Forbidden Island an Island Called Sapelo

by Tom Poland

  I walked into the dunes. Tyler was unpacking a small two-man pop-up tent, in a large swale within towering dunes. Two immense toppled trees provided workspaces, benches, and limbs for rigging up camp lines. We could hang clothes, make a kitchen, do most anything with the large trees, stripped of bark and polished to a white sheen.

  We were colonizing a fragile seaside desert christened Georgialina on an island set against the trade winds and the Atlantic’s southern storm track. Instead of being alone, I had a beautiful, determined woman for a camp mate and a dog. It was like having a family again. The dog needed a name and a name sprang to mind.

  “Voodoo.”

  ***

  I climbed the crest of the dune sheltering our camp and surveyed our new home. The luminous surf fell, and stars broke into the velvet. Civilization’s lights were a continent away, an immense distance as far as we were concerned. We had no boat nor did we care for we were here until someone or something took us off the island.

  Tyler had a small fluorescent lantern sitting on the sand as she pounded short tent stakes into the dune with her tennis shoe. She had chosen a sheltered location in a soft, flat area well behind a large dune, setting her tent up facing a back dune, where shrubs and small trees grew.

  Voodoo shadowed Tyler. He was panting, which reminded me we needed water. First thing tomorrow, we had to find a freshwater pond.

  “I take it you’ve done some camping,” I said, seeing the steadfast way she went about setting up camp. I handed her a bottle of water.

  “My first husband and I camped in the Smoky Mountains a lot, but it was nothing like this. We pitched camp near comfort stations with showers, hot water, and electricity. We took a small TV and a radio along too.”

  “So you could catch Dr. Laura.”

  “No, I had no reason to be interested in her…. that was before my life changed.”

  “ … I see. Well, we won’t have a comfort station, but we will have an outdoor shower. Tomorrow I’ll put it up, fill it with pond water. Then rainwater, I hope, will keep it filled. The sun will heat it to about 110 degrees.”

  I foraged for firewood so we would have light for making camp. Because much of the driftwood was too beautiful to burn, I brought the more mundane pieces to camp. Tyler was setting out a mat in front of her tent. “Home Sweet Home.”

  I placed dry grass and twigs beneath some driftwood and dropped a match into it. It blazed, crackled, and threw up cobalt flames from the sea salts and minerals embedded in its grain. Voodoo came over, circled, then plopped down a comfortable distance from the fire.

  Dunes towered over us, tall and soft, with intricate ripples that cast snake-like fire shadows. A dune ridge curved around us, and the seaoats along its ridge swayed in the firelight. We had chosen to live in the bottom of a large bowl of earth.

  An inattentive passerby might miss our hiding place, though we had already worn a path into the dunes. That slight opening would be our passage to the creeks, marshes, and woods, but it could also be our betrayal. I would have to do something about it but it would have to be good. Dune lines were subtle and delicate and a clumsy effort to recreate one was doomed.

  In a matter of minutes, I had my tent up, facing the seaside dunes. The tent was sturdy, comfortable, and designed as a tent within a tent with a spacious sleeping area. The outer tent provided a screened area where I could write or dine free of flies and mosquitoes. I unrolled a self-inflating mattress and stowed away my clothes. Then I hid Murphy’s package and Brit’s voodoo ingredients inside some clothing.

  I dragged some logs into camp we could use as benches. We’d use the more beautiful driftwood as camp furniture. One log had a strong limb with a symmetrical fork upon which I hung a canvas bag filled with bottles of water. On the other fork, I hung the rain collector. I placed a thick mahogany plank the tide had washed in across two fallen trees to create a table for my propane stove. It was a good campsite, considering how little time we’d put into it.

  Before we crashed, I had to rig a perimeter line. Otherwise, I’d worry and lose sleep and begin the day exhausted. I walked over to Tyler’s tent.

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  She came out carrying the sweetgrass basket with her hair up in a clip.

  “You think this basket will be okay in my tent?

