“Where am I?” he muttered. “How long was I lost at sea? Is it possible I’ve landed in the Marianas? Or the Carolines? Have I drifted as far as the Phoenix Islands? Kiribati? Vanuatu?”
Finding strength, he moved onward. He had to try. Lives were at stake. Possibly his own... His muscles begged for rest with each step. What if they were all dead when he reached them? Who would he tell? Such morbid thoughts were not even to be considered, he told himself. The plane had not exploded upon impact. They were not dead! Of course they weren’t...
But once he reached the perceived crash site, he found only a clearing lush with ferns and flowers. A solitary dragonfly whirled round and round his head. Where was the plane?
Running on line. Will repeat. Will repeat...
Julian was immediately confronted not only with the enigma of the missing plane, but with a tumultuous landslide composed of his fears and regrets from the past. Hopes, memories, fantasies, doubts, questions, faded dreams: his emotions tumbled over him unexpectedly and pressed upon him like a rockslide, as if all the loneliness he’d ever denied demanded expression at this inopportune moment. Tears dampened his sanguine cheeks and he found himself wondering whether he might have died and was encountering an afterworld of his own making.
“She’s over there,” directed Buenaventura at the last possible moment before Julian lost himself to a plethora of emotional confusion.
“Where are you, BV?” he called.
“Time is on our side, Captain.”
“Did you see the plane?” Julian implored.
“Remember Eddie Rickenbacker!”
“The plane!” Julian insisted. “Didn’t you see it go down?”
“Over there,” repeated Buenaventura.
“But I’m sure I saw a plane. The engines were choking. Just like the Scoundrel’s engines. I know that sound all too well. And I’m sure it came down near this spot!”
On his perch in a nearby fir tree Buenaventura turned a full somersault, then spread his wings and flew directly onto Julian’s shoulder.
“Maybe I only thought I saw a plane,” Julian theorized. “I might have been delirious from swimming ashore. The waves were huge and the effort took nearly all my energy. There was one brief moment when I thought I had drowned. Or that I might drown... Then, suddenly, I was face down in the sand, carried in by a wave. I looked for you, BV. But I couldn’t see you. Then I heard the engines. When the plane emerged from the clouds, I thought I could see the pilot’s face. Or perhaps I was confused from having had too little food and not enough water while we were lost at sea. It was several weeks, you know. At least I think it was, wasn’t it, BV?”
With Buenaventura riding on Julian’s left shoulder, the companions started back down the trail Julian had cleared on his frantic ascent, and at times, with his wings spread out for support and balance, it appeared that the bird was steadying his partner, the man.
For here Buenaventura was at last delivered from the indignities of human domination and returned to his natural element. Having spent the first year of his life performing in a four-parrot sideshow in front of the Pioneer Inn in Lahaina, he was reborn the day Woody Emory rescued him from such a degrading fate. Of course BV always felt a little out of place riding over the pipeline on Woody’s shoulder, but at least with Woody he was free to live in the natural world. Since his most recent adoption, however, BV was contemplating a rather more inclusive return to ephemeral life.
Julian returned to the beach where he’d first swum ashore. The size of the waves had diminished considerably, and with the emergence of the sunshine the sea in the cove shone a tranquil shade of blue. The wet fronds of the palm trees glistened like cellophane, and the moist earth radiated a primal, musty scent.
During his trek up the mountainside it had become apparent to Julian that even if the island were populated it was not going to be easy to locate the inhabitants. Umbrage was dense and there were no obvious paths leading from his landing point. He would have to camp out on the beach overnight—possibly longer.
“Welcome home!” said Buenaventura.
“If nobody comes for us, I don’t know what we’ll do,” Julian lamented.
“Easy come, easy go,” said the bird.
To retrieve much needed supplies from the Scoundrel, Julian stripped off his clothes to make the swim. Reaching down to untie the laces of his deck shoes he noticed that the crystal of his Rolex watch was shattered. He held the watch to his ear, but it was not ticking. The face of the watch appeared distorted through a water bubble, and Julian saw that the hands were frozen at 7:20, the precise hour that the Scoundrel had run aground on the reef. For the castaway such an irony was devoid of humor; possibly his future had ceased to exist at that moment, and perhaps he’d even begun backtracking into some primitive, if sublime, existence. He took off the watch and placed it inside the pocket of his perspiration-soaked shirt before wading into the water.
Once on board the Scoundrel, he sorted through the many items he’d purchased in Hilo. Though wet from rain and ocean surf, most items were still useable. Of course his most immediate concern was food. After weeks adrift all that remained of his stock of provisions was a can of beans, some mushroom soup, half a box of oyster crackers, two dozen dried apricots, a little condensed milk, and about half a pound of Kona coffee.
Yet one thing concerned him even more than his meager food supply: the need to devise some kind of anchor for his boat. Disabled as it was, the Scoundrel remained his best hope for returning to civilization.
