I recently had the high point of my year so far. I enlisted four compadres for a day of exploring a deserted barrier island in the Gulf of Mexico.
We arrived via boat on a glorious breezy morning, and spent the better part of the day drinking excellent mojitos and body surfing. In the early afternoon it came time for the three daytripping members of our party to return home. Hats off to my buddy Boudreaux, who was having such a good time that he decided to join Kenny and me camping for the night - not that Boudreaux had any shelter, or sleeping gear, or food, or anything actually but the scant clothes on his back.
With the ferryload of daytrippers gone, we had the place to ourselves and spent the rest of the day running wild like three little Indians. Undeterred by a furious late-afternoon thunderstorm that awed us and pelted our bare skin, we chased, tumbled, and cavorted in the clear green waves. Later, in golden evening sunshine we climbed up an old lighthouse, viewing the nest that a pair of ospreys built on top.
After dark our adventure intensified. Not only did we explore inside the catacombs of a spooky abandoned fort without a flashlight (like some old Scooby-Doo episode), but under a moonless sky we splashed in surf that was lit up with green phosphorescent fire.
No one bothered to take photos of our adventure, and maybe that's a good thing. But the little pink bananas in our backyard are going as gangbusters as the confederate jasmine perfuming the air all over town these days.
