Friday Morning Beach Report

I still have not resumed my regular beach walks, but I did dash to the sand before I went to the gym for my T'ai Chi Chih class. I saw a line of pelicans and a group of circling terns.

And the ocean looked like this:

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

Ghost boat.
And the pelicans on the jetty are still as statues.
Terns circle and cry but never commit to plunge for a fish.
Maybe there are no fish.
A single sea lions leaves the lazy dock life, undulating straight and fast for the harbor's mouth and
passes a couple perched on the rocks.
They are silent. Turned toward one another, heads hung low. For them the water, the birds, the boat, the sea lion do not exist.

Population of Margaritaville shrinks from 11 to 4

And tomorrow when the population is halved from 4 to 2, I will begin to refer to our fair habitat as Pillville. Things will be quieter but a lot less fun. No dance parties,  no tag team kayaking, no chocolate cake, and the age range will no longer span 9-90.

Well, maybe I ought to make more cake.

But there's no less joy in some ways. Though these people I love won't be within hugging range, the love continues. They're fun and funny and it's a marvel to see how we interact together in small groups or with the complete contingent.

As for me, I'll be back to walking the beach.

This morning, there were hundreds of  feather's tangled in the sea weed. And while I now easily recognize the call of terns who have been quite active of late, I have no idea if these feathers belong to them or if those lost feathers signify disaster or a new stage of development.

Anyone know?

Bird-O-Rama

My photos do not come close to capturing the beauty of the birds placidly riding the waves in between fishing forays. Pelicans, gulls, terns, cormorants, grebes all bobbing and dipping and diving together.

In addition, I'm happy to report that a few buffleheads have appeared in our portion of the marina. They're just as striking as the photo (from Wikipedia), and in shape, bear a resemblance to bathtub tug boats. My mom calls them her ships. Which can be a little confusing since she also talks a lot about the boats that come and go in the marina. 

If this past weekend in Margaritaville were an actual Margarita, it would be one of those fishbowl-sized ones.

It's Monday afternoon, and I'm still woozy with the wonder of it all.

White and whirling cloud of terns,

The man who loves me watching the white and whirling cloud of terns,

and later, gathered around the kitchen island, friends, wine, and ice cream with espresso poured over the top.

Over. The. Top.