April 1, 2026 – male of the species

male of the species
in spring gather at the beach
engage in displays

In the gentle warmth of early spring, we find ourselves along the sandy coastal plains, observing one of nature’s more curious spectacles: the seasonal migration of the adult human male. Drawn by rising temperatures and an instinct as old as time itself, these creatures gather in loose, sunburn-prone clusters along the shoreline.

Now, if you look closely, you will notice the males establishing their territory, usually marked by brightly colored towels, portable coolers, and the faint but persistent aroma of sunscreen applied far too late. Their calls, a mix of laughter, shouted greetings, and questionable attempts at music, echo across the beach.

Our cameraman, of course, did not dare get too close.

As the day progresses, the ritual intensifies. The males engage in displays of athleticism, tossing spherical objects with great enthusiasm, often with no discernible goal beyond the act itself. Observe the proud stance after a successful throw and the subtle nods of approval from nearby males. This is a key component of their social hierarchy.

Hydration, of course, is critical. You will see them frequently returning to their watering vessels, aluminum containers or plastic cups, filled with fermented liquids. Consumption appears to increase confidence, though it has been known to reduce coordination in later stages of the ritual.

And ah, yes, the sunburn. A badge of honor, it seems. Despite clear environmental warnings, many males will forgo adequate protection, resulting in a gradual transformation from pale to crimson. This vivid coloration may, in some circles, be considered a sign of endurance.

As dusk approaches, the energy begins to wane. The throws grow shorter and the calls softer. Some males retreat, while others linger, reluctant to abandon the day’s rituals. It is here, in this golden hour, that we see the species at its most reflective, sun-kissed, slightly unsteady, yet deeply content.

Indeed, the beach in spring offers us a rare and fascinating glimpse into the behavior of the human male, playful, social, and just a little bit ridiculous. They need little in the way of a reminder of what day it is.

3.24.2026 – small wonder that men

small wonder that men
hold boats in the secret place
cradle to the grave

Men who ache allover for tidiness and compactness in their lives often find relief for their pain in the cabin of a thirty-foot sailboat at anchor in a sheltered cove.

Here the sprawling panoply of The Home is compressed in orderly miniature and liquid delirium, suspended between the bottom of the sea and the top of the sky, ready to move on in the morning by the miracle of canvas and the witchcraft of rope.

It is small wonder that men hold boats in the secret place of their mind, almost from the cradle to the grave.

From the essay The Sea and the Wind that Blows by E. B. White and published in The Ford Times, June 1963 and re-published in The Essays of EB White by EB White (Harper and Row, New York, 1977).

3.21.2026 – where the sweep of

where the sweep of
the harbor tide comes in, I rest
dream, sit on the deck

Based on the poem, Waiting, by Carl Sandburg in Other Days as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, by Carl Sandburg, Harcourt, Brace, New York, 1950.

Today I will let the old boat stand
Where the sweep of the harbor tide comes in
To the pulse of a far, deep-steady sway.
And I will rest and dream and sit on the deck
Watching the world go by
And take my pay for many hard days gone I remember.

I will choose what clouds I like
In the great white fleets that wander the blue
As I lie on my back or loaf at the rail.
And I will listen as the veering winds kiss me and fold me
And put on my brow the touch of the world’s great will.

Daybreak will hear the heart of the boat beat,
Engine throb and piston play
In the quiver and leap at call of life.
To-morrow we move in the gaps and heights
On changing floors of unlevel seas
And no man shall stop us and no man follow
For ours is the quest of an unknown shore
And we are husky and lusty and shouting-gay.

On my first morning bike ride as an Islander …

I pass this way each day that I drive to work.

I would take a photo with my phone held in one hand as I crossed the bridge in the middle of the island.

Now I ride my bike to the edge of the marsh.

I can sit and I will choose what clouds I like.

In the great white fleets that wander the blue.

As I lie on my back or loaf at the rail.

And I will listen as the veering winds kiss me and fold me.

And put on my brow the touch of the world’s great will.

Oh for the life of an islander.

Still working though.

But a lot closer to work.

3.20.2026 – boxes on beach are

boxes on beach are
empty shake ’em nails loosen
they have been somewhere

Adapted from the poem Sand Scribblings by Carl Sandburg in Smoke and Steel as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, by Carl Sandburg, Harcourt, Brace, New York, 1950.

The wind stops, the wind begins.
The wind says stop, begin.

A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor.
The shovel changes, the floor changes.

The sandpipers, maybe they know.
Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell.
Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses.

The sandpipers cheep ‘Here’ and get away.
Five of them fly and keep together flying.

Night hair of some sea woman
Curls on the sand when the sea leaves
The salt tide without a good-by.

Boxes on the beach are empty.
Shake ’em and the nails loosen.
They have been somewhere.

This is special to me today as I know the boxes on the beach are empty.

They are empty because we emptied them.

We know they have been somewhere, because we filled them and moved them to the island … were we now live.

Got to go ride my bike to the NEARBY beach and scribble in the sand.

3.14.2026 – the sun peeks over the

the sun peeks over the
horizon – watched many times
never grow tired of

Sunrise over Pinckney Island and Skull Creek in the South Carolina Low Country

Adapted from a passage in the book, The Racketeer by John Grisham (Doubleday: New York, 2012), where Mr. Grisham writes:

I sit on my terrace for the last time, sipping coffee and watching the ocean fade into pink, then orange as the sun peeks over the horizon.

I’ve watched this many times and never grow tired of it.

On a clear morning, the perfect sphere rises from the water and says hello, good morning, what another fine day it’s going to be.

I’m not sure where I’m headed or where I’ll end up, but I plan to be near a beach so I can begin each day with such quiet perfection.

People come and go so quickly here.

I grew up in West Michigan.

A location noted to be the 2nd most overcast bit of land with only the Seattle area having a higher percentage of gray sky.

I moved to the Atlantic Coast and often get to watch the ocean fade into pink, then orange as the sun peeks over the horizon.

I’ve watched this many times and never grow tired of it.

On a clear morning, the perfect sphere rises from the water and says hello, good morning, what another fine day it’s going to be.

I’m not sure where I’m headed or where I’ll end up, but I plan to be near a beach so I can begin each day with such quiet perfection.