Kathryn

The onshore breeze hints of rain. It’s not the thunderheads gathered along the horizon, but the scent of seawater foaming up from the whitecaps, mixing with the air to form a heavy, sweet odor that leaves the tang of brine on my tongue. It’s become a habit of mine watching the waves curl and break and predicting the next squall.

I’ve called this deserted stretch of shoreline home for over six months, each sunset marked by another notch in the palm tree. All the while, I have seen no one, not a soul. I’ve searched the island many times over: through the jungle, up the old volcano, down the other side to where the lava trail forms a jetty. No people--just wild things screeching and buzzing and cawing.

The last human voice I heard was that of the pilot telling us to brace for an emergency landing. We had hit a bank of thunderclouds aboard our small commuter plane during a lightning storm. There was a flash, and the engine outside my window caught fire. I held on as we nosedived. I don’t remember hitting the water. I came to in the dead of night, still strapped to my seat cushion, rising and falling with the swell of the ocean. I shivered and prayed and rode that current until I heard the sound of the surf.

It’s easy to look back and blame the weather on the accident, but I think God singled me out that night. He punished me because I was married and I met a man who actually took an interest in me as a woman. His name was Brian. We met in Tokyo on a business trip. He wasn’t the stiff, prim type I expected of middle-aged Brits, but quite attentive and filled with a refreshing zest for life. He’d listen to me, and touch my hand when he spoke, and make eye contact, and want to hear what I had to say, unlike my husband, who forgot what any of that meant after twelve years of marriage. So when Brian offered to meet again, I jumped at the opportunity. I told my husband I was heading back to Asia on business. Brian chartered a private flight for me from Bangkok to Ko Samui, an island resort in the Gulf of Thailand. We were supposed to stay for three days. Every once in a while I think about it and wonder, what if?

The wind is picking up. It’s going to start raining in a bit. I was hoping the clouds would have scattered by now, but they’re getting denser. On a clear day, I can see a couple of humped shadows against the skyline. Islands, I believe. If one of them is Samui, then the specks on the water would be ships, and the ones in the air planes. Why can’t they stray off course and find me? Is God that cruel?

The sun here is often blistering, the humidity staggering. It’s an equatorial cooking pot most of the day. Thankfully, it rains a lot. The rainwater collects in the hollows of the trees, on the large flat leaves scattered on the jungle floor, in shells and bamboo troughs I’ve collected. There’s plenty of driftwood, vines and palm fronds, and I’ve done well sheltering myself at night. But it’s not easy going it alone.

I knew nothing about survival when I arrived. I had to learn by trial and error: fashioning blades out of stone, foraging, figuring out how to free dive for food and make a fire without a lighter or matches. I never expected to go from business traveler to survivalist. Yet here I am, skinny as my husband wished I could be, alone but alive.

People were not meant to live in isolation. We’re social animals. We need each other. I miss my children tremendously, my old life marginally, and my husband--well, we’ll stop right there. Brian would have been a mistake, fun for sure, but definitely a mistake. It’s funny that I still wear my wedding band after everything I’ve gone through. I’ve taken it off several times, but always found myself fiddling with my barren finger. If I’m to part ways with my spouse, it should be done properly, not through infidelity or abandonment or even being stranded, but in person, and on my terms.

Six months ago, there was a different me: a frightened, unsure me; a woman who put everyone first because that’s the way she was raised; a woman too sheltered to take chances.

Sitting here in the cool sand, watching the choppy waves ripple with each gust, I’m certain of two things: one, I’ll always be there for my children, and two, I’m going to find happiness. Somehow, someway, I will find it because I damn well deserve it, even if I have to suffer by myself for a while.

The burst of lightning is bright against the backdrop of darkening sky. I should move inland and seek shelter, but I feel a strange contentment, a calming serenity borne out of this moment. Who knows how I will feel ten steps from here? At least in this spot, I have a truce with myself, an understanding. I think I’ll a stay a little longer.

Two shadows block my view. They’re short, the height of children.

“Mom, mom!” the boy blurts out. “We’ve been looking all over for you. They’re saying everybody has to go inside. It’s gonna be a bad storm.”

I stand and dust the sand from my thighs and put a hand on his shoulder. “Not that bad, sweetie.”

THE END

©2010 Steve Pantazis. All rights reserved.