Vows Box Set

Chapter 7: The Wet Season-3

“Here,” directed Devon as he handed me a long length of trunk from a small fallen tree, our earlier disagreement apparently forgotten, or at least put aside. “I’ve marked on this log where it needs to be cut.” He handed me a short-handled stone hatchet.

Buddy jumped up immediately. “Papa, Papa.” He grabbed onto the small log, ready to hold it in place for me.

Devon smiled and shook his head in amusement. “Have at it, kid.”

I was inordinately proud of Buddy’s eagerness and need to please. Not that a one-year-old’s efforts were especially appreciated for the work that he was able to actually accomplish at this stage, but they were welcomed because they showed he’d already developed a desire to contribute, and it kept him busy, nearby, and safe.

He was no “Stepford kid.” He got irritable when he was hungry or tired. So did I, so I couldn’t really fault him for that. Also, teething was an ongoing b***h, and Mr. Independent pushed the boundaries wherever he could. But I loved the little guy.

Devon turned to me. “Those will be the posts. I’m gonna find some more with a similar diameter, maybe a little smaller, for the perimeter.”

“Sounds good,” I said. I did have one concern. I was reluctant to bring up the subject since we were back to speaking to each other pleasantly, but it was important enough to mention anyway.

“I know you’re not looking for anything big enough that the tree would already be producing food for us, but I really don’t want to lose any of the young canarium nut trees, either. We’ve got only the big one currently yielding. I don’t want to still be here in one or two years when those smaller ones start producing any more than you do, but we have to consider that possibility.”

“For Christ’s sake, Henry. This again? We’re not starving.”

“But nothing’s going to waste, either. You already know that we need to avoid taking down mature trees, but we also need to weigh priorities and make smart decisions when we need to take down a young one.”

Devon huffed. “Fine, what should I look for, then, ’cause we’ve already agreed this need is a high priority, right?” He c****d his head to the side. “As opposed to actually getting rescued, which nobody but me seems to think is worth the effort,” he added sarcastically.

“Devon,” cautioned Garrett. “Let’s not start this again.”

Devon remained silent, but the tightness in his jaw was obvious.

I didn’t want to rehash the argument either, so I ignored the comment and put it down to the intolerable climate and the shock of realizing we might have been left for dead getting on his last nerve. I could relate.

I nodded. “I totally agree. We need an elevated bed, and we need to cut down a small tree or two to do it. I was thinking about that clump of three small mango trees on the western side, right near the beach. I think they’re too close together to all thrive anyway, so you could take two of those without affecting our potential food supply. Heck, in that case, it would probably help the remaining one flourish.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll go look at them. Hey, do you have extra papayas in the snack basket?”

“Yeah, help yourself.”

Devon strode off, and I shook my head at his apparent lack of self-awareness.

I turned to my little helper. “Okay, Buddy. Ready to hold that down so I can chop it?”

I didn’t know how much of my words he truly understood, but I accompanied the words with actions, showing him where to hold, way down the branch from where I’d be chopping. He bobbed his head vigorously and put on his serious work face. It cracked me up because he seemed to be mimicking Garrett. When Garrett was absorbed in a weaving project, the frown lines between his eyes would deepen as he furrowed his brow, and he’d alternate between pursing his lips, nibbling at his lower lip, and sticking out his tongue in concentration. Buddy was doing that now.

I had two post segments hacked off by the time Devon returned.

“Hey,” he said. “Those mango trees you mentioned will be perfect. I need to borrow the axe.”

Frankly, I was relieved to have the break. Garrett approached as I handed it over.

“Wait a sec, Devon. I want to talk about our design. I’m having some reservations about whether or not it’ll work.”

That was not what I wanted to hear after already blistering my hands, but I kept quiet and waited for the explanation.

“I think the design is great, don’t get me wrong,” he reassured Devon. “It’s my fault, really. I don’t think I can make a rope strong enough to make this work.”

Devon protested, “Well, it holds Henry fine when he’s climbing trees. He puts all his weight on it.”

“Yes,” replied Garrett, using what I thought of as his patient parent tone. “But the safety and climbing ropes I’ve made are thick and I can check them for wear and tear after every use. The netting we’ll be lying on for this needs to be thinner but closely spaced, and it’ll take a lot of stress and rubbing in the same spots every night. The more I think about it the less I think it’ll hold long enough to be worth doing. Someday maybe I’ll work out a better rope-making technique and we can revisit this idea, because it does sound like the most comfortable plan we’re likely to be able to come up with.”

Devon visibly relaxed. “Well, s**t. Okay, then. Anyone have a better idea?”

I had nothing, but apparently Garrett had already been considering an alternative. “Don’t know about better, but functional, I think. And everything we’ve done so far can be used for this, too.”

My blistered hands and I were happy to hear that.

