Wyatt Earp: and the Boomerang Refugium Read online

  With that said he left me alone with Jill. I had a lot of questions, he was right about that. Not of my health, but of what had happened and the state of the world. I had woken in shock from what I thought was a world in chaos, to now business as usual. With a mixture of being overwhelmed, relieved and tired I closed my eyes for a few moments. Jill combed my hair and adjusted the sheets and sat nearby in silence. I drifted in and out of consciousness in need of rest, but also in need of being awake and getting on.

  Bill Everson, Secretary of the US Navy, and Rod Wheeler, the CO of the submarine I had been on, came in just before lunch was due to be brought around. My eyes were closed and of course they thought I was asleep. They started talking to Jill quietly, but upon hearing their familiar voices, I opened my eyes and gestured a slight wave with my right hand.

  “Welcome back Jack. You must be one tough Aussie.” said Bill. Rod Wheeler chimed in, “Yeah buddy. The head-doctors here had you pinned for maybe a final dive, but you sure showed them some spirit. At least that’s my story. The crew have been hoping you might be well enough to return for a few more sessions before we head back to San Diego for some refits. You have even had some of them visit you. Laura, our wonderful cook, came in a few times to make sure the food was up to standard for when you resurfaced. When we told the crew this morning that you had resurfaced, she insisted on my giving you this box of goodies.”

  I nodded my head and barely mouthed an audible thank-you. Rod then said in his best imitation Aussie accent, “Maa-a-ate. You get better and I hope to see you down the yard soon.”

  “Same from me Jack,” said Bill. “I’ll leave you in Jill’s very capable hands and I’ll drop in tomorrow. Maybe we can talk a little then.”

  They then left us alone.

  I could hardly talk or use my hands, and it was unlikely that I was going to be able to eat much any time soon. Lunch was delivered none-the-less and it smelled sensational. But it was Jill who was quick to point out that it was mostly her lunch and not mine. “This Jack, is yours,” and a small container of pureed soup, all of about 60ml was earmarked for poor old Jack. Mrs Chung returned and offered to help feed me with a spoon or food syringe if I preferred, to allow Jill to have her lunch. Syringe be damned. I pointed at the spoon. With my head inclined a little further, I had my first meal in five weeks. The taste was amazing. My mouth enjoyed the slightly salty savoury taste of Chinese chicken and corn soup. The uneasiness I felt in my stomach clearly told me why I was only getting a meagre portion. Meanwhile Jill demolished a salad of smoked salmon, avocado and egg, dressed with papaya and capers, all the while eyeing off my gift box. She sensed my disapproving stare, but then I thought of how loyal and loving she and Mrs Chung had been to me.

  I managed in a weak voice, “Ladies, please help yourself. Thank-you.”

  Jill motioned for Mrs Chung to open the box. Mrs Chung held it open for me to see, while Jill held the enclosed card for me to see. It was enormous, filling the lid of the box entirely. It read, “Welcome back Jack. We have missed you, and especially your sense of humour. Wishing you a speedy recovery. Come see us soon.”

  I did a rough count of the signatures – there must have been about 130 of them – the entire crew it seemed. And the rest of the contents of the box, well it was nothing short of amazing. Goodness knows there must have been an Australian shop here in Hawaii. Vegemite of course, but also Arnott’s biscuits, Tasmanian salmon, Golden Circle marmalade and a selection of Australian honeys. And trust the navy, a bottle of Bundaberg rum. The box was crammed full. Mrs Chung turned to leave, but I made as loud an mmm noise as I could. Jill gave me a sip of water. I said as best I could, “Mrs Chung. Please, the box, for you and Mr Chung, a small token of thanks.” She showed what I took to be astonishment and embarrassment, but was not about to lose face.

  She spoke carefully and slowly, “It is I who thank-you Mr Jack. I ask is it alright to call you Mr Jack? It could be awkward if I applied Japanese etiquette and referred to you as Sunn San or Jack San.”

  “Please do.” With that she bowed, accepted the box and left the room.

