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.