While it is true that I am an odd bird in some ways, I am very typical in others. Like many of you, I have fantasies of escaping the modern world to a remote tropical island. Also, like many of you – I will probably never do it. That’s what makes The Story of Mark and Carla so compelling.
Mark Frauenfelder and Carla Sinclair live not far from me. They have a baby daughter roughly the same age as mine. They are moving to Rarotonga, a tiny island in the South Pacific – just like… oh wait, that’s where their reality and my fantasy go off together, leaving me in rush hour traffic on the 405.
I’m jealous, sure, but in a fully supportive – tell me all about it – sort of way. Mark is a writer. That’s a job that allows for this sort of life-choice. I don’t really have any marketable skills for the South Pacific, and although I’m a self-starter, I don’t really have any leads on jobs that would let me telecommute from a place with very little telecommunications infrastructure. My initial plan was to make lots and lots of money, then buy my own island – but I’m a little off schedule for that, too. Honestly, I don’t even play the ukelele – a skill which no doubt tipped the balance for Mr. Frauenfelder. A man can get a lot of mileage out of a skill like that in the south pacific…
Eventually, I’m sure he’ll write a highly entertaining book, chronicalling his adventures for those of us back here in civilization. Until then, I’ll keep an eye on his weblog and dream of the sea.
Raratong – by Robert Service
Oh I’m going back again to Raratonga, I’m sick of all society and swank;
I wouldn’t linger here a moment longer, If you gave me all the money in the bank;
I know the boys will welcome me out younder, And the girls will be laughing as I land.
So I’m going off, I’m off to Raratonga, With my little Ukulele in my hand.
No bills for board I’ll pay in Raratonga, I’ll pick the blushing bread-fruit from the tree;
And if per-chance my appetite be stornger, I’ll flick a ruddy lobster from the sea;
No tailor’s duns I’ll have in Raratonga, Of two banana leaves I’ll make my kilt,
And a dusky belle will wriggle like a conger, And dance the hula-hula to this lilt:
Raratonga, Raratonga, Where the maidens sit beneath the mango trees;
Raratonga, Raratonga, Where the only female garments a chemise;
Raratonga, Raratonga, Where the hoochie koochie dance is a la mode,
Raratonga, Raratonga, Oh it’s there I’d make me permanet abode.