  “Sure. Hang it in there and set the radio in it. Later, we might gather some wild rice with it … it won’t harm the basket.”

  “You picked a good spot to pitch camp,” I said, “but your tent needs to be in the open, more like over there,” I said, pointing to a flat area not far from my tent.

  “Why?”

  “Security. Before we go to sleep tonight, I’d like to rig an alarm system—a trip wire—around the campsite. That’s going to be hard to do with your tent close to the woods. It will be about impossible because of the shrubs.”

  “An alarm system?”

  “Who’s to say our fire won’t attract somebody? We need to know if someone invades our space.”

  “Why will the trees be a problem? What kind of system?”

  “Here, let me show you what I mean.”

  I got a reel of six-pound monofilament from a storage bin and began stripping off the line.

  “Here’s how it works. I’ll ring the campsite with this fishing line. I’ll use some eye-rods I brought plus Y-shaped twigs, stalks, and whatever works to form a perimeter a foot off the ground and another one four feet off the ground each night before we turn in. You and I will know where it is, but an intruder won’t.

  “Once the perimeter is in place, I’ll connect lines to it and run them to an alarm mounted in the top of my tent. I’ll run lines in from the north, west, south, and east,” I said pointing out the directions. “Once the lines are in place, if a horn blasts away, an intruder is about.”

  “You’re prepared, aren’t you?”

  “I hope so. The alarm system is a small pain to put and take down, but it helps me sleep a little easier. Of course, we’ll have to make sure old Voodoo doesn’t trip it.”

  “Old Voodoo?”

  “That’s the name I’ve given our dog. It fits.”

  “Voodoo, yes, I like it. Come here Voodoo,” she said and went over to the dog and patted his head. “Your name is Voodoo. Come on, boy.”

  She walked back to me, expecting the dog to follow. Voodoo just sat there.

  “Here, I’ll show you how to make a name stick,” I said.

  I went into the tent, got some beef jerky, and sliced off two pieces.

  “Watch this. Here, Voodoo, come get it.”

  The dog came over.

  “That’s how you teach a dog his name,” I said walking toward the other side of the campsite. “Here Voodoo,” I said, squatting down and snapping my fingers. The dog came running.

  “See, work’s like a charm. He knows his name now,” I said. Something warm hit my thigh. Voodoo had hiked his leg, spraying me.

  “Damn dog, get away from here.” I kicked sand at him.

  Tyler was laughing, holding her sides.

  “Oh, that’s funny,” she said. “Is that how you teach a dog to curse too?”

  I tossed him the jerky, and he gulped it down. “Go find a gator,” I said.

  Tyler took the other piece of meat from me and let the dog lick it, then she walked to the other side of camp.

  “Here Voodoo, come here boy.”

  The dog went to her and took the meat.

  “I hope he likes crab and shrimp,” I said, “because we can’t keep giving him our food. He’ll learn his name. It’ll just take time.”

  Tyler was still laughing.

  “If you can stop laughing long enough, I’ll help you move your tent over there,” I said pointing to the flat area within the dunes.

  “I put it against the woods for a reason,” she said, and I thought her face reddened, though it could have been the fire playing across it.

  “Why?”

  “So I could use the bathroom there.�
�

  “Out here we call it a latrine, and I don’t think you want to go in those woods at night. Rattlesnakes are on the move at night. One could be in there and you’d never see it. Help me relocate your tent, and tomorrow I’ll build you your own, private latrine. Deal? Until then, the best place to go is in front of the dune toward the beach a ways south of here,” I said pointing. “No one is around here except us. The people on this island are north of here, across the channel about nine miles or so. When the call of the wild hits you, just take this trowel and dig a small trench. Cover the sand back over the trench, like cats do.”

  “Well, all right, if that’s the way you do it,” she said shyly.

  “That’s the way you do it in the primitive world. Do what you need to do and I’ll get some food cooking. What do you feel like? I have some pork tenderloin, baking potatoes, salad, and a small bottle of wine and a wedge of cheese. Just let me rake a few coals out of this fire and make a grill here in the sand.”

