Beyond That Horizon

We were invited to have supper with a Filipino family. They were not members of our Church, but we were good friends and I think they liked having us around for conversation and on occasion, for the entertainment value. They lived on a hill above Colonia in a nice home that had air conditioning and carpet. I think the father was in Yap on assignment for a construction project.

We sat down to eat at a table with nice place settings and utensils. It was great. The mother had fixed Filipino chicken, egg-battered spam, and hotdogs. It was a far cry from some of the unspeakable concoctions we were used to eating. There was plenty of food, good company and we were relishing the moment.

Suddenly, Gilligan noticed a bowl of Boonie Peppers on the table. I’m not an expert on peppers, but I tried that brand of peppers a few days before and I knew what they were all about. One tiny seed from a Boonie Pepper burned my mouth as if a white hot poker had been thrust in. It was not a pleasant experience. I was told that those peppers were the second hottest peppers in the world! I am not actually sure of the scientific or culinary name for them, we just called them Boonies because that is what the islanders called them.

Gilligan began spouting off about how he was a pepper expert and being from California, knew all about them and could handle eating even the hottest. The Filipino mother warned him that he may not like those particular peppers, but he was welcome to try them. He proclaimed, "Oh, these are nothing compared to what we have in California!” At that instant, he put a whole pepper in his mouth and started chewing it up.

It took a few moments for the debilitating pain from the fire in his mouth to reach his wee-little brain and tell him that he was about to suffer a miserable death. His eyes began to water profusely, his nose to blow snot down his face and shirt front, sweat drops ran in rivers down his forehead, but most critical was the fact he wasn’t breathing and his face was turning purple! He was motioning wildly for help with screeches and grunts being the only audible sounds his mouth could make.

Filipino mom yelled for him to spit out the pepper and get something else in his mouth. He jumped up, staggered over to the sink and gulped water before mom could scream that, “Water will only make the pain worse!” just as he spewed water everywhere. He was close to circling the drain. The rest of us elders remained seated and were silently amused by the entertainment. Pita was the only one that was visibly laughing. He couldn't hide the fact that it was a jolly moment!

In the melee, Mom jumped up, grabbed some thick, milky liquid from her frig, bent Gilligan over backwards and poured it down his throat. This seemed to save him and within about 30 minutes of gulping copious amounts of that, alas, he was back with us, but without his mouth flapping incessantly as it usually was.

Mission work on Yap was different from day-to-day. Generally speaking, we canvassed the island in search of people to visit and teach about our religion. Since our Church had only been on the island for around 4 or 5 years at that time, most of the islanders had some exposure to what we were all about, but didn’t know that much of the finer details. Our objective was to get out in the villages, visit the people and let them know that we were fairly normal (except for Gilligan) even though we came from lands far away.

Some of the remote outer villages were fun to visit, but posed some problems on occasion. We learned that our bright white shirts, ties, dark pants, and forward-thrust dress oxfords were a stark contrast to the jungle setting and anything the people in those parts had ever seen.

A few huts we approached had children sitting innocently on their porches eating lunch or dinner. A few other plates loaded with steaming hot food were nearby with the owners long gone. Sometimes we glimpsed people running full speed into the jungle as we approached. Of course, when asked where their parents were, the answer was invariably the same each time, “They went far away. I don’t know when they will be back. They’ve been gone a long time.”

A peak around the back of the hut and down the trail would usually reveal a dark, curly haired dad or mom peaking out from behind a tree or bush. It was a hilarious site, but one of concern as we didn’t want to foster bad relations with these folks!

After talking to some of our Yapese friends who knew about this phenomenon of people running madly into the jungle on our approach and leaving their kids to fair for themselves with supper still in front of them, we learned that the white shirts and brightly colored ties scared the daylights out of those villagers who didn’t get that many foreign visitors and had never seen such outlandish clothing. Of course, that was an instant invitation and excuse for us to wear our jeans and T-shirts when visiting those places as we didn’t like wearing our dress clothes as much as those islanders didn’t like seeing them.

Championship wrestling was a big thing on Yap. A few of the islanders had an ESPN feed from somewhere and were able to get segments of pro wrestling on their TV screens. Of course, the consensus was that it was all real and the dressed up, 'roid monsters on the screen were really beating the crap out of each other.

