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The Remnants of War: A Meditation on Peleliu

A new essay of mine inspired by my first trip to Peleliu was published as an exclusive essay on Longreads this week. Peleliu is one of Palau’s outer islands, about an hour south by boat, and was the site of one of the bloodiest battles in WWII’s Pacific theater. On Peleliu, the remnants of war live on, even 70 years after the war. We followed Cleared Ground Demining around to understand the work they do to safely retrieve and detonate unexploded ordnance, and to educate locals on recognizing potentially dangerous UXOs. You can read more about it in “The Remnants of War: A Meditation on Peleliu.”

Longreads Blog

Anna Vodicka | Longreads | January 2016 | 12 minutes (3,051 words)

On Peleliu, the roads are paved with coral—a once-living thing, a hardy animal. The coral came from the inland ridges and valleys of thistwo-by-six-mile speck among specks in the island nation of Palau, in western Micronesia, an almost invisible scene in the shadow of bigger acts in the Pacific, where land itself is a kind of debris, cast from the ocean by tectonic clashes and shifts that left things topsy-turvy, bottom-up, fish-out-of-water. Before: an underwater reef, an ecosystem of competitive individuals. After: a coral atoll bleaching into a future island paradise. Something new under the sun.

During World War II’s Pacific theater of operations, the coral was harvested, carted, crushed, and laid at the feet of foreign militaries that took turns stripping Peleliu from the inside out. The Japanese landed first, evacuating locals and engineering a complex subterranean…

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Kayangel Jungle House

Day Trip: Kayangel After the Storm

Recently, I hitched a ride up to Kayangel, Palau’s northernmost state, an island atoll that was heavily damaged by last year’s record-breaking Super Typhoon Haiyan. I had been enchanted with Kayangel ever since I learned it was the source of Palau’s amazing and many-specied bananas, which are so superior to the mass-produced Cavendish we’re fed in the U.S. I don’t know how I’ll go back. (In his excellent book, Banana: The Fate of the Fruit that Changed The World, reporter Dan Koeppel aptly terms this bland, mass-produced variety the “the hotel banana.”)

Palau grows four varieties of banana with names like “bungeltuu” and “blangtalos.” Some are pinky-sized. Some are for cooking. All are delicious.

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On an island where tropical fruits are mostly limited to a few hardy varieties of coconut, banana, lemon, and green papaya (heavily leached volcanic soil, it turns out, does not make for ideal growing conditions), the post-typhoon banana shortage, for everyone, was a real bummer. For Kayangel, it was devastating–a primary food supply destroyed, along with every home and building on the island.

It’s a three hour ride to Kayangel by state boat, but my friend Chris and I tagged along with a couple of U.S. Navy guys who were going by speedboat, a free hour-and-a-half ride in exchange for some manual labor. We spent most of the day dismantling a super-high-tech, $1.5 million surveillance tower designed to monitor illegal fishing. No big deal.

View on arrival: the telephone company's tower

View on arrival: the telephone company’s tower

The tiny island—actually, four tiny islands with a combined land mass of 0.7 square miles, according to one of my maps—is definitely still in recovery mode. Before the storm, most of the people of Kayangel were evacuated to Koror, and many have chosen to remain on the “big” island, closer to creature comforts like a high school, grocery store, post office, and other amenities you won’t find on a secluded 0.7-square-mile atoll. As a result, the population of Kayangel has dwindled from about 130 to 53.

Kayangel Shed

Kayangel Shed

I imagine those stalwart locals who remain would find the bustle of Koror (city pop. 11,000–although it’s impossible to get straight numbers around here) overwhelming. Even before the typhoon leveled the place, life in Kayangel was quiet, days occupied by fishing, gardening, and island-style chilling. But it’s even more civilization-from-the-ground-up these days. We passed a few kids on bicycles on the single-track dirt roads, a few men napping in the mid-day heat in a communal open-air summer house, and the typical man-made signs of renewal: a makeshift church…

Interim Kayangel Evangelical Church

Interim Kayangel Evangelical Church

…a single village store that shelves sweets, Spam, and a few household necessities…

Convenience Store

Convenience Store: “Credit Limit $50.00”

…and a basketball court currently occupied by prefab siding and other building equipment. Foundations for several new houses have been laid, and workers are making great progress on a new elementary school, which will double as the island’s new typhoon shelter.

