The Green Flash

By Dr. Glenn M Cosh

Following the Korean War, Air Force veteran Carl Wolf longs to replace the tortured memories of his fighter-pilot past with a quiet life dedicated to marine science. But despite the tranquility of his surroundings, his past always keeps him at arm’s length from the emotional connections he so deeply desires.

Then, a chance encounter on a scientific expedition to the island of Cozumel changes everything. A newfound soul mate reveals a startling coincidence relating to one of his most traumatic episodes from the war, and Carl gets a glimpse of the future he’d always hoped for. Then, just as quickly, he loses contact with her. In the interim, he finds companionship with a beautiful colleague. The dueling relationship compounds his struggles to come to grips with life, love, and his nagging torturous past. And beyond its beauty, this lovingly crafted period piece is a compelling reminder that the pain of hard choices can often be tempered by nature’s miracles…like the green flash itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312921481

Book preview

The Green Flash

THE GREEN FLASH

BY

DR. GLENN M. COSH

Copyright 2014 by Dr. Glenn M. Cosh

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review

Zest Publishing

First Edition

Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number Pending

ISBN 978-1-312-76402-6

Also By Glenn M. Cosh:

Nonfiction

Is There A Doctor In the House?

A new Customized Prescription For Cycling

Cycling in the slow Lane

Cover design by Stony Ridge Studios

The Green Flash is a work of fiction. All incidences and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

One

Flashback

The large brass plaque was the only part of the lighthouse that had escaped the corrosive sea for far too many years. And although it bore a tinted greenish coating, it was not enough to mar the inscription:

CHANCE BROTHERS & COMPANY, Ltd.

LIGHTHOUSE ENGINEERS

And

CONSTRUCTIONERS

NEW BIRMINGHAM

1899

The steel structures supporting the lighthouse were but a skeleton of their former beauty, when they were forged from the blast furnace nicknamed Tassie Balle, in East Texas some three score of years ago. The constant salt spray had slowly but surely eaten away, piece by piece, at this once magnificent structure. All that was left unscathed was its magnifying glass prism, the large brass doorknob, and the brass plaque. Rising from its base on the Isle of Perez to a height exceeding 150 feet, its light offered an unobstructed view of its domain overlooking Alacran Reef, lying some 80 miles north of Yucatan, in the Gulf of Mexico. As a protective saint, it had saved many a ship from being entangled in a 100-square-mile web of treacherous coral.

Many boats and ships seemed to have been impervious to its warning beacon though, only to be ensnared in the grasp of the coral and shipwrecked forever, eventually consumed by the sea. Now it stood without purpose, not much different than the shipwrecks that had ignored its shining light. Nearby, with its fresh coat of paint, a new lighthouse gave no indication of sympathy or recognition to its old counterpart—seemingly ashamed to share the same island. For Carl Wolf, however, the old relic was his refuge every evening after a day of exploring the surrounding reefs. As the sun gently settled low in the sky, he would gingerly search out spots on the rusty stair steps that would hopefully support his weight, and make his way up to the top of the lighthouse. From this precarious perch, the view of this massive coral reef as it spanned the horizon was indescribable. The distant barrier islands seemed to merge together as one. Beyond the islands, isolated shipwrecks could be seen. It was, however, the sight of the setting sun that brought him to this risky perch every evening. The time of day was quickly approaching at which the greatest spectacle of all was to be witnessed…the green flash!

An optical phenomenon, the green flash occurs on a calm sea, free of haze and clouds, as the sun slips below the distant horizon. This night presented an especially clear horizon, and while the sun seemed to be racing for that edge, the marine birds were likewise racing the setting sun to roost for the evening. The frigatebirds in particular caught his attention; gliding gracefully on their long, thin eight-foot wings, they somewhat resembling the B-36 strategic bombers Carl recalled landing at his Air Force base in North Africa many years ago. Although he had been assigned as a fighter pilot flying F-86D Saber Jets, he was always taken by the gigantic 230-foot wingspan of the B-36 bombers, and how they were able to support their 10 engines.

