59. Secret War, Chapter 8

Chapter 8

When I awoke the next morning, the newspaper was gone, and the tattoo on my hand had been completed. Large X’s inartfully represented the baby seal’s eyes.

After the free pancakes—which Marbles complained about with every bite—we headed to the airfield and found a fire engine red Cessna c-165 Airmaster, a beautiful little plane that had a carrying capacity of about 1,000 lbs. I did some quick math in my head. Knots clustered in my belly.

A French Canadian, the pilot handed each of us a parachute and mimed how to pull the ripcord. That was the extent of our training, except for, “Count da dix. Puis tirer le cordon et prier dieu!” His voice was filled with passion. “Comprendre?”

 

We packed into the plane and taxied down the runway. The Cessna sputtered and bounced and finally lifted off, maybe ten feet above the pines at the end of the runway. Now we just had to clear the mountains, and for the first five minutes, it looked as though we were going to become a smudge topping on the glazed layer of glacier. “Oh, mon dieu!” cried the pilot, pulling back on the steering, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

The international border was only a few moments away, and the pilot signaled to me it was time to open the hatch. Flippers was the first to volunteer. I would go second.

When Flippers heaved himself out, the whole plane lurched to one side. “Oh, mon dieu!” cried the pilot, again. 

Then I jumped, spinning and tumbling, and trying to remember the countdown. I wondered what was in the envelope the pilot handed me just before my jump. And whether it would stay in my pocket. Then I spotted Flippers. He was gaining terminal velocity. A slight orange glow surrounded his body. Now Flippers, I breathed, pull your cord. Pull your cord! Finally, he pulled his cord, but the parachute did little to slow his descent. 

I could imagine what was going to happen. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t help but look. I had to look. For the sake of my report. I saw Flippers heading for an inlet. I saw him hit the ice. It was incredible. He could have been a bunker busting missile. He blew through the ice, with a great whoosh of ice and water exploding into the air, his parachute following him through the ice and disappearing in the explosion. A tremendous sonic boom followed. Ravens scattered from their trees. Poor Flippers, I mumbled, sweeping down into a nearby snow bank. 

Years later, I would hear rumors that in the following spring the parachute was recovered by a small band of Inuit, who cut it neatly into pieces and sewed them into little flags for the Vancouver Olympics. Nobody claimed to ever see any trace of Flippers. Some assumed he was ground into pork rinds by oil tankers. Others thought he may have actually bounced back out of the ice hole and landed somewhere inland. Still others thought he was eaten by the Orcas and that his spirit now lived in the sea and blessed the small, independently owned fishing boats—but only the Canadian ones. They argued about whether a sea song should be written in his name. Someone suggested the title of The Sacrifice of Flippers. Nothing came of it. A few  more years would pass, and a little girl would recite a report in her third grade class about her grandpa telling the other villagers that, yes, there was something found tangled in the parachute cords. He had seen it with his own weak eyes before going totally blind. It was a bit of worn fleece, he had claimed, pocked by the nibble marks of hundreds of little sea turtles.

Years after the little girl’s report, which was made up because she forgot to do her homework, Flippers became something of a hero in that little village. The Inuit told folk tales of his bravery and good character. They held semi-annual celebrations in his name. And when the proceeds of the flag sales finally arrived, they made a statue of him from driftwood that still stands to this day. Flippers would have liked that . . .

***   ***   ***

The barking of huskies coming over a nearby hill interrupted Flippers’ memorial, led by Marbles, songs by Summer and Ski Mask. I sprinkled snowflakes over the hole in the ice, its edges melted from the explosion and refrozen, forming a molten volcanic rim.

Three regular and one extra-large dog sleds appeared, and a young man jumped off his and approached me, a large smile on his face. “Where to, dude?” he asked.

That was a good question. “Where are we now?”

“Just outside Sitka,” he replied, and noticed the large hole in the ice. “Dude! What happened here?”

I explained the loss of Flippers. “Ice cracks,” he shook his head. “That’s what we say when something bad happens. Anyway, looks like we won’t be needing the Polar Vortex.”

“What’s the Polar Vortex?”

“Dude,” he sighed, “it’s really two things. It’s the magical winds of the polar ice cap that freeze your undies to your Wranglers into next July, and it’s also the name for that.” He pointed to the extra-large dog sled.

My crew was getting impatient. “Check your message,” chided Summer, “from the pilot dude.”

I opened the message the pilot had given me just before the parachute jump. For the record, here is a copy of the message verbatim:

Glo fo do Go 

Was it an anagram? I played with the letters: My first attempt resulted in Log of Dogo. I tried again: Gloof good. The second try seemed more likely. But it still made no sense. By now I was wishing that I had played around with “Eat a good breakfast.” It was undoubtedly a sophisticated anagram.

I showed my results to the lead musher. “Oh, yes,” he smiled, “Gloof very, very good!” His fellow mushers had now gathered around, laughing uproariously and pointing at me.

