Shiva said, “Oh yeah, her friend the old hippy bomber.” Giving it a double meaning.
“Umm-huh, the eco-freak who’s screwed with us before. I’m already thinking of that angle. If the guy starts sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, what we could do is get the two of you together. Find a way to piss him off, get him to threaten you personally. Establish a motive, is what I’m saying-an eco-terrorist bomber to throw to the cops just in case things go wrong.”
Very calmly, in the deeper voice he used when giving sermons or making prophecy, Shiva said, “The souls of many are worth the lives of a few. Just make it happen, Izzy.”
Izzy had heard him say that before, too.
chapter seven
I finished my drink, then ushered Sally inside the house, where I built another tall one. I told her to make herself at home while I got cleaned up. Then I stepped outside, and walked toward the darker, rear section of deck. A single cloud, no bigger than a house, cloaked the moon for a moment, then floated overhead. It was holding water, and it began to rain again, fat, heavy drops. My own little dark cloud hanging over just me.
It didn’t affect the party going on across the water. I could hear music; and see Chinese lanterns, red, yellow and green reflecting off the bay. It was 8:20 P.M. Still early for a Friday night at Dinkin’s Bay.
My shower is outdoors, a big, brass water bucket of a spray head beneath a wooden cistern, sun-heated through coiled black pipe, gravity creating sufficient pressure.
I walked through the rain, stripping my clothes off as I went, and threw them in a heap onto the deck below-I’d bag them and toss them into the marina’s Dumpster later. Then I stood beneath the shower, rain slopping down from snow-peak height, warm water and cold mixing.
Tomlinson had left bottles of counterculture soap, the health-food-store variety-Dr. Bronner’s Hemp amp; Peppermint Castile. I used it to suds away the stink and grime of what had been a weird, but occasionally interesting, four days in the Everglades.
Much to my surprise, I realized that thinking about the trip brought a little smile to my face.
Surprise because, in the last year or so, I hadn’t been doing much smiling. Too many bad dreams, too many bad and haunting memories. Too many good people lost.
I am objective enough, scientist enough, to have recognized in myself an uncharacteristic slide toward clinical depression. I kept fighting it, kept thinking that, one day, the feelings of guilt and dread would dissipate.
It didn’t happen.
Something else I also recognized: My increasing dependence on alcohol was symptomatic.
On this night, though, I felt better. From any objective aspect, I had reason to smile, and those reasons seemed to be accumulating.
For one thing, anyone who lives on the mangrove coast of Florida, USA, is automatically one of the luckiest souls on earth. Except for going to the ’Glades, I hadn’t had to do any traveling for months, and the simple orderliness of a daily routine, awaking each morning on the bay, and doing my work, was helping me to heal.
Professionally, I was doing okay. My monograph entitled Adaptive Behavior and Problem-Solving Aptitude of the Atlantic Octopus (Octopus vulgaris) as Compared to Selected Primates had received national attention and was causing interesting debate.
Also, I’d been contracted by Mote Laboratory to help with the organization’s massive five-year study of Charlotte Harbor-an ambitious project designed to investigate, then quantitate, the condition of an entire littoral. From sea grasses, to water quality, to fishes, dolphins and manatee, the objective was to assess the ecological health of a complex biota.
I’d been working with them on assessing the ecological role of sharks. Over many miles of sea bottom, we’d anchored forty acoustic hydrophones. They ranged from Sanibel’s Tarpon Bay to well north of Boca Grande Pass. Then we’d caught a total of sixty-six sharks and fitted them with internal or external acoustic transmitters. Nineteen of the fish were bull sharks-a specialty of mine. The results were spectacular. We could now precisely follow their movements. Valuable data was piling up.
True, I’d fallen off my normally rigorous exercise routine. I no longer ran daily, swam offshore daily, nor did I lift weights two or three times a week as I have done most of my life. I’d gained some weight and I was nowhere close to the level of aerobic fitness that I’m used to.
