This is my island in the sun…

Harry Belafonte

 

Having ventured from the East Coast to Arizona, we had to find a new go-to place for our Caribbean adventures. Over the past forty-some years (how did that happen?) Aruba had become our place of refuge.

While we enjoy our many trips around the world, Aruba was a place more than just a vacation destination. It had become an old friend where, every time we went there, we were comfortable and relaxed. It was like getting home after a long journey.

Depending on the current travel fares we would fly from Providence or Boston and be there in five or six hours. But from Phoenix the travel time doubled, requiring a change.

So, we have come to Roatan, an island off the coast of Honduras.

Roatan is a flashback to the Caribbean of the past. Something Aruba was when we first ventured there. Mostly undeveloped but now the focus of many looking for that hidden gem where one can buy a beachfront property without holding your entire financial well-being hostage.

This will inevitably change. But for now, it is journeying to a place of uncertain electrical power, a plethora of flying bugs and other creatures (I am hoping for a glimpse of the native curly-haired Tarantula or the monkeys that roam the island), and the once common in America but now almost non-existent sounds of roosters crowing at 4:00 AM.

This chorus of male showmanship—like steroid addicted muscle heads parading on a beach with their large muscles and tiny (both) heads trying to out-big each other—is a joy to experience.

Nature is not quiet, it is a noisy clashing of voices all screaming for attention. I find it both soothing and startling.

But for the opportunity to walk on relatively empty beaches and, due to the island’s north-south orientation, the opportunity to watch both sunrise and sunset from the same beach chair or fishing pier, the cacophonous sounds of screaming roosters are a small price to pay.

I came out on the deck of our little bungalow cabin around 5:00 AM, endured the occasional lizard running over my bare feet and buzz of bugs flying past my ear who, so far, have not developed a taste for my American blood, and wrote this to the background of Foghog Leghorn and his fellow roosters screaming at the top of their lungs.

Different than my usual background of Gregorian Chants (thank you, John Needham for that addiction) or some quiet jazz, it inspires nonetheless.

Now that I think of it, my life has become a living cartoon. Here I am entertained by Foghog Leghorn, back at home I am surrounded by Wile E. Coyote (Genius) and the Road Runner.

Nature is noisy and life follows the strangest paths directed by invisible eddies and unexpected opportunities. Can’t wait for the next sounds and adventures.