I call her Auntie Ocean. She is the waves, the tide, the entire element that most others simply recognize as salt water. To me she is a blessing. Photo: Mark Mcinnis
There is a place on this island which is known by many but understood by no more than six to eight people Monday through Friday. It is where the stillness of the wind, the dew in the air, and the fire of the moon’s illumination answer to a higher power. I’ve been in this place many times, most often before the sun and just in time to see the moon descend to the other side of the world. When I arrive I park my car in between concrete trees and focus on the still silence that will soon become a buzzing metropolitan city.
Keeping with tradition I lock my doors and stroll across the pavement to greet the morning. Most often I am not the first. I’m welcomed by uncles who recognize the same magic in the air. We talk about the elements, good and bad, and individually decide between a chilly ocean shower and a warm cup of coffee. I almost always visit with an old Auntie. She is stern but enjoys talking story in the silence of a new day. She strives to mend the struggles in my life as I sit and watch as she shows me some therapeutic treatment or another. We haven’t been talking long, about two years or so, but the numerous conversations we’ve had already feel like a lifetime.
I call her Auntie Ocean. She is the waves, the tide, the entire element that most others simply recognize as salt water. To me she is a blessing.
Most mornings Auntie will call to me from over the rock jetty telling me it is time. Time to feel her abundant strength, and time to get some sense knocked into me. But on a day not too long ago, she called to me from below a boat in the middle of the Indian Ocean. She never failed to follow me on my many adventures around the world, and on this one I just happened to need her company the most.
The sunrise that mornng that could stun a person into stone. Yellow, pink, and streaks of blue melted together to greet the passengers of the D’Bora, an eighty-foot pinisi carrying seven journalism students through the Mentawai Islands. Our journey took us off the coast of Western Sumatra to learn that the most important way to grow as a person is to have the courage to lose the sight of shore.
The waves were firing, as usual, but our journalism instructor, Matt was going on a mission to deliver medical supplies to a local village. I decided to tag along.
I jumped into a zodiac with Hugh, another student, and we motored towards the shore of Malacopa village. Iain the camera man and Matt took a larger boat full of medical supplies and camera equipment and zipped off ahead of us. On our way in we passed a gigantic turtle lolling in the lagoon. Although there was nothing dangerous about the situation, I still felt nervous and very out of place. Once we got onto terra firma I followed closely behind Matt. Through the shifting concrete sidewalks, past the makeshift tin houses, tiny children, struck brown by the golden sun, ran up and down in excitement. In my foreignness I was glad to know that Auntie O surrounded us.
As we made our way through the village Hugh and I came to stand outside a concrete building. We watched as Matt and our translators asked for permission to enter. My salt-water soaked clothes felt sticky and uncomfortable. The humidity was oppressive. Barefoot children pushed past each other for a closer look at the bule and flies buzzed around my neck according to their own interests. Eventually we were allowed to enter and Hugh and I shuffled in to meet Inngih, an eleven year old with leprosy. He was stunned by my height and I by his beauty. This isn’t what I thought leprosy would look like. Although blisters surrounded his features, He was strong, tall for eleven, and exuding a sort of humble courage. I had no words; I didn’t speak Mentawai and he didn’t know English, so we sat. I watched as Matt told him we were here to help and asked if he wanted a shot that would ease the pain of his lesions for some time. No promises were made. The 10 pound medical bag we carried didn’t posses the magic to cure his disease.
While Mentawai and English ping ponged around us, we sat in silent conversation. His eyes would fill with water as he contemplated the choice between taking the cortisone shot or opting out for fear of the needle. I looked into his eyes with every ounce of comfort I possessed and tried to convey that I was proud of him. At eleven years old this boy harbored more courage than I felt I could ever possess. Without any words but a single nod, he gave Matt the go ahead. After each of the six shots, which dug deep into his bubbled skin, he looked up at me and I tried not to look away.
He shed no tears. I, on the other hand would spend much of the next hour trying to stop the emotion from pouring from my eyes.
Two weeks after I had departed from the D’Bora and slipped back into a life of relative luxury, the Mentawai islands suffered their largest tsunami to date. To my only knowledge Inngih’s village was wiped out. I spent time away from Auntie O, unable to grasp the reasoning behind her destruction, but as always I came back.
I never get much respect when I tell people I dawn patrol at Queens. “Oh… Waikiki,” they say, often not bothering to hide their disdain. I don’t mind. Outside the concrete jungle of tourism and prostitution, between Diamond Head of Canoes and Ewa of The Wall is the place I find my soul every morning. It’s where I contemplate with the uncles; talk with Auntie O, but most of all relive the blessing that she has to offer.
