What magic does the sea hold, to conjure up such powerful emotions in man? What of its power draws painters to put brush to canvas? What of its music lures lovers to its shores? What of its beauty entices dreamers to drift into lofty depths? Humans seem to answer an ancient call when it comes to the sea. The sounds so sharply imbedded in our memories; the gong of a buoy, the cry of a gull, the gentle lapping of waves caressing the shore lulls most to paint their own romantic scenes across the canvas of their imagination.

For me, romance imbues heightened senses, passionate lust, joy and jewels and music and poetry. For me, living on Re Metau has made this romantic imagery come to life. We arose each morning with the resonating chirp of an osprey, as primeval pelicans drift silently on the misty surface of the sea. Daylight breaks on a sparkling palette of orange and yellow hues as a fishing boat's wake rocks us into motion. The smells flood in – percolating purrs of coffee steam, salty dew evaporating from the oily teak and cottony canvas, cool visceral musk from Neptune's coat after his ritual topside check.

The day moves us to make a choice. Either engage in labors of lust for rewards in fresh water, free power, or required and desired gadgets on which to spend our voltage. Or embark on adventures of exploration for treasures of new memories, freshened senses, or unique encounters to consume looming doldrums. Whichever course we choose fuels our passion to fill each day with spirited life.

Dusk calls to us in the echo of local tavern laughter, mingled with the beat of some familiar melody. We dinghy over to join our seafaring tribe, anchored amongst the natives and vacationers, and with laughter and dancing we toast the setting sun now splashing hues of pink and purple. The shroud of night encroaches, drawing our intangible tether tighter and we pass the returning fishing warriors who are anxious to find a cold drink and warm bed of their own. Between bioluminescence shimmer and star sparkle we glide home to our ship of dreams and grow drowsy in lantern light. We slumber to the murmur of the wind playing a haunting tune in the shrouds, while little ripples tapping against the hull keep time.

This existence – full of poetic sensory stimulus, fervent devotion to satisfy dreams, mirth in the music of being, and spiced with fiery diamond sparkles of light – this is the essence of our romantic life.