Remember when I got a sudden urge to put some of my best writing on a blog? And how a few weeks later my hard drive crashed and burned, taking with it almost everything I've written since freshman year of college? And how happy I was that at least I salvaged some of it, and how even through the tears I saw it as a good thing because most of it was probably crap and it was more like a cleansing so I can start over, but how I still wish that one day I will hit the power button and my computer will magically turn on, even though I've already removed the hard drive and trashed the rest of the parts.
Good times.
7.9.09
29.6.09
Perpetual Youth
When people ask me where I’m from or where I grew up, there is always a pause before I answer. “Growing up” is a very ambiguous concept and it is hard to define at what point of one’s life was when they grew up. The pause is also to consider my audience and how they will react to the answer I end up choosing. I know that if I say “Long Island” I will get the same response: a prejudged eye roll and the end of questioning. Recently, however, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to pin point the act of growing up, and what it means to say “I’m from” wherever.
This mini identity crisis can probably be accredited to the fact that I’ve lived in seven different houses and have attended four different school districts since I was born. I was born in Newark, Delaware, and lived there for the first year of my life before moving to Salisbury, Maryland. After first grade, my family relocated again to Elkton, Maryland, which is a few hours from Salisbury. Half way through third grade, we moved again to the next school district over, North East. Finally, the summer before sixth grade, right after I got my tonsils removed, we moved up the east coast to Long Island where I finished out my grade school career. All the moves had something to do with my father’s job; promotions or transfers, all things I was too young to care about or even understand at the time.
Through my first three years of college, I instinctively told people that I met that I was from Long Island. After all, when I went home for Christmas break, it was to Long Island, and I had spent seven years there, which was the longest of any of my childhood homes. Going to college in upstate New York, I started noticing that there was a typical reaction to someone who is from Long Island. There is a definite negative connotation and people automatically become half as interested as they were before they heard the words “Long Island.” Frustrated at the prejudgment applied to me, I made the concrete decision that I am not actually from Long Island. Most Long Islanders are born and raised there, following many prior generations. Me? I’m from south of the Mason Dixon line.
Since I’ve started telling people that I’m from Maryland and Delaware, I have actually been thinking about what it means to say that. I want where I say I grew up to be where I was molded and shaped as a human being. Since the Long Island stereotypes don’t apply to me, I’ve counted it out definitely.
Having a lot to do with my father’s involvement in the Boy Scouts, one of the houses we lived in was a year round residence at a Boy Scout summer camp, Camp Rodney, in North East. A few miles past the entrance of the camp, down a long, red dirt road was the small three-bedroom cabin in the middle of the woods that I lived with my parents, two sisters, and brother. In an otherwise relatively suburban part of Maryland, we were isolated by acres and acres of trees and hills and a piece of property situated on a large stretch of beach along the Chesapeake Bay.
Our nearest neighbor was never even close enough to measure how far away they were, so we were on our own. For two years, my older brother, Eric, older sister, Karen, younger sister, Emily, two Labradors, Hero and Bear, and I explored Camp Rodney from acre to acre together. When I think back on it, having the hundreds of acres of forest with trails beaten down by years and years of Boy Scouts was such an amazing opportunity for us as kids. Having this experience in my life probably has something to do with the fact that I never owned or desired any game system more advanced than a GameBoy.
The part of the forest where my siblings and I spent most of our time was actually right near the house. We were within earshot of the house so it pretty much developed into home base. In this area, Eric and I made a fort for ourselves around the natural formations of the birch trees, using logs and broken branches to highlight our domain. To officially make the fort ours, we carved our initials into a tree with Eric’s pocketknife at the entrance. In response, Karen and Emily made their own password-protected fort nearby. The sibling and boys vs. girls rivalry never resulted in much past the inevitable denial of each other’s company in our respective forts, so we took to exploring elsewhere. We never figured out each other’s passwords.
Just past our fort area, a little deeper into the forest, there was a series of deep ravines. As if the forest was built for the sole purpose of our entertainment, there were thick vines hanging down from the canopied ceiling in the perfect spot to swing across to the other side of the ravine. For Emily, who was too little to swing across the ravine, there was a large fallen tree for her to balance herself on as she walked across the gap. As we made our way deeper into the forest, past The Forts and past The Ravines, there was a swampy area. The Swamp was a landmark that meant we were close to the Bay. It was a great place for a game of Tag or Follow the Leader because of the level of skill and concentration it took to leap across the muck from rock to log to rock and back again without losing a shoe to the Swamp Monster.
Emerging from the depths of The Swamp was a sandy path leading to the bay. The beach at the Chesapeake Bay was a playground in itself. Eric, Karen, Emily, and I would often race from the house to the sandy shore and spend an afternoon swimming in the chilly water or wading in the shallow parts with small nets trying to catch minnows. Down the beach a little ways were cliffs that were made of red clay. In addition to climbing the cliffs, we would harvest chunks of the clay and use it to make sculptures and trinkets, some of which are still on display at Grandma’s house. As the sun began to retreat over the Bay, we took a quick dip to wash the crimson color from our hands and feet that had been submerged in clay before racing back down The Beach, through The Swamp, over The Ravine, past The Forts, emerging from the tree line and sprinting the last hundred yards to the back door of the house.
It was in that house, where I shared a room with my brother, where we lost power during a winter storm on my birthday, where a six-person family shared one bathroom, that I developed an identity and an appreciation for family. Secluded in a piece of paradise, I was able to unleash my imagination and sense of exploration with my sibling companions where there were no boundaries. So where am I from? I’m from where I learned how to play outside and where I learned to love my brother and sisters. Where I can always go back in my mind and relive the glory days of my childhood, visualizing walking down the once beaten path, touching the initials “EF” and “JF” on the trunk of the birch tree at The Forts, tugging the old vines that will no longer carry me over The Ravines, walking the safe path through The Swamp, and sit in the coarse sand and watch the choppy water of the Chesapeake.
This mini identity crisis can probably be accredited to the fact that I’ve lived in seven different houses and have attended four different school districts since I was born. I was born in Newark, Delaware, and lived there for the first year of my life before moving to Salisbury, Maryland. After first grade, my family relocated again to Elkton, Maryland, which is a few hours from Salisbury. Half way through third grade, we moved again to the next school district over, North East. Finally, the summer before sixth grade, right after I got my tonsils removed, we moved up the east coast to Long Island where I finished out my grade school career. All the moves had something to do with my father’s job; promotions or transfers, all things I was too young to care about or even understand at the time.
Through my first three years of college, I instinctively told people that I met that I was from Long Island. After all, when I went home for Christmas break, it was to Long Island, and I had spent seven years there, which was the longest of any of my childhood homes. Going to college in upstate New York, I started noticing that there was a typical reaction to someone who is from Long Island. There is a definite negative connotation and people automatically become half as interested as they were before they heard the words “Long Island.” Frustrated at the prejudgment applied to me, I made the concrete decision that I am not actually from Long Island. Most Long Islanders are born and raised there, following many prior generations. Me? I’m from south of the Mason Dixon line.
Since I’ve started telling people that I’m from Maryland and Delaware, I have actually been thinking about what it means to say that. I want where I say I grew up to be where I was molded and shaped as a human being. Since the Long Island stereotypes don’t apply to me, I’ve counted it out definitely.
Having a lot to do with my father’s involvement in the Boy Scouts, one of the houses we lived in was a year round residence at a Boy Scout summer camp, Camp Rodney, in North East. A few miles past the entrance of the camp, down a long, red dirt road was the small three-bedroom cabin in the middle of the woods that I lived with my parents, two sisters, and brother. In an otherwise relatively suburban part of Maryland, we were isolated by acres and acres of trees and hills and a piece of property situated on a large stretch of beach along the Chesapeake Bay.
Our nearest neighbor was never even close enough to measure how far away they were, so we were on our own. For two years, my older brother, Eric, older sister, Karen, younger sister, Emily, two Labradors, Hero and Bear, and I explored Camp Rodney from acre to acre together. When I think back on it, having the hundreds of acres of forest with trails beaten down by years and years of Boy Scouts was such an amazing opportunity for us as kids. Having this experience in my life probably has something to do with the fact that I never owned or desired any game system more advanced than a GameBoy.
The part of the forest where my siblings and I spent most of our time was actually right near the house. We were within earshot of the house so it pretty much developed into home base. In this area, Eric and I made a fort for ourselves around the natural formations of the birch trees, using logs and broken branches to highlight our domain. To officially make the fort ours, we carved our initials into a tree with Eric’s pocketknife at the entrance. In response, Karen and Emily made their own password-protected fort nearby. The sibling and boys vs. girls rivalry never resulted in much past the inevitable denial of each other’s company in our respective forts, so we took to exploring elsewhere. We never figured out each other’s passwords.
Just past our fort area, a little deeper into the forest, there was a series of deep ravines. As if the forest was built for the sole purpose of our entertainment, there were thick vines hanging down from the canopied ceiling in the perfect spot to swing across to the other side of the ravine. For Emily, who was too little to swing across the ravine, there was a large fallen tree for her to balance herself on as she walked across the gap. As we made our way deeper into the forest, past The Forts and past The Ravines, there was a swampy area. The Swamp was a landmark that meant we were close to the Bay. It was a great place for a game of Tag or Follow the Leader because of the level of skill and concentration it took to leap across the muck from rock to log to rock and back again without losing a shoe to the Swamp Monster.
Emerging from the depths of The Swamp was a sandy path leading to the bay. The beach at the Chesapeake Bay was a playground in itself. Eric, Karen, Emily, and I would often race from the house to the sandy shore and spend an afternoon swimming in the chilly water or wading in the shallow parts with small nets trying to catch minnows. Down the beach a little ways were cliffs that were made of red clay. In addition to climbing the cliffs, we would harvest chunks of the clay and use it to make sculptures and trinkets, some of which are still on display at Grandma’s house. As the sun began to retreat over the Bay, we took a quick dip to wash the crimson color from our hands and feet that had been submerged in clay before racing back down The Beach, through The Swamp, over The Ravine, past The Forts, emerging from the tree line and sprinting the last hundred yards to the back door of the house.
