Calypso, Day One

   I awoke with a splitting headache laying face down in the sand.  That struck me as a tad bit odd... the last thing I could remember was driving along a two-lane winding mountain road in the San Gabriel Mountains.  The sun was warming my back and a cool breeze was ruffling my hair.  In the background I could hear the cry of seagulls and the crash of the ocean waves.  Slow.  Methodical.  Peaceful.

   Wearily I tried to push myself upright so I could try to get my bearings.  My right arm valiantly tried to comply with my brain's orders, although by doing so it set off a miniature firestorm in my muscles.  My left arm was not such a team player.  It refused to move "for love or money," to quote George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion.  Without its support my right arm's effort was reduced to rolling myself onto my left side.  Moving only that much made my head feel like someone standing behind me decided to strike me in the back of the head with a golf club that had first been doused in gasoline and lit on fire.

   Like anyone who feels that kind of sharp I instinctively rose my working arm to the back of my head.  This, in turn, merited another crack with the flaming club from the invisible golfer behind me.  My hand reported back that my hair was matted.  And sticky wet in a familiar sort of way.  I winced as I opened my eyes.

   Somehow I had washed up on a deserted stretch of beach, which explained the sound of the ocean.  The waters did not look like the familiar deep navy blues of the Pacific Ocean.  Rather it looked like the waters from the travel brochures you see for Hawaii, St. Thomas or other areas in the Caribbean.  It was a cacophony of sky blues, cerulean greens, topaz and emerald.  The sands sparkled in the sun, untouched by campers, surfers, sunbathers or other tourists.  The sky was surprisingly clear, and it allowed the sun to glow a friendly shade of bright golden yellow.  All of this was breathtakingly beautiful to behold, but my impression was marred by the pain that was oozing into my consciousness from my left side and my head.

   The pain successfully disrupted my internal nature appreciation course.  I slowly pulled my hand away from my head to get a look at it.  Moving slowly hurt slightly less than my prior rapid motions.  My friend the golfer switched to an ordinary club instead of the flaming variety he had been using up until now.  I was having trouble bringing my hand into focus once I moved it, but one thing was clear even blurry: the spots that felt sticky still had a blackish/crimson hue to them.  Blood?  The sickly sweet smell of iron seemed to confirm my fears.  I was bleeding from the back of my head.

  Wonderful.  Just wonderful.  It's just my luck to wind up wounded on a deserted beach.  
How on earth did I get here anyway?  Well, at least my last view is scenic.  When they bury me they can write "Here lies..." ... um... well... what is my name, anyway?


  I struggled again to prop myself up with my left arm.  Again, I didn't even get a response from my rebellious appendage.  This time, however, I could at least see the cause of the unrest: my arm had grown its own tree limb right from where my shoulder met the arm.  It was protruding five inches out and was at least two inches in diameter.  The rest of my arm did not look that great either.  I had various forms of bricka-brack in it, from pine needles to broken glass, small twigs and rocks... even a gash three inches long and one deep running from my wrist toward my elbow.  It looked wet with blood, but strangely enough was not bleeding.  It did not worry me.  I don't know why.


  As I lay on the beach, dying, I began to hear a sound over the rhythm of the ocean's pulse.  It felt familiar on some instinctual level, but I could not for the life of me place what it was at first.  I listened for a few minutes as the sound grew louder.  Finally I identified it as the sound of a woman singing.  It struck me on an intellectual level as being foreign to my environment, but somehow it seemed natural on a deeper level... as if the sands and waves themselves were the source of the sound.


  The singer was a powerful soprano, and her voice was clear as it cut through the air as a catamaran cuts through the waves.  There were no lyrics to her song, at least in any language I understood or had heard before.  Rather, the singer was singing pure notes, playing her vocal cords like a violinist plays his instrument.  The melody was hauntingly beautiful, full of life and vibrancy, yet somehow sorrowful at the same time.  I was caught up in the beautiful typhoon of music and it was only getting louder and closer as time passed.


  As the melody grew louder it began to take my strength away from me.  It was becoming harder for me to stay partially upright or even to keep my eyes open.  By the same token, my wounds started to cease aching as much as well.  Sleep was overtaking me like it does small children who defiantly attempt to stay up past their bedtimes.  Even my will to fight it off was being swept away on a current of musical notes.


  The last thing I saw before sleep took me away was the singer's face as she finally reached me.  She looked down upon my broken form with sparkling grey eyes that radiated light, but also sorrow.  Despite the fact that she was still singing she managed to maintain a slight smile upon her lips that brought out small dimples in her cheeks.  Her golden hair cascaded down around her face and it looked like a river of warm light flowing towards me.  I felt safe for the first time since I awoke on this strange island, and embraced sleep with a smile.

Format for Calypso

Sorry for the delay in posting so far.  I have had a lot on my plate, which has prevented even my writing the original "rough" copy out on my notepads.  That said, I have been transcribing and polishing what I have so far into a post that should be up soon.

I decided that I was going to split each "chapter" or "day" into two parts.  It will make sense when you see it I think.  If I was writing this in book format I might have kept the two parts together and placed some kind of dividing scribble line in between the halves.  That said, there are practical limitations to doing that in blog format, and while I know no one is really beating down my e-door to get the next part of the story it should make posts come a bit faster, if only just slightly.

I would be interested in feedback from anyone who actually reads this once I start posting again (I have about half of the first day transcribed and polished so it should be up soon).  Be well!