The Tenth Island: Finding Joy, Beauty, and Unexpected Love in the Azores

by Diana Marcum

Islands tend to be the go-to symbol for escape.

When you are the child of parents who sacrificed and strived but were squashed by the world at every turn and then died young, you are supposed to be the thing that makes it somehow all make sense, to make their lives mean something.

Try finding someone in California who has never been evacuated.

‘Don’t leave for tomorrow what you can do today.’ And the Azores way is ‘If you can do it today, you can do it tomorrow. Why not tomorrow?’”

Speaking about the Azorean communities in California, I called them the Tenth Island because that’s what they called themselves. I said that at first I had thought it meant only California. But now I understood it was the entire diaspora, including the Boston area and Canada.

“The wonderful thing about the Azores is that they have people who love the sea more than big houses and nice cars,”

“Hey, if it’s not on the list, it doesn’t get done,” she said.

“Something my father always told me was that the trick to success is to know when you have enough and stop and appreciate it.”

“When you go on an adventure, just trust that you’ll meet who you need to meet and hear what you need to hear because the really important stuff, you just can’t plan.”

The most common insult was calling the wave of returning emigrants “summer flies.”

She looked me over and commented that I was a very drab dresser. She herself liked color, she said. Also, she was surprised a woman my age would wear a short skirt. “The knees don’t lie,” she said.

But I’d long ago learned “Why not?” is the best answer to “Let’s go”

Chef told me we were in a cloud forest. I thought he was waxing poetic, but it is the name of a specific ecosystem. Known in the islands as laurisilva, these ancient forests drink in mists and create a cool, moist habitat for many unique plants and creatures.

Algar do Carvão, probably the only known place in the world where you can walk inside the cone of a volcano.

pilgrimage by foot around the island to Serreta, ending their journey at Igreja de Nossa Senhora dos Milagres—Our Lady of Miracles Church. It’s like the famed pilgrimage of Camino de Santiago that stretches through Portugal, France, and Spain, except it’s a small island, so the walk usually takes less than four hours.

Almost anything you do will be insignificant, but you must do it . . . We do these things not to change the world, but so that the world will not change us.”

brought a bottle of red wine. White wine is not always afforded full respect in Portugal. I once biked down the coast of the mainland with a wine aficionado. A waiter recommended a full-bodied red, and my friend said, “Really? But we ordered fish. Not white wine?” The waiter said, “Sir, in Portugal we believe in good wine. So always red.”

White wine is not always afforded full respect in Portugal. I once biked down the coast of the mainland with a wine aficionado. A waiter recommended a full-bodied red, and my friend said, “Really? But we ordered fish. Not white wine?” The waiter said, “Sir, in Portugal we believe in good wine. So always red.”

People often filled you in, very matter-of-factly with no added commentary, on the essential facts of someone’s life. Whose dad died when they were twelve. Whose mother committed suicide, causing them to postpone their wedding. Who didn’t speak to his brother for ten years.

it is the habit to always pass down the knowledge that would make us—how would you say?—cut each other some slack.”

“I have come to understand that what makes the islands beautiful and complete is the island that’s across the way.” Maybe life is like that. For all our talk about living in the moment, what makes the present beautiful and complete is also imagining what we will do next.

if your daughter doesn’t marry Portuguese, Italian is the next-closest thing. Both cultures let the man think he is the king.”

The chorus was, “Before I make it to those pearly gates, bury me in a wine barrel.”