The Hong Kong Hospital Authority manages 41 hospitals, of which 14 are have Accident and Emergency clinics. All other clinics in Hong Kong are apparently run outside of the hospital system and are structured for routine medical care. As I made my way towards the airport clinic in search of band-aids, I stopped at several news stands and gift shops hoping to find them on my own. At each stop the salesperson was polite, friendly, helpful and eager to point me towards the medical clinic.

The clinic waiting area was much like that of a doctor’s office anywhere in the western world. The receptionist first asked me to have a seat and pointed me towards a wall of chairs. Some magazines in both English and Chinese had been scattered around to ease the waiting time, but I really had no interest in reading at that time. I was the only person in the waiting room. I smiled at the receptionist. She smiled back at me. “Are you ready now?” she asked. What? I looked at her quizzically. “Did you want to be seen?” “Well, yes,” I began, “you see I…” She handed me a form and asked me to fill out the nature of my complaint. “We only cater to departing passengers,” she said. “If you are arriving, you should proceed to the nearest hospital.” “I just need a couple of band-aids. My knees are bleeding.” She looked down at my knees briefly and gave me a smile of pity. “Do you have a boarding pass?” What? “Uh….yes…I do…right here,” I handed it to her and she checked my personal information and began typing it into a computer. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, “I just need some band-aids, and there don’t seem to be any in the…”

The Doctor came out of the patient area and smiled at me, holding the ends of stethoscope around his neck with both hands, like a boxer holds a towel. “How are we today?” he asked, without waiting for an answer. He took my boarding pass and asked me to follow him. A short well-lit corridor, a small office off to one side filled with medical books, and we quickly entered a patient examination room complete with a stainless steel tabl, medicine cabinets and a cute little Asian nurse straight out of one of my son’s manga novels. “Please sit here,” nurse Cutie said as she stuck a thermometer in my mouth. “I don’t have a temperature,” I protested, taking the thermometer out, “I just need a couple of…” “Do you have a cough?” the doctor asked. A cough? A COUGH?! “No, I just need…” The sound of the doctor putting on latex gloves made me turn to look at him. The gloves were a light reddish color. Strange.

Nurse Cutie put a blood pressure cuff around my arm while she smiled and looked into my eyes with compassion. Doctor Strangegloves began to listen to my chest. “Breathe!” he commanded. I did so. Each time I tried to explain that I just needed to get a couple of…he would move the stethoscope and tell me to breathe. He checked my breathing from the front and from the back. He examined my head for bumps. He looked into my eyes with a small light. Nurse Cutie finished taking my blood pressure and removed the cuff. She then started stroking my arm gently where the cuff had been and telling me that “Everything will be all right.”

In retrospect, I could have been angry. I could have exploded. I could have made a fuss and demanded to have a few band-aids. I just found the whole situation to be so otherworldly, so unreal, that I just decided to ride it out. And nurse Cutie was massaging my arm after all. “How long have you been sick?” Doctor Strangegloves asked. “Just since the broken cart flipped me onto the concrete,” I replied. The doctor and nurse exchanged glances. He looked down at my knees, noticing them for the first time. “You seem to be bleeding,” he said. “I AM bleeding,” I replied calmly. “Ahhh,” he said.

The doctor left the room without a sound and only a slight glance at nurse Cutie. She stopped rubbing my arm and went to assemble a tray. I thought, you have got to be kidding. I watched intently as she placed a small bowl with betadine or iodine or some other orange foul-smelling substance, cotton balls, some gauze, and finally…a few band-aids. She placed the cart on a rolling stand and brought it back over to the table.

She looked at my pants and began to blush, pointing towards my legs. “May I?” I assumed she meant roll up my pants legs. “I can roll them up for you if you prefer,” I offered. She smiled broadly in a wash of relief and said “Yes thank you!” I rolled up my suit pants past the knees while she grimaced and winced sympathetically. “It’s not that bad,” I said. She placed her hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. “Does it hurt much?” she asked. Inside I was laughing hysterically. Outside I smiled and assured her I would live.