Ski Mask stopped making a snowball long enough to sputter, “You’re all gloofs!”

Eventually, we decided to figure out what to do in Sitka, where we would learn that most of the villagers were Russians, whose ancestors occupied the territories surrounding Sitka before Alaska was Alaska, and a proud but rambunctious state belonging to the United States of America.

***   ***   ***

While the others went to eat the town’s special—fish stew and pancakes—I asked the young musher whether anyone—a town elder, a shaman, a retired high school teacher--could help me unravel the mystery of the pilot’s message. He rubbed his chin for a moment, then said he had just the person in mind.

Separated from Marbles and company, I followed the young musher into a darkened, smoky room just a wall away from where the town’s special was being served. Salmon hung from the ceiling, their dried up eyes surveiling my every move. An old man lit a pipe on the far end. “That’s Gramps,” said the young musher.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that!”

“C’mon Gramps, get with it.”

“Hmmppphhh!”

 “Why’s he sitting in the dark?” I asked.

“He’s not so much sitting in the dark as he’s hiding from Grandma—“

“Go now,” Grandpa demanded, trying to maintain what was left of his dignity, “the stranger and I have much to talk about.”

I showed Grandpa the message. He squinted and shook his head. “No good,” he said. “Forgot my glasses. You read.”

“Glo fo do go,” I read, slowly.

Grandpa’s face twisted up. “You drunk?” he asked. “Get out of here!”

“That’s what it says,” I repeated. “Glo fo do go.”

“Hmmppphhh!”

I knew it, I thought. The mission had reached a dead end.

Grandpa lit a corncob pipe and threw down the match. Unfortunately, it landed on his pants and started to burn his leg. “Dark Horses!” he cried. “I paid $12 for these new!” He swatted his leg until he was satisfied that no more damage would occur. Then he sat motionless for an unbearable amount of time. His pipe went out. “I can help you,” he said, solemnly, staring up at the salmon.

“I’d appreciate any help you could offer.”

“But first you must know something,” he began. “You must know our history.” He relit his pipe. “You must know that in your quest you are entering a dangerous land.” He puffed on his pipe, letting the significance of his words sink in. “The Tlingit Indians are the brothers to the wolf and the bear and the whale and the . . . puffin . . .” He drifted off, “We’re not that thrilled with the puffin, but you got to take the good with the bad.” Finally, he continued, “The Tlingit are First Nation. That is why they resent the Russians. But the Russians came next. That is why they spit at the Americans. The Americans should know their place.” He coughed. “And the Canadians came last so they will crack ice over everyone,” he said, then advised: “Avoid Canada, just to be safe. Much safer in Sitka. Gas cheaper, too.”

 “I don’t understand,” I said.

He ignored me and went on, “Canada at war with the U.S.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“They like to keep it on the down-low.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “good strategy.”

“Are you an American?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” I said, welling with pride.

“Well, I’m Alaskan,” he said, “and Tlingit and Russian. Not quite the same thing.”

Grandpa squinted at me through the smoke. “Where’s that leave you?” he asked.

I wanted to say, no better off than when this conversation started, but instead, remained neutral: “I’m not sure.”

“Now you know,” Grandpa laughed, “and now I’ll tell you what glo fo do go means.”

I leaned forward. Now it would all make sense.

“Do you want some stew?” Grandpa asked. “I could go for some . . .”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Impatient American,” he spat. We sat staring at each other, Grandpa taking puffs from his pipe. I got up and walked around. A salmon slapped me in the forehead. Grandpa crossed his legs. “It’s a hard language to understand,” he began, “because it lives only in those old enough to remember when the Tlingit and the Russians lived together in peace. They soon married into each other’s families. They had kids, Tlingit-Russian kids. We used to call them Thinglets. They did homework together.  And we’d play games and have barbecues . . . smoked salmon is great in the summer. Nothing can beat it. We watched TV together, too. Nothing good on, though.” He knocked the ash out of his pipe and stomped on the embers. “And our languages mingled as well, created a portmanteau,” he said. “That’s what you have here. Glo fo do go is a dialect of Russian and Tlingit . . . Very rare.” He stood up and examined the burn marks in his pants. “I’m going to be in deep pot with the Mrs. for this one,” he sighed. “But your concern, I tell you now . . . the words simply mean glow for the gold . . .”

“You mean go for the gold.”

“No, glow for the gold.”

“Glow for the gold?”

“Glow for the gold.”                                      

“I don’t understand.”

“The Tlingit-Russian portmanteau was peculiar for puns.”

“But what does it mean?”

“It means find the magic corn. Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”

“Just one more thing,” I said, handing Grandpa the note again. “What about the drawing?”

Grandpa examined it critically for a long time, as though attempting to discover its deeper meaning, then finally said, “Hmmppphhh! My great-granddaughter can do better.”