Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

Moloka`i is far out of reach. “Twenty miles an hour? Maybe that’s what the current is doing against us.”

Dad is stiff at the wheel.

The motor sputters. Dad shuts the engine off and instructs me while I refill the gas. I do my best to pour a full canister into the tank. The rocking of the boat on the high swells makes me slop gas all over the motor. I lean my head away from the tank as the fumes engulf my face.

“Careful, hon; we can’t afford to lose any—”

“I know that!” I yell, panicky.

I take a deep breath. Slow down . Finally, I train myself to pour a little at a time, syncing my tipping with the rolling ocean.

Dad fires the motor back up. We cut through the enormous, choppy waves like an ox driver plowing a lava flow.

The motor dies again. I pour in the second red tank.

I’ve never been to Moloka`i. “What’s it like over there?” I ask above the wind and the roar of the motor.

“Not sure.”

I refill the motor. The last canister is only half full. Dad winces at this news. We veer northward and head due east as the nearest tip of Moloka`i approaches. It’s obvious that Dad’s hurting, and the strain of talking over the noise requires effort, but he explains, “If I didn’t have a hole in my shoulder, we might play this safer. But we’re going to shoot the moon.” He wants to situate us so that we’ll drift toward land and not away from it if the motor fails. He thinks we might be able to reach Kalaupapa, halfway along the northern coast of the island. That’s the famous refuge of Father Damien. It’s the nearest town that we can reach along the north shore. Kualapu`u is technically closer, but it’s perched a thousand feet up sheer cliffs.

Though we’re half a mile offshore, we’re finally alongside a new island. Finding help for Dad is no less urgent, but relief blankets my anxiety. Home feels nearer, the horrors of O`ahu distant.

The coastal cliffs rise ahead of us, and the ocean grows angry. My grip on the bench tightens as we pass our last obvious landing before the coast becomes a wall. We’re asking for too much. Dad knows; his left fist is clenched around the steering wheel.

With the low-lying shelf of Kalaupapa visible miles away, our motor dies. We have nothing more to feed it, and no way to steer the boat forward.

We drift toward the rocks at the base of the cliff face.

Why was I fooled into hoping?

I hear Dad stifle a moan of frustration or despair. He circles the boat, gripping his right shoulder, searches the cabinets, finds nothing new to help us. I watch hopelessly as he ducks over the port side of the boat and attempts to paddle with his good arm.

“Dad,” I plead, but it comes out as more of a gulp. He sits up and wipes the ocean spray away from his eyes—or is it tears?

“Lei, we can’t get there.”

Kalaupapa: I can see it. It’s within our grasp, maybe four miles away. But we’ll never reach it now.

A giant wave lifts our boat and carries us toward shore like a surfboard. I cry out in alarm. Dad stumbles over and wraps his good arm around me. We rebalance and brace for the next wave.

“Inflate the packs,” Dad says. “We may need to abandon ship.”

“The suitcases?”

“Forget them. That’s why we rearranged things. Hurry!”

I jump to work, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. The current is carrying us backward as the tide pushes us in. There’s no way around it: if we try to scramble to shore by leaping off the boat as we reach land, we’ll be crushed against the rocks for sure. We’re going to have to beat the boat to shore. If we can find high ground on the steep slope, crouched atop a boulder or tucked into some crevasse, maybe we can escape the onslaught.

Maybe we can walk a strip of land during low tide.

Dad’s shoulder oozes. Sharks … Stop . No second-guessing. We will jump. No Dad heroically staying on the boat to keep sharks away from me. If we bail, we go hand in hand.

“Dad, can you swim?”

He hoists his inflated pack loosely up on his left shoulder. “We’re both strong swimmers, Lei. We’ll stick close, but if you can scramble onto a rock, do it. Don’t come for me. Don’t. I’ll make it. We’ll meet up as we can.”

I can hear what he’s actually saying, but even so, panic recedes. My senses focus. My mind clears of doubt. I see what we must do, and my muscles are ready to act, with or without my blessing.

We watch the wall grow nearer. Among the jagged rocks are occasional inlets clattering with tumbling stones. If it’s the only beach, we’ll take it.

“Lei, go!”

I look into Dad’s eyes. I see a bravery that sears itself into my knowledge of my father. The pain eats at him. He knows he can’t swim. The forces churning below will swallow him. He knows that we must jump. He wants to send me to safety.

“Go, Lei. Go! I’m right behind you.”

He won’t give up the act. I see the good-bye on his face. He hasn’t given up, but he knows that only a miracle will save him.

But this is the end of the world. God has run out of miracles.

I dive into my suitcase. The climbing rope springs out. “Lei, go! No TIME!”

I invent a slipknot, hand him the loop of my lasso. “Under your shoulders!”

He drops his pack. “Stubborn as your mother!”

I pass the loop through the shoulder straps of his inflated backpack and hand it to him. He slips it tenderly over his arms. The boat surges toward the cliffs. We will dash against a jagged outcropping within another wave or two.

I tie the rope around my waist, seize my inflated pack by a strap, bunch up the slack rope, hold it in one hand. “Swim with the current. We can make that cove.” I point with my chin. “Hold your pack. Kick. I’ll do the rest.”

“Promise you’ll free that knot if you have to.”

“Okay.”

One shared look. We leap.

A wave swells up and nearly knocks us against the hull of the boat. I scramble to secure my pack. Dad is beside me, chest up, holding on to his pack with his good hand, kicking, breathing labored. I hold on to the rope near him, reducing the slack, and swim away from the boat as hard as I can.

We rise several feet with the crest of another wave. The next one will break right on top of us. Hold your breath, Dad , I think. Then we’re underwater.

I surface several feet closer to the rocks and study my options.

I must navigate us through a narrow gauntlet, time the swell just right so that it delivers me right up to the wall of the nearby shelf without smashing me against it.

Then I’ll have seconds to scurry up the rock face before the next wave pounds, loosening my grip. Meanwhile, how to hoist up Dad and two packs?

The boat slams into the rocks with a deafening crunch, as if they were the jaws of a sea monster. The hull scrapes along the ocean’s sharp teeth, splintering open. I don’t look; my sights are set on the lava shelf before me. I detect a crude natural stairway a little to the right, and swim feverishly to align with it.

The next swell carries me up to the low wall. I seize a handhold in the volcanic rock as the tide reverses, my pack hooked in the crook of my opposite elbow. The rope disappears into the water, but it’s still tied to my waist. Beneath the surf, my feet scramble for purchase, hindered by the weight of my hiking boots. Finally, my toe grips a ledge and I pull myself up the crude stairway, racing the next swell. My leg is tangled in the rope, but plenty of slack remains. Just as I reach the top of the shelf, the waves break on the wall, and a geyser of ocean water pummels me.

I crawl farther ashore, gasping for breath. And then I’m tugged backward by my tangled leg. My forehead smacks against the rock and I grope wildly for a handhold as my pack and I slide toward the ledge, Dad rushing away with the reverse tide. I turn and lock my free foot into a deep pock and, now on my back, whip my arms out behind me to grip the rough rock.