Stunned and angry, Julian backed out of the cockpit and walked away from the ruined aircraft without turning to look. Such paramount deception had become intolerable. Charging down the mountainside he bellowed out the newly recognized name of one once loved, now despised.
“Amelia! Amelia Earhart! If you ever were here, you are long dead. Amie is nothing but your vain attempt at immortality. And I am nothing more than your mirror!” He took the amulet worn round his neck and threw it into the forest.
“I’ve seen through the glass, Amelia. Paradise cannot be found or lost. Paradise is…nothing!”
WHEN IT SEEMS ALL IS LOST, what can a man do but begin again? But he must begin slowly, deliberately, re-establishing trust in himself day by day. And though the world has dealt him a crushing blow, he must try to have faith in the world, envisioning a time when all will again be right.
There were things Julian could do, efforts he must make. Or die in his tracks trying. First there was the matter of the dead person. Decency demanded that he have a proper burial, so Julian located Amie’s propeller blade shovel before hiking back to the clearing where the camouflaged airplane retained the corpse.
Afraid that lethal bacteria might contaminate his clothing, Julian stripped before crawling back into the fuselage to remove the body. Carrying decomposed flesh and bones over the fuel tanks and out through the cockpit proved to be a wretched struggle, but once again in daylight, Julian laid out the remains near the broken wing of the plane. Then he cleared a place in the ferns for a gravesite.
The rain had stopped but the soil was heavy with moisture. Julian talked to Buenaventura as he labored. It took him the entire afternoon to dig the grave, and he buried the man at sunset without a prayer. He placed a smooth stone at the head of the barrow, and upon it he carved a simple epitaph:
Here lies Fred Noonan
Navigator of the Electra
Who made a wrong turn!
“I’m relieved that’s finished,” he said to BV.
Julian walked back to the site of Amie’s former home. He was terribly thirsty, and not wanting to put his hands in the stream, he utilized half a coconut shell to drink from a rivulet that flowed from the lower pool of Seven Sisters. Of course he was hungry, too, but the storm had ravaged the fruit trees, and he found precious little to eat. Julian made a torch to light his way, and with BV riding upon his shoulder he walked back over the promontory. There was one more task he needed to perform before resting.
He went straight to the Scoundrel, hoping the containers full of fuel were still on board. Happy to find that they were secure, he hauled one of the cans onto the sand well away from the boat, and bathed himself, head to toe, in gasoline. The fuel burned his skin, but Julian knew that no bacteria would survive such an assault. He lay in the surf for a full hour before putting on his clothes and sleeping upon wet sand.
As morning dawned, he awoke to sunshine. The trade winds were blowing once again, and the glorious bird song he’d grown accustomed to hearing at sunrise filled spaces so recently left empty by artifice. Though today he had no time to lament. He had much work to do.
Upon a bit of driftwood Buenaventura laid an array of seeds and fruits, which he had gathered during the night for his companion. Julian found the gift and nourished himself. BV perched nearby and watched with satisfaction.
Julian’s first task was to collect as many of his possessions as possible, especially his tools. To that end he made a semi-circle through the windswept vegetation across an upland radius of half a mile. During the course of the morning he found his water containers, his fishing rods and nets, three buckets, a knife, his first aid kit, some cookware, a long piece of rope, his canvas tarp, and the cardboard tube in which he’d stored his collection of nautical maps. On the beach he laid out his recovered possessions.
Wrapping his mechanic’s tools in a homemade sling, he went up the mountainside to the place where the Electra lay shrouded in mystery. Reaching the airplane, he began stripping away the remaining vines and creepers, finally exposing the entire length of the battered and broken aircraft. Over the years much of the casing had rusted, but the cowling that covered the wings and engines still shone bright silver in the afternoon sun. From wreckage and debris Julian made a platform on which to stand. He tried to loosen the bolts that held a protective sheath over the internal engine works. Evidently, they were corroded shut. A well-placed blow with his hammer managed to loosen two of the rusted bolts, and he muscled the cover free. With intense curiosity he examined the Lockheed’s engines.
