I rose and climbed onto deck, glad to have found my sea legs. After my previous sickly ocean outing in November, I demanded of myself to harden up and not allow illness to get a look in. It appeared to have worked.That morning and into afternoon, we climbed the island's hills and soaked in the sun - amazing vistas in 360º - an island of native bush and wildlife, rodent-free and well cared-for, far enough away from technology to be far enough away from trouble.
Surprizingly, I found myself preferring the company of teenagers over adults, possibly demonstrating further proof of the a manchild I've always been. Since around age 12 I've felt 18. I wonder if this will continue into The Wrinkly Years.
If taken as indicative of the overall population, one would conclude by the sample present that adults are indeed very boring, and quite happily so - resigned to some level of comfortable bliss in mediocrity. Happy though they are - and happy I for them - it still turns my stomach to think of myself ever being this way, not through the want of a feeling of superiority, but rather a knowledge of a difference in destiny. Some are born to this. Some are born to other.
Hope came in the form of the New Year's Eve Pirate Party, looming over the hills on the other side of the island. Doubly-delicious in that the event benefits the conservation and protection of the local habitat.
We left in the dark with a single torch in 1 of 6 hands, not knowing quite what to expect - the feeling of adventure entering our chests like an abstraction of chemically-fueled Tolkien-cum-Lewis heroes. My heart raced.
As we descended the final hill, we found ourselves at the rear of the stage, a swarm of kidult pirates and comely wenches smiling, laughing, dancing - a packed event. Like commandos in the night, we crossed the dry floodbreak and ninja'd through the flax, dashing all at once towards to throng, while the nearest security guard was busily absorbed in his phone, before quickly injecting ourselves into the crowd.
As the night progressed we interacted with a colourful cast of characters, including humorous conversation, dancing and imbibing of water with bouncy backpackers, one sporting a perfectly appropriate Irish accent and a desire to show me where x marks the spot. How much more piratey can an accent get, but which also begs the question: why are all pirates Irish?
My head was elsewhere this night - possibly light years above myself in the amazing star-spattered and clear sky. I declined the invitation to find buried treasure and was promptly ordered to walk the plank, giggling all the way.
Misadventure ensued as I lost my shipmates, and wandered in the moonless dark with only starlight to guide my way back. Taking bush paths, doubling-back and stumbling in the dark, I met other lost souls and tag along with them, joining their caravan, the yellow crescent moon eventually rising and helping to guide us back.
Having missed the dinghy's return to ship, I could have swam but instead lay there in the late, wee hours, absorbed in the visible galaxy. Even if I were tired, I would've stayed awake, just to soak in another section of sky.
I eventually closed my eyes, on the beach under the stars, born of dust.
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Placebo - Space Monkey
"
we're sown together
she’s born to mesmerise
beside, astride her
I die inside her
"
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