When it comes to fear, I have quite enough to occupy me with the very real fear I know. I haven’t any need to embellish it by phantasmagoric imaginations. In a nutshell, my fear is “to make the dinner-hour the nucleus of the day, and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog spends it, asleep in the sunshine or in the shade”.  This portends a dreary and lifeless prospect, hardly what is the desire of a man “who felt it to be the best definition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of his faculties and sensibilities” (The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne). Providence has hopefully contemplated better things for me.  Until then I have accepted that I am on my own to do what I can to overcome my fear.

To be sure the dread is not universal.  Many people are content to fulfill their appetites, no more.  Granted it is arguable that discovering one’s faculties and sensibilities is an appetite of sorts and therefore the distinction may amount to one without a difference. It matters not. My object is not the appeasement of some preferred social standard, rather the satisfaction of my hardwired desires. Mine happen to involve creation not merely consumption. If there are those who are pleased to spend their time and energy and the hours of the day one way or another, even if it lacks a hint of inventiveness, perhaps they are blessed. I concede it may be a plague to pine for something apparently more esteemed, possibly out of reach.

Capitulation is neither the answer nor the alternative.  The morning alarm is the call of the sentry for proof of identity.  From the very moment of awakening the test is to fulfill one’s talents. There is of course Biblical strength to the admonition, assuming that matters, though my personal generation is from within rather than from without.

I have considered whether after a certain age it may be more advisable to avoid attempts at novelty and growth and to dwell instead upon fermentation, the sedentary hallmark of many a fine concoction.  My objection to that particular tact is that it is passive in spite of its assertion of the unquestionable value of reading, for example.  Once again my preference is to draw from within rather than from without.  The corollary is that perhaps there is nothing left upon which to draw, an empty well so to speak.  This really puts the “old dog asleep in the shade” metaphor in context;  it is more than just a condition, it’s a sentence.

It is tempting to manufacture reasons for the fading of one’s creative amplitude.  One could blame the absence of ingenuity upon a supposed want of opportunity.  If one’s erstwhile career were spent in the resolution of problems, it is at least logically possibly that there can be no answer without a question.  This is a misguided channel of investigation as it addresses the symptom not the cause.  It must be admitted that the time has passed to return to the forum of one’s former agitation where the dying embers have all but been extinguished.

Everything I know about capitalism leads me to conclude that one must first identify one’s resources then exploit them.  There are so many examples of those who have elevated themselves from what may have been a rubbish pit in the minds of others.  It certainly requires application and diligence.  This isn’t going to happen on its own.  It will likely help to be driven by fateful need or burning desire.  In any event personal expression means getting involved, not merely sleeping in the sunshine.

South Beach in the Sea Pines Resort on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina is located as the name implies at the southern most point of the Island.  It is in texture very much like the predominantly upscale residential character of the rest of Sea Pines Resort though it distinguishes itself by being in addition about as close as one comes to the Coney Island experience on the Island.  There are certainly no Sideshows by the Seashore, ferris wheels, roller coasters or Stuff Yourself Silly restaurants.  There is only the very quaint and respectable Salty Dog Café and T-shirt Factory, a Happy Hour Music Cruise and the Land’s End Tavern.  Located nearby are a number of tennis courts and seaside residential developments which include some private homes but mostly condominiums, some in the character of townhouses, the remainder in the nature of traditional apartment buildings.  The Island’s strict urban planning guidelines have maintained the elevated sensibilities so pronounced throughout the entire Resort area.

Our residence here for the last two weeks of November is in one of the apartment-style buildings on the fifth (top) floor overlooking the sound which connects immediately to the Atlantic Ocean only one hundred yards easterly.  The extensive property features delightful gardens and vegetation.  It is secluded by a winding private drive from South Sea Pines Drive (which by the time it reaches South Beach is akin to a rustic pathway). We selected this place as a last minute thought when we determined to extend our planned three-month trip here.  The estate agent recommended it to us and by and large it has not disappointed.  Having said that we concur that our removal on Friday next to our more permanent freehold townhouse will be welcomed if for no other reason than that we will not thereafter be obliged to deal with an elevator when transporting our personal possessions, household provisions and groceries.  The lift is currently a minor inconvenience only but a prolonged commitment would unquestionably become tedious.  The development is complete with manicured surrounding parkland where we have seen deer wandering and a very attractive swimming pool (perpetually maintained and convenient for afternoon sunbathing though otherwise perfectly useless at this time of year).  The fact that the property adjoins the sound is somewhat meaningless other than for the view because it is not a location where one would prefer to access the beach for purposes of bicycling (our primary outdoor occupation).  Being removed slightly from the direct effect of the Ocean tides, the beach of the sound does not drain of water as readily as the main beach when the tide is out and hence is most often unsuitable for bike travel though entirely fine for healthy walks and leisurely perambulations.  Accordingly we have made the habit of connecting to the beach at the Beach Club further north on the Atlantic shore where we can normally be assured of dry sand for bicycling.  Otherwise the view has afforded us welcome diversions in the nature of passing yachts, dolphins, sea birds and sunsets.  The apartment has two commodious balconies from which to take in the sights or through the patio doors of which merely to relish the salty air and the sound of the sea.

