Home is an island so when I was off I looked like a Beach Bum spending most daylight hours in the sand, drinking beers, deeply tan, grilling fish at supper then shagging to live music at night.
Truth be told I was merely a bronzed weekend warrior.
The vast majority of my creativity, energy and time was being successful at work.
On weekends I'd pretend to be who I really wanted be but couldn't quite pull the trigger.
Becoming a true Beach Bum is a lot like becoming a Monk ... you gotta give up a lot of stuff to focus only on the Holiest of things.
Monks take vows of obedience, stability, conversion of life, poverty and chastity whereas Beach Bums roll with the tides, move slow, bask in the sun, never have enough and forever chase members of the opposite sex.
A Monk aims to strip away everything from life except God.
A Beach Bum habitually loafs on a Beach enjoying life.
My problem is I'm too wired and my mind keeps going when it should shut down and relish in the beauty of the Sun casting glistening diamonds on the calm early morning Sea.
And I care too much.
People ... unjust officers ... litters ... liars ... sanctimonious leaders ... lazy workers ... and those who take more than they give get under my skin, setting a rage on fire.
I hate the rage ... it keeps me from being who I want.
It's less these days because I stay at home with our baby while my wife works, the girls are in school and I'm forced to exclusively focus on the needs of a three month old.
She's pretty easy most the time ... throwing me loving looks ... devilish smiles ... dancing eyes ... joyful shakes of her tiny body and the slurping, breathing sounds while drinking the bottle with intense blue eyes staring into mine.
She's got rage too ... I swear it's from her Mother ... but when Che lets it out there's no consoling her until an Angel whispers in her ear and she gracefully falls asleep.
The breeze has picked up though it's 70 degrees and I stand at the foot of her bed in bare feet, black running shorts and a "Willie Nelson First Aid" tee-shirt.
Our child breaths beatifically ... taking my breath away.
It's hard to do nothing but love what it's front of you with everything inside.
It's why I've never truly become a Beach Bum.
But this child ... and her Mother ... and the Salt in the air ... waves crashing in the distance ... Seagulls laughing ... Dolphins smiling ... Sun setting to the music of choirs of mussels popping of the Marsh at low tide ... they make me want to be something I've never been ... and I've been lots of things.
"Yesterdays are over my shoulder ... there's too much to see waiting in front of me," goes an old Hymn.
"Maybe I won't be a Beach Bum," I softly confess to our daughter.
"I'll be this instead."
