Unseen Messages(150)

But that was in the past now.

The fire.

The destruction.

All gone.

Now, we had something better.

I’d built something of stamina and stature. I’d created something that would last.

“Galloway, it’s incredible. Beyond anything I could’ve imagined.” Estelle bounced Coconut on her hip, her eyes wide with wonder as I led her through the new place.

I’d learned from my past mistakes. Instead of using the helicopter rotor blades as our main support (limited to the size and lack of numbers) I’d chosen natural resources.

If a palm tree could withstand hurricane winds and bear the weight of heavy fruits, it was good enough for me to use as our skeleton structure.

It’d taken me weeks, constantly sharpening our barely capable and blunt axe, to hack down eight palm trees. Blisters popped and re-formed on my hands and I spent many nights with Estelle as she tended to my wounds the best she could.

Getting hurt was a part of building. I was used to it. Pity she wasn’t and I caused her such worry.

Conner had been a great help digging the holes required to insert our structural support. We dug and dug until I said it was enough. And once the palm trees were wrangled into position (with help from all of us), we spent the next week mixing mud and twigs with rainwater to create the best slurry I could to cement them in place.

It wasn’t bombproof—it probably wasn’t even typhoon proof—but it would remain standing until something worse came along to tear it from us.

Once we’d erected the main walls, the effect was a long cabin, giving plenty of space to segment into areas of use.

I didn’t just want a bungalow anymore.

I didn’t want a shack on the beach.

This was our home now, and our home deserved to be worthy of luxury.

It’d taken more time, but I’d created a lounge, a kitchen (or, at least, it would be if we had running water and cooking facilities), two bedrooms for Pippa and Conner on one side of the lounge and a bedroom and nursery for Estelle, Coconut, and me on the other.

I’d even made a deck at the front so we had somewhere to sit without sand creeping up our ass-cracks. But my best invention had to be the oil drum (salvaged from the storm so many months ago) that was now laboured into position with walls for privacy and a carved funnel with holes sticking from its side to act as an outdoor shower.

I’d placed the contraption at the back of the house where the run off would feed the palm trees and the drum would catch as much rainfall as possible.

We wouldn’t be able to use it too often, but at least this way, we had a chance to wash off the salt-sticky ocean, even if a rainstorm wasn’t convenient.

Overall, I was happy with my creation. Happy but scared that it could all disappear again.

At least, it won’t go up in flames.

That’d been the first thing I’d done. I’d buried our old fire pit and relocated it farther down the beach. For extra precaution, I also erected a wall between the flames necessary for our survival and our new property.

If the wind was strong enough and luck was nasty enough, a spark could once again land on our roof.

But that was life.

It was full of risks.

We’d done everything we could to prevent it, and we couldn’t worry over something we couldn’t predict.

With the offcuts of timber, I’d also created stools to use around the fire so we could sit while eating rather than sprawl.

We’d left civilisation behind. Yet somehow, we’d created our version of it here.

There were no detritus of life—it was all reused.

The longing I’d had for table and chairs was gone—we had our own.

The desire to watch TV had vanished—we had stories and imagination.

And the drive to rule my own business, to give back to a world I’d failed, and prove to myself I was a better person no longer controlled me because I had a woman and children and they’d redeemed me.

I’d donated everything I was to those I loved.

I would die for them.

I would survive for them.

And nothing was better than that.

Nothing.

.............................

DECEMBER

The turtles came and went.

As did Christmas.

Once again, we ignored the holiday but celebrated the arrival of our flippered friends.

All of us spent the night by their shelled sides as they dug nests, laid eggs, and hauled themselves back to the ocean.

Estelle and I made love (it was almost a tradition now) in the ocean where we’d finally given into desire for the first time. We spent the night away from the kids, confident they would watch over Coco, and watched the sunrise in each other’s arms.

As we strolled back along the beach to our home and resemblance of civility, we found a turtle who’d sacrificed her life for her offspring.

The leathered beast had died only a metre from the sea. She lay there pristine, so perfect and wizened, it seemed she’d only slipped into a nap.

But we knew.

Just like we knew if the kids were hurt. Or the winds had changed. Or the temperature was hotter than last month. Our perception was so much more sensitive, and we understood sleep hadn’t taken her but death.

I didn’t look at Estelle, but we’d been given a dilemma.

We had a turtle.

We could live because of its death.