Somewhere east of Lawrenceville, there's a bay-busting, rope-coiling blogger who knows what I'm talking about.
He's blogged about November in the air and in the wind and in his mind. He fears November, with good reason.
October is playful. She toys with us.
Now she is chill, now she is warm - from one day to the next, we never know for sure. But always there is hope. We remember her warmth, and it is enough.
November, though, is all business.
And his business is grim. He is here to settle accounts. He's of a single mind. When his work is done, there is no looking back.
On the east coast, our lives pitch, yaw, and roll on the waves of the seasons. Our dreams, like our boats, are launched and then put away. The rhythm of the seasons urges us on. It's now or never.
In California, the seasons are sweeter. Our November is a foggy shadow of his eastern cousin. We mark his coming with the turn of a page. We do not fear him.
Here, there is always tomorrow to do what needs doing. November becomes December, a new year begins, and still there is time. January, February, they'll do just as well. No need to hurry.
In California, our dreams and our boats are always floating. They'll be there when we get to them. Life here is so very sweet.
But is it too sweet? Does our time pass too slowly?
Do we mend our docklines only when we feel a storm coming?
Do we need our Novembers cold, dark, and unforgiving to remind us that not every winter is followed by a spring?