The interior of the condominium apartment is generally what one would describe as traditional.  There has been no attempt to cultivate the singular tropical flavour so common to many Florida residences.  Indeed if there were any bent it is toward a Parisian goût.  Many of the wall hangings reflect references to French sidewalk cafés, théâtre and opéra and some pictures are decidedly feminine (extraordinarily fashionable high-heeled shoes).  There are portrayals of gambolling waiters and chefs, distinguished ladies walking their equally precious small dogs and door frames reminiscent of hillside homes in the South of France.  The only concession of the furniture to the Maritime feature of the environment is the incorporation of wicker.  Otherwise the furnishings are of substantial wood construction, as is the cabinetry of the kitchen and the two ensuite bathrooms.  The walls and accessories are coloured in muted hues.  While the floors of the two bedrooms are covered in broadloom the living area has a tiled floor over which is splayed an Oriental-style rug.  The only obvious error in the outfitting of the unit is that there is track lighting above the dining table when it should have been positioned in the kitchen where it was needed.  The reversed lighting creates an absurd juxtaposition of the kitchen and the dining area and preserves a constant minor though palpable annoyance.

The estate agent has exemplified its superior management skill by having responded immediately to our every comment.  For example the mere mention of a damaged seal around the inside of the stove door resulted in the replacement of the entire stove with a new one; likewise a complaint about the coffee maker brought about the provision of a replacement.  The other appliances include in-sink waste disposal, double-door refrigerator, dishwasher, blender, single-cup and multiple-cup coffee makers, four-slice toaster, hand-held mixer, washer, dryer, three flat-screen TVs, Blue-ray disc player, iPod/CD/radio system and DVD player.  The property management is diligent as evident from the daily presence of staff cultivating the gardens and cleaning the walkways, hallways and elevators.  There is ample parking and of course bicycle racks.

From our fifth storey condominium apartment overlooking the sound we can frequently see the dolphins nearby.  Of course one doesn’t catch much more than a dorsal fin but it’s enough to fuel a fascination with what is going on underwater.  There are common features about their appearance.  There are invariably at least two of them.  This morning we spied about six within the same general area.  They travel in the same direction.  Sometimes they submerge and surface within seconds; at other times, they disappear for an extraordinarily long time, only to surface further along the shore in synchronization.  It creates the spectacle of a performance.  One wonders whether they orchestrate their movements or can it be only an accident of nature? While one is tempted to say they are playing, no doubt their occupation is strictly utilitarian (though they do enjoy a reputation for being highly social).  For some reason they spend their time surprisingly close to the shore rather than in the middle of the sound where I would have thought the deeper waters would have more attraction.

Given their reputed intelligence one marvels at the ability of the dolphins to amuse themselves with no particular diversion.  I can’t imagine they are under any threat of predators in the sound.  Apparently their days are spent in search of food.  What they do at night I cannot guess.  Nor have I any idea what happens when one of them dies.  Do they go somewhere special for that?  Is there a routine for the ceremony of dying?

Their glistening rubbery skin must afford considerable insulation.  For the past four years we have visited Hilton Head Island during the height of winter and we have always seen dolphins. From what I know about the Atlantic Ocean at these latitudes it is never really warm, much less so at this time of year.  If the dolphins were to undertake a winter migration it would no doubt be fraught with some duress and exposure.  Perhaps they could swim just a bit southward to the Florida coast?  It can’t be that demanding.

What is more demanding from my perspective is the relentless commitment to mere survival.  I suppose on some level that engrossment is not unknown to humanity.  If the need were compelling then likely the absorption is less than tedious.  It certainly makes one appreciate the privilege of idleness as diabolical as the state is sometimes reputed to be.

