The air feels wet—everything feels wet—and my boots squelch in the grass that needs mowing along the drive. After weeks in the California sun, the temperature takes me by surprise. By next month the storm season will be here, and in just the few weeks since I’ve been away, the leaves have started to change, the ground is littered with spikes of orange and red and brown. I climb up the porch and fish out my key, kicking away even more leaves that have gathered in little clumps around the mat. The lock opens easily and the door swings wide, the screen door closing with a creak and a groan at my back.

My house is a tiny two-bedroom, but it’s clean and comfortable, and just a few steps out the back door puts you right on the water. I managed to buy it in one of our better years, and I’m grateful now to Sensible Finn who thought ahead and bought a house, rather than dumbass Colton who bought a gas-guzzling Mustang and a condo all the way in Victoria.

It’s stale and musty inside, and so I set down my bag and walk from room to room, opening the windows to air the place out. It brings in the chill, but it’s worth it and almost instantly the house is filled with the scent of salt and pine. A set of glass doors along the back wall leads out onto a deck where the only view is miles of blue and green, the tree line so thick in some places it stretches clear down the bank to the water’s edge.

I leave the doors open and force myself to the kitchen to find something to eat, and quickly realize the mistake I made not grabbing something on my way through town. The fridge is practically empty but I manage to scrounge up a can of soup and some peaches I find in the pantry, and stave off starvation until I can make it to the store tomorrow.

Hours on the road, a head full of jumbled thoughts, and not enough sleep have taken their toll, and it’s almost more than I can do to make it into my room. Without closing the windows, I strip off my clothes and pull back the blankets, and for the first time in ages, climb gratefully into my own bed.

THE HOUSE IS freezing when I wake up. But it’s good—it’s life here, and the sharp air is exactly what I needed to get me back into the mindset of a day spent on the boat.