Upon finishing Petrarch's "Ascent of Mount Ventoux", my first thought was: here is reason enough why the mountains kept their secrets from people until the 18th century. In his closing statements, Petrarch wrote "How earnestly should we strive, not to stand on mountain-tops, but to trample beneath us those appetites which spring from earthly impulses."
Petrarch believed his mountain empty, and his effort to summit worthless when compared to human contemplation of the divine. He was too taken with scripture to pay his accomplishment much mind.
"How many times, think you, did I turn back that day, to glance at the summit of the mountain which seemed scarcely a cubit high compared with the range of human contemplation..."
What a goof. Would that he had tried Everest, where the thin air steals contemplation straight from our consciousness.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
How It Happened IV
Episodes I-III to follow...
Irony is the greatest of turns because it encompasses both comedy and tragedy. There is something caustic to enjoy, even when you're swimming in her darkest manifestations.
I spent hours pouring over maps of Pacheco State Park (east of Santa Cruz) during the run-up to our third adventure race. I had maps on my desk at home, I stuck maps in my school books, and I panted and spit over maps fastened to my apartment complex's pithy treadmill and stationary bike. Maps, maps, maps. My hope was that I would be able procure some kind of archaic knowledge from the topography to make up for my lack of fitness--I had only six weeks to train, after all. Six weeks of nightly runs, rides, and simulated paddling with a 20lb kettle-bell.
In the end, my topographical study paid off. Though not in the way I intended.
The strength and cardio conditioning paid off too. By the morning of March 14 I was up ten pounds, in fair shape, and sitting on a boatload of calories. All for the better, since I didn't sleep well the night before. Sometime around 5:30 am I fired up the engine to warm the cab, and around 6:00 I emerged to heed nature.
Door open, slap in the face. High thirties augmented by 20mph winds whipping dew from the ground and peppering my exposed face and extremities. The cold bit through layers of synthetic armor. Chilly chilly. Portents of things to come. From inside John's fortress of solitude the external world sounded like a symphonic choir warming to crescendo. The pre-dawn gloom lent it an eerie quality. Memories of purgatory came to mind: refrigerated cold-storage for the soul, a millennia of penitence on the throne of a port-o. I studied my tattered map one last time before finishing my business and blitzing back to my car.
Movement in Steve's truck. I got busy getting things together in my car. I had about an hour until pre-race briefing, and an hour and a half until the starting gun. I fiddled and fidgeted with my camelbacks and gels. Eventually I made the move to Steve's truck to choke down a breakfast of bland, porridge-like oatmeal, a banana, and some tastey yogurt. I wasn't the slightest bit hungry, but down it went. Steve thoughtfully supplied an assortment of multicolored pills, the last of which was black in color. As Steve handed it to me he said, "This one smells like foot."
I sniffed. A hint of nutmeg. "More like Christmas-foot." It made sense at the time.
Sun came up. Wind picked up. We checked in, getting our official race map with all the check-points marked. Biking was first, followed by kayaking, biking again, then running. I went to work on a route for the initial bike leg while Steve busied himself setting up our transition gear (extra food to gobble, propel to chug, and gels to pack during the race transition).
Then it was race briefing time. We huddled behind a car during the announcements. Rich, the race organizer, went over the rules and chipped in some race advice. "Short-course teams might want to only get the required bike and paddle points to save time, and then pick up the extra points during the run section."
I thought hard about this advice. The biking, kayaking, and running distances were longer than we had been led to believe prior to the race. We were looking at about twelve miles biking, seven miles kayaking, and at least four miles running. And we had four hours to do it. Since running was our strongest event, Steve and I decided to forgo the extra biking and paddling points. I decided to alter my initial route. Examining the map, my pre-race topographical obsession paid off; I mapped an extensive, off-trail detour that avoided the obvious on-trail route. After we gained the first summit and checkpoint, we would backtrack the way we came, make an overland dash, and swing down a short hill to the second checkpoint. We were going to trade a hardened, certain, trail for less elevation fluctuation and uncertain direction. [See my route here. Be sure to switch to "Terrain" view.]
Through a bull-horn: "Ten minutes to race-start!"
