I try to be present - in the now - but I find myself preferring the lead-ins and the lead-outs rather than the main acts. Summer is the heart that pumps the Island’s life blood, our roads the veins that carry the vitality. There is a pulse to summer that has its appeal for many.

But when the arteries become clogged, the thrill is diminished. So, I tend to zone out in the middle, letting the summer wash over me, absorbing it all for autumn consideration. A hot cup of coffee on a brisk October morning and watching the cranes wade through the tidal marsh out front of the Crow Bar warms the memory and makes July and August seem hazily easy in retrospect.

We now have two auxiliary dog hydration bowls placed strategically under chairs in the Crow Bar. Our position as a mid-point on the Jerry Jeffer’s running loop makes us a convenient stopover for thirsty dogs whom have chosen to take their owners for a run. And who doesn’t enjoy a good dog slobbering?! Instant day brightener!

On the water: not sure what’s going on. I hear the sea, I smell the sea, and I see the sea on my trips across the harbor (and my crestings of the golf course), but I am sadly disconnected for most of my hours. It remains in my mind, however, as a constant (if subtle) companion of all things wonderfully mysterious. The ocean is the closest I come to a waking dreamscape. I’ve always felt like an interloper in another’s world - welcome perhaps but also closely monitored by (mostly) unseen eyes...and tentacles. I suspect that there are those - sailors, fisherpeople - who feel far more at home on and in the sea, but I enjoy my discomfort and unfamiliarity. I think the sea may be like music: if you break it down into its parts, it loses some of its magic. And it is magical to me. When prompted to imagine a peaceful place (to quell anxiety or the like), I regularly return to a summer day in 1979 - floating on a truck tire inner tube...gradually drifting off toward the green can.

Be well, my friends!