Marine Forecast: not applicable, sigh.
Where to find breakfast, or a taxi, on a Sunday morning after Carnivale? Breakfast at Gladys’ on Great Dane St.: fried fish and grits for The Skipper; salt fish and chop chop for Ginger.
A quick shower and re-pack and an early taxi to the airport just in case. We hang out with painkillers and books and get one last round of chicken, beans and rice, and macaroni and cheese to go. I think we’ve eaten a barnyard’s worth of animals on this trip. At least we ate veggies and fish on the boat.
Bonus on the return flight is that the only mileage point seats available were in Business. We’re plied with food and drink and blankets, and I have tea and a bloody mary with my cheesecake. When we land at JFK, it’s suddenly spring again (at least it’s not snowing), and everyone is too fast and efficient. Our apartment seems huge, and the sky is small and empty without stars. That night we’re up several times to check the mooring lines. I think we’re about to hit land until I see the street out front.
As I sit at the computer to write this trip report, the screen and words seem narrow in every sense, flat and lifeless. There is no horizon. Better to be on a boat looking at the line where sky meets sea and to know there’s more beyond it.