Monday, September 19, 2016

AE on Norwich Island Part 9

Amelia Earhart on Norwich Island

Part 9


July 8th, 1937

Her dawn scan of the horizon was disappointing as usual – so usual that it almost wasn’t disappointing. She hurried up the beach to Fred’s grave as the sunlight began to flood the landscape. It was undisturbed; only a couple of crabs crawling around on it, and a few more down on the fading blood patch.

“Thank God!”

For small favors. He was still dead. She had… no she hadn’t!

She strode back to her camp, got the fire started, filled the dutch oven with seawater and put it on to boil. Stood awhile under the trees where her hammock was slung, searching her field of view – up to the north cape, down to where the horizon disappeared behind the shoreline vegetation to the south.

A booby marched across the rubble downslope. She nodded to it.  

“OK. Right. On with it. There’s really no point in staying here, now that the ship’s gone and I don’t have – don’t have Fred to – to take care of.  I …”

She sat down suddenly on the scree, face in her hands, shaking. Gradually became calm. Fixed her eyes on the unbroken line of the western horizon.

“I might as well see what the rest of this place has to offer.”

Maybe it offered fresh water.  The dutch oven was beginning to bubble, but it was slow, slow. And it took constant tending.  If one of those pools she’d seen at the other end of the island was fresh….

“But why should it be?  If it were, wouldn’t there be people living here?”

The booby had stopped pacing, was standing and staring at her.

“Yes, there would. But who knows?  And I’d look pretty stupid sitting up here operating this silly still when there was a whole lake of fresh water down at the other end.”

But what if Itasca came?

“When Itasca comes, they’ll circle the island.” The booby cocked its head at her as though listening.  “That’s only natural.  Sure, they’ll see the shipwreck, and….”

Well, that was something to consider.  If they’d heard her broadcast, they’d be looking for the Norwich…..

“In which case, they’ll come ashore and look.  So I’ll leave my camp so it’s easy to see.  Even….”

Rising in a rustle of coral gravel, she slid down toward the shipwreck. Wrenched a piece of wood paneling out of the scree – some piece of the superstructure.  Carried it back up to camp, dug her compact out of the zippered bag and pried the rouge from its compartment.  She almost never used rouge, so what was in the compact was dry and hard.  She used it like a crayon to write on the panel: “At other end.  AE.”  Propped it up against some rocks and the tool kit – easy to recognize as being from an airplane.  She carefully returned the rouge to its compartment, the compact to the bag.  Pulled the dutch oven out of the fire to let it cool. Another cup of water. Shooed the nesting booby off her nest and found an egg – guaranteed fresh! Took it back and fried it on the steel plate. Ate it quickly – not bad! – and got back to work.

Sorting through her supplies, she stacked most of them carefully in the midst of her camp, where they would be easily visible to anyone coming up the scree slope from the shore.  Tied one of Fred’s shirts to a tree branch where it would flutter in the wind.  Packed the zippered bag with only the most basic gear – the bone-handled knife as a back-up to her sheath knife, Fred’s lighter, the eyepiece from the sextant in case the lighter gave out.  Fred’s bottle of skin bracer, her toothbrush, her tin of Vince and vial of vegetable concentrate.  The bar of soap. 

Wrinkled up her nose.  “You’re getting smelly, Millie.”

She’d been in and out of the water often enough going out to the plane, but had only had two baths since they’d landed, and yesterday’s had been a distracted one.

“If there’s fresh water in those ponds…..”  Shook her head.

“If there’s fresh water in those ponds, you’re not going to mess it up with soap.”

Well, she’d find another tide pool to bathe in, and never mind the salt. But for now… she decanted the fresh water into a water bag, added the cup and dutch oven to the zippered bag. The signal pistol and a couple of flares. Went to get the raft, back at the old camp. Fred’s camp.

There was something wrong with it.  Only one side seemed to be inflated, and not very inflated at that.  She’d have to pump it up. Where was the pump? 

“Uh-oh.”

There was a long, jagged cut across the raft’s once-inflated gunwale.  As she approached, a crab crawled out of it.

“Oh damnation!” 

She kicked the crab and it soared off into the brush.  Another came out and she stomped on it. Hurt her foot; the crab scuttled away.

