Distrations; Jittery Goat Update (What the heck is going on?)

Last year, near this time, I embarked on what I thought was an ambitious step forward for my website; I started a YouTube channel.

Starting with the premise of putting as little time as possible into it, it continued much more difficult than imagined. Little time remained for me to write. Rather than spend most of the time editing with do-overs and jump cuts, I just would go completely through a session with no stops. Much like talking to someone. Then I picked the best of the two or three. That was it, but still required a lot of time. My hat is off to those who are successful as podcasters.

Also, this time last year, a novel was started. It centered around the time I worked at a state hospital for the criminally insane (a term no longer used). It became personal and emotionally taxing. I sputtered. Suddenly another idea for a novel sprung up, and off I go in another direction. What occurred? Two other novels—one published and the other going through a rewrite at the moment.

What this all means, if you’re still with me, is that little attention has been given to the Jittery Goat website or YouTube channel. As a strategy for growing an audience—it’s not.

My feelings were, there are enough short stories, excerpts, and vignettes to keep a reader interested. Again, not a great strategy for growth, but this is a one-man show, and one man can only wear one hat at a time; otherwise, you look silly.

Ciao, or is it chow?

A Coup in Paradise; Episode 7

For the next couple of months, I will summarize my current novel, A Coup in Paradise. Each installment will be numbered so the reader can identify where they are in the story. 

Episode 7

The waters rested as calm as a meadow pond. Trace dropped the sails a couple hundred yards from a dock and started the motor. He motored to the dock. The bumpers kissed it lightly. He quickly tied up.

No one came out to welcome him. For some reason, he expected a grand welcome, but soon reasoned his visit was not that unusual. Likely it was a tropical stopping point for many who island-hopped as he was doing. It was now late in the day. He opened a can of spam and fried it in a skillet over a one-burner stove. And quickly heated water for a cup of instant coffee. He made the spam into a sandwich and sat on the roof of the cabin with his eyes cast along the beach.

He was content with no one welcoming him. ‘I would be like a circus side show; expected to perform and smile condescendingly at the poor, humble natives as they glowed appreciatively at the great white man. Why do white men always think they are special when, in fact, all they are is different? There is something wrong with a man who craves attention and adulation. The first Polynesian to come face-to-face with Captain Cook should have told him to get his dirty rat-infested ship off our shores, along with your dirty flea-bitten men. Hmm, I think they did say that.’

‘Maybe I should not even be here. How would my grandpa, my dad, or me feel if one day we saw a load of Polynesians show up on the ranch? Do you mind if we look around, and if we get hungry, how ‘bout if we slaughter a couple of steers? I’m glad these people aren’t like the Germans. What are you doing here? And then start tossing mugs of beer. Nah, they’d drink the beer then toss the mugs.’

That sandwich tasted good. And so did the coffee.

Trace lay on the roof of the cabin. He watched the sun sink into the western horizon. ‘It was a good day,’ he thought. ‘Better than what I thought it would be. Right now is perfect. I hear nothing but gentle waves against the shore and the wind passing through the palms.’

Gulls and turns picked along the shore. An occasional intrusion of territorial rights caused brief interruptions of shrill squawks. A gull perched on the pulpit as a lookout for anything deemed consumable. Terns swirled around the naked mast like fluttering tissue paper. 

‘For the moment,’ he thought, ‘I am at one with the world around me—the birds, the fish, the wind, the waves. My thoughts control nothing. Everything about me is mechanical, just as nature is. My advantage is that I know it. I can choose starvation, and animals can’t. He’s driven by instinct. God gave him that. He has no choice. He’s driven by something he has not the capacity to even contemplate. My life is about choices. I chose to eat or not. I chose where to live. I chose what to wear. I chose. I chose what to eat. I chose friends. I chose a wife. I chose to procreate or not. What guides my choices? It’s beyond intellect or emotion. If intellect alone, why do we make so many irrational decisions? If emotions alone, why do we at times logically decide not in favor of them? It has to be that man is answerable to something greater than his intellect or emotions. It’s God; man alone is spiritual. He builds alters, shrines, temples, makes sacrifices, and makes promises to God. Properly used, it balances the emotions and intellect of men. All great thinking has come from searching for the meaning of life and God. If a man makes a great discovery in his quest to prove God does not exist, something caused him to search. No one has searched for Thor or Athena. They are only myths. But the intellectual person knows God exists; he just doesn’t want the choices offered.’

