The trailing cyclone winds made paddle boarding dangerous.  The equatorial heat and humidity couple into clouds.  A thunderclap and the warm mist curls every hair and condensates on the skin extracting heat.  The salty crystals bespeckle spectacles and refract the cloud filtered emerging sun beams.

For a moment we shelter in a cyclone damaged shed.  The tin roof sections rattling against each other and threaten the termite weakened driftwood superstructure with perdition.  We step into the rain — no wind.  Sticks and tin can break our skin but rain can never hurt us.

Waves grinding chunks of coral into the finest white sand.  A 400 grit fine sand one could polish furniture with or prep an auto body for paint. Rolling waves tracking the cycles of the moon.  Untiring waves returning every day again and again.  Washing the sand and grinding it into future community gardens.  Across the bay the sun sets on the volcanic cones eroding the space between the islands.  Tomorrow the painter will pattern my vision to see a new perspective — a hand-made Genesis.