The Lands Apart

The Lands Apart By Sarah Fairbanks

My world expands, suddenly financially able and untethered, my exploration is reignited after years of going nowhere. The planning phase complete, I shed my analytical mind and step on to the plane. As we fly lower, the water looms up at us, but the wheels meet the tarmac and another safe flight is in the books. The doors pop open, no jetway needed. I step out onto the stairs, the taste of adventure on my tongue, the sun shining upon my skin. We descend the stairs like movie stars or presidents and are directed towards customs. Usually sterile, laden with cold seriousness, Bermuda’s officials quickly glance at our documents within the homey wooden building where we are greeted by big smiles as lays are placed over our heads.

Thrilled Bermuda boasts 70-degree weather in February, I am eager to hit the beaches. Arriving at the edge of the island, where land meets water, we travel down the roadway of pink sand. It begins to drizzle and moments later, the skies open. This does not deter my aunt and I and we continue walking, the only people in sight. Though the rain soaks our pants and dribbles down our faces, the air is warm. Amazed at the jagged rock formations that sit close to shore, framing the water, encasing the view like art, I barely register the heaviness of my jeans nor worry that my makeup has been washed away. Though eventually we drag ourselves from this aqua waterside, piling onto a bus, the locals stare at us as we drip our way down the aisle, they adorned in winter hats and gloves.

We ride the bus all over the island. The drivers tussling their passengers side to side as they speed around tight bends on narrow roads, solidifying my decision not to rent mopeds. Finding the old rail trail, we hop on it, grateful for its silence, devoid of the sounds and danger of speeding buses and zipping mopeds. Arriving at the top of a hill, I peek out between the leaves of a tree, which frame a lone rowboat sitting in the aqua water below, the sun glistening off its bow. We run into man-made structures, such as the ruins of an old church. The island having partially reclaimed bits of this space, as I bend down within the narthex, tilting my camera skyward, my lens inundated with blue. Thinking perhaps this is how worship is intended to be –open skied to the heavens, connected with nature.

Bermuda bombards me daily with its fresh air, gentle breezes and picture-perfect views. It never ceasing to amaze me that around almost every turn, there is water. Though the island is physically cut off from the rest of the world, this induces no concerns, rather I embrace this adventure: A tropical paradise with never before seen huge, mutant like foliage. The island peaceful, only the small city center bustling with noise, only the squawking chickens invading the quiet. Chickens that perhaps got here when the British controlled Bermuda or later, when Bermuda became a tourist destination and a stop for many cruise ships. Maybe Bermuda became their home when pirates landed, ravishing the island or when an explorer’s ship crashed upon its shores.

Imbodying an explorer, I stand upon the deck of the high-speed ferry as it leaves New London in its wake. The shoreline of Block Island eventually pops into view and my excitement builds, knowing that “anything goes” on “Block”. The wind blows, the sun kisses my face, the air is filled with sun tan lotion and salt. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, images of dirty dingy bars are seen through beer saturated eyes, people dancing wildly and unencumbered. I hear laughter and loud happy voices floating from one rental home to the other. Wishing to fling myself upon the shore, I grasp the railing in order to halt this action, choosing patience.

Soon enough the Jessica is pulling into port and we gather our things as the crew ties up. As soon as the green light is given, we scramble down the gangplank, spewing into the shore line town before slowly dispersing up various roads heading out of town. Arriving at base camp, barely putting our things down, the cold liquid rehydrates me as the beer can graces my lips. Time passes, one beer, then two. Eventually I pop some potato salad into my mouth, the creamy tang of mayo sliding over my tongue as it settles on my hips, while the intoxicating smell of burgers sizzling on the grill drifts over us as the day becomes night.

And then, in an instant, my first morning on Block has arrived, people slow to rise. I eventually make it out for a walk along one of Block’s many meandering paths, enclosed by hedgerows, bobbing up and down its rolling hills. The sun beats down on me, the island offering minimal shade, yet as I crest a hill, the ocean spreads out before me and I forget my discomfort, overcome with awe. Grabbing our bikes, we head out after lunch, choosing exercise over tanning ourselves at the beach. Riding for miles we attempt to work off all the food we ate and beer that we drank. I push on in the heat, struggling up the hills, eager to coast down the other side, only to face another hill minutes later. Hours pass, peddling all over this quaint island, our own private playground, as we race towards the night.

