by Adam Ellis
The buyer’s high wore off pretty quickly when I realized I was going to have to get on an airplane in a matter of weeks. I always overlook this horrifying little tidbit when I travel. I can’t stand flying. Growing up it never bothered me, but several years ago on a flight from Boston to Montana I experienced some heinous turbulence that wrecked me for good. I remember it like it was yesterday. The flight had been smooth—almost suspiciously so. I was just about to bite into my twelve-dollar turkey sandwich and enjoy the in-flight presentation of Beverly Hills Chihuahua when the pilot chimed in over the intercom.
The rest of the flight was not unlike a roller-coaster ride. The flight attendants belted themselves into their seats at the front of the aircraft, and it’s the only time I’ve ever seen a member of a flight crew look worried. The man sitting next to me began to hyperventilate and then passed out. When we landed, the pilot came back on the intercom and said, “Whew, we made it.” He sounded shaken.
Since that flight, I’ve never been comfortable in the air. The slightest bit of turbulence sends me into a tailspin of panic. Once bitten, twice shy, three times a lady, et cetera. Now it’s a struggle just to avoid having a nervous breakdown in the airport, let alone on the airplane, so I try to keep calm by occupying myself with little games. My favorite is Airport Bingo. It’s simple: Before I get to the terminal, I construct a Bingo card in my head of things one might see at an airport, and then spend the time before my flight seeing how many I can mark off. Sometimes I’ll construct a physical grid on a napkin or a scrap of paper. It’s like people-watching, only more judgmental.
These kinds of mind games usually help keep my wild fantasies about flaming Boeing 757s crashing into the ocean at bay.
The day of my flight to Hawaii arrived, and as usual I waited till the last minute to pack, frantically tossing wrinkled clothes into my suitcase along with random toiletries and every pair of sunglasses I own, just to be safe. I arrived at the airport in typically late fashion and clamored through baggage check, arriving at my gate with precious moments to spare. As I waited to board, I gazed around at the crowd, mentally ticking off imaginary boxes on a made-up grid.
I was nearly on my way to a full Bingo blackout by the time I got on the plane. I closed my eyes, took a slow, deep breath, and prayed I wouldn’t end up at the bottom of the Pacific. Mercifully, my flight was peaceful and uneventful, save for the woman I was seated next to, who insisted on gabbing incessantly to me about her planned “vision quest” to Oahu. I nodded politely, interjecting an “ah” here and an “oh?” there. I fell asleep sometime after her spiel chronicling how her bottle of “healing elixir” had been confiscated for being over the allowed volume. In recent years I’ve turned to prescription drugs when I fly, though none has sent me into slumber as effectively as being forced to listen to the assumed curative powers of crystals.
I’d never been to Hawaii before, and the first thing I noticed when I got off the plane was how warm and sunny it was—the exact opposite of the gloomy Portland winter I’d left mere hours before. I saw Park immediately: At six foot five he towered over everyone else. He greeted me with a lei, more as a joke than anything, and we took a taxi to his apartment. Along the way, I gazed out the window at the green mountains in the distance. My own vacation episode was off to a good start.
My first couple of days on the island were spent in typical tropical fashion: wandering around aimlessly, napping on the beach, and trying to avert my gaze from old dudes in Speedos. In the afternoons I walked around town with Park while he played tour guide, recounting the history of Hawaii; dutiful host was he. During the days he was at work, I meandered around the island on my own, looking for things to do. I briefly considered filming a better ending to Lost on my camera phone (starring myself as every character) but figured that might be too much work. Instead I opted for baking in the sun on the beach down the street from Park’s home, waiting for the sweet, sweet melanoma to set in. I found it surprisingly easy to turn my brain off and languish on the warm sand like a beached sea lion.
