The Catalina was flying at ten thousand feet over the deep blue of the Pacific on its third trip in two days from Vava’u to Winthrop-Smythe’s destination.  The last forty eight hours had been hectic to say the least.  As Charlie sat in the nose of the Catalina – the best seat in the whole aircraft because there was literally nothing in front of you, giving you a vast view of sea and sky – he considered what they had achieved.

After the hot and sweaty slaving to get the plane ready for the trip, they had barely had enough time to grab a hasty meal of canned hamburgers, processed cheese and sliced bread, before finally hitting their beds at one in the morning.  Too tired and drained after the day’s work, Charlie was asleep before he could dwell on the day’s events or ask questions about the next day’s plans.  A quick shower, another meal consumed on the move and they had arrived at the airport next morning in time to begin sorting out their passengers.

Rick had agreed with Winthrop-Smythe to take the TV crew to an island by the name of Solitude, four hours flight to the north west of Vava’u.  Small and uninhabited with a central volcanic peak, it sprouted from the ocean like an isolated emerald, glowing on a gown of the finest azure silk.  Rarely visited, Solitude afforded the crew a rare opportunity to film, as they said, wildlife that was about as unused to humans as it was possible to be on planet Earth. 

The crew had certainly brought enough kit to complete their task.  Plastic containers of food stuffs, tents, bedrolls, rucksacks, flight cases of cameras, sound equipment, computers, lighting rigs and tripods were piled high within Rick’s hanger, all packed in rugged waterproof flight cases.  A fleet of local taxis had delivered the cargo in only a matter of hours.

Rick had arranged for the kit to be transported out to Solitude with an advance party from the TV crew who would set up a base camp.  He had agreed with Winthrop-Smythe that this would take three trips to transport all the equipment and the twenty members of the crew.  Each time the Catalina landed, the rubber boat was the only way of getting people and equipment safely to the shore through the shallow waters of one of the three bays that bit into the black basalt rock of Solitude.  If Charlie thought that the work on the first day was hard he could not have been more mistaken.  After each flight, he and Carmen were subjected to a steady barrage of physically draining work.

For instance, they were given the task of preparing the boat each time whilst their dads and the TV people secured the Cat and prepared the cargo for unloading.

In the stifling heat of the day they had to wrestle the heavy boat to the door, unroll it, connect the airline, switch on the compressor, launch the boat, secure it as it inflated with a line to the pitching Cat, which wasn’t easy as the swell in the bay they had chosen was quite high.  After this they would attach the motor, test it each time then start helping load the boat with the first boxes or bags. 

Children, pilots and crew would unload the Catalina and help transport it through the surf to the shore.  Soon equipment was piled high on the pearl white sand of the beach of Solitude.  Soaked from the breakers that rolled over the sides of the rubber boat and exhausted from dragging the never ending boxes from the bottom of the boat, the children began to wish they had never agreed to this. Charlie was thinking that no amount of money could compensate him for his aching limbs, .lwhilst Carmen almost believed that she had not enjoyed tormenting Charlie at the party if this was the result of doing so.

However, when the work was complete and they sat on the sand gazing at the island around them they began to appreciate how lucky they were.  The four members of the TV crew who made up the advance party were interesting to chat to whilst they gazed across a bay of turquoise sea that sparkled in the fierce sun.  They were full of stories of the places they had seen or the things they had filmed.   Bob “Dusty” Millar would tell them how he had stalked elephants through the African bush at night to get that once in a lifetime shot.  He made their skin crawl when he described listening to a leopard prowl round his Land Rover. Sniffing the air and growling, the animal tried to find a way in to the vehicle, whilst he sat inside, knowing that if he turned the key in the ignition he might scare away the leopard, but more than likely spook a nearby bull elephant enough for it to charge.  Pincher Martin related the time he was in French Guiana, up to his knees in a swamp, when he looked down and watched as a ten metre long, green anaconda gently swam through the murky waters between his legs. 

