This is the final of my 3-part story,
when I played "hermit".
There are other parts,
like when I had gun-toting visitors
in the darkness before midnight.
Maybe I'll shrink that one to a Friday "55"
STEVE THE "HERMIT"
STAR DATE 1966
PART THREE (of THREE)
PART THREE (of THREE)
FINAL PART OF THIS STORY
--aren'tcha glad about that?:
--aren'tcha glad about that?:
I had arranged for Martin, by giving him two quarts of Bacardi RUM--see, I even did my bartering with booze!--the pilot of the Marco Island Mosquito Control plane, to fly over my island once a day, which kept away those dreaded mosquitos. Each day, about 8 AM, the old Air Force C-47 flew over, and Martin sprayed my island with that wonderful stuff (poison?) over everything. I even opened my mouth to maybe catch some of it. (A few months after, that Cuban pilot died in a fiery crash, piloting that same aircraft.) The Mackle Brothers, developers of Marco Island, paid lots of fuel-bucks, for my comfort.
Meanwhile, I was sane enough to realize that my supply of beer, whiskey, and cigarettes was getting dangerously low. With inventory about to expire, and no pharmacy to rob, I hobbled about Freedom Island (my name for it), pondering what to do, or how to die.
The previous paragraph sets up this next bit, the SADDEST DAY OF MY WHOLE LIFE. I can weep even now, remembering. Two friends, both pilots, flew their planes down to entertain me with their aerobatics about three days before I was to vacate the island. I had run out of ALL alcohol (and cigarettes!), was still walking in pain, and figured they would magically, automatically 'know' my sorry-assed predicament.
Don't forget, Peeps--we did not have
cell phones or iPODS in 1966!
cell phones or iPODS in 1966!
The two planes flew SO low, that I could see my wife and baby daughter in one of them--so It was a certainty that my lack of supplies would be alleviated, since Nancy and I always had a 'working telepathy'. I stood in one spot, waiting for the drop of my C.A.R.E. package...and fifteen minutes later, I thought they were playing that 'waiting' game. They flew away--out of my life--forever? Possibly just a few miles over the Gulf of Mexico they would reach a "turning point"? (Come back, little Sheba!)
Peeps, they did not return--leaving me stranded with no vital supplies. I had not even considered WATER, and I was getting thirsty! Who knew? p o o r m e--and I mean that, even to this day, June 2010.
Ha! I just this minute uncovered a deeply-buried, long-hidden, powerful resentment. And I'll take care of it NOW! ( Steve E. peels off another layer of the onion!...........)
SO began the Unhappiest day (up to that time) of my whole life--no booze, no smokes, and that equaled NO NOTHING. I did not pray, for fear that I would curse God Himself for this calamity. (They could have at least dropped some Bandages -grin-) And yes, I became quite depressed for the remaining really cool nights, and sun-blistering days.
My mantra: Woe Is Me! Really! I was ready to DO it, but was chicken-shit to end my life, because --get this--my FEET hurt too much! AM I living today, because God allowed me to 'cavort' barefoot back-and-forth--unknowingly--through an under-water oyster bar, and spend the next eight days with bloody, infected feet? (He also allowed me to stay sober since March 18, 1974.)
Oh yes, the fishing guide did arrive as scheduled to pick me up. We enjoyed an unnatural quiet ride back to civilization.
There is no place like home!
Steve E (A Hermit--NOT!)
But, of course--sober am I today!
And grateful today, for having
received a text message which
arrived RIGHT ON TIME!
