the one who got away

Years ago, I had this dream. The night was cool and silver, and I walked barefoot along tide pools carved into rocks rough with barnacles. The pools were a deep phthalo green, and nestled in each centre was a fiery red octopus. The dream haunted me for days, and every time it resurfaced in my thoughts, I could feel the sharp sensation of the barnacle shells on the soles of my feet. I tried to capture it all in a drawing, but was unsuccessful.

While walking along the beach in Parede, the dream bubbled up again as I photographed urchins in the tide pools. Secretly I hoped I would find an eight-legged friend in one, but judging by the number of octopus hunters wandering the rocks, I was doubtful— and yet, there's always the one who got away.

tide pools

good food, good friends

There isn't much better in life!

farewell, my atlantic

I've licked her salt from my lips in Rhode Island, and ran off with her enamel offerings in my pockets— and Ragan, remember that black night when we watched the horseshoe crabs? Their smooth armour, shining in the moonlight— we were witnessing the stuff of myths, our toes sinking in the sand.

The Atlantic is in my blood. My great-great-great grandad was a Danish sea captain, and named his daughters after the seven seas.



We walked along the barnacle-encrusted tide pools that December day— Pedro counting birds and I, spying on anemones and urchins, with one eye on the crashing green waves. I'll be leaving the Portugal posts behind for now, with this last collection of photographs from the edge of a continent.