Heading out to sea while understandably not for the faint of heart, is otherwise and (by what I imagine to be reasonable standards) considered a glamorous and fetching celebration charged with magnetic potential and intrigue. What after all could be more wholesome than bouncing about on a cork on open water miles from land’s end or familiar territory with nothing but the horizon to indicate whence you came or wither you go! And from what little I recall of my erstwhile sailing days, the character of the sea is highly mutable though seemingly inconspicuous.

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The rain has formed shiny blobs of water each the size of a beetle on the black balcony railing. Beyond the balcony perimeter in the field 100 yards away the corn stalks arise from their nutritional palette with golden crowns in parallel lines throughout the 25-acre parcel. A hawk sails low over the weeds and flowers in the meadow. The river churns endlessly on. A squall flattens and polishes a portion of the river surface surrounding a large shoreline tree. The sky is a uniform murky grey with the occasional blur of azure.  The humidity is palpable. The blobs of water on the balcony railing are not drying. They persist like clear plastic buttons or ornaments suitable for a cake. The dilapidated barn in the distance is now almost completely consumed by the surrounding verdancy in the field.

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It is only within the past 4 months (since we precipitously learned of the inhibiting sale aspirations of our landlord on Key Largo) that we have succumbed to the perishing dread of having to contemplate our own renewed ambitions in the subtropics. As is normal the conflicts are nothing which cannot be cured by a little time and a lot of money.  Indeed it is one of the central obscurities of this unraveling that the rental vacation market has suddenly rocketed skyward.

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Pardon my ignorance but I haven’t a clue about the precise content of Mediterranean food. I only know that it tastes good and that it is good for you; sort of like cheeseburger and onion rings. And the other thing about which I am yet more ignorant is cooking. Combining the good I know (taste) with the bad I don’t know (culinary) it seemed an eminently sound recovery to spread the good news about this new recipe. I call it Denis Doodle (though I’m open to improvement).

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It’s 10:00 o’clock in the morning. A balmy midsummer weekday that promises to be sultry. Meanwhile it is peaceful and calm. My ablutions and preliminary necessities are complete. I am fully prepared to welcome the day with nothing planned. Only the habitual accommodations and elaborations. A shameless repetition of my dearest preoccupations, the tarnished but trustworthy episodes which have come to distinguish my indisptuable monotony and shallowness. The reward of unflappability. The blurry morning sunshine spreads over the burgeoning distant corn fields. At my desk in the withdrawing room on the 2nd floor of our apartment building, listening to CBC classical recordings, overlooking the balcony and across the meadow towards the river, I imagine myself being on the bow of a ship at the helm headed out to sea.

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It is indisputable. Lately we’ve endured our share of angst. And while for my part I’d like to lay the blame smartly on something complicated, I have nothing other than a left knee replacement to solemnize the complaint.  In any event it matters not whence one’s perturbation derives. Nor equally may it matter by what means the malady dissipates.

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We’ve found ourselves in a travel turmoil. Our formerly scheduled 5-month winter sojourn on Key Largo has been overtaken by fortune; in our case, misfortune.  The landlord of the place we had rented has decided to sell and, presumably as a result, not to extend our contract for another year. This stunning (though admittedly not entirely unanticipated) reversal of plans has caused more than one precipitous action on our part. In our haste to reconfigure this once palatable hibernation we may have moved more quickly than judicious. Whatever the appropriate dance steps attending this particular waltz, we’ve somehow landed back upon what for us has always been reliable territory; viz., Hilton Head Island. I don’t however think we were prepared for what evolved. Unimaginably the upcoming season there appears to be largely (if indeed not exclusively) already booked. We therefore chose to proceed with accommodation (if I may characterize our abrupt consolation as such). I congratulate Mrs. Gail Edmonds, Estate Agent of Destination Vacation for her unsurpassable assistance.

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Serendipitously my erstwhile physician telephoned mid-morning today just as we were returning from a nearby grocery shopping expedition. We three rallied at the apartment shortly thereafter for a brief visit (his first) and tour (sic).  My erstwhile physician, like so many others approaching advanced age, is on the cusp of considering alternatives to the perpetual maintenance of one’s existing real property holdings, whether a country estate, house, cottage or vacation rental. It is an arduous contemplation. Having just moved into this new apartment building (where the predominant demographic is seniors) I am familiar with the variety of surrogates encircling what is for some people a quelling and moderately unsettling scutiny of downsizing to an apartment.  Fortunately for me I haven’t a disturbing love of lakes or fishing which might be at risk of contaminating my purity of thought or reversing preconceived notions. Nor am I consumed by anything but the most pragmatic ingredients of personal accessories and furnishings. Size is not an issue! As I have always quipped (hearkening to my boarding school days), I was raised a cave dweller.

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It’s a grey and misty Saturday afternoon, a subdued and mixed atmosphere of fluctuating clarity and whimsical obscurity. An air of uncertainty prevails. Will the clouds clear?  Will the rain stop? I am just now awakening from an especially somniferous afternoon nap.  On the right, the river is a darkened bluish-grey; on the left the sunshine pierces the cloudy skies with broad bands of sunlight.

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Yesterday as we briefly chatted about the evolving and now inflamed subject of winter sojourning we touched lightly upon its distinguishing elements and predictable prospects for the future. Today at the golf club over breakfast we mused further upon these details. I won’t say we settled things with any degree of accuracy or precision. Winter travel is a weighty and complicated subject not to be outdone by bacon, eggs and pancakes. But we did at least exchange current opinions about whatever factors we suggest have a bearing upon the delicate and now moderately controversial subject of spending time and money away from home. In other words it was predominantly idle chatter more expressive of knee-jerk sentiment than of insightful wisdom or intelligence. Such indeed was the peculiar nature this morning of our breakfast colloquy with my erstwhle physician at the golf club overlooking the first tee.

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