Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  Still, the news feels urgent, oppressive and in need of sharing. This just in:

  Humanity will overrun here too with terminal overpopulation. The airwaves will fill with promotions of growth and God for the common good, even as cells divide and tumors form with laugh-a-day symptoms so easily shrugged off, like gridlock, stress and rage. Personal isolation will vary directly with population growth for all but the booster-minded. Eye contact will indicate perverse potential. Squeezed together, we will experience nature in smaller doses. Security will trump freedom, but we must secure the future for the children and their children and so on and so forth, as other species and their progeny are dismissed with brief regret, because, after all, we’re talking security here, as if the future should count for nothing but humanity in a vacuum...

  “But they’re not my children,” mumbles the single man at the table by the railing overlooking the water and the narrow pier that runs fifty yards out to where the channel drops off. This obtuse mumbling causes the young couple one table over to turn and smile with sympathy, if not understanding. Then they look away to avoid eye contact, avoiding intrusion on this apparently disturbed individual, toying with his swim goggles.

  “I mean the children they’re always saying to do things for. You know? They’re not mine.”

  The young couple smiles and focuses downward, front and center, to better eat their omelets.

  So Ravid Rockulz sits as isolated as a man with no office, no commuter train, no borough to rush home to, and no home once he gets there. This comparison of urban stability to tropical serenity is a stretch, but it’s accurate and helps secure the moment, in which Cook’s Bay is simply, overwhelmingly, beautiful. Reef denizens welling upward and downward are in their own rendition of lush hour. Now squinting to focus on and penetrate the surface, a reef man reveals a denser population than he’s seen in years — here is some company to warm up to.

  Life beckons from the tree-lined pitons and rolling clouds down to the clear, flat water and gently cooling breeze. The little dock runs out from the Taverua dining room and its thatch roof supported by posts with no walls, out across the reef to where the bottom falls away. Here too are human people, though blessedly few, so the place feels like a café — make that a perfect café beside a teeming reef. Hospitality prevails with more French dark roast and pastries in a resurgence of caffeine and sugar, restorative as a fountain of youth.

  These whimsical stimuli facilitate another small, blessed death of self and sorting out of a past removed from serenity, and a very rough passage through days and nights. With a bit of sweetness the days ahead loom larger than those preceding, as unfortunate images drift farther away to the long ago.

  So the gimp-legged caretaker at Taverua rouses no rancor but instead recalls the good old days and the world long gone — the world here, as yet to be cashed in for material gain. Ravid, spent of emotion, watches the fellow gimp out the long pier, tossing chunks of yesterday’s baguettes over the shallow reef on either side. In Hawaii he, Ravid, would struggle to retain civility and likely fail, rising to this challenge, asking this person to stop interrupting the natural food chain — in a nice way, of course, that would be taken as a threat.

  But Hawaii fifty years ago or a hundred was thick with fish, and a caretaker could toss yesterday’s Portagee sweetbread over the reef with nary a blink of concern, because the reefs were so alive, pervasive and plentiful that many species schooled thick as that singular species of today, the human commuter. Which makes a man wonder: Why are the other species so refreshing to see, yet thickly migrating humans feel like oncoming dread? Is he part of the dreadful migration? No, which may seem arbitrary and subjective, but if all humans practiced his care for nature and had as many children, the world might have a chance to recover — not to mention his freedom from the washer and dryer, shag carpet, sheet rock, drop ceiling, cars and color-coordinated accessories, to say the least.

  So there, for now.

  But never mind here too; for now this reef is like reefs used to be, forever lush with no threat in sight.

  Except for climate change and coral bleaching...

  Stop! I said never mind...

  The Taverua caretaker ambles down the dilapidated dock in this deep bay tucked into this island remnant of the old world still thriving under its original sky and sea, its people and fish happily balanced. Maybe the balance is the thing between the human and other species. The other species spawn profusely as humans do, but then their needs are so simple, so removed from industry, consumer goods, advanced education and the American dream. Maybe a few hundred thousand fish are balanced in every way to a single human.

