He could feel he was inside the current now and he could see the lights of the beach colonies along the shore. He knew where he was now and it was nothing to get home.
The wind is our friend, anyway, he thought. Then he added, sometimes. And the great sea with our friends and our enemies. And bed, he thought. Bed is my friend. Just bed, he thought. Bed will be a great thing. It is easy when you are beaten, he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you, he thought.
"Nothing," he said aloud. "I went out too far."
When he sailed into the little harbour the lights of the Terrace were out and he knew everyone was in bed. The breeze had risen steadily and was blowing strongly now. It was quiet in the harbour though and he sailed up onto the little patch of shingle below the rocks. There was no one to help him so he pulled the boat up as far as he could. Then he stepped out and made her fast to a rock.
The Great Michigan Read with Mary Doria Russell this morning at the library. A wonderful lady, whip smart and personable. Then, a virtual matinee of Bigfoot and Marty this afternoon. Thirteen people in a Zoom meeting. It was a good day at work.
Tonight, I ate, cleaned a church, and slept.
Saint Marty's koan for the end of this week (and the poetry festival): after being attacked by sharks, take a nap.
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