Well, after an eventful journey of many adventures, many friends, and much miracles, I am here in Finisterrae—the end of the world. I hiked out of the town, a port town, up to the great lighthouse that sheds safety along the Coast of Death as it's called. I passed through brilliant flowers and heather—yellow, pink, and blue—and picked a few to bring home.
I hiked—scrambled, rather—down the cliffs to get as close as possible to the raging waves that crashed against the cliff with relentless fury. Then, perching myself on a rock, I hurled my dear staff into the sea (sigh, I forgot to give it a kiss goodbye!). (Note: I did NOT burn my clothes, which is a tradition for some pilgrims because I was far too attached to them after all this time. I did sit and watch the sun set over the Atlantic. This place is the furthermost Western spot in all of landed Europe before you hit North America). After hiking down, I picked my way to the beach— 1 km away—where I plunged in and swam in the saltwater just as the sun was going down. I collected many conch shells, and ran through the sand then ducked back into the water, laughing because it felt so good.
Right now in the harbor the waves are lapping against countless fishing boats. There are nets and lobster traps around everywhere—and the stars have come out with tremendous brilliance.