I imagine the feeling that swells in the heart of the traveler, mid-18th century, whose morning walk has taken him over the threshold of his cottage, past the weather-grayed wood of the gate, past the age-smeared walls of the neighboring houses, along down the cobbled road — hear the wooden heels’ hollow knocking along the paving-stones, something in the rhythm slightly quicker than usual, slightly more determined — over the bridge that is the heart of the town, then following the straightening line of the river toward the harbor. It is the dawn before the dawn, and each breath springs out like a hand of his spirit reaching out or offering, each small cloud emerges and slips off behind him, moves over his left shoulder as he turns his head to the ships at anchor; the clouds are touched with the slightest color.

As he nears the quay his step quickens, and he smiles and shakes his head in wonder at where his feet are leading him, he looks up at the sky which stretches forever west over the waves, until it meets the waves at some uncertain future… and the spark of that uncertain future flashes at the horizon like the sun, rises blazing in his face, blinds him with wonder, so that all he can do is close his eyes, shake his head, laugh, shake his head, laughing, and reopening his eyes step up onto the gang, away from the solid earth, into the waiting arms of the sailing ship, onto the broad chest of the sailing ship, which pauses only to let a passing breeze fill its sails.

Now, he hasn’t come aboard empty-handed: he stands at the rail with a small cloth-bound book, pages empty. So at each new landmass, and with each new color or scent of flower — every caress not to be forgotten, danger borne to be feared, escape or victory to be celebrated, his hand will make its mark. The leaves of the book will stain and darken, until they are the color of smoke. The lines he has painstakingly traced while the ship bucks and rolls will fade, so his words and the medium on which they are printed will approach one another, as though with age his voice becomes a whisper.

Then finally, during the nightmare passage around Cape Horn, a wave jumps as in surprise over the starboard gunwale, in a single gesture making his whole being iced and wetted to the marrow, makes a dash at his hand, and sweeps the entire body of his recollection over the side, into the waves which close like a lead envelope, ripping out pages as if in a lover’s fury, and dissipating those unspoken sounds like mist from his morning breath…

So. That rather dramatic cautionary tale plays out differently some hundreds of years later. Partner Manny had the poise and insight to propose a blog of our trip. (A blog ye say, lad?? Is’t a fish? Or some creature of the night?) I have nowhere near the same level of poise. I am leaning forward at a run, headlong into a wind, to resolve some countless number of projects before we leave. Time is moving as time has always moved — but these little activities I have decided to hold dear are in danger of… gasp… not turning out as planned!

No matter. To make this all interesting, we will add a Blog Project on top of everything else, a form of icing on a cake that hasn’t yet been baked… and here it is, half-baked! A diary that only exists in a hidden and mysterious realm, can only be called out by technical magic our mariner friend would have been shocked and amazed to see, but — and this is the wonder of the modern world — it can be called out by anyone from Byfield to the Bermuda Triangle to Belize to Bangkok to Beijing to Berlin, so long as they possess a bit of this high-end magic themselves. My friend the mariner left footprints on the shore, quickly to be washed away by the incoming tide; but Manny and I will be leaving footprints on the sky.

Look up!

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