Stranger than Friction... filming for "Stoked and Broke" from www.KORDUROY.tv on Vimeo.

Traci

I have a friend named Traci. Occasionally she hooks shit up:

http://poemgame.blogspot.com/2010/08/for-seamus.html

She presented herself unannounced, and took me by surprise.

I had been waiting for her, and still she managed to bewilder me.

The truth is I was desperate for her.

I had been waiting for this moment for months; long, hot, summer months drenched in the type of haze and humidity caused by longing and desire. I had been longing for and desiring her for so long I struggled to maintain composure before her now.

We had a history. I first tasted her when I was barely 18 and have been helpless since. There had been affairs in exotic locales across the globe. Staying out late in her arms and sneaking out early to see her whenever she called had left victims. Commitment to family, education, work and lovers all faltered under her undeniable spell.

I would do anything to have her, a fact she knew all too well, mercilessly taking me for all my worth.

She was dangerous. She had the power to erode landscapes, alter climates, float dreams and destroy them with the depth of her passion.

Her mood was unpredictable. There were moments when she became approachable, and these were the moments I lived for. Even when she would have me, there was no telling how long it would last. Our affairs had lasted minutes, hours, weeks and the longest, a month. Each one was drastically different and according to her insatiable temperament. History should have taught me lessons, but she always left me craving her caress once more. This time was no different.

I was standing before her on the beach. The sun had set. Anyone who was around had gone home to supper with loved ones or loneliness without. There was nobody but us.

In the dusk, we embraced. I tasted the salt on her; immersed myself in her touch; dove beneath and inside of her; slipping away on waves of lust and love; trying hard to keep up, keep pace, keep her satisfied.

The stars came out. It was twilight.

I could not stay with her, she would not have it. I would never survive in her world, a vicious truth she never let me forget.

I returned home both exhausted and exhilarated. I lay awake dreaming of her. I did not sleep.

At the first sign of light, I returned to the beach where we had been together the night before. Sure enough, she was waiting for me.

It is my sole belief that no man could ever conquer her. She takes and takes and takes. If I am lucky, or perhaps unlucky depending on the point of view, she gives just enough to make me forget all her taking, and she takes some more.

For two more days I was rendered useless to anyone but her. I would say goodbye to her in the morning and drift hopelessly in thoughts of her until I saw her again that evening.

For two more days our bodies collided in lovers’ bouts. My muscles ached; my flesh became raw, and skin chafed. I gave her everything stored up inside of me and more. I was spent.

There was something lovely about feeling broken by her. I wanted to give her everything. I wanted her to break me. I was spent. My body was done. I could take no more. I had nothing left to give. I was no longer any use.

She had her way, as she always has and always will. And for the time being, I said goodbye to her -- my lover, the Sea.

FVWTBT

The young man stared out at the vista before him.

He was reclined on the balcony in a chair of wood and canvas.

His view, except when interrupted by linen curtains blowing with the wind off the mountain, was of lush hillside, flowing into valley, and into the Caribbean Sea.

He was listening. He heard the fantastic melodies of birds; the dogs barking; steel drums and reggae playing; crickets chirping; children yelling; mothers fretting; and faintly, he heard thunder rumbling.

Listening was different than hearing, however, and the young man heard all those things but listened to none.

He was listening to her.

Communication on the verge of breakdown, both of them were becoming desperate in the face of a dreadful delay on the line.

They had settled on abandoning conversation, for the sake of just listening.

As he listened to her doing nothing but breathe, his view changed.

He was now focused inward, no longer staring at the sea that seperated him from her.

A display was being witnessed.

On the balcony railing before him, a lizard had appeared. A male Green Anole, the reptile began an elaborate performance. In commanding fashion, the lizard puffed out its throat to reveal the fiery passion inside. Red scales, projecting from green; a natural mechanism of unadulterated showmanship.

He stared, always listening to her breathing, as the island turned to gold. He was now watching another magnificent display courtesy of the sun.

As if the sun saved the best for last everyday, it saved this evening hour for a dose of the most spectacular light on tap.

He watched the sun's last display before it set behind the mountain.

Still listening to her in the fading light, he watched a storm on the ocean.

Another display.

He had just said goodnight to her when a ferociously brilliant bolt of lightning cut the horizon.

Sparks were flying across the sea.

He knew what was required, and promptly booked a plane ticket.

