Amelia Earhart on Norwich Island
Part 16
July 25th,
1937
July 23?
It is very irritating not to know what day it is. Though really, what does it matter? Was it only three weeks ago that I wrote
about staying in these islands to explore?
Be careful what you wish for!
Today I once again relocated my camp –
just down the beach a short distance, to the place where yesterday – or was it
the day before? – I found the pile of cans.
I have sorted them as best I can, trying to distinguish between those
that contain edible food and those that have spoilt. Very difficult to tell since they have all
lost their labels. But I now do know how
long they have been here, and where they came from. When I pulled the canvas off the pile, I
found a wooden plank with the following words carved in it:
“S.S. Norwich City. 2/12/29”
So the supplies are from the
shipwreck, and there was another word in the ship’s name. The wreck must
have taken place over 8 years ago. But
why are the cans here, so far from the ship, and from the other campsite? When I get back to civilization, I will
certainly look into the history of the S.S. Norwich City!
Using the canvas that was spread over the
cans – much of it rotted into uselessness, but enough of it sound – and some
bits of rope also scattered around the pile (which must have been another
campsite for the shipwreck survivors, but why did they move from their original
encampment?), I have fashioned a sort of mat to sit upon in my open-air abode,
and reinforced my hammock, hoping it will continue to let me sleep beyond the
reach of my constant crab companions.
Since they readily climb trees, I fear they will find ways to keep me
company, but for at least awhile, perhaps, I can escape them. And Providence willing, awhile will be all I
need.
Her new camp
organized, her hammock strung, fire set and two good-sized fish from a tide
pool sizzling on the griddle, she sat on the beach, looking out at the empty
horizon. There was little breeze on the
surface; the sea was almost flat. The
sheer immensity of it bore in on her.
Back there, under the falling sun, far around the curve of the planet,
was Lae. Twenty hours flying time; how
many weeks by raft? Could she build a
raft? How long would logs from these
trees float? How would she get enough
logs, and how would she hold them together?
How had the Coral Island boys
done it? How would she motivate the
craft? With a sail, obviously, and with
the normally steady wind from the northeast……
From the northeast,
passing north of the island, a cloud moved with stately speed across her field
of vision. It looked like a strange
animal – some kind of huge gray insect, sweeping across the sea on legs of
rain.
Rain!
Using a piece of
board and her bare hands, she scooped out a hole in the gravely beach and lined
it with a piece of her salvaged canvas.
Found two more scraps big enough to line two more holes. Found her shrinking bar of soap, laid it out
on a leaf. Prepared to strip naked and
shower in pure rain water – God, what a relief it would be! And what a delight to drink real water, not
the flat, vaguely salty product of her still! When was the last time? – Oh yes,
under the dripping leaf at Purslane Camp.
Prepared for rain if
it came, she settled down under a tree and returned to considering a raft.
“The trouble is – I’d
be exchanging one set of limitations for another.”
Sure, she could move,
make progress, but it would be progress away from sure sources of food… And stability; the raft could – would
come apart eventually.
She sucked on a leaf;
it gave her no discernible moisture.
“And here is
where they’ll search for me, when and if…”
She lay back and
watched the clouds overhead; there were a lot of them. Maybe rain was
coming.
“So, should I risk
it?”
“Courage is the price, Sweet-chops.”
She reached for a
rock. It was a sharp piece of coral; it slashed her finger.
“Ouch! You damned
beast!”
“Just a little scratch. Want me
to kiss it for you?”
“A
little scratch that could get infected. You’d like that.”
“Oh, I would, I would. But you
can fix it; you’re a nurse.
“Not
really… How do you…? Oh damn, yes, of course I know what to do, for heaven’s
sake!”
She
strode over to where the first aid kits were piled and treated the finger with
mercurochrome, sat on a log as she wrapped it in gauze. The crab climbed up
onto the other end of the log, slowly, legs and claws moving with silent
precision.
“Too bad for you that you gave
it up. Good for me and the hermits, though.”
“Are
you still here? Gave up what, medicine?”
“Medicine, social work. You’d
be comfortable at Dennison House now, teaching English to Arab kids.”
“Syrian.
Not the same. And what do you know about Dennison House?”
“O’course, you wouldn’t have
GP…”
She
snorted.
“…or Gene, or the nice house in
Toluca Lake, or the cabin in Wyoming.”
“How
do you…?” she shook her head. Her hair was a mess. Needed washing, and curling…
“…or the money, which a lot of
people don’t have.”
“I
work hard for my money, and I share it.”
“With your mommy, and your
sister, but what about all those women in the fields, and the hobo jungles?
Eh?”
“I’m
doing what I can, and the president…”
“Doing what you can flying big
expensive airplanes around the world?”
“I..”
“For the fun of it?”
“You…”
“Getting Roosevelt to send poor
Hawaiian kids to build runways on Howland?”
“It’s
jobs, and the government needs to keep an eye on the Japanese.”
“Pretty convenient.”
“Damn
it, you’re a figment of my imagination and I do not have to explain myself to
you!”
The
crab waggled its eye stalks.
“But
people count on me! For inspiration, and encouragement, and hope!”
“Platitudinous, platitudinous.”
“I
am not being platitudinous! Don’t you dare call me platitudinous!
They really do count on me for…”
“Right, right, for inspiration.
Great stuff, inspiration.”
“And
I give them those things! Freely! Willingly! And I’ll damned well continue to!”
“We’ll see, sister; we’ll see.” The crab slowly, delicately
backed down off the log and disappeared into the bush
.
