It’s 9 pm.
We’re on our way to Cartagena.
The boat’s being thrown around like a paper cup. There must be a million foot waves.
My sister is a tall drink of water, my mother always said she made me with leftovers since everyone in my family is over 5’9” and I’m 5’4”.
Today was only ok.
We spent the whole day searching out phone cards for my sister to call her husband. No luck.
I got an email from David saying that Liz was going to Santa Fe so rupe would be in his clutches for a few days. If it’s possible to sound like Snidely Whiplash in an email, David accomplished it.
If we survive the night and I’m assuming we won’t by what I see out the porthole, I’ll write to youse tomorrow.