Sunrise over a yacht in a tiny cove. Francis’ paintings brought to life. Whiff of goats over a cup of tea, as they clamber the rocky slopes and pebble-beach shore. An easy departure. A creased, folded, and eventually stuck mainsail. Anchoring off Poros beach. It’s swell. There is swell. Rocking. Rolling. Heat. Sleep. Coca Cola. Bare-breasted swimming to cool down. Hell, bare everything: no one here but us fish. Swell dies down to gentle swaying. Sun withdraws. Cool. Peaceful. Voices echo from the shore. Looking out into the Mediterranean, no horizon to be seen. Still. A flying fish breaks the surface briefly, skimming the surface of the sea. Skip, skip, skip. Now the surface is unbroken.