New school/typhoon shelter in progress

New school/typhoon shelter in progress

Along the shoreline, the coconut trees look permanently windswept, hundreds of hardy trunks bent at sharp angles toward the sea. The tallest trees–those that survived–stand stark naked and stripped, like giant scarecrows, a reminder of the 300km/hr winds that ripped through the place.

Windswept trees

Windswept trees

But the jungle has a way of bouncing back. I could see, as the boat docked, a low canopy, lush, green and full. I asked a the first person I met about the bananas.

“Bananas!” he replied, nodding and grinning a huge grin. “Coconuts, not yet. But bananas, yes. Bananas we have.”

Kayangel

Kayangel

Double rainbow view from our apartment building

Part 2: Natural Wonders You Never Knew Existed (…and they’re all in Palau!)

Our year in Palau is rapidly approaching its end: four weeks and counting until Brian wraps up work and we head off island indefinitely. With that deadline looming, we are checking things off of our Island Bucket List. And, consequently, slacking on the blog! A few more posts, though, before we go…

This one is Part 2 in a series I started earlier this year on the magical mystery tour that is Palau’s underwater world. Without further ado, our top three natural wonders:

3. Bioluminescence

Some girlfriends and I may or may not have been skinny dipping beneath a quarter moon when we looked down and saw that the lagoon water around us not only reflected the glorious night sky, but was generating a light of its own, illuminating the water around us whenever we moved. Gold dust shot from our fingertips. Our finning arms and legs left a sparkling haze in their wake. Wherever our bodies moved, so did that underwater glow, which on a microscopic level was actually light-generating plankton, a biochemical phenomenon we equate with fireflies and certain luminous deep-sea fishes, but which, at this invisible-to-the-naked-eye size, emitted a kind of magic fairy dust that made us all remember exactly what it felt like to be five again, or whatever age you were when magic fairy dust was real. If you’re ever looking to restore that childlike sense of wonder, go find yourself some bioluminescence. (Skinny dipping works, too.)

Manta ray at the German Channel cleaning station, taken by our friend Keith on a dive this spring

Manta ray at the German Channel cleaning station, taken by our friend Keith on a dive this spring

2. Manta Ray Cleaning Stations

Of Palau’s many natural wonders, my personal favorite is the manta ray, the great magic carpet of the sea. The first time I encountered one underwater, it was gliding toward me out of the deep blue with its enormous wings flapping, and I started to cry. I don’t recommend this—the whole point of the mask, obviously, is to keep moisture out, and hot tears are a great way to fog up the googles. But I couldn’t help it. It was so beautiful, so majestic and graceful and right before my eyes. Manta rays often return to the same places for cleaning and feeding—which includes barrel rolling their up-to-16-feet-wide bodies—so we’ve had repeat manta diving encounters, and every time it’s the same damn thing: I cry on sight.

One cool phenomenon that keeps the mantas coming back is the “cleaning station,” which is kind of like an underwater car wash staffed by smaller fish. When mantas and sharks visit the cleaning station, they call a truce with the small fish and proceed in a cooperative trade. The big guys get groomed by the little guys, and in exchange for this cleaning service, the big guys agree not to eat the little guys (this is a greater feat for the sharks; mantas feed on zooplankton, and only eat fish accidentally, when they get in the way of all that delicious plankton). The little guys also get a hearty meal of parasites out of the deal.

