Sleeping on a narrow cot, Julian dreamed continuously of heavy-featured, dark-skinned Polynesians gyrating in ritual dance. He envisioned fern-draped rain forests resplendent with orchids, hibiscus, and plumeria. Brightly colored tropical birds—Buenaventura’s avis friends and relatives—were all chatting one another up! At dawn he awoke refreshed and happy.
For breakfast he ate granola, strawberries, and condensed milk, carefully separating all the almonds, walnuts, and cashews to feed the bird. Later he organized his fishing gear, periodically looking up and down the pier for any sign of Tamara.
By eleven o’clock it was obvious she was not going to show up. Perhaps she’d bought a ticket at the last minute and taken the flight to San Francisco with Woody Emory.
At noon he guided the Scoundrel out of Hilo Harbor and headed south along the coastline of the Big Island. Julian had no trouble whatsoever handling the large cruiser, and the ship performed without flaw. The powerful inboards took him out of Hilo Bay and around Pohoiki Point, past Kalapana and the lava flows at the Chain of Craters. By two-thirty he reached South Point. With the warm sunshine on his face, and Buenaventura riding on top of his shoulder, Julian steered his ship.
Mid-afternoon was hot along the densely treed cliffs of the Kona coast. The swells broke along the barrier reef, and the blue waters of the Pacific awakened in Julian some distant remembrance of integral color—deep, transfixing impressions of azure and violet—inviting, cool and rejuvenating. The tropical sun turned his skin cinnamon brown. He wished for a friendly shower, that he might feel clean in some new and intimate way. But today his wish was in vain. So he drew a long breath of the forest’s newly made oxygen. Then he forgot himself.
He dropped anchor in Kealakekua Bay just after four o’clock and stared out at the same crescent-shaped coastline that Captain Cook had seen two hundred years before. But unlike Cook’s arrival, there were no double-hulled canoes carrying the Alii rowing out to meet him; there were no bare-breasted, Polynesian nymphs swimming playfully round his ship, ready and willing to climb on board and bestow their own special kind of aloha.
Buenaventura offered his own spurious observation:
“Captain Cook... What a crook!”
Aboard the Scoundrel Julian was at home wherever he found himself at day’s end. After eating supper he watched the radiant colors of a glorious sunset. At dusk the stars appeared low and bright over the calm waters of Kealakekua Bay, and few onshore lights glared against the depths of infinity. Julian felt at once diminutive and boundless. Sitting on deck he devoted himself to the practice of tying and untying knots.
NORTH OF THE BIG ISLAND, with the south coast of Maui already in sight, the Scoundrel’s engines began coughing like a smoker after too many Pall Malls. Finally each, in turn, belched a last gasp of blue smoke and sputtered pathetically into silence. Julian went immediately for his tool kit and tried to adjust the carburetors just as Kamehaloha had shown him. After a full hour of diligent tinkering he could not make the engines turn over, and the Scoundrel was cast adrift in the calm waters of the Hawaiian archipelago.
The straight between the Big Island and Maui was well traveled, and surely someone would come along sooner or later to offer assistance. Julian was not feeling upset at Kamehaloha over the Scoundrel’s breakdown, rather he was perturbed by his own mechanical ineptitude.
“A fine mess you’ve gotten us into this time,” taunted Buenaventura.
“I’m sorry,” said Julian. “I tried to adjust the engines, but it’s not working. Maybe you have a suggestion.”
“I wouldn’t be making any plans,” the parrot croaked.
“Thanks for the encouragement,” said the captain.
Julian hoisted his distress flag and determined to wait. About an hour after they were stranded a boat full of camera-carrying tourists pulled up alongside the Scoundrel. “What seems to be the trouble?” called the tour guide from the head of his boat.
“Both my engines are down,” said Julian.
“How long have you been out here?”
“Not long. Only an hour or so.”
“Do you want a lift back to Kailua?” he offered.
“Actually, I’d rather not leave my boat,” said Julian. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d contact a two-cycle mechanic and have him come out to give me a little help.”
“Do you have water and food?” the tour guide asked.
“Plenty of each,” Julian confirmed.
“What’s the name of your boat?”
“Scoundrel,” said Julian.
The guide looked at him rather queerly. “Are you sure you want to wait? It might take quite a while for help to arrive.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Julian.
“Then drop your anchor and sit tight,” said the tour boat captain. “Try not to move off your position until somebody gets here.”
“Right!” said Julian. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“That’s what you think,” said Buenaventura.
Julian was truly disappointed that Tamara Sly had not returned in time to sail with the Scoundrel—that he had not waited a little longer for her. Were they to be stranded together off the Kona coast, a serendipitous opportunity for intimacy might have been theirs. Not that he needed such a contrived situation to charm a woman. Or did he? In truth, he’d not dated anyone since the break-up of his marriage.
