West End, Tortola
First thing in the morning, I push the button to raise the white hurricane shutter facing east. There is no screen there because the strong, constant easterly winds here are sometimes powerful enough to overturn or break things in the villa. But in the morning, when the air is still, the view of the sun easing over the soft hills leaves me breathless.
This morning, the Caribbean hummingbird, its slender, long, curved bill nosed in to reach the nectar of the stand of aloe. The bird is dark, an irridescent purple and catches the sun on its wing as it flits from flower to flower.
I can see the first ferry trudging through the channel, its diesel engine echoing against the hills of Tortola as it passes, heading for St. Thomas. The roosters have been crowing since dawn; seems like one's crowing in every direction above and below me. But there are no sounds of planes, cars. Not even people.
Last night, I went to dinner with some friends in Cane Garden Bay--considered one of the most beautiful bays in the world. There was a band, four rag-tag Americans with fender guitars, Gibsons, even an acoustic ukelele. They played lots of 60s stuff--Stones, Buffet, Marley, and an occasional Charlie Parker bluesy thing. They knew their demo, though. The crowd was baby boomers and wanna be boomers with a sprinkling of 30somethings and babies, probably visiting their parents. Cane Garden is a popular sailing anchorage, so there were alot of sailors there, too. I guess I've been here awhile, because I ran into someone I knew. Possible on an island of 10,000.
But as much as I like music, I prefer the mornings when the angle of light makes shadows disappear. And the day begins.
M.C.
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