So I recently shot this not-so-artistic photo while cruising in the British Virgin Islands for a story for PMY's December issue. And while some of the events of the trip went well beyond (and were perhaps even darker than) mere cruising, the sun and the palm trees shown here nevertheless declaim a certain steadfast joy.

My wife BJ and I connected with the trees while entering Cane Garden Bay (on the north coast of Tortola) onboard a 47-foot Moorings power cat.  Even as I sighted my way through the reef, the ground swell (originating Lord knows how many thousands of miles to the north) seemed just a little too hefty for comfort but I kept on easing slowly ahead, mostly because some friends of ours had told us once that we simply had to see the place, no matter what. The swell stayed hefty all night unfortunately, but there was a plus side to the constant skewering and heaving.

It's called beauty, I'd guess...or maybe poetry. See, Cane Garden Bay in September is virtually deserted due to the threat of hurricanes. But on Sunday evenings sometimes, if there are no hurricanes or threats of hurricanes, after all the little kids and families have left the beach, a couple of restaurants may stay open under the tall wavy trees.  And they often offer excellent reggae bands. And the bands play good, solid, home-made reggae music.

And it drifted out to us that night from one of those restaurants on a wood-smoke-flavored breeze. Along with the laughter of a few inspired customers who continued to sit around listening, chary of going home even though it was late. And over our heads there were stars, billions of stars, all visibile thanks to the welcome absence of civilized light. And there was the Milky Way as well, arching across the unfathomable dome of the sky.

The softness and philosophical quietude of it all was reassuring, I suppose, given the near-infinite sadness we'd bumped strangely into the day before.