Deer raid the small vineyard. A lost swimsuit shows up in banana trees. Still unused to country ways, I shoot guns from the upstairs balcony. It breaks the maddening silence.
When cows get loose and the old Jeep won’t crank, I nudge home in an old (sadly, not vintage) Jaguar.
A flock of turkeys is collectively named The Wilsons –as in “Hey look! The Wilson’s are here!”
When yearning for beaches, boats and jungles, I write about them. My first novel, Blue Rubber Pool, will be published later this year. Three others are close to completion. My writing recipe is simple: start with one part Jack Kerouac (sentences long, as if paid by the word) and one part Hunter S. Thompson (complete disregard for the rules). Stir. Next add one part memoir and another part dream. Shake vigorously. Pour in all you know about love, sadness and redemption. Then allow to ferment until the cork pops out on its own. This writing thing keeps me out of trouble. My lovely young bride prefers it over my other line of work.
So if you enjoy sailing, bare feet, roasting oysters, peach cobbler and Pawleys Island hammocks, Pineapple Hill is your kind of place and you’re my kind of people.