Today, we were on the boat in a storm, and it didn't even wake us up. We were in a marina. The boat rocked gently, and the gravelly swoosh of the rain lulled us into a depth of sleep that we'd rarely experienced. Light was peeking around the edges of our covered hatch, a rarity as day after day of 5:30 AM alarms trained our body to the misery of alarm-free 5:30 wake ups.
The storm is a silent one, but it still takes its toll. The boat is fine because our marina is well-protected, and we're in a fantastic location in downtown Pensacola on Palafox Wharf, a few hundred yards from where the mammoth cargo ships come in to repair their massive plastic-wrapped consumer good ships until the next one sails ind. The toll of this tempest is a mental one, the steady reminders that Mother Nature is still in charge.
Control is an illusion, especially on the loop.
We should be grateful. Most of the rest of the country is mired in the brutally cold slurry that paralyzes the South and demolishes the good cheer of the rest. We're walking around in borderline shorts weather, and we've needed it. The only thing wrong is our plans.
It seems the loop is a gale force therapy session, one that slams us head-first into a healthier more mindful state of living. Hopefully, in a month or so, we'll bend like so many palm trees to the winds and whims of change. When we have the opportunity and inclination, we'll sail. When we can't, we'll rest and truly take in the best of what our country has to offer.
Until then, we tilt unnecessarily into the beastly, silent storm.