Backstage with Sandy

This wasn't a commercial set. Just recordings from days spent with Sandy and her small crew on a yacht rocking in the Adriatic. Dolphins break the surface and someone shrieks. One hand steadies the lens while the other reaches blindly for another cold glass. Sunny thighs pressed together on vinyl cushions. Conversations blur into easy laughter; somewhere below deck, bedsheets are still warm from where bodies met the night before. At night the drinks come faster than the breeze. A zipper slides. A camera clicks. Salt skin under the strobes. Naked shoulders at the rail, moonlight silvering hipbones as hips move, slow, deliberate—each frame catching the swell and spill and the murmured yeses that roll like lazy waves against the hull.