  “That was very kind of you Jack. She and her husband are most kind and tirelessly tend to many here. Recognition of their efforts and involvement here – well not everybody regains consciousness. Would you like me to read some of the get-well cards that have amassed here? We have not opened any, only sorted them by sender’s address. There is one from Ray of course, who by the way should be here tomorrow morning. This one you will surely want to read.” She held up the back of the envelope to reveal one word – Alf, “and this one from Government House Canberra.”

  “Please,” I said.

  From Ray: “Hey Uncle Jack. Hear you have been having a bit of a rest in Honolulu lately. Been quiet here without you. Enjoy Hawaii’s hospitality, but come home soon. Miss you, Ray.”

  Nice, and from Alf: “Greetings Jack. Be strong, Recover, and Get well. You have lots of good work in you to do in the years ahead, and lots of lives and souls to affect for the better. Forever appreciative – Alf.”

  And from the Governor-General’s office: “To Mr Jack Sunn. Dear Jack. Having served in the Navy, it is sad to hear of accidents, especially ones involving civilian quests in peace time. I have spoken to the US Secretary of the Navy, your friend Mr Bill Everson, and he assures me you are in good hands. Jill reinforces that judgement. It is my sincere wish that you recover fully and soon, and that my wife Elizabeth and I might meet you later this year. Your friend Alfred has been helping with our farm work the past few weeks, and he speaks fondly of you and Jill, and how much both of you have been part of his life’s changes for the better. Until we meet, yours, Gordon Alexander.”

  I said one word to Jill, “Alf.”

  She went on to say, “Gordon’s time as Governor-General is coming to a close, and sadly he is ill, and may not survive the year. He and his wife are on leave at their family farm. When he told me he was not well, I immediately asked Alf if he would be able to help out. And Alf being who he is drove down the following morning and installed himself as driver, cook, cleaner, farm worker and packer. He, that is Alf, seems determined and tireless. It’s as if Alf is helping an uncle in need. He thinks the Alexanders should come and stay at Clunes. I put it to them and I think they will accept the invitation. All their family live overseas, and they dislike the idea of a nursing home. I think you would get on well with them, especially now as you both have submarines in common.”

  Submarines. Where it all started and damn near ended. Strange how the thread of life takes its direction at times. I had been talking to Bill Everson about food security for home and country, and among other topics discussed the planning, preparation and logistics of armed forces provisioning, especially important for ships away from ports for extended periods of time. We also touched on dealing with isolation and confinement. Well next thing I knew I was off to Guam to join a US navy submarine on trials in the Pacific. The idea was for me to talk with crew members likely to retire soon to find out the sorts of plans they had for life after the Navy, but also to see how crews of over 130 on board, survive their 18 hour days – six hours watch, six hours other duties, six hours rest, then start over, all without sunlight and often in cramped conditions. And here I was in Honolulu in a bed with a drip attached to my wrist. Not being in a coma was a relief, but I had not known I was in a coma until awakened and told I had been. Having been out for five weeks though brought with it challenges that I wanted to dispense with the sooner the better. Help with eating was fine. What was not fine was having to be toilet trained and reacquiring the energy and mobility to be self-sufficient in that capacity. No problem Jack. Pump up the size of your stomach, start eating, get yourself moving and go to the toilet. And do it soonest. Just get it done. First thing, get some help from professionals. Before falling asleep again, I told Jill what I thought I needed and she agreed. But as it happened the hospital rehabilitation plan was already in place. The next morning I was sponge bathed, raise
d a little further, fed, and given about an hour of free time. Then it began in earnest. My first appointment was with a specialist rehabilitation masseur. My first reaction at seeing Miki was that this was going to be an absolute pleasure. She was slim, probably about 50 kg weight and 150 cm tall. How wrong I was about imminent pleasure. Miki’s fingers probed like diving reef fish plumbing the depths of my viscera. And her palms were like pounding waves to my muscles and tendons. First venue for probing was my diaphragm to get me breathing deeper, then my stomach and the rest of the GI tract. Highly memorable and highly moving I can attest to. I gained a new-found respect for the muscular strength of Japanese women of slight stature. Following this was a visit to an enema specialist – whoever knew that was an area for speciality? –for which I will spare the details. I later returned to Miki’s charms where many an uncontainable groan was heard. She did a magnificent job though, getting blood flow to all major arm, leg and torso muscle groups, allowing me to start exercising by myself. It was not long before I could feed myself and noticeably talk better. Being able to talk and be understood was a big step to my mind. Not to waste my reacquired hand dexterity I started writing notes on all the recent dreams I could recall. Unfortunately, their order of recall was chronologically scrambled.

