I used to hate flying. How Marquez ever
convinced me to go for a short flight I'll never understand. But
there I was, heaving my lunch into the small cramped toilet on a small
plane flying over a big ocean in a terrible hurricane. Ok, maybe it was
a small squall, but the effect was the same on me. I was on
vacation in Costa Rica and sick as a dog from the turbulence on this
short flight. Being sick as a dog was the last thing I could remember
before waking up on the beach. I thought "It was just a bad
dream, what a relief!" I looked around. Nearby was the tail
section of a plane, probably my plane. Floating in the surf was a
large piece of wood. I entered the blue crystal-clear water to
check it out. My neck and back hurt but the water was warm and
felt good on my body. The piece of wood turned out to be part of
an airplane restroom door, also probably from my plane. My dream
had just turned into a nightmare. I didn't hate flying anymore, my
feelings had gone way beyond hate. If Orville Wright wasn't already
dead, he would have been when I got through with him...his brother too.
Upset and still dazed I tried to look around.
Turning my head from side to side was painful and while looking up was
no problem, I couldn't see below my breasts. (No, dear reader, they
aren't that big.) I tried to move my left arm
but it hung there limply ignoring my demands and pleas to move. Bending
at the waist was impossible but my legs worked and I had no problem
squatting down or jumping. My right arm seemed to be in good shape, but
try as I might I couldn't make a rock skip on the water. Loss of
dexterity is a sign of nerve damage and I knew I must have had some neck
and back damage from the crash. I was getting worried but I was glad to
The storm was gone and it was morning, so it
had to be the day after our flight. A search crew should have found me
by now if they were ever going to. I thought about swimming back to
America, but decided that maybe a one-armed woman wouldn't have much
luck. Heading inland was my only hope. There had to be someone else on
this island, hopefully with a phone, or maybe a radio.
Exploring the immediate area I found that I was
unable to climb a few hills that would be no problem for a person with
two arms. I was annoyed. I just knew that when I told my lawyer
about this non-handicap accessible beach he was going to have a field
day suing people. I followed the only path available to me in my
current condition - I walked up the beach swishing through the plants,
crunching the sand, and throwing rocks. I might have enjoyed this
pleasant secluded beach if not for the way I arrived.
Just beyond the beach was a junkyard-like area
with wooden crates, large concrete blocks, paint cans and other junk. At
first my heart jumped, I had already found signs of civilization!
Then it sank like as stone as I realized that the area appeared to have
been deserted for years. I looked around for any clue as to where
I was but found nothing except some strange octagonal barrels and broken
lights. Who would make an octagonal barrel and why? The lights were
like stage lights, but there were no power outlets for them. Worst
of all there was no god-damn phone!
There didn't appear to be anything of use here
and I even climbed (mostly by jumping) on top of one of the concrete
blocks to get a better view. The view was great, if I wanted to see
ocean which I didn't. Inland I couldn't see anything but hills and
trees. If I had had some matches or a lighter I could have started a
signal fire but I didn't, and there weren't any around. The only thing
that looked even remotely like civilization was a dirt road heading
inland. Since I couldn't swim that road was my best bet.
The road went up to a wooden fence with a gate.
A gentle push sent the whole gate falling inward with a loud
crash. The hinges had rusted completely away over the years - not
a good sign. The road continued beyond the fence to another fence
about 50 yards away and in the distance I thought I could make out a
billboard. Both were good signs to me and I started hurrying
towards them when I noticed the glint of metal on a crate nearby.
The crate was near some more junk, similar to
the junkyard beyond the fence and I would have ignored it except for
what I saw on the crate. There, sitting on the crate, were three pistols
and a shotgun. I was ecstatic! I was a crack shot - my father was a gun
nut and took me to the shooting range whenever he could. There aren't
many guns I can't shoot, but I hadn't held one in years. After carefully
checking the guns I took a few practice shots at some of the junk in the
area. I was still a crack shot, and the flecks of rust here and there on
the guns hadn't hurt them. If I was stuck on this island I could at
least shoot something for food.
