Well. I'm back.

I rarely have the vacation I expect to have. There is always a monkey wrench to trip over, or a gust of wind that sends me sailing into the unexpected cove. For SWIL's Outer Banks vacation, I expected a relaxing week on the beach, touristy wandering, some lazy-intellectual exploration of curios and histories; what I got had more of an amplitude. Three up, three down (the end of an inning?). I find I can't complain.

I did not fish, I did not light fireworks on the beach, I did not slide down any waterslides. I spent more time with some than I expected, and less time with others. I went into the ocean exactly once. I was flashed thrice. Many things happened that were the Best Idea Ever; some things happened that were Not.

We're home now—got home last night to find a grudgingly affectionate cat and the sudden weight of summer in our house. Gus was appeased by the pocketful of cat toys my splendid Red Drummers collected from our many cartons of Lime-Ade, and today she is mewling and affectionate. I slept eleven hours last night, as a first step to rectifying my sleep deficit, and I feel nearly competent to begin chronicling the week. I return with my 1GB Compact Flash card just exactly filled with photos, so it should be pretty. Watch this space.