Unmoored, but Unstuck

Looking past The Cove to Charley Young and the two anchored sailboats at sunrise this morning.

JANUARY 11, 2021 — Haleakala glows with the halo of morning’s first light. The air is still and comfortable this morning, not like the scorching humid heat of an island summer. I’ve been walking this beach almost daily since I arrived here on Maui more than five weeks ago, wanting to spend the winter with my siblings here. The silhouettes of two familiar sailboats anchored off-land, not too far, always there, every morning, every evening too, remind me of that crazy-making experience of feeling emotionally unmoored after, and since, my husband Bill died.

Charley Young beach with the anchored sailboats a few weeks ago.

This is a beautiful place to be anchored, to be sure. But I wonder every time I see them, why are they not out to sea, taking in all that sailboats have to offer?

I remove my earbuds and pause the podcast I am listening to in order to take in the sounds of the waves. I stand snapping photos of the beautiful early morning light.

“When you hear a powerful truth,” the podcaster says, and I paraphrase a little, echoing wisdom my husband offered up at times over the years, and even a few months before he died, “and it makes you gasp or tear up, and you feel its weight deep within… that is a reminder of a truth you already know, deep down.”

I bring both hands to my heart, close my eyes, and breathe in deep that reminder, and the memories, mixed with the salty morning air. I am always surprised at how little the Maui air smells, and how very few sounds are on the beach here. Just crashing waves. So different from the Mexican beaches my family visited in my youth, beaches steeped with the sounds of seabirds and the intense smell of salty kelp and fish.

The whoosh of a good-sized wave builds, then splashes over my legs and feet as I continue to take photos that I will probably post on social media later. I might even use that quote as the caption. I wipe away more grit from my thigh, as a soft section of the beach sucks both of my feet under the sand and then completely covers them, like quicksand. The cool sand massages my feet, mooring them in one place for just a moment, offering a playful feeling of stuckness.

The sky continues to lighten as I wiggle my toes under the sand and begin to dig out my feet. Of course, it only looks as though I am stuck. Just pretend. A child’s game. But that’s the way of stuckness, isn’t it? It seems real enough when we’re in it and can’t see a way out. The path isn’t clear.

But there is one. There is always a pathway.

I pull out my feet and continue on with my walk, looking forward to my morning coffee and feeling a little clearer about what I will write when I get back.

This piece was cranked out this morning during Nadine Kenney Johnstone’s fabulous weekly Writer Workout. If you’d like to learn about Nadine and her writing community, you can find her here. Tell her Robyn sent you.