Untying the Moon, page 6
Laughter and reggae and charcoal come to her as she wakes to a party next door. She laughs to hear their laughter and rolls side to side in the hammock, making it swim in big waves of motion—a favorite trick from childhood, a scolding offense that has yanked more than one hook from wall or post. For this reason she unfailingly and without thinking assesses the sturdiness of all hammock hardware before climbing into one.
The neighbors, a bevy of Cleveland optometrists and their wives, insist that Bailey join them, and by midnight most of the crowd is dancing in the sand and howling at tequila shots. As the tempo of the party peaks but before it begins the downhill slope she takes her quiet leave to the moonlit ocean.
Out past the breaking waves she floats in the shaft of light, gradually blocks the party noise, and edges into tranquility, salt crystals slow crackling in her ears. It is the most peaceful thing she knows how to do—and nobody needing to know her whys or whereabouts. Well, Boss. Tomorrow she’ll call the Bossman.
When she comes out of her trance she’s drifted a fair distance off shore and humps to get back, just fine since she’s gotten next to no exercise these last days. Come morning, though, she’ll skin dive Coffin Patch.
Isabella, the guide recommended by her old friend at the Pigeon Key Marine Lab, is energetic and accommodating. She’s studying eagle rays around Coffin Patch and takes Bailey to a section of reef that’s haven not only for rays, but also an entire prismatic world of undersea life—yellow tangs and blue tangs, banded butterflies and four eyes, angelfish and chromis, darting wrasse and stoplight parrots, blue-rimmed doctors and box-like filefish, grunts and schoolmasters, jacks and snapper, bright orange squirrels and snaggle toothed barracudas. The coral is stout and healthy and shelters swarms of juveniles.
Isabella is the perfect dive buddy—easygoing and curious. Bailey likes it that she double kicks when something really catches her eye, but when she mentions it later, Isabella has no idea what’s Bailey’s talking about. They explore lobster crannies and watch puffer fish, follow a green turtle from a distance and swim through a swarm of synchronized silversides so thick the water darkens with flashes. Out of nowhere an immense tarpon, scales the size of roofing shingles, surges past, followed by another, then two more—at least a dozen of them, traveling with, dining on the silversides in that strange symbiotic pairing of miniature and massive.
Nearly three hours later the women make themselves break for lunch. With shriveled fingers they eat cheese sandwiches and Bailey fields unexpected questions about her own research, offering the standard answer she’s given the past few years. Yes, she’d been involved with cetacean studies, specifically the sleep patterns of bottlenose dolphins, but life had taken other turns and she isn’t sure if she’ll get back into it or not. She’d burned out on the politics of research but loved the fieldwork. Who knows, maybe someday.
As if on cue to help change the subject, a pair of eagle rays shoot from the azure deep and linger in long seconds of suspension before continuing on their watery way.
“That’s precisely what inspired my research,” she tells Isabella. “A fascination with dual identity organisms—birds that take leave of the sky and dive underwater, rays that fly upward from the same water and are creatures of the air, even if momentarily. Amphibians are one thing, but birds in subsurface flight—cormorants and dippers and auks and shearwaters—now that’s something. And of course there are the penguins and seals, otters and walrus. So many creatures that have it both ways.”
She shakes crumbs over the stern and folds the waxed paper wrapper.
“When I learned that dolphins evolved from a species that was once terrestrial, I was hooked.” Bailey says. “I found, and still find that to be one of the most remarkable bits of information in the history of existence. Dolphins—the most graceful, most agreeable, arguably the most intelligent of all animals, are descended from beings that over the course of millennia adapted themselves out of the water to walk on dry land.”
She drains a cup of cooler water, pours it on top of her head, and combs her hair back with her fingers as she continues.
“That’s fascinating enough,” she says. “But even more mind boggling is that, relatively speaking, they didn’t stay long—twelve million years or so—before they evolved into sea creatures again. As if they came up onto terra firma to give it a go but decided never mind, let’s get back in the water. Last one in is a human being.”
