Long Island, Bahamas is about 80 miles long and 4 miles wide. It's about an hour plane ride--more like a flying 15-passenger bus--southeast of Nassau. The island is a sliver of white sand and mangroves, crisscrossed by a handful of dirt roads without names. The north end is only about a mile wide; if you stand high enough you can see the turquoise shades of the Caribbean and the coral-lined Atlantic at the same time.
It's quiet. It's not the glitzy, mimosa-and-margarita-making, yacht-fishing, five-star island resort. It's completely black at night and the longer you stare at the sky the more stars you'll see. You wake up to the sun in your eyes, the sound of waves crashing into tide pools and maybe the smell of rain and salt.
It hadn't rained in months. The second day of our trip, it did. By the end of the week, the whole island had turned from brown to green.
It's easy to forget how to turn things off, inhale deeply and really see what's around you. It's been a while since I had done that. And a while for me to realize what I actually care about.
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