How effortlessly a moment, nevertheless displaced a short distance from land, can provoke a stirring of immeasurable proportion?
Six o’clock in the morning; 50 nautical miles south of Alegría de Pío; winds: absent; all aboard asleep save for the small staff manning the overloaded vessel.
The stainless steel rails surrounding the deck are speckled with moisture as the morning’s dampness settles over the water from whence it rose. I can feel the humidity upon my upper lip and eyelashes, but I shall withhold the common desire to directly wipe it off. Rather, I will succumb to the morning’s cool-dampness and allow it to seep into the pours of the skin of the backs of my hands and cheeks.
The unfathomable space between the sea’s saline surface and the sky’s cobalt limitlessness does no more than inflict such mental wanderings for us such undeserving travelers of the oceans of right and wrong. A question of fatal outcome and near existence is lit within the spaces occupied by home, her, and mugs of porter tipped with friends.
As soon as my feet are upon the soil of my forefathers I shall tie a red scarf to my face; I shall lock-and-load; and, I shall ensure an encirclement the capital square in the same manner as the morning’s dampness settles over the water from whence it rose.
These are the images amassed as the Cessna drops at an incredible velocity into the darkness… the seas of night, no different from those of a December morning so long ago, whisper: “Cienfuegos.”
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