As a child I used to conjure islands of adventure like the ones characters in my favorite books encountered. A closet full of moth-balled leftovers was one of my atolls. There, under the light of a single incandescent bulb, I transformed into a pirate seeking treasure. A second isle was underneath the dining tablecloth, where I befriended a horse and we explored the crags and swards of our isolated home. A third island was a small pocket of trees in the schoolyard, where my friends and I invented vast kingdoms to rule over.
Now, I’m on a real island, in the northern hemisphere, trying to manage exhaustion and frustration in the interstices between two seasons. A brooding sky mimics my mood as I step off the ferry. Dots of yellow blooms carpet the ground, waving furiously, as if to make up for the missing sun. I choose a path inland, not much caring where it leads. Ringed by the sea, how lost could I get? There are no shops here, no libraries or museums, and only a few inhabitants who keep to themselves. Islands within the island.
I’ve brought necessities for the day: a sandwich, hot tea in a thermos, a woolen hat. I stomp the forested trails, pause at a wicker gate to wonder what it’s like living in this remote manner, gape at rusting canons of an abandoned fort pointing to enemies unknown beyond the shore. Slowly, the clouds give way to a sultry afternoon. The frenzied wind simmers off. I sip from my thermos, wishing for an iced beverage. I enter one of the darkened caves seeking relief in its shade, then leave immediately, nose wrinkled in disappointment. The smell of urine and someone’s squashed soda can are my unsought discoveries inside.
At the foot of a lone tree I spread out my meager picnic. Biting into the doughy lunch, I wish I’d brought fried chicken instead, a fruit salad, perhaps splurged on some Prosecco. I wish I’d thought to pack sunglasses for this trip, worn lighter layers. I wish I’d packed a book and earbuds. I wish the island had cellular signal. Sitting there in isolation, wind whipping my hair into my mouth and eyes, I wish many things.
If wishes were wings many more of us would perish like Icarus, our desires the wrong material for the world we inhabit. So, dissatisfied and limited as to options, I finish my tepid meal, brush the crumbs from my lap, and trudge some more. “Why did I want to come here?” I question, “it’s just a mass of land like any other. What did I think I’d find?” I turn the corner and encounter a large wooden door. The sort keeping in dragons and perhaps opening to other realms. There’s a bench in front of it, for inexplicable reasons. “How ironic!” The barred door seems to mock, “once you dreamed of being alone on an island, and now it’s happened you’re wasting time with other wants.”
I sit on the embankment of flaxen blooms, look up at the swiftly shifting horizon, and realize I need to expand my creative powers. I need to begin again, to observe the world through that childhood sight where earth and sky were first-time experiences. And I fantasize — this time not about escaping monsters or seeking gold, no. Instead, my heart escapes as a seagull, wings borne aloft by the wind’s weight. My fingers turn into floret stalks nodding in unison. My feet are bedrock, eons old and battered by salty licks. I caress the rough lichen on stone, taste the fish-oil on the breeze, hear the chorus of squawks up above. I let the wilderness enter me. Just like the island, I am on the precipice, ever-changing in the stillness yet to come.
Longing for what I believe I lack falls away. I already possess everything necessary: silence, heartbeat, a place to play.
Bespoke Traveler Note:
Author Lisa See examines friendship during war in a matriarchal society in “The Island of Sea Women.” Find it at your local bookstore or through the link here.
Thank you for listening. “The Magic Island” was written and narrated by Atreyee Gupta. To read more travel tales, head to our website at www.bespoketraveler.com.