  I made a show of raking some coals into the sand with a stick.

  “For real? I didn’t see a cooler in your supplies.”

  “I’m pulling your leg. Tonight we’ll make do with some bottled water, canned chili, some cheese, and then, if you’re game, a little Southern Comfort—for medicinal purposes only. Now I prefer beer, but not hot beer. Southern Comfort doesn’t need ice or mixers. It’s sipping whiskey.”

  “Just a little. I’ve never tried it.”

  “Right. Don’t overdo it. Tomorrow will be a full day. Once we locate a source of good water and explore west of here, I’ll build you a latrine, and then I’ll see if I can catch some shrimp, maybe some crabs, and maybe we’ll gather a few oysters from a creek. I brought along a net and some spices bags for the seafood. I also packed along some gourmet meals I picked up from an outfitter. Freeze-dried stuff. Pasta, beef noodles, chicken and rice, even pancakes and scrambled eggs. We can dine like royalty here in this primitive world.”

  “That doesn’t sound too shabby for roughing it. I love seafood, except oysters. I don’t see how anybody can eat those things. As for chicken, I don’t touch it at all.”

  “You said you’re from North Carolina. It’s anti-Southern not to eat chicken, you know,” I said.

  “Not for me it isn’t.”

  “To each his own,” I said.

  I began to set out the food, and Tyler came over to me, frowning.

  “Well, I brought everything I need except cotton puffs.”

  “Cotton puffs?”

  “Yes, we may be roughing it but I still like some creature comforts. Got to keep my complexion clear.”

  “Yes, seems you do,” I said, marveling at her skin, as pure as snow.

  “I’m ready to start searching tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve got to make good use of my time. I have to leave here in three weeks.”

  “From what Jackson said, we need to find the guy with the turban. It sounds as if he knows Rikard. But explain something. What did you mean about the pelican making perfect sense?

  “Nothing really, just that my daughter’s good at making pets of unlikely animals. I imagine she still is. That’s all.”

  “You sure got excited.”

  “Maybe I overreacted. I’m here to find her and anything right now works me up.”

  Something about the way she talked didn’t feel right. It was as if she was hiding something.

  “Here, let me get something you’ll like,” I said. I went into my tent and came back with one of the Landstat maps, a spare compass, and the cotton bolls I had cut in the moonlight.

  “Getting lost is no fun. Here’s an extra compass, and here are some natural cotton puffs for that perfect face of yours.”

  “I hardly say it’s perfect.”

  I showed her how to line up the map with the compass and how to mark a straight line in the woods. “This satellite map will keep you oriented. Keep it on you at all times.”

  She folded the map and slipped it inside her blouse. Then she went into her tent and returned with a sheet of paper.

  “I have something for you too.”

  She handed me a flyer like she’d shown Jackson, a missing person bulletin with a young blonde’s photograph that didn’t seem quite right.

  “This photograph seems a bit unusual,” I said. “It looks like a cross between a photograph and a painting.”

  “I had her last photograph altered to show the effects of aging. That’s how she might look today. Hang on to it. Show it to people. You never know who might have seen her.”

  Tyler went back to her tent and came back with a roll of tissue. She took the trowel and headed through the dunes. I pretended not to notice, opened a water bottle, and drank it. Then I poured some in a small aluminum bowl for Voodoo.

  Minutes later, she returned with a large shell.

  “I found this on the beach. When I get home, I’ll keep earrings in it.”

  “Very pretty. Dinner is coming along. Have yourself some water.” She took the bottle from me, then hesitated.

  “Do I drink from the bottle after you?”

  “It’s okay with me, but I have some cups if you want one.”

  “Well, we’re roughing it,” she said and turned the bottle up.

