Francis Meyrick

A Blip on the Radar (Part 36) All our Mother

June 22, 2013 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters), Blip on the Radar

A Blip on the Radar (Part 36)

“All Our Mother “

Light in the Darkness, perhaps

When it comes to scuba diving, one of the cardinal rules is:

never dive alone. Noooo

Always have a dive buddy along with you. You never know what you might encounter. If you train with any accredited dive training organization, they will repeatedly stress this rule.
I’m not a complete fool. Sure, I’m not very bright, but survival has occupied my tiny mind frequently enough. Somehow I have come through all sorts of adventures in different human spheres largely intact. I suspect there was more to that than dumb luck. Conceivably, I was aware. Of risk. And danger.

So I was reluctant to go scuba diving alone. Unfortunately, on my tuna boat, I was the only scuba diver. Many a time we were heaved to, at night, on a glassy, dead calm Pacific Ocean, and I ached to go diving. If conditions were truly calm, the crew would hang a huge insulated light over the side of the ship. They would submerge it fifteen or twenty feet under water. This was done in the hopes of attracting tuna. It invariably attracted clouds of curious fish, who would mill excitedly around this underwater sun. Sometimes there would be hundreds of fish, brightly colored, with widely different shapes. They ranged from small and flighty, to big and lazy. Everybody milled around the light, and I would watch from above, leaning over the deck railing, curious, and wishing I could swim down there.
I wanted to be a fish, mid ocean, at night, under the big moon, and swim, lazily and unhurriedly, around that temporary Man made submerged sun.
Common sense had always prevailed. I would tear myself away from the railing, and go to my cabin. I might finger my scuba gear, and fantasize about going diving, alone, but always I was mindful of the risks involved. It would be foolhardy to go alone, at night, in the open Ocean. There would be nobody to help me, if I got into difficulties. Nobody would even know if I was in trouble. If I disappeared, nobody would ever be able to offer an explanation. So I resisted. For a while. I merely walked the silent, night time decks. I looked out over the Ocean. I studied the moon, and the stars. I thought of the Universe, and our fragile little planet. I would sigh and return -eventually- to my lonely cabin.
Then I would invariably fall into a dream tossed sleep, and slide, effortlessly, amongst dolphins and tuna, and travel huge interstellar distances through our far seeking Universe.

I was good. I kept the scuba diver’s faith. I kept the pledge. I didn’t dive alone.

The night that I broke the pledge, and sinned foolishly against the great commandment, was quiet as many others. One moment I was gazing over the rail, and the next my mind was made up. I told two of the crew members, took a flare gun along, and slipped quietly over the side, into the warm, mid Ocean equatorial waters…

Into a different world…

Now I was alone. And yet, not. Somehow, I felt at home. I was with All Our Mother again, and surrounded by her loved ones. I loved to dive. Like a mesmerized wanderer through a tropical rain forest, I just floated there, barely moving. The ugly hull of the ship loomed above us, but here below it didn’t matter. Creatures large and small, in myriad forms, with fantastic shapes and colors, moved and flitted silently around me. It was as if they accepted me immediately, as none darted fearfully away. Some were solitary, and others hung around in groups or loose formations, but none adopted the tight, fear packed ball defense which I had observed so often from the helicopter. When fish, terrified, hug close to one another, whilst the predators, hungry and vicious, circle, seemingly at ease and indifferent. Instead we were all at peace together, although what lay beyond the light, none of us knew. That there were predators about, somewhere, went without saying. There would be sharks, and barracuda, killer whales and highly venomous sea snakes. Poisonous jelly fish, that can kill a man in under a minute. We, as a group of All Our Mother’s creatures, we accepted this knowledge. None of us were under any illusions that our environment was totally safe. But our curiosity was spiked, theirs by this strange underwater sun, and mine by them. I was sinking slowly, and the night time noise of the ship, the generators and occasional hydraulics, were becoming less intrusive. Now there was the sound of my breathing through the regulator, and the odd, watery, rippling sound from my diving fins. I moved my feet and legs slowly, carefully, gently. And still I sank, slowly, slowly, unwilling to adjust my buoyancy. I was content to be here, content to sink, content to watch the light show from below, content to sense the darkness from below spread out its embrace to me. To reach for me.
What, I asked myself, lay beyond the fringes of that artificial circle of light? What unknown entities even now, coldly, calmly, calculatingly, observed our little troupe, yet bathed in that light? The symbolism was not lost on me. The parallels with Life, and Death.

With Light, and Dark.

With wisdom, understanding on the one hand, and darkness and ignorance on the other.

With Respect for All Our Mother, such as I felt. A deep, reverend, sense of awe. And the casual plundering of her bounty, as I witnessed every day.

But I also thought of Man, and Greed. Of Injustice, and Suffering. Of the Violence I had seen, and tasted. And meted out. Of Inequality, and Prejudice. And I wished that all men who hate, and fight, and covet, and conspire, who live and die in small, mean cubicles, often but not always of their own making, could see Our Mother in the way She wishes.

And still I sank, deeper into the darkness, barely moving. The bubbles of my exhaled breath dribbled lazily upwards towards that light, playing tag with one another, reflecting the light, and the sound of my own breathing was comforting, and calming.
I thought of my Life, and I thought of my Failings. I thought of my Guilt, and my Self Judgment. I thought of my strange, reserved pride, and my stubborn -adamant- refusal to admit to myself what I knew, deep down, that I really was. A Dreamer, a Child, a Loner, aching for like minded Brothers, and Sisters, and caring, and shelter. A Drifter, cast loose, confused, missing the point and purpose of everything.
A Waster.

I rolled over, slowly. Now I was facing downwards, staring into the deepening Dark. Still sinking slowly. The feeble light from the small, Man made sunlet, that appeared so stunningly bright and powerful when you looked over the ship’s railing, was quickly losing the battle against the Night down here. The Ocean was thousands of miles wide, and many thousands of feet deep. Man’s little pin prick of wattage and lumens was almost laughable now. What did Man know? Man was a fool. An out of control, dangerous, rambling, plundering, blustering fool.

I checked my air supply. I had used a third, just quietly drifting and dreaming. The facts of my air supply were carefully noted and processed. Like a helicopter pilot checking his range and fuel. Then I resumed my reverie. How deep would I go? I was settling through a depth of seventy feet. There did not appear to be much current, but I was aware of the danger of being pushed away too far. Too far to be able to get back to the ship. But I seemed to be descending perfectly below the retreating light above.

I thought of the millions, billions of fellow humans above. Racing down the motorways in their plastic and steel cages. Packed together in their city nests, one on top of another, competing even for space on the teeming, heaving sidewalks. Staring zombie-like past one another. Each little human wrapped in their own tiny world, competing with their neighbor. As busy as ants, as close together as ants, but without any of the quiet harmony and flow and sustainability of an ant colony. Waves of people. Plagues of people. Horrible nests of people. Breeding casually and carelessly, expanding their populations, depleting resources. Demanding, always demanding. Rights. Water. Air. Space. Possessions. Consuming, depleting, marauding through Nature. Destroying.

I was no better than any of them. I too had enjoyed consumerism, without a thought for the future. And I had always wanted more. Why did it take me so long to see the interdependence of all species? Why did I not previously sense the imbalance? What blindness prevented me from seeing the smallness of Man? The fragility of Man? The importance of a more biocentric view of our tiny world?
We need harmony amongst species. All creatures are there for a purpose. Man does not reign supreme. Nor does he reign aloof, independent of the Fate of the earth’s other creatures. We are all part of an interdependent community of living creatures. To plunder the earth’s bounty just for the here and now, profit today, and the devil take tomorrow, is a sure fire recipe for a calamity. An ecological train wreck… Why had it taken me so long to realize that?