It was in that house, where I shared a room with my brother, where we lost power during a winter storm on my birthday, where a six-person family shared one bathroom, that I developed an identity and an appreciation for family. Secluded in a piece of paradise, I was able to unleash my imagination and sense of exploration with my sibling companions where there were no boundaries. So where am I from? I’m from where I learned how to play outside and where I learned to love my brother and sisters. Where I can always go back in my mind and relive the glory days of my childhood, visualizing walking down the once beaten path, touching the initials “EF” and “JF” on the trunk of the birch tree at The Forts, tugging the old vines that will no longer carry me over The Ravines, walking the safe path through The Swamp, and sit in the coarse sand and watch the choppy water of the Chesapeake.
8.6.09
Chocolate Dream
by John Fleckenstein
A swirling galaxy of blended flavor
..........................orchestrated by a
..................................silver spoon.
A mix of particles in a single glass
From white to black
Is my chocolate dream.
A swirling galaxy of blended flavor
..........................orchestrated by a
..................................silver spoon.
A mix of particles in a single glass
From white to black
Is my chocolate dream.
Some Haikus
by John Fleckenstein
Iced Coffee
A snowy morning,
Ice frozen over my car.
Perfect for donuts.
Since 1986
Another birthday.
The first one with no candles;
Just April Showers.
Iced Coffee
A snowy morning,
Ice frozen over my car.
Perfect for donuts.
Since 1986
Another birthday.
The first one with no candles;
Just April Showers.
A Work in Progress
by John Fleckenstein
The top layer of sand was still warm from the day’s beating sun. As Jason walked, his bare feet dug into it, feeling the cooler layers below the surface.
The sun had set about an hour before, but there was still a lingering luminosity to the western sky. To the east the sky was black with a thousand tiny stars piercing the darkness. A few wisps of clouds spread themselves out over the cosmic landscape, careful not to impede on the view of the moon.
Jason stared up at the moon as he trudged through the soft sand. It had been about a month since his last visit to Pirate’s Cove; the last full moon. The calm water reflected the moon as it gently pushed and pulled sand and small pebbles on the shoreline.
After a short walk, Jason got to the point, a tiny peninsula, where the Cove meets Port Jefferson Harbor. With the sound of lapping water on both sides of him, he sat and gazed out across the water. There was no real distinction between the water in the Cove and in the Harbor; just a seamless connection of tiny ripples surrounding Jason on his sandy peninsula. Across the harbor the chop heightened slightly as water poured through the inlet from the Long Island Sound. The north shore of Long Island hardly ever saw anything more than “a little choppy,” especially not at night.
By now the sun had vanished completely, leaving only the thin layer of warm sand as evidence of the once hot day, but even the sand was cooling as fast as the sun had set. The full moon, now with complete sovereignty in the night sky, had an ambient glow over Jason and the beach beneath him.
The top layer of sand was still warm from the day’s beating sun. As Jason walked, his bare feet dug into it, feeling the cooler layers below the surface.
The sun had set about an hour before, but there was still a lingering luminosity to the western sky. To the east the sky was black with a thousand tiny stars piercing the darkness. A few wisps of clouds spread themselves out over the cosmic landscape, careful not to impede on the view of the moon.
Jason stared up at the moon as he trudged through the soft sand. It had been about a month since his last visit to Pirate’s Cove; the last full moon. The calm water reflected the moon as it gently pushed and pulled sand and small pebbles on the shoreline.
After a short walk, Jason got to the point, a tiny peninsula, where the Cove meets Port Jefferson Harbor. With the sound of lapping water on both sides of him, he sat and gazed out across the water. There was no real distinction between the water in the Cove and in the Harbor; just a seamless connection of tiny ripples surrounding Jason on his sandy peninsula. Across the harbor the chop heightened slightly as water poured through the inlet from the Long Island Sound. The north shore of Long Island hardly ever saw anything more than “a little choppy,” especially not at night.
By now the sun had vanished completely, leaving only the thin layer of warm sand as evidence of the once hot day, but even the sand was cooling as fast as the sun had set. The full moon, now with complete sovereignty in the night sky, had an ambient glow over Jason and the beach beneath him.
31.5.09
Ars Poetica
by John Fleckenstein
A force field that protects me from the world,
A channel that turns sparks into fire.
My fingertips break barriers
And run though an open field,
Stamping footprints across the plane.
They grow as they escape the capital confines
Into a world of proverbial scenery.
A vast field of thoughts
and ideas between my toes.
Underneath my feet,
the virgin meadow is now imprinted
With my soul.
A force field that protects me from the world,
A channel that turns sparks into fire.
My fingertips break barriers
And run though an open field,
Stamping footprints across the plane.
They grow as they escape the capital confines
Into a world of proverbial scenery.
A vast field of thoughts
and ideas between my toes.
Underneath my feet,
the virgin meadow is now imprinted
With my soul.
To Sasha
by John Fleckenstein
I lied there in the dark. Everything was quiet except for a faint ringing that seemed to be coming from all around me. I was warm and I felt sedated. I didn’t know if I could move from where I was, but I didn’t want to anyway. I didn’t even know where I was, but I didn’t care at the moment. I blinked for what seemed like an eternity. My eyes finally re-opened and it was still very dark. The ringing was getting louder now, and slightly more distinct. It had turned into a crackle more than a ringing, and it was making me curious. I wanted to find the noise.
I shut my eyes so that I could try harder to concentrate on the noise. I don’t think it got any darker when my eyelids met, but I could hear more. There was a new noise accompanying the high-pitched ring. I closed my eyes tighter and I heard it. It sounded a little like boiling water. It was definitely water. Maybe something was leaking. I got tired from squeezing my eyes closed so I relaxed. It actually was a little brighter with them open, but I still couldn’t see much. I wondered where I was.
We always walked home together to our houses across the street from each other on Ridge Road, everyday since fifth grade when our mothers allowed us to walk home from school. It was now eighth grade and Sasha and I were still best friends. I always thought Sasha was beautiful, but never as anything more than a friend. She had the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen on a girl. They were green and brown and very natural looking. Her brown hair was always perfect and always provided the perfect frame for the rest of her face. She had big lips that always seemed to curl into a caring smile all the time.
We were walking home one particular day when it started to rain. We decided to stop and talk in the dugouts at the baseball field until the rainstorm passed. We could always talk for hours, about the guys and girls in our grade, our teachers, and most of the time just life in general. On this day, we were talking about the boyfriends and girlfriends in our classes and who liked who, and who did what. It became apparent that kissing was the new phase for kids our age. I was fresh out of the “cooties” stage, so I had no experience in the subject. Sasha had no experience either, and for some reason, even though we were best friends, I always got the feeling like she wanted to kiss me.
We got to talking about it and what it must feel like and what you have to do. I felt comfortable talking with Sasha about it because we had been friends forever. I was looking up, raising one eyebrow trying to image a kiss when I saw Sasha slide herself closer to me on the dugout bench. I felt my face turn brick red and my stomach knotted itself when she suggested that we try kissing. She put one of her hands in my sweaty palm and pulled me close to her. We closed our eyes right before my dry mouth met her strawberry lips.
I tried really hard to concentrate on the sound. It was beginning to sound like a broken violin and somebody crumpling a brown paper lunch bag. It was becoming an effort to keep my eyelids apart. There was a blurry light all around me that seemed to be gradually getting brighter. I couldn’t find a specific point to focus on. The louder the noise got and the brighter the light got, I became more aware. I felt like I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and I desperately wanted to leave. I started to feel the rest of my body, and all it felt like was pins and needles. I wanted to know why I couldn’t move.
Suddenly a drop of water hit my face. I must have just regained feeling in my face, because the drops started coming at a regular rate. Almost effortlessly I connected the sound of water to the drops on my face; it must be raining. The moment I associated the two, the sound of rain became so clear that I don’t know how I confused it. One of the raindrops dripped into the crevice between my lips. I could feel my lips, and using all the energy I could, I pried them open and put my tongue between them momentarily, tasting the rain. I wished I knew were I was. I wanted it to keep raining because I could feel it.
Sasha’s parents were out for the night, so Sasha was left to baby-sit her four-year-old brother. We were both juniors in high school now. It was a spring night and the air was moist and thick. I made my way across the street and let myself in the backdoor of her house. I found Sasha in the kitchen topping off two glasses of Pino Grigio. She turned around and was startled. She looked amazing. She was wearing a white tank top and a pair of short gym shorts. Her hair was pushed back with a thin headband, showing every inch of her beautiful face. We kissed and she handed me my glass of wine and we took the bottle upstairs to her room.
Upon entering her room, she flung open a set of doors that led to her balcony, allowing the warm breeze to breathe through her room. There were already half a dozen candles lit in her room, and when she extinguished the lights, shadows danced on the walls. She moved around her room as if she was in a musical. Every movement was so fluid and graceful.
I looked out of the balcony doorway into the cloudy sky just as it started to rain. Sasha came and stood under my arm and we watched the rain together for a few minutes. As it started to come down harder, she looked up at me without moving her head, seducing me instantly. She took my wine glass and placed it gently with hers next to the alarm clock on her nightstand. She sat on her bed and motioned for me to come near her. My body was radiating heat from nervousness. She took my hands and pulled me onto the bed, clutching my shirt and forcing my lips against hers. A cloud burst and the rain poured passionately into the night.
I was going in and out of consciousness. My body was soaked, and I could feel enough to know that I couldn’t move. The sound of pouring rain was deafening me and I could hear the static of a bad radio signal. There were spots of bright light in the midst of my blurry vision, but still nothing I could focus on. The rain was seeping into me. I was starting to get worried as I realized I should be able to move. I told my brain to move my arm, and I went from feeling a cold numbness to a burning pain. I quickly relaxed but my arm continued to pulsate with pain. Rather than try the same experiment with the rest of my body, I just closed my eyes and tried to think.
I wished I knew what happened. I tried to remember something before now. My head hurt and I had no clear memory of anything. The rain continued to fall on my face and concentrating on the raindrops seemed to take away from pain I was now experiencing. The radio static was starting to bother me and the lights were getting brighter and brighter before disappearing, only to be replaced by more lights. Everything hurt. Another sound entered the mix, a droning high-pitched sound.
