The island appeared on Sunday morning, just as the first surfers were waxing their boards. It gently broke the water's surface, like a giant whale sunning itself, sending six-foot swells lapping elephantine against the Malibu coast. And with its appearance came a hissing sound, like cold liquid poured on a hot griddle. It was ten miles from the sands of Los Angeles, its shoreline dripping with rich, alien vegetation.

Milo stood half crouched, limbs akimbo in the decaying Malibu beach house, bare feet sopping from the sea-drenched carpet, eyes agape at the fresh island vision through the big glass doors, a view sparkling and dewy under the sun like some ancient mythological promise.

 

The utilities were fried, the divorce papers soaked beyond touching, a print-out of the unfinished script waterlogged, ink running out in rivulets, and the dinghy conveniently washed up onto the rotting porch, as if it had already decided for him.

Milo was going. He had nothing left to lose worth mentioning.

 

 

Catching a glimpse of his image in the glass doors as he hoisted his knapsack on his shoulder and passed onto the porch, he could see the circles dug like tree rings under his eyes and just make out the beginnings of a soft sag along the jowls. "I'm melting," he thought, as he threw the knapsack into the dinghy and pushed off into the waves lapping against the porch.