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Writer's pictureRene Revolorio Keith

No Person is an Island (But I Think I Am the Closest Thing)

"You are always on island time," my mom complains to me in the morning. "I told you, be ready by 8:15 and it is already 8:35 and you are still picking out your clothes." "Mom, don't press me," I retort. "You know that everytime you press me that it takes me longer to get ready. So why do you always do it?" " Because, sweetie, we are already 20 minutes late and we haven't even left the house!!" "Hmph," I reply.


There are only a couple things in this world that I truly enjoy, only a couple places where I am utterly myself. I know this because I like myself the best when I am present, because I am full of wonder, full of hope, full of raw joy, and I run at the waves like I did when I was small, throwing myself at the wild surf again and again, until all that I am is salt and sea and the whistling wind.


I think myself an island, an isolated one, like the one my friends brought me to by Ambergris Caye; singular and full of life. "One Love Escape," the makeshift sign read, each letter painstakingly carved into the bark of the tree that marked the opening of the clearing. "None of the tourists know about this place, and we like it that way," Eric warned. We arrived by boat, travelling around the backside of the main island, where the town was. "We like coming here, because it's so peaceful," Eric said. And I liked coming there too. The water was crystal clear and the sand was well rounded and the sky was infinite above our ancient heads. My friends were in love with each other and I was in love with the sea roaches that sucked on my supple skin like all my body was a nipple. And when the sun settled in the darkening sky, we built a bonfire in the sand and drank rum and punch with our fish fry and we remembered our intrinsic sameness, as human beings in communion with the dark unknown.


Virtually any semi-flat surface can be a beach if you want it badly enough: the hot rubber shingles on the garage roof or the hot iron slats of the backyard picnic table. If you lay out a beach towel and don a swimsuit and throw your bare ass cheeks to the sun, it is almost like jumping through a portal into paradise. To top it off, make sure to whip up some sort of fruity drink with whatever you have lying around, add some rum, and voila! You are at home in your own, perfectly flawed body.


When I was a baby, I hated the beach because it tasted bad. That's right, I said tasted. Well, you have to understand that I was a baby, and everything looks like food to a baby. I think this is a sign that I loved the beach; in fact, I was so enamored by it that I needed to try for myself its crunchy flavor. I have never been betrayed so deeply in my entire life. After the horrendous, infinite moment after shoveling the disgusting sand in my tiny mouth, but before the terrible, infinite moment of spitting it out and crying very loudly and obnoxiously as only a baby can, I learned a very important life lesson. What you love can (and will) hurt you. From then on, every time we visited the beach, I would demand that my parents carry me over the disgusting sand and straight into the tumbling surf. That's right, I said demanded. I was a very demanding baby.





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