PORTAL TO THE PRESENT

The impending boatyard work spins in my thoughts; a hurricane looming off my mental 'coast'. I sip hot tea and jot a few more projects onto the list as I think through Swell's repairs from bow to stern. But it's Sunday, so the list stays on my nav station and I go to join my new friends for breakfast on the motu (offshore islet). No waves today, so we make plans to ride the hills instead.

Neon greens blur in my peripherals, but I focus on the smooth slope of the road just ahead. The rush of the pure pacific air chills my patches of perspiration. On the frontline of focus--this margin between control and loss of control--I feel alive. The present is my present; a gift of incalculable value. Riding this hill is the easy way in, but fortunately I get here more often now. I don't have to be at sea alone or at a pinnacle of concentration to feel the simple delight for 'being'. I find it in the oddest of places--in the chill of an evening shower on the aft deck or in the profound appreciation of each succulent bite of a salad after many months without lettuce. Wandering between errands in town, I stop at a crack in the sidewalk where a small weed has prevailed in the struggle to exist. Momentarily, I celebrate its victory.

.The guys flash smiles as pass them headed back uphill for another go. I reach the flats. My wheels slow down. In the shade with the girls, I shift gears into French practice. To my ear, the words melt together and I must focus to pull a few from each phrase. Sometimes I'm frustrated. I find myself muted in silence. I can't always speak my mind or understand the conversation, but this aggravation manifests into my motivation to learn. New words begin to be recognized and remembered.

Across the road I pull a starfruit from a tree and suck at its bittersweet yellow flesh. As I wander up the hill, the shadows of the tree limbs in the wind dance at my feet like the spirits of the Tahitians that once picked this same fruit and lived for the day, everyday.

I turn back to gauge the slope of the graded asphalt.

"Here", I think to myself, marking where I will begin the descent. The sound of the wheels begins, another blast of air, speed, and color. I enter the portal to the present once again.