We jogged back to the car. Warmed up on our bikes, stretched, calmed the butterflies. Decided that the wind whipping across Spike's Peak ridge line warranted my throwing on a long-sleeve technical shirt and Steve wearing his cotton hoodie.
"Five minutes to race-start!"
We agreed we wouldn't worry about clambering for a spot near the crowded start-line. Nor would we attempt to keep up with the front-runners; we learned our lesson about pacing during the last race. Steve asked whether my unorthodox route was a good idea. I reassured him, ignoring my own uncertainties.
"One minute!"
We lined up toward the middle of the 80-odd person pack. Waited. Waited. Then, at around 8:40 am: "GOOOOOOOO!"
We pedaled up the slight incline alongside a thick pack, two and three wide. We passed people. People passed us. Those at the front, twenty, thirty, forty seconds ahead blew their wads on the ascent. We rounded a corner, and began the stiff incline toward the Spike's Peak ridge-line. It wasn't long before Steve and I, not having clip-in pedals, were jogging beside our bikes while those around us pedaled past (climbing stiff inclines is much easier with the extra torque added from the up-pedal).
Soon enough we were at the back, with "the pack" now strung along the ridge before us. We took comfort in the thought that when the run came we would (hopefully) trump the folks who were now far ahead of us. That and the fact that no one was coming down the hill toward us: we would be the only ones following my route.
After some thirty minutes' toil, we gained the top of Spike's Peak (3 miles, 500' gain). We dropped our bikes at the summit and ran down to the checkpoint about two hundred yards down the slope. Unfortunately, by now, most had already snagged the point and were on to the next, so we passed the orange flag marking the point (hidden in a tree) without noticing. We ran twice the distance necessary before backtracking, finding the point, and regaining the summit. Another couple minutes lost.
But it was time to fly. We coasted down two miles before we came to the spot where we would diverge from the trail. The terrain was good. Finger-length, deep green grass covered firm dirt. Good for biking. We cut across country, rode down and up a tiny gully, then came against a barbed-wire fence that was not on the map. Steve hucked his bike over and climbed after. I lifted my bike, passed it to him, then carefully...carefully eased my crotch over the rusty wire.
We were riding across the hilly incline again...or, at least, I was riding. Steve's front brake was rubbing harshly against his rim, so he was jogging a bit behind with his front tire off the ground. We got to the top of a hill to get our bearings. Steve unbuckled his front brake. I decided on a line to the next hill. And we were off again.
From the top of the next hill, pretty as could be, I could see the dinosaur-footprint lake that was our next landmark. And floating above was another orange marker. We flew down the hill (Steve, sans a front break, a bit more carefully). We got our checkpoint. No one was around. The trail leading to the checkpoint flag was virgin mud--we were the first to arrive. The shortcut had put us in front of everyone.
I cackled as we rode out toward terrain with which we were familiar from volunteering at the 2008 race. We cut across country again, making a second shortcut to the long, 9% grade that led down to San Luis Reservoir and the kayaking portion. We rode on an overgrown length of asphalt before finding a way down to the main road. Hopped another fence. Enjoyed the feeling of fresh wind in our faces for a mile and a half.
We coasted in to the kayaking transition area before anyone else. It was 10:04 am.
As we arrived it was clear the support staff on hand was not expecting us. I recall one member stating something to the effect of "You're early," and the few people who were there seemed almost uncertain what to do with us.
We parked our bikes. We were in a rush. I stood by as Steve registered our card with the staff members. We shrugged into our life jackets. They were too tight. If we zipped them then we couldn't breathe properly. Oh well. We lifted our boat and trotted down the ramp. No one mentioned the fact that the amber warning lights had come on. No one warned us to stay close to the shoreline. To their credit, they did ensure we were wearing our life jackets.
As we started to launch the kayak, we noticed two people walking down the steep pitch toward the launch (they appeared to be staff members -- from the distance one resembled Vince, but I can't be sure if it was he). I raised my hands in a questioning gesture, but they did not respond to my inquiry. The competition was breathing down our neck, we weren't going to wait around for them to chat (especially since it was obvious from their gait that their purpose was not urgent), so we launched.