However, I had found a new recreational passion: windsurfing-a sport charming for its intimate relationship with wind and water, yet one that also consistently kicked my aerobic butt.
There were other good things. My cousin, Ransom Gatrell, had been dating a sane and stable bank president, Marvin Metheny, so there seemed hope the woman was going to abandon her wild ways and give monogamy a real try. Her (and my) quasi-adopted daughter/sibling, Shanay Money, had passed her high-school equivalency test, enrolled in a local junior college and appeared to be well on her way to a productive future.
Sometimes, her old Labrador retriever, Davy Dog, would spend a night or two with me. Crunch amp; Des endured him, which is to say the cat ignored him, occasionally staring at him as if he were made of inexpensive glass. Nothing more.
My personal life was going okay, too. I was enjoying a relaxed, sometimes intimate relationship with Grace Walker, a Sarasota realtor friend who made no demands beyond honesty. The chemistry wasn’t great, but it was comfortable.
Also, my old pal Dewey Nye had moved back into her house on Captiva. She is still one of my favorite people in the world-despite the fact that she’d been pressing me constantly to get back in shape and become her workout partner once again.
Finally, Dinkin’s Bay Marina was now enjoying a new source of quirky, human theater that small, good marinas tend to generate or attract. It was, not surprisingly, thanks to Tomlinson.
Mack, the marina’s owner, was the first to notice: Strangers were showing up at the front desk, with no interest in renting a boat or a canoe, hiring a guide, purchasing fresh fish or a fried conch sandwich from the seafood market. But they were very interested in anything Mack or anyone else around the marina could tell them about the storklike man with the hippie hair who lived aboard No Mas, the sailboat anchored a hundred yards beyond the docks.
“Tomlinson types,” Mack told us. Meaning oddballs. “The New Age, touchy-feely kind. Strangest thing is, most of them are from Europe, Asia-faraway places. When they ask about Tomlinson, it’s like they’re in awe or something. Like he’s a rock’n’roll star, and they’ve come all this way just to get a look at him.”
It was an accurate description of an ever-growing number of marina visitors.
At first, the attention surprised Tomlinson. He handled it with humor, and a kind of childlike grace that is at the core of what makes Tomlinson Tomlinson. But, soon, the escalating number of visitors began to upset him. Then, I think, they began to frighten him-perhaps because of the devotion they exhibited. Or simply his dwindling privacy.
He never offered to explain why strangers were now seeking him out. I asked twice, and twice I received cryptic answers.
Once, he said, “Start reading at Matthew seven: fifteen, and keep going until you get to the part about corrupted fruit.”
I answered, “The Bible? I’d have to borrow yours.”
His second reply made even less sense. “I’m aware that the universe is filled with weird, wonderful things patiently waiting to be understood. But the whole scene, man, the way the energy’s growing around me. It’s like some karmic snowball getting bigger and bigger-”
He held his palms up: confusion; worry. “-I refuse to encourage it. Or even to participate.”
So I did the research on my own. It only took a night’s work on the computer for me to discover the surprising explanation. It had to do with an essay he’d written while an undergraduate at Harvard. It was formally entitled, “Universal Truths Connecting Religions and Earthbound Events.”
The paper was part of a sociology project, and it later received a wider audience, and some a
cclaim, when it was published in the International Journal of Practical Theology, a respected publication out of Berlin.
Professional journals don’t have a large readership-particularly when they’re in German-so the acclaim was brief. The essay was forgotten. That is, until two years or so ago, when an ecumenical professor in Frankfurt rediscovered it, and reviewed it for the same journal, declaring Tomlinson’s writing as “brilliant” and “divinely inspired.”
Which was no huge deal until one of the professor’s students began to circulate excerpts from the essay on the Internet under a new title: “One Fathom Above Sea Level.” The title was taken from a line in the text. A fathom is the nautical equivalent to six feet, so it referred to a universe as viewed from the eyes of a human being. Tomlinson’s eyes.
Communication is now instantaneous. The same is true of Germany’s surge of interest in Tomlinson and his writing. It wasn’t long before enthusiastic linguists began to translate his writings.
Because “One Fathom Above Sea Level” had much to do with Buddhism, it was first translated from German into Japanese, then from Japanese into several Asian languages, then into French and finally (and only in the last few months) into English.
That’s when Tomlinson- our Tomlinson-began his transformation from a quirky Sanibel character who loved sarongs into an international cult figure. It happened fast. His essay is only about ten pages long, so people read it quickly, copied it and forwarded it along.
I discovered that someone had already set up an Internet Web page where Tomlinson’s fans could post little notes about how reading “One Fathom Above Sea Level” changed their lives, saved their sanity, led them toward enlightenment, created friendships, romance, health, laughter, love, all kinds of positive things.
There were several hundred entries.
I found another site where devotees could post personal information about Tomlinson as they discovered it.
A recent posting confirmed the rumor that Tomlinson was an ordained Rinzai Zen Master who lived aboard a sailboat on a secluded bay, Sanibel Island, Florida.
So the explanation was amusing, but also had the potential to cause my friend real trouble down the road.
Which is why I kept the information to myself. Didn’t tell a soul. Not even Tomlinson. I decided to let the theater that is Dinkin’s Bay Marina play itself out.
So I had some reasons to smile. Life goes that way sometimes. Just keeps getting better and better and better. So maybe my depression, the feelings of loss and guilt, were finally fading.
One of the most powerful laws in physics, however, is the law of “momentum conservation.” It states that momentum lost by any collision or impact is equal to the opposite momentum gained.
Which is why, during good times and bad, we need to remind ourselves that just when it seems life can’t get any better-or worse-things inevitably change.
Tomlinson refers to it as humanity’s seismic roller coaster, his point being that, going up or down, we might as well hold on tight and enjoy the ride-a goofy kind of optimism that he usually exudes, and why I seldom refuse his invitations to travel.
chapter eight
Tomlinson had gone to the Everglades in search of what some Floridians call the Swamp Ape, or Skunk Ape, which is the tropical version of Big Foot or the Abominable Snowman. Because he’d cajoled and pressed, I’d agreed to join him.
I don’t believe such a creature exists, of course-no reality-based person could believe it-but Tomlinson is not a reality-based person, nor does he claim to be.
As the man once described himself: “I am a citizen of many universes, many dimensions, and-thankfully-wanted by the law in only a few.”
He often cloaks his personal, innermost beliefs in self-deprecating humor.
One thing I could not criticize, however, was the amount of research Tomlinson had done on the subject. When I told him that there was zero possibility of a primate, unknown to science, living in the wilds of Florida, or anywhere else in North America, he smiled his gentle, Buddha smile. Later, he handed me a thick folder of newspaper clippings and printouts from the Internet.
He’d pulled together some interesting data. Recorded sightings of the Everglades creature dated back to the time of Spanish contact. In the late 1500s, a Jesuit missionary, sent to live among the indigenous people of Florida’s west coast, described seeing a “… giant man, befouled by a body of hair, running away into the swamps.”
Occasional sightings by Europeans and Indians continued over the next four hundred years, but reached their peak of frequency in the early 1970s.
“The reason for that is obvious,” Tomlinson explained to me one night, sitting on the stern of his old Morgan sailboat. “That’s when construction was booming in Miami and Lauderdale, everything expanding west into what was then the Everglades. The bulldozers and draglines were draining the edge of the big swamp, scraping it bare, taking away all the cover. The River Prophet had to move around, maybe for survival… or maybe to investigate the damage being done to the biosphere.”
River Prophet-Tomlinson’s personal identifier for something that was more or less consistently described as a gorillalike creature, over eight feet tall, covered with hair, and that had a distinctive, sulfurlike odor. Thus the “Skunk Ape” reference.
Tomlinson decided to go to the Everglades in search of the Swamp Ape for reasons that were cryptic and multipur posed-like almost everything else in his life.