“Damn, damn, DAMN!”  

She had wiped her bloody hands on the gunwale after throwing in the contents of Fred’s pockets.  That had been enough to attract the crabs, and they had simply….

“Eaten it.” 

Picked and pinched and chewed right through the rubberized fabric, let all the air out, and gone exploring inside.  The raft was ruined.

“Eaten its little innerds out. Damn!”

Up to the north, over the cape where Fred had taken his sightings, birds were circling. Circling, circling.

“OK, so be it.” 

She gathered Fred’s belongings – a crab had started working on his wallet; she grabbed it from the beast’s claws and tromped on its pilfered shell. Too hard to crush with a foot; she kicked it into the brush.  Carried her gleanings back to her hammock, dumped them. Forced away thoughts of him. Look forward.

“OK, then.  If I can’t raft across the channel, I’ll darn well walk around the other way.” 

She threw the straps of the two bags over her shoulder and started off, leaning on the bamboo rod. 

She headed north along the shore, to round the north end and walk down the long northeasterly shore she remembered from the overflight.  Passing Fred’s grave, she let herself experience regret, loneliness, guilt, but quickly put it all away. No point in it.  Tipped his sun helmet to him.

“Thanks, Fred.”

When Itasca showed up, she would really have to get rid of the helmet.  It wouldn’t do to be photographed in it; it would seem – disrespectful, and it would be on front pages all over the world.

Was she disrespectful? Irresponsible? Had she brought all this on? Made this happen?

She marched on.

As far as she could remember, there had been no passages through the reef on the northeasterly side of the island; it should be a straight walk down to the ponds at the far end.  How long a walk once she rounded the north end?  Three miles?  Four?  Not far; she’d be there by midday.  Though the going was not entirely easy.  The beach sloped steeply and was mostly made up of coral rubble; it was like walking the side of a gravel pile.  Before she had gone half a mile the muscles of her legs were beginning to complain at the strain of walking on a slope – a slope that was none too stable, and slid under her feet. 

Should she go inland? No, where the beach ended there was a belt of thick, tangled brush, with the big gray-barked trees behind, and doubtless piles of deadfall, bushes, and vines.  No point trying to struggle through that; the beach was the clearest highway.  She walked as close to the water as she could – here it was sometimes almost flat, and often she was walking on solid coral, which wasn’t too slippery if she stayed above the water line.  Little sharks and moray eels swam alongside as she walked, and the tide pools teemed with fish. 

Here was a small grove of coconut palms, but there were no fresh nuts on the ground, and she had no way to climb the trees.  Most of the trees were old, and easily 40 feet high. And they didn’t have steps cut into them like trees did in inhabited areas.

“Don’t know how I’d climb them even if there were steps.”

She experimented, trying to cut a step with her Javanese knife. The fibrous trunk was far too tough. The work needed a machete.

Could she climb without steps? Climbing, after all, was her forte.

She took off her shoes and tried, got about six feet up the trunk before losing her foothold and sliding back down, painfully scraping the insides of her thighs. Landed in a heap and sat looking up at the waving treetops.

“Hence the steps.”

And what would she do if she got to the top? She had seen young men twisting coconuts off their stems, dropping them to the ground, but that meant hanging onto the trunk with their legs while…

“Break my fool neck.” 

There were half a dozen or so much smaller trees, doubtless grown from nuts dropped by the bigger ones, but none of them seemed to have anything harvestable.

Could she knock a nut down with another nut? She tried to pick one up off the ground, but it wouldn’t budge – it was rooted in tight. Another fell apart in her hands. Finally she found one she could lift, that held together. Backed up, set up as though for a penalty shot.

“Aaaand up!”

The coconut soared up – graceful, powerfully thrown – about fifteen feet, and arced uselessly into the bush. She recovered it and tried a football pitch. No go; the coconut was far heavier than a football.

“Well, shucks.”

There had to be a way, but with any luck she wouldn’t have to find it. She picked up her bags and walked on.

The shoreline began to curve to her right, first gently, then acutely.  Soon the Norwich was out of sight.  And then she was gazing down a long, straight beach that faded into the misty distance. She felt the northeast trade wind full in her face.