It hit me. The sounds, the pain, the light, the rain, the numbness, it all came together. I started to panic and tried desperately to move every muscle in my body. My efforts were met only by excruciating pain and discomfort. I was stuck. I was pinned to the driver’s seat of my car. The sound of the rain was stronger than ever and I could hear the sound of cars swishing by. The sirens were getting closer. Despite getting results contradictory to what I wanted, I continued to struggle. I could feel pieces of glass and metal all over my body. The rain I tasted on my lips now tasted like blood and tears.
The sirens started to fade. The lights started to get dimmer. The crackling started to become a soft buzz. The pain turned into numbness and I stopped struggling.
I picked up Sasha a few minutes late because it was raining. She looked gorgeous. She was wearing a dark green strapless dress that made her eyes look radiant. We kissed, and for the first time in a long time, I got butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and walked her under an umbrella to my car. I opened the passenger side door and helped her in, shutting the door carefully behind her. As I made my way back around to the driver side, I nervously kept touching the ring box in the depths of my pocket. My palms were sweating and I could feel my heart beating in every part of my body. The night was perfect.
I lied there in the dark. Everything was quiet except for a faint ringing that seemed to be coming from all around me. I was warm and I felt sedated. I didn’t know if I could move from where I was, but I didn’t want to anyway. I didn’t even know where I was, but I didn’t care at the moment. I blinked for what seemed like an eternity. My eyes finally re-opened and it was still very dark. The ringing was getting louder now, and slightly more distinct. It had turned into a crackle more than a ringing, and it was making me curious. I wanted to find the noise.
I shut my eyes so that I could try harder to concentrate on the noise. I don’t think it got any darker when my eyelids met, but I could hear more. There was a new noise accompanying the high-pitched ring. I closed my eyes tighter and I heard it. It sounded a little like boiling water. It was definitely water. Maybe something was leaking. I got tired from squeezing my eyes closed so I relaxed. It actually was a little brighter with them open, but I still couldn’t see much. I wondered where I was.
* * * * *
We always walked home together to our houses across the street from each other on Ridge Road, everyday since fifth grade when our mothers allowed us to walk home from school. It was now eighth grade and Sasha and I were still best friends. I always thought Sasha was beautiful, but never as anything more than a friend. She had the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen on a girl. They were green and brown and very natural looking. Her brown hair was always perfect and always provided the perfect frame for the rest of her face. She had big lips that always seemed to curl into a caring smile all the time.
We were walking home one particular day when it started to rain. We decided to stop and talk in the dugouts at the baseball field until the rainstorm passed. We could always talk for hours, about the guys and girls in our grade, our teachers, and most of the time just life in general. On this day, we were talking about the boyfriends and girlfriends in our classes and who liked who, and who did what. It became apparent that kissing was the new phase for kids our age. I was fresh out of the “cooties” stage, so I had no experience in the subject. Sasha had no experience either, and for some reason, even though we were best friends, I always got the feeling like she wanted to kiss me.
We got to talking about it and what it must feel like and what you have to do. I felt comfortable talking with Sasha about it because we had been friends forever. I was looking up, raising one eyebrow trying to image a kiss when I saw Sasha slide herself closer to me on the dugout bench. I felt my face turn brick red and my stomach knotted itself when she suggested that we try kissing. She put one of her hands in my sweaty palm and pulled me close to her. We closed our eyes right before my dry mouth met her strawberry lips.
* * * * *
I tried really hard to concentrate on the sound. It was beginning to sound like a broken violin and somebody crumpling a brown paper lunch bag. It was becoming an effort to keep my eyelids apart. There was a blurry light all around me that seemed to be gradually getting brighter. I couldn’t find a specific point to focus on. The louder the noise got and the brighter the light got, I became more aware. I felt like I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and I desperately wanted to leave. I started to feel the rest of my body, and all it felt like was pins and needles. I wanted to know why I couldn’t move.
Suddenly a drop of water hit my face. I must have just regained feeling in my face, because the drops started coming at a regular rate. Almost effortlessly I connected the sound of water to the drops on my face; it must be raining. The moment I associated the two, the sound of rain became so clear that I don’t know how I confused it. One of the raindrops dripped into the crevice between my lips. I could feel my lips, and using all the energy I could, I pried them open and put my tongue between them momentarily, tasting the rain. I wished I knew were I was. I wanted it to keep raining because I could feel it.
* * * * *
Sasha’s parents were out for the night, so Sasha was left to baby-sit her four-year-old brother. We were both juniors in high school now. It was a spring night and the air was moist and thick. I made my way across the street and let myself in the backdoor of her house. I found Sasha in the kitchen topping off two glasses of Pino Grigio. She turned around and was startled. She looked amazing. She was wearing a white tank top and a pair of short gym shorts. Her hair was pushed back with a thin headband, showing every inch of her beautiful face. We kissed and she handed me my glass of wine and we took the bottle upstairs to her room.
Upon entering her room, she flung open a set of doors that led to her balcony, allowing the warm breeze to breathe through her room. There were already half a dozen candles lit in her room, and when she extinguished the lights, shadows danced on the walls. She moved around her room as if she was in a musical. Every movement was so fluid and graceful.
I looked out of the balcony doorway into the cloudy sky just as it started to rain. Sasha came and stood under my arm and we watched the rain together for a few minutes. As it started to come down harder, she looked up at me without moving her head, seducing me instantly. She took my wine glass and placed it gently with hers next to the alarm clock on her nightstand. She sat on her bed and motioned for me to come near her. My body was radiating heat from nervousness. She took my hands and pulled me onto the bed, clutching my shirt and forcing my lips against hers. A cloud burst and the rain poured passionately into the night.
* * * * *
I was going in and out of consciousness. My body was soaked, and I could feel enough to know that I couldn’t move. The sound of pouring rain was deafening me and I could hear the static of a bad radio signal. There were spots of bright light in the midst of my blurry vision, but still nothing I could focus on. The rain was seeping into me. I was starting to get worried as I realized I should be able to move. I told my brain to move my arm, and I went from feeling a cold numbness to a burning pain. I quickly relaxed but my arm continued to pulsate with pain. Rather than try the same experiment with the rest of my body, I just closed my eyes and tried to think.
I wished I knew what happened. I tried to remember something before now. My head hurt and I had no clear memory of anything. The rain continued to fall on my face and concentrating on the raindrops seemed to take away from pain I was now experiencing. The radio static was starting to bother me and the lights were getting brighter and brighter before disappearing, only to be replaced by more lights. Everything hurt. Another sound entered the mix, a droning high-pitched sound.
It hit me. The sounds, the pain, the light, the rain, the numbness, it all came together. I started to panic and tried desperately to move every muscle in my body. My efforts were met only by excruciating pain and discomfort. I was stuck. I was pinned to the driver’s seat of my car. The sound of the rain was stronger than ever and I could hear the sound of cars swishing by. The sirens were getting closer. Despite getting results contradictory to what I wanted, I continued to struggle. I could feel pieces of glass and metal all over my body. The rain I tasted on my lips now tasted like blood and tears.
The sirens started to fade. The lights started to get dimmer. The crackling started to become a soft buzz. The pain turned into numbness and I stopped struggling.
* * * * *
I picked up Sasha a few minutes late because it was raining. She looked gorgeous. She was wearing a dark green strapless dress that made her eyes look radiant. We kissed, and for the first time in a long time, I got butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and walked her under an umbrella to my car. I opened the passenger side door and helped her in, shutting the door carefully behind her. As I made my way back around to the driver side, I nervously kept touching the ring box in the depths of my pocket. My palms were sweating and I could feel my heart beating in every part of my body. The night was perfect.
Leaves of Fall
by John Fleckenstein
The old man’s eyes teared as he looked into the breeze. It was the kind of late autumn breeze that lifted his thin, white hair off his head and ripped even the most resilient leaves from the limbs of dying trees. The breeze carried with it a hint of the bitter winter that was soon to follow. He shuffled through the layer of brittle leaves that had already taken their annual descent to the sidewalk below. The old man sighed heavily, and in the chilly air he watched as his breath got swept away in the sharp wind, joining the remaining leaves that floated reluctantly to the waiting ground.
His house was only a few blocks away from the doctor’s office, but the old man decided to take a different route home. He turned left instead of right onto Kensington Lane and looked up from the dead leaves and the cracked gray sidewalk. Staring into the swirling leaves, he remembered the day he had finally saved up enough money from his paper route to buy a new bicycle. The day he bought it, each spoke reflected the sunlight into his eyes as he gazed at his reflection in every shiny piece of bright blue metal. He and the bicycle shared a feeling of freedom as he paid with every dime he owned. As a young boy, the old man remembered how fast he rode his new bicycle home. He pedaled as hard as he could until his legs burned. It was a cool, Saturday afternoon in early November. The wind stung his nose and his eyes, but he liked the taste of autumn in his lungs. Nothing at the time could have made him feel more alive.
The old man looked up as an old station wagon drove by. A trail of leaves lifted off the pavement and tried desperately to follow the car down the road, only to fall again, defeated.
Approaching him on the sidewalk was a golden retriever jogging with a woman wearing spandex and earmuffs. The dog trotted contentedly with its owner and let its tongue dangle out the side of its mouth. As the two drew nearer he could see white patches of fur spreading across the dog’s droopy face. The old man stared into the dog’s charcoal eyes as he nodded and smiled at the pair. It looked up and seemed to almost smile as they passed each other.
At the next corner the old man turned left and crossed the street. The neighborhood was quiet, except for the wind and an occasional car gliding by. He observed that most of the lawns had been raked. Except for a few refugees that had wandered hopelessly back into the grass, the leaves lay in dead heaps on the curb or in open black bags underneath the trees that yielded them. The entire street was a purgatory for the leaves as they waited to be disposed of. Up ahead, underneath a tree whose root had grown up from underneath the sidewalk, a man futilely raked leaves towards the curbside. He stopped and scoffed as he watched as a gust of wind deposited more dead brown leaves on the freshly raked plot of grass.
