Eight Men and a Duck: An Improbable Voyage by Reed Boat to Easter Island by Nick Thorpe

Author:Nick Thorpe [Thorpe, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Travel, Essays & Travelogues
ISBN: 9780748115495
Google: 3Xi7WSTiJCkC
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2009-12-03T00:15:03.511522+00:00

Supper that night had a subdued mood. Even the huge helpings of succulent white flesh could not compensate for the loss of our feathered crewmate. I decided to cheer myself up by requesting a satellite phone call to Ali.

Anyone who has ever tried phoning a loved one long-distance on a dodgy line in a public booth will know a little of the frustration I experienced in the ensuing eight minutes. Yes, there was the simple inadequacy of words to express the yearning of such a long separation; yes, there was the two-second delay which posted awkward pauses on to each heartfelt utterance, causing each of us to believe the other was for some reason reticent about replying. But thanks to satellite technology, there was also a periodic fading of the signal, and an odd metallic tinge in each of our voices that lent us the resonance of amorous androids. In the ensuing mis communication, Ali mistook the news of Pedro’s sad demise for the punchline of an extremely funny joke and giggled happily until she noticed I wasn’t joining in. The realisation that I was serious - and that eight grown men were indeed in mourning for a duck - only seemed to make things worse, and I lost her for what seemed like a whole minute in helpless hoots of android laughter. This proved too infectious to resist, and soon I too was laughing. We spent a few more minutes cooing metallically at each other’s competing tales of hardship (Ali won, having endured three weeks of unrelenting lavatory humour in the Patagonian wilderness with a group of gap-year school-leavers) and relishing that delicious ache of mutual yearning which is the payoff of separation. Then I rang off, feeling much better.

Marco, still deeply upset, looked at me suspiciously. ‘Whatever you do, break the news gently for the sake of my mother,’ he said, in a gloomy, Eeyore-like voice, as I carried the phone back into the cabin. He knew I was due to write up a log for the expedition website, which must inevitably include the Duck Drama.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, sitting down at the computer. An hour or so later I had produced, I felt, a minor masterpiece. I did not shy away from hinting at Pedro’s probable fate - effectively flightless, unable to drink salt water, and therefore eventually destined to die of dehydration if a shark didn’t take him first from below - but I made sure I infused the whole thing with a certain nobility. I felt certain Gloria would find it a sensitive and compassionate tribute to a remarkable duck.

Unfortunately, I reckoned without the system of technological Chinese whispers that was necessary to transmit the report back home. In the absence of email, Phil had arranged with Eli that he would dictate the entire log directly into her answer machine, so that she could subsequently transcribe it on to the webpage at her leisure. This would have worked fine were it not for

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