The South Atlantic Comments

There is no order in those scarce memories of the sea and the land of long shadows.

The traveler’s heart used long ago the few faded colors of winter, the order and concert, names and voices of those who had deals with the roaring forties and the stories of lost crews, of beached vessels dry and gnawed by years of ice and wind, and of men –if you wish—men with large hands; men who sometimes arrived from the pampa or survived once again the mother-like voracity of the sea to tell about it as if music was a place in the eye of the storm and time itself were another deckhand holding a line in the gale while everything around whistles the tune of those who went over in a bad blow on sight of Puerto Deseado.
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