To trumpet a history of sun bathing is by current standards as seductive as proclaiming a lifetime of cigarette smoking.  It’s plainly no longer fashionable. But after lying in the sun this afternoon by the pool for about two hours I am reminded of what it is about sun bathing that so captivates me.  My earliest recollection of my trance with the warmth and effect of the sun is oddly a wintertime memory.  My longtime friend Max and I used to walk about the campus when we were at boarding school together.  If it were a sunny day I would make a point of throwing myself upon the snow with my arms and legs splayed (in the fashion of making a snow angel) and lie there with the sun beating upon me, jokingly urging, “Burn, Baby! Burn!”  Of course it was pointless to expect that I’d get anything approaching a tan from such an interlude.  However in the warmer days of late Spring I would take a break from my studies by going to the back fields of the campus where I would sprawl upon a towel in the warm sun.  That was serious business and though I may live to regret it, at the time it did a lot to advance the brownish colour of my skin.

A more glamorous rendition of sun bathing was when I was about seventeen years old traveling with my family on the Costa Brava in Spain. We had a beachside “apartmento” for a month.  Every morning around 10:00 o’clock after the Mediterranean fog burned off, I crossed the esplanade to the beach where, lathered in copious amounts of Sea and Ski suntan lotion (the stuff in the iconic dollar green plastic container), I alternated between the beach and the sea.  When I subsequently arrived in Paris, France to meet another of my school chums he told me he didn’t recognize me when I was standing on the opposite side of Avenue des Champs-Élysées waiting for him; he thought I was a black man!

While studying at university and law school I returned to my parents’ home in the summers.  At the age of 18 I had begun what was to become a lifetime affair with the bicycle. I spent almost my entire spare time cycling on the splendid paths which crisscrossed Ottawa and the nearby Gatineau Hills. When the weather permitted I would wear only my tattered bicycle shorts to afford maximum exposure to the sun.  As a result I cultivated a deep tan. Sometimes after cycling I would relax in the sun on a chaise longue in the back yard of my parents’ home.  The summer of Articles after graduating from law school saw me bicycling about 100 miles per week, a lonely existence following the dissolution of my engagement to be married, but otherwise healthful and colourful as a result.

It wasn’t until I was in my early thirties that I could afford to take holidays on my own yet it was only for a week at a time and most often no more than twice a year – once for a week around Labour Day and later for a week in the winter.  When I was on Cape Cod in September I virtually maintained office hours at the beach. I deliberately walked to the beach from Provincetown so that I could maximize my exposure to the sun. I would remain in the sun for the entire day, sometimes returning to the Town looking terribly red.  Yet in spite of the foolishness of such over-exposure I invariably felt terrific after a day in the sun.  Whether there is any truth to the Vitamin D theory about the sun I have no idea, but something about the sun made me feel especially good. Naturally there was a measure of vanity at play and I did everything possible to capitalize upon the effect of a deep tan – wearing lemon coloured clothing, shiny jewellery and watches, that sort of thing.  But the predominant motive was always the rejuvenating internal effect of the sun upon my body and soul.

When I was not going on southern vacations I had to satisfy myself with only an occasional bit of lounging on the small back porch of my house. Because the house faced southwest, the afternoon sun could become incredibly hot in the summer.  Sunbathing in that context hardly compared favourably with sitting on a beach or beside a pool.  If I needed a pool I had to settle for one at the better hotels, specifically those which had outdoor pools which are not exactly common in Canada.  The former Four Seasons Hotel on Sherbrooke Street in Montréal had one such pool but sunbathing there was at the mercy of the hour of the day as the pool was on the third level of the hotel surrounded by office buildings.

It has only been in the past five years of my life that my winter holidays have been extended. After much trial and error our destination is Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.  The weather there is never what you’d call hot though it hasn’t prevented me from getting some colour while reclining on the beach or by the pool.  Obviously the necessity to dress for the weather mitigates against getting a full body tan but that is rather more a bonus than a disappointment at my age.  Happily I am still able to combine the glorious sunshine with my love of bicycling.

Bowling Green
The Everly Brothers

“Kentucky sunshine makes the heart unfold
It warms the body
And I know it touches the soul“

Will you be my Valentine
Forever and a day?
The thought of you is all I need
To make me feel quite gay.

Will you be my Valentine
Before time slips away?
I want to spend it all with you;
You make me feel that way.

Will you be my Valentine
Or make me stay at bay?
It’s all I’ll ever want
Both now and any day.

