Thinking about the picnic tables I have known. Friends I have laughed with, passing a shared bottle . . .or . . . whatever.Nights under a full moon. The ocean all lit up silver. Ironwood pine needle Campfires. Sparks ascending upward seeming to merge with the stars. A guy with braids who could shimmy up a coconut tree. There is something about coconut milk sucked from the husk, fresh tradewinds and wood smoke. They go together. And they are enough. Work? I'd rather sit at a picnic table and watch the ocean, thank you. Poking a little driftwood fire with a stick is a lovely past-time. A great way to commune with the ghost of Jack London. One can walk to many a deserted picnic table from the Pakalana Inn and contemplate such notions. You can think about a lot of things. Or nothing at all. Doesn't really matter much.
