TheBanyanTree: Somewhere in the Middle

[apmartin at canada.com]

             Somewhere In the Middle


“See you later!” I said to my husband, Andrew, as he
followed me out of our summer cabin’s front door. 
Loping down the front stairs, I fixed my gaze on
Desolation Sound and the numerous small islands in
pastel shades of blue, green and purple that spotted
the horizon.  I never tired of the postcard-perfect
scene; it always left me with a sense of wonder.  
Today, though, a sick feeling in my stomach followed
the awe.   In six days the new owners took possession
of the property.

Mounting an ancient, maroon-colored mountain bike, I
pedaled onto the five-mile dirt road that ran the
length of Savary Island. A quick backward glance saw
Andrew retreating into the cabin.  The day was mine to
do with as I pleased, and I looked forward to some time
to myself.  

When I arrived at a steep hill, I dismounted and
walked. Sweat trickled down my back.  At the top, I
wiped my forehead with the back of a dusty hand and
turned to face the ocean, enjoying the cooling sea
breeze.   The rest of the way, I rode leisurely in the
shade of the tall firs and alders that bordered the
road.

Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the trail’s head to
Sutherland beach.  Here on top of the parched sand
bluffs that edged the south side of the island, the
vegetation was scrawny and misshapen, the trees,
wind-tortured.  I leaned my bicycle against a stunted
pine.

With a backpack on my shoulders, an insulated lunch bag
draped over one arm and my blanket tucked under the
other, I zigzagged down several sets of steep wooden
steps toward the sandy beach 150 feet below.  The trail
had a magical quality to it with twisted pieces of
bleached driftwood and loops of jute threaded with
fishing buoys that served as handrails.  The sweet
scent of dune thistles, broom and pine needles perfumed
the air.   I stopped and took a deep breath. The smells
of summer always reminded me of happy times spent with
my grandmother.  Gran was gone but at that instant, I
felt her presence.  I closed my eyes to savor the
memories and the flood of love that washed through me. 
 
The wooden stairs ended part way down the bank and
became wide steps made of beach pebbles.  I heard the
voices of several men far below.  As I drew closer, I
saw they were hauling buckets of stones up from the
beach to upgrade the path.  They were so involved in
what they were doing they didn’t notice me.  “Traffic,”
I chirped, and I gave them a broad smile as they moved
out of my way.    

When I reached the beach, I walked past the families of
the workers.  Around the point, I found the solitude I
sought.  Miles of white sand stretched in front of me. 
The beach was mine.  

I surveyed the shore for some shade, but there was
none.  Later, when the sun became too hot, I would need
to build a shelter.  In the meantime, I spread a
vividly-colored Mexican serape in front of a boulder
and dropped onto it, using the stone as a back rest.  

Staring out to sea, I tried to come to terms with the
sale of my summer home.  I had no one to blame but
myself.  I could have fought Andrew; I could have
refused to sign the transfer papers but I feared
confrontation.  This time the cost of avoidance was the
loss of a dream.  This time the price was too high.  

In front of me, a blue heron on spindly legs stalked
the shallows.  It cocked its head as it studied the
water for prey.  The sun danced across the silent
ripples of an incoming tide.  When I heard the shrill
cries of an eagle, I shaded my eyes and looked skyward.
 The sound seemed incongruous with such a large, noble
predator.  I spotted a nest in the upper branches of a
gnarled tree and watched a winged shape circle far
above it.  She soared effortlessly, floating on the
air, before dropping out of the sky to her nest. I
heard the eager welcome of her young.  

Mid-day approached and the sun’s heat intensified.  As
I smoothed sunscreen over my pale skin, my eyes scoured
the shore for driftwood suitable for building a
lean-to.  A small black eagle’s feather with a white
tip resting on the shimmering sand caught my eye. 
Immediately, I thought of my friend, Russ, a shaman.  I
rose, dusted the sand from my bare legs and stooped to
claim it for him.  

As I straightened my blanket and seated myself, I
noticed a hairline crack in the huge stone I rested my
back against.  Although it had initially appeared
whole, it was severed into two pieces.  “My life,” I
thought.  “This piece of granite reminds me of my life.
 Today, I reside in the space between the two halves. 
I am no longer the person I was, and I am not
acquainted with the person I will become.  Letting go
of Savary is only the first of many changes to come
”