Will you be my Valentine
As I see no other way?
The chance we have to be as one
So please do not say nay.

Will you be my Valentine
This time and every day?
The thought of you is all I need
To make me feel Okay.

While I abhor the possibility that Hilton Head Island could be characterized as a ghetto for Canadian tourists, I nonetheless appreciate that we were invited to join a knot of our compatriots for lunch today.  The seven of us congregated at the very popular “Crazy Crab” restaurant in Harbour Town.  For our part, we bicycled there from our nearby digs in Calibogue Cay, about a ten-minute hike.  The others motored from their place also in Sea Pines but further distant.

We all sat together at a long, heavy wooden table highly polished to a gloss, reminiscent of the traditional furnishings which are commonplace in Cape Cod.  Our dark blue face-cloth napkins complemented the look.  It was the measure of our delight being in one another’s company that even after the waitress had taken and delivered our drink orders no one had decided what to have for lunch.  The waitress abruptly interrupted our flow of conversation to press upon us the details of the daily specials.  Clearly our leisurely agenda did not correspond to her own. The table chatter continued, skipping lightly from one subject to another, music, books, real estate and travel.  Remarkably we avoided politics entirely.

At the termination of our lunch we succumbed to the usual need of tourists to take photos of the congregation.  We even enlisted the now defeated waitress to assist.  Outside the restaurant the photography continued, this time with the harbour yachts as a backdrop.  At last we parted company but only for a moment as we agreed to reconnect at our hosts’ digs oceanside.  Once there we languished on the deck overlooking the sea and the late afternoon sun on the surf and the beach.  We Canadians were a very long way from the cold and snow, blissful in the surrounding beauty of the Island.

Although I put up a moderate struggle on and off for the better part of an hour, the featherbed held me captive until 9:00 o’clock this morning. My indolence was inexcusable! I hadn’t even the defence of saying I went to bed late last evening;  I didn’t.  In fact I was in bed earlier than usual, something approaching ten o’clock at the latest.  I can only urge that my regular daily bicycling for the past three months has at last caught up with me.

In any event, what does it matter!  It’s not as though I have to go to work or that I had promised but failed to be somewhere.  This is what one does at my stage of life  – nothing!  I conducted my usual morning purifications with customary precision.  It requires labour to get through the first waking hour of the day until the pain killers kick in and until I am able to facilitate the movement of my lower back.  Modest stretching of my limbs helps.  Long gone are the days when I began the day with one hundred push-ups.

My ablutions accomplished, I gingerly descended the wooden staircase in my sock feet to the main floor, first connecting my iPhone to my MacBook Pro to recharge it for the upcoming day before going to the kitchen. Through the living room and kitchen windows I could see we were headed for another warm and sunny day.  The blue sky was everywhere evident behind the sea pines. The standard breakfast preparations commenced, a bowl of California Mandarin orange wedges, sliced banana and black berries. Contemporaneously the dark roast coffee was brewing. Armed with my bowl of fruit, a paper serviette, small fork and cup of strong black coffee I eased my way to the computer. There I checked email, bank and investment accounts and tweaked a piece I had been composing last evening.  While I am not particularly conscious of the serenity of my awakening, I know in retrospect that not every morning in the past was so peaceful.  How soon the recollection of pain evaporates!  There was a time not so long ago when each morning began with a groan and a philippic.

It was another hour before I completed the subsequent courses of my breakfast, a succession of protein and grains.  The high tide for Calibogue Cay was 2:05 p.m. which meant that my late start of the day jeopardized cycling on the beach until the afternoon. I partially filled the gap by lounging in the sun by the pool for almost an hour.  The sun was terribly warm, almost hot, and I relinquished my repose. We then decided to use the available opportunity to complete our grocery shopping. The local grocery store stocks superb provisions.

After the shopping and on our way into Sea Pines we asked the guard at the gate whether we might use the entrance which we understood was reserved for local property owners.  To our surprise the officer advised that we, as long-term residents, may use either lane.  This is fortuitous as it means we are able to avoid the line-ups which go with the issuance of day passes for temporary interlopers.  I mention this banal detail because in its small way it lubricates the ease of life on the Island.

