For the past week, I have been on “Island Time.” I did not wear a watch. I went to bed when I wanted to go to bed. I did not set the alarm clock.
I ate, drank and was merry. I came, I saw, I conched out.
I read three books, took a nap every afternoon at 3 p.m. and about the toughest decision I made all week was whether to order the grouper, shrimp or oysters. It rained off and on for about two days, but that was OK. I love the sound of rain on the roof. Saw some pretty cool lighting, too.
Yes, I was tripwrecked on St. George, four miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, and I didn’t take a care in the world over there with me. I could see a million stars at night and woke up to hear the waves outside my window. I watched schools of dolphins troll the waters just a few yards from shore.
My wife found lots of great shells and some sand dollars, and my oldest son had the find of the week — an arrowhead that had washed up on the shore. I went for a walk every morning, passing houses along the way with clever names like “Seaduction,” “Divine Porpoise” and “Squid Row.” We nearly went broke trying to feed four teenagers and three twentysomethings for seven days, but somehow we managed. Wish I had bought stock in Dr. Pepper and peanut butter.
My souvenir for the week was an orange baseball cap from the Piggly Wiggly in Apalachicola, Fla. I think it’s a safe bet to say I’m the first person in my neighborhood to own one.
I came back with some sand between my toes.
It sure is going to be tough to put on that tie, tighten that noose and go to work Monday morning.