  It was not long before they had me in a special gymnasium under the watchful eye of a physiotherapist. I took my notebook everywhere, for fragments of dreams kept surfacing wherever I was. It was like I had to remember them. I had yet to read the notes I had made since leaving Guam up to the time of my accident, but that could wait.

  Bill Everson came in during the next two days, filling me in with details of my mishap. I was making rapid progress, but was not yet able to walk unassisted for more than a few steps. But seeing me in good spirits and making progress, he timetabled me for a tour of the naval yard later in the week and to meet with some of the ship’s crew. Because he was due to return to the mainland, the XO was handling everything. But even more encouraging than the local tour, was that the Navy had arranged my travel home, and I was asked if I could report to San Diego later in the year to help develop a range of programs to assist Navy personnel approaching retirement. For the TaSMAN Group, this was going to be a big step in our development of programs, and both Jill and I welcomed the invitation.

  I thankfully graduated from rehabilitation in record time and escaped to a suite at the Waikiki Beach Marriott Resort & Spa with ocean views, and a pool to assist my continuing recharge. In three days’ time I was going home. The Navy had delivered an envelope with our travel itinerary informing us of our flight numbers back to Brisbane, and that all we had to do was present ourselves at the Qantas service desk three hours prior to departure. To be sure all went well, a limousine would be at our hotel to take us there on time.

  Ray had done some sight-seeing while visiting Honolulu, and visited several dojos for training with colleagues he had met at martial art seminars around the world. He had also booked on the same flight home as Jill and I. On the day of our departure, the three of us left together. Our driver was a most courteous young naval officer, a lady in her early twenties I guessed. By now I was truly gaining a deep respect for Bill Everson’s leadership and organizational abilities. The limousine was waved into a reserved parking space at the entrance to departures, with what appeared to be a porter-concierge at the ready with two luggage trollies. With little to carry we were escorted by our driver to the Qantas service desk. Ray had an economy class ticket and was happy to check in after we were settled, and remained close by to assist if necessary. He naturally engaged our attractive driver in conversation.

  Jill and I presented our passports, and the lady behind the desk enquired, pointing to Ray, if that was Ray Sunn accompanying us home. We answered yes, and she immediately called out to him and asked for his passport. We were then presented with departure cards to fill in, as well as boarding cards. The check-in lady then said, “Ray. Mr. Everson was hoping you would be able to travel close to your uncle on your return trip. Please accept this upgrade to first class.”

  And then directed at the three of us, our porter-concierge motioned for us to accompany him to the QF International Business Lounge to await boarding. Ray quickly exchanged business cards with our driver, thanked her and bid her farewell, then joined us on our way to the lounge. And very nice indeed. First thing I did was send a text message to Bill expressing my sincere thanks to him and all the Navy personnel we had met. I said we would be in touch soon, and sat down to a most refreshing Seppelt Salinger, an excellent Barossa Valley Sparkling Pinot Noir Chardonnay. A small toast was appropriate. I started, “To you Jill. You have brought me a long way. I love you. You are a rock and my best boss ever. And Ray. The journey never ends. My late sister, your adopted mother would be so proud of you, as I am. You have been like a son to me for what seems an eternity. Cheers to you both, now let’s go home.”

  We arrived back at Sydney International Airport, and by using the priority lane quickly passed through passport control and customs. With only our hand baggage in tow we walked into the arrivals hall, and quickly changed terminals to get our connecting flight to Brisbane.

  Jill had not told me, but at the Brisbane arrivals gate there was Alf ready to take our bags and load a trolley. What else could I do but smile? Alf, resourceful as ever, had transport parked directly outside the terminal in a clearly signed no-parking zone. He always amazes me at how he gets things done, and usually so quietly and efficiently.

