This was the first I had heard about a bear, but certainly not the last.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Thank you for saving my dog.”
Jones: “Wouldn’t get too grateful, not yet. We still might hafta eat her.”
Bolzano: “I know.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Hated to put our fate in hands of a kid with thousand-yard stare. Boy was shocked out.
Led me and old man in circles, until nearly full dark when finally admits he can’t do it. Says dogs might be able to find cave. If there’s a bear in it. Next thing, I’ve got people walking dogs in four different directions, heading off to get lost or fall into another hole. Just know we’re going to lose another troop, ready to whistle everybody back, when the old man’s bitch starts going squirrelly.
Gray Beard rallied us with a Green Turtle wolf call. Once we were circled up, he let go with another long howl. The bitch joined him, then rest of dogs had a go. Not sure what that boy thought of his traveling partners, but for a minute or so, we all tipped back our heads and howled at the clouds and the moon. By end, he was howling too.
Moon was a welcome sight though breaks in the clouds. Used its patchy light to send a squad back to fetch the ladder. Ground plugging cave’s mouth was too frozen to breach. Broke two spears trying, finally teamed four men to use ladder as battering ram to bash away ice and rubble. Bolzano’s idea.
Lotta racket. I pointed out we were sure to wake the bear. Old man confirmed that. Says you can’t sneak up on a sleeping bear. Always wake him up, he says.
Sure enough, soon as we break through, the thing squeezes its brown head through the hole and roars. Shining in moonlight are eyes of a bear scared out of his fucking mind.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Not now.”
Bolzano: “I am just asking for your opinion. This new boy, do you think he can find his way home on his own? Or should we attach Greemil to another traveling clan?”
Jones: “Don’t wanna talk about it.”
Bolzano: “Leonglauix doesn’t want to discuss it either.”
Jones: “Sal, I mean it. Leave me the fuck alone.”
Bolzano: “Blue mood setting in?”
Jones: “Why ya ask that?
Bolzano: “Captain, I have served with you long enough to recognize the signs. Is this a bad one?”
Jones: “Feelin’ low, real low.”
Bolzano: “I have your back.”
Jones: “Go fuck yourself.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
“No throw spears,” came the call in Green Turtle dialect. Leonglauix shooed us to the high ground, and there we stood, holding our weapons extended before us as the furious bruin bloodied himself by lunging his head again and again through the restrictive hole. Retreating back inside the cave, he tore at its icy edges with massive paws, black scimitar claws scratching, glinting in the moonlight.
Barking dogs, bellowing bear, crying baby, howling wind, above it all Herr Wagner’s valkyries pounded in my head. Dun, ta, da, da, da DA. Dun, ta, da, da, da, DA, Dun, ta, da, da, da, DA!
Risking a quick glance to study my companions, I proudly noted there were no women screaming, no men cowering, nobody primed to turn tail and run. My associates were steeled for battle, poised to risk life and limb for their clan. Jones held his atlatl and a bolt his left hand, and slowly windmilled his right arm to loosen his throwing shoulder. Angry baby tucked in a sling hidden inside the folds of her cape, Gertie stood armed and ready beside her man. Our guide’s vacant stare had been replaced by determination. We would make our stand here.
Leonglauix caught my eye and I swear he was smiling. Tipping back his head, he issued another soulful Green Turtle wolf call. I was waiting for him to finish his solo, and about to join him in a duo howl, when the bear smashed through the cave’s entrance with one final, terrific lunge. The poor thing never even turned to see what manner of creatures had disturbed his slumber. He just shambled downhill into the darkness.
Goingpo’s prized ladder served a myriad of final purposes that evening. We burned it to melt ice and snow into drinking water. We burned it to keep the bear from coming back. We burned it to drive the awful chill from our weary bones. We burned it in honor of two souls lost into the abyss.
