Uncharted: An On the Island Novella: (A Penguin Special from Dutton)

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “How long do you want it stored? I can keep it for up to sixty days.”

  “I want it stored indefinitely.”

  “I don’t do indefinitely.”

  “Sure you do,” I said, smiling politely and pulling a stack of bills from my wallet. I counted off ten one-hundred-dollar bills and laid the money on the counter. Easiest thousand bucks this guy would ever make.

  “Okay,” he said, just like I knew he would. “Here’s the claim ticket.”

  “I need a pen.”

  He pulled one from his front pocket and handed it to me. I scribbled out the number on the claim ticket and wrote four numbers in their place, numbers I’d never have trouble remembering. This wasn’t the only place I was storing the encrypted data, but if the guy held up his end of the bargain, it would be the easiest place to retrieve it.

  “Put this someplace safe. This is the number I’ll give you when I come to pick up the envelope.”

  “Whatever you want,” he said as he took the claim ticket from me. “It’s your show.”

  “Have a nice day,” I said, and then I picked up my bag and headed toward my gate.

  • • •

  I landed in Dubai fifteen hours later, eight of which I slept away thanks to the Xanax I’d convinced my doctor to prescribe. Stress, I’d said. I’m not sleeping well.

  Making my way slowly down the aisle, I yawned and stretched and followed the people in front of me into the terminal. I had several hours to kill before my flight to Malé, so I wandered aimlessly through the crowded airport, listening to a jumble of voices having conversations in languages I didn’t speak. When I arrived at the departures area in Terminal 1, I stopped at a restaurant serving American food and ordered a burger and a beer. My cell phone remained in my pocket, turned off. I had no desire to see how many messages had piled up. It wasn’t as though I planned on answering any of them.

  With each mile I put behind me, I felt less stress. More confidence in my decision. Maybe it was extreme and completely over-the-top. Eccentric, even. But I really didn’t care because all I wanted to do was get lost for a while and this seemed like the best way to do it.

  I’d become fascinated with the Maldives after listening to a business acquaintance talk about the chain of islands. “The resorts are amazing,” he’d said. “But there are also islands that are completely uninhabited. You can go there if you want. Spend the night, too. They’ll come back and get you.”

  In the days leading up to my company’s IPO, when things were really getting out of hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much easier my life would be if I just walked away from it all. My cell phone rang constantly. So did the one that sat on the big mahogany desk in my corner office. The ringing grated on my nerves and made me feel as if I couldn’t breathe. Everyone wanted something from me: time, money, help.

  On a particularly stressful afternoon, I picked up the phone and used it to make a few inquiries of my own. Over the next few weeks I obtained a sponsorship visa, which allowed me to enter the Maldives and stay indefinitely. I located a pilot willing to fly me where I needed to go—and purchase the supplies I require—with a minimum of questions asked. I expected to hit a roadblock at some point, which would have stopped my plan in its tracks, but I didn’t. It’s easy to disappear if you have enough money, and I had plenty of it.

  And it was in my best interest to be far, far away when everyone discovered that their gravy train had come to a screeching halt.

  • • •

  It was morning when I landed in Malé; I’d been traveling for so many hours that I was already confused about what day it was. I found a restroom and ducked into a stall to change into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

  The line at the seaplane counter in the arrival hall wasn’t long. I waited patiently and when it was my turn I pulled a sheet of paper with a confirmation number on it out of my wallet. “It’s a private charter,” I said. “Captain Forrester is the pilot.”

  The woman behind the counter pulled up my reservation on the computer. “You’re checked in and ready to go, Mr. Sparks. I’ll page Captain Forrester. I believe he’s standing by.”

  “I’m positive he is,” I said. I’d paid him generously to be waiting for me, no matter how many travel problems I encountered, or what time I arrived. I knew with absolute certainty that the seaplane would be idling at the dock.

  “Please come with me,” a uniformed employee of the airline said. I followed him outside and stood at the curb. “The shuttle will transport you to the seaplane terminal. It will arrive momentarily.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Coming out of the air-conditioned building made the heat seem much more oppressive. The air felt heavy and damp when I inhaled, and I started sweating almost immediately. When the minivan arrived I climbed into the air-conditioned interior, telling myself I’d better not get too used to it. After the driver pulled up to the seaplane terminal he led me through a set of double doors. We crossed to another set of doors on the opposite side of the room and then we were back outside. Seaplanes were lined up, tied to a series of rectangular intersecting docks. I handed my boarding pass to the driver and he looked down at it and said, “Right this way, Mr. Sparks.”

  I followed him to the seaplane and when he motioned for me to hand him my bag I gave it to him and watched as he boarded the plane. Looking around, I took in the blue water and the cloudless sky. Everything seemed so much simpler already, and I felt the last of my stress melt away.

  A middle-age man popped his head out of the doorway of the plane.

  “Captain Forrester?” I asked, stepping forward and reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m Owen Sparks.”

  He took one look at me and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said, chuckling and clasping my hand in his. “You are not what I was expecting. How old are you, son?”

