Late-night wander round sleepy hollow

The bus driver shouts the name of my stop and I stumble off the bus bewildered, having just woken up from a short nap. It’s nearly one in the morning in London and I’m exhausted from six hours of traveling. Although theoretically it’s only a quick hop from the continent to the Queen’s land by plane, it involves so much waiting, sitting and standing for hours in a succession of blank rooms with cardboard walls and florescent snack machines; it’s exhausting. But, I have finally made it to my destination and I will soon be reunited with my good friend in her warm and cozy flat – or so I hope.

“This bag weighs about two tons,” the bus driver informs me darkly. I laugh nervously and take it from her. “Thanks, have a great night.” I wait for the bus to pull away before heaving my giant backpack onto my shoulders, wobbling slightly as I try to steady myself. Once I’ve gained my balance, I take in my surroundings. The street is lit up with neon signs as far as the eye can see; that’s a good sign. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single person out. I see a map at the bus stop so I amble over to check it out. Peering at the map, I try to make sense of where I am and search desperately for my friend’s street name. My heart sinks a little; I don’t recognize a single street name or underground station in the area.

I spot a few men doing road work on the other side of the street so I cross over, nearly getting run over by an oncoming car driving speedily on the right side of the road. “Right, London,” I think to myself, making a mental note to be more careful about street crossings. I tell the construction worker where I’m trying to go and he takes a moment to think, scratching his chin unreassuringly. He looks up and down the street, a bit befuddled. “Well, the tube stopped running a few minutes ago… How long can you walk with that thing?” he asks me in a thick British accent, pointing at my bag towering an extra foot over my head.

My heart sinks a bit further. “I think I’m just going to give my friend a call. But thanks for your help.” I start off down the road in search of a pay phone. I spot one on a side street and jostle into the tiny glass box, my enormous backpack sticking out into the street. I slide in my credit card and follow the directions. “This is a credit card call,” the woman’s voice on the line informs me. “The cost is three pounds per minute. Press one if you accept the charges.” I nearly choke when I hear the price rate. Six dollars a minute!? That is insanity. But, I’m in a new city, I have no idea where I am, and it’s the middle of the night. I hesitate for a minute before pressing number one with defeat.

Jackie picks up cheerily. I don’t let her get a word in and immediately begin talking at her very fast, explaining my situation. She springs into action to find me directions on her computer. “Hmmm… That looks like a bit of a hike,” she informs me, much to my dismay. Of course, the telephone doesn’t have a chronometer so I have no idea how much time (and therefore, money) is being spent. I give her the number stamped in the pay phone and she promises to call back in a minute. I hang up with relief, hoping not to have done too much damage to my bank account. With conversion fees and hidden credit card charges, you never know.

I keep my hand on the receiver expectantly, but a minute turns into two and the phone still hasn’t rung. I begin to worry. Thankfully, I see a couple walking across the street so I pop outside the box, being sure to keep the door open in case the phone rings. “Hey, which way is Kilburn?” I shout into the night.

“The tube stop?” the woman replies. “Yeah, I’m trying to get there but the underground stopped running.” I explain. “Whoa, that’ll take forever,” her boyfriend says matter-of-factly, adding to my mounting panic.“No, it’s not so bad,” the girlfriend tries to reassure me. “It’s that way, maybe ten minutes walking,” she points down a dark road that twists out of sight. “Thanks,” I mutter half-heartedly. 

They hurry home and I turn my attention back to the phone, willing for it to ring. My efforts are unrewarded and I resign myself to the reality of the situation. It looks like I have no choice. I begin to walk hesitantly down the street in the direction she pointed. There’s not a soul in sight. I see a movement to my left and jerk my head to check it out. Skulking in the shadows across the street, a reedy golden fox makes its way shiftily down the sidewalk, ignoring my presence. A fox in the middle of the city? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in the woods! I gape at it in shock for a moment before continuing on my journey; we both have places to go.   

