The weather on Mount Desert Island has been lousy, at least for anyone who is desperate to climb a mountain. Yesterday, it rained all day--sometimes drizzle, sometimes downpour--and this morning I woke to wind whipping rain spatters against the window. Outside, fog lingers over the mudflats; sea and sky are milky pale, horizon line invisible.

I worked yesterday morning; then my friend and I went to Northeast Harbor to look at an art show in the library and eat lunch. She drove us along the edge of Somes Sound, the broad fjord that cuts into the center of the island. Under rain the ocean rocked choppily against its granite walls, back and forth, back and forth, like a massive cradle.

And then afterward, back at the cottage, I fell asleep, hard, till after 5. If I can't hike on this vacation, at least I can sleep. The shush of rain, the shush of tides, gulls crying, wind swirling in the spruce trees, tick of wood stove and gas heater . . . all of it conspires toward sleep, and I am capitulating.

Now, after waking late, I sit in the big shabby chair, drinking coffee from a cup named Ernie, watching the stove wood catch flame, listening to the endless rattle of wind. In a few minutes I'll take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, buckle down to work. T will be back from his journey later today. My friend and I will do something or other together after lunch. Meanwhile, there is sea and there is rain.