In this park-like setting that is Hilton Head Island it is impossible not to marvel at the genetics of the plants and animals which are so prolific. Everything from alligators to black ducks to huge fronds and sea grasses, all magically developed and reproduced to specification.  This bounty is echoed in the sea and almost religiously displayed in the menus of local restaurants.

This is what comes of staring out the window on a rainy day, watching the dolphins.

In a stunning admission of the obvious, I have come to accept that when one deposits one’s carcass on an Island for three months there are bound to be moments of tranquillity and serene inactivity.  Today we are muffled in a thick fog.  Visibility is confined to 100 yards no more.  The turbulent sea is more apparent by what one hears than by what one sees.

It isn’t however the weather that tranquillizes us.  It’s the overwhelming lack of necessity. The once inconsequential occupation of adding items to the shopping list is now something I do with gusto.  Inevitably I shall be moved to squander an hour on my bicycle whatever the atmospheric conditions; it’s not as though a bit of rain will ruin me.  My future is otherwise utterly devoid of either prescription or demand unless one ascribes imposition to the mere pleasure of living.

Whatever its exigencies I am determined to accommodate this indescribable luxury.  It requires both pluck and creativity to direct one’s mind to the absorption of white sand, sea pines, palm trees and the sea.  They are after all commonplace metaphors and mere springboards to artistic insight and philosophical depth.  It would be far too superficial to assign to these indicia only post-card significance.  What propels one in this invention is that it borders on the surreal to imagine that the remaining days of one’s life are to be spent wallowing in such lavishness.  One must first recall that the flowery paths of today will be succeeded by the sear and yellow leaf of old age.  The inspiration is to relish the present, a timeless and universally encouraged ambition.

**********

The best laid plans…

By nine o’clock this morning we were itching to get on our bikes.  The repeated exercise has become a drug without which we are at the very least anxious.  In view of the weather we contemplated no more than a reasonable jaunt to Beach Club where we would investigate the state of the beach and decide where to go from there.  Once there it was evident that the roiling waters of the Ocean prohibited cycling on the beach.  We therefore determined to go to Coligny Park along the paved paths.

Our regular cycling has clearly fitted us for wider horizons than the prospect of Coligny Park.  We proposed a new route at the end of William Hilton Parkway.  The journey to the end of the Parkway was uneventful.  By examining the maps which the Municipality thoughtfully erected for tourists we conceived a detour from the Parkway across the Island on Marshland Road.  There we discovered not only that a good deal of the Island’s infrastructure is buried in the north end of the Island but also the more “real” side of the Island, a smattering of modest homes which looked as though people actually lived in them throughout the year.

When we gained the end of Marshland Road we found that we were blocked from further westerly progress by the Cross Island Parkway (a toll road leading from Hilton Head Island across the causeway to the mainland).  The only  possible way to circumvent the Cross Island Parkway was to venture further along the bicycle path in a northerly direction in the hopes that it would somehow go under the Parkway to the other side.  While this may not sound to be much of a deterrent, it is worth mentioning that by this time we had been bicycling for 4 1/2 hours.  I was also sensing that my rear bicycle tyre was not what it should be.

Luckily for us the winding road did indeed take us in the desired direction though not without an effort.  After some tortuous turns we found ourselves bordering the other side of the Cross Island Parkway ascending the causeway high above Broad Creek.  Here we stopped to take a “selfie” as proof of our accomplishment.  I recall thinking to myself at this point, “Mount Everest? Pshaw! Marshland Road? Hurrah!”  It accentuated my sense of victory that I had been reduced to walking my bicycle up the causeway.  It was not long thereafter that I questioned my traveling companion about the state of my rear tyre and we at last agreed that it was flat which nicely explained my diminishing strength.

The final leg of our outing was essentially tedious.  My rear bike tyre was now certifiably flat.  We decided to exchange bikes.  This however did little to improve our progress but at last we arrived at the bicycle shop only to find it closed for the remainder of the afternoon.  We left the disabled bike there and made the tactical decision for me to cycle home to collect the car and return to collect my companion.

It was approaching 4:00 p.m. before we arrived back at the apartment.  Oddly we never pined for either food or drink during our six hour adventure.  I suspect however that we’ll enjoy the filets, sweet potatoes and asparagus spears.

A peek at the day early this morning as I drew back the bedroom draperies informed me there was some weather on the horizon.  For the first time in the past week the sky over the Atlantic seashore was not a blue and cloudless dome.  Instead there were strands of clouds.  I sprung the balcony door and felt the very acceptable temperature.  What I hadn’t however appreciated was the wind.  We’re at Land’s End, significantly sheltered a matter of degrees off the unobstructed coast line.

