by David Jurk
An hour later, I set up the boson’s seat and showed her how to wrap the hauling line around the winch, and how to secure the tag end once I was in position. She was quick to understand the mechanical aspects of the equipment; I felt confident in her hands. And I needed to – Windswept’s mast was nearly twenty meters tall; a fall from that height onto the deck would probably kill me. And wouldn’t that be a completely idiotic way to die after all that had happened?
Climbing into the harness, I walked to the base of the mast and clipped the bosun’s seat into the main halyard. I had the spare antenna and anemometer assembly with me, and a tool belt with what I thought I’d need. Looking over at her, I nodded, and she immediately began winching. In a moment I was off my feet and swaying, trying to hold myself in position with a hand against the mast. She winched steadily, and I sat as still as possible, watching the rock walls around me as I rose steadily into the air. The top of the mast was about three meters below their peaks, so I’d not get a view over the top, but it’d be close. I relaxed back against the harness and let the winch – and Aulani – do the work, enjoying the view of the lake and the interior of the caldera. I could see quite clearly the work that had been done on the canal, the marks of the blasts that had opened the lake to the sea beyond. It was an intriguing sight - the flow of darker blue ocean entering the lake through the channel and swirling around the far walls, curling inward to slow and settle.
As I approached the top of the mast, the wind began tugging at me, stronger here near the tops of the peaks and I had to focus on the task at hand, maneuvering very deliberately around the rigging lines that came to a juncture just below the masthead.
“That’s it!” I yelled down to Aulani, holding out my hand, palm down. I watched as she stopped winching and carefully fed the line into the cam lock, tugging it hard. It was a bit nerve-wracking, being up here, but she’d done everything perfectly, so there was nothing for it but to get on with it.
For the next few minutes, I set about assessing the best way to deal with what was turning out to be more damage than I’d first thought. The anemometer mount had been bent by the force of the wind tearing off the sensor, with one of the rivets pulled completely free of the mast. And the antenna cable had stretched to the point that it needed to be completely replaced, and I’d not brought cable splicing gear up the mast with me. I was deciding exactly where to cut it when a voice rang out – a stranger’s voice from above me.
“Guid day, laddie,” it boomed. “Ah see yoo’ve got a bit ay a mess thaur.”
I spun in the harness, swinging from the mast, and nearly flipped over backwards. Fighting to stay upright, I frantically craned around, searching for the source of the voice, my heart hammering.
“Oer here - tae port, laddie, tae port!”
Still fighting to stay balanced in the swinging seat, I looked left and finally caught sight of a shock of wild white hair under a blue canvas watch cap perched on top of a ruddy, grinning face that peered down at me over the rocks above. We looked each other over as he brought a pipe to his mouth and drew on it with obvious gusto. In the breeze, the smoke wreathed briefly about him then was caught and whisked away.
“Hello,” I called out, finally getting a hand on the mast again, trying to bring the swinging to a halt. “You gave me a bit of a startle there.” I finally managed to wrap my arms around the mast and come to a stop. “Didn’t realize anyone was here.”
His face split into a wide grin, the pipe clamped firmly in his teeth. I guessed him to be in his sixties, or if well-preserved, maybe early seventies. The unruly white hair, combined with the pipe, gave him a bit of the look of an Einstein, though Einstein never had the ruddy complexion, and the eyes that stared down at me were a piercing sky blue, lit with open amusement. I’d always thought Einstein had such very sad eyes, as though burdened every moment of the day and saddened by a universe that only he could see. And this was not Einstein’s voice either – our friend at the top of the rocks owned a gruff bellow and an accent so fully Scottish we might as well have been in Edinburgh.
“Aye,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “Ah hae a voice loch a foghorn, ah ken. Glad tae see yoo’ve managed tae hang oan.” He looked down at the boat, then back to me.
“Forgife mah puir manners, awe rite? I’ve nae introduced myself. I’m Charlie; that’s Charles Ross by way ay Glasgee.” He pronounced ‘Glasgow’ with such a rolling brogue that I struggled for a few seconds before converting the sound he’d made into something intelligible. It was, in fact, a challenge to comprehend anything he said. Without the manifest openness of the man, without the transparent face that played out his every thought across it, it would have been far more difficult.
