Sunrise at Forio Porto. James watches the crew of the hydrofoil Aliantares prepare for the 0700 departure to Beverello in Naples.
Later at Spiaggia de Chiaia the Hamlet-Polonius sky is filled with a vast assortment of fanciful figures. A camel, yes. And a romping puppy with flapping ears. A giant’s raised fist. A sea horse. The sails of a Phonenician ship. Pegasus. A maiden’s hair flying in the wind.
James says to himself: Look at those morphing clouds. Those rolling green and white waves. Listen to that roaring, hear the shouts of the children splashing and prancing and dancing and digging holes to China. Watch that young woman affect nonchalance as she rises from her blanket bare breasted and walks toward the water with her cell phone pressed to the side of her tanned-dark face. Her black hair blows in the wind. Nearly naked she chats as the waves roar in and churn at her feet. Those breasts are young and ride high, and have not fallen. Yet.