Mantas visit the cleaning station daily, for hours. They stretch out their wings, unfurl their frontal flaps, open their mouths wide enough that you can see their stick-straight, bone-white ribs from the inside, and the little fish swim around, pecking on algae and plankton and whatever’s stuck between the gills and tooth crevasses. When they’re finished, the manta moves on, and another pulls in. Sometimes, there’s a line of manta rays circling the station, waiting their turn. It’s an incredible moment of symbiosis, a little peace treaty in the midst of the otherwise defensive/offensive predatory frenzy that is ocean life.

1. Full Moon Spawning

Have you ever walked in on a bunch of fish getting it on beneath a full moon? Neither had I, until Brian and I joined a “Unique Dive” with Sam’s Tours, one of the oldest SCUBA shops on the island. We woke up at the crack of dawn on a full moon weekend and boated to the edge of the reef where the waves tossed us around like whiffle balls. Just when I thought I was going to wretch into my regulator, we backrolled overboard and descended 90 feet below the surface. For the next forty minutes, we swam against a wild current on the edge of the Philippine Sea, surrounded by thousands of spawning red snapper.

Everywhere we looked, it was fish fireworks: huge, dense clouds of snapper swimming in frenzied masses, until a single fish blazed its own trail, released a cloud of eggs, and others swarmed, forming an explosive fishball of reproductive hysteria. Our guide shouted into his regulator and mimed horns on his head, and I turned to see bull sharks prowling the perimeter of the action for easy meals–at a healthy distance from the human fish, thankfully. (To my nephew Mike, who requested we bring home a bull shark to keep in the pond at the farm: I don’t think they’ll let us take these guys on the plane.)

As we hovered for our three-minute safety stop, sunlight spiked the water and the ocean around us started shimmering. It looked like someone had spilled a giant glitter bottle into the sea. For a moment, I thought it was phosphorescence, that glowing plankton I’d recently learned about. But then it occurred to me that we were surrounded by fish scales, thousands of them shaken loose from all of that frisky friction, and I watched them float around us like blue stars, and listened to the sound of my own breathing, and hung there, suspended between worlds, weightless, having just witnessed a wild act of nature that usually happens behind the scenes. This is the closest I will ever get to a moon landing, I thought, or an alternate universe, or an afterlife-on-earth.

When we came up, it was still Saturday morning. Back on the boat, dripping and giddy, we all looked at each other as if we’d just emerged from the same crazy dream, the kind that makes you want to stay in bed and go back to sleep to see if you can make it last a little longer—which is, I expect, how Brian and I will feel most days after our time in Palau has ended.

Hammock time on the balcony

Hammock time on the balcony

Rick Perry PCC

Rick Perry and Kurt Vonnegut in the Pacific

This week, I published a piece in Guernica magazine about a recent visit Rick Perry made to Palau. I’m sharing it here, and hope it offers some insight into the current state of what I call a kind of “new Pacific Theater,” emphasis on the theatrical: island stages for dramatic performances, political and strategic and largely international. It’s been seventy years since World War II raged through the Pacific, but the effects are still felt in the islands — how far and wide run the ripples of war?

You can find the essay here: “Don’t Mess With the Other Texas.”

After I wrote the Guernica piece, I read two books that I found immensely good reads, and quite by accident, very thematically relevant: The Master Blaster, by P.F. Kluge, which is set in Saipan but shares many Palau parallels, and entertains as much as it sharply depicts the reality of the post-WWII U.S. Commonwealth; and Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradleone of the 70 books that made the excruciating final cut for shipment to Palau (thank god my sister was there to talk me down).

In Cat’s Cradle, published in 1963, we’re given the fictional island nation of the Republic of San Lorenzo, which has been “reorganized” by foreign nations over the years, most recently the U.S., and which every year celebrates the national holiday The Day of the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy: “San Lorenzo conscripted a hundred men to fight on the side of democracy. These hundred men were put on a ship bound for the Untied States, where they were to be armed and trained. The ship was sunk by a German submarine right outside of [San Lorenzo’s] harbor.”

