Bill was convinced his matches weren’t dry.
After his ship had gone down, Bill had been in the sea for more than twelve hours before sighting the island between rolling whitecaps. A hard swim and the tide had carried him onto the beach, where he washed up more dead than alive. Two weeks of sun, sand and survival had desiccated his clothes and burned his skin. But the three wooden matches were still wet. And more than anything, Bill wanted a smoke.
The matches lay on a palm leaf in a sunny spot on the beach above the high tide mark. Bill tested one with his finger. It was still damp. One more day. Maybe two. Then he could have a smoke.
The damned cockatoo in the palm tree overhead started chattering. “One coconut, two coconuts, three coconuts…” The bird began counting each day around noon. Some days the bird counted close to three thousand coconuts. Bill doubted the island’s trees sustained that much fruit. Perhaps cockatoos were not good at arithmetic.
But three thousand coconuts would last a long time, perhaps long enough for Bill to sight a ship. And Bill needed to eat something. He had given up on the oysters. They shrieked like babies whenever he tried shucking them with his jackknife.
Bill ambled over to the spring for a drink of water. A man could last a long time with fresh water and a little food. He would make it. He’d spot a ship and he would get off this island and he would go home. Passing the time until then, however, would be much more agreeable if he could just have a smoke.
He whistled a tune to take his mind off of the cigars in his shirt pocket. A man in his position had to guard against despair and madness. Every morning, when Bill washed his face in the spring, he stared at his reflection in the water and reminded himself who he was.
“Good morning, Bill Dawes!” Bill would say to his reflection.
“How are you this bright day, Bill? Holding up, eh?”
“Of course you are, lad! You’re “˜Battersea’ Bill, aren’t you?–known from Madras Point to Kowlpoor, San Juan harbor to Fernando Po! If there’s ever been a mother’s son who can weather this turn of luck, it’s you, old boy!”
Hearing his own voice was comforting, but he talked to himself as little as possible. Men who talked to themselves went crazy. He just needed that one affirmation in the morning to remind himself that the loneliness and the sun hadn’t turned his brain.
But he craved a smoke worse than he had ever lusted after women during shore leave. If only the matches were dry!
The matches were still damp at nightfall so Bill wrapped them carefully in a scrap of oilskin and hid them away in his shirt. He ate some coconut meat and lay down in the sand to sleep.
A crab skittered sideways out of the rocks near the surf and stood in the moonlight at Bill’s feet. Bill groaned and rolled over, pressing his hands against his ears. “Not tonight!” The crab cleared its throat.
Maybe the little fellow would get it right this time, thought Bill. Recently it had become fond of quoting Abraham Lincoln, but it confused easily. Bill tried correcting the crab, but most nights it was like teaching Shakespeare to a stone wall.
The crab cleared its throat again.
“Fourscore and seven years ago,” the crab said, in a reedy, nasal voice, “our four fathers…”
Bill sat up, pounding the sand with his fists. “It’s forefathers, you bloody crab! Forefathers! Not ‘four fathers’!”
The crab scampered back to the rocks. Bill was sure he heard sobbing.
Bill didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed of tobacco and smoke.
He woke up inspired.
Bill whittled a hand-drill and baseboard out of wood hacked from a fallen palm tree. He remembered seeing Borneo bushmen do it. It took some work and a lot of sweat, but he spun the hand-drill between his palms till he created an ember in the baseboard’s socket. Bill rolled the ember onto a ball of wood shavings and string plucked from his trouser cuffs. The ball of kindling ignited like a Chinese firecracker. He had fire!
Bill built the fire into a roaring blaze, feeding it with sticks splintered from the dead palm. He retrieved the oilskin packet from his shirt, and plucked out the three wooden matches. Bill placed the matches on the ground next to the fire.
This would dry out them out, once and for all!
Two hours later, Bill sat in the sand watching blue smoke spiral up from the end of his cigar. He laughed.
The matches had been dry all the time. “˜Battersea’ Bill Dawes had succumbed to the isolation and the sun like a green-gilled cabin boy on his first cruise, and lost his mind for a while.
He leaned back against the palm tree and blew out a long stream of smoke. The crackle and hiss of burning tobacco, the swirl of rich smoke in his mouth, restored him. It had been a close thing, but he’d been lucky. The imp of madness had only tapped him on the shoulder and wagged its impish finger in Bill’s face. And then the imp had left.
He looked over his shoulder at the column of white smoke jutting into the sky. Wet palm leaves sizzled over the banked fire. Every ship in a hundred-mile radius would see that column of smoke.
“I’m getting off this island,” said Bill. “Nothing can keep old Bill down now.”
“Nothing at all, Mr. Bill,” said the crab, blowing smoke-rings, a cigar cradled in its left claw.
“Damn right,” said Bill.
