Yesterday morning when I awakened the world seemed to end at the bottom of the bluff. Everything had been white washed in a thick fog and the wavelets seemed frozen on the water. There was no definition to any landmark and no horizon line to give the eye perspective. The only visible features in this expanse of nothing were two pointed rocks, holding their heads above the high tide line. They were parallel to each other and slightly skewed from the bluff. Perched atop each rock was a single cormorant, gazing out at the world’s end. It seemed as though they were sentinels entrusted with guarding the passageway to another time or place. If the mighty, bold, or stupid could bring a raft thus far one bird would warn and the other encourage, and both would watch the soul slip through the gateway into danger.
You would have been able to feel the magic in the air. It was breathtaking. Then you would move to quickly to get a better view and get caught up on the air because it didn’t deign to move with you. That’s when you would realize that the world was cloaked not in a cool morning fog or misty after rain but the hanging, deadening cover of humidity that was impenetrable by the sun and impervious to the breeze. This is how magic dies.
I am told that yesterday it got up to 95 F in my area which those who keep track call a record high for the day. And while the previous day was warmer, ringing in at 99 F on my car thermometer, I was no longer in waders and the heat was less morally and mentally deadening. I suppose I should offer some space for the heat turning people stupid, but yesterday four people caught me in casual conversation and asked the same question. “Is it hot enough for you Jenn?” It took everything in my heat stroke damaged mind not to say, “No actually, I don’t start to enjoy myself until it is over 100 degrees and at least 95 F the shade.” This is rude and I did not say it. I told Meghan instead.