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some nights

Yesterday the ocean was beautiful and clear — the waning sunlight a pathway of soft, moving ripples and folds. Clouds cloaked the sky, touching down somewhere off in the distance. Mist hugged the dips and curves of the deep green landscape, a fragment of rainbow peeking through.

Our boat sliced through the water, the surface knitting itself back together in our wake. We were among the first tour boats in the bay and were met right away by a manta doing somersaults at our bow.

Some were drunk before we arrived and had to be corralled like wild children, flailing limbs, laughing and shouting in protest through their snorkels. They balked when asked to stay with our group, swimming off on their own, straddling their pool noodles, one or two jumping off the side of the stairs.

Later that night the clouds dispersed and the sky erupted with stars. Our group was fed and returned alive. Our Captain sang animatedly to Janes Addiction, hat tipped to one side and we leaned back, smiling, considering the moment we were in.

Upon departure he held the skiff line in one hand, feet dangling over the side of the boat as he commanded us off. While the crew gathered their belongings he and I observed tiny green sparks by his feet, bio-luminescence, ocean fireflies jostled by something beneath, each glowing for a few seconds before fading away.


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