Sail Away

I had gotten into lazy mode during our days at sea. Laying around on deck with a good book and cool tropical drinks was habit forming and I had to shake myself out of the lethargy that invited me to stay put. But when I awoke this morning, and we were anchored in a lagoon off White Owl Island, the smell of the foliage and the cacophony of birds singing was just too much to ignore. So, after a hearty breakfast consisting of lean bacon, eggs, grilled mushrooms, toast and orange marmalade, and two cups of rich dark coffee, I returned to my cabin. Fueled and raring to go, I grabbed my knapsack which was already packed with my camera, sketch pad, and a variety of colored pens and pencils. I strapped a lightweight tripod to the pack and threaded a windbreaker through the straps.

I took the shortcut down to the tender that was rocking gently at the foot of the rope ladder. I could have made it easy on myself and gone to the other side of the ship where a more stable gang plank was set in place and where another larger tender waited, but negotiating the swaying robe ladder seemed more like an adventure to me. Silly me, that is how I so often get myself into trouble. This time though, I managed just fine and settled myself in the bow of the tender where I could feel the spray and enjoy the smells that wafted from the nearby island.

* * *

I had been walking for an hour when I came to a clearing in the forest. It was shaped roughly like an amphitheatre. Lush foliage and large, colorful flowers lined the outside edges while, as if a backdrop to what would be the stage area, tall blossoming trees, much like the tulip trees found in the Eastern United States.

I set up my tripod and took a number of pictures before making a penciled sketch of the amphitheater. I planned to color it later from memory and with the aid of my photographs. I sat on the ground and lay with my back against a rock warmed by the sun rays that shone like a spotlight into the clearing.

There was not a sound to be heard other than the birds and the occasional rustling in the grass of some unseen creature and the whisper of a breeze. I wondered why none of my fellow passengers were not around. If I had found this magical place, surely some of the others could as well. I closed my eyes and visualized some of the artwork that would result from my time here.

* * *

When I opened my eyes I realized that I had slept for several hours and it was already dusk. Oh m’god, I’ve got to get back to the ship, I thought, in a brief panic. But then I heard, no, felt rather than heard, a sound. A tiny white owl, much like the elf owls that live in the saguaro of the Southwestern United States, landed on a small tree at the edge of the clearing. But this was no elf owl. He was as white as fresh snow and his eyes, yellow in color, burned like automobile headlights on a dark night. He appeared to look right at me, studying me as I did him for several minutes. I can’t describe the feeling, but I felt we connected in some strange but beautiful way, species to species. Then, without warning, he faded away like a ghost.

* * *

I remembered then something that happened to me at home in Apache Junction. It was just a couple of weeks ago. I had fallen asleep in my recliner chair. An open book lay in my lap when I was awakened by a sound, a whoo, hoo hoo. I listened and heard it again a minute or so later. And again. The sound was closer now, right outside as a matter of fact. I got up quietly so as not to awaken my partner who was in bed and asleep. I slipped carefully out of the back door, stopping and holding my breath when on closing the door behind me, it creaked. It never creaked before so why now, I wondered, when I wanted to be as quiet as I could. Whoo hoo hoo. That sounds like an owl, I thought, but I had only once before heard an owl right here in AJ, and that was several years ago. Owls were not frequent visitors right here, to our gated community. We have a large deck that runs the length of the house. A party deck our neighbors call it. Athough we have never used it for parties per sé, we have held many conversational gatherings here. Whoo hoo hoo. It was closer now, really close. I crept forward to the front of the deck and looked up at the street light in front of my neighbor’s house. There he was, hardly more than a large dark shape surveying the neighborhood, looking for, I suspect, a young cottontail, many of which we do have in the park area itself. Probably a Great Horned Owl, I thought, knowing that they were to be found in the desert, but rarely in a built-up area. Whoo hoo hoo, and then, in silent flight he left. I stood for a few minutes in the glow of the street light, hoping he would return. But, he was gone, looking for, I assumed, more plentiful prey. I realized I was getting chilled standing there as I was in my sleep shorts and a thin tee shirt. I returned to the house and to bed with that whoo hoo hoo sound echoing in my head. Strange isn’t it how certain things, especially those connected with wildlife stay with one to be lived over and over.

