A Drop in the Ocean

by Jenni Ogden

  BUT NOT FOR THE NEXT FOUR MONTHS. I CLOSED UP—OR down—the lab, took the team out for a subdued redundancy dinner, and moved into the cubbyhole, where I put my head down and wrote the final report on fifteen years of work. Then I wrote a grant application and sent it off to an obscure private funding body that gave out small grants from a legacy left by some wealthy old woman who died a lonely death from Parkinson’s disease. I had little hope it would be successful, as all I could come up with as a research project was further analysis of the neurological material we had collected over the past few years—hardly cutting-edge research. At least waiting to hear would give me a few months of pathetic hope, rather like buying a ticket in a lottery.

  That done, I dutifully went into the university every day and tried to write a paper on a series of experiments that we had completed and analyzed just before the grant was terminated. But my heart wasn’t in it, and I could sit for eight hours with no more than a bad paragraph to show for it.

  Boston was hot and I felt stifled. Fran and her family were away on their regular summer break at the Professor’s parents’ cabin on a lake somewhere, and the medical school was as dead as a dodo. I used to begrudge any time spent talking trivia to the researchers in my lab, but now that I didn’t have it, I missed it. Even my once-pleasant apartment had become a prison, clamping me inside its walls the minute I got home in the evenings. I was no stranger to loneliness, but over the past few years I’d polished my strategies to deal with it. I would remind myself that the flip side of loneliness could be worse—a houseful of demanding kids, a husband who expected dinner on the table, a weighty mortgage, irritating in-laws—it became almost a game to see what new horrors I could come up with. You, Anna Fergusson, I’d tell myself sternly, are free of all that. “I’m a liberated woman,” I once shouted, before glancing furtively around in case my madwoman behavior had conjured up a sneering audience. If self-talk didn’t work, or even when it did, more often than not I’d slump down in front of the TV and watch three episodes straight of Morse, or some other BBC detective series, and one night I stayed awake for the entire 238 minutes of Gone with the Wind.

  When Fran finally returned from her lake at the beginning of August, I was on the phone to her before she had time to unpack her bags. Understanding as always, she put her other duties aside and the very next day met me at our usual lunch place. She looked fantastic: brown and healthy and young. I felt like a slug. It wasn’t until we were getting up to leave, me to go back to my cubbyhole and Fran to the supermarket, that she remembered.

  “Gosh, I almost forgot. Callum was mucking about on the Internet while we were at the lake and came across this advertisement. He made some joke about it being the perfect job for him when he left school, and I remembered how you said after you lost your grant that you should go and live on a tropical island.” Fran scrabbled in her bag and hauled out a scrunched up sheet of paper.

  “Fran, for heaven’s sake, you know that was a joke. What is it?” I took the paper she had unscrunched and read the small advertisement surrounded by ads for adventure tourism in Australia.

  For rent to a single or couple who want to escape to a tropical paradise. Basic cabin on tiny coral island on Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. AUD$250 a week; must agree to stay one year and look after small private campsite (five tents maximum). Starting date October 2008. For more information e-mail lazylad at yahoo.com.au.

  I looked at Fran in amazement. “You printed this out for me? I think the sun must have got to you. Lazylad is looking for some young bimbo. And he wants to be paid to look after his campsite. What cheek.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but Callum pointed out that thousands of people would give their eyeteeth for an opportunity like this if the cabin were free. But that’s the beauty of it; you can afford it. And wasn’t your father Australian? You mightn’t even need a visa.”

  “Fran, you’re a dear, but can you see me on an island on the other side of the world, singing jolly campfire songs with spaced-out boaties?”

  “Have you got a better idea? Or are you just going to continue to fade away in your cubbyhole?”

  “No, I’m out of there as soon as I finish this damn paper I’m writing, and then I thought I might try my hand at writing a book.” So there, I felt like adding.

  Fran’s face lit up. “A book? That’s fantastic. What sort of a book? A novel?”

  I started to laugh. “What happened to you up there at the lake? This is me, Anna. I haven’t suddenly morphed into a normal person. I’m still the same old ivory tower nerd, clueless about people. No, I thought I might be able to write some sort of account of my experiences getting research grants and running a lab. All the highs and lows. Perhaps I’ll discover where I went wrong.” I could hear the gloom in my voice as the words came out of my mouth.

  “But that’s a great idea. And you’ll need somewhere to write it.” I could see the mischief in her eyes as she grinned at me.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and no, I do not want to live on a desert island at the end of the world.”