I thought of the Skipjack Tuna, the bright Yellowfin, and the occasional, already endangered Big Eye Tuna. The way they thrilled me, when I watched them from the helicopter, darting through the water, leaping high, smacking down hard, turning the water into a white, foaming cauldron. I hugely enjoyed watching them. I loved watching them.
And then…

The nets would close. The tuna would be trapped. Still they would swim around, at speed, looking for a way out. But there was no way out. The nets, laboriously hauled in, would offer a smaller and smaller area for the increasingly frantic Tuna to swim around in. There came a point when their natural harmony, their natural formation swimming skills, started to break down. Collisions started to occur, and slowly the water would start turning red with blood. And still the nets would be hauled in, remorselessly, and now the Tuna were panicking. The faster they swam to escape, the harder the collisions, the more blood in the water. Now they were being crushed. More blood. Individual tuna were shooting straight up out of the water, six feet, eight feet, ten feet. All in an effort to escape. The odd, lucky one would accidentally leap out of the net, land in freedom, and accelerate away at Tuna warp speed.

I was down at a hundred feet now. It was dark all around. Above me, higher and higher, the small circle of light, and the many flitting shadows around the artificial sun. Only my breathing, the sound of bubbles, and the very distant sound of the ship’s generators. I was a small thing, fragile, mortal and unimportant, lost in the bowels of the Pacific Ocean. If I mattered, then so did my fellow creatures swimming above. My Fate was interconnected with theirs. I understood. I understood my smallness. I understood my dependence on the Life that is all around.

When the nets start to bring the tuna on board ship, many are still living. Their fins caught in the net, they struggle and squirm in vain. Dropped and kicked, chucked and cursed, they find themselves on the lower working deck. There a hole in the deck leads to a chute. The last thing the Tuna see, is the rubber boot that kicks them down the chute. Seconds later, they crash into the ice cold heavily salted water of the holding tank, where they die quickly, shuddering and gasping in one final, agonizing convulsion. The crew laugh, smoking heavily, indifferent and totally hardened to the demise of so many brightly colored living creatures.
Only one man on the entire ship watches them die with pity in his heart…
Maybe… guilt, also.

It was time to start a slow ascent. Away from the dark embrace. Away from the deep, somber gloom. Away from thoughts of alienation. It was time to return, and be a simple man amongst mortal men. I inflated my BCD jacket a fraction, and heard and felt the reassuring response. A certain hardening around me, and a sense of increased buoyancy. Back. Back towards that small, distant light. The puny light that Man makes. The light with which Man thinks he divides the Darkness. That small, feeble light, which in Man’s simple mind is more than a match for the enormity of the Deep Ocean.
Man, who thinks he understands All Our Mother.
Man who thinks he is better than All Our Mother. More important.
Man, who thinks he can beat, conquer, and subjugate All Our Mother.
And bend her to his will. With impunity.

He is wrong.

There is a hard, hard winter coming, and a heavy price to pay.

Francis Meyrick

Return to Index? (ChopperStories.COM)?

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 19, 2016, 6:06 am

Of Helicopters and Humans (17) “Fire in the Hole ! “

June 22, 2013 in Helicopters and Humans

Of Helicopters and Humans

Part 17: Fire in the Hole!

I was flying, off the coast of West Africa, quite happily, minding my own business. I was on my own, playing with the giants, as my friend Eric calls it, sailing past tall fingers of cumulus clouds, enjoying the sun, the blue, the visibility, and Life itself. Just a routine cargo flight.
Suddenly, the call came in, breathless…

“Urgent Medevac! Divert immediately to Gas Condensate Bulk Carrier XXX…”

Oh, okay…
Obediently I swung around onto the new heading, busying myself with radios and frequencies. I got hold of the huge carrier, more of a massive floating refinery, and received a “Green Deck” clearance from an excited African gentleman. We termed them “Nationals”.
As I turned onto finals, an ex pat came up on frequency, with the unmistakable edge of authority.

“Good morning, captain. After you land, go ahead and shut her down. Then come on down to the sick bay. We have a bit of a situation here…”

It didn’t sound too good. Obediently I shut down, tied down a blade, and walked downstairs to see what was going on. Soon I encountered Nationals flying in all directions. Some wore life jackets, and some did not. Some were shouting in broken English, but most were panicking in their own native language. Seeing as we were sitting on a gas condensate carrier, basically a very large, floating bomb, I felt that surge of disquiet. I had left my life jacket up in the helicopter. I debated turning around to go and fetch it.
Why had they told me to shut down? Weird.

I made my way to the sick bay, past a flowing chaos. Phones were ringing, claxons were going off, people would run this way. Then back again. Then repeat the whole process. Should I even have been down there? I had this mental pictures of huge (massive) storage areas of liquefied gas, surrounded by hundreds of miles of cables and electrical conduit. And excited Nationals. I just hoped the welders with the blow torches, the electricians with their power tools, the sleepyhead with his cigarette, KNEW what the hell they were doing. Uncomfortable. Big Boom. And me in the middle of it? That would take some explaining to Mama. “Well, dear, I went down into the middle of this three mile long five hundred and fifty thousand ton gas bulk carrier/processing plant, and it blew up. But I wasn’t worried, because I know the devil doesn’t want me…”
More sirens. They would go on. Off. Back on again. What a mess.
Bugger this. I’m going back to the helideck…

Confused

A large ex-pat, Californian, genial guy, came over, shook my hand and introduced himself. He was the person I had spoken to on the radio. I wasted no time in explaining to him my discomfort.
“Errr… Sir, I’m a little uncomfortable here.”
(three Nationals came running past in Fireman’s clothing. Two with a helmet on, one without)
“Why is that…?”, my newfound guide asked, all laid back, smiling, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
(another National, big heavy set guy,jumped out at the fireman trio, and berated them furiously in some extraordinary language.)
“Well..”, I said, “I kind of feel I’m hiking around inside a floating bomb here, and, pardon me for saying this, but…”
(one of the Nationals, the one without the helmet, got turned around by the big National, presumably a Supervisor, and was now running frantically back towards us)
I continued. “Things don’t seem to be quite totally under control.”
(the No Helmet National was now coming past us at a fast gallop, eyes wide, with seemingly a lot of the whites of his eyeballs exposed.)
My Californian buddy just smiled. “Captain, I can as-sure you… there is no problem! None at all.”
(No Helmet had now disappeared around the corner.) (Sirens, yelling)
I coughed. Before I could formulate a suitable,polite, demurring remark, just a slight expression of doubt, No Helmet appeared again, this time WITH his helmet, which he was trying to put on whilst he was running.
I opened my mouth to say something, then changed my mind.
“Just follow me, Captain!” California seemed jovial, almost happy.
Like a lamb, I followed him, trying to suppress vivid mental images of Big Boom and lots of Colorful Flames and Toxic Black Billowing Smoke, and me in the middle of it all. We were just about to go through a doorway, when there was a terrifying crash behind us. We both looked around in time to see No Helmet sitting on the floor, opposite another National also sitting on the floor. They were facing each other. Legs towards each other, boots almost touching. I couldn’t see the expression on No Helmet’s face, but the other Emergency Responder looked decidedly dazed. I formed a vague impression that there had been a terrible collision.

