Thursday, June 29, 2017
They circled the boat the morning we left, interested in the old cheese we threw overboard, hard, to make a good splash. Tallulah had gone in to check them out a couple of times when they came to investigate the sound of Adam scraping the hull. Since our dinghy got lost one night underway, we've been swimming to shore, and I was circumspect, not to say terrified. But when I looked up at Adam to report that the large thing swimming under us as we climbed down the swim ladder one morning was "only a barracuda," I figured I'd made some progress, even if I'll never match the savoir faire of my kid.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
I've been wanting to do something with the whole concept of one shoe for years. Inspired by beach wanderings, almost always accompanied by plastic bottles and single shoes. We took a walk to the windward side of Big Sand Cay, not bothering to swim ashore with our own shoes to cross the sand spurs, knowing we'd find some. Sure enough. One's too big or gets uncomfortable, another will appear in a few yards. The beach is strewn with shoes and plastic bottles. Oddly, some contain pristine toothbrushes. We call to each other over the wind blowing off the water--this place is wild, spooky, for all its human detritus it guards inhuman knowledge. Something living in the ground girds its perfectly round holes with neat loops of twig and sand spurs. The birds hover over us as we cross their land, low enough even in this wind to let us know we are interlopers. Even the rusting, tumble-down structure on the low bluff, the cement bunkers--evidence we'll only ever stay a little while. Last time I was here I read Tibetan Budddhist philosophy. I try meditating on the beach as Tallulah creates a memorial made of shells and driftwood on the soft sand. (Earlier, she buried the desiccated bodies of two baby turtles, their scurry to the sea arrested by those cawing, hovering birds.) This place is neither sea nor land, exactly. It's mostly sky.