The waves and currents within the tiny, sheltered launch bay were enough to make progress difficult for the two of us. I can't imagine how hard it must have been on the solo racer who arrived at the launch checkpoint a few minutes behind us.
As we progressed toward a small peninsula (more of a point) that marked the end of the launch bay I realized that the two staff members watching us from shore were probably doing so to judge our effectiveness against the water and wind. Steve and I, in our rented kayak, were the guinea pigs by which the safety of the paddling leg of the race was to be judged. Our progress, difficult as it was (we nearly capsized once, then. If only we had…) signaled that the race was on. And once we rounded the point, there was no way for staff members to know how we would progress in the open water.
Needless to say, we rounded the point. With some difficulty, we were off toward the Cottonwood Bay Dam to claim our checkpoint. It was extremely difficult to keep our heading, as the kayak itself acted like a sail in the water, propelling us along with the wind and waves. Even if we had wanted to stay close to shore, the wind and current would have kept us away.
We made reasonable progress. Steve and I kept a near-constant vigil on our six, not only looking out for other racers but also for the motorized boat we assumed would patrol the rough water for safety. We never saw another boat. Not once during our entire ordeal, until the very end. We did, however, begin taking small amounts of water from whitecapped waves spilling into the kayak.
It was only a matter of time until a large swell combined with a harsh gust to push us over. I checked my watch minutes before we went in the drink. 11:00 am. Two miles past anyone.
Then: frigid water. Where are the paddles? Got them. Where are our bike helmets. Got them. Controlled breathing. Ten or more attempts to get back in the kayak. Fail, fail, fail. Each time the kayak took more water. Cramping limbs. Swamped boat. Stuck in rough water, getting slapped in the face by four foot swells, choking on the lake forced down our throats, trying to use the sinking boat as buoyancy. Still holding on to the paddles.
Ok. No problem. We've been in worse situations. Then, Bear Grylls cockney accent in my head: get out of the water. Keep your head up. Keep moving. Stay alert. I heeded. We need to get out of the water, but we can't leave the boat. We can't leave the boat. It's not ours to abandon. We can't leave it.
Let's kick and push the fucker to shore.
Ten minutes later, after an exhaustive struggle against the wind and waves toward the closest land (150-200 yards) for ten minutes, Steve pointed out we hadn't made any progress. Okay. The shore in the other direction seemed like miles away. So, time to chill out and wait for rescue, never mind abandoning the boat and swimming the closer stretch. I pushed my rolled-up sleeves down to help keep me warm. Good thing I packed a technical sweater.
I struggled with the life-jacket zipper, struggling to zip the vest. Without it properly zipped, my upper torso (and head) would dip forward while the vest splayed out at my sides. My fingers, however, had lost all dexterity from their exposure. I could latch the zipper, but not pull it up. After four or five tries I just said "fuckit."
I was still holding on to the paddles.
What seemed like eons passed. We clung to the boat, riding it even as it spun under the water. Eventually, all buoyancy was lost, and we were left with a boat resting just below the surface of the water (as if the rough lake had a single surface), and us with nothing but our life-jackets to keep our heads above the water.
As our core temps plummeted, the water seemed to warm up. We didn't realize it, then, but we were both hypothermic. I just thought the midday sun was finally giving us some respite. We chatted a little, but mostly kept to our own thoughts. We didn't embrace in the water to conserve heat because that would require abandoning the boat.
Still no sign of rescue. I checked my watch at 11:43. 11:43?! Where's the rescue boat? Where are the other racers? I bet the canceled the kayak portion. They'd be insane not to. Probably forgot we were even out here. That must be it. Why else wouldn't they have checked on us?
Still holding on to the paddles. Should let them drift so I can concentrate on staying warm. Good thinking, just let 'em go.
I remember Steve saying: "The curse of being cursed." I remember watching clouds drift by. I remember cold water spilling down my throat. I put my feet up in the front seat of the kayak, so as not to drift away. This inclined position had the bonus of putting my knees above the water. Things were starting to get comfortable. A bad sign. We should have let the boat go and swam. Would have kept us warm.
Incredulous, I noticed I still had a hold of the goddamn paddles. What the hell was the point.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I thought it. Steve screamed it. "Where the hell is the fucking rescue?" He was totally cramped up. Perpetually since about two minutes after we hit the water. My cramping wasn't nearly as bad, and it was pretty much gone by this point.
