I searched long and hard for one photo that would sum up the extreme fantasticity of this summer. One that showed my melanin glowing, that zoomed in on me dancing and laughing with friends and family, tossing back rosé, with Shosh and a hoop in the background at the beach. Or on a boat. Or on a boat at the beach (yes we did that).
But nary a one fully encapsulated the extreme wonderment that was summer 2017.
*throws up hands*
Summer began for me aroundabout June 1. I shared a story about how after months of adulting, my will broke and I ended up partying with sailors and trespassin… I mean letting myself quietly into a friend’s home to pilfer for leftovers.
The shenaniganry continued from there and I should probably apologise to my liver, my neighbours, and anyone that expected greatness from me over the last few months. Mea Culpa. The sun and sea had other plans.
Or should I say, had zero plans, and they only spurred on and incited spontaneous, impromptu nonsense.
Crewed up with my ragtag group of East End entrepreneurs, we blew off every major responsibility and maintained the bare minimum required to stave off homelessness and/or divorce. We would mostly wake up, put on bathing suits, and make our way to the nearest beach or breezy porch. Many times I’d take my laptop and do some work (or at least provide a bit of dope social commentary). Sometimes I didn’t even pretend.
On Friday nights, my husband would walk in with a case of wine, a bucket of chicken (classy as fucks), and wide eyes. “What’s the plan babe?!” We would wake up on Saturday with a wee headache and a blurry memory of dancing, drinking, swimming (me), laughing, eating and general foolishness.
Sometimes (every. single. time.) we’d do it all over again that day.
There was the full moon that rose so huge in the sky, I felt I could see every crevice, where I grilled wahoo over flames, hooped for hours while friends built a sandcastle crab then woke at about 3am, covered in sand and the light of a bright sky.
And the time we celebrated a birthday with a nighttime glass bottom boat ride into the crystallest, clearest water of Castle Roads, swimming with blue light and curious snappers.
And a five-day stretch around Cup Match with a longtime best friend that included an airport boat pickup, midnight greases, a rainy sit off with Netflix, a swizzle filled day at the field, a highschool reunion, a trip to Jamaican Grill, two trips to Mr. Chicken, and a massive day at the largest party on the water. (I grilled even more wahoo. It’s sort of my thing.)
An election party that boasted incredible food, magnificent views, and intelligent debate.
There were Friday sunsets that slashed the sky with pinks and oranges and caused my throat to tighten in awe.
And Sunday sunrises in St. George’s harbour when I’d wake to the hot breeze wafting through the porthole and jump into the ocean while the town still slept.
There were raftups.
Floatups.
Drinkups.
Dancewiths.
Rideovers.
And swimtos.
There were long boating afternoons with our children, marveling at both their adulthood and silliness. And a week in New Orleans without ‘em, imagining using their tuition-money to open a speakeasy called Real Dill.
And yes.
There were horrible storms. And earthquakes. And terrorism. And war. And loss of life. And destruction. There was Grenfell. There was cancer. And death. And poverty. There were even swarms of locusts!
There was the ever-growing pang that we have gone too far. That we have spiraled our planet into chaos from whence it can’t return.
That you can work your entire life to build a world that gets snatched away before you have begun to live. Before you have really stopped to watch butterflies dance.
And so I spent a summer celebrating everything I love with people I love.
Honouring each day.
Wasting no breaths.
Giving gratitude for each moment that led me to this life.
