Ilha do Faial, Azores

For the first time in days, the morning greeted us not with a gust of wind that massaged the scalp as it whipped our hair about, but only with the slightest of breezes, a gentle gasp that barely tickled our faces. Long past the moment when our internal clocks said it ought to be light, the sky still hosted a cast of galactic figures. Canis major followed obediently behind the hunter Orion as he has done for millennia. We fell in line right with them, borne forward to the port of Horta on the Island of Faial.

Wind brought the early settlers here in wooden sailing ships and has been the friend and foe of all as generations come and go. Past and present mix on the ridges north of town. Arms stilled and silent, a squadron of windmills stand, their design identical to those built by Flemish colonists five hundred or so years ago. Tall and thin, blades whirling, modern wind generators nearby seem to mock their presence.

Wind must have snatched at the ashes propelled skyward from the erupting volcano of Capelinhos in 1957 and aided their descent, burying nearby homes and a lighthouse high on the cliff. Breaking waves eat away at the remnants of the cinder cone produced. We strolled upon the cinders between rows of giant cane and climbed to the heights to view the land created by forces deep beneath our feet.

Wind would have snatched at the sails of graceful whaling boats bearing the men of town towards their targeted prey as recently as the 1970’s. Standing on the cobbled ramp of the Whale Factory Museum, we could almost hear the groan of cables slowly inching their catch from the bay. There was something eerie in the rattling of shutters as we meandered through the deserted facility. Ghosts from the past seemed to enter, scurrying about in their assigned tasks of flensing the blubber or stoking the boilers or grinding and drying the meat.

Microhabitats, miniscule canyons meander beneath the trees of the Botanical Garden sheltering ferns and flowers from the draught and holding moisture there. Forced upward by the island’s heights, winds from across the sea must unburden themselves of their liquid load. Fog and showers wash the flowers clean and nourish their roots and all around the land looks green.

Air passes from one’s trachea or windpipe and vibrates the vocal cords in song as traditional Azorean music echoes through the lounge.

Wind, the movement of air, takes many forms as it wraps around our day and circles round our globe. Who knows what will drift in on the winds of tomorrow?