What the Hell

What the Hell

Had Harry Bastian been a romantic he might have dreamed, day dreamed, or fantasized about his situation. But he wasn't a romantic and never would be: he was a hard-core pragmatist.

"So what does a shipwrecked guy do with his timepractically?" Harry asked the palm tree at the south end of the uninhabited island overlooking the empty sea.

The first thing he did was check out "his" island. A sandy-beached circumference, all three miles. There was a cove on the lea side, perfect for mooring a boat. Had he not been so pragmatic, he could have visualized the double-master bobbing in the Pacific swell, halyards clanging, flag furling. The hawser, taut against the anchor, was the rope he'd practiced his splicing on. And the ladder, how much fun he could have diving off the side into the pure, blue water, then climbing up to frozen Dacqueries!

Damn, the boat's not there, nor the halyards, hawser, ladder, none of it. Ah, what the hell.

The center of his kingdom, for he did feel like a monarch, contained a grove of coconut palms.It'llsupply food and liquid. Also a modicum of shade. And those leaves -- islanders do all sorts of things with palm leaves: shingles, bedding, wrap food in to steam, even containers to drink from. And the bark and wood -- firewood!Harry was pleased that his island had a grove of life-giving palm.

To the north lay stones, pebbles, and gravel.Good change from the sand. Certainly there s something I can do with all those stones. Build the foundation of a house? Maybe make a wave-breaker. Nah, that'd take too much work. Also, they'd sink in the sand. Besides., that cove is such a perfect, natural harbor, I'll never need a breakwater.

At the west end he found piles of driftwood. He was amazed at the quantity and the variety.

There must be a variegated forest to the west. None of these logs seem to be the same.He searched through the tangled mass.

It took a typhoon, a Tsunami, something big to rip all those out. Hey, if

I had them in Kansas I could make a fortune selling the roots as lamp bases, end tables, and lawn decorations. This place is loaded!

He walked through a clump of ferns. A near-round bird scurried under the greenery.Plump little guy. Or girl. Hey, if it's a girl, maybe there are eggs somewhere. Ha -- if the boys at the office only knew I was going into the poultry business! Ah,what the hell.

He was surprised to find on the east side considerable rock, a steep cliff, and boulders.Must be where the stones and gravel came from.Harry kneeled at the base of the cliff. He stared at the myriad smooth stones where the solid rock met the fine, white sand.A lapidary guy would be in heaven here.Harry picked three favorites, dropped them in his pocket, and walked on.

As he teetered across the drifted logs his eye caught something shimmering underneath. The sun had caught it at exactly the right angle. Had he not been observant he would have missed the washed up bottles. When he looked closer, he discovered many manmade objects: a broom, hoe handle, picture frame.That storm must have been one doozey of a storm: strong enough to tear trees from their footing and crush houses like match boxes.Harry was surprised he didn't find any dead bodies. The scavenger gathered the items he felt he could use and carried them to the center of the palm grove.

During his reconnoitering his eyes were alert for food. So far he had coconuts and possibly bird eggs.At the base of the cliff there must be decent-sized fish. Maybe mollusks in the cove.He felt confident he could survive, even thrive, as long as it took help to arrive. Unfortunately, civilization seemed to be windward: that squelched his hope that smoke would attract any inhabitants.If thereareany after that ripper.

Being realistic by nature, Harry set to building a shelter, piling up wood, and finding exactly where that fat hen hid her eggs. He also set up an ingenious device with the bottles he'd found. He broke several and imbedded them around the outer shell of several coconuts. These he impaled on palm branches and stuck them into the sand. Wherever the sun was, the broken glass sent out beams of light.Perfect! Now I won't have to sit and aim pieces at the ocean. I'll have beacons going everywhere and all at the same time.He placed two facing the direction where the driftwood had come, and one at each of the other main directions.If anyone comes near my island,they're bound to see them.

As he was picking debris off the beach, he wondered how else he could

use the miscellaneous items he'd found. Living was one thing, but getting back home was another.If only I had my boat!Victoriahad everything. She wasn't just a boat, she was a resort on a keel. Ah, one message on my radio and I'd have half the Pacific coming to my rescue!

But he didn't have his beautiful boat. Nor any boat. And certainly no radio or any other means of communicating save his coconut beacons. Unless...Hey, why not? Itispossible...

Laughing inwardly, Harry wrote ten notes, placed each in its own bottle, and ceremoniously tossed them into the ocean.Go, my beauties, my rescue squad. What the hell do I have to lose, anyway?

Harry smiledHere it is, the twenty-first century, and I'm sending SOS's by bottle. I wonder which will do the trick, the beacons or the bottles?

Several nights into his Caruso life, Harry realized how happy he was not being born a girl.At least not one in the old days. When damsels had to sit and wait for the boys to come around.Harry hated waiting.

He knew waiting was not going to do him one bit of good. Moreover, he had to occupy himself somehow, preferably with a purpose or he would go bezerk.Besides, the watched pot never boils.

Harry began putting his island in order.The first is that driftwood. God only knows what else is under all those trunks.

