4:00 a.m. The cry of a loon sounds relief in the sudden absence of the refrigerator noise on the cruising yacht. Lapping of water against the dinghy riding behind the boat makes little licks and spanks. All day a fitful south breeze has played across the undulating marine blue carpet until at last we turn off the engine and float quietly under sail through McBean Passage to our anchorage. Fox Island, the northernmost border of the Benjamin Islands is where we rest. Magic moments of reading my book to friends who know me and love me: the heft of me, the warts, the inner joys and sorrows, the fun of me. To read aloud to them is to feel the book come alive in a way I hadn’t yet experienced. It’s like winning a lottery of self- satisfaction.

Reading as we lazily pick our way under sail among the smooth-worn boulders, reading at anchor in the fading light of a brilliant day, the hues on the water changing from ektachrome blues and greens to pinks and purples of a pastel sunset. Beth and I row out into the center of the passage to see it. Reading to them by lamplight completes the intoxication.