Night found her still
waiting for rain. More clouds had passed
over. One at least had passed close
enough that it had probably wetted her first camp, back by the shipwreck. But the Camp of the Cans remained dry.
July 26th,
1937
Her hands trembled as
she worked to open the big rectangular can.
Was she losing strength? Or was it
the ghost? The knife shook, but finally
she was able to pry the top open.
Ship’s biscuit, and
no sign of mold or rot. Good, that would
help supplement her diet of fish, booby flesh, and hog apples. What about the
fruits on those dark-barked trees?
The ghost. The ghost had floated up next to her hammock and
just stood there – so close, looking in her eyes, gesticulating, talking
softly, a sonorous, musical voice. Had
she really heard it, or did it just play in her head?
As always, the ghost
had seemed unthreatening, welcoming, friendly in a dignified way. Like a much older sister, or a mother. And as always, after a time she had just
drifted away, evaporated into the night.
So what was upsetting about last night’s visit?
That she knew,
thought – sensed – what the ghost was telling her? But if so, what was it? Why couldn’t she quite get her mind around
it?
She sat on the canvas
mat and nibbled a ship’s biscuit. It
seemed all right, and almost tasty after – what, two weeks? – of almost nothing
but what she could glean from the island. Thought about the cloth bag she had
found among her gear, full of a rotting green plant. Shook her head; what had
that been?
But the ghost…. What was she trying to say? What about the
repeated up-gestures? Should she seek
some high point as a lookout, like the Coral
Island boys had?
No, it was deeper
than that, and somehow both comforting and terrifying. But why?
Something to do with the trees – but why did she think that?
“She wants me to –
stay.”
But that wasn’t quite
right, either. The ghost didn’t quite “want” anything, and “staying” wasn’t
what she advocated. If she advocated, but she didn’t advocate, she just seemed
to embody acknowledgement, acceptance…
“Damn it, they will
come! Someone will come!”
She put a piece of
cold fish on a ship’s biscuit and nibbled it.
Platitudinous.
Nonsense. Other people mouthed platitudes, especially about women. Being
inspirational wasn’t a platitude.
“Of course not.”
What if she and Fred
had gotten another day of rest at Lae? Would that have prevented the confusion
– yes, let’s face it; they’d both been confused, or at least she had, when they
got close to Lae. Bone-weary, cramped, fuzzy in the head.
“Who knows? We both
felt all right?”
“Well, you sure found out about human reactions to long flights,
didn’t you?”
She jumped up. Where
was the crab? There, on the tree overhead.
“The Flying Laboratory achieves its purpose! Hypothesis confirmed:
people’s brains get mushy after twenty hours flying! Science triumphs again!”
She couldn’t crush it
with a rock, but could she knock it down? She looked around for a good-sized
chunk of coral. Found one, but now the crab was gone.
“Damn it! What’s done
is done!”
She sat down again on
the mat.
What about the raft?
Shook her head. However well it had worked out for the Coral Island boys, there were just too many uncontrollable
variables. But had she really thought them all through?
She lay back,
watching the white terns wheeling in the sky, glimpsed through the leaves. What
would the ghost say about the raft? Never mind the blanket-blank crab.
-----------------
Notes
“Was it only three weeks ago that I wrote about staying in
these islands to explore?” “Like
desert or sea, wild jungle has a strange fascination. I wish we could stay here peacefully for a time
and see something of this strange land.” Last
Flight, p. 133 (AE’s last dispatch home).
“Courage is the price, Sweet-chops.” “Courage is the price that Life exacts
for granting peace; The soul that knows it not, knows no release, From little
things; Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, Nor mountain heights where
bitter joy can hear, The sound of wings.” AE’s well-known undated poem,
generally thought to have been written in the late 1920s; See East to the Dawn, p.131.
“You’d
be comfortable at Dennison House now…”
When she was selected for the Friendship flight, Earhart was working at
Dennison House, a social services charity in Boston, teaching English to Syrian
refugees. See for instance East to the
Dawn pp 126-33.
“…nice house in Toluca Lake…” In 1935,
AE and GP bought a small house on Valley Spring Lane in Tolucca Lake, a
district of Los Angeles; they then put considerable effort into enlarging and
improving it. See Letters from Amelia:177,
218-9.
“…cabin in Wyoming.”
AE and GP enjoyed visiting the Double-Dee Ranch in Wyoming, owned by their
friend Carl Dunrud and his family. She arranged for Dunrud to build her a
cabin, which she repeatedly planned to visit but never did. See for instance East to the Dawn pp. 293-4, Sound of Wings p. 204.
“…send
poor Hawaiian kids to build runways…”
The runway on Howland Island was actually built by the Works Progress
Administration (WPA), but much of the labor was done by young Hawaiian
students, who also occupied Howland and neighboring Baker Island (and the
rather more remote Jarvis Island). The official rationale for the occupation
and construction was to facilitate trans-Pacific air transportation, and
construction was scheduled to accommodate AE’s flight, though the work also
served the geopolitical purpose of staking a U.S. claim in the area and denying
the islands to the Japanese. See A Story of the Hui Panalā‘au of the Equatorial Pacific Islands at https://www.fws.gov/refuge/howland_island/, and Under a Jarvis Moon at http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi3879443993/
“…platitudinous....”
AE “would urge women of all ages to break out of their ‘platitudinous sphere’
(one of her favorite phrases), asserting that unlike the prisoner at the bar
who is innocent until proven guilty, the woman is guilty until she proves that
she can do the things men do.” East to
the Dawn: p. 304.
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