by John Morano
“Well, I was living a lie—actually, lots of them. And it seems to me, life is about truth, finding it in yourself and living with it. I was tired of the hustle, the hype, the publicity. I spent more time begging for money when I was rich than when I didn’t have any. So the last time I flew a stunt . . .”
“A stunt? Is that a type of plane?”
“No, it’s an event, a show. I was going to be the first woman to fly around the world. That’s a stunt. But the real stunt is how my husband, G. P., promoted the flight.” She paused and settled deeper into her lawn chair. “The result was always the same. This wouldn’t have been any different. More fame, more money, more planes, more flying. Leading to more money, more planes, more flying. It’s a brutal cycle.
“I guess it started when I was giving an interview to a journalist, Martha Gellhorn. I liked her. I guess we were kindred spirits, two successful women in a man’s world, both with famous husbands. She was actually married to Ernest Hemingway.”
“Who?”
“A famous author . . . Well, one of her questions was what would happen to me if I didn’t return from the flight. It got me thinking. Later, I was on the last leg of this world flight—doin’ pretty well, I might add—and wouldn’t you know it? I crashed. Right into the ocean, didn’t even catch an island. Couldn’t call for help ’cause I never learned Morse code. That’s what a great pilot I was.
“Well, I was floating around wearing a life jacket, hanging onto another one. I couldn’t find my navigator anywhere. He was usually more gassed up than the Elektra. I’m guessing he’s still in that plane. By the time I washed ashore, I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t going back. I figured sooner or later, they’d forget about me. I’m betting it was sooner.
“Now I’m Meela. I live on Makoona. And I’m the best damn outboard motor mechanic you’ll ever meet. It’s simple. It’s true. And I love it.”
“Meela,” Kemar began, “I feel I must tell you this, and I hope it doesn’t upset you too much.”
She stared at the boy. “What?”
“I met a man,” the boy said with a grin, “who lived on Tonle Sap, Cambodia’s largest lake, who I believe was a better outboard motor mechanic than you.”
“Don’t even start that, you little cockroach! If he was better—and I know he wasn’t—it’s because he didn’t have a slimy octopus like you putting all his tools in the wrong drawers. That kind of stuff can ruin a good mechanic.”
“It can also provide a good excuse for a bad mechanic,” Kemar added.
They laughed together, the young Cambodian and the grizzled American pilot. Both had found Makoona and each other.
Binti hadn’t seen Molo since they swam together. It seemed like a long time ago, and yet the memory was vivid, as if he were still with her. But of course, he wasn’t. She was at the cleaning station when Paykak approached. He found an infection in a large sucker at the base of one of her arms. It was the sucker she used to hold the shell.
The residents of Makoona had all heard about Binti’s shell. Word travels fast on a reef, and everyone knows how much fish like to gossip. Most were in agreement that Binti had, in fact, been given a spirit shell. But now the question was, what should the octopus do with it?
The shell had already changed her. She seemed to have a deeper understanding of life on the reef. She had a broader perspective. She was more secure, relaxed, not all up in arms so often. One could say that Binti had matured. And everyone attributed her growth to the shell.
Paykak called Wiff over to talk with Binti about the infection. “Had a manta ray in here once. He had a spirit shell with a hole in it and slipped it through the spine on his tail. It’s a real safe place for a ray to keep a shell. Saw the same infection on that tail. The ray said he’d have to pass the shell along soon.”
“Why’d he say that?” the octopus inquired.
“He claimed that in order for the shell to keep its power, its spirit, it had to reach different fish. Said it had to be constantly passed along to others who needed it.”
“So you think I should give up the shell?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just sharing what the ray told me.”
“What if I just hold the shell with a different arm?”
“The infection might go away, but it could also spread. The ray said the spirit shells get weaker the longer one holds onto them. Who knows? At some point, if you get shellfish . . .”
“Are you calling me shellfish?”
“Clam down. I’m just saying if you hold onto this shell too long, it might turn against you. It’s not a normal shell.”