“Certainly is the windward side.” Wilder than the other side, big white-topped rollers coming in like galloping horses, booming and roaring on the distant reef-edge. 

“All the way from America.” 

If she could only ride them back…..

The beach was flatter here, and somewhat more like a real beach, with sand – or at least coral that was ground down into relatively small pieces.  She walked close to the edge of the waves, where they lapped gently on the beach after breaking on the reef, a hundred yards or more out.  Lots of tide pools, lots of fish.

Some portions of the reef were almost paved with sea cucumbers. Looking, she thought, like a million dogs had pooped on the reef.

Beche de mer.” 

Tried to remember how they were prepared. She had eaten them in Indonesia, in some kind of stew.

“Dry them, that’s what they do. Then cut them up and cook them in a sauce.”

She didn’t have sauce makings, but if worst came to worst…

Time for a bath? No, not yet, though there were inviting tide pools.

“Not quite ready to consort with the cucumbers.”

Kept walking, scanning the horizon.  Where, oh where was Itasca?

On her right, the beach sloped up to where the vegetation started – thick, tangled brush just like on the other side, with the same big gray-barked trees behind.  Lots of birds in the trees, and nesting under the bushes.  Just as tame as on the other side, seemingly, but she didn’t walk up to them to see if they would react.  Every now and then an opening in the brush gave her a view of the interior – just the big trees, and sometimes more brush.