That was nearly three weeks ago. Three weeks of long marches across hilly terrain, of sleeping in caves and under the pines, of constantly being on the lookout for hungry wolf pack and panther. We subsist on elk, gray squirrel and an occasional white rabbit. Apart from one band of Neanderthal spied from afar, these bleak, leafless forests of the Massif Central have been void of hominids. That is expected to change soon. Our leader claims there are people out on the flat lands to the west. Some are friendly, some are not. He insists we avoid them all. “Babeck must not hear any stories of our passing,” he says.
As the days grow longer and the herds of bison begin coursing by, many clans will pass through. I asked for a number and he flashed both hands five times. Fifty clans? With an average clan size of 15 members, that would be 750 people. I think his estimate is exceptionally low.
After studying the maps in this computer, I believe we are roughly 20 kilometers from the glacial lake where atrocities perpetrated by Sergeant Martinelli incited Corporal Amacapane to take his fatal plunge. An irrational notion pesters me–make the clan swing north and pay Andre our respects. Maybe somehow, I think, Andre would be standing there waiting for us to return. That, I know, is impossible. I myself saw him dive into the frigid waters never to surface.
I wonder what Andre would have to say about this current incarnation of the Green Turtle Clan. During his brief stint as clan capo dei capi, while he and Lorenzo were on their collision courses with destiny, he came to love its people the way a soccer star loves his teammates. I’m sure his opinion would be cutting and ironic. Something along the lines of, “You guys need more pussy!”
I have the pines to myself this morning while the rest of the clan dresses out a bull elk that must weigh more than 400 kilos. Oh boy, elk stew once again! To be followed by elk steaks, elk jerky and elk leftover surprise. Mmmmm. Leonglauix insists we’ll be happier in our next Thumb Camp. Evidently, we are headed to a spa, complete with the rejuvenating waters of a geothermal spring.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “What do you think we should do? Wait? Me too.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
The winds have turned, parting the blanket of clouds to allow our first glimpse of sun in 19 days and 14 hours. But who’s counting? I am. It has been 41 days since Paul was stung, 12 days since I officially became sick of this shit-hole island, seven days since I last spotted the stupid-ass shark, and two hours since I burned the last decent piece of firewood left on this damn beach.
There is, however, a nice stack of dry wood under a tarp strapped to the deck of our catamaran. The firewood, like all of our gear and supplies, is battened down and ready for launch. Our problem is a very low tide. The boat sits at an angle, stranded 37 feet from the water’s edge. I could try using rollers to push it down the steep beach, but the angle worries me. And it’s not worth the risk, for we have nowhere to go. The tide has drained our little harbor nearly dry, turning it into a minefield of exposed rocks covered in mollusks and seaweed.
The tide pools have attracted a riot of gulls, terns, frigate birds, ducks, yellow pelicans, cormorants and several dozen other species of seabirds–all reaping the bounty in their own unique ways. More than half of the feathered divers, waders and gliders who stall over the surface are busy hunting for squid, fish, crabs, oysters, clams, eels and what-have-you. Other birds, like the frigates, never bother to hunt, but make out just fine through theft, harassment and intimidation. The fighting is as constant as the noise. When something truly tasty is captured
, say a good-sized octopus, it may pass between 10 or 15 beaks, with each temporary victor flying like hell in their vain attempts to escape the angry mob. Finally, the prize is snatched in the talons of an alpha bird like a sea eagle, or dropped to the lazy seals, who lie on their backs and wait for just such goodies to sail down from the sky.
I do my best to ignore the cacophony and focus on planning our escape. As I study the passage and crossing winds, I can’t help but wonder, “Did I really sail through there? In a storm?”
Paul is already aboard ship. He insisted I hoist him up the minute I told him we were leaving. He lies in the sun and studies the ropes, dreams up new chores for me to perform before we set sail. I have untied, tightened and re-tied every piece of rigging we have. The woven plant fiber sails have been removed from the cave and two are currently staked out, drying in the sun. When it’s time, I’ll rig Sail No. 3, our strongest and largest, to the mast. No. 2, our primary spare, will be kept close at hand, either rolled up or deployed as an awning to protect us from the elements. No. 1 is already secured across the deck to serve as our living surface for the next month or two–however long it takes. I’m not stopping again unless we absolutely must.
