Sailor 1

It’s been one year, six months, three days, and 16 hours since my feet felt the soft sand crystals between my toes. A hot cappuccino with frothy foam tickles my upper lip like ‘what’s her name?’ in the dark port back at whatchamacallit. Anyway, that’s behind me now, and so are the cramped confines that have my spine curving like a wire hanger over this plate of garlicky noodles and red sauce. Victory! Already half gone and not a single drop on my crisp whites. Well, what to do these next five days? Motoring along the winding cliff side may be a good start.