I awoke the next morning in a daze. My eyelids fluttered from the glow of the rising sun. This all seemed like an unreal dream.
“Persevere!” I had to purge myself of all distractions that might keep me from this goal. My diet was minimal. After a short period of time on the Na Pali Coast I took to discarding all clothing like some others I encountered in the valley. Like a solemn prayer ending with great moments of abundant joy, I embraced the healing essence of Kauai. Like some Franciscan monk I thought to restrict myself of worldly desires. I sought to nourish myself with only with what the island could provide. I wished to distance myself from the real world, a place I considered ruled by lies and mistrust. Now I faced a challenge that enhanced the meaning of life itself? Pushing the envelope on such feelings and actions there was always the danger of falling off the edge, tumbling into a bottomless abyss. There was the real possibility of total failure and eventual madness. Then I would be at the mercy of the vultures.
Was Reina now free from such vile torment? The events, the people and especially the pain had no boundaries. I had traveled so far to my island refuge and still the madness viciously sought me out. Even while in the high mountain passages it seductively called my name and I trembled. Only on the remote north shore of the island could I even begin to find some semblance of peace, if only for a short period of time. So, Muerto sought to draw me out from its protective envelope. I ventured to the base of the forty foot cascading falls. My body’s thirst was quenched the moment I stepped under the thundering downpour of majestic grace. Its life’s water refreshed my parched throat. The cool spray of the shower clung to my leather dried skin, soothing and cooling the soreness inside my tormented spirit. I wanted so much to wash that inner filth, to cleanse the choler that erupted from deep down, to twist my mind. The clear, clean, freshly-deposited waters roared down in a singular rhythm like glistening pearls. Its grandness eased my stress and dispelled the distrust I had felt. I gazed upward, straight into the waterfall above me. With each sweet drop I felt plummeting upon me the strain inside was released. I became lost amidst the abundance of blessings that fell upon me. I began to give thanks; feeling protected by the divine graciousness I had turned my back on. Yet, the self-loathing would not be denied as the stigma of Muerto would persist in paradise.
Suddenly, I was startled from my daydream by a constant humming that echoed down the valley and bounced off the cliffs in a constant beat. I instantly felt exposed, naked and spied upon. (I had been gazed at, inspected, violated and analyzed for far too long.) My head slowly turned and my worst fears materialized. There, hovering vertical to the ledge where I sought to cleanse my private sins, hovered the menace. I cried out in panic as the threat neither advanced nor retreated. I caught sight of the numerous cameras tucked inside the belly of the beast that were being drawn and aimed. The dark leathery skin of the jungle man under the falls blossomed with radiant colors through the lenses of the tourist. The imagined multiple clicks of the shutters screaming down the valley, echoing down to the seaside through the aged rock cathedral. I fell back into myself. I recognized the rotors of the beast, revealing it as one of the many helicopter tours that infested this sacred domain. Feeling despair, I clenched my teeth as a vision of the airline crash, the fire, reporters and bureaucrats flashed before my sad eyes. The shutters continued to move in the rhythm of rapid shots. I had to escape as I dove hard and deep into the cool pond. Once hidden I peered back and witnessed the beast retreat.
I was greatly disillusioned to discover that mistrust once again seemed to be my sole companion. I fell into paranoia and was careful to peer through the jungle’s foliage, wary of possible intruders. As evening fell I returned to my small encampment which I christened a lair. The days and nights of solitude began to take their toll. My self-imposed isolation made it clear that a real world guided by false justice was void of any compassion. I determined that I would have to change the rules of the game such entities were playing.
The night’s tribal ritual became my forbidden sacrament. I took great pains in mixing the colored powder inside the coconut shells I had carefully placed upon the red dirt. The texture of the tints had to be just right. I thrust three fingers into the shell, most likely as passionately as some distant Yaqui Indian ancestor had done centuries before. Bright crimson, “rojo” gleamed from one shell, the other filled with “blanco,” white’s purity to purge my tormented soul. The transforming airline flight attendant made broad vertical strokes upon a sun-dried torso, first the pectorals then the abdominal. Another was made across my head's brow. I wore the distinct visible logo of my airline dead center across my dark chest. I wore these colors but not in the same manner as before. This was different, an abstract declaration of war.
