How I Spent My Summer Vacation By Jeff Flake

No man is an island, so the saying goes. But that doesn’t stop some men from dreaming about island life. Especially this man, this Congressman. These dreams started as a child, the fifth of eleven, growing up on a dry, dusty ranch in northern Arizona. Being surrounded by water might have appealed to anyone raised under similar circumstances. So when it came time to leave home and go to college, I traded boots and Hank Williams for sandals and Jimmy Buffet, ending up on Hawaii’s north shore. In one motion I threw my suitcase into my dorm room and my mask and snorkel under my arm, heading for the beach. Minutes later, there I stood, slack jawed, staring at the two most beautiful views I’ve ever encountered – in reverse order; crystal clear water lapping over a pristine reef, and a transplanted California girl whose dreams apparently included a boy with a farmer’s tan. Some dreams come true, others are deferred. I decided I could leave the island life but never the California girl. Our journey has taken us from Hawaii to Utah to Washington, DC to southern Africa, and ultimately back to Arizona, where we are happily raising our five children. Along the way I managed to get elected to Congress. I’ve gone from driving cattle to being driven by constituents, in a profession where earmarks have a different meaning altogether. I have the best job in the world, but still the islands beckon. So, last month, sandwiched in between a series of town halls and constituent meetings, I spent seven days and seven nights on a small, uninhabited island in a far-flung region of the Pacific. I

brought with me a manual desalination pump for fresh water and a mask, fins and pole-spear to obtain food, along with a hammock, knife, sunscreen, a cooking pot and little else. Oh, yes, and a satellite phone should I eat the wrong fish or if my farm skills should prove wholly unsuitable to the island environment. I wanted to ensure that I made it safely home to my primary dream, after all. “So tell me again why you’re doing this?” was the common reaction from friends and colleagues. I tried but failed to assign a noble purpose to this sea level sojourn. I wasn’t trying to discover myself. I’m afraid that’s pretty shallow water. And while I remain confused about many of life’s vicissitudes, my religion informs me of the broader purpose of my existence. No, this long bout of Crusoe-envy seemed to be more physical than spiritual, an appreciation for what Teddy Roosevelt called the “doctrine of the strenuous life.” Roosevelt bemoaned the “timid man,” the “cumberer of the earth’s surface,” the man living “a life of slothful and ignoble ease.” In essence, the man I fear that I’ve become. As a kid, I used to snicker when I shook an uncalloused hand. Now I’ve got two of my own. I used to bathe in the evening after a hard day’s work. Now I shower in the morning. I used to be the hayseed from Snowflake. Now I’m the “Gentleman from Arizona.” But if I was really looking for physical exertion, I could have just trained for a marathon. So it was more than that. It’s been suggested that being alone on an island was some Freudian allusion to the fortunes of congressional Republicans. Or was it more like Napoleon’s Elba, from which a plot to retake the congressional majority would be hatched? No, I didn’t like the end of that story.

Perhaps the greatest appeal was not knowing what was behind the next wave, over the next coral head or behind the next coconut tree. Maybe I would learn something about myself I didn’t know. Maybe I would just confirm that I really don’t like the taste of fish. Maybe being alone for a week would give me a better appreciation for family and friends. Or maybe I would simply realize talking about an adventure like this is more fun than living it. It turned out to be an incredible experience; one that I’m still trying to fully unpack and unravel. I do know this. My young kids have long tired of hearing of my congressional exploits when I tuck them in at night. Winning the debate on an amendment to an appropriations bill just doesn’t quite hold their attention like spearing a fish and making it to shore amid circling sharks. Now I’ve got plenty of new material. That alone was worth the trip. Day One “Will it be chicken or fish,” asked the flight attendant as she scribbled on her seating chart. “Chicken!” I blurted out, hoping to get my order in before she committed her last piece of poultry. If she only knew, I thought, that I was about to spend a week on a remote atoll in the central Pacific where the chances of finding a chicken were more remote than the island itself. The flight from Hawaii took me approximately 2,200 miles southwest, until I was approximately midway between Hawaii and Australia. The Republic of the Marshall Islands is a group of some 26 atolls comprised of more than 1,000 small islands with a combined land area totaling less than 75 square miles. These islands, and mostly the water in between, cover a combined territory roughly the size of one quarter of the United States.

The United States conducted missile testing near Bikini Atoll in the 1950’s, and has had a special relationship with the Marshall Islands ever since – mostly involving payments to the islanders for the cost of relocation and the ill effects of radiation. We still have a long-term lease on most of the Kwajalein Atoll for ongoing missile testing. Officially, the U.S. maintains a “Compact of Free Association” with the Marshallese, which allows them, although they are a sovereign country, to carry U.S. passports and serve in our military. After a stop in the Marshall Islands’ capital of Majuro, I flew 400 miles north and was greeted at the airport in Kwajalein by Maj. Christopher Mills of the U.S. Army, whose job it is to work with the Marshallese government. I was also greeted by my Marshallese Washington contact, First Secretary Charles Paul, who would be spending the next week on Kwajalein. He apparently wanted to make sure that I survived the experience. I went to the military base’s food court and had my last real meal: a Burger King Whopper and a scoop of Baskin Robbins ice cream, hoping that it would stick to my ribs for at least a few days. We then loaded up the boat and headed north toward “Jabonwod,” an island which in Marshallese means “the end of the reef.” I had initially chosen an island a bit closer to Kwajalein, but it fell within the restricted area of the Kwajalein lagoon and a missile launch was possible during the week of my visit. The trip was roughly 50 miles, and would take us two and a half hours. We headed first through the middle of the lagoon, which is shaped roughly like a boomerang. About 15 miles north, we cut west through a pass out of the lagoon and into the open ocean. From there we had a straight shot north by northwest toward Jabonwod. Beyond Jabonwod there is an open ocean pass into the lagoon which stretches approximately 20 miles until the reef starts up