In deep reflection, Carl thought about how and why in 1959 he found himself sitting on the top of a rustic Mexican lighthouse in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. His passion had always been to fly, and he’d dreamed of being a fighter pilot in particular. Having finished college at the beginning of the Korean War, and with the draft breathing down his neck, it only seemed logical that he apply for flight training with the United States Air Force.

The sun was now halfway below the horizon, and only moments from sinking below the sea. Then in a flash, there it was—a brief green blip as the sun disappeared from the horizon.

Normally he would descend the lighthouse just after the sunset. But nostalgia seemed to overwhelm him this evening. All of a sudden he felt sad, filled with regrets. He thought that perhaps it had been those very regrets that had redirected his path into science following the war.

His first assignment in Korea had been flying an F-80 fighter jet in ground support. One mission in particular still tore at his heart. He was briefed that the mission involved taking out a barn that was filled with equipment and military supplies that the North Koreans had stored. On his first pass, he was ready to release his napalm bomb, when a small boy ran from the barn. His finger froze on the release button. Crackling over his earphones he heard his wingman yell, Carl, release the damn thing so we can get the hell out of here.

On his second pass he knew the exploding napalm not only killed the boy, but perhaps his family as well. That night he got drunk, but it did little to erase the vision of that little boy running from the barn.

Two months following that tragic episode, he and his wingman, Jay Baily, were departing in overcast weather from a temporary airstrip close to the front lines. Positioned just ahead and to the left of Jay, Carl lifted off in the fog and realized in an instant that he was heading directly for a water tower. Quickly banking hard left, he had consequently forced Jay into the tower. When Carl saw the blinding flash, a sickening feeling enveloped his gut. He knew it had been too late to warn Jay of the tower. The guilt never left him though, and frequently came back to haunt him with sleepless nights. His reliance on booze to escape the anguish of the night was his only refuge.

He had hoped that the combination of the Korean War winding down and his new assignment to Morocco in North Africa would enable him to escape the nightmares of combat in Korea—that flying an advanced Saber Fighter, the F-86D, in non-combat conditions would return a degree of normalcy to his life. For a while his life did finally turn around for him. He enjoyed the camaraderie of his crew and the respect he received for his combat experience in Korea. Because of his seniority, his crewmates would frequently entice him to fill the rocket pods of his jet with beer on non-combat flights so as to cool them down for a party later that night. Unconcerned about rank, he would frequently sneak his ground crew into the officers club for drinks. On one occasion, after a night of partying, he and his crew chief went out on the flight line to paint whitewalls on his fighter, only to be reprimanded later by the base commander. Those days were filled with laughter and partying.

With the Korean War over, he knew his days as an active fighter pilot were coming to an end. What he didn’t want was a desk job. He needed a big change in his life. His options were to hopefully get on with the airlines, or to enter the business world. As an ex-fighter pilot, the thought of placidly flying a planeload of passengers from point A to point B just wasn’t the challenge he wanted. But his high school days working at Sears had convinced him that the business world wasn’t his cup of tea either. There was perhaps a third option.

He recalled the family vacations along Padre Island, off the south coast of Texas, and how he had developed a keen interest in the local marine life. Holding a Bachelor of Arts degree with a major in biology, why not strive for a graduate degree in marine science? It would be a logical career change, and hopefully a way of escaping his killing past.

Though he’d had many girlfriends in the past, he had avoided any long-term relationships, mainly because of his commitment to his flying career. With no other responsibilities, he applied to, and was accepted at, the University of Texas graduate program in marine science. Four years later, with a PhD degree in Ichthyology and now an associate professor, he found himself on his current investigative expedition of Alacran Reef, conducted jointly by the University of Mexico and the University of Texas. Though his primary responsibility was collecting and documenting the various fishes and plankton that inhabited the reef, he was also the co-leader of the expedition. He shared that responsibility with Jose Sanchez, a Mexican marine biologist from the University of Mexico who had become his closest confidant. He had met Jose the previous year when they shared in a joint project just south of Matamoros, Mexico, along the Laguna Madre. Aside from Jose’s mustache, they were mirror images of each other; both being the same age, and at six feet they were both in excellent shape. The only exception was Jose was married, and had two kids.

