Your own special dreams bloom on the hillside.

By the time the plane reached St. Maarten ten minutes later, Saba was little more than a silhouette in the mist; a shadow of an illusion; there, across that short stretch of the Caribbean. My summer, however, is etched on my brain with a permanence and vividness few other experiences of my life can claim. I will synthesize my time there in the days and weeks and months ahead into something concrete and descriptive.

But right now my feelings about my two months can’t be conveyed in prose. What I need now is a tune, a wordless melody that climbs and soars as high as the highest peak on the island and which, like the elusive view at the summit of Mt. Scenery--at that highest point on Saba--simply… fades away.

[A note to readers: Rattling the Saba, as a title has indeed come to a close. But the actual URL is so delicious, so perfectly me that I see no reason to abandon it. The Canned Ham blog will resume as the journal of my ongoing project, but tomjudson.blogspot.com will remain and be transformed into something a little more general, if not actually esoteric. Stay tuned.]