The Mangrove Coast Read Online Free PDF Page B

house. At night, I’d sit on the porch listening to the mountain-stream gurgle of tide rivering past the pilings beneath me. I’d listen to the snap-crackle-pop of pistol shrimp and the
bee-whah
groan of catfish.
    I looked at the comet.
    Daytime was different. When the sun’s out, it seems reasonable to pursue goals. I defined mine by writing them each and every day in one of my notebooks. They were simple goals.
    Twice a day, seven days a week, I rededicate myself to getting back into shape. It was none too soon. I’d let myself go over the last several months, and in that veryshort time I’d gained maybe fifteen pounds. I felt soft and slow and grainy. I felt as if age and gravity were vines that were working their way up my legs, taking control. I was eating too much, drinking too many beers, sleeping way too much.
    So the rules were simple: beer on Fridays and Saturdays only. Absolutely no food of any kind after 8:00 P.M.
    It was time to take charge of my own life once again.
    Every year, getting into shape seems to be a tougher, slower, more painful process.
    Each year, my knees and shoulders and ankles seem to hurt a little more.
    Tough physical work was exactly what I needed. Pain is good. Extreme pain is extremely good. I punished myself with it and then I used it as a purge.
    I lost the fifteen pounds of fat, and then I lost five more for good measure. I spent so much time running up and down the beaches of Sanibel that I began to recognize the condo owners and individual vacationers at resorts such as Sundial, Casa Ybel, Sand Castles and Sonesta.
    They’d wave; I’d wave back.
    Gradually, I began to come out of my shell a little.
    On one of my runs, I was passed by a lean blonde with a ball nose and the thighs of a high hurdler. She had a good grin; a kind of jaunty we’re-both-distance-junkies attitude.
    I caught up and introduced myself. Her name was Maggie. She was married; lived in Tampa, but she and her husband were having problems. She’d taken a place at Breakers West for the week to be alone and think things over.
    We had a nice run. Same thing the next day and the next. She appreciated the insights of an objective man. I appreciated her humor and her strength. We became friends. We agreed that, considering her circumstance, it had to be a nonphysical friendship … which took all the pressure off both of us.
    We stayed in touch after Maggie returned to her life inTampa. We decided that, as friends, we should meet a couple of times a week in some neutral place and work out together.
    She chose Pass-a-Grille, an off-the-track beach village south of St. Pete that, with its Mexican tile and palm-lined streets, reminded me of the best parts of southern California. Pass-a-Grille was a small town with history and humor and texture. People there were amused by their own isolation. It made them easy to meet. Maggie and I would run four or five miles, swim a mile along the beach, then we’d eat shrimp or crab at the Seahorse Restaurant. Sit there talking to Gary the bartender while we ate, then walk up the street to Shadrack’s and have a beer with Big Al, the owner.
    Big Al also owned Harleys.
    I was surprised to hear that Maggie the housewife had always wanted a motorcycle.
    It gave them something to talk about.
    Maggie and Pass-a-Grille were a good break for me. Getting away from Dinkin’s Bay and Sanibel reminded me that there was a big wide world out there. Other lives were going on whether I was reclusive or not. I have been in love only twice in my life and have gradually come to the conclusion that love is not a condition, it is a dilemma. Love, I believe, is chemically induced; created and maintained by the little-understood and complex chemistry of the brain. How we target and connect with our partners is anyone’s guess, but the resultant response has more in common with addiction than with rosy emotion.
    Realizing that helped me feel better, too. Chemistry is something I understand. It is