Owls were plentiful when I was a child back in Wales, but that was not here in my little corner of Arizona. And here, in the space of two weeks, I had had contact so-to-speak with a Great Horned at my home so-to-speak, and now with this tiny little fellow on White Owl Island. There had to be some meaning for these sightings, their being so close together and all, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it could be.

Vi Jones

©February 19, 2009

I had lingered too long at the grotto and now had to make a mad dash back to the ship before she sailed without me. Back on the main trail I had to dodge the touristy types who seemed to have all the time in the world. Skirting the edge of the trail, I leaped over boulders, hoping I didn’t twist an ankle on my landing. Low hanging tropical foliage slapped me as I ran. The ground was uneven and the drop-off steep. I tried not to think of that. Instead I recalled another mad dash to catch a ship before it sailed away without me.

It was in 1978 and I was on a cruise of the Inside Passage of Alaska aboard the Prince George.

I had spent more time than I should sightseeing near Skagway. Time gets away from me often on such occasions. It was evening and I had been out to dinner. I was dressed in, would you believe, a dress and high heels. Ouch! The ship was scheduled to sail at 9:00PM and when I heard the first blast from its horn I knew I was cutting it close. I was in the company of friends, two gals whose footwear was a lot more sensible than mine, especially considering that at that time the sidewalks in Skagway were little more than wooden slats with gaps in all the wrong places. Maybe they are still that way…I don’t know. The gals kept hollering for me to get a move on. I told them to go, not to wait for me. They did. A moment later I was joined by two fellows, Canadian Customs Agents who were sailing with us to conduct business at our ports of call. They had apparently seen my predicament and grabbed me, one by each arm. They ran and I ran, though my feet were not touching ground. We arrived back at the ship just as they began to pull the the gangplank. My two companions jumped the approximately three foot gap with me in tow. Passengers who were lining the deck to watch our departure from Skagway, cheered our arrival.

I arrived at the Vulcania no worse for wear except for being slightly breathless. I slept like a baby that night. Come to think of it, I usually do sleep like a baby when I’m aboard ship…something about the movement and the sea air is relaxing beyond measure.

Vi Jones
©February 1, 2009

Photo courtesy Canadian National.

The path was choked with vegetation but, unwilling as I was to return to the tourist clogged trail, I slogged on, pushing my way through the broad leafed greenery. I began to wish a machete had been included in my walnut shell, but it didn’t, so I had to do with what I had, my arms and legs. It took me three hours to get to the grotto. Distance-wise, it should have taken me only ten minutes at most. When I arrived though, I realized it was well worth the time, the hard slog, and the numerous scratches and bruises.

I was standing in a small amphitheatre with the sparkling waterfall dancing over the moss covered rocks and into a pool that reflected in glorious color the trees that surrounded it, and the huge multi-colored, bell like blossoms that hung like ballet dancers from the branches. So big were they that they caused the branches to bend over. They appeared to be honoring the water.

Having brushed by so much vegetation on the path, I was wet through to the skin. This was not the main grotto where the tourists would mingle, roughly brushing against each other and jabbering like a bunch of loonies. This was the real grotto where I could be with myself and Nature Herself. There was not a soul around, and not a sound other than the dancing water and the drip drip drip from the broad leafed trees. So knowing that I was totally alone, I stripped off my clothes and immersed myself in the inviting pool. The water wrapped around me like a gown of pure silk. I felt my trail weary muscles relax and the weariness leave me; a mist-like cloud that floated for a moment before dispersing into the atmosphere. My movements created ripples in the water causing the reflected colors to become abstracts of such beauty, that I could not describe with mere words and could never recreate on canvas.

