The road leading up the hill to a spacey panted village, which seemed to be spread out from the foot of a hill above me to circling the top of the hill and then downward, served as the center of the town-let. Here donkeys were unloaded, and small cargoes sorted for delivery to whomever, if indeed there were merchants farther up the mountain, or down the other side. I was left alone, as I climbed the heart of this peak that extended out of the Atlantic Ocean, as if it belonged to the tips of Atlantis, whispering awe to my alternate mind, of the mysterious volcanic ridge underneath it. I looked beyond the limits of the town-let and the mountain peak itself, and saw between the hills, the colorful sun reflecting off its Atlantic waters, it was 1976. As I turned about I found myself facing a speeding car coming down the dusty and hard dirt roadway, a sporty kind of car. The car stopped and I heard a sweet peremptory voice asking, "Are you intended for the island?"



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