‘Is this the end of my journey? Have I come only this far? There must be more. A single day across a small expanse of water can’t be enough. Men wonder for years to find truth and purpose. I am not that special that it is found within a day. I’ve come too far and waited too long for this. I can’t sail back tomorrow and hand the boat back to Coop and say, Thanks, pal, mission accomplished.’

Trace sat and leaned against the mast for quite some time, until the sun’s glow disappeared. Soon stars punctured the darkness, and wonder filled his thoughts. He turned his back to the sea and toward the island. A glow came from a lonely light over the door of a small building. The brief cry of an infant broke the sounds of nature, followed by two barking dogs. As if with the assurance they were the only two, the barking stopped.

The exhaustion of the day caught up with him. He went below and laid down. A gentle roll from waves put him to sleep.

Trace slowly raised from his sleep by larger waves. He climbed from the cabin to gray morning skies and heavier waves. He climbed back below and turned on the radio. The weather report indicated storms would reach the island sometime in the midafternoon.

“Enough time to walk around the island,” he murmured.

Trace stepped from The Tinytanic and started his walk around the island. He saw two boys spearfishing and a woman hanging colorful garments on a line strung between two palms. A man raking a garden lifted his head and waved. After three hours of walking along the beaches and following footpaths, The Tinytanic came back into view.

Far into the western sky, dark clouds rose from the sea. ‘There it is,’ he thought, ‘the storm. It appears to be early. I’m back to the boat in time.’

He arrived at the dock and checked the lines to make sure they were secure. From the cockpit, he watched the dark clouds grow from the sea. In a short while, heavy drops exploded on the water and beat and splashed against the boat and dock.

Trace stood in the rain for a moment to take advantage of nature’s shower. Dripping, he went below and dried with a towel. He brewed a pot of coffee to the sound of the pelting rain. After pouring a cup, he sat on the bunk and watched the raindrops snake down the glass of the porthole.

The wind picked up. Trace stood and looked out the porthole. The rain came down near sideways. The boat rocked. Waves dashed above the dock.

‘If not for the reefs,’ he thought, ‘this storm might prove to be a real problem. In the morning, it will be fine. I will go to that little clump of green I passed on my way here, Vanaküla.’

The rain lasted an hour and the winds a little longer. By the time a can of beef stew warmed, it was as if nothing had occurred. The deck and dock were dry. The stew tasted good. 

A Coup in Paradise; Episode 6

 

For the next couple of months, I will summarize my current novel, A Coup in Paradise. Each installment will be numbered so the reader can identify where they are in the story.

Three days later, shortly after breakfast, Coop drove Trace to the marina. Coop helped Trace unsnap the canvas cockpit cover.

Trace tossed his gear into the cockpit of The Tinytanic and stepped onboard.

Coop stayed on the dock. “You better check the bill.”

Trace lifted a seat’s lid and looked inside. “No bilge water, dry as a bone.”

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Coop asked.

“How long do I have before you start charging me to charter your boat?” Trace replied.

“That boat was going to sit in my yard until somebody bought it,” Coop said. “Few want a boat that small. It was just going to sit there. Take as long as you like, no charge.”

“Coop,” Trace said in a serious tone, “rent my room. I have a few things in there. Toss them in a box and put it in your shed.”

“What on earth?” Coop said.

“I just have a feeling,” Trace said. “It kept me awake all night.”

“I thought you might be planning something; you brought nearly all your gear with you. I thought that was strange.”

“So rent the room, okay?” Trace said.

“Once you’re bouncing around out there in the real sea, you might change your mind. Drop a line or give me a call on a ham radio. I have one in my spare room.”

“Rent the room,” Trace said firmly. “It’s called burning my bridges.”

Coop reached out and fairly grasped Trace’s hand. “Somebody called last night and asked if the room was available. I’ll call them back.”

“Thanks,” Trace said.

“Drop a line and give a call now and then,” Coop said.

“Can you tie me off?” Trace said.

Coop untied the bow and stern lines. He placed his foot against the bow and shoved The Tinytanic away. When it cleared the dock, Trace tugged on the starter rope. The engine sputtered. A puff of blue/gray smoke belched from the engine, and it settled into a whiny hum. Trace steered toward the harbor and open sea beyond. Trace and Coop exchanged waves and smiles.