Other members of the expedition included Boris Kurdin, an egocentric, paranoid micro paleontologist who had been assigned to study the microfossils of the reef along with fellow micro paleontologists Jim Smart and Stew Yoder. Jim, an author and professor from the University of Montana, was another close friend with a unique sense of humor, while Stew was a true unpretentious intellectual on leave from the Woods Hole Institute.  The sixth member of the expedition was Joe Cook, a profane constant talker and a senior from the University of Texas, who served as grip, handyman and by coincidence, cook and bottle washer. Their ages ranged between thirty and forty, with the only exceptions being Joe, the youngest at twenty-three and Boris the oldest, at forty-five. Aside for Boris, with his middle-age potbelly, they were all lean and physically fit. Over the course of two months, the expedition would also invite visiting marine scientists from other institutions for short periods of time to assist in the investigation of the reef.

Though their professional expertise varied, they worked as a team in evaluating the reef. That often involved cross-covering each other on occasions, where Carl, as an ichthyologist studying fishes, would assist Stew, a micro paleontologist on one of his projects investigating the microfossils.

It was the swiftly cooling sea breeze and the feel of the lighthouse vibrating in the wind that brought Carl back to reality. With the assistance of the full moon, his watch indicated that about half the night had escaped him. It was now past midnight. He realized that sunrise was not far off and he needed his sleep. Cautiously, he descended the rusty steps of the lighthouse and tiptoed over the sand crabs scurrying about the sand. Finding his way back to his tent, he quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Two

University Castaways

The sound of sea birds and the bright early sunrise awoke Carl to a new day. Today, Boris and Jim were joining him on a trip to the leeward side of the reef, to map its enormous diversification of plankton, coral and animal life. He had informed Joe the night before to pack a lunch for the three of them. The sunrise routine was basically the same for everyone…grab a bite of whatever wasn’t green, brush your teeth at the water’s edge, take the shovel with a roll of toilet paper, and head off to an unoccupied sand dune to complete your business.

Carl was checking the gas tank on their boat when Boris arrived.

Dammit, Carl, can’t that idiot, Joe, get anything right? He’s just now getting his act together fixing our meals. I knew it was a mistake to bring him on this expedition in the first place.

Hey, relax, Boris. Getting pissed at him now will only tempt him to feed us what the crabs wouldn’t eat.

You’re probably right. And besides, Jim has a case of the runs again and will be a few minutes late.

I told you, Boris, Joe is trying to kill all of us off with his cooking.  Go check on Jim—and don’t forget to bring the plankton net and formaldehyde. Otherwise, if we don’t get started soon it’s going to be an extra long day.

Carl returned his attention to his dogged attempt to start the boat’s outboard engine. That’s the third pull and it’s still not starting, he muttered.

Choke it, Carl, said Jim, finally arriving on the scene.

Hey, what I’d really like to do is choke it to death, responded Carl.

Boris, now arriving with additional supplies, chimed in, If the grant money wasn’t so tight, we’d have a decent ten-horsepower outboard instead of this underpowered five-horsepower job.

Both Carl and Jim agreed, For next year’s expedition, we’ll also requisition sixteen-foot boats instead of these inadequate twelve-footers.

With the correct jocking of the choke, the engine finally came alive, and moments later Carl was guiding the outboard from the little harbor into the open water of the Gulf. There was a slight headwind, and the salt spray blurred Carl’s sunglasses. That, combined with the glare of the sun off the water, obscured his vision to the point of occasionally losing his track. The added annoyance of the bow’s constant banging on the waves further set a mood of discomfort for the three of them.

