Last night, at high tide, the waves crashed over the back deck of Pilgrim Sands Motel and soaked the windows we were seated against as we did our now-weekly-forever Sunday gig.
We didn't mind; we all sat in the comfy chairs and stared at the crackling fire, drinks in hand. A new friend, Karen, said to me, "The ocean, a fire, a drink, and Irish music on a Sunday night? WHERE ELSE would I want to be?"
I had to agree. Sunday nights have been terrific. This is the first regular and local gig we've done in a long time, and I must say, it has been really fun. We've seen old friends, met new ones, welcomed our family, including some we haven't seen in years, and talked at length to travelers staying at the motel, who can't believe they're hearing Irish music and sitting so close to the ocean that they might as well be on a cruise ship.
After the performance, four of us went outside and stood on the deck to watch the crashing waves. The tide had receded by an hour, so the deck was no longer submerged, but the wind was whipping and we had to push hard to get the glass door to open against it. Once outside, we stood not far from the door-- just in case--and waited for the big wave whose spray would fly fifteen feet in the air and create a "wow!"
It came. We got showered.
Driving home with the Folkmobile packed to the gills with instruments and gear, I could still smell the salty sea on my clothes, my skin.
This, I thought, is what I do this for.