And the Sea Will Tell

by Vincent Bugliosi

  Mac was impressed with how neatly the camp had been fixed up and outfitted since their visit on Jennifer’s birthday.

  Muff observed that Roy had finally made an effort to trim his undisciplined beard and long hair. “He looked powerful,” she would later write to Bernard and Evelyn Leonard. “How I think Jack London might have looked.” His improved appearance was not sufficient, however, to dispel her growing contempt for the big man with ugly tattoos. “I don’t appreciate his bumming,” Muff wrote in the same letter. “Roy wanted more cigarette papers and tobacco so he came over the other night to get some from Mac. They need so much of everything. Well, I guess the only way to look at it—when we run out of things to give them, we’ll just have to leave Palmyra. That’s fine with me.”

  Muff observed some young sprouts in paper cups and asked what they were growing. Without hesitation, Buck replied, “Marijuana.” She thought he enjoyed waiting for her reaction.

  “And vegetables, too,” Jennifer quickly added.

  Bill Larson from the Shearwater came to the party alone, bringing a bottle of rum and a canned ham. His shipmate, Don Stevens, had stayed in bed with a painful ear infection. A concerned Mac asked if they had any penicillin aboard and, when Larson answered no, went back to the Sea Wind and got some of the wonder drug for Stevens.

  Buck had set up a record player in his tent, so while they ate outside next to a campfire, they listened to an album of love songs by assorted 1960s pop artists. Larson left early, taking a plate of food and Mac’s gift of pills for his sick friend. Mac and Buck adjourned to the tent for a game of chess.

  Jennifer played chess too, and was quite good. In fact, Mac, looking for chess action that morning, had come over to the Iola and taken Jennifer back to the Sea Wind. She beat him in the first game, apparently surprising both of the Grahams. Mac asked for a rematch and, to his relief, convincingly beat her the next two games. He was, Jennifer realized, a tournament-caliber player. But tonight, instead of watching the men play, as she would have liked, she stayed at the campfire to chat with Muff, who seemed downcast.

  From the first day they met, Jennifer had considered Muff inhibited. The conversation as they sat around the fire caught her by surprise.

  “I never wanted to come here,” Muff said in a low, almost conspiratorial tone that wouldn’t carry to the tent. “I don’t see why Mac had to just pick up and leave.”

  Muff stared blankly at the fire, which still radiated warmth from the flameless embers. “We had a wonderful life in San Diego. Lots of friends, really good people. Everything was so nice.”

  Jennifer nodded, but said nothing. She couldn’t believe Muff was opening up like this and confiding in her.

  “My mother and two sisters live in San Diego. It was important for me to spend time with my mother.”

  Jennifer put a thick branch on the fire.

  Muff wondered if she sounded pathetic or silly. Why was she trusting this aimless hippie with her innermost feelings? She didn’t particularly respect Jennifer. Not her judgment, not her life-style, not her choice of men. But…she was the only other woman on Palmyra.

  “I keep trying to get him to leave,” Muff said, deciding to continue on. “He tells me to relax and enjoy myself. But I can’t. He says he’s here to discover something, but he doesn’t know what. Neither do I.” There was no bitterness in her voice, just unhappiness and bewilderment.

  “Mac’s an adventurer,” Jennifer offered. She felt she had to comfort Muff somehow.

  “Yes, he is. He loves living like this. He wanted to get out of the big city so badly. It got so he hated to read the paper in the morning. All the stories about rising crime convinced him it wasn’t safe to walk down the street in broad daylight. And he was sick of all the congestion and cars and wanted to get away. But believe it or not”—she laughed—“I wish I was back home in the rat race.”

  “Well, I’m kinda glad to be out of the rat race,” Jennifer said, “but this place does have its drawbacks.”

  Drawbacks, Muff thought derisively. “Sometimes I find myself wondering what will become of us,” she sighed.

