The Sea Hermit

To my left I notice a wooden platform nestled amongst the rocks, with laundry hung to dry on the railings. I point to the man and then to the abode. He grunts several times and nods excitedly. Yes, it's his. Then he gestures, inviting me to come and see but I hesitate, still uncertain about him.

I can tell he has some sort of stroke-like speech impediment, or possibly something congenital. It would make sense, I think, to prefer a solitude life if one had always been different. Besides he seems very fit-broad shoulders, well fed and muscular, clear eyes. But it's also this athleticism coalescing with something about him that seems simple, child-like, that strikes me as dangerous, in an Of Mice and Men kind of way.

Sensing my unease he doesn't say anything more, just waits beside me while I try to take some pictures. After a while, he tries again, gesturing that I should follow him. When I nod, his face lights up excitedly and he repeats the gesture to make certain I understand. I laugh and nod, "Yes, yes, I will follow you." He paddles eagerly, with a seemingly exaggerated sense of purpose, his excitement evidenced in his hurried strokes. I imagine he probably doesn't get many visitors, particularly one's so enthralled with his home.

Our first stop is the bat cave. At least I assume the gesture he makes by stretching out his arms and flapping them means bats, not birds. The cave is quite large, there are ropes dangling down to the water to climb to the entrance, and a mat laid out to greet you when you reach the top. He tells me, through gestures, that sometimes he sleeps here.

We paddle only a few feet more before he stops again and points to a tiny inlet. Looking up the stalactites more intricately carved than the spires of even the most ornate gothic cathedrals, dangle like limestone chandeliers. The overhanging rock is a ceiling of sorts but near the top there's a large opening where the sun filters through, a shaft of light permeating the cool dark shade and creating paintings of shifting colours on the canvas of sea below.

I am reminded of one of the memorial chapels in Dachau, a cement tower, dark and cold with a small opening way at the top which was the only source of light. In this way the architect intended to remind anyone who entered that in our darkest moments, if we turn our faces towards heaven, we might find a ray of hope. What strikes me now is how this man, thousands of miles away, from a different time and culture has his very own version of this monument and obviously sees the beauty of that too.

As we continue paddling around the island I notice small wooden shelters and huts built at various points. I follow the water into a miniature hong where I take some photos of birds. Every time I stop for too long, my new friend gestures impatiently for me to hurry and follow him. I feel a bit like I'm following Gaston, the French waiter in "The Meaning of Life", back to his mother's house.

If I'm worried this venture will have the same disappointing end as Monty Python's, any doubt vanishes the instant I catch up with The Hermit. He's waiting for me on his own white sand beach with a flock of turquoise butterflies flitting like a halo above his head.

When I beach my kayak he takes me on a hike showing me delicate flowers, plants he uses as medicine and birds' nests where he collects eggs. "Is this," I say gesturing everywhere, "all yours?"
He nods. "Only?" I ask, but he looks at me uncomprehendingly. I point to him, then me, then to a bunch of other imaginary people then off in the distance. He shakes his head-no, no, no- then points to himself then gestures around the island. All of this is his. His, and his alone. I've just met, I decide, the richest man in the world.

We go back to the beach and I pull out a bamboo mat, food and water. The Hermit takes a banana but refuses to accept anything else. When we've eaten he suggests, through a series of gestures that I must be very sore from all the kayaking. I point to my wrists and nod, then shrug. I'm not used to feathered paddles and my wrists have been causing me trouble for a few years now, particularly when I kayak or do push ups. He asks me if he can have a look. He is sitting beside me, we're both looking out to sea, so I extend my arm out to him.

He takes my wrist and begins to manipulate it, rolling it firmly back and forth between his thumb and four fingers. His hand works its way up my forearm, then back down to my wrist and then, in a flash, I find myself flipped over, face down on the mat.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl, my mind is racing. Stay calm. But my heart is pounding in my chest. I try to calculate how far away the Big Knife is, where it is. You know how to do this, how to get out of this position, I try to remind myself. What is he...

"OW!" I howl, as he twists my back, and vertebrae snap.

"Tutututut," he answers pitifully before taking his fists and laying them on either side of my spine. He presses down as if they are a defibrillator and my spine's in need of resuscitating.

"OW!" I yelp again.

"Tututututut," comes the same answer before my arm is being bent behind me while my shoulder is being forced towards the ground. Pop!

"Ahhhhh," he says, seemingly satisfied. Though not satisfied enough and he continues to bend me and twist me for the next twenty minutes, muttering and tuttutting all the while like a worried physician. It crosses my mind to inquire about his credentials, training, certificates, licenses and whatnot but, with the language barrier it seems futile.

When he's finished he pulls me up to sitting position and lifts his palms up as if to say "Better?"

I test my neck, rolling it from one side to the other. It still moves without pain, so I smile and nod, bringing the palms of my hands together in thanks. He sits back down beside me and together we watch the waves again. I reach into my dry sac and pull out my watch, the one my work mates gave me as a farewell, with the  maple leaf and compass so I will never forget home.

He is fascinated by it. I try to explain the maple leaf, and Canada and we play with the compass. Then, despite the clock right in front of him, he looks up at the sun and mimes excitedly that it's getting late. If I want to stay on his island I can but if not I need to leave right now. With that he gets up, tosses his kayak into the water and paddles off.