Are we Corny yet?

In anticipation of the gifts that are assuredly to come, the relaxation, the nervous system's polarization, the heart's emancipation, we, after a week in Nicanation, have finally arrived.  Letting go of time-framed reality that is our life in the You Ess off Aaaaa, we're settling into the Caribbean's Ocean song and rhythms of the heart's way.

 Our loves that we have not left behind but carry on our journey, we bid you well and send you deep, warm messages to add to the fires in your hearth, to add to the winter light, to suffuse your home with delight and pleasure in the moment's glory.  This warmth that we share with you would be nurtured even further by photos of the aquamarine wavetops backlit by sunrise on the Caribbean, but alas, we still haven't mastered the GoPro download process, so, technologically challenged, we proceed with courage and the written word sans image.

Here we are on Corn a week after the infamous sloshing, puking, 8 hour Capt. D adventure, and todo es tranquilo.  Even better.  Todo es perfectamente tranquilo porque estamos viviendo en la pura vida de una lugar bien confortable.  We now sit listening to the songs of the ocean:  the surf thunder, the wind shriek and whisper (variably, subjectively), the sun mutedly set before the luna nubilely rises and moans of her undying love for the stars.  Our bare feet fall and rise softly on coral crushed into the finest grains of sand by the inexorable surf.

Beisbol!  Batter up!  20 Cordobas for the blaring reggae beat, the beer, the empanadas, the full-voiced, Jamaican-sounding patois hurled at the umpire from the batter's mother at the top row of the stands.  Taxis using wolf-whistle horns to solicit 75 cent fares to anywhere on the island, this island
where lobster can be found at any little dive, hole-in-the-wall restaurante, but broccoli is unknown.  This island where five bucks will buy a meal that we couldn't finish, but not for lack of trying due to its deliciousness.

The rhythm here is unexpectedly Conway Twitty although the teenage girls are undistinguishable from the insouciant, you-don't-exist-to-me adolescents to be found anywhere else even though they were born here.  There is some sort of undecodable message passed along waves unknown and unavailable to adults that somehow made its way even to this tiny 3.8 square mile piece of volcanic rock topped by tropical plants before being uncovered by Conde Nast and Lonely Planet.

Watching the Ducks game here will require an act of God, a satellite dish, and a military escort, but we are off to do our best.  Go Ducks!  And avoid the jellyfish!