Lilly Paddle.

(Amy) Winehouse.

Essex, ON – A repurposed wine barrel floats in a pond near Canada's southernmost point.

Large enough for a Queen-sized bed – and little more – the houseboat is home for the night.
 
At first glance, we see a cyclops.
 
The structure has been fitted with a large window, like a convex monocle, allowing us to spy over sun-dappled lily pads and flocks of birds, which flap from the shrugging tree like letters, scattered on a typewritten page.
 
We have a Tiki Hut bar, an outdoor shower that it’s likely too cold for, our own fire pit and a rowboat, which we use to write in cursive through the lilies.
 
Fall's bite nibbles in the air as jet-black cormorants crane their necks and a majestic blue heron glides by like a ballerina. Fish jump, quickly realizing they should slip away from prying beaks.
 
The late-day sun is as golden as the fall fields that fade into the shore. The first peach stains of evening melt across the sky.
 
As Lake Erie thunders on the wind, we paddle into the serenity we've been seeking from a world that has seen successive crises for months. Sometimes, the illness, politics, racism, economic collapse and isolation become too much.
 
So you seek even more isolation.
 
It's not far from home, but with the pandemic snarling through its seventh month, it's as far as the world beckons for the time being.
 
It's a barrel of laughs.

Ampere Sand.

Bridgetown, Barbados — The transparent sea breathes cool kisses to the sun’s rays.

Turquoise and diamonds cascade into the talc.

Tucked away behind the main centre, Bridgetown offers the best free beach within walking distance of a cruise port on this route.

It’s endlessly soft; the water, endlessly clear.

Sail boat masts anchored just offshore provide the exclamation marks on a stunning day.

Ship Shape.

In-spired.

Castries, Saint Lucia — The rope chafes against my leg, leaving waffle-like welts against a sunburn.

It's the price you pay for having always wanted to sit on the net at the front of a catamaran.

The craft slices through the water, spitting up crystals, as a sailboat glides past with the grace of a ballerina.

A solitary sea turtle carves arcs of water beneath its shell.

In the background, the Pitons — a pair of mountainous volcanic plugs — rise up in emerald greens.

In the foreground, too much rum punch.

Bored Walking.

Beach, breached.

Philipsburg, Sint Maarten — We’re encrusted in salt and sand.

A bucket of Carib, tucked at the base of our chairs, keeps us cool. It also gives us a mild floating sensation we can't blame entirely on the mild waves.

Especially after a second bucket appears — with small cups of rum punch.

A serpentine boardwalk winds between Philipsburg's colourful timbered structures, separating restaurants from the beach. Sandwich boards offer a variety of specials, wi-fi and clean bathrooms.

Hawkers rent chairs and umbrellas in an attempt to get you to stay near particular restaurants. Of course, we get a whispered "special deal." Performers dance behind a keyboard, playing reggae and the Eagles.

A day spent at a snail's pace.

Their sounds are softened as my head bobs under water. Music, muffled and caught in a bubble. 

Bright umbrellas line the beach like a rainbow of gumballs. The sun thumps and jerk chicken sizzles on the grill.

It’s a beach day in Sint Maarten, turquoise jewels shimmering around our faces.

We bob in the salt, bathing in the sun.

Bliss.

Colossus of Roads.

Post-colonial.

Tortola, British Virgin Islands — Road Town lives up to its name.


Traffic snakes along the shore road, breathing exhaust amidst a patois of horn blasts.


The city’s name is actually based on the nautical term “the roads,” referring to a sheltered place for ships. As if on cue, we round a corner to sail boat masts rising from the harbour like a congregation rejoicing.

Hallelujah.



For sail.

The area is also particularly well-known for yacht charters.

Stepping into town, we’re greeted by familiar greenhouse smells on an overcast morning. And the slow roast of jerk chicken. Crabs scurry into holes alongside the wavy sidewalk.


Brightly coloured homes hang in the green hills like the flowers that dot so many gardens. A bleached blue postal box emblazoned with the Queen’s crest stands sentry at a lonely corner.


It’s a stark reminder of the monarchy’s faded glory.

Fortitude.

Sentries past.

San Juan, Puerto Rico — The city’s walls jut out to sea like jagged teeth.

The looming facades of Castillo San Felipe del Moro and Castillo San Cristobal — the largest Spanish fortification in the New World — have been chipped by years of defence and conquest, salt air and earthquakes. Built between the 16th and 18th centuries, they still stand proud.

As strong as you are, though, you’re bound to show your age eventually.

The two UNESCO World Heritage Sites are punctuated by domed sentry boxes at angular corners and dark tunnels that once carried troops to cannon posts atop the forts. As closing time approaches, the parade ground stands still.

I stand, at the centre, history pages flipping through my mind.

Rays sparkle on the waves like lit gunpowder. Blue cobblestone streets flow through the old town as though the dark depths of the sea have washed over them and never receded. The distinctive bricks, now worn and cracked, were made from furnace slag once used as ballast for Spanish ships.

You’re literally walking on colonialism.

Heavy bass thumps from an apartment above as a dreadlocked man dances on the balcony. Below, tourists line up for the local delicacy, mofongo.

Today, Spanish influences remain in the architecture, colourful tile and wrought iron balconies. Various cultures are reflected in the food and the music.

Puerto Rico may be American.

But in so many ways, it's not.

Film at Eleven.

Kicking our feet up.

New York City, New York — Night falls.

As it does, fluffy flakes pirouette slowly over Central Park.

With bourbon-barrelled beer on our breath, and frost in our fingertips, we do the same.

Angular branches cut into the darkness, striking dramatic poses in the shadows. It’s like a dance number in an old black-and-white movie and they’re our backups. We sway with the whispers of winter’s chill.

The city shares its romance with its visitors.


Geese huddle on the lake as a K-pop group shoots a music video. Skaters scrape through the drifts.


The city’s neon feels miles away.


It’s magic.


It’s the stuff of movies.


And it’s forever astounding such a space exists at the heart of the city.