I continued to follow California, and I was surprised how cool and confident he was. Bouncy. You would almost get the impression he was enjoying himself. He was just a little TOO damn self assured. Personally, I was beginning to seriously doubt my own sanity. I had no business being down there.
We arrived at the sick bay. Walking in, we immediately saw a young National, maybe late twenties, reclined on a medical couch, with a ghastly expression. He was surrounded by medical staff, and one of them was urgently talking to him. An impressive array of hi-tech Medical Equipment stood guard in immediate readiness. Heart monitors, all sorts of gizmos. Our victim, my intended Medevac, looked like he was coming down from Terrified. His skin pallor was unnatural, the eyes haunted. The eyeballs were protruding strangely, with the whites showing clearly. He seemed to be hyper ventilating.
California walked over, asked a few questions, nodded, seemingly satisfied, and strolled back to me. Out of immediate earshot of the medical group attending the patient, he beamed at me:
“That’s MY handiwork!”
“What!?”
“Yep!”, he grinned, obviously exceedingly pleased with himself.
“That’s what they pay me for!”
“Huh?”
California was now standing, proudly, hands clasped behind his back, literally rocking back and forwards from heel to toe. He had the air of a Creative Artist, exceedingly proud of his Masterpiece.
I probably looked blank. Perplexed. He smiled at me.
“I work for an Insurance Risk Assessment Agency. Our clients are some of the leading High End Insurance Providers in the United States. Serious stuff. Oil exploration drilling rigs, oil refineries, and, like this…”
He waved his arm demonstratively. “…Gas condensate bulk carrier/processing units. High premium, potential extraordinarily high risk. “
He was still rocking.
“This is not my first visit to these shores. The first time, well, the Government here is always in a hurry to run off the ex pats, and replace them with Nationals. At the earliest opportunity. That’s fine, we can understand that. However. Some tasks require more than book knowledge. They require, as you know, a certain imagination. A certain inbuilt culture of risk awareness. That takes time. Well…”
He was still rocking. The Doctor was still talking to the patient, in a low, steady, calming voice.
“Two years ago I came over to look at their High Voltage Transmission Line safety Culture. They had run off all the ex-pats, and were relying almost entirely on nationals. Some were very good. Excellent,in fact. Some of them… My company advised our clients that the risk matrix was unacceptable. In due course, two fried Nationals later, we were proved right. And we saved our clients a lot of money…”
I gulped. The image of electrocuted, charred bodies hanging from High Voltage Transmission Lines.
“Next, I came over to look at their Heavy Plant Equipment safety Culture. Same thing. No more ex-pats. Some of the nationals were very good. However, some of them were appointed to positions only by virtue of family connections, not by virtue of ability or achievement. That soon led to a mobile crane toppled into the harbor, with a dead National Crane Operator pinned underneath. He had tried to jump out…”
I nodded. I had flown over that particular fiasco the morning it had happened. Ugly.
He continued.
“The potential for a cataclysm HERE…”
He was back to smiling again. Hands clasped behind his back. Rocking contentedly back and forth, heels to toes.
“So I got full permission to investigate risk here in this floating bomb. The Captain is an old friend of mine…”
He winked.
“We identified that the ship’s telephone exchange room, the communication center, was a key ingredient in our Risk Analysis. So many Emergency Procedures need to be coordinated through that switchboard. They are all Nationals. It was felt by certain powers,that merely answering a telephone does not need an expensive ex-Pat. Nationals can do that just as well. However, we felt that some of the personalities were weak, and unlikely to cope well with a real emergency. They were doing well with the announced drills, when they knew it was a drill. But how about the REAL deal?
He paused, rocking.
“So all I did was to go down to the hold, and then I called the switchboard. I told him we had smoke down there, and that he had better send somebody. The National just put the phone down. I waited a few minutes, called back, and told him we thought we maybe had a small fire down there. He freaked out, and just hung up on me. I waited a few minutes, and then I called again…”
Rocking, rocking.
“I yelled: WE HAVE A MAN DOWN! WE NEED FIRE CREW AND MEDICAL IMMEDIATELY! And he STILL just put the phone down. Ignore it and maybe it will go away… So I thought: Oh! You want to play that game? So I upped the Ante. We had a dummy all dressed up, life-like, and we poured Tomato Ketchup all over him. Then we propped him up against the elevator doors. I called the Switchboard again.
WE NEED HELP DOWN HERE! THIS GUY IS BLEEDING TO DEATH! WE ARE SENDING HIM UP IN THE ELEVATOR! MAKE SURE YOU GET THE MEDICS! And then I hung up. Well, the switchboard is right beside the elevators. The doors opened, and out fell this blood spattered body. The Switchboard Operator screamed like he had seen a ghost, and ran like hell…”
I was hanging on every word.
He smiled. “So then we couldn’t find the switchboard operator, anywhere. We searched the entire tanker. Meanwhile, all hell was breaking loose. So we decided to let it run its course, to see what would happen. It was interesting…”
I could see that.
“We found the Switchboard Operator, eventually, sitting in a lifeboat on his own, wearing a life jacket, crying, hyper ventilating, with a blood pressure reading of 180 over 120. That’s when the practice drill became a real emergency, and we called you…”

* * * * *

I delivered our National friend and an accompanying Medic to the onshore clinic, and flew off on another mission. More cargo. As I soared off into the clear blue African sky, in my beautiful baby, I reflected on the morning’s interesting events. Holy Moley. Another good bar story.

One thing stood out for me: the simple fact that I wouldn’t voluntarily give up being a chopper jockey for anything in the world.

But another thing I knew now: if EVER I lost my Medical, and I was forced to go look for a REAL job…

Damn!

I know I want HIS job… King

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 24, 2014, 7:07 pm

Entente Cordiale

June 21, 2013 in Auto-biographical (skydiving)

Entente Cordiale

For my Fromage pounding, Spanish flying buddy, Jean Michel Varlet…Worship

(ils sont tous fous, mon cher…)Yes

 

I was in la Belle France again, circa 1972. 1973? Sometime.
Summer time… and the French know how to live. They elevate the occupation to an undisputed Art Form. I was staying at one of their (cheap!) state sponsored Parachuting Schools, their “Ecoles de Parachutisme”, diving out of perfectly good airplanes, my long beard flapping in the wind, (occasionally obscuring my view), shouting out young man slogans of the usual maturity.
Like ” EEEEEEEh-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”, “WATCH OUT BELOW!” and, really originally, “GERONIMOOOOOO…!”
(I think I’d seen that one in a movie.)
Anyway, I was having mucho fun, growing probably way too cocky in the sky. That attitude was to nearly bite me painfully in the a…. (nether regions) down the road, but at the time I had not yet developed that sixth sense of danger-danger. I was, over the years, to grow way more wary, and leery of “stupid”. But at the time…
“GERONIMOOOOOOOO…!!” (f..k!) (I need to trim that beard…!)

Now lunch time at the local cafĂ© was an absolute pleasure. Talk about fond memories! The French don’t mess around. You can keep your American sleazy drive in Burger Kings, Superburgers, Big Mac’s, your Kentucky grease fried Rat, your endless variety of cheesy Pizzas, and your grilled Big Tex Cholesterol Cow’s ass end. If you applied to any of the many French institutes of Haute Culture, i.e. catering colleges, and if you presented that sort of resume on your application… why, they would bolt the gate. Exorcise the kitchen. Madame Pompignard (there is always a Madame), would have a fit, and throw the celery at you. No chance. The French… are Masters of Good Living.
The place we went… For a seemingly innocuous, run of the mill, French countryside eating place, it was simply amazing the variety of truly excellent food they could conjure up, day after day. You positively looked forward eagerly every day to lunch. Firstly, it lasted two hours. You ate until you burst. There was wine, brandy, all manner of appetisers. The company was magnifique. The French are a cultured race. We, ordinary folk, all of us, the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker, (and the bearded dude from Ireland), we all talked Art, Poetry, Theater, Politics, Religion, Sex…(a lot of sex)… all sorts. I was often amazed how well the French know History. They have got the average American beaten hands down. It was fascinating and immensely enjoyable. If there is one thing I miss the most about my many, many vacations in France, it is the company. The conversation. Unemployed in Dublin, at age 25, I was offered three job interviews. One in London, England, one in Rotterdam, Holland, and one in Avignon, France. The company was called Jokelson, with headquarters in Marseille. I was stone broke. I only made it as far as the interview in London by hitch hiking with a kind trucker. I took that job, and never made it to Rotterdam for that interview, or Avignon, for that one. Pity. Of the many wasted opportunities I wish perhaps I had availed of, I regret never trying for that Avignon job.
C’est la Vie. It is Fate.
We all got along really well. Especially if we had been jumping, then there was always some utter cluster screw up that everybody was laughing about.
Thus… there was the morning we were jumping a Dornier aircraft. Instead of our usual Pilatus Porter. The Dornier had an exit door sill, six inches high, unlike the Pilatus. Well, when it was my turn, I crouched awkwardly one foot on the sill, slipped, half jumped, half fell out, and caught my size twenty heffalump French Paraboot between the sill and the jumpmaster’s chair leg. Where it wedged, solidly, pinned there by the weight of my body. So there is your scribe, hanging helplessly out of the bottom of the airplane, firmly (and painfully) still attached by one boot to the throttled back, but still speeding Dornier. It was most undignified. Above me, with the engine merely idling, I could clearly hear what I can only describe as fluent French commentary. There were multiple participants, and they did not seem very happy with my little stunt. Nor did they seem to be in complete, solemn agreement with each other WHAT the hell to do about it.
Oh, Merde! Voyez ca!
Imbecile!
Merde, merde,merde! Tirez! Non! Poussez! PAS TIRER!
Oh, MERDE!