again toward Ebadon, on the northwestern end of the atoll. Anciently, Jabonwod represented an omen of good luck to Marshallese mariners traveling southeast from Ebadon in canoes. They knew that if they could make it to the reefs protecting Jabonwod, they were safe from the perils of the open ocean. We passed a series of gorgeous islands along the Kwajalein Lagoon’s western reef, some with little more than sand and a single coconut tree or two above the water line. Flying fish raced in front of us in post card blue water. Just a few clouds dotted the horizon. After two and a half hours the Marshallese captain squinted in the sun and said “There it is. Jabonwod.” “Wow,” I thought. “It’s beautiful. It’s like I’ve seen this island in my dreams for years.” We motored slowly between Jabonwod and the island of Lobon to the south, which was passable in a small boat at high tide. From the lagoon side we attempted an approach to the island. With the tide starting to go out, it was too shallow. We ended up putting my gear in an empty ice chest and floating it to shore as three of us held it from the sides. Two members of the boat crew were temporarily stranded with me on the island as the boat had to push off to deeper water. They noted a flock of birds diving into the water near the boat, which sometimes signals the presence of sharks, so they were reluctant to swim. They wondered if they should have the captain call for a rescue boat with an inflatable dingy. I was anxious to get my solo adventure underway, and not wanting to wait for another three hours for a rescue boat to arrive, I offered to swim out to the boat and return with safety vests. I did so, and the crew successfully made it back to the boat, which slipped through the pass between the islands just before the receding tide

made it impassable. I later learned that the crew ended up calling for a rescue boat approximately half way back to Kwajalein after their GPS system malfunctioned. They didn’t want to become a nighttime casualty on a distant reef. And then I was alone. Completely alone. From that time until I was picked up a week later, it was just me and my island. I began by scouting for a campsite. At high tide, Jabonwod is roughly one-third of a mile long and approximately 100 yards wide, running north by north west. Facing northward, the massive Kwajalein Lagoon was on my right and the open ocean on my left. The tree-line of two small islands could be seen to the east, across the lagoon, the width of which is roughly 20 miles at that point. Several islands connected by a shallow underwater reef stretched behind me to the south. All islands in view were, like Jabonwod, unoccupied. As I moved my gear from the east end of the island to the center, I passed by a few hundred so-called “Sally Light Foot” crabs, which scurried into the surf ahead of me. “I guess I’ll be eating a lot of crabs,” I thought. I was right, though I hardly made a dent in Jabonwod’s crab population. I soon discovered that the interior of the island offered a great campsite. Coconut and other tropical trees offered good shade, and the ground was covered with short crabgrass or dead leaves. I immediately encountered what I had hoped would not be on the island. Rats. Actually, they were more like oversized mice, and I must admit they didn’t prove to be a hindrance or an annoyance during the week. Every once in a while I would see one scurrying across the leaves, but that’s about it. I never woke up with a rat gnawing at my feet, as some pacific islanders have apparently experienced.

I quickly realized I could have all the coconuts I wanted without having to climb a tree. The ground was littered with thousands of them piled on each other. Coconut crabs had done their work, but a quick shake revealed that most of the coconuts were still intact and edible. In any event, on the ocean side of the island there were dozens of short coconut trees leaning over the beach, and picking a green coconut simply required reaching slightly above my head. I had barely hung my hammock when the rain came down, an isolated shower that lasted only 20 minutes. It was an event that would occur just four times during my stay. As night fell, I soon discovered that the interior of the island was a virtual orchestra of sound and movement. First, the birds. There were two main types: A mid-sized white bird would flutter anxiously above whenever I was close to its nest. Another gray bird with a long beak whistled constantly, which sounded exactly like the whistle a cowboy uses to call his dog. Coconuts would fall. Limbs would drop. Crabs would crunch. And all in near total darkness under my jungle canopy. One of the quickly coveted items I brought along was a small headlamp flashlight, which left my hands free to do what I needed around the camp at night. Plus, being completely alone, there was no one to see that I looked like a complete dork. My camp was situated nearer to the lagoon than the ocean. It was in the lagoon where most of my hunting and gathering would take place. That’s where I pumped water as well. The manual desalination pump that I brought with me required that I sit near the water with the pump across my lap for 45 minutes to an hour, which was what I did after I got my camp set up and the rain stopped. I sat on a rock next to the water at low tide in darkness, dipping the hose from the pump into the water and moving the lever, back and forth and back and forth, one stroke every 1-2 seconds.

Crabs scampered initially but were then frozen by the light from my headlamp, just like rabbits on an alfalfa field. I reach down and grabbed a big one, but let loose when he tried to pinch. “This will be an easy meal,” I thought. I continued to pump water, and began to feel like I was back on the farm milking cows, although I could milk a gallon of milk a lot faster than I could pump a gallon of fresh water, believe me. (real time) I watch the clouds part over the lagoon, revealing a canopy of stars like I have never seen. A virtual blanket in the sky. I try to pick out the planets, but I have no idea which ones are visible from this point, nine degrees north of the equator. I look alternatively at the sky then at the water, where some species of fish emits bio-luminescence that flickers like fire flies on the East Coast. Crabs scurry at my feet, but I’m not hungry yet. I brought no food at all: only salt and pepper to season what I hope to catch. Tomorrow I’ll crack open a coconut and fish for some lobster or something edible. I also need to start fire without the aid of matches or a lighter. It may be a long day. I’m ready to go to sleep now, in my hammock. Can I sleep in a hammock? I never have before. I’m glad there’s a mosquito net. Not many mosquitoes yet, but lots of other bugs. It doesn’t look too comfortable, frankly, but I want to be off the ground, especially after seeing a couple of rats and scores of hermit crabs. I hear the muted sound of the roaring surf on the ocean side and the gentle lapping of waves on the lagoon side. Nighttime hasn’t been too bad yet. I worried most about this, my first night. I’ve now made it through all but the sleeping part.

