Spanish views from a small town

Ever since last winter, my husband abandons me on early Sunday mornings. Weather permitting, he will get up at four thirty or a little later, eat breakfast, get his gear ready, and leave to join his friends. The three of them go to little nooks along the coast where they are sheltered from the wind. Where they go depends upon where the wind is blowing from. They have places where they are sheltered from the north wind, and places sheltered from the southerly winds. Generally, they are up on rocky cliffs, occasionally down on the beach. There they fish to their hearts' content.  Slowly, since last year, my husband has accumulated the necessary equipment. Some of it is new, other pieces are second-hand, found after much scrolling through websites. Some evenings my husband will sit and search the internet, checking new equipment and fishing articles. I have learned new vocabulary, mostly in English but it could be in Thai for all I understand. Jigging, spinning, casting, surfcasting...

Sunday mornings. Those two words bring to mind lounging in bed, reading the paper, sipping coffee, and brushing crumbs from the sheets. They bring to mind moments that I wish existed, but don't. Not any more. When I was a child in Boston I remember watching the cartoons on channel WLVI 56 on Sunday mornings. That was after I had exhausted my favorite ones on other channels. I had a television in my room then, and on Sunday mornings I remember the sun passing by the window and me playing in and on the bed while the television was on. I would reluctantly get up and get dressed when the first movie came on, around twelve. My mother could tell me to get up all she wanted, I was staying there until midday. Then, I got older and I got up earlier, but never before nine. After a week of getting up at seven while in primary school, and at six while in high school, nine seemed a more decent hour to me. Not eight thirty, not eight fifty, but nine o'clock on the dot. And if nine fifteen,...