Past noon, now. Finally let go of the paddles. Watched them drift away with our bike helmets, which Steve had finally released. Didn't even think about hooking them on to the kayak's netting. It just didn't seem important. Nothing seemed important.
I tucked my arms in my armpits, and relaxed. Closed my eyes. Had my head upturned toward the peekaboo sun, though it didn't warm my face the slightest.
Steve asked a question or two. "Is that comfortable?"
"Yes." Slurred speech. Another bad sign.
Then, no memory. I lost consciousness.
One flash of hallucinogenic memory: Steve leaping out of the water like Shamoo, his arms waving above his head yelling "OVER HERE! OVER HERE!" In the background, a towered boat turning toward him.
No memory. The after-incident report reads:
Sensation of movement. Open eyes. Brown-haired man asking me questions. His voice sounds like it's coming from the top of a well; I'm at the bottom. "Can you tell me your name?"
Speaking was an effort. "Phillip Clemens." -- That's what it says on my hospital wristband.
No memory.
Lots of people around me in blue scrubs. Wonderful, blessed warmth over my entire body. Like I'm lying in a hot bath. No. They're pumping warm saline through my veins. They've heaped warm, dry blankets atop me. They've crafted a kind of halo out of them and placed it around my head. Questions: "Allergies? Alcohol? Hit your head?"
Through intense, uncontrollable shivering: "No. No. No." Heart-rate is a constant 140 bpm. Won't calm down.
I can hear Steve next to me. He's alive. I could cry, if only I could summon the will to emotion.
He calls over, "Hey Phil. How's it going over there?"
I stutter a reply, "P-p-pretty good. Should-d-d b-be used to thisss b-b-by now. How are y-y-you f-f-feeling?"
"Never been better. Not sure what happened to my clothes, though."
****
Irony is the greatest of turns because it encompasses both comedy and tragedy. There is something caustic to enjoy, even when you're swimming in her darkest manifestations.
I spent hours pouring over maps of Pacheco State Park (east of Santa Cruz) during the run-up to our third adventure race. I had maps on my desk at home, I stuck maps in my school books, and I panted and spit over maps fastened to my apartment complex's pithy treadmill and stationary bike. Maps, maps, maps. My hope was that I would be able procure some kind of archaic knowledge from the topography to make up for my lack of fitness--I had only six weeks to train, after all. Six weeks of nightly runs, rides, and simulated paddling with a 20lb kettle-bell.
In the end, my topographical study paid off. Though not in the way I intended.
The strength and cardio conditioning paid off too. By the morning of March 14 I was up ten pounds, in fair shape, and sitting on a boatload of calories. All for the better, since I didn't sleep well the night before. Sometime around 5:30 am I fired up the engine to warm the cab, and around 6:00 I emerged to heed nature.
Door open, slap in the face. High thirties augmented by 20mph winds whipping dew from the ground and peppering my exposed face and extremities. The cold bit through layers of synthetic armor. Chilly chilly. Portents of things to come. From inside John's fortress of solitude the external world sounded like a symphonic choir warming to crescendo. The pre-dawn gloom lent it an eerie quality. Memories of purgatory came to mind: refrigerated cold-storage for the soul, a millennia of penitence on the throne of a port-o. I studied my tattered map one last time before finishing my business and blitzing back to my car.
Movement in Steve's truck. I got busy getting things together in my car. I had about an hour until pre-race briefing, and an hour and a half until the starting gun. I fiddled and fidgeted with my camelbacks and gels. Eventually I made the move to Steve's truck to choke down a breakfast of bland, porridge-like oatmeal, a banana, and some tastey yogurt. I wasn't the slightest bit hungry, but down it went. Steve thoughtfully supplied an assortment of multicolored pills, the last of which was black in color. As Steve handed it to me he said, "This one smells like foot."
I sniffed. A hint of nutmeg. "More like Christmas-foot." It made sense at the time.
Sun came up. Wind picked up. We checked in, getting our official race map with all the check-points marked. Biking was first, followed by kayaking, biking again, then running. I went to work on a route for the initial bike leg while Steve busied himself setting up our transition gear (extra food to gobble, propel to chug, and gels to pack during the race transition).
