Waiheke

You yearn so much you could be a yacht. Your mind has already set sail. It takes a few days to arrive at island pace, but soon you are barefoot on the sand, the slim waves testing your feet like health professionals. You toe shells, sea glass, and odd things that have drifted for years and finally washed up here. You drop your towel and step out of your togs, ungainly, first your right foot, then the other stepping down the sand to stand in the water. There is no discernible difference in temperature. You breaststroke in the lazy blue. A guy passing in a rowboat says, “Beautiful, isn’t it?” And it is. Your body afloat in salt as if cured.