The crabs in the water were sitting still in the sand. I didn’t think they would bite me but I didn’t want that to be my first memory on the island.
“Just go”
I said it to myself. The heron turned towards me, dipping its head down, like a bow.
“Just go”
I waved to the bird and then flew in, submerging myself in salted marsh water. It was glistening and frozen. I drew up for air and spit out a bit of salt.
The heron flapped its right wing in approval.
The sun microwaved me with heat, taking away any internal or external stress that was part of my trip here. Surprise, my visa was accepted and I was good to go in August, but four days with my parents was what the doctor ordered.
A fleet of herons descended onto the marshlands. Light green stalks billowed in the wind. It was shocking how instant peace could be.
After fifteen minutes I hopped out of the water. I noticed a rash all over my calf. Bizarre.
“Do you think it’s serious?” I asked my mother.
“No,” she said.
The evening in chocolate ice cream flowing with hot fudge.
In my dream that night I was with my thesis advisor from school. We were in a car both naked and listening to the radio. I woke up.
At the community center that morning, I broke my father’s tennis strings.
A kid, maybe twenty, twenty one with two racquets was flitting past us. Four children were running after him. I ran after him too.
“Hey do you string racquets?” I said.
“Yeah, uh, $15 for the labor and whatever the cost of the strings,” he said, scratching his neck. I handed him the racquet and we exchanged numbers. It was either naive of me or it was how the island hummed with trust.
I feasted on oysters steamers and lobster. Who knew the next time I’d get New England, and this was how we formed our best memories. Pulling off the ‘sock’ as they say of the steamer, dipping it in broth to shake off the sand and then dousing it in salted butter. Strange creatures but delightful. Like us, no?
Just before that I was whipping a vinaigrette
with extra bite. Double dollops of Dijon was the key, thanks to my ex. Advice was starting to detach itself from the pain of its reality. I’m not sure if it’s the amount of time that passes, or being so absorbed it what I was enjoying that I couldn’t let myself be burdened by resentment or pain. How could you, in vacation mode.
My father and I watched Venus Williams play her first match after thirteen (eighteen?) months. It was repeated ad infinitim on the Internet that she was 45. Ok, yes it’s an important number, but it was more that I was in the thrill of her. In her looks, her press conferences, in whatever she wins or loses, it’s not about that win or loss but the love of the game. In essence, when deep in love, she is her own force.
Drips of blue and pink sunset water with birds twittering.
I’m giving a lesson to one of my French students. It’s 8a.
“What are the stages of life?” I asked. We were talking about the Tour de France, going on right now, learning new vocabulary such as ‘stage’ (there’s 21 of them in the Tour) that she could apply in other contexts. The stages of life.
“Baby, child, teenager, adult,” the student said.
“And what is the most difficult stage?” I said, pushing.
She thought for a second.
“Adult.”
“An adult is to succeed or not succeed,” she said.
So French.
I finish my lessons and then check the time. Two hours until my flight.
I have a massive headache and it seems impossible to leave in this condition. Do I cancel, do I risk throwing up on the plane? Or do I dare?
I called my friends living in France.
“I got a flight but I don’t feel well and I really want to —
“Do it,” they chimed in unison. An even shorter version of the Nike slogan, which is etched on the metro in Paris. Dare to do what you want. Confidence is a skill that’s built.
“Americans never lose,” I remember a student said this morning. We were talking about Venus who’s choosing to come back at, what’s been repeated over and over, 45.
“If it were Federer?” I asked him.
“If it were Roger Federer, he would never dare to come back,” he said.
“Why?” I said, provoking him like a little kid, or rather curious for myself.
“Americans never lose, they always dare,” the student reiterated. “There’s no limits, there’s no…” He was searching for something that I read on Elizabeth’s Substack.
“There’s reinvention,” I said.
“Yes!” the student exclaimed. “The American is willing to re-invent itself.”
I thought about what re-invention was. Was it the willingness to keep creating, no matter the outcome? Because a French person knew that if it kept waiting for a bottle of wine to age, let’s say 5 years, 10 years, it kept getting better, but it was going to stay wine. Maybe I was not going to be a bottle of wine. I was going to be a dancer, an actor, a business idea that has no fermentation. Maybe I never was a bottle in the first place. Maybe the person I’d date didn’t want to wait that long for me to age. I rebooked my flight.
The next morning I couldn’t believe I was here for another day. That I deserved to enjoy it. That there was a reason for me to be here a bit longer.
