24 hours

In the past twenty four hours I have been in two countries with water for borders. I have seen a turtle pop its head above the water, been stung by sea nettles, bought a fish from a rasta named Eran in a boat called Ithiopia, and eaten several stringy mangoes while clinging to the boarding ladder before my swim. I have wiped down an entire boat with vinegar water, cursed half-closed hatches as I dragged a seawater sodden mattress up the companionway, tried to even out my crazy pigmentation by lying on the hot teak of the foredeck, and made a sashimi platter with fresh dorado for the recently arrived owners. I have consumed at least a pound of tropical fruit and watched the sky turn white to blue to pink to black and light. I have salt and rain drops co-mingling in my pores. I have an angry red nose and freckled lips. I have seen rasta huts high up in the steep verdant valleys of St. Vincent and wondered why anyone would choose to live in a city. I have thought too much and said too little. I have treaded water while gazing into the clear blue sea and sky and said to myself, "This is my job? This is my life?" with wonder and sweet sadness and amazement all swimming within me.