Island Without A Shore

Chapter 1: The story almost begins Standing perfectly still for 30 minutes without making a sound is not something George Patrick Elwin, Jr. had planned to do during his summer vacation. What 9 year old boy would? Not that he had planned much at all. He really wasn't the planner type. But, at the moment, he was trying to think of a plan for what to do next. He was scared. For the last 30 minutes he actually had been standing perfectly still without making a sound behind a palm tree. Lucky for him, the combination of one of the widest palm trees on the island and one of the skinniest boys in his class, gave him a fair chance of not being seen. Unlucky for him, it was a lone palm tree far from anything else that he could run to for safety. For the 5th time, he told himself, "just a few more minutes, just to make sure." Sorry, but I have to leave him there a minute while I explain who he is. Otherwise I'd be stuck, through this whole story, calling him by his unbearably long name. See, I've known him by a much simpler name all my life, the whole 12 years of it. If you're thinking the numbers don't match up, I'll explain that in a minute. I'm not even sure I'm supposed to stop in the middle like this and break up the story. But, it's the first real one I've written, and it's not even my story, even though I'm the only living person who knows it. But I can't ask anyone for help. He was real clear on that part. He said the pretend little stories I used to write in 3rd grade proved I could do it by myself. But those were made up. This one's true. It feels a lot harder. Oh, well! Here goes. You might as well know at the beginning where this story came from. It's a very old story, older than you. Maybe older than anyone you know. You see, the person in the story is my Great Grandfather and he was only a little boy when it happened. He told it to me three years ago, before he moved away. It was the last time I saw him. He died a couple of months later. But I knew that would happen. It was in the story too. He told me I could tell the story when I turned 12. But I had to write it all out, by myself, without telling anyone, and then give it to my mother. He said she would have to decide what to do with it. My 12th birthday was yesterday. I guess I could of started writing it out before now, but I'm not much of a planner either. It's going to’ take me a while. I hope that's OK, too. Grandpa made me take notes while he was telling me the story, which I'm finding out was a smart idea, even though it made my hand really sore at the time. He would check every now and then to make sure I had written down a particularly important part correctly. It took four days for him to tell it all to me. Sometimes he would talk for a couple of hours. Other times, he would stop after only a short while and say, "You must be getting tired writing all that down. You could use a break." But, I think, at those times, he stopped because he needed to, after a part that just drew him into a world of thought. I never let on that I knew he needed to stop. That was how he wanted to tell it. That was how he had to tell it. After the whole story was done, he let me ask him a few question, but not until it was all done. "Ahh, not now. Ask me after I get to the end." As you know if you have

ever heard a story that made you want to ask questions, it was hard to hold them back. But I did. Sometimes I forgot the question, but most often, I ended up finding out the answer as he told the story. Some of my questions he answered at the end. But, for others his only reply was, "Yes, yes, that is a good question" and he would get that thoughtful look and say no more. And then there were times when he would just break out laughing when I asked a question, like he was really amused at something he couldn't tell me. I don't think he did any of that laughing until he had gotten the whole story out. Maybe it felt good to get it off his chest, since finally he didn't have to remember it all on his own. So, I'll do the best I can from my notes to tell you the story just like he told it to me. Oh, you should know too, that he went by "Grandpa Gip." I guess his friends used to call him by his initials, GP, and that turned into Gip somewhere along the way. It's Gip, like with a 'J' at the front. I know people would say it wrong if I didn't tell you that. Of course, in the story I'll just say Gip, not Grandpa Gip, because he was only 9 years old and technically wasn't even my Grandpa yet. Here's how Gip got stuck hiding behind that tree... Chapter 2: Alone or not? Gip had been on this small island plenty of times. It was his favorite place to play. He thought of it as his own little pirate hideout. In fact, this South Carolina island did have pirates on it way back in the days of pirates. But that was a long time ago. Now it was just a little island nobody lived on except alligators. Gip was a Michigan boy, but during the summers, when he was out of school and his momma was working, he was sent down south to live with his Aunt Lou so someone could watch over him during the day. Apparently, his mamma didn’t know that Aunt Lou’s idea of watching over him was to merely remind him now and then to be careful around the gators. Other than that he was free to explore where ever he wanted. He was drawn to the island from the first time he looked out the back windows across the narrow channel to the deep green mysterious jungle of the island. He thought of it as his island right away. He could climb in the old wooden rowboat docked in his Aunt’s back yard, and in 5 minutes he could cross the channel and come ashore on his island. Nine year old boys were allowed to do those kinds of things back then. He just had to promise be back in time for dinner. This morning he had slept in later that usual. Sometimes his aunt woke him up and sometimes she let him sleep, which was fine with him. But today he slept in so late that he barely had time to do his chores before it was lunchtime. He was usually on his island long before noon. He grabbed a big chunk from the loaf of bread Aunt Lou had baked that morning and stuck it in his pocket. He stuffed an apple in the other and took off. As he passed the garden in back, he grabbed the old spade leaning against the house. Today, he was digging for buried treasure. He rowed the boat to his usual landing spot, a place where the forest was not so thick, allowing him to pull the boat well onto shore and into the trees so it was out of sight. He knew no one was ever around this part of the channel but he was being