Jeff’s son, Mickey-Mantle asked me one Sunday if I knew anything about wrestling. I said that I had wrestled in high school. He wondered if I would teach him some wrestling moves. So the next day, we met at the branch meeting house, laid out a tarp on the grass and went to work.

It wasn’t long before Mickey-Mantle wondered if I could skip all the easy stuff we were doing and go right into aerial throws, slams, jams, kicks, slaps, pile-drives and all the other stuff he had seen on TV. I explained that most of what he saw was stunts performed by muscle-bound brutes trying to make a buck, and even though they looked real, it was all pretty much for show.

He didn’t buy it, saying he was pretty sure that it was all real. Who was I to argue with him? So, I made up some stuff and we performed our own version of Championship Wrestling - Yapese style. We had a good time throwing each other around and thankfully nobody got hurt – just like on TV!

Speaking of Jeff, the crazy Pohnpeian – we had a party one time. It was just a get-together with potluck and games. Jeff was assigned to bring some pork. He said that would be no problem. The day of the party, he carried in a large pot full of great tasting shredded pork cooked to perfection. I would have had seconds or thirds if there had been any left.

After eating, Jeff came up to me with that cheesy grin that never left his face. He said he had a new invention and he wanted to show me after the party. I said ok and wondered for the rest of the activity what he was up to this time. By the time the party ended, my curiosity was just about to explode.

Jeff was excited as we went to his house. He lived in a fairly decent plywood hut on the edge of the lagoon. It was a very efficient place as many homes were in that particular area of the island. Their bathrooms, or banjos, as they were called were built right over the water. Thus, all their waste got flushed out to sea every time the tide went out – Mother Nature’s way of flushing the toilet, I guess.

Anyway, Jeff took me and Pita over to his pig pen. In the pen was a three-legged pig that was doing pretty well hobbling around doing what pigs do. Jeff was so proud of himself, explaining that he could not kill the whole pig and keep it from rotting right now. So, he cut the pig’s leg off and burnt the exposed flesh so the pig would not bleed to death. Thus, he was able to prepare pork for the party and still keep his pig alive.

Being from Idaho, I had seen many forms and methods of animal husbandry, but this was something that took me by surprise. I felt sickened, but after pondering, realized that this small island was far from the bastion of animal care viewed by folks in the US and many other parts of the civilized world. To Jeff, it was an efficient way to keep his food alive until he could process it all, but still enjoy some great tasting meat in the interim.

One morning Pita announced that he needed to take his favorite shirt down to the lagoon and soak it in the salt water. I guess he was going to try some ancient island secret to get a stain out of his favorite shirt. We jumped in the truck ( he didn’t have a driver license so I had to do all the driving) and headed for the lagoon.

While going down the embankment of the lagoon, Pita stubbed his toe on a piece of coral and ended up with a big gash. So, while he was at the water’s edge, he soaked his bleeding foot in the salt water, too.

A day or so later, his foot became infected and he was quite ill. I took him to the hospital to have him checked out. The medic on duty put him into a room and hooked him to an IV. For the next few days, I sat in his room and did nothing – well actually I read books and listened to music. It was very relaxing. The hospital was an open-air building that was not cleaned regularly. This was the first of a few interesting experiences I had at that hospital.

One time, we went to the hospital to visit Be’nug, a church member who was mentally challenged - kind of a simpleton. Be’nug was in for some kind of ailment. We had Jeff with us, a Pohnpeian joker who liked pulling people’s chains. As we visited with Be’nug, who incidentally looked really sick, Jeff told Be’nug that he had just spoken with a doctor who said he would be taken in for surgery real soon. He said they were planning to saw one of his arms off and sew a baseball bat in its place. Be’nug’s eyes lit up and he got real scared. Jeff laughed thinking he was funny. Later that night, Be’nug packed his things and escaped – he didn’t want to go the rest of his life with a baseball bat for an arm!

Jeff was a pro baseball fanatic. He named his three sons after famous baseball players. They were Willie-Mays, Roger-Maris, and Mickey-Mantle. Those were their real first names; no joking!

All four of us piled in the truck and decided to take a trip to Thol. Pita claimed that an old friend of his, Nicholas, had been seen out there and he wanted to get reacquainted. Thol is a small village on the north end of the island where most of our regular church goers lived.

When we got there, sure enough, we found Nick who was on a villager’s roof laying woven coconut leaves in a tiered pattern similar to the way we laid shingles on the roofs back home. Nick had long hair and a red mouth from chewing betel nut. He looked like he had just returned from the bush – which he had. He was very friendly and happy to see Pita. He did have some bad news, though. His grandmother was about to die and he was going to have to prepare for her funeral. We were invited to attend.