My relaxing vacation hit a slight rough patch around day four. Park was, shall we say, a connoisseur of the ganja. That night he made us dinner and then went outside to get stoned, as was his general routine. I’d smoked plenty during college, but weed has always makes me ravenous, so I typically avoid it when offered. Having just eaten a hearty dinner of baked fish and fresh pineapple, however, I took Park up on his proposal when he offered to share. I joined him outside and we sat on his back porch, passing his glass pipe back and forth. When we were done, he wandered into the backyard to have a cigarette, following one vice with another. I sank into my chair and looked up at the sky. I waited for the high to set in. As I expected, not much happened at first except for the general relaxing mellowness I was accustomed to. But then a lot happened.
The stars in the sky began to move, slowly at first and then in more fluid spirals. The chair I was sitting in felt like it was melting backward into the concrete. I lost my balance even though I was seated, and caught myself in what felt like a fall. I felt panicky, paranoid. Without a word I moved inside and sat down on the couch. I stared at the wall, which seemed to move just like the stars had, undulating in and out. Tunnel vision set in and I became convinced my friend had drugged me in order to harvest my organs. I figured I should lie down. I went into Park’s bedroom and curled up in the fetal position on his bed. I had no idea what was happening to me; the high I was experiencing was unlike any I’d ever felt before. For what seemed like eons I lay motionless, wide-eyed and stricken with terror. At one point I became convinced Park’s bed was in fact a giant, sleeping animal, and if I moved it would awaken and carry me into the forest on its back and I’d never be seen again.
I’m going to die here in Hawaii, I thought to myself. Nobody can help me. I need to call my mother and tell her goodbye. I need to tell everyone goodbye and that I love them.
Park appeared in his doorway and asked if I was all right. From his point of view, I imagine the scene was unremarkable.
In my head, the severity of the situation was much more pronounced.
“Turn off the light,” is all I said. Park did so. “It’s too dark now, turn the lights back on,” I responded. Park did so. Again I asked him to turn off the lights. We continued in this fashion for a few minutes, him flipping the light switch on and off, until I croaked, “I don’t know what’s happening to meeeee…” Park suggested that my blood pressure had dropped and triggered a panic attack, and told me I’d be fine in a little bit. I closed my eyes, focused on my breathing, and eventually somehow fell asleep. I awoke hours later in the dead of night, covered in sweat and convinced the sweat was actually blood. I searched my body for mortal wounds but found none. I collapsed back into bed, relieved, feeling slightly less anxious. The drugs were starting to wear off. No more weed for a while, I promised myself. Strictly black tar heroin from now on. I slipped back into slumber, thinking I might be getting too old for this kind of thing.
The next day I figured some relaxing beach time was in order to remedy the previous night’s unbridled terror. I had come to Hawaii to relax and get centered, not have a heart attack. I located a bookstore on my phone and set off in search of something I could read in a day or two. Something light and unchallenging, I thought. Perhaps some paranormal teen fiction featuring a love triangle… or maybe some Tolstoy. In the bookstore, I meandered up and down the aisles, waiting for a book to catch my eye. I was about to reach for Danielewski’s House of Leaves when suddenly, something far more appropriate caught my eye. There it was. The perfect book.
Could there be a more flawless choice than Goosebumps: Ghost Beach? Anything more divinely meta than reading Ghost Beach on the fucking beach? The bustling murmur of the bookstore seemed to fade away into silence; I felt the lights dim as I gazed upon the thin, hundred-page paperback, seeming to call out to me with a gentle whisper. This is what I came to the islands for, I thought. I was meant to read this book, in this place, at this
time. I am now a believer in fate.
I spent the rest of the morning in utter bliss. I flipped through my new book, holding it gingerly in my hands as if it were a religious text. Though I’d figured out the twist ending by page 19 (everyone is a ghost, basically), it didn’t matter. The trauma of the previous night slipped away, carried out to sea and forgotten.