It was time for the young man to put on a display
.

god damn sexy kyle e

this is kyle e:these are some of his photos. welcome to romance the sea kyle.
guinea bissau and nobody out- like most days
some gay art shit

eastern canada
eastern canada
yours truly, seeking shelter from the strong nova scotian sun
arabia. or so he says.

Sicko

1 Morning with Ryan Carlson from David Lee Scales on Vimeo.

She is laying in bed.

Outside, a train leaves the station across the street, as a cyclist scurries home in a designated bike lane.

This time of the day is for silent reflection. She quietly rests. In her restful mind, she finds some thoughts.

Despite the early hour, it is still warm in her corner of Europe.

Her quiet, restful thoughts rise and evaporate with the summer heat.

They are carried up, straight up, over the Alps and across the French Riviera. They cross, briefly, the Mediterranean, the Spanish Sierras and the Mediterranean once more; North Atlantic now, settling off the shores of Morocco.

There her thoughts float, gradually gathering moisture from the atmosphere around them. Becoming saturated. Then condensing above the warm doldrums beyond the African coast.

And by the time those thoughts reach him, they are full blown storms.

They have picked up speed and passionate fury, rushing across the equator, flirting with the South Americas.

They have organized themselves, without an effort but with plenty of grace.

Her simple thought reaches him as a cyclone of storm activity.

For he is trying to fall asleep on a hot, damp boat in the Caribbean, and there is torrential downpour all around him. Lightning flashes and thunder crashes. The wind screams through his rigging.

On his side of the ocean, it is hurricane season.

000
ABNT20 KNHC 202331
TWOAT
TROPICAL WEATHER OUTLOOK
NWS TPC/NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER MIAMI FL
800 PM EDT TUE JUL 20 2010

FOR THE NORTH ATLANTIC...CARIBBEAN SEA AND THE GULF OF MEXICO...

A VIGOROUS TROPICAL WAVE...LOCATED NEAR THE EASTERN DOMINICAN
REPUBLIC...IS PRODUCING A LARGE AREA OF SHOWERS AND THUNDERSTORMS
EXTENDING FROM THE NORTHERN LEEWARD ISLANDS WESTWARD TO HISPANIOLA.
SURFACE OBSERVATIONS INDICATE THAT A CLOSED CIRCULATION HAS NOT YET
FORMED.  HOWEVER...ENVIRONMENTAL CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED TO BE
FAVORABLE FOR TROPICAL CYCLONE FORMATION AS THE SYSTEM MOVES
WEST-NORTHWESTWARD AT ABOUT 10 MPH DURING THE NEXT DAY OR SO.
THERE IS A HIGH CHANCE... 60 PERCENT...OF THIS SYSTEM BECOMING A
TROPICAL DEPRESSION OR A TROPICAL STORM DURING THE NEXT 48 HOURS.
REGARDLESS OF DEVELOPMENT...LOCALLY HEAVY RAINFALL AND GUSTY WINDS
WILL LIKELY AFFECT THE VIRGIN ISLANDS...PUERTO RICO...THE DOMINICAN
REPUBLIC... HAITI...EASTERN CUBA...THE TURKS AND CAICOS ISLANDS...
AND THE BAHAMAS DURING THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS.  THE HEAVY RAINS
COULD CAUSE LIFE-THREATENING FLASH FLOODS AND MUD SLIDES IN
MOUNTAINOUS AREAS.

ELSEWHERE...TROPICAL CYCLONE FORMATION IS NOT EXPECTED DURING THE
NEXT 48 HOURS.

bells won't stop ringing in my ears

short man from chase burns on Vimeo.

"One can rest above or below the wave, and even completely within it and tour the world with it ten times, doing nothing but watch the clouds and the sun and the moon and the stars above the clouds, with the wave and in the wave doing nothing but watch and feel. But one could also take a moonbeam at the instant it ricochets into the sea and lands and return aboard to see the sea, just watching and thinking with her, breathing again the odour of land and the things of the sky. All of this is easy, just watching the sea, choosing the wave well, just the right size, and take the time to see the sea."

Bernard Moitessier, La longue route

Love Transatlantic

By now, perhaps you are somewhere off the coast of Greenland? Iceland?
Thousands of miles above the North Atlantic?

Never, ever, forget the significance of that ocean. It was on its
glaciated Nova Scotian shoreline that we first met. As you so
eloquently recalled in our first fateful letter exchange, I had spent
a morning in its waters the day I laid eyes on you.

The ocean brought me to you. It has also brought me away from you.