Vonnegut illuminates the futility and the ironies of war and colonization, and the ripple effects of the atom bomb–critically, satirically, but not hopelessly. I remember Vonnegut giving a presentation at Tufts when I was an undergrad. He was a humanist; he believed we were capable of more than this. And so I’ll sign off with an excerpt from this fictional speech commemorating the Hundred Martyrs:

“My soul insists that I mourn not a man but a child. I do not say that children at war do not die like men, if they have to die. To their everlasting honor and our everlasting shame they do die like men, thus making possible the manly jubilation of patriotic holidays. But they are murdered children all the same. And I propose to you that if we are to pay our sincere respects to the hundred lost children of San Lorenzo, that we might best spend the day despising what killed them; which is to say, the stupidity and viciousness of all mankind. Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.”

Incidentally, in Rick Perry’s speech commemorating the Battle of Peleliu, the American flag was conspicuously missing. Instead, two flags waved side by side: Palau, and the great state of Texas.

Anna's Bookshelf

The Writing Process Blog Tour

E.B. White wrote from his boathouse. Joan Didion re-reads her day’s work in the afternoons with a drink. Ron Carlson never allowed himself up from the desk unless he knew what was going to happen next.

I know this because writers are infinitely curious about the writing process, as if exposing motivations and working conditions might reveal something to us about art and mastery. Or maybe it’s that writing is such a solitary pursuit. Access to someone else’s secret world of composition makes us feel less alone.

In this vein, a Tufts professor-turned-mentor-friend of mine, Carol Houlihan Flynn, invited me to join the My Writing Process Blog Tour, a meme in which writers answer questions about their writing process and then nominate others to do the same. The result? An ongoing writer/reader community that grows exponentially by the week, demystifying and illuminating the creative process one blog post at a time.

I must thank Carol for the invite and insist that you all go to her website, the-animals.net, and then directly to your local bookstore (or Amazon) to pre-order her forthcoming memoir, The Animals, out this month. I had the privilege of reading an early version of the book, in which Carol brilliantly recreates her family’s history with pigs, dogs, cats, turtles, goats—more animals than you can believe—in order to construct “an economy study of love and loss.” She writes, “For the animals are all, every one of them, down even to the smallest newt, born out of our desire for love. And that is where the problem lies.”

Damn. Buy it already!

After I wrap up, I’ll introduce next week’s writers, who I also insist you read.

So, without further ado, my answers to the Blog Tour questions:

What am I working on?

A new draft of my first book, a memoir-in-fragments about coming of age in rural America in the 1980s–a Material World of Pentecostalist televangelism in which I was “cured” of severe hearing loss by preachers and lost faith in the middle of a mission trip abroad. It’s an all-American tale of salvation and redemption! It’s got miracles! It’s got scandal! It’s got death-defying feats and lots of explosions! Okay, one of those things is only partly true. But who knows? I haven’t finished it yet. We’ll all have to read the book to find out.

Of course, I’m always simultaneously fiddling with other things. Essays, old and new. Travel pieces. Blog posts on Palau. A short story about a girl who reads romance novels, which I like to tinker with when I’m feeling especially distracted…

Also: My freestyle stroke. The perfect homemade ginger beer. Guitar and ukulele. Focusing my wandering mind. Breathing.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

With this book in particular, I am experimenting with structure and chronology and, to an extent, point of view, to explore larger themes I always go back to: religious subcultures, quirky Americana, feminism, the human mind and its wacky impulse to compartmentalize, define, classify, and create hierarchies. I am drawn to ordinary subjects, everyday absurdities, human folly. In general, I’m after something universal in experience. I love research, so everything I write has a lot behind it. And I try to write with loads of empathy.

Why do I write what I do?