By the time the sun was setting, I was all jazzed up on ghost stories and about fourteen shades darker than before. If I were a color swatch, it would have been Pantone 18-1242, otherwise known as “Brown Patina.” Park would be getting off work soon, so I packed up my towel and headed back in the direction of his apartment.
That night I wanted to cut loose, and since the previous night’s activity had not panned out, we decided to go out to a bar. It was dark, humid, and packed with people shouting over thumping club jams. I felt like a drunk ninja, my deep brown tan causing me to all but disappear into the shadows. At one point I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; I looked like a Cheshire cat, all floating white teeth and eyeballs.
Sometime after two, I found myself in a dance club, separated from my friend by a sea of people. The club’s humidity made me feel clammy, like I was swimming through chowder. I caught sight of Park over the sea of people and attempted to wade through the crowd, but only succeeded in becoming caught in the middle of the bedlam. I was trapped. Next to me stood a wobbly, sleepy-eyed girl, and a middle-aged woman looking far worse for wear. Halfheartedly, I attempted to engage the girl in some friendly mutual footwork. She barely acknowledged me and instead motioned to the older woman next to her.
With that, the girl stumbled off the dance floor, either to ingest more alcohol or to purge it from her system. I found myself face-to-face with her mother, who seemed to barely register her surroundings. I shrugged and attempted to make the best of the situation.
It became apparent to me that my dance partner was entirely wasted, and I mean that in the most clinical sense. Her eyes were unfocused, her hair was a mess, and she had one boob in danger of flopping out of her cardigan. The woman was in rough shape, but I was hardly keeping my own balance, so I awkwardly shimmied away from her and left her alone. I was in no condition to take care of an old lady jacked up on appletinis. I made a beeline for the exit and texted Park once I was outside: let’s go home. As I waited for him to show up, my eyes feeling heavy, I suddenly felt a little homesick for Portland. The prospect of getting back to the ease of the Northwest sounded pleasant. I was ready to go home, and it was then that I realized I actually considered Portland my home—not just some place I was trying to build a life in, but somewhere I actually had one. I belonged there.
A few days later, and with my vacation’s end closing in, it occurred to me that I’d yet to actually go swimming. Since the ocean is on a short list of things that make me nervous (along with air travel, bees, meth scabs, and other people’s feet, of course), I’d been avoiding the water. Still, I figured it would be a crime to visit Hawaii without swimming, so I traveled on foot from Park’s apartment to the beach, my flip-flops slapping against my heels as I walked. I set my backpack and towel down on the sand and cautiously waded into the ocean. It was chilly but refreshing, and I quickly warmed up to it as I inched forward into the water. Eventually I felt my toes leave the bottom. Then I closed my eyes and went under. I realized that I hadn’t been in the ocean since I was eight. When I broke the surface again, I was almost surprised to taste salt on my lips. I treaded water and gazed back toward land. I wasn’t far out, but it was enough to take in the scenery. I noticed I was beaming and probably couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.
I could actively feel my batteries recharging and I was irrefutably happy for the first time in months. I thought about Riley briefly, but the moment was fleeting. Everything that had been bothering me in recent weeks suddenly felt trite and mundane. I felt silly because I could hear a future version of myself telling my friends back in Portland about my vacation. “It was so refreshing to just get away, you know? Such a boost to my psyche. My aura is probably, like, bright pink now.” I remembered my flight partner, the lady who had yakked to me about her planned vision quest, and I regretted scoffing at her in my mind. Who was I to mock the prospect of feeling better? I decided to give in to it.
“I am healed!” I announced aloud to nobody.
The final charming surprise of my trip didn’t occur until the next day. I was back at the airport, awaiting my boarding announcement, when a little girl approached me, unprovoked and unannounced, her brow furrowed with determination.
“WATCH MY DANCE!” she announced, and then proceeded to work it with such fierce purpose I was afraid she might have an aneurism right in front of me.
