The night I did not bring my camera with me when I went into the village of Cadaqués center for dinner, I took a side street on my way back to my hotel and found myself at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. I was here working on a story for The New York Times Travel about the painter Salvador Dali, who spend most of his life on this rock-crusted community and who depicted it in various works of art.
Dali had his paintbrush, his sculptor’s’ hands. And I have little doubt the magnificent scene before me would have inspired him to create something. Without my camera, I had only words with which to capture it.
I parked myself on a stone ledge and pulled out my notebook. How can I describe the black shapes on the water; the trapezoidal geometry of the fishing boats which are the only thing visible in the graphite grey of the bay? An enormous pearl of a moon shines brilliantly in the charcoal sky. It’s a monochromatic scene that enhances appreciation for contrast and texture.
The wind pushes ruffles of water that run in all directions causing ropes and clamps to clank on the masts of the sailboats. The air itself makes a muffled, constant sound. The couple on my left have their heads close together, murmuring in Spanish. They think I can hear them and so they are whispering. But their conversation is only undercurrent; one of many bombarding my ears. Their endearments are safe from my eavesdropping.
I am oblivious and alone with my thoughts which alternate from wild appreciation for what I am experiencing and mad frustration with my inability to preserve this paradise. I have no camera. Only my pen. Only these words. Only my memory.
I am a journalist, a published author, speaker and broadcaster specializing in aviation and travel.