clube_desportivo
Lago Cahora Bassa
Water and sky barely separated by an opaline horizon. Sustained scalloped ripples of a boat’s wake barely disturbing the calm waters. Quiet, delicious hiss of the hull slipping across the cerulean surface of the sea. Soft, feathered wind. Solitude.
To sail and never arrive. To sail without destination. To sail and be complete in the act of sailing. If heaven exists, it must be free of tides. If there is a paradise, it must caress us in blue water. If one can attain nirvana, it must feel like this.
Here we are. There we were. What lies ahead, lies ahead. But we are here now. We are here now.
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