When Yapese people die, they are laid in a hut, dressed in their traditional clothing. All the family and friends of the deceased come around to pay their respects. The ceremony usually carries on for around three days with the family of the deceased supplying food and drink for all their guests. Much of that time, the women wail and the men sit around visiting. The wailing can be heard from a great distance and gives one the creeps as the high pitched shrieks echo through the jungle. After a few days, the body is placed in the ground and everyone goes back to their normal lives.

Nick’s grandmother was dressed in a very colorful grass skirt and adorned with a number of beautifully woven leis. She had been lying in her hut during her funeral ceremony for about three days when we arrived. The family members attending to her frequently rubbed her down with coconut oil which gave her body a greenish hue. I sat reverently in the hut, not knowing what to say and not feeling especially comfortable sitting a foot away from a dead person. I was very relieved when Pita announced to Nick that it was time for us to leave.

For quite a few years, I have held the theory that almost all men have one supreme motivator in life – that motivator makes them get up in the morning, work, fight, cuss, work overtime, get rich, famous, act tough, build, and destroy. And that motivator is woman! It is true that men do accomplish much on their own merit and do so with great accolades, but invariably, there are always women nearby who really should take some of the credit. My assumptions are based on my own experiences, observations, and discussions with others.

Consider the knights of medieval times who strapped plate steel to their bodies, took sharpened iron tools and proceeded to hack, cut, gouge, maim and kill each other – all to win the favor of some beautiful dame. You may argue that it was really property and power they were after, but I submit that the land was only the attraction that would be subsequent to getting the girl, and after they got the girl, then they really had power – especially if she was really pretty! Wasn’t it for the love of Helen of Troy that one of the greatest battles of all time was fought? I rest my case.

Turn on the tube and watch our modern-day heroes as they pound the hell out of each other with fists, crash their helmeted craniums into one another, whack and pummel each other with hockey sticks and any number of other violent measures, and then count the number of beautiful women watching with glee from the sidelines and stands, cheering them on. Think about it.

Anyway, an anthology of mission stories would not be satisfactory unless included in the list were some ditties related to my major motivators – some of the women behind the scenes, cheering me on, writing letters, sending packages, and who knows what else.

You may think, “Oh this guy is a nutjob; missionaries do not think of girls while on their missions!” Contraire! It is a moot issue that doesn’t even deserve argument. All those who have served missions, are there now, or plan to go, will tell you that females play a huge role in their success (or failure) – directly or indirectly.

This phenomenon became a reality for me shortly after entering formal training in Provo, Utah – at the MTC. Nearly every moment was spent with my assigned group, the same guys who would accompany me to the islands. The first night in the MTC, we all gathered for a getting-to-know-you meeting before heading to bed. After the preliminaries, everyone took a few moments to introduce themselves and then was supposed to enumerate things that they had left behind in order to serve a mission. There wasn’t a single one that didn’t mention something about a girl – not that everyone had left a girlfriend behind. Some said they broke up with their girls, dreamed of having one, or was just glad at least one agreed to write to them. The next most mentioned object was cars. What a stretch!

After hearing all those mushy, cry stories of loneliness, I realized I wasn’t the only one who relied on female support for my happiness. Throughout the mission, we all became enamored with the phenomenon that became known as mail day – just like a holiday. It took place three times a week on Yap – every time the plane flew in. Everyone would be huddled over letters from home, many of which were from girlfriends, and would zone off into la-la land and be completely worthless until every word was read and reread, then analyzed numerous times.

My MTC group was very lucky. On our first day of class, Tami, our gospel lessons teacher, introduced herself. She would be our instructor for the next 2 ½ weeks and was arguably the most beautiful woman in Provo, Utah. She was about 23 years old and as pretty as any magazine cover model that any of us had ever seen – probably even prettier than Farah Fawcett whose famous locker room poster we were all familiar with. Tami’s soft, pleasant voice, beautiful smile, and sparkly eyes melted all of us every morning when she entered our classroom. Each one of us knew that she secretly liked us best and we couldn’t wait to pass off our gospel lessons with her. She was, without question, our main motivator for learning and she became the object of much intense conversation at dinner and elsewhere.