It was hard to believe anyone would just leave
several fully loaded guns lying around and it occurred to me that this
junkyard was set up like a shooting range. Where there's a
shooting range there must be people. It then occurred to me that
maybe these people who are around wouldn't be entirely happy to see me,
or worse, they might be just a little too happy to see me. I grabbed a
couple of pistols for protection. A one-armed lady needs all the
protection she can carry. The shotgun and third pistol I hid nearby just
in case I had to come back for them. I would have also taken them but
just getting one pistol to stay put half-shoved into my shorts was
difficult. Trying to put the other pistol there, and carry the
shotgun by its strap would have been impossible. As it was these
two pistols seemed a lot heavier than I remembered - I had probably lost
some strength due to the crash. This convinced me that I had some
serious injuries from that plane crash. I was going to have my
lawyer sue Costa Rica Airlines back into the stone-age when I got out of
I followed the road to the second fence and
pushed on the gate. It was rusted shut. I briefly considered using a
couple of crates nearby to climb over the fence before coming to my
senses. A shotgun blast to the gate opened it quite nicely with very
little work on my part. Beyond the gate I could see the road continued.
Off to one side of the road was a burned out truck, and to the other
side, farther up the road was a sign. The sign was obscured by a tree
and I was nearly underneath it before I could easily read it. It wasn't
just any sign, nor was it a nice friendly sign like "McDonald's
next exit", no it was this sign:
Today was just getting better and better. First
I crashed and nearly broke my neck, then I'm left on some godforsaken
beach and now, NOW I was going to be dinosaur food. Life just isn't fair
sometimes. I remembered the tales of Jurassic Park from the tabloids and
Hammond's book about it. I thought it was all a hoax. Now I was on
Site B, the place Hammond had declared was his breeding ground for the
dinosaurs. No episode of the Twilight Zone would ever top this day. The
world might be conspiring against me but no smart aleck spitters or
sneaky raptors were going to be french-kissing this one-armed,
The whole island suddenly took on a sinister
hue. Hammond had said that the dinosaurs couldn't survive without a
certain drug, I hoped he was right but I didn't have much choice. This
island was probably deserted and my only chance of being rescued lied
within. I had to hope that there was a working radio or phone somewhere
on this island. The alternatives were not pleasant - I'm no Anne Crusoe
and I really didn't want to be an appetizer for some dinosaur.
The burned out truck nearby was exactly
that. If it once had a radio it was long gone. So much for getting
lucky. It was almost noon so I headed inland faster, keeping an eye out
for anything suspicious. I had a choice to make - follow the road, or
wander off into the forested hills. The choice was pretty easy, I took
the road. It sloped upward and I was soon above the hills off to my
left. I could see the remains of a truck that had apparently gone
off the road. A rifle was lying in the bed of the truck but I knew I
couldn't carry it if I wanted to be off this island before nightfall.
A pile of crates marked where the truck had
probably gone off the road. The road appeared to have been eroded
away by rains leaving a wide, deep ditch. That wouldn't have been much
of a problem if I had two good arms but with one arm it was as bad as
the Grand Canyon. I had seen a log earlier, but that would probably have
been too heavy to drag over here and I was in a hurry.
The crates were empty and made a loud crashing
sound as they fell into the ditch. One little push and Voila, instant
bridge. I gingerly stepped across the crates, fearful that they
might crack open under my weight. They were still quite sturdy,
however, and I made it across without a problem.
Hurrying along the road I came to another
ditch, even worse than the last one. Suddenly the ground shook beneath
me. Too close to the edge of the road and unwilling to let go of my gun
I fell down into the valley next to the road. I groaned as I slid to a
painful stop. I had thought I couldn't feel any worse, I was wrong. I
got angry then, I mean, just how many disasters should one person have
to go through in a day. Now I had to deal with earthquakes.
I got up, spitting mad and cursing, stomping,
yelling and just throwing an awful fit when a second earthquake hit. I
was ready this time and managed to stay on my feet. I searched around to
find the pistol I had dropped sliding down the valley wall. I found it
lying next to some strange moss-covered tree trunk. An awful stench
filled the air. It was like a few dozen elephants had just walked
through town and left a mountain of droppings behind them. Only it was
worse, much worse.
As I picked up the pistol the tree uprooted
itself. Amazed, dumbfounded, and frightened out of my wits, I watched as
it rose into the air, above my head. It came crashing down a few yards
away. The ground shook and I fell to my knees. Not ten feet away from me
was the biggest monster on the planet. Several minutes passed before I
regained my senses. I stood up, unsteady on my feet, and watched the
brachiosaur eat the leaves from a tree whose top I couldn't even see.
Nearby was another brachiosaur.
The tales were all true. Hammond had done it,
he had actually created dinosaurs.