“I’m thinking of a raised compacted platform,” Garrett continued. “We’ll build four sides, sort of like what a waterbed would be inserted into. Make it about eight or ten inches tall. Then we’ll fill it with sand from the beach. I don’t think water will leach all the way up to where we’ll be lying, do you? And anything that drips down on us should drain well enough so it won’t stay waterlogged.”

“And it’ll be cool to have something raised and solid to sit on.” Devon warmed to the idea.

“Sounds great,” I said. “We won’t get that breeze underneath us like we were hoping for, but at least we won’t be sleeping in a puddle.” And it was still a long way from the pillow-top mattress I shared with Sam back home.

Ah, Sam. What was he doing? It would be several months into the fall semester at the university now. That was a good thing, because it would keep him busy. I hoped the summer course he’d taught had helped him keep his mind off the pain of losing me. Routine was good. I was glad he had his family to help him through this, too. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much longer.

I turned to include Buddy in our good cheer at coming up with an improved plan, but he was no longer there.

I spun around, looking in every direction. “Where’s Buddy?”

“I’ll check the spring,” said Garrett. “You two head to the beach.”

“The potty beach,” I hollered as I took off running. By “potty beach” I meant the southwestern “corner” of the island, where the current would more likely remove our droppings rather than wash them back up to us.

The eastern shore was incoming current and we used the wet sloshy sand on that side for our dental hygiene efforts. The western shore one would think of as outgoing in the south equatorial current, but we had to account for the churning wake caused by our small island, so we had to choose from the northwestern and southwestern corners as our best options. The current at the northwestern corner flowed over some of my best seaweed hunting grounds, and we didn’t want our sewage flowing there, so the western end of the south-facing beach had become our designated “potty beach” by default.

Devon was right on my heels as we pushed through the undergrowth. The current along the northern and southern faces of the island was faster than the current further out from the land due to the flow being diverted around the small island’s mass.

Even worse, we were expecting a spring tide tonight. Today’s low was extra low, and tonight’s high would be extra high. It would still be heading out now.

We emerged onto the beach in time to see Buddy squatting, way down at the water’s edge, splashing up water to clean his little butt. He looked up and yelled, “Papa!” with a huge proud grin splitting his face.

Then in his excitement at seeing us, he lost his balance and toppled over, rolling into the waves behind him. I barreled along the steep beach as he stood in hip-deep water, then got knocked down and pulled further back by a wave.

“Buddy!” I screamed, and ran into the waves toward his flailing body.

I heard Devon shout, “Garrett! Hurry! Long rope NOW!”

I pushed ahead in the water as Buddy was sucked out of reach. I took a deep breath and dove under, pulling and kicking with every fiber in my body until I was able to grab his hair with one hand. I kicked up to bring our heads out of the water and pulled him to me. He came up sputtering and gasping, then immediately his arms went around my neck in a stranglehold.

“Hold on, Buddy. Don’t let go.”

Then I leaned back and started kicking and backstroking. A quick look behind me confirmed the correct direction.

Time went by…one minute? Five minutes? I didn’t want to fail Buddy like this. My legs ached. My arms felt so heavy. I forced myself to keep going through the motions while I pushed down my internal panic for Buddy’s sake.

I was never going to see Sam again. Buddy would never get the full life he deserved. Someday Devon and Garrett would be rescued, and the story told. How would Sam handle it, discovering I’d been alive for four months after he’d thought I’d died?

Maybe our bloated bodies would be found and lead to a renewed search for survivors. That didn’t appear to be the case with the original casualties of the crash, but it was possible. They’d trace our path backward in the current and find the island. At least our deaths might mean rescue for Garrett and Devon. But I didn’t want to die yet, not without seeing Sam again. And I sure didn’t want Buddy to die like this.

Would Sam be proud of me for dying while attempting to rescue a toddler? I hoped stories from Garrett and Devon would comfort him.

Just before my first sob broke loose, a strong hand gripped my hair, and pulled. I kept kicking but allowed my rubbery arms to relax and fold over Buddy, hugging him to me.

An arm slipped through, under my shoulder, and hooked securely, then my hair was released and a second arm did the same on the other side. Devon’s body floated up against mine as we were dragged forcefully back against the outflowing pull of the current.

An involuntary whimper and shudder escaped me. “I gotcha.” Devon patted my chest, and Buddy produced a faltering smile, directed over my head.

I could picture the scene in my mind. Garrett had gotten to the beach with the extra-long safety rope. Devon had tied it around his chest and come out to us. Garrett was pulling us all in. Once again Buddy and I owed them our lives.

When we were safely returned to the beach, we huddled together in a group hug to end all group hugs and wept unashamedly. Three grown men and a small child, we didn’t give a s**t at that point if the world had been watching. Our differences meant nothing. All we had was each other, and we just let our emotions roll.