Julian was certainly no mechanic. Not yet, anyway. But a motor was a motor, was it not? And any fool could see that the Electra’s Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines were not appreciably different from those that powered the Scoundrel. Removing the air filter housing, he exposed the carburetors and examined the fuel intake jets. Their configuration was not quite identical to those of the Scoundrel’s inboard engines; but with a little creative modification perhaps certain fundamental parts might somehow be adapted to repair the Scoundrel’s impaired engines. He certainly meant to try.
Disassembling the two carburetors Julian was careful not to mislay a single spring or screw. For he knew each part might prove crucial in his bid for escape. At each stage of the operation he drew a schematic on the palm of his hand. There could be no tolerance for ignorance, no substitute for accuracy.
“Of course this is lunacy,” Julian told himself. “How can it possibly work?” Unwilling to trust even his skepticism, he crawled again into the Electra’s fuselage to retrieve Noonan’s charts, his sextant, and his drift indicator.
And with incessant hunger cramping his stomach, and sweat drenching his face and half-naked body, Julian worked sunup till sundown with single-minded determination. “I have never fully understood the properties of an internal combustion engine,” he acknowledged. “But I can learn. I will learn!”
With an assortment of engine parts bound in the cloth sling, Julian started back down the mountain. Ever since the storm Buenaventura had not left his side. Again this evening Julian stopped near the Seven Sisters for water. He was hungry—especially for protein. Fondly remembering the taste of Amie’s turtle stew, he stared at the disarranged remnants of her domicile. Amelia’s last home...
Julian might have allowed himself to question the meaning of his unlikely encounter with the lost aviatrix, but sensing a metaphysical trap, he stopped himself. Such an assessment would have to wait until his environment was more stable. If ever that were to happen...
At present his efforts were methodical. And meticulous! He meant to dismantle not only four dormant engines, but the entire disposition of his remarkable circumstance. He would study each element, determine purpose, assure function. And he knew that he alone was the source from which redemption might emanate.
That night he fished for his supper with little success. He caught sand crabs in the twilight, ate bitter greens, sucked the juice from a split rind. He tried in vain to slake his thirst with cupful after cupful of water collected from the Seven Sisters’ stream. At the edge of forever, his dreams were not of Amie—nor of Amelia Earhart—but of Kelly and Kirsten.
Next morning Julian tinkered endlessly with the Scoundrel’s carburetors: substituting, improvising, re-conforming. Having assembled what seemed to be an integrated system, there was, in the end, no way to test re-invention, for it was impossible to start the engines with the boat beached upon the sand. Confronted with the monumental problem of how to move the Scoundrel off the beach and back into the water, Julian knew he was not strong enough to push, pull, or drag the cruiser even one foot, let alone one hundred feet or more! Perhaps there was another answer. His winch and pulley, along with yards of chain that had once secured his lost anchor, now promised uncertain deliverance. If only he could devise a method of fastening the winch to an immovable object offshore.
Looking out to sea, Julian remarked, “That’s a helluva lot of water...”
“Sure thing, brother,” laughed Kong. “And that’s just the top of it!”
True, there was nothing atop. But what about below, he asked himself? If he was able to drive spikes into the coral as a makeshift anchor to secure the boat, then why not go below and attach the winch that way as well? Levers could be employed to turn the ship. Perhaps ramps, too. Or even rollers. After all, the beach did slope toward the water. And the winch and pulley would clearly function beneath the surface...
For the first time since his dive off Molokini Island, Julian donned the scuba gear. He swam out to the coral reef and went below to assess the potential of his plan. Before the afternoon light had gone he was driving spikes into the coral to serve as support for the winch.
