To be here means we’re on the way out. Most staff think it’s a bummer of a last stop. I like it. In through the caldera’s gap. Flurries of rain, snow, cape petrels flirting their nests. Gloomy. Lithographic. Bay of ashen sea ice, black sand shore steaming with unfinished heat. Rusted collapsings, greened moss under gull nests, mineral oxblood hillside cascade.
shelter for ship and slaughter
fog seethes history
Prep benches, towels & cheer (life ring ready) guests who dash-plunge the steamed sea. Didn’t join until my last time, then high-stepped it. H likes to wait until everyone else leaves, then sneak into an outbuilding & scream.
 An active volcano, ships coming in to the nearly entirely protected harbor of Whaler’s Bay must remember stories of the last eruption—just a few decades ago. It smolders still.