I can’t help but wonder at this point, was this all worth it? What have I got myself into? All the planning, the time away from home, myriad dangers I’m needlessly exposing myself to. Should I have increased my life insurance policy? Should I have hugged Cheryl and the kids a bit harder and longer before I left home? Will I discover that this adventure more fun to talk about than to actually undertake? Too early to tell. I just know that I’m physically tired. Time to ignore the sound of the surf, the falling coconuts, the crabs crunching their way across the campsite and get some sleep. I guess the greatest appeal of this adventure is not knowing what’s behind then next wave, over the next coral head or around the next coconut tree. I can’t wait for tomorrow to find out. Jabonwod – Day 2 It’s 5:30 am, and I’m sitting on the beach, looking east across the lagoon. The blanket of stars still covers me, but their light will soon begin to fade as the sun prepares to make an appearance over the water. I still can’t believe I’m here. A few months ago I decided to cool off in our backyard pool late at night. I didn’t turn any lights on, so when I emerged from the water, it was dark. I remember thinking at the time, “Wow, this is spooky,” I thought. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel completely alone at night on an island in the middle of the Pacific.” Well, I have to say that despite a cacophony of sounds throughout the night, I was more spooked in my backyard pool. I’ve figured out the hard way, however, that hammocks aren’t too comfortable.

It wasn’t just the gentle “U” shaped position of my body. The mosquito net stifles the slight breeze that might otherwise flow. I woke up pretty much on the hour. I felt like I was at a father-and-son campout, checking my watch throughout the night. Only this time there was no prospect of a bacon and eggs breakfast. At the first couple of sounds I turned on the flashlight, straining to see the source through the mosquito netting. I never did. Finally I ignored the noises and drifted, if briefly and intermittently, off again. The stars are fading now and the eastern ski begins to brighten. I don’t know what this day will bring. I just know that I’m starting to get a little hungry. The first crab I see when it gets light had better scamper pretty fast or he’s going to end up over my fire. Oh, yeah, that reminds me. I have to light a fire, first. There’s plenty of dead wood on the island. I’m just hoping to find some dry wood hard enough to make a proper base and bow to make fire with friction. I’d rather not break out the matches. Fast forward. It’s now 8:00pm. It’s been a long day. By 9:00 am I was starting to get a bit hungry, so I found a coconut under a tree that I thought was still good. It was. It was ripe like those you purchase in a store. Tough to open, however. Glad I brought a small hatchet. With that hatchet I also cut a flat piece of an old hard tree, knowing that if I was going to start a fire by rubbing sticks together, it had better be hard wood. Or at least I would use it as a cutting board. I rigged up a bow, a base and a swivel top for the fire starter, but the stick wasn’t straight enough. Rather than find and carve a straight stick, I decided to see if I could light a fire with a magnifying glass. This was a challenge leveled by my eleven-year-old son, Tanner, who has cooked many ants with this method.

I was skeptical, but it worked. The key was to have a dry coconut husk and some dry kindling. For the latter I used part of the branch of the coconut tree, which when dried, looks like fine netting. Even with last night’s rain, it was dry enough to catch a spark. As soon as I had some coals, I went to the lagoon side with the pole spear and started hunting for crab. Since at any given time you can look around and see dozens, it wasn’t much of a hunt. I bagged several in five minutes. I put the crabs in the cooking pan. It would only hold five or six. I ended up just eating the legs, which were quite tasty with salt and pepper. I decided it was time to do a scouting run on the lagoon reef. Before I even got in the water I saw a very small black tip shark, who seemed fascinated with my yellow flippers. He came a little too close for my comfort. He could have bitten my toe off, like a yipping dog. He joined his friends, and a gang of small sharks snapped their fins and got ready to rumble as they headed out to the deep water. I found that there were lots of fish, and great variety. I decided to dive in on the ocean side, where there were some beautiful tide pools that were protected from the open ocean by some massive rocks that were above water at low tide. I saw another shark pup and a big fat ugly eel. The surge was a bit strong and I didn’t want to get slammed against a coral head, so I headed back to the lagoon side. It was time to catch dinner. I waded over the reef at low tide and entered the water about 50 yards from shore. After swimming another 75 yards out, where the water was approximately 25 feet deep, I “loaded” my pole spear by putting the elastic strap between my right thumb and index finger and stretching it approximately half the distance of the eight foot spear. I clutched the pole and waited for my chance. A bright

blue parrotfish sauntered below, looking for another piece of coral to munch on. They are called parrotfish, I suppose, because their lips look somewhat like a parrot beak. While snorkeling in the Caribbean, Cheryl and I used to be amazed at the loud sound the parrotfish would make while chewing on coral. These guys were just as noisy as their Caribbean cousins. I fired my spear, but the fish was just out of reach. It grazed his side and blood spewed out, but he wasn’t impaled. I knew I’d better spear another one fast and get in to shore before sharks gathered. Fortunately, the school of parrot fish didn’t scatter and within seconds I had another parrotfish on my spear, shot right through the gills. Blood streamed from the wound. I turned toward shore, looking down as I did. There it was, resting on the bottom, approximately 20 feet down, a six-foot gray reef shark. It was an odd sight, a shark resting there so still, but I didn’t hang around to ask him about shark etiquette. Instead I raced for shore with my parrotfish on the end of my spear, as far away from my body as I could get it. Safely ashore, I took a couple of pictures of the fish and stirred the coals on the fire. I had decided to cook this one like the Marshallese cook a fish – just throw him right on the coals. I couldn’t stomach, however, cooking the contents of the fish’s stomach as the Marshallese do, so I took the parrot fish to the lagoon and cleaned him out first. I then put him on the bed of coals, and after 10 minutes or so, turned him over and browned the other side. Not having a plate and forgetting that I had some Reynolds wrap, I placed his charred carcass on my cooking pan, sprinkled on some salt and pepper, and ate away. There was a good amount of white flesh. It tasted like….well, parrotfish, I suppose. It didn’t taste like chicken, I can tell you that. I found that I liked the charred flesh around the

