Alligator Island

April 9, 2019

Willows were waving their golden greetings in the wind today, slender fronds bobbing with the breeze—a certain sign that spring is slowly wresting winter’s grip on the land. It’s a glorious time of year, although usually a bit muddy for my wife’s taste. I understand; it’s her floors that catch the brunt of spring’s detritus. After an exceptionally warm yesterday, the wind today was chilly and harsh. Old Man Winter has lost his annual battle, but he doesn’t go down without a fight. 

Early morning sunshine gave way to light rain before a grudging yielding to mere cloudiness. I wasn’t keen to stand outside for long. That wind sucked every bit of warmth from my sweater as I pumped gas on my way home. Even without having the heat on, getting back into the car was almost like cozying up to the fire in midwinter. It felt good, and my mind drifted to Cuba.

Last week, I began making arrangements for my bi-annual trip to Alligator Island. It’s been too long, and I could feel the emptiness in my bones. What is it about that place? For those whose lives are constricted by the sands and sea, it’s certainly not heaven on earth, but I’ve met some of the most heavenly people there, and the hard simplicity of their lives beckons me. That inner emptiness of which I speak is a craving in my spirit that I literally feel inside me; a longing to reconnect, to dance to the Latin rhythms that sway through my heart. Not everyone who has been there feels it as I do. I’ve talked with family members who have gone with me and who don’t care if they ever return. But when I explained it to my friend Joel, the one who introduced me to this other life, he immediately understood. The land and people have captured his heart, too. 

There’s much to be done between now and then; lessons to prepare, connections to be made, supplies to be collected, prayers to be sought and offered. Temperate spring here will give way to tropical breezes and the full blooming of the early harvest. I’m not literate enough to remember which fruits will be mature when I arrive, but I know the coffee will be strong and hot, demitasse servings sipped and savored as the evening shadows fall and I converse and pray with my friends of another place, but of the same heart.