Finally, without prompting, Jim came to the rescue with his habit of endlessly reciting his favorite poems. With the heat increasing, Jim’s poetry helped distract them from the boredom of the trip. After an hour and a half of the agonizing journey, Carl finally caught a glimpse of the small sandbar they would use as a base for the day.

Carl, pull up on the leeward side of the sandbar to unload the equipment, Boris barked, with a degree of sarcasm.

Boris, I don’t need your advice on docking this boat. Hell, if I let you at the controls you’d be navigating us out into the Gulf Stream.

Cool it, gentleman. It’ll be a long day of hell if you keep bickering, said Jim.

Boris retorted, Hey, I’m the most experienced investigator on this expedition, even though Carl somehow finagled his way into being the co-leader.

Enough already, said Carl. You know damn well, Boris, that Dr. Henry Mackenzie with the National Science Foundation picked me based on my publications and previous success on acquiring these grants. The only grant you ever got was a two-week study in Nebraska.

There was total silence, aside from the water lapping against the boat. Carl was embarrassed by his arrogant remarks, knowing full well his pick as co-leader of the expedition probably had been based more on his personal relationship with Dr. Mackenzie, his mentor in graduate school.

Look, Boris, I was out of line with that stupid comment. I’m sorry. It’s mid-morning and we haven’t accomplished a thing. Let’s put this beside us and get to work. Hearing no response, Carl continued, We have two grids to finish up with today. We’ll start with grid one-forty-two and hopefully finish by one or two o’clock before coming back to this sandbar for lunch. Okay?

There was still silence in the air, but everyone went about their task of getting their equipment ready for the job at hand. As Carl slowly maneuvered the boat to the grid 142 marking, Jim dropped the anchor into the turquoise water with a heavy splash.

I’ll stay in the boat for the first half-hour to take notes from you two; then I’ll switch places with Boris for the following half-hour, announced Carl to a continued silence.

Boris entered the water first, followed by Jim. Adjusting their snorkel gear, they quickly disappeared. First back to the surface was Boris, yelling, Palmata, forty percent; Faviidea, thirty percent; and cerviornis, thirty percent.

Thanks, Boris, said Carl.

Carl knew the tension between him and Boris was now broken. Perhaps things were not exactly friendly, but it was better than the silence that had made him so uncomfortable.  Carl proceeded to record Boris’s comments: Acropora palmate (Elkhorn Coral), 40% of the grid; Faviidae (Brain Coral), 30% of the grid; and Acropora cerviornis (Staghorn Coral), 30% of the grid.

From the opposite side of the boat Jim gave his finding from his portion of the grid. Cerviornis, fifty percent; Faviidea, thirty percent; and palmate, twenty percent.

Treading water, Jim raised his facemask and smiled at Carl. Then, before slipping back beneath the surface, he held up both of his thumbs. Carl knew that, although Jim felt the same about Boris, he realized it was in the best interest of the expedition to avoid adding his own voice to the friction.

It was close to one-thirty and the sun was taking its toll on all of them. Carl waved everyone on board and then proceeded back to the sandbar for lunch. Jim and Boris pulled the bow up on the sandbar until the boat was clear of the water’s edge.

Jim said, I wonder what five-star cuisine our chef has prepared for our palates?

Carl, attempting to add a little humor to Jim’s setup, responded, Courtesy of Campy Soup Company, our dear Isle of Perez chief chef prepared three cans of Pork and Beans for us. Eat up gentlemen, no seconds! Boris finally laughed. Halfway through his can of Pork and Beans, Carl had yet to come across one piece of pork. Hey guys, have you found any pork in your beans yet?

Not so far, was the response in unison.

Perhaps we need to write letters of protest to the Campy Soup Company. I recall as a kid hearing Arthur Godfrey on his radio program say that Lipson Soup Company had but one chicken, which they dipped in each vat of their Chicken Noodle Soup. Perhaps that is what Campy also did, dipping a strip of pork into the beans and calling it ‘Pork and Beans’.

