The hermit crabs on the south end of Guam have the deal down. Toward Cetti and Umatac Bay, claws go unclenched crawling through secluded days on seldom touched, unspoiled beaches, or ranches as they say. Few are the humans there. Thick air. Jungle air. Crustacean air. Sand is sugar, pulling at ankles. It may rain, but it’s welcome. It may thunder, but it combs off in the sky past the green hills of Fort Soledad. Ocean is clear and warm. Coral mazes run forever. Blue starfish, flying fish, possible octopi check in and out of scenes. The quickness of the barracuda seems out of place. Time seems out of place, washing through like the daily storm.

You’re a hermit crab, your house is attached to your back. Your antennae spin the earth. What matters? Elsewhere out there, calculus exams are taken. Traffic clogs highways. People argue. The planet clocks in. Blood pressure spikes. But not here. Time doesn’t really happen on Guam. It’s somewhere else.

Magellan won’t land here until March 6th, 1521, so you’re good, you got millennia. And your shell. Come out. Be. Bask.

Guam lies in the Pacific, south of Tokyo, and north of Australia. It’s thirteen degrees above the equator, thirty miles long by nine miles wide. It’s the southernmost island of the Marianas chain and the largest in Micronesia. Buildings and houses are made to withstand Typhoons. In 2002, Typhoon Pongsona had 173 mph winds, with only one fatality. The indigenous Chamorros and the people of Guam are nobles of and for the sea. Most are warm and open. Hafa Adai is hello, the Latte Stone, the symbol of the island. Maliciousness does not compute.

Guam craves music. They have a lively scene, mostly reggae and cover bands. Hip hop has yet to arrive. There are hip hop DJ’s and MC’s, yes, such as Aaron Tamayo at Hit Radio 100 KOKU, and heads, like the family at Fokai Clothing. But the music and radio mainly resemble Top 40. Promoter Delia Lujan is trying to change that. She started a pioneering promotions company called Quasicool, and has begun to bring music and bands to Guam. Her first was Meiko, who collaborated with Crystal Method last year.

The band I played in, Head Like a Kite, was Lujan’s second go-round. A lawyer by trade, she’s a graceful promotions machine, treating us very well. She hosts a show called Folk Waves on KPRG Public Radio for Guam. She gave us a car, phones, and went way out of her way to make us feel welcome. To her and her friends I have endless gratitude and thanks. Because Guam is so far from the US, it’s hard to get American bands and indie type music there. But that’s exactly what Lujan’s plan is.

Manila, Philippines is an area close enough for bands to hit as well, so growth and the future of music expansion for Guam look promising. Our shows were good. One was all ages. People hesitated at first, but were up close and jumping by the end.

The week there was a blur and I didn’t want to leave. People like J. McFerran – the Mayor, paddle-board guiding Chamorro Pedro talkers, Brogan.biz, Leslie and the Buffy watching party, Jackie the blackbelt, Jayton all ages man, Steve, Matt, Tish, and Tano, I had to force myself on the plane. The food and beaches everywhere make you want to stay. Ribs galore and chicken with finadene, a soy, vinegar, lemon sauce, and Sweet Tuba, a drink made from the first sap of a young coconut tree.

Watch out for duendes, the mischievous goblin spirits, they’ll trip you up.

Crossing the international dateline to get to Guam puts a twist in the jetlag. Our second night there, we were guests at a fundraiser for the Lt. Governor. He had mean, svelte Power Slide moves on the dance floor. I believe I met the Governor as well. I was full of Bud Light and accidentally coughed a fleck from a meat skewer on his lapel. He was forgiving. It was tiny and bulbous and wiped away instantly. Sorry Delia, it just flew right out.

Speaking of American moves, Guam is set to undergo a large US troop build up. Some 30,000 soldiers and family will be heading there. (Unrest in North Korea?) In classic American fashion, they’re trying to build a firing range on sacred Chamorro land.

DEAR WHATEVER GENERAL OR OFFICIAL PUT THIS IN THE PLANNING, Not a good idea. Not such a great way to implement the build up. You think? Hello, it’s sacred land. Find another place for your target practice. You’ve already taken the nicest beaches in your third of the island, and all the barbed wire around the US compounds (to keep the locals out) isn’t the best look. Duendes will have a field day with your toiletries if this happens. As will the Taotaomona ghosts of the ancients.

The troops might want to try the Chamorro saying Guella yan Guello, “Excuse us, elders. May we walk through and visit your land?” And while you’re at it, tell your boys to get out of the Inarajan pools, turn down their shitty music, and pick up their fucking beer cans. Tell them to ogle each other for a change.

Another Guam discovery was Japanese soldier, Yokoi. A hold out from the WWII hostilities in 1945. When American forces liberated the island in the 1944 Battle of Guam, Yokoi went into hiding. Due to shame for not killing himself because he was still alive, he stayed in hiding for twenty-eight years. I don’t know why his cave made such an impression. Twenty-eight years, in a cave. With an airshaft. Harnessing river food, making shoes, and a cooker. He was a full on Pre-Macgyver, coming out in 1972 to be hailed as a hero in Guam as well as Japan.

In other Guam news, the massage parlors ain’t just for massage. And there’s a guy who murdered his wife who somehow has been doing work release outside prison after serving only three years of full incarceration. He continually fights for parole, and his daughter, who was five at the time of her mother’s murder, continually and traumatically has to go in front of the parole board and tell them to put her father back in prison. She says, “I’m serving a life sentence without my mother because of his selfishness. He should have to do the same.”

Back to the beauty - the last day there I was taken out on a boat to the south end of the island for snorkeling. Thank you, Tano. Rain brushed in then out.

I swam six feet down and floated there, neutrally buoyant, within the ballast of my bones - taking in the slowed amniotic stasis. Looking up through my mask at raindrops hit the surface of the ocean from underneath was a muted illusion. Drops like pinpoint fingers tapped the aqueous boundary line back from the edge of some other dimension. I released a mouthful of air and watched the bubbles rise like smoke signals - asking the world above to leave me here and let me grow gills.

It was an undulated suspension between swaying kelp and the clicking sound of Parrotfish chipping away at the coral with their teeth.

Next thing I knew I was on a plane, then was sprinting through the airport in Honolulu to make the connection home. Duendes present.

Goodbye for now, island in the Pacific. Goodbye Chamorros. I love you, Guam. I heard the clicking teeth of the Parrotfish all the way home.