The Morning 

I woke earlier than I ever had, on a mattress wet from last night’s downpour. I saw the leak but ignored it as I struggled into my sweatpants; I was worried about moving too slow, and losing the faith of my punctual captain. I trudged through the mud in sneakers, led by the dimming glow of an almost dead flashlight. I swear every other step, getting quieter and quieter the closer I get to the cabin. The only thing that scares me more than being late that morning is waking up my mom. For this reason, I smother my dog’s yelps with my hands as quickly as possible and catch the swinging door with my foot as I enter the tiny room that is my sister’s bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen all in one. 

Once I start the coffee, all I can do is pray as the grrrrrrrrrrrrrr of the machine that seems to shake the whole house goes on for a few seconds. I stare the machine down for the minutes that follow as it continues to brew. At this time of day, I need what it gives me more than I need all my fingers attached to my hand. The fact that I make it the fifty feet from the camper to the cabin without it is a daily miracle. When the beep of completion finally comes, I walk the hardest five feet I’ve ever walked from the chair to the pot. Pouring the brown liquid into my cup is the greatest victory of my day. 

After I have eaten my breakfast of hot dogs and almonds, I head out to the garage and am greeted by what smells like a million garbage dumps that have festered for years. This originates from the many days in a row that I have forgotten to wash my fishing clothes–so many days now that the smell has attached itself to the garage like a leech. I prepare my bike, a vehicle barely held together by duct tape and hope. The seat shakes like it’s not even attached, and the brakes feel like they’re not even there. I tighten both of these things, something that has become a daily routine. I’m waiting for the day when I take it out of the garage and it collapses entirely, an impossible event that feels inevitable. Despite this struggle, when I finally get moving there is no bike I’d rather be on: it moves as fast as my captain’s four-wheeler without the girth of its massive wheels. 
It’s almost dark as I leave, with only the sun’s orange warning light lining the hills in the distance. I move down the dirt road cautiously, not able to see any obstacles that may be in my way. Every morning I roll the dice on this part of my journey, hoping the road has stayed clear. As I move onto the pavement, I pick up my pace so as to not waste a second. When I turn east, onto the final straightaway that leads to the dock, my eyes make contact with the sun as it just barely peeks over the hills, as if it was waiting for me to come. It illuminates the clouds, the road ahead, and the ocean all at once, giving me the first clear vision of the day. Speeding down the open, empty road with this image ahead is my favorite part of the day. 

I arrive on time, to an empty dock. This is not normal, but not strange. Ten minutes later, my captain shows up. This late arrival is strange too, but not a problem. I prepare myself for an incredibly average day of work. He walks slowly towards me. He has no bag on his back and no boots on his feet. As he gets closer I can see he is struggling with each step. When he reaches me, he gives me the news, though I can already see it. He hurt himself and tried to work through it, and now he can barely work at all. We will take a break, but it will not help enough. I will have to compensate, and nothing from here on will be easy. We both go home, preparing for the uncertainty ahead. But one thing is certain, and it’s all I can think about: The summer is over.