When my son Brad informed me a couple of weeks before my last trip to Maine that he had made arrangements for us to spend two days on an island, I was both excited and nervous at the same time. Listening to Brad's description of the peacefulness of the island and the rustic nature of the accommodations sounded like something straight out of Swiss Family Robinson, one of my all-time favorite movies when I was a kid. I'll admit that I wasn't completely thrilled about the outdoor shower and the composting toilets part of my son's explanation of what awaited me on the island, but I was excited about the adventure of it all. I was a nervous wreck about surviving the hour-long boat ride ... the hour-long boat ride in the middle of the ocean with waves and sea creatures and memories of puking my guts out in cars and airplanes because of motion sickness ... oh, yeah, you bet your butt I was nervous about the boat ride.
The more my Brad talked about the mother and son excursion he had planned for the two of us, the bigger the lump in my throat swelled ... my 28-year-old son was actually excited about taking his old gray-haired mom to a secluded island. When we ended our chat that evening, there wasn't a doubt in my mind I would do whatever it took to get myself on that boat and go to that island with my boy. And, believe it or not, my steadfast determination to overcome my fear didn't falter even a little bit. When the day arrived for us to embark on our island journey, I popped a couple of Dramamine, tried really hard not to think about the boat sinking and all the creatures that would eat me if it did, and I climbed on that lobster boat and spent two of the most remarkable days of my life on Hurricane Island off the coast of Maine with my son.
Now Brad had told me before I departed on this particular trip to Maine that he and Shelby intended to make me see and experience all kinds of new things and that some of those things would push me far outside of my comfort zone. I'm fairly certain, however, that me taking two hard falls in a matter of two days wasn't part of their plan. Now that I think about it, though, the result of those falls was that I was far, far away from being comfortable for several days ... hmmm ... maybe they did plan them after all ... hmmm. My first tumble occurred when we were almost back to the car after climbing a massive beast of a mountain. Okay, okay ... maybe it wasn't a Rocky Mountains kind of mountain, but it was a mountain nonetheless. I made the mistake of briefly looking up at Shelby instead of continuing to watch my feet as I walked down the steep trail, and before I knew what was happening, I came crashing down onto a good-sized rock at the edge of the path. Even though the sound my arm made when it hit the rock made me think I must surely have broken a bone, my injuries were confined to scrapes, abrasions and bruises that were topped off with a sizable wallop of embarrassment. Little did I know that in less than 24 hours, I would think that particular rocky encounter was more like a stroll in the park than a fall.
Brad's description of the island didn't disappoint ... I have never seen such beauty, my friends, and that's saying a lot from a gal who's always been a bigger fan of the mountains than I have the ocean ... well, at least I was until I crashed and burned on one anyway. From the massive boulders that lined its shoreline to the ancient trees that towered at its highest point, the island beckoned me to leave my fast-paced life behind and to rest in its quiet and simple existence. I instantly envied the dozen or so residents of the island as Brad introduced me to them ... they live on the island six months out of the year teaching various student groups about marine life and sustainable living. To live in that beauty and be doing such amazing work? Oh yes, I was both amazed and jealous ... wow ... just wow.
Following the introductions, Brad and I stowed our gear in the small boat house next to the dock and hopped ... actually, I gingerly stepped ... into a small motorboat which took us to the other side of the island and dropped us off. Brad had agreed to do some additional filming for the foundation that manages the island in exchange for them allowing him to bring me to the island, and he was anxious to get his drone in the air. That's my boy, alright ... he always finds a way to make the impossible possible. I watched Brad scamper across the big boulders ... leaping from one to the other like a gazelle ... as I took my time along a less challenging route, picking up various rocks along the way to add to my collection back at home. I eventually arrived at the spot where Brad was filming, and I sat on a boulder and watched him as he maneuvered the drone in the sky. I ate a protein bar and drank some water ... heck, I even caught the drone a few times when Brad brought it in for a landing. The sun was shining brightly ... the wind was blowing gently ... the waves were rolling easily ... it was as close to a perfect day as I've ever experienced.
I'm not sure how long we lingered on the boulder, but after a while Brad said he needed to change locations. He once again scampered across the giant, rounded pillars of rock, and I once again walked slowly, stopping now and then to rub my much more sore than I would admit arm, shoulder and thighs. In order for me to get to where Brad was standing, I had no choice but to make my way across some of the not as big but still big boulders ... slowly and carefully, no gazelle jumping for me. When I was within a few feet of Brad, I said, "Look, Buddy, the whole front pocket of my hoodie is full of a bunch of cool rocks I found." I then stepped off of the rock where I was standing to the one just below it ... at least I intended to step from one rock to another, but instead my overtired thigh muscle decided not to go along with my plan. Remember how I said the other fall turned out to be a walk in the park? I wasn't quite as fortunate in the injury department the second fall around ... my island crash left me with a bloody chin and knee, and the top of my right hand was ... well, let's just suffice it to say that the top of my right hand was so chewed up that once I convinced my freaked-out son that I was okay, I went in the woods, took off the t-shirt I was wearing under my hoodie and wrapped up my by then dripping blood hand.
By now, I bet you're wondering why you're still reading this forever long and seemingly meaningless tale of when I fell down ... twice ... and got all banged up on my last trip to Maine. I'm sharing the stories of me falling down ... twice ... because I think there are some lessons I'm supposed to learn from those embarrassing and painful falls. Lessons about being careful ... lessons about misplaced trust ... lessons about paying attention ... lessons about keeping my guard up ... lessons about watching where I'm going ... lessons about strength and weakness. And perhaps the greatest lesson came to me through the words of my sweet son as we walked to our bunkhouse on the island ... in the dark ... him holding my arm so that I didn't fall a third time. The lesson to remember what matters most ... it's not how many times you fall that matters, it's how many times you get up and try again.
"This almost makes me wish I had kids, Mom."
"So that you could bring them to the island, buddy?"
"No. So that I could tell them what a bad-ass Ghee they have, Mom."
It's the getting up and trying again that matters, friends ... it is indeed.
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