  Except maybe for this gimp-footed, lopsided yet even-keeled man, whose left leg toe-steps to compensate for its five-inch shortfall. Who could be angry with a man so apparently efficient in the natural scheme of things, so equally intimate with his scaly friends? Who would not smile at this happy contact between man and fish? Because equilibrium in nature is also social and tempered by understanding. Happiness and balance are evident here under foreboding yet sunny skies. This shallow cove inside the atoll is lively with hungry children, or so the fish seem, roiling the surface in playful anticipation. A thick, gold-plated — that is to say, cheap — watch, mostly worn to pot metal by friction and salt air, sparkles sparsely, as does the man.

  The darkest clouds converge in a squall that rushes in when he’s halfway out. He tosses bread hanks to excited schools who boil the surface. Oblivious to the downpour or encouraged by it, they recognize the familiar face, and they frenzy in simple pleasure. Without looking up, the caretaker pulls and tosses, hobbling to the end, where two more baguettes under his arm let him continue. Grinning intermittently he hurries to finish before the bread is too soggy. His pets churn the water where he has yet to throw, telling him where to throw next, proving that fish can learn and teach, can know and see beyond the surface.

  Just as quickly the squall passes. The gill breathers’ spectrum of yellows and reds, blues and silvers, stripes, bars, arcs, spots and squiggles of dazzling incandescence and aquamarine flash in the morning sun. The hotel guests flash an equally garish and gooier spectrum at a more civilized pace, accessorized, relaxing, having their Danish and coffee.

  So the world is born again, a younger, more nubile hostess than it has seemed in years. The exact number of years doesn’t matter, except for the feeling that it’s been too many years. The realization of time wasted — or not optimally spent — also makes for a laugh against the grain. So the man at the table by the rail laughs heartily, and a smile lingers with a homespun feeling that nothing is wasted or lost but prepares the medium for the seed. He is a seed settling on dark humus, bursting with life, nearing germination at last.

  Is this place destined like all others to flesh out with people and cars? Will houses be built six hundred or eighteen hundred at a time, with people calling them either “affordable” or fat-cat mansions? Will three hundred thousand residents and two hundred thousand tourists annually in French Polynesia go to two million residents and seven million tourists? Will the human leech field bubble with the most frequently asked question: How long have you been here? Will wholesale crowds of Barnacle Bills and wannabe tropical honeys get off the last flight from Jersey, via LAX, go directly to the tattoo parlor and then emerge as originals, ready with insight on the where-from and how-to for an ever grateful surge of more recently arrived tourists?

  Will humanity crush this place too in its quest for comfort and identity?

  You can’t exactly be an expatriate from America if you weren’t born there. But you can extirpate the consumption-as-proof-of-godliness, the material/spiritual continuum that America has come to represent, that America insists on defending from invasion and dilution by the godless fellahin. Fleeing the material monster makes more sense in Hawaii, where so much more was lost and continues wasting away, where the dregs are still spectacular compared to the wasteland of suburban convenience — where wilderness g
ot paved, where lava, kiawe and wiliwili got leveled for “units” with breathtaking views to sigh over with melancholy, in appreciation of the good life.

  Then the remnants got leveled for the low end, because every dynamic economy needs staff.

  Wait a minute: extirpate. Do I know that word? [verb trans.] root out and destroy completely. So yes, I must, and yes, a non-American can expatriate from America — especially if he once loved it, and then watched it fail.

  “Like a wife, kind of, but not really, but then... Do I still love her? America?” Ravid mumbles, to the continuing consternation of the newlyweds nearby, who tighten their common focus and grasp their Danish. So he eases their anxiety by explaining, “I loved what she stood for. What she stands for, really, if you’re willing to overlook the destructive, self-centered behaviors. She changed, you know.”

