I suppose that by now I would be used to it, but it still bothers me.

Sure, it’s something I’ve dealt with before, but sometimes the struggle is so great that it can’t help but bring me down.

Fine, I’ll tell you what the problem is.

With the palm trees swaying in the wind, the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach and the sun shining through the wispy Turks and Caicos island clouds, it can be sort of hard to see what I’m typing on my computer screen.

Sigh. The struggle, as they say, is real.

I’m typing this on the porch of our third-floor room overlooking the beach. My wife and our 20-year-old daughter, Emma, are doing island things while I’m laboring over this column. Later, I’ll wander down to the beach and try to find them. After that, there will be lunch to worry about, and then, after lunch, I’ll drag my poor, tired self to the beach, where I will try to find space on the miles of empty sand to lie down and rest my weary bones.

It’s work, but somehow, I will pull through. Still, to paraphrase the great Dan Jenkins via Billy Clyde Puckett, “Does it always have to be work, work, work? Can’t a guy just unwind?”

On Thursday, we spent the afternoon on a boat. We visited an island inhabited by iguanas called — follow me here — Iguana Island. Then we went out to the reef and snorkeled for a while. Then, to unwind from the pressure of the day, I sat on our porch and drank some Turk’s Head Island beer and waited for dinner.

I’m telling you, to now paraphrase the great Jimmy Buffett: “I can’t run at this pace very long.”

On Saturday, my wife and Emma will probably go parasailing while I stay safe on our porch with my Turk’s Head beer.

When you get to a certain age (old), you have earned the right to — when someone says, “Do you want to go parasailing?” — say “No. No, I don’t.”

I don’t want to go parasailing, is what I’m saying.

The other day, my wife saw some people in the water on a large raft being pulled very rapidly by a boat, and she said, “Would you want to do that?”

And guess what I said.

If you guessed “No. No, I do not,” you are correct.

While I’m typing this, I can see people walking little Potcake puppies on the beach. Potcake is a term given to the stray dogs that roam the island. There is a foundation called the Potcake Place that rescues puppies and tries to find homes for them. To help get the puppies used to folks, people at the Potcake Place — who do amazing work — allow tourists to take them for walks. We did that three years ago, and now that dog we walked is 3 years old and living in our house.

I want to yell to the people walking the Potcake puppies to be careful.

“YOU’LL WIND UP TAKING IT HOME, AND NO MATTER WHAT YOUR WIFE AND DAUGHTER SAY, THEY WILL NOT TAKE CARE OF IT. YOU WILL HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF IT.”

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Thankfully this hectic island lifestyle won’t last forever. Soon, we’ll have to head home. A home without island breezes. A home absent of the sound or the waves rolling up on the beach. A home bereft (It’s a word. I looked it up.) of fresh conch and Turk’s Head beer.

The question is whether or not I can survive until then? Will I be able to stand the constant relaxing the constant having nothing to do and nowhere to go except to for lunch, dinner and the beach?

Oh well, again, to paraphrase Dan Jenkins via Billy Clyde Puckett, “Nobody said life wasn’t going to be semi-tough.”