'The wind got up in the night and took our plans away'

         'The first voice informs us, and the second reminds us. Of what? Not exactly of the forgotten, but rather of what we have chosen to forget, and such choices often begin in childhood...the constant coexistence, of pain and fun...'

     John Berger

                                                                           17.

    Most people who came to the island, in spring, were bird photographers. Gian Piero and Daniela seemed to have arrived by mistake. The sea was like a piece of tin foil caught under a light. The Giant Petrels and Black Browed Albatross rose in the blue of the sky, before disappearing into the glare. Daniela said it was cold. I wanted to say it didn’t get any better. 

   ‘Vamos a tomar un cafe?’

    Daniela and Gian Piero were from Milano. Spanish is close enough, to Italian, when you are taking people to see the birds. Gian Piero turned to the back seat, to ask Daniela. ‘No. Thank you,’ Gian Piero said. Ten minutes later, I had stopped the car and opened the rear door, to make myself a coffee.

   ‘Okay. A small tea, perhaps,’ Gian Piero said.

    Gian Piero and Daniela used their telephones for taking pictures. Each time I parked Gian Piero would ask Daniela if she would like to get out. She would roll down the window and then throw herself back against the seats, because of the wind. When I spoke to Gian Piero, in English, Daniela asked why couldn’t I speak in Spanish? They were spending a week in the islands, and then going to the Andes. In Mendoza, they were hiring a car to drive north. There would not be so much wind, Gian Piero said. He looked at Daniela, as he said.

    We had arrived at the beach where the Giant Petrels nested on the eastern side. I could picture Daniela finally leaving the car, and walking amongst the birds as they panicked. Not that I liked the Petrels. The smaller birds, like the Rockhoppers, were defenseless against the Skuas and the Giant Petrels. Not that looking for food was easy for any of them. Gian Piero took his tea and stood looking at the sea. Daniela had remained inside but with the door open, looking at her phone. ‘You are listening to tango?’ she asked. I was.

    ‘Tango is very beautiful,’ she said.

    ‘It is a beautiful day,’ said Gian Piero.

    It was a typical early summer day.

    ‘A bit of wind and a lot of sun,’ I said.

    ‘A lot of wind,’ Daniela corrected me.

     As I went to close the rear door - and my coffee in the other hand, a pair of ‘rooks’ were staring up at me. Daniela wondered who I was talking to. One of the birds had gone around the car, stopping to pick something from the ground. ‘Phalcoboenus’ was pulling at Gian Piero’s discarded tea bag, its beak dotted with tiny pieces of tea. The other adult was by the back door, its head on its side waiting for something to eat.

                                                                              *

    At the end of the island, is a small beach; it was once covered with agates, which people took to make jewelry. The owners of the island made people sign something promising they will not take them. Most people do not know what they look like. Some fill their pockets, but with normal pebbles. Daniela had finally left the car.    

    ‘I will pick you up,’ I said. ‘I will park in the middle.’

    Perhaps one hundred meters later, I stopped. Daniela and Gian Piero were hand in hand. They had stopped to write something in the sand. As they got back to the car, a King Penguin had emerged from the surf. King Penguins only come ashore to rest or to molt, or perhaps when lost. Daniela had turned and gone walking back, looking through the screen of her telephone. Gina Piero had hold of her arm and a step behind her, as the visiting penguin ran back into the sea. Daniela wanted to know if the rocks she had found were the right ones, for making jewelry. I said yes. I didn’t care if she polished them for a year.  

'I T   M U S T   H A V E    H A P P E N E D   A T  N I G H T         L I K E   W H E N 

   M O S T   T H I N G S   H A P P E N E D  -  W H E N   I T ' S  C O L D   A N D  L A T E '  

31.

                                    

At the western end of the island, is a three-room cabin with corrugated tin cladding. The birds roost on a pitched roof, which is a foot or two higher than the gorse hedges growing wild since the cabin was last used. The feet of the birds scratch the iron as they are knocked by the wind. The door mechanism is rusted and will not close.

    Driving from the settlement, it takes ninety minutes. From the window of the main room, you look west; there is another island, which you can see through the sand dunes. Beyond that, is several hundred miles of sea, until you reach the South American coast.

   The kitchen floor slopes due to the spring water breaking through the peat to the rear of the building. There is a Christmas tree in one corner made from driftwood and bulbs from Japanese squid catching vessels. There is the smell of diesel oil leaking from a converted Rayburn stove and mold from the bedding. On a shelf between the bunks are hardback books stamped by the Ranfurly Library. The enamel bath is full of feathers.

              

   

       'The problem with fiction, is that it sounds like it's all been made up.' 


    

    

'In the distance you can imagine a million things, and none of them are true. I closed the gate then opened it, closed it again and then opened it. Then I held my breath, and went back to the car. Carla and Dennis would not have noticed if I had fell in the mud, or ran off over the hill. 'Enjoy your day,' the manager said, as I collected them in the morning from the lodge. He then caught my eye, smiling. Carla and Dennis were from Wisconsin. I said I would be driving them. Carla repeated: W I S C O N S I N. Dennis was behind, in the middle seats, with his camera. When a bird appeared, he was either changing his lens, or looking at his field guide. When ready, he would start snapping pictures, without waiting for the bird to stand still. Carla just looked straight ahead not saying a word.'

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