The Mentor (10 page)

But, not
down… I was moving
forward
.  

Sure, I was
still falling but falling slower.  And, I was rocketing
forward
, racing the
seething red vipers below me.

My
exhausted forearms were ready to quit, but it was working, I had to hold on! 

I blinked
away more tears, trying to see ahead but every time they’d clear, more smoke,
more ash would fill them.  

Looking
down, I could keep my eyes open for a few seconds longer but down there was
only molten earth, and that did not convince me I'd made the right choice.
 

I was terrified.
 

I'd never been
so terrified.  

I’m not an
adventurer, not a thrill-seeker. 

My chest
felt like it was about to split down the center as some creature inside banged
away with its stone axe trying to get out, trying to get away from the fire
bath below me.

I’d made my
choice, and I would have to live—or die—with it.  That was all there was
to it.  

At least I
had a good story to tell: I was rocket-sailing down a river of fire.

Still, the
fear boiling in my stomach was threatening to bubble out my throat, so to keep
it down, I yelled as loud as I could.

"
Aaaaaaaaa!
"

I yelled at
the top of my lungs…

"Wuhaaaaaaaaa!"

And,
inexplicably, dazed from exhaustion and fear and fumes…

"Auhhhllllll…"

I started-- of all
things-- to sing.

"
Auhhll GO HOME
TO MY PARENTS AND CONFESS WHAT I'VE DONNNE!
"

Singing, of course, the
only songs I know any lyrics to…

"
ANNNN I'LL ASK
THEM TO PARDON THEEERRRRRRRRR PRO-DI-GAL SONNN!"

Irish drinking songs.

"
AND WHEN
THEY'VE CARESSED ME, AS OFT TIMES BEE-FORRR."

I howled,
my eyes twisted shut, and I felt myself moving fast and faster.

Sweat
glands began to outpace the arid haze, salt water oozing from my pores and
dripping below— my body’s futile attempt to extinguish the devil's tongue
beneath me.

"I NEVER WILL
PLAYYYYYY…"

Cracking an
eye open, I saw only white.

A wall of
white.

Water!

An
impossible
upward
flow of water!

"THE WILD ROVERRRR…"

Not water.

Clouds?
 

But I
wasn’t
that
high up.  

And, it
being as hot as it was, I knew I hadn’t died yet and moved on.

Well, being
this hot, I
hoped
I hadn’t died.

"NO MORRRRE!"

My heels
felt like they’d been dipped in hot lead, and I jerked my head down to see that
they’d entered the lava, my shoes boiled away.  

But, that
hadn't happened.

I looked up
just in time to plunge into the billowing, white cloud.

And for a
moment… everything was quiet.

And cool.

And then, I
burst through the other side and was greeted by crystal-blue beauty. 

In the
handles above, my fingers had turned to arthritic claws.  Finally, my grip
faltered and my shoulders screamed at me, agony, as my arms fell to my sides.

Exhausted,
I forced my heavy eyelids open, falling fast again, like a rock… but looking
down, the river of fire had gone.

I saw only
heavenly blue waves, cool white breakers.

Choking
with emotion, I sang to the ocean.

"And
it's No, Nay, Never!

No, nay
never no more"

And when I
cried this time, it wasn’t because of fumes stinging my eyes.

"Will
I play the wild rover,

No never

No more!"

Chapter Six

I’d
parachuted once before, two years earlier, the day before a coworker’s wedding.
 I wasn’t the Best Man, just along for the ride and free drinks.  

The Best Man
sets everything up and, of course, you think strippers, drug-fueled debauchery
and crap like that.  To be honest, and I love women, but that sorta
thing’s not my cup of tea.

We get in
the limo and the Best Man, loud guy, three chins even at twenty-three, he
starts talking and getting the groom’s blood boiling-- he’s going to be higher
than he’s ever been, girls will be dropping to their knees around him, and
he’ll need protection for the whole day… that sort of thing.  

The Jedi
Master of Double Entendre, although, groomy didn’t know it.

Thing is,
you can’t jump out of a plane by yourself without a long class and, also, some
flight schools even frown upon the idea of parachuting while intoxicated.
 In fact, I believe, all of them do.  So, the seven of us in the
groom’s wedding party line up and seven tandem-certified jumpers come out in
their gear.  

Minutes
later on the plane, just before jumping, one-by-one, they hooked each of us
into a harness around their bellies before taking that long, last step.

The jump
with my guy was uneventful except that when the canopy opened it was a rainbow
parachute.  Not a troubling thing normally, but
normally
you’re not
mounted from behind with the potential for aerial, man buggering.

The groom,
however, did have it a little differently.  Turns out, the tandem diver on
his back was also a former Miss Hennepin County (at least that’s what chin-man
had been told.  We bought it).  Before they’d jumped, she’d unzipped her
jumpsuit to mid-chest, and they were fooling around, falling to the earth.

