Saturday morning, I looked out into a hushed, misty world and (at 8:22) headed down through fog towards the beach for Day 10.
Day 10 can only be described as a perfect 10.
For the first time all summer, the water was crystal clear; I could count my toes as I tread water. The waves came in easy, rhythmic and regular, in beautifully straight lines. I rode one in and dashed back out to ride another.
I shimmied out of my makeshift surf suit and headed back into the currentless water to swim lazily up and down the shore. Bobbing easily from breaststroke to freestyle; turning from freestyle to backstroke; backflipping from backstroke to bob in the peaks and valleys of the waves, my toes peaking above the water.
But heading back inland early in the afternoon, I felt the increasing heat begin to siphon away my easy joy of that morning. My head felt muddled; my thoughts murky and cloudy. I wished for Sunday morning to come quickly, so I could beat feet.
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Sunday dawned hot - 73 at 7 am. Hazy. I took it easy on my first 10K in 10 weeks, running just under 10 minute miles. I tried not to think - about anything. About the shimmering heat, about the swirling thoughts, about the ceaseless sweat, about the flaming sun.
The thunderstorms blessedly came that night. In the first onslaught, I stood on the back porch and held my hand out to catch the roof run-off. It was cold - not just chilled, but actually mind-clearingly cold - hinting at the coming fall.
Later, as a second wave came through, we - my friends and their children - gathered together on the porch, talking and drinking in the dark. In our island on the porch, behind the curtain of rain, I felt the itch to spring from the steps and run about dark. And then, I was. Jumping in the puddles. Dosi-do-ing in the street, kicking arcs of water in the drainage ditch. Later still, in fresh clothes but hair damp, I laid on the floor, drowsing, feeling a contentment that comes with feeling a part of something.
At midnight, I put myself to bed and fell asleep to the sound of rain.
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Monday morning, I woke to the sound of another storm and gray skies. As the storm receded, I checked the radar repeatedly as I made coffee and calculated my odds of a decent day at the beach.
In the end, what the odds were didn't really matter. I headed back down to say goodbye to summer.
I snaked my way south under a patchwork of gray. When I arrived, the surfers were out in full force in the rough waves. Clouds roiled from the south, churning along the coast. I waded in methodically, the current ripping north towards the pier. As noon approached, the clouds turned smoky then black. The beach cleared of the Labor Day vacationers, the locals waited nonchalantly. I took my cue from them, taking but a moment to cover my things, and headed north for a walk.
To my left, over the town, the thunder cracked. In the far distance, a single bolt of lightning struck the sea. I strode past families of surfers waiting in patient bands, gazing out from behind sunglasses, bleached curls whipping in the wind. To my right, the sun bobbed over the ocean, peaking out from behind the cloud tendrils snaking from the thunderheads.
As I walked this line along the shore, rain began to fall. Black clouds on my left, grey-white light on my right. Rain on my head, on my outstretched hands, as I walked between the waves of sand and water.
And then the rain was gone.
And my mind was clear.
Autumn is coming; time to look west.
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