Rascals in Paradise

For our mid-service retreat (Re-Orientation), we spent five days on a small, uninhabited island on the reef of Chuuk lagoon. A couple of definitions: by "uninhabited," I mean, Population: 2 (two men whose family owns the island, who live there occasionally and upkeep the island); and by "small," I mean, there is no point on the island from which you cannot see the ocean from all four sides. During our 1 1/2 hour boat ride to get there, one of the second-year volunteers who had been there the year before looked at me and asked, "Are you ready for total island paradise?" I smiled, but thought, Don't I live on an island paradise every day in Pohnpei?

I discovered that I had underestimated Pisar. As we advanced upon it, our boat reduced its speed to accomodate for the shallower waters, and my community mate Luke motioned and said, "That's it." I followed his gaze to see an island of tall green foliage in the middle, surrounded by beaches of white sand, which is nonexistant on the main islands of Pohnpei and Chuuk. One tall, renegade palm tree perched on the edge of the white sand, separating itself from the other hues of green and leaning out over the edge of the water, its huge trunk curved into the shape of a negative exponential fuction (just reminding you all that I'm still a nerdy math teacher).

The water became shallow enough that we had to anchor our boat about 70 feet from the shore and taxi in by an even smaller speedboat. Pisar met us in traditional island fashion, with a tremendous storm that poured fresh, cool water on us as soon as we finished unloading our belongings and the food and drinking water that would sustain us for five days.

From my journal that first night:
How is it possible, I asked God tonight, my eyes fixed on the night sky. How is it possible that there is so much beauty in the world that I've yet to discover? My eyes stayed glued to the stars for a long time tonight, as though I'd never seen it before. I suppose I haven't - I've seen the same sky, but not like this. Almost a year ago, Chris [Kerr, a Campus Minister and friend from John Carroll, who had been on Pohnpei for a summer in '99] had written in a farewell card, "Pohnpei is God's planetarium." I passed on this comment to my community mates as we discovered that he was right on certain, cloudless nights on Pohnpei, when the sky was clear and the island dark enough to see so many stars - easily twice the amount I've ever seen at one time before in my life. I wish he could see Pisar. I wish everyone I know could see Pisar. Even as I write this, every time I look up, I become fixated again for a few moments, as though I've discovered yet another of the God's secrets, a new freckle on the incredible face that belongs to nature.

Pisar was awe-striking for me for many reasons. It provided for me a "retreat" in the truest sense of the word. I was able to retreat from all technologies, even down to lights at night other than the moon and stars, and even retreat from myself - my worries and doubts about the year ahead, and musings about the year I had just finished. My head was clear, the world made perfect sense, and there was a peace within me that I've certainly felt before, but never for five consecutive days. That peace compounded upon itself and engulfed me, allowing me to leave the island still wrapped in its warmth (or coolness - additional warmth on top of the heat and humidity of this island doesn't sound particularly comforting!), refreshed and ready to start a second year. The therapeutic effects of the natural world.

I think the sound, or lack thereof, of Pisar was most striking. One day I lay back on the sand, put my journal aside, and listened. I heard:
The wind making music with the palm fronds
A small bird, very close, or maybe far off, carried to me by the wind
The ocean, far off, crashing loudly on the reef
The ocean, close, washing on the shore a few feet away
Someone's soft footprints in the sand
That's it. I lay there for about an hour, concentrating very hard on sounds and nothing else, and could only pick out five sounds. Tell me where else in the world that's possible.

Also from my journal, on the last day:
For five consecutive days, I've worn no shoes on my feet. The island boasts many wonders, one being a walking distance from one end to the next of one minute and 26 seconds, at a leisurely pace. A constant ocean breeze wraps around me, a breeze to trump all other breezes I've felt in my life.

Snorkeling, I wonder at the Pacific in a thousand hues of blue, hiding magnificent coral, big and small, round or jagged, orange, brick red, pure white, cream, brown, and tan. Schools of fish take no notice of the big, awkward, human-shaped fish that has just moved into their neighborhood, and they swim, around, beneath, and over me. Tiny aqua blue fish, orange clown fish (none had a defective fin - I checked - thus, Nemo must be elsewhere), big blue starfish, skinny long fish, and tiny electric fish that form a huddle around me - all are luckier than the flat black fish that got barbequed for dinner last night. Sand in places I didn't know sand could find its way into, sand that will demand some serious scrubbing, is currently working its way between the inner and outer layers of my shorts. I have no keys with me, because there is not a single keyhole on this island. There are no precautions to take before heading otu to the ocean, which is a few feet away from where I sleep, to snorkel for three hours - no bed to make, no lights to turn out, no money to run out of.

I feel that I no longer look like the pale American I was when I arrived to Pisar, the place of healing. My feet are softer and callous-free, my toenails bleached white by the coral sand. My skin is tanned a light bronze by the sun, and my hair is thick with salt water and salty ocean air. What of tomorrow? My hair will wash clean, my tan will fade, and my feet will harden and be dirty once again, but what of the rest of me? What part of me will refuse to leave this place?

On the boat ride home, we were welcomed back to the troubled Micronesia we have all come to know as the men operating our boat threw our carefully collected, tightly tied, black trash bags into the water as we sped along. The tide was high, and water splashed up into the boat from all sides, soaking us. The honeymoon was over, but I stared at Pisar until it disappeared below the horizon.

As we approached the main island of Chuuk, a dolphin appeared from nowhere and accompanied our boat for only a few minutes, pleasing us with tricks and jumps, before disappearing as suddenly as he had come.