The red buoy must be a mile out. Were I to stand at the edge of water-beach rather than on this hillside of rosehips and rocks higher up, where now-white driftwood slammed up to fashion a fence, I’d have a better sense of shore to water span, a clearer calculation of traveling-from-here-to-the-buoy space. But I’m here, here where I have landed – at the edge … Continue reading On (Not) Traveling