  Well, what these timorous people know or may be willing to comprehend is grist for another mill. A man immersed in personal cognizance is hardly appropriate counsel on the ambiguities of America to these others, these ferners, no less. Ha!

  And so he laughs, motivating the honeymooners to expedite their morning sweets and take their leave. Au revoir, mes amis; it’s all the better, really, freeing you up for another round of getting to know each other and allowing me some privacy in which to think and feel.

  To sort, adjust and adapt, because a refugee from rampant growth and mad packaging may revalidate life with a fresh new place in which to live it. He may sense redemption from stupidity, putting the dumb-down into remission. Here the development steamroller has pulled to the side of the road — or maybe it’s shut down in the middle of no roads, no lavish resorts or infrastructure and no happy motorists raging to get in line for some killer deals at Crapco or Costlo or the Warehouse of Stuff. Maybe the end here is not so nigh. Maybe the steamroller is a World War II remnant, a rusty hulk in the weeds.

  You see resorts, but they’re only nice, not over the top extravaganzas of wanton disregard for lavish expenditure. Because this is not the United States or any part of America. Japan is a constant threat, with its insane appetite for anything forkable and its craze for golf. But an ear to the breeze picks up no chatter, no belching buses, no flashing cameras, no crowds vapidly watching the android tour guide recite hidden truths like a robot with an overlay of canned cheer. The numbers on population and tourism here may be constrained by great distances from Asia and Europe. Things seem good, actually, possibly great, suggesting arrival at last to that place in the heart called home.

  Well, a case could be made for too late already, what with the massive excavation near the ferry dock, where blasted spoil got pushed to the shoreline near the reef, because a few wealthy Japanese would rather play golf than allow nature to survive there. Still, it’s only one golf course, and the construction process can drag on with unforeseen challenges, like survey pins moved, hydraulic hoses severed, bulldozers, backhoes and graders running sluggish, drain sumps clogged, floodgates opened. Harmless fun can make a place playful and productive, while keeping it serene for a few more weeks or years. Surely a few dramatic budget overruns would arch an eyebrow over the staggering cost of another round of golf.

  So the question emerges like an exposed reef at ebb. Can Ravid Rockulz live a long and happy life here, knowing at the end of his days that he chose the right place for purpose and love and a happy heart? Well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, but a strict measure of happiness based on achievement will not do. It’s not a question of possible failure but rather a question of process — you can’t bottleneck the rest of life into a single question, because the only accurate answer is yes, one day you will pass. Who can possibly know what will happen in the meantime?

  But broken down to the fundamentals of success in the near term, the question can emerge: Will Ravid Rockulz find success here as a marine photographer? That’s not exactly the right question, but it’s close, allowing for the error of expectation. The correct question is perhaps a series of questions: Will he pass in peace, a happy man? Will he find the azure serenity that has eluded him to date? Or will he merely wallow for an hour or two in daydreams of tropical fulfillment, and then slog on among the seekers with his itch chronically unscratched?

  Well, that leaves another ninety minutes for him to wonder if this place will be his destiny, as it was for Paul Gauguin and Marlon Brando. No place with its wilderness reasonably intact can offer modern conveniences. So there will be no ambulance careening through traffic that pulls over for quicker access to the hospital, where a pulse can show for a few more days than it could ever beat on its own, at home, quietly, immersed in natural beauty. And look what happened: Gauguin and Brando both died.

  Maybe material progress won’t happen here. Maybe this place will remain insulated from the aberrant clearing and construction that obstructs life in its natural flow. Maybe apologies, like sustainable growth or best management practices, will form on the horizon like a squall line scuttling ominously yonder to dump somewhere else. Maybe this place will be spared. Maybe this place will retain its serenity with no rush hour packed with commuters keen on saving a few minutes to better spend them elsewhere. Perhaps a lifetime can still pass here in peace, so a man might join the ether with nobody knowing for a month or a year or two, which seems reasonable. Factoring the climate and general chemistry in getting things down to nitrogen, potassium and phosphorous, a man might well decompose in the comfort of his own home — that’s it: phosphorous, the basis of bioluminescence, giving a wondrous prospect for dissolution in the sand like the ancient Hawaiians did, till the bones roll into the sea with that other worldly glimmer of lost souls.

