'Moorea': a poem by J.J. Gómez Cadenas

(I)
There is nothing but sea around us,
One could sail thousands of miles, in any direction,
And never find Terra Firma.
Yet, here we are. How often you and I have joked
About the madness of the Cromagnon. You were scared to fly,
And I was weary of the long trip, the flying sardines’ can,
The desolation of airports. Yet we came, and took our children along,
It was neither the conference, nor the touristic brochures
With their picture of cliché-paradise. Something else moved us,
The need of adventure perhaps, the pulsion to go far, far away,
Breaking the links that chain us to our humble, happy life.
Yet, once here, after the endless day above the sky
I was disapointed, almost sad. Yes, the island was beautiful, but somehow,
I found the azures of the sea duller than the pictures in my dreams,
The shapes of the mountains too rugged,
The green of the cocoanut trees and huge maples,
Somewhat tiresome.
I couldn’t tell why. I did my scuba and walk my hills, and dutifully,
Swam with sharks and rays, but my heart was not quite here,
I felt everything unfocused and blurry as if my miopy would have invaded all the other senses.
Until the third day,
There was no miracle and no revelation, only,
We were in that boat, speeding, jumping the waves,
My children had been quarreling so I sat in the middle to set some peace,
And then both pressed against me, smelling of salt, their lithe, wet bodies,
Golden under the sun.
That was all. A fast boat,
The sharp lines of the mountains of Moorea to my left,
And nothing but blue to my right.
The skin of my children caressing my skin, softer,
Than all the Polynesian silks,
The lagoon,
Offering to my unbeliever eyes all the shades of jade, all the combinations of emerald,
Irene and Hector seemed to feel it too, or perhaps they were tired,
Suddenly they grew quiet and solemn, Hector smiled and Irene asked me:
Daddy, is this the most beautiful place on Earth?

(II)
Yes, it is, my darling.
Look in front of you. The ocean extends forever.
Turquoise in the lagoon, indigo after the coral reef,
Still and immense. Serene like the Buddha and cool like a charming,
Serial killer.
Hear the surf. It beats over and over,
And over again, splashing white foam against the skeletons,
Of dead corals.
It was here before we came,
And it will be, the same surf, the same reef, the same blue inmensity,
Long after we leave. It is the same reef that greeted the old Polynesian sailors,
Coming from nowhere, pilgrims in the water dessert,
How in Earth did they find this island, this little speck of dust,
In the middle of the Ocean.
Ah, the madness of the Cromagnon. Those crazy people,
Full families with their crops, and pigs and chicken, sailing in canoes,
Chancing the blue void, risking a game
Of double or nothing, salty death or Paradise,
How did they dare?
Did they know something,
We have forgotten? A secret way to read the clouds,
To learn from the stars?
Where they guided by the beacon of a lost Atlantis?
Or was sheer simple, pure, blind,
Good luck?
One way or other they came, and for a while,
Until the white demons arrived,
They inhabited Paradise.

(III)
How many times a father and his daugther have sat where you and I sit now,
Trying to understand what the surf says,
Can you feel the ghosts of this ancient people, so remote
Yet so close?
Now turn you head. Tell me. Can you believe that simple erosion
Would have shaped this tortured landscape? Was it not rather,
The work of art of some lost God, or a green giant with an enormous axe,
Cutting the Earth, as Bernard was cutting today a cocoanut for you,
Perhaps to drink the water hidden under the shell, as we did,
And scrape the pulp to press white milk,
There are worse ways to live that off cocoanuts and pineapple and Mahi-Mahi,
Bernard and Mayte came to this island when their kids were smaller than you,
And they didn’t have water or electricity in their first home,
Rain was dripping the roof in the wet season,
And mosquitos invited themselves to share their humble dinners,
Yet this man who took us to the forest today,
seemed so happy as that green crazy giant that cut the ranges
Through which we were walking. It was so beautiful, he kept repeating,
And he meant Moorea,
And he meant the memory of his children reading aloud at night, by the camp fire,
And he meant the last 20 years of his life in this little rock,
Lost in the Ocean.

(IV)
We will never come back to Moorea,
Nor us. Perhaps other people, our future selves,
We will be older,
Héctor will no longer a boy of 7, thin and full of energy,
—his teacher called him once the artist of happiness—
Irene will be past her 11th birthday, the one she is approaching now,
Still a child, and yet,
Spring is coming for her, and is coming fast.
If we ever come again to this island,
Who will we be that people of our future? Which dreams, which wishes,
Will haunt us?
Tonight I sat with both of you by the seaside,
Looking at the expanse of the bay,
named after famous Captain Cook.
It was after dark, and a full moon,
Shone over the water. All the sudden,
It was there. A silver bridge crossing the gap,
Laying a path of light through the bay,
We could almost jump and walk over the water,
As Christ did. Yet, what was the need?
We had already had our share of miracles,
Swmming at noon, like moondancers,
In perilous equlibrium between Earth and the deep void
That opens under the reef.
Later the feast with our Tahitian friends,
Raw fish and the songs of the Ukelele,
We didn’t understand a word of the strange language,
Yet the music was so close to our hearts.
And we pretended to be part of the island and not simple pilgrims
About to leave it. Such were the miracles of today,
We looked at the reflection of the moon in the bay,
and sat, and sang, and talk little nonsense,
While the silver bridge extended through the water.

(V)
Two more days. Our time is almost over,
Yet, the close the departure day,
The harder seems the idea of leaving this place.
To go back where? Who cares,
About the little things I used to deem important,
The petty fights, the autistic days, the useless work,
Yes, it’s my life and I can’t say I don’t like it,
I am a scientist, and this is what scientists do,
Fight each other and search for the Holy Grail,
Often in the wrong spot, like a drunkard
That seeks his lost keys under the beam of the night lamp,
Not because they are there, but because there is a light to see.
The light. How will I ever be able to utter
The word blue, when I leave?
How will I be able to sleep,
Without the surf?