Day Three
the truth was, we were both refugees (of a sort) whose best prospects (at that time) lay in that land at the edge of that vast ocean, where the current climate and political agendas were on friendly terms, where our partially buried demons, and youthful indiscretions seemed thousands of miles seperated.
and so, at sun down, as that surrounding border of endless waves lapped, foamed, sinking into the already soaked sand, our still feet becoming quickly submerged with each splash, and the ocean's water darkening to black merging with the moonless sky, i turned my back to all of it, wading in with full confidence of redemption in the dark wet tide.
later back on shore, back to the cabaña, i lit a votive to Caridad Del Cobre (Cachita), the caring woman saint, the one who helped us both voyage through those deep waters, the one who guided us both, for a time, to a small green forest in her sea.
