It’s April, the month I long for each year more than any other. The first crocuses, daffodils and forsythia are doing their annual interpretive dances as David, waging small but bright insurrections against the Goliath of late snowfalls, muddy slush and the last of the endless gray skies.
It was kind of early for a swim, but later that day I’d be on a plane back to the loathsome winter of the Northeast. I knew I’d regret it if I missed a chance to float in the warm turquoise of the Caribbean, so I roused myself, shaking off my natural laziness, stoked to its peak by the sun’s hypnotic whisper to just relax. Why, oh why didn’t I listen?
Writing a monthly column has its challenges, though they’re not what you might think. It’s true that a good topic can be temporarily elusive, but a very early wake-up call summons a patch of quiet time and space to think. Deadline pressure and strong coffee usually does the rest. (If I don’t have more than a dozen good ideas buried somewhere in my subconscious after four decades of living, I haven’t been living right.) No, the hard part is timing.
I stopped by the boatyard today — for that least-rewarding ritual of boat ownership, paying the bill — but the inevitable pain of the moment was (mostly) assuaged by a visit to my boat. There she was, on jackstands, newly hauled and not yet shrink-wrapped. It was late in the day, and the wintry sunlight (golden but cold) glinted off her pale blue hull. She looked good — a little lonely and bereft of purpose, but good. All in all, she struck me as “resting up” for next season’s adventures, but of course, I may have been projecting.
I spent much of my childhood in upstate New York, and though I tend to be nostalgic, I have a lifelong hatred of winter. It’s unreasonable, I know, and I’m trying to do better.
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