Horrified, Carmen simply gasped, “Ten metres!  But that’s enormous!  Why didn’t you run away?”

Pincher just laughed.  “Run away, little Carmen?   In a swamp an anaconda can outrace a man!  Then you would have to tackle ten metres of snake, as thick as my thigh, coiling round you, squeezing the life out of you, crushing your bones so that it can swallow you more easily!”  He smiled crookedly, enjoying Carmen’s discomfort as she rubbed her throat and shuddered at the thought of the immense snake.  “Best to just keep still, I reckon,” he explained.

Rick and George had been tinkering with the Catalina’s motors whilst the children relaxed. They closed up an inspection panel on one of the big, starboard Pratt and Whitney radial engines and beckoned to the children to join them for the return trip to Vava’u.  Carmen and Charlie said goodbye to the four burly TV men and pushed the rubber boat back into the surf.  Carmen sat at the back and started the outboard, guiding it back to the Cat.  Since the incident when Charlie had tested the motor, she had not let him anywhere near it.  Sore loser, Charlie mused.

The return to Vava’u and the second trip to Solitude with another consignment of TV people and their equipment went without hitch. By the time they had unloaded again, it was late.  Rick decided not to linger.  He wanted to go before the light conditions stopped him from safely making a take off from the water.  When they got back to Vava’u they were all so drained that nobody wanted to say anything.  Rick drove them to one of the waterside cafés in Neiafu where they silently munched on pizza, sipping ice cold bottled water. 

The day of their last trip to Solitude opened bright and clear.  Once again they met at the airport.  Charlie and Carmen stumbled blearily up into the Cat where they could make themselves snug in the nose.  Their dads had recognised how much they were struggling with weary muscles and were giving them a long break.  All the heavy equipment had been taken to Solitude by now and they wouldn’t be needed to help seat their passengers. Rather than speak to Carmen, Charlie exaggerated his weariness and feigned a desire to sleep, resting his head against an observation port. 

The last group arrived shortly after.  It was a collection of eight extraordinarily fit looking men with Winthrop-Smythe at their head.   They were dressed in green lightweight trekking gear and canvas boots with identical black rucksacks over their shoulders.  Charlie reflected on their appearance as he watched through the window, Look more like soldiers than cameramen.  In fact if he thought about it a bit harder, the other groups had been dressed similarly.

He stayed in that position, enjoying the vibration of the aeroplane against his forehead as it rested against the Plexiglas that had replaced the front gun turret sometime in the distant past.  The roar of the engines and the whistling of the wind around the plane only added to the unreality of his situation.  Why was he here in the Pacific?  He did not really know what to make of his father.  One the one hand he seemed cheerfully impulsive, happy to tear through the streets of Tongapatu and stuff the consequences.  On the other hand, he worked furiously to get things done, driving everyone around him to the same goal.  He wasn’t the sort of man to let others do the work on their own.  He got stuck in too.  Knowing the right thing to say seemed to be a gift as well.   Charlie may not have known Rick Bravo from Adam but he certainly felt comfortable in his home, spending time with him, fishing in Port of Refuge.  However, when he thought about it, he realised that he had really spent only one proper day with his Dad before the man had recruited him as some kind of hired muscle to load and unload the Catalina.  Did that mean his dad was cheap?  He had talked about earning some holiday money but he hadn’t actually mentioned how much.  Charlie didn’t care about the money but he didn’t like being taken for granted, which is what a mean little voice at the back of his mind seemed to be insinuating.  After all, he really had not known his father for very long at all.  Charlie was confused.