Trace cut the engine, hoisted the sail, and set a course for Dravuni Island. He calculated an eight- to nine-hour trip. The weather forecasters reported mild weather. Trace mounted two small wind generators into a cylinder sleeve on the stern. It trickled a charge to three batteries.

Trace sat in the cockpit with his arm resting on the tiller. Obsessively, he continually glanced at the compass. He worried about being off course. A coral reef surrounded the Kadavu Island group. He did not want to come to rest on a reef or have the hull ripped open. After a couple of hours, he gained more confidence and maintained a steady course without obsessing.

He had not looked aft in quite some time. He turned toward Suva. It seemed as if his heart suddenly skipped a beat. And suddenly it beat fast as if to catch up. It appeared Fiji and Suva had been swallowed by the sea.

His heart caught up; he smiled and murmured, “This is what it’s all about and more. It’s just me, the boat, and the sea.”

His words turned to thoughts. ‘Every man should have a journey before the burden of reality weighs in on him. It’s about coming to know himself. How to lead and be led. When to be serious and when to play. The seas teach a man to set a course and calculate. To work with the wind and currents. To know when to sail into the winds and against the currents and not expect the same results as sailing with it. To avoid dangerous waters. To be vigilant. To inspect your vessel for leaks and repair them. To listen because the sound of the sea tells a man much.’

A tern swooped in from the south and came to rest on the pulpit. ‘He instinctively knows all about the sea and its ways. Who put that in him? If by experience the species would have died out millenniums ago. It was gifted to him by a wise and careful planner. What has been gifted to me? Reason? Is it that alone? Purpose—that’s what keeps a species going. Each thing has a purpose. With everyone but man, it is instinctive. Man must look for his purpose, and in finding it, I think he finds the Creator.’

‘The Bering gave a man little to think about. The sea needed constant vigil. Rogue waves, sudden squalls, icy decks, and interminable rolling seas gave no room for solitude and introspection. Men who live in The Bering and leave are worse off than when they arrived on their first encounter. I hope my old mates get away from there before they grow emotionally numb.’

Trace recalled a day when The Bearing raged. The crew tossed in the mess for hours without a word; too emotionally drained to display so much as a twitch. Eyes blink as if they resented opening again. When it was finally over, it was as if nothing had happened.

Trace thought, ’It was as if death was so certain, all of us accepted it. We all looked at living corpses. I wondered if death had already occurred and that was the first stage of the afterlife. I never want to feel that way again.’

Trace forced himself to think of pleasant things. ‘Dwelling on bad things from the past is like trying to fit into clothing worn as a child.’ However, he found that after a moment or so, he no longer had to force it. He smiled. ‘I am here on wonderful waters sailing toward tropical islands that many would consider paradise. And this is a comfortable vessel, loved and well-taken care of. The winds are good and favorable. But I must be aware; the sea is always the master and cares little if you are a saint or villain. To hungry seas, they taste the same.’

Trace checked his watch. He looked at the compass. “Steady,” he murmured. He scanned the seas over the bow. ‘Soon I will see the reefs. I will sail cautiously through the opening. It’s nearly a half-mile wide. If I can’t sail through that, I shouldn’t be sailing.’

Near the time expected, the sounds of breakers reached Trace’s ears. He lifted his head to see the waters form a jagged, thin white line of waves breaking between him and the horizon. About fifteen degrees off the starboard port bow, the breakers disappeared. Trace sprung to his feet and altered his course toward the opening.

He sailed past them easily, and any trepidation he possessed was only momentary at best.

On the starboard side, a small clump of green stood alone. “Vanuakula,” he muttered.

As he neared Vanuakula, Dravuni Island, his destination, blossomed also. There was a small port there. And there he planned to spend at least a night.

A Coup in Paradise; Episode 5

For the next couple of months, I will serialize my current novel, A Coup in Paradise. Each installment will be numbered so the reader can identify where they are in the story.

Episode 5

Trace awoke on his third day and prepared breakfast, sausage, and eggs. He brewed a small pot of coffee and sat in a lawn chair a few feet from his door.

Coop was already up and painting the house.

Trace watched the old man move slowly. At times, it appeared painful.

Trace sat his coffee on the arm of the chair and walked over to Coop. “I’ve kind of run out of things to do. If you have another brush, we can make this job go twice as fast.”

“Nah,” Coop said, “I rather enjoy painting, and besides, you’re in Fiji to enjoy yourself.”