Up in the palm tree, the cockatoo coughed. Cigar-ash sifted down through the palm leaves, settling at Bill’s feet.
Nick Logan lives and works in Woodstock, Illinois.
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30 Responses to “DESERT ISLAND SOLITAIRE, OR, A GOOD CIGAR IS A SMOKE • by Nick Logan”
Comments
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June 11th, 2008 at 1:13 am
ahh man this was good, really great story.
Damn man…you get 5 stars just for having a talking crab
June 11th, 2008 at 3:53 am
Nick:
You would have to be crazy, not to like this story!
K.C.
June 11th, 2008 at 4:00 am
Bonkers, in a good way. Reminds me of the Mighty Boosh episode when they get stranded on the desert island and make an entire community out of coconut shells.
June 11th, 2008 at 4:51 am
Very fun story! I’m laughing out loud!
Bonnie!
June 11th, 2008 at 5:42 am
Reminded me of Tomn Hanks’s Castaway.
Nutty and refreshing!
June 11th, 2008 at 5:43 am
Your story lightened my day!
June 11th, 2008 at 6:33 am
Excellent, though I think the couple paragraphs near the end explaining what had happened are unnecessary. We know he’s crazy by the fact he’s crazy.
June 11th, 2008 at 6:37 am
Enjoyed it, Nick. Great narrative voice. I enjoyed watching Bill’s descent into looniness, rendered with such a light, affectionate touch.
June 11th, 2008 at 7:59 am
Really liked it, Nick. I agree with Greta, great narrative voice! Look forward to hearing more stories from you!
June 11th, 2008 at 8:33 am
I thought about this carefully. My cat wants to know:
How did he keep the cigars dry?
Did the crab and he marry?
What flavour coconuts were they?
June 11th, 2008 at 8:36 am
What a fun story … you could start from here and make a cartoon series. Great images.
June 11th, 2008 at 8:48 am
lol. weird…in a hysterically pleasant way. where’d they get the cigars from?
June 11th, 2008 at 9:19 am
Thanks, everyone, I’m extremely grateful for your comments, and I’m glad people are enjoying the story.
Nick Logan
June 11th, 2008 at 9:32 am
I loved the story but then I’m prejudice — loved the cockatoo and the crab. Can’t wait for the next story!!!
Mom
June 11th, 2008 at 10:08 am
LOL!
June 11th, 2008 at 10:32 am
I really like he story. However, I was stuck with the same thought as Oonah’s cat. If the matches were wet, how come the cigars were dry? I did really enjoy the dip into insanity, especially the method of drying out the matches. LOL!
June 11th, 2008 at 11:08 am
Enjoyable and accurate portrayal of loosing one’s tiny little mind.
June 11th, 2008 at 12:42 pm
Good writing.
Cheers
Mark
June 11th, 2008 at 1:06 pm
Excellent!
Nice atmosphere and narration.
Thanks!
June 11th, 2008 at 5:54 pm
A little lunacy is a good thing.
June 11th, 2008 at 8:49 pm
Great story. My favorite character was Mr. Bill! Loved the dialogue between all the characters. Hope to be reading more fiction from Nick Logan (non-fiction too). Thanks for sharing.
June 12th, 2008 at 8:29 am
Hah…good stuff. Thanks for the tale, Nick.
June 12th, 2008 at 4:30 pm
Great job!
As always have been a fan of Nick Logan for years! Glad to see you back writting. Keep up the great work and looking foward to the follow up.
Your Fan
Jeff D. Orlando
June 13th, 2008 at 8:25 pm
This is great stuff! Made me laugh out loud!
June 16th, 2008 at 7:15 am
This was so funny. Can’t stop imagining that crab up in a palm tree smoking a cigar. Lovely.
Jennifer
June 16th, 2008 at 7:20 am
That was a fun read, Nick, thanks!
June 16th, 2008 at 3:02 pm
As a huge fan of Lost, I feel as though this story filled the void left by the 9 month hiatus, if only for a few minutes. Keep up the good work Mr. Logan. Looking forward to more stories!
June 17th, 2008 at 1:10 pm
Nick that was great–what a fun story–i agree — it reminded me of castaway-
Obviously I was not able to read it when you sent it–things in this house don’t happen in a timely fashion-
But I did enjoy the story–looking forward to more.
June 28th, 2008 at 7:24 am
Nick
Loved it! Wish it were a book. I was completely engaged. It left me wanting more Nick Logan verse!
Great work, Red
June 30th, 2008 at 12:01 am
[...] Table of Contents is a real treat. We’ve brought back authors like Nick Logan, whose story Desert Island Solitaire, or, a Good Cigar is a Smoke was so well received, and Nicholas Ozment, author of Uncle Lester Had a Hammer. We’ve also [...]