Virgin Gorda

The island was a remote landscape that Columbus thought resembled a fat virgin. On one side of the island was the Atlantic Ocean. On the other side was the crystal clear azure water of the Caribbean. At the tip of the island, they met - violently at times.  I spent a great deal of my time at the spot, sitting on the edges of the rocks that created a shear drop into the tumultuous sea below. The energy of this spot was intense at times, yet always rejuvenating.  It was also, here at the top, that sat the ruins of a sixteenth century Spanish Coppermine. The large sandstones, cut and pieced together by laborers more than 400 years earlier, stood as an outline to this once complete structure. At first, I used the architecture of this structure as a backdrop to my fashion photography. As I explored it, more and more, I became entranced buy it - by its beauty, by its history, by its location, standing as guardian over the melding of two oceans - a melding that has taken place second upon second, year after year, Milena after Milena, possibly for as long as time itself has existed.

It was a night in June. The moon was full and the sky was as clear as any sky I have ever seen. The air was warm, yet the humidity was low and, as always on this tiny island, the trade winds were nearly constant. We drove the jeep from the house, which was just over a mile down the heavily-rutted dirt road. There was no need for headlights. The brightness of the moon was more than enough to navigate the bends; and there was no need for concern about other traffic: my house was the only one on this road, except for a few of the locals, and they didn't drive. The drive was slow, intentionally slow. There is something about driving through such a landscape lit only by the moon. It is an eerie, yet profoundly beautiful experience - almost as if one is being guided by a divine light. The anticipation of what was about to happen grew with each moment that passed - even though there were no expectations or a plan. All we were certain of is that what was about to happen - whatever it was, would be incredible. We just didn't know to what extent.

Earlier in the evening we had dined at the Yardarm, a quaint, thatched-roof restaurant that lacked the tourist trappings of the resort at the other end of the island. Red Snapper with a magnificent mango chutney, for her, and Bonita for me. We both drank Pina Coladas. Normally such a drink was a bit too foo foo for me, but here, they were like nectar from the gods - a special recipe that I still hold in strict confidence and high esteem. Steel drums rang out in the background: Morris Mark, a local celebrity musician and his band. Large ceiling fans turned above in slow, rhythmic rotations; and life at that moment could not have been better.

After dinner, as we made our way to the Jeep, we were struck, for the first time, by the moon. Its light was intoxicating - begging for a celebration of its splendor. The closer we were to the house, the more intoxicating it became. The island itself added to the intoxication. The warmth of the Trade Winds were like the whispering of the gods. This was an island of great spirituality. Voodoo was widely, and commonly practiced. The area beside the house was a place where hundreds of spirits lived, and roamed. They were called Jumbies. It was no coincidence that this island had its own energy, its own life. It breathed and lived, and affected everything that spent time upon it. As we neared the driveway we decided, at that moment, to continue on. It is the point when I turned off the headlights. We decided to immerse ourselves into the rhythm of all that we were a part of - allow it to overtake us, guide us, deliver us - change us.

The drive was slow - intentionally slow. We wanted to absorb all that was possible. At one point we stopped, turned off the motor, removed our clothes, and just listened, engaged, and felt the infusion into our cells. I still have no idea of how long we sat there. It was, as if, time itself had stopped. There was no need, no place, for its existence. Time was incidental. I remember taking her from the Jeep and carrying her to a tiny clearing surrounded by rocks, cactus, and the moonlight. We sat there entwined, embraced, locked in a position of oneness. The kisses were gentle, explorative, and filled with all that was. Each kiss was delivered intentionally... givingly. Eventually we arose to return to the Jeep. Neither of us couldn't bear the thought of hearing the engine crank. Instead, we decided to walk the remainder of the way to the coppermine ruin.

The moon had shifted its position substantially in the sky, and was nearly directly overhead. We were truly one with all that surrounded us. The nakedness of our bodies gleamed in the softness of the light. We could see a horizon to our left and the gleam of the moonbeam on the ocean off in the distance. We were approaching the ruin. Climbing down over the rocks, we approached - then climbed the structure until we reached the portal of what was once a doorway. We entered inside with the reverence of entering a sacred space. As we made our way across a weathered beam she stood in the framework of a window and I followed her. Now, both of us, peering down to the crashing seas below I moved close to her, by hands met at the small of her back and traveled upwards until I pulled her breasts tightly against my chest. My mouth found hers and gently they came together. My right hand moved back down to the small of her back. My left hand came from under her arm and moved to support her just above the top of her neck, in the curve that was made for this moment. In a weakness that came over her, her arms dropped and rested against the sandstone blocks that had not been touched in centuries. The moon, now overhead, shown down through the roofless structure and illuminated us and all that surrounded us. The moment of consummation was drawing near. The sound of the crashing waves, below -where the Caribbean meets the Atlantic in its own tumultuous dance, was almost deafening. The sensation of our hearts pounding together, against our chests so tightly pressed against one another. Our breathing could not be heard; were we even breathing anymore? I don't know. Were we even in the physical realm any longer? I had no idea. I knew nothing. I was nothing - nothing of what I had been before, nor was she. We had become one.

As the sun began its ascent it found us lying naked, exhausted, overtaken by some strange force, within the confines of the structure. Surrounding us were the sandstone walls rising high to meet with the pale blueness of the early morning sky that now peered down on us. Where had the night sky gone? The stars had vanished away without a word. As I slowly awakened I could hear the sound of the crashing waves below, yet the intensity of their sound was far diminished from that during the night that preceded. Comfort engulfed me as I felt her beside me, still somewhat entwined with me. The feeling of her bareness against mine. The warmth of her skin offset the chill of the morning air. A few more moments passed before she began to stir. Slowly she turned toward me, before her eyes even opened, like a newborn puppy finding the security of its mother's bosom. A gentle sound came from her, barely audible, yet I could feel its vibration on my chest. I smiled as I was overcome by the moment. My body conforming once again to hers, we made love. Her eyes never opened until the ritual had finished. Later she told me it was because she didn't want to leave the night before until it had been consummated - once more, until she had been assured that it had not been a dream - and now, she knew.

A new assignment came about and I would be leaving the island in a few days. By the end of the week I would be on the other side of the world, lost in the jungles of west Africa.