  That struck a chord in Jennifer, but she was in no position to confide in Muff. She couldn’t talk about Buck’s fugitive status or share her many good reasons for worrying about the future. She and Muff were on this unyielding atoll for the same reason. Each was here because of her love for her man. But Jennifer’s need for secrecy meant that this fleeting opportunity for them to understand each other was lost.

  “I know what you mean,” Jennifer said lamely. “I really do, Muff.”

  SINCE THE Shearwater was going to depart soon, letters home were written on July 30. Larson and Stevens would mail them from Hawaii.

  Mac wrote his sister in Seattle.

  Dear Kit,

  We have been busy since arriving on Palmyra. I just finished making screens for the three hatches to keep the bugs outside where they belong.

  I have told you about the other couple, Roy and Jennifer, who arrived a week before us to “their” deserted island to live the “survival life” indefinitely. I am not really upset at other people being on the island, but Muff is. Roy and Jennifer are really not our type, but to dissect them would take another letter.

  The sharks are a major disappointment. There are lots of places I can take the Zodiac at high tide, but I am forever having to get out in shallow water to pull it along. I do so with machete in hand to chase off the inevitable feisty blacktip sharks. They come in all sizes. Two to four feet long in knee-deep water—and up to six feet long in deeper parts of the lagoon. I think I will have to learn how to handle them. For now, Muff refuses to get her feet wet.

  It is now 3:00 A.M. and Muff is sleeping. A few raindrops are splattering through the mosquito netting, and I can see the star-filled sky. I love it here. It’s not San Diego. It’s not Seattle. It’s not civilization. We’re going to stay until we tire of it or the supplies run out.

  Love,

  Mac and Muff

  Jennifer, still not revealing where she was, wrote her mother.

  Dear Mom,

  Because I never know for sure whether my letters find their way to you, I take every opportunity to write. Just so you know, so far I’ve written two prior letters to you and one to Teddy, which went out on boats that left here earlier. And I can’t even get any mail back from you! Well, no one ever said Paradise would be easy.

  In case you didn’t get my other letters, let me repeat that we made it to our destination. It was a long, wet trip but I’m safe now. We are on a pretty atoll that has a lagoon and everything. We are eating lots of coconuts and fish, and working at getting a vegetable garden going. It’s a hard life here, but I’m surviving.

  I think of you often, and wonder when we’ll next see each other. I thought of you on my birthday, and missed my chocolate cake with butter icing. Buck baked a cake for me—a real valiant effort.

  Hope all is well with you. Give my love to Teddy and the rest of the family. Till next time.

  All my love,

  Jennifer

  Muff wrote the Jamiesons.

  Dear Marie and Jamie,

  The hippie couple, Jennifer and Roy, have been busy trying to get their garden going. But some of what they’re growing is to smoke, not to eat. They plan to stay here as long as they can. I sure wish we hadn’t picked a time to come here and stay just when they did. I’d just rather their type weren’t here. They are supposed to have some friends (two guys) coming down on a boat to bring them supplies, as they are nearly out of everything. Jennifer has been after the boats that come in for extra food. It really makes me mad—their mooching. They came down here to live off the land so why don’t they do it and stop asking for things?

  Well, I wish you could fly out to Palmyra for a visit. You don’t know how much I miss you.

  Till later,

  Muff

  AUGUST 1, 1974

  LARSON AND Stevens sailed away feeling sorry for both of the women they had met o
n Palmyra. In different ways, each seemed lost, even miserable.

  The sailors had enjoyed Mac’s company. He was such a capable, friendly guy you couldn’t help liking and admiring him.

  But neither of them had thought much of Jennifer’s old man—whatever his name was. Larson had challenged him once about the tattoo on his arm. “So is your name Roy or Buck?” When Jennifer’s lover just glared back hotly, Larson gathered it would be wise to drop the matter.

  As Palmyra sank below the horizon, Larson told his shipmate, “I think that guy—Roy or Buck or whatever the hell his name is—is volatile. Real volatile.”

