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Thursday, May 8, 2014

#Memento 2. By John von Daler

                The little boat plugged its way through the emerald, azure water of the #Adriatic sea. The incoming waves slapped the sides of our little vessel with the menacing innocence of bullying boys snapping wet towels. We were chugging along the edge of the island, against the current, the tide, and the wind, to get a closer look at the sparkling grottoes that dotted the coast. Our skipper managed to steer against the waves, through the rocks, defying fate with one hand on the wheel and the other on his constantly refilled glass of #Ouzo.

                Well, it may be a beautiful #death, I thought, and concentrated on looking at the sparkling reflection from the sun on the speckled minerals in the rocks surrounding us. He has done this a thousand times. Trust him, I comforted myself, He knows what he is doing. I turned to watch how the blue colors from the water found the yellow from the sun on the rocks and painted their own green splotch across the canvas of the grotto wall. All the while the darkness of the hidden shadows folded and unfolded slyly across that emerald patch in response to the tossing of the boat.
                The five other tourists stood up cautiously in the bucking boat, taking picture after picture of the kaleidoscopic scene. I leaned back in my seat to study the ceiling of the cave. Our captain motioned to me to feel free to take my own pictures with the camera I had brought with me and I answered in sign language that I would make do with my eyes and my thoughts.
                What good would a photo do me when we both lay at the bottom of the sea? I wanted to remember the moment, even if it were to be my last. So I concentrated on noting the details of the scene. Of course, like any good captain, ours was aware of and responded to the feelings of his passengers. He did the only right thing: Turning to his bottle of ouzo in its metal ring and socket, he heaved another glass out of his steering console and with his free hand poured up a big portion and handed it to me.
                "Stin iyia mas," he said, as we raised our glasses toward the Greek gods of fate, he with one hand on the wheel, I with one on the railing.

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