My Cousin Howland

Our boat slowed as the silhouette of Catalina Island emerged. I tucked my wild, wind-whipped hair behind my ears. It was noon on October 20, and after a 3:30 a.m. wake-up to travel, I was bleary-eyed but buzzing with anticipation. Around me sat my fellow groggy — yet exhilarated — Upper School Ambassadors. We’d be counselors for the 8th graders on their class trip for the next four days. 

Unlike me, most of my fellow counselors went to Catalina in their 8th-grade year. They offered warnings about the biting cold after dark, entranced me with plaudits of the coveted lemonade, and celebrated the camaraderie of the Catalina crew during their prior excursion.

Our first meal, baked rigatoni, felt like a triumph after our long journey. When the sun set, my group gathered beneath the night sky. The instructor told us to crane our heads up and look. Fifty-four miles from Los Angeles, the timid stars revealed themselves. I introduced myself to the Milky Way – we’d been strangers up to this point. 

Breathing in the chilly air and hearing the nocturnal tide awakened my heart as I shut my eyes that night. The sounds of the ocean replaced the familiar hum of Arizona air conditioning. For a moment, I had the strange feeling that I was home. 

On Tuesday morning, I suited up. I found myself with a new group of 8th graders, sticking my face into the Pacific Ocean for a snorkel swim. I waved to garibaldis, the bright orange state fish of California, swimming around me. My wetsuit protected me from the chill of the Pacific for the most part, but my exposed hands and wrists made the cold apparent to the rest of my body. Even so, I didn’t mind; laughing with the 8th graders about how goofy we looked in our masks warmed me right up. I was exploring one of the most beautiful parts of my home state and sharing moments with those across the PCDS bridge whom I had never had the chance to connect with before. How could I be cold? 

In the afternoon, I had some free time. Despite the enticing notion of resting on my bed, or perhaps confronting my growing pile of homework, I decided to “carpe diem” and join another group in their activity. So, I strapped on my harness to tackle the ropes course. 

When I made my way to the top of the course, I took a second to look around. Looking forward, the familiar ocean waved at me; looking backward, the mountains winked. Looking down — unfortunately, because one of the group instructors insisted that my shoe was untied (it wasn’t) — I saw my fellow juniors, energetic 8th graders, and enthusiastic middle school teachers cheering me on. 

Wednesday started with a sunrise with classmate and counselor Alaina. We sat on a log on the sand, chatting a bit, but mostly sitting in comfortable silence. We watched the sun climb above the horizon, emerging from the ocean in an orange blaze. I closed my eyes and wished that this moment would last a little longer than I knew it would. The quiet of the morning and the reflection of the sun over the water were comforting. 

For our morning activity, Alaina and I joined the ecology hike with high hopes and full water bottles. From the start, we conquered steep hills, propelled forward only by the hope of a flat earth that seemed just a few steps away. However, another, more formidable hill always revealed itself. We carried on, like hamsters on a wheel. 

For two hours, my legs burned, and perspiration trickled from my brow as I clawed up each incline. Finally, we reached the top and reveled in our accomplishment for a jubilant five minutes before the hour-long descent.

The sun scorched my skin, my legs cried for a break, and my water bottle was bone-dry, yet my heart was full. I breathed heavily, but my lips curved into a smile. Each steep step reminded me of the enchantment of the West Coast. Of course, nature, exercise, and the same community were available in Arizona, but it was all different in Catalina. Something about the salt in the air strengthened my breath; it reminded me of my old home. 

I’ve enjoyed four summers, and some of my fondest memories as a Junior Lifeguard on East Beach in Santa Barbara, California, when I was younger, were spent swimming, running, paddling, and playing for hours. 

Before returning to California in 2017, I was familiar with the shores of Lanai, Hawaii. I spent many birthdays camping on the sands of Hulopoe Bay, waking up to the sound of waves on the shore, my nose a little cold. Waking up in my cabin on the beach in Howland’s Landing gave me the feeling of déjà vu. 

A favorite moment came that evening. My group and I kicked through the inky water, trying to spot any nocturnal creatures. When we turned off our flashlights, the bioluminescence revealed itself. With every move I made, every kick of my flipper and swish of my hand, tiny white sparks shot out in a flurry. 

Gazing under the water, I saw a constellation of stars at my command. The next moment, I shifted my gaze and surfaced to look towards the sky. The Milky Way smiled down at me — we were once strangers. Between the sky and sea, the glowing buzz of LA faded into the vast sky. I knew I was experiencing something I might never see again. The moment was magical, but fleeting. 

For the rest of the week, I wrestled with this feeling. It was refreshing to do what I love where I love, but I knew it would be over too soon. I admire the cactus-filled scene of the Sonoran, but I knew when I returned, if I closed my eyes and listened, I would hear the hum of an air conditioner, not the constant lull of the waves. 

Though I was only there for a few days, leaving Catalina felt like breaking up with Southern California all over again. For a week, I got a taste of my home after I had left it four years ago. 

Catalina’s salty breeze and nature-focused activities felt like a reunion with my younger self. My departure was bittersweet; I do miss the proximity of the ocean and its endless possibilities, but I’m buoyed by the fact that far doesn’t mean gone. 

Memories of sandy shoes and salty air are those of my upbringing, but that chapter isn’t over. These adventures can continue as I get older. 

As I’ve recently just hit my four-year milestone in Arizona, Catalina has made my itch for a new adventure clear. Yes, it reminded me of home, but it also showed me that there’s wonder in being nomadic. 

As I looked from the back deck of our fleeing ferry, the silhouette of Catalina Island grew distant. The peace of the past week would soon be a memory. At first, this notion made me sad; it felt like I was being separated from a close friend. Catalina was a cousin to places I know well. But after the island faded into the distance as just another adventure, I gained a new perspective. 

My time in Catalina reminded me of a pattern in my life; every four years brings a change in scenery: Ventura, Hawaii, Santa Barbara, and Arizona. To finish my chapter in Arizona, I must break this rule of fours. But a rule I promise to keep is that of homecoming. I’ve returned to California before, and I know I’ll be back. Yet, there’s another pattern that I’m sure will persist. 

I will leave. 

Time and time again, I’ll go out and search for adventure, finding pieces of home in new places. Even so, I’ll always be drawn to the Golden State. Leaving is not farewell, just “see you later.” Wherever I go next, I’ll carry the sand, the stars, and the certainty that home can always be found again.