The old man’s hammock

If Ernest Hemingway had vacationed in Bermuda, he might have come down early to Sinky Bay and found it already awake.

The seabirds would be at work first, sharp cries carried on the wind, circling above the water and the dark line of reef. Beyond, the Atlantic would break hard against volcanic rock, a steady crash that came and went like breathing. Inside the reef, the water would lie calmer, though never still, moving in long, quiet swells.

The hammock would hang low between its posts, set in the shallows where the tide had claimed it in the night. The ropes would creak softly as it shifted, the net damp and heavy. It would not mind the water. It belonged to it now.

He would listen more than he would speak. The birds. The surf striking rock. The small wash at his feet. It would be enough to mark the morning and the start of the season.

There are places that do not need improving. This would be one of them.