|
National
News
Olympic Successes:
The Bahamian women's 4 x 100m relay team won gold and Pauline Davis-Thompson
won silver in the women's 200m to highlight a historically successful
Olympics for The Bahamas. It was so close to being better as the
men's 4 x 400m team just failed to win a medal, fading to take fourth
place towards the end of the race. The Bahamas had won gold before
in yachting in 1966 with Sir Durward Knowles and Cecil Cooke and
a bronze by Frank Rutherford in the triple jump in 1992. After the
Sydney Olympics there were calculations made to find the most successful
country in terms of population versus medals achieved by the Daily
Mail of London. Guess which country won? The Bahamas, by a long
way! Just the relay gold gave us first place and Pauline's silver
separated us from the field. The US placed 44th using these criteria.
Who Let the Dogs Out?
Woof! Woof! Believe it or not, the hottest song around is a
Bahamian production, though written by a Trinidadian. The nine-man
band Bahamen and their Who Let the Dogs Out? is a theme song throughout
professional sporting events in the US. At this early stage it is
second only to Queen's We Will Rock You and ahead of the other Queen
sporting favourites We Are the Champions of the World and Another
One Bites the Dust. The recording has already reached Platinum and
is well on its way to Double Platinum. Bahamen performed in October
on NBC's Today show, Good Morning America and ESPN and also took
part in the subway World Series. Is the song good? Go figure. But
wherever testosterone rules, they are playing it. The Bahamas is
not new to producing great songs. Funky Nassau was a big hit in
the 80's and the spiritual Michael Row the Boat Ashore and Sloop
John B , made famous by the Beach Boys, were traditional Bahamian
songs.
Unions Miffed: It
appears as though neither unions nor employers like the proposed
labour bills which were due to be tabled in late October. A sick
out by unions on 12th October might have been the catalyst which
persuaded government to defer readings of the bills until the more
important money laundering bills were addressed. Prime Minister
Ingraham returned from a month in Europe discussing the position
of The Bahamas in respect of possible Organisation for Economic
Cooperation and Development sanctions. Mr Ingraham returned with
positive news and felt sure The Bahamas was well on its way to satisfying
OECD concerns.
Abaco Champions: Abacom
United became soccer champions of The Bahamas on 22nd October when
they beat Nassau champions Cavalier FC at Thomas A Robinson Stadium
in Nassau by a score of 2-1. Eddie Petit scored for Abacom in the
sixth minute and James Julmiste added a second in the 58th minute.
from then on it was up to Abacom's vaunted defence to keep Cavalier
at bay. Cavalier pulled one goal back but at the final whistle it
was the boys from Marsh Harbour who had prevailed.
--
Thanks to the Nassau Guardian, Abaco Journal, Briland Modem which
now offers classes in computer instruction, HTML design for the
World Wide Web. The community center is wired for Internet access,
and Chief Councillor Harvey Roberts notes that the waiting list
for registration for the computer training extends well past January
2001. The search is on for a bigger space for the classes. In the
meantime, volunteers for onsite afternoon tutorials, weekly classes,
and assistance in the technical infrastructure buildout of the community
center are invited to note their schedule of availability via the
Briland Modem messageboard, for integration into a master schedule
for access by local teachers. Kayla Davis, community liaison, is
the center’s administrator.
Software, hardware
and books donations are always welcome, as the program hopes to
expand beyond its present site. It's easiest to ship all such supplies
to G&G Shipping, 760 NE 7th Avenue, Dania FL 33004, Tel 1 954 920
0306, attention: Richard Monroe. In the meantime, please remember
to clearly LABEL all parcels [marked 'parcel' vs. 'manifest'] for
the Harbour Island community center to show being addressed to brand-new
Senior Commissioner Alex Williams, c/o Customs Officer Wilson, Harbour
Island Community Center. Such clear marking will ensure that your
donation is imported duty-free. All U.S. donors to the Community
Center buildout should inform the Briland Modem Fund of their offering
at info@briland.com, as all such gifts will be acknowledged with
a receipt for tax purposes, as the Fund is a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit
corporation.
EVERY
CHILD COUNTS
Volunteer-Run Developmental Education
Program for Harbour Island, North and South Eleuthera
By Sharon Kossacks, Nationwide coordinator and
Lang Fincher, Harbour Island coordinator
The
children are currently being shown how to write a business plan,
marketing plan, and Andrea Johnson (the bookkeeping teacher) will
have them keep the "company" books! The idea is to leave ECC as
a whole entity, where they will not have to beg for funds to provide
for the children. The children will be able to participate in BizKIDS,
an after-school business club open to every child in the community,
which produces and markets salable goods. Thus, the kids will be
trained in business procedures that will actually generate money
so they can do this as adults, and they will have an entrepreneurial
spirit.
