English Harbour, Desolate and Alone

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Woe is me, I feel as though some part of me has been torn out. I did not suspect I would feel this way until this morning, as A. and I began preparing for her departure at noon. We went in to the immigration people to have her formally removed from Django's crew list, then to the dump to cast off the things she could not carry home and would not remain on Django, then to the cafe to find a caretaker for the young avocado tree and the christophine vine she has been tending.

Living at such close quarters for almost three months brings a melding of lives, and when this closeness ends, there is pain. The Artist and Designer take up a good deal of space, with her sketch books, pencils and pens, tape measures and fabrics strewn around Django. She is also consumes a lot of emotional space, self involved, particularly lately with the problems with Ben. Yet she spreads a sense of fun and interest and youth which I love. It can be annoying as times, but once removed, the absence is acute.

After leaving her in the taxi, I went in to find Terry at the restobar by the dock, where he spends every noon time, to talk about bringing Django into the weeds on Saturday, to get to know him a bit better, since he will be Django's master for the foreseeable future. He spoke of Antigua Sail Week, the troubles looming for Antigua after April, when hotel occupancy is projected at 15%; of the burial at sea he is organising on Saturday morning for the son of a friend who drowned in the Virgin Islands while cleaning the bottom of a boat; of a friend our age, single handed sailor, who has sent out a distress call off Martinique, probably disabled or ill, and has not been found yet; of the Australian charter skipper who was shot dead with his wife and child looking on, whose memorial on the side of the road A. and I passed yesterday. We had a couple of beers and agreed to meet at 1:00 pm on Saturday.

I could not face lunch alone aboard Django and went to Arnold's for a sandwich, then walked up on the ridges overlooking the harbour for most of the afternoon.

Back aboard Django, I am becoming used to being alone again. I have found the BBC World station on the radio and had its company over a tasty pasta dinner. There is a lot to do to get ready to leave on Monday, and I have my work on music and writing to fill the void, but it is a bit painful nonetheless.

As I counselled Alicia, time, the great healer, will take care of it all.