Perhaps thirty years ago I read an article in Travel & Leisure about Ireland's Dingle Peninsula. I'm pretty sure it was written by Paul Theroux, a fellow travel writer/novelist, though a much more prolific one. The photos showed mist and deep green. And there was a line in the story that I've remembered ever since, which said in effect: only a fool blames his bad vacation on the rain.
Last weekend, I was at Wrightsville Beach where I grew up. The weather was so-so, and the beach was terrific: the water warm and the waves, close-up, full of light. A few clouds didn't stop the major surfing competition that brought crowds to the beach--the Reef/Sweetwater Pro-Am--though surfers had to paddle in for a little while to let a spate of lightning pass.One way and another, people brought their own color, their own good weather. It was inspiring. Now I'm toying with the idea of taking a surfing lesson; it seems the right thing to do before I turn sixty. Also to finally get around to going to the Dingle Peninsula. I was so happy that I finally braved getting into the water last weekend. I'm generally happier, I find, when I don't let myself be stopped by a trifling obstacle, when I go ahead and take the plunge.
