Grant's Pet Shop Chapter 10

The Air Force flight loadmaster, Sergeant McReynolds known to the crew as"Mac," emerged from the rear of the plane, his bald head sandwiched in a giant set of bulbous yellow headphones. Beneath his double chin swung a wire mike which allowed him to communicate with the cockpit. The headphones were necessary in order to hear over the roar of the whining turbines. Short, with a beer belly, Mac tried hard to manifest a John Wayne could-give-a-damn look. His appearance was calculated to read, "Oh shucks, ma’m...this is just another day off the ground...just a little joy ride." The military macho manifested on the outside was just a facade, inside he was quaking in his boots. Mac was a weekend warrior out of a Long Beach Air National Guard unit and he had never made this particular flight before in his life. When in his normal civilian mode, Mac dawdled through the days as a life insurance broker and had joined the Guard in a spasm of patriotism following the defeat of the Iraqis. He also needed the extra spending money since his wife had opted for a career as a housewife. The junkets to Hawaii, which he normally flew, were fine. But taking this old bird to a packed coral strip thousand of miles from the nearest flight mechanic made him extremely nervous. The C-141 had one of the Air Force's highest breakdown rates—something hydraulic always seemed to be leaking and in need of repair. Mac was desperately afraid that he would get stuck out in the middle of nowhere waiting for parts to be flown in. Not a remote possibility either, it happened frequently on this particular mission. And the timing couldn't be worse. Tomorrow he was taking the family on a long-planned vacation to Yosemite. Mac's marriage was already on shaky ground, too much time at the office was the usual complaint. He wondered if Janie would divorce him if he didn't make it back tonight. Every day of the vacation had been worked out to the nth degree and cutting the trip short, even if by just a day, would have been a heartbreaker to the kids.

The rear bay was packed to capacity. Mac sat carefully on a mesh bag bulging with dive gear, captivated by the strange cargo. Sally and Tom lay side-by-side covered with wet army blankets secured by the webbing of a bright orange net. Their liquid black eyes reflected the dull silver aluminum of the aircraft's interior. The dolphins were still, only occasionally emitting high pitched squeaks. It was hard to judge, but they didn't look at all happy.

Sandra studied Mac as he began talking into his mouthpiece. But with the deafening roar inside the plane and ears plugged with a pink, pliable substance that looked like bubble gum, it was impossible for her to discern he was saying. Even Sally and Tom's ears were protected by foam pads secured with black electrical tape. Sandra wondered if their ears were popping like hers, the plane seemed to be descending. The FASTEN SEAT BELT sign flickered several times then stayed lit. Mac tapped each passenger and pointed to the sign. Sandra figured it must be some sort of regulation because it was easy to see that she and the other two passengers were snarled in the same complex type of harnesses that bound her so uncomfortably. By twisting around Sandra could catch a glimpse of blue out of a small porthole. Turning further and sliding one shoulder free of the canvas restraint she caught the first sight of her new home, a home at least for the next year. She caught Mac's attention and he shuffled over and slid one of his ears free of the headset and pressed it close to her face. Using a combination of improvised hand signals and shouting at the top of her lungs, Sandra asked if they could circle around atoll, she wanted to see the famed necklace of mini-islands and shallow reefs that surrounded the lagoon before landing. Mac raised his eyebrows, gritted his teeth then spoke into his mike. In a moment he gave her a thumbs up sign. The plane began a gradual bank to the left and the torquoise lagoon filled the horizon. Sandra squirmed until she was plastered fully in front of her oval window.

How fantastic... and how narrow the islands...stretched out like stepping stones in a long circular arc. In the center of islands a peaceful lagoon lay protected by the outer reef where waves crashed and boiled into a white froth. The lagoon was a greener shade of blue than the open sea, and depending upon the depth, ranged in hue from deep green to light turquoise. The beaches were definitely white—pure radiant white. Her heart raced to see lush groves of graceful palms, their fronds dancing wildly in the trade winds. Flocks of delicate fairy terns rose to greet them, their tranquility shattered by the low pass of the plane. The words "tropical paradise" formed softly on her lips.

