Sculpture

Hey, Bob, Jenny's got to close tonight so she won't be at writer's and I've got an electrician coming at 6 so I'll be late, but I will be there.

Sitting in the kayak feeling the bump as waves pass under it on their way to batter themselves on the jagged black rocks, I realize I can't hear anyone's voice anymore. I look around and see I am much closer in than the rest; I wave, they wave, but we don't race to join up. The hot tropical sun beats on me making me glad I wore a wide-brimmed hat and long-sleeved shirt. The shallow perspective I have of the island gives a false impression of lush green. I know that what looks like soft green leaves from here are cactus and succulents that have armed themselves with nasty thorns trying to fend off creatures looking to dine. From my cozy bobbing seat I have an unimpeded view of the beach sculptures this island is famous for. For as long as I can remember, passers-by with artistic eyes gather up the driftwood and other jetsam like tangled nets and lines, broken oars, plastic bottles and boxes, even toilet seats and single sandals that wash ashore on this desolate stretch of jagged rocks and sand, and make sculpture. Never the same, never static, the faded whitish gray colors and severe angles make art out of litter.

See you tonight, eventually.
--Barbara