Sublime Moments

I am on a boat absorbing the otherworldliness of a tropical island coastline as I sail by: the sparkle and flash of bright sunlight where water licks sand, the blues of the ocean fade green then create an ombre toward the golden shore. Sea breeze on my sun-warmed skin is a delight and I have a small plastic cup of cold rum, too little soda, and floating slice of fresh lime, in my hand. Life is good and I breathe the sea air deeply, my sinuses feeling swept clean as I do so. One of the operators of The Perpetual Summer cruise appears beside me. A tall guy with great hair: springs of sun-kissed curls erupting from his head.

“You’re going to have a great day to see the mystic mountains. Canadian?” he asks, his eyes darting to the maple leaf tattoo on my wrist. “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes”, I say, which is, technically, not true, but I’ve only seen the infamous mountains by land, and I’m told by water it's even better. It’s been my experience that by letting people from this island share it with me, brings me to the best places - waterfalls and swimming in hidden coves, hiking the trails only locals know.

“The beaches will turn black the closer we get. Volcanic rock turned to sand,” he says.

I try to look impressed, even though he’s given me no new information. He’s very good-looking in a way that most people from this part of the world are. His accent is a lovely mixture of British and patois. If I was looking for companionship today, I would flirt, find out where he was educated, and proceed from there. But today is about obtaining the feeling that I have come here for.

“I’m adding another sublime experience to my catalogue,” I tell him. “This will be the third.”

“Come again,”

“Sublime experiences.”

“Ah. Another drink?” he asks.

I nod, and he disappears behind the bar of the mid-sized catamaran, leaving me perched upon my towel out on the bulkhead of the boat. I’m sure this vessel, and likely this man, have entertained hundreds, if not thousands, of tourists over the years, sailing down the coast to the mystic mountains and back to the various resorts. The charter is not full today, thankfully, I’m one of only a dozen tourists and the only one on their own. This island is a big draw for honeymooners and as someone made uncomfortable by public displays of affection, I can tell which people here are newlyweds. Their limbs are always tangled somehow.

Cutie with the hair comes back and smiles wide as he hands me a fresh cup.

“If you want sublime experiences, you should live here. We have waterfalls, active and dormant volcanoes, mud baths and of course everything the sea has to offer.” He gestures towards the deep blue. “You said this will be your third...can you tell me about the first two?”

“Ok. But once we start to see the sand darken, I’ll request privacy. I’ve had a few drinks now, and that plus conversation with a handsome stranger might ruin the chance I have for the feeling I crave. Deal?” I ask. His charming smile broadens a little more with my complement.

“Deal,” he replies. “I googled it - just now - sublime.”

“Oh - and?” I laugh.

“Transcendence inspiring awe. Or something to do with chemistry...”

“Correct! And it’s my favourite word - that says a lot coming from a writer. I make my living off them - words - and I shouldn't play favourites. But this one is also a feeling. When my Dad taught it to me, I was very small. He told me he only ever felt it in nature - no man-made cathedral or lighthouse ever did it for him. I’m the same. Nothing can compare to the grandeur and splendor of nature.”

“Well, let's hear it,” he says and seems genuinely interested. That smile is so engaging. The rum is giving me a buzz, warming me to his charm.

“Have you ever been swimming in a lake?” I ask. There are not too many freshwater lakes around here...and nothing like the great lakes at home.

“Yes. I don’t like dark waters.”

“Well then you might not understand one of my experiences, but I’ll try. So far water, in some form, features in my experiences of the sublime. Close your eyes and let me try to paint you a picture.”

He does and I smile.

“The lake my friend’s cottage is on is small but deep. Chunks of this metamorphosed granite shaped by tectonics and ice melt provide land for pine trees to line the rocky shores that drop off steeply. Forty feet deep off the end of the short dock.” His eyebrows raise slightly indicating that he’s following so far. “This occurrence happened in March, coming out of a long, cold - even for Canada - winter. The lake was thawing. We were warmed by the woodstove, me, my two friends. We were seventeen and testing out being on our own, up at the cottage for the first time. We thought there was a thunderstorm brewing at first, but it was more present than that. We could feel the ground shaking and even though the sky was bruised purple and overcast, it wasn’t raining or snowing. In fact, the air was dry, if not for the wood stove our hair would have arched static bolts upon removal of our wooly hats.

