There is nothing quite like being on an island, knowing that beyond the rocky outcrop on which you stand is an extremely large expanse of water populated by colorful fish, roving boats, and the occasional nuclear submarine. It’s a good feeling to know that given a serious episode of not being able to read a map, the worst you can do is to go in a big circle and end up where you started, hopefully in time for lunch. Well, that last bit is comforting for me at least — maybe not so much my wife.
The saying is true: island life really is just a little bit slower. It may be due to the reassuring embrace of the trade wind, but on an island there’s considerably more shambling, sidling, and yes, the occasional non-landlocked mosey. In addition, the ever-present vista of unbroken sea surrounding you does wonders to fade the memory of the humming static of daily life back home. That sweating Carib beer in your hand accompanying the recently quivering red snapper entree doesn’t hurt matters either. It’s as much food for thought as stomach.
On an island, I’m a stander. I’m not a big fan of wading out into the ocean beyond the depth of my landlubbing knees, my burgeoning aquatic life having been cut tragically short by release of Jaws during the third grade. I’m one of those people that you see standing statue-like at that modicum of depth, where children can often be found kicking minnows out of the water, even on a day when the mercury is pushing 95. Trust me — any time you see someone standing in that measly amount of water on a day that hot, they’re standing there because of Jaws. Damn you, Spielberg.
I’m a consistent shallow-end denizen until we happen upon what my wife and I like to call a “bathtub beach” - a portrait-still and protected pool of liquid glass, temperature 82 even. I think there is one on every island - the BVI has the warm crescent of Smugglers Cove, Bermuda has the azure pool that is Achilles Bay Beach, and St Barth’s boasts the long and placid St. Jean beach. In those environs, and if the light is just right (thereby permitting me to see incoming predators from great distances), you may catch me floating like a clump of seaweed, doing my best enactment of photosynthesis. I’m not just floating though - that’s me actively chomping into the crunchy nougat of life. I’m in what new-ageian psychologists would call my happy place.
During those idyllic insular moments I’m soaking up more than just sun. That’s capital I’m absorbing, and I’m socking it away for a rainy day. You can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be making a hefty withdrawal during the second hour of the short-lived but predictable power outage that happens during Blacksburg’s annual February ice storm. Likewise, there there’s no doubt I’ll be burning a little of that emergency candle late at night on some deadline-quashing evening. It’s the little extra push which keeps me, months later, sliding into the station - maybe on fumes, but still rolling.
The great thing is that these memories of detachment burn slow, and they burn rich. I’m still getting fantasic mileage from the memories of twenty year old childhood adventures, and they’re not showing signs of abating. I’m willing to bet that these recent southern Atlantic warm-water soaks should take me through clear to retirement. If these were corporate stock options I was cashing in, the SEC would be taking notice.
Take it from a big nerd - you’ve got to take the time to take the time, even if it’s just a moment. While we at NCM think that web server downtime is a terrible thing to be avoided at all costs and under the pain of being paged at 2 AM, we’re strong believers that personal downtime lets you take that much needed step back while doling out a heaping serving of fresh perspective. It’s an opportunity to slow down and think. Something that we rarely take advantage of in this age of instantaneous communication and ubiquitous information.
Do yourself a favor when you finish reading this page. This may be difficult, but you’ve got to try. Slowly remove your hand from that wireless optical mouse, roll your lumbar-friendly and precisely-angled office chair backwards, stand up, and head for the the door.
Move with purpose and take long strides. No one will stop you.
Sashay down that hallway, step through the building atrium, and stand, blinking, in the sunlight. Isn’t it always sunny when you’re at the office? Strange that. Now, walk, and for the next five minutes, keep walking. Breathe that non-conditioned air, and take stock of what’s going on out there. You may hear something strange. Don’t panic. Birds always make that noise.
When you get back from your five minute sojourn, you’ll be ready to tackle things on your meticulously crafted to-do list that you were putting off just moments before you left.
Hey, you just went on vacation. That’s all it takes!