La Mujer y el Pescador

The remote shores of the Costa Brava, the customary fishing practices, the sailors and their supple skin, rough creases and sparkling eyes, the nights gleaming with moonlight on the ocean, the ever-shifting waves, the scent of the sea, the initial chilly plunge into the water, the trek through the woods, the flora on the slope resilient against the northerly breezes, the pebbles wedged in the sand clinging to the flesh, the stubborn barnacles affixed steadfastly to the rocks, the wind fiercely caressing the sails of a vessel. the Costa Brava abounds in delightful stimuli for the senses. From my youth, I have whiled away hours on those shorelines, where I partook in some of my earliest encounters with gentlemen amid those exceptional locales.

I had often fantasized about a solitary fisherman coming to my inlet at dusk; on the cusp of departing as I finished the final pages of my book, he would extend a spontaneous invitation for me to linger longer.