You might know the feeling. Maybe it’s a big pile of leaves in the fall and you catch that earthy scent as you walk by. You remember jumping in the leaves as a kid, throwing them up in the air, or raking them in the yard on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe it’s the smell of cookies coming out of the oven, the first snowfall of the winter, or a cold ice cream cone on a hot summer day. So many sights and smells and feelings that remind us of childhood and memories of growing up. But that’s not the feeling I’m talking about.
What I’m talking about is an actual time portal that I miraculously popped through while riding a bike on a narrow road on a small island in the Bahamas where, for a moment, I traveled almost sixty years into the past. I will try to explain it as best I can.
We’ve been coming to the same island in the Bahamas for fishing, diving, and tropical relaxation for around 20 years. We know the road that runs by our rental house as well as I knew the little road where I grew up on the Chesapeake Bay, where it was as hot and humid in the summer as any day in the southeast Bahamas.
First, I have to go back to my childhood memories, those moments that define my younger days, because if you want to understand how I went through what I’m going to call a time portal, you have to learn about some of the things I experienced as a child.
I often say the best years of my life were when I was 8 or 9 years old. I was old enough to be somewhat independent, but young enough to still be an innocent kid. My family was big and noisy: five children born between 1951 and 1956. Our neighborhood consisted of a partly paved road that during the 1950’s was a designated postal rural route – our mailing address was Route 3, Box 292. Three families lived on our road with eleven kids total, and our family held the majority. We came together and blew apart in the summer, joining forces to swim in the tidal river that fed into the Chesapeake Bay, splitting into groups of older/younger, boys/girls, army units, baseball teams, make-believe players, explorers, and more. We burst out of the house in the mornings, finishing our chores and looking for adventure. Our mother would supervise us when we swam in the river, but mostly we ran wild and played in the woods and along the shoreline of our neighborhood.
Things quieted down in the afternoons, which were often too hot for boisterous play. But the action picked up again after dinner in the summer evening, when a little bit of shade and a breeze from the river gave us the energy to run wild again. This was a good opportunity to jump on our bikes and race up and down our road, crazy and sweaty as we yelled at each other and made up races and games. The envy of the neighborhood was Ricky Larrimore’s 3-speed English racer bicycle, with a beautiful dark green frame, mysterious levers, drop handlebars, hard leather saddle and weird looking pedals. We all took turns riding it, and I remember that although the frame was much too large for me, it felt wonderfully light and balanced. We were all skinny arms and legs with scabby knees and bug bites and bare feet. More than once I ripped my big toe open when my foot slipped on my pedal and scraped along the rough pavement at high speed. There would be an excruciating moment of agony followed by gasping sobs as I’d wait for the worst of it to pass. Then when I realized I was being left behind I’d pedal furiously to catch up, traveling into the fading light. When our mother blew the whistle that signaled time to come inside, I’d limp into the house to wash my bloody toe in the little bathroom by the kitchen door that was the designated dirty kid entrance, inspect it for signs of serious injury, cover it with a band aid and vow to be more careful next time. If you grow up in a big family, you learn self-first aid at a young age.
When I wasn’t ripping my toe open or arguing with the other kids about what game we were going to play or trying to show off a new skill I’d learned on my bike, I would have moments of complete clarity. Somehow in the back of my 8-year-old brain, I just knew that riding my bike along a quiet Maryland tidewater rural road in the middle of summer in the late evening air, was as good as anything in life could be. This usually occurred during those rare moments when I was alone, maybe the last one to come in to the house, or more likely just left behind by the older, faster kids.
I would find myself alone at the far end of our road, pedaling up and over a small rise to where I could see the other kids. Suddenly and without warning, I floated free, moving effortlessly through the warm summer air, and experiencing a moment of pure bliss in the fading light. For a brief second, I would not have been surprised if I floated right up with the fireflies as they started to work their magic in the dark evening shadows of the trees.
That is the feeling I am talking about.
As I topped the small rise in the road I started to hear and see the others and I came back to the present, but I always knew those blissful moments of floating free were something to be savored and could not last forever.
Then I grew up. Everything started to look smaller and one day my world wasn’t as wild and adventurous as I once thought. The moments of childish wonder and bliss began to disappear. I moved to Alaska and rediscovered some of that magic, watching alpenglow on high peaks while camped on an icefield in the middle of summer, or kayaking next to a pod of whales in the ocean. I’ve had many magical moments, but nothing like when I traveled through time and became eight years old again.
I dive with our friend Delbert every year when we visit the Bahamas. Bicycling to his house down the road from our rental house is a routine part of our island stay. My husband Scott and I check in with him to see when he might be available to take us out. Other times, we just stop for a short chat with him and his wife. Right before we leave the island, I visit one last time to settle our accounts with him and to say goodbye. On this afternoon, right before dinner, Scott stayed behind to take care of things at the house, and I went to Delbert’s on my own. We had a good visit, the bill was settled, good-byes were said, and I hopped back on my bike to pedal up the road. I felt relaxed, the evening air was warm and mild, and the biking was easy. I had absolutely nothing on my mind as I started to climb the first small rise that led back home.
And in that moment I traveled through time.
I gasped with wonder as I pedaled. I didn’t just feel like I was eight years old again, I knew I was! It felt so magical I could hardly breathe. I stared straight ahead, afraid to look around and possibly break the spell. I felt weightless and free and floated along the road exactly like those summer evenings in Maryland almost sixty years before. The air was warm and mild, and a gentle humid breeze swept along the tropical brush by the road. The salty tidewater close by smelled just like the Chesapeake Bay waters where I grew up. The most miraculous part, and the only proof I needed to convince myself I had traveled through time, was I felt so loose and childlike that not a single muscle or joint in my body ached or felt stressed in any way, as only an eight-year-old can feel.
The sensation faded as I crested the rise on the hill. I stopped for a minute and thought about what just happened. I was myself again, all sixty-plus years of me. I shook my head in amazement and looked behind me, half expecting to see a swirling portal in the road. Part of me wanted to go back and stay there, to escape the feeling of growing old and achy and creeping towards the inevitable. I knew it was impossible.
I sighed, but I was not sad. I was grateful for that moment of clarity and thought of it as a gift. I certainly felt peaceful and light. I’ve tried to go back and recapture the feeling several times since then and maybe one day I will. I want to think that’s how I will feel when I finally cross over from this life to the next, and that’s a lovely thought. An experienced yogi who can meditate deeply may be familiar with the feeling. Meanwhile, I will keep moving forward, remembering to keep doing the things I enjoy and that keep me young, even as I grow older.
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