One hour from the mainland across a rocky, black sea. Several bags of barf and a stomach full of gassy worms. On a rickety bicycle squeaking along the coastal road even as the winds threaten to blow me off my pedals.
Up and down the hills I climb, following taut electric cables that spill over majestic hills in view of seas foaming life onto the rocks.
Past a lighthouse where the sign says “No visitors allowed.” but its dressing – like a Grecian virgin – tempts us past the wooden gates. A rented scooter stands at its doors. Surely it must be receiving guests?
I spy a lonely life buoy hung on a stake. It faces a little islet that ebbs with the tide. It forms the theme for the rest of my ride – quietude and windy gusts with a smattering of age.
This deer will be chopped up, filleted, dried and eaten. Yum. After all, it has to uphold Green Island’s reputation for good deer meat.
A window in a concrete wall on a windswept plain of grass. Beware rattlesnakes and animal dung.
But it’s got nothing like this brave man and his fishing rod against the black sea. Only seen on Green Island.