This hammock hangs beckoningly at the front of the little house, but first I had to goto the beach where I am sure I burned because I just dashed off in my eagerness to hit the sand, the gray, gray sand. It was too hot to settle in too comfortably, and the water is hot, hot, hot
but the waves are thunderous and throbbing, good for the dozens of surfers and the old geezer who lies on his hammock with a big sign over his shop that reads "Surfing Lessons $50 2 hrs." I'm not temped. Yet.
I sat in the shade when the shadows grew long enough to grant me space because I felt an urgency to finish Olive Kitteridge, 
which is such a glorious book that when I got back to thehouse, I took an outside shower, rolled myself 
into the hammock and wept through the ending.
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