cautious. He didn’t want someone to see the boat and get curious, maybe get it in their head to come visit the island sometime. No, he wanted to keep it all to himself. With the spade in one hand he made his way toward the middle of the island. He tried his best to think like a pirate and determine the very best spot for burying treasure. It had to be a bit into the middle of the island. You wouldn’t want someone sailing past to be able to see you digging away. And it had to be a spot where the forest wasn’t too thick and overgrown or it would be too hard to carry the treasure chest there and back. There had to be some natural maker around too. You know, a big rock, or trees that cross to make an ‘x’, so you could draw it on a map? For almost an hour he wandered here and there over the island. He was surprised to realize there were so many parts he hadn’t seen yet. If he ever lost his sense of direction, the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the southwest side of the island got him oriented again. That was the only side that really met the ocean. Narrow channels cut the rest of the island off from the mainland. His bread and apple were eaten and he was wishing for something to drink as he walked when unexpectedly the forest ended. He found himself in a clearing about the size of a baseball in-field. Four rocks about the size of a catcher squatting happened to be sitting right where the bases should be, marking the points of a diamond. In the middle, exactly where the pitcher’s mound would be, there was one large palm tree, standing alone as if guarding something. This was it. If there was treasure buried anywhere on the island, it would have to be here. A pirate wouldn’t be able to resist it. Gip had the map drawn in his head already. Although it was a game of imagination he was playing, he couldn’t completely avoid the tiny thought, “What if there really were buried treasure here?” Maybe the thought kept coming back because the placement of the rocks seemed a little too perfect to be done by chance. And one palm tree right in the middle with nothing else growing inside the diamond but low grasses. It was a great place to pretend. Now the question was where to dig. He was sitting on the “first base” rock, staring at the palm tree in the middle, wishing it could tell what it knew. Leaning his spade against the side of the rock and admiring the pirate atmosphere that it gave to the whole scene, he began circling the tree, trying to think like a pirate. Maybe the shadow of the tree fell across the spot at a certain time of day. But what time of day would that be? Was there a time or number that pirates liked? He tried to remember everything he had read or heard about pirates and time or numbers. The only “pirate number” he could come up with was 13, from “13 men on a dead man’s chest.” He was deep in thought about how 13 could be turned into 1:00 and how far 13 paces from the tree would be when heard something he had never heard on the island before. Footsteps from in the forest, heavy feet breaking twigs and crushing dead pine needles. It was getting louder and seemed to be coming toward home plate. By the time fear got Gip’s legs in motion, he also started to hear a man’s voice. His only option was to dash behind the big palm tree, which he managed to do only seconds before a man broke out of the forest and into the clearing. Anger is something that comes through in any language, so even though the man was speaking something similar to Spanish, Gip knew he was very irritated. It sounded like the man was alone and talking to himself, but Gip couldn’t be sure. The man must have been in a hurry or looking somewhere else besides in front of him

because there was the unmistakable sound of a leg hitting a rock, an immediate groan, turning into a louder but brief yell. The man had stumbled over the rock marking home, his surprised yell suddenly muffled as his face hit the ground. Gip tried to be as thin as he could, hoping the palm tree was wide enough to hide him. Then his eyes registered what was a few yards in front of him as he stood sideways against the tree… the spade. Gip could never remember afterwards if he had actually gasped out loud as he saw the spade or only wanted to. It was sitting in plain sight, leaning up against the rock at first base. The man was sure to see it if he hadn’t already. Gip was determined not to move a muscle or make a sound, just listen and think. More words Gip couldn't understand came from man, but softer and slower, then silence. Had he given himself away? Was the man searching with his eyes and ears now? Waiting for the movement or sound that pin point Gip’s hiding place? More silence. A long silence, and more still. It was a game now. Who would make the first noise? Gip closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, resisting even the urge to swallow. He was afraid even a silent prayer would give him away. If this man was coming after treasure and thought Gip was a threat to that, he might do anything to get Gip out of the picture. And so Gip waited, 30 long minutes. It felt like 3 hours. In his head, he recited the Gettysburg address, the declaration of independence, all the states and capitols, the poem he said in front his whole class last year, the books of the Bible, his times tables through the 12s. Then he did them all over again. Then once more to be sure. At last he could wait no more and told himself that the man must have left. But even it he hadn’t, what could be worse than the torture of having to stand still even longer? Gip stepped out from behind the tree, daring to look in the direction of home plate. This time he was sure he gasped out loud. Lying on the ground near the rock that Gip thought of as marking home base, was the body of a man, sprawled in, what looked to be, a very uncomfortable position. The man was face down with his right arm and right leg folder underneath him. This would have looked exactly like a man in the act of reverently bowing low to the ground except that his left half was not at all in concert with his right. His right arm and right leg stretched out along the ground almost straight out from his left side. He looked like a person suddenly overcome with need to nap while in the midst of trying to get up. It would have been a very undignified position to be found in and made he man look somewhat silly and certainly not menacing. It had the effect of taking away any fear Gip might have had regarding the stranger. In the time it has taken to explain this, Gip had gone from surprise, and fear, to curiosity and even concern. The concern was heightened when, on coming closer, he noticed the small pool of blood near the man’s forehead. The curiosity was fueled mostly by something I have not yet mentioned. The man was in green from head to toe. And I am quite exact in saying from head to toe because his hair was as green as the grass he lay on. This was not the long dramatic hair that you might be expecting at this point, if you've read your share of elf and fairy stories, but very short and curly, with an obvious bald spot in the back. Gip would have laughed out

loud had he seen it on a clown in the circus. He might have now if he had not been so intent on checking to see if the man were breathing. It was mostly relief Gip felt as was able to detect the slow raising and falling of the man’s breaths. Mostly relief, but a sense of responsibility for the man began to grow in Gip. After all, what would happen to him if Gip simply left him here? No one else would find him. He was sure of that.