All proceeds
over the cost of production of these materials will go to this special
education and literacy project...to buy testing and teaching materials,
children's books, and training and special services. With the exception
of the special education teachers for the TWO self-contained special
ed classes, all of the other hundreds of people who work with ECC
(the trainers, those who screen primary children for vision/hearing,
after school tutors, Clinical Educators, etc., etc.) are unpaid
volunteers. All monies generated go to maximizing the learning for
these children.
Regarding next year's Holiday
Cards --
You
will be able to pre-order cards that are inscribed for your business.
You have to purchase holiday cards for your business anyway, why
not order cards which make a charitable donation at the same time?
That way your friends reflect on the true message of generosity
that is the focus of the holidy, your business will maintain the
perception of philanthropy, special needs kids benefit directly
(both from learning about business and from the proceeds) from your
decision and you will not have to pay any more money than you do
now (which can be deducted as a business expense or charitable donation...your
choice). What's not to like? Everybody wins! For more information,
contact kossacks@fiu.edu.
Resources --
Professional
Library. Currently, we have the beginnings of a professional resource
library started in the HIDC Community Center, which includes all
of the strategy cards we have taught over the past five year's of
training, helpful kits, professional journals, professional methods
books, testing equipment (visual and auditory), some materials.
These have always been available to the whole community. The books
that are sent over, we have taken directly to the schools. Instead,
we are asking visitors to bring books and come directly to read
to the children and gift the teacher with the book instead as a
means of building classroom/school libraries.
Vision/Hearing
Testing. We have an observation checklist that enables one to watch
a child and look for symptoms of vision and hearing difficulties.
We use the Audiometer and the Telebinocular. If a child is found
to need glasses or have a hearing loss, they are referred to a specialist
for adjustment. All of this is free.
Literacy
Classes. In the Spring, ECC will have benefit of two literary trainers,
who will offer training to interested community people in LVA (Literacy
volunteers of America) and Laubach literacy programs.
Briland
Fiction Highlight
Talking
to Myself Along The Beach
By Jim Reno
Looking back
upon my island companions, asleep on stolen beach chairs, drunk
from Kalik and gold rum, I bid them farewell and stumbled alone
down the famed pink sand beach of Harbour Island, Bahamas in search
of conversation. The first thing one notices about this beach is
that if there is to be conversation, you might as well talk to yourself,
because there is no one for miles. Sure, the occasional couple might
be walking by now and then, in search of the same elusive conversation
I sought, but other than that, no one. Okay, there was one Rasta
guy. But, I would rather have exchanged places in life with him,
rather than words.
I like walking
a little in the water, up to my shins. Dragging my feet a little
to give the illusion that I have no destination or place to be at
a certain time. Overtly swinging my arms like I did back in the
military years ago. Convincing myself that I just don't care who
looks at me or what they think, like I do so much back at home.
I pondered taking off the only piece of clothing I wore, my swimsuit.
But I immediately thought better of that. I'd need a lot more Kalik
to feel as anonymous as I wanted to, to blend in with the family
jewels on exhibit. So I continued down the beach in search of whatever
one looks for in a beautiful place like this with seemingly one
thing to offer. Absolute nothingness.
There
aren't many shells on this beach. Maybe there are some little ones
that the shellhunters haven't yet borrowed for their Bahamian souvenirs
for sale on Bay Street. Just a few remaining that visitors to the
island hadn't taken home in their bulletproof Samsonite luggage
that Mr. Bo Henghy brought over and will gladly take back.
There
were a few cool-looking sticks and some sandy, earth-compressed
rocks and even one broken sea fan that I left behind, as I certainly
had enough of this stuff at home. My wife had quite a large collection
growing in our laundry room in California, thinking she'd make some
composite craft art piece of our visit to Briland with the scraps
she'd found along this beach last year. She's an avid shell-hunter,
complete with her beloved Nassau-straw-market-bought-Rasta-guy-made
shoulder bag stowing her treasures as she walks this same beach.
She asked me once if she could do this for a living, hunting for
shells, providing that I won the lottery. Of course, I said yes.
I'd even buy them from her, I said.
It was a warm
day with little cloud cover, but the humidity was high, so I walked
further into the ocean until I was chest-high and feeling relieved.
