Pat Watson

 The Island of Exiles, continued

The layers of events from that fateful evening come back to me in an instant and there I am, standing on the sand dune, looking across the bay on a warm evening. In these moments of memory, I’m suspended in a strange space between the heartbreak of a love gone wrong and the relief of letting go, suspended, free floating and unattached. I unzip my hoodie, roll it into a ball and place it on the sand as a pillow. I lay down, put my chin on my hands and peer through the sea grass and coastal shrubs to the hills on a distant shore. As a boy, I’d sometimes squint my eyes and see little creatures and faces through my blurry vision. It feels good to do it again, like I did as a boy, creating small worlds In dreamy reverie. In my fantasy or maybe a delusional state, the small plants and tiny insects become otherworldly forms, wriggling, scurrying, stopping and staring back at me with a hundred tiny eyes, like the faces you see in the patterns of a rug or the stains on a wall. My eyes, half closed and blurry with subtle visions, invite my imagination and, as I lay here in the sand, staring at the bay, the sand and the tiny visions before me, I drift off and follow the dream.

What comes next is real but not true. What I see is real. What I feel is real. All in all, it can’t be true but I can’t deny how real it seems.

A perilous hour passes quickly and things get worse. The sail is ripped and useless. The flapping canvas snaps in the wind. The building waves and rising wind push me towards huge rocks that appear out of the swirling spray. I have no control. This is not good.

The wind, the waves and the surging current completely control the boat. It’s hopeless. Under the moonlight, the terrible moonlight, white fanged crests of clenching waves clutch me in their grasp. The rocks loom larger and a boulder-strewn shore emerges from the stinging spray and surging swells, beckoning me to a storm-lashed death. I suddenly realize that I can die in this fantasy, hallucination or dream, whatever this unreal experience might be called. I’ve heard it said that if you die in a dream, your body dies with you. I keep praying to wake up in bed or at least in a psyche ward but it hasn’t happened yet.

A large swell lifts the stern of the small boat high up its face. Terrified, I can see the trough of the wave sucking out over the moss covered rocks. As the boat begins to descend into the exposed rocks, another wave crashes in from the side and, hitting rocks to my right, sends a surge of whitewater underneath my free-falling boat. The waves roar, the rocks moan, the boat and I disappear into the thick churn of whitewater. I push away from the boat, hoping to avoid its spinning and splintering remains while I struggle underwater. Holding my breath, I open my eyes and swimming the best I can, stroke towards the frothy light above me. I come to the surface out of breath, eyeball deep in sea foam, sucking in saltwater, scared to death and freezing in the frigid sea. The surge pulls back out to sea and I realize I’m between large rocks in a small inlet and it looks like I can reach bare rock and crawl out of the maelstrom. Gasping for each breath, drenched and tumbled by one wave after another, I climb across the wet and slimy rocks, intermittently getting cut up by barnacles and mussels. Eventually, I slip, slide and scratch my way to what I hope is safety.

Bruised, battered, cut, freezing and exhausted, I crawl up on the drier rocks along the cliff and pray to find a way to warm up, dry out and find a way home.

After a while, the pain and numbness fade enough for me to get to my feet and search for some shelter in the dim light. Climbing over the rocks, driftwood and shoreline debris, I make slow but precious progress along the jumbled shore. The sun has set and dim moonlight peaks through the streaming, swirling clouds. I can’t see well enough to go on and sensing more danger out there in the darkness and in the shadows within the darkness, I try to find shelter. Near me is an enormous boulder, severed and dumped from the dark tower of granite high above. There’s a narrow opening between the boulder and the cliff face and I squeeze in, finding shelter from the wind and the stinging salt spray. I squeeze my way in, curl myself into a ball and wrapping my soggy, hooded sweatshirt around me, I sleep a little and otherwise shake with cold and fear through the night.

At dawn, I’m no longer freezing, just uncomfortably cold. My clothes are damp but no longer soggy. I crawl back to the entrance and find it plugged by a massive pile of seaweed. I try to pull handfuls of the slimy mass into the cave to make a path through it and soon realize that I’ll fill the cave with seaweed before I clear enough of it to get out. I turn myself in the opposite direction to find out how far the sliver of space stays open, in the hope of escaping through the other end. When I stand, I have to turn sideways, as the space is too narrow for my shoulders. I slowly shuffle my way along this gap, towards what I hope might be another opening at the other end.

Eventually I can see some light but the passage is getting narrower and pushing through to the other end seems unlikely. No, impossible. Even squeezing out my breath to make my chest smaller, it’s too tight. I don’t dare go farther. If I get stuck here, I’m doomed.

Turning my head around, I begin the slow creep back to where I started, where I’ll have to deal with the ton of seaweed that blocks my exit. By this time, the morning light is bright enough to add definition to the rock walls that might be my tomb. As I wriggle my way back, I see a jagged tear in the wall opposite me. It’s wider than where I am now and it seems like the best available option for escape. It’s a dimly lit hope and eventually proves to be the weirdest part of this already weird tale.

The slim passage is dark and difficult. The rocks are loose and uneven. I push my hands against the damp walls to stay upright but it remains passable and I keep going. To go back seems like a lost cause. After a number of zig-zags, the passage gets wider and I can see light. To my great relief, I wind up standing at the exit, in morning light and an unbelievable panorama expands before me. As my eyes adjust to the brightness, a lush garden and forest opens up in front of my unbelieving eyes.

Chilled, damp, quaking in my shoes and amazed, I stand at the threshold of the unbelievable… but here it is. For the time being, I set aside all the incongruity and stand in the warmth of the morning light. I lean against the warm rock wall, close my eyes and thaw out. Figuring out the mystery of all this can wait for a few more moments. I slip to my knees, lean sideways just a bit, rest my head against the rock wall and drift off into sleep.

I wake after I don’t know how long. I sort of come to my senses, I look around. I’m in a deep valley, surrounded by tall rock walls with no discernible exit. The thick forest appears to cover quite a distance in front of me. Scattered along the rock walls seem to be a number of hot springs, radiating steam. Then I notice that the ground is a bit warmer than it should be in this cold climate. Is this valley heated by dormant volcanoes or geothermal energy? Could be. Seems like a plausible answer.

Hungry and thirsty, I search for a pathway into the forest. I walk through brush, grasses and thorns for quite a while until I see what appears to be a tunnel through the undergrowth, the kind of passage small animals might use. I lay down on my belly and crawl through the foliage tunnel, hoping to find some refreshment and maybe some answers. Continued….