#20 Children of the Range

“I thought of three more!” Denise’s voice rang out as soon as I stepped through the door.

Last night, after I left, it came to her that there were a total of 41 children born on the island to men who worked or were stationed there during the time of the Eastern Test Range. So, 41 total – off the top of her head.

The male children carry their father’s names. To a person. At least the ones I’d met or had heard mention of. Imagine carrying your father’s name for over 60 years, knowing little to nothing about him. The not knowing shrouds him in mystery—turning him into either a legend or a ghost, a hero or a hated man.

Curiosity runs deep. A few of these ‘kids’—now adults in their 50s and 60s—stopped by my place to spit into a tube. Tiny vials. Plastic, unassuming. But inside each one: a chance to name the unknown, to match a face to a shadow.

Angela arrives with quiet authority. She holds the vial in both hands like a relic. She’s the front-desk manager at Riding Rock now, but her story – part gospel, part ghost tale – could fill a book.

I had been communicating with Angela via Whatsapp for a few months. When we finally met in person, I felt we already had. Now a Baptist minister, Angela’s tangled upbringing is a story in itself.

Deidre was another DNA visitor.

A few of these “kids” I had to track down.

Bruce, Denise’s cousin, runs a dive boat out of Riding Rock. After a chat with Angela at the front desk, I set off to find the elusive Bruce. I left the main reception area of the resort. Angela had said, “Just head straight that way. ” waving off in the general direction of the walkway and hotel area. The place is nice. You can’t see it from the road due to the roadside greenery and mature palm trees. I’d been told there was a group of “cool” divers staying there.

That group of divers had just returned and were meandering their way back from the dock to their rooms. I saw two guys I recognized from the airport in Nassau. They’d stood behind me in line for the plane. I was wearing a Tokeland tshirt and I’d overheard one guy say to the other. “You know, Tokeland. The place with the godwits? Those silver birds?” I stopped to ask about their dive. (Actually, I wanted to find out how they knew Tokeland.) The dive was good – and they’re from Seattle.

Onward to the dive boat captain. The returning divers were in various states of gear gathering and general salty-wet disarray. All of them young and Speedo-clad. I asked after the whereabouts of Bruce? “He’s in the dive shop.” said a young, energetically beaming, dive boat pilot (sporting the most miniscule Speedo I’d ever seen).

I found Bruce in a dockside shack with his feet propped up on a table, scrolling his phone. Addressing him, I say, “Hey American Boy!” in a manner that Denise had led me to believe he loves. It goes over like a lead balloon. He barely looks up. Dropping Denise’s nickname, I add “Shaggy told me to call you that.” I introduce myself. He barely registers it. I step over and shake his hand. His feet remain propped on the table, eyes on the phone. I reiterate (is “re-idiot-orate a word?), “Shaggy said to call you American Boy.” (I’m a nodding, smiling dumbass.) Meeting my eye, he merely shrugs, “I own what I am.” he says.

“I have these DNA kits …” Bruce knows why I’m there.

Eventually common ground occurs to me. “So, my uncle was a deep sea diver. He disappeared right out there.” I motion out the window toward the thin blue line on the horizon.

BINGO!

A diver. Vanished. Bruce looked up at last. The ocean has long arms and a long memory. Maybe he’d felt it too?

The story of Uncle Bill piqued his interest, and we speak about it. Eventually we come back around to the reason I’m there. I want his spit. He’s suspicious of me – for good reason. “What’s the catch?” he asked. “After you take the test, I simply want to know what happens next.” No catch other than that. He tells me he’ll stop by Arnaud’s place in the morning. He never once sat up or took his feet off the table. I kind of liked that.

Bruce, sitting with his feet up, was guarding more than his phone screen. Maybe he was guarding a ghost. Or maybe he was the ghost – just one that hadn’t vanished yet.

We discuss how to get to the Chicago Tribune’s memorial to Christopher Columbus, placed in 1891 on the east side of the island. I have yet to see it.

A few of these kids ultimately chose not to take the test.

The next morning, Bruce is a no show.

Oh well. It’s his business and none of mine. You know who else didn’t take a test? Denise. After a couple of not very inspired attempts by me to have her spit in a tube, she simply never did. I believe she already had what she wanted.

Night 3 on the island was election night in the U.S. It was also the first time I noticed there was no tv in my beach shack. The next morning I brought my coffee to Wendy’s cafe to mooch some wifi. A group of islanders were playing dominoes. Somehow islanders have managed to make dominoes into an intimidating game. Almost violent – only with a lot of laughter. Players SLAM the pieces on the table! There’s a lull in the game as I step up onto the porch. I pull my phone out dramatically and say “Ok… I’m ignorant. I know nothing. I am about to find out-”

“It’s Trump.” a player informs me.

“Ack! You ruined my suspense! Spoiler!” They all laugh and go back to their game. I fake not caring about the election’s outcome.

Oh hey! The election outcome… this reminds me… I think I found the blowhole. I’d been trying to find the location of each of my Uncle’s 1950’s photographs from the Bahamas.

I’d been told there was a memorial stone for Douglas Diehl placed near this spot and was out looking for it.

I never did find the memorial stone for Douglas Diehl.

I did find a chunk of concrete with “1958 Task Force” etched into it—like a breadcrumb left for someone, anyone, to follow. Maybe that’s what all of this is: fragments. Spit in a tube. A name on a rock. A photo of a blowhole that no longer blows.

The sea keeps most of its secrets. But some of us keep asking anyway.

Not everyone wanted to take the test. Not everyone wanted to know. But maybe that’s the point. The search isn’t just about answers. It’s about who’s still willing to ask the questions.

Start at the beginning.