Julian moved to the one mirror on board and began examining his own face. He was momentarily struck by the curious reflection of some former self. He looked relaxed. Sun-colored high cheekbones seemed to brighten his aspect. His brows were light and sandy, as were newly grown whiskers. His earlobes and the tops of his shoulders were crimson from time spent in the tropical sun, and fine skin flaked off his forehead after initial sunburn. Still, he very much liked the rich coloring he’d acquired in Hawaii, for he’d not had a decent tan in years.
As the sun went down help still had not arrived, and Julian concluded that he and BV would spend the night anchored offshore. In the distance Mauna Kea was cast in dramatic silhouette against the cloudless golden sky, and the tranquil waters off the Kona coast also gleamed in the twilight. He cooked pork and beans on his propane stove. He ate a mango, drank some sangria. He put out a variety of seeds and dried fruits for Buenaventura. Together they watched the stars come out, and the ocean rocked the cruiser gently, as if it were a newborn’s cradle.
“Why do we lose touch with the wonders of nature?” Julian asked rhetorically.
“Speak for yourself, cowboy,” advised Buenaventura.
Julian laughed as he swallowed some of the sweetened wine. He ate one of BV’s sunflower seeds and said, “I suppose it’s very different in your world—the animal world.”
His familiar did not speak, but seemed to nod in acknowledgment.
Now in full darkness Julian lay on his bunk thinking:
‘Longest night of year,
Or deepest night of soul,
Perhaps one’s vestigial longings
Always make it so...’
Eleven years ago, as a family of three, they had celebrated his daughter’s twelfth birthday with an outing to Sea World. After touring the complex they’d rode the trolley to San Diego’s Gas Lamp Quarter to shop for his daughter Kirsten’s birthday present. Julian no longer remembered what she’d chosen but he did recall a disagreement between Kirsten and Kelly, his ex-wife. His daughter had displayed one of her distinctive tantrums, while Kelly turned a stoic cheek. Once the fight was settled they eased the friction by strolling the tree-lined boulevards and pathways in Balboa Park, eating ice cream cones and watching street musicians perform in the outdoor amphitheater.
During the next seven years marital intimacy and familial cohesion had deteriorated silently and steadily, and in the end Julian and Kelly had come to the mutual conclusion that progressive diminution was far worse than separation. The eventual divorce was anticlimactic.
Having bought their Torrey Pines house when California real esta
te was a terrific bargain, the sale of the property left them both financially comfortable. Kelly and Kirsten moved to LA. Kirsten, now nearly an adult herself, remained dispassionate regarding her parents’ divorce, and floundered for a time trying to find herself. Eventually she moved to Seattle. Julian rented a condo in downtown San Diego.
Then, at age fifty-two, his company’s Board of Directors presented the ‘option’ of early retirement to himself and others. The offer was not an ultimatum, but Crosby was no fool. Downsizing was a mark of the times, as well as a reality in his own life! The severance package put on the table was overly generous, and given a set of uncertain alternatives, Julian was not disinclined to being bought out.
Here on his boat, amidst a tangle of ropes and hooks, he recapped the rather hideous highlights of a luncheon held in his honor the day of his so-called retirement.
After several rounds of drinks and a catered meal, his fellow employees presented him with the rather extravagant gift of a Rolex watch. Each co-worker offered congratulations, their own professional insecurities obvious in their barbs. Julian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“You’re a lucky dog,” said Denny Jackson as he handed him the watch. “Now you have all the time in the world!”
“Easy for you to say,” Julian returned good-naturedly. “You still have your job.”
“Look, Crosby, next year it’ll probably be one of us. And they won’t be offering us the sweet package they gave you!”
Julian remembered telephoning Kevin Miles once he’d left the luncheon.
“Taking the afternoon off?” asked the broker.
“I may be taking the rest of my life off,” said Julian. “The guys at Palisades gave me a retirement party this afternoon.”
“I didn’t know you were retiring early,” Miles said.
“That makes two of us.”
“So you’re not entirely happy about it?”
“I really don’t know how I feel yet, Kevin.”
“A pat on the back and a boot in the ass, eh?”
“And a pretty sizable check, too,” said Julian.
“These days it’s SOP, my friend.”
“I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“At least money’s not a worry,” Kevin consoled.
“I guess time is the real enemy,” Julian stammered.
“That’s the truth,” Miles agreed.
“I’m too young to be cast away.”
“Of course you are, Julian. But perhaps you have to embrace this as an opportunity! Tell me something you’ve always wanted to do,” said Miles. “Something you never imagined you’d have the guts to follow up!”
“How would I know?” said Julian. “Choice is a rather novel idea in my life.”
“I’m serious,” his friend persisted. “What’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”
“I suppose I always wanted to buy a boat,” Julian confessed.
Julian could hear that Miles was preoccupied with another task as they spoke, and the lack of singular attention irritated him. “You never seemed much like the boat type to me,” said the broker. “But who am I to question your dreams? You’ve got the money.”