Paul withered in that dank cave. The ocean is the place for him. If he is to recover, that is where it will begin. Shark and foul weather be damned, we set sail at 14:20 hours.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Stew good.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
It has been 10 days since the tsunamis smashed our ship and crew. Dr. Duarte and I are holed up near a little creek while we take care of Jones and the old man. I think they’re both going to pull through.
This afternoon I used a live grasshopper tied to a makeshift gaff to catch a salmon that must have weighed at least 35 pounds. Sucker surfaced to take the hopper and I made a lucky grab with my stick, caught her right in the gill and yanked her up on the muddy shore before she knew what hit her. I split her belly open to find it fat with roe.
Took me maybe 10 minutes total to sheer a Y-shaped limb off a young oak tree, sharpen one half of the Y to make my gaff, corral a bug, tie it to the end of the stick with a pair of twisted weeds and land the fish. It’s so easy here. If I felt like standing in the rain, I could have hung at the same spot catching salmon, trout and pike all day long. Out of a creek so narrow I can jump across. When I compare this world to the one I grew up in, the one we left behind, this Paleolithic shit just spins my head. Back in Hawaii we had fish, but it was a big deal if you saw more than a dozen or two in one day.
Hawaii’s ocean ecology was on its way back, at least in Maui waters, and I sure hope it returns to something like this. The Atlantic was different. I don’t hold out much hope that ocean will ever recover. Too many chemicals, detergents, radioactivity and farm runoff, all the Atlantic coastlines I saw were usually covered in thick, green algae, this stuff everybody called “gunk.” South America, Europe, Africa, the U.S. and Canada all had gunk. In late summertime most beaches had dunes of the stuff built up taller and longer than train cars. In Portugal, you could step in a wrong place and sink up to your neck in gunk. The crap used up so much oxygen you hardly ever saw a fish, let alone one worth eating. And after I got through spearing what may have been the last Atlantic Grouper on Earth, there were fewer still.
I’ve been thinking about that fish lately. Even though they tricked me, didn’t tell me how rare the dang thing was until I dove down 80 feet and speared it, my face still burns with shame for what I did. Seeing all these fish, knowing how things turn out, makes me feel even worse.
I learned to spear fish as a kid growing up in Lahaina. Looking back, I guess you could say I had a pretty wild childhood. Dad was almost never around. He lived on a boat moored to the roof of a sunken hotel and only came around when Mom was working and could afford to supply the party. Booze and drugs, lots of drugs. Mom waited tables and danced hula in bars, bounced from job to job a lot. She’d go on jags that lasted weeks and even months. Plenty times, she and Dad would take his rickety sailboat out to sea and just disappear. They’d usually go hang out with buddies on Oahu or the Big Island, but one time Dad sailed them all the way down to Tahiti and back. The guy did know his way around a boat.
Us kids, we pretty much raised ourselves. With no food in the house, we learned to make do. It seemed natural to steal mangoes and poach fish. I snared my first pig when I was seven years old. I’ll never forget the sound of that pig’s squealing. My brother was eight at the time. He was the one who showed me how to spot the pig trails and where to hide after we rigged up our coil of rusty wire.
We surfed every day there was surf, from sunup to sundown. With all the buildings in the water to kick up waves, Lahaina had plenty breaks to chose from. Coral reefs covered all the shallow buildings in bright colors. The warm-water corals introduced by the Hawaiians a hundred years earlier were considered community property. Gathering fish, crabs, shells and limu (seaweed) was allowed by permit only, usually by fat cats none of us had ever seen in Lahaina. They’d bring their poles and spears and catch our fish. At least, that’s how we saw it, how we rationalized it was OK to take from the reef and Hawaiian fish ponds. When you and your brothers and sisters are hungry, you do what you gotta do.
