It's eight o'clock in Itacaré, and I'm alone on earth. The few humans still checking on me from across the Atlantic have gone to bed. Now it's just me, my half-empty caipirinha, and Radiohead in this little bar overlooking the bay.  The village lights flow into the black, glistening sea. If they looked postcard-perfect a moment ago with their hulls gleaming in the late afternoon light, now the moored boats remind me of floating specters, whose true nature is finally revealed by the moon...