reasons, and the renowned environmental activist, Dr. David Suzuki, explaining how a fence could
create an artificial island habitat for a species we didn’t realize had to be mobile to survive.
Bonnie hum-hum--ed over aspects of my story until, without comment, a fine drizzle
simultaneously turned us around. Setting a time to meet the next day at the same café, we parted
company amicably.
That night, I had a vivid dream I could clearly recall in the morning. This wasn’t a particularly
strange event for me, because I had a pocketful of dreams I still remembered from different times
in my life, the most recent of which was of a convict escaping from an island detention facility
near Horseshoe Bay, British Columbia. I had no knowledge of such a place when I first had the
dream, on my sailboat in the Mediterranean, but the vivid sequence had regularly drawn my
attention westward. Other dreams I still recalled in detail were from when I was a kid and between
nightmares after working in El Salvador.
***
Zzzzz: Innocuous soft tones over Thunder Bay, ozone crackle, a voice devoid of concern
prepared us for some harsh minutes as we belatedly skirted a chaotic mass of farmer’s delight.
Earphones plugged into my empty pocket forced the fellow sitting in 12B to tap the pages in my
hand, before pointing to the seat belt sign. I nodded my thanks as the plane bucked tomato juice
onto the woman’s lap in 14C; her shrill scream lit the fuse for unescorted ten-year-old girls sitting
across the aisle. A male flight attendant flashed by them to rescue the woman’s cashmere ensemble.
A second attendant made her way to the sister twins, whose faith had been forfeited to a bottle of
seltzer and a shaker of salt. They were inconsolable. Three rows back, a handsomely scruffy
twenty-something fellow retrieved a mandolin from the overhead storage bin and ignoring the
attendants’ objections, nodded for the businessman sitting next to the children to switch seats,
which he was happy to do. Two men and a woman similar in common physical appeal, youthful
age, and rural clothing changed seats with passengers in front and behind the children, as a
tattooed Neanderthal carrying drumsticks stooped to whisper in the tomato juice woman’s ear.
Abruptly silent, spittle dribbled from the corner of her mouth as the giant turned to sit on her
armrest. Leaning across the aisle, he sang, “Ahhh aa ahhh ah,” sticks tap-tap-tapping lightly on
the nearest girl’s arm. Confusion from the incongruity of a gentle voice emanating from such a
physical powerhouse chased her fear away, and envy quieted her sister until the drummer’s
brothers crooned, “Ohh ha ohh.” Their cousin blended a feathering, “Ahhh–ohh-ayyoh,” while his
pixie-like sister overdubbed, “Ayya-yaa, aay-yaa,” a cappella that at times sounded like two
voices, surrounding the children with a haunting prelude to an abruptly jaunty tale about fishing
off the Grand Banks. As a hundred tons of technology twisted through the unfriendly skies, I found
myself chuckling at the irony of the Newfoundlanders restoring peace to the passengers who didn’t
know how many men had died there.
That’s what woke me up just after four a.m. - chuckling.
Chapter 7
Positioning
Short of breath, Bonnie came into Nolan’s two minutes late, according to the Coca Cola
wall clock, and before the door had finished closing, she said, “A newspaper page caught on my
wiper.”
“Shit, were you hurt?” I said from our window booth.