They both laugh, but Bailey stops short and looks at Isabella.
“But you know all this,” she says. “Sorry for the spew.”
“Not at all,” Isabella says. “Can’t say I’ve ever thought of cetacean evolution in quite those terms, but I like it.” She smiles a playful smile and Bailey returns it.
“Turns out,” Bailey says, “the bottlenose dolphins in my home river still go both ways, come out of the water—and not just to leap in the air.”
“Oh?” Isabella squints and cocks her head to see if Bailey is teasing.
“It’s not the only place,” she says, “but dolphin in specific areas of the Carolina Lowcountry herd fish into the shallows of the marsh flats, up onto the mud banks, and then come entirely out of the water to eat them. Wallow around on terra firma, more or less, while they’re at it. It was amazing as a kid to watch. Still is. Cousteau himself brought a team to observe the behavior.”
“Stranding,” Isabella says. “Sure, I know something about the studies. That’s your home?”
“My home.” Bailey beams. “I was in high school. Got to meet Cousteau and that hunk of a son Jean-Michel—even got to help with the film crew. To say it made a big impact doesn’t really begin to say it. Scientists snub their noses at Cousteau the engineer, but he sure rocked my world with secrets of the sea.”
“Little wonder about the marine biology.”
“Little wonder,” Bailey grins back. “If it were all field work I’d have probably never left it.”
“The dolphins will be there when you’re ready.”
They keep an eye on the distant squall line and when lightning joins the thunder they call it quits and ride to shore satisfied, each musing on what she’s seen and sipping an icy Red Stripe. At the marina they have one more and pronounce the day well done while the afternoon shower passes over on its way to the Gulf Stream.
The fish market is next door and after so-long hugs with Isabella, Bailey chooses fat snapper filets, stops for salad makings and the perfect bottle of wine, and is busy thinking how she’ll beg off the neighbors when she gets to the cottage and finds a note on the door saying they’ve decided to try the Italian place, inviting her to join them if she can. They’ll be listening to some pirate play guitar at Shorty’s afterwards.
Beautiful. She sets a white table on the beach and feasts beneath a sky filled with colors of eventide. Before bed she bathes Miss Ruby in the lingering midsummer light, and before daybreak they’re on the way to Key West, rolling slowly across the Seven Mile Bridge.
From this vantage, highest point in the Keys at a whopping 65 feet, she watches the sun slip topside of the horizon. It’s a languorous drive and Bailey envisions a day of piddling in Key West, capped off with the obligatory ritual of sunset at Malory Square.
Making her way down Duval Street she wonders what in the world she’d been thinking. Yes it’s off-season, but it’s also Saturday and tourists herd through the shops and bars. At the Southernmost Point sign she waits her turn to stand on the spot and mark the occasion. Top of Maine to tip of Florida. Stem to stern.
Stem to stern, yet still tight in the chest. She’s done a hell of a job shaking the blues these last days. Vagabond blues—the can’t-quite-put-your-finger-on-them blues—the ones you barely keep ahead of, the dare-not-look-around-to-see-how-close-they-are blues. She’s ready for the big breath but the big breath hasn’t come. Now here she is at the end of the line.
Almost. There are the Dry Tortugas.
Yes. The highway ends, but there’s more to it than that. Alright then.
At the seaplane paddock she checks on flights and finds there’s enough time to make hasty provision—a soft cooler with a small block of ice, cheese, juice, grapes, a twelve pack of snickers, and her Swiss army knife. In her canvas haversack a gallon of water, a jar of peanut butter, a slab of smoked salmon, four granola bars, two sleeves of Ritz crackers, and two bottles of wine she uncorks and pours into plastic water bottles.
Then the tent bag with mini hammock, sleeping bag, pillow, toothbrush and paste, sunscreen, lip balm, baby powder, beach towel, swimsuit, pair of shorts, t-shirt, wash cloth, shampoo, razor, flashlight, journal, fins, mask, snorkel, and the copy of A Confederacy of Dunces someone left at the cottage in Marathon. Done. Well within the 40 pound limit. Miss Ruby, snugged into her car cover against the shadeless parking lot, can take a rest.
