Dead Straight Meanders

As things stood, recyclable material from all the islands had to be transported to Majorca first before processing, an added step which Phillip had railed against as environmental laziness. And political bias towards the largest island too, he claimed, since it was a “Sisyphean effort” for the people of Formentera to reap – except in the way of grocery imports – any of the benefits associated with that plant. Bryan, who even in his time as a student had never been one for campaigning, was glad enough to go but would have preferred to stay back and keep picking and raking towards the ravine. He hoped more than anything to see new crops sown into his soil before his stint there ended. Still, with a touch of awe he enjoyed listening to his more impassioned counterparts talk on the ferry, which had left porta a little after 9. They didn’t talk about what had to be done, should have been done, but what would be done. Managing to keep every person onboard in the loop, Phillip was probably the most alive human being Bryan had ever met. So alive, however, that he seemed of another order somehow, like a scattering of genius academics, or, in a different sense, his daughters. While he inspired and instilled confidence, he also necessarily betrayed a sad truth about the average man or woman- that an overwhelming majority could never be as he was or do as he did. Perhaps that was a blessing when it came to his girls, but looking now at Phillip, pressed against the bow railing proudly like a master at the helm of his ship, Bryan couldn’t help but think that if the survival of the planet depended on the concerted effort of men like him, it was hopelessly outnumbered. The same train of thought quickly returned to his daughters; Bryan was angry with himself for having used them so uncouthly in that comparison. He missed them, worried for them. He missed Wendy. Calm as glass and blinding, the Balearic Sea that day reminded him of the lake in Peter Camenzind- a relatively tiny, restful body of water dividing islanders of more or less the same creed, Catalan in this case, from each other. Even though the Ibizan shore could easily be made out, there must once have been a time when that glimpse was like a torturous vision of an otherworld, as if an exotic treasure were dangling a finger’s length away from fingers in chains.