|To the mall|
|Christmas day in Punta Cana|
The loom of Mayagüez in the distance is enough. A fine mist of stars falling silently across the southern Caribbean.
The half moon materializes frighteningly, like an alien spaceship suspended not three feet above the horizon. The control room lit up, the pilot somewhere in the orange glow, unimaginable. Poised for liftoff--rising gently, inscrutable, lost to us.
An hour after dawn, the edge of the island, jagged hills, too steep to imagine climbing, pummeled cliffs. The mesmerizing luck of arrival.
|To the mall|
|Impersonating the lady baboon who had a pet kitten|
|In the current--leaving the Cueva de la Linea, covered with Taíno petroglyphs. The Taíno were maybe not ready for us to leave this island. Seemed like they called us back, untenderly, seemed like they stopped us with a slap, like a fierce Zen teacher, stalking enlightened behind us.|
|The park was spooky in the dusk, dark caves and oddly friendly officials who asked us if we had any rum or rice, cooked--cocinao--to give them, and when Adam said, "No, estamos muertos," they said, "Well, do you want some?" Back across the bay in the dark, climbing the steep waves.|
|Hand steering, exhausted with rainbow. Twenty-four hours after leaving Luperón with no autopilot. Goodbyes said via facebook, last pesos given to the motorcycle driver who brought me to the dock with the groceries, thinking, next stop Puerto Rico. Thinking, America by any other name--yeah. Which is so wrongly nostalgic but it somehow can't, in the blooming seasickness, be helped. Maybe we'll hang the big flag off the dinghy davits.|
|Engine not getting enough fuel, a haze of missed sleep over the bright morning entering Samaná Bay. American ex-slaves came here after the Civil War, and maybe they came by this route, rough rounding the corner and seeing the palm trees and green slopes of their new home, uncharted freedom, not even a road leading from the capital.|
|The lagartijo that T carried through three grocery stores and an ice cream place.|
|A performance space on the cay.|
|Bienvenido, el maestro de español.|
|Parent, incredulous: "Can you understand that?"|
Child, disdainful: "It's just Spanish."
|A gift from our friend Virginie, who has been teaching Tallulah about reading, writing, arithmetic, and French style.|