Billlay back against the wooden deck of the sailboat floating carelessly inthe sunlit bay. Because work was so hectic, he barely had time to doanything resembling relaxation - except on Sundays. That was his day.The rocking of the small sailboat calmed him. No Monday chores, noSaturday errands, just him and his boat in the clear, blue sea. Alone,he knew that at any moment he could let the sails loose and head off tosome mystical place where every day was Sunday. He let his rough handfall from the edge of the boat and splash into the water. Slowly, heslid his hand through the cool water, seeing small ripples from itsmotion. His memory drifted to a time when skipping stones and throwingpebbles were the only things that caused ripples in his life. Here onthese Sundays, though, Bill worried about nothing. Instead he daydreamedabout all the places he had yet to see. Looking up, his eyes got lost inthe wandering whiteness of the clouds. So transparent with adventure, sofree to be anyone or travel anywhere. He spotted an elephant eatingpeanuts on a park bench, or maybe it was a lion giving singing lessonsto a flying fish. But really, they were just clouds, soft and smooth,yet so unreachable, so far away, just like all the hopes stored deep inhis heart. Wild and free, those clouds seemed to move with minds oftheir own. He sat up, leaning against the bow. A noise from the mainlanddistracted him. He supposed the sounds came from the town that laybeyond the stone bridge, where travelers who have an interest in theunknown crossed.

He watched the bridge. So many strangers passed,many not really knowing where they were going. Sure, they were headed tothe grocery store or to the movies, but no one really knew exactly wherethey would end up or what they would become. All of them standing by,watching and waiting as their lives passed them by.

A delicatewoman dressed in pale pink walked along the bridge. He noticed her, thelady's perplexed expression catching his Sunday eye. She moved to theedge of the bridge and stopped, resting her small hands on the woodrailing. She put her leather briefcase at her side, and watched thewater. She noticed the reflection, the sun illuminating the sailboatdrifting in the sea. Bill watched her, fascinated. In all his Sundaydrifts, no one had ever stopped to watch. But she did. Forgetting abouthis own dreams, he wondered about hers. Surely she didn't want to bethere, on that bridge. She had stopped to think, or dream and wonderabout being someplace or even someone else. Her chestnut head turnedtoward the boat and, as her eye caught Bill's, she smiled a charminglittle grin, revealing a line of white teeth. She was the only strangerto stop and just take it all in. At that moment, Bill knew sheunderstood the importance of his Sunday floats.