All the necessities are stowed: a book, a sandwich, and two cans of beer. Squatting on the shore below my cottage on Beach Drive I top off the inflatable kayak with a puff of air. Then, trying to keep the barnacled rocks from puncturing its bottom, I push off onto the placid Sound.

It is a few hours after high tide on a sunny September morning in 1986. In some ways it will be a lazy day at sea, as I intend to let the tide do most the work over the next few hours. But in other ways it will be one fraught with uncertainty. I am adrift between jobs and am running out of money. As I drift the day away I need to think seriously on my course in life. Two-hundred feet offshore I hitch a ride on the ebbing tide and steer a leisurely course north to Alki Point.

I'm amazed at the waterfront homes, their decks awash in sun. What amazes me is they're all empty of people, the residents at work or school. Being unemployed has its advantages, as it looks like I'm the only one able to enjoy this quiet morning postcard seascape.

The tide slackens and, like a sailboat without wind, I'm becalmed off Mee-Kwa-Mooks Park. It is time to do a little work and I start paddling to the lighthouse. As I pass the point I can see the curve of Alki Beach cradling the sound. The sands are vacant, but the water to the east is busy. Near Blake Island a grey behemoth skims the water at fifty knots. It's a 130-foot-long Boeing PHM (Patrol Hydrofoil Missileship) out on sea-trials. They build them in Renton, and it reminds me of the job I just quit, working in a building near the Hydrofoil assembly line. Working there was drowning my spirit. I was a little fish in a big ocean. I wanted to be a bigger fish in a smaller sea, so I quit without having another job to go to. The only option I can think of is to move from West Seattle. It is an unsettling thought, and one that is set aside once I realize I've travelled as far north as I want to go. I stow the paddle, lie back, then wait for the flood tide to push me back the way I'd come.

It will take a while to make the four-mile float back past the cottage and on down to the ferry dock. I crack open a book and a beer, and then lazily munch on a sandwich as the kayak bobs its way south. Occasional wakes from the Hydrofoil rock and roll me, and I glance over to see it doing 'doughnuts' in the waters near Vashon. I also notice something else: the odd summer-scent that occasionally haunts Lowman Beach is wafting strong, and I have to breathe through my mouth as I pass by.

The dock nears. It's time to be careful, in case one of the ferries is in the neighborhood. None are. Like a jogger stuck in a routine I wait until I'm exactly in line with the dock before I fire up the paddle and turn the bow 180-degrees. It's now a stiff row against the current. After going a mile north I decide to make landfall and snooze until the tide slackens. I time my run aground to fall between swells, and am literally lifted ashore, plopped down onto my favorite spot on the pebbly beach north of Colman Pool.

After a long nap the tide has slowed enough to make it an easy paddle home. I push off into the water and after 15-minutes the cottages of Spring Hill Villa come into view; a cluster of 50-year-old cottages set amongst million dollar homes. I take aim at the pink one, a beacon easy to spot from the sea, and home. My day adrift is nearly over. But when I wake up tomorrow less of me will be adrift. Today's float made me realize one thing. I can never leave this dazzling place of islands, sea, and hills. That, and the fact that I just started dating a dark-haired green-eyed beauty, means I never will.

Authors note: The dark-haired green-eyed beauty and I are soon to celebrate our 20th anniversary.

Marc Calhoun writes regularly about West Seattle in his newspaper and can be reached via wseditor@robinsonnews.com