The Last Island Read online

  “Manta, Manta, Manta,” I said.

  “Yes, new disciple.”

  “You are an expert diver.”

  “Yes, I am,” Manta said proudly.

  “You are a natural man.”

  “Again, true, and I must confess to it.”

  “And, Manta, you are a genius.”

  “That is also true. Oh, so very true.”

  “But, Manta, I had doubted your abilities as a prophet until this very moment.”

  There was no answer. There was just a perplexing and curious expression on that great big beautiful earthman face. John Henry turned and looked at him. She was perplexed and curious.

  I turned on my heel and slowly ambled away. I knew the question was coming but I did not know from which one the question was going to come. I am no prophet for simultaneously the question was shouted, not asked, by both.

  “Prophet!”

  I paused but did not turn to face them.“Prophet,” I said. Then I walked a bit.

  “Prophet,” they said.

  A third time. Good. That was what I wanted for now they were surely upon my hook and all I had to do was reel them in and land them.

  Then I began, “Manta is a prophet.”

  Manta was scared to ask the how’s and the what’s of his prophesy but John Henry was never bashful about such inquiries.

  She began in a most effective way since a good offense is the best defense.

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “You just have to get the last word. That is it.”

  “Oh, no. Not me, for surely I am not the type. I have no ego,” I replied to her.

  There were smirks all around.

  “Explain then, if you can, the prophetic powers of Manta,” she queried.

  I began in a most contrite way with my head bowed. “Well, when I first came to this place of wonder, I had a name and it did not end in a vowel duplet of ie that diminutized me. Do you remember?”

  She thought for a nano-second. “Oh, yes, I was Madam Frankenstein. I, in a moment, gave life to a Vaughnie.”

  “Yes, you did. Yes, you did. I became an ie,” I replied.

  “It was so cute. It was just so right. It fit you so very well.” There was a big grin on her face and she had this expression of pride.

  “Then I met the Deacon or rather he walked over me. Then I met Manta and he put the fear of fear into me. Do you remember, Manta?”

  A second passed.

  He figured out the answer.

  “Oh my God, oh my God! You are right; I am a prophet. Oh, my God.”

  There was a detonation of noise that was sheer joy from him and austere silence from John Henry. It had passed her and she had no understanding.

  Finally to ease her suffering, I told her the answer. “I told Manta as soon as you tagged me with the ie label how I hated it and he said that it was not much of a name and that one day I would have a new and better name. Now I do. I have a new and better name.”

  There was a crease in her forehead but Manta just grinned that giant big grin. He was basking in the pleasurable fulfillment of his prophesy.

  I explained to her, “I am the Disciple.”

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  All she could do was shriek over and over again.

  All I could do was walk away as the Disciple. Vaughnie was left there, somewhere—forever.

  30

  On the boat solo, I, by means of evil, had put myself alone upon the Deep’s surface. By other means of evil, I had manipulated machines and means so that I would be the only person upon the surface of the Deep.

  The Aurelia aurita, Moon jellyfish, reminded me of the blizzard that had chased me from Cleveland, Ohio. It was the same but different. In that blizzard, the snow had fallen gracefully by the ton from the sky. Here, the Moon jellyfish in their diurnal dance were arising from the bottom. Cleveland, Ohio, was a frozen wasteland of excessively straight lines that never reached a horizon. Here and now, there was no cold and there were no straight lines and the horizon was a depthless three hundred and sixty degrees. But, just as 55th Street on that blizzard-enveloped evening was overprovided with the crystal whiteness of snowflakes, here and now the film of the deep was overprovided with the jelly bodies of shimmering Moon jellyfish.

  At first the daily vertical migration of the Aurelia had kindled the burning of my imagination. Box jellyfish have eyes and are sensitive to light. Box jellyfish, like all sight predators modern or ancient, are active in light and indolent in the dark. While the Box jellyfish were lethargic, I would fool their ten-neuron brain and simply dive past them. I would find the densest mass of harmless Moon jellyfish and, while using them as a jelly coat of armor, go into the Deep.

  I thought to myself, Genius.

  My dad used to say, “If I have one more dollar than I need, I am rich.” After all, I had at least one more neuron than a jellyfish.

  This was going to be a technical dive and all technical dives are baptisms of intellect.

  The algorithms of the partial pressure gas laws had been calculated and the gas mixtures combined and supplied to the tanks. The gases of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide had all been calibrated and mixed to very precise volumes. I would in the first portion of the dive depend on my comprehension but the back half of the dive would all be muscle memory. Such things as nitrogen narcosis, oxygen poisoning, or carbon dioxide elevations were not good ways to dive but they were sure ways to die.

