Not a fun place to attempt to park this huge van… Drive around, drive around, drive around, repeat for an absurdly long duration, ok, finally, park! Then get out and walk around looking for one spot to paint, knowing the time is short and I’ll be long gone by dark, my one chance to paint this crescent of sand on this trip.
As I walk, I listen. Every language on earth spoken here. A true magnet for the world. It’s nice to hear. I’m not sure why some places draw the world’s travelers and others just up the road draw none. But that’s fine with me. The tongues of men can’t be spoken everywhere. We’ll leave that task to the tongues of angels.
The angels often speak more clearly, even amongst a sea of human voices. Today, the angelic choir is dressed in white. Beneath the arc of the cypress, the glare of white sky on white sand, the pounding of the ocean’s heartbeat up and down the beach. These voices need no translation.
Painting is just another way to sing along. Sometimes I can be a little tone deaf, but still I try. Bear with me.