After passing the next block, the old man saw a park on a hill up ahead. In the distance he could see children scampering around in brightly colored coats. The biting wind at the his back muted the colorful children, creating a surreal scene of silent movement. Situated at a dead end, the park was among a cluster of pine trees. Unlike the jagged shadows of the exposed branches on the sidewalk underneath the old man’s feet, the pine trees provided the playground with undivided shield from the sun. As he went to sit down at a bench on the edge of the park, the wind finally brought to him the shouts of joy from the children playing in the park.
Mothers and fathers stood idly by and watched their sons and daughters swing and slide, run and twirl. They climbed and crawled and chased each other. A few mothers bobbed with their youngest on their hips, pink-nosed and bundled in pastel colored hats and rainbow scarves. Two men threw a football to each other until one of their sons tripped and sat in the grass and cried for help. The old man sat on the solitary bench in a gray jacket and smiled as he watched a boy help his younger sister reach to take a sip from a water fountain.
The old man’s wife, who had died from a stroke, used to knit. She had knit for their son and his two younger sisters matching blue hats with a bright yellow stripe. She would knit after supper while the old man put the children to bed, telling them stories of his childhood. He never felt old when he was telling stories about adventures with his bicycle or about fishing on the lake. He would tell story after story, even as the childrens' eyelids gave way to sleep, and his wife would sit in her rocking chair, knitting a new sweater or a pair of mittens for the upcoming winter.
Recently the old man found out that he had cancer. Given his age and the already extensive growth of the cancer, the only action the doctor decided to take was to keep the old man as pain free as possible. Weeks and months had passed by and the old man’s children visited often to keep his mind off of the cancer, which made him very weak at times. They brought their children and the old man took great pleasure in putting them to bed with stories of his own childhood. The old man’s children would listen in from another room to the same stories that put them to sleep many years before. After the grandchildren had fallen asleep, he and his children would talk about their mother. She had died before any of the grandchildren were born, but the old man gave his children the box of small mittens and scarves that his wife had been knitting when she died.
The old man had just come from the doctor. He had been told that the cancer was starting to spread faster now and his health would start to fail him very soon. When he arrived back at his house, the phone was ringing. He pulled the receiver off the wall and answered.
“Dad? Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for a half hour.” It was the old man’s son. He had promised he would call after his doctor’s appointment.
“Oh, I’m fine,” replied the old man. He thought his children were starting to worry too much about him. “I just needed some fresh air so I walked around the block. Anyway, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Listen, the kids want to come over tonight and see you. They keep going on about Grandpa’s stories. Is that okay?” The old man closed his eyes and smiled. “Dad? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I’m still here.” The old man and his son listened to the crackling silence on the phone. “I’ll see you later, then.” He hung up the phone and walked to the living room. He sat down in his wife’s rocking chair and leaned back, massaging the old creaky arms of the oak chair. He smiled again as he traced the grain of the wood with his finger and thought of stories to tell his grandchildren.
The old man’s eyes teared as he looked into the breeze. It was the kind of late autumn breeze that lifted his thin, white hair off his head and ripped even the most resilient leaves from the limbs of dying trees. The breeze carried with it a hint of the bitter winter that was soon to follow. He shuffled through the layer of brittle leaves that had already taken their annual descent to the sidewalk below. The old man sighed heavily, and in the chilly air he watched as his breath got swept away in the sharp wind, joining the remaining leaves that floated reluctantly to the waiting ground.
His house was only a few blocks away from the doctor’s office, but the old man decided to take a different route home. He turned left instead of right onto Kensington Lane and looked up from the dead leaves and the cracked gray sidewalk. Staring into the swirling leaves, he remembered the day he had finally saved up enough money from his paper route to buy a new bicycle. The day he bought it, each spoke reflected the sunlight into his eyes as he gazed at his reflection in every shiny piece of bright blue metal. He and the bicycle shared a feeling of freedom as he paid with every dime he owned. As a young boy, the old man remembered how fast he rode his new bicycle home. He pedaled as hard as he could until his legs burned. It was a cool, Saturday afternoon in early November. The wind stung his nose and his eyes, but he liked the taste of autumn in his lungs. Nothing at the time could have made him feel more alive.
The old man looked up as an old station wagon drove by. A trail of leaves lifted off the pavement and tried desperately to follow the car down the road, only to fall again, defeated.
Approaching him on the sidewalk was a golden retriever jogging with a woman wearing spandex and earmuffs. The dog trotted contentedly with its owner and let its tongue dangle out the side of its mouth. As the two drew nearer he could see white patches of fur spreading across the dog’s droopy face. The old man stared into the dog’s charcoal eyes as he nodded and smiled at the pair. It looked up and seemed to almost smile as they passed each other.
At the next corner the old man turned left and crossed the street. The neighborhood was quiet, except for the wind and an occasional car gliding by. He observed that most of the lawns had been raked. Except for a few refugees that had wandered hopelessly back into the grass, the leaves lay in dead heaps on the curb or in open black bags underneath the trees that yielded them. The entire street was a purgatory for the leaves as they waited to be disposed of. Up ahead, underneath a tree whose root had grown up from underneath the sidewalk, a man futilely raked leaves towards the curbside. He stopped and scoffed as he watched as a gust of wind deposited more dead brown leaves on the freshly raked plot of grass.
After passing the next block, the old man saw a park on a hill up ahead. In the distance he could see children scampering around in brightly colored coats. The biting wind at the his back muted the colorful children, creating a surreal scene of silent movement. Situated at a dead end, the park was among a cluster of pine trees. Unlike the jagged shadows of the exposed branches on the sidewalk underneath the old man’s feet, the pine trees provided the playground with undivided shield from the sun. As he went to sit down at a bench on the edge of the park, the wind finally brought to him the shouts of joy from the children playing in the park.
Mothers and fathers stood idly by and watched their sons and daughters swing and slide, run and twirl. They climbed and crawled and chased each other. A few mothers bobbed with their youngest on their hips, pink-nosed and bundled in pastel colored hats and rainbow scarves. Two men threw a football to each other until one of their sons tripped and sat in the grass and cried for help. The old man sat on the solitary bench in a gray jacket and smiled as he watched a boy help his younger sister reach to take a sip from a water fountain.
The old man’s wife, who had died from a stroke, used to knit. She had knit for their son and his two younger sisters matching blue hats with a bright yellow stripe. She would knit after supper while the old man put the children to bed, telling them stories of his childhood. He never felt old when he was telling stories about adventures with his bicycle or about fishing on the lake. He would tell story after story, even as the childrens' eyelids gave way to sleep, and his wife would sit in her rocking chair, knitting a new sweater or a pair of mittens for the upcoming winter.
Recently the old man found out that he had cancer. Given his age and the already extensive growth of the cancer, the only action the doctor decided to take was to keep the old man as pain free as possible. Weeks and months had passed by and the old man’s children visited often to keep his mind off of the cancer, which made him very weak at times. They brought their children and the old man took great pleasure in putting them to bed with stories of his own childhood. The old man’s children would listen in from another room to the same stories that put them to sleep many years before. After the grandchildren had fallen asleep, he and his children would talk about their mother. She had died before any of the grandchildren were born, but the old man gave his children the box of small mittens and scarves that his wife had been knitting when she died.
The old man had just come from the doctor. He had been told that the cancer was starting to spread faster now and his health would start to fail him very soon. When he arrived back at his house, the phone was ringing. He pulled the receiver off the wall and answered.
“Dad? Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for a half hour.” It was the old man’s son. He had promised he would call after his doctor’s appointment.
“Oh, I’m fine,” replied the old man. He thought his children were starting to worry too much about him. “I just needed some fresh air so I walked around the block. Anyway, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Listen, the kids want to come over tonight and see you. They keep going on about Grandpa’s stories. Is that okay?” The old man closed his eyes and smiled. “Dad? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I’m still here.” The old man and his son listened to the crackling silence on the phone. “I’ll see you later, then.” He hung up the phone and walked to the living room. He sat down in his wife’s rocking chair and leaned back, massaging the old creaky arms of the oak chair. He smiled again as he traced the grain of the wood with his finger and thought of stories to tell his grandchildren.
It’s Cool to Pee in the Pool
By John Fleckenstein
Everyone knows the feeling of swimming through a warm spot in the pool. The age-old reaction is that you just swam through urine. However, the chances are slim to none that the pocket of water even has any trace of urine in it whatsoever. The concept of urinating in the pool is a controversial issue that is argued among both swimmers and non-swimmers, about whether or not it sanitary to do so. In the world of competitive swimmers, opinions are split between whether or not it is socially acceptable to urinate in a pool. What the average pool patron doesn’t realize is that it not unsanitary to pee in the pool; given many mathematical and medical properties, urine in a pool can do no harm to the facility or it’s swimmers.
A fact that is often over looked is that urine is not an unsanitary fluid. The content of urine consists of nothing that can harm the human body. Urine, the body’s main export of salt excretion consists of mainly water and dissolved excess potassium, calcium, and sodium.
In an average pool facility, the dimensions of the pool are seventy-five feet by twenty-four feet, and a depth ranging anywhere from three to fifteen feet. Such is the pool in Elting Gym at SUNY New Paltz. The Elting Gym pool, run by Aquatics Director and Head Coach of the Varsity swim team at the college Dan Talleyrand, holds approximately 115,000 gallons of water. In order to maintain sanitary swimming conditions, the pool is equipped with an elaborate filtering system. The Elting Pool has two filters, which can filter all 115,000 gallons of water in as little six hours. Each filter is also cleaned at least once every one to three weeks to ensure it’s proper function.
Although the filter system helps dirt and other filth from floating around in the water, it is still chlorinated to keep the water sterile. Chlorine is an oxidizing element used in water purification, disinfectants, and bleach. Oxidation is the process in which the chlorine molecule reacts to bacteria and life-threatening germs by shutting down their cell structures and enzymes. The chlorine level of the pool is monitored periodically regulated throughout the day, as too much of the chemical is harmful to skin and too little leads to a dirty pool. The legal level of chlorine in a public pool is anywhere between .6 and 5.0 parts per million, or ppm; the perfect balance of safety and cleanliness.
