The Island, Part III

We slept late. Despite our best intentions of witnessing the sunrise over Moose Island, the fatigue of the day before had gotten the better of us. At about 6:00am, I had opened one eye and carefully peered out the east-facing window at the world. It was as close as I got to the sun until, at a more cooperative hour, we decided to get out of bed. We walked downstairs and during the ritual of making coffee, realized that this was our last day in paradise. We carried our mugs of hot caffeine to the second floor balcony, and drank them slowly, letting the new day’s sun wash the sleep from our eyes. We chatted, taking inventory of that past thirty-six hours, and formulating a plan for the day ahead. There are times in life when you wish that time would run fast, very fast; then there are those rare moments where you wish the hands on the face of the clock would just stop, forever. This would have been a legitimate fantasy if it weren’t for the simple fact we were running out of food. I cleaned the blueberries and the raspberries we has bought at Masstown Market while Amy hand-beat the whipping cream, and folded it gently on top of our berry mélange. Berries have never been better, or whip cream more perfect. We sat in silence, the mutual enjoyment of our breakfast evident in our lack of conversation. Having traversed the floor of the New Minas basin the day before to reach Egg and Pinnacle islands, we had agreed to try for Moose Island today. Reports suggested that riches were to be found there in the geodes that lay hidden amongst the beach rocks. Perhaps were we to find enough geodes we could purchase Egg and Pinnacle Islands and become neighbours of our host. Caffeinated and awake, we climbed down the 188 stairs to the sea floor. Hours from departure, it was conceivable that we would miss this climb. We "handrailed" Long Island from the North side, to the East side, where a pebbled-tongue of a beach, led us into the water. We had only taken a few steps and were only up to our knees when the current, rushing with ancient strength, tried to pull us away to open water. With a misstep, Amy’s flip-flop was destined to eventually find a new home on some rocky piece of coastline on the shores of the Atlantic. Stoic and undaunted, Amy, like Jason of the Argonauts before her, would attempt this treacherous water crossing with one sandal.

Each step against the current was like wading through gravel. We would make headway East, only to realize that the tide, not low enough, would have put our lives in peril. We would then backtrack, tack North; wade back out, water rising to our chest as our goal—looming two hundred meters away—seemed ever distant. Had someone told me that someday I would spend two and a half hours fruitlessly wading in the Bay of Fundy I would have had him or her committed. Yet, here I was, for at least that long, struggling against the forces of nature. We were not only smiling, but thoroughly enjoying the experience. I looked at Amy who smiled back. We were content in our failure, our defeat had been sealed and reluctantly we found our way to a sandbar and plotted our return to Long Island. Amy lifted her leg and wiped small pieces of gravel from the underside of her foot. She was bleeding, not profusely, but the result of the lost flip-flop had made its mark with the rocky underwater terrain we had tried to cross. I Passed her my sandals we headed back along the rocky shore, and up the 188 stairs for the last time.

Despite the sun it had been cool, and in the absence of a Jacuzzi to soak our sores in, we ran a hot bath and were thanked by our weary muscles. As skin turned to prunes we exited, changed, and did some tidying around the house. I began to do the dishes and was temporarily thwarted by the absence of dish soap. At some point during our adventure, Roger, who had been doing work with Paul and Dennis, had retrieved the dish soap to aid in the process of pulling closed-cell foam wrap over newly installed water lines. Finding the auxiliary dish soap, I began to battle the stockpile of dinnerware, soiled from our stay. Amy had packed and brought her luggage to the door, and in a moment I was to do the same. We still had many questions about the island, but we were content to not answer them all. Up until now my knowledge of men that owned their own island had been limited to villains in James Bond films. Although the controls for the solar array looked complicated, they hardly looked as though they could be used to take over the world or hold entire continents for ransom. Obviously, island ownership is not limited to the super-evil; Dick Lemon’s generosity affording us this exceptional opportunity to retreat from civilization for a couple of days, to recoup and recharge. Dennis opened the door moments later and told us that it was time to go. We loaded our luggage and near-empty cooler onto the litter and watched it get hoisted into the air before the hydraulic a-frame reached out over the cliff and lowered it slowly to our waiting boat. We walked down the familiar path to the stairs, and with one final look at the house, I descended the steps, leaving the island-top paradise behind.

We were quiet on the boat ride to the mainland, Amy and I already mourning our departure from our idyllic setting. I recalled that the house's shelves were lined with good books and not the pulp fiction that has come to be associated with summer reading. There had been one title in the library that had troubled me; it was John Milton's "Paradise Lost." The idea that on this island there existed a poem about the expulsion of man from Eden was terribly ironic to me. Surely this island was paradise found! As the island receded into the distance and the dots on the fisherman's wharf grew into tourists, I began to understand. Expulsion from paradise is easy; there is no choice. The voluntary removal of one's self, however, is painful. As we transferred our luggage from boat to car the metaphor of Milton’s poem was realized. Pain doesn't stem from expulsion from the Garden; it's the fleetingness of our time there; the struggle faced is not the difficulties we face in our inhospitable world, but the inevitable pain rooted in our desire to return to paradise. In silent confidence I reflected. I hoped that I would someday find my way back here, back to the Garden of Eden, back to the small fishing Village of Five Islands. Someday I would return to the island.