Nope. No berries. Not yet.

For the past few years, about this time of the season, we've gone down to a nice, kinda secret, quiet spot on Oak Creek to harvest blackberries.  This year we went too early and harvested maybe 12 ripe berries in all.  The rest were all still small and green, weeks away from being ready.  

Fortunately, we did arrive right after a rain, so the air was misty and cool and the creek clear and cold. We waded around for a bit and then drove down to Sedona for lunch.

We'll go again in a few weeks, sometime mid-August, I think.  The berries in our secret spot should be ripe by then.

Little cat feet

The trails near Schultz Pass, puddle-wonderful, enshrouded in fog, covered in hail, were uncommonly spectacular this afternoon.

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

Archival Footage: The Settlement Of The Night Monster

What follows is a true tale, or at least as true a tale as I am able to tell of it these days, so many years later, about a trip I took to the Galapagos Islands with my grandparents when I was 10 years old in 1977. It is a tale based, at least in terms of its sequence and style, on this poem of recollection which I wrote for Beckian Goldberg's ENG 200-something Introduction to Creative Writing poetry workshop as a sophomore at Arizona State University in 1987.

The photos below are also mine, taken by ten-year-old me with my prized Kodak Instamatic camera.

---

"Yes, the night monster will settle there and will find herself a resting place."

Isaiah 34:14b

---

Santa Fe Island, Galápagos
27 October 1977

It was a sharp knife, much sharper than most ten-year-old boys would tyically be allowed to possess.

And it was the right knife, too, its stainless three-inch-long blade and array of Swiss-army implements perfect for carrying confidently in one's front pocket all day long, especially on a grand, far-away excursion such as this.

The fish, lying on its side on the deck, a large trolling-hook pinned in its lower jaw, also gauged the sharpness of the boy's knife; its wide, unblinking eyes betrayed its awareness, as it gaped and gasped in desperate need of oxygen. It needed to die, wanted to now.

"Kill me," the fish told him.

A very-sharp-knife would do the job quickly and easily.  At the lake, in summer, he'd watched his father gut small trout, which they'd caught with a rod and reel from the deck of their tiny red wooden sailboat, with the same sharp knife, quickly and easily. A jab below the chin, just behind the gills, a few grinding cuts against the grain of the fish's belly, and it was done.

"¿Qué estás haciendo?" the young deckhand yelled at the boy. "¡No mates ese pez!"

"What?" the boy asked, stepping back as the 'hand lunged for the knife, pulled it quickly from his grasp and then, instinctively, pressed the flat back of the blade against his thigh, folding it quickly into the hilt and jamming it angrily into his own pocket.  The boy understood very little Spanish.  But he knew, nevertheless, that he'd been scolded for his intention to use his very-sharp-knife to kill the big-eyed yellow-green dorado, the evening's prized entree, prematurely.

"If you'd killed it, it would have begun to spoil out there in the sun before we'd had a chance to prepare it for our dinner tonight," his grandmother would explain later that day, as she secretly handed the knife back to him in the small below-deck cabin they shared with his grandfather.

But for the moment, now knifeless and unable to carry out a mercy killing, the boy waited instead, sitting for much of the hottest part of the day beside the slowly dying fish on the deck, his back against the wall of the bridge of their small chartered ketch, Sulidae, waiting until the fish's large eyes clouded over and its agonal gasping ceased.

The afternoon sunlight reflecting off the rippling lagoon danced silently on the wall behind him. The placid, perfect half-moon bay, its water crystal clear and cerulean blue to a great depth, teemed with life: Gulls and frigatebirds filled the air, Sally-lightfoot crab festooned the black-rock headlands, herds of dark-skinned marine iguanas grazed underwater on algae beds off shore, and massive, fleshy sea lions riotously occupied each beach and rock outcrop, baying, mating, and whelping, day and night in an endless doggish chorus.  Somewhere inland, at the foot of the mountains, he'd been told huge land iguanas and other remarkable mysterious creatures were waiting.

---

Up close, its teeth looked as long as his own arm.

It took just one split-second moment for the boy to recall that he had been warned, earlier in the day, as they had all piled into the smal Zodiac that was to ferry them to the beach, that he was not to walk, and especially not to swim, too near the nesting pods of sea lions.