I dunked my long hair into the clear water and flung it back like
a supermodel, making a dinosaur-back with the water. I think they
may have called him, "Triceratops." Or something like that. I don't
know. It's been awhile since I thought of being like a dinosaur.
Back on the beach,
I walked along the shore and after a while glanced back. How long
had I been gone? My friends were getting smaller and smaller in
my rear-view mirror, just like in "Smokey and The Bandit" when Burt
Reynolds was flooring the Trans Am and watching Smokey get smaller
in his rear-view mirror. "Bye-bye, baby." He sang. Man, at the time,
that was quite a car. And Burt was the biggest actor in Hollywood.
Heck, they made three of those movies, and one was with an elephant.
An elephant!
I figured that
if I kept walking long enough, I'd eventually end up where I started.
It is an island, right? The more I walked, the more I realized that
it might take at least one sequel for me to finish this walk. This
island seems small when you're racing around in your golf cart,
looking for all that seems interesting, and things that you just
can't miss. But, when you're walking, it's huge. I thought again
of the Rasta guy. I should've asked him if he had any pot.
Dumb question,
unless he was down on his luck. But isn't that what all Americans
do when they're in the Caribbean? Try to lose themselves in some
culture that they think revolves around a boredom-lessening substance
with the locals? "I mean, really. How can these people exist on
this island?" If they think that being Rasta or island local revolves
around pot, they just don't get it, do they?
My Kalik-buzz
was wearing off. The sun was hot. "Come to the islands." The brochure
always reads, "The land of sunshine." If I lived here, I'd have
to wear nothing but sandals and shorts. The ground is hard and has
surprises here and there. Sandals are a must unless you're on the
beach. Shorts should be worn just in case someone comes along, right?
So, how did the
islanders wear so much clothing? Okay, they're used to the heat.
But, why so much clothing? Adornment? Status? I saw some of the
local guys wearing long-sleeved Tommy Hilfiger sweaters in the middle
of the day. Well, they probably laugh hysterically at the standard-issue
tourist uniform of tank top, bathing-suit, and sandals dangling
a camcorder or camera, too, but I chuckled at their attempt to look
hip in this weather.
Must be hot being
hip. Well, we suffer for the look, right? Then again, they're not
on vacation, are they? I remembered seeing visitors to my hometown
of San Francisco wearing shorts and tee-shirts, freezing their asses
off. They don't realize that San Francisco is so much like London
most of the time, cold and foggy, save for a few great days. How
could a visitor know how a local dresses? Who cares? That's what
Kalik does to you, makes you feel local, while dressing like you're
at home.
The cliffs to
my left bore fewer structures now. I kept on my trek, thinking to
myself that I would really like to go see Gusty and enjoy one of
his gin/Kalik concoctions right now. It was then that I remembered
the time my wife and I kinda broke the rules governing golf cart
rental and actually went off-road in our vehicle. The road got so
rough at one point that there was nothing but trees and bush around
us on a narrow, hilly dirt road. I high-centered the thing once.
One of Martinez's horses poked his head through the bush and laughed
a horsey-grin.
My wife had once
regrettably turned down a ride from Martinez when my buddy and I
were lost on one of the island's skinny, beach-like paths. We had
picked up sandwiches for Beth from Angela's Starfish Restaurant,
and were in a hurry to find her. But we were a little Kaliky, so
we laughed it off and I pushed as she punched the gas. The golf-cart
was freed.
At the end of
the road we came upon a great estate of Palm Grove, which Gusty
had told us was owned by the sister of the same millionaire that
owned the world-champion Florida Marlins. And built Blockbuster.
Perhaps he also owned the Miami Dolphins, but remember, we were
Kaliky at that point. The bush-chopping Haitians were busy slicing
back the brush and burning what they had removed. I saw the smoke
rise in the air from the multiple piles and wondered what they'd
do if a great wind came and blew the fire out of control. Run to
the ocean, no doubt. I now did the same.
Some narrow,
silvery fish darted by me and made my skin tighten. Their eyes always
looking left and right -- thanks to placement by God -- and swimming
in packs of three or four, they saw me and just as quickly disappeared.
I headed back for the beach and continued my ankle-high water journey.
If I got hungry, I could eat them, right? Make my stand right here,
on this beach. Never go home. Just stay and wait for the darts.
It might take about thirty of them to make a meal for this 220-pounder,
though. And, like Chinese food, I'd probably be hungry soon after.