I concocted imaginary training courses through the dense shrubs and inclines of the pristine valley, a physical test. Now, by the light of a full moon I evolved into a menacing dark figure sprinting up one slope and gliding through the trees. I leapt across a stream, laying siege against imagined corrupt opponents.
All at once, a rustling in the foliage interrupted my eccentric labors. The jungle man hesitated in fear. I imagined danger had become flesh and blood. From under the dark brush a wild sow and her three piglets emerged looking mean. I made sure to keep a safe distance away from the malicious mother. Her sharp teeth could inflict great damage if she felt her piglets were in danger. Any medical assistance was non-existent in my remote location.
“Todo esta bien, mama,” I stated as the sow and her brood slowly passed some distance downstream. I was the trespasser so I showed respect. Then I realized an odd occurrence. Why would I address the pigs in Spanish? I was baffled, so I turned to resume my wild journey releasing a loud yell in pursuit of invisible enemies.
As a child I was always mimicking the yell of the Tarzan character played by the actor Johnny Weissmuller. I relished the opportunity to hike up to a plateau on the volcanic wall of the valley which protruded just enough for me to stand and deliver a blood curdling cry in the middle of a calm, silent night. Word later spread by those who frequented the Kalalau of the poor, wretched soul immersed deep in the jungle, plagued by his demons. One story related that “the screamer,” as he was being called, was a Vietnam vet tormented by anguished memories of dead comrades, left behind in the rice fields of a faraway country. In reality these statements were not far from the truth regarding dead comrades and a distant land. Those in the know swore they encountered the mysterious character once, his body covered in sun baked red mud, standing in the distance along the winding trail. When they looked up again he was gone like an illusion in the midday sun. If the stories seemed fabricated to heighten the adventure of those experiencing the Na Pali Coast, there were always the echoing screams in the middle of the night for verification. There was no denying that the source of the yells was one lost soul. Some said he screamed seeking solace but most of all forgiveness for an unspoken past transgression. I knew that was true but also included what was almost certain-those sins yet to come.
The sun rose gently, breaking the crest of the 4,000' volcanic steeples that encased the lush valley of the north shore on the 5,000,000-year-old island. The stream flowed swiftly from the pond below the marvelous falls, running toward its rendezvous with the deep blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. The morning's tranquil peace was broken by the screamer as I could not restrain the deep-rooted pain any longer. I would learn later that the loathsome infliction my body wished to exorcise from within with such intense convulsions had a name, “survivors guilt.” It is viciously cruel in all manners and forms.
“What the hell was that?” Kekoa, a stout, muscular local stood surprised on the red dirt trail. Although the 24-year-old claimed to have the blood of the Hawaiian Alii royalty in his veins, his facial features more resemble the Portuguese side of his father's lineage, fair skin with curly hair.
“That’s our boy,” replied Kaupena, a native Hawaiian through and through who ran a tour company on the island. Th
e pair had been hired by my airline to track down their wayward child and get him on a plane back home to LAX. Tall and strong at 36, the older man had been raised on the ancient trails of the coastline so was a more knowledgeable tracker. The Hawaiian noticed my belongings at the ridge by the side of the falls.
“It looks like that buggar is close by,” the elder naturalist told to his trainee. Kekoa still seemed confused by this assignment.
“What the hell this guy doing up here anyway?”
“From the information I got he thinks he’s one jungle man you know dakine. The wahine from the airline said they were pretty sure this is where this guy keeps running away to. He’s supposed to be some survivor from one big plane crash. I don’t know, a bit “lolo” in the head I think.”
“At least he’s not one of those growing pakalolo out here. Suckers shoot first and ask questions later,” the uneasy young man stated. Kaupena responded.