Now, I only
heard part of this and I’m sure a good amount of it is apocryphal.  But,
apparently, still strapped to the groom, she’d reached into his jumpsuit, down
the front and was stroking him mid-fall.  But, as they say, it’s all fun
and games until someone gets a wrist-mounted altimeter stuck into your jump
suit at five thousand feet.

Groomy had
been spread eagle for the fall while she was pulling the flying
Quaker-who-doth-churn-butter
act.  

But, caught
in his fabric, she couldn’t pull the ripcord so, first time skydiving, and with
a booze-infused, high-altitude hard-on, he had to.  Trouble was, when they
put the brakes on, and they were both terrified, for sure… she didn’t let go of
mister wiggler and she kinda pulled the ripcord, too.

Sure, he
was fine after a couple weeks (and a skin graft) but try to explain
that
to your new bride on her special, special night.

AFTER MY
RACE DOWN Lava Avenue, I’d landed in the freezing waters of the ocean.
 Which ocean, I didn’t know.  My guess, too, was that the water felt
unnaturally cold only after the roasting I’d just been through.  

The chute
and rigging had come off easily and, sank the moment I’d removed it.

Initially,
I tried to swim directly toward shore, angling away from where the wall of
steam jutted up from the water like a snow-white fjord.  Closing in on land,
however, the water was just too hot.  Strangely, swimming in a line
parallel to the shore, the scalding water arched away from the shoreline toward
open waters.  Exhausted but buoyant (thanks to a years-long strict diet of
beer and
everything
), I skirted the entire length of it, at one point wondering
if I’d ever stop swimming toward the damp horizon.

Eventually,
the water cooled after I'd tread around the invisible peninsula of hot water. 
Minutes later, I was climbing onto dry land.

Standing on
the beach, I was exhausted, starving, and incredibly thirsty.  I was a
pretty good swimmer but the trek had taken what little energy I had left, so I
plopped down onto the ground for a moment.

After a few
minutes of raking my fingers through the sand, I started to feel somewhat
normal.  The effects of the sleep drugs had been washed away by the
extreme hot-cold routine.

Thinking
back to the last thing I could recall before waking up in the parachute, I
remembered very clearly getting the shot to the head with the three wood.  But
my guess was that my new bestie had again administered something to keep me
knocked out for the length of the journey.

Clearly, I
was a long way from Marietta, Georgia and recognized none of it.

Not exactly
sure how large the island was—but fairly sure it was an island—I looked up and
down the beach for any sign of life.

If I’d been
dropped onto some deserted island in the South Pacific, I was dead.  This
thirsty, I wouldn’t be able to go too far.  And from my earlier vantage
point in the sky, I hadn’t seen too many 7-11s along the way.

Thankfully,
the hard lump pressing against my butt was my wallet.  I struggled to pull
it out because my ass seemed to become a salt water sponge, growing a size or
two larger. 
Hawt
.

Finally, it
came free, my fingers getting numb and a little red-raw in the process.

I was left
with my Georgia I.D. card but no money and no credit cards.  I don’t
actually own any credit cards, but it appeared no one, in a random act of
kindness, had issued me one whilst I was out cold.

Taking in a
deep breath, the air was cool and salty on the tongue.  Behind me, lava was enwrapped
in its millennia--long battle with the sea a few hundred yards away.
 Before me was only sand, driftwood, a couple rotting fish, and a massive wall
of black rock.  

What was
happening to me?

Was it some
sort of revenge?  

He’d again
said, “Lesson begins.”

Was it then
some sort of training?  

For what?

It wasn’t
like some secret society needed the mastery of some
long-forgotten
, yet
out of shape kung fu guy and came looking for me.

I was more
like some
not-even-initially-remembered-to-then-later-be-forgotten
out of
shape
drive-thru
guy.  

A rather
bright fellow with an affinity for cocaine highballs and dirty, little boys
once said,
Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable,
must be the truth.

Well, what
happens when you eliminate the impossible and nothing remains?

Slowly, I
lifted my sore body from the ground and walked down the beach, leaving behind a
sizeable dent in the sand.  With each step I happily left the elemental battle
farther and farther behind me.  

I wasn’t
sure how far I had to go.  The rock wall seemed to go for miles and miles.
 And, soon, I was reminded how exhausting it is to walk in sand.

Surely,
this hadn’t been some convoluted way to end my life.  I wasn’t clear why
my abductor had put me on land as barren as the moon’s surface, but it wasn’t
to simply have me die.  There are far easier ways to do that.  

Was it some
sort of test?

Another
thought: how’d I get all the way out here, wherever
here
was?  It
wasn’t like I could fly a regular airline knocked out.  That might raise a
few eyebrows.

So, a
commercial flight was out of the question.  I’d been squirreled away on a
private plane or jet—and that meant this could be anywhere.

