In the evening a fair wind returned to bring us to the mysterious island of Los Aves. For many years, I have been sailing in the vast Caribbean Sea, and this light house, one hundred and twenty miles west of the Lesser Antilles, is something in the chart where you never go. Drifting there is usually not a good sign to me.

For the first time, on the way of the Dominican Republic, I voluntarily planned to discover the reality of it. Nothing glamorous except a desperate solitude. In the past, there would have been dozens of shipwrecks. Altitude three meters high. At the last minute, you can see crashing waves on sand and flat coral reef, decorated with patches of green plants. There is an anchorage and a jetty. Nowadays, you can observe a building on poles looking like an oil platform, holding a strong, white, bright night light. Surrounded by shallow waters of less than fifteen meters, we wonder what is left after a hurricane passes. Apparently, nothing remains, as in 1979 when everything was washed away.

The half-mile-long island is owned by Venezuelans. There are probably some abandoned souls living here, dropped by helicopter, hallucinating when a square-rigged ship passes by. We are imagining stories of how they feel and whether we would be able to shelter like a bird in the middle of the sea, or if that could be a place for a perfectly mad reality tv show.

We kept a safe wide berth in case of an unexpected obstruction or a confused army guy shouting and caught a fish, a Rainbow runner that I never seen before. It was a beautiful sixty-centimeter-long fish, with blue and gold lines. A marvelous lunch is being prepared. As usual, I ate the heart and kissed its head.
At the same time, the mate trims the ship and braces sharper to stay on a straight course. We have 360 miles to Boca Chica, no time to lose, as cargo and trainees are waiting. The breeze is perfect.

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