Need, Need, Needs
by Joel Van Noord
His face and lips were frayed sailing lines. His knees creaked forward at awkward angels like weathered wood.
Past the tide line he inched, then dropped the long white plank that had first risked his life and had then saved it. He closed his eyes and his body wheeled -dubious as to whether it could indeed, finally relax.
A sense of déjà vu nudged him like a breeze. He awoke. It was a feeling of a place: a cabin in the mountains with a sea of staggering pine trees. He closed his eyes again.
He rose and puzzled. It didn’t seem real. Were the consequences his or not his? The sun was the same. There was the distant pound of surf and the more subtle lap of lagoon water. Birds squawked and he sat up.
His stomach was a knot and it twisted hard, the pain migrated around his torso. He coughed meekly and rose like a friendless grandpa from a sunken recliner in a forgotten lumber town.
As if attached to inappropriate tendons, his muscles jerked and confused him. There was the abrasion of sand when his knees fell hard, his palms followed and he looked up. Which direction did he face? That was secondary. His throat felt like a crumpled piece of paper.
He managed to his feet again. There was the white line off the reef. In the lagoon were off-color lumps of massive corals, then bright sand under teal water. Behind him were the green peaks. These were unchanging. He thought he recognized the peaks from photos.
He began to walk. Left, when his back was facing the water.
He was taxed to the limit. He needed food and water. He stayed calm because it was hard to think. He needed to think and he concentrated. He put down the large plank and walked away from the beach. Sand was adulterated by organics as he plodded his heavy feet up. Coconut palms became sparse and then dense. He knelt and touched a gourd, rattled it and looked for another one. There was a broken sheath with water in it. He lifted it, drinking. It tasted like earth, gritty. He swallowed and found several more like this. Again, he knelt and slept.
He woke again. The sun was high, huge and high. There was a strange feeling in his chest, as if his heart were taking his lungs hostage, holding knives to it. He wondered why his brain stayed so allusive.
From several more rotten coconuts he drank rainwater. Then began to walk again, long white board under hand, through the half shaded beach. He had a plan. He would wait, explore, then maybe panic.
The coast curled to a point and he walked to it and stopped. To his right the land yawned back and held a thin bay. It was unfortunately pristine. Faded palms sat below and mixed into dark trees. He thought of paddling across. How was the current? He was nervous after his first mistake. It would take several hours… he lacked energy.
The sun had moved and the slim palm trees cast long shadows. There was fresh water at the crux of the bay and he stumbled to the edge, his feet sunk in muck. There were always eels in these river mouths; they spawned microscopic globules with tails. His knees dropped and he put his hands on top of a line of sticks and nuts. He put his lips to the water and began swallowing. Then he was gasping and waiting. Then swallowing again. The water felt like strange packets traveling down his throat like a conveyor belt. His stomach hurt and he moved on.
After the bay there was another point and he walked to that. He brain started heating.
The sun lost potency. The water changed color. He thought about sleeping and walked on. Then he saw a structure and smiled. He knew he’d be ok. He was always ok.
It was one of those expensive rustic hut hotels on stilts above the water. There wasn’t a fence and he walked to a table, set his board down, and began eating discarded food, a half eaten crepe, an oily pastry and a chunk of pineapple. He moved to another table and drank the remainder of a glass of water and ate breadfruit and papaya left on a napkin.
“Out out.” He heard a native in a tacky Hawaiian shirt say. He answered in French and asked for a phone but the native shoed him away without acknowledging his request.
Fine. It was fine now. More than fine. If there was one place, there was another.
The hotel did not look busy. There was little commotion. On the adjacent side near the beach there was a small group of pretty, slightly overweight middle-aged women doing calisthenics. He approached the thinner athletic one that looked like the leader. He asked in French for a phone and received the same treatment. He asked which island he was on and they bounded up and down like spring eager fawns, flapping rhythmically. An arm shot out and he ducked. He brought his head up and then he saw her.
She had straw colored hair and laid on her stomach, a book in front of her face. A shadow from a swaying palm moved over her and past. Her bright bikini top sprawled out to her side, unattached.
It was easier to swallow. “Hello.” He said. She turned and squinted. He noted the book: Harry Potter. He smiled to her. She looked at him. He looked at her.
