Flying to a tropical island is the epitome of romance and wonder. It is about man’s ability to navigate through empty sky and bring you to someplace isolated and primitive where you can experience nature’s wondrous ability to nurture. This is something that cannot happen airport to airport. This is about the seaplane’s ability to connect air-to-sea and sea-to-air as naturally as the setting sun meets the ocean’s horizon and rises again from the waters the next morning.
Flying is the dream where you hover over the world without weight or fear. You see clearly and realize everything below is small, insignificant and far away. You drift in the winds and soar along the pathways of light not worrying about the journey but looking forward to the destination.
A tropical island, your destination, is like a lingering memory from your childhood: sensations of a warm summer afternoon with yellow sun rays shining down between green leaves; stirring breezes brushing your cheek like a cat’s silky tail; cool lush grass, damp with dew, cushioning your barefoot step; the buzzing of honey bees, gathering pollen in the field, gently humming against your ear drum; the fragrance of wild flowers released by the brush of the bee’s wings or your fingertips, and the glowing radiance of your mother’s figure, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, with her long fine hair back-lit and shining like a burst from the sun.
Like a shadow these fragmented memories may be real but cannot be touched or scrutinized, cannot be held or gathered but simply experienced as you lay back under a tree’s shade and drift off to sleep beneath the summer sky. And when you least expect it, back in your day-to-day routine of life, the memory lights up – a soft warm glow like a red glowing ember buried in the ash of your campfire gently exposed to fresh air in the dark of night. Close your eyes, relax and find your childhood memories still intact and real as if it all happened yesterday.
Your memory wall, after a visit to a tropical island, should be a fine art gallery of images displayed by the curator to purposely rekindle a lingering feeling of well being, ease and comfort that does not diminish with the passing of time. You should feel rested and energized, alive and alert, carefree and caring. In this moment, laying beneath the shade of a tree or stirring the ashes beside the glowing embers of your memory, time stands still.
In recording the memory of a tropical island we would substitute the cool grass beneath your feet with warm golden soft sand between your toes and transpose the image of your nurturing mother with a young island girl bringing you a green mango and cucumber juice in a tall vibrant glass. Sorry – no drink umbrella in this memory. This is not the harsh brash urgency of a Caribbean cruise – this is the quiet passion of an Ariara Island moment.
Images and video courtesy of Wilkins Production UK.
Flying to Islands is a poem in John’s book of poetry titled Woodsmoke & Perfume Click here to purchase.