The water is as still as I’ve ever seen it on the point and everything is uncharacteristically quiet. The gulls and the mallards fly lazily about, and thirty minutes of intoxicating solitude passed before I saw the first ship heading for Bay waters, we nodded at each other in quiet recognition. The wheels scuttling the scoop to and fro, unloading raw sugar from the rusted, docked Hanjin Bombay is the only sound in this beautifully serene and quiet early morning. The smell of raw sugar reminds me of the pouch of tobacco my father was fond of when I was growing up. The mallards fly only inches above the surface before coming to a quiet rest, I feel again the wonder and mystery of mornings like this. The mornings of my youth that made me believe that all things good and pure would remain untouched by the ravages of humanity gone mad.
A camera would be a waste. I would never capture a scintilla of what I see, I would rather have the silent, mystical memory of it like every important morning in my life, as on the cliffs of Scotland at dawn, and my Arabian winter.
I marvel at this gift, and I miss you so. The Church bells ring in every direction for miles and miles and it echoes the words you said to me: We can live whatever life we choose.