CMC is here, at last

Welcome to the new niece.  Celebrations ensued the day long among the largest Southern Cross crew yet, a proper genoa sail to the backside dock and sunny exploration of Fort Ives, right into an epic croquet match.  Pimm's and BBQ and sundown and Alan Watts musings on dreams, before a dreamless sleep onboard amidst agua and salty chips.  

Four jogs down, last night the slowest due to a tender knee, but enjoying the routine, surprisingly.  Every other day seems a reasonable bar to set.  Missing keys after a midweek blinder with Nasser mean the weights have been put on hold, but otherwise the manifesto progress has been nicely set for improvement.  

Back in the office, masked, and it feels strange. The hope is still to take advantage of the global situation through ridiculous flights of thine own.  Project Z in full swing, and so the daily googling of the status of African airline flights and emails with Samson about potential options.  Tanzanite seems a substance of choice for next month.  And on Black Tot at that?  Por que no?

Three weeks tonight if the stars align.  Surely the chance needs to be taken.  What more must I do, to make it happen?