  “Oh well, worth a try. It wouldn’t hurt to check it out though, would it?”

  TWO DAYS LATER I COMPOSED A CAREFUL E-MAIL TO Lazylad, not expecting a reply. Surely the cabin had been snapped up by now if it were such a dream opportunity. I got used to holding my breath as I turned my e-mail on each morning, scrolling rapidly through all the usual stuff looking for Lazylad, telling myself I didn’t care. But the idea of going to Australia had got stuck in my head.

  I had all but given up and stopped daydreaming about writing a book on a deck looking through the palms across an azure blue ocean, when there it was—a reply from Lazylad, who I later found out was actually called Jeff.

  Thanks for e-mail. Been away sorry for delay in reply. Cabin still available if you want it. Photos attached. Island called Turtle Island (after the sea turtles here) and is a coral cay just above Tropic of Capricorn about eight hectares in area with a large reef surrounding it. A few eccentric people own houses here and that’s about it apart from my small campsite. Only transport is fishing boat or charter. Cabin basic but comfortable, everything included. Solar hot water (roof water) and solar power for lights and computer, gas fridge and stove, no telephone. Satellite broadband from some locals’ houses you can use occasionally in return for a few beers. One of the local fishermen brings supplies over about once a fortnight in his boat and locals can hitch a ride for a small fee or more beers. Fantastic snorkeling and diving, birds, turtles, etc. Weather always perfect (almost). If you are interested e-mail me your phone number and I’ll call you when next on mainland to chat. Looking after campsite is a doddle. First come, first served (no bookings), take their money, and make sure the old guy on the island does his job of emptying the toilet and the rubbish bins. It would be good to get someone here before I leave for UK on 18th October so I can show you the ropes.

  When I scrolled down so I could see the photos my hand was trembling. The first one showed a rectangular wooden building with what appeared to be an open front with a wide deck. A big wooden table and a few white plastic chairs, along with a heap of what looked like diving stuff—a wetsuit and flippers and a tank—sat on the deck. In the dimness of the inside I could make out a bed on one side of a partition and what looked like a kitchen on the other. The cabin was surrounded on three sides by trees with large leaves, and in front of the cabin was a sweep of white sand. The sand had something black on it, and when I zoomed in I could see it was a cluster of three large black birds just sitting there. The second photo showed a narrow strip of white sand, fringed by trees with feathery-looking leaves, and then the truly azure blue sea and sky. The last photo was like something on a travel brochure: a tiny, oval, flat island with green vegetation crowning the center and white sand around the edge, surrounded by blue. In the blue I could see dark patterns, the coral. I grabbed my pendant and brought it to my mouth. The last time I had seen coral sea had been when I was twelve years old,
and I had thought then that I never wanted to see it again.

  TWO

  I stood hanging on to the railing that ran round the bow of the fishing boat and looked at the white-and-green spot on the horizon. “Heavens, it’s tiny,” I said, obviously louder than I had intended.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?” I turned to see the weather-beaten face of fisherman Jack, who was kindly delivering me to my new home. Presumably his son was driving the boat while he took time off to chat.

  “Well yes, I knew, but it somehow looks a lot smaller than I’d imagined. I suppose it’s the isolation of it in that great expanse of sea, rather than it being so small.”

  “Think of it as the whole reef.” He leaned over the side and nodded his head like a pointer. “Look, we’re already over it; you can see the coral below now. The island is just the bit sticking out at high tide. So it’s really a massive area.” He grinned at me.

  “Right. That’s very comforting.” I looked back to the island, which was getting marginally bigger. Not another island to be seen. Not even another boat. And then a dark speck appeared in the blue, weaving back and forth and increasing in size until I could make out a small dinghy. “What on earth is that boat doing?” I asked, pointing. “It looks as if it has lost control.”

  “Some would agree with you there. It’s the turtle rodeo. I’ll cut the engine when we get a bit closer in and you can watch for a bit. It’s a sight not to be missed.”

  “What do you mean, a turtle rodeo? Surely people aren’t allowed to ride turtles.” I was shocked.

  Jack chuckled. “Now there’s a good idea. You hang on there and I’ll get up to the wheelhouse and bring her closer.”

  We turned towards the smaller boat and our engine went quiet. I could hear the screeching of the dinghy’s outboard motor as it sped first one way, and then, in a mighty spray of water, turned back and then around again in dizzying zigzags. I could make out three figures, one standing dangerously near the bow. Suddenly the boat screeched to a stop, and the black figure at the front dove into the water as the engine was silenced. I held my breath as the figure disappeared below the surface. Minutes seemed to go by before the diver’s head came out of the water right by the dinghy. He seemed to be carrying something—it looked like a large body. We were still too far away for me to see.

