How I Got to Be Here

by Christopher Lovejoy on August 9, 2011

I watched the sun melt into the horizon.

In the gathering twilight, I usually like to muse about things, but I suddenly felt more inclined to reminisce about how I got here, on this island I call home.

At some point in my life, I surmised that the world was going to hell in a handbasket, traversing a transitional, civilization-wide, kali-yuga-type trough of darkness.

Politically, financially, socially, economically, environmentally, culturally, spiritually, and morally, the world seemed to be sinking into an abyss under the weight of its own corruption.

Outwardly, many people seemed oblivious to this descent. Some were as wise as serpents about it, many sensed it vaguely, and some seemed to be orchestrating it on their own behalf.

I wondered and I studied and I pondered whether any or all of this was being socially engineered covertly, and if so, what the endgame was: a Georgia Guidestones kind of world?

Or was it all just collateral damage for a global elite hellbent on maintaining control?

As things got worse, I came to a choice point: face the gathering storm, go somewhere safe, or, if needs be, keep moving to stay safe from the emerging chaos and confusion.

I carefully considered my options, keeping in mind those who would come with me.

We could head for the proverbial hills, we could become location-independent, or we could find an intentional community with a system of barter that knew a thing or two about permaculture.

And then the image of a tropical paradise came to mind.

I knew, from what little research I had done, that many of these island paradises had already been taken, either purchased privately or officially designated as natural reserves.

Undaunted, I did more research and found some promising candidates for an ideal island getaway.

I did a crash course of lessons to become a certified skipper as part of a deal to charter an old, small but seaworthy yacht for a month to survey a few deserted islands in the South Pacific.

I delivered copies of my itinerary to significant others.

None of them could afford the time to make the journey. It was just as well.

On the day I approached an island, a storm began to brew.

This made me nervous because although I could see the island through my binoculars, I still had a ways to go, and so after checking a few readings, I gunned the engine.

Big mistake.

As the island came into view without the use of binoculars, the engine sputtered and died.

I checked fuel levels and found them to be adequate. A tuneup of the engine had been done before I embarked on my journey, and so I concluded that the engine had run its course.

You get what you pay for, I thought.

The clouds overhead grew dark and ominous. The wind picked up and the waves tossed the boat, swelling ever larger by the minute. I set anchor in a futile attempt to gain some stability.

I radioed for help, and through heavy static, I relayed my coordinates over and over, and then lost contact with my would-be rescuers. I could not be sure they had copied completely.

I remained on board as long as I could, feeling the gales rise and fall in their ferocity, hoping against hope that they would pass me by without leaving too much damage, either to me or the boat.

Just before the torrential downpour started, I had donned my scuba gear.

In the midst of a blinding downpour, I made my way to midship where I carefully negotiated my entry into the water with a knotted rope that I had secured earlier.

The yacht was listing, clearly in danger of sinking.

I submerged myself gratefully beneath the wind, the rain, and the waves, releasing the air in my lungs before finding a steady, relaxed rhythm in my breathing and in my flipper movements.

I surfaced every ten minutes or so. As daylight faded, I switched on my dive light. I never saw what happened to the boat. It more than likely met its fate in the depths of the sea.

The storm finally subsided.

After diving for a while, I returned to the surface, switched off my light, and surrendered to the warm, buoyant waters. I gazed skyward into complete darkness and felt a longing to be free.

I stripped off my gear and let it sink into the depths.

I meditated for much of the night, floating calmly on my back, acutely attuned to the faintest sound, sometimes contemplating the world in the twilight of sleep, until the crack of dawn.

Much to my surprise, I was closer to the island than before, but it looked strange to me.

Was I seeing it from a different angle?

Or had I drifted off course during the night, arriving in the vicinity of another island altogether?

Tired and thirsty, I swam at a leisurely pace toward the shore.

In front of a pristine, sandy white beach, I stood up, did a quick survey of the area, and found a comfortable spot to rest not too close and too far from the shoreline.

Under the shade of a large tree, I sank into a deep sleep.


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