Leaving Yoga Island, as the gang came to refer to it, was difficult for me. I easily imagined myself spending several days exploring every crevice and rock, finding new boulders to perch on while basking in the sun. It seemed perfect. Just below the Penthouse Suite was a tarn of fresh water – deep, cold and the color of tea. It was like a natural spa. I found I could lie down on my back on the rock by the tarn and by just leaning my head gently back, as you would at a salon, I could wash my hair. The water came nearly up to my waste if I stood in it, which allowed me to take a brisk sponge bath. I had my fiancé, food, fresh water, gorgeous scenery…I couldn’t imagine a more perfect place to soak in life and nature. I wanted to stay. But, as they say, the show must go on. So it was with a slight sense of loss that I helped take down our tent and repack our gear.
Here’s a bit of irony for the story, if you can call it that. I suffer from motion sickness and am particularly vulnerable to sea sickness, a fact I discovered only in the past few years when I visited Florida. I was on a small deep sea fishing charter boat (I don’t even like fishing). I started to feel nauseous which came as no great shock as I’ve suffered the same plight while riding in a car. Slowly the nausea grew and seemed to crawl up the back of my head and spread its horrible fingers across the top of my brain, like poisonous honey – thick and goopy, inescapable. And then I could feel it really take hold; my mouth felt like a spit factory. The finer details are a bit fuzzy to me now, but somehow the captain was able to provide me with a bit bucket to toss the contents of my stomach into. It was indeed one of my finer moments. Just to make sure this was a true affliction I engaged in the same scenario the following year. At least the second boat had a bathroom. I’m glad to say I’ve wised up since then and was not about to trust my stomach to the open waters during this vacation. So I stocked up on motion sickness medicine. On the day we left Yoga Island I knew the group would be in for a long paddle, so I took a pill – just one, the recommended dosage. It didn’t even touch the sickness. I felt the familiar creeping of nausea. Dammit! It felt like the paddle that day would never end. It felt like the paddle would never end. I was blind to my surroundings. The awe and beauty was gone. My vision was black. And my frustration and irritation was growing. But there was no relief and nothing to do about it – we were in the middle of water and Erica had a destination in mind so there was nothing to do but to keep going. And then, what’s this? We’re there? Ahhhhh….a harbor. Finally. Wait a minute – what? We have to turn around? I remember yelling to Dave, “where the fuck are we going?” I was mad. But only because I was sick. And I knew I was being a baby, so I ate my anger, pushed my irritation down to the pit of my belly to join the gastric juices and half-digested fruit and walnuts from the morning’s breakfast. We entered a narrow strait and then we were exposed to the most open body of water we’d encountered so far. And it was choppy. So I reached into the depths of my being and latched on to my yoga focus, my third eye, my drishdi. And I stopped thinking. I placed an imaginary focus point in front of me and just paddled and paddled – my arms moving as if I were a robot, the rest of me shut down. And after about a half an hour, maybe more, we were there. The beach was the most boggy and littered we’d been to so far, but I didn’t care. The smell of salt water and fish was pungent, but I tried my best to ignore it and took in a deep breath. Annie, the dear heart she is, took note of my suffering and placed her cold hands on my forehead and neck and rubbed my back until I felt better. It worked like a charm.
The island we had landed on was populated with summer homes, a football pitch and an ice cream shop (there is a god!). The beach neighbored a large lot of grass with a substantial fire pit. After getting settled in, we took a wander along the path into “town” and stopped at the ice cream shop for some refreshing treats. It’s funny how pre-packaged cones of slightly cold sugary plastic disguised as a dessert food can taste so good when you’ve been roughing it and eating only the food in your kit. Which is so silly to say, because it’s not like we were starved or ever very far from civilization and a shop to re-stock on provisions. But I think there is a psychological element to a trip like ours when you’re essentially in the middle of the sea (although never too far from land), protected from the masses of jellyfish and cold water by a relatively thin sheet of plastic. And when you’re not a strong swimmer, like me, I think it’s a thought that never really leaves your mind. No matter how near land and how much kit you’ve packed in your boat, you’re still exposed to the elements. And should the weather take a quick and nasty turn, you’re vulnerable. I never took that for granted. So ice cream, no matter how hydrogenated, was a comforting symbol of safety.
This island came to be known as the Island of the Highland Games. Men never truly leave their boyhood behind and their propensity to throw rocks, I’m convinced, is never abandoned. When you’re on an island loaded with rocks, what else is there to do but to make up some games that involve throwing rocks – tiny ones, big ones, really heavy ones. And I have to admit there’s something really intriguing about watching a group of guys hurling rocks toward an invisible goal. I couldn’t resist. Neither could the rest of the girls. So we all participated in a rock throwing and hurling contest. The girls ended up bowing out early, but they guys kept at it for ages. It was good fun. After awhile, we all returned to the fire (the result of another well-ingrained characteristic of the male species). The guys drank whiskey and told stories to make us all laugh. The girls instituted the Massage Club and traded massages with each while being entertained by the pranks of the opposite sex.
