Beyond That Horizon

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…”