This morning I woke up in the Turks and Caicos. The Caribbean. The ceiling fan is whirring. Unfamiliar, funny looking birds are making unfamiliar funny sounds. Now and then, a boat whirrs by. I am at the table on the porch trying to write, while my friends lie stretched in lounge chairs on the beach. I can see them. One of them is napping under a peach umbrella The other two are reading. My son is up here, also under the ceiling fan, fiddling with his underwater camera. Tomorrow they will go diving while I stay here at the porch table. The plan is that I will race right along, not twiddle endlessly with sentences. I have hope that this might actually happen. When I am far away from home — the dishwasher, the crumbs on the floor, the cat, the weeds — anything seems possible. There’s no anchors. Just open sea.