Alone in a dark bay with only the pitch slosh roll of a gentle north swell. Douse the lights and I am Jonah in the Belly, mooring creak my whale song, but for tropical crickets, bats and Orion at the surface.
Half the Zodiac rings the bowl of the Bight, drops of sea spray on a black velvet peacoat, emptied from the Big Dipper that points to Polaris, barely registered at this latitude.
Broad reaching from Mosquito to Peter, a dream tack down the Drake. Velvet green hills slide by, camel caravans strung across a 4-6″ desert sea.
Pocket fires of bougainvillea trees flare in the hillside scrub. White gulls skim the North Sound at midday, become water-reflected aquamarine jewels in flight. Silver sunset yields to a starry mooring field of anchor lights.
Reggaeton @ 18,29.896N 64,23.174W – Cat Stevens’ world was wild twenty years ago halfway up an Alp halfway between dusk and dark when the full moon couldn’t compete with the Swiss Army night drill flares across the valley. New moon, new latitude, same wild world.
ps-Dear Reader, Due to de Ilon wifi on weekend, daily posts might be delayed a few days. Apologies.
Forty stars, framed in the cathedral of standing rigging, wheel around the polestar mooring, new constellations drawn by the wind.
Pearlescent island prison, proverbial water everywhere, hemmed volcanic ridges reminisce for pre-cruise peace when a soft sun slid between tufted pearls to the delight of lizards and crickets.
When I come back, I will be surprised by the banal half box of soup and desiccated mango in the fridge, and thankful.
Apple blossoms’ upside down umbrellas, leaf handles fixed to pink concave petals, vernal prophylactics fail spectacularly before the west wind, pomegranate seeds cascade towards the baby’s open mouth.
Recent thrift store acquisition, good enough to carry home, runs the 20-block gauntlet from store to door, a mobile garage sale for the judging public; they take a pass.