There reaches a point on my internal psychological thermometer when the needle points to red, and I simply have to go. No more staying.
And so I went.
Riding my magical BMW S1000XR up to Anacortes, I boarded the ferry and was quickly enraptured with the sights and smells. The entire journey to the islands was a profound immersion in bliss. I stood on the bow and breathed deep the sunshine and salt air at 17 knots. Arriving in Friday Harbor, I was walking on air.
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| Aeolus in her element |
I journeyed alone on Aeolus to Jones, where I communed with that perfect little island. I walked around the perimeter and felt each step sacred. You think I exaggerate, I don't. The aromatherapy of the northern Salish Sea is impossible to describe or replicate. The combination of salt air, plants of that mixture, and whatever else produces chemical scent is beyond comprehension yet sure to delight.
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| Looking toward Waldron |
It's nothing I did, and everything I was able to do, in this place so deep for me. The sun shone. I walked, I rowed the dinghy.
I returned home on my two wheeled beast.
I needed this get away more than usual. My needle was on red with syphilization stir craziness.