While he had enough chain link to reach bottom, Julian was able to find nothing on board he could employ as an anchor. Abandoning a more conventional approach, he put on his snorkel and went over the railing to assess the damages and further examine his boat’s position upon the reef. To his relief the hull of the cruiser had not been breached, but the waves generated by the storm had tossed the small boat onto the coral ring in such a way that it was now leaning precariously starboard. Julian remembered seeing four heavy steel spikes in the compartment that contained the scuba gear and he determined that he might drive these into the coral with his hammer then chain the boat right onto the reef itself. It was worth a try.
Back on deck he took off his mask and began collecting the tools necessary for the project. Before going back into the water he fastened four lengths of chain onto various parts of the boat, then tossed the ends into the water—one off the prow, one off the stern, one off the starboard side, and the other off the port side. Ready to proceed, he spit into his mask, took up his tools, and went over the side.
Though he did stir up enough sediment to cloud his vision a bit, it was relatively easy driving the spikes into the coral, and it was not long before he was back on board his boat, pleased with his own ingenuity and secure in the opinion that his craft would not break free and drift out to sea. Furthermore, the boat was a beacon for anyone who might be searching for him.
Intent upon improvising a barge, Julian collected his water containers. In a calculated act of abandon he poured out all the remaining fresh water and sealed the lids tightly so that buoyancy could be achieved. He’d seen fresh water flowing in the mountain streams, but there was of course no way of knowing if the water was contaminated by bacteria or parasites. Still, if the island water was not potable, the few swallows left in his container were not going to sustain him much longer anyway.
He began lashing together the airtight containers with nylon rope. He wrapped them with the tarpaulin and secured it. Liberating the foam rubber seat cushions from their protective plastic sheaths, he zippered his meager food supplies, as well as several flares, into waterproof envelopes for a journey over the waves to shore.
Pushing the homemade barge over the side, he jumped into the water. And using the inertia of the incoming waves he guided the ferry toward land. When he finally dragged the supplies on shore he was exhausted and lay down upon the sand, breathing heavily and repeating the name of the Savior.
In burnished t
wilight, Robinson Crusoe Crosby busied himself preparing a shelter. He wrapped the now dry tarpaulin round the extending roots of a ten-foot diameter banyan tree, creating an enclosure with immovable supports. On the beach he lit a fire. He cooked beans and brewed coffee for his supper. Buenaventura ate the last of the oyster crackers and watched as Julian sent up a distress flare; the exile never really believing there was anybody nearby to see it, and BV knowing well that they were not alone.
AT DAWN, Julian awoke to the most glorious chorus of birdsong he’d ever heard. Finches, egrets, doves, honeycreepers, hornbills, plovers and mynas: thousands of birds sang in unison to herald the coming of the light.
Excited by the feral cacophony, Buenaventura paced prodigally over his keeper’s chest and stomach. The parrot blinked his eyes furiously. He spread his plumage and cocked his head to listen. In time he joined the aria.
Julian held out his finger as a perch, and BV climbed aboard without probation. Pulling back the canvas flap of the improvised shelter, Julian poked his head outside. The sea was calm and the sun was bright. Beneath a mauve sky the Trades blew through the tops of the trees. It was a sublime morning in Paradise.
Yet Julian felt overwhelmed by such unlikely circumstances. Three months ago he was passively moldering in a monotonous job, practically dead, though lacking the sense to lie down. Until this moment he’d failed to realize that, for years, he’d been desperate for a miracle, all the while never really expecting any significant change in his life. “So what am I supposed to do now?” he called out. The congregation of birds abruptly stopped their singing.
Realizing his most immediate concern was finding food and water, Julian took one of the containers to a stream he’d seen yesterday on his way up the mountainside. He filled it only halfway so it would not be too heavy to carry. As for food, he knew he’d be able to fish, but he would need vegetable sustenance as well. Without straying far from the beach or the stream he made another foray into the rainforest, this time searching for edible plants rather than phantom airplanes.
His initial quest was encouraging, for he was able to locate a patch of ripened raspberries and a number of fallen coconuts. He also gathered seeds shed by a kukui tree. For his part, BV collected a cache of pine nuts and spread them out upon a piece of driftwood just up shore from their encampment.
With a single blow, Julian split one of the coconuts upon a rock. Immediately he drank the sweet milk inside, for he was desperately thirsty for anything other than water. He broke open several more shells and scraped the gelatinous fruit from inside the nut, savoring both taste and texture.
Later, he took his mud-stained clothes back to the stream and washed them as best he could in water that tumbled over smooth, slick stones. Back on the beach he spread his laundry over a rock to dry.
Staring at the horizon, he thought: We fear what we desire most. And courage ends up being the ability to confront that which we fear. If we spend our lives living close to the flame, we burn out quickly; but if we never test our courage, the experience of living grows tedious and meaningless.
For in the process of testing courage new dimensions are revealed. Again and again we see ourselves reflected in nature—from the social structures of the smallest insects to the power of the most awesome volcano! We are as patterned as the veins of a leaf. We are thinking cells; we are waves of light. We are the memory of variations. Ultimately, we put our peculiar charge upon existence...
