My
Island
There is an island just across from Marosakoa,
Madagascar. The island of muchoch-loving goats, of shimmering crabs, of
hovering sand, of jeweled waters. My island. I could see it from my tent where
I woke and slept, from the beach where I played and explored, from the coconut
trees that I climbed and drank water from. I asked Aba, my dad, if we could go
there. He nodded his tanned, curly-haired head and we left.
I stepped into the
green kayak after it was pulled into the water. We both began to paddle. I
watched the water for rising fish and eels, hoping for a meal. As we neared the
island, the water became shallower and clearer, until we reached an underwater
flatland only waist deep. We dragged the boat the rest of the way through the
crystal water.
From the shore the island looked no more than a mile
wide. The white sand covered the entire island, with no real soil to be seen.
It was sparsely dotted with muchoch trees and palms. The sun shone in a
cloudless sky. The ground beneath me was scattered with tiny towers of
compressed sand, each no longer than three inches, topped with a tiny pastel
striped clam. I walked carefully so as not to crush any. Finer grains of bleached
sand flew a centimeter off the ground with the warm breezes. The shallow sea
around me was patched with beautiful shades of green and blue, thanks to the
branching mats of multicolored algae on the seafloor. Port-colored mussels and
pink lace coral peeked from emerald, aquamarine, turquoise and the rare patch
of exposed sand. Tiny sand crabs skittered behind rocks and other protection
from the hovering sand that gently stung my feet. The ground glimmered with
sunlight reflected from millions of their tiny amethyst bodies.
Pigeons cooed from the dead skirt of leaves of a palm,
hidden from view along with the rats that occupied the same tree. This was an
untouched paradise, almost extinct in such a busy world. The face of a baby
black goat peeked at me from behind a muchoch tree, its eyes scanned my face,
trying to figure whether I would kill it or give it a fruit. Smiling, I went
for the latter. I reached for a muchoch with a pink-orange shell and broke it
open. The sweet smell of vanilla and mangoes filled the air. I scooped out half
of the orange ball of mush in the middle and gave the rest to Mr. Goat. As I
ate my half of the muchoch, I headed toward the water and took high, wading
steps through the water. Two mussel fishers, so far away they looked like ants,
reached into the water and pulled out a silver net full of shells.
I went back to
shore to check on Aba. As I walked, my hair began to blow to one side of my
face, the flying sand at my feet flowed faster. The sand crabs stopped moving
and stuck their legs into the sand, studding the ground with living jewels. I
would not be able to go back to Marosakoa in this wind. The gusts were warm,
sparing my bare chest any cold. As I reached Aba, he spoke.
“The wind is too high to go back. Make an SOS for Michel
to see.”
I nodded and began to carve the three giant letters into
the sand. The mounds of earth I dug up were quickly blown away, grain by
grain. After I had finished carving my
S, O, and S and filling each with sea lettuce for clarity, I lay by Aba and
looked at the sky. The time hurried by and Michel’s boat came. As we boated
away, I took one last look at my island before it was too tiny to see.