The C-141 lined up with the coral gravel strip and dropped to a smooth landing on the hot shimmering runway. Sandra was the first passenger off the plane. Standing on the ramp fishing in her bag for sunglasses, she felt a blast of hot, humid wind which launched her Raider's ball cap dancing down the runway. Three young Coast Guardsmen, technicians who manned the Loran station, raced to rescue her hat. They were quick to seize an opportunity to meet this knockout gal who had materialized unexpectedly and sent their blood pulsing. Yet even their considerable ardor was diverted when the pallet holding Tom and Sally slid down the roller ramp at the rear of the plane and landed in the baking, hot sun. The Coasties were willingly commandeered into service and formed a bucket brigade. Hand over hand, they passed plastic pails of water dipped from the nearby lagoon and sloshed them over the squirming, chattering animals.

Eniwetok airport consisted of a single aluminum Quonset hut. A plywood sign bolted to the front of the building sported the yellow caricature of a sun face wearing dark shades and beaming a happy grin. Someone with a sense of humor had carefully painted in large letters, "Welcome to Eniwetok International Airport." Passengers waiting to board the return flight stood smoking and talking to their friends. Their bright aloha shirts, recently pressed Bermuda shorts, Samsonite brief cases, and paperback novels clearly delineated them from the rest of the onlookers, who would go back to their offices or workshops as soon as the plane left the ground. Most of the action centered around a big dirty ice chest where every few minutes one of the men sidled in to squash an empty can and fish out a fresh beer. Nearly everyone was keeping a close watch on Sandra and the dolphins while conducting the well rehearsed, once-a-week, ritual known to all as "plane day."

The sky seemed vibrantly close and much more prominent to the eye than that of northern California where the air and clouds seemed to seep together in a blend auto emissions and coastal haze. Rotating her head, Sandra could see from one horizon to the other where the sky flattened exactly into the sea. Brilliant puffs of white streamed by low overhead in orderly groups propelled by the steady push of the trades.

A dilapidated stake bed truck missing a few fenders and apparently held together by rust but still bearing the weathered paint "Eniwetok Marine Biological Lab" rattled into the passenger compound. A tall, athletic man in cut-offs and a faded work shirt, obviously behind schedule and looking harried, ran up to Sandra and gasped, "Damn battery was dead again...had to get jump started...sorry I'm late...how are the porpoises?" Barely stopping for a breath, he continued, "Let's get that pallet into the back of the truck...I set up a temporary pool until we can transfer them to the crater tomorrow." Then he abruptly thrust forward a calloused tan hand for Sandra to shake, which she enthusiastically pumped sweat and all and said, "Hi, I'm Jim Morrow—all my friends just call me Morrow. I like it better like that. Welcome to Micronesia."

Sandra held on for dear life as the truck bounced and swerved to avoid potholes as Morrow gunned the truck down the island's one and only road. The aging truck coughed and wheezed past a sign posted along the roadway that warned would-be trespassers of the dire consequences awaiting those charged with unauthorized entry. Morrow parked in front of an aluminum building hidden deeply within a dense grove of coconut palms. The lab was located at the northernmost tip of the island on a little spit of sand. The air smelled of hot tar from the creosote-impregnated pier which jutted into the lagoon providing dock space for the lab's fleet of dive skiffs. At the head of the pier, two students waited while a clattering compressor topped off their SCUBA tanks. The lab building was fronted by a spacious lanai filled with rows of observation tanks full of marine specimens. A haphazard assortment of outboard motors, gas cans, anchors, ropes, and dive gear was scattered in seeming chaos. Sandra stood transfixed in front of a large tank full of colorful reef fish, many of which she recognized from the old pet shop days.

Morrow pointed out a red and white fish with long trailing fins and a blunt head. He said, "Watch out for that one. It's called..."