  CHAPTER 12

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 1974

  THE SEA WIND’S TWO-WAY radio crackled with interference. Mac was on the 20-meter band at 14285 kilohertz. It was almost fifteen minutes past his scheduled 7:00 P.M. contact with Curt Shoemaker, but all Mac could hear over the speaker was static heavy as artillery fire.

  He kept fiddling with the frequency knob.

  “It’s never been this bad before,” said Muff, standing next to him. “Are you sure this is the right day?”

  “It’s Wednesday night.”

  “Maybe something’s wrong with the radio.”

  “I think it’s atmospheric.”

  Then, as if someone in authority had declared a cease-fire in the heavens, the airwaves suddenly cleared and they heard a voice they recognized through the small metal speaker. “—VXV. Repeat, KH61HG calling W7VXV.”

  “It’s Curt,” Muff said with relief, keenly aware of how cut off Palmyra was from the rest of the world.

  Mac depressed the transmit button. “This is W7VXV,” he said evenly into the microphone. “We hear you loud and clear, Curt. Over.”

  Mac was broadcasting illegally, using the call letters of an inactive ham operator Curt knew in Hawaii. Typically, Mac would have arranged to earn his own FCC license before leaving San Diego if he’d known they were going to be making regular radio contact with anyone. But for now, this would do. Curt had cautioned him not to mention the Sea Wind’s location. Federal communications authorities might overhear by chance, and broadcasting without a license is a crime.

  “Aloha,” Shoemaker said. “We have some traffic for you.”

  Letters from home!

  “Momi will read them.”

  The velvety voice of Curt’s wife came over the radio. “We do want to hear about what’s going on with you,” Momi said, “but Curt says I should read the traffic first.”

  First was a card from Muff’s mother who said how happy she was to receive the letters Mac and Muff had sent out with the Wheelers and Leonards. She told her daughter not to worry about her. She was doing fine.

  Next was a short note from Mac’s sister. Kit gave chatty news about their mother, herself, and her three sons.

  “Thanks for the news from home,” Mac said. “It really means a lot to both of us.” He could see that Muff was holding back tears. “By the way, did you get any messages for the other couple here? You know, Roy and Jennifer. They’re still waiting to hear word about their resupply mission.”

  When Mac learned that Jennifer and Buck were anxious to confirm the arrival date of their friends bringing supplies, he had instantly volunteered to relay messages to their friends through Shoemaker, prompting Buck and Jennifer to write to the Taylor brothers. The Leonards had taken the letter three weeks before.

  “Negative,” Curt said. “No word on this end.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Mac and Muff took turns chatting about their life on the island. Curt promised to send postcards to their mothers with the news that they were doing okay. Finally, they all said good night. “Oh yes,” Shoemaker said before they signed off. He went on to say that President Nixon was reported to be on the verge of announcing his resignation.

  That bit of news from home sent Mac and Muff to bed saddened for their President, and for their country.

  MUFF AND Mac had been halfway down the path to the bathhouse when she realized they’d forgotten the shampoo. Mac volunteered to go back and get it, and Muff headed to the bath alone.

  Not far along the path she came face to face with Buck’s glowering pit bull.

  The dog growled from deep within its throat, then suddenly leaped toward her. Muff screamed, simultaneously jumping back. The dog landed stiff-legged in front of her, baring sharp yellowed teeth, tensed to spring again.

  Maybe it was her imagination, she thought, but the dog seemed to be more than mindlessly angry. He seemed hungry.

  The other big dog, the Lab, ran out of the bushes barking. And then the little one Jennifer called Puffer, who’d always been so friendly, appeared on the scene, yapping.

  But it was the now silent pit bull that Muff watched warily. She remembered reading somewhere that an excited dog that made no sound was probably preparing to attack. Eyes darting, she spied a rusted length of pipe a few feet away. When the heavily breathing pit bull gave no signs of backing off, she inched her way toward the possible weapon.

  She grasped the pipe and was ready to protect herself just as Buck and Jennifer started yelling from the bath area. They were speaking in a language she didn’t understand or recognize. But the pit bull stepped back a few feet.