“You know something; I would rather enjoy painting as well. And the way I see it, when you insist on not letting me paint, you’re taking some enjoyment away from me. I’ve got a lot of experience painting. I was raised on a ranch, and my granddad used to say if it doesn’t move, you better slap some paint on it. I’ve painted houses, barns, and fences. And the decks of ships.”

Coop smiled and handed Trace a brush. “My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be. You can do the trim work.”

The two-day project abated only by pleasant conversation and long lunch breaks.

At the end of the second day, Trace helped Coop clean up and store away the paint and utensils in a small shed to the rear of the property.

They walked toward the house.

“If it wasn’t for you, I’d be still painting next week,” Coop said.

Trace joked, “What are you going to do with all that time on your hands?”

“At my age, your options are limited.”

“When my granddad slowed down, he began doing things he’d never done before. He took up painting. He drove into San Antonio just to take lessons.”

“I’ve tried painting,” Coop said, nodding toward the house. “I’m not good at details.”

Trace chuckled. “When I was about fifteen, we had a barn that had to be painted. Grandpa gave me a brush and a bucket of red paint. I painted the front, the back, and one side. He did one side. It was amazing; the side he painted blended with the distant mountains. When you look at the barn from that side, you don’t know it’s there. It just blends in.”

“He must be very imaginative.”

“It’s a side I never saw in him, and it all came about by him having the crazy idea he’d like to paint.”

“He never painted before?” Coop asked.

“Never, he couldn’t draw stick men.”

They reached the house. Coop bent down and grabbed a rag. He wiped his hands and tossed it to Trace. “You’ve given me something to think about. So here’s the deal. I’ll give you a month of free rent for helping me paint the house and another for a really great idea.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Trace wiped his hands and handed the rag back to Coop.

“Yeah,” Coop pressed his lips. “Yes, I do.”

“How ‘bout if I pull a couple of chairs under the palms?” Trace said. “I have a couple of beers in the fridge just waiting to be consumed.”

“Sounds good,” Coop chuckled, “but what are you going to drink?”

They sat in the lawn chairs facing the harbor that lay a mile to the north. Coop reminisced about the days when the harbor was not so busy. “Things seemed to be manageable in those days. Look at it now; four ships are waiting to come to the docks. This island doesn’t need that much stuff.”

“It’s a want and need world,” Trace said. “What keeps it going is convincing folks their wants are needs.”

“I suppose I’m to blame as much as anybody,” Coop said. “What need do I really have for a car? Then it has to have gas. That takes a gas station. Then there are tires and spark plugs; it never ends. I don’t need a television and antenna, and before all that, you had to have a station.”

“By the way,” Trace said and motioned to the back of the yard, “what beauty do you have hidden under that canvass? I’ve been very curious.”

“Oh that,” Coop smiled, “that’s my yacht. It’s called The Tinytanic. Until two years ago, I’d sail it around the island or just beyond the bay. A good day on the waves can free a man from whatever troubles him. I suppose your granddad figured a good day riding the range on a horse did the same.”

“Well, my granddad and dad used to say something like that, but they both had their time on the waves.”

“You said you can sail, right?” Coop said.

“How about with me around the island?” Trace smiled.

“Nah,” Coop sat back in his chair. “Just you. You said you’d like to do some island hoping.” Coop pointed south. “Twenty miles that way are a dozen or so islands. She’s ready to go; she just hasn’t had anybody to go with her.”

Coop stood and walked toward the canvassed boat. “Come on, sailors. Let’s lift this little lady’s skirt and see what she’s hiding.”

They pulled back the canvass.

“She’s a beauty!” Trace said.

“I was going to take her out one last time before selling her,” Coop said. “She’s been re-caulked. And she could use some paint topside; I’ll take that off the selling price.”

Trace ran his hand along the hull as he walked around it.

“She’s a twenty-five-footer,” Coop said. “She’ll do well in these seas. I’ll tell you what, take her out for a while; as long as you like.”

Trace walked completely around the boat. He stepped back with an appreciation smile. “Sweet,” he said. “I’ll take you up on it.”

“Let’s hitch it up tomorrow morning,” Coop said. “We’ll pull her down to the marina and launch her. How does that sound?”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, what good is a boat in a backyard? We’ll take it for a short sail to make sure it’s seaworthy, and then you can have her for a while.”

“How long is a while? There has to be some sort of time limit.”

“That will be up to you.”

“If you should change your mind by tomorrow morning, that’s no problem,” Trace said.

“If you should change your mind,” Coop countered, “that will be no problem.”