  Driving back to Sunnybank Ray sat in the front with Alf, while Jill and I chatted in the back seat. Jill suggested some time out for me to fully recuperate, and then a visit to Clunes to meet with the Alexanders. I readily agreed, but also had plans of my own.

  CHAPTER 23

  Knowing that I was home and free of impending challenges for survival, I slept deeply till nearly daylight without knowingly dreaming. After a quick toilet break I lay back down and again dozed. I naturally thought of the events of the last six weeks, and soon entered a slumber of creative twilight. I guess my mind could relax more fully being on home territory. I re-remembered dreams that I had forgotten and started making sense of them. Clearly the blow to my head was literally interpreted by my brain as lights out, and triggered the flow of events I thought I had experienced. Apparently, Mrs Chung was my first visitor in hospital and told me stories at length. I think what would have been of greatest benefit from her stories was that she told me stories of great significance in her life, stories of disaster, survival, recovery and adjustment. Not many can speak of facing a tsunami and talk about it later. How could my mind think this was anything but important to think about and consider? My mind had little choice but to remain active and process what I was told, but could not consciously hear. And then Jill arrived with news and stories from home. But the strongest stimulus I perceived was that the lights were out and that apparently translated as no electricity to me and so set the scene for my dreams.

  I awoke refreshed, and relieved to be thinking through things in a new light and still be at home in Sunnybank. My first task was to scribble down notes before totally entering the waking state of day. I knew that following the accident, my brain did the best it could do, and went to work for me. By the time I finished my rough notes about twenty minutes had passed, and I knew I had a story of some merit to tell – not one totally devoid of humour, but one that could make a reader think about where we are in history. By history I mean our current civilisation and that of past civilisations. It is unfortunate that many past civilisations and their histories have mostly been lost. And if we are lucky meagre crumbs are left behind as clues. Technologies have come and gone for sure, some possibly more advanced than what we have in our present era. We do not know for sure. But for certain our technology, on which we rely, is mostly less than fifty years old, at most 200 years. How fickle is it that the vulnerability we have placed upon ourselves has come from mentally shifting luxury and convenience, to assumed necessity? And when you pull
the electricity plug, or nature does it having no concept of our beliefs or ethics, what happens? We have no recourse or resource left but to accept the consequences, or do we? Nature is sometimes best described by referencing the ocean, which accepts all with no favouritism paid out when it comes to human survival or drowning.

  I met Ray for breakfast, and enjoyed the peace of our home, as well as the simplicity of spiced tea and freshly cut fruit.

  “Ray. I’ve had some truly amazing dreams these last few weeks. Some I think you will enjoy or maybe you’ll think that I am just a romantic nutcase. I’ll be talking to Jill about San Diego soon, but closer to home I would like your thoughts on modifying and expanding our complex here. We have an unused hillside that could comfortably accommodate a vertical silo for example, allowing us to make a retreat within a retreat. I was thinking that if either of us was sick at some time, it could be a quiet and peaceful place to keep our infections to ourselves. Or just a place for quiet time. But we also have empty warehouses within easy walking distance undercover. We might be able to lease these, and I don’t know what yet, but they could sure come in handy.

  Ray was not showing a lot of interest. He said, “Uncle Jack. I’m sure you will figure it all out. It’s what you do. And to change the subject, I’ve got a welcome home present for you.” He left the room and returned with a huge wrapped box. I figured it to be the size of a wine carton.

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  I thanked him for my home coming gift, which when I opened it revealed a case of Redman Coonawarra Shiraz. He knew of one of my favourites without doubt. Redman, I thought. A no nonsense honest Australian wine, delivering quality without frills. A family run company with a vision and in no apparent need of Human Resource managers. The tour of their winery in the previous year was a favoured memory. I remember the welcoming ambience of the tasting room with ease, its spaciousness, cool environment, barrel placement, and especially the anticipation of excellent wines to taste, and our tour guide that day was, wait, none other than a young man named Sam. It is nice when assorted pieces of a puzzle align themselves to reveal the picture they portray.