outside best of all, so I figured that the next time I would fillet the fish and cook it on a skewer. I ate until I was satisfied and took another long drink of water. I found that pumping a gallon wasn’t quite enough for the day. I needed a bit more. I found during the week that on days I was more active, a gallon of water wasn’t nearly enough. I supplemented with coconut milk, which had the benefit of offering some caloric content as well. After pumping another gallon at around 6:00 pm, I headed over to the ocean side to watch the sunset. The days were mostly clear on Jabonwod, but there were always sufficient clouds on the horizon to spread the color across the sky in the evening. Each evening the sun seemed to linger on the western end of the island until the ocean would squeeze out the remaining light. The coconut trees that leaned over the surf offered wonderful shade in the daytime and beautiful contrast at night. As I cracked open a coconut in the fading light, I couldn’t help but realize that I’d probably never seen a more peaceful sight. I lingered a bit too long, and wished I had my flashlight as I made my way back to my camp under the dark jungle canopy. The hammock that I couldn’t wait to get out of this morning again looked inviting tonight. I strained out the noise of the hermit crabs crunching through camp and pretended I had one of those alarm clocks that plays the sounds of the ocean surf. It was a long, good day. Jabonwod – Day 3 – August 23, 2009 “So, did you talk to a volleyball while you were on that island?”

That’s the most frequent question I’ve been asked since returning from Jabonwod. No, no, that’s Tom Hank’s territory. I think talking to an inanimate object probably requires at least a six month stay. But by day three I was looking for a little feedback, at least. So I turned to the hermit crabs. I mentioned before that there are a lot of these critters populating Jabonwod. They would make their way though camp in the noisiest fashion, crunching leaves as they went, hoping against hope that that I would throw some more coconut pieces their way. Most were colored bright red. Occasionally I’d encounter a purple one. All of them had the same modus operandi when I approached. They would curl up inside their shell and play dead until I picked them up, whereupon they would reach around their shell with their spiny legs, trying to pry my fingers away. Allow me to digress for a moment. Upon leaving the Army Base at Kwajalein, I was given a coast guard signaling beacon by Maj. Mills, with the instruction to pull a certain lever and push a certain button if I faced a true emergency. Assuming that I would only take such action in case of a severe medical condition, Maj. Mills also gave me a sharpie pen, with instructions to write a “T” on my forehead if I had applied a tourniquet to my leg or arm. This assumed, of course, that by the time a rescue boat/helicopter arrived I would be unconscious from trauma or loss of blood. In truth, I had already given some thought to the possibility, however unlikely, that I might face something some incident, like an overly curious shark, or that some medical intervention might be necessary. When I asked Colonel Frederick Clark, the Base Commander at Kwajalein, if he had ever visited the outer islands, he said only once: to rescue the victim of a shark attack who had been spear fishing. I filed that information in the “don’t ask don’t tell” drawer. Cheryl didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.

Having said that, before leaving home I stopped by our family doctor and picked up a suture kit. I didn’t know if I’d have the guts to stitch myself up, but the prospect sounded better than being rescued. That sounded like a career killer for a politician. Thankfully, I never had to use the coast guard beacon, or the suture kit. In fact, other than for a couple of bandaids, I never dipped into the first aid kit. But, lacking a volleyball, I did make good and frequent use of the sharpie pen as a castaway coping mechanism. Sometime on the third day, I picked up a hermit crab, and, spotting the sharpie, wrote the number “1” on the back of his shell, and put a circle around it. I repeated this act whenever I felt a bit lonely, and soon there were a number of numbered hermit crabs wondering the premises. I kept a tally on a tree in the camp. I wrote this during Day Three: “I’m using the sharpie to label hermit crabs that wander though my camp. I just started and I’m up to number six. I guess I’ll treat it as an experiment to determine if these crabs are territorial or not. Those who show up multiple times might get a proper name. For now they are just a number.” I’ll let you know by the end of the week how many I numbered. Suffice it to say that I got to know many of them quite well. Number 12 climbed on my foot and pinched my big toe. “”He bit me” was written next to his number. Number 44, my old football number, was a favorite. He seemed to race from one end of the camp, only to turn around and race back, as if he was trying to improve on his 40 yard dash time. No crab was a more frequent visitor than number 74, who developed an addiction to coconut scraps. He seemed to always be underfoot.

Depending on how permanent sharpie markers really are, I may have managed to confuse anthropologists years from now, who will surely wonder how it is that hermit crabs on Jabonwod are numbered. At mid morning I decided to explore the shore at low tide. Sometimes it’s good that you don’t see what’s around you when you’re swimming. The eels freak me out, and I’ve seen a dozen or so already. They love the shallow water. In fact most of the eels I’ve seen have been in six inches of water or less. I stabbed at one with my pole spear when I saw him go under a rock. He jumped, literally jumped, out of the water to get away. I nearly speared a small black tip shark. I’ll get one eventually. After a breakfast consisting of, you guessed it, coconut, I decided to head out at and see if I could find a fish like I had seen yesterday before I settled for the parrot fish. It was a bit wider than a typical tuna, but its tail looked like a tuna. In any event, it looked like it would have been a good meal, so I headed out to the lagoon. I hadn’t been out ten minutes when I saw him, the same kind of fish that I’d seen yesterday. He seemed interested in the end of my spear, so I coaxed him over. Keep in mind that it is unlikely that any of these fish I encountered had ever come across a human before, so I had the advantage. By the time he figured out what was going on, he was on the end of my spear and I was headed toward shore, hoping not to attract the shark I saw yesterday, which wasn’t far from where I was today. I made it to shore quickly and, after posing for the obligatory photo to show the kids, cut out two fillets and tossed the still wiggling carcass out to sea. I could have cooked him like the Marshallese, like I did the parrot fish, but since the best tasting parts of the parrot fish were the

