Into morning of the Gulf without layers. Today is blue cloudless with some wind. A long walk just after it’s light with my friend, our last morning, lost in talk, our talk a long conversation of days that doesn’t stop and we, when we are done moving up and down, north and south along the shore dive into the surf head first in the flush and shock of cold. I come up gasping. And still, down again, skin tingled and goose bumped and delighted and shocked. We think we won’t stay in the water, but then we do. We acclimate. We float on our backs and breasts. Invigorated, we tromp back across the sand. And soon enough, pull the the two-person kayak across the street on wheels with Frank and we launch with another rented kayak, a single, and go off into the bright, sun spangled bay in a mild wind, past the island of birds and to the sand bar where we pull up and mingle with the gulls and terns and sandpipers, and then off again, to the green lagoon, we pull up on the thin spit of land between the bay and the Gulf on Beer Can Island, and picnic lunch in shade of the broken trees and beachgoers and picture takers. Frank wants to nap, but time has run out, how could that be, our friend must fly home! There’s just time to paddle back. Except wait! There! There so close to shore, in our sights, almost our reach, a pair of dolphins swimming gaily past us, no! More than a pair, there are five, six, seven and more, pods of dolphins, more than I have ever seen, passing, gloriously passing in the sun, this farewell gift for our friend at parting. And for us, well. We’re here a little longer and very grateful.