The walk became monotonous, the heat intense, the bags banging on her sides uncomfortable.  But the wind was cooling, and the beach was pretty flat, easy going as long as she walked on the packed, wet sand close to the water’s edge.  It really was sand now, albeit very grainy sand.
She turned, looked back at her footprints. Her absolutely isolated footprints. Walked on. Surprised to find tears on her cheeks.
“Oh God damn it! Why did it…?”
She walked on, into what felt like darkness though the sun was bright and hot.
“He didn’t have to come. I didn’t force him.”
“Needed a navigator.”
Another dozen steps.
“He wanted to come. He begged me to let him come.”
That wasn’t quite true. She shook her head. But he had wanted to. And she had needed him.
“It was his big chance. Make his name, for his navigation school.”
The darkness gathered. She staggered a bit in a patch of soft sand, wobbled, caught herself.
“I didn’t cause…oh damn, damn, DAMN!”
She spun, sat down heavily, face in hands, tears springing.
“I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!”
Lay on her back, arm over her eyes against the sun, steadying herself.
“It’s done. It’s damned rotten, bloody rotten, godawful rotten. But it’s done, and there’s no use…”
She lay for a time under the baking sun, with the surf loud in her ears. Nothing happened.
Sat up, wiped her eyes, struggled to her feet and marched on, shaking her head. Nothing was resolved, but the darkness had gone away.
“I don’t know what killed him, and I guess I never will.”
“It all just seems so… so unnecessary. So wrong!”
“But it’s what is…”
She walked on. And on.
Ahead of her, something shiny but brown caught her eye, moving at the edge of the water.  An animal? No, it was something inanimate, just washing in and out with the waves.
“A bottle.”
She dodged a wave and grabbed it before it could wash out again.  A brown, long-necked bottle.
Beer.  Probably beer.  It looked familiar.  Probably American. 
An American bottle must mean…..  She peered at the horizon, first one way, then the other.  Surely…..
“Don’t be a ninny, Millie.  It could have floated here from – Los Angeles, or….” 
Several minutes later – or longer?  She came back to herself, sitting on the beach.  Looked at her wet hands, felt her wet cheeks.
“Crying. Again.”
Why? When would she stop?
On your feet, Millie.  Keep going.  Don’t stop.  Don’t think.  No, keep thinking but think forward. What’s past is done. Keep planning, keep looking ahead.  The future, Millie, the future.
“The future. In the future….”
Itasca would come.  She would get home.  She would write about the adventure, about poor Fred.  She would fly again…..
“Fly….” 
Come on, Millie.  Take the bottle, it might be handy to collect water.  Where had it come from?  Oh yes, America….. the ocean…  She unzipped the zippered bag, dropped the bottle in. Gathered up the bags, walked on. 
The shore seemed endless, passing like a slow, boring newsreel.  The heat reflecting up from the coral was scorching; her eyes closed to slits; her gait slowed.  The whole world, all existence, seemed to have become focused down to the sole activity of placing one foot before another.  She stumbled on, not thinking, trying not to think.  And on, and on….
She woke with a start; she had dozed off.
“My goodness, sleepwalking!”
Felt her face and knew it – and her arms – were sunburned.
“Damn.” 
She turned toward the water, to splash her face. Wait, the salt would sting. 
“Well…..”
She had things for sunburn; she’d come prepared for that.  Stumbled up to the shade of the bushes, put down the zippered bag and opened it.  Considered the last dregs of Freckle crème in the elegant little footed jar.  No, that would burn.  Mennen skin bracer?  Better; it too would sting, but not as much as salt water. She poured some into her hand, rubbed it on her face and arms.
“Of course, now I’ll be sticky.” 
No help for it; they’d have plenty of fresh water to wash in, and a sick bay, on the Itasca.  She pulled the binoculars out of the bag and scanned the horizon again.  Nothing.  Of course, Itasca could be lying off their campsite right now.  Maybe leaving had been a mistake….
Suddenly the sky, the huge blue cloud-flecked sky, was bearing down on her, pushing her to the ground. The beach wasn’t coral sand; it was gypsum! There was a roaring in her ears.  Hugging herself, squinting her eyes closed, she rolled on her side and lay there awhile, shaking.  Gradually the feeling passed.
“Goodness, Amelia. Get hold of yourself.” 
She palmed a handful of sand – it really was just coral.  Pulled herself up, put the binoculars back to her eyes, swept the horizon.
“If they’ve found my camp, they’ll steam around here.  They could come any time. I’ve… I’ve nothing to fear…”
She smiled a twisted smile.
“… but fear itself.” 
She trudged on.
“And crabs.”
What was that ahead of her?  A set of long, curving tracks – almost trenches, extending from the high tide line up to the edge of the brush.  Then another and another.  
“Canoes!  Someone’s dragging….”
Who?  Natives?  Pirates? Wasn’t there a scene like this in The Coral Island, when the pirates came?
No, they weren’t canoe tracks.  She had seen these before – where?  Couldn’t remember, but they were sea turtle tracks.
“Going up to make nests, lay eggs.  At night….” 
File it away.  Something to know.  Turtle eggs can be eaten – she’d seen them in African markets – and they’d have fluid in them ….
“Icch.”
Walked on, counting turtle tracks.  Seven, eight, nine….
“I won’t need them.  Itasca will be here….”
Finally the land began to curve away again to her right.  Must be coming to the end of the island.  The wind was at her back.  Time to look for….  What?  The ponds, yes, the ponds.  She scrambled up the beach – rubbly again above the high tide mark.  The brush was fairly thin here, lots of walkways through into the trees. 
It was shady under the trees, and loud with bird cries and the rattle of leaves and branches in the wind.  But she was sheltered from the wind by the surrounding brush, and it quickly got hot.  The trees were festooned with spider webs, and the ground was littered with deadfall.  She fell repeatedly; her face was slimy with sweat and coated with spider webs. 
Wait, wait, be sensible.  She found a convenient sized stick, hung both her bags on her left shoulder and used her right arm to wave the stick in front of her face, clearing away the webs.  That was better.  On through the hot green darkness under the big trees.
Light ahead now, and then she came out of the trees facing – a pond!  Clear water – perfectly transparent – lapping the coral-rock shore.  Her spirits soared, she grinned; it had to be fresh, or it wouldn’t be so clear! 
The pond occupied a sort of sink-hole in almost solid coral rock, laid down in sharp-edged layers.  Very solid, very flat, and no deadfall in it at all.  No grass or soil either, not even much sand except at the water’s edge, two or three feet below the coral shelf.  She dropped her bags – that was a relief – and jumped down to the sand.  Fell to her knees, dipped her face to the water and drank ….
It was salt!  Salty as the sea!  Maybe saltier!
“Oh, crap!” 
She didn’t scold herself for the profanity. 
After awhile she climbed out of the sinkhole and dragged herself over to the second one, hopelessly.  It was salt too, and not even clear like the first one; instead it was slimy and stagnant-looking.
Evening was coming, and she knew it would come fast.  She realized she was hungry. All she had had was that egg for breakfast.
“Famished.” 
This was probably a good thing.
“If you’re hungry, you’re alive.  Come on, Millie, snap out of it!” 
She gathered wood – lots of dry twigs and limbs back in the trees – and built a fire against the inside of the sinkhole.  The sand would make a soft sleeping place.  On the coral above, across the pond and under a bush, she saw a booby sitting on an egg.  Walked around and dispatched it as she had the first one, carried its body and its egg away back to her side of the pond before its mate returned. She cut off the head and let the carcass drain out, hanging from a bush. Watched and felt a spasm of guilt as the bird’s mate returned to the nest, wandered around squawking, finally flew away.
“I’m sorry, I truly am, but it’s eat or be eaten out here.”
But how was she going to pluck the bird?
“Without a pot… Damn, Millie, you should’ve thought of that.”
Could she skin it? Mary had showed her how to skin a chicken; she thought it had turned out rather dry, but…
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” 
She pulled out her little Javanese knife and cut the skin around the bird’s thighs, began to peel, cutting away the connective tissue. It was surprisingly easy. She threw the feet, skin, and entrails up onto the coral shelf for the crabs.
She dined that night on booby breast and fried egg. If there was a foetal booby in the latter it wasn’t apparent, and the egg didn’t taste any fishier than had her breakfast.  Drank water from the bag, with two drops of vegetable concentrate. She had enough water to last another day, sparingly, then she’d need to fire up the still again.  If…..
“But they will be here.  It’s been almost a week.”
She lay on the sand, forcing away thoughts of Fred, of the Electra, of home and family. Looking up into the deepening darkness as her fire died.  So many stars, the Milky Way.  She traced it out, star-cluster to star-cluster, imagining herself soaring among them.  Drifted off and slept soundly.

