Left on Paradise (4 page)

“It will be enough,” Ryan said over champagne and hors d’oeuvres, “to show how a racial profile of American society can live in harmony.”

Kit just smiled.

“We sail in a month,” Ryan said. “A toast to progressives everywhere.”

“Godspeed,” Kit added.

Shortly, Ryan and Kit returned to their Beverly Hills estate and stayed up late—pressed to enjoy every moment left in the old world and make every preparation for the new one. When they awoke the next morning to finalize their plans for paradise, the first day of April already had arrived.

3

Pilgrims Sail West

The Flower of the First of May
was secured to a long wharf with a dozen hemp ropes. Though the ship bobbed in the water, its gangplank remained a steady connection to the quays of San Francisco as groups of well-wishers escorted loved ones to the ship and details of sailors used cranes and hoists to stack cargo on the deck. There was no media, no crowds, no frenzy. A wisp of black smoke, dissipated inland by breezy harbor winds, billowed from the ship’s soot-covered stacks and a weather-worn Russian flag fluttered over opened cargo holds—sometimes snapping in smart salute over the cluttered decks and rusting railings of the old ship. The transport pitched and rolled in the pull of the afternoon tide and its faded-red waterline flashed through the harbor’s choppy waves—which splashed against the dulled and rusted hull that once had been a mainstay of the Soviet merchant marine and currently hired itself to whichever capitalist paid a few dollars more. The painted letters of the ship’s name peeled in Russian and English alike.

The pilgrims boarded by ones and twos. Studious coeds weighed down with book-filled backpacks stumbled up the gangplank behind lanky young men carrying half-emptied haversacks holding little more than a few changes of clothing and a sleeping bag. Middle-age couples followed teenaged children to the deck and young parents shepherded toddlers up the gangway. Babies were carried at the hip or held to the breast. One was brought in a shoulder sling. Blacks walked with whites and Latinos with Asians. Asians walked with blacks and Latinos with whites. Some emigrants arrived in formal dress while others were dressed for a day at the beach. Men wore khakis and denim and women wore khakis and denim. Men sported shaved heads and shoulder-length hair and women styled close-cropped cuts and shoulder-length hair. Sneakers and boots and sandals—and even deerskin moccasins—paraded up the unanchored steps of the gangplank (where one of the ship’s officers checked faces and paperwork against a digitized log). At the wharf, two uniformed security officers prevented arriving settlers from congealing into attention-attracting groups and quietly admonished new arrivals to keep to themselves until they’d reached the privacy and protective custody of the
The Flower of the First of May.

By dusk, the ship’s deck was covered with the seeds of a new world: backpacks were strewn across the decks as settlers searched for assigned quarters, crates were stacked in two of the freighter’s largest cargo holds, and animal pens and feeders were secured in the third. In addition, small boats were secured to the rails and a refurbished World War II-era LCVP landing craft was lashed to the aft deck and covered with canvas. Still, the bark and bay of domesticated animals locked in their cages was drowned by the deep rumbling of diesel engines and the strong bite of sea salt in the evening air was overpowered by the taste of burning fuel which settled on the deck like a transparent fog. The final glow of the first day of May shone from the west, casting the long shadows of stacks of cargo across the deck until even they were blotted out by the dark.

Ryan watched from the bridge as three sailors quick-stepped to sever the ship’s tenuous connection to American soil by slipping the mooring lines. Smoke poured from the stacks as the rumble of the engines grew louder.

“Now I really believe it’ll happen,” a middle-aged man who wore khakis pulled high and a green tee shirt half-tucked said. “You did it, Ryan.”

“Correction, Doc,” Ryan said. “We did it. And we still have plenty to do.”

A blonde whose white shorts were long and mauve sweater tight snuggled behind Ryan—her breasts pressed his back as she wrapped arms around her husband’s chest and nuzzled her face against his. Ryan leaned to a side and rubbed the unshaven stubble of his face against Kit’s cheek, then unclasped his wife’s hands and walked into the bridge—where he selected a bottle of champagne from an ice-filled bucket and grabbed the crystal necks of three long-stemmed champagne flutes. He offered glasses both to Kit and the doctor, then popped the champagne’s cork and poured. All three savored the bouquet and sipped their toast with deliberation and delight as the clank of the engines grew even louder.

