Continental Drift

I am woefully unprepared, but I will soldier on.

In just over twelve hours, a car service will pick Abbi and me up and whisk us away to JFK Airport. We will board Continental flight #311 to Houston, where we will connect with Continental flight #10 to Roatan, Honduras. We expect to be on the beach by two o’clock.

We’ve rented a villa in an “eco resort” near the west end of the island. The surrounding forest is “preserved to explore with beautifully maintained mountain trails.” The beach is nearly deserted.

I have packed very little. My swim trunks, flip flops, mask, snorkel, fins and passport are laid out on my bed. The rest of my clothes — three bags full — are still at the landromat.

I am taking my guitar, but leaving my computer. I am taking two books, Jen Trynin’s “All That I’m Cracked Up To Be,” and “Cash” by Johnny Cash, plus an empty notebook for scribblings and songs. I am taking my running shoes. And little else.

I’ll be gone ’til Sunday. I won’t be blogging. But I’ll be thinking about you…

See you next week.

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