Once home I set off on my bicycle for South Beach with the intention of joining the beach at Lands End then cycling northward with the wind at my back.  I had discovered that the wind was relatively strong at 13 mph out of the southwest. For whatever reason as I wound my way under the languid hanging moss from Calibogue Cay to South Beach I chose to go only as far as Tower Beach. It turns out to have been a wise decision.  When I proceeded along the boardwalk onto the beach it was immediately apparent that the tide had receded insufficiently for bicycling.  No matter, I was happy to plop myself on the edge of the dunes, putting myself in direct line with the blazing sun in the southern sky.  I lay down on the sand and propped my head with my shoes on the front wheel of my reclining bicycle.  The strong wind abraded my face with stinging particles of sand.  But it could not have bothered me less.  The sun was warm and the Ocean was crashing within 100 feet of where I lay. The wind was so strong that it caused the tops of the waves to be thrown back with a spray.  There were small children playing nearby at the edge of the water, building a castle and a moat. Their father sat in a beach chair watching them.

Subsequently I resolved to pedal home.  My initial attempt at cycling on the beach was unsuccessful.  I sunk into the sand every twenty feet or so.  I turned back, thinking I would have to abandon my project of cycling to Beach Club in the late afternoon sun on the beach.  But as I reversed my steps I reflected that perhaps the beach would be drier and firmer further along as it is often mushy only at this remote end of the beach.  So I retraced my steps and walked my bicycle along the beach until it widened and appeared more suitable.  And it was.  With the strong wind at my back I sailed to Beach Club, admiring the white capped waves and blue sky reflection in the water lingering on the shore.  The trip through the golf course to Calibogue Club was extraordinarily pleasant and I repeatedly exclaimed to myself what a superb day it was!

The measure of a triumph is by no means universal. This is particularly so when the components of one’s daily activity hardly approach clocking in at the Forum for an afternoon of diversion with the African feline set.  In fact so remote are the details of my life from anything resembling challenge or adventure that it must per force appear quite presumptuous of me even to consider denominating my goings-on as a victory of any description whatsoever.  Nevertheless I do. I have always accommodated my trifling affairs by reasoning that they are what life has afforded me; and within that vernacular I am entitled to ascribe any small comparative achievement I so desire.  As some brainy bird has said, “It’s all relative!”

So while I hesitate to launch headlong into this matter of piffling victories for fear of representing myself as entirely shallow, the facts are the facts and I must relate them as I see them.  Take for example hair, not normally considered by most to be an especially compelling subject.  I must however divert my learned reader’s attention from the strict focus upon the res in question and ask instead that you allow the persuasion of metaphor to enlarge upon the otherwise cornball topic.  Although I wouldn’t go so far as to attribute biblical proportions to hair as Samson and Delilah may have done, it is I believe arguable that hair in modern society has its poetic appeal.  The appeal is traditionally aligned with youth and beauty (more of that metaphysical stuff) and as such it would normally be beyond the scope of someone my age.  Call it bravado or arrogance or unqualified silliness, but I decided several months ago that I wanted a new hair style.  I initiated the undertaking when we arrived on the Island.  In a nutshell, the plan was to develop what might jokingly be called the “bowl” look, you know: the way one’s hair would look if a bowl had been put on one’s head, then the hair were cut below the rim.  I put the proposal to my local hair architect.  Somewhat to my surprise he embraced the idea without any apparent reservation.  Arguably he could care less; but I believe he thought it might pass as fashionable even for someone of my vintage.  I later noted with an instant of stinging regret that the proposed cut may even have loosely resembled the stylist’s own, but I let it go.

Our first run at the style seemed to work well.  The finite lines on the side were visible with some effort.  It would after all require time for the distinction between the length of the top and the bottom to become evident. My hair stylist said as much and we cheerfully coordinated our next appointment to give further force to the project.  When we met again three weeks later matters took an unexpected turn for the worse.  In a frenzy to share the mundane details of our lives (as hairdressers and patrons are apparently wont to do with sometimes startling liberality), I failed to reiterate my ambitions and the stylist completely forgot what he had previously pioneered.  In the result he smoothed out the faint demarcation between the top and bottom cuts and in an instant I was restored to where I had been in the past as though nothing had changed!

Because the devastation wasn’t immediately apparent, it wasn’t until I returned home that I realized the mission had been effectively abandoned. There was naturally no point in doing anything about it at the time.  But I certainly resolved that upon my subsequent return I would avoid falling into the contaminating chumminess of our prior congress and emphasize in the clearest of terms what I proposed.  This I did three weeks later.  The stylist was obliged to concede the oversight but he knew as well that no amount of remorse would reverse the loss.  So we just charged ahead and did what could be done to restore the previous status quo; that is, the definitive line between the longer top and the shorter bottom.  Because his previous work had done so much to eliminate this much desired distinction, we were once again at the mercy of time to cultivate what was only within the power of nature to do.

This brings me to the subsequent and latest visit with my hair stylist. That was yesterday. Fastened as I was to the “once burnt, twice shy” theorem, I spared no subtlety when restating to him what I wanted and what I expected. With predictable assiduity he applied himself to the fulfillment of these objectives.  The effluxion of time had enabled the desired definition and it is thus that I proclaim a victory.  So apparent was the advance of the collaborative enterprise that the stylist and I have agreed to rendez-vous one last time before I leave the Island for the season.  This final meeting promises to be the crowning touch!  The goal will have been won!

Now on the heels of that small victory it must seem unlikely that I should have the benefit of yet another in a short space of time.  Yet I do!  Last evening as I was playing my new keyboard the bench beneath me slowly collapsed. Although it was not my immediate conclusion, a subsequent examination and analysis of the bench revealed what was unquestionably a manufacturer’s assembly defect.  Were it not for the assembly error the device would have performed without trouble.  I was now faced with the task of resolving the issue.

I placed a dining room chair in the position of the former bench but my interest in playing the keyboard had by then dissipated.  I was in the grip of a dilemma!  I went to bed. But I could not sleep. My resolve was to return the bench to the retailer the following morning but I hadn’t worked through in my mind the many possible ramifications of doing so.  In this age of on-line retailing I wondered whether the retailer would take what for him might be the convenient path of referring me directly to the manufacturer for satisfaction.  The retailer had made it clear when I bought the keyboard a month ago that his price was the same as the on-line price which made me speculate he may now wish to extend the fact to embrace after-sale concerns. I dismissed that possible eventuality by reasoning that in view of what was likely the modest price of the bench I would in any event get a new one to replace it, to hell with the minimal cost of the other.  I did however insulate my pride by fashioning that if that were the predicament in which I found myself I would make it clear to the retailer that I had no intention of repeating my initial error in dealing with him, and that I would purchase the replacement bench elsewhere (though I hadn’t any idea where that might be).  It then occurred to me that the retailer may not even have a replacement.  This in turn led me to consider whether he would be good enough to arrange for the return of the defective product to the manufacturer on my behalf.  Then I became distressed about the timing – we were leaving the Island within a matter of weeks.  Would the replacement from the manufacturer have to be sent to Canada?  And what about Customs?  Would I have duty to pay on it?  And what if I had declared it already?  Double duty?  Should I deduct the cost from my Declaration upon our return?  And what was the cost?  Had the bench been included in the price of the keyboard?  What if the retailer attempted to correct the bent hinge of the damaged bench?  I wouldn’t accept it – it might weaken the strength of the metal!  I had to have a new one and that was all there was to it!  At any price!

These increasingly bizarre problems churned over and over again in now my enfeebled mind.  At last I must have fallen asleep as it was after eight o’clock this morning when I awoke to the realization that the time had come to set in motion my much rehearsed Return Policy Statement.  Almost instantly I was haunted by all possible outcomes but thankfully the moment of reckoning was so close as to limit amplification. We determined the retailer opened business at ten o’clock as I had expected.  By ten o’clock I had completed my standard breakfast ritual and we were on our way, damaged bench repackaged in its original cardboard box, all now in the back seat of the car.

Upon entering the retailer’s premises and after exchanging the usual pleasantries concerning one’s health and the weather, he quizzically enquired about my concern. I provided a brief summary of the problem whereupon he seized a new bench and put it into my hands without question or hesitation.  The many imagined complications dissolved in an instant!  Another victory!

If that weren’t enough for one day, upon returning home I received an email from a colleague who, in addition to applauding my literary talents (incontestable music to any writer’s ears), affirmed his support of my recent political observations which I had shared with him and his wife.  I could hardly believe my continuing good fortune!  We ornamented the numerous advantages of the day by getting ourselves onto our bicycles and pedalling for close to three hours on the open, brilliantly sunny beach under a perfectly clear cerulean sky.

“Uniform” is perhaps too strong a word for the less severe instance of demeanour that I intend to address.  I want something stronger than appearance but perhaps with more intention, such as “bearing” or “carriage”, maybe even “comportment”.  You see the thing is that I want to encompass everything from the business suit to popular fashion.

