Chapter 2: William, the Volcanologist

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This character (William) is inspired by one of the vulcanologists with the USGS (United States Geological Survey).  He doesn't know it, nor does he know about this novel.  All writers need inspirations for their characters, and when I saw the film about Pinatubo's eruption, I immediately said to myself: "He's the one!"  But he'll never know it.  :-)

TWO

William, the Volcanologist

         My sister Lety said, “Take Benadryl to help you fall asleep on the plane. It always works for me.” I followed her advice. It didn’t work on me. It merely induced a feeling of inebriated melancholy.

         Here I am somewhere in la-la land, struggling to open my eyes, but my lids feel weighed down. I manage only a slit, just enough to perceive a figure leaning over me. The overhead light casts a shadowed glow on his features. He speaks, but his voice sounds as if it’s coming from the abyss. I trace the sound directly to the mouth beneath the spectacled eyes, and a Caucasian nose that suggests extended time in the sun. And that subtle but wonderful scent from his cologne or shaving cream . . .I'm pretty sure it didn't come from a drug store product. As the image develops, I recognize the man who occupies the seat next to me – William, I think. We made our introductions as we were taking off from Honolulu where he had boarded the flight. If I had known he was going to be my seat mate, I would not have taken the pill before Honolulu. I can’t even remember now what made me do it.

         "Are you all right?" he says.

         I hear muffled voices around me, the faint sound of someone flipping crisp pages from a magazine, and another snoring like a one-man orchestra. Most of the passengers seem asleep, and there is something marvelous about it.

         "You were moaning. Bad dream?"

         "Uhh. . . I don’t know. Maybe,” I mumble incoherently. “Sorry."

         "Nothing to be sorry for. I bet half the passengers around us are having nightmares right now.”

         I look at him quizzically.

         “Remember that rambunctious boy who wouldn’t stop screaming?"

         I wince at the recollection of the obnoxious little devil a few seats to our left that inspired me to pop the pill in my mouth. He was disrupting the passengers continuously by playing cowboy in the aisles, playing with his utensils, and spitting his food and drink on the floor.

         "Where is he now?"

         "I saw a woman take him in the back. Maybe she sent him to the baggage section."

         "That sounds great. "

         The details of our earlier conversation before the Benadryl drugged me quickly follow my wakefulness. I remember the excitement I felt when I learned what he does for a living: a vulcanologist, and a member of the USGS team that studies and monitors the seismic activities at Mount Pinatubo. I think I recognize him now from the constant coverage of the eruptions on CNN. He looked so charming and young compared to the other geologists. I also remember an immediate rapport developing between us earlier, and how I scolded myself for flirting with him – a behavior unbecoming of a married woman, albeit a not-so-happy married woman. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but nowadays that’s not an absolute indication of someone’s marital status.

         I check my wristwatch, and I calculate that we have about six hours left before reaching Manila. Six hours! What I normally consider an endless flight now seems fleeting with William to talk to. He had been impressed when I described my obsessive fascination over volcanoes, and that I have hiked and explored Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens and other Pacific Cascade mountains. I think he was most fascinated by my childhood stories of my experiences with the Aeta tribes of Mount Pinatubo when my father would take me up to the mountains to deliver goods to the villagers. I can’t recall how much I’ve told him since the Benadryl was already taking its toll on my senses at the time.

         "So, did your husband enjoy exploring St. Helens and Rainier with you?"

         Hmm. He has noticed the ring on my finger, but I welcome his interest and curiosity about my marital status. "No, he was quite busy at the time, although . . .I think he just wasn’t interested. He’s had his share of volcano hikes when we were in Hawaii one year. That was mostly what I wanted to do for a whole month, and he got tired of it."

         "You went by yourself?"

         "Oh, no. I’m not that adventurous. I was with a Sierra Club mountaineering group."

         "I’m impressed."

         "Don’t be." It’s my turn to probe. "How about your wife? Does she ever join you in your expeditions?"

         He flashes an endearing smile. I notice that his eye structure resembles the creaseless Far East Asian eyes with no visible folds on the lids, but an inner fold covered by fat. If it weren’t for his height, his ash brown hair, natural red lips, pointed nose, and a very white skin that’s reddish from sun exposure, I’d say he’s part Asian. "I’m not married," he says. "Came very close one time, though. Unfortunately in my field, I never stay in one place enough to keep any relationship going."

         "I can understand that." I don’t know why I’m delighted to hear that he’s not married. I should slap myself to remind me that I have a husband waiting for me back in the States. So what if Rob’s jealousies and possessiveness have been getting worse and he’ll probably never change. How many more trial separations should we try to see if we could save this marriage? He’s such a great guy, but he’s too possessive of me. I’m starting to feel suffocated. I needed to get away again, much to his objection. I was grateful when this trip presented itself, although I wish the circumstances were of a more pleasant nature.

         "You were about to tell me why you’re taking this trip to the Philippines before you fell asleep," William says.

         "Oh, yes. I took Benadryl just before you boarded in Honolulu."

         "Allergies?"

         "No, not really. It was supposed to give me a restful sleep . . . it’s a long story."

         "That’s okay. I was afraid I was boring you with my stories."

         "Quite the contrary. I loved it."