Presently I felt hands tugging at my boot and calf. I felt very silly. It was unbecoming. Eventually, my rescuers succeeded in throwing the rest of my body parts out after me, and I fell away in a most non-standard exit style. Far from being a classic “stable arch exit”, it was more like a “totally unstable arch cluster f..k”. Never mind. I stabled out in free fall, kind of shrugged my shoulders, wrote it off to just another adventure, and proceeded with the solemn task in hand.

Now that task was a “style sequence”. It has fallen out of favor these days, but in them old days, it was a big thing. Watched closely by instructors with high powered tripod mounted binoculars on the ground, and critiqued also from the aircraft observers looking down. Well, yours truly from Ireland was off to an original entry, but, hey!, if they can’t take a joke… go eat a frog. My mind shifted away from the debacle, and concentrated on a smooth left 360 degree turn. Stop.
Smooth RIGHT 360 degree turn.
Oh, yeah…
Backward somersault. Over… and flip.
Cool!
360 degree turn left. Good.
360 degree turn RIGHT. Yep-yep.
Now for the second backward somersault…
COOL! Fuk’n A-A-A-A! One for Ireland!
Good style sequence. Satisfaction. Damn, I’m good.
Nice and stable… check altimeter… looking good… five seconds to go before the pull…
Look down…

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGHHHHHH! Merde! Fu-fu-fu…. Oh, shit…

Right over the middle of downtown Bourges. Traffic lights, traffic, buses, unsuspecting French, houses, office buildings… and here comes an Irishman, in free fall, 120 miles per hour, GERONIMOOOOOO!!!
One hurried pull. Zip, tug, tug, BANG!, one Papillon opens up with the usual hard CRRRACK!
Where… is the dang AIRFIELD gone?? A thought slowly crossed my mind. That boot hang up… delay… hanging there… aeroplane flying along… how long was I hung up??
Behind me?
I hauled down on a toggle, did a fast one-eighty, and, way, way in the distance… one airfield.
Below… cars, houses, roofs, office buildings, wires, more wires, antennas… all kinds of nasty.
All you can manage with the French Pappillon is a glide ratio of about one to one. It is a more or less round canopy, multi-colored, and it looks like somebody ran amok and took a big scissors to it. Running downwind, as fast as you can, you move along at quite a lick. Nothing like the modern canopies, but still very respectable. But I had a long… way to go to clear the busy town of Bourges. I was going as fast as I could, but for the longest time, I was assuming a landing in the town. I wanted to avoid a roof, or wires, or antennas. But by the time I was whistling past office buildings, with surprised occupants staring out the windows, and people coming out onto balconies, it was looking grim. At the edge of Bourges is a railway line. Beyond the rail way line, open fields. Beyond the fields, airport. That I could make the airport was totally out of the question. I would be thrilled if I could just clear the houses, cross the railway line, and dump it at the edge of the first field. Thrilled. Emotional, probably.
Onwards I sailed, moving along very nicely, but getting ever lower. People were staring up at me now, and pointing. I had this crazy urge to yell BONJOURRRRRRRR but I thought I had maybe better not. I had this vague idea that maybe the Gendarmerie would be coming to arrest me anyway, with lots of blue lights and sirens wailing, without me adding to it by insolently shouting BONJOURRRRRRRRR. As if I didn’t give a damn.
I didn’t think I was going to cross the railway line. It looked like a landing in any one of several carefully manicured and landscaped back gardens. Yup. That was going to take a whole lotta explaining. In French. I rehearsed the coming speech.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle, Je suis un imbecile Irlandais, je sortirai de votre jardin dans un instant. Vos fleurs gravement blesses ou totalement detruits me font mal au Coeur. Je suis desole…”

(I’m sorry, ma’am. I am an Irish Idiot, I will depart from your garden in a second. Your mutilated and terminally destroyed flower beds grieve me beyond words. I am unconsolable…)
Or something.
An extra few knots of wind seemed to push me along a bit farther. I was getting awfully low, but it looked as if I might just shoot over the railway tracks, have a split second to do a one eighty turn into wind, and dump it on. Maybe…
TOOOOOOOOOTTTTTT !!!!!!!
Here comes the diesel locomotive! Cargo train!
I don’t frickin’ BELIEVE this…!
TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTT!!!!
Hallelujah, buddy! What do you expect me to do??? Fly UP?? BONJOURRRRRRRR!!!!
(fukkit)
I crossed the tracks descending through fifty feet, ignoring the alarmed train engineer playing the nuts cracker suit on the air horns, performed a split second one eighty into wind, pressed my legs together for a PLF landing, and hit HARD, and rolled over. My red-white-and blue Papillon collapsed in a neat pile, as the goods train rumbled noisily by. Oh, well…
I field packed my chute, and ambled back to the airfield. I was kind of nonchalant at this stage, un-flustered, and wondering if anybody had really seen that particular total screw up. With luck, they had all missed it, and then I could just pretend…
No chance, mon ami.
Arriving at the Parachute School, they were all still talking about. Together. Like, a hundred and fifteen thousand excited French men and women ALL talking together at the same time.
Incroyable! Vous etes FOU! J’ai JAMAIS VUE CA!
That’s all I got all that lunch time. But it was all good humored. They couldn’t believe that I had gotten caught up with my boot. Nobody had EVER pulled that stunt before. Well, somehow that didn’t surprise me either. Then they were worried that I might panic and pull the ripcord whilst dangling underneath the aircraft. That would have been disastrous. No chance. The thought never even crossed my mind. Then they were freaked out that I just went ahead and coolly flew the planned style sequence. Well, what was I SUPPOSED to do? (Okay, don’t answer that, I know, I should have realized I might NOT be anywhere I was supposed to be over the ground…) Then the guys on the binoculars back at the base couldn’t believe how low they had to swing their tripod mounted binoculars to still see me. (That’s how far away I was.) Everybody was convinced I was going to land in town, and catch a bus to come back to the airfield. The train totally freaked them out, and the fact that I simply kept coming, and flew over and in front of it. And finally, the fact that I arrived back totally unruffled, obviously hoping that nobody had noticed anything was amiss, (hey-ho… what’s up, Doc?) THAT completed the saga. Especially when every eye in the place was watching the whole thing, and the guys on the binoculars were giving a breathless blow-by-blow account. I can only imagine…
“He’s hung up! Something is wrong! He’s hung up underneath the aircraft! What’s happening? Oh! There he goes! He’s right over the town! What’s he doing! Is he stable? Yes, he has stabled out. What’s he doing now? He’s doing the style sequence! He’s doing WHAT? He’s doing the sequence! What? Why is he not pulling? Because he’s doing the style sequence! Over the middle of the town? Yes!”
Followed by:
“Is he going to make it? Yes, maybe! He will avoid the town? Yes, maybe!”
TOOOOOOOOOOTTT!
“?????!!!!”
TOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTT!!!
“It’s train! A what? A TRAIN! What’s he doing? Is he turning off? No, he’s keeping on coming! He’s doing WHAT?…”
It must have been interesting. The whole thing was re-lived, reenacted, over the two hour lunch break, complete with arms waving, hand gestures, facial expressions, and much ooh-la-la and a lot of incroyable thrown in.
Fun, French style. Wonderful memories of a wonderful people.
Hell, I miss France.
I can honestly say, with a hand on my heart
(hold it, that’s my stomach)
I can honestly say, with a hand on my heart

J’AIME LA FRANCE! Forever!