I lay back and floated with my eyes closed. I thought about my life…the road I had traveled form the green mountains of Wales to my home in the United States. Memories became jumbled as if they were a page of penciled scribbling. I seemed not to be able to organize my thoughts. Why, I wondered, my memories are usually clear and concise. Gradually things cleared up and I realized that being there in the grotto had somehow eased my mind of any guilt-ridden memories. It was not that I didn’t remember things I had done and of which I was not proud. I remembered them clearly but in a different light. Now they were circumstances over which I had little or no control. I knew the time had come for me to first of all forgive those who I had blamed for my feelings, and then to forgive myself for deeds which I had thought at the time to be best for everyone, but had later come to regret.

I climbed out of the pool and made my way behind the waterfall. I was behind the curtain and in another world. The falling water sparkled like jewels. I recalled the magic of my days in San Francisco, which is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It was there that I immersed myself in the arts; the opera, the ballet, and the theatre. I loved every moment of my life in the City by the Bay. One might say I lived the high life…for me anyway. I enjoyed dressing up, fixing my hair, and mingling with some of San Francisco’s upper crust so to speak. It is said we go through stages in our lives that are much like chapters in a book, each one takes us another step toward the whole story, or in this case toward the whole person. We do not know when the story will end or how many chapters are left to complete it. We do know, however that each chapter is precious. Each and every life lived is to be found in the universe, complete stories floating forever in memories that live on forever. Those memories are treasures and should be treated as such.

I heard a distant voice and I knew it was L’Enchanteur calling us back to the ship. It was time to move on.

ViJones
©January 31, 2009

The Hidden Grotto

There were a lot of people milling around at the grotto. Apparently the Vulcania wasn’t the only ship in town. I wasn’t going to enjoy the grotto what with all the hubbub. I remembered that about a mile back on the trail, I had caught sight of a piece of wood lying in the weeds. It had seemed out of place. Curiosity, having gotten the better of me as it usually does, I stepped off the trail and picked it up. It was an ancient sign. The words were faded but with much squinting I was able to make them out. The Grotto, it read, Straight Ahead, but underneath in even more faded, smaller lettering, it read, Wishes do not true come easily—they must be labored for to be appreciated. I carefully replaced the weathered sign and ruffled the grass and weeds over it so that it wouldn’t be disturbed again. Not that I didn’t want anyone else to find it, but rather that I felt it belonged there, half buried to disintegrate into the dust of time.

I continued up the path, passing some folks, being passed by some and meeting others coming down the trail. The tropical vegetation was thick on each side of the path, large leaved trees dripping on the smaller with a staccato rhythm that reminded me think of distant drummers calling their villagers. For the most part the greenery had been trimmed back by the hundreds of visitors making their way toward the grotto. I was disappointed that there were so many people. And these were not like my fellow passengers who were all searching in their own way for something. I would have been comfortable with them, knowing that they, too, were reaching inside themselves. There was no way that in this crowd, I’d be able to find myself. Disappointed, I turned back.

When I arrived at the spot where I had found the old sign, I stopped and searched for it—I had thoroughly hidden it. No one would have found it had they not known it was there. I made sure there were no tourists anywhere near me before picking up the board and examining the faded lettering again. I was mulling over it when the board was torn from my hand and thrown to the ground. It landed upside down at my feet. “What the—” When I picked it up again I saw there was lettering on the back side of the sign as well. It read, If you are true to yourself, you will always take the path less traveled for it is the way of the enlightened. It is the true grotto. I read the words slowly and wondered just what they could mean. And why did I feel the board had been snatched from my hand when there was no one anywhere near where I was standing?

I was still standing there when a group of a half dozen people came up the main trail. They were rowdy and had typically inappropriate music blaring. So much for ambience, I thought.

“Whaza matter old woman?” one of them shouted at me. “Too steep for ya. Better go back for your wheel chair.”