-----------------
Notes:
“…pried the rouge out of its compartment…” The fragments of what seems to be dried-up rouge found at the Seven Site (See http://ameliaearhartarchaeology.blogspot.com/2012/09/artifacts-of-seven-site-compact.html) may have been used for the kinds of purpose described here.

Climbing, after all, was her forte.” In her youth, Earhart was well-known for her propensity to climb buildings, roofs, domes (See East to the Dawn pp. 76,
89-90; Amelia, My Courageous Sister, pp. 55-6

Sea cucumbers. Observed with Larry Inman, Isaac Edwards, and Leoni Todhunter on this stretch of reef, 2015

Make his name, for his navigation school.” Noonan had left Pan American World Airways, where he had worked as a master navigator and navigation instructor, not long before the World Flight began. He had also divorced his wife and remarried. It is unclear exactly what his plans were after the World Flight, but starting his own navigation school is a good guess, and Lovell in Last Flight (p. 242) states his intention as a fact. His widow reported that he had “had several good business offers.” See https://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/Archives/Research/ResearchPapers/Noonan.html.

“…it was gypsum!” In 1923, AE and her family had sunk most of their money into a gypsum mine near Moapa, Nevada, the brainchild of a friend, Peter Barnes. During a visit to the “diggings” by AE and her father, a flash flood wiped out the operation and killed Barnes. AE was witness to the entire disaster, which incidentally wiped out the family’s modest wealth. See Courage is the Price, pp. 119-27

Nothing to fear but fear itself.” From FDR’s first inaugural address. See http://historymatters.gmu.edu/d/5057/

Sea turtle tracks. We have regularly observed sea turtles tracks and nests on Nikumaroro’s beaches, especially toward the southeast end.

“…she’d seen them in African markets.” See Last Flight p. 65

“…wave the stick in front of her face, clearing away the webs…” This is a practice we have adopted on Nikumaroro, and I assume that Earhart would have done the same.

The pond occupied a sort of sink-hole in almost solid coral rock.” This pond is at 174o41’37.60 S, 174o29’39,15” W.

Mary had showed her how to skin a chickenI don’t know whether Mary Brashay skinned chickens, but it was and is not an uncommon way to prepare them. See for instance http://www.backwoodshome.com/articles2/grim79.html. AE’s mother was another source of information on chicken preparation; see Amelia, My Courageous Sister p. 22.


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