  The chili wasn’t bad, the cheese was soft, and the water was warm, but we had not starved. After dinner, I scoured the aluminum pot and plates with sand and Tyler began to empty her tent of the sleeping bag, some clothes, the basket and radio, and a small bag. We pulled up the stakes and walked the tent to its new place. In minutes, we pegged it down in a better spot.

  For the first time since landing, no immediate task bore down on us. We walked to the beach and sat on an immense driftwood log. We were strangers who somehow had to get to know each other. She told me she had brought a calendar along.

  “I came here to forget time,” I said. “I want time to be meaningless here.”

  “I’ll keep track of the days then,” she said.

  “Thanks. Well, here we are,” I said, “in a world of our own making. So far, so good. Would you like a sip of Southern Comfort?”

  “Sure, I’ll try it,” she said.

  I broke the bottle’s seal, rung its top loose, and handed it to her.

  “What? Just turn it up?”

  “Yes, take a sip.”

  “She sipped and, coughing, handed me the bottle.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s kind of sweet and thick and it burns … kind of like cough syrup.”

  “Don’t sip too much. You don’t need a hangover your first day on Sapelo.”

  The sea came at us soft and steady.

  “At last, it’s relaxing here, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes. It’s hard to believe we spent such a trying day getting here.”

  “I propose a toast,” I said, holding the bottle aloft. “It’s great to be away from the city. Here we are where dolphins run in and out of the estuary and loggerhead turtles crawl duneward to lay eggs. Here we are where the summer nights are breathtaking, away from city light. Here we are in Georgialina.

  “Listen,” I said placing a finger against my lips. “No horns, no screeching brakes, nothing but the sounds of nature.”

  We listened. We could hear the wind and, of course, the sea.

  “Nature blesses us with three wonderful songs,” I said. “The sound of rain, the sound of wind in woods, and the sound of waves crashing on a beach. We just about have it all here. We’re just missing the rain, but we’ll get that too. To me, the music of the ocean is the best. The ocean is vast, an immense orchestra where the edge of every continent is a front-row seat.”

  “I wonder,” she said, stretching her legs out, “how many people around the world are sitting by a fire listening to the ocean right now. I bet millions of people in Australia, South America, Africa, and who knows where are doing what we’re doing.”

  “Quite a few, I imagine, and don’t forget the Mediterranean, but none have missions like we do.
”

  “That’s right. Tomorrow we start searching,” she said, stretching, yawning.

  “Yes. Tomorrow, we’ll search from east to west and backtrack east to camp. But first, we’ve got to find a dependable supply of freshwater. The bottles of water won’t last long. We won’t search much if we don’t have good water,” I said. “I have several tanks of city water I’m holding in reserve for a true emergency, but the island has several freshwater ponds that should be safe for drinking. According to the map, the nearest one is west of here. That’s where we’re heading tomorrow. After breakfast, we head out for water. When we return I’ll make you the latrine I promised.”

  “I’m ready to start searching,” she said.

  “We get water first. That’s mandatory.”

  We talked and sipped until weariness and a mild drunkenness set in. Most of our conversation centered on the island and its beguiling beauty, and of course, our missions.

  Before turning in, Tyler helped me circle the campsite with monofilament. I ran the lines into my tent and she took great interest in testing it from every direction, pretending to be an intruder.

  “The one thing we need to do now,” I said, “is to make sure Old Voodoo doesn’t wander off in the night and trip our alarm. He favors you over me. Do you want to keep the fierce protector in your tent?”

  “Not really. He stinks, and, besides I have things he might bother in my tent.”

  “All right. We’ll tie him up.”

  I found a short length of nylon rope that would form a leash. I had a canvas bag with a broad soft strap, with clips on either end. I tied it up with some rope such that it made a loose harness, placed it on Voodoo and tied him to a palmetto. He swung back and forth in an arc several times, then settled down. He was tired too.

  Tyler stood at her tent’s entrance watching.

  “That will keep him,” I said. “I’m right here if anything bothers you. See you in the morning.”

  Tyler went into her tent, turned, and poked her head out the tent before zipping it shut.