grizzled flesh around edges, I wanted to fillet this one and cook him on a skewer. It worked wonderfully. I know things taste better when you’re hungry, but this one would have tasted good anytime. Perhaps because he went from the ocean to my mouth in less than 30 minutes. After eating what I assumed was some type of tuna, I consulted the fish chart the Marshallese gave me (with a large X marked through the one fish, a brown grouper of some sort, which I was told I shouldn’t eat). I concluded that I had eaten what they call a “Black Jack” or perhaps it was a “Big-Eyed Scad.” Whatever it was, it was very tasty. During the afternoon I decided to explore the island’s interior. I’d say that Jabonwod is about 50 acres at high tide. There are several kinds of trees besides coconut. One produced weird lemon-sized fruit that I couldn’t figure out. When I poked it with a stick, it oozed a milk-like sticky substance. I think I’ll not try to eat it unless I get really desperate. I wandered the length of the island, using a stick in front of me to clear away the ubiquitous spider webs stretched between most trees. At about 4:00 pm I decided to cool off with a little snorkeling. It was high tide, so I didn’t have to wade out across the reef. I put my mask in the water, and within about 10 seconds I saw a man-sized black tip shark about 20 feet away, swimming parallel to the shore. I scrambled up the rock and out of the water, but quickly submerged my head to see if he was gone. I saw another one about the same size. It was likely the same shark circling back. Frankly, I’d rather have two than the same one circling back. I remembered my only conversation with the Marshallese about what I should do if I encountered sharks. “Look them in the eye.” Yeah, right. Not unless I have eyes in the back of my head while I’m swimming away.

Later, at around 6:00 pm I was pumping water in a tide pool area near my camp at high tide. I looked to my right and saw two black tip fins out of the water. It was a3 ½ foot shark in less than foot of water. The two fins were his dorsal and back fins. I went to camp, grabbed the pole-spear and waded gingerly to the middle of the pool where I stood on a rock that was sticking above the water. The shark came within 10 feet several times, but I couldn’t bring myself to use the spear. I wanted him for a trophy, but somehow felt I would violate the “You don’t bother me, I won’t bother you” pledge that I had just made with his big brother. I was told by the Marshallese before being dropped off on Jabonwod that if I stayed on the lagoon side, I wouldn’t have to worry about sharks, at least the big ones. I think I’ve been scammed. More on this tomorrow. Jabonwod – 5, Monday Sunday night was a long night. At least twice I got up to put on the rain flap with the wind indicating a storm approaching. It never came. I can’t sleep long in the hammock with the rain flap down unless it is raining. The heat is oppressive under such conditions. I did have a lovely dream, however. The family was at an Arizona Diamondbacks game and my son Austin had secured a job working at one of the concessions stands. He insisted on making me a specialty hamburger. The burger, which took what seemed like forever to cook, covered the entire plate. Just before I was about to take my first bite, I woke up. Dang, that would have been a nice alternative to the coconut that was awaiting me. I’m not sure how long I’ll go after this trip without eating another coconut, but I’ve a feeling it will be a while.

Today was blessedly overcast. Still a bit humid, mind you, but overcast. It so happened that it was the day I had determined that I would construct a “solar still” as a means to produce fresh water, just in case my desalination pump went out. I dug a hole in the sand near the lagoon side, approximately three feet deep and four feet across. I then threw a bunch of green leaves in the hole and poured some sea water over the leaves. The key, I had learned, was to get as much moisture in the pit as possible. I then placed a cup in the middle of the pit and propped it up with the leaves around it. Next, I stretched some plastic I had brought along for this purpose over the hole, securing it in place with rocks around the edges. I then placed a small rock in the center, so the plastic was shaped like a “V.” In theory, the sun heats everything below the plastic, and when the humid air rises and collides with the plastic, droplets of water run down the bottom side of the plastic and drip into the cup. It worked, but I’m sure glad I’m not relying on this method as my primary source of purifying water. It yielded only about a cup of water by the end of the day. The following day, it being sunnier, produced a bit more, but still far less than I would need to keep hydrated. It was a great day to explore the next island to the south, called “Lobon.” Lobon is separated from Jabonwod by only a few hundred yards of ocean. I easily passed from Jabonwod to Lobon at low tide by walking through knee-deep water. Black tip shark pups can be spotted at just about any given time at low tide between the islands. Eels were also plentiful, which made me step a bit more carefully. Lobon is only about half the size of Jabonwod, and has many of the same features. It seemed, however, to have a few more

varieties of trees, some of which looked more suitable to a dry climate. After traveling in a southeasterly direction along the length of Lobon’s lagoon side, I started back on the ocean side. About midway back, I happened on a large whale bone, which looked like a vertebrae. I was impressed by the size, until I walked a bit farther and saw some of the rest of the whale bones. Wow. This was a big guy. The biggest bone looked to be the base of the skull, or something like that. It was big enough for me to sit inside. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d beached himself or what brought him to that stretch of beach. After seeing the whale bones and taking a few pictures, I chased a couple of eels though the shallow water, not sure what to do if I speared one, but it was a fun diversion nonetheless. After returning to Jabonwod in the early afternoon, I concluded that I had chosen my island well – by dumb luck, mostly. Jabonwod had more variety overall, a more picturesque shoreline and easier access to the deep water. Needing to cool off, I took my pole spear and headed for the tide pools on the ocean side. I like this area yesterday because it seemed there was a good variety of coral and fish and was protected from the open ocean by a reef, which I assumed would keep the sharks at bay as well. That didn’t last. A five foot black tip shark meandered by and I knew I wasn’t alone. Had I seen a Black Jack, I would have speared him for dinner, but I wasn’t about to take a Parrot fish or hundreds of other offerings within spear-range. I guess I’m getting spoiled. So I thought I’d try my luck on the lagoon side. It was still low tide, and I headed out in a south easterly direction about 100 yards beyond the breakers. I had seen the area yesterday and ran out of time to explore the length of it. It’s probably the most beautiful place I’ve ever dived in. Massive coral heads right next to a sheer

