I’ve always kind of admired Camus’ thought about how dying summer breathes life into the new season. Such a startling reversal to conventional thinking.
But this morning, I am literally to my waist in wet sail bags, as we haul one by one out of the locker, spread the Dacron to hose off the salt, then hoist in the breeze to dry.
Just one of those not unpleasant aftermath drills that keeps you in touch with fresh memories of the summer’s “big cruise,” as the kids called it — big cruise meaning they were not going to see their friends for an excruciating amount of time.
Piece of cake in the age of cell phone communication where the neighborhood and schoolyard comes along for the ride. Which is some sort of psychic invasion of sorts, though well beyond mentioning, though rules for cell phones on boat trips should be a consideration at some level.