“When will you announce our destination?” Kit asked.

“After we leave the harbor,” Ryan said. “When we’re safely at sea. The press will search for us in Brazil or the Azores if Joshua does his work. They’ll be lining up for the emigration ceremony in St. Augustine on Saturday and our decoys will have spread false rumors the night before—disinformation that’ll be continued for several months. What they don’t know is that we’ve decided to play hide and seek. Tag, they’re it.”

After pouring a second round, Ryan tapped his glass against that of his wife. “Let’s make a toast to hope.”

“Cheers,” the doctor said.

Kit giggled.

A few minutes later, the three settlers watched the crew scurry around the bridge as the ship began to move. One officer and two sailors manned the wheel and radio as the orders of the port authority crackled over the airwaves and running lights flashed from the mast. A loud whistle sounded that the ship was underway. As the ship cleared its moorings, a tug nudged the freighter’s bow toward the outer harbor and guided the ship toward open sea. As the deep reverberation of the ship’s screws began to vibrate, the captain ordered his first officer to take the helm while he turned to Ryan and spoke with a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“Good evening, Ryan.”

“Good evening, Captain Chappell.”

“We’re underway,” the captain said.

“To a new land.”

The captain put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You ready?”

“Never been more ready in my life.”

“So’s your ship. The crew’s at quarters and the hold’s full.”

Kit smiled at Ryan. “You’ve pulled it off.”

“Not me,” Ryan said as he swept his arm across he deck. “It’s all these people. This is their day. I’m just their grateful servant.”

Ryan offered the captain a drink—which was declined.

“I’m driving tonight,” the captain explained, “even if I’m not at the helm. We wouldn’t want our journey to end like Exxon’s
Valdez
. That wouldn’t be politically correct, especially for this adventure.”

As the captain returned to the bridge without a drink, the others laughed. Soon, noise and light emanating from the helm grew more noticeable and the churning of the ship’s screws vibrated faster. The tug pierced the quiet of the night with an occasional blast of its horn as it steered the freighter past a line of mothballed destroyers. The retired warships appeared abandoned and obsolete in their stored state, as unsuited for modern existence as were the wars they’d won.

No one toasted the destroyers or the valor of their crews.

“These rooms aren’t very big.”

A lanky youth stood at the door to his berth. He threw a duffle bag toward the bed, but it fell short and crashed with a hollow thud. Afterwards, he emptied his pockets upon an adjoining nightstand while a dark-skinned girl threw herself belly down on a second bunk. The young woman’s black hair parted at the neck as it fell across her shoulders and her coal-black eyes closed as she reached for a pillow and buried her face into it—her slender waist centered on the bed and her legs spread so her toes edged over both sides.

“Gawd,” the young woman said, her voice muffled by the pillow, “I’m tired.”

The man kicked off a sandal. “You going to bed this early?”

“I didn’t say that,” the girl mumbled, “I said I’m tired. There’ll be plenty of time to sleep when we arrive.”

“I heard there’s a party on the main deck. Wine and eats.”

The girl rolled over as the lanky youth took a place beside her and slipped his hand between her knees, stroking her thighs as she wiggled close and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“My parents,” the young woman declared, “just don’t understand what this means—especially me quitting law school to join up.”

“They never understood us either,” the man said. “I don’t think your parents really liked the idea of white on black.”

“They endured stereotypes longer than we’ve lived.”

“Then they should understand.”

“Daddy understands I’m his little girl. He just wants it nice for me. Like mom never had it. You can’t really blame him for loving me.”

“Times have changed.”

“We’ve raised eyebrows.”

“Not for the color of our skin.”

The girl grinned as the man moved one hand toward her belly while his other hand pressed her breasts.

“I had to come,” the girl said. “I ... we had to join. This is a once in a lifetime chance. Think of it. Only one hundred people were accepted and you and I both made it. If I weren’t an agnostic, I’d call it providential.”

