They say every book has a tale. If you were to crack open my aunt's logbook, you'd certainly get one.
She was a sailor. One of the first. A pioneer, you could say: she took the open sea for a dance when it extended palm of wet rope.
Her best friend travelled with too, would you know. How he wrote, I don’t know, with an inkwell toppling all over the place. Yet, his prose had that peculiar tripping taste.
My aunt never became the typical travel-writer she had planned for herself. I guess that deliverance came to me.