The Cove is blissful. Glorious sunsets. Water lapping on shore. Bird calls across the water. Plenty of wind and rain.

I met a neighbor, Becky, who live down the Walk. She said "welcome to the beach!"

I thought about that and decided it should be "welcome to the bulkhead."

There isn't much beach, you see. Just a few dozen feet of large round pebbles. I guess when I hear beach I think sand. Most of the time, the water is near or at the bulkhead, which makes me feel like there isn't any permanent dry margin between the bulkhead and the water, therefore, no permanent beach. Psychological, I guess. Time to readjust.

Of course my back is killing me. Of course there are piles of packing material under the kitchen table. Of course the kitchen counter is strewn with things still needing permanent homes. But I sleep through the night, all cozy in my sleeping loft, my Killer Bunny Slippers watching over me should any scary monsters climb the attic stairs. My Sealth ten-year plaque is hanging at the front door to let all visitors know that I am protected. There is an oar mounted above my deck doors ("and Great Wokanda watches . . . oar" - for those of you who were there for the WoHeLo Sisters' softshoe shuffle, complete with mini harmonica).

And always the waves.