"A lionfish, Pterois volitans" interrupted Sandra, "and it has deadly spines."

"I'm impressed, Dr. Grant. You seem to know your ichthyology."

"Only the dangerous ones," she laughed. This reminds me so much of the pet shop in Key West. Are you there Grandma? How do you like all these tropical fish?

Morrow led her to the side of the building where a green shade cloth drooped loosely over a low tank of water suspended at each corner by a cord tied to a nearby palm. The fifty foot circular pool was filled nearly to the top with clear lagoon water. As they were talking, several late model pickup trucks crunched to a halt in the gravel driveway by the pool. A motley assortment of Kentron workers, already high from the beer they had guzzled at the airport, gathered around to see the new arrivals. Word traveled fast on the island, especially when a female had arrived. They had come to "check her out."

Sandra immediately enlisted the men's help in carrying the dolphins one by one to the pool. She jumped in with the Twins to keep them company and to make sure that they revived fully. As she got soaked, her sheer top and shorts caused a minor sensation in the group of onlookers. Realizing too late that she was indeed putting on quite a show, Sandra was forced to endure the wolf whistles and cat calls as she patiently walked the dolphins around cooing to them in a soft voice. She tried to reassure them that this stopover was only temporary and that she was their friend and guardian. Within half an hour every nonessential island resident had joined the party. The crowd was now about three men deep around the pool and beers were being handed forward from somewhere back of the ranks. The whistles died down as the men became mesmerized by the blowing and clicking of the dolphins, but many still gawked lustily at the spectacle of Sandra in a transparent blouse which revealed a sheer bra and tight nipples. The men seemed to be having an outrageously good time.

Standing waist deep in the warm water as the Twins swam around the tank grazing her outstretched palms with their smooth skin, it occurred to Sandra that things were certainly moving in unexpected directions. Only two days ago she had arrived at the Naval Undersea Center at Kaneohe. There she had been met by a nervous civilian who introduced himself as the Operations Manager. He had immediately escorted Sandra to an off limits area of the base which had looked like it had once served as an airplane hanger. Sally and Tom lived in a cramped concrete pool and it was obvious from the outset that they were very unhappy creatures.

The Ops Manager had proven to be as uncooperative as he was anxious to be rid of the Twins. He refused to even discuss the Navy dolphin program and made no mention of Tom and Sally's abilities or refusal to perform. Later on that afternoon Sandra had managed a conversation with one of the mammal trainers during a brief five minutes while the Ops Manager left her unattended. Although reticent to discuss any of the details about the kind of instruction that the Twins had received, the trainer had revealed that they were very clever animals—and on several instances had correctly anticipated commands before they were issued. As if the shock of this revelation were not enough, when he re-showed the Ops Manager matter of factly informed her that he had just spoken with General Houston and the dolphins were booked on Thursday's flight to Eniwetok. "Sorry ma’m. Those were his exact words, 'Move the dolphins out on the next available flight.'...and that's this Thursday Dr. Grant."

Sandra's hastily conceived plan had at least been orderly. First scout out the dolphins, they turned out to be incredible specimens, then return to her lab in Berkeley to plan, organize, and pack for the move. She figured it would take at least three months to put the package together and another six months to build the lab and set up the equipment—all before the Twins arrived in Micronesia.

Well so much for that plan. It looks like I have no choice but to go with the flow. The opportunity to work with twin dolphins...who might already have demonstrated psychic powers, is just too valuable to risk. If I stall, they might ship them to someone else...and I would lose my funding too. Only two days to prepare and when I get there what will I do? At least I'll make sure the dolphins are safe, then I'll bring the team over and then....

