Under It All

I've now been over to the lovely island of Saba twice since living here in St. Maarten. I went yesterday to go diving with my friend Chris, whereas the last time I visited, it was to hike.

I'm not an expert diver, obviously, but yesterday's journey into the deep blue sea was fantastic. We did two dives; one was a wall dive, during which we descended Saba's island wall about 80 feet under the water's surface. The coral and plant life was magnificent, and I saw the biggest fish I've ever seen in my life. It turned out to be a red snapper, and it must've been about four feet in length and about two from back to belly.

The second dive was an ocean dive, not far off the coast of the island, but to depths of about 75 feet. About five to ten thousand years ago, when Saba last erupted, the lava of the volcano ran down into the ocean and made some interesting finger-like formations. We dived around and over and up and down these fingers, dipped our hands into the warm yellow sand that reinforced the island's volcanic capabilities, and were blown away by the phenomenal colours and expanse of the reef. We were visitors to sea turtles, to hundreds of kinds of fish and plant life, and to dozing nurse sharks! It was just breathtaking, and I did squeal in delight a few times into my regulator. It really does make you think.

When I was under there, only hearing the sound of my inhaled tank air and exhaled bubbles, I was struck by the strange twists and turns our lives take. I mean, there I was, breathing underwater, accompanied by a Divemaster, a Dutch kid, and my Kiwi friend whom I didn't know at all two years ago. I was mindless of my job, my other friends, my relatives, my problems, my future plans... and it was, for a moment, heavenly.

Chris was the fun friend he is -- an expert diver who is silly underwater whenever he has the opportunity. But then, at one point, I looked over to him with some mixed-up emotions. He and his girlfriend Krista leave the island today for good. They're going to travel Europe together for a few months, while their dollars last, and then move onto something new. When I looked at him, I was pleased that he and I could spend a fun, totally tension-free day diving together. But I also thought about how we all leave here. I thought about how there's always this underlying sense of something missing here on the island... otherwise, why would we all leave? I know very few people who plan to reside in St. Maarten forever -- even students who have grown up here.

For me, I've always said that being here has been like a working vacation, complete with the deadlines, flings, heartaches, marking, sand, planning, and more heartache. Professionally, it is time to move on from this paradise. Personally, it is also time. Today, I am sad; some friends are leaving, some friends are changing, and some friends are disappointing. As much as I loved Saba, and as much as I will cry buckets when I leave my island, today I just want to be back to the familiar.

Alfie-ism

Tropical Thoughts

I watched "Alfie" last night; have you seen it? In short version, it's basically about a guy who's a player. He dates and sleeps with various women, all of whom give more to him than he even thinks about giving to them. The beginning of the movie has some humourous bits, most of which would appeal to the males in the audience, but the movie does grow a little more serious as it continues.

You see, Alfie begins to realize that he has nothing of significance in his life -- at least as far as love and relationships go. He has betrayed his best friend, used random women, and pushed away the ones who've tried their best to reach some depth with him. When the tables finally begin to turn, he is shocked and hurt, and he desperately tries to cling to those he once shunned. They, of course, have moved on, and in doing so, they force Alfie to look inward. He realizes his mistakes, grows up a little, and, thankfully, he doesn't get what he wants in the end.

At the end of the movie, I'd decided that, although it was a decent flick, the outcome was unrealistic. I thought, "People (read 'men') don't really have those glorious James Joyce epiphanies. Guys like Alfie just keep doin' what they love doin'..." But, based on further consideration, the receipt of a late-night phone call, and recent circumstances, I take that back.

Men do, after all, realize their mistakes and want to make up for them. I just wish they'd figure themselves out before inflicting the hurt... It might save some women from winding up jaded. Then again, maybe I should just be content that they even figure it out at all..?

Being Regretful

Regret is not one of my favourite playground friends. She shows up, pouts a lot when she doesn't get her way, whines about anything, is perpetually negative, and she simply brings everyone down. I don't often answer the knock at my door if I know it's Regret calling me out to play.

Sometimes, though, Regret brings her friend, Clarity, with her, and I don't mind that so much. Clarity doesn't always arrive on time; she's never the first to show up at the sandbox. I think distractions sometimes waylay her for a bit. But when she does finally make her entrance, it's often a grand one. Smiles of realization break out on faces, welcoming nods come forth, and a little more sunshine seems to fall on the grains of sandbox sand.

I don't often regret the choices I've made. I find regret too overwhelming an emotion to bear. It allows people to wallow in self-pity and gives them permission to stagnate, rather than move forward. But when those rare moments do come up when I feel that overpowering feeling of sadness and choice-gone-wrong, I seek out the "why". Clarity makes her late, but always welcome, appearance, we hug like old friends, and understanding passes between us without a word.

I've made a few bad decisions on St. Maarten, but I hope, when I leave my island home in a few short months, that the only stow-away in my luggage is the one whose presence is gentle and heartening. I will not carry Regret, but Clarity will always have her place with me on the journey.