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| Rocky Times |
| Oil on the Waters |
| The pirate had been a good boy for two months now. Too good. His gouty big toe throbbed in rhythm to his heartbeat when he felt angry and stressed, reminding him that there was an enemy inside that would never be defeated.
He was angry and stressed now, reading from his benefactor’s letter, long legs cramped on the small plane. Dearest Buccaneer, You have been a good friend through the years since we met on the set of the Vietnam War picture, so I feel like I can tell you anything and not hold back. I was cradling an oily cormorant in my arms an hour ago, and as the poor bird struggled to groom itself, I realized how wrong we are about our country’s crisis. No script and he’s still playing a role—we’ve always been in crisis, the pirate thought. And who sent long letters through the mail anymore? As the throbbing got worse, the pirate breathed deeply—in with the good and out with the bad—and continued reading. You would not believe how many letters, e-mails, phone calls and visits I get from Democratic candidates asking for money. It is so easy for me to give. I have too much. Somehow the fickle Gods gave me a talent that was always rewarded in past centuries with a few meals, lots of travel, and having most people treat you like a prostitute—fun to be with in the dark, but not fit for proper society. I’m just an actor, paid obscene loot to make funny faces and lie for a living. After the horrible oil spill this week, that’s not enough for me! The oil came up to my backyard dock in Mill Valley, and we couldn’t stay in our house—the smell was too rank. The bird we cleaned was not supposed to lick its own wings—the bunker oil from the ship is too toxic. When I tried to stop it, the bird bit me. If only the birds had done more of that before, like in the Alfred Hitchcock movie where they attacked us. We humans are too arrogant. And to think that getting rid of Mr. Bush will solve our problems. It wasn’t just him that brought us here, and no candidate can rescue us either. We’re all in this together, swimming or sinking beneath petroleum waves. I love what you do, amigo, I love what we do protecting the beautiful oceans and its creatures. I want to change how we do it though. We are hypocrites, us liberals and environmentalists, who talk the talk all right—but instead of walking, we jet off to some conference on the other side of the world. I drive three blocks to dinner and live like a medieval King in one of my mansions. How can I pretend that’s a shade of green anymore? I’m brown, full of bullshit as any Republican warmonger. When that foghorn blew before the oily ship hit the Bay Bridge, it blew for me. That changes today. I’m looking for solutions. Oh no, the pirate thought. Any fool can diagnose a leper shedding limbs, but it takes a true idiot to lay hands on and try to cure him. I’m moving to a small boat this week, and growing my own vegetables and fruit in a garden. I’m selling my houses, my cars, my big-screen televisions and ripping up the credit cards. I will only keep what will fit on the boat, and my bicycle. No more plane flights either. It’s too bad if that loses me some good roles in the movies. There is only one more important thing to me in this world than a good role, and that’s a healthy planet to perform on. |
That brings me closer to most of the people, instead of pretending sympathy. I might even finally do what I’ve threatened for so long and come with you when you go hunting the Japanese whalers. It also means I can’t subsidize those luxuries I’m giving up. So good buddy, this trip to the Philippines will be your last plane trip on my nickel. We know those big jets gulp kerosene faster than a six year-old with a Slurpee. Don’t worry, Captain, your boat is way bigger than mine, so if I get too self-righteous you can ram me from behind in another “Operation Asshole.” Yr mate in rough seas, Sean Penn “Great!” the pirate grunted to the empty seat next to him. “Gandhi with a Golden Globe.” How long was this latest fad going to last? Longer than Penn’s six months of raw food diet? Shorter than his ten silent Sundays? Or his three weeks of celibacy? The plane lurched a hundred feet up on an air pocket, leaving the pirate’s stomach down below and his mind forty years in the past. He flashbacked onto his first helicopter, taking evasive maneuvers on its way to the landing zone cut from the jungle like a monk’s bald spot. “Why did you want to come here, lieutenant?” his sergeant asked him as they yo-yoed through the sky. “My daddy and his daddy served, so I didn’t see much of a choice. And to get away from home ‘cause I’d never been more than a hundred miles away before boot camp.” The copter hit the deck. “Sorry ‘bout the roller coaster ride, gentlemen—I’m just funnin’ so ya fellows don’t get too bored,” their chopper pilot drawled. “There ain’t no dogs here likely to put up much of a growl.” The lieutenant’s mission for the Air Force was writing after-action reports on B-52 bomber strikes. Armed with a notebook and pen, he looked around him. What was once a village had turned into a moonscape of craters and mounds of dirt. Coming closer to them, the lieutenant saw the mounds weren’t dirt. “There were hundreds of peasants scattered there,” the pirate would say later speaking to audiences about his experience. “I looked into half-open eyes and lips, and then it hit me. I was part of them and they were part of me. For ten years, I couldn’t talk about what happened or even think about it.” The plane stopped bouncing and the pirate’s mind sailed out to sea before returning to his airborne body. It was sailing with the Merchant Marines when he spotted his first whale, wounded by an exploding harpoon and abandoned by its hunters but not by the pod. The sailor became a pirate when he boarded a Zodiac raft without permission to look into the eyes of the giant beast. It was the same feeling as on that wartime mission--of seeing himself reflected by a suffering fellow being. His job was gone, and so was the pain, as in the beauty of that moment emotions finally broke from the bars--and he had been drunk in so many--of his decade-long cage. |
| November 18, 2007 |
| dead cormorant off sausalito |
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