Thursday, June 18, 2009

Peter Pan of the Plage

He just appeared. With an impish eye and the sun glinting off his satin brown skin and his tawny hair holding golden rays captive, there was no doubt that he had come up sans clothing from the reef where perhaps he lived in his Neverland cavorting with the tiger striped fish and hiding behind rocks—a magical creature. He wanted to play. He was curious about the three little blond boys he could see dipping their toes in the water—new oddities with all their gear.

With a grin and a chortle, he bounced up at our feet dove down into the water again and splashed at us. We sent the sparkling water spraying back in euphoric arcs. The sea sprite had befriended us. He chattered to us and we didn’t understand him. We chattered to him and he didn’t understand us. It didn’t matter because in the universal way of playing, we understood each other perfectly. He spent all morning with us showing us all the creatures of the reef swimming near us—so much to see. “Poisson! Poisson!” I would catch to which I would throw back, “Fish! Fish!”

The water was so clear it was as if we were swimming in an aquarium. We were surrounded by several varieties of fish and our patience was quickly rewarded with more sightings. We even caught sight of a long eel—shimmering with aqua, green and yellow highlights lounging through the water. Only our movements put waves into the glass and marred the view into the underworld of the sea. Only our feet could unsettle the sand and cloud the water. The sun sat high in the sky and warmed our backs. The subtle waves crashing over the coral reef at the edge of the lagoon were barely perceptible on our shore.

This is the kind of beach experience we had been expecting—part of our compensation package we promised ourselves for the change of address. The full moon waves and depth of the water of last week had left us disgruntled and disappointed—surfers delight perhaps, but misery for the little guys who would get kicked into the slippery rocks on the shore and dragged out to sea on a whim. The beaches had seemed dingy and gray and the water uninviting—so very different than the water world presented to us on this morning. This time we were in our on own postcard utopia—rejoicing, reveling, relaxing.

To the right of us our eyes caught the ephemeral outline of Mo’ orea. A cluster of thatched-roof bungalows down the way sat lazily in the middle of the lagoon. To the left we could run our eyes up the coastline of Tahiti Nui until it bended out of sight. In between the stunning clouds sat suspended in midair layers until they seem to drop off the edge of the world and you felt as if you were looking down on the clouds instead of looking up. The fish paraded and preened around our feet. The sea sponges sprang up to greet us. We could float on our backs in the gentle bed of the lagoon and lose ourselves in time.

Isaac and I liked to lie on the soft sand at the edge of the water and feel the water lapping around our legs and our heads. Isaac would let the water float him a little distance and then he would stand on his feet—the water barely reaching his belly. The water was so shallow that we could have gone out quite a distance and it still would not have covered even Isaac’s head unless he had ducked under.

Dylan moved rocks from the holes in the exposed rock and played in the sand. Gradually, even he was won over by the beckoning sea and he found his footing in the ocean—testing his own limits and gaining independence.

Benjamin built sand trenches, tried to get our friend not to cover up his sand trenches, jumped and splashed in the ocean and did his fair share of snorkeling. He had no complaints.

All morning long our new sea playmate twinkled his eyes, grinned and teased us. He made himself at home with us. He was somewhere in between the ages of Benjamin and Isaac or no age at all. He seemed to be alone, but for adopting us. He must have wondered at how protective I was of my three boys as I wondered that he seemed to be so by himself. He beamed and bounced with happiness and cooed Dylan into the water and chased Isaac around the rocks. He would spring up out of the water right into Benjamin’s face and grin. When we sat in the water, he would sneak up behind us and nibble at our shirts with his hands—trying to surprise us. It was obvious that had he wanted anything of ours, I would have been hard pressed to deny him. He helped himself to our masks—the little prince of the sea—and squealed delightedly to see the fish through them. When he was tired, he came in from the ocean and lay down on his stomach on Benjamin’s towel with a little shimmy to gather in the sun drops and to shake the ocean off his back in his own little gleeful way. He politely accepted our Ritz crackers and then continued his games.

