091313 #trout The sun goes down about a million miles from the beach. There's a narrow rut running up the hill, cloaked by scrubby brush and of course the sycamores. There are no fences. The wind is constant. The houses are lined up ragged, all different heights. There are impromptu roads through the rough collection of makeshift shelters. You can get lost in there; it's awesome; even though it only covers a few thousand square feet or so, I think. I'm actually pretty good with math. That's why I get all these thirteen and fourteen year old girls up in my treehouse on my saggy old couch, all leaning into me with their clothes and their warm thighs and their beautiful smelling hair, all asking for help with their homework. It's a good life, and I love it. Next year I get to go with the men. That will be good too.