Then it was race briefing time. We huddled behind a car during the announcements. Rich, the race organizer, went over the rules and chipped in some race advice. "Short-course teams might want to only get the required bike and paddle points to save time, and then pick up the extra points during the run section."
I thought hard about this advice. The biking, kayaking, and running distances were longer than we had been led to believe prior to the race. We were looking at about twelve miles biking, seven miles kayaking, and at least four miles running. And we had four hours to do it. Since running was our strongest event, Steve and I decided to forgo the extra biking and paddling points. I decided to alter my initial route. Examining the map, my pre-race topographical obsession paid off; I mapped an extensive, off-trail detour that avoided the obvious on-trail route. After we gained the first summit and checkpoint, we would backtrack the way we came, make an overland dash, and swing down a short hill to the second checkpoint. We were going to trade a hardened, certain, trail for less elevation fluctuation and uncertain direction. [See my route here. Be sure to switch to "Terrain" view.]
Through a bull-horn: "Ten minutes to race-start!"
We jogged back to the car. Warmed up on our bikes, stretched, calmed the butterflies. Decided that the wind whipping across Spike's Peak ridge line warranted my throwing on a long-sleeve technical shirt and Steve wearing his cotton hoodie.
"Five minutes to race-start!"
We agreed we wouldn't worry about clambering for a spot near the crowded start-line. Nor would we attempt to keep up with the front-runners; we learned our lesson about pacing during the last race. Steve asked whether my unorthodox route was a good idea. I reassured him, ignoring my own uncertainties.
"One minute!"
We lined up toward the middle of the 80-odd person pack. Waited. Waited. Then, at around 8:40 am: "GOOOOOOOO!"
We pedaled up the slight incline alongside a thick pack, two and three wide. We passed people. People passed us. Those at the front, twenty, thirty, forty seconds ahead blew their wads on the ascent. We rounded a corner, and began the stiff incline toward the Spike's Peak ridge-line. It wasn't long before Steve and I, not having clip-in pedals, were jogging beside our bikes while those around us pedaled past (climbing stiff inclines is much easier with the extra torque added from the up-pedal).
Soon enough we were at the back, with "the pack" now strung along the ridge before us. We took comfort in the thought that when the run came we would (hopefully) trump the folks who were now far ahead of us. That and the fact that no one was coming down the hill toward us: we would be the only ones following my route.
After some thirty minutes' toil, we gained the top of Spike's Peak (3 miles, 500' gain). We dropped our bikes at the summit and ran down to the checkpoint about two hundred yards down the slope. Unfortunately, by now, most had already snagged the point and were on to the next, so we passed the orange flag marking the point (hidden in a tree) without noticing. We ran twice the distance necessary before backtracking, finding the point, and regaining the summit. Another couple minutes lost.
But it was time to fly. We coasted down two miles before we came to the spot where we would diverge from the trail. The terrain was good. Finger-length, deep green grass covered firm dirt. Good for biking. We cut across country, rode down and up a tiny gully, then came against a barbed-wire fence that was not on the map. Steve hucked his bike over and climbed after. I lifted my bike, passed it to him, then carefully...carefully eased my crotch over the rusty wire.
We were riding across the hilly incline again...or, at least, I was riding. Steve's front brake was rubbing harshly against his rim, so he was jogging a bit behind with his front tire off the ground. We got to the top of a hill to get our bearings. Steve unbuckled his front brake. I decided on a line to the next hill. And we were off again.
From the top of the next hill, pretty as could be, I could see the dinosaur-footprint lake that was our next landmark. And floating above was another orange marker. We flew down the hill (Steve, sans a front break, a bit more carefully). We got our checkpoint. No one was around. The trail leading to the checkpoint flag was virgin mud--we were the first to arrive. The shortcut had put us in front of everyone.
I cackled as we rode out toward terrain with which we were familiar from volunteering at the 2008 race. We cut across country again, making a second shortcut to the long, 9% grade that led down to San Luis Reservoir and the kayaking portion. We rode on an overgrown length of asphalt before finding a way down to the main road. Hopped another fence. Enjoyed the feeling of fresh wind in our faces for a mile and a half.