After a cup of strong coffee and a sensible breakfast of eggs, prosciutto and avocado pear decorated with chopped scallions, we careered ourselves to the bike rack and pushed off for what we anticipated to be our usual two-hour healthful jaunt.  Still secluded from the elements by the towering sea pines we cycled along South Sea Pines Drive until we reached the Beach Club where we turned and connected along the newly paved walkway with the beach.  The moment we hit the sand we knew we what were up against!  Located as we are at the more southerly end of the Island our only reasonable prospect is to cycle northerly towards Coligny Park.  The project thus entailed cycling directly into a relentless gale force wind.  Particles of sand-dust whirled like wisps of smoke across the face of the beach.

Our rental bikes have one gear.  This cycling exploit promised to be work, no question!  If it weren’t for the warm and brilliant sunshine and our deeply engrained Protestant Work Ethic we would have abandoned the project.  We pushed on.  Literally.  There were times when the wind was so strong and my mechanical advantage so weak that I thought I’d capitulate to the indignity of walking my bike along the beach, feigning some leisurely matutinal introspection or maritime curiosity.  Meanwhile cyclists coming from the opposite direction happily sailed by.  I would have despised them if I hadn’t the conceited satisfaction of knowing the pain they were destined to endure upon their return voyage.  It is remarkable how oblivious to impending misfortune one can be in the midst of ephemeral delight!

The Island beach is at almost any time vast in perspective.  It is both uncommonly long and wide. The implementation of strict urban planning codes has ensured that the coastal homes look pretty much the same and succeed to blend surprisingly well with the local vegetation. It is in a word easy to lose sight of one’s progress on the boundless beach. Having cycled upon this beach for the past four years I have a good idea about where I am at any given point. In addition to understanding the Marker system (one every tenth of a mile) more importantly I remember specific landmarks, including for example the condominium we once had, or the hotel suite, or my favourite grand home on the beach.  There is a huge relic tree trunk embedded in the sand and an abandoned catamaran with its ropes flapping against its mast creating some spooky percussive sound reminiscent of an Alfred Hitchcock movie soundtrack.  As thrilling as it is re-establish these emotional bonds, it does very little, in fact nothing, to diminish the drudge of getting there.  Indeed it almost tires one further to know the distance yet to be traveled.

As the labour of the crusade overtook me I jettisoned the customary nicety of exchanging “Morning!” with passing walkers and cyclists.  Superfluities were an added burden. Unremitting focus upon the purgatory of the task was the sole object.  I distracted myself by imagining how easy the return flight would be.  My backside and legs were killing me!

When at last we reached Coligny Park, I hobbled off my bike and threw myself upon a bench in utter exhaustion.  This hadn’t been a morning ride; it was boot camp!

The human body is somehow especially adapted to forget pain.  After a reasonable pause we again mounted our bikes and directed ourselves along the William Hilton Parkway to a remote beach access at the northern end of the Island.  We had of course chosen this particular route to avoid having to pedal into the wind.  Once we regained the beach however and commenced our return trip home it was nothing but smooth sailing!  The wide open beach was a veritable flight deck.  Within less than an hour we accomplished what had taken us more than two hours to do in the opposite direction.

The consequences of the morning drill were not to be ignored.  After speedily nourishing ourselves with a hearty vegetable soup I collapsed on a chaise long by the pool in the late afternoon sun.  We both agreed that a day of rain tomorrow would be a good thing!

Five years ago when we first drove from the South Carolina mainland across the causeway above the wavering sea grasses onto Hilton Head Island I remember my instant glowing pleasure.  The main boulevard (Cross Island Parkway) was beautifully paved, lined with palm trees, surrounded on both sides by verdant greenery and staid, well-maintained buildings.  I knew that I was going to love the place.  And I do!  Apart from the gloss of familiarity which inevitably varnishes any place one subsequently comes to know, nothing has changed.

As we drove back from lunch today, the mid-afternoon sunshine dappled the roadway and the polished hood of the car and complemented the grand Sea Pines residences.  It would be impossible to ignore what an enclave the Island is, no evidence of neon commercialism, meticulously cared for and landscaped properties, numerous golf courses and yacht clubs and almost surreal urban planning.  As I later reclined on a chaise long by the pool absorbing the warm afternoon rays, two deer casually wandered nearby.  Earlier this morning we caught a glimpse of a dolphin on the Atlantic shore as we rode our bicycles on the beach.  Yesterday a large crocodile was sunning itself on the edge of a lagoon bordering a golf course.  The pelicans performing their skilful yet somehow preposterous dives can be seen at any time along the Ocean shore.  The alluring maritime sound of the sea gulls is ubiquitous.

