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Cyber-
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THE SAND IS COOL, almost the texture
of talcum powder, as I walk along the beach in the predawn light. I
step over a beached jellyfish, then another, and another. Their opaque
bodies lie folded over upon themselves, pushed by waves and picked at
by seagulls.
I'm bored. Extremely bored. Florida is full of snowbirds. There are no students, no children, no young people camping. Only large motor homes equipped with air conditioners and televisions powered by noisy generators. They've migrated here from Ohio, Minnesota, the Dakotas, New England... and here they will stay until spring. Because my stretch of beach requires a 15-minute walk from the road, I am alone. Blissfully, painfully alone. There are times in every journey when going home is an overwhelmingly attractive idea. I remember having felt this way on my bicycle in Africa. It was somewhere in Guinea-Bissau, I think, 100 miles to a road and 400 miles to an airport. Going home was definitely not an option. So I got over it, as I will later, in Mississippi, or Louisiana. Soon. I hope. The rising sun turned the sand on my stretch of beach the color of butter. I picked up my pace a little, avoiding stranded jellyfish and sand crab holes . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book |
