The flight to Rarotonga, the main island in the cluster of South Pacific Islands known as the Cook Islands, was seven hours; we made up some of those hours on the way west, and arrived in the early afternoon. No tours were scheduled; instead, we’d be on our own for the rest of the day and would depart for Australia in the morning. We were stopping on Rarotonga to break up the fourteen-hour flight between Easter Island and Ayers Rock.
Rarotonga was steamy when we stepped off the plane, and far warmer than Easter Island had been. It was a typical island day; blue skies crowded with dense puffy clouds that portended late afternoon showers, high humidity, and a light, constant breeze. The island itself was beautiful; the main road circled the island, and the central peaks were shrouded in clouds and thick with island vegetation. Like Easter Island, it had been originally settled by Polynesians, but was probably most famous because of Captain Bligh and the mutineers of the Bounty, who were marooned on the islands in the late eighteenth century.
When we arrived at the hotel, the group dispersed. Some went to lunch, others retreated to nap in their rooms. Still others went to sit on the beach or by the pool; a few decided to go snorkeling. Micah and I decided to rent scooters to explore the island.
The island was roughly twenty-five miles in circumference, and, as in England, the vehicles traveled on the opposite side of the road than they did in the States. Though it took some getting used to, the roads weren’t crowded, and we zipped along, stopping here and there for pictures. Palm trees stretched as far as the eye could see, and we wondered if Easter Island had once looked this way. The thought saddened us. While Easter Island had been austere and lovely in its own way, the difference between the islands was staggering.
The Cook Islands are noted for black pearls, and both Micah and I stopped to buy some for our wives. In the past week, Micah had talked to Christine twice, and I’d talked to Cat four times. None of our conversations had lasted more than a few minutes. Their lives were more hectic than usual, but their routines the same; it amazed us to think of all the places we’d been since we’d last seen them.
There is something refreshing about riding with the wind in your face, and as we circled the island my mind wandered. Part of it was that Micah and I were on our own and without a schedule. I thought about our childhood; the places we’d lived and the things we’d done. I tried to imagine what my kids were doing, and pictured the way Cathy looked as she stood in front of the mirror in the morning.
Best of all, I never thought about work as I rode, even for an instant. For the first time in years, I finally began to feel as if I were on vacation.
Micah and I grabbed some bottled water, and stopped at one of the public beaches on the far side of the island. The beaches were coral-strewn, and the waves just beyond the reef rose high before crashing against them. Micah and I were the only ones there, and from the beach we couldn’t see any houses. With the exception of the faint sound of passing traffic on the road behind us, it would have been easy to believe we were the only ones on the island.
For a long time, we simply sat and watched the waves. The ocean was the color of faded turquoise, and even from our vantage point, it was possible to see through the water to the seafloor. Schools of brightly colored fish swam past us, our eyes traveling with them. Many of the South Pacific islands have their own native species; some fish found in Hawaii or Fiji can only be found there, and I wondered if I was seeing a species I would never see again.
“Now this,” Micah said, “is the reason we came to Rarotonga. Beautiful beach, beautiful weather, all by ourselves. Can it get any better?”
“It’s not exactly like our vacation to the Grand Canyon, is it?”
He grinned. “That was some trip, wasn’t it?”
“It was great,” I said.
“It was awful,” he corrected. “You’re just too young to remember it the way I do. By the end, we’d driven dad almost crazy. He’d drive all day, see a sight, and then we’d camp out in the Volkswagen at night because we couldn’t afford hotels. And don’t you remember we didn’t have air-conditioning? Here we were driving through the desert in the middle of summer, sun glaring through the windows and cooking us inside. We roasted day and night, and complained all day. And we wrestled until we were slippery with sweat, screaming the whole time. Dad was pretty grouchy.”
“Our dad?” I feigned disbelief. “Mr. DEFCON? You must be thinking of someone else.”
