Along a dozen yards, as wide as deep. Santinho cares, preparing the metal to fish passage. And before the tide gets up, he cleans the bottom. 
I only see two black hands and a bucket, a rate that disappear and reappear.
disappear. reappear. I only see two black hands and a bucket, a rate that disappear and reappear. 
Water. disappear. Then comes the time to thoroughly clean the post of captain.
League kite as a wind vane. The untie. The league again, higher. Detangles. The comb carefully, as a mother's hair daughter. Red, yellow and blue, the colors of pure Sibiton. engine trouble, but did not give up, the waves crashing metal.
Sand Joao Vierira.
Two hours of calm seas, clear and soft. Swing swing swing.
All accompanied by some cookies. Along the island's Canhabaque, still a big mystery to me. It seems that here we do the ceremonies that last eight years. During all this time, the boys live in the forest, feeding on her, covering her.
do not have any kind of relationship with all that is woman. If they had a family, should be forgotten.
is not difficult to understand why now many young people do not want undergo this ceremony (
Fanad
)! It is a great sacrifice.
So we slip and we leave this piece of land from the red cliffs behind her mistress of all the islands we will encounter on our way.
finally resting your feet on the wet ground of Joao Vieira. Its sand is white, thin, and under our feet is the same sound of fresh snow. More than just
white palm trees, parrots.
Many sounds that merge into each other. But if you lie on the sand, and close your eyes, hear only the wind through the leaves of coconut ... seem to hear a rain. A waterfall. The night light this land, making it shine, while the water will come down slowly.
Turtles of sand.
We made a sand castle, a village of sand. Li destroyed, trampled upon.
Sara made a sand turtle.
He smiled, he kissed, he kept. He
recognized.
The sacred island.
Imagine that the regulations Canhabaque cross that stretch of Atlantic Ocean (it is very simplistic to speak of the sea) with a canoe hollowed out of a trunk poilon, gives an idea of \u200b\u200bwhat the island of Poilon should be sacred. The sibiton seems far away, in the morning when we try to achieve it. The low tide is at its moment of Max, his feet sinking in a slightly silty sand. You have to walk barefoot, the shoes would otherwise remain attached to the bottom, become "
windy."
Until Joao Vieira will not become a subtle stripe, the water will be "average" move. Then the ocean began to talk about, the waves breaking on the rocks in shallow waters. The sibiton, with all its metal, the fight against the tide, against the wind. Today it seems so light, so helpless.
Then it appears, little by little, finally a strip, which becomes the ground, which becomes rocks, sand gold, savannah. The dock will be even more difficult than the journey. The anchors do not want any more, the boat circling in on itself, the waves carry her everywhere.
Everything here seems to remind us miserable sinners that they set foot, she's the Sagrada Island, and that if you received the grace to be able to set foot just because you wanted it, you gave it to you. In all modes will not be easy to stay there.
A small space in which to plant our tents. The rest of the island for us remains inviolable.
eggs hatched and dried turtle emerge from the sand along with the white shells, wonderful. I pick up and walk, walk and gather.
Traces of green turtles and huge everywhere. little corners of fresh crystal clear water and quiet, hidden among the rocks, copper, green, purple, violet. I let myself go, let it sink into my skin a sacredness that finally belongs to me, feel me.
not take a picture, I'll bring home a single grain of this land. You must stay here, secret, sagrada, granted only to the few who really want to get us here.
My turtle.
I do not deny my strong suggestibility. But I think a small grain of truth is always there.
brief anecdote. It is still turtle season, the first is coming now (in May), the other will come when the rains are more abundant and decided to lay thousands of eggs, a little bogged down in the sand Poilon.
Our hope, of see one, it's very vain.
are squatting in a Conchetta the mangroves, trying to fulfill my "needs." And when, respectfully, cover them, raised his head, and before me, a few meters in shallow water, her.
My turtle, huge, who throws his head out, blow out water from large nostrils, and back down again. The
find out more, a little 'more off.
moon damp.
go to sleep around midnight, exhausted, but still with that little bit of adrenaline in the body, which will allow us to wake up two hours later. Preto (which means black in Italian), the great general of the turtles, awakens us to the two in the morning.
The moon is high, so powerful that hide the stars, as if it would be our only guide.
We venture along the beach, walking slowly but steadily. The sand is cold, wet, heavy.
In six, one behind the other, we walk in silence, only the words needed.
The hope is to surprise a tortoise during spawning.
The island is not large, is covered in just over an hour.
The cold, wet, wind of the ocean are beginning to enter the bone, the fatigue to take over, hoping to spy a unique event diminishes.
