David Vann - Caribou Island

A desire from a thousand years ago, a longing for atol ytha gewealc , the terrible surging of the waves, and Gary understood this, finally. He hadn’t understood it in grad school, because he’d been too young, too conventional, believed the poem was only about religion. He hadn’t yet seen his life wasted, hadn’t yet understood the pure longing for what was really a kind of annihilation. A desire to see what the world can do, to see what you can endure, to see, finally, what you’re made of as you’re torn apart. A kind of bliss to annihilation, to being wiped away. But ever he has longing, he who sets out on the sea , and this longing is to face the very worst, a delicate hope for a larger wave.

Gary shivered with cold but wanted to face the elements more purely. He pushed back his hood, unzipped his rain jacket, laid it in the grass at his feet. Full shock of wind, all his warmth taken. Pulled off his sweater and then his shirt. Bare-chested now, and he raised his arms into the storm, yelled at the wind and snow, a madman. A man alive, he thought, and wondered whether he was expecting some kind of rebirth, redemption. But he hated that he had any thoughts at all. He wanted to be swept clean of thoughts, wanted his mind to stop. So he stepped forward into the spray, onto the beach, slippery stones covered in slime, kept his arms raised and walked slowly, ceremonially, his body shaking out of control, wracked. He slipped and had to put a hand down, recovered. Legs pounded now by waves, blasting into him, the first shock of a wave hitting his stomach, and he leaned sideways into the oncoming water, arms lowered now, bracing, hit again by a wave, knocking him back and he fell, went under, one arm jarred all the way to the shoulder from impact with rock, and then he was clear again, then drenched by another wave. He yelled, whooped and hollered, felt better than he’d felt in years, stopped trying to stand, just sprawled in the rocks, held his breath each time he was covered, shook free in the trough, yelled again. He didn’t even feel that cold anymore.

The world came in different sizes, though. That expansive feeling, that sense of extension, of connection, could moments later feel smaller, hard and cold, and Gary didn’t know how this worked. The moment was over, before he had ridden it as far as he would have liked, and if he stayed here now, it would not come back. He knew that. But he stayed anyway, because he didn’t like that rule. Was it a rule of the world, or just a limitation of self, and how could you ever know the difference?

Why can’t I stop thinking about this as a moment? he asked out loud. Why can’t I just live it? Why does it have to end after five minutes?

Consciousness not really a gift. He’d had these thoughts thirty years ago, when he first arrived, and there’d been no progress. All that had changed was his commitment. Back then it’d been full of belief, and now it was more determined, coupled to annihilation, not expecting anything in return. Nothing better to do, he told the waves.

The water more than just a medium, more than wave and temp. It felt abrasive against his skin. It had body and impact. It hurt to stay here, despite the numbness. So that’s what got him to crawl away, finally. He couldn’t stand. The rocks hurt his knees, even through his jeans. He crawled out of the waves and onto the beach, into tufts of grass, spiky and rough, felt around with his hands until he found his shirt and sweater and raincoat. He didn’t put them on. Just held them in his hands as he crawled over deadfall and blueberry, patches of moss, whatever else covered this ground. He made it to the tent, unzipped, his hand numb like a club, and crawled in.

You’re shivering, Irene said. Your teeth are chattering like they’re going to splinter. What did you do out there?

Went for a swim, he said, and fumbled at the buttons on his jeans, trying to get his wet clothing off.

Went for a swim.

Yep. I need help with my pants. Can’t get the buttons. Hurry, please.

That’s great. But she crawled over and helped. Her hands hot on his skin. You’re freezing, she said. Don’t think of trying to get in my bag with me.

Thanks, he said.

Thank yourself. You’ve been doing stupid shit like this for too long.

Out of his jeans and boots and socks, Gary found a towel to dry off, found his thermal underwear, top first, then bottoms, got into his bag. Found his stocking cap. The mummy part of his bag over his head, he pulled the drawstring. He’d be okay now.

Here’s what I have to tell you, Irene said.

Let’s skip it.

No. Your idea that you’ve deserved more than you’ve gotten, that’s the problem.

I don’t need a lecture. I’m aware of my failings.

No you’re not. None of your life has measured up. You think you were destined for more. You think you were worth more.

I know who I am.

No you don’t.

Fuck you.

Not that easy. You think you deserved someone better than me.

Maybe I did.

Irene hit him then, a hard punch that glanced off his forearm. He went into a tuck in his sleeping bag and she kept hitting him, not saying anything, just hard punches over and over to his body. Didn’t punch his face. Still holding back. Why hold back? he asked. Why not punch me in the face?

Because I love you, you fucker. And then she was weeping.

Gary turned over to face the other way. Let her weep. Maybe she would leave. And he knew that was wrong, but he just didn’t feel whatever he’d need to feel to counter it. Maybe he was missing some basic human faculty, whatever it is that connects people to each other. But what he wanted was to be left alone. And was that really a crime?

When Gary woke in the morning, Irene was gone. He was stuffed up, having to breathe through his mouth, throat sore. His head hurt. So he turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

He could hear hammering, the wind died down, the tent no longer berserk. Irene working on the cabin, but he wondered what she was doing. She could be breaking it apart, not building at all.

This got him up, the idea that she might be destroying the cabin. He pulled on a dry set of clothes, his bib overalls and an old dry pair of boots, his wet raincoat. Unzipped the tent and stepped into a land gone white. The snow not deep, maybe an inch or two, but breathtaking the way it transformed. Distance and depth defined, the upward-facing leaves white, the stems beneath in shadow. Even the spruce, the collective effect of the topside of each needle and topside only made white. The world outlined and remade entirely, the light itself changed. Yesterday might as well have been six months ago.

Wow, Gary said. This is beautiful.

Irene paused in her hammering, looked around, hooded in green raingear. Yes it is, she said. But she didn’t look at Gary. Went back to hammering.

Gary stepped over to the cabin, walked in the back door, fully cut out and braced. On the forward wall, the space for the window, not quite square. Layers of log above it, the last layer at eight feet. Irene standing on an aluminum stepstool, driving in the last nails.

Thanks, Gary said. Looks like we’re ready for a roof.

Yeah, she said. What’s the plan?

I was going to do it with logs, Gary said. But I don’t see how that’s going to work. It’ll just leak.

No response from Irene. Being careful, he could tell. Had a lot to say but was holding back, which was fine by him. She finished a nail, five blows. The wind sifting through the trees, much lighter than before.

So I think I’ll buy some sheeting in town. Not the look I wanted, but we’re late, and we need a roof. Wind’s dying down, so we should be able to get to shore, maybe tomorrow or the next day.

I like that plan, she said.