  “Twenty-three,” I said. I didn’t take his reaction personally; I was used to it. It was the way I conducted business that made me appear older than I was. You couldn’t achieve what I’d achieved at such a young age by acting like a punk. People treated me with respect, listened to what I had to say.

  I had no doubt that my net worth also set me apart from most of my peers. And there were times—like right then—when I was glad I had so much money. I’d earned it, and it was nice to use it for something I really wanted instead of feeling as if I had to give it to everyone just because they had their hand out.

  “Well, come on,” he said. I followed him through the door of the cabin, and he pointed to the rows of seats behind him. “Sit wherever you like. Just make sure to fasten your seat belt.”

  My duffel bag had been placed on a seat in the front row, so I sat down next to it and stowed it on the floor at my feet. I watched as Captain Forrester placed a headset on his head and started flipping switches. He spoke briefly into the microphone near his mouth, and as soon as he had clearance, we pulled away from the platform. We picked up speed and I felt the thrust when we lifted off.

  As we flew I looked out my window, amazed at the view. I squinted against the bright sunlight that flooded the cabin and dug my sunglasses out of my bag. The cloudless sky was just as blue as the water below.

  It took close to two hours to reach our destination. I hadn’t seen any land in a while, but finally the plane descended and I got my first look at the island. It wasn’t overly large, maybe a mile in length. Pristine, white-sand beach. Green vegetation. Palm and coconut trees reaching high up to the sky in the densely forested area near the center of the land mass.

  I remember thinking that nothing bad could ever happen in such a beautiful place.

  We landed right in the lagoon.

  “Better take off those shoes,” he said.

  I smiled when I looked down at his feet and realized he’d been flying the seaplane barefoot.

  After I took off my shoes and shoved them into my bag he swung open the cabin door and we jumped into the knee-deep water. He opened the cargo hold on the side of
the plane and we started carrying my supplies to the shore, making several trips in order to unload it all. Small schools of fish darted away as I walked in water as warm as a bath.

  “Let’s go through the checklist and make sure I didn’t miss anything,” he said, after we’d placed the last of the gear on the sand. From his shirt pocket he pulled out a folded piece of paper that I recognized as one of the emails I’d sent to him.

  The first item was an Iridium satellite phone. He’d informed me that my regular cell phone wouldn’t work because the island was too remote. “My number is already programmed into it, so if you get in trouble, or you need me, all you have to do is push this button,” he said, pointing to it and handing the phone to me. He leaned in and pointed to another button. “If for some reason I don’t answer, call this number. It’s the airport. The battery should last for months if you don’t start calling people when you get lonely.”

  “I’m not going to call anybody,” I said. There wasn’t a single person I’d left behind that I wanted to talk to.

  He reached for the next item, a large backpack resting on the sand. It was the kind that serious hikers used when they wanted to go backcountry camping and not be dependent on anyone else to carry in their supplies. The last time I’d used a backpack like this was when I was twelve years old. For my birthday I’d asked my dad to sign me up for a week-long backpacking and rock-climbing expedition in the Sierra Nevada mountains through Outward Bound. My dad and I loved to camp, and he’d been taking me with him for as long as I could remember. My mom wasn’t interested and neither was my sister, but I never felt happier than when I was outdoors, and the more remote the location, the better. When my dad brought the Outward Bound brochure home and we read through it together, I knew right away that I was up for the challenge.

  The seven days I spent in the wilderness was everything I had hoped for, and it changed me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. But my dad died of a brain aneurysm two days after I got back from my Outward Bound expedition, and I hadn’t been camping since.

  Now, standing on the beach, I wondered if my desire to live on the island, alone and in such a desolate place, was my attempt to re-create the way I felt on that expedition. I was too young back then to experience a true epiphany, but I’d sensed that something larger existed. Some sort of awakening that could be achieved only by living in a place virtually untouched by other humans, in total solitude.

  I unzipped the backpack and pulled out the contents: sleeping bag, ground mat, and tent. I didn’t necessarily need the backpack, but it kept everything contained and made it easier to transport the items from the seaplane to the beach. It might come in handy when I explored the island.

  He picked up the list and made a checkmark as I sifted through the contents of a large cardboard box and said them out loud. “Camp stove, fuel, knife, lighter, flashlight, fishing pole, tackle box, a pot and pan, first-aid kit, utensils, insect repellant, sunscreen, solar shower, shovel, large, wide-mouth plastic container, toilet paper, and garbage bags.”

  The nonperishable food was next. Everything was dehydrated and vacuum-packed or in a can with a metal pull tab. There were plenty of nuts, dried cereal and fruit, beef jerky, and a powdered drink mix I could add water to. Cans of green beans and corn. “The lagoon is full of fish. There’s coconuts and breadfruit. You’ll have plenty to eat.”

  He pointed to the three seven-gallon containers that contained drinking water. “Keep those in the shade,” he said. “The water won’t be cold, but it’ll stay a bit fresher. It’s not enough to last you for thirty days, but if you collect rain water in this—he held up the plastic container—you’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” I said. Making sure I had enough water made me nervous. When I first started corresponding with him, and explained what I wanted to do, he said that lack of fresh water was the biggest obstacle to living on an uninhabited island.

