Читать книгу ¡Guam-O-Rama! - Dave Slagle - Страница 3

As I stand speechless and still, the sound of thunder rolls overhead. Pago Bay is usually calm.

That's what the locals told me. But today, the waves are crashing onto Taga’chang beach.

And somewhere out there—out where the Pacific Ocean meets the Philippine Sea—a typhoon is forming and may even be heading in this direction. The sound of distant thunder booms as the notorious fugitive, eL Capitan prepares to ride away from me. Away from Guam. Away, towards a waiting yacht. A yacht destined for a place far, far away from here.

"Salir de aquí! Deja de hoy, no hay nada para ti en Guam. The time has come to leave. Follow your heart, Agent Jones, go and find her. I am headed that way myself, to the place I told you about. Find that place, go there and order a couple of Beagle beers while you wait for me. It's beautiful and the bartender will be familiar to you!" eL Capitan yells, revving the supercharged motor of his Waverunner VXS and gazing beyond me. Time passes in slow motion, several minutes or so it seems, before he speaks. "Hafa Ennao. Kalan mon imbestin chagu na taotao. Ai adai, Agent Jones, my friend, Francoise is there waiting for you, go!" He says, shaking his head and smirking, as he again revs the motor and rides away from the beach.

Francoise? The land of fire? Where the hell is he going? Where do they serve Beagle beer? Was it Terra Del Fuego? I can't recall but the last two days are a blur of a faded memory that may not be traceable. The night before she left Françoise sang karaoke versions of old '70's hippie songs while we shared a few fresh coconut coolers. Perfectly cut coconuts spiked with rum. A square hole in the center of a round coconut. That delicious, refreshing tropical taste.

Guam is like that, the proverbial square peg in a round hole. Nothing fits. Nothing makes any sense.

Yet it feels as refreshing and pleasant as any magazine picture of paradise.

Turn the page and the image is gone.

So ironically symbolic of Guam.

None of that matters now. It's time to go.

Minutes are ticking off the clock.

The lyrics of a 70s hippie song from Françoise's last text message begin to play in my head.

"You don't know how much I want to run, run, run, run away.

You don't know how much I need to run, run, run, run away

You don't know how much I love to run, run, run, run away."

It's time to find a way off this island.

And find my way to Francoise.