Sometimes, birds crap on you.

This morning I woke up to gray skies and light showers misting on my Irish cottage window. I thought the chance for us to go to Skellig Michael had gone down to about 12%. Next think I knew, however, I found myself stepping onto a small fishing boat, heading west off the coast of southwestern Ireland. The bay wasn't so bad. Dan Taylor doesn't know what he's talking about, I thought, trying to scare us with huge swelling waves and constant sprays of salt water to the face. But as soon as the mists beyond the rocky channel cleared, my grip became quite a bit tighter on the metal railing (our only barrier between life and death by drowning). I thank my roommates for preparing me at Valleyfair last May for what we faced on our 8-mile, hour-long chug out to our destination.
Skellig Michael is a 700-foot-high island of rock, jutting out from the depths of the ocean. Just in front of it is Little Skellig, a slightly shorter but more elongated island. Unlike Michael, however, it is completely white--covered with various species of seafaring fowl. Revolting. While one may get a glimpse of the holy at Skellig Michael, as far as I am concerned Little Skellig is a rocky hell full of birds. Our captain was kind enough to take us right up to the edge of the island. I busied myself with concentrating very hard on the paint chippings on the floor of the boat. After we had driven away in pursuit of Skellig Michael, I congratulated myself on the success of not having a bird-induced stroke. I sighed with relief and looked out over the waves. I felt a raindrop on my head, and prayed quickly that it wouldn't downpour when we got there. Half a minute later, I realized the sun was shining. Raindrop...? "Jessie, do I have something on my head?" I asked with a shaky voice.
"Oh... oh my. Just stay calm. Let me do it," she answered. I knew. I knew it. Of course it was me that had to be crapped on. I let out a cry of anguish, dropped to my knees and buried my face in my hands, emitting short bursts of hysterical laughter, because I just didn't know what else to do. Jessie gave up part of her sandwich wrappings to dab the excrement out of my scalp. Of course.
Twenty minutes later, I regained my composure and we stepped ashore Skellig Michael. It's hard to describe exactly what this place is, so I'll be lazy and let my professor and his book do it: "...we are following a path taken so many centuries ago by a boatload of monks looking for a place to battle the flesh and the devil. They saw themselves as engaged in a war whose object was to be like Christ--that is, to be more like what they were created to be." They found Skellig Michael, and put aside their earthly pleasures to build their small monastic city, which was raided and plundered several times throughout the early centuries by the Vikings. Amazingly, the place is still very well preserved. I see the rounded tops of the cells the monks built with flat stones, and the ambiguity of the ocean and the hazy, distand land masses make the stone forms even more clearly defined. I think of a modern artist, Andy Goldsworthy, who makes money on his "natural sculptures" that look just like these cells. To him, this is his art. This is internal expression. This is aesthetically pleasing. To the monks who built these cells, this was the complete opposite. Not money, or fame, or accomplishment, but just a shelter from the wind and rain. Simple and unassuming.
I look out over the ocean, and I can define "terrible beauty." I see waters that don't have a shore, or even a horizon line. The water just melts into gray sky. I think of Lake Mille Lacs. I think, pond. It is literally frightening to see no boundaries... no "other side." This is not a safe haven... and yet it is. It is deafeningly loud, and yet the most peaceful, silent place of solitude. I think of those monks, and why they chose this place. I can think of reasons why, but the reasons why not seem to far outweigh them.
I also think of the deaths of the monks, when the Vikings raided them for their gold and holy treasures. My stomach is affected more by this imagined scene than the huge swells we endured to get here. I am sitting in an ancient murder scene. I think of dying for Christ. I think of dying in general. I think of pain and suffering and anguish. "If I cannot live for Christ, I will die for Him." This is why the monks stayed here, on this jut of a rock, through the raids and plunders. They endured it all. I am saddened and sorrowful, and weak at the knees with shame, because I am the farthest thing from a monk. Ever.
We make our journey back, each of us stiff with layers of sea salt. The waves are not as high, and the ride is uneventful. I try to reflect on what I've just seen. My eyes did not serve me well enough, for although I kept my head in a constant swivel motion, I could not capture all the grandeur and majesty that was present; my two eyes were simply overwhelmed, and couldn't keep up. And if my eyes only captured a small amound, the pictures you will see eventually did an even worse job. I know I have seen and experienced something holy, and I have realized once again just how human I really am.

Cambridge and Ireland photos: http://bethel.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2033074&id=63804086&saved