Our last day in the MTC, many rolls of film were expended on Tami – those same pictures plastered the walls and bulletin boards of every island in Micronesia inhabited by my group of missionaries. One of my pictures of Tami was commandeered by my first mission companion on Yap, Pita – the Tongan Tiger, as he liked to be called. He would place Tami’s picture on his forehead, lean back in his chair with his eyes closed and say over and over, “Tami, I love you.” And he had never met the girl! She was that pretty.

I kept a few pictures of women on my bulletin board for almost my whole mission. Included was a great shot of Tami (one that hadn’t been defiled by Pita) and one of Sara.

Sara was a beautiful, brown-eyed girl that I formed a crush on in about 6th grade. She was a year behind me in school. My brother Mike moved sprinkler pipe for her dad on their acreage outside of town. Mike would talk me into going to help him move pipe but I only went because I knew there was a chance, although slim, that I might see Sara. I was a shy, timid character, but that didn’t ruin my eyesight or desire for romance.

A few years later when I had become a bit more brazen, she allowed me to call her my girlfriend and we spent the next four years or so, together. I doubt if anyone could guess the depth of emotional attachment I had for her. Like most teenaged girls, she was fickle. Some said I should dump her because of it, but that wasn't going to happen! A real bad day with her was still ten times better than most. I guess in many respects, love is just a plain ole country song. But she was every love song ever written.

Even though Sara was no longer my girlfriend when I left for Yap, she was still gracious enough to write and offer her support. I was still in love with her and thus, motivated to beat my chest and face the anxieties of living in this jungle. Due to some outrageous incidents on Yap, I had moments of extreme stress that were tempered by her encouraging letters. Some seemed to arrive at just the right moment.

I have since reflected that with life’s many interpersonal relationships, we sometimes never fully realize how our influence may deeply affect others. The plot of, It’s a Wonderful Life comes to mind. There is really no way to properly thank all those who help us along in life because life itself and social decorum seems to get in the way. I suppose it shows how delicate my situation was on Yap when mere letters from an old girlfriend could turn things around. But that’s how it was.

Ironically, toward the end of my mission, I received a greeting card from Sara. It was a nice note, but written on the back of the card was a publisher notation that the card itself had been made from recycled paper products. I was hurt! How could she send a greeting made from garbage? I refused to write her anymore. It wasn’t until I returned home that I discovered there was a huge crusade going on in the USA to save the planet and recycle! How really dumb I felt then!

Before arriving on the islands, we were told that most islanders were very gracious and giving. We would need to develop polite ways of declining things that were given to us. One day while working with Nonu on Guam, we visited a Trukese family. On a living room shelf, numerous glossy pictures of the children were displayed in large frames. As I looked at the family pictures, the mother came over and said, “You like my daughter? You come here after mission and she is yours! She make very good wife.” I thought she was joking, but her facial expression said otherwise. I said, “I am honored that you would offer, but I better not. Silently I figured there's probably something written in the Little White Bible about that, too!

After living on Yap for a few weeks, I found out some important information regarding interpersonal island rituals. If a female passed a male on the trail and she had the hots for him, it was customary for her to utter the high pitched sound, “eeeeessshh” as she passed by. He would then know that romance was imminent if he so desired and could act accordingly. My first reaction was “How efficient!” In the US, we’ve lived for centuries where men and women have played the ‘hard-to-get’ dating games and other love-life nonsense. If only we could have smartened up and taken a page from the Yapese Handbook of Love! The final results were much quicker and with a lot less fanfare!

When I first heard that high pitched mating call on a jungle trail, I turned around and repeated it to the girl who said it first. I didn't know; I thought it must be a greeting of ‘hello’ or something. She giggled, put her hand over her mouth and ran off down the trail. Pita – the Tongan Tiger told me not to say that to the girls anymore and explained why.

I thought, “How intriguing, these people really have it together!”

I picked up the phone knowing that this call was going to cost some major bucks. A collect call to the states, I was told, would be about two dollars a minute. Plus, I couldn’t remember what time of day it would be back home; I still hadn’t quite figured out that dateline time change routine. The thought of making a call to home had been on my mind for the past few days until now it had become an obsession.

“I must do it! I reasoned. Everyone at home needs to know where I am going.” Deep inside I knew the real reason was I just wanted some mental reassurance. I was being sent to a primitive island and that was worrisome to me. I was going to be living within the pages of National Geographic for the next year-and-a-half, and I was told there was no way to call home once I got out there. I would be completely detached from the outside world except for letters and packages. I was a ball of nerves and emotions. Flashbacks of an old childhood phobia of being lost and alone kept creeping into my conscious and scaring the hell out of me.

