The Farallon Islands, 30 miles off the coast of San Francisco, is a remote archipelago teeming with marine life. Once called “Islands of the Dead,” it is composed of craggy, rotting, ancient
granite, adverse to civilization, with the animals as sovereign entities. In summer, the islands are covered in a wall of fog. During bird season, the gulls will crack your skull and peck out your eyes if you fail to wear protective gear. The islands are overrun with rodents, and a pungent stench dominates the air--of guano, ammonia, mice, salt, and mildew. Scientists take a back seat to wildlife, and are there to observe without interference.
Despite its hardship, the untamable landscape inspires six marine biologists and the novel’s protagonist, Miranda, a nature photographer. The scientists--Mick, Galen, Forest, Lucy, Andrew, and Charlene--are tasked with studying marine life, each according to their specialties. A few have stayed for years, and some live here indefinitely. They dwell in a crudely built cabin, and survive without technology, (other than a TV that emits only sound). There’s a walkie to the mainland for emergencies.
Time is measured by the cycles of mating seasons--sharks, seals, whales, and sea birds. “The islets are central stars in a galaxy of marine life. The birds and seals are the inner constellation—…great white sharks…pulled out of their mysterious orbits to linger offshore. Whales, like far-flung comets….” The archipelago is a self-contained universe, and the marine life is the hub of importance. The scientists study the animals with reverence, without corrupting or altering the ecosystem.
Miranda is a recent arrival, just starting her yearlong assignment. There’s a tacit agreement, she discovers, not to talk about your past and to keep your personal business private. To her, the residents act as remote as the islands, and come across almost as ciphers.
Interspersed with the scientists’ daily life are Miranda’s interior monologues, written as melancholy missives to her long deceased mother. For the past twenty years, she has been sending the letters from all over the world, addressing them to “Mom,” knowing they will end up in the Dead Letter Office. Her relationship with her father is cordial but aloof, always at a distance. She is searching for home and stability, but so far, a sense of permanence eludes her.
In the prologue, Miranda is leaving the islands, a sense of malevolence and danger personified by the savage behavior of the gulls as she races to the ferry. Geni’s image-laden prose, at turns clipped, ephemeral, and visceral, commands the story from the opening pages. The author’s photography leitmotif maintains its dominion throughout. For example, Miranda recalls learning the Dutch angle: “Used for dramatic effect. A tilt that leaves the viewer off-balance. It can convey disorientation, unease, intoxication, even madness.” And this is the realm of the narrative’s propulsion.
Miranda’s compulsion to write to her mother and her shutterbug passion are inextricably bound together--to archive memories--or create them. “Each time we remember something, we change it…I imagine my recollections like rooms in a house. I can’t help but alter things when I step inside…My work is the enemy of memory…” “To remember is to rewrite. To photograph is to replace. The only reliable memories…are the ones…forgotten. They are the dark rooms of the mind.”
Between the savage wildlife and the secretive scientists, the reader will experience an unsettling presence in the absence of explanation. Moreover, a mythic ghost is said to wander the premises, often seen during times of stress. Within the haunting atmosphere of the story, violence comes early and mysteries escalate with the seasons.
The themes of loss, recovery, redemption, and the ghosts that follow you are played out in this mixed genre, eerie narrative. Geni juxtaposes a meditative story of the natural world with a suspenseful mystery. The islands themselves are conveyed as a principal character. Don’t expect an outcome tied up in a bow, but its provocative resolution underscores the allusive rules of the isolated island dwellers—“Noninterference is the core of their belief system.”