As I walk down the deserted street, I crane my neck to see if I can make out any sign of life in the distance. The night is still. An almost full moon peers down at me eerily from behind a streak of gossamer clouds. A cold wind rustles the trees furiously; streetlight shadows dance all around me. I shudder as fear creeps up on me from behind. I shake it off resolutely and march forward, pushing away all thoughts of scary movies to the farthest reaches of my mind.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I see movement up ahead, car beams crossing the street; my heart perks up. “I must be getting to a major road,” I think to myself happily. Finally, I make it to the cross street to find it’s not a major intersection at all, just a one-way lane with the occasional car streaking by in the night. Another bus stop map informs me that I am nearing my destination, but I still have a while to go. I leave the comfort of the well-lit road and plunge into the darkness once again. As I take in the neat facades on both sides of the street, I think about the families behind the brick walls; most of them are probably asleep for the night, and I am envious. It’s strange to be surrounded by such a sleepy neighborhood when I myself feel completely on edge, my body buzzing with nervous energy.

At last, I make it to a proper intersection. Cars rush by in a blur and blinking lights colorfully advertise kebabs and haircuts. The sign on the street reads “Kilburn High Road” and I rejoice. The tube stop is somewhere on this street, I’m sure of that- but which direction? My intuition says right, but I have no idea why. I cross the street and ask a hoodied chap standing in line for a sandwich. He points me to the left and away I go. My fear dissipates and is replaced with a wave of joy; I feel light on my feet even with my mammoth backpack pulling down on my shoulders.

I see a red circle in the distance and assume it’s the tube stop. Another wave of happiness. As I approach, though, I realize that it’s just a sign designating a one-way street. Hmm, it’s probably on the next block, I try to convince myself. A bus stop map doesn’t prove to be helpful in my pursuit. In fact, it only confuses me further; it seems as if there are multiple Kilburn stations in the area. Oh no. I begin to panic.

I accost a white-haired woman coming off a bus. “Kilburn station? I’m looking for the Kilburn tube station,” I ask her urgently. “Well, up ahead is the Kilburn Park station,” she responds cautiously. Heart starts sinking fast. “I need Kilburn, just Kilburn.” She points down the street behind me from where I came. My heart is in my shoes. I knew I should have followed my intuition. “Anyway, the tube won’t be running this late, dear,” she says kindly, obviously a bit concerned for this confused traveler. “I know… My friend lives right next to it, though,” I explain dejectedly as I fall into step with her. “Well, tell your friend to come here and get you!”, she says with a laugh. I mumble something about pay phones costing a fortune in this country and we part ways. She wishes me good luck as she turns down a side street and I start the arduous task of retracing my steps. (This seems to be a theme in my travel stories!)

My joy has vanished. Instead, I dream up scenarios where I see the stupid guy who sent me in the wrong direction and tell him off. I have no idea what time it is and I’m sure that Jackie is worried sick about me. I quicken my pace and send her telepathic messages, hoping she receives them soon. I pass by the sandwich shop where I first asked for directions; my hoodied friend isn’t there. My body aches all over, and I wish so badly that I could take a break and drop my bag, but I press on.

Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the Kilburn underground station glowing warmly in the cold night. I’m too exhausted to react; no more joy or anger, nothing. The following street is Jackie’s; I turn down it and search for her house number. The upstairs light in her building is on. “Jackie!”, I call out quietly into the night, looking for her buzzer in the darkened doorway. She sticks her curly head out the window. “Carmella! Thank God! Stay there, I’m coming down!” I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction; I made it. She throws open the door and squeezes me in a hug. The exasperation of the last few hours fades away as I follow my friend up the stairs and into her warm, cozy room. The tea kettle wails on the stovetop and I collapse on the bed. Another day in the life of a vagabond.

Up a Mountain Without a Back-up Plan!

The day started out promising. The last vestiges of the starry night were drowned out by a faint glow of daylight emanating from behind the mountain range to the east. I welcomed them from the tip of the rocky outcrop where I had pitched my tent for the night, but I did not wait around to see the sun show its face. Like the sun, I had places to go and many mountains to climb. I broke down my little makeshift campsite, home base for the past twelve hours, and packed everything into my trusty green backpack that has been with me through thick and thin during my travels on five continents. I stuffed my sleeping bag into its’ tiny sack, never ceasing to be amazed by the way this large comforter can be reduced to the size of an airplane pillow in sixty seconds. My tent poles were folded into themselves and then rolled into the tent fabric so that the whole package fit snugly into a small bag. The tent and my rolled up sleeping pad got strapped to either side of my pack, the rest of my belongings crammed into the backpack. I tightened the straps and I was on my way.

typical Corsica; pigs everywhere!

