Toward Vandermeer we did ride. The mission was important and arriving on time was necessary. We had no need for the superficial trend of self-driving cars, nor did we intend to drive automobiles at all. That said, neither did we dwell on relying on the steads of old, i.e. horses and more horses, to carry us hastily to our destination. We felt like that was already played out, plus not fair to the horses to be run to death into the ground. So, we selected another means of transport, neither esquine nor automotive…we chose the hovercraft for our purposes.
Captain Cockerall scrambled up the hill onto the road, carrying his gearbox under his armpit, with a gnarly walking stick protruding from the other end, guiding him up along the stones. Despite his considerable efforts, he did not look winded nor tested at all. He bore a plain expression, as one who was going about his morning routines at ease, relaxed, in his element. Even though the gearbox weighed upward of seventy pounds, he seemed not to notice. “Captain, sir!”, cried the technician. “Yes, my brother?, replied the Captain, also Director of Research. “Let me grab that from you and lessen your load”, said Lester, the technician, as he grabbed the gearbox and hoisted it on his shoulder with some effort.
As the craft coasted into position, Technician Lester and Captain Cockerall climbed aboard and set about installing the gearbox. The sky was clear and many eyes scanned the heavens for signs of drone spies flying overhead. It was rumored that the Argentines were keen to find out all they could know about the machine, as they were close to designing their own vessel, as a way to shuttle tourists back and forth to the penguin rookeries in the South Pole. A week ago, an Argentine drone had appeared in the sky. Ensign Shackleford shot it out of the sky with a well-aimed projectile, and they’d been on the lookout for more ever since.
Once the gearbox had been installed, and another spy drone blown out of the sky, champagne had been served, and the proper toasts of gratitude having been raised, the small crowd grew silent and the hovercraft’s engine revved quietly into readiness. All parties took their seats and readied themselves for the journey. The ride was so smooth that not many of them took notice that they were even moving. By the time the old boys took notice, the craft was already ten miles down the road.
Yes, down the road, I say. You may have thought this was a purely nautilic excursion but this hovercraft could float over land and sea, at least temporarily. The Chief of Operations, and primary visionary for this occasion, was Beverly Everett, an Alutliq woman from a small bayside town on Prince Edward Sound, as much as you can call a heap of Quonset huts and tin sheds a town. That’s where this all started and Dr. Everett was currently enjoying a mocktail with Cockerall on the bridge of the vessel.
A quick check of the instrument panel found that all was well and the new gearbox was doing just fabulously.
Dr. Everett’s Auntie Ruth sat down at the piano in the rear of the cabin and started playing some old Piedmont rags, switching over effortlessly to a Cuban danzón. Conversation and chatter flitted in time with the music as the craft left land and floated over the water on the route toward Vancouver Island. The native flora were anchored in their location at the rear of the vessel, the much endangered Showy Stickseed, the last remaining plants left on Earth, were being transported to several spots on the island for replanting and hopeful recovery and rejuvenation.
There was one little hiccup while out over the sound as some Dall’s porpoises swam along side the hovercraft. A little skimming of the ship forced some of the bolts on the gearbox to turn loose a bit, but Technician Lester swooped down like a Rhesus Monkey and ratcheted those bolts back into place in the blink of an eye. After that, it was smooth hovering all the way to the bay. Auntie Ruth had transitioned from the danzón to an Irish reel and they sounded like two parts of the same tune.
This excursion was quite obviously not some fat-cat’s ego-stroking charade nor a fool’s errand with no benefit to speak of. The society of sharp-dressed forward-thinking homo-sapiens on board were repopulating the land with Showy Stickweed and dozens of other almost extinct species. They had already shut down the mines and pipelines, melted down all the Amazon delivery vans into eco-friendly low-impact kitchen appliances, and now was the time for restoration and renewal. The sun glistened on the crystalline rocks surrounding Vandermeer Bay and the side of a cliff face opened up to let the boat in, just like you would see in a James Bond movie.
Cockerall shouted out in his sharp Franco-Scots New Brunswick accent, “Now’s the time to prepare for our arrival ladies and gentlemen. Please make sure all of your personal belongings are with you, put your seats into their upright position and you may put your shoes back on as you exit to the left, please.” Dr. Everett, Cpt. Lester, Auntie Ruth and the rest of the crew smiled and waited for the doors to open, and they bound out to greet the day as the sun rose a bit higher in the sky and burned off the fog.
THE MOSSY BOG 