Today, the ocean has me isolated on the eastern limits of the
Caribbean archipelago. Tomorrow, the ocean will have us separated by
thousands of miles of wind, waves, storms and currents.

It is only fitting however. The ocean is in many ways like love. Man
has yet to conquer the sea, and man has yet to conquer love. But man
has managed to embrace the sea, to sail on it, to chase dreams on it.

Our love is the ocean. It is this ocean of love that I embrace. And on
its waves I will sail. Chasing my dreams of you.

Soon enough darling, I will sail to you. I have my sight set on that
horizon. And as long as there is water in the sea, I will continue
loving you.

I am dedicating my life to the sea, to love, to you.

Oceans between,

Respective beds beneath,

Twisted pasts behind,

Grand futures before,

Lofty dreams above,

The world around,

All of these things,

in directions relative to us.

this one's going out to all those star crossed lovers seperated by oceans...

Elle est bonne, la mer, toi aussi.

He couldn't understand very much français, but he understood beauty, and he understood the sea. Anything that could not be understood in these terms did not seem worth explaining.

But she was as beautiful as the ocean, and that, he could understand.

He remembered the old Tahitian sailor whom he had met, and the prophetic words he spoke:

"No man can rule her. La mer, the sea, cannot be steered the way you or I would steer our vessels."

And the young man was beginning to understand the same about the beautiful girl.

Just as they danced, with great intensity and gusto, for it was their favorite thing to do, orbiting one another like the earth, sun and moon, he knew he had lost control.

He held her in his arms until a set wave came through, crashing right on top of them both. In fleeting glimpses, he could see her tumbling away with the currents.

But fighting was useless. Momentum was the key. He understood the need to go with the flow. Ignore the burning chest, he told himself, soon you will surface again. Those moments spent hurtling underwater only make the next breaths sweeter.

Though nothing was worse than this, he thought. She had the power to drown him. Yet, drowning would be a relief. At least it would end the way it started; in a maelstrom of passionate fury. Drowning would save him.

And so, his most dreaded dream came true. The ocean went flat.

Days passed, turning to weeks. Weeks, in turn, became months. And still he remained.

Adrift.

keep your eyes on the prize

for a girl beyond the sea

a tune to tune your ears with

Californians Wear Too Much Plaid from Riley Blakeway on Vimeo.

aloha...

SUPER COOL HAWAII, MAN from Riley Blakeway on Vimeo.

WATER AND OIL - Extended Trailer from Riley Blakeway on Vimeo.

we should all just move to california

3!SLOBS teaser from Jeremy Asher Lynch on Vimeo.

what up to my brotha dave...

http://shredlife.net/

you are the ocean, and i'm good at drowning

How Deep is the Ocean?

Wind Moon Tide

WIND MOON TIDE from mesurf on Vimeo.

"The cold, cold sea – once a great, unknown blank spot on our ancient charts – no longer frightens us.” – Sam George, The Surfer’s Journal, Vol 17, No 5, Oct-Nov 08

It is summertime in Australia. It is not in Canada. That was my first thought as an ice cold, 12 foot wave exploded a few metres in front of me. I ditched my board, and fighting against all the rubber enrobing my body, swam deep in the water and waited for impact. BOOM! Pins and needles stabbed the soles of me feet. My heart beat so fast it actually hurt my rib cage. I suddenly had to urinate, defecate and vomit; all at the same time. Like I mentioned, my brain was talking to me, but it wasn’t being very helpful. “You’re unfit. You’re out of your league. You shouldn’t have eaten that breakfast sandwich. You definitely shouldn’t have smoked those two joints. Two joints and a breakfast sandwich?! It’s not even sunrise! How can you describe this in onomatopoeia? Nobody likes you.” Thoughts like these are the consequence of surfing in water temps that wiped out the Titanic passengers. Despite those temperatures, despite my spin through a coldwater rinse cycle, despite those negative thoughts, despite the ice cold water flushing into my five millimeter thick wetsuit, I eventually surfaced with a smile. The cold had tightened my lungs and it felt like I was breathing through a garden hose, but the rewards associated with surfing Nova Scotia in the heart of winter far surpassed the discomfort. What’s more, I was not alone, which was a good thing. A few feet from me, my friends scowled as they fought through their own ice-cream head ache, we caught each other’s eyes and couldn’t help laughing as we noticed four more 12-footers headed straight towards our battered selves. It’s a Tuesday morning in January, and we wouldn’t spend it any other way.

