Summer in the tropics

The rain has stopped, and the sun has transformed this little ocean corner into the kind of seascape that graces postcards and tourist brochures.

I continue to live on my little raft, in fact have pulled it out some distance from the islands around me to ensure that I am not mistaken for a native islander.

Not that this helps of course. Given that I work, in exchange for basic provisions, on one primary island it is no mystery that people consider me to be a resident there.

The people of that island have seen this I think, and have made an effort to assure me that my comings and goings are not monitored, and that taxes, papers, etc. are not required of me. Their effort is somewhat undermined by their habit of monitoring my comings and goings and asking for my papers.

Ah well. It is too nice, under the sky out here, to complain about that too much.

Raft update

I am beginning to find island hopping troublesome. People assume that I am resident on any island they see me on, and this shapes their responses to me. Harbour police expect me to have a passport from whatever island I have just left, and islands I am leaving expect me to return.

Also, I find that I am ignoring the basic laws of the islands I visit. I litter, I eat fruit from market stalls without paying for it... and it isn't until later, out on the sea where I think... what did I just do?

Raft and raft

Everything has been so stable of late. The stormy season is over, and it's possible to send days adrift in the open blue sea without danger.

I find my time is split three ways.

I spend a notable amount of time exploring, sweeping my way into hidden harbours or over unknown reefs to see what I can see.

I spend equal time tending to the Glade... making sure it's growing strong and healthy. And goodness me it seems so. The transplanting seems to have had no ill-effect on it...

I spend another third of my time exploring a new island. I intentionally keep my time there limited, as I'm still too cautious and care-free.

A wretch, and some news

Raft living was not my choice, but I have made as good a go of it as I can. My raft is clean, strongly built, and seaworthy. I am aware of, and take seriously, the warnings of harbour officials, my bodyguards and my doctors. As a result, I have endangered no one except occasionally myself.

Some out on the high seas are not so fortunate.

One wretch in particular I saw in the harbour of an island (of which I will tell more later). He had poled in a raft made of old peach crates, dilapidated and smelly. He proclaimed loudly that he was a refugee, fleeing persecution, and leapt ashore.

His beard was scraggly and his boots untied. He accosted a pilot enjoying a cigarette, badgering him to help him carry his cargo. The pilot gave him an odd look, spoke nothing and continued his cigarette.

Seeing a patch of free land, the wretch dropped his noisesome sacks and began to set up a tent. This action drew the attention of the harbour police, who with some shouting and waving of sticks, drove him back on to his raft, and pushed him back into the harbour.

He did not struggle... rather as they badgered him back onto his raft, he entreated other sailors to invite him to their islands to set up his tent. Last seen he was poling out into shipping lanes, loudly declaring his desperate state.

In fairness, I should point out that I viewed this, not as a raftsman, but as a labourer. I had taken up employment on the docks of this island unloading and loading boats. It's the same island I had snuck onto earlier, where I had napped, and had found myself, coincidentally I'm sure, near it again.

It is very disconerting to work on dry land again, to not experience the rocking of my raft under my feet. It is with relief then that I sleep on my raft, drifting among the islands and boats in the maritime darkness.

On the horizon

I'm writing this letter and sealing it in a bottle in case I'm lost at sea and never found, or marooned on some desert island.

There is a storm on the horizon, and it looks like one of those great big tropical roaring storms that threatens to swamp everything in its path. If my raft had any hatches, I would batten them downm, if I had any cargo... I'd secure it, but as I can't, I'm just watching it loom over me.

It's funny to think how it could have snuck up on me. I've been so worried about the raft, and the little apple crate where the Glade cutting is growing that I've completely missed the tell-tale drop in pressure and the cessation of the breeze.

I'm tempted to pull into a port somewhere, violate my quarantine and seek shelter, but that would not be wise... the quarantine remains in place, my earlier sneaking notwithstanding.

I'm tempted to put out a distress call to teh coast guard and be rescued... but I think I will face this one alone. It won't be the last storm I encounter out here, so it better be the first one I survive out here, and it would be nice if it were the last one that frightens me.