The Color of Love (The Color of Heaven Series) (13 page)

Circles

Chapter Thirty-six

Aaron

I realize it might seem implausible that one man could live through a plane crash, a lynx attack, and be chased by a polar bear in one lifetime. And that wasn’t even all.

When I was somewhat recovered from my flight from the bear and my violent tumble down the mountain, I gathered up my belongings and continued to walk along the coast, hoping to eventually reach civilization.

To make a long story short, after about a week of constant walking, I found myself back in the same spot where I’d been chased by the bear, and my heart sank as low as it had ever been.

How was this even possible?
True, I’d neglected to use the compass because I didn’t see it as a necessity if I was traveling along the coastline. But here I stood again, overlooking the same the beach, the same walruses, the same rocky cliff I’d jumped over to save myself from a mauling.

That was the day I realized I was not in the Canadian province of Newfoundland, but rather I was stranded on an uninhabited island somewhere in the middle of the North Atlantic and I had walked a full circle around it.

I can’t even describe the level of my frustration. All I could do was shrug out of my backpack, drop it on the ground and roar a terrible obscenity at the sky. I picked up snowballs and pitched them across the beach at the water. I shouted expletives and kicked my backpack repeatedly.

It’s a good thing the bear wasn’t nearby listening for supper possibilities. Or maybe he was, and I scared him away.

o0o

Summer on the island spun in and out all too quickly. Thankfully it provided me with a much needed respite from the chill of the merciless wind blowing across those rugged, desolate winter landscapes.

To my delight, a great diversity of plants and flowers bloomed on the limestone coastal barrens, breaking through the cracks in the rocks, creating colorful natural crevice gardens. Day after day, I walked along the cliffs on sunny, breezy afternoons, feasting upon scarlet-colored edible berries and picking flowers to take back to my dark cave—a place where I had established a more permanent residence after the tent fell apart in a windstorm.

In the forests, stunted birch and maple trees grew lush with leaves, then turned red and gold as autumn rolled in.

By then I had at least learned to snare rabbits and catch fish with an expert efficiency, and somehow I managed not to go completely stark-raving mad at the mere notion of spending another winter on the island.

Stay alive
, I told myself each night in the cave as I sat before the fire, staring into the flames and then glancing across at the only picture I had of another human being.

So beautiful
…

Stay alive, Aaron, just one more day.

Stay alive.

Desperation

Chapter Thirty-seven

Winter swept in again like a vengeful beast.

For many months, I survived on fish, kelp and rabbit meat, and even on that diet had been reduced to probably two-thirds of my body weight.

Mentally, for my self-preservation, I retreated into my cave and also into a world of fantasy where I entertained myself with dreams of another life. That, at least, gave me something to live for—the dream of returning home.

To my loved ones. Television, restaurants, coffee grinders, cars and books. My guitar.

Sometimes I would sit on a log and stare at trees for hours, picturing these things in elaborate detail. I heard them. Smelled them. Replayed memories in my mind. I often strummed guitar chords in my head.

Weddings… When was the last time I’d sat in a church?

Music.
Oh, God…music
.

The sound of a lawn mower. The smell of cut grass.

Carla’s blue eyes.

All these images helped to fill my empty, lonely days, until I woke up one morning and realized it had been more than a year since I’d boarded the plane and crashed into this God-forsaken place.

That’s when something took hold of me—a pressing, desperate need to go home, and something about it felt like my last chance. Somehow I knew that if I didn’t go now, with spring on the horizon, all would be lost.

I had turned forty on this lonesome rock and my life was slipping away.

Did anyone miss me? My parents and sister—most assuredly. But I had no wife, no children.

I thought of how I’d always wanted a son.

Nothing but a pipe dream now.

Perhaps that’s what did it. That’s what set me off—the unlikelihood that I would ever achieve any of these things, and a sense of powerlessness that drove me almost mad with despair and longing.

Consequently, I woke up one morning after a light snowfall and returned to the ridge where I first saw the ocean and walruses and the polar bear.

Exhausted and out of breath from the hike, I collapsed in the snow and lay for a long time, staring up at the clear blue sky. A cloud hovered up there, directly over my head. It looked like an X. Then it rotated and became a cross. Then it spun and turned into an X again.

It was quiet on the ridge, except for the gentle rhythmic swish of the waves washing the rocky beach below. Maybe I would encounter the polar bear again. Would he remember me?

Weak and tired, I rolled onto my hands and knees, paused for a few seconds, then rose to my feet.

There, before me, lay the flat, silvery sea dappled with shining white icebergs drifting south in the distance. I stared at them, mesmerized, while listening to the sound of the waves.

Striding forward, curious to know if the walruses were out, I briefly took my gaze off the horizon—until something totally unexpected caught my attention and my eyes grew wide.

Chapter Thirty-eight

A pair of binoculars would have come in handy, but all I had were my own two weary, bloodshot eyeballs.

Squinting tightly, I strained to focus on what I thought I saw in the distance.
Could it be?
Or was I dreaming again?

I strode faster, all the way to the edge of the cliff and shaded my eyes with my gloved hand.

There
.
Yes
.

It wasn’t an iceberg or a whale. Sweet Mother of God, it was a ship. A tiny speck in the distance, but a huge container ship, most likely.

I began to jump up and down, waving my arms frantically over my head.
“Hey! Over here! I’m here! This way!”