“Hell, I wonder if this guy was in Nam? He sure acts like one of those guys.” The two locals stood about my makeshift campsite looking for any clues that could lead them to me. Feeling a bit frustrated the two men continued their search through the thick brush.
“This guy could be anywhere, do anything.” Suddenly, the air of silence in the air was broken by the recurring outcry of torment. The spooked duo stopped and listened once again as another cry resonated down the frontier of the valley.
“That’s him alright.” Kaupena rushed to reach the ledge. “Let’s hike up there and take a look.” The younger lad was not so eager.
“All pau,” He stated. “I need to take one rest.”
“Hey brah, we rest when we get back with 'Mr. lolo.' The wahine said get him no matter what and they gonna pay through the nose.” Kekoa reluctantly followed his boss up the trail, kicking debris and cursing my existence.
“Damn, just what we need- one more crazy haole.”
Up on the ridge I sat delirious with my visions and daydreams, painted from head to toe in the colors of my airline like some deranged cannibal off the pages of National Geographic. I held a wooden stick in my right hand and took to jumping around like a primate, grunting and groaning: like a mad dog as the insidious affliction took control. Death himself laughed with delight as he pulled the strings that made my defeated body and stolen soul dance his primeval jig. Muerto, the demon jester, egged me on as I had gave in to the insanity. Reaching the top of the ridge, the two men spotted their prey and Kaupena instantly yelled out.
“Hey, dude!” I fell to my stomach and slowly started to crawl away, trying to escape into the underbrush. All at once I stop and began to regain my senses. I turned, sat up and sheepishly responded.
“Yeah, who’s there?”
“Hey brah, we’ve been looking for you all day, man. Your airline hired us to track you and bring you back down off the valley. We gonna get you on a plane back to the mainland.”
Filled with an abundance of shame I rose, frantically trying to wipe the acrylic paint and baked mud from my face. The hired guns paid by my employer now seemed relieved and a bit surprised that the object of their hunt, who they feared might be wily and elusive was now timidly docile. . Early the next morning, like a fearful child being taken to his first day of kindergarten, I was led out along the Na Pali Coast.
“You tell anyone where you were going?” The islander asked.
“No need,” I stated. “Hell, I've only been gone what? Eleven, twelve days?” I struggled to calculate. Kaupena stopped mid trail and turned as he displayed a look of being puzzled. “That haole wahine told me that nobody seen you now for over twenty six days.”
“What month is it?” I asked with concern.
“It's January, brah.” The Hawaiian's statement just about floored me for I had been absent for Christmas and New Year's. I was certain my parents were beside themselves with worry. “The people at the airline are thinking you went lolo, maybe had do yourself in, brah.” I could only stare at the vast Pacific Ocean that extended to the horizon in all its glorious shades of blue and turquoise.
“Twenty-six days?” I was bewildered. Truly the madness was gaining control and I now feared that I might not be able to control it.
“Hey, brah, you must be one important dude for them haoles to want you back so bad, what’s the reason?” Kekoa asked as I struggled in my half-naked state to keep pace.
“Money, brah. It's all about money.” I said. We hiked the rest of the afternoon until finally reaching Ke'e Beach. I suppose I had failed in my attempt to fall off the face of the world. Now, these two local boys were sending me back to so-called civilization, the outside, where madness awaited.
I was to receive another shock once we had stopped at the small plantation house of my friend, Keoni, who also had been concerned for my well-being.
“Erich and Katherine were taking care of me.” I attempted to lessen the fears that I now realized were valid.
“We gotta get him on a plane this evening so we can get paid,” Kaupena whispered to Keoni.
“That buggar can't get on no plane looking like that,” Keoni observed. I was baffled. I climbed upon the small lanai at Keoni's wooden house and looked at my reflection in the window pane.
