This Is It

Our bottle of Saint Claire Pinot Gris was sadly dry, honorably discarded next to a beach towel and a brand new copy of David McCullough’s 1776 .   It was only the only litter interrupting a vista of pristine white beach sand, and our first taste of non-boxed wine in months.  The sun was low enough in the west to color the landscape with a strong sheen of yellow but high enough to illuminate the sea’s seven shades of blue.  Only the occasional cloud punctuated an otherwise perfectly deep blue sky, and so, in blissful inebriation, we gazed. 

A shady palm only postponed the eventual sweat, but perspiration caused no complaint.  It was another excuse to return to the cool ocean.  It might have been the day’s fourth such visit.  We waded confidently, knowing that between the merely mellow waves, a cushion of pure fine sand under our feet, and five layers of sunblock, that the only thing mother nature could do to us was cool us down, rock us like babies, and add to our tans. 

We were barely waist deep before Banjo reacquired his contradicting desires to both follow us everywhere and yet avoid venturing above his head in water.  He began his adorably beach display of pony-hopping and front-legs-down-while-back-legs-raised anticipation and this time was successfully baby-talked into joining us.  He became a confused torpedo, constantly acquiring and abandoning one of his three human targets, making pathetic circles until he found my outstretched arms. 

I held him like a dinner tray, with two paws on each arm.  It wasn’t comfortable for either of us, but it made him happy to rejoin the group and I enjoy every opportunity to bond with a friend I will probably soon never see again.  He grew cold and I grew tired, so I let him return to shore, again making confused circles all the way back.  Now much too clean, Banjo took his first opportunity on dry land to rub sand into as much fur as possible, creating in the process a groove from where to watch the three of us wallow in the euphoria of yet another trip to ‘Uoleva Island.

Minutes passed while the slight current tugged us a few degrees around the corner of Tiana’s resort, placing us just deep enough so the gentle bobbling forced us into a listless tap dance with the sand.  We were content to silently enjoy the omni-directional vista, but in that moment I found the perfect thing to say.

“This Is It.”

This Is It --  our social group’s catch-phrase born of a boxed-wine induced stupor from my love nest’s floor late last year.  At the time, It was all of us, an exceptionally bonded crew of four PCVs who declared life on our isolated islands was more complete together than apart.  It came to mean Anything we wanted to celebrate, and would be typically declared in a slightly intoxicated toast.  It was ___ days left.  It was a delicious pizza.  It was another workplace failure.  It was a pleasant boat ride, a walk through town, or Sunday Lu. 

But this time, It was Everything. 

It was the speed and fortune with which the excursion came together.  The idea originated from an off-hand pipe dream Todd mentioned as he left my house less than twenty-four hours before we three set off from Lifuka to our vacation escape of choice.  Low tide came late enough for Todd to finish his exams and for Juleigh to give some time at the governor’s office, but early enough to hike across ‘Uoleva in afternoon sunlight.  We forded the straight safely.  Banjo struggled only once with a deep coral pocket, and he paddled to safety without the assistance of my Ethernet-cable dog leash (because I had no rope).  Juleigh had the only casualty of the weekend, finding early in the walk that her left sandal lasted just three weeks shy of 26 months.  She struggled half-barefoot half the distance across until we reached a midline sandbar where we crossed paths with three Tongan fisherman.  One was a thirteen-year-old boy from Juleigh’s form 3 English class who, just as she knew he would, offered his Croc-knockoff sandals so she could continue the journey.  “I’ll give them back to you on Monday!”  She called back to him as we parted.  “I think I’ll bake him a cake,” she said smilingly as we left the sandbar. 

It was the ease and inexpense with which we three could enjoy a vacation that antipodean friends and family would willingly spend fortunes on.  We arrived unannounced to a smiling Tiana who had become so familiar with us over two years that she didn’t bother to do anything but wave as we began setting up our tents and cluttering her kitchen. 

It was the refreshing half-hour beach walk we made over to Serenity Beach Resort, where Whale Discoveries operators Dave and Trish and their two children were maintaining Patty’s property while she visited family in the states.  Over heavily-discounted cold beer we refreshingly watched two parents lovingly bond with their children through art and music and then effectively discipline rambunctiousness without corporal punishment.  For one hour we heard intriguing travel stories, Flamenco guitar, a booming didgeridoo, and a short serenade of hot-cross-buns from an eleven-year-old’s violin.  It was Banjo being afraid of joining us inside the fale because he remembered his previous journey to Serenity Beach when Yoda chomped on his genitals, and It as Banjo’s lonely retreat back to Tiana’s without us.    

It was the perfect weather, the perfect water, the perfect beach, and the perfect bottle of wine.  It was the beach that was better than you’ve ever seen in any commercial, brochure, or website, and the sadness that comes from knowing no future vacation beach will ever be as special, even with room service.

It was even the turbulent sleeping we shared from a tent with two broken poles, a futilely deflated Thermarest, and an invasion of fire ants that reminded us we were only paying USD $12 a night.

But most importantly, It was the realization that this was our last group trip to ‘Uoleva.  Two weeks from now, Ha’apai will remain only a memory for Juleigh and Todd.  I might make another trip there before I leave a month later, but by then Team Pangai will be separated by thousands of miles.  With my outer island trip consuming most of our remaining time together, this was our last Hurrah, the end of a truly fantastic journey. 

Juleigh knew exactly what It was too, and said nothing beyond repeating back, “This Is It.”

We continued drifting.  A bird might have jetted between two coconut trees, the sun may have peaked between clouds, or a small boat may have passed us while ferrying between islands.  Besides a wave not-unpleasantly splashing my face I can’t remember anything until we returned to our beach towel perches to continue absorbing the unchanging vista while sharing “remember when?”s as we had all day.  After some time, the sweat returned.  So did the ocean.