Up with the tweeters

For me, summer does not properly begin until I have had one sunny day out on the water. Sad to say, there was no summer last year--stranded on the strand. But Jim took pity on me, calling me last Sunday to help wet down the hull on this year’s maiden voyage of the Gypsy Wind. It was pretty still for sailing, so we left the mast unstepped and tootled around Norwood Pond courtesy of a sedate 2-horse outboard. Sweet sun, puffy clouds, amiable conversation, and--as always with Jim--a steady supply of strength-giving M&Ms. It takes a minimum of gear to restore the soul. The less the better in fact, as we saw at the other end of the afternoon, watching the Chinese fire drill of monster boats and jet skis clogging up the ramp.

But already now I need another dose; all the heart’s ease wore off Monday morning as I donned my bullet-shaped helmet and silver suit, and slid myself down the barrel of the circus cannon that fires me off into the work week. Each day since has twisted the turnbuckle strapped across my shoulderblades a little tighter. I wake with the freaking tweeters—I mean the dawn chorus—and plot my next escape.