  At night —

  Could I gasp my last with no sirens, lights, questions on insurance coverage or regrets? Well, I nearly did, didn’t I? But you know what I mean; in the passing of a relatively normal life — or a reasonably serene life at any rate — could this place see me swept into a dustpan for sprinkling on the garden where I might bear fruit again? Or into the sea, where I might sparkle? Well, I think it could — and maybe more important, taking the question back to the specifics of so-called success and its pursuit on a daily basis, maybe I would best ask, Will I get the pictures?

  Well, I humbly submit, Your Honor, that I will — that the images recorded through my lens will open eyes, hearts and minds to the wonders of the deep and shallow, showing any human person who cares to look, that the fish see, feel and know, not just as we do but in their own inimitable way that is neither better nor inferior but so precisely, amazingly suited to their world, which, left to their own devices, would not be ending as ours is, and theirs is too, because of human folly.

  But wait. One set of questions leads to another, testing whether these hopes or any hopes can remain viable. Will the shallow reef on either side of the pier prove to be healthy? Is this reef as densely populated with fish of garish color and profound innocence as it appeared to be at feeding time? Does the ledge just past the pier drop to forty feet or eighty or four hundred? Why don’t I see snorkelers? Why do I see dive boats running to the outer reef, if this reef is any good? Are the coral heads healthy and intact? Or are they broken, kicked and trampled by the common crowd of philistines who see nature as a challenge or a threat, or an amusement to better fill their vacation days, rather than a shrine of beauty? Are these coral heads entangled in monofilament or fouled by murky effluent choking the life from them? Will the shallows reveal net remnants, proving that money is more valuable than life, that death is merely collateral damage in the quest to secure livelihood for people who must feed their children? Is this reef choked with algae because the herbivores — the surgeonfish, collector urchins and parrotfish — are gone to brief lives in aquariums, or netted or speared because they’re good to eat, and people have to eat, and those people catching hundreds and thousands of each species are shoring up our economic base, which is the foundation of our stability and the backbone of our political will, which guarantees our freedom after all? />
  These colors don’t run. Support our troops. My country right or wrong.

  Freedom isn’t free. Except that it is, just as chastity is chaste, virtuosity is virtuous, necessity is necessary, neurosis neurotic, paranoia paranoid, schizophrenia schizophrenic, psychosis psychotic and on and on. Freedom is free. Free is the root derivative of freedom. If it’s not free, then it isn’t freedom — it becomes a wickedly twisted connotation designed to serve a purpose — make that an agenda — which is wrong, not right. So love it or leave it. Okay?

  Or silt, the greatest test, measuring the human compromise on this island, whereby reef health defers to convenience in drainage, allowing particulate aggregation in the corals and invertebrates, burying what is not yet dead, rendering it half dead and dying.

  But what can you do against needs, convenience, churches and malls sprouting like spore growth — monstrosities that pencil out with plenty of free parking? A shrill woman who lived two doors down wanted the chaos stopped but only added to it, insisting, “We’ve got to get organized!”

  Who are you kidding? Her sincerity shouldn’t count for nothing. But then it did.

  Then Henry Hollings hit the mother lode with his electrical contracting company, making more money in a year than in any ten years before the boom. Henry came out on the boat to dive on a regular basis before the boom. In the boom he had no time — and he was too tired and said he couldn’t sleep well at night. He came out again, once he’d shut his company down because he was about to win a bid on three hundred new homes — a job he’d overbid by three times value, but nobody else was available. But the new homes were being built on the sacred wandering grounds of his youth, and that’s what kept him up at night. Everyone called Henry crazy for walking away from so much moola, and he knew they were right, and that quitting wouldn’t change anything, except for shrinking the little monster gnawing inside.