Hog Island

From the cold, grey stretch of northern Arctic water outside my porthole, my mind drifts to a very different place. Across from Prickly Bay, Grenada, there is Hog Island. It is an outcrop of rocks and bush with a scraggle of trees. On its south side, the mangroves shelter a small anchorage, safe for a few boats.

When we were going to sail up the Grenadines, we would store away all the provisions and stuff in the morning and then motor over to Hog Island in the afternoon. This ritual felt like the first small surprise, tucked inside the larger journey.

We would swim from the boat to the beach and wander slowly around the island, climbing over rocks or, when the tide was out, skirting the ebbing pools of sand and anemones. Looking down into the clear water, we could watch tiny worlds go by, sea creatures and plants going about their business, entirely unaware of ours.

If we were lucky, we would spot an octopus camouflaged on the sandy bottom. The moment one of us silently pointed it out, it would scatter a cloud of sand and vanish in an instant. It was as if it could feel our curious eyes and wanted nothing to do with them.

I have always felt the same way about octopus as I do about iguanas. They are mystical, primal, shy creatures who carry a regal indifference to human beings. They live entirely on their own terms. I like to think they prefer it that way, and that seems exactly right.

Thinking back to those times on Hog Island while I am here in Arctic waters makes me realise how far I am from that warmth and ease. The memory is a good one to carry, a reminder that there are many kinds of places to anchor and rest, even if right now the water around me could not be more different.