I regretted not having brought a fishing pole for some shore casting.
But, then again, my matches would be useless after my multiple sabbaticals
in the ocean. I tried hard to remember my one day of Boy Scout training,
but on that particular day they had talked more about how to recruit
new members than how to light a fire with driftwood and catch darty
fish with nothing more than a bad attitude and some sandy rocks.
At one point,
I believed it was time to return to the 'mainland', and it was then,
more than ever, that I wanted to continue on my trek. But, the sun
was turning orange and daring me to beat it to the ocean, so I turned
around slowly and faced my return. The way back is always farther
than the way there, right? You've already seen it all and are tired
from your trip, no? I faced the sun, the ocean, and the sand, and
turned back, wondering why I had come so far in the first place.
On the way back,
the wind picked up a bit and blew my long hair over to my right
side. At home, I hate my hair being blown about. Here, I could care
less. I enjoyed being touched by the low-lying clouds that reached
out to me. I felt the power of different sources of the world. The
wind, the water, and the earth. Even the sun gave me the fourth
element as it continued to warm my bare skin. At this time, I couldn't
even see my companions. But, it's pretty simple to navigate the
land at the edge of an island. Maybe it was this simplicity that
allowed me to ponder as I wandered, the shore being my guide.
I suddenly remembered
the library on Harbour Island. The faded books. The age of them
all. The section on the United States being all of a foot wide,
and just out of reach of the school children. Perhaps they could
grab a book on my country when they were taller. But I found myself
wishing that that particular section were ten feet tall, so that
only the really good basketballers from the island could snatch
one. America cherishes its athletes and pays them well. Normal people,
below seven feet tall or so, need not apply.
I wanted very
much to be the unpaid librarian. The one that put the lock on the
Cuban cigar box full of donations in cash, the one that made sure
the windows were weather-tight, and that the front doors would actually
dissuade a would-be thief armed with little more than a butter-knife.
I wanted to guard that sacred library, so full of writing, and knowledge.
The place that I had first sat and wondered, "Is this the place
where I am to make my mark on the world? Is this where I am called
to help?" So full of my own self-want to help. As though this place
isn't perfect already.
If I were the
island dictator, I would tell the children that some kids could
learn to clean conch, others could learn to build buildings, some
folks would learn the intricate art of plaiting straw, a few would
become expert fishermen, others could become teachers, some would
learn to build boats again, some could write books, and still others
could learn to sew names like "John" or "Steve" in straw hats that
no one would actually ever wear but would pay a premium price for,
or best of all... they could learn just how lucky they were to be
here in the first place. Maybe, just maybe, if I were in charge,
I'd keep Eden just the way it was.
If I were wiser
still, I would encourage them to read and learn about the United
States as a place that came, saw, and conquered all it could until
there was little else but strip-malls and 7-11s in every town across
the country. I would tell them what I had learned about the world,
and hope to scare them into staying safe, here where God lives.
Perhaps that would make them stay here, here in this glorious place.
If I were a realist,
I would realize that the reason I donated a computer system to the
All-Age School was because I knew that these blessed people were
smart enough to reach out and touch the world, and somehow make
it better, whatever the risk to all that is immaculate about them
and their home.
I realized that
the best gift I could possibly give to this enchanted place, its
beautiful people, the All-Age School, and Ms. Elodie Ling, the actual
librarian at my favorite place, was to leave them alone. Or, better,
to be the anonymous visitor on a beautiful beach, on a perfect island,
to take nothing but photographs and leave nothing but footprints.
And the occasional gift to those to have unknowingly given so much
to my wife and me.
I saw a pink-colored
shell in the shape of a cone. Granted, it was a small one, but maybe
it could bring a dollar to someone if a tourist wanted to bring
it home. Perhaps it could adorn the desk pen and pencil set of some
Manhattanite. For that, I left it where it lay, in the clearest
water I've ever seen on a beach that defies Crayola, Inc.'s best
imagination. Harbour Islanders instinctively know that they own
something outsiders may never purchase or franchise or incorporate,
and that the magic that they hold, that we visit from time to time,
will never disappear. The essence of what God gave these people
that they know is theirs, is that they smile at each other, and
that they hold each other dear. This glorious people: Briland People.
When I finally
got back, my friends and my wife were concerned less about where
I had been, but more when I would come home. Home was a long way
away. Home wasn't Tingum Village, where we were staying the night.
