CAVEMAN CHRONICLES: June 2010

Well, here I am, back in beautiful New Jersey. Oops, let me correct myself, beautiful (southern) New Jersey, not to be confused with that "place" up north where the Rafters live. (Just kidding it's pretty up there too) But man, beautiful isn't even good enough to describe the Cape in late spring/early summer.

Having a down day today, as tomorrow is fixing to be a real challenge...

Down day--you know, like a summer day when your a kid-- fresh out of school. The kind of day when you can just take a walk around the block and listen to the birds. Flashes of memories have been snapping and crackling in my head all day; childhood adventures--seeking turtles, swimming in secret wooded ponds, climbing trees, or just simply sitting and watching ants crawl across a sidewalk, or listening to the quiet sound dust makes as it sparkles across a random ray of sunlight in an empty house.

The word of my day is silence. Quietness--land--big land like that here in America seems to carry a certain amount of silence around with it in a way I didn't seem to notice in Hawaii. Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of quiet places in Hawaii, even on Oahu, but those places seem to carry so much rich spiritual history, so much "mana," that it can be hard to tap into for an outsider. Even the quietest mountaintops seem to rage with some intense underlying passion, a passion I have the utmost respect and awe for, but may never fully be a part of. But here, though, are my roots. And as I slowly meandered my way down to the big Delaware bay today by bicycle, I felt a deep connection to those roots, to the very oaks and pines, to the cedars, holly's, and dogwoods, and to the spirits of the creatures alive and wild and crazy in the woods surrounding me.

I wandered to the bay today--nothing else to do by choice-- purposely letting my mind drift off into those old woods, and as I did I began to see a people, a line of humans with dark skin and bright warm smiles, with long dark hair covered by feathers and beads, and with the skins of wild animals draped across their chests. On both sides of me I saw these people, these Natives, these Americans, these Indians... and as they smiled at me I realized that this place has "mana" too, that it has always been here, and that my roots are theirs. Perhaps they do not grow in a perfect configuration, perhaps at first they may have even clashed a bit, but now, as decided by time and the hands of our mother nature, the roots have grown strong and powerful and are filled with the flavor of a place that is no more.

The road to the Bay from my parents home is a long and quiet wooded lane, about three miles long, with almost no homes on it. It is a road that leads directly into the Delaware, in-fact, the only warning you get to keep you from driving straight out into the chocolate brown water of the bay is the powder white beach of sand that shines brightly across the shore day or night. I rode a bicycle to this shore--no shoes, no shirt, letting the sun and the earthy air surround and fill my body.

At the beach I took a walk, I smelled the rotting corpses of the horse-shoe crabs who have chosen to die here for some ancient reason, and listened to the laugh of the gulls who like most other creatures are both consciously indifferent, yet subconsciously, or even spiritually aware, and respectfully in rhythm with the death of not only these crabs, but of all the creatures either losing or gaining their lives each day on the beach.

As I walked along the beach I scanned the sand for treasure, something I've always been fascinated with since I was a boy--first on this beach at the age of six, over twenty years ago. And treasure I found, both in a variety of sea glass found in the sand, and in a variety memories I raked from the big beach in my mind.

Treasure...

I remembered walking this road in the winter, years ago with Gimper and Slugger, not much older than twelve, up to our knees in snow, and out for adventure. We found a dead deer on the side of the road, a fawn. She was hit by a car I think, and laid in the snow, as she now lay in my mind, asleep forever.

I remember when my brother crashed our fathers corvette, years later, but only a few yards from where we found the deer. I guess being from New Jersey he wanted to do something to show how proud he was of that, so he took the corvette with his friend Eric, popped in a Bon Jovi cassette tape, flipped to the track, "living on a prayer," got the car up to about sixty miles an hour and spun it into the woods--right between two old oak trees-- "living on a prayer," I guess.

And I also came across more recent memories, memories of books I read this winter...
One book specifically came to mind that seemed to blend perfectly into the place I found myself today. It has quickly become a favorite, not only for the archaic account of a place and a people I have always been fascinated with, but for the passion it conveys of those people, for their wisdom of the land, and the water, and the love that binds them to those things I also love.

So I guess I will end with a block quote from that book... (please forgive the intensity of the quote, I just loved how the author got my heart racing during this scene, sort of towards the beginning of the book, unreal old school romantic imagery)...

"When Uncas had brained his first antagonist, he turned, like a hungry lion, to seek another. The fifth and only Huron disengaged at the first onset, had paused a moment, and then seeing that all around him were employed in the deadly strife, he had sought, with hellish vengeance, to complete the baffled work of revenge. Raising a shout of triumph, he had sprung towards the defenseless Cora, sending his keen axe, as the dreadful precursor of his approach. The tomahawk grazed her shoulder, and cutting the withes which bound her to the tree, left the maiden at liberty to fly. She eluded the grasp of the savage, and reckless of her own safety, threw herself on the bosom of Alice, striving, with convulsed and ill-directed fingers, to tear asunder the twigs which confined the person of her sister. Any other than a monster would have relented at such an act of generous devotion to the best and purest affection; but the breast of the Huron was a stranger to any sympathy. Seizing Cora by the rich tresses which fell in confusion about her form, he tore her from her frantic hold, and bowed her down with brutal violence to her knees. The savage drew the flowing curls through his hand, and raising them on high with an outstretched arm, he passed the knife around the moulded head of his victim, with a taunting and exulting laugh. But he purchased this moment of fierce gratification with the loss of the fatal opportunity. It was just then the sight caught the eye of Uncas. Bounding from his footsteps, he appeared for an instant darting through the air, and descending in a ball he fell on the chest of his enemy, driving him many yards from the spot, headlong and prostrate. The violence of the exertion cast the young Mohican at his side. They arose together, fought, and bled, each in his turn. But the conflict was soon decided; the tomahawk of Heyward, and the rifle of Hawk-eye, descended on the skull of the Huron, at the same moment that the knife of Uncas reached his heart."