Amelia Earhart on Norwich Island
Part 28
September 24th, 1937
She was a husk. Dry, hollowed out, could blow away in a strong wind. But gratefully awake to who and where she was.
Weak but alert, she watched the light spread through the trees as the sun – she knew without seeing it – leaped above the cloud-smeared eastern horizon.
The horizon. How good that she understood exactly what the word meant. Here, of course, a horizon of unbroken sea.
The sea, unseen from her hammock and barely heard, its surf roar a mere commonplace now, but omnipresent. Encircling, trapping her. Implacable, impersonal. Rolling in, rolling on.
In the treetops, the birds stretched their wings and swept out in search of breakfast for themselves and their little ones. The world woke to cries, hoots, shrieks. She watched and listened.
Birgie was hanging on the tree to which the foot-end of her hammock was tethered. The huge purple crab could quite easily just tightrope across and…
Gobble you up? That I could, Meelie, that I could.
“So…?”
So why don’t I? You look so comfortable there, and I’m feeling lazy. Had a couple of nice rats just awhile ago. So live here another day! Enjoy yourself!
“Bugger off, you beast.”
Had she said it, or only thought it? And had a note, almost, of amusement crept into her voice? Was she getting used to Birgie?
Knowing I’m a girl makes all the difference, hmmm?
Perhaps. Birgie had seemed less an implacable enemy since revealing her sex.
“Regardless, you’re not going to eat me.”
Remains to be seen. We’ll see to the remains. Don’t worry, sister; I’ll be respectful, and efficient, and every bit as competent in my work as any male could be.
“That’s a great comfort, but I think I’ll pass… that is, skip it.”
Sorry to advise that it’s not really up to you. It does present a bit of a conundrum, though.
“What do crabs know of conundrums?”
Isn’t it conundra? No matter, no matter. The conundrum, sister, is that my eating you will make it impossible for you to tell the world how well I did it. How are we going to advance the status of our sex if we can’t write books and give lectures about the great things we do?
Did she actually smile? Yes. She did it again.
“Somehow I doubt if your fellow crabs will attend my lectures or read what I write.”
Oh no, not them! I’m thinking of all your fans! All those humans who cough up good money to hear you or buy your books. Don’t they need to know that among the so-called coconut or robber crabs – neither name is accurate, by the way, and they’re both insulting in different ways, but we’re tolerant – among us, the female is dominant and by far the more talented?
“I’m afraid the analogy would be lost on them.”
But you think they get the analogy with you.
“What?”
Isn’t that your justification for pretty much everything you do? That since you can fly airplanes just as well as any man, and better than most, then hey, by analogy a woman can do anything a man can do?
“Well, in simple terms, I suppose so.”
We crabs are simple creatures, sister; we reduce things to their essence. So do you really think a woman can do anything a man can do?
“Of course – allowing for differences in physical strength…”
Sure, sure. And there are Okie women out picking vegetables in the Central Valley right now to keep their families alive who have to be pretty strong, no?
“Absolutely! And...”
And you think you inspire them? Or do you care?
“I…”
Or do you only care about inspiring the women who can afford your books and lectures?
“I…”
And can afford good brown suits and a dozen pair of shoes, and Vince to keep their breaths sweet?
She clutched her head.
“Why are you saying these things? I work hard for my money! And I do what I can! I give people hope when there’s damned little hope to be had!”
Them as deserve hope, eh? Ever see a Negro in one of your lecture audiences, Meelie?
“A…”
“Negro. Nigger. Coon. Person of color. Like little Lulu May, remember her? You think you inspire them?”
“I hope so!”
This was getting tiresome.
‘Ah. What about Mexicans? Indians? Chinese? Japanese?”
“I think I inspire all women.”
Yes, this conversation was going nowhere. And why should it? With a crab?
Jews?
She nodded, but her mind was drifting – to a dinner in Rye with the Lindberghs; the startling things Charles had said. Of course he was wrong – had to be wrong, but…
She lapsed into silence as visions of Rye filled her mind. The big comfortable house, the green fields, the dogwood blossoms. And all the water she could drink…
Oy vey, stuck in your platitudinous sphere, you are. OK, so what are you going to do when you finish this trip, Meelie?