The Edge of Heaven
The plane flies seventy miles to the Dry Tortugas at such low altitude she can see sharks and dolphins, schools of fish, and several of the hundreds of wrecked ships that have fared unwell on the shoals surrounding these turtle islands, named by Ponce de Leon in 1513. In little more than forty minutes they circle Fort Jefferson, the massive 19th century edifice with its fifty feet tall brick walls—complete with moat—the largest brick structure in the Western hemisphere.
The gods have smiled on her, for with the exception of Ranger Jim and visitor’s center workers she’s the only person on the island. Mid-morning a group arrives on the ferryboat but by mid-afternoon they’re gone. The ranger is kind enough to radio the seaplane folks that she’ll definitely be staying the night and again the gods are with her—no inbound passengers, no other campers.
Though she’s never visited, she’s known of this place—and now it’s hers. The sand couldn’t be any whiter. The palms couldn’t be any more elegant. The water couldn’t be any more blue or clear. And there’s not even enough land mass to heat the sky and make rain—hence the Dry Tortugas. Splendid.
An auspicious post for a fresh start—only there’s no fresh water. Okay, a salty start—good omen for the path ahead—wherever that might take her. Wherever the hell that might take her. She dances about and sings a giddy nonsense song. Yes, my name is Mudd, she circles and shouts. Oh yes, just call me Mudd.
Up and down she dances and runs, rolls in the beach and wings sand angels around the campsite. Swims and rollicks and runs some more. My name is Mudd and I volunteer to remain. I appreciate the pardon but I’m staying put. I’ll help with the Yellow Fever. I know you think I’m nuts, Bailey calls to the frigate birds that soar overhead on seven foot wingspans. It’s true. I am.
Hours pass in tireless revelry and in the midst of it day fades from this spit of island far removed from everyone and everything, including lights. The night sky is immense and crystalline, the ocean vast as the sky. Sovereign half moon reigning over all.
This is it.
The world eases.
The breath has come.
The waxing moon watches.
How many thousand times she has stood beside rivers and oceans and even lakes and created brief perfection by cupping her hand into a scope and looking through her loose fist at the place where sky meets sea on a starry night. Rarely this removed from the light, though. Water and sky so intensely woven, and the stars shining brightly in both. Never has she found Delphinus this quickly, the dolphin shimmering on bones of her kite-shaped constellation. The dolphin that roams sea and sky and walks dry land on occasion.
“Hey Mom,” she calls out to stars in the ocean.
“Hey Mom,” she calls up to the stars in the sky.
In joy she splashes the stars akimbo then watches them find their places once more as the sea stills.
When weariness eventually softens her vision she unfolds the sleeping bag and drifts for a while at the edge of heaven. Tired girl. Good tired and ready for rest. In the days of driving since she left the city questions have perched there on the hood of Blue Ruby. Questions insistent and always in sight. Answers evasive and never in reach. About Merissa’s death. The chasm since then between her and Cecil. About her nomadic mind, her unsettled heart. Her work—what it is and what it isn’t. About what’s left behind and what lies ahead.
Now though, the solution to all of it comes. There it is, painted across the cosmos. She swells into full sounded laughter at the wisdom of her mother expressed in the vernacular of her father and calls out what now seems so very simple:
YOU CAN’T MAKE CHICKEN SALAD OUT OF CHICKEN SHIT.
Following this profound revelation she sleeps. And wakes. Sleeps and wakes to an exquisite sunrise. And each time she fades in and falls back asleep she blazes at her fine fortune, certain that she can fly. Through the sky and through the water, she is quite certain that she can untie the moon and fly.
It’s hot already for her first morning swim and when she comes ashore she takes a long pull from the sweet cold papaya juice and grabs her mask and fins. In the blue shallows off the fort she relishes solitude before the seaplane lands with day trippers and the box of reinforcements she’s been able to request. The light is perfect for the rich miscellany of undersea life and she tags along with a school of blue tangs and studies a pair of scrawled tilefish as they tell and retell their story with each change of their body markings.
