Memento

Lost among the many shipwrecks along the whale-bitten shores of the Channel Islands, California's ferocious answer to the Galapagos, lie the remains of the great expedition of Scott Faulkner Robert. Recently, in a journey nearly as perilous as that of Robert's, the tattered remains of a diary were found, still clasped lovingly in the dessicated hands of a skeleton. Below are the legible excerpts from that work.

Day 3

We have made good time, launching ourselves across the ice caps that litter the channel between the island of California and the islands of the channel, which have yet to be named. Simon has become adept at catching our dinner (usually flamingos) and Walter has designed attractive headdresses with their feathers. We'll use them in the talent show next Friday. I have chosen to head our expedition due west, as our attempts during the first few days to head east only left us in the sand of the main island. I have great expectations of our discoveries ahead.

Day 4

Sooner than expected, we have struck land! The cliffs of this tres petite island are most imposing, and I do not expect to make a landing unless we can scale the steep, ashen walls. Surely this monolith was formed by a volcano, or else placed by God's hand himself. Surrounding the isle are the most unusual dogs: they are friendly, they bark, and catch frisbees, but appear to be largely water-bound. Walter has expanded his practice to construct magnificent coats out of their pelts, though none of us believe dog-fur coats will have any following. No matter. A few more dinners of flamingoes (or pelicans, or whatever they are) and we will push off to explore the other nearby islands.

Day 6

Ah yes! This is what I expected all along! Dappled inlets of kelp forests and pebbly bays, purple sea urchins, and a quacking, tasty sea-ducks. (Cedric has elided the name to 'sucks.') We discovered a type of fish that is so bright orange, it resembles your typical greasy-skinned Italian mechanic. We shall call it: Garibaldi.

Onshore, tall trees give gracious shade, the sand gives way to tender earth, and a certain herb makes the whole place smell of roasted rosemary potatoes. I have high hopes forthis place. I can picture a razed plane, demolishing the mountains to turn them into fertile farm land, habitable living spaces, and ample parking.

Here, sheep may safely graze. (We're planning on swimming them over the 18-mile channel, surely enough will arrive.) Here, we can found a chapel, to glorify God and save the inhabitants: the island skunk, the scrub jay, and those swarthy aborigines underfoot. Here we can make a home. I am bold to say, but I will name this land for myself. I claim this land: Scottland!

Day 9

On further exploration, our immediate plans for colonization may yet be thwarted. Numerous difficulties loom, not the least of which is turning this mountain into a mole hill. The boys have been chipping away for days, yet it still resembles a mountain. But more seriously is our recent misadventure at sea, during which we attempted to circumcise the island with a mere 6-foot clipper.

Cedric, Walter, and I were in the dinghy. We set out at low tide, admiring the sealife in the tidal pools and weighing more varied dinner options among the fishies. We discoveried a series of caves, some of which connected deeper in the rock formations. We set about exploring, even as the tide grew higher and the waves grew rough. Suddenly, a rogue wave knocked the boat over, spilling out dear Walter, gentle Cedric, and my own tender self into the roiling sea. The wild kelp lashed our bare skin, the delicious fishes nibbled at our ankles, the seabirds licked their lips at our plight. As I stood there in the 3-foot deep water, I thought all was lost. Then, Roger came in from the dryland and gave us a tow back to port. It actually wasn't all that bad.

Day 13

Haven't been able to blog as much recently as times have been tough. Discontent reigns at base camp, as my men wonder how long we must stay, and cannot seem to fathom my need to catalog every pelican inhabitant of the island. (Or are they flamingos?) We must push on, even as food runs short, and tempers run high.

Day 19

An excruciating hike today. We became trapped in a canyon with a man-eating fennel, and had to amputate our own fingers after a case of rapid onset frostbite. It still stings a bit. I am writing with my nose. We returned to camp at dusk. After a brief supper of the remains of one of our companions (poor Cedric), we entered the tent where we recently had huddled for safety from the wild, cat-size foxes that rove the island at night. It was there that I knew the true struggle would begin.

Hear me, posterity. Night after night I have endured the most cruel torments at the hands of my compatriot. When darkness falls and we beg for sleep to accept us, I alone am left awake to contend with the most fearsome beast of all. Walter! Walter! That purported fop, that milksop pansy boy. Oh the terrors he wreaks at night with his loathsome noise, his thunderous ululations, his cavernous snore! In my mind, I wrestle with it, I fight it, I am bigger than the snoring, dammit! But, alas, I fail, and stagger sleeplessly each blinding dawn out of the little tent portal. I fear I will go mad. I have already lost track of all those pigeons I was cataloging, and now must start anew.

Day 21

Situation desperate. Food scarce. Mutiny afoot. Send help.

Day 22

PS, And if you happen to be a network producer, won't you please consider our story for a possible reality show? History will thank you. Thank you.