The Race Marshal buys a beautiful boat and I am informed of challenges to come.
I make marrons glaces and am burnt by hot syrup. Barking dogs on the shore lead to a conversation about dog wool.
A truffled breakfast and a discussion of ocean currents and the spread of mushrooms. I mistake the Native American Flute for a shakuhachi.
Looking back to a fragmented North America and the catastrophe that might have befallen the Heraclitus many millions of years ago. We lunch on aglio e olio.
In Seattle, sitting out the terrible forest fires; thinking about truffles, quinces and marrons glaces.
We sail past Annie Proulx’s house and mull over Seattle’s literary fame – more bookstores per capita than anywhere else in the USA and possibly more wonderful authors.
At ease on Heraclitus reflecting on coyotes, Boeing and injera and wat. We sail with the rising tide.