Driving home late on Tuesday after a long day.

Windows down the smell of the sea and the fading heat of the day washing over me.

The tension of the day dissipating with the salt tang air as I get my the first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea glistening in the bright moonlight as I come around the corner.

The sea dark, the track of the moon turning it gold on black, fading to night at the horizon.

Then familiar route home lulling me, muscle memory and reflex taking over.

I drive on auto pilot, thoughts vague as the routine and ritual of the road take over.

I snap alert. Pause. Shudder.

My subconscious registering something out of the corner of my eye. Something new, changed, different.

What was that?

I look again. Trying to understand what had pulled me back from my revery.

At first my eyes slide over it without compression. Unable to take in what I am seeing.

Then I see it.

Sitting on the horizon. Lights. Not the garish glare of a cruise ship leaving George Town. Not one of the gaudy floating cities but something else.

An iridescent spectre. A fey thing.

A willow the wisp dancing on the moon bright black Sea. Spores and lights and wings?

The memory of the Mary Celest flashes unbidden through my imagination.

I pull over to better understand and find myself staring at a ghost ship. Masted and under full sail. A tall ship it’s rigging hung with lights. Moving with a stately grace straight out of history.

The elegance of the sight left me gaping.

This must have been a sight familiar to the early islanders. The way they saw their connection to the big world.

It was a momentary glimpse through the curtain of years to another age. An age when ships were connected with the wind and sea before the birth of the modem behemoths that heedlessly plough their way through the waves today.