We coasted in to the kayaking transition area before anyone else. It was 10:04 am.
As we arrived it was clear the support staff on hand was not expecting us. I recall one member stating something to the effect of "You're early," and the few people who were there seemed almost uncertain what to do with us.
We parked our bikes. We were in a rush. I stood by as Steve registered our card with the staff members. We shrugged into our life jackets. They were too tight. If we zipped them then we couldn't breathe properly. Oh well. We lifted our boat and trotted down the ramp. No one mentioned the fact that the amber warning lights had come on. No one warned us to stay close to the shoreline. To their credit, they did ensure we were wearing our life jackets.
As we started to launch the kayak, we noticed two people walking down the steep pitch toward the launch (they appeared to be staff members -- from the distance one resembled Vince, but I can't be sure if it was he). I raised my hands in a questioning gesture, but they did not respond to my inquiry. The competition was breathing down our neck, we weren't going to wait around for them to chat (especially since it was obvious from their gait that their purpose was not urgent), so we launched.
The waves and currents within the tiny, sheltered launch bay were enough to make progress difficult for the two of us. I can't imagine how hard it must have been on the solo racer who arrived at the launch checkpoint a few minutes behind us.
As we progressed toward a small peninsula (more of a point) that marked the end of the launch bay I realized that the two staff members watching us from shore were probably doing so to judge our effectiveness against the water and wind. Steve and I, in our rented kayak, were the guinea pigs by which the safety of the paddling leg of the race was to be judged. Our progress, difficult as it was (we nearly capsized once, then. If only we had…) signaled that the race was on. And once we rounded the point, there was no way for staff members to know how we would progress in the open water.
Needless to say, we rounded the point. With some difficulty, we were off toward the Cottonwood Bay Dam to claim our checkpoint. It was extremely difficult to keep our heading, as the kayak itself acted like a sail in the water, propelling us along with the wind and waves. Even if we had wanted to stay close to shore, the wind and current would have kept us away.
We made reasonable progress. Steve and I kept a near-constant vigil on our six, not only looking out for other racers but also for the motorized boat we assumed would patrol the rough water for safety. We never saw another boat. Not once during our entire ordeal, until the very end. We did, however, begin taking small amounts of water from whitecapped waves spilling into the kayak.
It was only a matter of time until a large swell combined with a harsh gust to push us over. I checked my watch minutes before we went in the drink. 11:00 am. Two miles past anyone.
Then: frigid water. Where are the paddles? Got them. Where are our bike helmets. Got them. Controlled breathing. Ten or more attempts to get back in the kayak. Fail, fail, fail. Each time the kayak took more water. Cramping limbs. Swamped boat. Stuck in rough water, getting slapped in the face by four foot swells, choking on the lake forced down our throats, trying to use the sinking boat as buoyancy. Still holding on to the paddles.
Ok. No problem. We've been in worse situations. Then, Bear Grylls cockney accent in my head: get out of the water. Keep your head up. Keep moving. Stay alert. I heeded. We need to get out of the water, but we can't leave the boat. We can't leave the boat. It's not ours to abandon. We can't leave it.
Let's kick and push the fucker to shore.
Ten minutes later, after an exhaustive struggle against the wind and waves toward the closest land (150-200 yards) for ten minutes, Steve pointed out we hadn't made any progress. Okay. The shore in the other direction seemed like miles away. So, time to chill out and wait for rescue, never mind abandoning the boat and swimming the closer stretch. I pushed my rolled-up sleeves down to help keep me warm. Good thing I packed a technical sweater.
I struggled with the life-jacket zipper, struggling to zip the vest. Without it properly zipped, my upper torso (and head) would dip forward while the vest splayed out at my sides. My fingers, however, had lost all dexterity from their exposure. I could latch the zipper, but not pull it up. After four or five tries I just said "fuckit."
I was still holding on to the paddles.
What seemed like eons passed. We clung to the boat, riding it even as it spun under the water. Eventually, all buoyancy was lost, and we were left with a boat resting just below the surface of the water (as if the rough lake had a single surface), and us with nothing but our life-jackets to keep our heads above the water.