  I remembered my binoculars and scrabbled for them in my backpack. It wasn’t a body—well, not a human one—but a massive turtle that the man—I supposed it was a man—had clasped in front of him. I could see the big head and the front flippers flapping desperately as the people in the boat struggled to get ropes around them. The man in the water was grasping the shell, which was much wider than him. The others in the boat were leaning over the sides trying to grab the flippers, and then I saw them tying the poor thing to the side of the boat. They seemed to be measuring its shell. This went on for some minutes while the dinghy pitched and swayed—it was quite choppy—and then they untied the unfortunate creature and it sank below the surface, and I hope got well away. The diver was clambering back into the dinghy, and one of the others waved at us. Jack was standing beside me again, waving back at them. They started their outboard and made a beeline for us. Their dinghy did a sort of side-skid like a teenager in a hot rod as they reached us and pulled up short, their motor grumbling to a low putt-putt.

  “Tom, gidday,” Jack yelled. “Just telling this young lady about your rodeo. She thought she’d like to go for a ride on a turtle while she’s here.”

  Cheeky sod. I wonder which he thinks is more amusing, the ‘young’ or the ‘lady’?

  “Hi Jack, any time, tell her. Does she want to come for a ride now?” the diver was shouting back, his black wetsuit glistening in the sun, his hair springing from his head in wet spikes. I tried to appear nonchalant as I stood there gripping the rail, my heart pounding as I looked down at the dinghy. I could see them all grinning at me, and I was glad I could hide behind the enormous pair of D&G sunglasses Fran had given me as a going-away present.

  Jack’s arm shot out and landed around my shoulders, pulling me towards him. I could feel myself tensing as his hot breath exploded on my cheek. “This is Anna Fergusson. She’s going to be looking after Jeff’s campground for a year.” His free hand gestured sweepingly towards the dinghy. “And this daring fellow is our resident turtle whisperer.”

  The man in the wet suit dipped his head and raised his hand in a desultory wave. “These are my two research assistants, Bill and Ben,” he said, still grinning.

  Am I meant to return their banter?

  “Hullo,” I said creatively.

  All three of them nodded at me and I tried to make my face look pleasant.

  “So, do you want to come on board?” asked the diver. “We’ve about finished the rodeo for the day—one more turtle, perhaps—so we’ll be back at the wharf by the time Jack’s got your gear to your place. Blow the smoke out of your lungs.”

  “Thank you,” I said, knowing how stiff I sounded. “But I don’t think I’m dressed for it.” I felt ridiculous in my long black pants and blue shirt, even with the top buttons open and the sleeves rolled up.

  “No worries, another time maybe.” His grin flashed again and his eyes crinkled in his young brown face. I smiled back at him without thinking. It was impossible not to. I realized I had taken off my sunglasses and our eyes were connecting. Then their motor roared and they sped away as I hurriedly replaced my glasses, hoping jolly Jack hadn’t noticed the heat in my face.

  THE SMELL HIT ME FIRST AS I STEPPED OFF THE SMALL wharf and onto the brilliant white sand. A hot, dry, musty smell. Not unpleasant but definitely not lavender. Then the sound of birds, hundreds of them. I looked over to the green rim of trees bordering the twenty meters or so of sand; black-and-white birds were flying in and out, busy as bees. The heat rose up from the sand, and I was glad I had put a pair of shorts in my bag. I nearly hadn’t, as my legs hadn’t been exposed to the elements for at least twenty years. The shorts were another present from Fran.

  Jack’s son had disappeared into the interior of the island as soon as we tied up, and Jack had already dumped my one suitcase and computer bag onto the sand. He was now carrying off armloads of banana boxes stacked three high, his biceps distorting a labyrinth of tattoos. Numerous food boxes, seven of them mine, food and supplies that had to last for two weeks minimum until Jack came back from the mainland with the next food haul. An old tractor with a trailer behind it was now chugging through the gap in the trees and down to the wharf, driven by Jack’s son. I stood and watched as they rapidly loaded all the boxes, my luggage, large gas bottles, enormous tins with DIESEL written on the outside, and various other things onto the trailer. I made a weak attempt to help but was obviously in the way.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you to your cabin. Nick will drop your bags and food off in a bit.” Jack walked towards the gap in the trees and I followed him, increasing my stride to keep up. He was a broad man, and must have been well over six feet. My feet felt hot in my well-worn hiking boots. I nearly tripped over a group of the busy birds that seemed to be chattering to one another on the sand. They were so pretty. A neat, soft black body with a perky white cap. Big black feet and a black beak completed them perfectly. Jack looked back as I stopped.