According to the little white bible, I wasn’t supposed to call home anyway, except for Mothers’ Day, but there is a stark difference between ‘NOT supposed to, and CAN’T.’ I admit, the thought had crossed my mind that maybe I would never see home again.

“Hello.”

I recognized Mom’s voice even though it sounded far, far away.

“Collect call from Jeff. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes,” was the terse reply.

I knew from the tone of her voice that mom was not happy with me making that call. The family money was tight and the budget for expensive phone calls was zero. Mom was like Attila the Hun when it came to staying within a budget and not allowing anything or anybody to screw it up. I remembered a good many tongue lashings my first year in college for making long distance calls on my parent’s dime.

“I am being sent to an island called Yap, I said. They don’t have phones out there, so I am calling to say goodbye. I’ll be sure and write.”

The ensuing conversation was short, but it was a relief to hear a familiar voice even though that voice contained a tone of motherly contempt. She didn’t know that at that moment I felt like a small, helpless child about to embark on a very dangerous adventure – an adventure that I could not see the end of or for which I couldn’t predict the outcome.

The past few days, I had fought off that incredibly debilitating feeling of insecurity by shrouding my inner feelings with an outer show of toughness. If my peers knew that I was about to break down and cry like a baby, I am sure they would laugh and give me a lot of ribbing.

As I hung up the phone, I received a big burst of confidence. Hearing the phone click onto the receiver was like a ritual burying of my former life. I was now ready to face the future on Yap Island. I was surprised at the therapeutic effects of that few-minute call to home.

The continuous whirring sound from the jet engines was ominous. As I looked out the window at the huge expanse of water below, I pondered how long I could tread water if the plane crashed. Gilligan sat in the seat in front of me, gawking out the window, his eyes shaded by those screwy Foster Grant sunglasses. The corners of the frame were designed to bend upwards giving the appearance of those old-fashioned cat-eye glasses of a bygone era. He had a camera strapped around his neck and looked like a perfect nerdy tourist fresh from the loony bin.

Occasionally, he made excited comments about the plane ride and flying into the great unknown. He acted like a kid visiting an amusement park for the first time. Actually, I was excited too, but I didn’t want him to know. I figured I would be the one to ‘keep my head when all about me were losing theirs’ – and as his traveling companion, it wasn’t hard to play the part of the intelligent one. I tried to ignore him by appearing busy while I doodled on a page in my notebook.

Suddenly, the captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are on approach to Yap Island. Please return your seats to the upright position and fasten your seat belts. Just before touchdown, please lean your body forward in your seats and cup your hands over your heads (the crash position). The runway on Yap is quite short and bumpy and this will protect you during our landing.”

I looked at Sorenson who had a worried look. “Are we going to crash or something,” he muttered?

My thoughts quickly went back to an old saying my friend Merlin would yell before going into a big wave on the Salmon River, “It’s H.A.G. time!” It was a crafty little acronym he made up which meant “Hang on to your Hat, Ass, and Glasses!” It fit really well right then and I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. I looked around and thought how absurd this moment was – everybody flying in this big jet airliner, going to a primitive island with a runway that was too short, and all of us scrunched over in our seats in the crash position! It was great; I surmised that my adventure was only beginning.

If anyone has ridden that old, rickety white rollercoaster at Lagoon in Farmington, Utah, you would know first hand what it felt like landing on Yap on that old World War II, Japanese airstrip. You may remember going down that first hill on the rollercoaster with the thrill of instant speed, then hitting the bottom which caused a split second jolt before going slower up the other side. It was the same experience inside that Boeing 737. We circled the island once, went into a steep dive, hit the runway and immediately slammed on the reverse thrusts and brakes all at once. I was having too much of a thrill on the steep dive part and forgot to get in the crash position until the wheels touched the runway, so when the reverse thrusts and brakes were applied; I slammed into Gilligan’s seat in front of me. Somewhat embarrassed, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. I figured if anyone saw they would just think, “Stupid American,” and forget about it. The plane bumped, jolted, and rolled to an abrupt stop a few feet from the jungle at the end of the runway. Then we taxied back to the terminal.

