Randy White - Everglades

Marion Ford replied, “Izzy, we have both badly misjudged my character and my conscience.”

Then he pulled the rope’s bitter end, springing all four knots.

The biologist didn’t linger. He turned away from Izzy Kline’s descending, echoing scream…

On an equator-heated, blue-bright tropical morning, November 14th, a Thursday, I walked away from our rental cabana, and our private, secluded patio toward the beach, but the lady stopped me by wagging her finger: Come here.

She said, “Where do you think you’re going, mister? It’s going to be another hot one, and I need to be coated with sunscreen. Do you mind?”

No, I did not mind.

She lay on her back in a lounge chair, beside the blue-tiled plunge pool, a tall drink and a book within easy reach. She wore sunglasses and an orange bikini bottom, nothing more. Even after six days of this-lots of nude sun-bathing-her breasts were pale orbs, flattened by their own weight and softness.

I checked my watch before I sat beside her. She trembled slightly as I began to apply sun lotion to her abdomen and thighs, her pink areolas flushing, nipples erect, blue veins beneath the milk-white skin deepening in shade.

Her eyes closed, the lady placed her hand on my thigh, and began to massage my leg with the precise, slow rhythm that I used to apply the oil.

She murmured lazily, “I think we need to go back to our bedroom for a little bit.”

Smiling, I thought, Again?

That good woman, Grace Walker, the Sarasota realtor I’d been dating, had told me something interesting and true a month or so before. It was over dinner-a nice restaurant on St. Armand’s Key, just off the circle.

She’d said, “Doc, here’s what I’ve learned about men and women. If the sex is good, it’s about thirty percent of a solid relationship. If the sex is bad, if the chemistry isn’t there, it’s about ninety percent of the relationship. It’s just not going to work.”

It was her way of telling me it was time for us to start dating other people.

I was neither surprised nor disappointed. I was, in fact, relieved, because I’d driven north to meet her with plans to end it myself.

We’d remain friends-always friends.

And Grace was certainly right about sexual chemistry. With this lady, the chemistry was there. It was unmistakably, obsessively, irresistibly there.

That morning after making love for the second time, we’d lain naked, sweaty and spent, beneath the revolving shadows of a ceiling fan, and I’d listened to her say, “Maybe it’s true. Maybe we should stop fighting it. Maybe we are destined to be more than just friends.”

I replied, “An exclusive relationship. You and me. I’m willing to try-if I have enough energy left after a couple of weeks vacationing with you.”

She chuckled, and said, “Maybe more than just a dating relationship. We’ve both lived alone for a long time. Do you think you’d be willing to try? Down the road, I mean.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I would.” I meant it.

“Something’s changed in you, Doc. Something’s changed in us both. Do you feel it? It’s different. We seem different. I’ve been thinking

… well, maybe it’s because of the paper Tomlinson gave us to read. Maybe it really has had an influence. I checked the Internet. It’s changed the lives of a lot of people.”

We’d brought “One Fathom Above Sea Level” along on the plane for something to read. The lady had spent far more time pondering it than I. She’d even used a pink highlighter to mark her favorite quotes.

She’d made me review them:

The absurdity of a life that may well end before we understand it does not relieve us of the duty to live it through bravely and generously, with passion and great kindness.

Another was: Humanity has a limited biological capacity for change, but an unlimited capacity for spiritual change. The only human institution incapable of evolving spiritually is a cemetery.

Another was: Pain is an inescapable part of the human experience. Misery, however, is not. Misery is an option.

Another: Hope could not exist if man were created by a random, chemical accident. Pleasure, yes. Desire, yes. But not hope. Selfless hope is contrary to the dynamics of evolution or the necessities of a species.

I’d marked my own favorite in green: Never underestimate the destructive power of small, mean people joined together as a larger group.

Lying in bed, her long legs thrown over mine, she had said, “You can’t read what Tomlinson’s written and still doubt that spirituality-having faith -is important. So maybe it is our destiny.”

I told her, yes, that was certainly a possibility-although I didn’t believe it.

I found Tomlinson’s paper interesting for the intellectual depth and perception it demonstrated, but nothing more. I am incapable of lying to myself, so I am incapable of embracing a spiritual view of the world. I’d come to accept who I am, what I am. It’s unlikely that I will ever believe-yet I still retain hope. Even so I no longer engage in that debate, or risk undermining the beliefs of others.

So now, lounged back in her chair, the lady arched her back slightly, moaning, as I rubbed oil on her heavy breasts, her hand moving beneath my running shorts, searching.

Breathing faster now, she whispered, “Doc. Let’s go to the bedroom. Now.”

I checked my watch: 10:27 A.M.

I thought: Damn.

Her fingers had found me, and I was certainly ready.

I said, “Stop, wait. Let me check something.”

I stood awkwardly, and jogged barefooted down to our little section of private beach on St. Martin’s in the French West Indies. I used small but superb Zeiss binoculars to look across the bay that separated our rental house from a big, Mediterranean mansion half a mile away. The mansion was built into the side of a cliff, connected to the main road above by a gated access drive.

Security there was tight for a reason. The house was being rented by Omar Muhammad, the successor to Sabri al-Banna, and the new head of Abul Nidal.

There was Omar. I could see him plainly through the binoculars. He was a tall, bearded man with hollow eyes. He was lugging his scuba gear down the steps from the house to the beach.

Omar was a man of habit. Every morning for the last three mornings, exactly at eleven, he’d put on his gear, and swim out to the shallow reef a hundred yards away. Always alone.

Quid pro quo, Hal Harrington had told me.

I sighed, turned and walked back to the patio. I placed the binoculars on the table, sat and kissed the lady on the lips. “Honey, give me a little time to rest up, okay? I’m going for a swim. I’ll be back in, oh, a little less than an hour.”

For the first time, she opened her sleepy eyes, sat up and said, “You want to swim? Hell, I’ll go with you. We’ve been eating like horses all week. I could use the exercise.”

To my right calf, I was strapping a stainless-steel Randall Attack/Survival knife in its leather scabbard. I strapped it tight, and tied the safety lanyard around my ankle.

I leaned, kissed Dewey Nye once more. Then I looked into her good eyes, bright and true, and said, “No, my dear. This swim, I should probably go alone.”