Chapter 2

The flight to Honolulu was uneventful and I found myself thanking Providence that Sally's message had been received in early summer, at the most opportune time for me to respond to it personally.

In the fall, I would be commencing my third and final year of law school at Stanford. But at this moment, I had at least nine weeks of freedom, during which I could pursue this quest. I can't deny that I was excited at the prospect.

No navigator, I had nonetheless equipped myself with the finest available charts of the Pacific Ocean area where Sally Island was located. It wasn't close to anything. While there might be airfields on some of those lonely atolls, it was unclear to me which, if any, of those outposts were populated, and even if they were, which would have the necessary resources — boats, experienced seamen, seaplanes, perhaps — with which I could hope to complete the journey. I would have to rely on the kindness of strangers. I did have the names of three persons in Honolulu who were said to be both knowledgeable and trustworthy. Their advice would be sought.

According to my charts, it was something in excess of a thousand miles from Honolulu to Sally Island. Surely some part of that journey could be accomplished by air?

I spoke to Robert Dalvani, one of the three names that had been provided. He wanted to know who had recommended him, and I explained. He wanted to know who else's name had been mentioned, and again, I was forthcoming. "You should meet all of us together," Dalvani advised.

Why not? I called and spoke to the other two men, Peter Houston and Ira Le, and invited them to meet with me for lunch at my hotel the following day. They agreed.

All three men recommended the same solution to the problem: The charter of a large, long-range-capable seaplane to take me from Honolulu to Sally Island. This was by far the fastest and most direct means of reaching the island and returning from it. The plane would need to carry extra fuel, and would be limited in the amount of cargo that could be brought away from Sally Island, but it would be practicable for the journey and would make it possible to bring out one or two persons, and a limited amount of cargo.

Peter Houston — the only one of the three who had ever personally visited Sally Island — cautioned that it would be difficult to access the tiny atoll, even with a seaplane, and that staying in the area for more than a few hours would be unsafe. Coral just below the surface would make it dangerous to leave the seaplane in place for more than a few hours.

I arranged for a plane, the largest available of its type, on the following day. I would fly to Sally Island with a crew of two men, led by Houston. The costs of this round trip journey were prohibitive. I had to contact the attorneys back in California who were responsible for the Gervais trust fund and seek their assurance that the costs could be borne.

Within two more days, we were underway.

Only seven hours after our departure, Houston, piloting the plane, pointed out Sally Island below us. It was shockingly small and isolated. "How could three people survive down there, on that godforsaken patch?" I asked him.

"It's one of the few atolls with fresh water," Houston said. "Not a lot, but enough. The old man came well equipped. They built well. They collected rainwater to assure a continuing supply. Their house was prefabricated, and humble, but sturdy and serviceable. They raised their own food. They fished. It was a precarious existence, no doubt, but it was possible. They did it for twelve long years."

"How close can you land?"

"I've been checking for coral reefs," Houston said. There is one deep-water side where, I think, we can get in pretty close. It'll require rafting in from the plane, but it'll be close, and relatively safe."