Christopher
Columbus sailed saw it and proclaimed it “Porto Bello,” …beautiful bay.
And
it is.
Rain
forests tumble down a mountain into the calm Caribbean Sea. The town is
littered with three forts built by the Spanish to protect Central American
Silver shipping for Europe. Sir Francis Drake, the pirate, is buried in a lead
coffin in the waters. Sailboats from around the world are moored in the Bay
content to stay a while. Cantinas are more plentiful than churches.
Jimmy
Buffett is singing in my head.
There’s a cowboy
in the jungle and he looks so out of place
I
like Porto Bello and tell Sarah that I wouldn’t mind staying. Later I learn
that it rains eight months out of the year in Panama and the thought loses its
luster though the dream doesn’t. I’ve got an expatriate’s heart and the soul is
definitely Caribbean. At 56 I still dream of cashing it all in and finding that
one particular harbor.
Of
course, in my case though, the money ran out a long time ago.
And
I live on an island that most would die to call home.
I
am happy on Tybee Island with the smell of the marsh, choirs of mussels, egrets
and pods of Dolphins. The seafood on the island is better than any I’ve found
anywhere else in the world. Sunrises erupt from the sea and sunsets linger over
the marsh.
Still,
my wandering toes are always itching. I’ve made it to Central America twice now
in the past year and I can’t wait to come back. St. Martin is forever calling. The
little latitudes are the best ones.
Some
may say I look a gift horse in the mouth but I don’t.
I
have this incredible gift of life to make with what I will and I’m doing my
damn best to squeeze as many of the things I want in to it as possible before I
die. Besides, I’ve been criticized enough in life to not worry about it much
anymore.
Besides,
next week the Carnival of Friends are gathering in St. Augustine, another
Spanish town littered with a fort, to celebrate the birth of one of its own.
There’s just too much to do and so little time left.
I
may as well get busy!