“Owen, here,” I said. “Owen Joyce.”
The blue eyes went wide, the face first sagging in open disbelief before beaming in adoration; it was as if I’d introduced myself as the King himself.
“Saints abune,” he bellowed, “a fellaw Celt! E’en thocht frae th’ wrang side ay th’ brine. It’s grain tae meit ye, laddie – surely it is.” Then he looked down at the boat where Aulani stood transfixed, taking this all in.
“An’ woods ye introduce me tae yer brammer guidwife?” he said.
“Oh,” I said hurriedly. “She’s not… uh, this is Aulani.” I hesitated. “Aulani Lotulelei. We’re not…we’re just traveling together.”
He raised a garrulous eyebrow at me, a look of mild disapproval momentarily clouding his glowing face, then looked down at Aulani and removed his cap, nodding his head by way of a bow.
“I’v nae seen sic’ beauty in mony a silvery moon,” he said to her, waving the cap over the edge of the rocks as though it were a cape. “Ah am most definitely plait tae make yer acquaintance, miss.”
“Hello, Charlie,” she shouted up, waving like a schoolgirl. “Very pleased to meet you!”
There was a bit of a silence then; presumably he was contemplating the same question in his head about us that we were about him – what of the virus?
Again, he seemed to read my mind.
“In case th’ tois ay ye woriat ower th’ state ay me, lit me teel ye straecht I’ve nae seen a sool since th’ lest supply boat, an’ ‘at has bin; weel, lit me hink noo.” He paused to suck on his pipe, contemplated the blue sky, then beamed down at us. “’At was mair that fower months ago, reit? Lang afair thes madness cam tae us, aye?”
He pulled the pipe from his mouth, jabbed the stem at us.
“An' ye folk,” he said, “yoo swatch th’ picture ay health. Ur ye oan th' guid side ay thes badness?” I had to let this sink in for a moment before his meaning came to me.
“We are not sick,” I said simply. “But there’s a long story there – for both of us.”
He cackled with delight. “Aye is, laddie, aye is. An' I’ll be delighted tae hear th' lang an' th' cuttie ay it, aye?”
Swaying gently in the boson’s seat, I stared up at him as he beamed happily down. I suppose I should have been cautious, even dubious – supply boat four months ago? What the hell was he doing here that long? And why was he alone? In fact, it occurred to me that he hadn’t said he was alone. But as I watched the ruddy, weather beaten face puffing happily away at his pipe, I simply could find no other feeling in my soul than trust.
“Weel ‘en,” he suddenly shouted. “Introductions behin’ us! Ur ye guid folk in th’ muid for a braw Scottish lunch?”
I glanced down at Aulani, who smiled and nodded at me – apparently, she’d reached the same conclusion about Charlie that I had. Or maybe, I thought, she just knew.
Turning back to him, I smiled. “If we wouldn’t be shorting you, Charlie – we’d love to break some bread with you.”
He laughed; well, actually he bellowed. “Shortin' me, laddie? Ah nae – yoo'll see; Ah coods feed th' queen’s army an' hae enaw left tae start oan th' navy!” He paused then, and the smile faded a bit. “Nae 'at there’s likely much left ay either noo, aye?”
“Too right,” I sa
id. “Let me get myself back to earth here, and we’ll be delighted to join you. How do we find you?
“Och,” he said, beaming again. “Yoo’ll fin’ a path ower yon.” He jabbed toward the west side of the lake with his pipe, vaguely. “Steep, but there’s a cable thaur fur climbin'. Ance ye reach th' top, there’s only th' one place in secht. Follaw th' path at yer feit straecht tae mah duir.”
The white beast took it upon herself to spring up on deck at precisely this moment, and Charlie did not fail to notice the new arrival.
“Hen God,” he shouted, at the top of his lungs. “tis a wee moggie!” He was so immediately animated he nearly fumbled his pipe out over the rocks into the lake below, and it was only with a very deft grab that he saved it.
