Caribbean magic

Stood at the bow, gazing down into the water breaking around our
progress, seeing the faint glimmer of phosphorescence. Fist-sized
balls of light dancing in the foam, and occasionally a larger,
unidentified light will burst into life, tumble through our wake and
slip silently back into darkness.

It is a night illuminated by the first quarter of the moon, shrouded at
times in a gentle gathering of cloud, bright-edged and dark-hearted,
yet in the prow's shadow, eyes can adjust to the darkness and see
this spectacular dance. To describe it would be to describe an
hallucination, a mariner's tale born of madness or isolation. But no,
this is how the world is.

The day's glass-smooth sea has been stirred once more, and the
swell is rising, gently and slowly, but noticeably. The brief respite,
of walking straight, standing securely, is over. We are back to pitch
and roll. Meanwhile, the moon's horns sink down towards the
horizon, chasing the sun who left us hours ago, and the bow
sparks cold fire from the surface of the deep.

The day itself ended in a shroud of pink and blue, the remnant
footsteps of a tangerine sun that sank slowly into the Caribbean,
blinking at the end its elusive flash of green light. Now stars familar
and unknown take their stations. Orion upright once more since
crossing the equator, Sirius, his spouse bright and serene as ever.
The great bear now hangs at a tortured angle, and the southern
cross is now but a memory from beneath alien skies. The dim path
of the milky way has become bright here, removed from the lights
and distractions of land.

Nearing journey's end the southern stars are a receding memory,
fading over the horizon with every turn of the screw. Those of the
north are old friends, laying out a homecoming.

A man may go out to sea, but can never entirely return. A piece of
his soul will always remain on the waves, watching the fish and the
birds, looking for whales and rocks, and bathing in the silent
moonlight. Why else would he ever go back to sea, to risk the
vengeance of its vastness, to feel the might of its grandeur tossing
the eggshell frailty of his ship? To relive the agony of such
exquisite transient beauties? For none of these; solely to recover
the lost portion of his soul. But each time he goes, a little more is
lost. Then one day he is all gone, he returns with no soul left at all,
and just stares through the rest of his life watching the waves
crashing behind his eyelids.