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 21, 2013, 6:56 pm

The Winds of Old Ireland (for the love of rhyme and verse)

June 18, 2013 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)

The Winds of Old Ireland

(for the love of rhyme and verse)

I confess: I’m a feeling man.
Oh, such a fool… in so many ways.
At times, a fool for women.
At times, a fool for wine.
Often, a fool for myself,
and a fool for Time.

“But of all the many fools I’ve been,
yes, I’ve been selfish, and yes, I’ve been mean,
I know that I could have done a lot worse,
but for the enduring love, of rhyme and verse.”

I’ve worked in many different places. And labored in many different jobs. And I’ve often heard the wind.
I’ve heard it whisper, and sigh. I’ve heard it groan, and cry.
I’ve heard it howl as well. And once, when we were caught out in a fast moving typhoon, somewhere out on the Pacific Ocean, west of the Solomon Islands, north of Australia, I’ve heard it shriek. That was the day I wondered if I would see the morrow.
But I’ve never heard the wind quite like it sounded in Ireland, when I was a young man.

I’ve flown through many a sky. In many different flying machines.
Flown to many different places. And I’ve often heard the wind.
I’ve heard it whisper, and sigh. I’ve heard it groan, and cry.
I’ve heard it howl as well. And once, when my biplane engine failed, somewhere in the sky, west of Cambridge, and north of Luton, I’ve heard it suddenly, loud and stark. That was another day I wondered if I would see the morrow.
But I’ve never heard the wind quite like it sounded in Ireland, when I was a young man.

I’ve driven a heavy motorbike, all over Europe.
Roared, far too fast, to many different places. And I’ve often felt and heard the wind. I’ve felt it tug at my leathers, and pull at my face. I’ve felt its force against my chest, as I, a dark rider, speeding and fleeting, accelerated away, a phantom, a ghost. And once, after I had crashed a Kawasaki Z-1, at over ninety, into an old Irish roadside wall, flying over the top of unyielding, solid stone, I lay, for a long time, flat on my back, listening gratefully to the sound of the wind.
And my young heart, beating…
But I’ve never heard the wind quite like it sounded in Ireland, when I was a young man.

I’ve dived headlong out of perfectly good flying machines.
Just for the hell of it, I wish I knew why. And that’s when you hear the wind in your face, as it batters you, shakes you, and rattles your jumpsuit. And once, over Bourges, in France, at terminal velocity, doing 120 m.p.h., when I pulled the ripcord, and absolutely nothing happened, I still heard the wind, when I shouldn’t have.
But I’ve never heard the wind quite like it sounded in Ireland, when I was a young man.

I loved poetry in those days. As I do now.
And I would take a book, and ride my old Triumph, out of Dublin and way up into the Wicklow mountains. I would drive for miles and miles, until I found myself, alone, walking across the heather, lost in verse and time. And I would listen to the wind, as it came to me. The wind, that caressed me, and fondly, playfully ruffled my hair. It seemed to me always, that the ghosts of old Ireland, it being such an ancient country, with so many countless generations gone before… it seemed to me these ghosts were carried to me, somehow, on the wind. And that these self-same ghosts, benign, but full of mischief, would come and visit for a while. Accompany me, on my solitary walk, debating amongst themselves, pleasantly, the merit of my fresh young thoughts. I for my part, would try and pay them homage, in my own way. I would recite to them, out loud, with feeling, from the old poetry. And I would modulate my voice, and strive to serve those bygone poets well with my simple, heartfelt renderings. And, careful lest I unwittingly caused offense, I picked my way respectfully around the old houses, the tumbled down roofless cottages, with the moss clad walls, those silent tributes to lost laughter and forgotten tears. And I would imagine, vividly, the great famine, the many years of hell, the absentee English landlords, and their cruel bailiffs, evicting the impoverished Irish tenants.

“But of all the many fools I’ve been,
yes, I’ve been selfish, and yes, I’ve been mean,
I know that I could have done a lot worse,
but for the enduring love, of rhyme and verse.”

And it was on one such a Summer day, I happened upon a silent house, standing on a small hill, with little more, than one good wall, still standing, forlorn, facing the sea. And where the upstairs bedroom would have been, there was left only an opening for a window. With the wooden frame long since gone. The curtains long departed. And in the upstairs room, now floor-less, with only the opening, I fancied, a young girl standing at the last remaining window, gazing out to sea. I, struck by her beauty, paused, shyly, not wishing to disturb her rapt concentration.
Presently, she turned, and spying me below, she smiled sweetly. I returned the smile, shyly. And, as happens in these strange, waking dreams, when Time reverses itself, as it can, I found myself, naturally, with no trace of surprise, in a rapt conversation with a girl who had died one hundred and thirty five years earlier. She spoke of the famine, and I spoke of books. She told me of her family, and I made her laugh with tales of mayhem and motorbikes. Her laugh was pleasant, like music in the still morning. She told me of her family, and I told her of my dreams. And, suddenly, we were standing upstairs, in her room, looking out that window, in perfect repair, the glass polished and shiny, out over the distant, sun bathed sea. And I sensed, through her words, her hopes for a better life, over the sea, in America. We talked for hours, we marveled at how much we had in common, and we shared our love for Life. She took my hand, and I shivered to feel the softness of her skin. There was a music in the air, a soft happiness, an innocence, and the freshness of Youth.

The sun lowering in the sky, it became time for me to go. Reluctantly, I said goodbye to this girl from the past. She stood and watched me go, with the wind brushing her long brown curls. Her serene smile, tender and understanding, never left her face. Her last words, spoken softly, were mellow and soft, almost joyous.

“I pray you, kind Sir, never think the less of us who went before. We are dead in this Life, but not the next. Our thoughts, our loving, our love of books, our hopes, our smiles… live on. One day, in the fullness of time, we will all be together again. I look forward to your stories, your poetry, and more of your adventures.
Live well, Francis, and be kind.”

I turned and walked away, reluctantly. On reaching the foot of that small hill, I turned and looked back. She, the maid with the long brown curls, was gone. Her former home, derelict, falling down, stood framed against the eternal sky. The lone window of the upper bedroom, floorless and roofless, stood sentry. Where we had stood, together, chatting easily, there was no floor.

But the lone window of our dreams, it stood proudly, a silhouette against the eternal, timeless sky…

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 19, 2013, 3:51 pm

The Chattering Brook

June 17, 2013 in Short Story (spiritual quest)

The Chattering Brook

An allegory

The chattering brook had been cascading down from the high, high mountains for aeons.
Since Time Immemorial, since the Very Early Days, before the Dark Times, the white, foaming, swirling waters had followed the creek bed down, thundering and roaring, past rocks and boulders, fallen tree stumps, slowing past open meadows, and speeding crazily through narrow gorges. The waters struck everything they encountered. Sometimes the force was awesome. Nothing standing in its way could remain unaffected. You could see the impact of the constant flow, over such a long time, everywhere you looked. Needless to say, some of the rocks were polished smooth. The endless rush of testing waters had worn them, and polished them. The sharp, craggy edges were long gone. In their place was a smooth surface. Other rocks however remained jagged, and sharp. Some were large, and hard as granite. Some were small, powdery, and inclined to shatter and break. Others were smaller still, like pebbles, sometimes like sand almost, endlessly tossed and played with, re-arranged and then deposited once again.