She snapped back to attention.
“You keep telling me I’m going to finish it in your stomach – or whatever you have.”
I keep telling you it all depends on the cat.
“You and your damned cat!”
It’s the cat’s meow, toots. So suppose Mister Eric comes and finds you, and deprives my hermit pals and me of a meal, but you lose your leg. Which they probably won’t have the courtesy to leave for us; they’ll probably toss it to the sharks. What do you do then?
“I can fly with one leg.”
Better than one wing. But you’re over forty now.
Had the much-feared birthday actually passed? Yes, it probably had, but when?
“How do you know these things?”
Over the hill, babes, over the hill. So what do you do? Settle down and have brats? Think GP’s jake with that? Or maybe Gene?
“I’m too old to have children.”
Oh, well, then I might as well just eat you.
“Maybe…”
Where were these thoughts coming from? Long ago, far away, another life.
Maybe she could go into politics. Or government. Maybe Gene’s old job…
Yeah, I’ll definitely eat you. If the cat jumps that way.
“The devil you will!”
But not right now. Sun’s getting up; time for my morning nap.
Birgie sidled around the tree and disappeared. The sun filtering through the leaves was warm, the breeze gentle. Her eyes began to close.
“Gene’s job. The Bureau of Air Commerce. I wonder…”
She woke with the sun full in her face, feeling her throat pinched closed, her tongue covered in wool. Needing water, not sure she had the strength to get it.
How to get it? Oh yes, the still. Did she have a still? Yes, probably, but she’d need to look, think about it.
“I still have the still; I hope I always will.”
Bureau. What was that word doing in her head? A box of some kind, wasn’t it? With drawers? But it meant something else.
Gene.
Why didn’t Gene bring her some water? There was a reason, but she couldn’t recapture it. She worked her way out of the hammock, went to look for the still.
September 26th, 1937
Running out of wood. Foot very bad.
It was hard to write with the little splinter of dried-up rouge from her compact. Why was she writing? And hadn’t she had something better to write with? What had happened to it?
She tucked the paper into the sextant box, snapped it closed. Maybe if she moved just a short distance across the clearing – there were a couple of limbs there from the downed tree, probably dry enough to burn.
She sat on her biscuit-tin toilet and considered what to do. Heavens, she was bound up! The dutch oven was too fragile to move; she would just have to keep bringing firewood here to keep it going until the next time it rained. Whenever that might be. But for cooking, she could build a bigger fire out by the fallen tree trunk.
What to cook? She was awfully hungry. When had she last eaten? Some butterclams from the lagoon, some turtle eggs from the ocean beach – most of which had contained baby turtles that she had tried to eat. Bad idea; it had made her sad. And fish, sea cucumbers, hog apples…… But when?
She could haul herself down to the tide pools for fish, or to the lagoon for clams. Which would it be? The effort to decide was exhausting, and the prospect of dragging her leg anywhere was daunting.
“So lonely…..” Where was Boo-ka? Where was the crab?
“Right here, sweet-chops. Just waiting, twiddling my claws.”
“Why don’t you help me? Get me something to eat.”
“Doesn’t work that way, delectable; why don’t you lie down and give me something to eat?”
“You’re no help.”
“Oh, but I will be. Always depending on the cat. I’ll help you on your way.”
“Oh, damn you. On my way where?”
“Where The Lady keeps inviting you, of course. You really do have trouble with navigation, don’t you? Which way is Dakar?”
“Oh, bushwa!”
“Too bad you can’t ask Fred. He’s well on his way, though. See, he does know navigation.”
Birgie was gone, vanished into the bush, or maybe up a tree or into the ground. Had she really been there?
“Hungry.”
I’m hungry. Catch fish. Hadn’t she caught some fish recently? Yes, little flashing fellows in the tidepool. Very fast, hard to catch, but she had caught a couple, grilled them. Could she catch more?
“So tired….”
Birds? She was sick of birds after gorging on the casualties of the Frigate/booby fight, and the untethered ones were getting harder to catch, too.
“And hard work, skinning…..”
Sea cucumbers, but they were mostly to be found on the reef to the – north, yes, north; a long hard hobble. And they were so leathery…
Lobsters. Where had she seen lobsters? What did they taste like?
