Being on vacation sure can be exhausting. I’ve funneled some of my newfound energy into a physical regimen of the type my body has not seen since I ran competitively my freshman year of high school. I’ve run every day this week, have had three yoga classes, and have continued to work at developing the well-sculpted pecs of my dreams using my favorite new iPhone app, 100 Pushups. I’ve always imagined that it would be a good idea to do pushups, a free, easy, self-contained workout that develops your arms, chest, and back, with residual benefit for your core. But every time before, I’d harness a new spurt of pushup motivation by doing as many as I could, aching considerably for the next few days, and then forgetting to do them again once the pain faded. This app involves an initial test: Do as many good-form pushups as you can and then follow a program outlined by the app. For example, I did 25 pushups in my first test, and the next day was told to do sets of 10, 12, 7, 7, and 10 pushups with 90 seconds rest between each. The app counts down the rest time for you, removing any mystery. After completing a workout, you rest for a few days until you feel up to it again and then do the next workout, invariably doing more than the time before. Today, only my sixth workout, I did 16, 17, 14, 14, and 20 pushups, for a total of 81, though I was struggling to finish the final set. The progress is quick and gratifying. I’m already seeing the results. I think it cost a dollar to download. Consider this my official endorsement.

But the upshot of all this exercise is that my body is tired even though my mind feels quick. I had terrible form in yoga today, completely botching all of the positions requiring core balance. Yet the exercise is spiritually energizing and replenishing, keeping my mind off of how much I’m missing my family today. Chestertown has given us the gift of cooler days this week. The high temperature has been in the low 80s, and it was only 65 when I woke up today. I am enlivened by cooler temperatures and completely depleted by the typical Chestertown summer day. I’d be happy if it never got about 72. Apparently, I should move to Sweden.

While I’m doing product placement, I would like to put an enthusiastic word in for my friend and yoga teacher Helén Sears, who teaches Vinyasa Flow Yoga out of her home, just off Cannon and Cross Streets in the Historic District. Helén is patient, kind, and a wonderful teacher. She has a way of helping you improve without making you feel like a clod, which every beginning yoga student invariably is. I’m taking my fourth and fifth classes with Helén right now, and it’s exciting to see how much better I’ve gotten in only a few months’ time. I’ve noticed that the yoga practice has helped me improve body control, balance, strength, and, dare I say, grace. I’m slightly less of a lurcher than usually am. I’m moving through the world with slightly more purpose these days, and I know it’s all because of Helén. In addition to her Flow classes, which are rigorous without being demoralizing, she teaches Bliss (a weekly movement through the Chakras, each class devoted to “opening” a different one), and Restorative (a relaxing class that moves students through a series of positions meant to improve flexibility and focus). She also offers Beginner’s Yoga classes for the interested novice. I’ve taken all of her classes, and am extremely impressed. If you live anywhere near Chestertown and have ever been curious about yoga but have never found the right situation, give Helén a try. Consider this my official endorsement.

Enough about exercise. It’s the eve of the holiday weekend, and I’m preparing for a blissful convalescence with my keyboard. This evening I’ve been working on a project I mentioned in my last post: a meditation on the time I’ve spent in Alaska as a fishing helper. It’s an interesting dynamic working with one’s spouse. Robbi and I certainly know about working together, we do it every minute of every day. But when working on books, we’re on equal footing, each one an expert, each one contributing leadership and vision. But when fishing, I am invariably in the position of novice. Robbi has been fishing for three decades. She’s a pro. She has said that it is the only context in life in which she feels that she knows exactly what she’s doing. I, on the other hand, after seven seasons, still have much to learn. On one hand, what we do is simple. On the other, we confront constantly shifting conditions: time of day, speed of tide, weather, mode of setting the nets. Decisions have to be made quickly, and with no ambiguity. Directions have to be followed for the sake of safety. For the first few years I went up to help, I had a hard time dealing with the fact that I was the amateur. I’m used to being good at everything I do. I’m used to being quickly thrust into leadership positions in whatever context I encounter. But with fishing, I have to defer, listen, and follow instructions. Coming to terms with an uneven power dynamic was one of the most difficult things I had to deal with in the early years of my relationship with Robbi. But I’ve come to find a comfort in the position of follower, supporter, cog in a complex machine beyond my ability to fully comprehend.

This acceptance of “helper” status is one of the central themes of the essay that’s emerging. But more than a psychological exploration, the piece also tells the story of how we fish, and why. There are so many eccentric characters, stories, and complex explanations of process that I’m sure I’ll have to work at economy lest the piece become an epic beyond its ability to engage the reader. That’s my present task.

Writing about Alaska as I sit here in Maryland helps me feel closer to my distant family. I looked at a map today and shuddered at how far away they are. They’re practically in Russia, as the echo of Sarah Palin reminds me. I still haven’t heard Robbi’s voice since they left. It’s hard. I miss Kato’s fuzzy head, Alden’s stern reminder that her name is “Alden” when I call her any one of the dozens of pet names that I can’t help but call her.

And so I’ll return to my writing and thus commune with my family in the only way I can right now. Evidence of their absence lies strewn about the barn. A tiny pair of shoes, a bib, an empty sippy cup. I don’t have the heart to clean up the mess. I summon their ghosts through artifacts, which are everywhere.

In conclusion, join me in sculpting sick pecs by downloading 100 Pushups. Sign up for yoga classes with Helén. And kiss your children if you can. Grab them and hug them and never let them go. They’ll be gone soon enough, whether to Alaska or college. I now know what it feels like to do without. Here are the obligatory photos.

What rascals. What knaves. Is it possible I played some role in their becoming?

I don’t see how it’s possibile.

They’re just so much better than me.

Good night, Sweets. Sleep well among the alders.