He laughed. “I think we remember those moments about dad so clearly because he was such a quiet guy. I barely even knew he was around half the time, and then all of a sudden, BOOM. Our dad isn’t dad—suddenly he’s this super-scary guy.”
“Do you remember when he brought us to the movie Alien on opening night because he heard it was the scariest movie ever made? Or when we watched Salem’s Lot on television? What were we? Eleven or so?”
“Something like that.”
“Would you let Alli see movies like that? I mean, in a couple of years?”
Alli, his stepdaughter, was ten years old.
“There’s not a chance. Christine would kill me. She won’t even let me bring scary videos into the house.”
“Cathy’s the same way.” I sighed. “Did I ever tell you that I rented Silver Bullet for Miles?”
“No. What’s that?”
“It’s this movie about werewolves. Stephen King wrote the story it was based on, and I figured that Miles might want to watch it with me. It’s what our dad used to do, right? So I let him watch it.”
“And?”
“He had nightmares for months. Cathy was absolutely livid—I got glares you can’t even imagine, and she still brings it up whenever I offer to bring Miles to a movie. ‘He better not get nightmares,’ she warns. ‘And if he does, you’re the one who’s going to have to sit up with him all night.’”
Micah smiled. “Our wives and children just don’t seem to have the appreciation for good horror movies that we do.”
“It’s a shame,” I admitted. “All I wanted to do was share something with Miles that my dad shared with me growing up. Kind of like going fishing or playing catch or going to museums.”
“I understand completely, little brother,” he said. He put his arm around me. “You gotta give that to dad,” he said. “He did teach us to appreciate the important things in life.”
Once back at the hotel, we decided to go snorkeling.
While I’ve snorkeled in the Caribbean and Hawaii, I’ve never been more impressed than I was that day. Thousands of bright blue starfish, barracudas, and colorful reef fish swam in the warm, clear water, and a light current made it possible to float at the surface of the shallow water while expending little effort. Above us, clouds had filled in the sky, making it possible for us to be out without getting sunburned, and we stayed in the water, even when the rain started to fall.
Afterward, we ate on the hotel’s outdoor patio. We were trying to decide what to do later in the evening; with nothing planned, it seemed like a waste to head back to our rooms. The bartender—who was also our waiter—recommended a pub crawl, and said a van would stop by the hotel around eight o’clock, if we signed up for it.
A pub crawl is essentially that: The van comes by, picks you up, and brings you from one pub to the next over the course of the evening. Whether or not a person drinks, however, is almost beside the point. Over the years, I’ve visited numerous countries, and I’ve learned that until you meet the people in a relaxed setting, doing what they normally do, you haven’t actually experienced what the country is all about. Almost everyone I’ve ever met in situations like that is friendly; most people around the world enjoy practicing their English and hearing about America. Our country, warts and all, is a place that foreigners find both fascinating and intriguing; they love some things and hate others, but everyone has an opinion about it. At the same time, I’m always struck by how similar people are, no matter where they live. Throughout the world, people not only want to have the chance to improve their own situation, but want their children to have more opportunities than they have. Politicians are nearly always held in low esteem; so are demagogues on both the right and the left.
Our bartender was no different, and though he was mildly disappointed that we wouldn’t be traveling to New Zealand—his home country—he did add that he’d visited the United States.
“Oh yeah?” Micah said. “Where?”
“I was in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Las Vegas, Denver, Dallas, New Orleans, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, and New York. I spent a summer traveling around the country.”
“Did you see the Grand Canyon?” Micah asked.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I thought it was great. Mount Rushmore, too. And the giant redwoods. Beautiful. My favorite place was Las Vegas.”
“Did you win in Vegas?” I asked.
“No, I lost. I played the slots, you know? But it was fun. That’s the wildest city. I love it there. Have you ever been there?”
“Of course,” Micah said. “From Sacramento, it’s just over an hour away by plane.”
The bartender shook his head, a look of pleasure on his face. “I tell people—if you want to see America, go to Vegas. The lights, the shows, the excitement—it’s America.”
