Here is an excerpt from Ocean of Insight: A Climate Justice Memoir (the tale begins in my June 5th posting). Let me know what you think–H
Just then, a man steps out of the beach bungalow on shore and stares toward me. He is dark haired, of medium height, with an ample build. Wearing only a windbreaker over shorts, the fellow is clearly uncomfortable braving gusts that would set a lawn chair flying. He plods down the slope closer to shore, curious, never taking his eyes from the sailboat. I stand still. He sees me seeing him. Of course, the boat’s position looks wrong to him. Our hazardous closeness draws him into the turmoil, beckons him near. I want to shout out, beg him to call for help. My hands flinch with desire to wave overhead; my feet itch to jump. He wants to help. I imagine him comprehending the whole of our distress, jogging up the hill, picking up a phone, and calling the police. He would explain the depths of our plight. He would save us.
Yet, I stand frozen. The tentativeness of his walk, the confused tilt of his head telegraphs he is a person of land. If he were a sailor, he would absorb the situation and start pantomiming questions and solutions. With wind and trees shrieking, I cannot begin to communicate our need to a novice, what he should do. He and I are divided not only by a great gulf of nature that devours all but our visual connection, but by a chasm of understanding, too. Dave and I are weirdly alone eighty yards from shore. Restrained inside a nature-made and societally reinforced isolation chamber, I can see and be seen but interaction is futile. After a time, the man gives up and re-shrouds himself inside the vacation home. The porch light flips on.
Losing this man tears something inside. It’s not just that one more opportunity for rescue is swept away. I am someone who works best with people, in community. When I had an idea to transform the contaminated, inner-city land in my state into parks and gardens, I brought together an advisory team, assembled a Board of Directors, and sought out people who wanted to be members of the effort. When I didn’t know how to account for contributions, attract media attention, or advance complex projects, I formed committees of specialists to inform action. Even in my spiritual life, when I wanted to understand the nature of reality and develop a more peaceful way of being, I joined a Sangha—a community of people studying ancient teachings and practicing mindful meditation. In my experience, the best solutions emerge from a group of caring individuals, so I problem solve through collaboration.
Caring individuals surround us in these islands; I feel them gather together now in holiday celebration. Hope Town, the place we came from this afternoon, is surely abuzz with parties and well-wishing. Cruisers are making their way to one another’s boats to tell tales of their experiences at sea—skirting death and discovering treasure in off-beat destinations. Like seafarers throughout history, modern sailors tell stories of mystery and danger; it’s how we process what happens in this strange environment, learn from one another. But on this night, when the minute hand reaches twelve, an entire year slips beyond reach. Where did it go, we will ask? What have we done with it? How many are left? I think the holiday is a time for people everywhere to gather together to blunt or soften the painful inevitability of death. Perhaps this is why some will drink so heavily tonight. For Dave and me, our direct confrontation with death may be the quintessential New Year’s celebration. How morbid.
Canned ravioli plops into the saucepan without losing the container’s shape. I squirreled this nasty foodstuff deep into a cupboard for a quick source of calories in a pinch. I found it next to a like-sized can of stew. Staring at the tacky lump of unnaturally red mush, I feel dearly sorry for myself and mourn the loss of a lobster that never was. In truth, swallowing anything seems unlikely given the extreme levels of fight or flight chemicals jumbling my innards.