  I knew that positive bio-feedback and the thrill of being face down in the water would power my first kicks. I also knew that the governor of negative bio-feedback had better not be overcome by the thrill for surely it would be the negative bio-feedback that would save my life —if my life could be saved at all.

  The extra salvation tanks were resting on the bottom, bow, and, stern. Suspended in four atmospheres at the last link of the steel chain were the tanks that I would use for my first safety stop and above those, suspended in one atmosphere, were the second and last of the tanks that I would utilize as another safety stop.

  I knew that these were the last tanks I would ever use, but, I did not say so out loud. My mother had taught me to never say never.

  If I rechecked the equipment any more, it would show wear. The last tugs, the last pulls, the last shifts, slaps, and stamps were performed. The final recheck of air was drawn in and the last glance taken at the numbers on the submersible wrist dive computer. The final shift of the mask and pull upon the strap were completed.

  There was inside of me a hope of a component failure. There was the hope that something would break, fail, or ill-perform—something that would allow me to discontinue and halt this dive. Something that would allow me to fail, but at the same time allow me to keep my manhood. So often, on so many other dives, there had been something. There were times in a few feet at the pool, there were times in the shallow waters of Looe Key, and there were the times over the coral-heads that one thing or another happened. But when your life is in the balance the gods just grab some popcorn and a soda and watch the drama unfold. It must be some Greek mythological thing.

  At this moment, I knew it was not harmless Greek gods or precision-engineered dive gear or perfectly calculated formulas that held the balance of my life. My life rested simply in my actions. Turn around and go home. Just float here. Start the dive but do not complete the dive. Start the dive and complete the dive. At the end of each option was the same outcome: death. But, life and death was not it at all.

  It was it. The Deep, Box jellyfish, sunken ships, uncaring, and everything else from dead Nazis to savage slavers and ancient prophets; they were all trying to define me. All were trying to limit me. From those back in Cleveland, Ohio, to now, all were trying. And now it—it—was not trying to limit. It was tempting me.

  I knew that I was not yielding to temptation. I was overcoming temptation.

  “Yes, I will dive for it. I will not die for it!”

  This is what I said as I sat backwards on the rail r
eadying myself for the somersault into the water, my entrance into the Deep.

  “This has got to be right!”

  A second in a backward free fall and a splash put me into the sea. The fall made a hole in the water and for another second or two there was no motion. I looked up and the water stopped supporting my weight and rushed into the hole that my splash had created. The natural sounds of the sea gurgling upon me mixed with the technological sounds of my breathing regulator and other devices. Looking up from a reversed fetal position, I saw the underside of the boat through the film of my baptismal waves.

  There was nobody on ship to give the okay sign but dive protocol had to be observed. I righted myself and kicked to the surface, anyway. It did allow me another final and last check of my equipment. Head up in the black South Sea there was no sky, there was no land, and really there was no universal ocean. There was just the swell coming to rest upon my mask. At this point in time, I was the most alone person on Earth

  I couldn’t help thinking, I am Homo stupidcanas.

  This caused me to laugh. Just as I was about to submerge, a Moon jellyfish glued itself to my mask. I pulled it off but it, in a moment, had deposited a plop of goo on the face-plate.

  What the—Not a good sign.

  The water had now filled the space between the wet suit and my skin. The rush of water seemed very chilly and I rested to become acclimated to the chill. I turned the glow of the flashlight upon the thermometer on my wrist. The water temperature was higher than normal water temperature. It was not the water that had chilled my spine. The thrill was what had chilled my spine.

  Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

  I repeated the formula as I began my descent. The beam from my flashlight produced a safe-passage cone as it reflected off the ascending plankton arising and the feeding fish that followed lazily behind, grazing on the aquatic manna. They ignored me and I ignored them.

  An old Carole King song came to mind at that moment: Doesn’t Anybody Stay In One Place Anymore? I could not help but laugh.

  Stop it. Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instruments. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  There they were, the one-atmosphere safety-stop tanks that I would need on my return to the surface.

  Better check them. Looks good. Why am I talking to myself?

  Because I am homo stupidcanas.

  You are too tense and too worked up. You have got to get into a flow or you are not going to make it boss. There is only so much fire on a match and you are burning yourself out too quickly.

  What the—Why is Wooly Bully playing in my head?

  Stop it. Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

  These were the thoughts I had at the stop.

  I readied myself and descended and with each kick the cone of safety became ever smaller and smaller.

  Push down on the high beam button, you idiot. Get more light.

  Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

  Down, down, down—always down. At neutral buoyancy and in the dark, there is not a down. I only knew that I was going down because I was pulling upon the dive rope and my bubbles were not going in the same direction as I was diving.

  The light spread out in front of me like a plate.

  The bottom, where?

  Check the two-atmosphere safety tanks first—fore and aft. Good.

  Take a breath. Hey, that’s funny.

  Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan on your slates, again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  Looks good. Exchange tank one for tank two.

  Good exchange. Okay, let’s go.

  Let’s go. Tie it here. Make it good and tight now. Make it sure. Make it secure. Looks good. One more pull. Okay. Let’s go. One more pull now.

  Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan in your mind again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  There were old, but not rotting, guidelines all about in the area from all the other previous divers—nylon does not rot. Some of the guide cords had sessile life forms lodging upon the free rental surface area of the cord.

  There was a stroke of insight to this line. The ugly pink florescent color will be of untold aid.

  Why am I talking to myself?

  Looking at my dive watch, the dive was asymmetrical. The first half of the dive was too quick and now into the second part of the dive I had fallen behind in time.

  This will not do.

  At this rate of speed I would in all certainty run out of the needed calories to keep my body temperature steady, to keep my muscles functional, and to have enough warm blood to feed my brain. If I increased my activities, I would become exhausted well short of completion.

  A horse is a horse, of course, of course—except if the horse is Mr. Ed! Why am I singing the tune to Mr. Ed?

  Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instruments. Go over the dive plan on your slates, again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

  There it was, the opening into the U-Boat. It went from black to what black imagined black looked like when black was dreaming. It was colder. And the water had much less motion.

  I swam into the hole up to my shoulders, trying not to ensnare myself in the razor rust that was once hard steel. The cone of light was faint and dim in the shadowy darkness. Nothing in the internal space could be seen clearly. All the light illuminated was the densely floating plankton that was suspended there.

  What reason could I make up for quitting now?

  Who could blame me?

  A swim-through, maybe, but I hated diving when and where there was something between me and the surface.

  Finally inside. I got into a knee-rest position and reached out.

  Use only the tip ends of your fins. You do not want to kick up the sediment layer and the suspended materials and make misery miserable do you?

  I assumed the dive position and reached into the polluted and fouled water.

  A shark!

  I had just reached out and fingered the dorsal fin of a shark. I did an instantaneous calculation and, using my arm as a meter stick, it, the shark, was ten to twelve feet in length and I, my belly, was just above his eyes.

  What the—!

  In a U-Boat on the head of a shark.

  The weak light revealed it was a Ginglymostoma cirratum. It was a harmless nurse shark that was just resting in the U-Boat.

  Using just the last inch of my dive fins, I swam over and past the still sea monster and into the belly of the steel beast, all the time making sure my guideline was secure and freely unwinding behind me. Following it back was my only salvation. Deeper and deeper I swam through a solution that was ancient sea water, suspended plankton, spent lubricants, and atomized human beings with ever-decreasing illumination and falling ambient temperature.

  Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care. Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care.

  Shut-up.

  Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan on your slates, again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

  Pull on the dive cord.

  What was that line?

  Oh, yeah. “Little by little we go far.”

  Shut up.


  I did not know, in truth, where I was. I could have turned around, I could have drifted one way or the other, or maybe I was swimming in drowning circles. I could not use JDNLR. JDNLR had so often saved me from disaster and misfortune. When it came to a final choice, “just does not look right” was the truth of my decision-making, always. But, here and now JDNLR was unusable. It was at the point that the hairs on the back of my neck and the contraction of my bowels were the GPS inputs to my dive and my survival.

  Wish I had Mr. Shark’s internal guidance system that’s for sure. Yeah, but Mr. Shark does not have my dive tables.

  The thought made me laugh so hard I almost choked.

  “I bought you a brand new mustang, 1964. Mustang Sally, you better slow your mustang down...”

  Keep your mind on the dive. Check your instrument. Go over the dive plan on your slates, again. Practice relaxed breathing. Focus, focus, refocus.

  Just breathe. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing normally. Just breathe. You know the drill.

  Pull on the dive cord.

  And, there it was: a darker shade of dark. I had made it through the U-Boat. If I could have breathed a sigh of relief, I would have breathed a sigh of relief. But, down, it was always down deeper and into the stain that had been the black slaver. Then it happened. In a spontaneous moment, I lost every thought and devolved into a Rhipidistian, a lobe-finned fish, and in that crawling “S” motion that is in our spines as an inheritance of motion from our chordate ancestors, I descended. I cashed another inheritance check of violent action in order to collect it and thoughtlessly make the exit from the black and into the dim.

  31

  I had collected maybe thousands of fish in gill nets and there was only one outcome for all those fish: death.

  But, here I was attached to a line underwater as if I was caught in a gill net. I was not hoping because underwater hoping is hopeless. I had exchanged my spent tanks for other full tanks and had attached myself by means of steel clamps to this survival line. The calculations had been done and checked and rechecked so it would be the science and the math of good thinking that would be my salvation. All I could do was pray that my science and math was correct.