Home wasn't anywhere near Gusty's or Queen Conch. Home wasn't even
remotely close to Angela's Starfish Restaurant where you must write
down everything you want, like a will to yourself. ["What I will
leave myself when I die: a conch salad and a Kalik, oh yeah, don't
forget the fritters.] At Angela's, she sits behind a window and
gives you a pencil and paper, and asks you what you want. Looking
back, I should have asked for another pencil, and some more paper.
Epilogue
Beth -- my beautiful wife, otherwise known around the island
as, "Lovely Miss Beth" -- thanked me for introducing her to something
I held dear that has become to her "the simplest, easiest place
that anyone would ever want to be in. It's hard to explain: it's
a place that I tell others about. I've given pink sand to very few
people. From that gift, they've understood me a little bit better
and wanted to visit this place I described. I wouldn't pass pink
sand to just anyone, you know? Sure you do. A lot of times, I feel
I can take them there, because I'm there everyday."
You see, I had
been to Nassau and down the Eleutheran chain a few times before,
but when we got married, I wanted to take her to the Briland side
of The Bahamas. She trusted me. She has not questioned my vision
since. [Yeah, right.]
Love and peace
to all.
Beth and Jim Reno
Friends of The Bahamas
Dear
Fig Tree
From
Sabine Hoffman Naus
One of
our favourite spots to eat on Harbour Island is the Dunmore Deli,
which is situated on a busy corner and overlooks the daily hub-bub
of tourists and residents alike. We mostly like to sit at one of
the outdoor tables in the bright sunshine where we enjoy our Italian
submarine sandwiches accompanied by tall cold drinks. One such day,
as we were eating, the ever-present friendly chickens -- usually
about 2 or 3 -- flocked about muttering and clucking and pecking
up the crumbs on the ground. I happened to get up from the table
for a moment, and in my brief absence one of the chickens flew up
onto my vacated chair and promptly began to clean my plate. My husband
got a good laugh as he shooed the critter away and told me about
it when I returned. It was a good thing I had finished my sandwich,
'cos otherwise the chicken would have done it for me!
Briland
Fiction’s Newest Entry
A Bahamian Bedtime Story
By Dr. Ralph Emery
Thirty
five years ago this week my grandfather took our family on a Windjammer-style
cruise through the Central Bahamas. He had recently turned 65, and
the cruise was a retirement celebration. Our party consisted of
himself and my grandmother, my mother, my younger brother, and me
(age 15 at the time). Originating in Nassau, we visited the Exumas
and Eleuthera, finally returning to Nassau to rendezvous with my
father who had passed up the cruise due to his profound tendency
to seasickness.
The vessel
was a large sailing catamaran, the Tropic Rover. She was perhaps
150 feet in length with a huge beam, probably 50 feet. She carried
50 passengers and a crew of ten, skippered by the very knowledgeable
and affable Syd Hartshorne. The passengers seemed to gravitate into
two groups of roughly equal size, the "Idlers" and the "Wilders".
The Idlers included families, retirees, and a few odd gentlefolk.
The Wilders were the party animals. The would stumble out of their
bunks late in the morning, grumble about having missed breakfast,
and slowly gain momentum through the evening meal and on into the
night, when they would noisily drink and sing baudy calypso songs
at the ship’s semicircular bar into the wee hours, much to the dismay
of the Idlers. The ship carried two tenders, and we would make day
trips to wonderful beaches and islets and small communities. While
we explored and snorkeled and fished, the Wilders would find the
nearest "yacht club" and boisterously party, much to the chagrin
of the shy locals.
One beautiful
Sunday morning found us reaching along Eleuthera’s western shore.
Late in the day we anchored off Governor’s Harbour. The Wilders
immediately clamored for a shore party, but the Captain told the
group that the cook was preparing a special Sunday meal (prime rib)
and that we would be staying aboard that night. When pressed by
the rowdies, Captain Syd explained that the locals were quite religious,
that they spent all day Sunday in church and devotional pursuits,
that none of the restaurants, etc., would be open, and that we would
go ashore in the morning. The Wilders adjourned to the ship’s bar,
and after an hour of furious drinking two of them donned fins, jumped
ship, and swam to the government dock. They returned a short time
later in a small outboard with two local men, explaining that a
tavern owner had been persuaded to open at sundown, and that we
were all invited. A band had even been found. The captain expressed
some doubts, but after discussing the matter with the two young
black men, and at the libatious urging of the party animals, he
reluctantly agreed to lower one of the tenders for an 8 o’clock
shore party.
