I crept out of the tent one morning, alone. watched the sun rise over the ocean. warm salty air kissing my face, cool sand beneath my feet. I was joined by friends just as the sun peeked up over the sea.
later I rode the bike down to the far end of the beach, where many trees have come uprooted as the island shifts over time. huge piles of barnacle-y driftwood strewn about. I can spy so many faces and images in the curves and lines of the wood. like an up close, less fluid version of cloud-watching.
later still, clams. he found the first one and then I found a couple, and then she and I left him to dig while we went to climb the lighthouse.
she told him to be sure to pack them in seaweed if he found more. because that is what Sal and her father do in One Morning in Maine. it's important stuff, you know, being able to live out some of your favorite bits of your favorite stories in the real world (later this summer we are going to Maine for a week and I've already promised her we'll stop in Boston to see the duck statue and maybe while we're in Deer Isle we'll make our way over to Buck's Harbor to see what we can see, even though I hear Condon's Garage closed several years ago).
a few of the clams were roasted over the campfire. the rest we saved until we got home.
and then on our second night back at home, when it was a bit chilly, chowder happened.