled I could see that he wasn't going anywhere.

We survived this initiation intact. It was exhilarating and humbling and the sounds of the river that day are some of the strongest memories of our first adventure in our new home.