Next day Julian spent connecting chain link to the boat’s prow and attaching the winch and pulley to the newly fashioned, underwater grapnel. Calling up all his strength, he cinched the remaining slack from the chain, then came out of the water to begin inserting wedges cut from tree limbs underneath the boat. With these he might inch the cruiser forward, then stabilize the new position by tightening the chain with the winch and pulley. Certainly the process would be arduous. Progress would have to be measured in inches gained. But in time Julian was sure he could move the boat back into the water. Shear determination would compound his physical strength. “This boat will reach the water!” he insisted. “I will move it!”
Two weeks' labor: half the distance covered. No doubt the system worked, but Julian’s strength was failing by the day. Fishing was poor; he was living on nuts and berries gathered by Buenaventura. Grateful for whatever provisions his loyal friend might provide, the man was, nevertheless, slowly starving. But he would not give up! Each day he positioned the wedges, then put on the scuba gear and swam out to tighten the towing chain. Back on shore he gave every last bit of strength to the task of prying the boat forward, inch by painstaking inch. Exhausted, Julian finally collapsed face down on the sand, where he lay nearly an hour. Summoning reserves from a source where none should have remained, he put his shoulder to the task again. And again…
Twenty-five days passed, and the Scoundrel now rested at the periphery of sand and sea. One decisive effort and the seemingly impossible chore of moving the boat off dry land and back into the water would be accomplished. Julian resolved not to desist until the Scoundrel was afloat again, and he swam out to the winch intent on moving the huge cruiser the final few feet necessary for buoyancy.
But as he moved the crank of the winch forward and fixed the ratchet in place, the chain groaned under the strain. One notch tighter, and it snapped with fierce recoil. “No! No!” Julian screamed as he held the severed chain link in his hand.
Frying a small fish over an open driftwood fire at sunset, the castaway’s dejection was evident. The once immutable look of determination was now absent from his face. His posture had gone slack. His vision grew dim. An entire month’s labor wasted, and possibly his last real hope of reconvening his contracted life lost, he felt utterly defeated.
Assessing the disparity of his situation, he turned to BV and moaned, “I don’t want to remain here. I want to go home. But it’s no use. With the Scoundrel dry docked, I can’t leave. And no matter how long I’m stranded here, I will never begin to approach the balance which Amelia was able to create.”
“What balance?” Buenaventura derided. “Her legacy is eternal enigma.”
“Perhaps time does not really exist until the moment of death,” Julian premised. “Within this succession of days and years, within this realm of joy and sorrow, perspective is impossible.”
“And maybe that’s the human condition,” said BV. “Could be the struggle for redemption is programmed into your DNA.”
That night seemed very long indeed.
MORNING DAWNED in gray light, and Julian awoke to the sound of copious waves breaking onshore. Shortly thereafter it began to rain, though the intensity of this storm was unlike Wili-Wili. The frequency and height of the waves reminded him of the storm that had first brought him to the island. At the time landfall seemed to be the very redemption he now regarded with unequivocal contempt. Again he used the canvas tarp to build a lean-to on the beach.
The rain fell steadily and the incoming waves grew larger throughout the morning. At first, Julian perceived the rainstorm to be yet another assault upon his comfort and well being. But as he watched the swells roll over the reef and break upon the shore, a new sense of hope and possibility issued from deep within his humanity.
The Scoundrel now rocked with the denouement of each ten-foot curl. It’s movements toward the water seemed imperceptible at first, but grew incrementally more obvious as the tide increased. Julian could barely believe his eyes. The progress that surely would have involved another week’s work had the towing chain held out was being accomplished in minutes by the pounding surf.
Julian ran down the beach to where his boat was still aground. Between breakers he examined indentations near the ship’s stern. Marks in the wet sand confirmed his impression. The boat was definitely moving toward the water. Shrieking with delight Julian ran for safety as the next pipeline thundered ashore. Turning back, he watched as the mighty crests pummeled ship and shoreline. The Scoundrel inched forward again. With each wave he came closer to hegira. Julian begged aloud for the storm to continue. And when the penultimate foamy wave crashed ashore, the Scoundrel at last broke ground and bobbed freely in the shallow waters of the cove.