Then our sea sprite made the discovery of the morning. I looked over to see that he had found a rock—just an ordinary black rock like one of the other millions of volcano crumbs around us. The little boy held it up gleefully and that rock sprayed me. It wasn’t a rock at all. The sea boy had found his own sea toy in the variety store of the ocean. The black thing was shaped like a small cucumber and about that size. It was soft and squishy—and the poor thing got squished a lot! The skin was bumpy on the outside and it was a bit slimy. It took some convincing for me to want to touch it. I feel even less versed in the language of sea life than in French and it tends to make me a bit skittish. The little sea toy proved its versatility as a gun, a ball, a pet. The little boy would squish it, poke it towards us, put in the sand, wash it off again and let it float in the ocean only to catch it all over again; he experimented with it very much the same way he experimented with us. Finally after some time, he grew tired of it and laid it in the sand next to him. While he lay in the sun, his creature baked in the sun and gave up its insides to the outside by way of a natural dissection. Fascinating in a way, but it made me sad that it had been flung away and died discarded away from its home.

It was time for us to leave before we too had turned our skin inside out and red. We gathered up our things and headed towards Route 1 and home. We left our miniature Tahitian guide to the seas getting ready to climb up into a tree. He waved to us from the fence and we waved back. We each shouted “Au Revoir.” As we walked away I wondered what tales he would tell about the cautious land lubbers that crossed his way and their silly gear and ways. Perhaps the next time we walk to the beach, we’ll pack some of the snickerdoodles we just made as a good will offering for the spirits of the ocean and our little sea man will come out and play again.

Growing up, I could spend an entire afternoon walking through page after page of the past editions of National Geographic stashed on the bookshelves in our upstairs hallway. The glossy, mesmerizing pictures of foreign places, people and animals vastly different from our Maple tree yard, the faces of strangers gazing out from small villages, the women with the bands of gold elongating and thinning their necks, the men with the bones through their noses, small children on dirt in front of huts. Why did they live there and why did I live in comfortably carpeted farmhouse with my mother in the kitchen canning peaches and dinner roasting in the oven? I would stare into the eyes of people from all over the world and wonder what they were thinking. I would visit that house on stilts and think it might be a great place to stay for a night or two. Some part of me wanted to be in each of the adventures of those pages. In reality, I’m too skittish to deal with a raw National Geographic world face to face. The Amazon in a canoe—I think not. In fact, swimming in large bodies of water unnerves me and I feel squeamish about what could be swimming with me—not exactly the qualities of a person destined to travel off the beaten track with New Guinea tribes. But I’ve always held out small hopes of Nepal, thought about South Africa and lots more of Europe.

Now here we are living our own National Geographic adventure. It’s not perfect. It’s interesting with children. But it’s incredible. Amazing. Each time we explore beyond our wooden gate, we encounter a new story.

5 comments:

  1. Beautifully written, Renee! You could turn this adventure of yours into a book.

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  2. Dear Friend... we all agree you need to start writing the book NOW! You really have a great voice and I think many will enjoy walking along with you and the boys as you navigate your new tropical surroundings. Don't underestimate the need of stories of transition like yours. Many people of many nationalities move to new locales and could benefit from your insights. Plus, through you, we can close our eyes and picture you and those dear boys (yes, include Eric as well, hee hee!) playing in the sand and discovering new worlds...

    I miss you... I think I need to check just how much it may cost to get to Tahiti.... soon!

    Kirsten

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  3. Beautifully written...and I concur, this needs to be a book so keep writing and keep entertaining us with your adventures. Now this adventure really brings us Tahiti. Loved it...and love all of you!!
    Grammie

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  4. Renee, this was so beautiful! I guess I'm not alone in saying that reading this felt like an excerpt from a book. Go for it!

    I miss you guys!

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  5. Awesome. The Stevensons have told us about their in laws- and how what is yours is theirs in the tahitian culture. Neil's brother had brought a camera and his father in law admired it. and with that, it became his in laws. What fun! You should also write a children's book- all about the sea and the little blond boys who make friends with a sea sprite. :)

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