As our core temps plummeted, the water seemed to warm up. We didn't realize it, then, but we were both hypothermic. I just thought the midday sun was finally giving us some respite. We chatted a little, but mostly kept to our own thoughts. We didn't embrace in the water to conserve heat because that would require abandoning the boat.
Still no sign of rescue. I checked my watch at 11:43. 11:43?! Where's the rescue boat? Where are the other racers? I bet the canceled the kayak portion. They'd be insane not to. Probably forgot we were even out here. That must be it. Why else wouldn't they have checked on us?
Still holding on to the paddles. Should let them drift so I can concentrate on staying warm. Good thinking, just let 'em go.
I remember Steve saying: "The curse of being cursed." I remember watching clouds drift by. I remember cold water spilling down my throat. I put my feet up in the front seat of the kayak, so as not to drift away. This inclined position had the bonus of putting my knees above the water. Things were starting to get comfortable. A bad sign. We should have let the boat go and swam. Would have kept us warm.
Incredulous, I noticed I still had a hold of the goddamn paddles. What the hell was the point.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I thought it. Steve screamed it. "Where the hell is the fucking rescue?" He was totally cramped up. Perpetually since about two minutes after we hit the water. My cramping wasn't nearly as bad, and it was pretty much gone by this point.
Past noon, now. Finally let go of the paddles. Watched them drift away with our bike helmets, which Steve had finally released. Didn't even think about hooking them on to the kayak's netting. It just didn't seem important. Nothing seemed important.
I tucked my arms in my armpits, and relaxed. Closed my eyes. Had my head upturned toward the peekaboo sun, though it didn't warm my face the slightest.
Steve asked a question or two. "Is that comfortable?"
"Yes." Slurred speech. Another bad sign.
Then, no memory. I lost consciousness.
One flash of hallucinogenic memory: Steve leaping out of the water like Shamoo, his arms waving above his head yelling "OVER HERE! OVER HERE!" In the background, a towered boat turning toward him.
No memory. The after-incident report reads:
"Pao saw a hand waving from the surface of the lake in Cottonwood Bay. We motored to the area and found two white male adults clinging to a capsized kayak. They were both showing signs of severe hypothermia. One victim told me his name was Steve, and said the victim with him was Phil. I told them we were there to rescue them and bring them into shore. I told them we were going to pull them into the boat and get the warm. Clements looked at me from the water and kept repeating "I don't know what you're saying." Pao and I pulled Clements and Caput into the patrol vessel using the boat ladder. Pao huddled them together on the deck of the patrol boat, and placed a wool blanket and a rescue blanket on the two, and then lay on top to generate heat. Pao said they were in bad shape. Caput began to moan. Pao said Caput was complaining his legs were beginning to cramp. I motored the Sentry as fast as it would go to Dinosaur Point Boat Ramp. I left the kayak behind."
"As I came back to Dinosaur Point, I told X253 to staff the boat dock with rescue personnel as my victims were in need of immediate care. When I got to Dinosaur Point, rescue personnel carried Clements off the patrol vessel. I assisted rescue personnel with Caput. I assisted carrying Caput to shore, and then cut all his wet clothes off him. Caput said, "This reminds me of Iraq." Rescue personnel loaded Clements and Caput into two ambulances and left for Los Banos Memorial Hospital. It would later be reported that Clements and Caput would be admitted to the emergency room with core body temperatures of 88F."
Sensation of movement. Open eyes. Brown-haired man asking me questions. His voice sounds like it's coming from the top of a well; I'm at the bottom. "Can you tell me your name?"
Speaking was an effort. "Phillip Clemens." -- That's what it says on my hospital wristband.
No memory.
Lots of people around me in blue scrubs. Wonderful, blessed warmth over my entire body. Like I'm lying in a hot bath. No. They're pumping warm saline through my veins. They've heaped warm, dry blankets atop me. They've crafted a kind of halo out of them and placed it around my head. Questions: "Allergies? Alcohol? Hit your head?"
Through intense, uncontrollable shivering: "No. No. No." Heart-rate is a constant 140 bpm. Won't calm down.
I can hear Steve next to me. He's alive. I could cry, if only I could summon the will to emotion.
He calls over, "Hey Phil. How's it going over there?"
