The Other Side of the Island

Mimi Silverstein

The ferry from the West Coast of Ireland to the island of Inishbofin was the kind of boat ride where long-haired girls first fear the loss of their hair ties to the wind, but after an eternity of leaning over the side of the boat with a pinched anxiety in their feet, let go of it all and let the wind throw their hair as it pleases.  

It smells the way Ireland smells, clouds and soft grass and hot tea, mingled with sea spray.  I’m not sure if the music I’m hearing is sirens, or sailors, or simply the waves.  To one side, the open sea is cast with shadows of the sky, the blue of infinity thrusting against the gray of rainy afternoons.  To the other, we imagine the stony ruins that rise from the shore were castles once.

As we slide beside the dock, a boy in swim trunks waves and catapults himself into the water. We clap and cheer.  Dogs with long, matted hair weave around our legs and extend their necks for a pat on the head.

Along the dirt coast road to the hostel, the girls run ahead.  Everywhere is a meadow and they are picking wildflowers, purple, red, and yellow, from the grasses beside the path. They take turns braiding each other’s hair, weaving the flowers among their tumbling locks.  It is violets against soft-voiced Elodie’s gold, it is buttercups among throaty-laughed Isabel’s dark curls.

I hoist myself onto the stone wall that snakes along beside the path.  My eyes refuse to keep watch over my feet and instead graze over the hills, hills that look like quilts, as if some old weaver woman laid down her every patchwork over the up and down bones of the land.  It is a soft quilt, too, a thick one, the sort you can sink into.  The grass here has not a single thorn, will never prick your ankles.  Legs sink into it, a cool swamp.  Herds of sheep roam across the patchwork.  The sea is puddle gray, meeting the sky effortlessly, clouds resting on the surface of the water.  A giant in old rain boots would love to go puddle stomping in this pool.

Our hostel is cream yellow, the same color as the walls of my bedroom back home. There are no locks on the doors, and the giggles of little girls in their pajamas race up and down the stairs.  As the hills darken, scruffy bearded men chuckle into their beer bottles.  

We eat at picnic tables in the little white sunroom, drink out of teacups we find in the crowded cupboard.  We scrub our dishes with old towels. Bee makes apple pie, all tart edges and cinnamon mush.  Perfect.

The seventeen of us, American teenagers armed with notebooks and handfuls of sweaters, lose our socks under the ratty couch cushions and sit in a circle playing middle school slumber party games at night.  In the morning, we walk down to the beach.  A sheepdog becomes our companion.  She is long nosed and white haired, sprinkled with black spots. Her clever eyes are a sweet honey brown.  We name her Shelby and she plops herself in front of our feet for belly rubs in the sand.  We wade up to our knees in the shallows, the cold water nipping our calves.  I collect three seashells, the kind they say were mermaid’s necklaces because there is a single hole in their thin sheath.  I make a necklace of my own, stringing the shells onto some green rope we find amongst the sands and grasses.

Five of us venture out the next morning to the other side of the island.  I walk ahead of the group, feeling my toes sink into the luscious grass with every step.  Dirt and green tuck themselves under my toenails.  This other side of the island is not a place to speak.  It has its own voice, the sound of the waves growing rougher, that heartbeat slap against the rocky shore. 

The fences that keep the sheep from wandering into someone else’s patch of brilliant green disappear, as does the dirt road.  Everyone chases the sheep now, they are faster than they look all wrapped in wool.  An old one is resting and lets me stroke her head.  Her eyelashes drift over her black marble eyes, and her breathing is steady.

Run up a hill and find a fairy circle.  It is easy to believe there are small winged beings hiding in this realm of green.

The other side of the island commands immensity.  Green stretches out everywhere, claiming every surface with its wide palms.  And then the green stops, a sudden cliff, and the mouth of the sea is revealed.  Its tongues are lapping at the island walls, rough and hungry.  On the other side of the gaping mouth, the green cliff rises into the clouds, an unfinished bridge into the sky.  

The tongues of the sea are hungry.  I am starving.  I climb higher than the waves can with all the power of Manannan mac Lir in their guts.

It is impossible to see the highest point of the cliff while you’re climbing it.  The grassy back of its neck is full of bumps and rolls.  As I approach the edge, my thighs are sore and the green skin of the island has thinned, revealing the cliff’s rock bone face.

This is a temple to old gods of wind and rock and sea.

This is a place where battles are fought between the rage of the sea and the steady dissidence of the rock face.  The cliff is a fist, raised high and strong.  I stand upon it; a thousand feet below the waves gnaw greedily, prying those fingers apart.  And then there is the wind, playing both sides, dancing through the waves, catching dirt and sea spray.

 These forces do not cease their ages old war to welcome me.  Instead, they let me step unnoticed into their game of balance, let me stand at the center of nirvana.  

I am a temple to myself.

Balancing, I peel off my shirt, my jeans, my underwear.   Each gust of sea air draws goose bumps on the parts of me that have never felt the world before.  I feel it between my legs like icy lips, feel it carve up my stomach, feel it call to my breasts and my fingertips. I spread my arms out straight, and the wind kisses my armpits.

I lean forward, swaying as trees do.  The wild song of blue licks its white white lips, wanting me, but my roots entangle themselves in the rock.  I swallow air, I swallow the entire ocean. Salt water rushes through my veins.

I am like these gods, I need no one to worship me! I am aware of every pinprick of wind on my fingertips.

I laugh a sea spray laugh, and call breathless to my friends behind me, “I’m NAKED!”

 I raise my arms ever higher, and I breathe.