Hilton Head Island: evening

I am sitting again by our bedroom window looking out at Skull Creek and the sun lowering over Pickney Island.  A small glass of Plymouth gin is on the teak table before me.  ‘Seven Days Waiting’ by Ludovico Einaudi on my AirPod Pros so I won’t disturb Carol who is nearby sneezing.

We were away for three days, visiting Carol’s family and an old friend of mine.  All good people, but I am so glad to be back in the marsh, in my own space and beauty.

I am at peace.  How rare.  How welcome.

I am on schedule.  Two and a half years before I go beyond the edge again if time and chance do not destroy or weaken me too much before then.

I have written that the secret to my success, such as it has been, is that I do so little.  So I am planning years in advance.  Yet, immodestly, doing so little, I have accomplished a lot, at sea, with words, and with lust and love.

It is good.  I am old and I am still doing what I ought to do and enjoying beauty and Carol’s love.  I started to say ‘along the way’, but that is wrong.  The beauty and Carol’s love are ends in themselves.

If you know much of my life—and it is there in words and videos—you know I have known great joy and great despair.  The despair has often almost killed me.  The joy prevails.

So I lift my almost empty glass, which I will refill, to life and to you if you have been here a while.  I don’t often check numbers of readers, and I will do what I believe I ought to do even if no one else ever knows, but as I have written and understand, every work of art is an attempt at communication, and I am glad that at least of few of you are there for me to communicate to.