'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney
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August 26, 1883, the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra, Indonesia
It was the loudest noise Jack had ever heard. Or that anyone had, as he'd later learn. A continuous tearing roar, booming from the whole forward sky. With just a trace of trumpety sound it could pass for announcement of Armageddon. As it actually was, for one piece of the world. That dark lightning-struck ash cloud, billowing over the west-southwest ocean horizon, denoted a volcanic eruption. An enormous one.
Sparrow tore two strips from a cleaning rag and stuffed then into his ears, before forcing his stare to his boat's navigational compass. He checked the bearing of that glowering cloud's origin, ardently hoping it wasn't Sebesi Island.
It wasn't- too far south. Krakatoa, then. Establishing this was something of a relief, since that rugged island had far fewer inhabitants.
But not a total relief. The volume of noise and debris indicated this was nothing short of a cataclysmic eruption, which would certainly have deleterious effects on it's neighbors. Darkened skies, ash falls, huge waves. Nobody in this region was going to be conducting business transactions anytime soon.
Jack could only hope the residents of the adjacent islands had had the good sense to clear out when the major rumblings began. Neither he nor anyone else would be able approach any shore to help- not without real risk of being caught in a tsunami.
/ Seems my timing's neither the best nor the worst. Would've been opportune if I'd completed my business on Sebesi last month. On the other hand, if I'd happened to dock there just a couple days ago... /
But he hadn't, and there was no point in his lingering here any longer. The wind could shift- start blowing those dangerous emissions in his direction. Jack gunned the engine and turned the Lady Lisbeth east-northeast, reversing course back through the strait. It was time to explore the profit-making opportunities in the Philippines.
But even as he left Krakatoa's noisy death throes in his wake, he continued to give it uneasy backward glances. That growing ash cloud looked menacing even from afar; a pulsating airborne dome...
x
September 3, 1911, Cape Evans Base on Ross Island, Antarctica
The thick woolen clothing restricted Jack's movements to a disconcerting degree, as cold was numbed his nostrils with each inhalation. And this was the warmest part of the year, at this end of the earth. Only the promise of fame and fortune, attendant to being among the first to achieve a well-publicized goal, could've motivated him to endure such conditions. But he'd developed serious doubts it was going to happen.
Sparrow trudged over frozen mud to the stockade, intent on verifying a disturbing rumor. Several white ponies, with shaggy coats and stocky limbs, were lined up at the enclosure's lee side. Coming to the first, he gripped the bridle and pushed back the animal's pallid lip, leaning close to examine the teeth. What he saw made him grimace. Moving down the line, he checked each equine mouth in turn, making the same finding.
/ What horse-ignorant rotter picked these nags? /
Jack glowered mightily as he released the last beast. For some while now he'd been bothered by the way their expedition leader, Robert Scott, was handling things. Preparations had become alarmingly rushed since Scott received word that he was actually engaged in a race- that the equally famous Norwegian explorer, Roald Admundsen, was currently preparing his own effort to become the first man to reach the world's southernmost point.
Haste tended to produce bad results, even in environments that allowed more margin for error than cold-bitch Antarctica. Losing one of their ice-sledges during unloading was just one of the clearer signs that things were not being done with sufficient care. And now this discovery. The Siberian ponies slated to transport their supplies were... well, hardly as old as he was, but disturbingly close.
Sparrow pushed the edge of his hood aside, looking south to their proposed expedition route. A hundred miles on foot, over some of the most unforgiving terrain on this planet. And he was already acquainted with the futility of trying to talk their fearless leader into modifying any of his plans. There was a fine line between admirable determination and blind stubbornness- Scott was far too prone to crossing it.
Willingness to take a gamble was one thing. Damned-fool disregard of risk was something else.
Sparrow's jaw set, his decision made. When the Terra Nova disembarked for New Zealand, he'd be aboard.
As if sensing the human's premonition, the nearest pony nudged anxiously at his shoulder. Jack patted the doomed animal's nose. "Sorry I am, lad. 'Tis not like anyone asked whether you wanted ta be a part of this."
A frigid gust blew the animal's pale mane about. Jack tugged his hood up and trudged back towards the low, sheltering buildings. It was well past time to come in from the cold...
x
July 24, 1951, Summit of Mount Matterhorn on the Swiss/ Italian border
Under his tinted face mask, young Ueli beamed at the line of red-clad climbers spaced along the rocky apex. "Our little walk up here was worth it, yes?" he crowed.
Jack, along with his fellow hikers, was inclined to agree. Everybody was exalting over what they were seeing; several were unslinging packs and taking out cameras. Sparrow did not favor dragging around something as bulky as a camera, but now he rather wished he had one.
The vista from the Matterhorn's peak was truly spectacular. Though clouds obscured some of it, they had beautifully clear views of the pointed rock faces north of this ridge. Monte Rosa, Lisskamm and Breithorn- some of the most impressive peaks in the Pennine Alps, swathed in winding sheets of snow. They could even see scraps of the distant green lowlands, seemingly miles below their feet.
"Take your photos quickly, my friends. We must beat the afternoon storms," their guide reminded.
Steve, the chiseled hiker from California, interrupted Jack's rapt gazing with a nudge. "How 'bout I take your picture, Josh? I can mail you a copy."
"Thanks- that's mighty thoughtful of you!"
'Josh Moineau' struck a few gleeful poses against the spectacular backdrop, as Steve snapped him. The tall blonde man regarded him appraisingly as he lowered his camera. "You know, Josh, if you ever want to take up modeling I can get you an interview at my agency."
"I'll consider that, mate." It might be worth a try. Modeling wasn't the world's most interesting work, but he'd heard it paid ridiculously well.
All too soon, Ueli shouldered his own backpack, signaling it was time to start the descent. "Have a last look from the highest point of the Alps, gentlemen!"
Sparrow did, grinning as he drank in the hard-earned sight. He'd certainly remember those sunlit snow peaks, dazzling in their whiteness...
x
"Jack? Hey, Jack!" Somebody shook his shoulder.
Sparrow blinked. Shiny black invaded his vision... exquisite lips, painted with jet-colored gloss. Above them, concerned ebony eyes regarded him from a henna-decorated face.
Jack came back into himself. It was 1978, and he was in a fine Miami restaurant. A bowl of excellent vanilla ice cream was in front of him, a much darker, but equally delectable, dining companion was beside him, running black-polished fingernails over his arm.
"Are you okay? For a moment you looked like you'd blanked out completely!"
"I'm fine, Tina." Jack sheepishly looked down at the dome of cold whiteness. "'Guess I had something of a 'close encounters' moment."
xxx
FINIS
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Historical Notes:
The Indonesian island of Krakatoa, west of Java (despite the movie title), was largely destroyed by a series of volcanic explosions on August 26-27, 1883. This eruption produced the loudest sound in recorded history, heard as far as Perth Australia, 1,930 miles away. Though Krakatoa itself had few inhabitants, the event caused over 36,000 deaths on nearby islands, mostly due to the subsequent tsunamis.
Robert Falcon Scott, a British polar explorer, reached the magnetic South Pole on January 17, 1912. This made his expedition the second to do so; his rival Roald Admundsen had arrived there on December 14, 1911. Worse still; while everyone in Admundsen's group returned safely, Scott's entire team died on the trudge back to the coast.
Jack's decision to bow out was probably a wise one.
The 1977 science fiction film, 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind', includes a scene where Richard Dreyfuss' contemplation of a serving of mashed potatoes triggers an alien-implanted vision.