"Those males, the fat ones with the fangs, they will think you're a rival for their mates if you get too close," their tall, affable Australian guide had warned.  "They've only got one thing on their mind this time of the year, and you don't want to get in the way of that," he said grinning, as he pulled confidently on the outboard's starter-cord.  All the grown-ups in the bow laughed as the motor roared to life.

But the clear water of the cove was warm and simply too inviting, and before long the boy could be found swimming alone, well away from his own pod of humans who were sunbathing and chatting on the vast sandy beach, well out past the rocks and reef into the deeper darker blue waters of the lagoon. Young sea lions playfully darted in and out of his path, multicolored fish swam around him unafraid, the water fathoms deep. It was heaven.

Soon a large dark mass lurked beneath him, gliding stealthily from his left flank to his right, disturbing the trajectory of the sunfish and the sea lions, and just for a moment, thoroughly confounding the boy.

Without warning, a massive head exploded out of the water directly in front of him, mere inches from his face. Wild, whiskered, snarling, its was a thing full of teeth, threat, and animal-rage.

"Go back!" Its cavernously deep voice belched and then redoubled across the water.

A watery scream escaped the boys lips as he turned to swim for the beach in a blind-panic toward the faint hope of safety.

Unhurt but terrified, he reached the shoreline to be greeted by a cacophony of fearful screaming from the rest of the landing party, all of whom had heard the 'lion's roar.

---

He sought solace that evening alone, sitting at the small built-in desk in his cabin, a dull pencil in hand, feeling all-too-intimately the isolation and vastness of the equatorial Pacific. Writing unsendable postcards to his parents, he could hear his grandparents, as well as the various members of his extended family and their traveling companions, as they sat together on deck above watching the sun set behind Santa Fe island's impressive silhouette.

Miles from the nearest outpost from which his postcards could perhaps be sent, he nonetheless found it comforting to write to his mother about his day, downplaying what he'd experienced that afternoon, the others laughing about his terror and the scold he'd endured thereafter, writing instead in his best hand of the excitement and adventure of it all.

Despite being lost in thought as he wrote, he still was only mildly surprised when his grandfather came into the cabin unexpectedly.

"Have you seen my sweater?" the older man asked.  "It's a little chilly up on deck tonight," he observed while rifling through the cabin's small closet.  Turning back to face the boy as he slipped an arm into the sleeve of his sweater he remarked, "What are you up to, down here all alone? Everyone's having a nice time watching the sunset tonight. Why don't you come up?"

"I will.  I'm just writing some postcards right now."

"Oh, postcards.  Good.  To your folks?  Where will you mail them? I didn't see any mailboxes on the beach today."

"Ha-ha. I know.  I'm just writing to mom and pop because I feel like it.  I guess I'll mail them when we get back to Santa Cruz.  I just feel like writing right now."

---

"Feeling a little homesick?"

"Yeah," said the boy, stifling tears.  "A lot." As his typically stoic, commonly distant grandfather sat down next to him on the nearest bunk the boy admitted,  "I think I want to go home."

"I'm sure you do.  You're a long, long way from home right now," the older man observed.  "Much further away than I ever went when I was ten years old.  And, you know, I am proud of you. You've behaved so well, and you've been so courageous. It a big deal to come on a trip like this without your folks.

"In fact, I don't think most ten-year-old kids could do it.  But your grandma and I knew how much you'd love to be here. We were a little worried that it would be too far away for a boy your age to travel without his mom and dad.  But you've come so far, and you've been so bold. I'm really glad you're here with us."

"I'm glad, too," sniffed the boy. "I just miss my mom and pop right now."

"I know.  And that's okay.  When I was your age, the very farthest I ever went away from home was to summer camp in the mountains a few times.  And that was only a few hundred miles from home.  But here you are, thousands of miles from home, in the middle of the ocean, and it's taken you 'til now, almost two weeks, to get even a little bit homesick.  I'm so impressed!  Be proud of yourself," said the old man, putting a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

The boy smiled, just a little, as he explained, "Whenever I go on sleepovers at my friends' house, and if I have trouble sleeping at night, I always like to think, if I need to go home I can just get up and walk there. But here, I know," he sniffed, "I can't ever walk home from here."

"Nope.  You sure can't." his grandfather smiled, compassionately.  "But you'll be home soon enough.  Hang in there, Juanito, you'll see your folks again before you know it.  They'll be at the airport to pick us up when we get back, and they're going to be just as happy to see you as you'll be to see them."