I was on my way to meet my friends Laura and Anthony in the mountains in the middle of Corsica. A brilliant idea, I know. They had begun the GR20 about a week earlier in Calenzana, and they were hiking southward on the grisly trail. The GR20, GR standing for “big hike” in French, is France’s most extreme hike, running the length of the island north to south; fifteen legs of six to eight hour days of hiking through rough terrain and even rougher weather. Because of scheduling conflicts, we had decided it would be best if I met them a few days in, at the mountain refuge of Manganu on this lovely Tuesday. I had started hiking from the town of Evisa on Monday evening, having made my way from the coast via bus and a very fortunate hitch-hiking connection. Laura and Anthony would be coming from a mountain refuge to the north, and they had more miles to make than I did.

The morning fog burned off slowly as I made my way across a ridge and up a steep mountainside to the Verghio Pass. I took my time going up, taking lots of breaks to enjoy the scenery and to snap photographs. I was only a few kilometers from the pass, and I made it to the top before midday. At the road, my trail joined the GR20 trail and I had a short moment of anticipation thinking that I might run into my friends here, if the stars really did align. (They didn’t.) There was a little hostel on the road where many hikers were taking breaks before continuing on for the day, either northward to Ciottulu di Mori, or southward to Manganu like me. The hostel sold a few provisions: cheese, bread, saucisson, and a few cans of tuna sat on wooden shelves that were much too large. I refueled with a snack and shouldered my pack to continue my journey. I considered waiting there for my friends, but decided against it; after five days of hiking, they were definitely in great shape and would surely catch up with me very soon, I reasoned.

she is a thing of beauty

Lesson number 1: don’t go into the woods without a map. I figured the trail would be marked, and it was, so I shouldn’t have a problem. Except that I had no idea what lay ahead of me – not about the mileage, not about the terrain, nothing. So I naively went on my merry way, encountering red-faced hikers coming from the direction in which I was headed. We exchanged hellos as we marched onward in opposite directions. I took my sweet time; I stopped to take pictures, and I even stopped to take an extended break underneath a particularly gorgeous shade tree. I pulled out my journal and began free-writing about the beauty of said tree – the hearty foliage, the withered yet tough trunk, the sprawling roots! I was on a roll. As I sat enjoying the afternoon breeze from the comfort of my new favorite spot, two gentleman passed me going southward, one very short and the other quite tall. They stopped to admire my tree for a minute. “That’s a good one!,” they enthused. I agreed wholeheartedly and continued writing. After a bit, I took to the path once again in direction of Manganu.

Col St Pietro with the ferocious climb in the background

So, the problem about hiking without a map is that you have nothing to use as reference. I was basically walking blindly in the wilderness, guilelessly following the red and white markers painted every 50 meters or so. By mid-afternoon, I figured I must not be too far from my destination. Don’t ask me how I reached this conclusion; wishful thinking, I suppose. Also, it might have been because I was feeling pretty battered by the elements at this point. Although the hike had started out woodsy and only moderately inclined after Vergio, it soon became much more intense. After a pretty steady climb up to the col St. Pietro, I found myself battling up a bare mountainside with a scary wind whipping around me, threatening to send me flying. In all seriousness, I was glad to have my heavy pack secured on my back to keep me grounded. The path up the mountain was all rock with no trees to shelter you (I’m sure trees had tried to grow here and had been unsuccessful from the intense wind!) and it zigzagged up the mountain rather than going straight up. This meant that at times I had the wind full force in my face as I hunched over trying to make forward progress, and other times I was virtually being thrown forward by the strong gusts pushing at my back.  This went on for about half an hour, but it felt never-ending.

GR20 markings on a tree

As I recovered on my rock with a snack of some dried fruits and nuts, the gentlemen pair that I had met earlier crossed my path again. I asked them, quite desperately, if we were almost there yet. One of them raised their eyebrows and said vaguely, “I think we have a bit more to go,” in a tone that meant we had a LOT more to go. The other got out his trail guide and showed me where we were on the map. “See here, number 33.” He then traced his finger along the red line, past numbers 34 and 35. He turned the page. His finger continued the width of the page, and he turned the page again, tracing the line to the very end of the page. “Number 40, that’s where the refuge is,” he told me with a big smile. Unfortunately, I couldn’t return the gesture. I was in shock. THREE PAGES OF TRAIL LEFT?! “Wow,” was all I was able to muster. “Yeah, today’s hike is a long one,” the taller one agreed. I’ll say.