drop-off to about 100 feet. The visibility was so good that I could easily see the bottom, even at 100 feet. The variety of fish was phenomenal. I was in awe even before I was paid a visit by man-sized (about seven feet long – see picture) black tip shark. He was definitely curious, but didn’t seem threatening. He circled me two or three times about 10 feet away. I snapped a picture with a cheap underwater camera, but was so nervous that my finger covered part of the lens. He then went about his business 25 feet below at the coral head as another shark appeared, just a little smaller than the first. He did the same circling thing then went down to join his brother. By the time a third shark appeared I became a little spooked. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, as they say. Since I wasn’t about to spear a fish and leave a trail of blood, I headed for shore. I decided it was a good day for a crab-fest. I went along the beach with my pole spear and within five minutes had speared about eight crabs. Since I didn’t eat the main body of the crab the other day, I thought that there was no use cooking the whole thing, so I lopped of the legs right there on the beach and put them in a bag. Eight crabs with eight legs each. That came to around 70 pieces after I threw in a few pinchers. It was a good deal of work eating them, but they tasted delicious. I’m sure to repeat this meal before I leave on Thursday. Wow. Thursday. It’s already Monday. I’m on the downward slide already. I checked in with Cheryl on the satellite phone just to let her know I was okay. I made no mention of the sharks. I realized, once again, how lucky I am that she will be there when I get home. She asked if I was lonely. I told her that I knew it was going to be a week, so I wasn’t bad off. Truth is, I am lonely. I’m glad I’m not a castaway forever.

I’m also tired. After all the exploring I did earlier and after nearly two hours in the water, I’m drained. Besides, it’s nearly 8:00 pm. That’s my new bedtime. Maybe I’ll dream of hamburgers again… Jabonwod – Day 6, Tuesday Well, no dreams about hamburgers last night. I did dream about the congressional baseball game, but the action was on the field rather than at the concessions stand. Darn. No rain either last night. As soon as I put up a rain trap for fresh water, we start a drought. Since today looked to be sunny, I re-stretched some plastic over the hole I dug yesterday for a solar still. It yielded just a little water yesterday under overcast skies, so I’m hopeful it will do more today. I can already see the water running down the plastic every few seconds, so it must be working. I promised my son Tanner that I would take some video of fire-making with a magnifying glass. I set the video camera it up around 11:00 am, when the sun was beating down pretty hard. It didn’t take long. I’ve learned that if I burn a hole right into the center of a dry coconut husk, when the embers glow I simply have to put some combustible material (in this case, dry netting that forms at the bottom of coconut branches) and blow into the base of the husk. The oxygen follows the shape of the husk perfectly, igniting the embers. It takes just over a minute under the right conditions. Much better than rubbing sticks together, in my novice opinion. Thus far rubbing sticks together I’ve generated smoke, but no embers. I’ll keep trying. I went spear fishing on the lagoon side again today, heading straight toward my favorite spot – the coral head next to the steep drop off. I like it because of the variety of fish and incredible visibility. This time there was a huge grouper, the biggest one I’ve

ever seen, probably between 75 and 100 lbs, guarding the place. These big groupers are very territorial and tend of have a coral head or grotto that they call their own. He reminded me of an old Studebaker automobile. Very weird shape. After watching the grouper for several minutes, I glanced over the edge of the coral head, where it was about 75-100 feet deep. In the distance I saw something “flying” slowly toward the coral head. I say flying, because I momentarily forgot where I was. I thought I was watching a large graceful bird in flight, like a red-tailed hawk. I snapped to when I remembered that I was underwater and was watching a large manna ray, spotted and absolutely beautiful. It swam close to the grouper, and for a few moments it looked like they were dancing. The beauty and the beast. All that was missing in this picture was a black tip shark, which I seen a few moments earlier. He had circled me a couple of times so close I could have hit him with my spear. This, I am learning, seems to be their custom. In case you’re wondering, I’m not crazy about this custom. Again, I would have like to have speared a good tasting fish on the way back, but given that I was still a few hundred yards from shore, I didn’t think it wise to be dragging a bleeding fish that distance. I’m afraid the sharks might actually break their custom of circling and go right for the fish, or even worse, the guy on the other end of the spear. So I decided to have a dinner do-over and gather a bunch of crab legs to boil over the fire. I did so, and it was as good as I remembered. I’m just glad Cheryl talked me into bringing salt and pepper. After lunch I decided to walk around this island to see how long it would take at a steady pace. Problem was, I kept getting distracted by fish, eel or crabs at low tide. It was fascinating to watch them

play in the shallow water. A few hours before I thought I was back on the ranch when I mistook the manna ray for a red tail hawk. In an odd way, the scene underwater, with yellow coral that branches out like a mesquite tree, could even be mistaken for a desert landscape. Now I had another boyhood flashback as I walked around the island. I saw an eel race under a semi-submerged rock. When I flipped the rock over with the end of a stick, the eel struck at me like a rattlesnake, with most of his body coming out of the water. I would have cut off his head like I used to do to snakes on the farm, but unlike the rattles on a rattlesnake, but there is no part of an eel that you want to take home as a trophy. Speaking of eels, I saw another in the evening while I was pumping water. He slithered out of the water and onto a flat rock inches away from the end of the desalination hose, where he proceeded to consume a small fish he had caught. Disgusting. In case you’re wondering, I moved the end of the hose. I’ll not miss those guys. During my walk around the island I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this place, once again. On the northwest side, where the reef ends for 20 miles or so, the waves from the ocean and from the lagoon crash together as if they don’t know where to go. The crashing waves spawn smaller offshoots that shoot chaotically in every direction. The water stretches from light blue to turquoise to dark blue, and when the waves rise up, the water is so clear you can see the fish, rocks or whatever is magnified by the curling water. What a sight. I could have watched for hours. In fact I did. On the way back to camp, I spotted several hermit crabs on the beach near where the waves were breaking. I wondered why they were there, so close to the surf, so I stayed and watched for a few

