The toes of change

Im painting my toes . Red of course. The toenails look like berries.

In fact this whole introduction could go that familiar way of many a summer photograph, of girl shoting the photo of her own feet fronting a beach sceene.

The problem with my very red toes is that one rather sticks out. The nail being a color more blackberry. And though I have layered the varnish generousley reaching the danger of it never drying and sticking to the stocking in a while, the dark shade portrudes.





We had awoken after the most tempestuous storm ever spent in a boat. Cowering fetus-shape in the cockpit beneath the most servile of masts offering its 30 meters above the water as a magnet to the vicious bolts of lightning aimed at us by Neptune all night. M smoked staring out at flash lit black horizon. I had resigned to die or become a shaman in the Peruvian tradition which befalls survivers of lighting, and fell asleep to the rock and roll of the sea. It felt like the end, The End.

However the sun rose out of its purple mountains in the east melting the clouds, and awoke us at dawn quite surprisingly whole, and hyperactive with life. I pinged on the elastic bikini straps and dove into the deep green waters and milliards of boubles .

With this new god given life we took the dinghy to Bol beach to celebrate with the various beach creatures who had started to crawl out of steaming straw huts, divers, surfers, with whom we had coffees, compared experiences,and than put on suits and air tanks to dive awhile in the magnificent 3d nemo land.

Having survived what seemed a something very extraordinary I had to get back to very ordinary and anti climatic routine of work on the island Hvar. M started the boat south and plinged off my bikini. Last bit of freedom between the contents. The boat was put on auto pilot. Luxurious sun and wind in the hair.

As we neared the little islands infornt of Jelsa I sat at the kern and dragged the feet in the sea. The surface was slippy and the foot slid into a square of metal above the propeller. The pain felt in the little toe was so intense I cried. Months later the toenail is still bruised like a blackberry. Its snowing outside. The roofs are covered with thick creamy white. I have a round belly and two hearts beating inside.

Quite a different stage setting. I suppose the black toe and the night of the storm mark es the begging of the ultimate change. Well the nine months of gradual change. Of home, of interests, of name too. And by the time, the postmodern wedding is over and baby is in the air, the toe nail would have gown out. They will be all red again.