Caught in a philosophic spiral (was it of his own making?), Julian knew he must look away or go hopelessly insane.
Having had recent fishing practice while adrift on board the Scoundrel, albeit with limited success, casting a line was not a totally foreign pursuit for Julian. So, baiting his hook, he walked down to the waterline. There sandpipers and plovers fed upon swarms of gnats, then frantically danced away from the incoming surf. They left lines of three-toed tracks on the wet sand, which were in turn washed away by receding water. Julian took a position on a rock not normally touched by the waves and put out his line.
And having come to the conclusion that his survival might depend upon a singular effort, Buenaventura went alone into the rain forest to search for the particular elements necessary to maintain himself. With a strong beak and powerful jaws he cracked open palm nuts. He sipped nectar and pollen with his tongue and fed upon succulents growing in the salty soil of a windswept beach. There were virtually hundreds of seeds available for him to eat, but he found he also had to ingest large amounts of clay to neutralize toxins contained in some local sources of food.
As evening came Julian cooked three small mullet fish over a driftwood fire. The smoke rose into the air, and the aroma of the frying fish made his mouth salivate. The sensation surprised him, for over time he’d learned to ignore feelings of emptiness and hunger. He split open several more coconuts and collected more raspberries. Feeling a hunger for leafy vegetables, he did not refrain from experimentation, though he had no way of knowing which plants might be edible and which might be poisonous.
Sitting in front of the fire and eating fish right from the skillet, Julian knew that soon he would have to undertake an exploration to determine if the windward side of the island was inhabited. It would not be an easy journey though; that much was obvious by looking at the succession of promontories he would have to traverse. Now he needed rest and fortification. His ordeal at sea had not only sapped his physical strength, it had exhausted him emotionally as well. Having spent only two days as a castaway he was still growing accustomed to the idea of survival. As he finished eating, BV flew onto a perch a few feet away.
“How are you faring?” Julian wanted to know.
“For some of us the rainforest is a hard place to make a living,” concluded the bird.
“Do you like raspberries?” Julian asked. He held out one of the fruits in the palm of his hand. Buenaventura took the offering in his beak. “They’re good, aren’t they?” said Julian.
Once the coals of his cooking fire burned low Julian watched the twilight slowly fade. Darkness grew full, and the pervasive sounds coming from deep within the forest suggested a secret and mysterious population, still unknown. Tonight sleep would not come early, so Julian lay back on the warm sand and watched the stars emerge along the curve of the encompassing dome.
CHAPTER 10
Invocation
AMIE'S FAVORITE SENSATION was feeling the morning dew on her bare feet. And as the sun climbed above the horizon and began to warm the leeward side of the island, she walked serenely along the velveteen pathway that she had worn over time. With her she carried two handmade baskets in which to place ripened breadfruit and bananas, mangoes, papayas, and the light green, ovid fruits from a mulberry tree. She knew exactly where to find a cluster of mabolo trees, from whose limbs she collected four-inch- round butterfruits. Prolific in season and tasting similar to peaches, Amie considered them a special treat.
From time to time she gathered elements indigenous to the rain forest to make articles necessary for her solitary lifestyle: items such as paper tree bark, from which she fashioned long burning torches; or extra thin bamboo shoots to use as sturdy needles. She collected perfect feathers, which she sharpened with shark’s teeth to make writing quills; and she harvested tumeric root for dye and ink. From the poinciana, which Amie now called ‘flame of the forest,' she collected the long brown seed pods filled with pea-sized nuggets. Along with colorful dried berries, she strung the seeds on braided threads to make necklaces, bracelets, and waistbands. Often she would pick the splendid white plumeria blossoms to wear in her long hair.
But Amie’s survival effort surpassed her acumen as a gatherer; for not half a mile from the place where she made her home, she discovered a long-abandoned, overgrown taro field. Over time and with dedicated labor she managed to reconstitute part of the once productive field into a high yielding farm.
At yet another location she came upon a self-perpetuating sweet potato patch and she successfully transplanted some o
f the tubers adjacent to the taro field. Year round she grew more than enough of the two distinct roots for her needs.
In mid-afternoon Amie took her nets to the enclosed, pearly green fish breeding pond that she’d reconstructed during her second year as a foundling. Bordered by lava rock, succulents, and a few patches of reeds, fresh water flowed from underground and mixed with ocean tides, allowing a unique system of aqua culture to develop and thrive.
Amie spent long hours diligently studying the food chain in order to maximize a marine harvest. She deduced that bacteria and other microorganisms broke down organic matter into nutrients that were recycled back into the pond. Photosynthesis enabled the phytoplankton and seaweed to use the nutrients for growth. The zooplankton ate these plants, as well as larger fishes. Young, small fish entered the lagoon from the sea through a grate of poles set in the channel that connected the smaller pond to the sea. Grazing on algae, plankton, and small shrimp, the small fishes would grow too large to escape back through the grate into the sea. Amie was able to take many varieties from the pond, including mullet, surgeon fish, goby, scad, and eels. Carnivores such as barracudas and jacks were at the top of the food chain.
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