We continued on our way together, crossing a rocky ridge and passing some spectacular views of the massive mountains all around us. As I found out later from other hikers, we were quite lucky to have any visibility at all. As we walked, we got to know each other. They were from the Swiss town of Luzerne and they had started from the top but were only going midway to Vizzavona, as was I. They asked me if I was traveling alone and I told them about meeting my friends at Manganu. “Have you met them, by any chance?,” I inquired to my new friends. “They started the same day as you, last Thursday, at Calenzana.” They gave it some thought and asked some other questions to help them identify Laura and Anthony. “I don’t think so,” said Jean, the shorter one. “Wait, could it be that couple that quit the trail on Saturday?,” exclaimed Pierre, his taller companion. I was horrified to hear this and assured them that my friends were “montagnards,” mountain people who hailed from the high Alps. There was no way they had given up already and these two middle-aged men hadn’t. But their description of the couple sounded scarily like my friends. They said the girl had gotten injured on the trail so they had to throw in the towel. It wasn’t likely that this was Laura and Anthony, but it was possible. Injuries happen, and there’s nothing you can do about them except thrown in the towel.

I contemplated the possibility of not finding my friends at the end of the day and considered my options. “You’ll continue with us, of course!,” my new friends offered encouragingly. It was a thought. I hadn’t come all this way to turn around, right? We passed the ridge and continued alongside another mountain, until we came to a wide valley opening up beneath us. The valley was filled with lakes, a whole smattering of them as far as you could see. It was a gorgeous view, but there was no sign of the refuge anywhere. There was a fountain nearby with fresh mountain water gushing out. We filled our bottles and descended into the valley. Pierre lagged behind taking pictures and video as Jean and I scampered up the path, commenting on the landscape around us. It was quite astounding- the colors of the changing leaves, the bright moss on the rocks, the gnarled tree stumps leftover from lightning storms. We noticed several distinct smells as we walked and tried to place them to their appropriate bush or flower. I had put the notion of not seeing my friends out of my head and I was downright giddy about arriving soon. 

Lac de Nino

Until now, the weather had held up beautifully, but the sky was beginning to look suspicious. At the first sign of rain, we all dropped our packs and put on our rain gear. I just had an old rain jacket that has seen several seasons of farming and many a downpour. The Swiss, on the other hand, were equipped with rain covers for their bags, rain pants (which they had to take their shoes off to put on), and rain jackets. Pierre even had a cute little rain hat to top it all off. Luckily, the rain didn’t stick and we barely got wet. A few minutes after the shower, the Swiss decided to disrobe out of their rain gear. Off came the packs, off came the shoes, off came the little rain hat. No costume change for me since it didn’t bother me to keep my rain jacket on. Plus, you never know in the mountains. A quarter of an hour later, the rainclouds were back for another round. Once again, the Swiss geared up. Hilariously, off came the packs, off came the shoes, on came the little rain hat. I felt like I was hanging out with two of the three stooges. At this rate, we were never going to make it to the refuge before nightfall. I looked longingly towards the other side of the valley, imagining what Laura and Anthony were doing at that moment. Hopefully cooking up a nice hot meal!

At last, we crested a hill and on the other side – ta da! – a quaint-looking mountain cabin with lots of blue tents set up around in. There were even a few horses in a paddock surrounded by rock walls. It was an adorably bucolic scene. “Why are all the tents the same?,” I asked the Swiss stooges. “I think people can rent them from the refuge,” responded Jean. This worried me a bit, as I didn’t see Laura and Anthony’s green tent, but I was still optimistic. When we came to the log cabin, an attendant came out to inform us that she had cheese for sale. We noticed a different name written on the door. “This isn’t Manganu?,” we asked in French. “Oh no, this is a private bergerie. Manganu is just a little bit further. You can see it from here.” We strained our eyes to see the refuge; we could barely make it out shrouded in mist in the distance. “It’s just une petite demi heure from here,” the attendant assured us. The French have this adorable way of expressing time; a little half hour, she said. Not too bad. I’ll take it!

As we walked away from the bergerie, I tried not to feel too frustrated. I focused on the positive things. For example, my pants were almost completely dry! And just as I had that thought – the moment right after, I swear – the rain came out of nowhere and began pelting us with huge droplets. We were just far enough from the bergerie that it didn’t make sense to turn around and seek shelter. Plus, it was probably another fake-out like the past two rainfalls.