“You know what they say—” Paykak interjected.
“Yeah, yeah,” Binti replied. “Be careful what you fish for, you just might catch it.”
“The ray also said if you give the shell away, it must be given sincerely. Sounds like the hermit crab understood that too.”
“Wonderful, maybe the ray was mistaken,” the octopus said, searching for a reason to keep her precious shell.
“Maybe,” Wiff said, clearly unconvinced. He dipped his head under Binti and asked, “How does this feel?” Then he bit into the tender sucker.
“AHHH!” What are doing to me?”
“Sorry, did I touch something sensitive?” he asked smugly and continued, “If that ray was mistaken, would that sucker be so infected?” Wiff shook his head and swam off to a crevalle jack who was next in line for a cleaning.
Paykak said sarcastically, “I’ll bet that manta had no idea what he was talking about.”
Swimming toward the crab-infested shallows, Binti hoped she’d find a hermit who needed a shell so that perhaps she could unload hers before it did any real damage. But part of her still believed the shell was precious. An unfamiliar voice whispered to her to keep it a little longer. Could the shell be talking to her? Yet she had to admit that having a shell—even a small one—wasn’t what she’d hoped it would be.
Binti’s hunger distracted her from her thoughts. She was looking forward to a good feed. Lately, she was eating more and getting larger as a result. There would be crabs in the shallows.
Binti never made it to the shallows. On the way there, she became queasy and ill and lost control of her coloration. The octopus began to turn pasty shades of red and gray that didn’t match her surroundings at all. She forgot about feeding and raced back to her lair.
Inside her home, Binti felt safe from predators but still wondered what was happening to her. This was a sickness she’d never encountered before. She felt compelled to move rocks, shell shards, and other debris from her home. In her haste, Binti even launched her spirit-shell out onto the sand with the rest of the clutter. As she cleaned her living space further, her appetite disappeared, and Binti lost her desire to socialize with friends on the reef.
She was hot and then cold, restless and then tired, joyous and then pensive. The voice inside her—the voice of instinct, the voice of her ancestors—spoke. It told her to relax and reassured her that everything was fine and what was happening to her now had happened to octopuses before. The voice sounded old, like a grandmother speaking to a nervous child.
Confused, Binti tried to do as she was told. She climbed up on her rock ceiling and wiped it clean of growth and dirt. When it comes to cleaning, seven arms can make for light work. Finally, when she felt as if she’d finished, the octopus took stock of her efforts. Her home was sparse and sparkling—perhaps a little less comfortable or cozy, but really clean. Whatever the sickness was, Binti thought, her den had never been more sanitary.
As tired as she was and wanting to rest, Binti was surprised to find herself stretching. She reached three arms up to the ceiling and stood tall on four arms beneath her. Then the sickness and the intense cleaning suddenly made sense. Binti began to lay eggs. They came out of her slowly on delicate strings, thousands of tiny eggs on each string. Binti hung the strings from a rocky overhang in a sealed-off corner of her home. She marveled at their beauty, each exquisite egg a pote
ntial life. They looked like strings of living pearls, undulating with the water. And like pearls, when the eggs hatched—if they hatched—the reef would be their oyster.
The old voice that only she could hear helped her understand the perilous paradox before her. This incredible garden of life could lead to an ominous conclusion for many. When one creature lays thousands of eggs, thousands will be lost. Those who perish pay the debt for those who survive. This was the way of life on Makoona, the way of maintaining the balance. Lives lost would nourish other lives. If only one or two of the eggs survived to adulthood and were able to reproduce, the cycle would continue, and Makoona would always know the octopus.
The voice warned that Binti shouldn’t dwell on the eggs that would be lost. Being an octopus mother wasn’t about death, it was about life. Like all those who came before her, Binti would have to dedicate herself to the survival of these eggs. Regardless, the octopus didn’t need a voice from within to point out that she was entering motherhood, that these eggs needed her protection. Would she give them everything, even her life?
