| REGISTER TO WIN | |
 |
Three days before our departure, the temperature at home was either 6 degrees or 8, depending on which reading one cared to believe.
When we arrived here, the mercury stood at 75.
A great part of the joy this year was in escaping the endless and increasingly strident din of politics. Politics, I know, divides us, for we all have our favorite candidates. But I suspect one fervent wish unites us.
That is, let the votes be cast and the partisan caterwauling finally be silenced, so that life can again find a sensible and civil pace.
The cadence of the days here enables one to imagine that may, in fact, be a real, if still somewhat distant, possibility.
Pelicans in parade formation sail by just below the condo balcony of the dear friends whose guests we are.
Dolphins occasionally patrol by twos and threes a short way off the beach.
Other wildlife can be seen — sun-burnished young women wearing costumes that, a generation ago, might have gotten a girl arrested.
At low tide, on a morning after a night west wind has driven up treasure-bearing waves, the shelling can be magnificent. And not only shells. Branches of coral and the glass floats of Japanese fishermen.
Golf is mandatory. My friend, our host, is accomplished at the game. Or at any rate more accomplished than I can ever dream of being. What I do out there on the mown and manicured course does not qualify as a sport. More like a comic spectacle.
But the setting is spectacular, the plantings lovely, the ball-eating ponds and canals sparkling, and the coral snakes and gators in the rough less plentiful than you might imagine.
As for the dining, let me say only that the purpose of coming here is not to demonstrate one’s capacity for cheerless asceticism.
I may not be able to hit a three iron off a hard-pan lie, or escape from a sand trap using anything but a rake. But I can put away steak and crab legs with the best of them. And our hostess makes a chilled carrot soup to die for.
Then there are the evenings.
The beach empties of the last walkers. The light softens. The sound of wavelets curling on the sand rises up seven floors and comes in through the open balcony doors like a breathy whisper.
The pelican squadron comes by again, southbound this time toward the roosting place.
And the sun — no longer a thing on fire, but rather mellow pink — first touches the line between water and sky, hesitates there a moment, then slides away toward California and beyond.
(I know that Galileo explained it differently, but that’s how it seems from here.)
In the darkness that follows, a fine speckling of lights defines the curve of the coast in both directions. And directly out to the west, other, smaller pinpoints of brilliance, the lights of night fishermen, can be seen receding in the direction the sun has gone.
That’s a day here. To be followed by another just as fine.
And in bed at night, just before sleep, I’m already eager to read in tomorrow’s newspaper that there’s been yet another March blast of snow and cold at home.
Join the discussion
Share your observations and experiences about news. Lively, open debate is the goal, but please refrain from personal attacks or comments that are racist, vulgar or otherwise inappropriate. If you see an inappropriate comment, please click the "Report as violation" link to notify a KansasCity.com editor. Thanks for your feedback.