A Mile Down by David Vann Read Free Book Online Page B

Stanford American Express card, which would soon shut down because even with a 120-day grace period and juggling my three other AmEx cards, I wouldn’t be able to pay enough of the balance.
    I had to survive until the middle of October, two months away, for John’s loan. On my last round of bill-paying the week before, I’d had long phone conversations with AmEx reps, explaining the situation regarding the balance on my Stanford AmEx card. I was running trips for Stanford Continuing Studies, and yes, I would be able to repay the amounts, but no, I didn’t have the funds yet. I was running this whole travel program, and I needed to have the cash to keep the trips going. What I told them was true, but I also didn’t emphasize that I was on my own in this business—that if things went bad, Stanford wasn’t going to bail me out. These were my own losses I was taking, not Stanford’s.
    In addition to being behind on AmEx bills and behind on money for construction, I was also running short on cash for operating the charters. I needed more diesel, but I didn’t have the money. I would probably run out before the end of this charter, so I needed to come up with a solution soon.
    We motored into the bay and anchored at Cleopatra’s Baths. It was sunny and bright, pine trees reaching down to where ruins lay submerged in about ten feet of water. We snorkeled and swam around the ruins. I enjoyed it but felt preoccupied.
    I found some solace hanging out with my friend Steve. He played harmonica and had interesting tales from his few days in Turkey. He had been told by a taxi driver, for instance, that the current tomato glut was Monica Lewinsky’s fault. “I know, I know,” he said. “It sounds strange. But here’s how it works.” He was doing these exaggerated gestures with his hands, cutting them up and down through the air, clearing the way for a story, holding his harmonica in one hand. It was late in the day, before dinner, and we had the forward deck to ourselves. “Clinton’s embarrassed about the whole Monica Lewinsky thing, so to divert attention, he flies to Kosovo. This makes Americans think more about Kosovo, so they decide not to travel to places like Turkey, so no one is eating in the tourist restaurants, and the restaurants stop buying tomatoes. So now there’s a giant tomato glut and the price has fallen and farmers are going out of business. It’s all Monica’s fault.”
    I also found solace with Nancy. We went kayaking in the evenings.
    â€œI could ask my dad,” she said. “He might give you a loan.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “It would be better to avoid that, don’t you think?”
    â€œI’ll just ask,” she said. “It can’t hurt.”
    I thought it was a terrible idea, but I didn’t say no again. I was that desperate. I had to at least consider any possibility.
    Our next stop was Fethiye, where we toured local ruins. We climbed two hundred stone steps to a Lycian cliff tomb overlooking the harbor, and as we stood in the shade of this ancient monument, our guide told us that Alexander the Great had wanted to take this town but couldn’t. Something about the narrow harbor or the prowess of the local militia. So one of Alexander’s generals, Amyntas, sent a bunch of soldiers into town disguised as musicians, their weapons hidden in their instruments. Once inside, the soldiers played a memorable little ditty and opened the city to Alexander, who left Amyntas behind to govern.
    I liked these tales. It was always hard to know how much was truth and how much was local myth, fabricated over time, like the stories Seref was telling me, but they were certainly entertaining.
    We drove in a minivan through town and then along a highway through a great valley, chatting and enjoying the landscape. We crossed into another valley and climbed, finally, into foothills and stopped at Tlos, which