Unleashed

by Patrick McLaughlin

  *****

  “Shit!” Snapping back into reality, Shawn captured his subject in a perfect barrel, ripping and rumbling across the reef off this tiny island in the Tuamotu Islands chain of French Polynesia. Since the day he first lifted the Canon Mark II 1d, Shawn’s rough and tumble reputation had grown and he was now the acknowledged go-to photographer for pro surfers. He smiled. In the last fifteen years, he had come a long way since the days he spent in Puerto Rico, sitting behind the gritty sign he planted at such great breaks as Gas Chambers, Domes, or Maria’s, inviting: Great pics, you Surfing. He was inevitably discovered when his images, submitted by publicity-hungry surfers, began appearing in surf magazines around the world.

  Unbeknownst to him, Shawn’s surf photography eclipsed the work of most of the current pro surf photographers of the day. In just a few years he was being hired to shoot big-wave surfers such as Irons, Slater, and Machado. One time, Transworld Surf even flew him to France for a session with the legendary Tom Curran. His life had become a whirlwind of opportunities until, physically and emotionally drained, he gladly ended his freelance days when Deep Surf Apparel, the number one surf brand, offered him a permanent gig as their head photographer. At first communication was a challenge, except, of course, with the Southern California staff where Mexicana’s outnumbered gringos. But with most of his English grammar and vocabulary picked up as he went, he was saddled with a hodgepodge of expressions and clichés. Even he never knew what would fly out of his mouth.

  Regaining his focus after this long day in the sun, he watched a shabby skiff hop across the near shore sets of waves with three bronzed surfers hanging on for dear life. The inner waves were one-third the size of the outer reef break, yet sizeable still, so the boat picked its way carefully as not to overturn. The boat hit the beach at full throttle and the outboard kicked up violently when it hit the white sand only a few feet from where Shawn stood, the prop still spinning and screaming above their greetings.

  “Yeeehaaah, we are gonna blow minds!” Shawn whooped amidst mid-air high fives, knowing today’s session was an epic one and sure to bring accolades from Deep Surf and surfers alike. His camera this day was a battered and worn prototype provided by a friend and substantially more advanced than all the Canon Professional DSLRs he had ever shot with. Along with the capable 800mm telephoto lens extending off the front, he felt as if he was holding a weapon rather than an imaging device. The lens hood was held tight by yellow crime scene tape he snagged at Fa'a'ā Airport, in Papeete. Shawn was tough cosmetically on his gear, but the lens glass was always spotless. Didn’t have to be pretty, just had to work, he mused.

  Once ashore, the three tube studs slid their boards into padded travel bags while playfully slapping each other around when unexpectedly, five ghostly figures emerged from the jungle bordering the beach. Of the five, the one in the center seemed to be the leader as the only tribesman holding a long spear. His nose, ears and breasts were pierced with small bones of animals or at least they all hoped they were the bones of animals.

  When they spotted the island inhabitants, the youngest of the three surfers yelled to the others, “Yo, I think these native-type guys wanna have us for dinner! Dinnaaaah is served!”

  Shawn at once thought, Powers!

  Drake “Par Tee” Powers, at age fifteen, was the cockiest surfer of the three and with a mouth to match. Drake had rocketed into the pro surf scene as some kind of “surf savant” but, thus far, his maturity fell far behind his physical prowess. Shawn didn’t even have to turn to know who had uttered the words. Hot damn, what the hell is wrong with that kid? The others also turned to look as Shawn motioned with his open hand for silence, but not before his guide Tagoga erupted in terror, “Time we go now, Mistah Shawn. We go now!”

  “Whoa Nelly, are you shittin’ me? We are gonna celebrate with a toke of doobie and some rum crushers and now that we have some local flavor to join us, what’s the rush pal?” Shawn said. “Look, they’re smiling — and it seems like they’re as amused with us as we with them.”

  Tagoga shuddered as he begged Shawn, “No, no! We go now Mistah Shawn!”

  Shawn couldn’t help himself. The light, placement, and stature of the tribesmen were way too much for the artist in him. “Hold on my bronzed buddy, oh man, this is waaaaay too cool and groovy, shit!”

  With little hesitation Shawn swung his camera around, but this one action sent Tagoga into a tailspin causing him to lunge for the camera Shawn held, screaming, “Aiweeeeeeee noooooo, dey no like!”

  Tagoga collided with Shawn who embraced the camera and attempted to hide it from the tribesmen. “Okay. Take it easy. I get it, no pics, but can you speak their language?” Shawn whispered.

  “No talks please Mistah Shawn. We go now, please Mistah Shawn!” Tagoga sobbed.

  Not totally ignoring Tagoga’s pleas, but feeling he was in tune with the tribesmen in some cosmic way, Shawn fished into his cargo pocket and pulled out a handful of Jolly Ranchers.

