Attenuation

12:45 PM, Monday afternoon.

Some clouds now, faint whispy swirls and puffs. A cool, steady breeze and surf that goes from nearly flat -- to foamy and rambunctious. Across the street two beach houses have been boarded up: hedged bets on Bonnie. It’s warm and I’m sweating -- mostly because I am pretty well covered up in Julia’s beach chair. I have on a tee-shirt, ball cap, and a blanket over my legs. Hiding from the sun. I’d go swimming but the red flags are up. Riptides.

So I’m sitting, reading (and writing a bit in my notebook here) and indulging in some cerveza mas fina. A few seagulls are hanging out nearby, facing into the wind as seems to be their habit.

It is a wide and beautiful day.

Tiring of sweltering, I have staked a red and white beach umbrella next to my chair in the sand. Divested now of my hat, shirt, and towel, I sit in the cast shade and savor a fresh Corona. I have definitely developed a taste for that.

In the distance, attenuated by the wind, Sinatra is playing from a portable stereo. Time to read for a while...

Does this mean anything to you? To me? Is it a code of selected images, experiences? Why do people choose to tell the things they tell? Is there meaning in it, or is it just reflexive?

Don’t ask me. I haven’t a clue. If I knew the answer to that question I would keep it safe in a box made of driftwood, with a few specials shells and a scattering of sand to keep it company.

--- JWR, 8/24/98