If I had ever had a fantasy about a cute sympathetic Asian nurse tending to my wounds in an exotic location, not that I ever did mind you, but if I had…this episode would have crushed it. She was gentle, she was compassionate, she was kind, and she was incredibly, amazingly, unbearably sloooooooow. She spent ten minutes washing the wounds. She wiped up every bit of blood anywhere on my legs. She strategically placed band-aids over the scrapes after conducting what must have been five minutes of preliminary mental measuring and adjustments. Finally she was finished. She rolled my pants legs back down for me and in spite of my anxiousness and agitation, I suddenly felt as though we had reached a new plateau in our patient-nurse inter-cultural relationship. “Are you married?” she asked. What? I mean, WHAT?! “Yes,” I smiled. “Very happily so.” I showed her the ring on my left hand, the +5 Wedding Ring of Protection against cute Asian nurses. She pouted and left the room.

The moment she left, and while I was trying to puzzle through what had happened, the doctor returned. “I’m sorry for the mix-up earlier,” he said. “We thought you had SARS.” I looked at him stunned. He was holding two pieces of paper in his hands, a bill, and my boarding pass. I reached for the boarding pass. He handed me the bill. I did a quick calculation at the current exchange rate and it was…WHAT?…”TWENTY-EIGHT DOLLARS?!!” He gently fanned himself with my boarding pass and waited for me to come to my senses.

“I really don’t think I should have to pay for DOCTOR CONSULTATION and MEDICAL TESTS when all I needed was a band-aid!” He smiled at me. Nurse Cutie came back in and seemed to glare at me with a sort of “Did the time we spent together mean nothing to you?” glare. The receptionist came in with the cash box and a complaint form. “If you are unhappy with the service sir, after you pay and leave Hong Kong, you may fill out this form and send it back to the airport authority,” she said. I looked at the three of them standing there. They had had no patients since the time I arrived. My plane was already boarding. My boarding pass was right there. I would write the complaint form to end all complaint forms. I paid the twenty-eight dollars and left. “Thank you for your business sir,” the receptionist said as I departed.

Only two important parts remain to this tale of woe. First, I went through three security checkpoints without ever being stopped, or questioned, or even scrutinized. Seventy-three year old grandmothers were being pulled from the line for full-body searches and small children were being separated from their parents to have their teddy-bear backpacks searched by men with hands larger than their heads. I was wearing torn blood-stained clothing, was clearly annoyed and disheveled, but no one gave me a second look. Within minutes I was sitting in business class, sipping champagne, talking to my traveling companions and getting the sympathetic ear of a former playboy bunny in the seat in front of me, (don’t ask now…that’s a different story altogether).

Second, I did fill out the complaint form and send it in. Normally I suppose, the officials hope that you will never get around to filling out the forms and actually mailing them, but I was moved to action. I wrote several pages about the faulty cart, the vanishing monks, the helpful security apparatus, my ordeal in the medical clinic and sent it via post. Within six weeks I received an email from the Hong Kong Airport Authority Chief of Security and Investigations. Hong Kong was very sorry for any trouble that I had been caused, it read, but after a lengthy investigation involving the checking of numerous luggage carts, no faulty brakes had been discovered. Thank you for your interest in Hong Kong Airport Safety. There was a break in the email and then it began again. In light of the fact that you endured such mental hardship while traveling here in Hong Kong, we wish to compensate you for your troubles. If you will kindly fill out this complaint form and sign the sworn affidavit below that you will never, ever talk about this incident to anyone, ever, anywhere, we will send you (quick exchange rate conversion) sixty dollars. What? The government of Hong Kong wishes to buy my silence for sixty dollars!? Unbelievable!!

As you can see by this posting I did NOT sign the form. Next time I travel, I’m bringing my own band-aids.

I was traveling in Asia a few years back and spent an overnight in Hong Kong on my return trip to Sri Lanka. In the morning I packed my things, had a leisurely breakfast, and made it to the airport by about 0900, several hours before my flight time. Taxis drop passengers off at the terminal entrance which is on ground level, but the actual departure terminal is two levels below the street. To get down to the departure desks there are several long and somewhat steep concrete ramps, about eight feet wide that head down perpendicular from the street above.