Two hours later the ferry arrives with group campers who’d missed the boat yesterday. They swarm the campsites to pick their spots and buzz about the island in pairs and foursomes and sextets.
And it’s fine. It’s all okay. She knows well what a fluke last night had been and surely can’t complain about two dozen or so others who have sought what lies beyond the end of the road. Mostly college students mixed with a few families and couples. She swims with the kids and teaches them the reef, shows them how to bring fish closer.
That evening she washes with fresh icy water from the bottom of the cooler and skirts the edges of sleep before her neck and the backs of her knees get sticky again. The singing has diminished, but someone strums soft Spanish guitar and she wraps herself in the cool notes and rests in the shelter of the swelling moon.
Next day some of them go, others come. Rules allow only three nights camping but that’s fine, she’s ready to roll. It’s the day of summer solstice, longest of the year. Tomorrow celestial bodies will gradually tighten the reins on daylight until the time comes for them to slowly ease up again six months down the road. A good signal of change, she decides—the bending of heaven toward a different path.
Many campers are here to mark the solstice. Some have brought telescopes. Someone pipes the flute and others sing. They gather around a small driftwood fire fueled with dried reeds and palm fronds. Some dance while others look to sea in speculation. Joints are passed and someone shares slices of cool melon, the scene wrapped in flushing colors of a particularly brilliant sunset.
They make merry into the night and Bailey eventually takes her leave and walks to the tip of the island. Wind carries the voices off toward Cuba and she can listen again to the shallow sea. Once more she floats in the stars, a world away from earthly encumbrances in the light of the lowering moon.
She straps in beside the pilot, a wild man who buzzes a huge shark and lands briefly to watch a pod of spotted dolphin play in the endless blue currents of the Gulf Stream. No doubt she could have convinced him to drop her there to follow her fortune, but not this day. See you later she calls as the seaplane revs and the exquisite animals continue the path of their certain destinies.
In Key West she dallies in the hot shower of the courtesy locker room, lunches at Captain Tony’s, and finds an off-the-beaten-path phone booth before steering Miss Ruby out and upward, officially beginning the drive north to known waters.
“Hey Boss.”
“Hey Boo.”
She hears him ask his assistant to shut the door.
“I’m leaving Key West.”
“Hot?”
“Damned hot. Beautiful though. I’ve been in the Dry Tortugas.”
“Don’t know it.”
“Off Key West. I’ll tell you about it.”
“You sound a hell of a lot better.”
“Helluva lot.”
“Are you still coming?”
“I told you I was.” She knows he hears the smile in her voice.
“Yeah well, sometimes that means later than sooner,” he says, but she hears him smile back.
“I’m on the way. I want to gather us a feast, but I’ll be there before long.”
One thought is to cruise up A1A like she’d come, but her face and arms sting in sunburn and she’s tired of sweating. Or she and Miss Ruby could drive the interior toward Orlando and catch the car train at Sanford—out of the heat and off the road, but still in motion. Alright then. Now the question is whether they can make Sanford in time for the train.
One way or the other she will pass by home before midnight so she calls Bert and says she’s just checking to make sure he works tonight, that Cecil’s probably out on the boat, so she’s about to call Mister George and Retta to see what there is in the way of seafood. If Mister George could maybe pack a cooler and bring it to Yemassee.
She asks about the home folks and if Bert thinks his brother would even feel like messing with it. She wouldn’t want to put him to any trouble and she knows Mister George would get up from his death bed to put shrimp on ice and drive them to the train station for her. Bert, as always, takes the cue and volunteers to call George. Says not a word about how she ought to call her father. Just the same as he says not a word to Cecil about how he ought to call his girl.
What this means is that when the auto train makes an unscheduled rolling stop in Yemassee there will be a duct taped cooler with crabs and shrimp and no telling what else and a note from Retta inside a zip lock bag on top of the ice that will say, We all miss you. Come home soon. Tell Ben.