Even in stagnant, fresh water, peeing in the pool is not as unsanitary as bathers may come to believe. There is in fact no bacterium or anything harmful in urine. Urine content is almost identical to perspiration content (which explains the phenomena that urine is the same color as a sweat stain in a white t-shirt,) and, contrary to popular belief, a swimmer sweats as much during a workout as any other athlete would in a workout outside the pool. Urine happens to be so safe that the ancient Aztecs used to pour it on wounds to prevent infection. The South American civilization also consumed urine to relieve stomach pains.
If, however, urine was as dirty and unsafe and it is made out to be, and someone peed in a six-lane pool that had no filters and no means of sanitization, it would still be virtually undetectable. The average person can hold anywhere from 350-500 ml of fluid in their bladder, and the average bladder gives the first impulse to urinate when the bladder reaches 200 ml. In a scenario created for arguments sake, an average swim team is about twenty people, and the average person urinates approximately 325 ml. If every person on a swim team all urinated at the same time, there would be about two gallons of urine in the pool. Despite the deceiving conception of how much that urine that is, two gallons is not even a measurable percentage of 115,000. In order for the content of water in the pool to be 1% urine, all twenty swimmers would need to pee 57.5 gallons each. Or, if that ratio seems infeasible, if 575 people all urinated two gallons each, it would equal 1% of the pool’s water. Unless a small army turns a swimming pool into a bathroom, urine disappears almost instantaneously into the filtered, chemical filled water. Or, 13,365 people peeing 325 ml would equal 1% of 115,000.
While many people are aware of the percentages and ratios of urine to water, their counter argument is much less scientific and more of a moral issue. Once being a swimmer who gets out of the pool to relieve myself, I can come up with a defense, although much weaker, to my argument. Along with many others, I used to not be able to pee in the pool because it abnormal to just pee on yourself. It is a respectable argument, as I have had personal encounters with people who cannot physically bring themselves to urinate in the water.
Due to the hard facts and unchanging numbers, it is hard to argue that it is unsanitary to pee in a pool. For a long time, urinating has been wrongly accused of false convictions. It is however hard to disagree with someone’s moral issues after they agree that it wouldn’t be sanitary. In a structure with the capacity to hold 115,000 gallons of chlorinated water, it is hard to infect it with anything, let alone something that is not harmful to begin with. In conclusion, I find it hard not to condone peeing in the pool, not only because of the above reasons, but also for the waste of energy it is to climb out of the pool and walk all the way to the bathroom.
Everyone knows the feeling of swimming through a warm spot in the pool. The age-old reaction is that you just swam through urine. However, the chances are slim to none that the pocket of water even has any trace of urine in it whatsoever. The concept of urinating in the pool is a controversial issue that is argued among both swimmers and non-swimmers, about whether or not it sanitary to do so. In the world of competitive swimmers, opinions are split between whether or not it is socially acceptable to urinate in a pool. What the average pool patron doesn’t realize is that it not unsanitary to pee in the pool; given many mathematical and medical properties, urine in a pool can do no harm to the facility or it’s swimmers.
A fact that is often over looked is that urine is not an unsanitary fluid. The content of urine consists of nothing that can harm the human body. Urine, the body’s main export of salt excretion consists of mainly water and dissolved excess potassium, calcium, and sodium.
In an average pool facility, the dimensions of the pool are seventy-five feet by twenty-four feet, and a depth ranging anywhere from three to fifteen feet. Such is the pool in Elting Gym at SUNY New Paltz. The Elting Gym pool, run by Aquatics Director and Head Coach of the Varsity swim team at the college Dan Talleyrand, holds approximately 115,000 gallons of water. In order to maintain sanitary swimming conditions, the pool is equipped with an elaborate filtering system. The Elting Pool has two filters, which can filter all 115,000 gallons of water in as little six hours. Each filter is also cleaned at least once every one to three weeks to ensure it’s proper function.
Although the filter system helps dirt and other filth from floating around in the water, it is still chlorinated to keep the water sterile. Chlorine is an oxidizing element used in water purification, disinfectants, and bleach. Oxidation is the process in which the chlorine molecule reacts to bacteria and life-threatening germs by shutting down their cell structures and enzymes. The chlorine level of the pool is monitored periodically regulated throughout the day, as too much of the chemical is harmful to skin and too little leads to a dirty pool. The legal level of chlorine in a public pool is anywhere between .6 and 5.0 parts per million, or ppm; the perfect balance of safety and cleanliness.
Even in stagnant, fresh water, peeing in the pool is not as unsanitary as bathers may come to believe. There is in fact no bacterium or anything harmful in urine. Urine content is almost identical to perspiration content (which explains the phenomena that urine is the same color as a sweat stain in a white t-shirt,) and, contrary to popular belief, a swimmer sweats as much during a workout as any other athlete would in a workout outside the pool. Urine happens to be so safe that the ancient Aztecs used to pour it on wounds to prevent infection. The South American civilization also consumed urine to relieve stomach pains.
If, however, urine was as dirty and unsafe and it is made out to be, and someone peed in a six-lane pool that had no filters and no means of sanitization, it would still be virtually undetectable. The average person can hold anywhere from 350-500 ml of fluid in their bladder, and the average bladder gives the first impulse to urinate when the bladder reaches 200 ml. In a scenario created for arguments sake, an average swim team is about twenty people, and the average person urinates approximately 325 ml. If every person on a swim team all urinated at the same time, there would be about two gallons of urine in the pool. Despite the deceiving conception of how much that urine that is, two gallons is not even a measurable percentage of 115,000. In order for the content of water in the pool to be 1% urine, all twenty swimmers would need to pee 57.5 gallons each. Or, if that ratio seems infeasible, if 575 people all urinated two gallons each, it would equal 1% of the pool’s water. Unless a small army turns a swimming pool into a bathroom, urine disappears almost instantaneously into the filtered, chemical filled water. Or, 13,365 people peeing 325 ml would equal 1% of 115,000.
While many people are aware of the percentages and ratios of urine to water, their counter argument is much less scientific and more of a moral issue. Once being a swimmer who gets out of the pool to relieve myself, I can come up with a defense, although much weaker, to my argument. Along with many others, I used to not be able to pee in the pool because it abnormal to just pee on yourself. It is a respectable argument, as I have had personal encounters with people who cannot physically bring themselves to urinate in the water.
Due to the hard facts and unchanging numbers, it is hard to argue that it is unsanitary to pee in a pool. For a long time, urinating has been wrongly accused of false convictions. It is however hard to disagree with someone’s moral issues after they agree that it wouldn’t be sanitary. In a structure with the capacity to hold 115,000 gallons of chlorinated water, it is hard to infect it with anything, let alone something that is not harmful to begin with. In conclusion, I find it hard not to condone peeing in the pool, not only because of the above reasons, but also for the waste of energy it is to climb out of the pool and walk all the way to the bathroom.
30.5.09
The Woman in White: The Missing Chapter
by John Fleckenstein
I shall begin by stating that the ensuing account is of no importance to the story of Miss Laura Fairlie. It is for that reason that I have chosen to exclude this portion of my narrative from the rest of the compilation.
As noted in the narrative of Miss Marian Halcombe, I requested her aid in helping find employment overseas. I recounted my journey primarily for historical purposes, but also to tell of a tormented mind.
As my carriage left the Limmeridge house, the house faded behind me and became an image of the past. The ostensible confession of Miss Fairlie were the last words to fall upon my ears at Limmeridge, and they lingered in my head until I saw her next. It proved to the source of much my apprehension during my time away from England.
Returning to normal life in London was a difficult task. I had managed to find a small number of odd jobs, but nothing to keep me busy enough to distract me from thinking about Laura. I found it very hard to take the position of a drawing master and instruct since my stay at Limmeridge. Each time I leaned in to assist a student’s drawing stroke, I was reminded of the pleasantry Laura’s hair when I bent close to help her. I was forced to distance myself from my pupils in a vain attempt to stop the flashbacks of my time at Limmeridge. I became a bit of a melancholic and began refusing employments as a drawing master. It was not long after my arrival in London that I decided I needed to purge my life of anything that reminded me of Laura, or the Limmeridge house at all. I could not manage the longing feeling that was obstructing my life.
I wrote Miss Halcombe and explained to her all of my previously mentioned suffering. I explained to her that the unbearable despondency has made my efforts to return to old habits and pursuits near impossible. I implored her with all hopefulness for assistance in granting me employment away from England. I also noted in the letter that my weariness has caused me to become paranoid, as I had gotten the feeling that I was being followed more than once while walking through the streets of London. The suspicion made up my mind about wanting to depart with my life in England.
Much to my luck and contentment, Miss Halcombe replied with much haste. She was pleased to inform me of an opportunity to leave England on employment through a private expedition. A draughtsman that was to accompany the expedition lost heart in the mission, and I, the replacement, was to leave port for Honduras within the next seven days.
The thought of traveling across the ocean was already enough to briefly relieve my anxieties of Laura Fairlie’s arranged marriage. I was kept busy with preparing for my voyage and spending time with my sister and mother. As anticipated, they both begged me not to go, as there are always stories of husbands and fathers and sons who do not survive the dangerous expeditions in Central America. Despite their best efforts I remained resolute.
Once all the arrangements were settled for my journey overseas, I had more leisure time and began to reminisce about Limmeridge again. I began to wonder what would become of my friends Laura and Marian while I was going to be out of contact for the next year. I regretted leaving them, but it was for the best for everyone. The expedition sailed on the twenty-first of November 1849.
The long sea portion of the voyage ended in the Puerto Cortez, near Omoa, Honduras. During the rather unpleasant and long journey, three men, who contracted some type of disease, died. Other Englishmen who were heading our expedition met the rest of us on the beach. We were introduced and led inland to a small camp where we were to stay until the excavation corps was fully prepared.
After settling into the camp I decided to take a walk and explore my new surroundings. I took note in my pocketbook and made quick sketches of the magnificent landscape, which was quite different from that of the English coast. From the coast, there were mountaintops visible far off in the distance, crowned by the setting sun. The immediate scenery, however, was rather flat. The camp itself was surrounded by a series of mangrove swamps and marshes.
