"There's no wind," Tony says after opening the shutters.
"You're right." What am I doing still in bed on a sunny windless morning? I throw on pants and a sweater and head down to the shore to make sure it's as good as I expect.
The sea is calm and waves are coming in regular sets with a break in between.
Not many days are perfect. When they are, one has to drop or rearrange and head for the water. Or the mountains, or the amusement park, the lake, the_______________(fill in the blank). Or discard the project and visit a friend; or hike to the waterfall with canvas and paint; or lay on the grass with Beethoven and Vivaldi or Shusaku Endo; or strike up a conversation with an admired acquaintance.
Perfect days are never guaranteed. They present themselves and if ignored, will vanish. Perfect days present themsleves in ways that only can be recognized by the person whose perfection it may be. We must make the decision to run with it or run away, or to stay tethered to the antithesis of what may be a perfect day.
I went with the perfect day. I struggled into my wet suit, carted the kayak down to the water, took a beating over a wave I didn't paddle fast enough past, but having embraced the perfect day, it started to exceed expectations. After meandering down the coast, I turned around and caught three perfect waves all the way to the shore.
Later that day, events confirmed the need to recognize and go for perfect opportunities---a bike flat tire, a head wind that made it almost impossible to ride, and a mixed up lunch order. All minor upsets but confirmation that indeed...
Perfect days are fleeting.