Guadalcanal, 1937

The other afternoon I wandered away from the gang on the veranda -- left them drinking, not missing me at all -- and found a pig trail under the palms. I had forgotten my shoes of course and my bare feet paddled the mud.

Under plantation coconuts the ground is mottled and damp even at noon. At dusk, spiders cast nets from trunk to trunk, 30 feet between, until bats are captured flapping in the gum.

After seeing that one needs to lie down, but I remained, swaying in the creeping dark -- jungle edging up behind and me with no flashlight, no fire, just a shawl to catch more mosquitoes in.

I was swatting and flicking, twitching, then of course running -- eager for drunks again, counting on the quinine in gin-tonic, sure I could find a road back to the house but who can outrun the sun?

So stumbling, grabbed at by panic, finally I held my arms out like a sleepwalker and like so often in this life followed the only direction in which nothing rose to stop me.