We could be anywhere right now, we said all day as we made our way slowly up Reloncavi Sound. On on all sides the mountains crowd around, visible only for short, bright moments when the clouds part. High up and barely visible are sheer faces with clinging snow. Rain is unmistakable in its approach; to the north gauzy curtains of grey fall down layers of dense green slopes until the first few drops give way to a steady patter.
What we mean to say is this: instead of being here we could almost be home.
We nose our way slowly through a small passage at the end of the day. On the bow I am here but I am also far to the north and some years ago. In the glassy depths ahead I search for anything pale – the look of a looming rock was an early lesson (and loud).
These hiding rocks and towering slopes are not even connected, not related in any way to the ones we know so well. But the heft of them on every side is familiar and sure and it is the way our eyes scan as easily, they way the greys blend as smoothly as they ever did back then that makes us see that place in this.