Hilton Head Island is a dream come true for me.  Not only is the place an unimaginable treasure in its own right, it also part of my cherished ambition to spend the winter in a place such as this.  We are only one week into this four-month adventure and I continually wonder if I shouldn’t pinch myself.  I admit that at times I persecute myself with thoughts about what I shall do to fill the time. I have no experience in these matters. Our agenda, though ostensibly uncluttered, has nonetheless proven to be all we can or care to manage.  We were for example on our bikes shortly after 9:00 a.m. this morning and didn’t return until after 12:00 p.m.  We bicycled from Lands End to Marker 76 considerably past Coligny Park (which I reckon is about the mid-point of the beach).  We didn’t even stop for a coffee at Harbour Town this morning.  And after we returned to the apartment we wasted no time in showering and getting ourselves ready for our jaunt to a nearby restaurant for lunch.  Afterwards we did a bit of grocery shopping.  It was only in deference to my gathering exhaustion from the fresh air and exercise that I indulged myself in a snooze by the pool until the sun began to set.

All my life I have known limitation upon my luxuries. There has always been a price to pay for what was only temporary reprieve. Now however I can contemplate seemingly endless days of uninhibited gratification. We needn’t jerk ourselves to heel; we’ve miraculously ordered our affairs to accommodate what we’re doing.  I honestly cannot imagine having planned this experience more satisfactorily.

… I had the most extraordinary experience…
something to do with sun…couldn’t understand myself, really
You know, quite for no reason
I’m here for the season

“I Went to a Marvellous Party”
Noël Coward

What’s killing me here isn’t the social pace. It’s the bicycling! Unquestionably it has always been our wholehearted intention to bicycle every day once we made it to Hilton Head Island for the winter. And except for the day of our arrival late Saturday afternoon last that is precisely what we have done.  Never however did I imagine that the cycling enterprise would turn out to be quite so punishing! What clearly escaped my reconciliation is that bicycling at home for about 45 minutes (which was our custom) pales in comparison to bicycling each and every day on the beach under a cloudless sky in the unrelenting sun for upwards of two hours.  To my astonishment it has flattened me!  I am not the athlete I imagined!  It’s beside the point that we are at sea level and spared anything but the most inconsequential grade. Aside from being ravenous upon our return from the matutinal hike, after devouring a generous luncheon I end by succumbing instantly to the seclusion of my bed chamber for an unusually long recuperation.  I feel as though I were in training!  And the after-glow of the sun!  The fallout is unmistakable!

Having resolved the conundrum of my withering strength and aching limbs I am more than satisfied with the predicament in which we find ourselves.  I can for example think of many other less desirable alternatives to self-inflicted exhaustion. But really I had no idea!  With nothing much of importance clouding our agenda the bicycling has monopolized the focus of our day and tainted (admittedly in a good way) everything that succeeds it. Our only interlude in this obsession is a detour to Harbour Town for a strong cup of coffee, but then it’s back in the saddle.  Every evening as I stiffly perambulate about the apartment I mutter something about having to take a break the next day.  But nature compels us otherwise on the morrow!  The only expectation I have of a reprieve is if the weather turns.

We entered the beach this morning from an unfamiliar access point, one which obliged us to traverse an unusually wide swath of sand dunes before we could ride our bikes and even then the sand was still too mushy to sustain us.  At this southernmost tip of the Island where the land abuts a sound the water apparently doesn’t drain as effectively from the beach when the tide recedes as it does on the nearby open Atlantic shore.  As we pushed our bikes along the soft sand towards firmer territory we quelled our temporary inconvenience by chatting with a denizen whom we encountered.  She was walking her Labrador “Bo”, throwing a ball for him to fetch.  The townswoman, who is from Chicago, recently bought a place here.  We shared some good laughs about the commercialism of Thanksgiving and Christmas though it is obvious she is warming to the holidays with traditional enthusiasm even though her “hard bodied” children (as she described them) might not share her penchant for gravy and mashed potatoes.

