Joan Groves - The Last Island

Ol’ Joe explained about how his island had been enveloped by the ocean. The island and his enterprise were under water. They had not been relegated to the Deep but rather flooded by the tide; they were no more.

“Strange, the nav literature and current telemetry have not and are making no note of such,” Manta said.

“Look, Manta, I know when something is underwater without a chart or some biggity brain tellin’ me so, okay? As for the waters, maybe dey is like me—never read, can’t read, don’t read, and ain’t ever gonna read.”

All that Ol’ Joe said before a gulp, during a gulp, and after a gulp.

He, Ol’ Joe, sat back and began to tell the story. There was no remorse, sadness, anger, or fear in his voice. There was colorful language and reason. The ocean had come ashore and to Ol’ Joe that was the long and the short of it.

Ol’ Joe turned to see what we were staring at past him. He made a comment as if he thought we were looking out to sea. We were looking at the Deacon. He was never happy but now there was a look of near revulsion upon his face and he was as stock still as if he were a piece of petrification.

“Ocean come ashore and washed you out, you say. Here you sit and your island is underwater,” the Deacon said.

“Just as true as fish swim,” Ol’ Joe answered.

“You die easy, old man.”

The Deacon was cold and murderous in his tone and choice of words.

“Even you can’t stop the tide, Deacon, and old men don’t die,” Ol’ Joe shot back.

“You can be alive and be dead.”

Manta, John Henry, and I became transfixed at that remark from the Deacon.

“The deep has all that you let it have and more,” The Deacon preached.

“You know what they say, ‘Time and tide wait for no man.’ ” Ol’ Joe answered.

The left side of Deacon’s face went into a grimace as the right side of his face went into a smile. He walked really slow to Ol’ Joe and placed his hand on his shoulder and put his face before Ol’ Joe’s face—right between Ol’ Joe’s eyes was his mouth. The four of us, Manta, Capt’n, John Henry, and myself, were coiled in fear, uncertainty, and anxiety but Ol’ Joe was calm and still. He was an old seaman—fear, uncertainty, and anxiety had long since been thrown overboard.

The Deacon, without a blink, without a threat, without a single emotion, and in the most calm and droid voice said: “The black-heartedness of that beast, if it ever comes near me, will be put to rest.”

Everybody, even Ol’ Joe, heard it and there we stood. As if he were standing in an empty room, the Deacon exited.

We were silent.

What did he mean?

The Capt’n and Ol’ Joe were the human equivalent of the ocean floor. They were ancient, enduring, and complete. Whatever had happened in the ocean was in their faces, in their hearts, and in their minds. Stories, facts, and fantasies were one and the same in a constructed truth. And, as the ocean had endured—they also had endured. Once they had tried to calculate the volume of sea water—not for any stupid square-headed academic calculation but rather to compare it percentage-wise to the volume of alcohol they had consumed. They had once decided on a percentage to consume and diligently set about to achieve their goal. but had to cease the quest due to the commercial fact that the world’s distilleries were incapable of producing the volume of alcohol needed at the rate that was needed.

The Capt’n’s real name was Travis and his mama and Ol’ Joe were the only people privy to that fact.

“You still have that old dive gear, Travis?” Joe asked.

“Old dive gear, you ask. What old dive gear ‘cause I do not have any new dive gear or anything else new,” Travis answered.

“That hard-hat stuff we used to use years and years ago, when we used to dive commercial,” Joe clarified.

“Yeah,” Travis said. “Polished good as gold—you could use it today. That stuff is better than anything out there.” There was a touch of pride in his voice. Then he continued, “We sure did have a world of fun. Found a lot of stuff and lost a lot of money and women on the way, huh.”

They both laughed as they remembered their unchurched youth.

“Those were the times,” they said in unison and smiled together.

“Seen a lot of things and done a lot of things and gonna see more and gonna do more. Right, Joe?”

Joe heard but was not listening to his old friend for he was recalling not the lost treasures of his life, but the faces of the lost loves of his life.

Joe was leaning back—relaxed. Travis leaned forward—unrelaxed. Joe had half-closed eyes that come with dreams. Capt’n had squinting eyes that come with calculating. Capt’n was full of life. Capt’n was hungry for life.

“What did you say?” Joe finally replied.

“Nothing really, but I am about to,” Travis said.

“Well, what?” Joe asked.

“You know, we could dive right now.”

Joe sat up straight, listening with full attention.

”Yep. Could dive this second,” Travis replied. He turned and questioned Joe in a most serious manner, “Do you know how to operate the on-board equipment?”

“Sure do. Was the best then and the best now. Have you ever seen anyone better?” Joe asked—and continued. “What, miss the old days, Trav?”

“Not at all, those days are in the locker,” Travis said.

“What, you wanna dive—again?” Joe inquired.

“If that stuff is good to go and if you are good to go, that is exactly it—I’m good to go.”

Travis spoke with the force and concentration of a harpooner casting his spear.

Joe was again with a lost lover and did not hear Travis. So Travis continued but in effect was talking to himself.

The Capt’n and Ol’ Joe knew that the ocean was not vacant, but as they eyeballed the plane of the ocean’s surface there was no life evident. There was the vista of the seascape that slowly and with perfect grace diffused into vacant sky.

The skin of the ocean was as seamless as glass crystal of incalculable proportion. They, Ol’Joe and the Capt’n, were simultaneously giants and dwarves. Neither, being sailors, was engaged in the math or the poetry of the moment’s situation as they went about in their honest sailors’ duties and obligations.

There are days to sail and there are days not to sail, but only for those who are not sailors in their souls because for each sailor each day is a day to sail—for time and tide are the sea and the days of a sailor are of time and of tide. And the pulse of a sailor’s soul is in synchronization with the ripples of the sea-tide which marks the time of the sea and the working pulse of the sailor man.

“You’ve done a right fine job keeping this gear in A1A shape,” Joe said to Travis.

“This is good stuff,” Travis said. “It cannot wear out ‘cause it can’t wear out. It done did right by me so’s I just done right by it. It done pushed a lot of air to me and kept me breathing a long, long time. Yep, some people polish diamonds or cars but that stuff is just junk to me.”

“You done got that right,” Joe said. “Fancy women in diamonds and sissy dude boys ain’t seen what we done seen and ain’t been where we done been. They lay there or flip-flop around and see their toes in the water and call that adventure.”

Both sailors howled with glee.

With nimble hands and nimble minds they assorted and assembled the equipment. The expanse of time had not diminished their intuitive understanding or their learned knowledge- for all proceeded as if their last hard-hat dive was an hour ago past.

All the connections were seated and fit in square fashion. All the valves were secure and tight. All the hoses were flexible and without leakage. All the brass was polished and without corrosion. Finally, all the gauges were true and accurate. They checked and rechecked their work and then double-checked the recheck and did a redundant check of the recheck. Fingers manipulated, eyes examined, and brains concluded their check of each piece of gear looking for and anticipating a botch that might develop into a fiasco that would cause a system failure that would finalize in a catastrophe. There was no verbal communication and the ancient carapace of canvas and brass was about to regenerate an ancient life anew.