Surprisingly, they all argued with each other. The hard, granite rocks, attributed their seeming durability to their superior pedigree, their skill, and their intellect. The softer rocks, prone to shattering and divisions, claimed that theirs was the more logical way. The pebbles, not to be outdone, claimed their superiority based on numbers. And the sands, laughing at that line of logic, delighted in mischievously covering the pebbles with fine silt, whenever they got the chance. The arguments often got very noisy and heated. Everybody wanted to boast to everybody else about their superiority. Many claimed to know everything that was worth knowing, including the story of how they themselves (be they rock, pebble, a grain of sand, or a sunken log) had arrived at their present position. All claimed to be special, with superior knowledge granted only to them.

* * * * *

Only the swirling, foaming water, almost universally ignored by the contestants, never took part in these arguments. The water, everywhere, kindly inclined, ever present, spirited and pure, always merely listened patiently. The fierce debates amongst the rocks and the pebbles, the gravel and the sand, about wisdom and about who possessed superior knowledge, seemed to pass the waters by. It would have been easy for a casual observer to assume an aloofness, a cold indifference, a random game of chance, and a total absence of guidance.
But to have drawn this conclusion would have been to miss completely a certain quiet, hidden amusement. And a gentle wondering.

Why did so few stop to consider the presence of life giving water? The forming, shaping, ever present, infinitely patient, sculpting hands of the Great Designer?

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 17, 2013, 1:39 pm

Peak Awareness

June 16, 2013 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)

Peak Awareness

Standing on this craggy peak, high above the valley floor, alone, buffeted by the wind, I stretch out my arms to you.
I strain for you.
I reach for you, on tip toes.
I ache for you.

I know your Love. I feel it. I sense your touch.

The sun shines on me. The wind playfully ruffles my hair. The mountains stand witness. Overhead, eagles soar, and the vast expanse of Sky bears testimony. I can see for fifty miles.

I hesitate what to call you.
Do I call you Teacher? Jesus? Lord? Master? God? Allah? Jehovah?

None of the above!?

What then?

I strain to listen. I shut my eyes with the intensity.
For a long time, there is Silence. I trust you. If you will not speak, I will wait. I am patient. I know my place. I am small. I am limited. I trust you. I would like to know what to call you, but it does not matter. I can get by, not knowing.

I will depart now. It’s a long hike down this mountain. I would like to stay here with you, on this mountain. I would like to prolong this exquisite moment. This heartfelt longing. This sense of closeness. This sense of Peace. If I could, I would stay here with you forever. Just to be in your Presence. But I must go. Grateful for the Silence. Grateful for the Enormity I sense.

I will go now.
I shall take with me the word I feel impressed upon my heart.
The word I had not thought of.
Until this moment.

Yes. That is what I shall call you. From now on.

My Friend…

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 16, 2013, 5:17 pm

I looked in the mirror this morning

June 16, 2013 in Poetry

I looked in the mirror this morning

I looked in the mirror this morning,
un-fresh out of bed,
trying vainly to corral
my last few stuttering brain cells
flashing feebly in my sleep starved mind,

Overcome, I shut my eyes for a second
swaying precariously
gripping the cold plastic marble edge
of the weary, toothpaste stained basin
and tried to imagine myself a virile
sexy, well bodied, true blooded
hell-for-leather all defying ace
accustomed to my proper place,
flying through the myriad skies
conquering damsels and fathering dynasties.

Slowly and cautiously
I opened one eye
and peered furtively at the silhouette
that met me in the mirror;
I sighed, and opened the other peep hole,
and he… the Chosen One,
the True Heir of Ghengis Khan
scourge of all virginity
raised himself to his full height.

He needed a shave, I could see.
strong coffee
several stints and a shower
urgent oxygen,
and probably a face lift.

The words, spoken with feeling
Croaked out wearily, but with a certain mischievous delight…

“Morning, you dopey old fart… “

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 16, 2013, 3:15 pm

Grandfather Meyrick

June 15, 2013 in Auto-biographical (youth and childhood)

Grandfather Meyrick

(For Teddy)

I never -physically- met up with my Grandfather on my Mum’s side. Grandfather Meyrick.
But in a funny way, I think I do know him. Quite well, actually. Let me explain…
You see, Grandfather Meyrick, a chemist by trade, was also a prolific scribbler. According to my mother, he was a bard of sorts. He wrote short stories and poetry. My mother would recite some of his poems from memory. I remember there was one, that was her favorite, and it was written to commemorate Grandfather Meyrick’s wedding day, sometime in the 1890’s. The poem was all about the happy newlyweds parading out of the Catholic Cathedral after the Holy Matrimonial Ceremony. A very happy poem. It involved a line, which as a child, I thought brilliant:

“Bing-bong, the bells rang out over the blessed Boyne”.

(the Boyne being a river)

(On proof reading, just before posting this story irrevocably to the Internet, I caught a mis-type here. I originally had the “e” in “bells” as an “a”, and the “g” in “rang” was missing. I say, what? I am so glad I caught that. Grandfather Meyrick would have turned in his grave)

He seems to have very much endeared himself to his family, and was a bit of a local character. Not without his failings, he seems to have had a tendency to drift from one grandiose idea to another. Never quite achieving everything he hoped for. Thus the family moved around quite a bit, as he tried hard to better himself. My mother sadly recalled a moment when she was a young girl, when she and my Grandmother stepped off the train in Dublin, after a long and tiring journey. They were moving house, yet again, while Grandfather was moving from job to job. Grandfather met them all at the train station, (Mother, young daughter and baby son), with a big smile, and said:
“Well, we’re not staying here!”
To which my Grandmother apparently replied, with a lot of feeling:
“Well, I AM!”.
And she did, for forty five years. She was sick of the upheaval of moving.
I actually think that particular move came after their time in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Grandfather Meyrick ran a chemist shop there, and, being a Catholic, got caught up in the sectarian strife. We’re talking about the year 1906 or so. Crazy stuff. Same hate as today. My mother was a little girl, and was visiting in the Chemist shop with her Daddy, when several men walked in with masks and guns. Presumably Protestant para militaries. One of them leveled a shotgun across the counter at Grandfather Meyrick, and told him to “get the hell out of Belfast”. Or he would be shot.
Ethnic cleansing. Nothing new. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
To perform this act in front of a little girl shows the caliber of thuggery at play. It certainly traumatized my Mother, who would talk about it, five decades later, still in a hushed tone of voice. With a certain look in her eyes. Fear… never forgotten.

What I remember most strongly is that my mother adored my Grandfather. There is no doubt that the pair were close, and his story telling at bedtime, and his poetry scribbling, all contributed to a depth of Father-daughter feeling. Sensitive and warm. Which makes it all the more head-shakingly sad, that not a single written line of my Grandfather’s writing is left. I remember as a teenager asking my mother: “Do you have any of his stories written down?” I really wanted to read them. And when she sadly answered that there were none, I remember the bitter pang of utter disappointment. Whatever my genetic makeup and psychological profile amount to, I don’t pretend to remotely know, but there is some tendency towards scribbling, verse, and an innate curiosity about who I am, and where I stand (or fall) in the Grand Scheme of Things. Oi! What is my little place in the Cosmos?

I know, for sure, that I am , partly, my Grandfather Meyrick. Warts and all. The “grandiose ideas” part in particular strikes a chord, albeit an uncomfortable one. Ditto the endless “roaming around” bit, unable to really ever settle anywhere. I’m not sure I recommend those Meyrick traits to my descendants, but if it rears its head again, a generation or two down the line, then nobody ought to be surprised. Don’t blame me. Some poor bugger will end up infuriating his little wife and young family, by endlessly trekking around the Cosmos, from Earth to Mars to Planet Sigma, back to Tipperary, and if he reads these words, (or ether absorbs them), he’ll maybe understand why. If he’s lucky, he’ll have a plucky little wifey, who will put her foot down and cry: “Enough!”

