islander

I knew this one, him and his wife and that multitude of kids, wild as scatter stones and yet close as could be. Together, that’s what I thought. We met on the CB radio, at least I did, as Sea Bear, my husband, reached out to communicate with another islander, one beyond the one we lived on. The men had met, of course they had, out there above the feisty challenges of the wild Atlantic wavery. Not that that ocean ever wavers. She is always super confident it seems to me. The CB radio sat in the Tapselteerie kitchen, in the corner, crackling and snorting away with half sneezes, faltered messages, broken at times. This was the way we communicated way back in the day. For all its frustrations, it was the only way and, somehow, we settled within such limitations. They also pushed us into inspirational ideas, these limitations. We always found a way and even if I was catering to a load of dinner guests with way too many children bursting in and out, the smaller ones crawling about under tables and work stations with tonka digger buckets full of earth and wet stuff, asquirm with puzzled worms and tickety beetles, I would dash to the CB and say, Lady Q here. Lady Q, for goodness sake. I blame my posh accent which did me proud in elocution lessons and later on stage, but here among the west coasters I just sounded ridonculous.

Many winter nights when dark fell like a surprise and the gale-propelled rain slammed like hammers against the wispy single-glazed windows, we shared family info. Our lives could not have been more different. There we were living in a mansion house, a load of acres under our belts, and there they were. It didn’t seem to matter one jot. We just really liked each other. We laughed together as we rarely laughed with others. These people get real. They had a naughty streak we were drawn to. They knew how to live outside of the uppity nonsense we had bought into. Of all my memories, and there are gazillions, of my 48 years here, our times with this family, even mostly over the scratch of broken CB radio, stand tall and bright.

Now both men have gone. Two unlikely friends, for they were just that. If I go deeper in my thoughts, this gives me hope. It didn’t matter, the difference between us. What mattered was the spark, the naughtiness, the fun, the mischief, the solidarity of like-minded humans. We went over once, as a family, for a meal and sleep over. In our slow, very slow, boat, it took ages, but we got there to a glorious welcome. We feasted on their catch from the sea and we drank whisky and whatever else and we shared stories and laughed as the rain blattered against the stone walls, warm by the fire, warmed by each other. I won’t forget that evening.

RIP Big Man Frank. I hope you’ve met up with Sea Bear, wherever you both are.

Thing is, we seem to forget these, as if they belong, belonged, in youth, something we have left behind with apologies. My ‘recalcitrant’ youth. My ‘misspent’ youth. And that wild and exciting persona is dumped in the past, trampled over in the obscene rush for success, ‘success’ because that word tastes different in a million mouths, in generational expectation, in the midden, and madden of thixotropic stultification. I know it, felt it. What is it you want? Well, who the hell ever asked that question (Im dithering between a question mark and an exclamation here). I do remember feeling lost in a swirl of long hair and crazy outfits and the need to be noticed, the danger in that, I remember. But, and more buts, how come it all gets chucked out with the garbage of what always comes next, the work, the deadlines, the trials of any union, particularly when a babe bursts into what was, heretofore, reasonably orderly?

What I see, out there, and not everywhere, is a dulling. Not here, not on this dynamic island where fun rises from the potholes and with the lift of wee new flight birds winkling right in your drive path to an appointment. They didn’t get the memo, obviously, because the winkle thing can take a while. But I hear of it, read it, in cities in confines of many sorts, the dulling. As if Fun is for someone else, but not me. I know shortage of earning is tricky. I know that there is almost no hope for an island home purchase. But, what I have learned over almost half a decade here, or, indeed on any island, and trust me, is that we need new blood, new ideas, we really do, to come, to engage with the recalcitrants, the pub, the local shop, those who will still hold tight to the place they value above all, bar their mother, and to ask, to befriend, to engage. And not to give up.

The islands are very happy as they are. But in the future, the economy will need any of you who bring random dance, fun, the chance to learn from you and you from us. I’m a passionate islander. I am brung (new word) up short as I watch a searing of a hillside in the creation of a new home, well, hopefully home. I see the changes, the invasion, as it might feel on first encounter, but I know we need those who want to live here to engage with the communities, to bring new hope but….. be cautious and respectful to a gazillion years of knowledge and a working understanding.

I just went to the pub. I laughed and shared and learned, and I would not live anywhere else out of choice.