ROATAN, Honduras My last night at Anthony's Key Resort, I write on a deckchair. After 10pm the huts shuttered, the other guests wisely asleep the cay becomes mine alone.
One last Port Royal beer warms in the sand at my side. Moonlight sculpts the mangrove roots into gargoyles. A fish heaves from the lagoon, then smacks heavy into water.
Roatan was good to me: not just for the scuba certification another notch in all-terrain Barbie's belt but for the slowing, the softening, the stillness in a frantic year.
I head inland to the Mayan ruins of Copan next, then home. Truly home. Home for months on end.
And that might just be the toughest trip of all.