As we taxied, I looked off to my right and saw the remnants of a 737 that had crash landed in a ball of flames a few years before. The airline company came and loaded up the engines and salvageable electronics and left the rest. The islanders had pushed the charred remains off the side of the runway and the jungle had partially swallowed them up.

“Well, I thought, after checking myself over, I’m still alive!”

The terminal was a grass and metal hut about the size of our little milk barn back home. The baggage claim sat off to the side and was the same type building as the terminal but rather than benches it contained a few rows of rusty metal and bamboo tables where a few Yapese men in flowery shirts stood rifling through our luggage.

“You got any betel nut or perishable items in your suit case,” the man asked in an accent that I would soon get very used to hearing.

I had no idea what betel nut was and I knew I hadn’t packed anything but clothes and a razor in my luggage. “No, I said. I am just a missionary.”

He zipped up my bag and gave me that look that seemed to say, “You’re also an idiot. Feel free to get back on that plane and don’t come back here!”

I took my luggage and started walking toward the parking lot. A few feet away on a bench sat ten or fifteen women laughing and talking. My eyes immediately dropped to their chests where each was sporting bare breasts. For the next few seconds, I had major cognitive dissonance. The mature part of me cried, “Don’t look, you dummy!” The imaginary fiend perched on my shoulder whispered "you are now living every boy’s dream.” I looked straight ahead and hummed a little tune as I walked past.

“Well, I thought, half chuckling, I’ve arrived…”

Many houses on Guam were built with fences surrounding the property. The doorbells of these homes were located on the fence next to the front gate. If the doorbell was broken, you might stand at the gate for a very long time before somebody noticed you out there. Of course, being dressed in a white shirt and tie with a black name badge tucked into your pocket was grounds for being ignored whether or not the doorbell was broken. Many of the homes contained huge, ferocious dogs that could be heard inside the house trying to rip the door off to get at the nervous visitors outside.

One story that circulated around the mission, told of a large Polynesian elder and his companion that encountered a home of this type. Everyone knows that Poly’s are not afraid of man or beast, so the two white-shirted visitors, after being ignored at the front gate, walked into the yard and rang the doorbell on the house. Suddenly the door opened. Before the missionaries could utter their memorized door greeting, the homeowner stepped aside and sicced a large man-eating dog on them. The Poly elder, who was first on the porch, caught the dog as it leapt for his throat. His big arm hooked the dog around neck and the other around its midsection and he violently twisted the dog in two different ways and broke its neck.

The homeowner, not knowing what to do now, invited the two missionaries in for a drink of water and a brief chat about religion. The poly elder, ever so polite, apologized to the dog owner about his now lifeless guard dog before they left.

I found that being out visiting people on Guam was a pleasant experience. The island demographics was made up of Chamorros (native Guamanians), Filipinos, military people from the US, Asians, and a smattering of people from other islands and countries in the region. Nonu and I combed the neighborhoods in our area and met some really nice folks. It was uncanny how Nonu could find just the right house around lunch time that contained people who insisted we eat before leaving. He would say, “Oh no, we can’t eat your food! Well, if you insist, maybe we can stay a bit longer… Hicks, what do you think? Do we have time for a short lunch break?” Of course, it was never a problem for me.

One of my favorite lunches was served by a Samoan family - friends of Nonu’s. We ate loads of curry chicken and boiled whole potatoes washed down with Mountain Dew. The blend of seasonings in the food was incredibly scrumptious even though the recipe was very simple. Since that day, I have had a special craving for Mountain Dew and cannot drink it without remembering that wonderful curry-seasoned food.

A few days after arriving on Guam the mission president, Ferron C. Losee, called a mission meeting. All of us green elders knew that this would also be the time to hear the results from our first interview with the president that had taken place earlier. There were ten of us that had just flown in from the states. We were all apprehensive, yet excited, about the prospects that lay ahead. It was said that some of us would be sent to the outer realms of the mission. Of course, nobody knew who might be going.

We ten new guys were a mixed bunch of egos and personalities. Two hailed from Canada and the rest from the states – mostly from Utah, one from California. We all got along very well except for the California kid. He was like the odd man out; there has to be one in every group. It wasn’t so much the fact of the geography of his hometown as much as he was just a screwball and we could barely tolerate him. He had a big mouth that he wouldn’t control and everywhere he went, he wore a pair of big Foster Grant sunglasses that accentuated his smart-assed persona. His real name was Sorenson, but we nicknamed him “Gilligan” shortly after we were assigned together in the MTC in Provo, Utah. It didn’t take us long to come to a consensus that he was a bona-fide nut job.

