on the atoll as a boy. "My grandfather was the leader of the community," he says. "He would call upon the men to go fishing or get birds or turtles. The basis of our culture is working together. Everyone taking part." An hour later, the men returned from the narrow strip of jungle with broad smiles, carrying a dozen coconut crabs -- large, frightening creatures that looked as though they might have been spawned by the nuclear tests. They contain cesium 137 but at a level that makes occasional consumption harmless. It was a wonderful moment: a group of men from vastly different cultures uniting to celebrate the ancient, universal human bond of a successful hunt -- in this case, for radioactive crabs. The Bikinians, huge grins lingering on their faces, were already planning a feast for that evening. But a few hours later here we are, adrift on our broken-down skiff, the indomitable Bai covered with grease and sweat and barely visible in the boat's well. We are now experiencing -- I am, anyway -- another universal human feeling: fear. As casually as possible, I ask Jack what Plan B is. He smiles, surveys the giant surf crashing above the reef and the rising seas around us, and replies: "Hope." At the helm, Edward Maddison, another member of the island's full-time crew and the former dive master for Bikini Atoll Divers, jokes: "If we had a sailing canoe, we'd be home by now." Alson laughs and nods. "Too bad