Above: An icy lip about to bring chills to anyone who stands in its path. Photo: Author’s own. Below: Not your typical beach scene. A frigid Tuesday morning complete with 5 metre wave sets. Andrew Hunter scopes the line-up. Photo: Matt Taggart

“Our surfing forebears were passionately devoted to sliding naked into a warm ocean and riding waves. But as the centuries passed and surfing spread to less accommodating climes, new generations of wave riders have nurtured that fire, carrying it forward to every ocean regardless of the water temperature, banking the coals, fanning the flames, keeping it hot when the world gets cold.” –Sam George, The Surfer’s Journal. Vol 17, No 5, Oct-Nov 08

Perhaps you are not convinced about this whole winter surfing phenomenon. To many, surfing is a foreign concept. Factor in the cold North Atlantic, hostile low pressure systems sweeping up the harsh coast of Nova Scotia, and the fickle mood in which they harmonize, which shows little consideration for schedules or work load, and you have something that very few people can relate to. Yet, there are a growing few, including myself, who can no longer imagine life in this cold winter climate without waves. Andrew Hunter, or Drew, age 29, a Halifax-based musician, is one such person. He was right alongside me when the North Atlantic unleashed itself on us. He fell in love with surfing while living on the ancestral shores of Maui at age 18. Since then he’s returned to more familiar waters, and surfs just as much on the snow covered cobblestone points of Nova Scotia as he did on turquoise coral reefs of Hawaii. On that Tuesday we all rolled together in his van. His approach to winter surfing is simple:

“Get in, get waves, get out, get in the van, get heat blasting, get music blasting, get down the coast, get high, stay high, and repeat.”

As a result we almost crashed twice, had great music selection, and could no longer remember whose turn it was to roll the next joint. Cory Barrington is another diehard winter surfer. Cory, also aged 29, hails from New Waterford, Cape Breton, and caught his first wave in the ocean near his family home. Now, Cory is in the process of completing his second degree in physical geography. That is why Cory was navigating. We got lost five or more times. His approach to winter surfing?

“Save up all the piss you can. When you can’t take the cold anymore, let it all go. It’s just like a warm bath.”

As Cory changed out of his wetsuit after our first session, That Smell by Lynyrd Skynyrd blasted on the van’s stereo.

Above: From left to right, Cory, author, and Drew, somewhat lost. Photo: Matt Taggart

“The surfing life is nothing if not a devotion. And true devotion is unconditional” – Sam George, The Surfer’s Journal, Vol 17, No 5, Oct-Nov 08

After a brisk morning session, which included some of the biggest waves surfed all winter, we could slow things down a touch. The surf signaled the end to a serious drought of waves that had affected us all deeply. Drew was ahead of his work and recordings. Cory had yet to miss a class. I had compensated for my addiction to waves by substituting them with heavy substance abuse. Hell, I had even taken up squash. Finally, the waves had arrived. Cory blew off some important classes. Drew cancelled meetings and snuck out before his wife woke up. We got a quick fix that Tuesday morning, and now we could invest in some discovery. We knew there was a wave breaking somewhere that no one else would be surfing. When we found the road to the point unplowed, we knew it could be the place. When a snowplow showed up and escorted us right to the sea, we knew we were the first to find the wave that waited on the snowy cliffs. More importantly, we knew that no class, no meeting, no amount of grief from loved ones, and no substance could rival the feeling of joy that comes with discovery and surf in Nova Scotia.

Below: The road to discovery. All Photos: Matt Taggart

Style

"I think Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own. Its one basic theme. You'll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won't show it to you. His face will. You'd have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else."

Late at night it awakens me.
It is a depth that haunts.

What secrets do you keep?

How to Find Yourself in North Bay (Or Lose Yourself in Montreal)

The fucking beast is still there! After all these kilometers, he is posted up, as comfortable as ever, some how still goddamn freaking THERE. I cannot even grasp how he’s managing; he’s certainly not over exerting himself, there are no signs of strain or stress-

Actually… that’s not entirely true. He’s been thoroughly dynamic all evening. In fact, the little bugger was kind of fun an hour out of Ottawa, laughing along with me and smiling his toothly, charming, befriending smile, with all the soothing comfort of a desert mirage. He was chatting away on his cell phone, and as I watched him in the mirror, I listened to his banter:

“-listen buddy, I think I may be into something over my head here! Call me if you got a chance.” Minutes later, his phone rang. A voice sounded on the other end.

