Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash
We almost forget the tsunami our first night on the island. But scouting town the next morning, we stumble on scavengers picking the pockets of sidewalk sleepers. Trucks hauling rubble pull over for a stream of ambulances.
We set up next to a Lost and Found on the beach. Mounds of clothes, boxes of mismatched shoes. Scraps of paper flutter on a pole:
My name is Teresa. My husband Rodolfo was swept away. Our son Bruno looks just like him. Short. Dark curly hair. A smile for everyone. If you see him, tell him Mama is looking for him.
Cassie - I made it out alive. At Eddie’s. Call me when you see this. All is forgiven.
Please Lord. Show us mercy.
You laugh. Other people’s loss is the measure of your gain. As you draw a boxing ring in the sand, I scribble a warning and add it to the pole:
Keep your eyes on the other shore.
I look past you at the sea, now an open palm held up to the sky.
“Five bucks says you can’t beat me,” you call to passersby, flexing. “Show me what you got.”
A small crowd gathers, caught by nostalgia for human-scale disasters. They’ve survived war, famine, and now this tsunami.
“Double your money if you knock me down.”
A young man with a shaved head steps into the ring first, rolling up his sleeve.
I slip into the crowd. It’s easy to trip and catch myself on someone’s shoulder, fingers gliding in and out of pockets. I pivot and twist to get a good view. Shaved Head leans forward too close and you catch him off balance within seconds. Exhale on the punch.
Next you fake stumble under a wide swing at your face. The crowd moves in closer. It took you weeks to get this move down. Don’t force it, I told you. Let your body go slack.
“What have you got to lose?” you taunt, scanning the crowd. Your gaze lingers on your next mark, a hollowed-out father, holding a child’s hand. Your eyes always give you away, focused on your target - an uppercut to the jaw, a right hook to the kidney - instead of looking through them. A rookie move you’ll have to break without me.
“I’ll go easy on you.” You smile, hands on hips.
The thin gray man shakes his head as the child tugs him toward a juggler at the water’s edge. The crowd moves on, and I count the take. Enough to get off the island.
How long has it been? I measure time by islands. Half a dozen by now. A chain. A constellation of rock and sand, sparkling just before sinking.
Aboard the freighter, a deckhand saunters by, rubbing his crotch, smacking his lips. Over his shoulder, a hint of land on the horizon. I elbow Shaved Head dozing beside me. “Wake up. We’re almost there.”
Phebe Jewell's work appears in numerous journals, most recently "Duck Duck Mongoose," "Across the Margin," "MoonPark Review," and "Milk Candy Review." A teacher at Seattle Central College, she also volunteers for the Freedom Education Project Puget Sound, a nonprofit providing college courses for incarcerated women, trans-identified, and gender non-conforming people in Washington State. Read her at https://phebejewellwrites.com.