About a week into our formal mission training in Provo, someone from our group crawled out on the ledge of the building we were housed in and broke into Gilligan’s room through the window. They pulled the screws off the wall vent that was positioned right next to the head of Gilligan’s bed and placed a windup alarm clock in the vent. The vent cover was then securely refastened to the wall. The alarm was set for 2:30 a.m.

The next morning at breakfast, Gilligan came into the cafeteria red-eyed and furious. He demanded to know who the guy was who put the alarm clock in his bedroom vent. He wanted to “kick their butt!” Nobody seemed to know a thing. My companion, Morrison the witty Canadian, said, “Ah Sorenson, please don’t kick anyone’s butt, that would hurt.” And that was all that was said. Scowling Gilligan stomped off and ate his breakfast by himself.

Assignments

The place where we congregated for the mission meeting was in the Relief Society room of the only LDS Church building on Guam. It was air-conditioned and provided some relief from the humidity and heat from outside, in addition to offering some comfort to a group of anxious missionaries eager to find out who would be sent to the outer islands. Silently, I was excited for the prospects of going to an exotic place. I was also somewhat anxious to get away from screwball Gilligan. He had, by now, created quite a reputation on Guam as a raving idiot.

Losee seemed to sense our anxiety, thus he droned on about mission rules and decorum for what seemed like an eternity while we all sat fidgeting in our seats. Finally, he said, “Ok, as you probably have guessed, we have a need for elders to fill open spots on many of the outer islands in our mission. Five of you new elders will be going away and not coming back for quite awhile. You will leave as soon as we can get your visas which, in some cases, may take a couple weeks.” Then he started reading off the list.

“Elder Hicks, you and Elder Sorenson will be going to Yap.”

The news of my assignment came like the music of a sweetly singing bird in morning time, but the mighty blow of hearing the name Sorenson almost floored me. A few elders gave me that sparkly look out of the corner of their eyes with a sly grin that seemed to say, “Hicks, you unlucky SOB, I am glad it is you and not me that has to work with Gilligan. Ha Ha Ha!”

Nonu was a bit more philosophical. He said, “Hicks, God didn’t call Gilligan to Micronesia to become a failure. You are probably the only one in this group that can help him succeed on his mission. You have an easy-going personality that will allow you to be kind and patient with him when the rest of us would beat the sh*t out of him. President Losee was inspired to send him to Yap with you.” I was humbled by his words and something told me he was right.

Instantly, I started getting loads of information about the place, Yap. Apparently, that was the most coveted spot in the whole mission. Of course, there were all kinds of reasons given for it being so coveted, but my common sense revealed the real reason. The women wore no shirts. They were topless! It was a no-brainer considering we were a bunch of 19 and 20 year-old boys.

I got other information about Yap, too. I heard about the primitive nature of the Yapese, their living conditions, the traditional customs of the people, and the fact that they could be dangerous to visitors if they didn’t like them. Somebody mentioned that they had known of people going to Yap and never being heard from again. I went home and ruminated on a passage in a blessing I received awhile back where I was promised that I would be protected as I travelled by land, air, and sea to preach the words of God. I felt some comfort and was calmed as I patiently waited for my visa to arrive.

One of the first things they gave me was a little book with a white vinyl cover. They said that I was supposed to carry the book with me everywhere I went. Inside the white vinyl cover was a bunch of pages that contained all the rules that I was supposed to keep. They were listed in, what seemed to me, a random order. That is to say, it didn’t appear that the most important rules were first and the less important ones last. I was told that all the rules were to be followed with equal and utmost strictness.

That subconscious push that I possessed since childhood, the one that dictated that I rebel against authority, suddenly kicked into action. It was like a gargoyle perched on my shoulder that whispered, “Jeff, here is a list of their rules – they represent the establishment. You must plan on breaking them; it will be fun!” On the other hand, I had agreed to this mission, and my good sense told me that part of the agreement was that I would abide by all the regulations of the establishment and would incorporate them into my everyday habits. That white vinyl book, always riding inside my front breast pocket was a strict reminder that my life was not my own for the next year-and-a-half. It became known as my ‘Little White Bible.”