While we were eating, Jill Hannah, the physician, joined us. Over the past few days, she’d been busy, since so many people were developing stomach problems. Like everyone, she seemed lethargic, and when we mentioned we were going out that night, she raised her eyebrows.
“Aren’t you guys tired?”
“A little,” Micah answered. “But you should come, too. It’ll be fun.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to bed. Is anyone else going with you?”
“We’ll see,” Micah said. “We’re going to ask around in a little while.”
Not surprisingly, most everyone we asked said no, no matter how fun we tried to make it sound. We must have spoken to a couple of dozen people, but only Charles, one of the lecturers on the tour, said he’d come. We told him that we’d meet him in the lobby at eight.
“We’re just going to take a short nap,” Micah said, “and we’ll see you then.”
We headed back to our room, lay down, and fell fast asleep, neither of us waking until the following morning.
At breakfast, Charles came over to our table. “Where were you guys last night? I was waiting for you. I was all set to have a great time.”
“Sorry about that,” Micah said sheepishly.
“I can’t believe the brothers Sparks actually got tired.”
“Sometimes,” Micah said, “it happens to the best of us.”
As soon as Charles left, I leaned toward Micah. “I can’t believe we slept through it. I guess we’re getting older, huh?”
“I know what you mean. In college, it seemed like I never got tired. I could go out all night long. I was wild.”
“College?” I asked. “Who are you kidding? You were wild in high school.”
In 1979, Micah began high school, and for the next two years my brother had a tenuous relationship with everyone in the family. He’d reached the age where he began to openly question my parents’ authority, and acted out accordingly. Yet Micah, as probably could have been expected, was more, even when it came to being a teenager. He got drunk at the river, and my mom once found marijuana in the pocket of his jeans and grounded him for a month after threatening him with military school. At fifteen, Micah also came home with a pierced ear; my mom made him remove the earring by issuing yet another threat about military school.
She always threatened us with military school. Both of our parents had gone to boarding school and each of them had shared their horror stories, always ending with, “but at least it wasn’t military school.” As kids, we were terrified at the thought of these institutions, believing they’d been designed by Satan himself. But Micah was listening to our parents less and less, and he’d come to realize that he’d never actually be sent away, if only because the family couldn’t afford it. Thus, his behavior got worse and worse. During his freshman year, the mood in the house was extremely tense, and my sister and I were often amazed at the way he boldly raised his voice to our mom and dad.
Image is important to most teenagers, and Micah was no exception. He was tired of being poor, and even worse, looking poor. At sixteen, he got a job as a dishwasher at an ice cream parlor, and began saving his money. He bought a used car and learned how to repair it, he bought new clothes, and began dating. He soon became serious with a girl named Juli and began spending all his free time with her. My mom didn’t think it was a good idea to be so serious about a girl at such a young age, and they argued about that as well. Once, she caught the two of them napping in his room, and all hell broke loose. I don’t think I’d ever seen my mother angrier about anything.
It was around that time that my mom marched into my dad’s office. My dad had been all but irrelevant when it came to raising us, but my mom could go no further without his help.
“I raised them this far,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”
My dad simply nodded. It was, he probably thought, a lot better than cooking or cleaning.
After that, I remember evenings where I’d find Micah sitting in the office, visiting with my dad. My dad was exceptionally smart, and he read almost constantly. He taught behavioral theory and management at California State University in Sacramento, and read every conceivable book that had been written on the subjects. Seriously. There were thousands of books in his office at any given time—stacked along shelves, piled on the floor, stored in boxes—and he’d read every one. In the evenings, I could always find him sitting at his desk with his feet propped up, reading. He read amazingly fast; on average, he would finish one or two books in an evening, jotting notes as he went along. His hours were unlike anyone else’s in the family. Because he taught in the afternoons, he usually stayed awake until 5:00 A.M., and then slept until noon.