         "Good. So why are you going back to the Philippines? I’m not sure it’s quite safe for you yet. There’s still a lot of seismic activity going on deep inside Pinatubo, you know."

         "So I’ve heard. But I have a family mission."

         "Another long story?"

         "I’m afraid so."

         "I didn’t mean to pry."

         "It’s all right. It’s no big deal, really. Well, it’s sort of a big deal, but . . ." I feel heat rise to my face, which has probably taken the color of blood. "I’m blabbering. I am really much more intelligent than I sound."

         There’s that smile again that narrows his Asian-like eyes to a slit.

         "And much more charming than you probably realize," he says.

         I think he surprises himself for what sounded like a flirtatious comment. It’s his turn to blush, which only heightens his boyish look.

         He straightens up, and looks away from me. For a long moment or two, we are quiet, and I don’t like it. There’s much more I want to learn about him and his global experiences as a volcanologist. Before I sank into a semi-conscious state earlier, I remember him talking about his near-death experience when pumice dust filtered into the engine of their chopper, and they were forced to make an emergency landing.

         "Did you finish your story about your near death adventure over Pinatubo?" I ask, almost startling him with my question. He seems pleased that I ended the awkward silence.

         "I think so," he says. "How much do you remember?"

         "Not much; just that you had to make an emergency landing close to the epicenter of the eruption."

         "Well, let me continue then." He turns slightly to face me, and I am pleased. I have a feeling that we’re going to be exchanging stories all the way to Manila. He clears his throat, and begins to retell the story that starts to come back to me, but I don’t let him know. I love listening to him talk. He’s filled with schoolboy enthusiasm over his profession that he clearly loves.

         So . . . after walking for about three hours on muddy mountain path that was quickly getting blanketed with ash, we found an abandoned water buffalo, or carabao, as you call them. My colleague and I rode the animal on its back for four grueling hours. Imagine how painful that was. I couldn't walk straight for weeks." He pauses, breathes in deeply, and sighs. "Then Pinatubo collapsed, sending down the mountainside a glowing avalanche of ash, rock and gas heading our way." He shakes his head, looking pensively as if calculating what the future might have been. "We can't figure out how we escaped that, but I'm just so happy we made it back. God, the fatality list could easily have been two names longer."

         "That was you!" I exclaim in excitement. "I remember that footage on CNN. They were talking about these two USGS guys flying over Pinatubo studying the pyroclastic flows from the past eruption. I couldn’t make out your faces, but I think it was you who said: "This is big! We’re going to be in for a big explosion!"

         He looks at me in amazement. "Wow. I can’t believe you remember all that. How impressive."

         "No, I’m impressed. You’re a hero."

         "It’s my job."

         "I just know that the death toll could have been a lot more appalling if it had not been for you guys. If you hadn’t flown over the volcano, you would not have been able to accurately predict the potential apocalypse. Because of what you did, you decided it was time to urge the immediate evacuation of everyone in the vicinity."

         He laughs. Not a half-shy chuckle, but a hearty laugh that makes his eyes disappear even more. "I can’t believe you. You talk like those TV news reporters. No, better. You must have a photographic memory."

         "Don’t be too impressed. I watched the tape over and over."

         "You tape news broadcasts?"

         "It was a two-hour special. Hey, it’s a historical event, which happens only every 600 years."

         "True." He flashes me a conspiratorial look with a smile. "But why do I have this feeling that you record any program you find about volcanoes?"

         He has figured me out. What a perceptive guy. Or am I that transparent? "Guilty as charged," I say with a throaty laugh. "You should see my VHS collection."

         "I believe it." He pauses thoughtfully for a moment then resumes with a serious tone in his voice. "It still saddens me though when I think that the casualties could have been a lot smaller if people didn’t wait too long to leave."

         There's something compassionate about him that endears me. He has probably witnessed a lot of deaths in his profession, and that must bother him immensely. "People feel the safest in their own homes, so they stay; some are too old to move."

         "Yes, we’ll never forget Harry Truman when St. Helens erupted."

         "How can any one forget him? Also, remember that majority of the people who died from Pinatubo's eruption were mountain people who never knew any other home except Pinatubo."

         ". . .who also thought the mountain was their mother and protector."

         "Indeed."

         I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun on the plane. I am so drawn to him, to his ready wit, and sometimes, to the flirty intelligence that he conveniently hides behind his shyness. I love the way he talks about his profession. To me, it is a good indicator of his depth and passion that I admire so in a man. Our intriguing conversation, and sometimes, philosophical exchange of ideas, indicates that we might have been cast from the same mold. I feel infatuated like a schoolgirl. But the pragmatic side of me says it’s all because the object of my attraction is a real life volcanologist. What a dream-come-true episode in the life of a girl with an obsessive fascination with volcanoes.

         We’ve been talking to each other continuously for almost four hours. I feel intoxicated, not from the five cups of dark coffee I’ve consumed, but from the thrill of the conversation. But, oh, dear, I think the Benadryl’s true power is finally kicking in. I’m getting sleepy.

         "You know, I think there's still a little bit of that Benadryl left in me. If you don't mind, I'm going to surrender myself to sleep."

         "Not at all. I do need to get some rest as well. It’s going to be busy at the USGS Center tomorrow."

         "Good night, William."

         "Good night, Mary."

         William and Mary, I think to myself. It has a nice ring to it.

--o0o--

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