The view from my dorm room at the Southampton Writers Conference is a dreary sight. This is the third day I wake to fog.
The first foggy day was exciting. I’ve lived in South Florida for a year and a half now and I’ve only seen fog occasionally, on A1A, the road that runs along the beach. A light, feathery fog underneath a sky of pale gray clouds, appearing early in the morning before the intense South Florida sun burns it off well before noon.
It rarely rains all day in Florida. In the afternoon large thunderheads build, the sky gets dark, thunder rumbles, lightening flashes, and the sky opens to release a torrential downpour. Then it’s gone and we take a walk on the beach. Rain rarely ruins an entire day.
So on Monday I was excited to see real fog. Walking through a wet, heavy cloud to the cafeteria for breakfast I thought about how a dark, brooding atmosphere could be useful to someone spending ten days at a writer’s conference. This is the stuff of Dickens and Bronte. Cathy and Heathcliff. English moors, murders down by the dock, suspicious transactions in London alleys, a Nova Scotia fishing village. The only thing missing on campus is the lonesome sound of the fog horn.
Last night I attended a film and panel discussion on PTSD. Walking back to the dorm, lightening flashed across the sky and I made it to my room just before the rain started. I thought this might be due to another change in the atmosphere. The rain and fog had come to visit for two days and now warmer, sunny weather was on its way.
But I was wrong. I forgot that New York weather is much like New England weather. We are well into July, summer is fleeting in this corner of the world. August sometimes forgets it’s a summer month. June forgot long ago. But tomorrow I have the afternoon off. I want to walk the beach one more time before I leave.
Okay, I admit it. I’ve always adapted quickly. I am now a spoiled South Floridian. But God dammit, I’m in the Hamptons in July. Enough already. I want some sunshine.