The next day Trace and Coop hitched the boat’s trailer to his car. They drove to the marina and launched it. A half an hour later, they were a half mile into the bay. And another half hour beyond that, they had cleared the harbor and into the open sea.

Trace handled the rudder, tacking into a westerly wind.

“What do you think of her in the open sea?” Coop said over the splashes of water and a flapping sail.

“She’s sure spunky,” Trace said. “How far have you sailed?”

“Only around the island, and I’ve always kept shore in sight. I’m not one for any other type of adventure.”

Trace sensed from what Coop said he would not take The Tinytanic any further from land than they already were. This was enough to give her a test.

“In the cabin are charts for all the Fiji islands,” Coop said. “At one time I thought I was a good enough sailor to sail to most of them, but it takes a certain amount of courage that I don’t possess.”

“The deep is full of courageous fools,” Trace said.

“It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed my little ventures,” Coop said. “There has been nothing to compare. I’ve never lived life on the edge. I’ve always been the cautious type.”

“Some might think Fiji is a big risk,” Trace said.

“Frankly,” Coop said, “the bigger risk for me was to stay in England.”

Trace looked at the sail and the sea as if nothing had been said.

“There you go,” Coop said, “I’ve opened a door.”

Trace’s attention was removed from the sail and the sea. “I hate it when a door is opened and you’re not really invited in.”

“Sometimes we open the door by instinct; it’s just something we do.” Coop cast his eyes to the sail and the sea. Said. “Then we realize it’s an unwelcome distant relative who wants a free meal.”

Trace added, “Or a stranger.”

“You’re hardly a stranger at this point.” Coop breathed deeply and shrugged his shoulders. “The short of it is I was a POW during the war. My father had a small but successful company that made gaskets for automobiles. Before the war, they did business with France, Sweden, Norway, and most of the countries in Europe, even Germany. It became apparent Germany was losing, but business goes on. It is the constant. Governments change, leaders change, but business is business. English POWs were being executed for the smallest of things. A German businessman contacted my father and told him he could see to it his son would be spared if there was a promise of doing business after the war. My father agreed. And after the war, I made it out of camp and back home. Shortly after the war, what my father did was discovered. It appeared as if he was a traitor. The pressure was so great he took his life. I took over the company. I was regarded as not much better than my father. I sold the company for shillings on the pound. And Fiji her, I come. I had enough to have a comfortable life while repairing—televisions, what else?”

“Did you ever marry?”

“Native woman, Nia. Very pretty. Funny. Smart. And she died—cancer.”

“Children?” Trace asked.

“No, it appears fatherhood was never going to be in my future. It is likely for the best. After Nia’s death, I wasn’t much good to anyone. I depended on her much more than what I realized.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Trace said.

“Thanks, Trace. I know you mean that, but I’ll tell you something: I’m a satisfied man. I do have what they have: survivors guilt, but nearly everybody who lost mates in the war has that. My dad taking his life; I never quite understood that one, but I know it all came about because he loved me. There’s no evidence to prove my life was spared because of what he did. He did what he thought was right—many would have made that decision; many did and never got exposed. It was more common than what we might think.”

“My dad was in Korea. He was a lieutenant in the infantry. He made a decision that some questioned, but it saved lives. Some thought it was cowardly, but there’s a whole lot of men and women alive today because of what he did. Most of his men keep in contact with him to this day.”

“It’s called uncommon valor,” Coop said. “I’ve come to understand it and admire it.”

Trace turned The Tinytanic, and the wind pushed them back toward the Suva’s harbor. Trace used a small outboard motor to maneuver into a dock space.

Trace and Coop stepped onto the dock and tied the boat down. They walked toward the car.

“I’ll talk to the guy at the marina’s office. Wait for me in the car.” Coop turned toward the marina’s office. “When do you want to sail out of here?”

“Maybe in three or four days,” Trace stopped and stroked his chin. “Need time to plan.”

“I’ll see if I can wheedle a couple of free days tied up,” Coop said. “If not, I think we could come up with two dollars a day.” He smiled and walked to the marina’s office.

A Coup in Paradise; Episode 4

For the next couple of months, I will serialize my current novel, A

Coup in Paradise. Each installment will be numbered so the reader can identify where they are in the story. 

Episode 4

Trace flew from San Antonio to Los Angeles and then to Honolulu. He stayed there a night before catching a flight to Fiji. The airport in Fiji was near Nadi, on the other side of the island from the capital, Suva.