minutes. It turned out they were looking for new “homes,” or shells they could occupy. Two of them fought for several minutes over a particularly appealing shell, and when a wave sent one tumbling, the one who held on took the opportunity to slide out of his old shell and into the new. Occupancy is nine-tenths of the law in the hermit crab kingdom, apparently. The jilted crab wandered over to a lesser shell, angrily pulled his rear end out of his old shell, and plopped it in the new one. I got a kick out of watching the whole ordeal, which suggested that maybe I’ve been on this island too long already. It’s approaching 8:30 pm and I’m sitting here in my hammock, listening to the noises around me in the dark. First, the waves. It is as if the lagoon and ocean are competing for my attention. The lagoon is closer, so the sound is stronger, but in the distance the ocean waves gently roar as the tide approaches. Birds of several varieties call out. Chirping crickets provide background music. But the eeriest sound is the ubiquitous and steady crunching of leaves as dozens of hermit crabs that march from one end of camp to the other. I’ve labeled 102 at this point with a sharpie marker. I just saw number one again today. He’s remains one of my favorites, as is number 12, long since forgiven for pinching my toe. Number 57 has an amazing shell. He likes to travel with a posse, no doubt fielding compliments on his colorful accessory. Tomorrow is my last full day. I need to get some sleep. Jabonwod – Day 7 I’m sitting here looking over the lagoon at sunrise. I woke up to the realization that I’ll just see one more sunrise before I’m picked up tomorrow. I’m trying to soak it all in. If the boat arrives as scheduled tomorrow afternoon, my time on the island will be relegated to the past tense. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.

Part of me wants to visit all my favorite sites today, both above and below the water line, and explore some new territory beyond the reef. Part of me, likely the smarter part of me, says leave well enough alone. You’ve survived so far. Don’t get eaten by a shark on your last day. I decide to split the difference, visiting my favorite sites without exploring new underwater territory. I start on the lagoon side, taking advantage of high tide to swim from shore toward my favorite coral head. By now I recognize the rocks, coral and trenches marking the way. I dive down 15 feet or so to peak under some colorful lime-green coral, then again to watch two massive blow fish do some kind of mating dance. I’m still looking for my first lobster. I’ve seen empty shells on the beach, so I know they are out here, but I haven’t had the tools, or the guts, to hunt them in their caves at night. Every time I resurface after diving deep I see things I haven’t noticed near the waterline. This time I see a small squid scooting along the surface. Earlier in the week I wanted to catch a squid and use it as bait on the end of a fishing line. Instead I used part of a hermit crab (not one that I had numbered, mind you). After catching a mid-sized reef fish on my first throw, I realized it was much more economical, and more fun, being underwater myself and choosing the fish I want to catch rather than being forced to take whatever grabs my hook. Near translucent trumpet fish glide along the surface as well, their long slender bodies shooting forward with minimal propulsion. They’d be tough to spear, I figure. In any event, I’d have to build a long skinny fire to cook them. I linger out near the deep drop-off for nearly two hours. For the first time in several days I see no large black tip sharks. I find

myself enjoying the scenery much more when I’m not on shark watch, checking over each shoulder every few seconds, only to be surprised when they show up unannounced. The pole spear I’m carrying is approximately nine feet long from the tip to the blunt end, where the rubber strap is fastened. The spear was lent to me by Aaron Crist, a friend from Mesa, Ariz., who makes custom pole spears. I’ve been glad throughout the week to have such a good spear, one that fires straight and is (hopefully) long enough to keep the sharks at bay, if need be. Aaron told me that fish might be attracted to the shiny metal flapper near the point (which holds the fish on the spear after it punctures through the fish). He was right. Many times fish would swim right up to the spear, as did a large tuna while I was out this morning. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the spear “loaded,” and once I did, he was gone. It was probably a good thing, since I was quite a distance from shore. Again, why tempt fate on my last full day on the island. I headed for shore empty handed. I still needed to eat, today, however, and I wasn’t feeling like another meal of crab legs, so I headed along the now well-worn path to the ocean side, where I felt I could spear a fish quickly and get to shore before attracting the wrong kind of fish. I headed out with the tide, and soon broke my rule about exploring new underwater territory. I couldn’t help myself. The scenery was spectacular. I saw some of the most beautiful coral heads and colorful fish I’d seen yet. Spectacular. I saw a giant clam about 15 feet below. I hadn’t seen a giant clam since Australia’s barrier reef. I dived down and tapped its side. The giant clam closed, slowly, like a hydraulic shaft closing a door. While I was on the bottom, a sea turtle floated above

me and many other marine oddities poked their heads out of caves and crevices on either side. I returned to the surface and enjoyed the scene below. A long thin fish approached the end of my spear. Since he was long, skinny and unafraid, I first mistook him for a barracuda, which I hadn’t yet seen on this trip. I slowly started to stretch the band, fearing it would scare him away. I realized by now it wasn’t a barracuda, but rather some type of tuna or mackerel. He was staying near the tip of the spear, and I knew I’d better fire quickly, so I did, at near point blank range. Problem was, I only had the pole spear partially “loaded” and it didn’t go all the way through the fish. I quickly dived down and maneuvered the fish and spear toward a branch of coral, and while holding the fish against the coral, pushed the spear through. Realizing that I’d likely speared my last fish for the week, I raced toward shore, hoping that I’d beat whatever might be following the trail of blood. Unlike the lagoon side, where I could see a good distance around me, here on the ocean side I was swimming around and over a virtual obstacle course of coral heads. I also had to pay close attention to the ocean surge. Although much of the surge was broken up by the breakers behind me, it was still strong enough to hurl me forcefully into the coral. I found myself thinking, “just one more obstacle, just one more wave, just a few more kicks and I’m safe.” It was strange. I’d been doing this all week, and now I found myself getting spooked. It was like l felt I might be the last casualty in a war, one whose demise was inconsequential to the outcome. I reached the shallow water using the surge of the wave to carry me over the last coral head. I breathed a big sigh of relief. While I was building a fire at the campsite (by now I could have a fire going in just over a minute with a magnifying glass and a

