The Ghosts of Eagle Island

by Meg Costin-Shaw
September 8

Stepping into a teetering red canoe at dusk, I begin the journey that will pit my fears against me, provoking the beings that have settled in my subconscious long ago.  This is the journey that will give them life for the first time since the days of monarch butterflies and monsters under my bed.  I’m heading off to Eagle Island for my first ever overnight.

As my paddle tastes the seasoned waters of Lake Massawepie, I take in my surroundings.  I survey the blues of dusk and the reflection of the yellow moon on the rippled water and feel a rush of giddiness.  I know I’m doing something I will be proud of.

I’ve been searching for a proud ground to stand on for a while now.  A ground that feels completely founded on my own ambitions.  A ground so steady that it can hold the nuances that are my physical body, my mind, and my spirit.  Breathe in balance, exhale euphoria, that’s my goal at least.  That’s why the bow of my boat sloppily kisses the bank of Eagle Island.  I am proud, yet the stirring beings in my stomach will not hush.  The sky quickly turns blue black and the stars are opening their sparkly eyes.  While slipping out of my canoe onto pine needled land, I feel a jolt of urgency to set up my tent for the night.  I grab my belongings, and look up to the white pines hovering over me, questioning my every move.

Bits of open sky peeking through the woven pine needles mock me.  Why did I leave my lively home of Arcadia?  My little land of friends and fires?  Here, every time I turn around I think I see someone, their shadows trailing as they hide behind trees.  The silence of my solitude echoes each step of some tiny creature.  I wanna go home.

I attempt to quickly pitch my tent.  Each time I go to place the stake into the forbidden ground, it jumps out as if burrowing into rich soil isn’t cozy enough.  The tent fly shoots up and down, taunting the poor outdoors woman who dares be alone.  Please stop playing with me.

I jump into my tent with the same manner of running to leap onto the bed so the monsters can’t grab my feet.  I pull the zipper down as if hands are trying to grab me on the other side.  I am safe for now, the ghosts can’t see me, but I feel them putting pressure on mu tent, excited for a night of fun I slip into my sleeping bag and pull it over my head.  The buzz of mosquitos reminds me of blood-thirsty fairies.  I pretend to read my book to get the ghosts out of my mind, but they persist.  They won’t let me forget.  I hear voices calling my name.  I’m going crazy now.  The ghosts can talk.  They keep calling my name over and over.  Each time I doubt myself, I try to give them a call back.  My voice is unsure and shaky.  Silence.  I missed the point of the game and I’m embarrassed.  I keep looking under my tent to see these scary beasts, but no one is to be seen.  I go to sleep.

Massawepie Lake is home to many mystical places including the scrawny Eagle Island that lays hidden between two points just outside of view from Arcadia’s front dock.  Arcadians canoe past this notorious island every time we canoe to our van.  The fishy fragrance of the island will may be nostalgic where we look back on the beginning and end of our adventures and our Arcadian home. Since our first canoe past Eagle Island it called my name as a perfect camp spot.  It seemed like a great first solo to prepare for the many to come at Arcadia.  That’s how I found myself here to deal with my ghosts.

The next morning I wake up yet again to my little thirsty fairies and the light of dawn seeping warmth under the fly of my tent.  I step out and it feels like walking around a house the morning after a big party.  Stories are stained in the carpets.

After breaking camp, I step back into the teetering red canoe just after dawn.  I get back to Arcadia with the stories of this haunted island and the presence of ghost and general supernatural life.  Because I am confident in these beliefs, when Arianna, a fell Arcadian describes her Eagle Island overnight as beautiful and magical, I almost don’t believe her.  We both felt the purr of the land, but my fears, the beings of my unconscious rose from my body and became external forces resembling ghosts.  They were mine, figments of my imagination and the culmination of my doubts.

This overnight set me against my fears, enabling me to fight against them.  I now know I can solo this night embodied ambitions, and I am proud.  I feel ready for another overnight. My fears are tangible now, and I’m no longer afraid.