Sometimes you want it, sometimes you need it, and sometimes you just plain gotta have it.
Hawaii gets to me, living in a place were you can only drive for so long before you end up right back were you started drives me crazy. Not to mention the dirt is the wrong color, the apples at the supermarket suck and don’t they know that beaches are supposed to be cold, gray and completely deserted short of the occasional surfer, dog walker and van full of stoner kids?
I miss the rain, and the fog, I miss waking up in the morning and having to muster up the strength to leave the warmth of the covers long enough to stoke the fire. I miss acres and acres of natural forests filled with tall trees, and the kind of lush greenery that thrives on a climate of cold wet winters and hot dry summers. I miss honey bees, and butterflies, the way the babbling of a creek in the distance can melt into the peaceful sounds of serene silence, and I miss my dogs.
I even miss the things I never liked in the first place… like seagulls. Now I’d say I hate seagulls, but hate is such a strong word so I’ll go with dislike, I very strongly dislike seagulls they’re like the rats of the sky, pesky, loud, always begging for bits of food, then blemishing your vehicle ungratefully whether you feed them or not, but somehow lately I even find myself wondering… where are the seagulls?
for me island fever is like finding a small splinter in the tip of my finger when there are no tweezers to be found. Without a quick fix I just try to ignore it hoping in the back of my mind that it will be purged by the natural functions of my body… a naïve short lived hope at the very least. When I wake up the next morning it’s been momentarily forgotten, I get out of bed and head for the shower. Still groggy I reach for the tap and… F*CK! I look to my hand and there it is right where I left it, but now it’s not only a little splinter, but it’s a little splinter on a finger that is throbbing and red with infection. I head to the medicine cabinet for a band-aid and some ointment, but there’s nothing to be found, no band-aids, no rubbing alcohol, and still no tweezers. So I give in, I turn off the tap, throw on some clothes and head downstairs to where my laptop is perched precariously on the edge of the couch. I sit myself down and arrange it on my lap as I let out a reluctant sigh of shrewd acceptance. I flip open the screen, and head for my favorite travel site, I type date a few days from now, and wait for the ridiculously expensive numbers to appear so that I can laugh at myself suck the splinter from my thumb, and move on with my life, but they never come the only numbers that grace my screen are reasonable… really really reasonable.
One phone call and a 500 dollar credit card purchase later the throbbing in my finger has stopped, and I’m on my way to a whole Humboldt full of metaphorical antiseptic.