“Would you like to hear the story of how I became the first white man to paddle to Bora-Bora?”
She turned her head. Her skin wrinkled. She looked at him more carefully, noting the surfboard under his arm and the beaten condition of his body and eyes.
“Um, you know this isn’t Bora-Bora.”
He smirked. She told him the name and he was shocked. He had drifted north to an island he thought was uninhabited. Hardly large enough to lay an airstrip, from what he’d learned. It was an island, until recently, owned by a regal American film family.
“Regardless, the stories free if you want.”
She sat up and he began speaking. It was a big day. He paddled his kayak to the reef and anchored it. The few locals were out and they got barrels and barrels, he had one nasty cut on his foot from a slam against the reef but things were fine. Then the tide started dropping and he’d been out for three hours. The place was notorious for sucking people out to sea. Given it’s small reef pass and the tremendous amount of water that surged over the shallow reef when the ocean was big.
He was tired. Took a long ride around the pass and kicked out near the channel. The wind was steady offshore and he paddled and paddled but made no headway. Everyone had gone in and he could see his bright yellow kayak bobbing just inside the lagoon. The abandoned, white-as-bone church set against the green hills. He panicked and thought to drift back out to the lineup and take one in closer, maybe even walk across the reef to safety.
But he drifted too far. It got bigger and he pulled back from wave after wave. He was too deep. There was no exit. He would drop in and the lip would hammer him under like a guillotine. It scared him and he drifted further.
There was another pass. He just had to stay close to the reef. He drifted with the wind and current. The sea grew larger. Mounds of water were now rolling in and he cursed himself for not taking a wave in, collecting the hammer on the head and diving deep, grabbing hold of a branchy coral and feeling the water suck back out, hands outstretched and feet and board dangling far back until all relaxed and he could scramble up and over the edge, the hill, the reef crest, cut and stinging from razor wounds.
Now there were fast mounds racing in and crashing. The mounds turned to freight trains and it would no longer be cuts and stings. It would be concussions and knife wounds.
His only hope was the next pass or a boat. He tried to stay close to the reef but his arms were spaghetti. There was little hope besides directing; he was little more than a rudder.
It was a frothy mess. The swell came in from the southwest and broke, consuming the entire reef passage until the adjacent line of coral began. The entire mouth was white, breaking in every direction. It would be treacherous for a vessel to navigate, let alone a foreigner with a six foot six inch plank.
He had to try. After this there was no more land. He’d get sucked straight out and the horizon would engulf. He’d spin a circle and be hopelessly adrift, clueless to the realities of the horizon.
The massive mounds of water surged in and he paddled with them, inching forward. The roars were explosive and the gurgling between intimidating. Dark clouds began to tower and section the sky, as if they were giant thrones for the gods to watch his demise. He angled himself the best he could. There was a large buoy violently thrashing about in the center of the channel. He would love to able to reach that and hang on until the storm passed and the seas relaxed, for days if necessary.
A cloud passed and it was ominous, the water grey. The sun broke and the wind howled. The waves were translucent and it was unnatural to die in paradise.
He picked his moment. He glanced behind as it approached. It was massive and he swallowed his instincts and paddled hard. The rose and he stared down at the emptying pit below. Perhaps he’d cut the corner too soon. He saw the dark coral below, the spines and then the wave was throwing him. It was pitching forward and he was flung. He shoved his board and braced himself.
He covered his head as it exploded. Everything went quiet and there was a moment when he was motionless, time was frozen. Then the violence erupted and repeated itself, as if someone were watching it on DVD, at home, with the pause and reverse button fingered, half sitting on the couch as the character smashed down, standing and cheering, exclaiming, ‘daaaaaamn!’ as he made the poor man roll and roll.
He was twisted and folded. He felt himself get lifted and spun then slammed again. He was held under. He had to stay calm. He opened his eyes and it was dark. He reached to his leg and pulled the leash. A cloud passed and it was bright, he could see the surface and began to kick. It grew dark again but it was not a cloud. Another hammer struck down and he was pushed, this time to the reef below. He bounced off it and held his breath at impact. He could feel it in his spine and he fought off the stars that cluttered his vision.