Ordinarily
our little group would not have participated in such an outing,
but while we were watching the two Wilders swim ashore my grandfather
spied what appeared to be a US military Jeep with a crew of four.
He later inquired of the two Bahamians, and they confirmed that
there was indeed some sort of "satellite base" on Eleuthera, security
for which was provided by US Navy Shore Patrol. This intrigued my
grandfather as he was ex-Navy, and he decided that we should go
ashore with the others and perhaps have an opportunity to meet the
sailors.
The tavern
was a small two story affair, but a large patio/dance floor in a
garden setting behind the building accommodated our group. The band
consisted of two members, a guy with congas and another with an
electric guitar and an amplifier the size of the ship’s freezer.
They plugged microphones into the amp, thus broadcasting a cacophonous
off-key blend of profane calypso/rock throughout the entire community.
The Wilders were at their worst behavior of the trip, and my brother
and I were getting our first look at "The Gator" when our mother
firmly yanked us away from the dance floor. The party seemed to
quickly end, and we found ourselves out on the street drifting toward
the dock where the tender was supposed to meet us.
Sharing
the street with us was a small group of locals, men and teenagers,
who were obviously displeased. As we began to hurry toward the dock,
other men appeared around us, none speaking, all dark and serious.
We reached the dock only to discover the tender hadn’t arrived;
we were a few minutes early. I heard my grandmother’s voice, "Daddy,
they’re picking up rocks!" Indeed, the locals were gathering stones,
pieces of wood, things that were obviously weapons. It looked pretty
ugly for us.
Suddenly
the Navy Jeep with its crew of four came screeching around a corner.
The Jeep was quite old, but impressively carried a WWII vintage
50 cal. air-cooled machine gun. The Petty Officer in charge wore
a .45 on his hip; we saw no other weapons. Several of the Wilders
pathetically beseeched the sailors to "Save us from the mob!" The
Petty Officer asked for quiet, then queried, "Did all you people
come off that British sailboat anchored out in the harbour." Several
responded that we were indeed Americans who just happened to be
vacationing on an American boat the just happened to have UK registry.
The Petty Officer replied, "I"m sorry, you’re British subjects on
British soil, we can’t help you." The crowd edged closer.
It was
my grandmother’s habit to wear a large straw hat when we were in
the tropics. I heard my grandfather take a deep breath, then he
snatched the hat from her head and addressed our crowd in a low,
firm voice.
"Everybody
empty your wallets into this hat, NOW. I want watches, jewelry,
anything of value. Do it quickly!" No one hesitated. In short order
the hat was filled with paper money, change, bracelets, earrings,
the works. He carried the hat to the Jeep and spoke. "Petty Officer,"
he exclaimed, "I served aboard the USS Pennsylvania in World War
One. Several of these men are veterans as well." He offered the
hat to the Petty Officer and hissed, "Take this and get us out of
this jam." The Petty Officer looked at what must have been hundreds
of dollars, then turned to a crewman. "Mr. Grim," he barked, "Rack
the Fifty!" A sailor jumped to the gun, leveled it just above the
heads of the group of locals, pulled back a large lever on the side
the gun which made an impressive metallic CRACK, and no one moved.
After what seemed like an eternity, the locals slowly dispersed.
Within a moment or so, the tender arrived and we were so on our
way back to the ship.
It was
a quiet ride. After a time two of the Wilders approached my grandfather
and thanked him for managing the situation. He nodded and then smiled,
"Hell of a bluff, wasn’t it?" My mother, who had up until then been
in shock, blurted, "What.?" My grandfather gently responded, "The
machine gun, there was no ammo belt, it was empty, I’ll bet it hasn’t
worked in years." Even in the darkness I could see the color drain
from her face.
Back at
the ship, Captain Syd gathered the party into the salon and sternly
addressed us. "I think we all learned an important lesson tonight.
This isn’t America, customs here are different, and we all need
to remember to honor and respect those differences. We’re guests
here, and it’s nothing more than good great luck that the Navy rescued
you. And we all owe a big ‘Thanks’ to our friend from the Pennsylvania."
My grandfather stood to hearty applause, and thanked to crowd. The
Captain concluded, "I’m ordering the bar closed for the rest of
the night. I suggest we all turn in and start over in the morning."
There was no dissent.
A short
time later, as I lay in my bunk, I heard my brother’s voice. "Are
you awake?" he asked. "Yeah, I can’t sleep." He paused, then, "When
I grow up, I want to be just like Grandpa."
So do I,
I thought, so do I.
|