Suva played a prominent part during Adam’s time in the South Seas. He considered it his home port. It was where he docked most when he needed cargo or a charter. It was there that he had friends and contacts. Trace asked Adam for names and places, but Adam told him not to waste time following his footsteps; make your own. He brushed Trace’s request aside, saying all those folks from those days have moved on, died, or just sooner forgotten those times.

At the airport in Nadi, he boarded a bus to Suva. The bus reminded him of buses he’d seen in pictures of San Antonia from the 50s. Even though all the windows were open, it still did not blow away a musky odor, familiar yet not sure from where. The seats had long lost any semblance of comfortability, and all the metal railings’ paint had been worn away. The trip lasted five hours. The bus seemed nearly half full the entire trip. No one paid him any mind, and Trace did likewise. In spite of its crudeness, he was determined to make the ride aesthetically enjoyable.

‘I’ve never seen so much green,’ Trace thought, staring out the window. The road to Suva wound through slopes plastered with deep green topical foliage and suddenly darted alongside a stretch of the sea matched only by the sky. ‘If I ever meet a girl with eyes that shade of blue, I’ll ask her to marry me on the spot. Every day I’d look at those eyes, and it would remind me of this.’

At the bus depot in Suva, he picked up a newspaper and looked for a room to rent. The first two he looked at were more than what he wanted. He only wanted a place to lay his head. He envisioned himself being gone for a few days to a couple of weeks and just wanted a place he knew he could come home to.

The third place he called, there was no answer. It was nearly a mile from the harbor. He had a good feeling about the prospects of renting the room advertised. The description seemed perfect. He hired a cab and went to the address on Fulaga Street. He told the driver to wait.

Trace walked up a steep driveway to a small house. It was draped with plants and surrounded by an array of flowers.

Trace knocked on the door. A thin old man with snow white hair came to the door.

“Good day, sir,” he said with an English accent. “Can I help you?”

“Perhaps,” Trace said. “I saw in the local paper you have a room for rent; is it still available?”

“It is,” the man said, “but before wasting our time looking at it, I’ll quote the price. It’s two hundred dollars a month, and I need your first month and last month now.”

“That’s a bit more than the others,” Trace said. “But I’ll take a look at it.”

“Sure,” the man said and stepped outside the house. “The entrance is around to the side. You will have your own entrance. I don’t have any curfews. I’m a little hard of hearing and sleep sound, so if you wake me, you’ll be asked to keep it down, and the next time you’ll be asked to leave.”

“I know my manners, sir,” Trace said.

The man opened the door to the room. It had a hot plate, a small refrigerator, a bed, a chair, and a nightstand between the bed and the chair.

“It isn’t much.”

Trace interrupted the man, “But it’s a place to lay my head. Sorry to interrupt.

“That’s okay,” the man said. “I was about to say the same thing.”

“Can we negotiate a price?” Trace said.

“I hardly think you are in a negotiating position,” the man said. “I noticed your cab drive left your bags at the end of my drive and took off.”

“What!” Trace said.

“Well,” the man said. “To be honest, while you were looking at all my flowers. I waved him on.”

Trace squinted in disbelief. “You did what?”

“Now before you go giving me a good pelt, remember I’m old, odd, and observant. I had a good look at you and sized you up. You didn’t turn away from the price. You were polite with an honest man’s look and handshake. So the price is one hundred and twenty-five, and I do insist on the first and last month in advance.”

“Where I come from, a pelt flick of the finger,” Trace said. “We call them haymakers. What you did here was just toss out the line and see what I’d nibble on. Nothing wrong with sizing a man up before you enter into some sort of agreement. And besides, I told the driver if I go around to see the room or go inside, leave my bags and drive away.”

“Uncommon savvy, young man.”

“My name is Adam Troy. They call it Trace. My granddad’s name is Adam, and so is my dad’s. We had a Mexican housekeeper who called me Trace; that’s Tres or three in Spanish. I’m the third Adam.”

“I’m Cooper Caswell; they call me Coop, the obvious.”

Trace retrieved his bags from the end of the driveway and unpacked. He immediately wrote Adam and Buck, giving them the address on Fulaga Street. For the next two days, he walked around Suva. It was more modern than described by Adam. It was now a bustling port city rather than the city about to relinquish the past. Thirty years can do a lot to a city and island; desirable to the wealthy and those desiring wealth.