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↑ Vantage pt for Jay Levine at tippity top of crow's nest before he jumped.

Das Boot: the first and perhaps most profound of the Dreamscape categories in that it describes not only the day-to-day adventures of a Caribbean escape, but also a moment that was much of a fulcrum or a rubicon for everyone involved, both a gathering and a dispersal. They were all twenty-four or twenty-five years old, an age where everything in the past seems like prologue and the next turned page is where the story really begins. There was a lot of debate about what comes next: plans hatched, destinies reconsidered. And soon after: Sebastian heading for Brazil, Christoph to Argentina, Helene to New Zealand, our pal Jayson and Natalie both to New York City. And the more we studied these pages, the stronger the urge became to apply allegory and deeper significance to everything that was written. And although 'reality' strongly resists such neat and tidy structuring, nonetheless here it is.

-- Eds

Das Boot i (15/33)

December 15, 1990

Choose a different dreamscape

Busy busy busy busy…

Made a call through clinking cantankerous relays and dragging, obnoxious delay to my lovely, lonely homeland and my lovely far-away mama who, it appears, will be a full 50 years old (that’s, like, ½ century) come Monday. Found her and dad in good spirits and recovering from post-european etc. etc. God!  A profound exhaustion pervades. Tiredszzzzz… 

Began a letter to S which I shall pursue to complete tomorrow or whenever because we continue south from Bequia toward Tobago Cays where the water is transparent and the white sand reflects the light as turquoise + starlight + saffron. 

I write, once again, in a wavering glow. All others drifting toward slumberland. I, alone, awake + scribbling. The noises: whapping, creaking, flapping, squeaking, sloshing, rustling, of a boat moored in a bay at night. I wonder how obtrusive the lamp is to my fellow snoozers. Also reggae music drifts distantly through the open hatches from shore(?) Other boats(?) We are anchored in tourist heaven. Boats cluster and clutter the bay. Earlier we sipped Mt. Gay + Coke in a ritzy sort of touristy, waterside bar where all the elements of a sea-life come out to play: from long-haired playboys to bald + beaten fishermen. Polo shirts, collars propped to the sky. Boat shoes, white socks, no socks, money, $$

We rose early and departed Troumaka Bay (St. Vincent) and set out for Kingstown where the hustle and bustle of a comparative metropolis surrounded us for 40 minutes of intense shopping in an American-style supermarket. Even with an 8-item-or-less rapid-checkout lane. Gaah. Commercialism, Capitalism, Consumption.  Back to the boat. 2 hour perfect sail to Bequia where we now rock + drift gently at our mooring.

And Dexter, fate determined, is still amongst us. Yes, he simply never left, choosing, I believe, to cling to any vague hope of inclusion rather than remove his belongings from his locker. And it worked! When we set off, he was there, folding anchor chain and giggling nervously, no doubt, into his palm.

Wapping. Rustling. Howling. Popping. Clanging. Scraping. Sloshing. Gurgling. Humming. Flapping. The kerosine wavers. G’night.

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