Contact

The tension comes from too much contact, the need to have the cell phone on, to listen to the voice mail on the landline, to scan the e-mails. I can turn all of this technology off but then, I worry that someone is trying to get in touch and I am out of the loop.

There was a time way back when letters were the only effective form of communication. Then there was Western Union and one telephone downstairs in the front hall. In those days, somehow we managed. But today there is a need for total access, to stare at one’s mini-screen so we can peruse sports scores and global headlines.

I relished our six days on Peter Island, one of the British Virgin Islands. My husband and I flew there with friends, leaving behind the emergency phone number of the resort’s office. During the first day, I found myself stressing about my inability to pick up e-mail on my cell while lounging on our beachfront porch. I envied my husband and our friends who could field questions from associates or schedule future meetings while swaying in the hammocks braced between the rustling coconut palms.

After speaking with each of our children, I realized that all would be well, that everyone would survive our brief respite. If anyone really needed to connect with us, they could.

Late in the afternoon, we hiked miles over undulating hills until we approached White Beach at dusk. Along the way we passed a family of goats, medicinal aloe, magenta frangipani and orange hibiscus. Hummingbirds, frigates and even a hawk flew overhead. On the turquoise sea, the wind slapped the white sails as the water lapped against the pebbly pink sand.

The next morning, we meandered back to the same idyllic spot for snorkeling with the midnight parrotfish, the yellow head wrasse, the shy hamlets, and the sea urchins. On shore, a brown iguana and a pale green frog scampered by. We reapplied our sun block, stretched out on beach chairs placed under thatched huts, and pulled out our books and magazines.

That evening, we savored smooth papaya and crunchy peapods with our grilled sea bass. A reggae band played while we sipped wine, danced and laughed under a sky so clear that we could pick out Orion’s Belt and the Little Dipper. It was okay that the contact and the fun were between the four of us for those fleeting few days.