I didn't take any pictures this week. Many things happened and perhaps as a result of the surge in activity I was less concerned with documenting it. I wrote about it though. Specifically, some things that happened on Thursday, November 13th, which wasn't a Friday but was a full moon. Here are five stories, based on true events, though I have taken liberties with things actually said and thought. _____________________________
This morning, a rhythmic thumping we first thought was our truck, a faulty bearing maybe. A helicopter, large and dark green, hovering over the trees. It crossed the roadway and despite its size reminded me of a
Pueo, an owl, coasting over Oahu's H-3 late one night a decade or so ago. Rumors of what the white owl portents - neither good or bad, just a warning to be aware of things to come. We stay on the south shore, far from Anderson military base, but it has found us. It skims the ocean, its fan blades sending out mushy ripples like milk pouring into a cup of tea.
***
This morning, on the hills of
Inarajan, rising and falling like a sea serpent's back, a pair of horses. Deep brown and proud, they were lost but held their heads high. They made moves to cross the street until a car, horn blasting threw their confidence. I told Sloan to hurry, don't give them time to wander on to the road where they might trample us. At least it felt that way they were so large. Out here in the country, with stray dogs conferencing around spilled fiesta plates, tin-roofed houses with
miniature tin roofed houses for fighting cocks, the tall, head high grasses blocking the view of anything just past the road, it is difficult to know where these horses came from. They may have broken free, I seem to remember their ribs showing slightly, but what do I know about horses? They were so large that even in our truck whose rumblings and
tickings seem to get louder each day, we could hear the heavy thud of their steps on the grass.
***
A pit bull has been dead on the side of the road for a week. We are surprised its owner hasn't come to pick it up because usually these types of dogs are chained, guarding houses. It is not unusual to see dogs lying crushed on the road but usually they are mixed breeds,
indistinguishable mutts. After three days the dogs body was bloated and stiff, its skin turned a dark gray. After five its body had torn somewhere and its soupy insides spilled onto the breakdown lane. Sloan made a point of rolling up her window and swerving if she was driving when we went past. It is really too bad because it looked like a good strong dog, not like the usual riff-
raff we see lying in the road.
***
At the intersection of Rt. 4 and Rt. 10 we wait to make a left turn at a light with a left turn signal. In front of us is a recent model gray Toyota, bulbous the way modern cars are, like a bunch of grapes. The light turns green and it inches forward in no hurry to make the turn, a carriage ride in the park. A smaller car, light blue, approaches from the left. It is not moving fast, just cruising along. We think, because if its leisurely speed it is aware, that it will stop. It keeps moving, at fifteen maybe twenty miles an hour as the Toyota in front of us suffers into the turn. The small car hits it squarely in the rear, around the gas tank access. It only makes a small sound, like a phone book falling on the floor. The small car keeps moving as though it just went through a deep pothole. We can not make out the expressions of the couple in the front seats. It continues its pace North on Rt. 4. The bulbous car now turns slower than before, it pulls into a gas station, stops near the air/water machine. We too keep moving slowly. Having not seen the license plate on the smaller car, we don't think we can help.
***
In the news this evening, a missing fisherman. A few nights ago, around eight, a man named George knocked on our door. He had coffee colored skin, stocky, and was struggling to get into a wet-suit as he talked to me. Sloan hid in the bathroom. He wanted to show respect, he said, wanted to know if he could park in front of our house, if he could fish at the reef.
"Sure, sure," I said.
"We only wanted to show respect, you know," he said.
"Of course," I said. "No Problem."
"The guy who lived here before, John, he let us fish before. We only wanted to make sure it was
ok with you."
"Fine. No worries. Good luck."
A few minutes later three men with scuba tanks and spears walked past our windows, a dim fluorescent lamp swinging from one of their arms.
The news tonight, four or five days later, was the missing fisherman. The military had sent out helicopters to scan the shorelines. His two friends had made it back. They could not find their friend. I don't think it was George. It was quite a while ago George came to our door and they could not have been fishing that long. I didn't finish the article I was reading. I didn't want to know the details and besides, it was hot and Sloan claims this slows you down, makes you tired, a sticky uncomfortable tired.
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