Excerpted from the eventual book, Common Sense and Whiskey:
It’s 6:15 on the Erakor Lagoon near Port Vila, Vanuatu. Women in bright print skirts paddle canoes across the lagoon from villages into town. Small, yellow-billed birds call from the grass by the water’s edge, roosters crow from somewhere, and the low rumble of the surf hurling itself against the reef is as much felt as heard.
Like every morning, the sky is grayer than blue. Clouds hang close to the hills and the water is green glass, reflecting jungle. We’re staying on a tiny island near the capital city, Port Vila. This is the morning of our third day and after snorkeling from an outrigger in the midday sun yesterday, we're well burned already.
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Thursday in Vila was a rainy day. Every other morning was heavy with water, too, but on Thursday in Vila, the cloud never gave way. Offshore, south beyond the reef remained seductively blue but clouds swept from the east over our little Erakor Island and before long delivered over-ripe drops driving across the lagoon which, when they arrived (and we could watch their progress in waves from the far shore), fell with real heft.
A partnership of 2 yellow-billed, yellow-eyed, yellow-legged birds with a remarkable range of chirps, clicks and warbles and endearingly monogamous, toward whom we came to feel proprietary, worked a 10 meter radius of our back porch the whole time we lived there, building a nest with all the languor of the people of Vanuatu, until the rain forced them undercover.
It didn't rain non-stop though, and since we were horrified at the splotchy crimson we'd turned in maybe 40 minutes of sun, we decided on the only rational course of action for the day. Go to town for beers.