The Lands Apart By Sarah Fairbanks
M
y 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
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 19 | 16
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