Over the course of the next two days, while the excavation crew prepared the equipment, I acquainted myself with a Spanish looking fellow, the historical scrivener who went by the name Rivera. He was hired, in contrast with my sketches, to keep a historical account of our expedition. I was four years his superior, but he was very well mannered and poised, as this was his second expedition to Central America.
I kept my own apprehension concealed during the day, as our guides warned us of the various dangerous indigenous wildlife we were likely to encounter. At night, however, my mind was free to wander. I took out the sketch she had given me at our last meeting, of the little summerhouse in which we had first met and looked at it in the moonlight. I drifted off to the Limmeridge house as the sound of Laura’s piano filled my ears while I slept.
I was roused from my sleep abruptly by the toe of a boot in my side; the expedition was on the move. I tucked the sketch, which lied on the ground by my side, quickly away into my breast pocket and prepared to move out of the camp. Rivera and I walked side by side through the marshes, following the rest of the band. The motive of his taking employment to Honduras was much more dramatic than mine. He was part of a society that was oppressed in his native country, and the only survivor of a shipwreck while fleeing the political affliction.
We came to a landing on the bank of the River Ulua, where there was a river boat waiting. Our expedition leaders informed us that our next stop was an English timber yard about two days up the river where the forest thickened below the mountains.
I embarked the vessel reluctantly, as it had not been long enough since our seemingly endless journey across the Atlantic and I had not nearly re-gathered my land legs. Nonetheless, the ship set off by mid-morning, with me on board, into the vine-covered tunnel of the Ulua. The thick brush that covered the banks of the river quickly bored most of the men, so they turned to Whist for entertainment. The spectacles of exotic fauna and flora that surrounded us, however, fascinated Rivera and me. We took note, each in our own regard, of the wildlife that we had only seen in the London Zoo, such as the colorful parrots and toucans, the monkeys, and other wonderful foreign creatures.
Perhaps it is appropriate to discuss the exact nature of our expedition. Our floating medley of different gentlemen escaping their previous lives was headed southwest into the forests of Honduras. The expedition was to reach, via the river Ulua, the ancient Mayan city of Copán. For the better part of the last century, a number of excavation expeditions have been sent to study the vestiges of the civilization and to further explore the geography of Honduras. Until recently, most of these missions proved unsuccessful, sometimes yielding no survivors. The entourage that I was a part of was latest of the best professionals in their field willing to venture into the mystery that is Honduras. My new associate, Rivera, had been part of the last successful team, in eighteen forty-seven, that left behind a group of lumberjacks at the base the Sierra Madre mountains to harvest the valuable timber and mahogany.
Our riverboat proceeded up the river towards Copán. The first night spent on board the riverboat, two crewmembers took ill with the same symptoms as those whom we lost on the Atlantic. As recommended by Rivera, I took to wearing a bandana over my face for the remainder of the trip, in fear that the disease may be transmissible through the air. The two sickly crewmembers were isolated to a part of the boat, but only for a short period of time, as they died within an hour of one another in the early afternoon. The fears and anxieties hung over the riverboat with the thick air that caused our clothes to cling to us. The bodies were carefully disposed of into the river to prevent further infection. Rivera and I sat near each other in silence, making futile adjustments to our journey logs until the moon rose with the darkness. As always, I looked at Laura’s sketch in the bright moonlight and feel asleep dreaming of her delicate fingers falling gracefully on the keys of the piano at Limmeridge.
Around noontime the next day, when we began preparing for our stop in La Barquera, someone spotted a form in the water that appeared to be a human. All of the passengers crowded on the starboard side of the vessel as the suspicion was confirmed. The guides and our expedition leader, a tenacious man called Russell, came to an agreement not to disturb the facedown corpse that was tangled near the west bank in the same fashion that we made the Ulua the watery grave for our own men.
The thick forest was eerily silent as we floated around a long bend in the river. The distant calls of exotic wildlife sounded hollow off in the distance. We finally reached the clearing where the settlement of La Barquera was. The setting that awaited us was bleak and as noiseless as those who looked upon it. The abandoned shoreline was scattered with beached canoes and rafts below the mountains of logs that were ready to be shipped to England. Upon our arrival on the coast of Honduras, a messenger was sent down the river to have the village prepare to accommodate for our arrival, so we should have been met promptly.
We all warily disembarked our riverboat and proceeded onto the banks of deserted landing. Two of our guides led the way toward the town with pistols in hand. Along our journey up the Ulua, our guides had told us stories about the savage, cannibal, aboriginal tribes that still lived in the forests of Honduras. The stories themselves seemed to be the tales that were told to children to scare them. They became more pragmatic as we walked through the woods towards the clearing, where we could already see the small settlement was vacant as well. One of the guides shouted towards the cluster of small huts where the lumberjacks were supposed to have inhabited, and was answered only by a faint echo in the distance. Instinctively out of suspicion, the rest of us had carried the machetes off the boat with us. As we investigated the empty village, there appeared to be no evidence of any struggle or any reason for evacuation.
It didn’t take us long to search the entire village, and following the search we congregated in the center of the clearing. Our guides strongly suggested we abort our excavation mission. They argued that the local Indian tribe, the Payas, who claimed descent of the Mayan civilization, were growing restless of the English deforestation of their land. The Payas were not an inhumane tribe, but the constant threat of European colonization and exploiting of their natural resources can cause them to attack mercilessly. Most of the fatalities on the unsuccessful excavation projects were due to the Payans and other Indian tribes of Honduras.
Even with the indication of the dangers of the Payas in the form of the empty logging, Russell remained persistent in continuing the expedition. As we walked back towards the river he was shouting something at the guides about the private excavation project and that we have enough firearms aboard the riverboat to protect us from any attacks.
I spent the rest of that day on the deck of the riverboat sketching my surroundings. The colorful birds and plants fascinated me, and I also documented the empty logging village of La Barquera. By late evening La Barquera had been completely overturned for any indications of the natives and for any food and supplies that we could salvage for the rest of our journey. Russell embarked the riverboat red faced and shaking his head. He paced back and forth on the deck a few times before announcing that we were to continue with only one guide. He motioned towards two of our guides that were on the desert shore preparing one of the abandoned crafts for a return to the Atlantic coast. Rivera and I looked from the fleeing guides, than at each other. Even through the composure that Rivera possessed well beyond his years, I saw the fear and unrest that I most evidently wore on my sleeve. The guides were among the few who had explored the depths of Honduras and were our only means of ambassadorship with the Indians.
Contrary to the best interests of the safety of those involved in the expedition, we were to continue on to Copán under the leadership of Russell and our only remaining guide. Despite our original plans to stay in La Barquera, we stayed on the boat that night. Under candlelight, most of the crew stayed up for awhile, listening to the sounds of Honduras at night. With the two guides long since gone towards Omoa, there was an uneasy feeling among the rest of us.
The night passed slowly without any troubles, but the morning presented us with two more excavators that contracted the fateful disease that had already claimed five of our crew. They were both sent ashore with supplies enough to get them back to the coast, although their feeble conditions would not likely allow that to happen. Nevertheless, we ventured onward down the Ulua under the direction of our only guide and Russell. I watched as our two ailing colleagues vanished for good as our boat drifted around the river bend.
We arrived in Copán by that evening. The camp where we were to reside in for the next year was a few kilometers north of the Ulua, where the majority of the ruins were that we were going to excavate. By the time we hiked the distance to the campsite, it was dark and we were exhausted. Meeting the group consensus, we slept uncovered and unpacked and we would continue in the morning.
That night was the first I had thought about Laura in awhile. I could not help but think about the arranged marriage and the difference in age. I though about Marian as well, and how either of them would ever know if anything were to happen to me. I trusted the strong nature of Marian to help Laura and she get through whatever troubles they may come across. Once again, I fell asleep with Laura’s sketch in hand, listening to the imaginary sound of her piano playing.
I awoke around sunrise to the sound of a toucan in a tree above me. Not being able to go back to sleep, I got up and explored my surroundings. Just beyond a thin perimeter of trees were the ruins at Copán. As I emerged from the forest I was standing before a temple of considerable size. The temple, as well as the surrounding smaller ones, were overgrown with vines and covered by moss. The extravagant architecture was brilliant, especially observing that the mammoth structures were centuries old. The sounds of the jungle had also roused my friend Rivera, and we explored the site together.
When we returned to the camp, the rest of the group was getting up. Our lone guide took us on a tour of the excavation site, explaining what was known of its significance. Copán was the ceremonial city of the Mayan civilization. The bulk of our project was to take place in the acropolis area; where most of the remaining structures stood. According to etchings on the stone in the acropolis, the temples that Rivera and I had observed earlier were believed to have possibly been over a thousand years old and used as human sacrifice altars. Although the practice has long since died out with the Mayans, the Indians kept strong ties with the people they believed to be their ancestors.
The months that passed were very lucrative for our excavation project. The digging and recovering crew came across many extraordinary artifacts and edifices while River and I collaborated on documenting the findings. A team of archaeologists worked to identify and translate some of the symbols that were carved into various things around the city. In our camp we kept a collection of tools and other Mayan instruments recovered in and around the acropolis.
To pass the time when we weren’t working, many of the men took interest in a game that was invented by the Mayans. There was a stone court that was walled on two sides with a hoop extending off each wall ten feet off the ground. The men split into teams and used a hard, round shelled fruit from a nearby tree to try to score into the rings. Most of the time I either watched the games or went off to work on my sketches. I would climb to the top of a temple and stare into the east. Laura’s sketch had become worn and faded, but the image of the little summerhouse was clear in my memory. Sometimes the extremity of the heat and humidity caused me to see the house in the midst of the ruins. Thinking of Laura and Marian and my sojourn at Limmeridge helped me cope with the oppressive heat and hunger that so often was bestowed on our site.
