Water, wind, and waves are three of my favorite things in Tampa where I live. My wife and I moved from dry country and have come to love 'em.

Warm Gulf waters wash along our beaches luring us to relax and rejoice in the good land around us. Open sands and empty dunes stretch down linear beaches; sea grasses sway in synchronicity; offshore winds and incoming tides breach the shoreline, kept in company by sandpipers and terns racing along mud flats. Laughing children race incoming waves, shrieking in delight as frothy water curls around tiny toes. Quiet moments as others soak up sun on big red beach towels, warming on the sand, renewing strength.

Grinning people pound the waves on shiny jet ski monsters, carving "S"ess in water as rooster tails fly behind. Like white confetti on dark water, legions of leisure boats cut and weave through waters, their hyped up outboards roaring, skiers pulling behind jumping over wakes. Other friends party loud, parked on causeway sand strips, booming music, cooking savory food under pop-up tents, relaxing in beach chairs, the bay waters calm as a mirror. All in a day in Tampa. I like my chicken with mesquite rub, maybe some Kickin' Chicken on it.

Nearby, the Hillsborough River is a proud lady, parading her currents and eddys over rocks and shoals. Canoes grace her surface in single line expeditions; alligators hug her shorelines; river grass hides her shrimp and fish. She empties her glory into the bay, a shallow estuary that flows into the Gulf, elegantly dancing under the Skyway Bridge. For a fun time go to Hillsborough State Park and hike along the river. Bring extra water.

As night follows day, glorious sunsets follow grim summer thunderstorms, forming turbulent thrusting clouds pierced by angular light rays; clouds are painted by palettes of poster colors, etching memories in tourists and homies alike, awed by the end of day. Sunsets are felt, not just seen. I have hundreds of pictures of sun-over-clouds, sun-under-clouds, sun-on-water, people-blocking-sun, you name it.

The coming night is a blanket of black settling over the bay, a marriage of fresh and salt water where grouper and tarpon and redfish circle hidden in the eleven feet of water. Like water-bugs, boaters still ply her surface trolling for fish below. A quiet echo of horns and night sounds travel over calm waters. A crown of city lights encircle the bay, pinpoint reflections of diamonds sparkling off waters. Gotta warn you though to get your fishing license. Was on the water once without one and the game warden came floating by and saw my poles but not any fish (lucky me, it would'a been worse). Still handed me a ticket.

A new morning sun sees the night out. She inches up over trees in the East, tracing fingers of light over somnolent land, shining through marshy mists, raising flocks of birds off still waters. The roosters crow; the people stir; the temperature rises.

Yip, it's a gonna be a hot one today in Tampa.