This morning before I left, I walked on the beach one last time. It felt daring, a little indulgent, to pack as if to return and then balk. But the skies were clear. Usually the sky is overcast until the late afternoon or there is a gentle fog obscuring the distance, including the sky. But not today. The sky was pristine and royal. A bank of fog waited tentatively offshore, and all of Chesterman was free to play in the bright open.

It was warm. At 10:00 a.m. I wore my slightest, billowiest little doll top and the thin yoga pants for every occasion. The breeze found the loft of my shirt and nestled softly on my back. Tufted fog skated across the surf, the surfers charging headlong into it, and all morning-goers awestruck at this early brightness. I cried to leave here, leave myself.