Clams. There were clams – where?
“Lagoon.”
She rose painfully to her feet and noticed the dutch oven. Bubbling properly, she thought. Why was that good?
“Water.”
Right, the dutch oven made water; she was pleased to remember this. Now to get some clams. What to carry them in?
That flat metal thing? What was that? Oh yes, the larger first aid kit, empty now of medicine and dressings, lying near the fire.
“Too small.” She looked further, feeling exhausted, but so hungry.
“So hungry….”
The zippered bag. Right. Sitting next to the log by the fire. She unloaded it as she had so many times. Bone handled knife, clam openers, flashlight, small first aid kit, compact, inverting eyepiece, liniment bottle, skin oil bottle – empty now. Beer bottle, Benedictine bottle – all empty. Why did she keep them? Couldn’t remember. Hair curler. Why did she have that?
“Doesn’t matter.”
Two cylindrical things – shotgun shells? No, but similar. Flares, that’s it. Hadn’t there been a gun to shoot them with? Yes, surely there had.
“But not now…”
Trying to ignore the pain in her leg, the utter numbness of her foot, she hobbled toward the lagoon.
Lying on her back. Shouldn’t be doing this. Why not? Crabs. Where was she? She struggled to sit up.
She was back at the fire, exhausted, with a bag of clams beside her. How had she gotten them? What were they for?
“Eat. Got to open.”
She found the knife, fumbled it open and inserted its blade between a clam’s valve. There had been an easier way to open them; what was it?
She pried – and the knife fell apart in her hand. The blade clattered to the ground, the bone handles and body of the knife remained in her hand. She looked at her hand stupidly. What had she done?
“Broke….”
She examined the fragments. A pin at the end where the blade swiveled had given way, and the thing had sprung to pieces. Well, maybe she could use blades individually, and the central core of it – a sort of flat plate – as a pry-tool.
She tried, inserting one corner between the clam’s lips and twisting it. No good; the metal was too soft. It bent. Tried the largest of the blades – no luck, and it threatened to cut her hand.
She had something else; what was it? She had opened clams before. There was some simple way, but she had lost it. But….
“Oh, yes…”
She shuffled through the pile of things she had pulled out of the zippered bag. There it was – one of the little pieces of metal she had used – when? -- to shuck a clam.
Which end of the clam? Sam had showed her – it hadn’t seemed reasonable, but it was; the hinge end. Poor Sam, dead somewhere. No, wait, that was Fred. Where was Sam? When was Sam?
“Never mind…”
She applied the clam shucker to the hinge of the clam, slammed its butt with a rock. The shell chipped, but it didn’t open. She tried again and again with the same result. Tried another clam, then another. No luck.
“Oh god damn it to hell!” She took her rock directly to the shell, and it shattered. Scraped out the contents and ate them raw, drank the salty water, spat out the shell fragments. Smashed another and another and ate her fill.
Meanwhile the rest of the clams, in the heat of the sun, quietly opened.
----------------
Notes
“Like little Lulu May, remember her?” Lulu May was an African-American classmate of AE’s in Des Moines. Amelia, My Courageous Sister, pp 30-1
“…thinking about her Jewish doctors.” During one of her periodic sinus procedures, AE wrote her mother in June, 1925 that “my name should be Engelheim or Earheartbaum. Of course the institution (hospital) is Jewish but has the highest standing around here as so often everywhere.” Letters from Amelia: p. 175.
“…the startling things Charles had said…” This is speculation. I have no evidence that Charles Lindbergh shared his views about Jews or admiration for Hitler – which would inform his later efforts to keep the U.S. out of the European war – with AE, or even that he and his wife Anne dined at the Putnam house in Rye, but they moved in the same social and aviation circles, and GP had solicited and published Lindbergh’s account of his 1927 Atlantic crossing. “Amelia enjoyed comparing notes with Anne on their flights around the country…. Amelia staunchly defended the colonel’s brusqueness with crowds…” Amelia, My Courageous Sister: p. 118.
“Had the much-feared birthday actually passed?” AE’s 40th birthday was on July 24.
