Sun. Sun. Sun. No one I have heard has made any complaint about this fabulous weather. I wonder if last summer is continuing or next summer is getting started now. It's all becoming confusing to the senses. Yesterday I awoke with the determination that I would spend a big chunk of the day on the beach. I had to do some morning shopping up on busy 41st Avenue. I buzzed up and down the long strip, getting some groceries, pills, and propane for a series of evening camp fires. People in and out of the stores were dressed for summer. Hawaiian-style shirts, flip-flops, sunglasses, and baggy shorts.

When I left my house it didn't seem so warm. I'm located in a redwood glen that tends to trap cool night air until the sun reaches high enough to melt away the cool. Just driving out of the glen and into more open spaces, the air temperature was suddenly at least 10 degrees warmer than back in the woods. It's okay though, because in the summer when the rest of the world becomes hotter, I find refuge here in the forest. It sounds funny to me to even be thinking summer thoughts in the dead of winter, except for the fact that this winter itself is dead.

After dropping off my newly-filled propane tanks, I quickly checked to make sure all my beach gear was in place in the trunk of the car. My daughters have been borrowing the car all winter, so I had to make sure nothing essential for beach-going was missing. A folding chair with a rear pocket that holds Deet spray for beach flies, a towel, and a big straw hat that serves as an umbrella, under which I can duck when the direct light is too intense.

I stuffed my day pack with my Kindle, a vegetable wrap, jug of water, car keys, baseball hat, wallet, and chap stick. I always load my pack and zip it all up when I go to the beach. Anything lost in the sand can be almost impossible to recover. The one long strand of beach I customarily go to is almost empty of people. I guess the rest of the population is more interested in either working, shopping, or vegetating on the couch. I'll never quite understand why I have all this glorious empty space all to myself. I don't complain, but just go with the flow.

I walk my beach gear out across the width of the sand and get down close to the water, where the modest waves will actually give the ground beneath me a little shake each time one comes through. I haven't stretched out on the beach for several months. My tan has faded. I need to start it up all over again. I peel off my shirt, unfold my beach chair, and sit down for a few moments to just study the blue Monterey Bay out in front of me. The water surface and the marine life is pretty quiet today. The only real activity is a group of ducks who float right in the surf line. Each time a wave pops up, they duck under it and pop up on the back side. I keep thinking one of them is going to get caught up in the tumult of the white water, but I never see it happen.

I open my Kindle then and continue with the Knausgaard novel I've been reading now for two or three days. It's pretty thick, meticulously detailed, and I know I still have a ways to go with it. If I read such a thing in tiny chunks, say 15 minute sessions, I don't get the same impression, or sensation, as I do when I can spend a couple of hours with it. Today I'm busy giving him more of my free time, while my freed up skin soaks up as much of the overhead warmth as possible.

I eat the vegetable and humus wrap that I brought along with me today. I picked it out in the grocery store, knowing I'd be on the beach several hours today, and would have to leave the beach early if I didn't have something to stave off my low blood sugar. The sun feels so good and my eyes grow slightly weary of the printed word, so I lower the back of my chair into a reclining position, and am soon asleep. When I awake I see that some beach neighbors have settled in next to me. People with towels, hats, bags of food, all decked out in skimpy, summer time swimming suits.

I slip out of my spell of drowsiness and head back into this Swedish world that lives inside the novel. Much is going on there now. The character is going through some rapid change, and I have to slow down and re-read a page or two to try to better understand the cause of his transition. The sun is lowering from its overhead position, however, and I am thinking that perhaps I've had enough exposure for this first day out, so I pack up all my gear, and walk slowly across the sand and back to my car. This probably is the beginning of summer. It hardly seems possible.