  “Make sure you put everything that can’t be burned in one of the garbage bags. You’ll bring it back with you so we can dispose of it.”

  I planned on treating the island as I would a campground, respecting it the way I would any piece of land I was temporarily inhabiting. “I won’t leave any garbage behind.”

  One of the first questions I’d asked was whether it was even possible to do what I wanted to do—and would he agree to help me do it?

  “Most people visit these uninhabited islands for a day or two, max,” he’d said. “They have a picnic and get their Robinson Crusoe fix, and then they’re ready to head back to their resort. I’ve never known anyone who wanted to squat on one of them indefinitely. But if this is what you really want to do, I know of a place that might work. It’s far out on the northern edge and there isn’t any air traffic to speak of. The risk of a seaplane landing in the lagoon with a couple of honeymooners on board is nil, so I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone discovering you.”

  “That’s exactly what I want,” I’d said.

  When everything was unpacked I looked over at him, took a deep breath, and said, “You must think I’m crazy.”

  “I’m not gonna lie, son. That thought has crossed my mind. Either that or you want to get away from it all more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  I had my own reservations. This was easily the most self-indulgent thing I’d ever done. “Maybe I’ll get it out of my system quicker than I planned on,” I said.

  He wiped the sweat from his face with the tail of his shirt. “Now listen, from now until about November is when you’ll see the most rain. You shouldn’t have any trouble collecting water to drink because it’ll rain several times a day. Just make sure you always have your container ready. Dehydration is your biggest threat here, so be very aware of your water supply.”

  I knew the Maldives had two seasons—the rainy season, or southwest monsoon, which was the season we were currently in, and the drier northeast monsoon, which would begin its changeover in December. “What about the storms?” I asked. “How severe are they?”

  “They’re not like hurricanes—we don’t get those here—but some of the storms could be pretty strong.”

  “Will I be able to ride one out in my tent?”

  “You should be able to,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ll watch the radar, listen to the weather reports. If I think there’s one brewing that’s too much for you to handle, I’ll come get you.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got to be careful here, son. Use caution in the water and on the land. This island isn’t like one of the resorts.” He squeezed my shoulder and dropped his hand.

  I found it amazing that this man I didn’t even know gave a shit about my welfare, considering my own family didn’t seem to care about anything other than theirs. It made me feel good, like for once the weight of the world wasn’t just on my shoulders. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “But I appreciate your concern. Thank you for everything.”

  He smiled and extended his hand. “You’re welcome. Call me if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll be back in thirty days.”

  “Okay.”

  We shook hands and I watched him walk away, the tails of his extra-large shirt flapping in the breeze. He waded into the water and the sound of the seaplane engines soon filled the silence.

  When he was nothing more than a speck in the sky I turned around and started living my new life.

  Chapter 3

  Owen

  Journal entry

  May 15, 1999

  I arrived on the island today. I set up camp on the beach and in the late afternoon, without warning, it started pouring rain, which was kind of weird because the sun was still shining. The heat is stifling. When I wasn’t in the water I stayed in the shade, but the bugs were horrible. I sprayed myself from head to toe with insect repellant. It didn’t keep all of them away, but most. I noticed a couple of the biggest, creepiest spiders I’d ever seen. They’re brown with really long legs, and if I ever find one of them in my tent I will probably scream like a fucking girl.r />
  When the sun went down the bats came out. It was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. There were so many of them that when they filled the sky they blocked the light of the moon.

  It’s quiet here, nothing but the sound of the waves. Most people would probably hate it, but I’ve never felt calmer or more at peace.

  May 17, 1999

  I spend most of the daylight hours exploring. There are schools of fish in the lagoon, and I wish I had a snorkel so I could see them better. I’ve spotted crabs and sea turtles and yesterday I thought I saw a fin, but it dipped below the surface of the water before I could get a good look at it. I got out of the water, just in case.

  I forgot to ask about sharks. I know they’re here, but I don’t know if they come inside the lagoon.

  I should probably find out.

  May 21, 1999

  I don’t know how or why, but there are chickens here. I was walking in the most densely forested part of the island yesterday, where the sunlight only reaches the ground in narrow beams, and I heard this weird flapping sound. Then a chicken flew straight up in front of me, and I almost shit myself. It ran away like it was afraid I might chase after it, which was hilarious considering I was frozen in my tracks waiting for my aorta to explode because my heart was beating so fast. I swear it took five minutes before all bodily functions returned to normal.

  May 24, 1999

  Questions:

  Chickens. What the hell?

  Is there anything in the lagoon that can kill me?

  Giant brown spiders—poisonous?

  • • •

  It didn’t take long before I settled into a routine of sorts. I woke up early and every morning I went for a swim and then made coffee on my camp stove. After a breakfast of cereal and dried fruit I usually wrote in my journal and then explored another part of the island.