Entry 46, April 22nd, 2011, 5:44am (ship time GMT -5)
There is no way to describe the blinding speed of a Caribbean sunrise.
On one side of the ship, the world is lined in silver, a mostly full moon spreading the shadows of the clouds across the water. Turn your head ninety degrees, though, and the sky is aflame from horizon to horizon, a perfect palette of the visible spectrum. The colors seep laterally first, spreading across the water like an ink blot across the page. Then the high cirrus wisps catch the flame, streaming red up and above you while the rest of the world remains doused in shades of indigo. A few heavy cumulus mountains sweep across the vista, trying to dampen the blaze, but even they begin to catch fire at the very tips of their towers. You can almost see them throwing their heads back, eyes closed in silent rhapsody, as the sun begins to warm their faces.
And the sun – oh, the sun! Mercury is its herald, a dazzling star that refuses to dim like the others, hovering just above the horizon where an orange glow is swelling to announce his master's presence. A yellow sheet of flame erupts from the center, a blast from the door of the furnace. Sparks of red and orange crackle outwards from the center along the horizon, weaving between the peaks of distant clouds. Only their tops can be seen, protruding from the mist like forgotten juggernauts. Finally it erupts from the flame like a rocket, tearing cloud and mist asunder as it claws for altitude, a searing white orb!
At this the stubborn cumulus lose all restraint and burst into flame with a fury that defies expectation. Caverns of molten gold tower above the ship, their flows pouring upwards towards the sky. A thousand beams of sparkling light pierce them through and they can only restrain the sun for so long before it bursts forth, this time unrestrained in its power. Glorious nuclear fusion!
Looking around, you realize that the entire sky has been turned on, as if by a light switch. Of all the stars, only the moon remains, dallying as it greets its old friend before shrinking away into the ocean.
The salt air – a back deck empty for a scant hour – the rippling, fibrous ocean – myself standing in a puddle of rainwater, bare toes sticking through the holes in my sneakers – the image of perfection.
And to think that this is the most boring of nature's occurrences, the most mundane, the everyday. The humdrum! The most basic of earthly functions that has happened a million times and will happen a million more. Oh what a fleeting blip of existence we each possess! To rise for the briefest instant from this churning universe of matter and energy and see that, yes, we live! and it is beautiful! before flickering out again! Can anyone be so blessed as we, the audience of creation?
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