Sick on San Juan Island. But never sick of. Rain comes and goes. We putter around the island. Slow, lazy walks, my little guy and I. I'd rather be sick here than sad in bed.
And isn't it funny, how when you slow down, you see so much more.
When I first visited the island I was resolved to move here. But it takes money to live here, lots of money, or lots of giving mind-numbing relaxation massages to yacht-owners and nature-deprived tourists in dark rooms with bad music and then going home after sunset to my basement studio apartment with no view of anything. And while I have contemplated humanely murdering the hermit-like host who runs the campground, moving into his on-site rangers cabin right there on the water, and taking over his job, it doesn't seem likely I will get away with it. People will probably notice I'm not the same guy. If the sudden reduction in height doesn't give it away the sudden appearance of boobs surely will.
But I've come to the gentle realization that if I lived here that there would be times when I would want to leave.
I never want to leave when I come here.
I'd like to keep it that way.
Photos taken on San Juan Island, Washington. Fall 2023.
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