It's not the destination.

Stars pierced their way through a yielding sunset as our captain directed the prow towards the open ocean. I say captain, but in truth a young boy at the rudder of a 40 ft wooden pirogue instills less confidence than I would have liked. Somewhere a few hours off the coast was an island with streets paved in sand and seashells, promising a riotous New Years celebration, though we still couldn’t see it when darkness enveloped our craft, water lapping only inches from the gunnel. We’d meant to take the ferry, but bribing border guards had taken longer than foreseen, so negotiating with a fishing boat already overloaded with a week’s worth of goods, sticky and pungent from the last catch, was our only option. The wonderful thing about travel in Africa is that planning is irrelevant- only when you release yourself to uncertainty will you reap its rewards.

On leaving the harbor, strewn with half-sunken ships evidence of a recent civil war, the realization that this might be the last boat ride we’d ever enjoy overcame us. Out came bottles of a local concoction of sugar cane rum and milky vanilla, hitting far above its weight class. The vendor at the market had wrinkled his brow and shaken his head in mild concern as we cleared his cart, yet obliged. Sitting at the front of the boat with the whistling wind filling my head, I took in the moment. Opportunistic gulls swooping in effortless rhythm overhead as the fisherman prepared the bait. His wife singing softly to herself as she prepared a meal to the sway of the boat. Their sons bailing with a plastic jug as water worked its way methodically through cracks in the hull. A fellow passenger relieving himself off the back of the boat, nearly losing his footing in the effort. Laughter splitting the air as a punchline took effect. Content that we were still afloat, I flipped my feet over the prow to feel the warm sea swimming by as we plied our way into a growing darkness and the destination suddenly became irrelevant.