Maybe, with a little luck, five or ten might survive. Perhaps even twenty or thirty, maybe more. But the odds weren’t in her favor, as there were those on Makoona who had different plans for Binti and her eggs.
When Kemar showed up at Al’s hut in the morning to load the boat, he was greeted by someone he’d never seen before. Tall, thin, and with hair as orange as a sponge, the visitor walked quietly, gently, much more Asian than American. But the height, the hair, and the ruddy skin made it obvious: this person was not Makoonan. When she turned to introduce herself and said, “’Ello, mate,” Kemar knew exactly where she’d come from.
In fact, the woman turned out to be the professor from Australia whom Al knew from Vietnam. The angular academic stretched out a long, thin arm toward the boy and said, “Name’s Campbell. ’Eard you were taggin’ a gayzah yesterday. Al says it was a real ripper and a bit of a rare thing.”
“I caught it,” Kemar replied, “but Al tagged it.”
“Ah, anyone can tag ’em. It’s catchin’ ’em’s the ’ard part.”
With that, Al stepped out from his hull of a house and quipped, “Oh yeah? If anyone can tag ’em, why do you pay me to do it?”
Campbell countered, “If you get paid to do it, it just proves that anyone can do it.”
“Anyone except you . . .”
“Aw, you know better than that, mate.”
The three loaded gear into the boat, which seemed much smaller once Campbell and all her gadgets were aboard. Before they shoved off, Kemar asked, “Would you prefer that I not go with you today?” He could see beyond the good-natured kidding. He could see that Al and Campbell enjoyed each other’s company a little more than perhaps two people fishing together might.
Al laughed. “No, I’d prefer that this red-headed kangaroo not go with us today, but since she’s paying—both of us, I might add—we’ll let her tag along. You are paying for both of us, right?”
The professor nodded. “Compliments of the University of Southern Queensland.”
“What I mean,” Kemar continued, “is that Professor Campbell is here to do something important. I don’t want to be in the way.”
Campbell and Al glanced at each other for a split second. They seemed to be able to communicate without speaking, the kind of thing that might have come in handy when they were in the jungle. After a moment, they grinned simultaneously.
“If that gayzah is any indication, sounds like you’re the fisherman and Al’s the assistant. Don’t worry, son. We’ll put you to work right enough. You might even learn something.”
“What would I learn?”
Al smiled as the professor replied, “’Ow about this? Makoona’s part of a chain of coral that stretches over a thousand miles. It’s larger than all of Cambodia. And it’s the only living organism on Earth that’s visible from space.”
“You can see it from space even though it’s underwater?” the boy asked, trying to picture what Makoona would look like from that far away.
“This is one special place, Kemar. And I can tell you a lot more about it if you’re interested. Are you keen to go now?” Campbell asked.
“If there’s something to be learned, Kemar will want to know it,” Al said. “Let’s get going.”
The boy hopped into the boat, asking, “What’s my job today?”
Al answered, “Well, you won’t be blowing up the reef or poisoning fish, that’s for sure.”
“Blowing up the reef?” Campbell echoed, blue eyes widening in alarm.
“I’ll explain later. As a matter of fact, little man, today, you’re gonna fish hard. And everything you catch goes right back into the sea.”
“Doesn’t sound like we’ll make much money today.”
“Luckily for you,” Campbell said, “the USQ, in its enlightened approach to science, pays handsomely for fish to stay alive. You’ll earn every penny locating, tagging, and gathering data on Makoona’s greatest treasure . . . its life.”
The boy scratched his head and bounced his foot. “I will keep no fish, but I will earn more money than when I do keep them?”
“You still have to catch ’em, mate. And you’re gonna see fish like you’ve never seen before. Tell you all about ’em too, I will.”
Kemar unsheathed his fillet knife and took out a sharpening stone. He looked at the two adults and declared, “I will try this.”
The three fished until the sun was above the water but well below the clouds. Kemar proved useful on many levels and listened intently as Campbell described the peculiarities of every fish they tagged. She showed the boy how to systematically classify each fish, how to handle them safely, and how to return them to the sea so they would survive. Between catches, Campbell explained why each creature was important, pointing out the niche it occupied in the fabric of Makoona.
