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.
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