  “Tagoga, see, candy, the universal language, check this out,” he said as he casually strolled towards the natives.

  Shawn had the candy hand outstretched with the wrapped JRs clearly visible. Behind his back, in his left hand, was nestled a compact camera.

  “No, no, no, it is very bad!” Tagoga pleaded while the natives remained unmoved as Shawn slowly approached.

  “How y’all doin’?” Shawn opened with his friendliest cowboy drawl as if he was walking into a Texas roadhouse full of drunken ranch hands. Shawn particularly liked cowboy slang as a means to counterbalance his Puerto Rican accent and although he knew he sounded ridiculous, he loved the looks he got. Stopping a few feet away, Shawn selected a lime green Rancher, unwrapped it, and plopped it into his mouth with a loud “mmmmmmmm, so good!”

  While rubbing his belly and smiling, he offered a purple Rancher in the direction of the five men. The leader took one step forward and promptly snatched it from Shawn’s hand, smelled it, licked it with his tongue like a serpent, and slowly placed it between his lips. Once in his mouth, the chief’s nose bone lifted high, revealing a look of pleasure with an enormous grin. Apparently the sweet pleased him and with a nod his jungle buddies each picked one from Shawn’s still-open palm. As if on cue, others tribal folk came forward from the dense underbrush, first other warriors followed by women and small children.

  Spotting a shy little girl in a sarong, Shawn experienced one of his “ah ha” moments when a photo opportunity appeared in his mind. Gesturing towards the girl while looking at the candy-sucking chief, Shawn invited her to try one of the cherry reds. “Hola chica, your fearless leader loves the sweets; I think he might be okay if you had one too.”

  Shawn gently dropped it into her cupped hands and simultaneously reached for the small camera tucked into his waistband behind his back, muttering to himself, “See, all good Tagoga, yeah! I’m gonna get a quick, cool Nat Geo-type pic of the happy island people.”

  He raised the camera, auto-focused, shot, and a brilliant light flashed directly into the whites of the tribesmen’s eyes. Startled and confused, the look on their faces seemed to signal fear, but they did not run (God, he wished they had)…they got very, very pissed! Shawn now stared directly into the angered faces of more than a dozen tribal warriors and regretfully thought, What a rookie move, I forgot to turn off the auto flash!

  A demonic howl bellowed forth from the chief, bringing even more warrior-like tribesmen out from the dark jungle as the women and children evaporated as silently as they appeared. The full fury of the islanders descended upon Shawn as he double-timed it backwards towards their camp, his arms up high to prevent their sticks and spears from hitting his face. Struggling to run as he tried to protect himself, he tripped on a piece of driftwood, hurtling backwards towards the sand. In an effort to break his fall, he reached out with both hands, releasing his small camera which now flew in the direction of his tripod and gear.

  “Shit, I’m a goner.”

&
nbsp; Shawn jumped to his feet, fearing the worst as they had now closed down on him, but the violence abruptly turned away from him and towards the mound of equipment just a few feet away.

  Ahh, shit no! Not the goddamn Sentient! Sally is going to beat me if I ruin her camera!

  None of the others in his crew needed instructions as they took off frantically towards the boat.

  Tagoga cried out, and was heard even above the screams of the tribesmen, “You gonna be next Mistah Shawn. When dey done with cameras, dey gonna come for you! Hurry, they come, run, save yo’self!” as he stumbled towards the dinghy.

  Each of the surfers, carrying only what two hands could handle on the run and leaving a half dozen boards on the beach, were already in the skiff. With arms outstretched, they seized Tagoga and threw him headlong into the boat. Regaining his footing, Tagoga hurried to the back of the boat and pulled the outboard to life, then jammed it into gear, twisting the throttle to full at the exact instant Shawn reached the terrified surf team, crashing down on bodies, boards and bags. The small boat, with all aboard, shot over the waves. Shawn, visibly shaken, babbled apologies, trying to make sense of what just occurred, repeating over and over to the others “the flash, the flash, I should have turned off the flash, how could I be so stupid!”

  They all quietly looked back towards the shoreline where the tribesmen, satisfied they had killed the cameras and extinguished the evil, suddenly melted into the jungle as softly as they had appeared.

  Looking back through the hazy distance towards the beach, Shawn’s mangled equipment lay battered in the sand, soon to be washed over by the incoming tide. One nameplate, “SENTIENT II,” bent but legible, glowed as it captured the last rays of the day.

  “No, no flash, Mistah Shawn, flash no scare them.”

  Shawn turned his eyes to Tagoga as he stammered, “Mistah Shawn, Dey tink da picture box will steal d’ere souls. Dey spirit is sacred! They make you dead and eat you to take back new soul!”

  Tagoga paused for a moment and watched Shawn’s ashen face try to make sense of his explanation.

  Shawn hung his head low, away from his lost gear. Wow, no kidding, thought Shawn, their souls, no shit.