When I was a small girl, I remember riding with my dad in his pickup listening to the radio. "Someone left the cake out in the rain," went one of those songs, "and I dont think that I can take it, cause it took so long to make it, and Ill never have that recipe again!" "Bern," said my dad, in his brogue, "I dont think this tunes really about cake." Stunned, I was forced to consider for the first time that there were deeper meanings to obvious things. As summer rains wash the San Blas air, and thunder and lightning storms become a daily event, Douglas and I prepare to shove off, too, first for Cartagena and a city fix, then to fly home to visit our families--and throughout it all Ive been mulling the deeper meanings of what this voyage has become for me. Its been less about sailing, boats, and hairy-chested adventuring, more about nestling into different cultures, learning to share our sandbox, and pushing ourselves beyond limits we once thought extreme. Its been about friendships with sailors on Sand Dollar, Baerne, Dutchess, Simba, Rotuma, Chalupa, Gringo Joe, Kitty Hawk, Street Legal--all now headed separate ways but connected with us by having shared the year. Then, on some lucky days, its been about something more elusive: the pleasure of looking into the eyes of an old Cuna woman, of a 16-year-old castaway, or of a person youve been married to for 12 years and discovering there new reflections of yourself.