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An American sailor wrote to his mother. He told of an enchanted island, sirens and blue dawns and celestial and then pink and then red, a wind load perfume, the transparent water, deep seabed on carved by an architect crazy fantasy. A hypnotic view of a landscape seen only a play, a series of scenes of land suspended between sky and water and games at the impatience  until soft colors and the desire for a still image, just the time to send a memory on a look surprised. Of islands so close seem to be the same island, but a number and a variety of wildlife, which seems to defy the passage of time without patirne, leaving the sea and air stretched the mark of wrinkles and folds worn with the pride of a tattoo ritual Tribal signs of celebration.

He wrote, the boy, you understand why we put so much Odysseus to return, because each landing postpone departure, because he could not stay long but nor could turn the bow toward home. The reason, said the boy is simple: it is probably past here or in a place like this, if there is, but I do not think there is.

With the people here understand there is a seafarer, silent, used to navigate a sea change that any change of the wind smells and color. It seems to me, he wrote, that in the face, but inside, a beauty so intense and so strong you can not feel that arrived. You need time to absorb the wonder and convince that share is not a loss, because you will bring it in and you can entrust the fate your desire to return.

He said that was closed to share in his submarine, hiding his journey into the depths of the ocean, because that was the work he had chosen, but wrote that it was sick and heal together and for that reason would sailed without warning fatigue of days and closed the same waiting, without haste and without regret: ill beauty and healed by the certainty of a safe return, sick of nostalgia and healed by the desire to go home to enjoy the days of affection.

Greeted her mother, saying that his greatest desire was to return with her and sisters in that paradise, discovered by chance in any one stage of his surfing, but inciso hours in her eyes like a dream to look up yet departure, in order to know the real.

The sailor, before leaving, sent his letter from the post of the base. The stamp bore the inscription: La Maddalena.

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