Owen McCuen

I could hear the rest of them telling me to get a move on, but I was more transfixed on the expanse of water beyond the palm edge promontory, the clouds like something you could rest your head on, and the soft, steady warm breeze.

If there was a perfect afternoon for sailing, this was it.

Yes, yes, I yelled.

Just savoring what we have ahead of us.

I turned and went back to help load the supplies onto the schooner.

My wife, Tammy, shook her head, but not angrily, when she carried a cooler below.

Our two friends and their son lifted their provisions over the gunwale onto the aft seats.

Tim slapped my back and said he understood and thanked me for inviting them.

They boarded while I untied the lines and followed them.

We couldn't sail out of the harbor, so I started the engine and backed us out of the berth.

Once free, we puttered between anchored boats and out into open water.

Just past the promontory, I raised the sails as my wife took the wheel.

Quickly, the sails filled as she maneuvered the boat until the sails were tightly stretched, pulling us along into the ocean.

I took the wheel.

Listening to the gentle swish as the hull cut through the water, I put my foot up and called out for a beer.

Tammy already had it ready, accustomed to the ritual, and went back below.

I did it when she sailed out.

I looked back at the island as Tammy puttered below, getting drinks for everyone.

We had a place there for decades, nothing big, and never grew tired of it.

Something about tropical islands fed into your sense of adventure, as well as tossing cares away.