“What’s happening brah? I got your message.”

“My main man! Boy, am I glad to hear you! How’s your evening treating you? Especially this evening, a fine one by any kind of scale of evening fine-ness, wouldn’t you say?” The monster smiled at his own formalities. I smiled along, I find I always smile when someone else smiles. He was charming and he knew it, but it still tickled him when he put on his displays of showmanship. The voice on the other end responded…

“Fine man, so what’s up? Where are you?”

“Ahhh, just the topic of my request! You see, I don’t entirely know!” and I found myself laughing in perfect harmony with the creature. We glanced at each other with concern, but then both looked away and regained composure. He continued, “Friend, would you happen to have a map? I think I may be slightly off course”.

“Nah man, why? Where you at? We’re just pulling into Kingston, there are some problems with the trailers, have you passed through yet?”

“No! That’s my problem buddy, I’m not really sure where I am at all. I just passed Pembroke?” The wily demon, he knew where he was, just not where anything else was in relation. While he could easily pull this van and I over and figure it all out, he did what any true monster would do. Hustle. “You think you could tell me if Pembroke is along any correct route?”

“Pembroke? Nah man, Pembroke is like Ottawa area. You should turn around before you drive too far. But sorry brah, I have no map. Phone Gardner, he’s probably got one.” Shit, he pulled it. The monster saw it, as he has seen it many times before. It was the re-hustle, the only method of defense against a hustle. The monster and I chuckled together, again, suddenly becoming aware of each other for a swift instant. Both of us knew this call was clearly going nowhere, and he ended it in a kind of silent agreement with me.

“Alright, well- thanks anyways man, I’ll check in with you later.” And that was the first time I noticed anything. The monster looked alone. I suddenly noticed I was lost.

......

That felt like days ago, at least five hundred or so kilometers back. Like I said, he stayed composed and calm most of the time. I still can’t figure how he got in the van, but he’s been a passenger since Montreal. Now that’s a vile place. I mean, the city is beautiful and all, but all the sexiest people and beautiful architecture in the world cannot disguise a city’s medieval warrior problem. We drove into the city for the afternoon, many hours ago now, pre-monster, and went to a park for a joint and to soak in the glorious sunshine.

Sarah was our guide. She is a natural anthropologist, because she wears silk and cultured stuff. At this point in time, she was leading Thom and I through a park.

“You guys want here?” she inquired, “This looks like a nice place”.

“No way, too sunny, let’s go up to that hill in that enchanted forest over there.” I responded, and Thom agreed, and in unanimous accord we trekked up the hillside. This was the start of everything. A series of unexplained and incredibly significant events occurred in rapid succession that brought the monster to me.

Through the trees we could see a clearing of dirt, which hosted a spectacle more impressive than any mentioned so far. There, on a Sunday afternoon on this day, or maybe now yesterday, in this year 2007, in the still new millennia, were twenty or so armor clad warriors. Before this afternoon I had not even known of any advancement in time travel, but somehow these archers and swordsman and axe-bearers had arrived in present-day Montreal. The three of us watched in awe and wonder as the warriors jousted and lunged, but I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was being watched. We left the park, and all the freakish spectacles it hosted, shortly after, and headed back to the van’s parking spot, and were followed the entire time. He was swift and smooth, with cunning precision and flawless accuracy. We piled into the van and hit the open road, but with one more passenger on departure than on arrival. The monster was now a fellow traveler on our journey, sitting comfortably behind me and staring back at me as I stared at him. We are both incredibly stubborn, and neither looked away until the other did first. Naturally, we did a lot of staring.

......

It had been a couple of hours since the phone conversation I overheard from the stranger behind me. I was getting used to him by now. He smokes when I smoke, drinks when I drink, even agrees with all my music choices. He apparently has nowhere to go or be and is in no rush to get anywhere because hours have past and we were still heading in the wrong direction. As the hours went by the music got louder and louder. A permanent ringing began sounding in my ears, but it drowned out the sound of real life, so I turned the music up some more. We were in one of our engagements, the monster and I, staring at each other with keen intent and curiosity. Two silhouettes entered the mirror, and a union was made between the monster and I, we pulled over and picked up two hitchhikers. Now, the stranger and I had parted ways with Thom and Sarah hours ago, so there was no doubt that some new company was welcome, but I didn’t even speak to our new guests. I was too enthralled with the show just behind me. I watched in the mirror as the stranger performed, engaging the hitchhikers in precise, mechanical, flawless procedure. The monster was a professional. He could read people and immediately give them what they wanted. He pumped every last drop of energy out of the hitchhikers, and fed off it to increase the magnificence of his performance. Every joke had a purpose, and each question was expertly planned ages before it was asked, and chosen only because the monster knew it would receive a specific answer which would trigger the exact response he desired. After an hour or so they loved the beast. Two hours and they were exchanging contact information. Three hours and they had to seriously re-consider ever leaving his company. Those fools! Blinded by his display, trudging on like zombies in his fantasy! If they only knew his act, his rehearsed, finely tuned gig, then they would know what he was up to! Why, he is not special at all. He is no different than I, nor is he better. In fact, he is just like me.