Not only that but he could not deny that the Trev situation was bothering him.  What was happening to him?  Was he mad or just very, very sad?  He knew about depression; the psychologist had been really quite helpful about that after Trev’s death.  She had been quite firm about the need to talk about things so that they could be resolved.  Nothing else appealed less to Charlie.  Now, though, he was not so sure.  He wasn’t one for talking about his worries but he really wished he had sent his mum an email, or called her.  She had warned him that the stay with his father would be eventful, or as she had said, life would not be boring around his dad.  He had not realised that this would involve ghosts, flying boats, media people, desert islands, pig-headed girls and their incontinent, recalcitrant pets.  He had only been here three days!  What would the next three weeks bring?  He felt strangely unsettled by it all and disconnected from the world around him.  Was it all a dream?

“We’re on final approach to Solitude, make sure that you are all strapped in,” his father’s voice crackled over the headphones.  “We should be landing in less than ten minutes.”

Charlie sat up straight and looked out.  He removed his headphones, filling his head with the roar of the plane.  He could see Solitude in the distance on the horizon, a tiny pimple interrupting the smooth curve of the ocean.  From ten thousand feet he could see the curvature of the Earth, the clouds below closer to the ocean than he was to them.  Everything seemed drenched in shades of piercing blues.  Blues so fierce, they were hard to look at.

“So that’s Solitude is it, Charlie?”  a voice spoke suddenly in his ear.

Charlie jumped and turned, half-expecting to see Trev again.  It wasn’t Trev, it was Winthrop-Smythe, who had quietly gone forward to get a better view of his destination.  “Er…yeah,” he said uncomfortably.  There was little room in the old turret and Winthrop-Smythe was really far too close for Charlie’s taste.  An acrid scent of the man’s aftershave filled his nostrils; yet underlying it was an unpleasant stench of sweat.

“A tiny little island, hundreds of miles from anywhere, eh?”  Winthrop-Smythe drawled, “It makes you think, doesn’t it?  Just imagine how difficult it would be to get off that place if you were marooned there!  You might have to stay years before you were rescued, before anybody figured out where you were.”  Winthrop-Smythe leaned in closer, his pungent aroma almost choking Charlie, “Did you know that after the Second World War, small groups of Japanese soldiers were abandoned on islands like these?   No-one knew they were there and they didn’t know the war was over.  Occasionally, one would run out of the jungle with a ‘banzai!’ and try to kill some unfortunate visitor.”  He leaned back, taking his reek with him.

Winthrop-Smythe was an unsettling man.  When he spoke, Charlie felt that he was almost laughing at some secret joke.  His eyes didn’t seem to blink enough, either.  There was something snake-like about him.  It was almost as if he enjoyed making people on edge around him.  Charlie decided he would not let the man get to him.

“Yeah, but that must have been years ago!  The war ended, what, over sixty years ago?  If some old Japanese guy ran out of the forest now, he’d better have a bamboo zimmer frame because he’s not going to get very far!  I think even I could handle that”

Winthrop-Smythe chuckled, “I’m sure you’re right, Charlie.  I’m sure that you’re right.  Still, worth thinking about, no?”  He slid away, down from the turret window and disappeared back into the bowels of the Cat, heading aft to his seat. 

Charlie shook his head, relieved that the Englishman had left the turret.  He put his headset back as the plane descended and turned, lining up on the chosen landing site.

The landing was uneventful but incredible fun.  His third landing on water, Charlie was getting used to the shaking, the bouncing, the pitching through waves, coming to a slowly rolling rest.  However, riding up front gave the experience a different slant.  It was as if he was riding in the biggest, noisiest roller coaster in the world.   He yelled his head off in a kind of terrified ecstasy. 

“Keep it down up there!”  George said over his headset.  With a guilty start Charlie realised that he had been broadcasting his enjoyment down the microphone.  He checked that the channel was closed and basked in a feeling of red-faced embarrassment.

Rick taxied the old seaplane in close to the island, entering the mouth of one of the bays, a wide crescent that cut into the side of Solitude, banded with a strand of brilliant white sand that spread from the sea to the jungle, neatly bordering both.  He cut the engines. George scrambled out of a hatch on the topside once the big props had stopped turning and released a small anchor into the clear waters below.

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