The Mast-Head: When August Comes

I have lived by the beach in Amagansett long enough to be able to tell summer’s changes from the sound of the birds. Now that it is August, spring’s crazy pre-dawn ringing of songbirds in the brush is replaced by the feeding calls of terns hunting baitfish in the shallows. The wind from the north has kicked up small waves, providing an impossible-to-describe background as a few gulls make their lazy yawps.

I woke up one morning this week feeling a little under the weather, a head cold, perhaps. On Sunday, I took two naps, and on Tuesday I slept on the sofa in the living room overlooking the bay right through the sunset. I had fallen asleep while reading The Times, and, when I awoke an hour later, it was almost night.

In Sag Harbor, the carnival has arrived, and conversations among parents have begun to run to plans for fall, when their kids leave early for school. The leaves haven’t begun to turn, and yet the sense that the more serious business of the year is approaching fast seems to be in the air.

As a friend points out, August is when summer vacation begins for many people. Fields and farms are just starting their most productive weeks; think of the zucchinis, I tell myself, growing fast and fat like some sort of alien pods in a B movie. 

There are fish to be caught. My tough little russet apple tree is bowing with fruit. I spot beachplums on the bushes along the road. Houseguests are arriving. The water is warm, the days still long enough for doing something outdoors after work. There are more invitations to more gatherings than I can ever hope to attend.

But, still, I wonder if the beginning of August will ever not make me melancholy. I like the fall, sure, but the child in me seems to never stop wishing that summer will go on forever.