The director of Hawaii's Institute of Marine Biology was sympathetic and quite helpful. He assured her that the Eniwetok Lab would be placed at her disposal and offered the services of the acting lab manager until her group was mobilized. So with just a couple of stops at the Ala Moana Shopping Center to get extra shorts, tops and shampoo, a local dive shop to purchase a new set of dive gear to replace the gear she had left in California, and a computer store to get a box of diskettes for her portable Macintosh, she was as ready as possible. She had spent as much time at NUC in the tank with the Twins as the Ops Manager would allow. She purposely tried to establish a sense of trust in the dolphins. They took to her immediately. After years of military discipline and the company of men, Sally and Tom warmed to the affection she showered upon them. Still, like it was only yesterday, she remembered thinking, how do you tell two dolphins they’re about to fly to Micronesia?

Now suddenly, here in this pool in the Marshall Islands surrounded by lecherous, unshaven men who all were obviously sex starved castaways, it was hard to believe that less than a week ago she had been innocently sitting in her Berkeley lab wondering what had happened to her NSF proposal. Now she the center of attention of a south Pacific all male tribe telling two bottlenose dolphins not to worry, everything is going to work out fine. Just calm down now you two. I'll try to do the same.

Jim Morrow was her savior. During her short stay in Hawaii she had learned that he held a master’s degree in ichthyology from the University of Hawaii and a doctorate in marine biology from Scripps Institution of Oceanography. His graduate research had been performed at Eniwetok and since joining the faculty at Scripps he had returned every year to do fieldwork. Morrow's specialty was shark behavior, and he had published extensively on the stimuli that trigger shark attacks on humans.

The sun edged toward the sea. The trade winds had diminished to just a breath that ruffled the surface of the lagoon. Tiny wavelets refracted the sun's rays like a prism sending little lightning flash sprinkles across the water surface. A sense of serenity enveloped the island. The gawkers had retired en masse to the club to do some serious drinking and to exchange snide remarks about the newcomers. The Twins seemed to relax allowing Grant to shift her attention to Morrow. He was tall and muscular with short sandy hair. He looked like the stereotype California surfer, blond and bronze. She had once heard that all Scripps grads were surfers.

The first question she posed was, "Tell me about the sharks...and thanks for your help today. I simply couldn't have managed without you. They look much better now. Those goatfish you provided them made them feel right at home."

Producing two bottles of Primo beer from the lab refer, Morrow spoke softly and with confidence. He related some of his experiences diving these waters: one dive buddy had been bitten into two pieces. "No the shark didn't come back for the second half," he said before she could ask. Another buddy, the divemaster from Scripps, had a big chunk removed from his elbow. "It's the first thing he talks about in his dive classes," laughed Morrow. "He always wears short sleeve shirts too." A Kentron worker who called himself “Old Shot Miller, the Shark Killer" had been mouthed head on by a big tiger shark and had required sixty stitches in his head. "Scalp wounds bleed viciously. Really made a mess of my boat" commented Morrow without emotion.

When Sandra asked why his buddies seem to get nailed and not he, Morrow warmed more to the subject. "The secret is quite simple actually," he explained. "If you see sharks, you must get out of the water as soon as possible or know precisely what you are doing. I do. The other's didn't. If your exit is obstructed, maneuver your tank against the reef and wedge yourself in between the corals. Don't get excited and hold your breath. If you do, you'll float upwards and provide them with an easy target. While you're fending off one attacking from the front, another shark will approach from the rear and attempt to snatch you from behind. Fire your powerhead from a controlled position."

Sandra was impressed with Morrow's composure while describing in detail such frightening prospects. Morrow went on, "Surprisingly the greatest danger here is a small carcharhinid called the grey reef shark. They don't get much larger than six feet, but they are very, very aggressive. You might call them the ocean's version of the pit bull. Greys don't attack you to eat you—only to defend their territory. Afterall, they were there first.”

"On the other hand, the pelagic white tip and the big tiger sharks are definitely real bad news. They also aggressively defend their territories, but they are different. They seem to like human flesh....very vicious and very dangerous. But even though the whites and tigers are as bad as it gets, they are relatively uncommon and you may never see one while you are here. So remember, it is most critical to keep an eye of the greys. They are exceedingly fast, curious and abundant. That makes for a volatile situation. Sometime I'll tell you about their dance."

