peterography

The weather was beautiful as we left Bermuda. We had to spend a long time at the airport because the shuttle schedule from our resort was inflexible, so we sat in the airport lounge picking at an overpriced lunch and gazing sadly at the turquoise water and the sparking shoreline that we were abandoning.

US Customs has set up shop in Bermuda so travelers can be processed on their way out instead of on reentry to the US. I had tried to strike up a conversation with Customs Agent Dougherty because he looked sad. I complimented him on his luck at being assigned to such a pleasant duty station. He replied by asking me if I had seen the news about the recent murder on the island. “They told me this was a safe place with no crime” he added bitterly. I suggested he count his blessings - he could have been assigned to our destination, Boston, which lacks Bermuda’s climate but has many times its murder rate.

My biggest regret was that we weren’t on Bermuda for the fireworm mating. 55 minutes after sunset on the third night after the full moon in the summer, the females of the species Odontosyllis enopla rise to the ocean’s surface in the shallow waters of the reefs that fringe the island.   They swim in slow, sensual circles, glowing phosphorescently.  When the males see them they shoot like flaming rockets out of their burrows in the ocean floor and join the females in a passionate frenzy of flashing green sex.

Maybe next year. When I arrived home I found my poor garden dessicated; the squash leaves hung folded and limp; the tomatoes were wilted, but nonetheless held lots of bright plump red fruit. I gave everybody a big drink of hose water and a few hours later my garden had perked back up.