The rainy season brings sunsets worthy of any postcard. Here's a picture of one I took from the top of the companionway steps--the same place from where I took the rainy photo in a previous entry. This sunset had a lingering complexity that made this romantic cynic reach for his camera. I am to be forgiven. I was in a comfort zone that night--sipping wine and talking to my wife while we cooked supper.This shot has a romantic nautical impact: the quarter circle of the wheel, the block with the sheet for the mainsail, the bimini that covers the cockpit. I don't remember what night it was, but I would prefer to think it was a Friday night, the weekend lying ahead of us, the curdling mess of the work week behind us. Cliches are comforting because you can enjoy them without thinking: sunsets, bumper stickers, odd, pithy phrases that once caught us by surprise but now are spouted by everyone.
For writers, cliches are death and death by cliche is easy for a writer to come by, like hanging out in a crowded market in Bagdad with an American flag wrapped around you. One slip of the keyboard, and there you have it, a "sunset" word or phrase that tattoos you forever as a hack. When we write, we don't hack. We write without sunsets, without tattoos, without bumper stickers. Still, with enough irony, even cliches work and that includes sunsets. This night, without blushing or any regrets at all, I enjoyed the sunset, kissed my wife, and we polished off the bottle.
