This story began a year or so ago as so many do, just a scene in my head: a guy wakes up on the beach a desert island still strapped to his airliner seat, bruised and bloody, but having no idea what happened. Then earlier this year, I took a stab at it, and the story began to unfold, and I knew what was going to happen all the way to the end. But life pulled me away as usual, and the unfinished first half sat collecting dust in my computer. Finally, over the holiday weekend, I had time to sit down and hammer it out. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I reached the end, if only because I’m a crazy, pessimistic nut. Anyway, I hope gives y’all a good chuckle, too. 🙂 Enjoy!
Trade Wind
by Rand Eastwood
“I could make a boat.”
He actually said it out loud, even though he was alone.
The thought hit him as he examined the large, curved piece of aluminum that had washed up sometime overnight. Part of the fuselage, maybe. Or wing. He didn’t know. There wasn’t enough of it to be certain.
•
Three days ago, he had awakened on this tiny, deserted island, out in the middle of the ocean somewhere, still strapped into his seat, which had wedged itself into the rocky inlet beside the beach, where he now stood. His face had been badly bruised, blood trickled from his nose and one ear, and he’d suffered random cuts, scrapes, and bruises about his body—none severe—but he was clueless as to what had happened. He had fallen asleep on the flight, just as it started getting bumpy, just after they had turned on the FASTEN SEATBELTS sign and the pretty flight attendant had taken his empty rocks glass (his third or fourth he thought, he couldn’t remember exactly) then folded up his tray and locked it “in the upright position.”
His head had throbbed for two days, and he’d been dizzy and disoriented, but toward evening of the second day the pain began to subside.
Mild concussion, he suspected.
And man was he hungry—but worse, thirsty.
Once the pain and dizziness subsided and he was able to think and function a little better, he began collecting the stuff from the plane that had washed up from the sea. There wasn’t much. Some luggage, an empty seat, lots of unidentifiable debris—though he could tell some of it was parts of the aircraft. No bodies (yet).
And a quick lap around the tiny island told him all he needed to know. It couldn’t have taken him more than 15 or 20 minutes to circumnavigate the entire thing (he didn’t know for sure, his watch was gone when he awoke, apparently stripped from his arm during the crash), and aside from weeds and sparse tall grass sprouting up between the boulders and mostly rocky and sandy ground, there was an old, dead, leafless tree of some sort lying on the far side of the island—might’ve grown here but died and fell long ago, might’ve been washed up, driftwood, he didn’t know. Just an old trunk with a hazard of dead branches sticking out this way and that.
But on the beach side, a single palm tree rose on the back side, where the sand met the rocks.
Not only did it offer the only shade on the entire island, but it had also sprouted a stalk of bananas, hanging above him swinging in the breeze.
Still green, but hey…
He decided he would have to figure out a way to climb up there…his very survival likely depended on it.
He then went through all the bags and luggage that had washed up, prying open the ones that were locked with a jagged piece of aluminum—again, some part of the plane, but no idea what—and in a few that weren’t completely waterlogged inside and so nothing was really salvageable, he found some snack food, a few sodas and bottles of water, and to his delight: a half-full pack of cigarettes. The stronger reds, yes—he usually smoked lights—but still. The same suitcase also contained a lighter, which still worked too! He couldn’t believe his good fortune!
He wolfed down some of the snacks, quickly ripping them open, discarding the packages to the wind, and shoving the delicacies in, followed by chugging down a bottle of water—but he forced himself to go easy, save some of the stuff for later; after all, he had no idea how long he would be stranded here.
But at least for now, the severe hunger and thirst were abated.
Feeling he was getting slightly roasted in the afternoon sun, he decided to rest in the shade of the tree, have a smoke, and wait until tomorrow to continue.
The next morning, while standing on the beach having a smoke and trying to decide what to do next, he spotted something floating and bobbing in the distance, nearly submerged, maybe 40 or 50 feet from the beach. Needing whatever supplies he could salvage, he finally decided that the risk was warranted and swam out to it, latched onto it, and towed it back.
Turns out it was a full case of bottled water, still shrink-wrapped in clear plastic, the trapped air keeping it afloat (barely). And, it had a tangle of blue nylon rope cargo net clinging to it, writhing underwater like woman’s long, wet hair. He speculated it must have been from the airliner supplies, and also figured he was really lucky to have rescued it when he did, it was slowly filling with water and would likely have gone under soon, never to be seen again.
And now this morning, this large piece of the aircraft—which might just enable his escape—had been deposited on the thin strip of sand, like a gift from God, Special Overnight Delivery.
•
Tugging the curved aluminum panel back out onto the water, he saw that yes, it floated—and also there didn’t appear to be any holes, cracks, or other leaks. After pumping his fist, he dragged the thing back up onto the sand.
Walking around taking inventory of the piles of debris, he began to formulate a plan.
Using that same jagged strip of aluminum he’d used to open the locked luggage, he cut the seat belt off one of the airliner seats, lashed it around the trunk of the palm tree, then used it to shimmy himself up. Not only was he able to cut loose the stalk of bananas, carefully sliding back down to deliver them gently onto the sand, but going back up, he sawed off the palm branches, dropping them to the beach one by one.
They should make a decent sail…
Leaning against a boulder, he had a smoke, thinking about the boat, designing it in his head.
