Like every morning in Barbados I awoke before the West Indian dawn. It was 4:30 am 2011, and the island was already in a bustle. The neighborhood rooster was pecking at the side of my bedroom wall. I could hear children shouting and giggling. I pictured them in their school uniforms, soon walking to school; skin so dark in contrast to the vibrant hues of the Caribbean Sea; the hibiscus, the frangipani blossoms.
I held my breath, tears teased my eyes, the months moved too quickly. It was time to exchange my tropical skin for Canadian. If only I could freeze time. I’m an islomane, land-locked living doesn’t suit me, it is islands I crave, being surrounded by water. The thought that if I poke one finger in the sea, I am touching, and a part of, the entire world.
Imagine a country where everything is at your finger tips. No need for a vehicle, fruit falling at your feet and fish jumping into your boat. Wherever you go there is a story or image to capture. In Central British Columbia, where I hang my hat sometimes, the stories and pictures are far apart.
B.C is vast and beautiful, don’t get me wrong I love it too, but I can’t walk out my door and expect to discover something new without a little effort and a lot of gas.
“Good morning Walter,” I whispered to my little gecko friend as he scurried across my mirror. “I hate to say goodbye. You know, the worst thing about travel is going back home.”