At that particular point in the history of Mormonism, every worthy male member of the Church was expected to go on a mission. We had to go before our Church leaders and answer a series of questions that would prove our worthiness. There were some of us in that hot seat that felt like this was to be mission impossible. Although many of us had to take measures to get our acts together to pass the worthiness test, we were eventually given a clean bill of spiritual health and allowed to go.

My mission call came in a plain white envelope. It was written in business form and was signed by the president of the Church – a man that I and all the rest of the members revered as a prophet. His signature penned at the bottom of the letter sealed the credibility of the writ. I was to report for duty in the Micronesia/Guam Mission and was given a few months preparation before my start date. I looked up Micronesia on a world map and discovered that I would be journeying into tropical paradise with lush green islands and crystal blue ocean accented by brightly colored coral.

The next few months were a whirlwind of buying clothes, studying religious stuff, packing suitcases, spending two weeks in formal training, and saying goodbyes. Before I knew it, I was getting off the plane in beautiful Guam ready for whatever lay ahead. I was anxious and apprehensive about what would happen at this juncture in my life. I had no idea what the future held, but was determined to be successful – whatever that means.

All who serve missions are required to have a companion or partner that must shadow them for the duration – twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. As a supplement to the little white bible, this companion was to be your conscience and protector-of-virtue throughout the mission. In fact, one of the rules of the little white bible was, “NEVER go anywhere without your companion.” My first companion was a big Samoan guy named, Nonu. One look at him, you would know he had seen plenty of time in the weight room. He was a specimen of physical strength. He had that V shape that many body-builders only dream of.

Boxing Day

I took an instant liking to Nonu. He was soft-spoken and had a very likeable nature. The first thing he asked me was whether or not I knew karate. I said, “No, I don’t know that much about karate except for a few pain holds my dad used on me as a kid.” He laughed and asked if I was a boxer. Once again, the answer was no, even though I knew I could hold my own and had been in a few fights over the years. He said, “Every Tuesday, if there is time, we have Boxing Day here. If you want to box, you are welcome.” I looked at my watch and remembered it was Tuesday and thought, “What the hell, when do we go find people to teach?”

Without any announcements, a group of missionaries congregated in the living room of my new apartment. We were on the second floor of an apartment complex shared by a mixture of native islanders (Chamorros), military folks, and a sprinkling of Mormon missionaries. The few odd, unmatched pieces of furniture in the room were moved out of the way and a large space was cleared for the event. In a few moments, Nonu emerged from the back room with boxing gloves strapped to his hands and wearing a pair of gym shorts. Behind him was a guy I met earlier who introduced himself as the assistant to the mission president.

The two started bouncing around and warming up for the marquee event. I sat back, not knowing whether to laugh, cheer, or cry. This wasn’t how I expected to spend my first day in the mission field. I couldn’t remember if the little white bible said anything about pounding the crap out of each other with boxing gloves. I supposed it could have fit under the heading “staying physically fit” as some kind of alternative exercise program.

The other missionary from Samoa, Leausa, was the referee for the event. He gave the signal and the two pugilists came together in the center of the makeshift ring. Nonu was about 50 pounds heavier than the assistant to the president (AP) and within a few seconds of the bout, it was evident that he was a more experienced boxer. However, the AP had about 4 inches of height on Nonu. The fight started with the two circling and exchanging jabs. Nonu had an aggressive style and would move in hitting the AP with quick combinations and short, deadly jabs to the head and hooks to the midsection.

Within a few moments, the AP was fighting for his life. He was sucking air and circling the drain. In a desperate attempt to resurrect his manhood, he hit Nonu with a flurry of wild punches – roundhouses and hooks. Nonu brought his gloves up to protect his face, thus most of the power of the AP’s punches landed harmlessly on Nonu’s elbows and forearms.

Suddenly, Nonu wrapped up the AP, trapping the taller guy's gloves in his armpits. He pushed him off balance, stepped in with a quick right-left-hook combination and dropped the AP in a heap on the floor – out as cold as a cucumber! Leausa stepped in pushing Nonu to his makeshift corner. He stood over the AP with a sly grin and counted off ten. “That is a Knock-Out!” he yelled in his Samoan accented English.

I looked at the AP lying on the floor in a twisted heap and had my first epiphany as a new missionary. I learned that there is always a huge chasm between perception and reality in this life. Never trust that your prior notions of an event will be accurate until after "the fat lady sings." Right then, my preconceived ideas of mission life were smashed and laid in ruins right next to the sight of that KO’d Assistant to the President.