“Gene’s job. The Bureau of Air Commerce.” The Bureau of Air Commerce, lodged in the Department of Commerce, was the predecessor of today’s independent Federal Aviation Administration. Eugene Vidal was its director from September of 1933 until March of 1937. AE lobbied hard with President and Mrs. Roosevelt for his appointment to the post. See East to the Dawn: pp. 289-91, 348-52.
“…her biscuit-tin toilet …” The “SL” fire feature at the Seven Site was full of tiny fragments of badly oxidized ferrous metal, many of which of about the thickness and shape to have been from a tea or biscuit tin. The feature also produced lumps of material that analysis suggests represent human coprolites, from which usable DNA unfortunately could not be extracted. See See http://tighar.org/wiki/The_Seven_Site#Ferrous_Metal_Artifacts (a work in progress).
“But for cooking, she could build a bigger fire out by the fallen tree trunk.” The result, as I imagine it, was the “WR” fire feature at the Seven Site. See http://tighar.org/wiki/The_Seven_Site#Feature_WR, https://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/Archives/Research/Bulletins/33_SevenMysteries/33_SevenMysteries.html.
“… remembered some butterclams from the lagoon…” Small venus clams (Gafrarium tumidum) are easily obtainable in Nikumaroro’s lagoon shallows. We recorded two clusters of mostly G. tumidum valves at the Seven Site, and found a few more in the SL feature. Collectively these shellfish provided whoever used the site with about 1100 calories. See An Analysis of Marine Mollusk Shells from the Seven Site, Nikumaroro Atoll, Phoenix Islands, Republic of Kiribati, by Judith R. Amesbury, Micronesian Archaeological Research Services, Guam, 2011. Manuscript, TIGHAR files.
“…baby turtles that she had tried to eat…” The bones of baby turtles – seldom if ever consumed by native residents of the Pacific Islands, were among the faunal remains we recovered from fire features at the Seven Site; see http://ameliaearhartarchaeology.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-birds.html
“Which way is Dakar?” Upon crossing the Atlantic from South America to Africa, Earhart had turned the wrong way trying to find Dakar in Senegal, her intended landing place. See Sound of Wings pp. 259-60 and Finding Amelia: pp. 40-42.
“…the larger first aid kit, empty now of medicine and dressings, lying near the fire…” We recorded and recovered (in tiny fragments) a rectangular deposit of thin ferrous metal, reduced essentially to rust but measuring roughly 40 cm. on a side, adjacent to the SL Fire Feature and Clambush 2 at the Seven Site; see http://ameliaearhartarchaeology.blogspot.com/2016/05/earharts-first-aid-kits-at-seven-site.html .
“Hair curler. Why did she have that?” We have found several fragments of half-tubular ferrous metal in the “SL” Feature at the seven Site, of a size to have come from the clamp on a curling iron. In 2010 we recovered a fragment of what appears to be porcelain with embossed ridges and grooves, of the right size to be the insulator around which heating wires could be wrapped as in the design patented by Charles A. Cook in 1925 (U.S. patent # 1530352A, see http://www.google.tl/patents/US1530352) or by Edward R. Hussey in 1928 (U.S. patent # 1691244A, see https://www.google.com.au/patents/ US1691244). Research on this artifact is continuing.
“Flares.” In our 2010 excavations at the Seven Site we recovered a tiny piece of aluminum foil with the remains of English-language lettering printed on one side. Joe Cerniglia and I have speculated that the foil was from a flare’s protective wrapping, and Joe has uncovered some suggestive supporting data; research continues.
“…the knife fell apart in her hand…” See http://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/ Archives/Expeditions/NikuVI/Niku6results.html regarding the discovery of a bone-handled knife at the Seven Site. I do not share Ric Gillespie’s conviction that the knife was purposely beaten apart, though that may be the case. Also see http://tighar.org/wiki/Pocket_knife for discussion of its similarity to a listing in the Luke Field inventory.
“She took her rock directly to the shell, and it shattered.” See http://tighar.org/wiki/The_Seven_Site#Shellfish_Features for discussion of clam features at the Seven Site. The feature I imagine Earhart creating at this point in the story is the first of the two described, colloquially referred to as “Clambush 1.”
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