  When Muff took this opportunity to retreat backward, the pit bull charged with hackles raised.

  Muff screamed, swinging the pipe in a wide arc in front of her.

  “Kapu!” Buck yelled again.

  The dog halted the charge and retreated.

  By the time Jennifer and Buck came down the trail from the bathhouse, Mac had rejoined Muff. “You’ve got to do something about those dogs,” Mac spat angrily. “They’re a menace.”

  “Tell them kapu,” Jennifer explained. “Roy trained them in Hawaiian. That means ‘no.’”

  “You’re out of luck if you don’t know Hawaiian?” Muff shot back angrily, startling Jennifer.

  Buck had not taken part in this conversation. He had casually walked past Mac and Muff and headed down the path, followed by his pets.

  “If one of those damn dogs ever bites one of us,” Mac muttered between clenched teeth, “I’ll shoot it.”

  “Suits me,” said a still-shaken Muff.

  Jennifer ran to catch up with Buck as Mac and Muff headed toward the bathhouse.

  “Tell them you’re sorry,” Jennifer said.

  Buck acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He said he was on his way to cut down some more trees for coconuts. Mac had already let Buck know a couple of times he did not think it was right for him to down the trees with his chain saw.

  “Are you trying to make them mad?”

  “They don’t own this goddamn island!” Buck snapped.

  Jennifer knew better than to try to make Buck see reason right now. She knew not to hassle him when he was like this. He was usually quiet and controlled, but if challenged, he could become furious in no time.

  The previous day, for example, she’d innocently asked him why he’d started going around without his dental bridge. The gap where two top front teeth were missing made him look like some skid row wino. He had flared up: “I don’t have to impress anyone!” At times, he liked coming across mean. She figured he’d learned this tactic in prison, as a warning not to mess with him. “If you look bad, no one will fuck with you,” he had once told her.

  Though Buck had never struck her, he’d admitted that he’d hit his ex-wife during their marriage. She would scream and throw things at him, he explained, so he’d slap her. Jennifer had made her reaction to his therapy clear, early on. “A man gets one chance to hit me. Then I’m gone. Hit me, lose me.” Buck had never hit her, but Jennifer had never thrown anything at him. She sensed that if someone fed his anger, Buck could become uncontrollably violent, a dynamo of rage.

  Living on Palmyra—far out of reach of the authorities—had not served to relax Buck. On the contrary, his frustrations and pent-up hostilities had inexplicably been exacerbated, perhaps by the trying conditions of their daily
life. She tried to remain tolerant and understanding, aware she was becoming increasingly taut herself.

  But Jennifer wasn’t giving up.

  Their food situation was a continuing cause for concern, yet it wasn’t as if they were going to starve to death. They still had some supplies left, and there was always fish, coconuts, and crabs. She had created a salad recipe using some leafy plants that grew in abundance on the runway. She thought her “Runway Salad” was delicious when served with a dressing of coconut milk, a kind of equatorial nouvelle cuisine. They were bored with the restricted diet, but they were eating. And if they didn’t hear from the Taylor brothers soon, they could sail to Fanning for more supplies.

  Physically, Jennifer felt healthy and in good shape from all the manual work, and she could even allow herself some optimism about the future.

  And after all, they had achieved their main goal in coming here: Buck was still a free man.

  AUGUST 13, 1974

  MUFF FELT languid, as was often the case these days. The unremitting summer heat in the depths of the tropics was draining her limited store of stamina. A tree sloth would leave her in a cloud of dust.

  She was trying to lose weight, hoping she would thereby gain more energy and be more attractive. Her latest dieting effort called for drinking a glass of cider vinegar each morning. Some slick women’s mag she had brought with her claimed this would curb the appetite and take inches off. Muff had packed four gallon jugs of vinegar for the trip and was religiously downing the recommended dosage every morning, but so far she hadn’t shed a pound. As a reminder of her goal, she kept a calorie chart on the wall in the galley. But, especially when she was feeling out of sorts, she sneaked food when Mac wasn’t around. These days, that happened more and more often.