Breathe

“When the ball comes fast — breathe.”

This I heard in a San Diego park, near tennis courts, and recognized the instructor’s good advice. The balls are coming fast these days in this noisy marina on the Sea of Cortez: contracts to sign, settlement statements to question, stolen credit card numbers to report, a fallen spare tire to retrieve, bee swarms to avoid, overboard glasses to dive for, a tiny house to pack up and give away, and the relentless stultifying heat. I am tired from lack of sleep, but I can’t seem to stop myself from hanging around S/V Habibi. And we can’t leave the marina until the paperwork is complete. So I stick my feet in ice water and breathe.

There is an astronomical benefit to sleeping on the cool metal 4Runner roof: falling stars — they never cease to delight me. Though when a lightning storm swings by in the wee hours of Sunday, I hot-tail it back to the boat. That’s when I know Habibi is Home: I wanted to make sure she was okay, and be nearby if something happened.

I recently allowed a fingerprint to be recorded in order to access A dock whenever I please, instead of waiting for someone to let me in. “Authenticated,” says the female gate robot. Finally.

Below the water line, the dock hosts colorful flora and fauna, though the water’s a bit murky. I rinse well after the failed glasses dive. So much for that old perspective.

Rowdy music plays sometimes, and folks walk back and forth at all hours, but the moon is undimmed by marina lights, and most of the guards know me now. I lie on the cool deck in the evening and breathe.