Brava was the smallest of the Cape Verde Islands, and also our last stop before crossing the Atlantic. The top of the island had windswept trees and clusters of colonial brick houses in fog and decay.
Bastard dogs were lurking around freely. They all seemed to be the colour of sand or rock, moving in groups.
We met a 76 year old sailor who had retired from Norwegian shipping. He drank most of the time and dragged us along on several boozing sessions. There were always some drinking going on in bars and in the back rooms of shops. We drank home brewed rum and went out in the fog.
Bika needed a clean bottom, but the water was surprisingly cold. We were introduced to a young man who was willing to go through the pain for money. He came up every fifteen minutes for a shot of rum and dove down under again. Later he sat in our cockpit with chattering teeth. He told us he could see the image of himself, projected down below, from somewhere.
