A morning on the water

Living it

The alarm isn't needed. The heron outside the window takes flight before dawn. Coffee is poured on the dock before the sun crests the Waterway, and the engine starts with the first birdsong. By eight, you're heading out past the inlet — tide permitting, always tide-dependent. Back by noon, lunch is grilled fish from the morning's catch, or something from a shack at the marina where the dockmaster already knows your order. Afternoon brings a nap somewhere that smells like salt and diesel. Evenings end with the hum of the motor docking for the night and the water lapping against the pilings. The tide table lives on the refrigerator because it matters more than the news.