Corsica, an island from my early childhood connected to what I do not know. Napolean perhaps or maybe is was one of those fantastical places that my mother referenced on the list of places she had never been. Whatever the case, my preconceptions crashed upon entry into the prort of Bonafacio. As if diving into the photos from a book on geology too painful to read. The fractured cliffs made the island look as if it were sheared from the mainland in the the early years, geological years. We entered the port ahead of a mistral, another one of the named weather patterns than can be traced through Homer and Virgil.

The island would continue to unfold in unexpected ways. This was thrown into a remarkable pattern of uncertainty upon entry into the port of Ajaccio, birthplace of Napolean. It was after a couple of days sailing up the coast en-route to Calvi where we would rendezvous with guests inbound from California. As we turned into the deep harbor we were met by a chirp like that of a song bird celrating a spring day. To me, that innocent chirp was like a wave crashing into chalkboard nails gauging up memories of the day my mother died when we lost our first engine on the island of Makemo in the Tuamotus.

Words By: teamnogal

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