The thermostat in my bedroom this morning at 7:30 am recorded 54℉.  I had slept with the balcony door open a crack last night (and my bedroom door closed to insulate me from the rest of the condominium). As inclined as I was to remain in bed and bury myself beneath the duvet – it was after all Sunday morning – I also warmed to the idea of going out for breakfast. Normally we do that on the weekend; and we usually get going soon after eight o’clock.  Besides I could see through the diaphanous draperies that it promised to be a sunny day and that alone encouraged me. All these circumstances combined to advance a very deliberate attack upon the morning ablutions.

We drove to one of our recurrent haunts, Watusi (“It is what it is“) restaurant on Pope Avenue.  The sandwich board outside the front door proclaimed today’s Special – French toast stuffed with vanilla cream cheese, fresh blueberries and strawberries.  We debated having Southern biscuit with sausage gravy but went with the Special.  I imagine it was the prospect of maple syrup which tipped the scale.

We didn’t linger at the diner.  While waiting for our orders to arrive we had made a list of what we needed at the grocery store. As soon as we had motored through the French toast – and after having washed our hands to remove the stickiness of the maple syrup – we proceeded directly to the grocery store. That domestic duty was performed with equal resolve.

Back at the condominium I made a pot of coffee.  It was only mid-morning, too early to profit by the low tide on the beach. The clear blue sky beaconed nonetheless. Meanwhile I performed my other customary obligations including a telephone call to my elderly mother whom I awoke around 10:45 am.  As my mother was still groggy, she readily lapsed into her studied vernacular of complaint though by the time I signed off she was beginning to sound more enthusiastic about her fate. I then reported to my sister accordingly (by email).

By early afternoon I was on my bicycle and rolling along the paths towards Tower Beach.  The beach sand between the boardwalk and the shore was uncommonly soft and thick. Normally it is so fine that it is flat and obdurate. The strong winds had erased any evidence of anyone else having previously tracked across the beach to the shore.

But the shore was already wide at the approaching low tide and the south-westerly wind was so forceful that it dried the beach and made it exceedingly passable. I raced along the beach, clocking at one time in excess of 17mph.

When I reached Coligny Park I rested briefly then turned back along the paths.  I had no intention of battling the wind on the beach as much as I love the sunshine and the sight of the crashing waves and white caps. The people walking and biking on the paths were obviously enjoying a Sunday afternoon outing, a breath of air, some exercise, the sunshine. The invigorating temperature and brilliant sunshine promoted reciprocal effervescence.

The inland views were seen to uncommon advantage, flooded by the slanting afternoon rays. The residential warmth was evident.

When I got back to South Beach it was 2:58 pm.  I headed directly to the pool where I threw myself upon a chaise longue and basked in the sun. When I closed my eyes my orbs were like balls of white light.