Once he was settled on the details, he carefully stationed the pack and lighter in a shallow dimple on top of the boulder for safe keeping and set to work.
•
Using some of the cargo rope, he lashed the opposing corners of the aluminum hull and pulled them as tight as he could, slightly torquing the sides in a little. Once he had both ends secured, he stretched a section of the net over the wider end, which would be the rear (or was it the stern? He wasn’t sure…)
He then wove palm branches throughout, creating a sort of thatched cover to provide shade.
He managed to break off 3 of the dead branches from the old tree trunk on the other side of the island. Cutting the seatbelt from the other seat, he lashed small aluminum plates—again, some unidentifiable parts of the plane—to the two shorter branches, using one of the two salvaged seat belts for each.
Oars (well, they would have to do, anyway…)
Retrieving a small hard-shelled suitcase from the pile of refuse he had collected, he pried the front off its hinges, placed the body of it at the middle of the hull, and filled it with wet sand.
Then, like a giant screw, he drove the longest branch down into the sand, so it was sticking upright out of the hull, and lashed palm branches to it using the last of the cargo rope.
A makeshift sail, with a weighted base…
By the time he had finished all this dusk was creeping in, so he gathered together what remained of the snack food, the bottled water, and the bananas, and decided he would rest for the night and set sail in the morning.
Leaning against the tree, observing his boat sitting there on the beach, fading to a silhouette—exhausted but satisfied, a job well done—he had a smoke before falling fast asleep.
•
Early the next morning, he was awakened by a sudden gust of wind.
Jumping up, he hurried to the edge of the beach, scouring the skies.
Clear blue, no threat of storms as far as he could see in any direction.
Relief swept over him.
Then he realized this was even better: the breeze was blowing away from the beach and out to sea, which would help him launch the boat.
He stood smoking, surveying the boat, the pile of cargo, even turning to scan the island behind him, making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.
Satisfied, he turned back to the task at hand.
He was ready.
Discarding the lighter and cigarettes in that same dimple on top of the boulder, he began.
He loaded all the food, water, and bananas under the thatched cover at the rear of the boat. He was relieve to find that even with everything loaded, there was still room for him to squeeze in, enabling him to take cover from the blazing sun whenever he needed to during his…voyage.
Then, dragging the small makeshift boat toward the water, he turned the “sail” into the breeze, and could definitely feel it helping him push the boat through the sand and into the water.
Once he reached the water line, the hull lifted, buoyant, and the craft sat there floating, bobbing in the ocean.
It worked!
Excited, he stepped in, picked up one of the funny-looking homemade oars, and started to shove off.
But at the last second, he looked up and saw the cigarettes and lighter he had left on the rock.
Whoa, that was close, he thought.
Jumping quickly down into the ankle-deep water, he sloshed to the beach and trotted quickly to the boulder; but just as he reached for the cigarettes, a gust of wind blew them off the boulder to the sand below—
—and at the same time, he heard a creaking sound behind him, like an aluminum hull scraping on wet rocks…!
Turning, he saw the boat retreating quickly from the beach, the wind thrusting it out onto the ocean.
“No!” he yelled, running panicked across the beach.
Another gust pushed the boat even further out just as he splashed into the water and began frantically chasing it, sending little geysers of water into the air as he ran.
The water quickly became too deep to traverse on foot, so he dove in, swimming with all his might toward the craft as the wind again blew, pushing it further beyond his reach.
Finally, he stopped, bobbing in the water as the boat drifted away, smaller and smaller, and he knew there was no way he was ever going to catch it.
“Noooooooo!” he screamed across the ocean. “Noooooooo!”
But then his screams were choked off with sobbing.
Eventually the tears ended, and with the boat now barely visible on the horizon, he finally turned and swam back to the beach.
Winded and soaking wet, he slopped across the sand toward the palm tree, stopping at the boulder long enough to bend and snatch the cigarettes and lighter up from the sand. Moving on, he plopped down at the foot of the tree, exhausted, trying to catch his breath.
One last glance out across the ocean.
He could no longer see the boat.
Again up at the clear sky, perplexed that there were no storm clouds building with the wind.
Must’ve been a trade wind, he surmised.
Then, looking down at the pack and lighter in his lap, he thought:
Boy, I sure traded, all right…
With that he chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
Then, digging into the pack, he found there was only one cigarette left.
He chuckled again, this time a little louder, as he plucked it out and tossed the empty pack before him on the sand.
As he lit up, he realized he was starting to get hungry.
He looked back out at the ocean.
Nothing.
He began laughing.
Then, he realized he was getting thirsty, too.
At this he laughed even louder, throwing his head back—and saw the naked palm tree above, no branches or fronds, just a hacked up trunk rising into the air.
As the sun rose higher and he began to feel its scorching rays on his skin, he began laughing hysterically.
Drawing in the last puff, savoring it, then exhaling when he could no longer hold it, he tossed the smoldering butt out into the sand, where it landed next to the empty pack.
And just then a gust of wind lifted them both, sending them bouncing and cartwheeling away across the beach.
He laughed and laughed and laughed, louder and louder, until tears were rolling down his cheeks, the lone sound of his gasping voice drifting upward into the big blue tropical sky and riding the trade wind away from the island before dissipating, unheard, out over the endless ocean.
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