In the seven years we have been wintering on Hilton Head Island I have never once swum in the Ocean. It hurts me to say so but it was always too cold. The Atlantic – at least north of the Georgia/Florida state line – can be a formidable body of water, make no mistake. Once I recall having stuck a sandalled foot into the brine just to say I did it. Yet even when the ambient temperatures rose to the high 70s and zealous swimmers and surfers were gambolling in the water I hadn’t dared to take a chance. Perhaps my memories of swimming in the Atlantic in Nova Scotia in late summer had conditioned me to resile from the project. But today that changed. Today I went for a swim in the Atlantic Ocean on Hilton Head Island! And the water was fine, just fine.

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For the past several days I have been reading Stephen King’s book “On writing: a memoir of the craft“. It was like reading a eulogy – his eulogy – or at the very least his c.v. (a disturbing insight into the hollow vanity that seemingly plagues every writer). It was anything but an instruction manual as I had expected it to be. I admit that the first part of the book – his autobiography – was entertaining (though frankly in a bar room drunk-talk sort of way).

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This afternoon an eager young girl in a dripping wet bathing suit danced excitedly about the edge of the pool clamouring to her confederates in the pool below, “This is going to be the story about the pool!” No matter that it is a child’s instinct to create a narrative about life’s unfolding pedestrian dramas, the occasion prompted me as well to share the imperative. I too felt the need to dilate upon this singular experience. Water animates me. Little competes with a dip in salt water especially. It is a catharsis!

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As inclined as any self-respecting chronicler is to report on matters consequential, I have always felt it is entertaining (if not in fact ultimately educational or at the very least strictly historical) to record the trifling background details of daily living.  This is especially so when we reside – as in my opinion we are privileged to do – au bord de l’Océan.  Being within hearing of the squawking seagulls, the scent of the salt sea air and the limitless view of blue water is for me an unsurpassable opportunity! The most uncomplicated and pedestrian fabric of life here is a marvel. Even as I write I am staring at a herd of tiny Hilton Head White-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus hiltonensis) foraging in the shrubbery on the crest of the dunes a mere 50 yards away.

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For other Sins they feel Remorse sometimes,
But sure no Poet e’re had Qualms for Rhimes;
Alas! no wholesom Counsel can be us’d
By a poor harden’d Wretch, when once Bemus’d:
Then don’t inhumanly your Pains mis-spend
On Reprobates, that you can never mend.
—Fr. Knapp, The Annual Miscellany, 1694

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While for some the posture may be rank with discourtesy, dealing with subalterns elicits for me a conditioned negative response; namely, “Principals only!” Years as a seasoned legal practitioner have alerted me to the potential pitfalls of agency relations, the most common abuse of which is the purported extension of authority to, or appropriation of it by, underlings. Aside from the offence of violating the principle of law that “delegatus non potest delegare” – he who is delegated may not delegate further – the practical concern is that sub-agents are unreliable both in point of law and as a general commercial proscription.

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Given the pitch of international political gossip lately – surrounding all things Trump – it’s small wonder that everything else pales by comparison. A fortiori anything I do in a day is assured to be virtually irrelevant and hardly worth mentioning. Yet only this afternoon as I vacantly reflected on these and other matters I marvelled at the outcome of my career which – though just short of an old man in a rocking chair staring at a meadow – has at least the gratification of unrepentant indolence.  Nor does this diminish the attraction of my personal vista. It is an ever-changing plate of blue and green sea water, a white sandy beach tinged by a purple hue and an almost indiscernible shadowy line of barrier islands below a misty horizon. Above it large birds – likely the graceful but preposterous pelicans – wing across the sky. The sunsets are marvellous.

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My descent into curmudgeonly conduct has accelerated at an Olympic rate. On the one hand I feel obliged to apologize for the burgeoning acerbity. On the other hand I relish the vitriol with the evangelical enthusiasm of a recent convert. In any event at my age I am too old to submit to vapid Pollyanna mannerisms. If I am to be bad-tempered so be it. I have at least the advantage of saying what I really mean to say.

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So many people have said it before, the secret to success is to get out of bed in the morning. Add to that incontrovertible prescription the equally common recommendation that one should continue to work as long as possible and you have the makings of full-blown Protestantism. Nothing so penetratingly dissuades lethargy.  From the moment I awaken I am stricken with existential terror. Instantly I begin contemplating the Work Ethic.

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Though there are innumerable examples, one of the most memorable maxims of Freemasonry in my opinion is “Nature teaches us how to die”. Until that dreadful day, I am in the meantime discovering endless preambles to the final curtain, events and thoughts leading up to the  moments in league with one’s dénouement.  Among them is the adage – especially popular among old fogeys – that everything repeats itself (or words to that effect) meant to imply that there’s essentially nothing new in the world, that it has all been seen before.

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