I shot him a look I hoped would kill and waited until they had passed out of sight. I could hear the two young gals in the party laughing hilariously at the remark, even after they were out of sight.

I checked in both directions to make sure there was no one in sight before stepping onto what appeared to be a very old and brush covered path. After a half dozen steps I was completely out of sight of the main trail. I could hear voices but soon, they too faded into thin air.

I felt a tingling in my hands and watched helpless as the board disintegrated into dust, the minute pieces raining down into the weeds and disappearing forever.

It was hard going. The path was rough and I turned my ankle on an unseen rock. “Careful,” I muttered to myself. “Break a leg and I can’t just call 911, not from here.”

I moved forward slowly and carefully, feeling for every step. I brushed past the tall broad leaved ferns that had once lined the old path, but had now encroached on the path itself. I was soaked to the skin with the moisture from the ferns and from the dripping trees above them. I was not cold though, in fact the opposite. I was steaming as much as the rich and varied greenery.

While making my way slowly and carefully along the path, my thoughts turned to my first few weeks in The United States. I had been invited to stay with friends who lived in Mount Shasta in Northern California.

I was awestruck by the grandeur of the mountain. It appeared to grow out of the back yard of the home on Iris Street in which I was staying. I had never in my life see anything so beautiful, so awe inspiring. Wow!

I have visited the mountain on numerous occasions since that time and having climbed it in my younger days. Recently I came across an article that read:

In 1932, the Rosicrucians popularized the belief that Shasta is the dwelling place of the Lemurians, super-humans who are so spiritually advanced that they can change themselves from material to spiritual at will. They were described as tall, graceful and agile, with larger heads and much larger foreheads than average humans. Their power is enhanced by a cache of crystals they brought with them to Mt. Shasta when they fled their original home of Lemuria, a lost continent off the Pacific coast that was destroyed by a volcanic eruption. (The name “Lemuria” was first coined in a scientific context in 1864, by zoologist Philip L. Sclaterby, as a hypothetical sunken continent which could account for the migration of lemurs between existing continents.)

It was more than coincidence I thought, that here I was exploring Lemuria. Could it be that my path here began all those years ago on the slopes of Mount Shasta? Could it be our destiny is so clearly defined?

Vi Jones
©January 26, 2009

Image and article from Sacred Destinations. <https://www.sacred-destinations.com/usa/mt-shasta.htm&gt;

Riding the Rails—Again

I had gathered my camera, extra batteries and memory cards, my journal and pencils, along with a bottle of water and a light weight jacket. I also tucked some snacks; nuts, dried fruit, and a chocolate bar or two into my day pack. My walnut shell was tucked safely in my pocket next to my heart. I was eager to explore The Island of the Temple People, and although I had no idea what to expect, I did know was that those had been ashore and had already returned to the ship were changed somehow. They exuded a feeling of well being and of love for their fellow human beings.

When I stepped from the tender onto the dock, I saw the train for the Grotto was waiting. The carriages were open to the fresh air and were sea shell shaped. The locomotive was so clean and shiny it mirrored the images around it. It puffed white steam into the air. I could tell immediately that it was not powered by coal, neither was it a wood burner. Whatever powered it was clean and green. I took my seat at the rear of the last carriage where I could see the length of the train in front of me. The seats were full, though I did not see any of my shipmates. The passengers were mostly women. They were attired in dresses the color of rainbows. Most wore their hair long. Their exited chattering was like music to my ears.

There was no sound as the train began to move forward, no huffing or puffing, no smell of soot, nor were there any of those nasty little particles that stung and burned the eyes. It was as if, one moment we were stationary, then in the blink of an eye, we were moving forward. There was no clickety clack of the rails. The green meadows on either side of the tracks were dotted with wild flowers of every conceivable color. Butterflies. Honey bees, and hummingbirds flitted from blossom to blossom while the larger birds soared lazily above. A small stream bubbled musically over the rocks. Children squealed with delight as they paddled about in the clear water. This is what it could be like, I thought, if we didn’t have the noise and pollution that plagued our modern world. If these, The Temple People evolve as we have done, I hope they learn from our mistakes. On second thoughts, maybe they have evolved so much further that we have.