coconut husk), I left my fish on the end of the spear in the shallow water in the lagoon. I got back to the fish just as two small black tip sharks approached, ready to claim their prize. Another 30 seconds and they would have had my fish off the spear. I grabbed the spear and the sharks scattered. I took the knife and cut out two, beautiful, long fillets. I then threw the fish carcass into the shallow water and started counting. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. I hadn’t counted too many Mississippis before the two small sharks reappeared, tearing the fish carcass to shreds as I watched from the shore. They would grab hold of the fish and turn over and over like a corkscrew in the water. Soon there was nothing left. I’m glad I didn’t witness this scene at the beginning of the week. I was thinking I could have defended myself against the small sharks at least. That theory was now gone with the fish carcass. I later learned that I had speared a Rainbow Runner, which according to the Marshallese is the “best tasting fish in the ocean.” I can’t make that claim, since I’ve not tasted them all, but I can assure you it was the best fish I had all week, and the best fish I’d ever tasted, for that matter. The Marshallese wondered how I could have speared a Runner, since “they are very, very fast swimmers.” Perhaps so, but they are also suckers for a shiny spear. After a wonderful meal, my best on Jabonwod, I stretched out on the beach and took a rare nap, looking out at the water as the sun lingered behind some clouds. It was a wonderful feeling. I was just a night and a few hours away from surviving the island experience. Life was indeed good. After pumping my LAST gallon of water at around 5:30 pm, I let out the loudest “yippee” the island of Jabonwod has ever heard. I’m quite certain of this because “yippee” is not part of the

Marshallese vocabulary. I then headed for the ocean side to watch my last sunset. It was as beautiful as ever. What a day. What a week. I’m a lucky man. And it’s my last night in a hammock. I’ll yell “yippee” when I wake up, which will be at least fifteen times tonight… Jabonwod – Day 8, Epilogue I’m sitting here on the ocean side beach scanning the horizon, waiting for my boat to arrive. It’s strange. When I think of events that occurred when I first arrived, it seems as if much more than a week has elapsed. But at the same time, the individual days on the island moved swiftly. I’ve been talking about this adventure for two years now, and now that it’s nearly done, I am resigned to the prospect of the conversation returning to politics. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. I started my final hours the same way I started each day on the island, by cracking open a coconut, drinking the milk and chewing as much of the meat as my sore jaws would endure. I never knew that chewing could be so much exercise. I suppose that on the final day it is appropriate catalogue a few of the things I did and didn’t miss during my week as a willing castaway. First and foremost, it goes without saying that I missed Cheryl and the kids, and human companionship in general for that matter. Knowing that I would be picked up in a week’s time made the solitude tolerable. I can’t imagine the feeling of not knowing if I would ever see a mainsail on the horizon or hear the faint but intensifying sound of a boat motor. My hat is off to unwilling castaways.

In terms of trivial modern conveniences, I did miss having a chair with a back. In fact, had I known how I would miss this item I would have whittled one out of a tree on my first day, probably before hanging my hammock. I missed a chair so much I had serious thoughts when I found the whale bone shaped like a chair (it felt like a throne) while exploring the island to the south of Jabonwod -- I nearly tried to dig it out and carry it back to my camp. But it was much too heavy. I’ve concluded that hammocks are best suited for napping in the back yard for a few hours, not sleeping on an island for seven nights. Having said that, I suppose it was better than sleeping on the sand and waking up with a hermit crab attached to my pinky toe. Surprisingly, finding food during the week was less of a challenge. I speared and cooked as many fish as I wanted. Now, spearing the kind of fish I wanted to eat was made a bit more challenging due to the presence of sharks in my favorite hunting grounds, but I managed. There was also an endless supply of crabs for my high protein, low carb diet. I packed up my gear by early afternoon and strained to hear the sound of a boat motor. I followed the path I had now traveled so many times to the ocean side – to the right around the two coconut trees with a pile of coconuts on the jungle floor next to my camp, turning left through the cutout in the vines and into a sandy area, across the sea turtle tracks, turning right and through some more vines to another coconut tree with low-hanging fruit, taking another left though the opening in another set of vines and onto the beach. Still, no boat. I walked to the coconut tree and twisted off a small, mature specimen, returning to the camp for one more, please just one more, coconut meal. I took my hatchet and removed the husk, then

tapped the brown shell several times around the middle, hoping to crack through the shell and meat without spilling the coconut milk. Then a strange thing happened. When I grabbed the top of the shell to remove it, it came off in one piece, leaving the meat intact. Hmmm, I wondered, could I remove the bottom part and keep the whole coconut, sans shell, together. Since I had nothing but time, waiting for the boat to arrive, I gave it a go, gently tapping the shell for several minutes, until… I did it! I had successfully “peeled” a coconut. Just when I realized that counting the above as an accomplishment meant that I’d probably been on the island a bit too long, as if on cue, I heard the faint sound of a boat engine. I looked out at the lagoon and saw a gray inflatable dingy, headed southeast, parallel to the shore. I ran to the beach and waved. My boat had arrived. My ship had come in. EPILOGUE Several spinner dolphins playfully accompanied our inflatable dingy around the western end of Jabonwod toward the boat, which was idling a few hundred yards out. I was welcomed aboard and seated in the galley, where a deli sandwich and a pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream was placed in front of me. As hungry as I was for a meal not comprised of fish, crab or coconut, I returned outside to get one more look at my little island before it faded from view. I looked at the lush shoreline, where the ocean meets the sand and where the sand meets the tree line. As long as I live, I’ll never see a sunset as peaceful as the seven I saw there. But those same brilliant colors will be on display tonight despite the absence of an audience. The footprints I left on the beach this afternoon will be gone when the tide comes in this evening. And by the time the rain

washes the numbers off of 126 hermit crabs near my camp, there will be no trace that I was ever there. Jabonwod will forget me pretty fast, but I’ll carry the memory of this week for a good long while. Nearly a century ago, the poet Rachel Field wrote: If once you have slept on an island You’ll never be quite the same You may look as you looked the day before And go by the same old name… Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how Such a change upon you came But once you’ve slept on an island You’ll never be quite the same. As my island on the horizon became smaller and smaller, the lump in my throat became bigger and bigger. Soon the green speck that was Jabonwod faded from view altogether. I composed myself, returned to the galley, and devoured the Chunky Monkey.