Sunday, July 28, 2002
Didn't sleep too well. Neither did Erika. Too much going on I guess. That and trying to get used to a new bed. What sleep I did get was light.
Once I woke up to the sound of a gentle rain. Later, I heard loons call. But the otherwise utter quiet was unnerving for an urbanite like myself. The waters are so gentle that I couldn't even discern any lapping of the waves against the rock of the island. It’s that quiet.
Time to really take things in. On the door of our room is this: "Ronald York 5'3/4'' Age 13, 8-30-67". Scrawled echos of an earlier time.
An odd assortment of books lines the small bookshelf. A lone hardcover copy of Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain" solidly stands at one end, a weathered book of Ogden Nash's ("Good Intentions") at the other. In between a miscellany of other titles, that probably came from the previous owners. A stack of records are laid out flat on the base of the table containing the bookshelves. The latest of them seems to come from the 70s, and includes popular show tunes, the occasional classical record and MOR 60s style.
The washroom and shower area are completely open -- there are no shades on those big windows. Since the nearest neighbours are about a click away on an adjacent island, this isn't such a big deal (though I wonder if inquisitive boaters sneak a peak whenever they spy somebody in there. ;-) The shower is interesting, and I find it hard to believe that it is original to the building: no stall, no bathtub, just the bare wooden plywood walls which will likely disintegrate over time. A Japanese-style deep wooden bathtub is set into the floor, but we were told not to bother using it since it leaks faster than you can fill it.
The interior wood of the building has a deep, honeyed glow to it. Old wood weathered by the extremes of heat and cold over the season, but not exposed to the elements. Only to the exhalations of the people sheltering under it. Somehow very homey.
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