History repeats itself. And History repeats the repetition. My mother was also a scribbler. I don’t recall any of her poetry, but she wrote short stories. She often read to me at bedtime. I loved the nursery rhymes. She even had stuff published. A magazine called “The Catholic Truth” (I think) published quite a few of her articles, under the name Angela Meyrick, and she was very proud of the fact. At one stage we visited a small lake near Witmarsum in North Holland, where some old saint had gotten himself bopped off a long time ago. The year 780 or something crazy. His name was “Bonifatius” if I remember, and there was this funny yellowish white statue of him beside this pond. I was about six or so at the time, and bored stiff. I had no clue what all the fuss and excitement was about. Who the heck cared about some dude called “Boniface”? A far as I was concerned, “Boney-Face” was a clot for getting himself chopped up by the Huns, and he totally interfered with more important things in my life. In due course, my mother showed me the article she had written for “The Catholic Truth” (I think), and there was a photo of the statue of that old fogey. I noted it all in passing contempt, preoccupied as I was with more pressing things that children concern themselves with.

It is only now, as I look back, that I wish for copies of my Mother’s scribbles. She died unexpectedly from a massive heart attack in her sleep, when I was twenty three. That is now thirty eight years ago. She had always said I could have all her books. Fate decreed otherwise. Within two years, my father decided to marry again, and for reasons best left unexplained, he surgically and methodically removed every last trace of my mother’s presence in the house. I was living away, and when I returned, every last scrap of paper had been eradicated. Not one single photo even was left hanging on the wall. I have none of my mother’s writings. Nada. Zip. I find that strange, even eery.

It’s like a shadow on the wall, where there should have been a painting.

Times move on, and I wonder about my descendants. None of my three (two sons and a daughter) scribble much, if at all. Those restless, edgy, sometimes pestiferous genes will probably be picked up by some unfortunate down the road. It is to that grandson, or great grandson, that I look when I carefully post my unworthy doodles to the Internet. I don’t want him (or her) to feel that same deep disappointment that I have felt twice. A sense that I should have been able to read my Grandfather’s thoughts. That I should have been able to understand his world, and his Times,a whole lot better. A sense that I should have been able to read my Mother’s thoughts. A sense that I should have been able to understand her world, and her Times, a whole lot better.

In order to better understand mine…

I simply have grown to realize that Life comes at us in cycles. What is gone, is not gone forever. What is gone, is not irrelevant. It may not even be gone. At all. Time itself may be far less rigidly sequenced, progressing inexorably in one direction only, than we tend to think. It is easy to assume that Time never reverses, and merely goes forward, second by unchanging second, inevitably and indifferently.
How simple we are.
The same goes for Dimensions. There are only three dimensions? Four? Five? Are we sure? I’m very skeptical about the assumption that our knowledge is even remotely complete. What I do see is a tendency for people to dismiss what cannot be immediately seen (in the limited frequency range in which we “see”). A tendency to want to touch, feel, measure, dissect, invest in, buy, sell, trade in… or dismiss it all as irrelevant and uninteresting. Pity. Did you know that in Particle Theory they need ten dimensions to explain fermions, and a cool twenty six dimensions to explain bosons? That’s important stuff. You don’t want to mess with an angry, pissed off boson. I guess. What if there exist actually an infinite number of dimensions? We should be careful to avoid displaying our innocence (or ignorance) by thinking that we know mucho. And that we know much more (of course) than our ignorant ancestors, living back in the unmentionable Dark Ages.
(any age prior to, say, our birth date. Or, the date we officially turned teenager)
I’m perfectly content to be ridiculed for saying that I “sense” that there is much more to Life than three score and ten. Or twenty. What we do, really matters. What we think, what our parents thoughts, our grandparents. It all matters a lot.

* * * * *

I’m glad Grandfather Meyrick was a scribbler. It explains a lot. I imagine he was feeling, caring, somewhat confused, kind of intelligent, kind of dumb, but always very human. No mean bones, just kinda needing a good whooping occasionally. Needing a good little woman.
Quite loveable, in his own bumbling way.

I like him. Present tense. And he is alive and relevant, today, in this confusing, frenetic, blurring world. You could tell that if you were ever to meet his dozy, equally challenged…

Grandson…

Francis Meyrick

PS: Confession Speaking
So there I was, proofreading this piece, prior to sticking it up on the Internet. I was once again reading the bit about my Grandfather and his bride happily promenading out of the cathedral. That was the picture I had in my mind’s eye. Bells ringing. People throwing flowers, and cheering.
Then… sleepily… I read what I had (mis)typed.
“Bing- Bong, the BALLS RAN OUT over the blessed Boyne.”
Huh? My tiny mind reeled, the image of wedded bliss, bells ringing out, rapidly alternating with a pair of (…) thinking “Bugger this lark! We are OUT of here!” and promptly legging it like stink across the blessed river Boyne…
I just can NOT get that bizarre picture out of my mind. I fear I have forever mutilated the last remaining verse of my respected maternal ancestor.

Sorry, Grandfather.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 15, 2013, 12:28 pm

Revealed Humanity

June 8, 2013 in The Great Cosmic Kindness

Revealed Humanity

A small handful of stories achieve something, that the common mass and jousting jumble of written words never, ever will:

They give us a glimpse into the very soul of the writer, naked and uncovered, brave and bloodied. Their tales are their gift to us. They permit us to walk a mile in their shoes, and breathe in for a humbling moment the very essence of their interaction with Life, Death, and the Universe.

These stories are rare, and precious, for their spiritual and emotional intensity. Their clarity and nobility. Through them, the humanity of the writer is revealed, bravely, for all to see. Katie achieves this with “Summertime”, and T.Clifford does it with “Of Dignity and Despair”. Alister Flik does it with “Confusion”, and Legion hits us hard with “The Man that Ruined my Life”. Very often the writers themselves have suffered. But without their hurt, the doubt, the bewilderment, even the self loathing, they would never have brought to us that delicate picture, that finely chiseled monument to compassion and feeling. Those are the stories I always hope to find.

Before Writers’ Harbor, I was a member of Writers’ Cafe. Dear, oh dear. Not nice. I remember one young black writer, obviously poorly educated, but writing feelingly about gangs, drugs, and the random impregnation of young girls for macho bragging reasons. Brilliantly insightful. Sure, he had technical issues, grammar goblins, the usual. Just the tools of the trade. You can acquire those over time. But the story behind it all was beautifully feeling. Well, the self appointed website Judges assaulted this emerging writer with a viciousness that was truly uncalled for. Soon, beaten up and discouraged, he withdrew into the shadows, and we heard no more from him. Such a loss.

I say that 99.9 per cent of writers take themselves way too seriously, and rate their own skills way too highly. Against that, 0.1 per cent of all writers are the often hidden, emotional and spiritual giants.
A handful of stories achieve something, that the common mass and jousting jumble of written words never will:

They give us a glimpse into the very soul of the writer, naked and uncovered, brave and bloodied. Their tales are their gift to us. They permit us to walk a mile in their shoes, and breathe in for a humbling moment the very essence of their interaction with Life, Death, and the Universe.