For the next three weeks Harry acquired an enviable tan, lost a noticeable amount of fat, saw muscles bulging he thought only body builders had, learned to use logs as levers so much he nicknamed himself Archimedes, cleaned the North Beach, stacked trunks, branches, and roots in their respective piles as neat as his desk at home, and found innumerable, usable objects.And, thank God, no corpses.

After he'd cleaned the North Beach he moved to the pebble-stone east shore. He spent hours sorting the ground-round spheres. Red ones here, green there, inlaid yellow in black in a third pile, and so on. He had no idea if he would ever use the stones: that was not his reason for sorting. His organizational mind simply needed exercise.

Time passed. First by hours, then days. Later he measured by weeks. When he became more systematized, time passed by months: that's when he had tothinkof things to do. And finally, when no help arrived and seemed it ever would, time didn't fly, it meandered. One, two, then three years. Long enough that he could honestly say that he spent yearson a deserted island shipwrecked in the South Pacific.

Wondering why his beacons weren't doing their job, Harry Bastian made regular rounds to his broken-glass, coconut reflectors.Maybe they're doing their job, it's the seafarers who aren't doing theirs.This he said between repeating his walking mantra,WHAT THE HELL.

In a realistic mode he reflected on others who had been lost at sea. Could he gleam any insights that would help his stay? He'd read bothRobinson CarusoandSwiss Family Robinson, but so long ago he couldn't remember much. For the first time he noticed that they both carried the same family name. He also remembered that one had salvaged much from their ship as it floundered near shore. But Caruso -- he couldn't remember how he got where he met that Friday character. Then he remembered seeing Tom Hanks in the movie, "Castaway."

Now, I can identify with that! His island wasn't much different from mine. He lost a lot of weight, more than me, I suspect. But I'm not starving and I hope to hell I'm not going to be here for four years!

But he didn't care if he was there forever. It reconciled his fate and sensed that if he thought about being rescued, he'd suffer the dreaded, 20th Century Waiting Girl Syndrome.I suppose the electronic version is listening to the phone that never rings.

Harry settled into his routine and quit counting time.Without being philosophical, the truth is that I'm here for as long as I'm going to be, so might as well make the best of it. What the hell.

One reason Harry felt he had it all over Hanks was that the enterprising survivor believed in the Boy Scout motto,Semper Paratus. He'd never been a Scout, felt they were too Mickey Mouse, and only trained one to be social. But his mind operated very sequentially: he simply KNEW that one thing affects other things later, so the best way to make things work out the way he wanted was to prepare. For that reason, Harry Bastian never went anywhere, except to the shower, without his Leatherman Super Tool 200.Eat your heart out, Tom Hanks!

One way the storm-forced recluse passed time was to study the Leatherman. He spoke like a tour guide as he walked through the tool.

"It's metal. Stainless steel, to be exact."

Good. That means it won't rust. Also that it shines, which means that I can use it as a reflector when I take my daily constitutional,and the smooth-steeled tool bumped against his thigh ever after.

"Being metal, it's heavy." So he used it as a mini-hammer. "Great for slugging fish and opening shells, too."I'm glad Leatherman issubstantial.

And though King Harry the Practical preferred to do things and not think about them, he let his mind entertain how the engineer, Mr. Leatherman, was reputed to have created the original Survival Tool.

European trip with a VW and next to no tools, what does a fix-it guy/engineer need so he isn't dependent on mechanics? So when he gets home he goes to his workshop, cuts the handles off the tools he wants, creates that incredible hinge that allows a pair of pliers to fold up, and from then on it's just a matter of attaching .

"Check it out," he said to the hen, his egg supplier, who had come to the edge of the ferns to see if she could get a hand-out. "Two rulers, one metric. Neat, eh, Hortense? Of course you don't need two systems to measure here -- hell,youdon't needany!" And he laughed at his joke. He found he did that more the longer he resided on King Harry Island. "But you know, old girl, if I were in Europe like Mr. Leatherman, it'd sure come in handy. Now, watch this, bird. Presto!"

And he opened the tool so the pliers leaped into view. "And notonepair buttwo!Needle nose and regular. You think it's too much, Hortense? Well, think again. I've used those needle nose umpteen times pulling clams out of their shells and lobster meat out of those long arms."

And since he had nothing he had to do, Harry went through the entire tool as if the gulls and hen were his tour audience. Had anyone been watching the man, he would probably have been self-conscious, but since they werebirdsandundoubtedlyamused by his words, he spoke openly.

"Wire cutter: and look at this, an itsy-bitsy hole to cut hard wire, like fishhooks. Now, you'll have to admit, Hortense, that's practical."

Then Harry demonstrated the extremely sharp serrated knife, the equally effective saw, the small screw driver, and the Phillips.

"Can't use the Philips here, Hortense, but sure did onVictoria. God, it seems every screw made these days has a Phillips head. Ah, what the hell. But I've used it for more than that: poked all sorts of things, I have."

Harry then unfolded the can opener. "Not a lot of use for them here, eh, Hortense? Nor that wire stripper at the base. On the other hand, I used it just yesterday. Scraped the edges off some shells, remember? Took all the slime off, too. Bet Leatherman didn't think ofthatwhen he included it!"