“Dear Lord!” I remained standing with my jaw wide open. I had not shaven nor had a proper bath in some time. I had lost weight: twenty-one pounds to be specific. My content of fat had diminished evident by my waist line. I was beginning to resemble the evil skeletons that I believed to be so menacing on El Dia de Los Muertos, back in Mexico City. Death seemed to be gaining the upper hand.
Keoni was kind enough to allow me to “freshen up,” even providing me with a fresh pair of shorts and a shirt. The clothing I had originally arrived with no longer fit. The local boy also allowed me to make a long distance collect call so that I could ease the pain I had caused my family. Needless to say, my mother was happy and relieved to hear from me.
“Are you sure you are okay, mijo?” I felt deep shame for the torment I had caused her. I assured my parents that I was boarding a plane soon and would be back in Los Angeles in a couple of days. Once again, I was escorted to an airport and boarded a plane, this time to HNL. In the morning I would connect with a company DC-10 to ferry me back to LAX where I was destined to face the displeasure of my superiors.
“Aloha and welcome aboard.” The smiling F/A directed me to my seat. With that, I had just over five hours gliding at thirty six thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean to plan what excuse I would use.
Flight Manager Daisy Ackley had never been married, opting to dedicate her life to the career and industry she so desperately loved. Once informed of my resurfacing she was heard to say that there was no need for her to have children, she had Eddy. There would be a sense of foreboding in having to face the music for my actions, I was determined to utilize Edmundo, the very ploy that seemed to continually get me out of difficulties. That personality now seemed to be the norm in my new life.
Upon the aircraft's descent I recognized our family's neighborhood with the house I had grown up in: the back- yard with its lemon, peach and avocado trees which I use to climb and scream like Tarzan. Inside, my mother and father were no doubt very disturbed by the actions of their son. The wayward child had run away for almost a month. I may have felt no regret in the disturbances I caused the airline, but I was deeply ashamed of the discomfort I had caused my family.
“I lost track of time.” That was not going to cut it. I resolved that Eddy, not Edmundo would have to face the music and truly make amends as my family home, quickly slipped back into obscurity as we glided on final approach to LAX.
The gracious crew wished only the best for me as I gathered my belongings to leave. The ladies in Aloha wear red and blue flashed the biggest smiles as I stepped into the jetway at Terminal 5. I took a few steps up the metal footpath when things began to go very wrong. Any confidence I had gathered abandoned me. I started to experience vertigo and almost stumbled as I struggled to make it into the terminal. The
main floor was packed with passengers moving and swaying like an ocean tide, first going in one direction then another. Small children grasped the hands of parents who were gazing at the arrival and departure boards high above the terminal wall.
I quickly fell forward onto a blue vinyl seat. I tried to regain my focus as I glanced across to the far side of the building. There I locked eyes with a small boy who I guessed to be about six years old with shaggy blonde locks under a little red baseball cap. The child held a small dinosaur figure in each hand and did not move a muscle as he seemed hypnotized by the sight of me.
All at once the convulsions commenced. I tried to find a private corner facing the white concrete wall and crouched down to hide my shameful pain. The paranoia gripped my throat as I looked about at the moving tide of people. I began to panic. I ran to the large destination board focusing in on the time and gate of the next flight to HNL. The very aircraft that had ferried me to LAX was being readied and serviced to return once again to paradise.
I returned to gate 58 constantly looking over my shoulder for the shadow of Muerto. I was extremely nervous as I stood in line with the ticketed passengers, eager to speak to the gate agent who was occupied with the boarding process. I flashed my employee identification and asked her if I could stand by for the flight.
“Do you have a ticket?” The dark haired lady inspected my ID.
I began to speak quickly and softly.
“I did not have time to put in for a documented pass, you see I need to get over to Hawaii, it's very important,” I gazed nervously about. “I thought, I mean, I wondered if I possibly could get on the stand-by list with just my company ID.” The patient agent listened examined my airline badge once more.
“Excuse me one second.” She walked over to another agent positioned by the jetway door. The passengers were getting restless.
“If you just step aside for a minute Eddy, we are trying to see what we can do for you,” She smiled.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 36