For Kemar, it was a revelation. He’d never really thought of sea life as anything other than a means to a meal or money. And he’d certainly never considered that someone could profit from the sea, which Campbell seemed to be doing, without pillaging it. In fact, Professor Campbell was actually making the reef healthier.
In a way, she reminded Kemar of the priests in Cambodia. There was a reverence in the way that she approached the sea that even went beyond the philosophies that Al professed. Where Al was a fisherman with a conscience and soul, Campbell took it a step further. She actually served Makoona as a custodian of the coral, and in doing that, she seemed to become part of it.
While they prepared to return to shore, Kemar realized something else. The feeling generated by the act of stewardship was so intoxicating that—for an evening, at least—he’d forgotten his journey and his past, so steeped he had become in the intricacies of Makoona.
As the island came into sight, the three sat listening to the sound of the swells slapping the bow of the boat, embellished by the steady putt-putt of the tired outboard. Occasionally, a bucket would bounce or a pole would roll noisily across the deck.
It was the young Cambodian who broke the silence, turning to Al, asking, “Can I ask you a question?”
“You can,” Al said, “but I may not answer it.”
“Why are you here?”
Al cocked his head sideways, running the question through his mind, deciding if he would answer. “Seems to me someone’s gotta steer the boat.”
“That’s not what I mean. Why are you here on Makoona? Out here, people tend to pillage, some protect. You do both. Why?”
Campbell smiled a huge face-creasing grin. She ran her fingers through her thick hair and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were soft and warm like the waning light of the sun. “Nice question, son. I can’t wait to ’ear the answer.”
Al unbuttoned the one button left on his shirt. This was a question that only a friend could ask another friend. The same could also be said of granting a reply. It wasn’t that Al didn’t want to answer Kemar, he was just struck by the idea that he’d rem
ained so distant from others so well for so long that no one had ever asked him this before. “Sounds like you asked two questions,” he said. “I’ll answer one.”
The boy smiled. “Which one?”
“You pick.”
“Why do you live here?” Kemar asked.
“And can you tell me why you pillage and protect?” the Australian added merrily. “Please, enlighten me.”
“I said one question.”
“Right, one question . . . from each of us.”
Al sighed. He knew when he was beaten. The fisherman began, “Bao’s not the sharpest hook in the tackle box. He fishes like an idiot—takes without concern for what he destroys. Campbell fishes like she’s some kind of angel—she takes nothing and is concerned about everything. I think there’s a middle ground. I’m no angel, but I try not to fish like an idiot either. I’ll take a life but never more than I need. I kinda fish like a fish.”
Kemar nodded.
“I guess if I could get by doing Campbell’s work, I’d do it. But she’s a scientist, and I’m just a guy who catches fish. Bottom line, Makoona’s a great fit for me. I like it here.”
The scientist leaned forward, running her fingers through her hair. “I have a few more questions I’d like to pose, mate.”
“Not a chance.”
Campbell turned to Kemar. “Since the bodgy fisho here is apparently not entertaining questions from me, why don’t you take my turn?”
“How did you get here, Al?” the boy asked sincerely. “I’ve told you my story. You should tell me yours.”
“Oh, I should?” Al frowned. He didn’t really like talking, much less talking about himself. He tried to avoid the question by looking toward land, hoping something there would catch his eye and turn the conversation away from his past.
Campbell flashed her beguiling grin. “Go on, Al. Tell ’im your story.”
Al stared at the water, cut the engine, drifted for a moment, and then spoke quietly. “When I was on my first tour, standing in rice paddies, leeches getting as much of my blood as the VC, tired, sick . . . well, all I could think about was a plate of fresh pasta—angel hair with marinara, scallops, a little shrimp scampi, grated parmesan sprinkled on top, a warm loaf of fresh bread on the side. I just wanted that meal. I stayed alive just to eat that meal.”
