The Curse of Lono by Hunter S. Thompson;Steve Crist;Ralph Steadman

Author:Hunter S. Thompson;Steve Crist;Ralph Steadman
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Publishers, Art, Journalists, WA), West, Travel, Individual Artists, Editors, Hawaii, United States, HI, NV, Biography & Autobiography, General, CA, Popular Culture, Pacific (AK, OR
ISBN: 9783822848975
Published: 2010-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

The Curse of Lono

THE LAND OF PO

The sea was not getting any calmer as we approached our destination, a small beach at the foot of sheer black cliffs. Captain Steve took us in about halfway, then slowed to a crawl and came scrambling down the ladder. “I don't know about this,” he said nervously. “The swell seems to be picking up.”

Ackerman was staring at the beach, where huge breakers foamed.

The first alarm came from Captain Steve, up above, when he suddenly shut down the engines and came back down the ladder.

“Get ready,” he said. “We're in for a long night.” He stared nervously into the sea for a moment, then darted into the cabin and began hauling out life jackets.

“Forget it,” said Ackerman. “Nothing can save us now. We may as well eat the mescaline.” He cursed Captain Steve again. “This is your fault, you stupid little bastard. We'll all be dead before morning.”

Captain Steve shrugged as he swallowed the pill. I ate mine and set about assembling the hibachi I'd bought that morning to cook our fresh fish dinner. Ackerman leaned back in his chair and opened a bottle of gin.

We spent the rest of the night raving at each other and wandering distractedly around the boat like rats cast adrift in a shoebox, scrambling around the edges and trying to keep away from each other. The casual teamwork of the sundown hours became a feverish division of labor, with each of us jealously tending our own sector.

I had the fire, Ackerman had the weather, and Captain Steve was in charge of the fishing operation. The hibachi was tilting dangerously back and forth in the cockpit behind the fighting chair, belching columns of flame and greasy smoke every time I hit it with another whack of kerosene. The importance of keeping the fire going had become paramount to everything else, despite the obvious and clearly suicidal danger. We had three hundred gallons of diesel fuel in the tanks down below, and any queer pitch of sea could have spilled flaming charcoal all over the cockpit and turned the whole boat into a fireball -- putting all three of us m the water, where we would be instantly picked up in the surf and dashed to death on the rocks.

No matter, I thought. We must keep the fire going. It had become a symbol of life, and I was not about to let it die down.

The others agreed. We had long since abandoned any idea of cooking anything for dinner -- and in fact we had thrown most of the food overboard by that time, thinking to use it for bait -- but we all understood that as long as the fire burned, we would survive. My appetite had died around sundown, and now I was covered with layers of cold mescaline sweat. Every once in a while a shudder I would race up my spine, causing my whole body to tremble. In these moments my conversation would suddenly collapse,

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