The British aristocracy was famous for its costumes.  There was something for the morning, the afternoon and the evening; fox hunting, polo and cricket.  Where they left off the military took it up.  It is impossible to watch any movie from the early Hollywood days (when every actor oddly spoke with a British accent) that didn’t include distinguishing apparel for both the ladies and the gentlemen.

In my lifetime I have had my own parade of outfits, beginning with “Number 1” dress at boarding school, where we also had the mandatory highland dress for the cadet corps.  In later life as a professional legal advisor I cultivated the stock three-piece suit and watch chain.  I was fortunate to dip into the world of evening wear when attending The Liguanea Club in Kington, Jamaica when it was a still a strictly private members club. The consummation of the dedication was however the Masonic Lodge which provided endless opportunities for variation to even the less than creative mind.

As might be expected there is a cost associated with these indulgences, something which mitigates against the absorption even assuming one has the occasion on which to use the outfits.  As fond as I am of matters sartorial, my diminishing social involvement has perhaps conveniently coincided with my expanding waistline which in turn puts me off these expensive habits.  There can be no doubt that vanity plays a considerable rôle in these affairs. I still maintain a modest semblance of propriety by regularly sporting a silk scarf in the cooler months of the year but even that pretension has taken a back seat in view of our recent hibernation in South Carolina.  As well my determination to leave the professional world forever has made me rather reluctant to attend even semi-formal events.  The model now is strictly comfort. Gone are the days of tailor-made plaid trousers.  They went with the Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket and the kilt, along with all the other accessories.

Apart from having laundered my bedclothes and bath towels today (as I do here every Monday morning) I have done nothing for the entire day other than eat, read, play the piano keyboard and sleep.  I snoozed in the large tan leather chair this morning after breakfast and again on the monstrous sectional couch this afternoon after lunch.  While I dozed I heard the crashing pine cones, tossed by the unusually forceful winds from the surrounding sea pines onto the wooden deck.  The winds have ushered in clear air to push aside the rain and clouds we had this morning.

The inclement weather was my pretext for remaining indoors but it killed me to do so.  This afternoon after the sky cleared the blue vault constantly beckoned me and wore upon my morning guise.  It goes entirely against my grain to have no enterprise, to divert myself only by my imagination, to separate myself from industry to introspection and thought. I am  however bound to confess I am pleased to have done so.  The piano for example requires time as much as study to foster inspiration.  I am still adjusting to the novelty of the keyboard sounds and the light touch of the keys. I have sadly not enlarged my repertoire.  On the literary front I finally attacked James Joyce’s monumental “Ulysses” which admittedly may in part explain my daytime somnolence.

It is so like me to tie myself in knots about not “doing” anything. I seemingly have to be on the go at all times, jumping from one scheme to another.  At least I can report that I had the anticipated conversation with our financial advisor to get that matter out of the way.  I can use that heroic accomplishment to appease my anxiety.  On the other hand, now that most of the day is behind me and the opportunity to do anything different is all but exhausted, I am content not to have submitted to those unreasoned urges and to have stayed put for once.  Inertia after all is a dichotomous  condition – never moving or never stopping.

Since our arrival on the Island we have relentlessly prosecuted our original plan to bicycle.  The diligence is showing its results but they’re not quite what I would have anticipated.  The sylph-like form is not of what I speak; rather it is the sore knees and back. This persistent exercise has wrought corporeal ruin!  I have reluctantly accepted that a break is a good thing to enable one’s body to recuperate.  It should not astound me not to have known that rudimentary fact as I have seldom engaged in such sustained exercise.  We are revamping our philosophy to reduce the daily jaunts from what are routinely four-hour hikes to something closer to two hours each.

After 2 1/2 months here I am adjusting to the acknowledgement that one needn’t be as frantic as I have been about milking the occasion for everything it’s worth.  It is an anomaly for me to have so much time to myself in a place which is perpetually pleasant. Historically there has always been a time limit upon such pleasure; now it’s a matter of pacing ourselves.

In common usage, the term “inertia” may refer to an object’s “amount of resistance to change in velocity” (which is quantified by its mass), or sometimes to its momentum, depending on the context. The term “inertia” is more properly understood as shorthand for “the principle of inertia” as described by Newton in his First Law of Motion: that an object not subject to any net external force moves at a constant velocity. Thus, an object will continue moving at its current velocity until some force causes its speed or direction to change. Wikipedia