Tangier: The Disappearing Island

     Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes- a fresh, green breast of the new

The roughly 39.4 miles of Brevard’s barrier island show archeological evidence of human habitation for thousands of years. However, it wasn’t until modern times, that humans built permanent structures and roads on these geological structures that, by natural design, respond to wind, currents and rising sea level by migrating landward or drowning (Duran Vincent & Moore, 2015). This concern is a manmade problem due to our construction on a geologically unstable island. Our beaches are formed by the erosion of offshore rocks and promontories. The fine size crystals of quartz and other material are carried onshore by waves and deposited on the beach. Numerous methods have been attempted, with varying degrees of success to combat

one edge of the island to the other edge. Not a very big island. Soon, we had enough of the hammock and we decided to enjoy the wonderful Bahamas sun and warm, perfect weather that didn’t involve rain or snow. We set out across the rocky sand to find a beach. As we followed the cement sidewalk, we came to a beach with tiny, tiny white sand granules, and not a rock in sight. We picked a spot in the sand, lathered on the oil, and “baked”. After about an hour of the hot, hot, sun, we took a dip in the seventy degree, clear, clean, blue water. Not a wave in sight and nothing to complain about. As we enjoyed the water that was only four feet deep all the way to the other side of the one hundred yard bay, we say many seashells beneath our feet and decided that these would make great souvenirs. We picked up a couple white, cream, and brown seashells and headed back up the sandy beach to our towels where we were going to “flip” and take in some more glorious sunshine. Two hours later, we decided that we were hungry, so we packed up our beach gear and headed back up the cement sidewalk to the big brown pavilion where the food was to be served.

Although a spectrum can be broad in range, every spectrum has two definite boundaries: the absolute left, and the absolute right. In H.G. Wells’ novel The Island of Doctor Moreau the idea of the spectrum and its extremes is explored through Edward Prendick and his relation to the scientific community. As an amateur interested in science, Prendick is situated between the two ends of the scientific community’s spectrum, the professional and scholarly scientists, and the exceptionally critical non-scientific community. These two communities are portrayed through the condemning anti-science views of the media, and Dr. Moreau, a professional yet rather psychotic scientist. This essay demonstrates that Prendick is able to offer the reader an intersection

“Remember: Stay in the raft!” Louis, a medium-built man reminded our tour group as his matted mane swept across his chiseled face. The tour group consisted of my family of five (from a small town in northwest Minnesota) who were up in southwest Idaho for a sun-drenched summer family vacation and an engaged couple who lived just a quarter tank away from the area. Although the 1,000-mile-plus distance, we appeared to be part of the same family tree, all with our sweet latte hair glistening in the sun. The branches especially extended when we had our picture taken in our black, ridiculous wetsuits and our blaze-orange helmets. Finally. It was finally time for us to venture this water-rushing obstacle.

“Every island of the Caribbean is the site of a deep haunting” (Munro vii); this can proved true by glancing into the history of Guadeloupe. In the book, The Haunted Tropics: Caribbean Ghost Stories edited by Martin Munro, I will illustrate how the Introduction by Martin and the story, The Obeahman, Obeahed by Maryse Conde`, concurrently reveals the Caribbean’s past and present. This story reveals how common practices “almost invisible in history” are “still present in the form of place names, fragments of language, ancient foods and pockets of descendants” (Munro vii).

As I reach the middle of the pedestrian crossing on the east side of Wayne Gretzky drive, I come to a dead halt. I stand on the bottom of the beige guard railing; pressing my chest against it as I hang my head down towards the North Saskatchewan. My shoulders feel the heat of summer in the black shirt I stupidly decided to wear. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky on this sunny day as the sky gave a bluer than usual tinge to the otherwise murky waters. The wind blew humid and strong, creating lively chop as the river flowed. After a few seconds I back off the railing as the heat of the metal becomes too intense, and I focus my attention to the miniature island just offshore from the river valley. It had been so mysterious and interesting every time I glance at it, and every time the island would remind me of John. Whenever I would go on river valley walks with my mom or dad, I would see the island peering through the rows of trees, but they would never want to go. I remember one walk where John came with us as I finally got my opportunity to explore the island.