1. Because I tried to write other more practical things. Reporting, copywriting, advertising–jobs that offer regular paychecks and guaranteed audiences. But my heart wasn’t it.

2. Because dabbling in sentences—finding the mot juste, rearranging words and images and scenes in service of an idea or effect—is my idea of a good time.

3. Because I grew up in on a lake in northern Wisconsin. I can’t not write about place, which is not setting alone, but character and context, at the heart of all experience, human desire imposed on landscape, or nature’s indifference to it.

4. On that note, once I left home, I found it impossible to be inside other landscapes, cultures, architectures and ideologies and not to be utterly astounded wherever I went.

5. My mind can’t contain it all. Writing is how I process.

6. Because Joan Didion. Because E.B. White, Annie Dillard, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Mark Twain. Later, others. But these first.

7. And all of the above luminary essayists because my first semester of college I was assigned The Art of the Personal Essay, the fat anthology edited by Philip Lopate in which writers wrote on every range of subject, in every range of form, employing all the techniques of poetry and fiction inside the art of fact. In a writing workshop, Patricia Hampl suggested the genre ought to be called non-poetry instead of non-fiction. I concur.

8. “Literary nonfiction is all over the map and has been for three hundred years. There’s nothing you can’t do with it. No subject matter is forbidden, no structure is proscribed. You get to make up your own form every time.”—Annie Dillard, “To Fashion a Text”

9. Because although the idea of writing personal narrative mortifies me sometimes—it goes against all my Midwestern sensibilities to write about myself—for now, it’s the shape of the story I feel compelled to tell: the story of a Midwestern family, the American dreams we dreamed, our shortcuts to salvation, our belief in the power of invention and a good sales pitch, the notion that perfection and healing might lie just around the next bend, in the next purchase, in the portrait of Jesus on the mantle.

10. Because my mom taught us to read before kindergarten and filled our chaotic house with books, kept taking us back to the Rhinelander Library even after we were banned (again) for overdue fines and lost titles. The librarians were probably having a bad day (again), Mom said, repeating, “You never know what someone else is going through.” And so even though we lived a hundred miles from anything, in a town of less than 1,000 people, I could read about New York City or the Congo or Wonderland, Holocaust survivors, pioneer women and Hobbits, and I could inhabit those worlds and learn what other people were going through.

11. And thanks to this early conversion experience, I believe in the power of art in general and stories in particular to bring us thismuch closer to understanding that we’re all really the same.

How does your writing process work? 

I used to self-identify as a procrastinator, but graduate school served as a cold-turkey recovery program. If I had ten minutes, I used those ten minutes to write. And that’s how my process has worked—fitfully, squeezed into cracks of time—until this year.

In Palau, I have the strange and unbelievable good fortune to write full-time for a year. Whole, long days on a laptop at the kitchen table, sunlight pouring through the open shades and the ocean rising and falling with the hours. And so I’m faced with the opposite problem, if I dare call it that: unlimited writing time!

I’ve tried to create a structure for myself, mirroring Brian’s work days. I’m up at 7. I do a little meditation and yoga. I brew coffee. I write until lunch. I spend more time than I should on the sentence level. I get carried away. I feel some kind of elated momentum, followed at some point by a sense of dread or self-deprecating insecurity. I call my sister. We do simultaneous long-distance goddess poses. I go back to the computer.

Sometimes it’s a slog (strong correlation between my recurring insomnia and slogginess). Sometimes I start to panic that it’s all been a waste of time, or that all my efforts will end in failure. At home, I would go for a run to clear my head. Here, I swim. I keep notebooks all over the place. I read books at a wild clip. These things help. Brian helps, reminding me to see the forest, not the trees. And I always have my professor Kim Barnes’s voice in my head, like a Zen master, her mantra: “Trust the process.”

