![]() ![]() Maya likes the feel of the Keys, particularly Islamorada, which she calls home because it’s where her mail comes and her boat sleeps. ![]() The incongruity of a slight, quiet tomboy, who never really liked to swim, spending her days and earning her living on the water. Some afternoons when Maya stands on the boat platform, poling through the mangroves, she thinks about the improbability of her situation. These are her days, a long way from the sandy streets of small-town Seaport, Massachusetts. ![]() The cackle of a seagull the movement of the tides. The warm petals of the first rays of sun. Feels the salt seep into her soul.Įvery morning this moment calls her. The sun already glistens on the water, leaves a string of jewels behind the stern, sparkling and fleeting. Maya watches the wake disappear as she guides her boat through the channel. ![]()
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