I stutter a reply, "P-p-pretty good. Should-d-d b-be used to thisss b-b-by now. How are y-y-you f-f-feeling?"
"Never been better. Not sure what happened to my clothes, though."
****
Friday, January 16, 2009
Into the world
I settled on a synopsis after a ten day wrestle. Queries went out yesterday. Got a partial request from the agent at the top of my list, another partial, then my first rejection.
Woot!
Woot!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Query Dilemmas
I currently have two competing hooks for my query letters. They are structured very differently, as you will soon see, and I am in self-debate about which to choose.
- When an elite Old Fleet frigate picks him up off the Meteor, Yarn, a miner conscripted into military service, is glad to be rid of the cramped destroyer-escort, its draconian commander, and the Admiralty's unjust war against the Commonwealth of Earth and Mars. But it isn't long before Yarn realizes he is outclassed by the legendary crack spacers who ply the immortal Old Fleet relics of Earth's last golden age. He must gain the respect of his crewmates, if only to remind those reclusive heroes of their abandoned peacekeeping duty, before escalating hostilities between Jupiter and the Commonwealth destroy his home.
- Old Fleet was ever the ally of Jupiter's Jovian Union. Its ancient ships, the immortal relics of Earth's last golden age, safeguarded the Union for decades. But Old Fleet disappeared into legend, and now a new adversary threatens the Union's very existence from within: the Admiralty. Autocratic and warmongering, it has turned its bitter gaze to the rich Inner Commonwealth of Earth and Mars. Yarn, an employee of the Union's mining company, is no stranger to the monotony of the void. But, during a routine expedition to the asteroid belt, he intercepts a mysterious, encrypted transmission. Its contents plunge him into an adventure spanning the solar system – from under the thumb of the draconian Admiralty to the shining decks of Old Fleet itself, where he must remind those recluse heroes of their abandoned duty before war tears the Union apart.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
End of term
Progress slowed during the last three weeks. The end of the quarter brought a lot of work. But now that I'm finished with my academic commitment until January 2, I have some time to get back to what's important. I need to complete my last rewrite and query letter soon because I have an overloaded schedule for the next quarter. Four three hour grad seminars plus a readership, twice what I took during the Fall. Oh well...
Literature is beautiful. I'm working on a few snippets to add to the HAMMER. I'm also thinking of adding ambiance quotations to the beginning of each chapter.
Literature is beautiful. I'm working on a few snippets to add to the HAMMER. I'm also thinking of adding ambiance quotations to the beginning of each chapter.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
First words
A reader got back to me two days ago, and followed-up with a second critique. Both were by and large positive. He zoomed through the manuscript in three days, while in a foreign country and reading from printed paper.
He also shed some light on a few weaknesses. Only one approaches a major problem, and I already have a solution (it was nice knowing you, Bishop). Once I finish grading the tests and papers of my undergrads I'll be back in the cockpit, trimming and refining Jovian Hammer Draft Number Four.
I can't wait! :)
He also shed some light on a few weaknesses. Only one approaches a major problem, and I already have a solution (it was nice knowing you, Bishop). Once I finish grading the tests and papers of my undergrads I'll be back in the cockpit, trimming and refining Jovian Hammer Draft Number Four.
I can't wait! :)
Monday, November 24, 2008
Preamble
The first thirty pages received a cursory rewrite last night in anticipation of partial requests (fingers crossed). The biggest addition is an ethical dilemma for Yarn. I am going to revisit the Prologue tonight to rethink some awkward lines uttered by the XO.
After a couple weeks I discovered that the readers started their efforts late. I'm not even sure any one of them has made substantial progress. Hopefully I'll have something to work with before beginning Winter Break.
Still reflecting on my query letter. Should I downplay the political aspect of the novel in favor of elucidating Yarn's struggle?
The Sounds rock, by the way. So do Foster's Oil Cans.
After a couple weeks I discovered that the readers started their efforts late. I'm not even sure any one of them has made substantial progress. Hopefully I'll have something to work with before beginning Winter Break.
Still reflecting on my query letter. Should I downplay the political aspect of the novel in favor of elucidating Yarn's struggle?
The Sounds rock, by the way. So do Foster's Oil Cans.
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