---

The next moment, the boy's uncle appeared in the doorway.  "You okay, Percy?" he asked, evidently concerned.

"Sure.  Fine.  Just came down for a sweater.  Been talking with John."

"Well, looks like you found a sweater," his uncle continued, making small talk while looking carefully at his grandfather's face, evidently concerned.  Sensing their conversation was over, as well as his chance to be alone to write postcards, the boy got up to go join the rest of the group up on deck, as his grandfather had suggested.  But the moment he stepped into the narrow hall outside his cabin he heard a faint noise behind him, as though someone had tossed a heavy pillow onto one of the bunks in his cabin.

"Percy?!" his uncle called out urgently. "Percy!" As the boy looked into their cabin from the hallway, he could see his grandfather lying back, awkwardly, on the bunk, his eyes closed, mouth half-open, unresponsive to the other man's calls.  

"John, go get your grandmother.  Something's wrong."  And the boy obeyed, walking into the adjacent bow-cabin, sticking his head up through the small hatch in the ceiling.

"Uncle Jim says something's wrong with grandpa," he told his grandmother.  "He wants you to come down, they're in our cabin."  Everyone gasped and headed for the main hatch and were soon gathered in the galley and in the hallway outside their cabin door.

The boy, however, sat in the galley along with several others, and watched as a half-dozen crewmen and their affable guide all rushed forward through the ship innards to peer in on his grandfather.  All but one crewman and the guide turned back as the captain began to shout orders in Spanish at all of them.  

Curious, the boy wandered forward himself a short time later, looking cautiously through the doorway between the arms and legs of his elders, to see the one member of the crew straddling his grandfather, now fully prone, face-up on the bunk, and another person, their no longer affable guide, holding his head with both hands, ready to breathe for him whenever the crewman momentarily ceased doing CPR.

It was so hot now. The crush of bodies and panic had raised the temperature below-decks to a sticky, stifling degree.

All the lights on board, but for the one small oil lamp in the galley and the lone light in his grandfather's cabin, had been turned off the moment the boat's giant noisy diesel engine had been engaged. The sails, too, were soon raised on their masts and the captain ordered the prow to be pointed toward the archipeligo's nearest hospital, in the small settlement of Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz, which the boy knew, from his years of study, was hours and hours away by night from where they were currently, across the open equitorial sea.

Everyone's dinner, those fresh-caught dorado fish-filets, sat seasoned but uncooked, ignored atop the galley stove through the night.

No longer homesick, but still just as alone, the boy wept quietly in a corner of the dark galley cabin.  But he cried only for a little while, and then when he did again, and later in the night again, it was more because of the stress of the whole affair than it was from any kind of fear or confusion.  Because he understood what was happening, and he knew what was to be the likely outcome of it all.

At last, a little later, he at last fell asleep, still just as alone, on the padded bench that ran the length of the galley's half-moon dinner table.

---

When he awoke the next morning, he found he was still lying on the galley bench. The sun, already up, with its diffuse light shining through the portholes above him, he found his head was now nestled comfortably in his grandmother's ample lap.  He stretched, quietly, looked up and caught her gaze.  Her lips pursed, her eyes red, she nevertheless tried to smile.  He had always loved her smile, and did once again, especially in that moment.

"Grandpa's dead" was all she said.

"I know."

"You were very brave last night," she told him.  And then a moment later, told him succinctly, "The doctors were here, a little while ago, while you were sleeping. They're going to come back in a while and take grandpa's body away with them."

They returned, when they came back, with a long white-pine box and several strong men to carry it.

---

They all left the island, together, later that day, traveling by bus up and over the central highland forest of Santa Cruz, from the settlement of Puerto Ayora to the small airport on the island's opposite side. The white pine casket, either because it was too large or too heavy for the luggage rack bolted to the top of the colorful Latin-American bus, was instead shoved straight down the passenger compartment's center aisle, providing a group of gray-haired locals with a fine platform for card playing while enroute.

Next to the dock, where they boarded a ramshackle ferryboat for the quick trip across the narrow inlet to reach the airport located on the tiny isle of Baltra, stood a lone blue-footed booby atop a decaying, barnacle-covered wood piling. Its once-bright feet faded and bestained with soot and grime from the many transport boats' fuel and exhaust, it stared hard at the boy as he walked the narrow plank to get aboard.

"What did you expect?" it asked from its rotten perch, permanent, immovable, forever fixed in his memory.