“I could buy a houseboat or a cabin cruiser and dock it at Sausalito Harbor. After all, why should I tether myself to this place?”
“Or you could head over to Hawaii,” Kevin suggested. “Have you ever been there?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Julian.
“Ten years ago I got a great deal on a condo. I’ve been over there dozens of times, and I’m telling you, Julian, you’ll come back a new man—that is, if you come back at all!”
How odd that an off-the-cuff conversation had turned into reality, detail by detail! Though Julian Crosby was certainly harboring no regrets. On the contrary, he felt grateful to Miles for rekindling his fantasy. And as the first fiery rays of morning light engaged the new day, Julian rose slowly from recapitulation and assessment to discover his anchor was gone.
ALL REFERENCE POINTS now receding, and balance and dimension in serious question, Julian kept track of the days and wondered just how the Scoundrel had been set adrift. He saw not a single ship on the horizon, though he thought he might have heard the hopeful sound of an airplane’s motor, circling. He continued searching the sky for fifteen minutes after the sound faded. Nothing. Except a solitary Calico Pennant dragonfly. If he thought he’d known loneliness before, the overwhelming magnitude of abandonment now settled over him like a cacoon.
“Captain Crosby, I’ve learned that a threat of mutiny is circulating amongst the crew,” revealed Buenaventura.
“But you are the crew,” said Julian.
The bird turned a somersault on his perch. He ruffled his feathers, winked at Julian, and began chattering riddles. “Merciless life laughs in the burning sun...”
“Birdbrain!” Julian protested.
“Nothing but ocean,” the parrot mocked, shaking his yellow head.
Indeed...
By night the fragmented images of dreams danced round the borders of Julian’s prescience, but with each morning prospect and promise faded in the dizzying gray circumference, and hope turned into parcels of doubt regarding his rescue. Though not once did he feel fear. Each hour spent in this whirlpool of dismissal seemed to promote a curiously heightened sense of self-awareness. Anticipation engaged him on a more subliminal tangent.
How many days had it been? Eighteen, he thought. Though by now his count might be off. His blond beard grew full and bristly; his lips turned purple, swollen, and cracked. He heard only the rolling swells day and night, and the circling plane as it made its curious once-a-day incursion.
Many futile attempts to re-start the Scoundrel’s engines caused Julian to renounce all trust in the rationality of the mechanical world. Yet even had he been able to coax the motors back to life, on which heading would he have sailed? All sense of direction had been lost by his third day adrift. Now he floated without reference upon the unfathomable Face of the Deep.
Night came again and the castaway lay upon his cot. He moved without restraint from cabin into cosmos and back again. He dreamed of himself as a much younger man in a state more virile than he’d ever truthfully known. Hurled over waves and plunged into aquatic troughs, he had an ejaculation, and awoke feeling incomplete.
With the drone of dimensional drift resounding hypnotically in his ears (or was it the habitual appearance of the spectral phoenix circling once more overhead?), Julian got to his feet and climbed the ladder to the head. The morning sky was gray and threatening and the sea was rough. Tossed over rolling walls of foamy water, then flung over breakers with the finality of castigating judgment, the Scoundrel survived as thunderous curls crashed against prow. The foundling held on for dear life as the parrot flapped his wings frantically and tried to free himself from his tether.
“All is lost! Abandon ship, Captain!” screamed Buenaventura.
“Hold on tight!” Julian called.
“We’re out of time!” proclaimed the parrot.
As the curtain of fog parted before him, Julian could distinguish beaches ringed by palm trees, and lush mountains crowned by low clouds. An island lay directly ahead. A tumultuous tide hurled the Scoundrel toward a protected cove.
Just then the bird broke free from his tether and took wing. Cutting through a stiff wind BV flew with conviction for the perceived safety of the rainforest, and Julian called after him desperately, “Wait! Wait!”
But the macaw was gone.
The novice sailor tried valiantly to steer his craft to a gentle landing, but whirling and pitching the Scoundrel defied guidance. Finally thrown from the head to the deck, Julian clung to a railing, barely avoiding being tossed overboard.
Moments later the ship ran aground on top of the barrier reef. Julian climbed to his feet and stared out in astonishment at the island’s sandy shoreline only a hundred yards away. He sighed gratefully. A vigorous swim reunited him with dry land.
/> CHAPTER 6
Around The World
IT WAS NOT YET DAWN but a crowd of curiosity seekers and well wishers gathered in the dim light on the tarmac at Miami. Each onlooker was hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Amelia Earhart dressed in flying togs and silk scarf as she climbed on board her Electra for take-off.
Publicity for this around-the-world flight attempt was, thanks to G.P., quite intense, and a company of journalists, along with a newsreel film crew, stood by as several mechanics made last minute inspections. Available earlier for reporters and photographers, the pilot and her husband had retreated to the privacy of an empty airplane hangar to say their farewells.
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