Vows Box Set

Chapter 10: Coconuts-2

“Be careful, Buddy. Do you remember how I showed you to do that safely?” I asked as I carefully added thinly sliced kumquat and strips of pandanus leaves to the heated water in the deep stone bowl at the edge of the fire.

Buddy looked up at me and nodded. “I remember, Papa. Don’t worry.”

The pandanus leaf strips and kumquat slices would steep and flavor the water, giving us a nice warm drink to enjoy with our dinner. The kumquat slices wouldn’t go to waste either; I would arrange them atop our fish after it was cooked. These were trivial details, and we didn’t talk about it, but I noticed the smiles of appreciation at the artfully put-together plates when I distributed them.

Ah, the art of survival. It’s the little things that make life enjoyable, and what’s the point of surviving if not to enjoy life?

The others did it, too. As Garrett’s weaving skills improved, and all our initial needs were met, Garrett added a little flair to his projects. My food baskets all had decorative elements now, and so did our sun hats.

I missed Sam terribly. Two years. Almost two full years without seeing him, speaking with him, hugging him, feeling his arms around me. But, apart from yearning for my husband, life on the island didn’t seem so bad anymore.

“You gonna be keeping the kid busy for a bit?” I started at Devon’s question because I hadn’t heard him approach. A quick glance at Buddy reassured me he would be occupied for a while. Watching me filet a fish was one of those tasks that fascinated Buddy. What two-and-a-half-year-old boy wouldn’t be riveted by fish guts?

I nodded at Devon. “Yep, should be.”

Choosing my battles with the kid helped me win the ones that were most important to me. Some people would argue that letting a child that age use a sharp stone “knife” and filet and clean out his own fish was a battle I should maybe choose, but it was a different life out here.

We gave Buddy a decent amount of freedom now, although he generally hung around us anyway, helping out. He was old enough to understand the few rules he had to follow to keep those freedoms, and he was experienced enough to honestly respect those rules and the harsh realities of life on the island.

So Buddy was kneeling over his own little prep stone, softly biting down on his emerging tongue, brow furrowed in concentration as he sliced into a fish. He was carefully using every safety technique I’d insisted on his following.

“Cool,” replied Devon. Then he kicked a stray pebble. “You doing okay on coconut oil?”

Oh.

To be clear, Devon wasn’t suggesting that he’d make me some more. Processing coconut oil was a fairly arduous process using island conditions, and it was strictly my domain. It was worth the effort for island moral. We’d discovered a love for “pan” fried fish filets, and although we couldn’t cook the fish that way more than once every week or two due to limitations on coconut oil availability, we did it as often as possible. It was the little things that counted when you didn’t have much.

The availability of a little personal lubrication was also nice, and likewise good for island moral. That was where Devon’s query came in.

I leaned over to root around in my large pantry basket. I found the hollowed out wooden jar containing my current store of the requested product and double checked under the woven cover.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” I said, handing it over.

“Thanks.” He reached in a couple fingers and scooped out a little glob, then handed it back to me and sauntered off toward the grove of Tahitian chestnut trees on the north side, which we now knew not to approach for at least twenty minutes, to be safe.

Garrett glanced up from the new sun hat he was plaiting for Buddy. I could almost see his mental shrug before turning back to his task. Nothing to see here, it’s just part of living.

Someday I hoped to have a good laugh with Sam about some of the memories of him that inspired me during my own trips to the Tahitian chestnut grove. Memories of Sam groaning, “Henry, Henry, oh God, you feel so good,” as his hands clenched and unclenched in my hair. Memories of his mouth engulfing me, hot and wet, as one of his hands kneaded my thigh and the other splayed, slowly moving up my torso. I’d have to make a point of buying a jar of coconut oil. I could wank the two of us together using a generous clump of the stuff for old time’s sake.

I sighed and pushed the thought from my mind. A mid-afternoon b***r, as opposed to natural morning wood, would be embarrassing. Morning wood, like sharing the potty beach, was a normal bodily function. We’d gotten over it.