In fact, it was no such thing. We proceeded to get pounded by sheets of rain for the remainder of our hike. With clenched teeth, I concentrated my gaze on the ground in front of me to stay out of the puddles and avoid falling on the slippery rocks underfoot. After a while, I realized it was a futile effort. I gave up trying to keep my feet dry and was now haphazardly sloshing through a river of rain. My only goal at this point was to stay upright; falling with my pack in this storm could be disastrous. I was pushing with all my might to make it to the refuge. It was now plainly in sight, but still much too far away for my taste. I wanted to get there already! Yeah right, une petite demi heure, I thought to myself with a laugh. These Corsicans must be fast walkers.

At last, we crossed a bridge where another river was running (different from the river running below our feet that was once the trail) and finally made it onto the porch of the refuge. Jean pushed the door open into the main room; it was loud and packed full of people. We stood in the doorway because there was nowhere to go. I stood behind the Swiss, still completely exposed to the elements and utterly shell-shocked from the effort of running madly through driving rain for close to an hour on a trail of treacherous and slippery rocks. All of my hope had evaporated. I knew my friends wouldn’t be here.

Slowly, we were able to make our way into the crowded room. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had streams of water running down my body, my rain jacket having proved useless in the deluge. A giant puddle was forming around us. Exhausted but desperate, I scanned the faces of our fellow hikers, searching for features that might belong to my friends: Laura’s apple cheeks, Anthony’s spiky hair. My search came out negative. The Swiss had been right. Laura and Anthony had ditched the trail.

The Swiss tried to convince me stay in a bed in the refuge – “There is one extra!,” the assured me – but I didn’t want to spend the eleven euros to sleep in a tiny space with snoring retirees. Plus, I hadn’t hauled my tent all this way for nothing! I summoned all the energy I had left and headed out into the still driving rain to pitch my tent. The first campsite I tried was unsuccessful; there was no shelter and I ended up chasing my tent in the wind. The second site was cushy in comparison – a pallet hidden in some bushes. Perfect. The pallet elevated it off the ground to ensure that I wouldn’t be sleeping in a lake, and the bushes provided a safe haven from the insane mountain blasts that we were experiencing that evening. After that was done, I went back inside to make myself some soup. It tasted heavenly, even if it was just powdered soup mix from a bag. I slurped down the hot liquid and refilled my cup. As I ate and regained feeling in my fingers and toes, I asked the hikers around me about my friends. No one had any information, as I had suspected. The Swiss fluttered around me, making sure I was okay. Would I be safe outside in my tent? Was I absolutely sure? I could always come inside if things got too rough.  I was glad to have them looking out for me, but I was definitely not in a very friendly mood.

Dejectedly, I headed back outside to my tent. The rain had mostly subsided but the wind was still howling furiously. There was a school group staying in the refuge that night as well, and I could hear them making a ruckus as they ran around, the boys playing tricks on the girls and fighting in the heavy fog. Every now and then, their teacher could be heard yelling at them over the wind to behave and settle down. I read my book for a while, trying not to get worked up about my situation. I had completely lost my motivation to go on without my friends. And to tell you the truth, I was a bit pissed off, thinking they were probably laying on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas while I was huddled in my tent braving a terrible storm on a mountaintop – alone.  

It wasn’t so bad, really. I had a good book. Warm, dry socks. A safe place to sleep for the night. The Swiss stooges had my back. I really can’t complain. After a while, I headed back to the common room to make some tea and hang out with hikers before everyone turned in for the night. I tried with all my might to find a space to hang my dripping clothes in hopes that they might be less soggy in the morning, to no avail. Everyone else had the same idea, it seems. My shoes were a lost cause, I knew that much to be true. The following day would be a difficult one on the trail.  First off, hiking in soaking wet shoes is never fun. Secondly, a hiker hates going back on their steps, but alas, I had decided that was the best choice. I didn’t want to continue in terrible weather without my friends, and I really, really wanted to see my friends! So I decided to head back to the Col de Vergio and get in touch with them – somehow, hopefully, maybe, possibly? If that didn’t work out, it was back to the beach for me! Having made my decision, I headed back to my tent and fell asleep immediately, despite the shrieking middle-schoolers and screaming wind.