THE TOUR ROLLS ON…

I’m thrilled to introduce next week’s tour lineup, three outstanding writers, teachers, and overall human beings I feel lucky as pie to call part of my extended writing family—quite literally, in the case of Brian’s sister, Katie. Kim and Joe are part of the great Idaho MFA tribe. They’ll be posting a week from today, so be sure to follow up with them on the 22nd and in the meantime peruse their sites for your next favorite read:

Kim Barnes (kimbarnes.com) is the author of the memoirs Hungry for the World and In the Wilderness: Coming of Age in Unknown Country, which was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and received a PEN/Jerard Fund Award. She is the author of three novels: Finding Caruso; A Country Called Home, winner of the 2009 PEN Center USA Literary Award in Fiction; and In the Kingdom of Men, listed among the “Best Books of 2012” by San Francisco Chronicle and The Seattle Times. Kim has co-edited two anthologies, and her essays, poems, and stories have appeared in The New York Times, WSJ online, The Georgia Review, Shenandoah, Good Housekeeping, Oprah Magazine, MORE Magazine, and the Pushcart Prize anthology. She is a former Idaho-Writer-in-Residence and teaches in the Master of Fine Arts program at the University of Idaho.

Katie Quirk (katie-quirk.com) is the author of A Girl Called Problem. Set in Tanzania, East Africa, this middle-grade novel  received a starred Kirkus review, a glowing review by School Library Journal‘s Elizabeth Bird, and a write-up in the New York Times Book Review. Katie’s current project, Richard Nixon Gave Me Chocolate, is a memoir of motherhood, adventure, and coming to terms with not always “having it all,” set in the mountains of southern India.

Joe Wilkins (http://joewilkins.org) is the author of a memoir, The Mountain and the Fathers: Growing up on the Big Dry, winner of the 2014 GLCA New Writers Award and a finalist for the 2013 Orion Book Award, and two collections of poems, Notes from the Journey Westward and Killing the Murnion Dogs. He lives with his his wife, son, and daughter in western Oregon, where he teaches writing at Linfield College.

Rock Islands Turquoise

Part 1: Natural Wonders You Never Knew Existed (…and they’re all in Palau!)

We’re hearing all kinds of rumors about Blood Moons and other newsworthy natural phenomena. I thought it appropriate, then, to share a few of the wilder natural wonders we’ve experienced in Palau, which is full of them (this place wasn’t named a UNESCO World Heritage Site for nothin’). This is Part 1 of a 2-part series…or more, depending on how much the upcoming rainy season puts a damper on our adventuring. For now, when we’re not on the clock, you can find us in…

1. The Rock Islands

There’s something about the Rock Islands that really awakens the inner second grader, the one who wanted to grow up to be a marine biologist and a paleontologist, scanning reefs for shipwrecks and caves for old bones. (With Palau’s World War II history, and with the discovery of supposed ancient cave-dwelling “Hobbit people,” discovering old bones in caves is also something we do on occasion in the Rock Islands.)

As Tufts alumni, we are partial to this one. Go Jumbos!

As Tufts alumni, we are partial to this one. Go Jumbos!

 

Only nine of Palau’s islands are inhabited, but the country is made up of over 250 limestone and coral islands spread across 400 miles of Pacific Ocean. Millennia ago, the Rock Islands were submerged coral reefs formed on the tops of underwater volcanoes. Now, these ancient reefs are uplifted, mushrooming out of the sea in great green mounds: statuesque bodies of rock and jungle foliage in all shapes and sizes. Due to wave erosion and the porous nature of the rock, the islands are cut away at the base, so that from a distance they appear to be hovering, magically suspended above the surface of the water. Through fog, they look like sleeping elephants or brontosaurus, prehistoric giants about to rise up and roar.

An outer reef surrounds this area of Palau, so the water throughout much of the Rock Islands remains protected, radiant turquoise blue and calm. You can kayak or snorkel, hang beneath the lip of the rocks for shade—a great place to examine coral and take in a hundred varieties of palm, white rur and elilai flowers, tropic birds and fruit bats sailing overhead. If you’re into that sort of thing. Which I am.

