Some cool Irish Tattoos pictures:
Alison and Jason go for swim. I create notes. We pack.
Jason goes to the bar. He books a taxi to meet us at the bridge. It is a grey vehicle. It is driven by Chico. Chico is an older guy. The hotel lady asks us not to take a diverse taxi. If we do then Chico will not trust the hotel lady once again.
Jason asks the hotel owner for the student card. We look at it. It is a lame fake. The dope may possibly be Polish. He is not a student. We have his credit card.
We stroll to the bridge. On the bridge two gringos take pictures of every other. Alison knows 1 of them. The other wears a teeshirt. It is green. It says I swear to drunk I’m not god. He is Irish.
We wait by the bridge. We wait a long time. A taxi comes. It is not grey. It is not Chico. We wait some much more. The sun is fervent. We wait in shade. An additional taxi comes. It is red. It is not Chico. The driver slams the boot. It gradually yawns. He slams it once again. It yawns. He jiggles and slams. He drives off. His boot lid waves.
A giant truck rumbles down the road. The road is wide adequate for one VW Bug abreast. The truck manoeuvres back and forth. It makes soot and carbon monoxide. It reverses and wiggles. It functions itself around. It drives back up the road.
An additional taxi comes. It is not Chico or grey. We get in. The taxi rocks and rolls. The road doubles stream-bed. The giant truck is stopped. Workmen stand. We rock and roll previous inch perfect. We belly-scrape and wheel-arch into the town. We get off at the port.
Guatemalans besiege us. Jason asks for a launch. Besiegers point. We talk with the anointed one. He will meet us here at 14:00. He will take 500Q to take us to Texan Bay.
We stand in fusion-star mash. Alison and Jason want to consume nearby. I have my heart set on Tilingo Lingo. It is the other side of town. Alison and Jason humour me. We stroll in quick-wave infrared. Photons dance off walls.
We order. We wait. Jason and I drink mojitos. They taste faintly of lime juice. The mint is black with green bits. We wait. Jason has ceviche. Alison has omelette. I have curried shrimp. Stay with what you know.
I see two Australian girls backpack past. A single is barefoot. The asphalt is gooey with wave-particle duality and super-collider energies. I hear frying feet.
We walk up the hill and down to the port in sun sear. We discover our boatman. We launch up the canyon. Pelicans scatter. Floating plastic bobs in our wake.
Sailing boats flock on the lake near Texan Bay. Orion waits at anchor in the bay. Andy orders the boatman to dock on the starboard side. He is unsmiling. He is Captain Bligh. The dinghy is tied up on the port side.
We are back on board. A regatta finishes on the lake. Other boats come into the bay. They anchor in poorly-selected points. Andy judges distances and thinks about changing winds.
A Liverpool registered ketch chugs in vaguely. It moors also close. They broke their staysail. The sails are not furled but messed. Captain and crew reduced the dinghy from its divots. They get into the dinghy. They motor off to the bar. The ketch swings at anchor. Its sails rumple in mess. This would not happen on Orion.
It is afternoon. We swim. The water is deep jade green and complete of organic fuzz. The forest and the reedbeds surround us. We are cool.
Andy drives the dinghy around river methods. We explore narrow channels. We see Guatemalan houses and fishermen. We see girls washing garments. We see females cooking. We sip Jason’s cocktail with ice in cold mugs. We see a backhoe digging a parking lot. The new parking lot is in front of a huge house. The house is in clearfell.
We putter back to Texan bay. Jason has manage. We go to the bar. Andy remembers Sandy. Sandy does not bear in mind Andy. Sandy is alcoholic. She is covered in tattoos. She is blutered.
We sit on the grassy bank. We drink beers. Light fades. We dinghy back to Orion. The crew of the Liverpool ketch have not returned. The sails are nevertheless messed. Alison and Jason and Andy prepare supper. We eat guacamole, coleslaw and rice. The men consume chicken breasts. We drink wine.
Andy dives in. We swim. Andy encourages Alison and Jason to dive from the deck. Alison gets water in her ear. It hurts. Andy says diving once again will clear it. She jumps. It is worse.
We talk about education and raising youngsters. The Liverpool crew return. They go beneath.
We go to bed at 11.
Image by maureen_sill
my father’s grandfather gustav
is my favorite member of my entire loved ones
i have only met him once, but i know far more about him than anybody else
i have heard much more stories about this man than any other human getting in my entire life
i wonder so numerous far more issues about him, ever considering that i was little, listening to my dad inform stories about living in california, louisiana, and ohio with his russian grandfather, that he served as a pilot in the war, THE war, THE war, THE war,,,
soldiers from the previous so distinct from the soldiers of the now
stories about watermelon seeds and the tattoo on his left arm
his pocket watch and inability to don’t forget directions
his wife’s cooking and his daughters, my grandmother
how insanity ran in his family members
his stays at mental hospitals
his gentleness, his 4 dogs, my father’s paper route, gustav’s paper sales
reminds me of why i do it, i do it to be closer to them
i cannot speak to them so i will do the exact same factors as them
and i will know them in this way, i will love them in this way
my father loved him a lot more than anyone in the planet
i cannot envision my father actively loving anyone, at all
he is the reason my father loves baseball
for that reason gustav is the purpose why i adore baseball
it is in our tree, our lineage and marrow, he has planted a summertime love affair with dirt and scoreboards in our names, the sort of really like that lets us share a name
i met gustav when, when i was a child
he shortly died following the day we met, in his sleep
gustav immigrated to the united states when he was 17, arriving with his four brothers in a harbor in boston
my mom told me that the one particular time in which our physical paths crossed, he held me for many hours
and called me a baby carrot, with my bright orange red hair, then he stated my name and mentioned,
"Maureen! Oh my. It is appropriate, for a baby clearly of Irish heritage."
my mom laughed and said, russian as well, as well
i do not bear in mind this whatsoever, certainly
but i can think about this happening, from what i knew of him, from the volumes i know of him, from the books i’ve heard my family speak on him,
i know that
i was secure in his hands and
my name was secure in his mouth