The man didn’t reply since he was busy unbuttoning her blouse.

“The ship’s moving,” the girl said as she grabbed the man’s hand. “There’s the horn.”

“No need for this social conformity any more,” the man said as he unhooked her bra and tossed it to the floor.

“We’re free now,” the girl whispered, “God only knows how free we are from bourgeois values. Whooo.”

The girl jumped and the boy pressed home. Both warmed fast and moved quick and in minutes they lay naked—some of their clothes flung into the corridor through the berth’s half-open door. Afterwards they dressed and left the room. Only a crumpled bedspread, a little spillage of love, and a wallet with a round bulge left on the nightstand attested to their passion.

Jason Brewer pinched a joint with his fingertips and took a deep drag of its acrid smoke. A moment later, he handed the home-rolled cigarette to a tall, freckled, and red-haired girl sitting beside him—her eyes bloodshot and head thrown back as she stared into the heavens. She took a drag, then passed it to a square-shouldered brunette beside her who took a hit and also passed it along. The joint made it around the circle only once, so Jason lit another.

“Man,” Jason said, “the stars have never been so bright.”

“Nature’s so cool,” the red-haired girl said, “if only we’d let her be. Stop polluting and exploiting.”

Jason smiled as he listened to her talk.

“That’s why I’m here,” the girl continued, “to get away from exploitation and pollution. Imagine paradise. An entire archipelago almost free from human imprint is what Ryan said—a new world. Virgin beach and pristine forest for us to garden. Living in communion with nature. No factories, no pollution, no toxic waste.”

“This,” Jason said as he passed a joint, “is pure nature. Mountain high and ocean deep.”

The young woman took a deep drag and coughed. “We’ll do it,” she said. “We’ll show how it can be done.”

“Peace,” someone in the circle giggled.

“Freedom,” another chimed in.

“Love,” the red-haired girl declared.

“Legalized dope,” Jason added and everyone laughed out loud.

Two joints later the dope ran out, except for a stub that Jason stashed for himself. A couple smokers stumbled toward their rooms and several others lay beneath the nearest roof, but Jason remained where he was—the red-haired girl now sleeping beside him, her lips stretched in an obvious smile. Jason laughed a little, for no particular reason except he felt at peace and the stars were bright. It was good to be alive and to be on this ship. Mostly, Jason thought, it was good to have a stash of Hawaiian Gold and a bag of unburned seeds.

The girl stirred as Jason watched. She was lying on her back still, the shallow slope of her chest lifting the image of Gaia on her tee shirt with each breath—her movements soft and slow. A moment later, she folded her hands across her belly and lifted her legs at the knees: her bare feet now flat against the deck. She pressed her legs together and lifted her head. Finally, she smiled at Jason, closed her eyes, and drifted into oblivion.

Jason lit one last stub and raised it to his lips. “A toast,” he whispered, “to good crops and free love.”

With his mind swimming in dreams and desires, Jason smoked the joint and watched the girl until he fell asleep.

Heather could smell the pungent aroma of marijuana. Someone was smoking dope down the deck and the slip of the vessel through the ocean was carrying her through the smoke’s lingering odor, though not nearly enough to catch a buzz—for which she was thankful. She turned her head toward the stern and looked toward the black ocean, the foamy wake shimmering in moonlight—a magnificent sight for a first-time seafarer. Heather sensed
The Flower of the First of May
was only now reaching full speed as she herself looked east, where the dark silhouette of the California coast barely remained visible: now disappearing, now reappearing as the glint of moonlight broke through clouds.

Soon, the coast was gone.

The thin-faced teenager remembered the sights and sounds of the city, the vaulted climb of the skyscrapers and the grinding crush of New York traffic. She thought of the ragged people beneath the surface and the elegant ones strolling Fifth Avenue. Heather remembered friends from the Upper East Side and the sharp stench of a Midtown alley percolating in the summer heat. She remembered the raised torch of Liberty and the crowds of gaudy tourists making perfunctory pilgrimage. She wondered where they came from and where they went. So many passed through.