I wake up to pefect quiet, no neon light blinking the time or merely announcing its electronic presence. The sunshine is peeking through the slats of the shuttered windows. My bed, with palm-printed sheets is swaying slightly, yet there is no breeze. Even the ceiling fan is off.
The dunes are fifty feet west and the Gulf another fifty feet beyond with its gentle waves approaching the shore and the waiting birds, quietly.
I have never lived in a house raised on stilts before and at first the swaying baffled me and my adult son who is spending this glorious week with me. The town is empty this last week in August; we see few people as I walk with my son to the shops for ice cream or homemade fudge, or on the beach in the mornings. At least five different species of birds line the shore awaiting fresh cocinas as the huge pelicans dive bomb beak first into the water and rise, visibly swallowing the small fish.
One morning as I walk with my son, we see a father and his teenage son throwing a round net into the sea to catch the small fish they might later use for bait. There are a few paddleboarders lazily making their way north and a small boy on his tummy in the sand, legs raised behind him as he drives his small car along his imagined route.
But by far the best part of this idyllic spot is to sit with my son to watch the sunset, to see the lightning and count the seconds to the loud, daily thunder, to see the rain descend straight down in torrents and then be totally absorbed by the sand and the heat a half hour later.
To sit with my son, to prepare meals with him, to share memories with him, to enjoy his company and be in this lovely spot in glorious riotous sunshine, nothing can surpass this experience.
