Preparing to Leave the Island
But where’s the big adventure?
—06.13.2000—
It’s my 31st birthday today and there are so many things I’d like to write about. Firstly, St. Agnes is looking beautiful though the weather hasn’t been brilliant. Fog continues to shroud the island in a mysterious veil. Coming out of the pub tonight, in the dim, grey light of the leftover moon, Porth Conga (1.) and the hills of Gugh appeared timid, cold, and spooky, as if they were buried under a layer of snow. A girl I met at the pub tonight was just talking about the sometimes-spooky nature of the island. She and her boyfriend were staying in Pengold and he suggested walking home across the cricket pitch, which lies on a quiet limb of the island down near Preglis Cove. She protested, however, saying that that route always gave her the chills at night, “It’s probably haunted.”
“You might be right,” I said. “Lots of wayward souls from the wrecks of many ships have been buried there.” Though I didn’t mention it, I thought of a friend’s mom’s response, last Sunday, to a woman commenting on the lovely smell of camomile in the air, while we all watched a game of local cricket. “Yes, it often grows on unquiet ground.” Unquiet ground? Sheesh. It was even tough for me to not get spooked when I walked home down damp, foggy lanes, even though I was nowhere near the cricket pitch.
I’m staying in the barn again at Elder, Hans and Jon’s place, and it occurs to me that my surroundings bear mentioning: white-washed plaster walls with strings of limpet shells hanging against them from nearly every rafter, an old church pew, a table made from an industrial cable spool, heaps of tamarisk branches in piles. On the floor, four shipping pallets and a mattress form my bed. An old rowboat, and a single light, borrowed from Jon’s space upstairs, while he’s away, round out the picture. I can’t think of a better place to work.
Despite the lovely surroundings, I’ve been feeling nervous and in a rut the last few days. Breathing has become something I almost have to remind myself of. Deciding not to sail to the Azores has left a planning vacuum. What’s more I feel kind of like a “lame duck” visitor now, one that’s voted himself off the island but yet come up with anything better to do—until yesterday that is.
It occurred to me that instead of just going home early I could scrape together my resources, buy a boat, a small motor cruiser, and head across the Channel to France, meet up with Mira in Paris and visit family in Cologne all by means of rivers and canals. apparently Europe’s inland waterways are quite comprehensive. The thought that I could, was immediately followed up with, “Could I really!?” Do I have the skills to skipper my own boat? I learned a lot from sailing down the Channel with Dom and Jack. I feel pretty smart and quite aware when it comes to boats, but could I really do it? I’ve been reading a book today called Voyaging On a Small Budget and it seems that the financial side can be sorted out, also marine diesel is about the only cheap fuel source in Europe, so it wouldn’t be horrendously more expensive than sailing. I’m going to research it over the next few days and then decide. I mentioned it to Hans and he immediately looked through his stacks and stacks of old boating magazines to extract the one with the “Crossing the Channel for the First Time” article. I spoke to my parents today but didn’t mention my potential new plans. I imagine they would have only come up with reasons why it wouldn’t work. Who knows, but I have to say I’m excited. Plan B is to do the whole thing by Land Rover. We’ll see.
—06.18.2000—
I mulled over my boating idea with Hans and Jon some more the other day. They both said they wouldn’t do it by themselves. Both of them are notoriously safety conscious when it comes to the sea. Runs in the family I guess. James Ross and Darren, a local fisherman, both agree that it would be a lovely idea. Hmm. I’ll pick up the RYA Motor Cruiser course notes and see what they have to say. It will also be dependent on whether I can get a loan or not for the amount of the vessel.
Well, I had a hair cut today. Jon’s brother Oliver and his wife Katie are here at the moment. Katie was cutting Oliver’s hair and she invited me to get in line. My hair was loooong. Now it’s short, short, short, and I’m clean-shaven—no beard. Feels nice. Nobody is going to recognize me tonight. We’re having my belated birthday party in the garden. We pulled out the wooden table from the barn, to which has been affixed a metal and glass candelabra (a reclaimed light fixture from some old ceiling?). For a backdrop we have a stunning view of the sea.
—06.19.2000—
It was nice party last night. Everyone came. So nice to have the chance to get together with everyone before I leave.
A book I’d ordered came in the mail today, “European Waterways, A Guide for First Time Users.” I’m in the “what was I thinking?” part of the process now. Buying a boat, registering it, licensing, not to mention the skills involved that I don’t have, not to mention doing it alone. At least I didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand. I’m back in the planning vacuum again and depression has returned.
—06.24.2000—
I fear this is all coming to rather an anticlimactic ending. I’ve dispensed with the idea of buying a boat. And I’m not going to buy a Land Rover for a drive around Europe either because the time seems too short to make it worthwhile and taking it back to the States requires sorting out heaps of regulations and paperwork.
So I’ve decided to head off in two days to go see Mirasol in Barcelona and Paris. Though that plan isn’t as adventurous as I’d hoped for, it’ll be super nice to see her. I’ve made her a necklace out of the little yellow, orange and brown periwinkle (sea snail) shells I found on the beaches here. I imagine it will look good against her brown skin and that she’ll like it.
I feel I write too much about myself and spend too much inside my own head. Why don’t I take you outside?
The island has exploded with plant life in the last month or so. What was only covered in grass this winter, is now covered in chest-deep new growth that must be waded through. Everything is overflowing with green: the hedges, the fields, and the paths. Mostly it’s bracken. Only the constant trampling of animals can keep it down. But there aren’t a lot of animals on the island since there’s no place to butcher them. The cuckoos are also out now too. They’re terrible at telling the time though. Listening to them you’d think it was 50, 60 or 70 o’clock.
The weather has been reluctant to change, though the fog, stubborn as it’s been, is slowly thinning. I don’t really mind it. When Gugh appears as just a faint lump across Porth Conga and streams of mist race over the still-roofless gig shed, the islands look mysterious.
I met a very pretty girl last night in the pub, her face clear and glowing. When I saw her again sitting at the big table by the window with a group of friends, I pushed my fear aside and asked if I could join her. “Yes, if you’d like.” I noted the feeling that, yes, I would very much like. She had been here for the week with a yoga class. I’d noticed her group in the Island Hall while I was searching for a place to fill up a water jug and had decided not to disturb them. She was from Falmouth, a town now rising higher in my estimation. Anyway, she was really lovely. I enjoyed every moment I sat there with her, smiling, telling her about my last few months on the island, driving tractors, designing, and digging. Today she is going back home to Falmouth and her boyfriend, alas, but what an enjoyable evening.
——
How often do I follow my own truth, as I did last night? So often I set it aside...
I have to say it doesn’t feel right the way this is all ending. I’ve been here since November. I’ve sat with the sea, learned about boats, and I’m now going to fly to Barcelona, take the train to Paris, and Cologne, and fly home. It doesn’t feel right at all. Where’s the big adventure? Where’s the dramatic climax?
- Porth Conga is the cove on the quay side of the sandbar separating Gugh from St. Agnes.
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