Pulling my
blackened shoes off, the rubber soles now hardened, melted lumps, I tied the
laces together and swung them over my shoulders.  

Peeling off
my wet socks, I just dropped them onto the sand.

I then
realized that he had dressed me.  I hadn’t worn jeans to bed.

At least I
was wearing the same underwear.  He was a homicidal sociopath, sure, but
at least he wasn't a perv.

So, he'd
had some sort of plan in place and dressed me for this latest event.  It
wasn't random abductions.  Not sure why, but that was something.  

If my death
was to be exacted on Lava Island, I would have very likely been just wearing
what I’d fallen asleep in.  It seemed he was far more confident in my ability
to survive than I had been.

The massive
wall to my left bent inward, arching away from the ocean.  I stared down
the length of it and it seemed to go forever.  

Glancing east
toward the ocean, the sun, out of view in the western sky, was mining a shawl
of diamonds from the salt water sea.

It was
beautiful.

For a few
moments, I just stared and appreciated how majestic the world can be.  Not
where I live, no, but other places (like far-off volcanic islands, for
example).

The
temperature was dropping as the sun tucked itself into the ocean on the
opposite side of the island.  Night was fast approaching.  Camping the
evening on the beach—without any camp gear and, more importantly, without any water—
was not an option, so I walked up to the ancient, black wall and contemplated
my chances climbing it.

Too smooth.
 It looked like this portion had been created by lava flow ages ago.
 In that time, the wall hadn’t buckled, cracked or conveniently begun to
spring rocky barnacles in the salt-soaked sunlight.  

There were
no jagged rocks or lips to use for hand and foot holds.

Yeah, who
was I kidding?  

Even if
there were holds, the odds were slim of me ever getting to the top.
 Likely, I’d get up just high enough to break my neck when I finally fell.

A slight
breeze called my attention to something flapping against the rock wall, about a
hundred yards farther down the beach.  I walked toward it.

Often, I’d
joked that living on a deserted island would be paradise.  Maybe not an island
completely
deserted-- just an island where the natives were simple and modern conveniences
would only likely frighten them.

Like
Australia.

There I'd
be with my Walmart t-shirt and button-fly jeans, and they’d herald me as a king
or, maybe, some type of casually-dressed, low-slung deity. Not the sort that
could conjure rain or smote an enemy but could make a hell of a daiquiri from
fresh pineapple and palm tree pruno.  

I could
bring the savages forward a thousand years simply by introducing the drink
umbrella.

As I got
closer to the vine banging in the ocean breeze, I wondered if some thirsty tree
might have dropped root down this way.  My best guess was that someone had
lowered it down, as a way to get to the beach.  Some boy probably climbed
down and fished with a spear all afternoon, wrapped his daily catch in an
animal skin sack (hand stitched by his sun-leathered grandmother), then as
night approached, he’d scurry back up the vine with the night’s supper strapped
to his back.

When I
finally saw the rungs of the rope latter, the image of Jojo the Monkey Boy
vanished.

I walked
over to the ladder and tugged on it hard.  It felt sturdy.

Arching my
neck back, whew, that was a long way up.  And a long way to fall.

The rungs
were dusted with silt, and it looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time.
 I had the notion to taste the white grit, not sure why, and it was
bitter.  Salty.  

"Good
idea," I said, spitting bits of sand and dried ocean.  "I'm
dehydrating and decide to go all
Lik-M-Aid
on sea salt."

I wasn't
excited about climbing the rope ladder, but a look up and down the shore line
offered me no other options.

It was slow
going at first.

Hand over
hand, hand over hand.  As I got farther from the ground I moved faster, steady,
but faster.  The twine of the rope ladder groaned each time I pulled
myself up a rung and, somewhere in my mind, I could hear the sound of microfibers
snapping.  

One quarter
the way up, I wrapped my left arm through a rung and rested, staring out at the
ocean for a moment.  Even in the fading daylight, or maybe because of it,
it seemed the world was secretly being swallowed whole by the vast sea.
 Like we’d screwed it up this time, botched it, and the disappointed
planet was slowly taking it all back, maybe give it another shot down the road.

I’d never
lived near the water.  Grew up in the Midwest.  Mom moved to Oklahoma
when Dad took off with a co-worker.  I’d just graduated from high school
and embarked on a road trip with a buddy to the west coast, hoping to work out
what to do next.  A few weeks after returning to Minneapolis, I met a
lovely, yet very naughty, young lady and we both moved to Georgia after she got
a commercial modeling job in Atlanta.  She did really well and we cobbled
together enough money to get her a good portfolio.  Once she’d made a good
chunk of change, she eventually moved to New York, ticket for one.  

Georgia’s
been my home ever since.

For me,
there’s something calming about the ocean.  It seems that we are still
controlled—if not controlled, then manipulated in various degrees— by old,
cave-born programming.