Island of the Women

 

“Coo-coo-cook, coo-coo-cook,” sounded softly but insistently from the dense jumble of trees, bushes, and vines just beyond the edge of the new concrete patio. This was the native vegetation of Isla Mujeres, the Island of the Women, a slender six mile strip of land sitting seven miles off the coast of Cancun, Mexico.

According to legend, Mayan women seeking a fertility blessing would paddle across the bay to Isla, trek down to the stony cliffs at the southern tip of the island, where the blue and turquoise waves of the Caribbean crashed against the jagged rocks, and give offerings to Ixchel, the goddess of fertility. Even now there is a small park with a larger than life statue of the voluptuous Ixchel. Every day modern supplicants place fresh offerings of flowers and sweets in her lap.

Focusing on the “coo-coo-cook” call, I noticed that it was similar to yet different from the mourning doves I knew at home. This was the song of a Eurasian Collard Dove, a newbie to the Caribbean basin, a gray brown dove with a delicate and decorative black streak extending from the back of its neck.

I was sitting on the back patio of my sister and brother in law’s vacation home, known as L’Casbah. The family crew was off shopping and dining in the old town. I had time alone and took the opportunity to do an impromptu sit spot. Not a real full hour session in a wild setting, but a few minutes to sit, look, listen, and learn.

Studying the rampant vegetation around me I studied the different shapes of the leaves, and how each seemed to respond differently to the steady sea breeze. The lacey leafed potted palms swayed and rustled. The lanky red-tipped flowers, where black and yellow butterflies fluttered and fed, bowed before each gust. The large leaves of the elephant ear plants flapped. And the tiny, thick, emerald green leaves on the trees hardly moved at all.

Each plant needed to adapt to the constant wind, to bend to the daily breeze, to weather the sudden, violent thunderstorms, and to withstand the fury of the occasional hurricanes. I let my vision drift back and forth to the different leaves, the different bending and swaying, a kind of symphony of motion.

A loud shrill whistle sounded deep within the scrubby trees, the call of a Great-tailed Grackle, another local bird whose identity I had learned, another new friend. A shrill answering call came from the front of the house; communication, call and response, possibly two males affirming their territory. The grackle in front of me worked its way closer. I couldn’t see it amidst the tangle of leaves, branches, and vines, but could hear it, just twenty feet away crabbling through the branches, squawking and chattering before it fluttered off.

The wind rustled through the palm leaves, the angled afternoon sun warmed my face, and the humid tropical air soothed my skin. Three makeshift clothes lines ran from branch to branch under the trees. Here, with the sea breeze, the sunshine, and the warm air, my brother in law assured me, “Clothes will dry in twenty minutes so there is no need to worry about getting caught in a downpour.”

A gray, robin sized bird, flew in and perched on one of the clothes line, a Tropical Mockingbird, a southern cousin of the familiar Northern Mockingbird. It dipped its head, flicked its tail, and launched into typical mockingbird songs, series after series of loud varying three part calls, “chicka-chicka- chicka,” “deet-deet-deet,” “wit-wit,-wit” and on and on. This mockingbird had made the scrub jungle around L’Casbah its home. Sometimes it perched on the wires in front of the house and sometimes at sunrise when I did yoga on the roof, it landed on a ventilation pipe and sang melodiously as I stretched and breathed through my morning routine.

Unsure of the best location for a sit spot I decided to move up to the second floor porch where I could look over the perimeter road out to the Caribbean Sea. According to Isla lore the sea displays at least eight shades of blue. Gazing out at the froth tipped breakers rolling shoreward, I discerned four shades, a light blue, a dark blue, a medium turquoise, and a stripe of luminous light turquoise.

I hoped to see Magnificent Frigatebirds in flight. Whoever added the descriptor “magnificent” to this bird’s official name is to be applauded. A graceful high flyer, stark black with a white bib on the females and juveniles, and a small dusky red bib on the males, frigatebirds have the sleek aerodynamic design of a high-tech stealth fighter. With their slender body and 90 inch wingspan they soar into the wind with hardly a flap using their long forked tails as steering rudders, and then turn and kite down wind. But the sky was empty.

Suddenly, a flock of frigate birds appeared, long dark black wings set, gliding effortlessly, some higher some lower, twenty or more birds in a loose formation, each setting its own course. As if responding to some signal, they began swirling around in an ascending kettle. Higher and higher they circled, black wings lifting up into a pure blue sky. This looked like another example of communication in a nature world filled with interaction. Then, as suddenly as it began, the group flight ended. The frigatebirds drifted back down into their solo flight plans.

I decided to hike along the path that ran along the high cliff to the park where the statue of Ixchel stood. I had only been in sit spot mode for forty-five minutes and felt some conflict, even guilt, at moving on before the prescribed full hour. But, I reasoned to myself, this wasn’t a real sit spot session, just a little sample, the best I could do under the circumstances.

Down the steps, across the road, and through the vacant lot I walked still chastising myself for giving up before a full hour had elapsed. I was struck by the vivid green of the scrubby shrubs and their irregular interlaced branches. I looked out upon the old Caribe. The shades of blue and turquoise trimmed with lacey white breakers took my breath away. I could feel that I was in a harmonious nature connected state, a state with slow regular alpha brain waves, a relaxed yet alert state where perception and insight were heightened by and permeated with an undercurrent of joy.

I thought this might be an example of kindling, of the shortened sit spot experience piggy backing onto some neuro pathways formed during previous sit spot sessions. Surprised yet grateful, I stepped onto the cliff side trail and strolled toward the park where Ixchel’s statue stood. I gazed out at the frothy blue and turquoise breakers splashing onto the jagged rocks below. I felt the soft sea breeze and inhaled the fresh salt air. Above me the magnificent frigatebirds soared and glided.

 

This sit spot session took place on February 15, 2018 at L’Casbah, Isla Mujeres, Quintana Roo, Mexico. Many thanks to Kris and Steve Sauer for their warm and generous hospitality.