“And when that foghorn blows”

I think I could live at the Brem River estuary. We’d been told to watch for grizzlies and it felt like a place they’d love too — long grass, the clean river. But I didn’t even see tracks in the sand that was as soft as flour. I could live at the mouth of Brem River, surrounded by mountains, Toba Inlet my view. We didn’t swim there, though earlier yesterday we stopped at Moh Creek and had the most beautiful dip in cold water, the beach dappled with stones the colour of butterscotch and ochre and clear white.

Four prawn traps were dropped yesterday on our way up the Inlet and pulled just now: dinner tonight. And Kelsey is in the galley making something wonderful for lunch, her playlist floating out into the lounge.

And when that foghorn blows
I will be coming home
And when the foghorn blows
I want to hear it
I don’t have to fear it

No foghorn at Brem River, just the soft sand, the water, the scent of new leaves, tangles of seaweed, the air as alive as I was, walking the shore.

Note: of course the song is Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic”