“We’re rescued!” I told him, shaking his shoulder. But his body was limp, and he simply grunted. “Don’t worry. We’ll help you.”
Brian and Miguel were on the jutting rock by now, jumping up and down, waving their arms frantically, although they didn’t have to. We were going to be rescued nonetheless. But they just couldn’t contain their excitement. What will be the first thing we do once we’re off this island? I thought. Eat hamburgers? Drink sodas? Kiss the mainland under our feet? Hug our parents? What would you do first? There was nothing more delicious than hope fulfilled.
The motor boats swarmed the island out by the bobbing orange buoys, as if appearing out of nowhere, the way Imperial space cruisers in the movie Star Wars exited hyperspace: a screeching halt from light speed. But the helicopter was the prominent savior. It approached the island with a careful descent, its beating blades pushing air on the island like the one the night before did, although every bit of debris on the island had already been swept off. Thwump thwump thwump the blades undulated. A commanding voice notified us through a loud speaker—clear as day—that a soldier would be rescuing us, followed by a figure dropping from the fuselage like a spider down its silken thread. I joined Brian and Miguel on the jutting rock and we watched the soldier descend in a fashion that made me think we were witnessing a real-life Spider-Man, his motion almost supernatural in appearance, although wearing bulky, military fatigues instead of a red and blue superhero suit. The helicopter dropped the soldier on its intended target: the jutting rock. Towering over us with sinewy but sturdy arms, short-cropped dark hair, coffee-stained teeth, and mirrored sunglasses, the soldier’s confidence was a welcome presence.
And without missing a beat, he commanded us to give him an answer.
“Who’s going first?!”
The three of us looked at each other and immediately knew who from our dejected group should go first.
“Randy!” we replied, pointing to where our friend laid on the ground.
With slack in his rescue line, the soldier wrapped a length of it around his right arm and trotted over to Randy, the helicopter hovering patiently in the sky. He knelt next to him, tapped him on the shoulder, said something to Randy through a cupped hand, then placed his right ear close to Randy to hear his response. The soldier nodded a time or two, then unceremoniously hoisted Randy over his shoulder quicker than an Olympic weightlifter, Randy’s ragdoll body folding at the waist, his lifeless limbs dangling down. The soldier trotted back to the jutting rock as if Randy weighed only a few ounces, then with his free hand wrapped a safety cord around Randy’s waist, which he fastened to a metal loop on his belt. He looked up to the helicopter, communicated something through a headset receiver, then displayed a thumbs up. I could see the pilot nodding, his silvery sunglasses refracting sunlight.
He turned to us. “Decide who’s next. I’ll be back.”
And with that, the slack in the line tightened and the soldier and Randy were lifted about twenty feet in the air. The blades undulated: Thwump thwump thwump. The helicopter maneuvered over the waiting rescue boats—nameless do-gooders and boaters all looking up at the helicopter as if witnessing something unbelievable—then delicately dropped the soldier on the party barge. Two people, who appeared to be Tony and Victoria, helped set Randy in the barge, then cheered as the soldier ascended back into the air.
“He’s coming back!” Brian shouted.
“Who’s going next?” Miguel said. His eyes darted back and forth from me to Brian, then to the helicopter with the dangling soldier fast approaching us.
“I vote for Brian since he can’t swim,” I said.
Miguel agreed, which caught Brian off guard.
“I don’t know, guys,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m scared!”
“Scared?” I said. “Did you see how easily he carried Randy? Like he weighed nothing!”
Brian gazed across the water to the party barge where Randy laid waiting for the rest of us, then his head tilted up to the flying Spider-Man, coming back for the next one of us to rescue.
“You think I’ll be safe going over all that water?” he said.
The fear displayed on his face was nothing short of dreadful. What could I say to appease my friend? I wasn’t quite sure, so I quickly decided to hug him, then said the first thing that came to my mind into his ear.
“Easy street!”
The next thing we knew, the soldier was on the jutting rock with us, the air stirring around us, the water agitated and vibrating.
“Who’s next?!” he said.
I could see the three of us huddled together in the reflection of his sunglasses.
I pointed to Brian. “He is!”
The soldier gave a thumbs up, then without asking, hoisted Brian over his shoulder as easily as he did Randy, securing Brian around the waist with the safety cord. He looked up to the helicopter and indicated he was ready. The rescue line tightened, then he levitated into the air. Brian kicked his legs as the soldier ascended above the water, appearing as if he was attempting to swim away from the soldier’s grasp, trying to escape from the dilemma that tweaked his anxiety. The motion of his kicking legs wobbled the soldier, who wrapped his arm tighter around Brian in an attempt to get him to stop kicking. The soldier twisted his body, his arm muscles bulging. It seemed as if he was gaining control of Brian’s irascibility.
The air became still. The thwump thwump thwumping dampened.
Then without warning, Brian mysteriously slid from the soldier’s grasp—down his back like famed magician Harry Houdini slithering out of a length of chain—kicking and screaming in a terrified dive head-first down to the lake below. The collective gasp from Miguel and me was as loud as the splash. A white, frothy explosion gave way to bubbly ringlets where Brian disappeared into the dark water, then the enlarging circles of bubbles dissipated into nothingness, the ripples from the splash jabbing at the nearby boats. No signs of Brian: no hands flapping, no hair, no friend visible in the water.
