3
I shifted in my plane seat next to my listening companion.
“It takes a great deal of courage to do what you did.” This fine lady spoke to me kindly.
I had never thought about my exit from Cleveland, Ohio, even once before today. Those days were gone and those days are not even a memory.
I explained it to her. “It takes no courage at all to pull yourself from a grave if you’re still breathing.”
“Did you like teaching?”
She wanted to know.
I had never thought about my teaching days once before today, either.
“Loved science, liked most of the students and staff, loved transferring knowledge, hated administrators, hated stupid policies and procedures, hated grading papers. It paid.”
My reply was academic.
We fell silent.
4
The jet engines were mute outside the window.
The money I took out of my pension plan when I left teaching in Cleveland had bought me this ride, the first great jet engine ride of my life, and landed me on the island of Vafa’favifinu’ uakotoba—or, as it is printed in the atlas, ‘The Last Island.’ It is the last island going north. It is the last island going south. It is the last island going west. It is the last island going east. The Last Island is the last island in the South Pacific.
I set the time and date on my watch at nine o’clock and changed the date to October 13th.
“What the—”
I'm one second onto a coral walkway when my gear is spilled on the ground by some local retrieving his gear by pushing me aside and pushing my gear onto the ground—and not even a 'by-your-leave' to boot.
“Don’t mind him.” I turned. The voice came from a giant of a man. Very tall, but rounder than he was tall. “That’s the Deacon.”
I must have stared, for I know that no word came from my mouth. I had never seen such a large man. He helped me gather my gear.
“I’m Ray, Manta Ray.”
My palms opened reflexively and I redropped my gear while looking at him.
He slapped me with great force on my back with a palm that was large as my back was broad and filled the air with a laugh that rivaled a crushing incoming tide.
He handed me my gear.
I stared.
“The Deacon is a good guy; it is just that he ain’t much of no deacon. Or let me put it this way: if he were the deacon of a church, I would not want to be preached to by his minister.” He split my ears with a second laugh and put his tree limb of an arm over my shoulder. Looking down at me, he asked,“What’s your name?”
“Vaughn.” I answered, somewhat in fear.
“Good name—don’t mean nothing—but a good name. Maybe you will have a name that means something before you leave.”
There was a third earthquake of a laugh.
From his broad mouth to his expansive body, I did not have to ask him how the name Ray that his momma gave him became Manta.
Manta, without asking, threw my stuff in with his and pointed to the empty seat of his rig and off I went with this man that was the size of three men. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. The street was crooked and unpaved and sandy—it was not a frozen straight winter street in a Cleveland, Ohio.
“Hey, Vaughnie, you don’t have much gear. Most people who come here have a department store of supplies.”
What the—Vaughie?. One minute here and I am an ‘ie’. I did not say anything immediately.
“Cannot buy a whole bunch with five dollars.” That was a lie for I really had the better part of fifty dollars on me. “About that Vaughnie stuff...” I spoke to him, looking away into the ocean to prevent any eye contact.
“That’s okay. Yeah. Sounds good, don’t it,” Manta said.
Manta drove on in his open-air dune buggy and I was quite pleased with him. He had not broken the Third Commandment and so as far as I was concerned he was still a fine Christian.
“Where are we going?”
It seemed to me we had driven a long time on such a tiny island.
“Around the point to the LION Reserve,” he replied.
I bolted upright and pulled my feet into the rig.
“Lion reserve! You have a lion reserve on the island?”
Manta’s laugh was the loudest yet.
“What? A lion reserve, here?” I was yelling like a little girl who had just spilled an ice cream soda on her favorite party dress.
“Yeah, we’ll be there soon.” He spoke without emotion.
“I don’t see any fences or security.” I spoke in a sweat.
“You don’t see any because there are none. Nothing to worry about, though, I promise you,” he said.
“Promise me nothing. An unsecured lion reserve. What the—, get me out of here. Now!” I cried.
Manta could not stop laughing. “Oh, Vaughn, don’t be a Vaughnie. The Deacon is not afraid to come here.” Manta spoke with a smile.
Manta continued to laugh at my expense. All that I could do was look around in fear. How was it possible to meet two crazy men at the end of the world in twelve seconds and not be alive at sunset to tell the third crazy person?
“There it is, the Last Island Ocean Natural Reserve, or the LION Reserve, if you prefer,” Manta explained.
The hardiness of his laughter caused his largeness to flow like an incoming tide. I checked to see if any outflowing tide had been placed on my seat.
Manta stopped laughing minutes later.
“Hey, Vaughnie. Want to work here?” Manta said this while getting out of the buggy and walking up the wooden stairs, opening the unlocked screen doors. “Saw your gear and literature at the airport. Don’t get many biologists and divers way out here. You can be in charge of The Last Island’s LION.”
Manta and I talked for a bit. The conversation had nothing to do with LION, wages, or obligations. The suspicion that there was something more behind his offer than there appeared crossed my mind more than once but, in the end, I agreed to be the LION keeper.
The LION was a marine museum with live and preserved displays, teaching locations, fossils, maps, literature, machines, devices, books, digital devices, and a group area, but the prime feature was an immense sea water aquarium at the rear. There were various other aquariums about, but the one in the rear was so large it appeared oceanic.
“LION is yours to run.”
That was all Manta had to say.
LION was mine without administrators, papers, or procedures.
“Yes.” I replied with one of those pregnant delayed answers.
“I am glad, Vaughnie. I like your style.” He smiled at me.
Cool Lewis would have loved to hear that about me. Me and Cool Lewis, just styling.
5
The LION was set in standard display style. The specimens and exhibits were up in a four-square linear box layout; this I casually noticed as I walked to the rear of the LION to my living quarters.
My living quarters were tropical and open: a white painted floor and walls, a ceiling with a palm-leaf fan, and a mat rug in the center of the larger room. Screen windows with slat shutters were on each wall, and a large fan was suspended from the ceiling. One of the lesser rooms was a kitchen and eating room, and the other of the lesser rooms was quite a nice bedroom. The bathroom with a shower was a modern facility behind the bedroom. From the back windows was the sight of a fine white beach that exited into a clear, then green, then blue-green, then blue ocean. I was home.
Sometimes you have to make decisions. Is it better to eat or sleep? I went outside the door of my new home, assimilated the beauty, and dreamed. Sometimes you don’t have to decide.
On the grounds there was a shed and in the shed I found all the utilities that were needed to put the LION in proper repair. I started working.