I leaned back in my seat and allowed the pleasant rocking motion of the train to lull me into an even more dream-like state of mind.

Suddenly I was in another time. I found myself alighting from another ship, one that was tied to the dock near Ellis Island in New York Harbour. It was 1950, and that morning I had stood on the deck and gazed upon the Statue of Liberty as we sailed by it. I was fresh from Wales, a little afraid, very naïve, but as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

I don’t really recall how long it took, but it seemed forever as I was processed through the gloomy halls of Ellis Island. I thought about the thousands who had been through here before me and wondered how they felt, the uncertainty of whether they would be rejected and returned to the land of origin. Unlike so many of them, I wasn’t running from anything. I loved my homeland. I had after all spent all my life until this point in Wales. I had played, walked, been schooled, and been nurtured by, to use the title of Tom Jones’ popular ballard, The Green Green Grass of Home. If I were not accepted I would be returning to the open arms of friends and family in post war, but still rather austere Britain.

* * *

Having escaped the gloomy halls of Ellis Island, I stood with luggage on the streets of New York. I was alone and lonely and was questioning my wisdom. The feeling didn’t last long though. An American couple I had met on board ship had arranged to meet me and show me some of the sights. Mostly I remember being on Broadway and seeing the lights…they were like nothing I had seen before.

My train for California was scheduled to leave the next morning so I didn’t have a lot of time to take in the sights of New York. Besides, I was eager to be on my way.

The next morning I arrived at the station and hiked the platform to find my seat on board the New York Central. I had ridden the train many times in Wales, but my goodness, I had never seen a train this long. It seemed that I hiked miles, all the time carrying my luggage…no wheelie bags in those days, and I was saving my money so didn’t want to hire a porter. Besides, I really didn’t have that much stuff.

I was traveling coach, and was completely mesmerized watching the scenery passing by my window. I sat up day and night; afraid to close my eyes least I miss something.

* * *

I had to change trains in Chicago and had a several hour layover. There was a fair going on, and it was there I ate my first piece of Southern Fried Chicken. I remember feeling quite embarrassed for the diners around me who seemed to have no table manners whatsoever. They just picked up the chicken with their fingers and ate it that way. How awful! It didn’t take me long though to find out how difficult it was to eat fried chicken with a knife and fork. Soon I threw my table manners to the wind and joined everyone else, eating with my fingers.

Later that day I boarded the San Francisco Limited for the rest of my journey. Once again, I traveled coach and rarely slept.

One thing I remember to clearly is that when the train stopped for an hour or so in Green River, Wyoming, I stepped outside. It was dusty and hot. So hot! It was my first experience with dry heat. When I stepped down from the air conditioned coach it was like stepping into an oven. Needless to say, I didn’t stay outside for long.

The rest of my journey westward was uneventful except for the fact that my mind was being filled to overflowing with fleeting images. I don’t remember a whole lot about my fellow passengers except that they were for the most part friendly. There were a lot of service men on board and they tended to get a little rowdy, but that didn’t bother me overly much.

The San Francisco Limited ends its journey in Oakland where those bound for San Francisco, must board the ferry to reach the City by the Golden Gate.

* * *

My day dreaming came to an end when our magical train pulled up near a waterfall. A sign pointed the way to the grotto. I had heard about the grotto. It was said to bathe in its waters would purify the soul and release one’s inert creativity. And I needed a boost in that direction; in fact I need a kick in the pants. I had been neglecting my muse for too long, allowing other things, unimportant bits and pieces to eat away at my creativity time.

I stepped down from the train, eager to visit the grotto.

Vi Jones

©January 18, 2009