Encased in the clarity of an erotic dream, I slept soundly into the late hours of morning. East coast time minutes before noon, but body time moments before sunrise. Our flight had arrived two hours behind schedule. Bad weather. After closing down a local bar, we crawled into bed around 6AM Eastern, 1AM island time.

Dreams are often signified by the presence of someone from my past. Deb was there. We went to college together. She once stitched the pee hole closed on her boyfriend’s briefs for an April fool’s gag. She waited for a response for three days…and nuthin’. That taught us a lot about the limited functionality of male undergarments, and the absence of male patience. Uh, anywho Deb was there, but her capacity was limited to ordering pizza. There were three pepperoni, three supreme, three cheese, and one with anchovies. There was a group of us sharing a dinner meeting in what I suppose was someone’s living room. I don’t recall the details, only that the context shifted and suddenly Deb, the others, and all the pizza were gone.

I was stretched out against the Mister on the sofa. I like laying on my side with the pillows at my back and my head against his chest. He usually watches television, while I doze lightly to the sound of his heartbeat. Drowsily, I moved closer to lean against his shoulder. We stare at the TV at an inappropriate commercial for erectile dysfunction. We laugh at the absurdity of it and I move against him to nuzzle his neck, and I could fill the softness of his shirt against my exposed tummy. The touch felt real and tingly. There was a tactile sensitivity seldom present in my dreams. As we kissed, he touched my exposed flesh with his warm hand and I felt breathless until….my temple shattered as if someone had struck me with a wooden mallet.

Mister Hombre’s fucking, or should I say fuckless, cell phone, ruined the moment with the abruptness of a car wreck. He quickly left the bed in search of the offending device. I sat up with a throbbing temple verbally bashing the cabinet contractor who I assumed was calling two hours earlier than requested. I’m pretty certain I didn’t use words as respectable as, cabinet ,or contractor, at the time. I might have called him that goddamn son-of-a bitch. Sorry, Randy!

Now I begin processing the Mister’s voice. He’s definitely not talking to the cabinet man. In my left-hanging, six hours of sleep stupor, I can’t process that the entire world is not completely cognizant of my time zone. The bastards! How can the world not know it’s 6:45 in the morning here. After all, it’s always all about me when I too sleepy to conjugate verbs (a.k.a. as before morning coffee).

I hear the Mister’s voice say,”No you didn’t wake me” at which point a part of me wants to yell, “Liar!”. Next, I hear him say,”yes, she was asleep”. After that, I hear a distinct laugh from the other end of the line. Yes, of course. The Second String Cat Sitter is having trouble getting into the house. I wander into the bathroom, while the Mister clears up a miscommunication.

When the I return to the bed, the Mister notices my disgruntled expression, and asks if I’m feeling okay. I explain the inconsiderate timing of the phone call, and clarify that I am not suffering adverse side effects from consumption. He laughs about the dream, and calls Cat Sitter 2.0 to see if the situation has been resolved. Then he enlightens her that sleep was not only thing she interrupted. She gloats in a manner that only a woman without needs can gloat… I gloat knowing the day stretches ahead of me, and I will not be confined to an office, though I would be late for breakfast.

At the risk of being lemmings, the Mister and I took a day trip to our favorite beach. Our love affair with this stretch of sand and saltwater originated early in our courtship. I convinced the Mister it was one of the cleanest, sparsely populated beaches in driving distance and the Mister agreed to go along. The first time we went away together, we came here for a weekend. The following summer we returned to gather sand dollars. Years later, we out maneuvered a hurricane by two days to exchange our vows on the shore at sunset. I don’t know if the beach actually won over the Mister, it could have been the promise of grilled seafood at Julia Mae’s.

Like Salmon returning to spawn, we return to St. George Island, yearly. Sometimes once, other times more frequently. We’d made two trips this year, but both times we failed to cleanse our bodies in the surf and worship the sun. The first trip we never actually made it to the beach, and yes, I accept full responsibility for this little oversight. You see, I was distracted by a visit to the kayak store. When the owner offered to tow a trailer full of kayaks (think 12) to the bay for us to try them out, I couldn’t believe our good fortune, and voted against baking in the sun, in favor of paddling the marsh. We saw fish jump and cranes wading, but we never felt the sand beneath our toes.

When we made the other trip, we neglected to check the weather. The sky was cloudy and grey, and the air was chilly. There were scattered storms in the area and the water was choppy. Those weren’t really deterrents. We’re too pasty to consider sun bathing, and the rough surf was perfect for the boogie boards the Mister was dying to try out, but the water temperature brought all plans for frolicking to an abrupt halt. I tested the water with y toes and abruptly retreated to the car, and pulled a sweater over my head.

