The Island
A sloop rode astride disparate shades of blue, the ocean looking as if Gauguin had paletted every tone of that color available in the universe. The lone boat sheered through, cutting the briefest of white swaths, which were deftly consumed by azure strokes of the artist’s brush. Wind sung in the lines, with slap of bow and gurgle of wake, a pleasant serenade. There is a vitality that seems to exist at the Equator. Astride the foredeck, with one hand grasping a stainless steel stay, it’s smooth gnurling carried the feel of the wind’s energy, that traveled as a throbbing