As my blog’s title advertises, I aim to be an adventure author, a writer of my travels in every sense of the word. And for that, from time to time, I’ll include some of my more artistic pieces in my blog reel in order to incorporate the artistic side of me that’s so often inspired by the outdoors.
Does an island feel change?
There she stood as we crossed the Gulf,
our paddles like spears in our hands,
our lives’ possessions in our kayaks.
We were the Calusa Indians,
ancient travelers of the Everglades.
Cape Romano was ours to claim.
But she knew of many past visitors
who left footprints and beer cans
and towering white ruins.
Wooden poles rose sharply
from the blue-green water where birds
perched, guardians of a tiny lost city.
The ruins looked like an ancient Greek
creature, slipping from the edge
of the island into the sea. Its limbs,
missing or severed, barely supported
its white belly where shells and pebbles
lodged themselves with the wind.
We climbed the ruins, the rough shells
scraping our knees, and we sat,
watching the waves try and sweep us
away. I imagined the hurricane that took
the roof and the walls and the floors
and left only windows.
The air tasted like salt and rust
and sweat. The water washed away
drops of blood and flecks of dirt
on the bow of my green boat.
We took off our life jackets,
and waded into the water.
We pitched our tent and built a fire,
careful to bury the ash—piling
our cans and bottles in our boats.
And in the morning, naked with the sun,
we let the sea take us.
We left no trace.