Waist deep and rising, the Western Pacific ebbs and flows inside the sheltering reef around Houk. My board shorts ungulate gently in the hazy shallows. Dirt and seaweed kicked up by incoming tide cloud the water.
Quick flashes of silver, slightly tinged black and yellow-tipped dart around me. A school of skipjacks seems to have mistaken me for a free standing clump of coral. They swim around and between my legs, pausing every so often, as a group, to look up and ponder the white mass protruding above the water's surface. It's as though one of them caught a glimpse of my arm waving to swat away flies, said "what the--!", and all turned with him to scope out the disturbance. More endearing still are the gentle nibbles at my skin and leg hair as they search for morsels surely hidden therein.
The sun is setting along the horizon as a sailing canoe works its way in from the day's fishing. It's one of the most beautiful sights the world has to offer, I imagine. Shimmering water, locals working-backlit by the waning light-to steer the canoe they themselves hewed from the trees of their home island with knowledge passed down through generations, wisps of cloud far off-shore and the steady breakers shrunken and quieted by high tide.
Though the communion with ocean inhabitants is delightful, I dive out further to start my shower. Kneeling I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the day's run. Neck deep, waves roll up to my chin and set me to swaying. And they're back! Swimming nearly up to my face, the skipjacks like my company too much to let me get away. Now they swarm around my whole body, under my arms, through my legs and across my chest. Two are nipping at my right hand, one going for the shine of my ring.
I've been back on Houk for three weeks. A great peace has stolen over me, permeating to my core. I know what I'm doing, know why, and that I can get it done.
Life has fallen into rhythm with the island: slow and steady. Work, exercise, leisure, community, food and sleep. I have a plan at school and established relationships with co-teachers; I have a project (teaching an adult English class); my thesis work is almost ready to commence.
I'm on the best terms ever with my host family. The house and compound are becoming home. Pasiano (host dad) and I are becoming friends and learning how to relate to one another, how to show respect. Rose (host mom) and I have been good since my last stay. Enola (4 year old host sister) is taking my heart.
The turbulence of past months is behind. Feeling stronger, wiser, more fully human and fully alive, I'm ready for these final nine months of service - the next six straight to be had right here, on Houk.
I'd return what I've learned and how I've grown as a person in a heartbeat, if it'd bring Andy back. I'd consider it too, to prevent Woleai from being closed, but ultimately hold onto these lessens, as much as I loved life on Falalop. But that's all fantasy. No more real than Frodo and Sam struggling through Mordor to Mount Doom (reading The Lord of the Rings right now, third book-exciting!). Time doesn't offer rewinds, refunds or exchanges. The past is past, and I'll hold those memories as treasures in my life, doing my best to honor Andy and the people of Woleai, who gave so much and have meant so much to me.
Finished rinsing off, I walk from the beach as the men begin drawing up their canoe, chanting the cadence of their effort. The sun is sinking below the sea, and I look back to the sparkling waters. Passing a group of island elders, they offer me fish, but I decline. We have plenty at home, and I need to put the final touches on my shower-buckets of fresh water and soap. I am truly and undeservedly blessed. I'm living the dream, more completely than I ever thought possible, and I am so grateful.
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