Calico Pennants by David A. Ross Page B

storm had tossed the small boat onto the coral ring in such a way that it was now leaning precariously starboard. Julian remembered seeing four heavy steel spikes in the compartment that contained the scuba gear and he determined that he might drive these into the coral with his hammer then chain the boat right onto the reef itself. It was worth a try.
    Back on deck he took off his mask and began collecting the tools necessary for the project. Before going back into the water he fastened four lengths of chain onto various parts of the boat, then tossed the ends into the water—one off the prow, one off the stern, one off the starboard side, and the other off the port side. Ready to proceed, he spit into his mask, took up his tools, and went over the side.
    Though he did stir up enough sediment to cloud his vision a bit, it was relatively easy driving the spikes into the coral, and it was not long before he was back on board his boat, pleased with his own ingenuity and secure in the opinion that his craft would not break free and drift out to sea. Furthermore, the boat was a beacon for anyone who might be searching for him.
    Intent upon improvising a barge, Julian collected his water containers. In a calculated act of abandon he poured out all the remaining fresh water and sealed the lids tightly so that buoyancy could be achieved. He’d seen fresh water flowing in the mountain streams, but there was of course no way of knowing if the water was contaminated by bacteria or parasites. Still, if the island water was not potable, the few swallows left in his container were not going to sustain him much longer anyway.
    He began lashing together the airtight containers with nylon rope. He wrapped them with the tarpaulin and secured it. Liberating the foam rubber seat cushions from their protective plastic sheaths, he zippered his meager food supplies, as well as several flares, into waterproof envelopes for a journey over the waves to shore.
    Pushing the homemade barge over the side, he jumped into the water. And using the inertia of the incoming waves he guided the ferry toward land. When he finally dragged the supplies on shore he was exhausted and lay down upon the sand, breathing heavily and repeating the name of the Savior.
    In burnished twilight, Robinson Crusoe Crosby busied himself preparing a shelter. He wrapped the now dry tarpaulin round the extending roots of a ten-foot diameter banyan tree, creating an enclosure with immovable supports. On the beach he lit a fire. He cooked beans and brewed coffee for his supper. Buenaventura ate the last of the oyster crackers and watched as Julian sent up a distress flare; the exile never really believing there was anybody nearby to see it, and BV knowing well that they were not alone.

    AT DAWN, Julian awoke to the most glorious chorus of birdsong he’d ever heard. Finches, egrets, doves, honeycreepers, hornbills, plovers and mynas: thousands of birds sang in unison to herald the coming of the light.
    Excited by the feral cacophony, Buenaventura paced prodigally over his keeper’s chest and stomach. The parrot blinked his eyes furiously. He spread his plumage and cocked his head to listen. In time he joined the aria.
    Julian held out his finger as a perch, and BV climbed aboard without probation. Pulling back the canvas flap of the improvised shelter, Julian poked his head outside. The sea was calm and the sun was bright. Beneath a mauve sky the Trades blew through the tops of the trees. It was a sublime morning in Paradise.
    Yet Julian felt overwhelmed by such unlikely circumstances. Three months ago he was passively moldering in a monotonous job, practically dead, though lacking the sense to lie down. Until this moment he’d failed to realize that, for years, he’d been desperate for a miracle, all the while never really expecting any significant change in his life. “So what am I supposed to do now?” he called out. The congregation of birds abruptly stopped their