Preparing to Leave

September 9, 2007

Day Twenty One

Three-Mile

It was gray and wet with a cool wind from the east. The seas were calming, but I didn’t feel tempted to paddle in the cold. I was wearing all of my layers: my thickest underwear, pants, shirt, fleece and rain jacket, a fleece balaclava around my neck. If I stirred farther than a tour of the campground today, I would head up the Mount Franklin and Tobin Harbor Trails.

This was my last full day on the island. The trip had been everything I hoped it would be in solitude, self-discovery, self acceptance, independence, and getting to know my own mind.

I found out how much I enjoy being with just myself. I had only spent two of the last twenty one days with other people: yesterday with Jim; and the afternoon before with Jim, Patti, and Nile. Other days I’d shared a meal with other travelers, mostly solitaries or pairs. Five of us shared an evening on the dock on West Caribou. More often, though, my meals had been alone. All of the decisions, the coming and the going, had been mine alone.

Later.

Despite the warm sun on the grass beside this beaver pond, I felt my soul preparing to leave. She waited long on this island, lingering in love.
I could barely remember why I was going home. Vague memories of a daughter, a son, Lisa. Work that might make some difference. A black cushion on a black mat in a dimly lit room growing light with the dawn. Elizabeth. In less than twenty four hours I would watch the island sink behind the horizon from the rear deck of the Queen and wonder if I’d see her again. Regardless of how many days I spent on this island, to know even one day here is a perfect and miraculous gift.