“Whit dae ye caa it?” he demanded, looking back at me.
“Well,” I mumbled, “It’s a she, and we haven’t decided on a name yet. We just say ‘cat’.”
“Och, laddie,” he said, openly horrified. “that’s nae natural. Ay creatures, e'en 'at wee a body, needs a proper nam tae be called by, aye?”
I could only nod helplessly as I heard Aulani gaily laughing below me.
“Weel, laddie, thee ay ye 'en, fur lunch!” And with a last puff of smoke, he disappeared.
For a few moments, I just sat there; the energy and sheer vibrancy of the man leaving a vacuum in his wake. How amazing this all was – to save ourselves in this strange volcanic lake only to come upon this bonnie Scotsman. Then I remembered I’d climbed up here to accomplish some work, and for the next hour set about doing what small repairs I could manage. When I’d done what I could, I called down to Aulani, and within a few minutes had reclaimed solid footing on deck.
She was excited, animated, chatting happily on about the good fortune of finding someone alive; it was clear to me that she felt the same way I did – there was just something warm and real about him, something comforting, like a favorite uncle. She suggested we take a gift with us – she was right, of course; I hadn’t thought of it, and simply had no notion what would be appropriate. She looked at me with raised eyebrows that said, dear god, you can be slow at times.
“He loves the bottle, Owen,” she said gently. “Can’t you see it in his face?”
“Right,” I replied. “Of course.”
“Do you think,” she asked demurely, “you’d be able to part with something nice?”
Laughing at her open guile, I nodded. “I’ve a very nice bottle of single malt here. Very smoky stuff.”
“It’s not your last?”
“Oh, no. Not to worry!”
She was grateful, her eyes warm on mine. I smiled back, already heading toward the locker where I had the bottles stashed, each wrapped in foam. It felt like Christmas to me – no, more like Christmas Eve with all its anticipation and excitement of what lay ahead. And for me, the promise of a new day blossomed, a new life. A life so changed in so short a time; a life no longer lived alone, no longer empty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
WE ENDED UP taking the kayak across the lake. It would have been very troublesome work to move Windswept, and with the anchors holding so well, I just didn’t want to risk it. So, we took the kayak.
After I freed it from the netting and settled it onto the lake, Aulani settled into the forward seat with the cat, two sweaters and a bottle of Laphroaig cradled in her arms. The cat stared suspiciously at the water, not at all pleased to be so close to it. Aulani looked up at me.
“You built this lovely thing, Owen?”
“Yes, a long time ago.”
“What have you named her?”
“Two Cherries.”
She smiled.
“That’s lovely.” She waited as I settled into the aft seat, then twisted around toward me.
“Windswept, she’s a wondrous thing to have built,” she said. “Her power, I’ve never seen anything like it. The work to build a boat like her must have been very technical; so many things to consider, to think about.” She ran her hand along the varnished cedar of the kayak’s deck. “But this, this is not of the mind, but of the heart.”
“She’s got a ton of flaws,” I said. “She was the first boat I ever built.” Her eyes had changed color with the sunshine and I stared into them.
“But thank you, so much, for saying such kind things about her. She has a special place in my heart, and she waited many years hanging from a garage ceiling for me to find the time to finish her.”
“What is this wood?” she asked, running her hand lightly over the hull.
“It’s called western red cedar,” I answered. “It came from a huge old wine vat that was being removed from a monastery in upstate New York. Some of the pieces run the entire length of the boat, nearly seven meters.”
She tilted her head, a wry smile on her lips. “And now she is here, floating on a lake in the middle of a volcano, in an island in the South Pacific. I think she forgives you for hanging her in a garage.”
We both laughed, and I shoved off, heading for the western rim.
Once there, it was as Charlie had said – the trail up the volcano was steep but obvious. Aulani skipped up it with her usual gracefulness and I followed behind, far more deliberately. Coming up out of the volcano, we stood on the edge of a broad meadow, sparse with thin grass, a low, dark house perhaps a half-kilometer distant. From where we stood, a narrow defile cut through the meadow, heading – apparently – to the house. It was a scene of stark beauty.