We were being watched the whole time we worked. More than a countable number of times I would study a particular tomb or totem pole and out of the corner of my eye I spotted a face. The faces, which never moved, were abundant and blended in with the surrounding jungle. The Indians, whom we did not come into contact with for a long while, watched us closely through their small black eyes. I made up a few drawings of them for documentation. They were dark skinned and their faces were painted with earth-tone colors. Each one had a unique display of bones and jewelry protruding from their faces. Their watchful gazes from the forests cast a foreboding warning on our crew, which we got used to within the first months of work.
In the springtime the wet season came, causing a set back to our efforts. There would be days at a time when we could not venture into the rain, and we stayed huddled in the camp looking out at the faces that peered at us through the vines and trees.
After our arrival in Copán, the first six months passed moderately without incident. There was an unspoken understanding between us and the protectors of the ancient city, which never required confrontation. Our lone guide warned us that as long as we kept to ourselves we should not have any problems with the Indians.
Sometime during the sixth month, the Indians were disturbed.
Rivera and I had just returned to the camp after a morning of exploration and documenting when we heard a single pistol shot, followed by screaming in the distance. We watched as the Indians that were nearby in the forest scurried towards the screaming. In that moment I saw Rivera’s poise break down completely and he became panic stricken. He began rushing around the camp as he was yelling to me, and the others who were around, to grab our belongings and head to the riverboat. There were more screams as people began sprinting towards the river. I grabbed my pocketbook and small personal bag and followed.
On the boat, we had approximately half the crew, including our guide and excluding Russell. The preparations were made to shove off, and in the panic it was decided not to wait for any one else. In the distance we could hear the pain-stricken shrieks of the men we had been working with for the past eight months. As we drifted down the river, the rain began to come down again.
Due to the strong current during the rainy season, we made it back to the coast in just a little over a day; about one third the time it took us to travel up the river to Copán. The rain had been falling steadily the entire way back, but the sky opened up briefly when we arrived at the site our first camp in Omoa. The camp there had been deserted at the beginning of the rainy season, as they probably assumed all hope was lost for our return. Thankfully they left our ship anchored in the port, and we wasted no time boarding our original craft. Since our arrival on that boat, our crew had been depleted by half, first by the disease, which mercifully stopped spreading upon our arrival at La Barquera, and now to the attacks of Indians. Emaciated and exhausted, we prepared to sail back to England, in spite of our small numbers and the storms that were visibly in our path.
Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, the wind and rain picked up and we knew we were about to be hit by a hurricane. We knew the small crew was not enough hands to properly maintain the vessel in such extreme conditions, but we braced ourselves and continued into the perils of the storm. The wind and waves that were tossing our ship around inevitably overturned it, sending the crew into the currents of the gulf. The ship splintered as the mast broke free, sending parts of the ship flying in after us. Latching on to a large portion of the wood, I held on, as I drifted off to sea.
I miraculously made it through the night on my piece of wood and the storm cleared up as the sun was rising. In between fits of vomiting up salt water, I tried looking around for other survivors. A few small pieces of our ship drifted around me, but nothing else as far as I could see. I passed out for what seemed like days, but was probably only a few hours. I woke up to water lapping at my face and looked around. To my astonishment, there was a huge ship nearby and a smaller boat sifting through the wreckage. Through my weakness from being in the sun and having not eaten it what may have been days, I mustered up enough energy to call for the ship. I was finally noticed and rescued from my floating grave.
I boarded the vessel, which was an American ship, and was fed and medically tended to. The search lasted only a few more days, and in that time I learned that I was one of only three survivors from the wreck. When I was well, they had me identify the few bodies they recovered from the sea, one of which was Rivera.
The ship returned to its port in Miami, Florida, where I stayed for a couple of months before a ship was to sail to England.
I shall begin by stating that the ensuing account is of no importance to the story of Miss Laura Fairlie. It is for that reason that I have chosen to exclude this portion of my narrative from the rest of the compilation.
As noted in the narrative of Miss Marian Halcombe, I requested her aid in helping find employment overseas. I recounted my journey primarily for historical purposes, but also to tell of a tormented mind.
As my carriage left the Limmeridge house, the house faded behind me and became an image of the past. The ostensible confession of Miss Fairlie were the last words to fall upon my ears at Limmeridge, and they lingered in my head until I saw her next. It proved to the source of much my apprehension during my time away from England.
*
Returning to normal life in London was a difficult task. I had managed to find a small number of odd jobs, but nothing to keep me busy enough to distract me from thinking about Laura. I found it very hard to take the position of a drawing master and instruct since my stay at Limmeridge. Each time I leaned in to assist a student’s drawing stroke, I was reminded of the pleasantry Laura’s hair when I bent close to help her. I was forced to distance myself from my pupils in a vain attempt to stop the flashbacks of my time at Limmeridge. I became a bit of a melancholic and began refusing employments as a drawing master. It was not long after my arrival in London that I decided I needed to purge my life of anything that reminded me of Laura, or the Limmeridge house at all. I could not manage the longing feeling that was obstructing my life.
I wrote Miss Halcombe and explained to her all of my previously mentioned suffering. I explained to her that the unbearable despondency has made my efforts to return to old habits and pursuits near impossible. I implored her with all hopefulness for assistance in granting me employment away from England. I also noted in the letter that my weariness has caused me to become paranoid, as I had gotten the feeling that I was being followed more than once while walking through the streets of London. The suspicion made up my mind about wanting to depart with my life in England.
Much to my luck and contentment, Miss Halcombe replied with much haste. She was pleased to inform me of an opportunity to leave England on employment through a private expedition. A draughtsman that was to accompany the expedition lost heart in the mission, and I, the replacement, was to leave port for Honduras within the next seven days.
The thought of traveling across the ocean was already enough to briefly relieve my anxieties of Laura Fairlie’s arranged marriage. I was kept busy with preparing for my voyage and spending time with my sister and mother. As anticipated, they both begged me not to go, as there are always stories of husbands and fathers and sons who do not survive the dangerous expeditions in Central America. Despite their best efforts I remained resolute.
Once all the arrangements were settled for my journey overseas, I had more leisure time and began to reminisce about Limmeridge again. I began to wonder what would become of my friends Laura and Marian while I was going to be out of contact for the next year. I regretted leaving them, but it was for the best for everyone. The expedition sailed on the twenty-first of November 1849.
*
The long sea portion of the voyage ended in the Puerto Cortez, near Omoa, Honduras. During the rather unpleasant and long journey, three men, who contracted some type of disease, died. Other Englishmen who were heading our expedition met the rest of us on the beach. We were introduced and led inland to a small camp where we were to stay until the excavation corps was fully prepared.
After settling into the camp I decided to take a walk and explore my new surroundings. I took note in my pocketbook and made quick sketches of the magnificent landscape, which was quite different from that of the English coast. From the coast, there were mountaintops visible far off in the distance, crowned by the setting sun. The immediate scenery, however, was rather flat. The camp itself was surrounded by a series of mangrove swamps and marshes.
Over the course of the next two days, while the excavation crew prepared the equipment, I acquainted myself with a Spanish looking fellow, the historical scrivener who went by the name Rivera. He was hired, in contrast with my sketches, to keep a historical account of our expedition. I was four years his superior, but he was very well mannered and poised, as this was his second expedition to Central America.
I kept my own apprehension concealed during the day, as our guides warned us of the various dangerous indigenous wildlife we were likely to encounter. At night, however, my mind was free to wander. I took out the sketch she had given me at our last meeting, of the little summerhouse in which we had first met and looked at it in the moonlight. I drifted off to the Limmeridge house as the sound of Laura’s piano filled my ears while I slept.
I was roused from my sleep abruptly by the toe of a boot in my side; the expedition was on the move. I tucked the sketch, which lied on the ground by my side, quickly away into my breast pocket and prepared to move out of the camp. Rivera and I walked side by side through the marshes, following the rest of the band. The motive of his taking employment to Honduras was much more dramatic than mine. He was part of a society that was oppressed in his native country, and the only survivor of a shipwreck while fleeing the political affliction.
We came to a landing on the bank of the River Ulua, where there was a river boat waiting. Our expedition leaders informed us that our next stop was an English timber yard about two days up the river where the forest thickened below the mountains.
I embarked the vessel reluctantly, as it had not been long enough since our seemingly endless journey across the Atlantic and I had not nearly re-gathered my land legs. Nonetheless, the ship set off by mid-morning, with me on board, into the vine-covered tunnel of the Ulua. The thick brush that covered the banks of the river quickly bored most of the men, so they turned to Whist for entertainment. The spectacles of exotic fauna and flora that surrounded us, however, fascinated Rivera and me. We took note, each in our own regard, of the wildlife that we had only seen in the London Zoo, such as the colorful parrots and toucans, the monkeys, and other wonderful foreign creatures.
Perhaps it is appropriate to discuss the exact nature of our expedition. Our floating medley of different gentlemen escaping their previous lives was headed southwest into the forests of Honduras. The expedition was to reach, via the river Ulua, the ancient Mayan city of Copán. For the better part of the last century, a number of excavation expeditions have been sent to study the vestiges of the civilization and to further explore the geography of Honduras. Until recently, most of these missions proved unsuccessful, sometimes yielding no survivors. The entourage that I was a part of was latest of the best professionals in their field willing to venture into the mystery that is Honduras. My new associate, Rivera, had been part of the last successful team, in eighteen forty-seven, that left behind a group of lumberjacks at the base the Sierra Madre mountains to harvest the valuable timber and mahogany.
Our riverboat proceeded up the river towards Copán. The first night spent on board the riverboat, two crewmembers took ill with the same symptoms as those whom we lost on the Atlantic. As recommended by Rivera, I took to wearing a bandana over my face for the remainder of the trip, in fear that the disease may be transmissible through the air. The two sickly crewmembers were isolated to a part of the boat, but only for a short period of time, as they died within an hour of one another in the early afternoon. The fears and anxieties hung over the riverboat with the thick air that caused our clothes to cling to us. The bodies were carefully disposed of into the river to prevent further infection. Rivera and I sat near each other in silence, making futile adjustments to our journey logs until the moon rose with the darkness. As always, I looked at Laura’s sketch in the bright moonlight and feel asleep dreaming of her delicate fingers falling gracefully on the keys of the piano at Limmeridge.
