Right now, more than ever, I would like to sell everything we own and go pitch a tent on a tropical island.
My son would love it! My wife would too.
I would bring a spool of fishing line, a small jack knife, and the shirt on my back. Some pants too.
I crawl around looking for small bones to carve a hook from.
I find one, then carefully attach it to the line that’s attached to a stick, making sure to add a little weight to the line, and toss it out to sea.
(Come to think of it, I’d also need matches. Yes, to light a fire. I’m not very good at the flint and stone thing. It would give me sore arms. I don’t like being sore.)
I sit, crossed-legged, waiting for the fish to bite. My feet are worn and cracked, yet strengthened by salt. And sand. And sun. The blazing ball bleaches my grays from existence.
My son is playing his favourite imaginary Star Wars game with a stick as a light sabre. My little Jedi makes perfect Jedi sounds as the waves make their way to say hello.
My wife brought books, her favourite escape. Letting go and shedding the stresses of our old life, she reads, and looks up with that beautiful gaze. The one where all worry has disappeared and the moment right now is all that matters.
She also brought her camera, of course. How she loves to take photographs! She’s made sure to bring several batteries and memory cards to capture all those memories and glimpses of magic.
But no other devices. No laptops. No cell phones. No ipads. No internet.
Away.
Away from it all. Freeee.
The wind picks up. A cloud in the distance approaches but takes its time. I look out at the horizon and feel a tug.
A tug at my line.
I’ve caught a damn fish on my damn line!
I didn’t think it was possible!
Could it all be so easy?
Will we light a fire later and cook this fish and have a feast on our island? And with full bellies, dance around the fire with finely made drums made from coconuts?
The line tugs again, I pull it in. It’s way out into the deep and blue.
It’s hard to pull, I ask my son for help. He quickly drops his light sabre to lend a hand. We pull, wrapping the line round and around. My son is excited. He’s cheering us on now.
My wife drops her book in the sand losing her page and starts taking photographs, a future memory to hold onto.
We reel it in slowly, then finally it emerges from the top of a wave, popping out for some sun. We laugh with anticipation. Not at what kind it is, nor what it looks like, but how it will taste.
Our first meal on the island.
A tough one.
Difficult to chew.
But we’ll make due.
With Gratitude,