Sailing Fortuitous

Seasons are tough. Some, like Vivaldi, say that there are four seasons. Indeed, many moderate-latitude locales experience four seasons, although there are apparently two Four Seasons in Philadelphia…both the Four Seasons Hotel and Four Seasons Total Landscaping. It seems as if some Fuzzy Bunny mixed them up and took the show up to, what is that? Tacony? Bravo, sir. For me, there are only really two seasons: sailing season and non-sailing season. While now may be the winter of our discontent in many ways, autumn is the spring of my discontent as it relates to the end of the summer of my sailing season.

I was going to call this “Winds of Change,” but I have Martin Amis’s The War Against Cliché on my reading list, and decided to preemptively stop myself at its potential behest. This may be equally unoriginal, or at least uninspiring, but I’d rather go with bland than have it titled like a mediocre prog album by trying to jam the word “entropy” in there. “Winds of Change” would probably have given me all the wrong sort of SEO anyway, when the famished Scorpions fans came sniffing around for hot gossip.

The ocean. It’s big. It’s out there. I want to sail in it.

I don’t know how I can continue to be surprised that things are weird, but things are weird and it remains surprising. We sailed. Basically no one else did.

Poof. Everything was different. Last week was summer, and this week it wasn’t.

Labor Day: the unofficial end of summer and my last opportunity to wear those white capri pants. Alas, I didn’t get a chance, because Jenn was in sailing school.