Cold Storage Beach, Dennis MA
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
A round-the-world sailor spent 100 mins in the Pacific Ocean after being thrown overboard in a storm. His chances of survival in the 10C water were extremely slim after only 15 mins. He could see his crew searching for him, someone at the top of the mast, but he got turned around and struggled to get his personal location beacon working, while being swamped by waves. By the time he'd fixed the beacon, he was 1.5 miles away from his boat, but nevertheless, his crew managed to find him. Given the choice to return home, he chose instead to continue with the 11 month-long race.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
This moment (isn’t going to last, while it lasts)
is a quiet morning after the rain and I have the neighbourhood to myself, only me and my black dog, everyone else is sleeping or sheltering from the weather still, staying indoors. Raindrops are shaken from the trees by a fresh, cool breeze and the leaves, still green, fall to the grey stone pavement beneath.
My black dog is sniffing all the fresh smells unearthed by the rain, the smell of soil and worms and fallen foliage. You would think that the rain would wash the smells away, fade them, but after every storm, my black dog sniffs delicately, eagerly, with the air of a connoisseur, one paw raised, at the subtle, earthy scents in the ground, the air.
Pale petals, pink and white, lie bedraggled on the pavement, yellow blossom and tattered leaves, nibbled on by insects and caterpillars. I can hear the hidden tufted titmouse call, pew pew pew, like children playing shoot-‘em-up. The light is soft and shaded and there is so much to see, colours made vibrant by the rain, the sky still clouded and pale grey, my favourite light, so soft and cool, the light of home.
Like the leaves on the trees, this moment will not stay, though it feels so good, is as precious as a warm hug, a soft sigh, a snorting laugh. Like all these things, though I try to hold onto this moment, I cannot. A lawnmower farts into fat, snorting life and a rumbling car trundles by and
this moment slips away.
© S.E. Gilbey, 2014