Anna kayaking in the Rock Islands

Anna kayaking in the Rock Islands

 

2.  Jellyfish Lake

From Koror, it’s a 40-minute boat ride through the Rock Islands to Mercherchar Island, where you dock, hike over a steep hill, don your mask and snorkel, and immerse yourself in a marine lake full of five million stingless jellyfish—transparent, golden pink globes in every size, some as big as grapefruit, some smaller than a baby’s fingernail, so tiny you can barely see them, and they’re all pulsing and pitching around you in the rhythm of heartbeats, bumping into one another and moving on, feeding on light.

Jellyfish Lake, taken by our friend Joey, December 2013

Jellyfish Lake, taken by our friend Joey, December 2013

If you’ve ever been to an ocean beach, you’ve learned to beware of jellyfish. But this is one of few places in the world where you can ignore that rule, a place where sea levels rose as high as the islands themselves and then receded, forming marine lakes, briny inland environments in which a few oceanic species (namely, jellyfish) remained, predator-free. Sea anemones around the lake’s perimeter provide a degree of population control, and with hundreds of visitors daily during high season, human impact is inevitable. But without a direct threat to their survival, these jellies evolved without strong stinging defenses. Instead, they float innocuously, shifting en masse from east to west with the passage of the sun.

I had my doubts about Jellyfish Lake, one of Palau’s hyped visitor destinations. (In an attempt to deter crowds, Koror State jacked Jellyfish Lake visitor permits to $100 a pop–it’s free for Palauans and “locals” like us, with work permits. So far, the fee has primarily meant income generation for the state.) But if you catch it at the right time, communing with the jellies is equal parts thrilling and serene—you imagine yourself floating through a kaleidoscope, a sky of peachy clouds, a galaxy of pink stars…

Brian gets comfortable with the jellyfish

Brian gets comfortable with the jellyfish

 

If you catch it at the wrong time, then a rowdy tour group starts squealing, slicing the water with kicking fins, and the beheaded remains of jellyfish float past–limp arms, a silent bell. It reminds me of a visit to Machu Picchu, which was magnificent and peaceful at sunrise, but by 11 a.m., a man was shouting into his cell phone, shaking it at the sky for service, and a bunch of teenagers were climbing the ruins behind a “Do Not Touch” sign. Sigh. That’s the thing about natural wonders: they are incredibly attractive to humans.

I can’t stream this video from The Guardian, but the first-worlders among you can visit the lake vicariously here.

Stay tuned for Part 2: Glow-in-the-dark swimming, fastidious fish, and underwater things that go bump in the night…

Writing Time

On Mermaids and Miley Cyrus

Unsurprisingly, Palau has inspired plenty of writing outside of the book I’m working on while we’re here. With this absurdly lucky, lucky gift of one year of writing time while Brian clocks in at the court, I have found no trouble at all motivating myself to clock my own hours (and luckily, our many guests over the last four months have been supportive of me stealing off for the occasion). Instead, I’ve had to work to rein in the feeling that I MUST WRITE IT ALL WHILE I CAN! Old essays! New essays! Travel pieces! The memoir! That short story I’ve been tinkering with…the novel I started in that fiction workshop…because I’m fairly certain that life is never going to get any better than this, and I may never have a full-time writing gig again, ever, and before I know it I’ll be back to squeezing writing in the cracks between jobs, so I must use these remaining 153 days to write all the things.

I try to combat this by taking a lot of deep breaths and indulging in the occasional brief creative flight. Below are links to a couple of short, island-inspired pieces I’ve published recently. Hope you enjoy! Now where was I? Oh yeah, writing that book…

On mermaids: “Sirens” — Sweet: A Literary Confection, cool little online journal out of the University of South Florida.

On Miley: “Making Peace With Miley” — The Mindful Word, great online and print mag on all things mindful.