I am pulled out of my deep slumber by three contributors:
The glorious sun – it's amazing to know that I am among the first in North America to appreciate its accent, the birds of Marshall Island, who are already hard at work scavenging for food and singing about the day to come, and finally, my impatient bladder. As I pee, I am being filled by a deep gratitude, to be here in the golden grass, among the woodpeckers, chickadees, seagulls, bald eagles, seals, slugs, deer, and even the ticks that call these islands home. I feel grateful to be an observer of the tide, coming in and out twice now during the duration of my sit spot. I wonder if my fellow semester students are also watching the sun and listening to the ornithological orchestra. Perhaps they are still asleep, wrapped up in their sleeping bag cocoons, while we are all out of site and sound of each other, I can feel the pull and presence of the others. We have begun to gravitate around each other, knowing someone will hold you when you are feeling down, listen when endless thoughts sprout out of your being, feed you at the sound of growling stomach, support you in rising to the occasion, and meet back all together around an inner fire after all tasks have been completed and only reflections remain.
“My spot is under a huge gnarly maple tree, and it’s close to the ocean. I’ve noticed many things here. The tree has little flowery buds sprouting from all the knobs on its branches. I thought they were small red berries at first because I did not look close enough.” Sydney
“I am practicing focusing my eyes: Moss on the roots a few feet away, tiny green shoots only inches from me, closer a gray-blue Spider frightened by my breath. I stop breathing until it moves again. The blister on my left index finger then sliding out of focus. The hexagonal disks of iridescence, the sun coaxed out of my eye lashes.” Eliza
This leg has meant so much for us – the return of the spring, the return of expedition and with it some normality, new flows of the day and Earth to adjust to. The rhythms of the Ocean in particular are a large presence in our lives as they set the verdict for how and when we travel. Some days we sit on the beach reading The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson and working on academic assignments, while we wait for the winds to turn, the tide to come in, or the fog to burn off. Other days we move through camp take-down as fast as we can in order to catch the wind in the direction of our next island camp. Those are moments of pure bliss! The hoisted Maroon sails hesitating for a brief moment before billowing out – filled to the brim with the wind’s breath. Suddenly we are flying across the bay without so much of a lily dip in the water.
The days of hard travel against wind and tide, paddle in hand, have gifted us with a deeper appreciation, a childlike wonder at what the power of the wind coupled with a few motions of our sun-cooked, salt-boiled, paddle-hardened hands can achieve. Almost like Aladdin’s carpet, but better.
Each of the islands we visited has been kind to us, each beautiful in her own way. Like us these islands will be forever connected through their shared history of once being a unified landmass separated by a passing iceberg. While they no longer touch, they are the same essence, united by the same sun and water. Jackie reminds us that they still lie together on the continental shelf – some times it is hard to distinguish islands from students, especially with the final days of semester approaching fast and fear of separation, of regression, of the unknown, lays thick like the morning fog.
Soon we will migrate once more to the Connecticut River which will carry us South into familiar lands. The ocean has been so kind to us. We will carry her spirit with us in our souls, and the salt of her waters in our clothes.
Until the next time, OddTree
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