Interlude: a summer day

On one of the rare days it worked, the alarm clock steals yet another dream from me. A task it’s accustomed to most of the year. But not now, not during this season. I get up, no longer remembering what the calm but persistent ringing took from me. I hurry for a swim, knowing this way sleep will leave me in peace. At least for a few hours.

The cold water is a biological reset, a bodily ctrl+alt+del that restarts all systems. This sea doesn’t forgive drowsiness—either you wake up or you drown. I choose to wake up.

It’s lunchtime and I have the happiness of delighting in my favorite dish. The small fish spent exactly the time they needed on the grill. Placed there by someone who, without ever being taught, knows the precise time required. It’s knowledge that comes from the hands, not from books—wisdom of charcoal and salt transmitted through familial osmosis.

With me are some of the people who know me best. The people from whom I learn most without them trying to teach me. They’re involuntary professors, accidental masters. Everything is familiar. The people, the space, the smell, the sound… Unlike this morning’s dream, here I remember everything. From distant recollections, recent memories, emotions of tenderness and also longing, but above all happiness.

I head to the beach, the morning’s professors no longer with me, but I’m not alone. I’m not alone, but from time to time I make a point of losing myself, accompanied only by the sea. What beautiful company you are! And today you brought me a pod of dolphins that gifted everyone on that beach one of the best days of this summer. To me, the attraction these animals provoke is inexplicable and astonishing. Truth is, children, adults, Portuguese and foreigners all stopped for a couple of hours to watch the countless sprays, leaps, and pirouettes. What an entertaining way to hunt and eat!

But not everyone was happy with the feast. The men of the artes¹ complain that the dolphins steal what they seek with such effort, pulling oars and nets. The irony doesn’t escape them, I imagine: complaining about nature for being natural.

Later, another companion decides to leave. As it does, without fail, every day. It pays little attention to punctuality nor concerns itself with others, but we can always count on it. It’s predictable but in a good way. Even when we don’t see or feel it, we know it’s there. The sun is the only benevolent dictator I know.

And when it leaves, a summer day also ends… only to begin one of many nights.

1. Traditional artisanal fishing method practiced in the Sesimbra region, south of Lisbon. ↩︎