“The thundering sound was the lake thawing, we discovered, from blanket-covered boulders by the shore. Fissures formed from one end to the other and split-cracked the frozen lake like a bolt of lightning. We sat for hours until the weak early-spring sun was no longer contributing to the thaw. The sun then set, cold and distant, and the revelation of stars spread out for us. When we spoke, we talked about our insignificance in the universe, the vulnerability of ego birthed from nature’s grandeur can make you feel that way. Wrapped in warm layers listening to the lake, had revised us somehow, each crack became, in us, a microfracture, patched-up by our psychological affirmations and made stronger, thickened, fortified by the breaks. It was truly awe-inspiring nature.” He senses I’m through and opens his eyes to beam sun-caught amber warmth in my direction.

“Wow - you do love words - I felt like I was there. The lake thunders when it melts. Incredible.”

“It was.”

“Next?” he prompts and closes his eyes.

Smiling, checking out the mischievous curl of his lips, I consult the coastline and see the sand has started to brindle in colour. I plan to tell him this story, have my couple hours swimming around and taking in the mountains which raise directly from the sea, remnants of volcanic domes which brought one another down hundreds of thousands of years ago with their activity. Since, they’ve been covered in thick jungle and stand as emblems of this place on our planet. After my exploration, some companionship sailing back down the coast might be nice. If he is flirting with me, it’s not overt or aggressive. I like his style.

“Imagine floating in a lake of stars, naked, and the lake water is warmer than the air. I was deep in the backcountry of Northern Ontario. There is no light pollution, no civilization to speak of. My companion and I have portaged three days to get to this remote lake.” I pause, wondering if he knows the word 'portage'. It’s French, of which he should have a basic grasp, and also boat related. He doesn't seem lost in his calm expression, so I decide he must be familiar with the term even if he’s not done it before. “We left behind the cottages, the 4-wheelers, and the motorboats. There is the chirp of crickets and frogs, but with ears underwater there is just my breathing. Only a small circle of my face floats above the warm water. I am controlling my breath and fanning smooth strokes, like wings, gently beside my body in an effort not to disturb the reflection of the universe in which I float. The Perseids meteor shower is raining down - it is at its peak. Long streaks dash the sky as stars seem to shake loose of their fixtures and drop, burning, out of view. My body feels great in the water. I imagine I am breathing in the stardust; it makes me feel young and alive, poised for greatness.”

“I’ve felt that way, lost in the stars,” he says, opening his eyes again.

“I’m glad. It should be a part of the human experience.”

“When we round this last peninsula, there,” he points at the outcropping of land ahead with long, slender fingers, “You’ll be able to see the mountains. I’ll leave you to it, even run interference for you, if you’ll tell me how you felt on the way back to the marina. By then, maybe, you’ll consider giving me the pleasure of your company for dinner?” he asks, hopefully.

“I’ll consider it. Do a good job on that interference you mentioned. I don’t want to have to watch every couple take their insta pics, blocking up my view.”

He rolls his eyes at that impossible task and we both laugh. He turns to check where we are and smiles. “I look forward to your thoughts,” he says and bows out of view.

I’m thinking what an interesting turn this trip may have taken when the boat sails beyond the point and I get my first view of the mountains from the sea.

All thoughts are knocked out of me in a small gasp. The sublime beauty of the jade-green mountains rising steeply from the sea is beyond description and though we are still a distance from them the impossible majesty and dominance they project is steady, and I submit.

I feel small and insignificant. I feel power-filled and potent. My emotional loop is a closed circuit of emotions, strongly felt, all at once. I am a grounded human in a sublime moment.