“Funny how things like that don’t even faze us anymore, isn’t it?” said Garrett. “I can’t imagine being that nonchalant about it before being marooned here.”

I smiled. “I know. We’ve got no secrets from each other. The remains of our clothes are good for nothing more than tying back our hair these days.”

Needless to say, our scraggly hair needed it. I patted my unruly dreadlocks to emphasize my point. The others kept their hair roughly sawed off to about shoulder length using one of Devon’s tools. We used that same tool to pull out our beards and keep them shorn as short as we safely could. We were scruffy as hell, but we weren’t completely unhygienic, even if we looked the part. We all cleaned our teeth on the eastern beach after every meal, swishing sloppy sand around in our mouths and gargling with ocean water. We also each took a dip in the water on the relatively safe eastern beach for our daily “bath.”

“Probably just as well, for Buddy’s sake,” said Garrett. “He’s old enough to feel out of place if he was the only one running around naked now.”

“True. I plan to frame whatever scraps are left of my shirt when I finally get home again.”

Garrett laughed. “My kids always thought I was a bit of a prude. They were probably right. My outlook on life has changed a lot these past two years.”

“Let’s face it. Clothes are a societal construct, something that the customs of most civilized societies demand. But seriously, why did that custom evolve? Why were the first clothes worn?”

“It isn’t a subject I’ve studied, but I imagine it was for protection from the weather, then once it became habit, s****l morality became attached to it. But it seems to me that’s just artificial.”

I nodded. “Yes, even today, primitive societies don’t necessarily cover their private parts even if they wear some bits of clothing.”

Although the more prim-and-proper set back in the developed world might have been surprised to learn it, none of this had had any kind of an adverse effect on Buddy’s moral development. He was an absolutely great kid, and he didn’t think anything of all this nudity. It was just a “parts is parts” thing. One part was no different, really, from any other part, and we all had the same equipment anyway.

“That pretty much sums it up, because really, if modesty was that important to us we would wear those pandanus leaf skirts I made.”

I laughed. “Nah, I’m used to the nudist approach now. The ponchos are great for when we need to spend time out in the sun, though.”

“Yeah, that sun is brutal. So, do you have enough of that coconut oil to fry the fish tonight?”

“Yeah, I can do that, but I’ll be about out if I do. I know there’s a bunch more fallen coconuts up there, so I’ll pick them up after dinner. Will you keep an eye on Buddy while I do that?”

“Sure.”

“I’m done,” announced Buddy. “I need to pee.”

Garrett put down his weaving and reached out to him. “Come on, I’ll take you to the potty beach.”

“When will I be big enough to go by myself?”

“A few more years, at least,” I said, although I certainly hoped we wouldn’t still be here, and it wouldn’t be an issue.

Garrett hefted him up and swung him around a couple times. Buddy squealed in delight, his desire for a grownup’s independence once more forgotten. I watched their naked butts as they walked down the beach to the corner, Buddy bopping along with two or three skipping steps for every one of Garrett’s steady paces.

I finished up prepping a trio of three-pound snappers, cut up into four fillets each, in addition to the smaller fish Buddy had handled. Then I put my bowed frying stone on the hot coals with some of the coconut oil to preheat. Between Devon’s increased skill with a spear and the nets Garrett wove for him, we generally had a nice morning catch that I could trim into strips to dry in the sun—weather permitting—and a big enough afternoon catch for a filling dinner, with extra for the next day’s lunch.

I dampened the filets in a fresh coconut milk and sea bird egg mixture, then dredged them in some breadfruit flour, seasoned with a little sea salt, dried colpomenia (papery sea bubble) flakes, and ground toasted breadnut seeds. Then I pressed some coconut flakes on the filets and carefully laid a few of them in the heated oil to fry.