Retracing my steps the next day was less terrible than I had anticipated. The weather held up, and although my shoes remained hopelessly wet, the rest of my clothes dried off by late morning. I decided to take my time again and smell the roses. Or rather, hang out with cows, take more pictures, and write more poems. I wasn’t in a hurry seeing as I had no idea what my plan was beyond Vergio. 

I finally made it to my destination around noon (civilization! cell phone service!) and asked a stranger if I could borrow his phone. “It’s urgent!,” I promised. He obliged disdainfully (these French can be so unfriendly sometimes!) and I quickly dialed Laura’s number. My heart fell when I heard her voicemail message. I told her where I was, asked where she was, and told her she better call me back ASAP or else. Miraculously, she called back about a minute after I had handed the stranger his phone, and I responded gleefully. “Laura!! Where the heck are you?” She asked me the same question. It took a minute for both of us to figure out what had happened with the plan. (Whose stupid plan was this anyway?? Oh yeah… mine.) She and Anthony were still on the trail (I knew they hadn’t given up!! Those crazy Swiss guys…) but they had doubled up a few days so they were already in Vizzavona. They had tried to get in touch with me via my father, but that plan hadn’t worked since I hadn’t checked in with him since I got to the island (bad daughter move on my part, now karma was coming for me!). Luckily for me, Vizzavona is one of the few places on the trail that is reachable by a road, so I told her to stay put and I was on my way! How, I had no idea. I was, literally, in the middle of nowhere. I looked at a map to figure out which route was my best bet, threw my bag over my shoulder yet again, walked across the street, and stuck out my thumb emphatically. I had a plan, a new destination!  

It would take me the rest of the day, but I finally rolled into the train yard in Vizzavona just as the sun was setting behind the mountains, casting everything in that glorious, vibrant light. Laura and Anthony were standing on the platform, waving at me frantically as we waited for the train to slow down so I could jump out and smother them in a bear hug. After a bit of confusion, a lot of rain, and many miles by foot, car, and train- we were finally reunited. My feet were killing me from being in wet shoes all day, but it didn’t matter. They snuck me into the hostel they were staying for the night and I was able to take a hot shower – heaven on Earth. Snuggling into my sleeping bag nestled on the floor amongst all of the packs, hiking poles and smelly boots, I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. It had been a bit shaky for a minute there, but everything had turned out fine in the end. And just as I was drifting off to sleep, the chorus of snores started. Ah, the joys of traveling.

Laura, Anthony and I, happily reunited at last!

Scaring yourself silly

Have you heard that old adage, “Do one thing every day that scares you”? I’ve read it a thousand times and always agreed with it wholeheartedly, without ever really thinking about what it meant.  Today, I was shown the true value of this saying.

The day started out on a sailboat at anchor in a little bay on an island a few miles off the southern coast of France. We weren’t too far from land, so I strapped on my snorkel and mask, jumped in the water, and headed for shore. As I meandered through the waves, scouting the landscape for interesting plants and colorful sea life, I came across an octopus waving its tentacles in an elegant dance. Upon seeing me, it quickly lowered itself down and tried to hide in the grassy sea floor. If I hadn’t caught it in the act, I surely would not have noticed its’ googly eyes peering out at me from the algae as I swam over it. I hovered above the octopus-in-hiding, waving my arms to try to scare it into dancing for me again. But the googly eyes just blinked at me from that big, bulbous head, tentacles tucked underneath; unmoving, it did its best to blend in with the surroundings. Although I wanted to swim down to get a closer look, I kept my distance for fear it would spray me with its secret inky weapon, or worse, strangle me with all eight of its scary, slimy limbs. (I have an irrational fear of octopus; something about those suction cups freak me out!) 

Once ashore, I made my way down the beach past the tanning tourists and up the hill to the abandoned fort on top. I climbed around the crumbling structure, inspecting the walls built into the rock, hoping to find some secret passageway – perhaps leading to a vault full of treasure? I found no such thing, so I gave up poking around and wandered over to the far side of the hill for a better view of the bay. From here, I could see down into a cute little cove below, sheltered from the bay with big beautiful rocks rising up from the achingly aquamarine water. I knew I had to get down there somehow; I absolutely needed to explore that cove and swim in that crystal clear oasis! I slung my snorkel over my shoulder like a purse and began picking my way down the rocky ravine, wincing from the pain of sharp stones digging into my bare feet. As I ouched and ahh-ed my way towards the water, I contended with the fact that I might not be able to find a safe place to slide into that dreamy blue lagoon once I reached the bottom of the incline. If the boulders were too big or the jump down too dangerous because of submerged rocks below, I would simple have to give up, turn around, and wince my way back up the mountainside to the fort on the hill. I took my chances and kept going.

