Journeys Through Space/Time

Humans are so limited. We can travel through space, but not very far. We can move around our puny little planet, and just barely dip our toes into the shallows at the very edge of the immense depths of the Universe. A couple of dozen brave souls have managed to venture as far as the Moon, about 200,000 miles, but that's the best we've been able to do so far. Of course, like tiny fleas on the back of a dog, we are carried along by our Mother Earth millions of miles through space, but 99.9 % of us are completely unaware of this. Only a handful of astronomers who measure such things have any real perception of the grand trek we are taking through the vastness of the cosmos.

But when it comes to travelling through time, we are even more limited. Our primitive perception is of a one-way trip at a constant speed over which we have no control. We go doggedly forward, whether we like it or not. There just doesn't seem to be any way to go back - but that certainly doesn't stop us from trying.

These are my thoughts as I sit on a beach in Mexico, occupying the exact same position in space that I did 30 years ago, but nowhere near the same position in time. I knew I couldn't go back, but I tried anyway.

And perhaps I succeeded more than I think. Thirty years ago I spent three months in the Garden of Eden, otherwise known as the tiny fishing village of Puerto Escondido. The village surrounded a small bay where a dozen or so 12 foot long fishing boats anchored. Beyond the bay stretched three miles of truly virgin white sand beach. No people, no cigarette butts, no houses, no lights, no footprints except your own, and only the sound of birds, and the muted thunder of mighty rollers crashing on the shore after their long journey from the heart of the Pacific Ocean.

At the far end of that deserted beach was a point of rocks that jutted out into the ocean. Nestled in the corner by the rocks was a small grove of mango trees, and it was there I hung my hammock, and did my yoga, and read, and wrote, and contemplated such trivialities as the meaning of life, and how to extract a sea urchin spine from the bottom of my big toe.

One day I spotted something in the distance coming down the beach in my direction. To my amazement, it turned out to be a little Volkswagon Bug - miles from any road - racing along the hardpacked sand at the water's edge, with a couple of surfboards strapped to the roof. And for the next few days I was a shark spotter. A family of three hammerheads would visit two or three times a day, and when I saw their huge dorsal fins slicing through the water I would signal the surfers to head for shore. I never enjoyed a job so much. Watching those wave-masters flirting with the power of those giant waves was a huge thrill for me, and I remember thinking how much I would like to learn to do that someday. But alas, the necessities of life took me in other directions.

Now, thirty years later, Puerto Escondido is a city. A bustling metropolis that extends for miles in all directions, and has become world reknown for some of the best surfing on the planet. The grove of trees where I hung my hammock is gone. There are half a dozen houses there now. The beach is full of footprints and other marks of Man, and small thatched roof restaurants and low-rise hotels line almost half the beach.

Yes, I moved quite a distance through space to get here all the way from The Great White North, but unfortunately I wasn't able to move back through time.

Or was I? The sunsets are certainly just as breathtaking as they were 30 years ago. The papaya liquados are just as smooth and delicious. And sometimes, as I sit in the shade and watch those big Pacific rollers smashing themselves on the beach, and the scent of the tropical breeze fills my nose, I suddenly find myself experiencing hauntingly familiar sensations, and by God, if I close my eyes, I do seem to be momentarily transported 30 years back in time.

And maybe that's what it's all about. Since our personal reality is nothing more than our personal perceptions, and since perceptions are nothing more than sensations and thoughts... maybe I have travelled back in time after all, at least a little bit.

And oh yes, tomorrow morning at 9:00 - at the ripe old age of 53 - I go out for my first surfing lesson. Wish me luck.

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