It had something to do with a pre-Columbian stone ceremonial circle, chiseled by indigenous people, recently discovered west of Miami. Back in 1998, a similar circle had been found in downtown Miami, near Brikell Pointe. It was a forty-foot archaeological treasure, carved into the limestone bedrock. The location was to have been a parking garage for a $126 million high-rise luxury condo complex, but public protests closed the project down.
This second circle included what Tomlinson said he believed to be small stone stela, not unlike certain Mayan formations found in Central America. He spent weeks at the site, and came away convinced it was both an astrolabe and an uncannily accurate map of the earth. Uncanny because-in his opinion-the map included North and South America, even though the circle of stones was constructed two thousand years before Columbus sailed.
“Extraterrestrials had to have been involved,” he told me. “It explains so much. The key, I am convinced, lies in the Everglades.”
Years ago, at Tomlinson’s urging, I’d read of claims for similar maps-the Turkish Piri Reis map of 1513, for instance, which supposedly shows all the Earth’s continents, plus the Arctic and Antarctic.
Misinterpretation of the map is an intentional hoax, of course-research has proven it, though some diehards, such as my friend, continue to believe. Similar hoaxes include Peru’s “alien landing strips” on the plains of Nazca, the Lost City of Atlantis, the Bermuda Triangle, the intentional government cover-up of information about UFOs and, of course, all the various legends of the Abominable Snowman or Swamp Ape.
Tomlinson and I no longer argue these things, although they do, occasionally, make for interesting late-night debate. As I’ve told him, I’d very much like to believe in the things in which he believes. I’d also like to believe in Heaven, visitors from outer space, divine creation, divine providence, divine revelation, predestination, telepathy, guardian angels, ghosts, soulmates, reincarnation, absolution and (most of all) I’d like to believe that order and virtue ultimately triumph over that which is evil, existential, random.
I don’t.
I don’t believe. I’d like to, so try to remain open, hopeful. I’ve known Tomlinson long enough to realize that one’s spiritual convictions have little to do with one’s intellect. His IQ exceeds my own by more than forty points (he’s not aware that I was once provided with his entire scholastic dossier). His gift for languages and interpreting nuance exceed my understanding or capability. The so-called intellectual types who assume that spirituality and religion are refuges of the ignorant simply provid
e testimony that condemns their own stunted intellects.
I’m often dumb, but not that dumb.
Sally was now another example-a gifted person who is also devoutly religious.
Yet, I don’t believe. Intellectually, I can find no rational, logical foundation for Tomlinson’s spiritual convictions. I am incapable of lying to myself, so I am incapable of embracing a spiritual view of the world. I’m hopeful, though. I remain hopeful.
So, I listened without comment as Tomlinson continued, “There’s only one Everglades. There’s no geographical equivalent to be found on this planet. The River Prophet could be down there doing research, inviting contact. Which is why there has been an unusual number of sightings lately.”
Tomlinson had shown me the newspaper stories. A Michigan couple in a Winnebago spotted a huge “apelike” creature near the post office in Ochopee. It supposedly jogged away when they tried to get a photograph. A Bud weiser delivery guy claimed to have almost hit a similar creature near Monroe Station. Both places are located on the Tamiami Trail, the asphalt conduit that crosses eighty miles of sawgrass, connecting Miami with the Gulf coast of Florida.
Tomlinson said, “So I propose we assemble an expeditionary team. Mack knows a man who’s got a hunting lease in the ’Glades-a couple of hundred acres, plus a cabin and a bunkhouse that sleeps eight. I’ll pack some food, make a list of people to invite. Scientists, trackers, psychics, para-normals: the most respected specialists in their fields. Oh yes, and don’t let me forget. Alcohol. We’re going to need whiskey, vodka, Everclear. All varieties of alcohol, and lots of it.”
I found the idea of going to the ’Glades in search of an imaginary primate comical, but also oddly heartening. To inspire tales of legendary monsters, wilderness must be sufficiently pristine to lend credibility to the possibility that there really could be monsters hiding out there somewhere.
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