Panic, with urgent terror, we caught each other’s eyes in the mirror. The hitchhikers thanked him as they left the van, and he forced the most sincere goodbye he has ever forced. Finally, he stared back. At that moment, we came to a more horrific realization than being miles away from anything, completely lost. We were miles away from anything, completely lost; with none other than the person we hated most to share the ride.

......

The stars were beautiful in Algonquin Park. Now, I know, Algonquin Park? That should have been enough indication that we were off course, but I could not turn around anymore, not even if I wanted to. The stars contributed to that. I had been looking at life so intently lately I never really looked up. As I stared at the galaxies above, I felt incredibly alone. Buddy Backseat felt the same as well. Now, stars and space have a tendency to make you feel useless and insignificant in the scheme of things, but never had I felt this despair. I didn’t think anyone in the world could feel this alone until I checked my mirror. He felt it too. He, the man I hated most, was the only person on the planet that I could relate to at this time. We felt exactly the same. Guilt hit me fast, with a sharp and penetrating assault. It was a feeling I was used to. After writing my finals, managing A-‘s and B+’s, despite never attending class, should I be trying harder? Or before that, clowning around on stage, should I be acting this silly? Even now, telling this tale, should I say anything? Does anyone really need to hear this? And as I resumed my stare with that beast behind me, I noticed, for the first time, his vulnerability and confusion. He was exactly like me, he felt the same things I felt, and thought the same things I thought. He was exactly like me in everyway. He even began to look like me. And I hated the monster more than ever before.

......

We’re back where we started. He is still here, staring at me through the same eyes I use to stare at him. The tension has become so great that it now drowns out the permanent ringing from the music. A shrill, anxious, nervous hum is actually all I can hear anymore. My hands tighten on the wheel. The night is dead. I have never felt hatred like this before. I hate him and he hates me back. I hate that he knows me. I hate that he’s like me. I hate how he looks, how he thinks and how he behaves. I even hate that I hate him. This is it. This is where shit hits the fan. I am going to look that fucking creature right in the eye and I am going to tell him exactly how I feel. The hum has increased to a roar. My knuckles are white around the wheel. Finally, I look up to the mirror.

Nothing. There is no monster. There is no one in the van other than me. The only eyes staring back are my own.

I am alone in the mirror.

A sign is illuminated ahead of me on the side of the highway.

WELCOME TO NORTH BAY

I didn't sleep for a second of my third night at sea. I lay awake, staring at dark water and stars. The universe was terrifying in scale. In fact, it had been expanding all night, erupting in an infinite rainstorm of light. It was so remarkable, so mind-warpingly awesome, that I felt like a deer in the cosmic headlights of the milky way galaxy.

Leaving port some strange man told me that the night is always darkest before the light. I don't know what he was trying to tell me but I knew now. I was sitting there, in the cockpit, 3 days from land in any direction, wondering what the hell I was doing in eternal darkness. Who the hell am I? I was a simple young man, floating on a man made creation, hundreds of miles from land! How could this be? WHAT WAS I DOING!?

And then, at the peak of my despair, at near breaking point, I spotted the morning star. Darkness faded, and the sun peaked its glorious face over the horizon. Daylight flooded the sky. It was a tremendous display of light prevailing over darkness, as it must to restore balance in the cosmos. I tied the wheel to keep our course, and I walked to the bow of the boat. I spun and looked in every direction, and rejoiced in the splendour of sunshine as far as the eye could see.

That's when they showed up. Seven or eight of them. Darting and soaring and shooting through the water like well designed torpedoes. And I stopped worrying about what I was doing in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. I stopped worrying about who I am. I just stopped worrying. My fears didn't leave, I just embraced them. All I needed to settle my mind was the dolphins' company. Surely they know what they're doing. That's good enough for me.