Sand and snow, work and relaxation

. One promise I’d made to myself when I returned from Kauai was to treat myself to mental vacations whenever I found myself getting overtired from work. Even though I can’t be on the beach physically, I can put images into my head, let my imagination roam, surround myself with ‘islandy’ things, to remind myself what relaxation feels like.

. That’s kind of where I find myself tonight, for whatever reason, I feel more tired than I should be. Traffic the last couple of days has been lighter than normal, the thanksgiving chaos has subsided, and... I’m mentally down for the count.

. In the meantime, I’m going to be grinding through some of Imperfect hope as well, so I need to get myself in a creative mindset. Kauai and D’oril are in the obvious ways, very different, for those who don’t know, D"oril is a cold place, think British Columbia or the Kenai Peninsula of Alaska. However, there are many deep similarities, for one, I can put my mind in either place and find a relaxation, both could easily feel like home. Kauai, the beach with a mai tai, listening to the waves. D’oril, the fireplace blazing with crackling pine, a thick fur rug and a scotch, watching the snow fall outside the cabin.

. Since I’ll be writing about the cold place tonight, I’m going to exercise my creativity with a game of opposites. Before I go north, then here is a setting/description of a tropical beach/island, a story fragment from an idea gelling about an island culture far to the south of D’oril.

—

. Pu’anu leaned heavily on his spear as the wave crashed against his thighs and threatened to knock him down again. Even while the foam boiled about his tanned and strongly muscled legs, he leaned forward and cast his spear into the retreating surf, this time with success. The ray flopped and struggled as the tall islander pulled it in. Another breaker crashed against the shore and pushed his catch behind him, Pu’anu used the momentum of the water to work his way back up the beach even as he reeled in the ray.

. To the west, the sun sat heavily on the horizon, stretched wide and flat like a jellyball settling on a platter. Pink and red wisps of cloud stretched across the sky, reaching from the sun toward the village on the hillside behind Pu’anu like the wispy fins of a veilfish. The calm sky lent an odd feeling to the evening, for the surf was strong, angry, as if it were trying to devour the shoreline with each thunderous crash. Pu’anu struggled against the last pull of wave, then broke free to the dry sand, untouched by the pre-storm waves. He crouched to grasp the other ray he’d caught by the gills, tossed his shoulder length blond hair back over his shoulder and worked the headband back around his forehead. The lean islander began an unhurried walk back to the village.

. Pu’anu’s thoughts were far away, not on the catch he brought to his family for dinner, nor on the sounds of the island’s forest that began barely a spears throw from the waters edge. Instead, his sapphire blue eyes watched the horizon, timing the waves that broke upon the reef’s edge outside lagoon. Tomorrow he would break that barrier, sailing alone as he began his quest, his family’s duty and honor for generations past and now his sacred task. Pu’anu would travel the vast ocean in search of a new beacon to light the island’s tower, a new spirit light to guide the mariners of the islands home from their far travels.