After hearing this long dissertation, Boris and Jim agreed, We’re going to have to extend this field trip if there are any more long stories like that one, Carl.

Okay, okay, I get the point. Let’s get back into the boat and start on grid one-forty-three.

Carl then attached the plankton net behind the boat as he slowly zeroed in on his previous grid 143 markings. While the guys were putting on their snorkel equipment, Carl added formaldehyde to his plankton sample and labeled it.

Wait, Boris, why don’t you stay on board this time taking notes, while and Jim and I do the reef exploration.

Hearing no argument, Carl joined Jim in the water with his snorkel gear. The natural beauty of the reef, with its countless arrays of fishes was mind-boggling to Carl. He never tired of experiencing the beauty of this underwater Eden, a seemingly unknown world that so few have explored, and he considered himself privileged to be getting paid for doing so. He was getting a taste of what professional athletes experience, playing a sport they enjoy, while being nicely compensated—albeit it at a much better level than a scientist.

Suddenly, a large shadow on his left caught Carl’s attention. A quick glance in that direction revealed a sizable nurse shark slowly heading his way. Carl knew nurse sharks weren’t a serious threat; however, this one appeared to be over nine feet long. Taking no chances, he grabbed for his spear gun. The shark then abruptly veered to his left, but stayed within his sight. He waved Jim over to his area, but avoided alerting Boris in the boat. As Jim approached, he whispered to him that a large shark was in the vicinity.

We’ll never finish the job if we alert Boris, Jim said. He’s such a nervous nelly. Let’s keep our heads up and continue—besides, we’re almost finished.

Shortly thereafter, Carl and Jim swam to the boat, threw their gear on board, and joined Boris for the trip back to Isle of Perez. First though, Carl slowly glided the boat over to where the shark had been spotted.

Boris, you want to see a big shark?

Where?

Right there, see it?

Right on cue, Boris grabbed a paddle and hysterically started to beat the side of the boat, yelling, Shark! Shark!

Hold on, Boris! Jim admonished.  You’re going to sink the boat and we’ll never make it back.

Carl and Jim smiled at each other, and quickly changed the conversation.

Hey guys, we may have a bigger problem to deal with, noted Carl. Those huge cumulus clouds in our path are becoming a monster storm, so let’s get moving. The trip back could potentially become serious if we hit that squall line.

Normally Carl would have run the engine at half power to save wear and tear, but now he ran the boat at full power to hasten their return to the Isle of Perez. As the wind picked up, Carl found himself constantly pushing his straw hat further down on his head to prevent it from blowing off into the water. By now the bow was heaving and the bow spray was keeping the three of them soaked. Then, a sudden gust of wind hit and dislodged Carl’s hat into the water. Instinctively, he did a 180-degree turn, nearly swamping the boat in an attempt to retrieve his sinking hat. All hell broke out!

Boris exploded, Carl, you asshole—are you trying to kill us, you idiot!

Boris is right, Carl, added Jim. Your hat isn’t worth dying for.

Pulling his soaked hat from the sea, Carl acknowledged it indeed was a stupid move. Look guys, I know it was a boneheaded move. But without that hat my head and face would look like a crispy piece of bacon from this sun. We’re not out of the woods yet, so a little bailing on your part would go a long way in keeping the boat afloat.

An hour later, Carl beached the boat back at Perez, just as the first wave of the squall hit. Before the full force of the storm was upon them, they grabbed their gear and rushed back to their tents, where they quickly placed ponchos over their air mattresses to assure some semblance of dryness for the night.

It was the first constant rain in nearly three weeks.

Everybody grab a bucket, and collect as much fresh water as possible, Carl yelled.

First, however, they all stripped down and, each armed with a bar of soap, had their first fresh-water shower in weeks.

As it continued to pour, Jose yelled, I think it’s going to last a bit longer. Let’s wash our clothes as well!

A few minutes later, while beating their wet clothes against the table, they could hear laughter from the lighthouse, where the keeper, along