We set sail via ferry to the Isle of Whidbey. The stuffed Jesus doll that accompanies me on all of my major adventures (a gift from Barb when I was having surgery) jumped out for a photo shot with a life ring. Saving lives with Jesus! Luckily, no one went overboard.
Nancy, the wound nurse, had instructed me, “do something spontaneous”. The wound vacuum machine proved an abysmal failure, and with it off of my body, a quick escape option opened up. A couple days on the island created a lot of opportunity.
I forget how “quick and easy” it is to hop over to another world. Whidbey Island is a place where the Sani cans are clean, where the rabbits run free, and where the firefighters post enormous signs on huge trucks reading “Ditch Mitch, Dump Trump” on one side, and “Firefighters for Biden” on the other. The island is a place where people actually do live on island time, sipping lattes in the courtyards, chatting with their elderly friends.
The tiny home, our Airbnb, was set in a field that was surrounded by forest. One evening, we were greeted by a four point buck, much taller than the car, and not too concerned about our presence on his driveway. No one was too concerned with our presence, honestly, or we with theirs.
Beaches, and forests, and small town shops are just what the doctor ordered. Literally.