Here’s a bit of irony for the story, if you can call it that. I suffer from motion sickness and am particularly vulnerable to sea sickness, a fact I discovered only in the past few years when I visited Florida. I was on a small deep sea fishing charter boat (I don’t even like fishing). I started to feel nauseous which came as no great shock as I’ve suffered the same plight while riding in a car. Slowly the nausea grew and seemed to crawl up the back of my head and spread its horrible fingers across the top of my brain, like poisonous honey – thick and goopy, inescapable. And then I could feel it really take hold; my mouth felt like a spit factory. The finer details are a bit fuzzy to me now, but somehow the captain was able to provide me with a bit bucket to toss the contents of my stomach into. It was indeed one of my finer moments. Just to make sure this was a true affliction I engaged in the same scenario the following year. At least the second boat had a bathroom. I’m glad to say I’ve wised up since then and was not about to trust my stomach to the open waters during this vacation. So I stocked up on motion sickness medicine. On the day we left Yoga Island I knew the group would be in for a long paddle, so I took a pill – just one, the recommended dosage. It didn’t even touch the sickness. I felt the familiar creeping of nausea. Dammit! It felt like the paddle that day would never end. It felt like the paddle would never end. I was blind to my surroundings. The awe and beauty was gone. My vision was black. And my frustration and irritation was growing. But there was no relief and nothing to do about it – we were in the middle of water and Erica had a destination in mind so there was nothing to do but to keep going. And then, what’s this? We’re there? Ahhhhh….a harbor. Finally. Wait a minute – what? We have to turn around? I remember yelling to Dave, “where the fuck are we going?” I was mad. But only because I was sick. And I knew I was being a baby, so I ate my anger, pushed my irritation down to the pit of my belly to join the gastric juices and half-digested fruit and walnuts from the morning’s breakfast. We entered a narrow strait and then we were exposed to the most open body of water we’d encountered so far. And it was choppy. So I reached into the depths of my being and latched on to my yoga focus, my third eye, my drishdi. And I stopped thinking. I placed an imaginary focus point in front of me and just paddled and paddled – my arms moving as if I were a robot, the rest of me shut down. And after about a half an hour, maybe more, we were there. The beach was the most boggy and littered we’d been to so far, but I didn’t care. The smell of salt water and fish was pungent, but I tried my best to ignore it and took in a deep breath. Annie, the dear heart she is, took note of my suffering and placed her cold hands on my forehead and neck and rubbed my back until I felt better. It worked like a charm.
The island we had landed on was populated with summer homes, a football pitch and an ice cream shop (there is a god!). The beach neighbored a large lot of grass with a substantial fire pit. After getting settled in, we took a wander along the path into “town” and stopped at the ice cream shop for some refreshing treats. It’s funny how pre-packaged cones of slightly cold sugary plastic disguised as a dessert food can taste so good when you’ve been roughing it and eating only the food in your kit. Which is so silly to say, because it’s not like we were starved or ever very far from civilization and a shop to re-stock on provisions. But I think there is a psychological element to a trip like ours when you’re essentially in the middle of the sea (although never too far from land), protected from the masses of jellyfish and cold water by a relatively thin sheet of plastic. And when you’re not a strong swimmer, like me, I think it’s a thought that never really leaves your mind. No matter how near land and how much kit you’ve packed in your boat, you’re still exposed to the elements. And should the weather take a quick and nasty turn, you’re vulnerable. I never took that for granted. So ice cream, no matter how hydrogenated, was a comforting symbol of safety.
This island came to be known as the Island of the Highland Games. Men never truly leave their boyhood behind and their propensity to throw rocks, I’m convinced, is never abandoned. When you’re on an island loaded with rocks, what else is there to do but to make up some games that involve throwing rocks – tiny ones, big ones, really heavy ones. And I have to admit there’s something really intriguing about watching a group of guys hurling rocks toward an invisible goal. I couldn’t resist. Neither could the rest of the girls. So we all participated in a rock throwing and hurling contest. The girls ended up bowing out early, but they guys kept at it for ages. It was good fun. After awhile, we all returned to the fire (the result of another well-ingrained characteristic of the male species). The guys drank whiskey and told stories to make us all laugh. The girls instituted the Massage Club and traded massages with each while being entertained by the pranks of the opposite sex.
Left: Packing up from Yoga Island
Right: Paddling away in the open waters
Right: Paddling away in the open waters
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