So I sit here by the window of a little gray cottage in what some literary types might say is outer earth and others would just call Cape Cod or The Cape.

And after a morning of walking the beach as the tide came in, doing a bit of wash in the kitchen sink and then snoozing in a hammock next to the cottage I ponder who I am writing to this time.

Am I writing to my children so they will know of my exploits on this rare vacation? Am I writing to other writers, editors and agents I want to impress? Am I writing to friends as yet unknown that stumble across my page in search of a knowledge or entertainment?

Ahhh, to be a writer and know for whom thou writest.

Once long ago a wise woman said–when asked about writing one’s journal or diary–write for your future self. And I know that my future self will want to know of this outer earth and how I experienced it. So I will proceed…

The beach. The ocean.

I was raised in Wyoming. The closest I ever got to the ocean was listening to the Beach Boys or watching “Gidget Goes Hawaiian,” (which I totally loved—actually it was Moondoggie I totally loved). And I didn’t know I was missing out on anything to do with large masses of water.

But then I discovered Cape Cod Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, thanks to my husband’s insistence that we take a real vacation some years ago. When 2010 came around it was time, no overtime, to return to the water.

We stepped in the Bay this morning. That moving, breathing mass of water which constantly reaches out toward one’s feet then pulls back slightly, luring you to come closer until you find yourself with water to your ankles and laughter in your throat.

The tides are incredible. The water flows in and the water flows out.

Seagulls alight near the water watching for their dinner or entertainment. Watching also for curious humans who are not welcome in their sandy circles.

A young boy and his father chase through the small tide pools gathering tiny fish to hold in a plastic bucket for a time. Once again laughter and many smiles

Dead and empty horseshoe crabs are common debris on the shoreline, as well as seaweed, broken shells and today a plastic army man—left behind by a careless child.

It’s a magical place.

I can see how the ancients created their King Poseidon. There had to be a human or godly force lending life to the ocean: A force which liked beauty and humor and sharing it with us humans.