Last night we crossed the 40th parallel, this time the gateway to the famous eponymous roars. In the wake, a few white-chinned petrels, a sooty one and our faithful Serge, this great albatross who has been following us for a long time… it doesn’t matter to us whether it’s him or a cousin, his name is still Serge. They are the last ones, soon we will lose these winged giants who play with the waves and the winds, brushing against the white breakers with the tip of their wings. In a few hours, the water temperature has risen from 12° to 19°C, the jumpers have fallen, the shorts have appeared: this is called crossing a front.
Outside, the rosettes are taken off, the canisters fit into the crates, it rolls, it pushes, it pulls in all directions, the anthill of demobilisation has woken up.
Inside, a torrid table football semi-final…. then 9 musicians who didn’t know each other 3 days ago are delighted and enchant us, a moment of collective grace.
The roll has calmed down, the anticyclone is there, heading North-West the Marion is purring and we are carried towards our tomorrows. Each one of us will take his way back, torn from the protective chrysalis of a parallel world which for the past two months has been playing with pandemics and other misdeeds of a world that has forgotten the value of time and of meeting others.