As the hen pecked in the sand for seeds, Harry proceeded. "Down to basics, Hortense. Look, regular blade, file for both rough and fine work -- smooth my fingernails all the time with that one -- and look, not one but two flat-head screw drivers. Never know when you'll bump into a

flathead, but I think I've used the big one more to open varnish and stain cans than anything. And last, the hole punch. Hey, don't knock it, Hortense. I've used that any number of times. It's great for poking holes in things.Everythingon this tool is useful. No wonder I bought it!"

Harry was obviously pleased. Casually he unhinged the lanyard ring. "Nearly lost her a couple of times, Hortense. If it hadn't been for that itsy-bitsy hole, I'd lost my Super-Two in the drink for sure. Sure holds the tool when I take my Constitutional!"

Then Harry worked the two locks that made secure all the internal parts. "Nowthat'sengineering! Thank you, Mr. Leatherman, for protecting me from myself. Some of your tools are mighty sharp."

He was about to put the tool in its sheath when he noticed he'd left one out. "The wire crimper -- Hortense, you should give me a C-minus on my tour-guide evaluation. How could I leave that little guy out?"

He folded the tool together as he had so many times, placed it in the black sheath, and snapped it shut. The whole process was a ritual that kept his mind active. He liked to think it also prepared himself for future emergencies: the better he knew the tool the faster he could turn to the exact one he needed. Besides, the more he gave the Grand Tour to the hen, the tamer she got and the easier it was to gather her eggs.

"Ah ha!" Harry exclaimed out loud. "Poor Hank didn't have a Super-2. Had to peel coconuts with z skate. I have twoknivesand asaw!"

Had King Harry kept track, he might have been astonished to know that he went through the Leatherman Ritual once each day, twice if it rained, which meant that at the moment he gave his last tour, he had presented it nearly one thousand times.

Another ritual that occupied several hours each day was walking the perimeter of his kingdom. He began going clockwise. He didn't know why, it just felt right. After the first year he wondered if he would notice any difference going counterclockwise. The variety perked him. The next year he alternated directions. That perked him again. The variety perked him so much that he considered going all the way: choosing by random.

Before capsizing, the mere thought of leaving anything to chance would have been unfathomable. Even now he winced at the Unknown he was about to enter. As long as he walked any chosen direction on a regular basis, he was fine. But choosingatrandom?

A few months into his third year Harry Bastian was strolling along the east beach. He'd just checked his beacon. Yes, it reflected light in every

direction. "But what the hell. If there's anyone out there, they're out there. If they come here, they come here.If no one comes, no one comes.That's the way it is, sothere's no sense gettinganxious. What the hell."

As he reanchored the palm post, he noticed a flicker of light over the water. He was used to the reflections from ocean swells and white caps so he paid no attention. But it flicked again and in the same spot. Then a third time. In case it might be deliberate, he twisted his beacon as if to answer.

The flicks increased. So Harry twisted faster.It's not my imagination. Someone is out there and is answering.But no matter how hard he stared, he saw nothing. Nothing but the flickering light and endless water.

Must be coming off a turtle's back. Maybe a bottle. What the hell.

Harry knew better than to get excited. Long ago he'd resigned himself to living the rest of his life a recluse. Whatever this was he'd play with it the same as flipping stones into the surf: something to do, pass the time. What the hell.

But after a half an hour, Harry thought he saw whiteness behind the blinking.Too well shaped to be a cloud. and too low.And it kept blinking. In time, the whiteness turned into a hull with little specs running around it like ants on a narrow hill.

"My God, people. I haven't seen people for years. What the hell!"

A wave of anxiety rushed over Harry. He didn't know what to say, how to act.My God, people!

It was a fifty footer. Perfectly outfitted with a crew of six. And they had wine, steak, a computer and a radio.All the things that makecivilization.

"What brings you folks to this neck of the woods?" Harry asked as if speaking to Dr. Livingston.

"Thought you might want company, Harry Bastian from Wichita, Kansas."

"How in God's name?"

The skipper held up a bottle. One of the ten the shipwrecked sailor had sent out years before.

There was rejoicing aboard theShangri lathatnight, you can be sure!

But the crew had been aboard for several weeks and wanted to stretch their legs. So instead of boarding, Harry gave them the tour. He walked the path he'd walked one thousand one hundred twenty-three times. He went counterclockwise. He showed them the neatly piled driftwood, well-stacked stones, the rock-foundation log house with palm-leaf shingles. He pointed out Hortense and explained the roles she played. He

demonstrated his beacons. And they had a party as if they were on the Santa Monica beach itself.

Harry spent the next two months with the Jeffreys. He loved every second. He relished bouncing, rolling, swaying with the waves -- all the things he'd missed while on his island.Shangri Lamoored everywhere he'd planned to withVictoria. And throughout the trip he didn't have to do a tap of work. The Jeffrey's, hearing his story, treated him like Royalty.

"Aye, Harry," the owner kidded, "'Tis true I'm the Captain, but you're the King!"

And so, in extraordinary style and his Leatherman on his side, Harry Bastian finally made it back to Kansas. It took him longer than he'd expected. But what the hell.