Whispers

West End, Tortola

An ocean is forever asking questions,
And writing them aloud along the shore.
--Edwin Arlington Robinson


Today began with a tug: should I go to Cane Garden Bay snorkeling with Bev? Should I go over to Jost Van Dyke to see how it's changed since I was here five years ago? Should I do the familiar, my island routine? (That has become spending the morning at Long Bay; lunch - barefoot - at the beach restaurant with a glass of chardonnay and mahi-mahi drizzled with mango salsa; afternoon at Smuggler's for a swim, skimming over the coral spying elkhorn coral, schools of inch long silver fish, angelfish tucked under sea fans; then home to rinse the day off of my salty skin before dinner with friends. )

I did a little of the unfamiliar, a little of the familiar. Bev, who I met diving, invited me to join her and some others snorkeling at Cane Garden Bay. " Meet us by the tire swing at 11:15am." After deciding that Jost Van Dyke was too much work to make happen, I packed my gear for snorkeling, drove the Suzuki over the hairpin turns leading to Cane Garden, parked and watched for Bev.

The beach was packed with cruise ship folks who had been dropped off by an open air jitney for a few hours. It was like New York or the League of Nations: families, elderly couples with swollen bellies tottering a bit in the uneven sand. I missed Bev or the plans must have changed, and I had no way of reaching her. So, what is Plan B?

Long Bay ( see picture above ) was breathtaking, with only 15 or so people walking the beach or body surfing in the almost high tide. I settled into the familiar, picked up my new book ( # 7 --thank goodness for book exchanges or I would be reading phone books ), the surf pounding inches from my feet.

Smuggker's Cove at 3:30p.m. Patricia, the woman who always greets me with a beverage, smiled hello, her red curls piled on top of her head. I settled into my usual spot to the east side of the beach shaded by a coconut palm, beach chair angled away from the afternoon sun.

I arrived back on top of my hill as the clouds thickened. I could see the grey shadow of rain across the channel, hovering over St. John. Night falls, the dots of yellow light begin to appear on the hills beyond as people prepare their dinner, do their homework, kiss their loved ones hello. The water softens into a blue-grey; one lone sailboat, mainsail taut, headed for safe harbor on St. John beneath fat black clouds. The sliver of a brand new moon somehow slips through a crack in the clouds, Venus twinkling below it. Copland's Appalachian Spring serenades me.

Today was a perfect day: old and new; sun and storm. Contemplative, in the end.

Tomorow is my last day on this island. I won't leave with any regrets, any unfulfilled expectations.

When I first came to these beaches, I poured my angst, my worries, my fears into the vastness of the ocean.

Today, I think I began to hear the shore whispering back to me.

M.C.