  “They’re white-capped noddy terns. Not so many here yet, but there’ll be hundreds of thousands in a few weeks, and all these trees”—he waved a hand at the large-leaved trees we were walking through—“will be loaded with their nests.”

  “They’re beautiful. There seem to be an awful lot here already.”

  “Wait ’til you see their babies. They must be the prettiest little birds alive.”

  We continued walking.

  “The other bird we have here in the thousands is the wedge-tailed shearwater. Ghost shearwaters, we call them, because of the howling noise they make. Once they’re nesting it’s almost impossible to move without stepping on a bird or collapsing one of their nesting tunnels. Even sleepi
ng is difficult with the racket they kick up.”

  I felt a strange sensation in my belly and chest, a sort of bubbling. Excitement, that’s what I was feeling. Pure excitement.

  My cabin was even smaller than I had envisioned. “Minimalist living” would be putting it mildly, but that was fine by me. I was a minimalist from way back. Jack stopped long enough to demonstrate the vagaries of the enormous and scarily ancient-looking gas fridge/freezer and the even older gas stove. Next came the shower, an ingenious contraption that involved filling a bucket with water from the taps over the large sink, hauling it up to the ceiling of the shower cubicle on a rope pulley, and then, by pulling on another rope, tipping it over so that it emptied its load into a funnel that filtered down to a large shower nozzle. The water that spurted from the taps was disgusting—full of black bits and smelling slightly off. Jack grinned when he saw my expression and suggested that I boil it before drinking it. The only fresh water on the island came from rainwater tanks fed by roof water thick with the droppings of thousands of birds, especially foul following a downpour after a long dry period. I silently thanked Jeff—alias Lazylad—for his wise counsel when he helped me buy my food supplies on the mainland, especially his insistence that I fill two banana boxes with plastic bottles of drinking water.

  The power came courtesy of two solar panels on the roof, stored in batteries under the cabin and converted from 12 volts to 240 volts by a humming piece of equipment in a cupboard. It hadn’t even occurred to me that power might be a problem, so I felt a jolt of simultaneous horror and relief. Perhaps I could have coped without my iPod, but I would have had to turn right around and go back if I couldn’t use my Kindle and computer. I had brought a universal plug adaptor with me, of course—part of my overseas conference travel kit.

  Jack disappeared, and Nick arrived on his tractor, dumped my bags and boxes on the deck, and with a “See ya round, mate,” roared off. I returned to the kitchen end of the cabin and opened the few cupboards and checked out the mismatched crockery, glasses and cutlery. A blackened kettle sat on the stove, and an equally blackened fry pan and a couple of battered saucepans hung from large hooks suspended from the low ceiling. I looked at the few photos stuck on the walls with tacks. One of them was a picture of Jeff and another man, both dressed only in shorts, standing in the shallow water, an enormous turtle between them. When I first decided to take the cabin, Jeff had been going to meet me there and show me the ropes, but then he decided to meet me on the mainland and introduce me to Jack, who did the regular supplies run once a fortnight. Jeff would be in Sydney now, and soon on his way to the UK and a trial run living with his girlfriend for a year. He’d told me all this while we shopped and then had fish ’n chips in a local café. I looked again at the faded photo and peered at the other man in it for a few seconds before realizing it was the turtle whisperer. He looked different without his wetsuit. Both men had that Australian look, rugged and brown. The turtle whisperer—Tom, I think Jack called him—had quite a lot of dark-blondish hair. I’d got the impression that it was black when I saw him earlier, because it was wet I suppose. He was grinning his infectious grin, and his dark eyes were almost hidden in the crinkles of his smile. Both men had nice faces, open and friendly. Tom’s was sort of lopsided, but perhaps that added to his attractiveness. How old would he be? Jeff had let slip that he was thirty-five—the right age to settle down, as he put it—so perhaps Tom was about the same age. I’d meant to ask Jack why he called him the turtle whisperer, but hadn’t in the end. I suppose it’s another Australian joke because of this turtle rodeo thing he does—the exact opposite of a turtle whisperer, if you ask me.