It was my brother who used broken pieces of glass and tar he picked from cracks in the road to make our first pair of goggles. It’s a wonder we didn’t slice our eyes out, but the goggles worked pretty good. You had to hold them tight to your face with one hand and swim with the other. We found an old three-pronged spear somewhere, bought a new rubber sling from an old guy down the street with money from Mom’s purse, and were in business. We’d paddle our surfboards for hours to find a quiet place where we could swim down and poke our fish and lobsters without being seen. When punks tried to take away our catch, we fought like hell to keep it.
Fighting was a way of life for us Kaikane boys. And my sisters too. We were taught to “never throw the first punch, but always get in the last lick.” The only time we were officially allowed to start a fight is if they insulted our mother, which happened about every other day. My old man had lived in and around harbors his whole life, and had picked up some really nasty, dirty fighting tricks, which he was more than happy to pass on to his sons and daughters. Grabs to pressure points, kidney punches, wrist-snapping lock-holds, his specialty was dishing out disabling wounds with lightning speed. Even when he was stone drunk, my dad could reduce an overconfident bruiser into a puddle of piss quicker than it takes to say the words.
He and Mom loved to gamble. They set up a few fights between us and kids from other neighborhoods. Our dirt backyard was bordered on three sides by neighbors’ polymer fences. That was our home ring, where my brothers and I would spar, and where Dad staged our fights–drunk adults screaming and yelling as nine-year-olds went toe to toe. From age six to 12, I never lost, even when they paired me up against older and bigger kids. When the cops busted up my last bout, one of the policemen who transported us to juvie was a high school judo coach. He must have seen some potential in me, because I became his “project.” He and my other coaches taught me about honor and respect, the power of hard work and dedication. I owe more than I can ever repay to Coach Kawaguchi.
It was during one of our trips to compete on the Mainland that I bought my first real dive mask and fins. That gear was strictly regulated on Maui, but I snuck the new stuff back in my duffel bag and used it to explore reefs all around the island. One of the Hawaiian elders finally caught me poaching, but instead of getting me in a bunch of trouble like I expected, he asked me to help control the non-native, invasive species that were threatening to overrun the reef. They paid me 10 Norte Americanos for every 30 roi and cherry trigger fish I speared.
That was my first positive experience with the Hawaiian community. They were a serious bunch, trying hard to preserve their cultural traditions and heritage, only speaking English on the weekends, stuff like th
at. As was often the case growing up, our mom had poisoned the well for all of us. I heard from too many people how she was a big disappointment to her family and the Hawaiian elders. They were pissed about more than just her arrests and stealing. Mom had more than 50 percent Hawaiian blood, which was really rare in our island melting pot. They saw great hope for the future with her, but she refused to marry any of the Hawaiian dudes they trotted out. Mom liked haoles, white guys. When she started having us light-skinned kids, they kicked her out of the Homelands.
If she wasn’t allowed in, neither were we. That’s the way things stood for a long time. But finally, after I won a national high school wrestling championship and was rated the top surfer in the state, that was enough for them to let me learn the ways of the Hawaiian people. I used to tell friends that I may have a Hawaiian last name, and I may be from Hawaii, but I’m not sure that I’m truly Hawaiian. It’s complicated, and too hard to explain now. I’ve rambled far from the point of this long and windy journal entry.
The day I speared the Atlantic grouper was supposed to be some sort of lame-ass competition set up by filmmaker Stephen Jacoby. It was me against five or six other guys and two girls who turned out to be competitive deep free divers. With their super-long fins and massive lungs, they were all used to diving way down.
They took us by bubble-boat out to a row of seamounts off the north coast of Portugal. They told us there were a bunch of groupers and the contest was to see who could poke the biggest fish. I swam down and spotted mine hiding in a tangle of long-drowned trees. His forehead and jagged teeth were barely visible as he waited for something to swim close enough to be sucked into his gut. I stirred up a little algae with the tip of my spear and when he darted over to inspect, I let him have it right behind the eye. It was a quick, clean kill, which was good because I nearly ran out of breath swimming back up to the top.
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