It was Brian’s worst nightmare come true. It was his mother’s worst-case scenario. It was our collective fear realized. I promised my friend that nothing would happen, but then the worst thing happened. He inexplicably slipped from our superhero’s sturdy grasp, plunging in slow motion to the one place he dared not go, the one place he repeatedly told us he couldn’t go for fear of drowning. The surrounding sounds of the boats and the helicopter vanished as I looked on in paralyzed fear. Miguel’s hands covered the lower half of his face, hiding his terrified O of mouth, muffling his scream of panic, his eyes bulging in disbelief. What could the two of us do? How could we save our friend? We both knew in that still moment that we were useless to help Brian, as much as we wanted to. We were children. We were not equipped to help him. I feared for the worst as I imagined Brian sinking down to the silty lake bed, drifting toward the place where Bloody Billy most likely laid, the bottom feeders dashing away, the backpack filled with money there, too.
Then a commotion from the party barge snapped me from my hypnotized state.
In a split second, Tony dove from the side railing of the party barge into the dark water after our submerged friend. The thwump thwump thwumping of the helicopter blades returned along with the cheering of many faceless boaters. We all waited to see if Tony could save our friend. After a few tense moments of staring at the very place where Tony dove in, I saw his head come up from the water. Victoria tossed a rope from the boat, which he used to pull himself closer. A moment later, Brian’s head popped above water. He spit and sneezed water from his mouth and nose, then cried for help. Before we knew it, Tony was climbing a ladder on the side of the boat, pulling Brian up by his t-shirt. He eventually turned around and followed Tony up onto the platform of the party barge.
“Thank God!” Miguel said.
We both hugged each other, grateful that our friend was rescued. The soldier appeared again on the jutting rock, appearing as if out of thin air because our attention was focused on Tony and Brian.
“I think Miguel should go!”
“Are you sure?!” Miguel said.
“Yeah!” I said, then placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Before I knew it, I was watching Spider-Man carry Miguel in the air to the party barge, soon joining Randy and Brian as well as Tony, Victoria, and other do-gooders. Then it was my turn. When Spider-Man returned to the jutting rock, he didn’t even ask me if I was ready. He flung me over his shoulder, wrapped the safety cord around my waist, secured the cord to his belt, and we were in the air faster than I could comprehend. As we rose above the rocky place that was my home for the last few days—the unforgiving, deserted Sometimes Island—I marveled at just how small it was, and that it didn’t seem as far from the mainland as we thought. Flying even higher, the island looked like a toy model, something a young boy would glue together then spray paint, tiny rocks like styrofoam, splintery trees like toothpicks. When you are experiencing trauma, does your brain perceive things to be worse than they really are? Does your perception of time and space change when you are separated from what you know as reality? I wasn’t thinking about these things as I flew from the island to my rescue boat. I have thought about these things since then—at night, while sitting up in a sleepless trance—and wondered to myself how we got ourselves into this mess, and how we managed to survive. We had everything against us, but we got through it together. These four kids of Thousand Oaks and Hidden Oaks. These seventh graders from F. D. R. Middle School. The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island.
When my feet touched the floor on the party barge, I was embraced by my friends along with Tony and Victoria, both as happy to see us as can be, happy we were alive, happy to have helped save us. We celebrated, our huddle of teenagers jumping like a victorious sports team, except for Randy, who laid crumpled at our feet. When Spider-Man finally asked us if there was anything else for him to do, or any other people to help back on Sometimes Island, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what I needed to say.
“Our friend got bit by a snake!” I said, as loud as I could over the cacophony of motor engines and the thwumping of the helicopter blades. “He’s not doing good!”
Spider-Man looked over to where Randy laid in a helpless mass, then nodded. He barked something into his headset, then scooped Randy up and over his shoulder again, his limp body draping over his burly shoulder. And before we could say goodbye to Randy or offer words of encouragement, Spider-Man was in the air with one of my best friends, up and away, then inside the fuselage of the waiting helicopter. It turned east and flew (I would later learn) to Brook Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas, or BAMC (pronounced bam-cee) as the folks around here call it.
Once the thwumping sound of the helicopter dissipated after it disappeared over the surrounding hills, the cheering of the boaters in the other boats could be heard. Tony and Victoria beamed as the three of us stood at the edge of the party barge, gripping the metal railing and taking in the congratulatory cheers and well-wishes. It was an amazing spectacle to take in after several days in destitution with no food, water, or adequate shelter. I turned to Brian and Miguel, then flung my arms around them, pulling them close.
“I love you guys,” I said to them.
“I love you, too,” they both said.
“All right, all right,” Tony said, interrupting us. “Let’s get you guys back to the marina.”
“Yeah,” Victoria added. “I bet you’re all hungry.”
I looked at my two friends, then turned to Victoria. “We’re friggin’ starving!”
“Then let’s go!” Tony said.
He cranked the ignition to the motor of the party barge, then took us all back to the marina, the armada of other boats following behind us.
