Das águas que passam

The ocean. Horizon. Waters rushing by. A ship, bobbing on gentle waves, drifting along. A man sets his sights on the horizon. Sometimes a boy appears and spends a part of the day with him. Tranquillity on board is broken only by the exact same work procedures. The colours of the sea change. As does the mood.
Contrary to every external agitation, the man pursues his work, pursues the sea, pursues the drifting.
Far from the common notion of Brazilian beaches with palm trees and bikini-clad women – an ocean. Tangible. Visceral.