I am drifting—mentally—and I know I shouldn’t be, but it’s just so lovely and perfect that all I want to do is sit and stare.
The restaurants are filling up.
The tide is going out.
The little ferries churn their way back and forth to the island beach.
A crew of five is rowing a boat, perhaps getting ready for the summer races. On the return trip, the following current is so strong that the boat creates a wake. (You can just see it, middle of the channel, near the marker.)
The setting sun is lighting up the barrier island in front of me, all golden greens bisected by half-full channels.
Summer rhythms vibrate in the heavy air.
Tourist season has hit and people wander the main street, trying to figure out where to eat, what’s good, what’s not good. The little bakery next door has moved to longer summer hours and the servers are already tired. It’s going to be a long season.
June feels like last year’s August. It doesn’t get cool enough to sleep until the wee small hours of the morning. Last night, a few workers from the restaurant below sat out talking until 2:00 or 2:30. I was still up—no way was I going to waste the vision of the full moon reflecting off the still waters of the Tavira Channel. It was too hot to sleep; might as well enjoy the view. I lay crosswise in my bed, looking up at the moon. I listened to their muffled voices. It reminded me of my childhood, hearing my parents’ muffled voices in the living room, talking and softly laughing, enjoying their quiet time now that the kids were finally in bed.
I can see a strip of blue Atlantic on the other side of the barrier island. Not visible or at least distinguishable in the winter, for whatever reason. I take particular delight in seeing it. The Atlantic of the Portuguese and Spanish explorers that I learned about in grade school. I feel like I can touch history.
I promise myself a glass of wine on days I complete my work or at least make good progress. The truth is I can have a glass of wine anytime I want, of course. Even at my advanced age, I think of having a glass of wine as a little daring, a little naughty. Why? Perhaps because it was forbidden for the first 18 years of my life.
Today I have “earned” my wine. I have shipped a completed manuscript back to my coaching client, ready to go to a fresh set of editing eyes. I have typed in a chapter of my current work in progress, adding to it as I went. I met with my writers’ group. I planned out tomorrow. I defrosted chicken for tonight’s dinner—something I usually forget to do until the last minute.
Some days I feel like a combine harvester, mowing down my fields of words, threshing them to separate the wheat from the chaff. Working my way up and down the rows of my mind.
There’s a rhythm to my days, a rhythm to the tides. And a contentment that comes from a solid day’s work and evening’s reward.
