Tropical Impression

I thought: I’ll blog every day. But then we landed, left the sweetly palms-infused airport and drove straight to the ocean.

"Stop the car! We must swim" type of water.

“Stop the car! We must swim!” type of water.

I know as well as anyone how distracting ocean is—sunrises, sunsets, all the dancing, lightening blue in between those hours–and distraction was the norm on our island. I barely finished morning coffee before our feet were in glassy, snorkel-and-mask-navigable water. I rose in the middle of the night and sat on the balcony, staring at glowy incoming froth and surge, my heart synching with wave rhythm, sky the dark, sparkling gown of a Disney princess with an edge. We traveled with snorkeling gear and body boards in the trunk at all times, scouting out those beaches where we’d hold hands and glide through shallows, snorkel-gasping at the darting rainbows beneath us. Each dusk, after dinner, we were there again, knee deep in ripples, silhouetted by sky fire as sea turtles nibbled lagoon bits a couple of feet from our toes. Who can write when vacationing by/in such ocean?

Sunset swim.

Sunset swim.

Not I. Not me, either.

Any attempt at writing the first line of a poem or a holiday blog post turned me into a Merwin poser. Or possibly a Twain poser. Example of posing: Line above involving Disney princess gown. Example 2: The swaying-gold-and-green-pocket-watch that is an island slash master hypnotist.

IMG_7078

 

 

When what I felt the entire trip was so pleasantly, profoundly Muse-stirring.

Surge. The beyond-the-reef blues. Aquarium-shallows. No sharks.

This is not a boast: I’ve always considered myself to be very good at hind-sight. Time will tell.

And below is a monk seal, endangered, sleeping. Shh. He probably just ate. After monk seals eat, they must sleep before swimming again, or they’ll throw up and possibly die. Kind of like me (Bukowski? Ah, I wish). Good night, Merwin! RIP, Twain. Thank you for your deductions and truths pertaining to tropical islalnds. Sometimes, from that one Mulholland Drive “scenic” lookout, the distant hiss of the 101 Freeway is an ocean speaking. Though never paradise.

Digesting.

Digesting.

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About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, fortunate.
This entry was posted in Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, fish, middle grade, ocean related, Poetry, Writer's Angst, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Words do not escape you

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