When she finished, her mom shook a bag of Teddy Grahams at her and she immediately lost interest in dancing and scampered off. My grandmother used to say, “This too shall pass,” and it always seemed like Hallmark-card-style mumbo jumbo, but suddenly her words floated back to me. A few weeks ago, stricken with grief, I might’ve scowled at the little girl and found her obnoxious. Now, though, I couldn’t do anything but smile at her exuberance. I could’ve gotten up and danced myself.
Back in Portland, with a complexion somewhere between chestnut and mahogany, I took a moment to reflect on my trip. I don’t remember how the Hawaii episode of Full House ended, but I think there was a bit about being lost at sea, and then Uncle Jesse bizarrely played drums for the Beach Boys. Whatever the case, I’m sure someone learned a valuable lesson and there was some heartfelt string music. If I learned anything during my own Vacation Episode, it’s that life is about experiences, good and bad. I had to take a step out of my own day-to-day life to realize it, but with some newfound perspective, I understood that it all balances out eventually. Sometimes you get lost at sea, but if you keep your head above water, there might just be something beautiful on the horizon.
IRON GODDESS OF MERCY
The legend goes like this:
In southeast China there was a run-down temple that housed an iron statue of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, the Goddess of Mercy. A poor farmer passed the temple each morning on his way to the tea fields. He would look upon the temple with a heavy heart, noting its crumbling condition.
Because the farmer was poor, he had not the means to restore the temple’s glory. Still, he wanted to do something. He brought a broom from his home and swept the temple clean of debris, then lit some incense as an offering to Guanyin. He did this each day for many months. “It’s the least I can do,” he said.
One night, the goddess appeared to him in a dream and told him of a hidden cave behind the temple where great treasure awaited.
She told him to claim the treasure as a reward for his hard work and share it with the others in his village. The next day, the farmer searched and found the cave the goddess spoke of, but upon entering it found no great treasure. Instead, he found only a tiny tea shoot poking up through the ground. He was disheartened.
The farmer took the tea shoot anyway and planted it on his farm. To his surprise, it grew into a hearty bush from which the finest tea was produced. He gave cuttings of it to his friends and family, and they began selling it. Before long the village prospered and grew famous for its delicious tea. The farmer’s small act of kindness and his faith that something good would happen paid off. As thanks to the goddess, they named the tea after her: Tieguanyin. The Iron Goddess of Mercy.
I drink Tieguanyin most nights. Occasionally I’ll switch up the tea I drink, but the Iron Goddess of Mercy is the one I continually return to. Making tea is a ritual I look forward to. My workload has a tendency to pile up and the routine of brewing tea offers momentary respite, during which time I can clear my head and recalibrate. I focus on the steps: filling the tea bag, boiling water, steeping the tea, then waiting for it to cool so I can drink it. It’s a simple ceremony but a calming one, and the legend behind the tea’s origin serves as a hopeful reminder that everything I do will one day amount to something more. It
offers solace from the stress of my life, however fleeting.
Another little ritual I have is lying on the floor in the dark, panicking over the notion that I’m wasting my formative years on misguided endeavors.
In these ephemeral moments of despair, tea is of little help. While I’m comforted by the fact that almost everyone my age deals with the same ambiguities and insecurities, it doesn’t negate those big moments of complete and all-consuming doubt that seem like they might cause my whole life to derail. Eventually I tell myself that everything is all right. I make some lists in my head, set some goals, and before long it’s tomorrow and I’m fine.
Despite the pervasive uncertainty of life, I am gaining perspective. Here are some of the things I have learned so far:
1. I CAN’T KEEP DATING JERKS, HOPING TO TURN THEM INTO GOOD PEOPLE
This has taken me ages to learn, and I’m still not sure it’s sunk in all the way. Barring one notable exception, I’ve dated pretty much exclusively garbage-people. For a while, it was fun to imagine that I could reform someone else, like a science project. A part of me still hopes I can find someone to mold into the perfect human specimen, as if I’m building a mate from carefully selected parts.