Yesterday was frigid. Golf by the ocean—wind off the water, a gut-punching southwester, the kind of cold that gets into the bones and stays. September in Victoria, Spring in name only.

The foursome: Captain Evans, Terry the shoeman, Cove the Coodabeen, and me, a shadow of my former golfing self. A back-and-forth affair that made it to 18. Sadly for Cove and me, a missed putt cost us the money. These things happen. You hope they don’t, but they do. At least the Captain was smiling.

No beers. Driving home, Morgan Wallen on the radio. Seven Summers. A song about counting time in seasons—the summers that belonged to someone else, the ones you keep asking yourself about when you’re drinking. Were we dumb or just younger, who knows?

In my third trimester of life, I only count one summer now—the last one.

Not in a sad way—more in a this-is-where-I-am way. The summers before it are accounted for. Filed. Summer was my place of work. Some were long and loose, some were over before they started. Now, it’s the last one that’s still open.

This coming Saturday we might get to 24 degrees C. After yesterday, that’ll feel like summer. A promise of it, anyway. And the money: 70 cents can be found again.

I’ll take a promise over that southwester!

Happy Thursday.

Nick

Barwon Heads Golf Club, Barwon Heads: Reviews & Hotel Deals | Book at Hotels.com

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a different sober

A promise of summer