“We should all just accept our destiny.” It was a quote hanging in the teeth of a crab. The burnt orange claws left it on the ground as it wandered past me.
That afternoon I was living on borrowed time. My flight was officially rebooked and I had a couple more hours to profit the island. Accepting my destiny.
My father and I rolled up to the local community center, wanting to play tennis.
Before we were able to hop on, a Marton Fuscovics lookalike was on court. It looked like he was trying to teach his two kids to play tennis, and was overwhelmed. I offered to help.
“I used to be a tennis pro,” I said.
“Oh thank God,” he said.
“Hello I’m Josh. What’re your names?” I said to the little kids.
They repeated their names, first the younger brother and the older one.
“So with this game, we start right up at net.” I showed them where to position themselves, and dropped the tennis ball.
“We plop it right here,” I said, making sure they felt understood. “Who wants to try?” The little one tiptoed up to the net. He dropped the ball and him and his brother proceeded to win the first point.
“Uh oh, young guys were ready,” I said.
We played for a couple minutes before the other court was ready for me and my father. We slid over and in the corner of my eye I watched as the kids were engaged the whole time. I knew it wasn’t my job any more, but it felt good to know that I could still make an impact, that there were other ways to help people fall in love with tennis.
That evening, Venus was doing something similar. This was her second match, after she won her first. She was close to losing but the crowd was starting to chant.
“Venus, Venus, Venus!”
Williams mentioned over five years ago that she noticed for the first time U.S. Open crowd was fully rooting for her. After twenty years on the tour it was finally feeling like home. Back at this tournament in Washington D.C. at 45, I think she was appreciating what maybe she always wanted earlier in life. And now that I’m home, it’s similar. It feels like the first time I truly appreciate the many ways we can keep going in our lives but still feel return to our first loves. I think I always wanted to feel this commitment from where I am from, and with this trip I can thread a memory without letting my heart drag into nostalgia. It’s an anchoring process in constant motion.
As an aside, on my last night, I enjoyed a twilight swim in a lake, cold water and sun, and hot outdoor shower. Something that my editor would be proud of. Wood not plastic, feeling like a kid now 35, going up ladders that led to a view of the marshes.
The next morning I was attempting my second flight. I was on the tarmac with two Germans when the pilot turned to us.
“Thunderstorms.”
We got out of the plane and remained at the gate for 20 minutes before a security official announced the cancelations of all planes that day.
I returned to the front to re-book my flight, the second time in less than 24 hours.
“Anything for tomorrow?” I asked.
An older man, maybe in his early 60s, was scanning the computer for options. I noticed the name ‘Jean-François’ and the little tag ‘France’.
“Vous êtes français?” I said, a little in disbelief. A tiny American island with a French worker.
“Oui,” he said, with a little grin. He continued to click his mouse through options and chatted to me about his life, the little he could in five minutes.
“10a be at the airport, à demain!" he saluted.
“Merci. À demain,” I saluted him back. It felt like my worlds were swirling together, at last.
I woke up groggy and decided to attack the day with peace. If it were my last day (again) on the island, I’d enjoy it as much as I could. Put on my sandals and drifted out the front door, into 7a sunshine and little bird songs, reminiscing about last night’s dinner.
Something about local scallops here, sweet, little, generous in portion melted away any idea of ‘superior’ French seafood or whatever my ex boasted about. I think it was oysters.
Summer relaxed most people, except the guy at the coffee shop.
“It took you four days to admit it!” he shouted at the barista. I had very little idea what he was talking about. He kept miming something, sipping his coffee, roiling about the prices of things. He wasn’t wrong, it just didn’t seem right moment.
At the farmer’s market I ran into a woman I used to teach tennis to. It felt like returning to my past life. It was sad, in some sense, because the connection was and wasn’t there. I’d always have that memory with her, seven years ago, drilling her into a better player. The memory too of her husband and the racquet I helped pick out for him. The thank you card he wrote for me.
“You look good,” she said as we both said goodbye.
I had to catch the plane and it wasn’t right to overdose in nostalgia. Her comment wasn’t necessary but I wondered if that internally we feel we’re making a lot of random decisions in our lives that in the moment seem overwhelming or unrelated, but from the perspective of someone who hasn’t seen us in years, looks like a lot of great choices. We’re enjoying the time we have even as it’s constantly changing.
I took a sip of the lime-lemonade my mom bought for me. Squeezed citrus I first fell in love with thirty years ago. The same cranked machines, the same acidity and sugar, the same shared pleasures. Off to my flight.
what a lovely dreamscape of happenings...