13 July 23:49

Earlier this evening, I arrived home only to find a darkening sky bringing an early close to a steamy day. As I spoke on the phone, dawdling on the stern, I noticed the tide encroaching on the seawall, taking up far more vertical space than usual. As the sky tinged green, a series of alarmingly large ripples rushed into the marina. The wind picked up and it began to rain in sheets. I ran across to close V.'s hatches, and by the time I returned my bimini top had completely detached itself, reduced to a jumble of wayward steel bars and cracking old joints.

The tornado passed through, thankfully, without landing here...I was lucky this time.

Tomorrow I am sure that I will find that Krys has lashed down my crumbling shade structure with a series of perfect knots. That is what kind of place this is.

18 July 23:22

As my moment of writing, and the peace to make it possible, slips away into this iron-grey night of thunder and drizzle, I talked my heart out to a few close friends and found an unusual sense of clarity; in the process, I found myself opening up about my real feelings on boats, sailing, and the marina life.

We are who we are. Like D. says of OPB—other people's boats—they are the best. Perhaps this summer I have come down with a case of OPD—other people's dreams. I do feel that the boat idea suits me, logically, but perhaps it is better suited to someone else's idea of who I am.

In my mind, I am an old New Yorker; a moody, strolling writer getting out of my small space; a fast flaneur for another new century; a classical emoter; a solitary figure in the river, swimming strong.

In reality, I dash from place to place, barely finding time to rest, satisfying my immediate needs and wishes without leaving room for long-term plans or dreams. I am in need of a smaller terrarium, one where I can draw those I need to me for fun, and retreat when I need peace.

It will always be possible to escape to the marina.