And it was cold. Now up out of the natural shelter of the caldera, the early winter wind coming at us from the southeast had an icy quality. And the sky looked like winter; low, scudding clouds had swept in on the early afternoon winds and smelled of rain. Without a word, Aulani handed me one of the sweaters and I slipped it on, watching as she struggled with a heavy seaman’s sweater of mine. I took it from her and told her to just stand still, then slipped it over her head and took the cat and whiskey from her so she could get her arms in the sleeves.
We followed the gravelly path toward the house, the cat protesting in my arms; she was obviously anxious to explore on her own – or perhaps just disgusted with the cold.
“This is such a dramatic place,” Aulani said, moving up close to me.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I replied. “It’s literally like living on a rock.”
“Owen, what is that on the house?”
“Where?”
She stopped and pointed. “There,” she said. “Something is draped over the roof.”
I squinted against the dark background of clouds. There was something there, an odd set of lines encircling the house. Then I realized what we were seeing; I’d seen something very much like it once before, many years ago and many miles north of here.
“The house is chained to the island,” I told her. “Those are huge chains, literally draped over the roof, bolted down into the rock to keep the house from blowing away in a cyclone.”
“Oh, my god,” she said. “You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”
“Yes, in New Hampshire. A weather station on top of a mountain where the wind blows very, very hard.”
“It must, to need chains.”
As we reached the house, I saw that I’d been right; the links of chain were as thick as my fingers and the turnbuckles the size of dinner plates. In turn, those were attached to great metal stakes driven into the rock. It lent the house an air of fantasy, as though it were a balloon needing to be tethered to the earth to keep from floating away.
Then out of the door bustled Charlie, dressed in an old waxed cotton slicker, the watchman’s cap parked jauntily on his head. With surprising agility, he leapt forward, clasping Aulani and then me in an enthusiastic hug, smelling pleasantly of wool and pipe smoke.
‘Tis grain tae hae visitors. Especially in times loch these.”
I reached out and took his hand, holding it in both of mine.
“A pleasure,” I said. “Truly glad to meet you.”
“Come in, come in –
gie ay thes icy beest ay win'.”
We followed him into the house, immediately enveloped in the warmth from a huge wood stove that dominated the center of the single room. The interior was finished completely of wood – floors of wide pine, clean but scarred with years of use, and walls and ceiling of shiplap. An open stairway led to a second floor – probably a loft.
The overall effect was like being in an old windjammer, or for me, reminiscent of lake-side cottages from my boyhood in Michigan. Broad windows faced north, looking out over the sea; an ancient brass telescope on a tripod stood before them, the metal worn with handling. The view to the north, especially to the northeast, was stunning; several small, mountainous islets stood just off the coast, rugged and wooded. They provided a view not unlike something you’d see in the Pacific Northwest. Examining the telescope, I wondered if he’d tracked our approach through the cyclone five days before.
The place was delightful; comforting and appealingly relaxed – rumpled, but scrupulously clean. Bookshelves were built into several niches along the walls, overflowing with books and magazines. Something was quietly bubbling away on a small cooking stove and lent the place an appealing pungency of spice and smokiness that made me feel immediately welcome – and hungry.
He bustled about in a flurry. “Gie those heavy things aff ye,” he demanded. “Gie ‘em tae me, I’ll pit ‘em up fer ye.”
I handed him the Laphroaig to free my hands, murmuring something about how pleased we were to have encountered him. He took the bottle and seeing the label, his eyes rose to my face, a look of open reverence in his eyes.
“Tis a great hin, laddie,” he said. “Thes is a grain barry hin'.” He took the Laphroaig over to a shelf in the small kitchen and settled it carefully down amongst several other bottles.
As we wrestled the sweaters over our heads he reached for the cat, to free my hands, raising his eyebrows at me by way of permission. I nodded, and he gently scooped her from me. She settled immediately against him, her motor going fast and loud and her claws reflexively convulsing into his wool shirt. He stroked the little thing slowly for a few moments, rapt.