Around noontime the next day, when we began preparing for our stop in La Barquera, someone spotted a form in the water that appeared to be a human. All of the passengers crowded on the starboard side of the vessel as the suspicion was confirmed. The guides and our expedition leader, a tenacious man called Russell, came to an agreement not to disturb the facedown corpse that was tangled near the west bank in the same fashion that we made the Ulua the watery grave for our own men.
The thick forest was eerily silent as we floated around a long bend in the river. The distant calls of exotic wildlife sounded hollow off in the distance. We finally reached the clearing where the settlement of La Barquera was. The setting that awaited us was bleak and as noiseless as those who looked upon it. The abandoned shoreline was scattered with beached canoes and rafts below the mountains of logs that were ready to be shipped to England. Upon our arrival on the coast of Honduras, a messenger was sent down the river to have the village prepare to accommodate for our arrival, so we should have been met promptly.
We all warily disembarked our riverboat and proceeded onto the banks of deserted landing. Two of our guides led the way toward the town with pistols in hand. Along our journey up the Ulua, our guides had told us stories about the savage, cannibal, aboriginal tribes that still lived in the forests of Honduras. The stories themselves seemed to be the tales that were told to children to scare them. They became more pragmatic as we walked through the woods towards the clearing, where we could already see the small settlement was vacant as well. One of the guides shouted towards the cluster of small huts where the lumberjacks were supposed to have inhabited, and was answered only by a faint echo in the distance. Instinctively out of suspicion, the rest of us had carried the machetes off the boat with us. As we investigated the empty village, there appeared to be no evidence of any struggle or any reason for evacuation.
It didn’t take us long to search the entire village, and following the search we congregated in the center of the clearing. Our guides strongly suggested we abort our excavation mission. They argued that the local Indian tribe, the Payas, who claimed descent of the Mayan civilization, were growing restless of the English deforestation of their land. The Payas were not an inhumane tribe, but the constant threat of European colonization and exploiting of their natural resources can cause them to attack mercilessly. Most of the fatalities on the unsuccessful excavation projects were due to the Payans and other Indian tribes of Honduras.
Even with the indication of the dangers of the Payas in the form of the empty logging, Russell remained persistent in continuing the expedition. As we walked back towards the river he was shouting something at the guides about the private excavation project and that we have enough firearms aboard the riverboat to protect us from any attacks.
I spent the rest of that day on the deck of the riverboat sketching my surroundings. The colorful birds and plants fascinated me, and I also documented the empty logging village of La Barquera. By late evening La Barquera had been completely overturned for any indications of the natives and for any food and supplies that we could salvage for the rest of our journey. Russell embarked the riverboat red faced and shaking his head. He paced back and forth on the deck a few times before announcing that we were to continue with only one guide. He motioned towards two of our guides that were on the desert shore preparing one of the abandoned crafts for a return to the Atlantic coast. Rivera and I looked from the fleeing guides, than at each other. Even through the composure that Rivera possessed well beyond his years, I saw the fear and unrest that I most evidently wore on my sleeve. The guides were among the few who had explored the depths of Honduras and were our only means of ambassadorship with the Indians.
Contrary to the best interests of the safety of those involved in the expedition, we were to continue on to Copán under the leadership of Russell and our only remaining guide. Despite our original plans to stay in La Barquera, we stayed on the boat that night. Under candlelight, most of the crew stayed up for awhile, listening to the sounds of Honduras at night. With the two guides long since gone towards Omoa, there was an uneasy feeling among the rest of us.
The night passed slowly without any troubles, but the morning presented us with two more excavators that contracted the fateful disease that had already claimed five of our crew. They were both sent ashore with supplies enough to get them back to the coast, although their feeble conditions would not likely allow that to happen. Nevertheless, we ventured onward down the Ulua under the direction of our only guide and Russell. I watched as our two ailing colleagues vanished for good as our boat drifted around the river bend.
We arrived in Copán by that evening. The camp where we were to reside in for the next year was a few kilometers north of the Ulua, where the majority of the ruins were that we were going to excavate. By the time we hiked the distance to the campsite, it was dark and we were exhausted. Meeting the group consensus, we slept uncovered and unpacked and we would continue in the morning.
That night was the first I had thought about Laura in awhile. I could not help but think about the arranged marriage and the difference in age. I though about Marian as well, and how either of them would ever know if anything were to happen to me. I trusted the strong nature of Marian to help Laura and she get through whatever troubles they may come across. Once again, I fell asleep with Laura’s sketch in hand, listening to the imaginary sound of her piano playing.
I awoke around sunrise to the sound of a toucan in a tree above me. Not being able to go back to sleep, I got up and explored my surroundings. Just beyond a thin perimeter of trees were the ruins at Copán. As I emerged from the forest I was standing before a temple of considerable size. The temple, as well as the surrounding smaller ones, were overgrown with vines and covered by moss. The extravagant architecture was brilliant, especially observing that the mammoth structures were centuries old. The sounds of the jungle had also roused my friend Rivera, and we explored the site together.
When we returned to the camp, the rest of the group was getting up. Our lone guide took us on a tour of the excavation site, explaining what was known of its significance. Copán was the ceremonial city of the Mayan civilization. The bulk of our project was to take place in the acropolis area; where most of the remaining structures stood. According to etchings on the stone in the acropolis, the temples that Rivera and I had observed earlier were believed to have possibly been over a thousand years old and used as human sacrifice altars. Although the practice has long since died out with the Mayans, the Indians kept strong ties with the people they believed to be their ancestors.
The months that passed were very lucrative for our excavation project. The digging and recovering crew came across many extraordinary artifacts and edifices while River and I collaborated on documenting the findings. A team of archaeologists worked to identify and translate some of the symbols that were carved into various things around the city. In our camp we kept a collection of tools and other Mayan instruments recovered in and around the acropolis.
To pass the time when we weren’t working, many of the men took interest in a game that was invented by the Mayans. There was a stone court that was walled on two sides with a hoop extending off each wall ten feet off the ground. The men split into teams and used a hard, round shelled fruit from a nearby tree to try to score into the rings. Most of the time I either watched the games or went off to work on my sketches. I would climb to the top of a temple and stare into the east. Laura’s sketch had become worn and faded, but the image of the little summerhouse was clear in my memory. Sometimes the extremity of the heat and humidity caused me to see the house in the midst of the ruins. Thinking of Laura and Marian and my sojourn at Limmeridge helped me cope with the oppressive heat and hunger that so often was bestowed on our site.
We were being watched the whole time we worked. More than a countable number of times I would study a particular tomb or totem pole and out of the corner of my eye I spotted a face. The faces, which never moved, were abundant and blended in with the surrounding jungle. The Indians, whom we did not come into contact with for a long while, watched us closely through their small black eyes. I made up a few drawings of them for documentation. They were dark skinned and their faces were painted with earth-tone colors. Each one had a unique display of bones and jewelry protruding from their faces. Their watchful gazes from the forests cast a foreboding warning on our crew, which we got used to within the first months of work.
In the springtime the wet season came, causing a set back to our efforts. There would be days at a time when we could not venture into the rain, and we stayed huddled in the camp looking out at the faces that peered at us through the vines and trees.
After our arrival in Copán, the first six months passed moderately without incident. There was an unspoken understanding between us and the protectors of the ancient city, which never required confrontation. Our lone guide warned us that as long as we kept to ourselves we should not have any problems with the Indians.
Sometime during the sixth month, the Indians were disturbed.
Rivera and I had just returned to the camp after a morning of exploration and documenting when we heard a single pistol shot, followed by screaming in the distance. We watched as the Indians that were nearby in the forest scurried towards the screaming. In that moment I saw Rivera’s poise break down completely and he became panic stricken. He began rushing around the camp as he was yelling to me, and the others who were around, to grab our belongings and head to the riverboat. There were more screams as people began sprinting towards the river. I grabbed my pocketbook and small personal bag and followed.
On the boat, we had approximately half the crew, including our guide and excluding Russell. The preparations were made to shove off, and in the panic it was decided not to wait for any one else. In the distance we could hear the pain-stricken shrieks of the men we had been working with for the past eight months. As we drifted down the river, the rain began to come down again.
Due to the strong current during the rainy season, we made it back to the coast in just a little over a day; about one third the time it took us to travel up the river to Copán. The rain had been falling steadily the entire way back, but the sky opened up briefly when we arrived at the site our first camp in Omoa. The camp there had been deserted at the beginning of the rainy season, as they probably assumed all hope was lost for our return. Thankfully they left our ship anchored in the port, and we wasted no time boarding our original craft. Since our arrival on that boat, our crew had been depleted by half, first by the disease, which mercifully stopped spreading upon our arrival at La Barquera, and now to the attacks of Indians. Emaciated and exhausted, we prepared to sail back to England, in spite of our small numbers and the storms that were visibly in our path.
Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, the wind and rain picked up and we knew we were about to be hit by a hurricane. We knew the small crew was not enough hands to properly maintain the vessel in such extreme conditions, but we braced ourselves and continued into the perils of the storm. The wind and waves that were tossing our ship around inevitably overturned it, sending the crew into the currents of the gulf. The ship splintered as the mast broke free, sending parts of the ship flying in after us. Latching on to a large portion of the wood, I held on, as I drifted off to sea.
I miraculously made it through the night on my piece of wood and the storm cleared up as the sun was rising. In between fits of vomiting up salt water, I tried looking around for other survivors. A few small pieces of our ship drifted around me, but nothing else as far as I could see. I passed out for what seemed like days, but was probably only a few hours. I woke up to water lapping at my face and looked around. To my astonishment, there was a huge ship nearby and a smaller boat sifting through the wreckage. Through my weakness from being in the sun and having not eaten it what may have been days, I mustered up enough energy to call for the ship. I was finally noticed and rescued from my floating grave.
I boarded the vessel, which was an American ship, and was fed and medically tended to. The search lasted only a few more days, and in that time I learned that I was one of only three survivors from the wreck. When I was well, they had me identify the few bodies they recovered from the sea, one of which was Rivera.
The ship returned to its port in Miami, Florida, where I stayed for a couple of months before a ship was to sail to England.
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