So, little by little tired, we go back in the tent.
smile anyway the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving breathed air at night, a slightly bitter and pungent aroma, tinged with the aroma of cabaceira.
The text and images in this post are property of Isabel Espinosa Press and published by courtesy of the author. The total or partial reproduction of these contents is not allowed.
(C)
Sand Joao Vierira.
Two hours of calm seas, clear and soft. Swing swing swing.
All accompanied by some cookies. Along the island's Canhabaque, still a big mystery to me. It seems that here we do the ceremonies that last eight years. During all this time, the boys live in the forest, feeding on her, covering her.
do not have any kind of relationship with all that is woman. If they had a family, should be forgotten.
is not difficult to understand why now many young people do not want undergo this ceremony (
Fanad
)! It is a great sacrifice.
So we slip and we leave this piece of land from the red cliffs behind her mistress of all the islands we will encounter on our way.
finally resting your feet on the wet ground of Joao Vieira. Its sand is white, thin, and under our feet is the same sound of fresh snow. More than just
white palm trees, parrots.
Many sounds that merge into each other. But if you lie on the sand, and close your eyes, hear only the wind through the leaves of coconut ... seem to hear a rain. A waterfall. The night light this land, making it shine, while the water will come down slowly.
Turtles of sand.
We made a sand castle, a village of sand. Li destroyed, trampled upon.
Sara made a sand turtle.
He smiled, he kissed, he kept. He
recognized.
The sacred island.
Imagine that the regulations Canhabaque cross that stretch of Atlantic Ocean (it is very simplistic to speak of the sea) with a canoe hollowed out of a trunk poilon, gives an idea of \u200b\u200bwhat the island of Poilon should be sacred. The sibiton seems far away, in the morning when we try to achieve it. The low tide is at its moment of Max, his feet sinking in a slightly silty sand. You have to walk barefoot, the shoes would otherwise remain attached to the bottom, become "
windy."
Until Joao Vieira will not become a subtle stripe, the water will be "average" move. Then the ocean began to talk about, the waves breaking on the rocks in shallow waters. The sibiton, with all its metal, the fight against the tide, against the wind. Today it seems so light, so helpless.
Then it appears, little by little, finally a strip, which becomes the ground, which becomes rocks, sand gold, savannah. The dock will be even more difficult than the journey. The anchors do not want any more, the boat circling in on itself, the waves carry her everywhere.
Everything here seems to remind us miserable sinners that they set foot, she's the Sagrada Island, and that if you received the grace to be able to set foot just because you wanted it, you gave it to you. In all modes will not be easy to stay there.
A small space in which to plant our tents. The rest of the island for us remains inviolable.
eggs hatched and dried turtle emerge from the sand along with the white shells, wonderful. I pick up and walk, walk and gather.
Traces of green turtles and huge everywhere. little corners of fresh crystal clear water and quiet, hidden among the rocks, copper, green, purple, violet. I let myself go, let it sink into my skin a sacredness that finally belongs to me, feel me.
not take a picture, I'll bring home a single grain of this land. You must stay here, secret, sagrada, granted only to the few who really want to get us here.
My turtle.
I do not deny my strong suggestibility. But I think a small grain of truth is always there.
brief anecdote. It is still turtle season, the first is coming now (in May), the other will come when the rains are more abundant and decided to lay thousands of eggs, a little bogged down in the sand Poilon.
Our hope, of see one, it's very vain.
are squatting in a Conchetta the mangroves, trying to fulfill my "needs." And when, respectfully, cover them, raised his head, and before me, a few meters in shallow water, her.
My turtle, huge, who throws his head out, blow out water from large nostrils, and back down again. The
find out more, a little 'more off.
moon damp.
go to sleep around midnight, exhausted, but still with that little bit of adrenaline in the body, which will allow us to wake up two hours later. Preto (which means black in Italian), the great general of the turtles, awakens us to the two in the morning.
The moon is high, so powerful that hide the stars, as if it would be our only guide.
We venture along the beach, walking slowly but steadily. The sand is cold, wet, heavy.
In six, one behind the other, we walk in silence, only the words needed.
The hope is to surprise a tortoise during spawning.
The island is not large, is covered in just over an hour.
The cold, wet, wind of the ocean are beginning to enter the bone, the fatigue to take over, hoping to spy a unique event diminishes.
So, little by little tired, we go back in the tent.
smile anyway the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving breathed air at night, a slightly bitter and pungent aroma, tinged with the aroma of cabaceira.
The text and images in this post are property of Isabel Espinosa Press and published by courtesy of the author. The total or partial reproduction of these contents is not allowed.
(C)
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