Again, he opened his eyes and saw the light refracting through the green water. Then something dark. The most tumultuous wake spinned over him this time and he swam up. He gasped at the surface and pulled his board to him. His ribs hurt as his lungs pushed against the board.
Instinctively, he paddled toward the waves, away from where they would hurl him down into the coral again. His arms reached and he pushed his board under the water and sliced through an incoming bomb. He popped through and clawed as the wave threatened to toss him backwards over the falls.
He sat on his board to think. The landscape was sliding by. He looked around. The green peaks reached up and hid in thick clouds. Mist tumbled down the peaks into valleys. The sun poked through and then disappeared. He was quickly passing the channel; the buoy was now bobbing far to the other side. He thought of paddling to the reef, saw a violent explosion; white water from impact soaring 20 feet in the air. He stomach dropped and his mind burned at his failing. He realized it was his only option and began to paddle back toward the channel, toward the opposite reef.
But by then it was too late. He could not make any headway and he receded from the island like a satellite swinging around and away from a planet.
He gave up a mile away. He sat and couldn’t believe his stupidity. Such a small thing would now cost him his life, he thought. It was dumbfounding. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“And what’s that worth?” He asked. She had rolled over and pulled the strap around her chest. “That’s gotta be worth a meal over here.” He gestured behind him.
“Wait there a moment.” She said and swung her legs and sat up, her legs folded together off to the side. She was the picture of health, bronze skin instead of dead and red. She seemed flushed with water and food. Her hair was clean and shined full. “That’s it, you just floated up on the beach here?”
“It took a few days. I weathered a storm, got real nauseous, vomited, saw a blue shark, I think, and a whale, a pod of dolphins. For a day it was cloudy and rained. I held my mouth open, sort of drank. Then it cleared and the seas went dead. I didn’t think I was moving. But all the sudden there was an island and I paddled until I passed out, hit the water and woke up, paddled and got swept in. I’m lucky.” He finished declaratively, as if saying, that’s it, now feed me.
She bobbed her head and they stumbled around a few more questions. He answered them, never fully satisfying her curiosity and finally she said.
“I’d love to buy you a meal but I honestly don’t have any money.”
“You don’t have any money?” He asked, confused, “How do you not have any money? How did you get here?”
To be at a place like this meant to have a story and she explained herself.
It was dissatisfying to him but it was her story. Her friend, her ex-boyfriend, she corrected herself, were sailing around the islands. They had grown weary of their friendship and at times it was violent. He looked closely at her. There were small scars at the side of her eye; scars that could be readily explained by the bursting of skin after blunt contact.
The ex-boyfriend had dropped her off. Why, he did not understand. She wanted it. He wanted it. It was unclear as to why she was dropped here and where this ex was traveling to next, for how long and if he’d come back. To leave a pretty young woman alone on a nearly uninhabited island was manslaughter, if not murder, he thought.
He told her thus and she shrugged. She looked at the hardcover book, folded the corner of a page and closed it. “Well, I have a zodiac.” She shrugged. “And some gas.”
“And some navigational skill?” He shook his head. She smirked and there were no islands in sight. The stars could give them direction. The Southern Cross couldn’t lie.
They tried not to talk about the obvious so he asked her about the book. “It’s addicting.” She confessed. He thought about addictions in a circumstance like this.
She talked about magic. How she knew it wasn’t real but wished it was. And often found herself wishing she could believe in it. “Otherwise the world can just seem so boring.”
Well, we’ll push ourselves tonight, he thought. He had quickly decided they were a ‘we’.
He was trying to gather information in the most amiable way possible. He’d learned the name of the island, the general direction she thought they faced. More about the eroded relationship with the captain of the sailing vessel she’d arrived in. He’d learned she had no supplies, she was vague about how long she’d been there and he’d learned she’d skimmed to the beach in a zodiac that could possibly return him to his island and the life he had there.
They went for a walk on the beach and she talked about New York, about autumn. She missed that the most, the leaves. She missed sailing the sound with her dad. Daddy, she still called him.
She also missed dance clubs: huge, raging, ear-pounding warehouse clubs of anonymity. That’s where she had met her ex. They talked about clubs, about ecstasy and speed. She humored him. And attracted him. They walked along the beach casually tossing words back and forth and that was almost enough for him to forget everything. It was enough. He forgot where he was and what he was doing. He was tempted to ask her back to his place to watch a movie.