It remains to be seen what further socializing we shall undertake while here for the season.  It’s not as though we are ever engaged in a social frenzy even at home so the expectation is not high. I am pleased we’re shortly taking in a performance at the local Arts Centre.  I can’t help but think that cavorting with people other than in a restaurant promises more return by way of distraction.  I am reminded of a prolonged visit I once had in Cape Cod where I ended being roped into playing the piano as background at a charity fund raiser.  We might become more of a resident than a tourist.

There likely isn’t anyone who would characterize life as expendable. Yet one has to wonder at those who treat life with diminutive esteem.  To condescend to life or to treat it as a disposable commodity is a mistaken and unworthy presumption. Even if particular circumstances were to lead one to adjudge life hard or unfair it never warrants our small-minded disdain.  Life is incalculably precious.

For those who have suffered or who continue to suffer extraordinary harm, deprivation or defeat, the thesis is less easily retailed. Loss of any description is never a philosophical nicety. Barring utter ruination, however, there is still generation in even the coolest of embers. The risk one takes in becoming misanthropic about life is the possibility of confusing disappointment with transformation.  At its extremes life is a beginning and an end; in between there are degrees of modification, some obviously more precipitous than others.  We can be assured that life will ultimately only get worse; what we choose to do until then is what makes all the difference.

Part of my gripe is with those who haven’t the foresight to see life as a diminishing source to be exhausted with utmost discretion.  This is such a patent truth as to border on being a mere platitude yet so many of us disregard it.  On the other hand the limitation of life shouldn’t be a governor to the point of restricting it to complete inertia.  Consumption of the fuel is inevitable.  There is a difference however between going up to the trough and getting into it.

It is not uncommonly observed that we can’t predict life’s fortune but we can nonetheless control our assessment of it.  This adage speaks to the element of attitude.  Once again there is a huge distinction between losing one’s bike and losing one’s limbs. I won’t trivialize the experience by suggesting each is similarly surmountable.  And while one such loss may with time evaporate and become meaningless the prejudice must in either case eventually be addressed.

There is for some people overwhelming evidence of perpetual misfortune. Even in catastrophic conditions however there equally persists the logical possibility that what exists today may be better than what is to follow. Applying this rationale to any situation highlights the necessity to draw from life whatever nourishment and energy it currently provides. Granted it is in some state of affairs an unpleasant labour and drudge but even the mere seeds of life can blossom into something far more abundant than we might have imagined.

On a superficial literary level the transcription of life’s mundane frustrations can perhaps capture its grittiness.  At the other end of the spectrum is the capitulation to fabrication and design.  Accounting for life can involve as a compromise the imposition of manners, an effort to elevate life above the muck without being sterile.  This isn’t to diminish the value of directness or the avoidance of camouflage.  It is more a tactical decision about the direction one wishes to go.

It is approaching six o’clock in the morning. We are perched at the dining room table as though it were a library table, sipping coffee and noiselessly performing our morning computer routine. The Weather Network informs me we can expect a high of 72ºF today. I opened one of the balcony doors to admit the balmy air and the sound of the waves. While I slept last night I struggled with a dream, something involving an obligation which I couldn’t fulfill. It may be true that “there ain’t no ship to take you away from yourself” but it nonetheless appeases me to hear the sound of the surf before dawn and to see the harbour lights in the distance.  Currently my only waking concern is whether to refresh my cup of coffee.

We have already adapted to our temporary burrow.  The absorption was by degrees in accordance with need. Groceries were for example foremost upon the list.  Then followed the mundane adjustments, computer connections, sorting out the luggage, ensuring the toiletries were at hand.  We have now the privilege of unqualified leisure.  Bicycling is high upon that particular agenda.  I can readily distract myself and expiate any guilt I might otherwise harbour for unfettered indulgence by undertaking a bicycle ride, a healthful combination of exercise and tourism.  There is no threat of monotony when I know I can at almost any turn overlook an expanse of Ocean and feast my eyes upon white powdered sand and surf. It titillates me no end to confront what may as well be an eternity of harmony.

We have plucked ourselves from our customary surroundings and alighted upon a distant shore. The greatest challenge seems only to be the changing of gears. I won’t pretend that our former agenda was fraught with commitment or burdensome obligation, but I have to acknowledge that the current calendar is about as wide open as one could possibly imagine.  It dares me to revel in a dream come true.  I recall my mother having educated me years ago about the expression “to winter”, a phrase she knew instinctively denominated desirable social position.  To find myself living that once much anticipated aspiration is nothing short of remarkable, so much so that to fail to embrace its luxury would be an unforgivable indiscretion. I am confident that I have achieved every goal I might ever have had.