Adventure comes to those who blend in.

Good night, furball.

Just wondering.

Finally we realized why the new guy at the office never joined us for our lunch break.

I didn't do it, officer, the snail did it!

The beach trees of Playa Nosara

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The story of Poopy the bird sailor.

When Poopy cracked open the shell of his egg and pushed his wet little head full of sticky feathers out into the morning, the first thing he noticed wasn't the bright light of the Mediterranean summer sun, but the salty ocean breeze that blew though the branches of the olive tree his mother had built their nest in. He took a deep breath and filled his tiny lungs with storm, his heart pounding, then he tore open his eyes and there it was: the world. Blue sky. Blue water. A touch of gray and dark green. He was raised by the sea.

From the nests in the trees around him he heard the occasional cheeping of other youngsters, but two weeks went by before his mother let him out of the nest to go play with his friends. They couldn’t wait to fly down to the harbor, steal breadcrumbs from the tables of the boardwalk cafés and take a look at the mighty tall ships.

I met Poopy the bird sailor on the aft deck of the legendary Sea Cloud, half way between Mallorca and Ibiza. He was sitting in the rigging, chirping and chatting, watching the windjammer's crew set sails and tweeted his bird commands at them. Then he looked at me. A bold and curious look. He squinted his eyes, fluffed up his feathers, and flew over. And then we were friends. 

We made it to the weekend!

When he was hiding in a sock, he always felt perfectly safe.

When she looked at herself without her leaves on, she was wondering if her butt indeed was too big.

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