Write on, brother

Looking out, I can see the dark water, watching it glide slowly by. I can just make out the land mass in the distance, dotted by dim lights. As the ship approaches the tiny, quaint harbor the dawn begins to break, sun coming up over my shoulder and the dim lights of shore disappear in the brightening sky and the world starts to come alive for another day. All too quickly to really enjoy the surreal awakening of the hillside, which, in the increasing daylight, becomes almost entirely white. I wanted to pay more attention to all the shades in between the dark and the light, but became overwhelmed by the assault on my senses that came with a first look at a new place. Do I smell fish, or just have such a strong idea of what I will find here that I imagine I’m smelling fish? Even as I finish the thought, I realize I am smelling fish. Maybe not all so fresh. Oh well, what do I expect in a fishing port?

Ever since one of the guys in my men’s group came back from Greece and gifted us all with ceramic refrigerator magnets, I’ve been imagining the isle of Santorini. It is much as I imagined from the magnet. What an amazing hillside of whitewashed structures. Surely all other colors must be banned by law, though later I discovered the brightly colored doors that must be exempt. The smiling, mustachioed port crew expertly guides our small, inter island ferry into place. One of so many vessels in the harbor, moored, but still bobbing in the chill morning air. There was clearly no law against the color boats could be painted. And I haven’t seen so many pea coats since the 60s. With matching seamen’s caps, they look just like a snapshot you’ve seen in a travel magazine of a Greek fishing village. As the passenger’s disembarked, all carrying their own belongings, I was still standing at the rail taking it all in.