I’d found that harvesting sea salt to use as a seasoning was a fairly easy process. I boiled the ocean water in a rock bowl, cooked it down, then moved the reduced salt water to a wider shallower rock bowl that I placed in the sun and used as an evaporating pan.

Garrett moaned behind me. “Damn, that smells good.” He and Buddy moved closer to the fire.

“Won’t be long now,” I said. Jackfruit was sliced and ready to be served as a side dish with a jelly made from boiled kumquat and wire weed spread on them.

Devon returned, apparently following his nose. “Dinner almost ready?”

“Round one will be up in just a few,” I replied, and flipped the first batch of fish on the stone.

He plopped down in his usual eating spot. “Cool.”

Before long I was arranging our first servings on wooden plates that Devon had roughly formed, and all of us had smoothed with sand and lots of elbow grease. Devon had whittled some serviceable eating utensils, even adding some artsy decorative flair at the handles. We weren’t quite as uncivilized as our naked butts made us appear at first glance.

I deftly placed a filet on each of four plates and scooped kumquat slices out of our “tea” and positioned three across each filet. Then I set two kumquat-smeared jackfruit slices on each of three plates, and one to start on Buddy’s plate. Garrett used the ladle Devon had carved to serve up the beverage into four small sculpted cups.

“It’s my favorite, Papa,” announced Buddy as he devoured his plate of food. He turned to the other men to proudly add, “I helped clean the fish.”

“I saw,” said Devon. “And you even caught one of the fish this afternoon.”

We already knew that since Buddy had strutted around the beach after the catch broadcasting the fact repeatedly. Devon liked to indulge him, though. Hell, we were all guilty of that. Buddy bobbed his head with pleasure at the acknowledgement.

Buddy knew the basics of each of our routines, and Garrett had woven him his own little child-sized fishing net so he could help out. You could say that was part of our cross-training plan.

We all stuck primarily with our areas of expertise, but after the incident where Buddy and I almost got swept away in the ocean, we’d realized that if any one of us was lost, the remaining survivors would be in trouble. Each of our contributions was critical enough to our survival as well as comfort that we needed to cross train, so if the worst ever happened, whoever still lived could continue to do so. Of course, Buddy was a long way from being self-sufficient, but we all felt the need to improve his knowledge and skills as his abilities increased each passing month.

I passed seconds around to everyone, and we made the most of our fish fry feast night. Garrett and Devon, with Buddy’s assistance, handled the cleanup without me while I made my way up to our little coconut grove, helmet in hand.

We’d developed a more relaxed mindset toward coconut collection after so much time without incident but still followed our rules. We avoided the area except for the specific purpose of coconut or frond collection and always wore shell helmets to protect our heads when doing so. Apparently the “no teasing the person wearing the silly helmet” rule applied only to verbal comments and not to smirking, but I let that go.

I made a good-sized pile outside of the high-risk area with five good-sized mature coconuts, and lots of nice fronds for Garrett to work his magic. Maybe we could add another layer to the roof of our shelter. I went back in and reached for the sixth and final coconut.

The blow from another coconut dropping and hitting me in the middle of my upper right arm knocked me over. I sucked in my breath with a frighteningly tight sounding wheeze. The pain was so intense I was unable to scream. I whimpered, and my breath came in fast gasps.

My worst nightmare—for severe injury or illness to strike one of us here on the island, with no hope of medical attention—was coming true. The situation was hopeless, and I was helpless and doomed, now, to who knew how many years of pain, dependent on the others for everything.

A wave of nausea surged through my gut. I fought back the feeling and struggled to my knees. I cradled my arm to my chest, and hobbled out of the danger area on my knees.

I rocked back and forth, trying to get my breathing under control. Finally, I staggered to my feet, then broke out in a sweat and started shivering.

I stumbled out to the beach and fell back to my knees. Buddy screamed, “Papa’s hurt,” then a rushing noise started in my head.

I whispered, “Help me,” then fell to my side and passed out.