Leaving Tortola

A dull hum seeps from the belly of our sailboat. "The motor's on," my dad says with smiling eyes. You don't have to know my father to understand his love of sailing. You can see it in his eyes. They reflect wisdom, joy, and a passion as deep as the sea. His eyes are navy, like the ocean on a stormy morning. His eyes tell all. A few people gather around the dock to watch him attempt to steer out of the marina, silently judging him on his sailing abilities. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, the whipping wind and crashing waves, he manages to cleanly steer out of the marina. Above his head, the forest-green hills roll, like the waves. Around the broccoli trees, rest fiery red-orange blossoms, slow dancing in the treetops. The tips of the hills pierce the cloud blanket overhead. All morning long it had rained big, fat drops; now, the humidity was lifting, and the sky was no longer gray, but white. Individual clouds aren't visible. It's like an enormous ceramic bowl resting above the sea. I wish that the bowl would crack, to reveal golden rays of sunshine, oozing down like honey. The sails collect the wind, flicking our sailboat into the distance. I stare into the froth of the waves, lost in thought. I blink. Has it been an hour or merely a few minutes? I search into the distance for the triangle sails and needle-point masts in the marina. I strain to see the lovely crimson flowers. I look for the deep green forests. Nothing. Just a few crooked grey hills and millions of grey waves, curling and dipping, leaving trails of white bubbly froth to match the colorless, overcast sky.