It's early. I've left my fellow adventurers to snooze, and gone outside to blog in an early morning shower. The soundtrack this morning features melodious bird song against the rhythm of raindrops on tin roofs and plastic skylights: an orchestra without a key or time signature.
Last night, my coworker and I walked along a beach on the south side of Malcolm Island at dusk. The surface of the bay was roughened by the weather, and had been etched with lines from boats and winds and physics. The atmosphere moved past us excitedly, but the mountains and the skyline seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of nightfall. A family of ducks, oblivious to the impending darkness, swam and dove in synchrony. Meanwhile, birds and insects softened the harsh silence of paradise after sunset.
We didn't speak much, but in my mind I placed boundaries around the universe of my memories. I realized (as I often realize but choose to forget) that life, although composed of an infinity of instants, is a short thing with a definite beginning and a firm end. There are only so many evenings in which we can feel the sharp bite of a cold ocean around our ankles or the playful hands of a western breeze across our faces. Furthermore, personal philosophy and preference are dynamic; there may only be so many evenings in which we desire these experiences.
How many of those who would risk our coastlines for their bottom lines have stuck their toes in the ocean at dusk? How many? Are they unaware of the majesty of the waterline, or is it simply less impressive than a large number in a spreadsheet?
As I sip the last of my coffee, I listen to the sound of the rain. When I leave, I'll remember the sound of this cold, foggy morning: bird song and rain on a plastic skylight.