She picked up a piece of coral and examined it. She knew the names from the broken fragments alone. “Acropora.” She said with a smile and pointed to the pores and explained the difference between that and “Possilipora” and the device she used to remember this. She knew the names of the fish and could spot them from above the water and call out their name as she waded in, tracing a hand along the calm water as she spun.
Soon his stomach was too much to ignore. There was no other structure on the island, he’d learned. This extravagant hotel was for those millionaires who wanted a catered wilderness experience. They were flown in on small sea planes once a month or so, along with supplies and guides.
There has to be some spot they discard their food, he thought. But he didn’t want to bring up such desperate words yet. He didn’t want to face the disparity. So, they walked back toward where he’d found her.
The sky was settling, the sun was on the opposite side of the island, he observed. So that gave some credence to the directions she’d offered. The sky was still blue but a few bright stars and a sliver of the moon could be seen. When they got to the patch of sand they’d met at they stood there and looked at each other. As if they were eager students standing beside a white picket fence. She even put her hands behind her back and nudged some sand with her toe.
He expected her to say, I had a really good time.
“You want to dance?” She asked instead. And they danced a slow musicless shuffle there in their bathing suits in the waning tropical light. He felt good but found it hard to forget about his cavernous stomach biting and tearing at itself.
It felt like a half hour to him. They slowed and stood with their hands still around each other. She met his eyes and he watched them drift. She rose to her tiptoes and kissed him. Then looked at him and smiled.
“I’m going to go get us some food.” He said.
Upon explanation he was met with aggression from the occupants and workers of the exclusive hotel. He shrugged them off and scavenged.
When he returned she had another blanket down on the sand. They ate scraps similar to the ones he foraged for earlier. They lay down together and covered up with the large towel.
Soon they were spooning and soon she turned and they kissed. He slid her clothes off and soon she was guiding him in. Soon he was ready and pulled out, thinking about a lack of protection. It passed and he slipped it back in as she moaned.
In the morning they were doing calisthenics again. This time he did not approach them and he was not shoed away. He wanted the vanilla oat cluster cereal he had grown accustomed to. He rose and there was an older couple sitting at a table. A New York Times open in front of the man. The woman sipped at a coffee and set it on a saucer, her slender fingers remained entwined in the small ring of the cup. She stared out at the ocean. It was so far away for her.
He didn’t scavenge that day. Instead he worked until he had a sharp stick. Two hours in the water floating above his board and he came back with a 12 inch orange fish with droopy fins and a fat belly. He began to eat the meat from the skin and she cringed. A fire sounded too difficult and he handed her small portions and she closed her eyes and chewed them. She turned her back and plugged her nose and swallowed the food. The night saw more scavenging through trash.
Days passed in a similar fashion. The weather stayed the same. The ocean grew calmer. They drank water from a river and he killed a few more fish. He was hungry most of the time but it was not devastatingly so.
Then one afternoon she took him to her zodiac and said she was ready to leave, as if she’d been waiting for some need that was finally fulfilled after listless surviving on an almost deserted island.
“Ok, I guess.” And it was as simple as that. They ushered the boat into the lagoon like pal bears. He lifted the red tank and the fuel sloshed around. He pinned his board against the side and held her hand as she slid in toward the bow and propped her towels behind her, the thick Harry Potter under her arm. A few heavy pulls on the chord and the 20-horse motor revved to life. He put it in gear and the prop spat a cyclone twirl of water to the surface. He found the channel and put the tilt down, they passed the reef break and he turned the rudder to what he thought was southeast.
They didn’t speak over the hum of the motor. He didn’t think they had enough fuel nor was he anywhere close to being positive of the direction they headed -the ocean was big and islands were small, errors were greatly compounded. Regardless, they passed a solitary sailboat; a headsail fully ballooned in the lazy wind. A mainsheet sporadically flopping and a second mast without a sail. There was a man at the helm. He looked at the tiny zodiac flying past at a distance. The man in the zodiac looked out and noticed the two flags, he stared. An American flag flapped below a French flag. The engine hummed on.