Saturday was absolutely perfect. It was eighty degrees and breezy. The air was free of humidity, and the water felt refreshing. We arrived at lunch and stopped at a beach side restaurant for fresh seafood. From our table, we watched shrimp boats drag their nets, and porpoises play in the surf.

We drove to the state park to unload our gear and get reacquainted with the sea. We’ve accumulated an overabundance beach paraphernalia due to end of season sales and Father’s day presents. We looked like that family from the Grapes of Wrath. Towels, sunscreen, snorkel gear, flippers, short wet suits (weren’t going to freeze our nads off this time), cabana, boogie boards, and cooler.

There we were after two trips from the car, struggling to assemble a cabana a boy scout could master after drinking a six pack. We were both battling the impulse to use personally directed expletives…but it was totally worth it. If you’ve never had a small tent’s worth of privacy on a beach, you should. If you have someone special in your life, he or she will thank you for it later.

Mister Hombre was disappointed in the waves, they weren’t magnificent enough to live up to his North Shore fantasies, but such is life. We mostly used them for buoyancy, floating beyond the sandbar and the breaking waves. In a fit of madness, the Mister dared me to try and balance on the board supporting my weight on my knees. So NOT going to happen, but it was worth a laugh, or six.

Exhausted from the surf, we returned to the cabana. I caught a lovely snooze. I don’t sleep well at home in my own bed, but I can snag a major power nap in a public space. I think it was the gentle sounds of the waves breaking, the shady cabana, the soft touch of the breeze caressing my salty skin, and the warm hip touching mine.

When we left late in the afternoon, we spotted a family carrying a cooler down the boardwalk. Someone was having a picnic later, and watching the sun set. Maybe another time.

On the drive home, we stopped for dinner at our favorite Italian franchise. Steamed mussels, grilled salmon, and chicken marsala (all diet approved). Seated at the counter, we watched the pizza chef toss dough into the air, and miss. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You’re not supposed to watch.” Luckily, he didn’t honor the five second rule.

Thanks everyone for your good wishes. Your kind sentiments were effective in influencing the weather, and we enjoyed seven wonderful days of pleasant temperatures and mostly clear skies with only a few stray drops of rain. Not wanting to be overwhelmed by a quintessential tourist vacation, I asked for suggestions about the best places to explore that are often overlooked by travelers. Not only did you have awesome suggestions, but you even took me on a guided hike.

Our trip was a mixture of touristy things like, Pikes Place Market, the Museum of Flight, a ferry ride, and more subdued activities, such as the waterfront trail at the Washington Park Arboretum, and driving through the mountains to Oregon.

The Mister and I have different taste in rental cars. But he agreed to do all the driving so what could I say, other than, “Sure I’ll be happy to read the map as long as you don’t drive in the wrong direction down one way streets.” Only once…almost…thank goodness for speedy u-turns.

Meno was kind enough to take us on a guided hike elevated walking path to Rattlesnake Ridge. Okay, so she didn’t call it a hike, but since the average elevation climb where I live is less than fifty feet, I’m going to embellish and call it a hike because the view was spectacular. It was nice chatting with Meno again. It sucks living so far away, but at least blogging makes the world more accessible.

Yes, Meno is as tall as she claims, and me…I am not.

We took the ferry to Bainbridge Island. I noticed this homemade bow on the shore near the boat marina. It wasn’t very long, maybe two-feet, but it reminded me of the ones I used to make as a kid. I like finding signs of humanity and imagination. Many of the places we visited had wild blackberries growing along paths (Cannon Beach, Bainbridge Island, the Arboretum, and the trail to Rattlesnake Ridge.) They were the snack of choice.

We went Chittenden Locks in Ballard to watch the boats, but the Mister was utterly captivated watching the salmon jump. If we had more time, he would have probably chosen to spend the day there. Afterward, we walked along a waterfront trail at the Washington Park Arboretum. It wove around the water and over small islands. There were plenty of blackberries to fight off hunger pangs. On the way back to the car, we walked up on three women trying to kidnap a duck. They were armed with a fishing net and an empty diaper box. It reminded me of home.

When we drove to Oregon it was overcast and hazy so the pictures were blah. We ate at Camp 18, where I was able to photograph Sasquatch, just for Liv. We stopped at Ecola State Park, overlooking Cannon Beach, Mister Hombre almost stepped on a bunny. Nope that isn’t a euphemism. This little guy was familiar with humans.

On the last full day of our trip, Egan mentioned the Museum of Flight. I knew if I told the Mister, we would spend the entire afternoon there (and did). The Mister is a flyboy at heart, and it would have been wrong not take him.

The trip was everything I hoped. Actually it was better…

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