27.
After Tony secured the party barge to the marina, the five of us—me, Brian, Miguel, Tony, and Victoria—were met with jaunty cheers, toothy smiles, and shoulder pats from a slew of excited people: our parents, police officers, park rangers, Tony and Victoria’s parents, fishermen, TV news crew, water skiers, and who knows who else. It was an exhilarating moment. The first faces I recognized in the throng of strangers were my parents—my mother and step-dad Steve—who both embraced me. My mother kissed my forehead while questioning me simultaneously: a loving inquisition.
“So glad you’re safe! Why were you out here? I was so worried about you! Are you OK?”
“I’m OK, mom,” I said. “Just really hungry.”
“Do you want something to eat? Do you want a candy bar?”
I looked up at her. “Yeah, I want a candy bar.”
She plumbed the depths of her handbag and pulled a perfectly good Snickers bar from inside. I unceremoniously ripped open the packaging and devoured it. As I chomped the candy bar—as delicious as anything I had ever eaten in my entire life—I spotted both my friends, their sunken eyes glaring at me as I devoured the candy, and I felt soul-crushing guilt. My hunger had gotten the best of me like a smooth-talking transient separating me from a hard-earned dollar.
I turned to my mother. “Can my friends have a Snickers, too?”
My mother wasn’t prepared for my request and hastily searched her purse for more candy bars, digging beneath stray cosmetics and rattling keys and multiple pairs of eyeglasses, even though it was apparent she didn’t have any more. Instead of admitting her oversight, she commanded Steve to go buy some candy in the marina store. An unexpected sigh escaped from deep within his soul. He sulked away, rummaging in his pant pockets for money to pay for candy.
“Don’t you worry. He’ll get some for your friends.”
To placate my guilty mind, I tore the last of my Snickers bar in two and gave the pieces to Brian and Miguel. They devoured the candy like rabid dogs.
Brian’s parents were there, too. Both hugged and kissed him while he licked his fingers of candy residue, telling him about their sorrow when they discovered he was missing.
“I felt like the worst mother in the world,” his mother said, sobbing uncontrollably as she pulled his head to her bosom.
“It wasn’t your fault, ma,” Brian said. He rubbed his sticky hands on the front of his shirt. “And I’m OK.”
“I bet your Boy Scout training helped,” Mr. Johnson added. Brian sulked and didn’t respond.
Miguel’s parents were also there—both embracing him and telling him how worried they were when they, too, discovered he was missing—along with Miguel’s bastard brother, Rogelio. He stood sheepishly behind his family, not saying a word, both of his hands buried deep in his back pockets, as if he’d washed them of his guilt and concealed them from the relieved throng of do-gooders that witnessed our rescue. I gave him a stare that could burn through steel, and once his eyes caught my intense stare, he looked off in the distance as if watching sail boats, then spun around and walked away, probably to go hide in the car. I was OK with that; I would get my revenge on him later.
Tony and Victoria stood with their parents, both parental sets telling my folks that they were there for them and would help in any way possible, even offering to pay for any medical attention and whatnot. It may well have been a ruse to avoid a lawsuit, especially from Mrs. Johnson, a hard-nosed lawyer that I would later learn was a well-known prosecutor at some point in her career. There were bits and pieces said by Tony and Victoria’s parents to mine about how they were just flabbergasted that we were even out there on Sometimes Island, something they’d never heard done before in all the years they owned the marina and the campgrounds, even by their most disreputable customers.
“You might as well have told me they were stranded on the moon,” the man standing behind Tony said (his father I presumed and the owner of the marina). “Nobody I know has ever dared go on Sometimes Island. It’s just too dangerous. At least that’s what I’ve always been told.”
After hearing this, my mother turned me around, then blasted me wi
th a penetrating stare. “Why did you go out there?!”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I told her. “We were being chased by—”
Brian and Miguel both grabbed my arms, attempting to stop me from spilling the beans before we could all come to an agreement about what exactly we should tell our parents.
“Dude!” they both said.
I understood this as a demand to stop talking and not incriminate me and my friends.
“Chasing you?” my mother said. “But who...”
“I’ll tell you about it later. OK mom?”
She sighed and reluctantly acquiesced. “OK.”
The next thing I knew, my friends and I were accosted by the local news reporter and her film crew. She introduced herself as Cokey Ramirez, a reporter with San Antonio TV station KSAT 12—the channel I watched for countless hours of reruns like The Munsters, The Addams Family, The Beverly Hillbillies, and of course, Gilligan’s Island—and her carefully made-up face with swathes of eye shadow over a thick undercoat of foundation and concealer was very familiar to me and my friends. Her famous mug adorned commercials and news previews, and was flashed in-between all the reruns we consumed after school. She wore a bright, purple business suit and her hair was as straight and glossy black as a freshly tarred highway in west Texas. In person, she was skinnier than imaginably possible, and smelled of gardenias and coffee. The idea that my friends and I would possibly be on TV sent electricity through my body like a jolt of lightning. She pointed a bulbous microphone at me while a bright light mounted on a video camera behind her flooded my retinas.
The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island Page 20