Revealed humanity. Brave. Awesome. The giants amongst us.
Those are the story tellers… I always hope to find.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 8, 2013, 1:39 pm

Kentucky Fried God – Cyber Portal

June 7, 2013 in Other Authors


Last Update: 8/7/2014

Kentucky Fried God – Cyberportal Spiritual Fast Food

WWW.HARBORSTORIES.COM
Clapping
WWW.HARBORWRITERS.COM

Yo! “Writers’ Harbor” has now been going since 2007. I started it to get away from all the “Nasty” in Cyberspace. Can’t we all just get along? If Aliens ever come and surf the Internet to measure Man’s Civility and Intellect, and based on that, to decide if we are worth saving as a species… then we might be in trouble, eh? I have enjoyed corresponding with a surprisingly wide variety of people, on all sorts of topics. The Universe, Time, The Meaning of Life, the Existence (or not) of an Intelligent Creator , The Purpose (or not) and Meaning of Life, Spiritualism, Creationism, Evolution, Science, the future of Science over the next few centuries, Astral Travel, Time Travel, Space Exploration, Religion, Christianity, Islam, Materialism, Evil, Progress, Humanity, and the best way to build a kennel for my pet Dromedary, we have discussed it all. One problem is that you end up with widely scattered stories and themes spread all over the website. And even fascinating private messages that ought truly to have been expanded into public comments.
For the Aviation Theme stories (Helicopters, Hairplanes, Flying, Skydiving, etc) we hit on the idea of introducing a cyber portal WWW.CHOPPERSTORIES.COM That seems to have been very popular, and sees plenty of usage. It compartmentalizes similar themes in one easily accessible place. It also forced me to discipline myself to produce what is meant to be an open and easily accessible “inventory”, to which we add material from time to time. In a similar vein, here goes with the early stages of another cyber portal. This one is dedicated to the theme of Spiritual Searching, in a very loose and flexible use of the term.
WWW. HARBORSTORIES.COM is the brand new domain. (type it in the wide address bar, not the small search box)
I have tried to approach it honestly, with a certain tongue-in-cheek gentle humor, and with no fixed or hidden agenda. I’m not trying to convert you, attain the seventeenth plane of the Zoroastrian Transversity Pink Awareness Bubble, and you don’t have to send me any money. You may well be much more knowledgeable or insightful in certain areas than I will ever be, (sorry, that doesn’t take much), so let’s just see where the group walk takes us. I’m relying on my cyber friends to make it an interesting journey. You can reply any way you wish. (Note 1) Think of it as sitting around the table in a cozy Old Irish Pub, on a cold winter’s day, with an open fire blazing away…

The “headings ” below don’t pretend to be complete, relevant, or even sensible. It’s just meant as a rough inventory, a reference framework to get this Creativity Session started. The Bar is Open! May the Muse be with you!

Alienation
Allegory and Symbolism
Atheism
Bitterness
Childhood, Innocence, Early Years
Compassion, Gentle People
Confusion
Evil in this World
Hope
Man’s Humanity
Man’s Inhumanity
Materialism
Nature, Species Interdependence, The Biosphere, The Pale Blue Dot
Resilience
Searching for… What?
Solitude
The Sixth Sense

Alienation

Francis Meyrick – Diary (14): Alienation
Francis Meyrick – Of Helicopters and Humans (1) “Living in a Cubicle”
I am the Pin Ball

Allegory & Symbolism

Nothumbs Francis Meyrick – The Little Bird off Slea Head (#1)
Francis Meyrick -The Little Bird off Slea Head (#2)
The Ducks of Finchingfield
Francis Meyrick – The King’s Great Castle
Francis Meyrick – I miss the darkness of her Light
Francis Meyrick – The Chattering Brook
Francis Meyrick – Lin-hsia (To be in the Woods)

Atheism

Derlogi – On Religion and Pascal’s Wager
Comment on Nicole Hellene’s “On being an Angry Atheist “

Bitterness Your Story? Input? (0)

Legion – The Man that Ruined my Life
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (12) “No Man is an Island”
Francis Meyrick -Exile

Childhood, Innocence, Early Years Your Story? Input? (0)

Katie – Learn to be Still
Katie – Summertime 5 STARS
Francis Meyrick – Kentucky Fried God-in-a-Box (#1)
Francis Meyrick – Kentucky Fried God-in-a-Box (#2)
Francis Meyrick – Going to Confession

Compassion, Gentle People Your Story? Input? (0)

Katie – Mr Willard’s Going Home Part 1
Adelene Tan – A reflection on what I do for a Living
Francis Meyrick – The Gentle Drunk
Francis Meyrick -The Guinea Pig
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#14) “On Holding hands, and Smoking Pot”
Francis Meyrick – The Winds of Old Ireland (for the love of rhyme and verse)

Confusion Your Story? Input?

Alister Flik – Confusion
Francis Meyrick Sensual Overload – The Snow Storm
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#13) “The Lady in Blue”
Francis Meyrick – The Fool on the Hill
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#10) “Burning the Garbage; Moggy, Moggy, what you DO??”
Francis Meyrick – Jeremy’s War (# 33) “Shadows in the Fire”
Francis Meyrick – The Burning Soldier (#3) – Silent Warrior
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#8) – Eyes of Dead Man

Evil in this World Your Story? Input? (0)

Jessica isn’t coming to play today
When Saddam met Satan

Hope

Katie – Loving Extravagantly, A Glimpse of Forever
Katie – I am Life without Boundaries
Katie – Wait for Me
Francis Meyrick – The Master’s Return
Francis Meyrick – The Road of Light
Francis Meyrick – Diary (1) “Over the Waves, Alone”
Francis Meyrick – The Blade of Damocles
To my Big Brother
Francis Meyrick – The Ugly Little Turtle
I flew Alone

Man’s Humanity Your Story? Input? (0)

Katie – Pour mon bon ami, le Danseur…
T.Clifford – Of Dignity and Despair 5 STARS
T.Clifford – A Rose among the Thorns
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#3) “Sunshine”
Francis Meyrick – Dreams to Allah
Francis Meyrick – If you’re Good…
Francis Meyrick – Untold Stories from Vietnam (#2) “Chance Encounters”
Francis Meyrick – The Lonely Butterfly (#1)
Francis Meyrick – The Lonely Butterfly (#2)
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#33) “Fly Quietly, for our Friends lie there.”
Francis Meyrick – The Murderer

Man’s Inhumanity Your Story? Input?

Francis Meyrick -The Burning Soldier ( #1)
Francis Meyrick – The Burning Soldier (#2)
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#20) “Only the Idiots”
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#29A) “The Hookers are Coming”
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#29C) “Hotel Excelsior”
Francis Meyrick – Diary (6) “Maybe we just all lose”
Jeremy’s War (Ch.11) “Hate Thy Neighbor”
Francis Meyrick – Abhorrence of War

Materialism

Nothing (2) – Foremost Love

Nature, Species Interdependence, The Biosphere, the Pale Blue Dot

Francis Meyrick – Die with the Dolphins (#1)
Francis Meyrick – Die with the Dolphins (#2)
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#27A ) “Musing about Mother Earth”
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#27B) “The Quiet Observer”
Francis Meyrick -The Oystercatcher
Our New Dog
Francis Meyrick – The Tuna Hunter (Ch.1) “The Empty Quarter”
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#11) – Plastic, War, and Manta Rays

Resilience

Katie – The dark Night of the Soul
Francis Meyrick – Storm and Fire

Searching for…what? Your Story? Input?

Katie – Samhain
Francis Meyrick – Revealed Humanity
Francis Meyrick – Sugarloaf Mountain
Francis Meyrick – The Knocking
Francis Meyrick – Floater Me
Francis Meyrick – A kinder, more gentle Cyberspace?
Francis Meyrick – Peak Awareness
Nothumbs Of Helicopters and Humans (28) “Beauty and the Wind “ NEW 8/7/14

Solitude

Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#1) “Staying with the Herd”
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#2) “Running the Gauntlet”
Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#18) “Starry, starry Night”
Francis Meyrick – I crave a drop of Solitude
Red Dust (1): If you need a Teacher NEW 2/28/14
Red Dust(2): In the Shadow of the Turtle, Meditation NEW 2/28/14
My Hut in the Sky

The Sixth Sense

Francis Meyrick – A Blip on the Radar (#31) “A Strange Premonition”
Francis Meyrick – The Fool of Auschwitz

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 7, 2014, 9:46 am