Sandra mentioned radioactivity and that she was surprised that people could even live on this particular atoll. "I read about a radioactive island in the lab guide. What's going on out there anyway?"

Morrow took a long hard pull from his bottle of Primo then answered, "Who knows? This place is full of secrets. One thing for sure is the Runit is definitely off limits. The rumor goes that it is the most radioactive spot on the earth's surface. Considering the record of the Atomic Energy Commission, that's saying a lot. I do know that to go on the island you need to wear lead boots and a respirator suit."

He continued, "It's funny. I was here during one of the first radiological surveys that the AEC conducted in the mid-seventies...before they had allowed any of the natives to come back. What a strange cast of characters. The guys from Livermore labs were OK, but the ones from the Atomic Energy Commission were something else. Their expeditions were mostly a pleasure jaunt—a couple of weeks outside of their offices in the Nevada desert. The AEC even flew in a motor yacht to cruise around the islands and collect coconut samples. Every day after breakfast they set out with a cooler full of pre-mixed margaritas and a picnic basket full of goodies. But, I shouldn't complain too much. They hired me as a consultant to pick up soil samples from Runit since one of my study reefs was just offshore. That's how they found out that Runit was hot. I brought them a baggie full of dirt, which looked like ordinary sand to me. It pegged their Geiger counter. The shit really hit the fan when they found pieces of pure plutonium in the bottom of the bag," as he expertly twisted the cap off a new bottle of Primo.

"Oh great, I'll make certain be avoid that island," exclaimed Sandra as she rose to study a chart of the atoll thumb-tacked to the lab wall. Runit was marked with a skull and cross bones and a labels stating DANGER STAY CLEAR. NO ANCHORAGE. NO LANDING PERMITTED. RADIOACTIVE CONTAMINATION.. She noted that Runit was located next to North Island—the island on which she planned to establish her new lab. I wonder what happened there that left pure plutonium lying around on the surface? Wow!

As if reading her mind, Morrow offered, "The story one the AEC crew members leaked, he was on a brutal bender at the club, was that one of the weapons experts back in the sixties wanted to know what would happen if a bomber carrying an armed nuke crashed on takeoff. You know, would it go off or not? So the AEC took a small fission device, set it on a big charge of dynamite and lit the fuse. Nothing happened except that the bomb's case cracked open spilling plutonium into the sand. They probably figured 'no big deal' and went home. That was long before there was any kind of environmental consciousness. The whole incident was forgotten until I collected my little sample twenty years later. According to the local scuttlebutt, there is too much radioactivity on Runit to ever clean up. I heard that at one time they even considered paving the island with a ten foot deep layer of concrete so that it would be safe for the returning islanders. But at an estimated cost about $200 million, they just said to hell with it. Put up a Keep Out sign and let the radioactivity naturally decay. Trouble is that the half life of plutonium is 250,000 years."

"Telling you this story now, I realize how outrageous it must sound. But that makes it even more believable to me. The AEC is known for its fiascoes. I still get over by Runit every other month or so and there seems to a considerable amount of coming and going for such a foreboding place. There's even a another new cabin cruiser tied up to a new dock—the first one was lost in a typhoon back in 1980. Whatever you do, don't waste any energy trying to get a straight answer out of the LLL guys. They won't talk about Runit at all. You'll see them around, they're the guys in the nifty orange suits. By the way, have you surmised yet that you are the only foxy chick on an island with about sixty horny and somewhat deranged males?"

Sandra let the remark go by without comment. She changed the subject, "Where's the nearest McDonalds, I'm famished."

She reflected that Morrow was definitely a friend in time of need. He was also very handsome. Up close she could see that his hair was actually brown, but bleached by years in the sun. He had a strong chin which by now was showing a hint of afternoon shadow and golden brown eyes. She could not help notice that his muscles flexed smoothly when he moved, maybe a little like the sharks which he studied. And more than once she had caught him studying her carefully.

GRANT'S PET SHOP