~~11~~

If a madman like Joe could survive, how hard could it be? Joe, a high school dropout on the run from the law, had survived twenty years on the islands, while Edward, with his advanced degree, might not survive a month. The insult of comparing himself with the bartender inspired him. When the hot-iron sun of midday was waning, he walked around to the back washroom shed. He unlatched the door, yanked it open, and stepped through a galaxy of dust to study the items within. The spear gun was the first thing he picked up, holding it in different positions, testing its weight in both hands.

First it was a machine gun, then a sniper rifle. “Brapapapapa!... You talkin to me? I’m the only one here… Bond, James Bond… He got the point…”

After twenty minutes of play, he gave it a more careful examination. He planted the back of the gun into his stomach and haltingly pulled back the elastic band to a notch above the trigger. It locked taut with a click. He carefully inserted the spear through a loop at the tip, sliding it into place on the shaft gently so as not to set the thing off. Then he aimed the gun through the doorway, and lightly touched the trigger. Slowly he applied pressure until… SHWAAACK! He jumped, surprised by the trigger’s light touch. In a flash, the band sprang ahead, and the spear jolted off the shaft, flew out the door, over the patio, and implanted itself into the trunk of the nearby palm tree.

“Yeah!” Edward laughed manically while the end of the spear made a few diminishing wags.

Ten minutes later, on the beach, spear gun in hand and wearing the fins, snorkel and diving mask. He tried entering the water, but walking straight into the surf with the fins on was impossible. The tips kept nose-diving into the bottom, so he walked in backwards. When the water reached his waist, he turned onto his stomach and kicked off with his legs. The fins gave a powerful thrust. White, ruffles of sand slid by below him, gradually falling away. Over the rhythm of his breath through the snorkel tube, he let himself relax in the warm, weightlessness, getting used to the leg motion necessary for propulsion, careless in his direction. At some depth the bottom became a swaying darkness of sea grasses, and brain coral and boulders rose up spotlighted with rays of sunlight filtering through the water. His eyes brightened as he watched fish swim by the oval view of his mask.

When he felt ready, he took in a deep breath and dove down, kicking out with the fins as hard as he could. He was like a newborn calf running before he knew how to walk. He found himself rocketing downward. He let go of the spear gun and put out his hands just in time to stop himself from slamming into the bottom. Sand mushroomed up where his palms struck. He retrieved his spear gun, and returned to the surface for air.

He dove four more times just to get used to the fins and discover that letting out a small amount of air eased his descent. He hovered over an active area to observe creatures he’d seen on the SCUBA channel a dozen times. Orange and white angelfish, a glasseye snapper, blue tangs, and urchins. Ghost shrimp scampered through the grass. A real clownfish swam around real red-veined sea fans just like on TV but with the extra dimension of being in it. He watched with the soundtrack of the alien clicks and cracklings permeating the water. When he needed air, he pushed himself off the bottom to resurface. On his way up he noticed the massive dark figure of a boulder. He swam over to investigate and discovered sponges, barnacles and clams attached to the rock, every crevasse stuffed with life.

Edward floated on his back for a while to rest. He stared up at the baby blue with the warmth on his chest and a liquid bed on his back and daydreamed about being transported to a past like the one in the Edward Moran paintings when ships were powered by wind and men survived by their wits. A nearby splash snapped him awake. He ducked his head under the water in time to see three large groupers moving away. He put the snorkel in his mouth and kicked off in their direction. Twenty feet up, he turned around, wanting to stay around the boulder, which looked to mark the deepest part of the bay.

It wasn’t long before another large fish swam by. Edward pulled the spear gun around in its direction, shot, and missed by several feet. He dove down, retrieved the spear and reloaded.

Five more times he reloaded, shot, and missed. He waited directly over the boulder on the next try, utilizing the snorkel to stay as still as he could. Minutes passed. Then, from the hazy distance, another grouper appeared. This one had a nice size, as long as his forearm and as fat as a football.

The fish circled curiously, mouth agape as if panting. This time Edward held the spear gun level and waited for the fish to move to him. It did after making a couple circuits of the boulder, passing directly in front of him, crossing the tip of the spear point blank. He pulled the trigger and nailed it through the head just behind its eye, the spear shaft penetrating up to its middle. Edward screamed out bubbles. The fish and spear began sinking, and he dove down to retrieve them before swimming back to the beach.

He went to the back patio after a short rest and stood up the barbecue pit, and dusted off about a year’s worth of sand. He took out the grime-coated grill and scrubbed it with a wire brush. By the time he was finished, he was drenched in sweat, but the grill’s metals shined almost new. Afterwards, he admired his work, feeling the cheap little barbecue pit was now his – he had earned it.

He placed some dried leaves and sticks in the grill for tinder before bringing out the bag and shaking out a pile of charcoal. After he got the fire going, he wrapped the bottom of his fish in aluminum foil and poured a little beer over it to keep it moist. He hung the Coleman lantern off a tree using a clothes hanger and dragged over a plastic beach lounger from the main house.

Just after sunset, as the sky dimmed and a few twinkling pinpoints appeared, he sat back in the chair and began eating, taking swigs of warm beer. He watched the sky change colors for his entertainment – neon orange on creamy blue to rose red on silky black. Under the light of only the lantern and stars, he finished his dinner. It lacked spices and the skin was overcooked, but it was his catch and it was fresh, fulfilling, and wonderful.

~~12~~

The catamaran’s main sail bulged ahead in the breeze, pulling the boat across the inlet. Bits of music and the more boisterous laughter made it across the stretch of bay to wake Edward from where he slept on the beach. He sat up and watched the party boat. There looked to be about twenty people laying or standing on the trampoline stretched between the hulls and more inside the covered cockpit. Everybody looked to be enjoying themselves, drinking and laughing and chatting. The boat soon glided out of view. The top of its mast slid across the eastern dunes.

Edward got up from where he had slept the past three nights, picked up his beach towel and shook off the sand. The weather had been so perfect that he had had no need for a cover. He had slept in only shorts and under stars that were so pure, so bright, he was sure he could feel their warmth.

He had spear fished four days in a row and felt confident that he could always get something – even if it had taken almost three hours on his second day to catch dinner. He knew how to aim and where the big fish liked to hang out. And his cooking area had become more set. Under the patio was a hole he had dug. In it was a bucket of cool water where he kept some condiments and bottles of beer. During the midday sizzle, he rested in the shade of the palms on the eastern dunes where the breeze came in and worked on his drawings. His sketchbook, filled with images of the fish he had caught and the plant life around the house, looked like the bound journal of a 19th-century naturalist.