Surfboards in Mompiche, hand-made by our host, Figu.

Sea water and salty tan skin.

One of the dozens of comedors along the beach in Canoa.

Thursday Feb 10, eating breakfast at the Coco Loco Hostal in Canoa.

Yesterday I went out to swim at sunset and fell into such a pleasant, blissful state of play and being: the waves came consistently, foaming and frothing, eating their way toward me until– the glassy water around me was gobbled up by whitewash.  Quick inhale, pull my head under the swell and feel my long hair rip and curl in the storm above.  Sometimes my ears would whirr and click as the pressure instantly shifted around my neck, so delicate for an ocean.  So delicate.  Pop back to the air, where the world had become a cacophony of crackles and fizz, patches of lacy white foam dancing between my arms, dissipating into the darkening waters.  Look west: golden wisps fading into a deep, dull red just atop the horizon, blanketed in billows and bubbles.  A wave approaches, bigger than the last, as the undercurrent rips my toes from the steady sandbank below; the sun disappears behind its crest, bouncing and flying over my head, horribly powerful yet transitory.  A quick shadow from a frigate bird shoots overhead, the moon hangs waxing crescent, and I notice that my skin looks darker, almost brown, skimming the sherbet foam.  Darkness is falling, cliffs fading to café.  I fall back, paddle widely between the crashes, over and over and over I will never leave.