Entering Belize, the amount of green I saw was immeasurable. And better yet, the colored people were just as abundant. I could already tell that this trip would be one for the books – and what a big book that would turn out to be. We were immediately greeted by our tour guide Manuel, whose humor and benevolence carried us through our trips entirety, and created for each of us timeless and precious memories. Without Manuel, and of course his trusty sidekick Beto who drove the tour bus, we wouldn’t

Our vacation retreat is on a small island that now has several walking paths, the necessary boat dock and a very modest cabin. As my mother used to say, “It’s a cabin in the sticks”. The island’s inhabitance began in the 1920’s by my father’s father. It’s both humble and grand. More than once will I hear the word” Paradise” as my father voices his awe at the rugged beauty that surrounds us on all sides. You can only describe these 14, 500 islands that dot Lake of the Woods as ‘timeless’. Regardless of modernization, the vista is an enduring expanse of green cedar and white pine trees whose gnarly roots hang on for dear life to the granite. It’s a wonder

After leaving our luggage, we were anxious to get to the beach, so we went to the pier. We rented a boat that locals called “El Karateka”, which belonged to picturesque man nicknamed with the same name. Then, we crossed a stretch of sea until arriving at a paradisiac island called Las Maritas. When we arrived there, we were all stunned by that wonderful tropical landscape. The water of the sea was azure blue. But when we entered into the water, it was transparent that we could see the sandy and colorful bottom. That place was magically relaxing; the cool sea breeze from the Caribbean Sea cushioned the intense heat of the Venezuelan tropics. After enjoying five days on the beach and eating a lots of fried fish, our small but intense vacations unfortunately came to end. Thus, we traveled from Mochima to Maturin, and then we drove 2 hour until we got to Uracoa.

It was the summer of 1984 when my mom, her mom, and her best friend decided it would be fun to take a canoe trip down scenic Stump Creek, just west of a small secluded Wisconsin town called St. Germain. They brought along a cooler full of liverwurst sandwiches with onions- Grandma Patty’s favorite- for lunch, their old rusty canoe that hadn’t been used in years, Grandma’s camera, and everything else Grandma thought they need. They all piled into the canoe ready to enjoy a relaxing day on the water, or so they thought.

Kincaid wrote A Small Place after she had left the island nineteen years ago. During this period, she had been a creative writer living permanently in the United States. She had spent much of her time on the island. Her hostile verbal talk after coming back to the island is an indication of how she is both a tourist and native as she claims ‘every native of every place is a potential tourist, and every tourist is a native of somewhere’(Kincaid,18). She beautifully describes Antigua and describes it as a place where the sky and sea meet to exaggerate the island’s surrealism. It shows that attachment place. Her style makes me recall my childhood and teenage experiences of living in Fort Payne that helped shape my identity. Kincaid’s style of writing establishes an intriguing reflection journey for the reader to undergo.

He’d just passed Fort Macon and the thin ribbon of Outer Banks that protected the mainland. When a gull cried as it flew over his boat, Jake tracked it for a moment before it blended into the dusky sky. It was the first land animal he’d seen in days. As he navigated through the channel, the last low rays of the sun illuminated the white church steeple and the sails of a windmill on the horizon. The current strengthened when the waterway narrowed, and he used the steeple to site his course towards the town. Jake held fast to the tiller, as tiny line of houses and stores came into view, reminding him of a doll-size village. After the Jamison rounded the west end of Carrot Island, the Beaufort Harbor opened to him, welcoming him like a safe embrace.

It was October 19. The air was getting crisp and the fall sky was rolling in. Jamison, I and his family had spent many weekends that summer at the boat. Jamison’s parents owned a 48’ boat called Reel Obsession. They kept it at Grand Isle Marina in Grand Haven. We occasionally went to The Grand for sushi on Monday nights, but we hadnt’ been there in a while. What a fun way to end the summer I thought. One last weekend at the boat.

A tourist only sees that which the tourist chooses to see. The place the traveler is visiting, such as Antigua in A Small Place, is simply a commodity; something that is purchased to enjoy for a short time. Yet, there are others there who see the same things, the same beauty, in a drastically different light than those who are there visiting by choice. These natives know that the outsiders see them as part of the package of Antigua, simply “locals”, when in truth they are prisoners of the island they inhabit (Thaden). Even though both the American visitors to this tropical nation and the natives of the island of Antigua are descendants of those who were at one time under British rule, the difference in both the timing and consequences of