The pool is quiet at the Southernmost, hot air shimmers and suspends conversation. The lazy circles, floating ripples disguise the seamy underbelly that greases the island mechanics running a population of hopeful immigrants, drug dealers and human traffickers. Always the domain of pirates and slavers, paradise now has a clog of sargassum choking and robbing the place blind. Micro plastics imbedded in the tangled mass contain flesh eating bacteria. Like the valiant orcas across the Atlantic swamping the invaders, the bacteria with host on the micro plastics until it kills the carriers of the countless tide bottles, electronic parts, t shirts and floating noodles. A self correcting problem at that point, I guess. Like the junkies shooting Tranq on the alley way, eventually they stop it because they are dead. I look up at the Bougainvilla draped over the shadowy lattice. So sweet and fragrant. Too bad I can’t go near the beach. It will eat me. And it stinks. Like all humans I have a short attention span. I return to my reverie, floating lazily in paradise, sipping my cooler. Eyes closed not sure whether to weep or pray for this beautiful place of my dreams and nightmares, my hopes and regrets.