Nirvana here on the islands is summer. I'd be surprised to learn there was another place in this country (earth?) that has more glorious summers. In spite of the rain that plagues us a good portion of the year our summers are dry. Not the hot dryness of the desert but rather a perfect balance of humidity and warmth. Your skin doesn't itch. Your mucous membranes don't feel as though you've been 10 hours in the air at 30,000 feet. You step outside from a non-airconditioned house--because no one has air conditioning here--and the sun gently warms your skin while a gentle breeze off the water prevents that baked feeling that summers elsewhere seem to bring.
We have an old Adirondack chair near the edge of the bluff that gets a good deal of use during the summer. Sitting in it, where the breeze is a little stronger than it is on our deck, we can look out over the green undergrowth and trees on the bank below and see the sound, its waves gently washing the shore in rhythmic, mesmerizing sighs, sailboats gliding by silently and an occasional power boat cutting a white wake as it buzzes past. If we listen we can hear our resident bald eagles call to each other in their easily recognizable high pitched warbling, and looking up we see them gliding high above the water coasting on thermals and then suddenly diving into a school of fish. The sun turns the water a bright blue and dances diamonds off the surface; we can barely make out beach houses on the next island, and the snow-topped Olympic Mountains are outlined behind. It would be a perfect place to read if one could concentrate, but I can never take my eyes from the scene in front of me.
In late evening the sun is a fiery red ball above the horizon that tints clouds to salmon and then appears to drop quickly into the sea as the air cools. I find myself asking, "How do I deserve all this beauty?"
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