Beowulf gets put to rest for another year. The Wife of Bath prepares to strut the stage in her bawdy red tights. Seniors in class write and rewrite essays to their future. November 1 looms large. Little time left before we all crash upon the shore of that new month with deadlines feeling like the end of the world. My mind sneaks away. Aboard a boat in the San Francisco Bay several years ago. But only briefly, for I must bring Odysseus to port.