Summer by the Sound

The Sound is only a few miles from the house. We don't really plan to go. One of us will say, "Want to go down to the water?" and before long we're in the truck.

It's the same place we go in the winter. In February I'm usually wearing a heavy coat with my hands in my pockets, and after twenty minutes I'm ready to head home.

This time of year is different.

The air smells like salt before you even see the water. Sometimes there's the smell of flowers mixed in from somebody's yard along the way. I don't know why those two smells work together, but they do.

Most afternoons you can tell when the rain is coming. The clouds get darker over the water first, and then the wind changes. If you look far enough out, you can usually see the rain before it gets to you.

It never stays long.

We don't usually leave anymore. By the time we'd pack everything up and get to the truck, the rain would probably be over.

Afterward, everything looks washed clean. The pavement is darker. The air feels cooler.

There are still boats out on the Sound. People are walking dogs. Someone's fishing from the rocks. Every now and then you hear kids laughing farther down the beach, even though you can't see them.

Eventually we head home.