As the sun lowers in the sky, I shower in preparation for the evening of revelry that lies ahead, grateful for the cool water as it washes the sweat off my body. As the air cools off, I grab a thin sweater, a six pack of beer and head over to whomever is hosting that night, struck by the beauty of the island in the

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gentle light of dusk. Looking towards the shore, I gaze at the endless water, the sun dipping below the horizon, practically taking my breath with it. I blink my eyes like the shutter of a camera, attempting to freeze the image in my mind. Imaging myself a painter, back home drawing on this image, dashing bold colors upon my canvas, swirling in the subtle hues.

Late night, I find myself on top of a hill, the bonfire blazing, music quietly in the background, beers handed out and the stars exploding overhead, so close, so much brighter than at home. Work and worries a distant memory, I am living in the moment, existing, being. It dawns on me that the physical distance which exists between the island and the mainland is symbolic, it signifying escape. A place to take off those work pumps, kick up my heels, and just breath in that salty ocean air.

Whisked from the small island off the Rhode Island coast, I am plopped into a plane. I look out the airplane’s window at the exact moment we leave mainland USA, shocked at my timing. The California coast diminishes with each passing second and then, for hours, the view beholds only water. Having never flown over the Pacific, always heading East across the Atlantic, this is unchartered territory.

Landing on Kauai, it seems impossible that this is still the United States: we are in the middle of nowhere, five hours to mainland USA and six to Japan. Having never been so far from home, I find Kauai’s seclusion a bit daunting while also enchanted by its remoteness.

The airport is tiny and we easily navigate our way through it, snagging our bright red convertible and dashing away from the airport. Making a quick stop within the “city” of Lihue where no tall buildings graze the skyline, no business center or financial district clutters its streets, no taxis honk their horns. Sticker shock abounds at the grocery store; though it makes perfect sense, what they do not make on the island, they have to spend money to import.

Hopping back into our topless vehicle, we speed off to the resort on the lower west section of

the island, the sun beating down on us, the wind whipping our hair. Reaching our destination, the condos’ bright vibrant flowers explode in color and floral bouquet. From the lanai I catch a glimpse of the water, tasting the subtle hint of salt in the air as waves crash against the rocky shore. This ocean, no calm playground for kids, is formidable. Full of life with strong undertows, sharp drops and powerful waves.

The next morning, I grab my backpack and sneak out of the condo before anyone wakes. Reaching the beach, I pull a towel out of my bag and sit down, the sand soft beneath me. The sun has just barely peeked over the horizon, only a few early surfers are sprinkled amongst the waves, the strength of the sun not yet unbearable. My trip comes at a time in my life when I am still struggling to reinvent myself: to figure out how to survive, single and alone. I quiet my mind, searching the universe for answers. Halfway around the world, the furthest I have ever been from home, I wait. I close my eyes, my palms turn upwards as they rest upon my knees and the breeze whispers, “you are all you need”. Its words healing me, strengthening me.

I rise, a cloak of peace surrounding me as I walk back to the condo, the road skirting the edge of this remote and exotic island. My mind flips through my rolodex of travels, my trips to islands sticking out, encompassing so many of my loves: nature, water, adventure, seclusion and peace. As I pass a bird of prey, I memorize its unique shape, knowing these are not common back home. I ponder the uniqueness of each island I have visited while marveling as I deduce the one important thing they have in common. They not only represent a getaway as all vacations do, but also, they are quite literally separated from the mainland, surrounded by water. This physical distance assists my mind, which is obsessed with compartmentalizing, in fully engaging in exploration, escapism and rebirth.

Days later I am blown east towards home, once again duty bound and responsible. Yet I am renewed. Nestled within the secret chambers of my heart, the aqua water of Bermuda, the rolling hills of Block Island and the exotic remoteness of Kauai forever lie, available to pull out and revisit whenever my heart desires.