Mary Winston Nicklin

Night fell quickly, as it does in the tropics. The only sound was the splashing of waves against the Zenith’s hull and the halyards making music against the mast in the breeze. The shadows of manta rays glided beneath the catamaran, flapping their wings in the Caribbean currents. Within a coconut’s throw of the boat, a palm-fringed island was perfectly silhouetted on the horizon. We made our way to the bow, where we flung ourselves onto the deck and looked up. The sky wasn’t just streaked with stars; it was so luminous, it looked opaque, the constellations clearly etched in glowing pearls of light.

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