By the time we dropped with the sun down from the drama of the mountains and to dusky shoreline, we were aching and exhausted. And it was the most perfect day.
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By the time we dropped with the sun down from the drama of the mountains and to dusky shoreline, we were aching and exhausted. And it was the most perfect day.
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The ship that we share is a beauty, with its forest green sails and polished wooden hull, and the blue glass eye hanging from the gleaming chrome rails of the prow. A beauty indeed, yet she pales in comparison to the wilderness she sails through.
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Biblical, the little boat slips between tall rushes, kingfishers darting from clump to clump of parched and yellowed reeds. I half expect to find Moses drifting on the gentle estuary tide.
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The island is a place of legend. It must have a name, but nobody uses it. It is just the island.
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After the drama of days before, we feared that the sea was beyond our reach.
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It all started, of course, with Turkish Delight. A single powdered square before take-off, and a glass of opalescent raki. Two hours and a heart-stopping lurch later, and the rest of my senses caught up.
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