But the ship continued on—its gradual movement barely discernible on the faraway horizon.

I squatted down on my haunches, sat there in quiet awe, and watched it until it was completely out of sight.

o0o

Over the next five days, I returned at dawn to the same spot on the ridge and sat quietly all day next to a signal fire, watching the horizon. Whales and porpoises swam by, and icebergs drifted in peaceful, communal silence. Everything was crisp and blue, and soon my head ached from the strain on my eyes.

With each passing day, I grew a little less hopeful.

On the sixth day, however, I saw something new, something out of the ordinary, and shot up from my squatting position on the snow.

Using both gloved hands, I shaded my eyes from the sun and pulled my eyebrows together to squint further into the distance.

There!
Yes! Again
! I hadn’t been dreaming! It was another container ship!

I threw more branches on the fire, and like before, jumped up and down and waved my arms over my head, despite the fact that I knew it was futile. They were too far away, and I was a fool to be shouting in polar bear territory.

So I quickly squatted down again and like before, watched the ship in silence until it disappeared from view.

While sitting there, however, I began to formulate a plan.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Twenty-one days after I spotted that first ship on the horizon and came to the realization that I was not far from a transatlantic shipping lane, I had built myself a raft and was ready to depart.

I gave no thought to polar bears as I dragged my vessel onto the windy beach, pushed it into the frigid North Atlantic waters and hopped on.

I had spent many hours chopping down trees and lashing the trunks together with long twisted strips of the nylon fabric I’d saved from the tent. I even used a section of the plane to create a waterproof floor with raised edges.

I had collected icicles—chipped them into small bits and stored them in the little booze bottles I’d found when I returned to the plane.

I also armed myself with fishing lines and hooks—from the dried bones of rabbits—and by this point I was blindly determined to push away from the beach and leave here forever.

The walruses didn’t seem to care that I was going. None of them so much as lifted their heads to watch.

As I bobbed up and down on the swells and began to float out to where the icebergs and whales made their home, I looked back and wondered if the island would miss me. It had been my home for a full year and I’d most certainly left my mark on it.

I thought of the lynx staring at me in the darkness. Seth standing on the edge of the mountain, then slipping from view. I remembered my tears on that day.

Then I thought of the angry white bear that had roared at me on the beach.

No, I would not miss this island. As I floated away in the cold, blustery wind and felt the salty stinging spray on my cheeks, I decided that come what may—I would rather take my chances with the sea than remain here for another year.

o0o

Though it was undoubtedly a risky undertaking, in my defense, I did not leave the island without a plan. I had consulted my compass and established a field bearing when I spotted the ships, and I knew exactly which direction I had to paddle.

I’d packed enough food and water to last a week, and was prepared to catch more fish if necessary. I had an A-frame shelter I had constructed from an evergreen sapling and some boughs, and I’d also fashioned four serviceable oars—two as backups—and had been alternatively rowing and drifting towards the area where I believed I would eventually cross paths with a ship.

Little did I know that the sea—just like the island—would not welcome me either. Again, I was in foreign territory and unfortunately for me, there would be challenges ahead.

All I had on my side was luck—which I suppose is what I’d had in spades from the beginning, though I didn’t always see it that way.

Chapter Forty

On my second day on the water, late in the afternoon, I felt something bump up against the bottom of my raft.

Instantly alert, I crawled out of my shelter where I’d been resting.

The sky was overcast and there wasn’t a whisper of wind. The water was calm and gray and I was floating between bergs and small slabs of ice.

I wondered if I’d knocked into one of them.

A gentle but chilly breeze caressed my face. The salty fragrance of the sea filled my nostrils while water lapped gently against the sides of my craft.

Thump.

My eyes flew open and I lost my balance, fell onto my backside.

What was that
?

Curious, I looked over the side. A black and white shadow moved beneath the surface. Then another shadow slid by, and another.

Perched on all fours, I gazed from left to right to scan the shiny flat surface of the water around me.

A black fin rose out of the depths about ten yards away and dove down again.

Killer whales.

Just then, a large face bobbed out of the water like a cork directly beside me. Startled out of my wits, I scrambled back into my shelter. “Holy crap!”

Another whale bobbed his head up out of the water, as if to determine exactly who, and what, I was.

There must have been five of them, large and small, swimming beneath me in circles. Maybe they were just curious, or playing.

Then, from a greater distance, two of them, side by side, swam like a couple of torpedoes toward me.

With wide eyes I watched them approach and braced myself as they rose to the surface a few yards away, then dove down under my vessel, sweeping me up on a wave they’d created.

Thwack!

My raft collided with something and nearly knocked me onto my back. Swinging around, I found myself staring up at a giant iceberg, close enough to touch.

To keep my balance, I grabbed hold of my A-frame shelter which was lashed tightly around my makeshift deck, then looked down and saw that the waterproof floor under my feet had cracked right down the center. Water was already sloshing around my boots, and I knew that if I sank into the icy water, I would be dead within minutes. Even if the raft remained afloat, I wouldn’t survive long if I was wet.

A young whale bobbed his head out of the water and looked at me. He almost appeared to be smiling or laughing. Then the two older whales circled around and joined forces again from a distance away.

What were they up to? As far as I knew, orcas were supposed to be friendly mammals, and I’d heard there were no cases of attacks on humans ever recorded in the wild. Was I to be the first? Or did they mistake me for a seal? Maybe no one had lived to tell the tale…