The next two days were a dreamlike glide from Barcelona to St. Tropez. The Mediterranean Sea stretched out like a turquoise mirror, reflecting the endless blue sky. While the wind was coy, refusing to fill our sails with its usual gusto, we embraced the tranquility. Our days were filled with the soundtrack of our laughter, the clinking of ice in homemade cocktails, and the occasional splash as we cast fishing lines.
One afternoon, the sea became a glassy expanse, the sun transforming it into a molten mirror. With the engines silenced, we surrendered to the water’s embrace. The feeling of weightlessness as we swam in the vastness of the Mediterranean, miles from land, was pure magic. Refreshed and invigorated, we resumed our journey, the sun dipping towards the horizon painting the sky in fiery hues.
However, our fishing endeavors proved less fruitful. As we neared St. Tropez, I checked the fishing line at sunrise, everything seemed secure. But a few minutes later, as I prepared breakfast, the line suddenly sang out, swiftly unspooling from the reel. Sadly, despite a valiant struggle, all my line vanished into the depths, leaving only the memory of a fleeting tug and a lesson about securing lines properly.
We dropped anchor in the turquoise embrace of St. Tropez, the promise of exploration mingled with the need for rest. Sleep, stolen from me by the preceding night, beckoned insistently. But the allure of the vibrant city, coupled with the pressing need for a new fishing line (no sign of them during my last visit, unfortunately!), couldn’t be ignored. So, with a promise to myself for an afternoon siesta, I embarked on my mission to find the perfect tackle shop, the sun warming my back and the scent of adventure filling my lungs.