I was finally just a body length away from the water. Ecstatically and optimistically, I surveyed the scene to determine my best point of entry. The water looked so enticing, but I could also see slippery rocks and a collection of jagged driftwood lying dangerously just below where I stood. Only one giant boulder stone in between myself and my swim, and if only I could get onto it, I would be home free. The problem was, it was just a bit too far for my short legs to reach. I stretched each one of my limbs in turn, trying to elongate and contort my body, but it just wasn’t happening. My only option at this point, besides the unfortunate alternative of turning around, was to free climb my way horizontally across a jagged rock face providing the only link between myself and the boulder.

Now, anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am no rock climber. In fact, I dislike heights very much and I think it’s inane to climb rock walls for no other reason than getting to the top. Maybe if there was a bear chasing me, or a very fine feast awaiting at the summit, I would be interested in shimmying up rock faces; without those incentives, I’m not game. I quite like to have earth beneath me, rather than empty airspace. Call me crazy. So, with all of those reservations swirling around my head, I decided to tackle the task at hand.

I didn’t have so far to go, but it was just enough that it required several thoughtful maneuverings and well-placed footings to make it to the safety of the boulder. At first, I would reach out one hand and one foot, steadying myself and feeling around to acquaint myself with the rock face. Then, I would freak myself out and retreat back to my starting position to gather my strength once again. Each time I reached out to try again, I would get a bit farther; I’d figure out another way to place my feet or find a new craggy nook to clutch desperately. My knuckles shone white as they clutched the rock for dear life and my knees quaked furiously beneath me. Step by tiny step, I tiptoed my way across, my heart in my throat.

It might have only lasted a few short minutes. I have no idea. Time seemed to stand still as I fought the grasp of fear in my mind, trying desperately to ignore that voice telling me I was going to fall from the rock and crack my skull open. I didn’t realize how hard my heart was pounding until my right foot finally found the big, strong boulder I was aiming for and I was able to sit down to catch my breath at last. As I regained my calm and took account of my body and my senses – only then did I realize that I wasn’t breathing and my heart was beating so violently that it was threatening to bound out of my body and into the salty waves below. 

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt such an intense sensation of visceral fear.  As I took in the beauty of my surroundings, I smiled to find that fear melt away, exposing a complete sense of satisfaction, accomplishment, and sheer contentment.  I looked up from where I was sitting, safe and sound atop my rocky throne, to the top of the ravine where I had started my steep descent. I examined how far I had to free climb on that rock face to make it to where I was now sitting. It didn’t seem so bad anymore, but I knew the effort, the will, the raw strength it had taken to make that short traversal. I began to understand that infectious high that pro athletes talk about when they fight and finally succeed in overcoming their inner fear, the wall, “the beast.” It is indeed a rewarding and irresistible feeling, to have conquered such a nasty demon as fear. You get a little taste, and you want more.

With a big, silly smile pasted on my face and a residual buzz coursing through my body, I secured my mask and dove into the crystal cool water. Finally, I got my reward. That first second, when your face hits the water and you’re suddenly privy to a whole crazy world of secret wonders below the surface – that moment is pure magic. I spent the rest of the afternoon moseying along the crooked shoreline, exploring rock caves and diving down to scatter schools of fish like a child running wildly to scatter pigeons congregating on the playground. 

There was a smattering of rocky outliers all around me and, of course, I had to explore.  In between rocks, the ground would drop from beneath me and I would find myself bobbing on the surface of the water, like a fly caught in a wine glass. The speed of my stroke would quicken, for fear of scary sea creatures emerging from the dark bottomless ocean.  As I reached my destination, my arms and legs would slow down from a frantic kick to a more leisurely canter. I found comfort in the fish milling about and the sea grass tickling my body as I absorbed the changing seascapes all around me.

I spent the rest of the afternoon this way, swimming hard for a spell and then taking my time to explore new territory. Every so often, I would poke my head out of the water to make sure our little white sailboat was still within sight, bouncing merrily in the waves. My peaceful afternoon at sea was even more delicious after the dramatic events earlier. It seemed as if I had faced some tough inner demons to get there, and this was my compensation: a few sweet glimpses of life as a mermaid.