We were returning from a luxurious retreat on tiny Lanai in the Hawaiian Islands. Sunshine, flowers, warmth, ambiance of heavy rugs on cold tiled stone floors, thickly cushioned blue chaises, luxurious baths, gourmet foods and wines. We were waiting for our boat to take us to the larger island of Maui. As we stood at the dock in the fading afternoon a glorious young man – tanned, barefoot, sun-streaked hair, in an old beige pair of shorts, jumped aboard his tiny boat, turned up Beethoven and when some friends asked when he’d be returning he shrugged and he yelled over the haunting music, "I’m off to Molokai. I’ll probably be there for breakfast." And my shimmering world closed. The yearning, the youth, the freedom, the strains of music, the fading day conspired to relegate my till then perfect vacation to the abyss of the ridiculous.

Tears washed down my face. To those around me it looked like I hated to leave this perfectly groomed paradise. But inside I felt the call of the wild. To get on my own small boat, into uncharted waters, sails unfurled tasting Molokai, tasting worlds of total abandon, and freedom, tasting the stars in complete blackness alone, alone no one but the sea and Molokai at breakfast. Molokai – those 3 syllables conjured up every bittersweet thought, every possibility.

I hold deeply in me that gorgeous boy, that haunting melody, that rundown old boat, those bare feet, that insouciance in the face of the wide ocean, that careful shrug, that total, mystical moment in summation of the uncluttered, unfettered perfect free life, the life so full of ease. He needed no blue thick chaises with drinks being served. He never thought of owning the Ming vases. He would fish for his dinner not be replete on a chef’s offerings.

He is my pure vessel.

By Tina