I loaded my two big suitcases and my laptop onto a luggage cart, the kind with a braking bar at the handles, and steered towards the ramp. As I started down the ramp, gravity began to help me and I found it necessary to release the braking handle to slow the cart down. Unfortunately the brakes on this particular cart were apparently not working. As I dug in my feet to try and stop the cart I found that it only got worse. The steepness of the ramp, the weight of my luggage, the existence of gravity and the lack of friction between my leather dress shoes and the smooth concrete created an effect that I can only describe as “Airport Skiing.”

I plummeted down the ramp, knees slightly bent, feet sliding down the concrete as I struggled to keep myself upright, the luggage cart going straight, and my maximum velocity below the speed at which the wheels might begin to melt. The ramp was actually two ramps with a small landing about ten feet across halfway down the slope. This one level spot was my one hope for bringing the cart under control before I began to approach the bottom. I remember thinking that it was a miracle that I was the only passenger pushing a cart down the ramp or there would have been a brutal accident.

As I approached the flat area I leaned backwards a bit, hoping to dig in my heels on the flat surface and prevent the cart from heading down the second ramp. Leaning back brought the front wheels slightly off the ground, (okay, in truth it was a high speed luggage cart wheelie) but at the speed I was going, threatened to tip the entire luggage cart back on top of me. I managed to tip it back onto all four wheels at a slightly reduced speed, just before the cart went over the edge of the platform and down the next ramp.

Because there had been a sudden lurching forward of the weight of the luggage as I tried to get the wheels back on the ground, the cart had additional momentum just as it started down the ramp. So as it picked up speed and I resigned myself to just go along for the ride and get it under control at the bottom, I noticed that I was hurtling towards a cluster of saffron-clad Buddhist monks who had gathered at the bottom of the ramp for reasons known only to them. Great, I thought, I’m going to be the first and last contestant in the international bowling for monks tournament and by evening, I’m going to be in a prison in Hong Kong.

I started yelling to get their attention so that they would move out of the way, but as one of the principle tenets of buddhism is ahimsa, or inaction, they very calmly looked up at me plummeting down towards them and did not move. Not one inch. I screamed louder and got the attention of a number of other people in the terminal who looked up at the spectacle, but no one took any action to get the monks to move. They also didn’t clear away from the ramp in case my cart plunged through the monks into the crowd beyond.

Just as I neared the bottom of the ramp and a mere ten feet away from the monks, I noticed that there was a gap, about three feet wide, between the right-most monk and the wall at the end of the ramp. Perfect! With my shoes smoking from the friction, and my arms about to give out from trying to pull the cart back up the hill, I completely disregarded the laws of physics, specifically that one about inertia, and tried to abruptly wrench the cart towards the opening.

If you have studied physics you likely already know what happened to each of the variables in the equation. If so, please wait for the others to catch up. If not, I will tell you. The cart and I turned towards the opening. The luggage did not. As the luggage continued hurtling off the cart towards the monk, the cart, now free of its burden but on a new trajectory with only me to hold it back, began to turn end over end. Remember that old song that begins “Kind sir I write this note to you to tell you of my plight?” The one that ends, after the Scotsman has been battered and beaten by falling objects and oncoming platforms while he held onto a rope attached to a pully? “As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I let go of the bloody rope!” Like the Scotsman and his rope, I let go of the bloody cart.

At this point, everything went into slow motion. I saw the cart headed off to my right, bounding and skidding on the concrete. I saw my suitcases and laptop flying, like images from a Samsonite commercial. I felt rather than saw myself bounce, several times, off the concrete. I heard a ripping of fabric and began to feel something wet on my knees. I must say in retrospect that the biggest injury was to my ego and so I jumped up with surprising speed and agility considering what had just happened to me and gathered my things quickly. I secured the broken cart as evidence, piled my lugagge on top of it, and looked about to find the chief monk so that I could apologize.

Not only had the monks adhered to the principle of inaction during my downward plummet, they had also ensured that they would not be distracted from their chosen path, by something as ordinary as a human bullet. Without so much as an “are you okay?” or “learn to be more careful young man,” or even a nodding “we don’t speak English, but these monkly gestures will let you know that we care for your well-being,” they were gone. On to a flight to Orlando Florida no doubt, and a trip to Disney World. I looked about for someone else to connect with, if even for a moment, just so that I could apologize to someone, to regain even a small amount of dignity, but no one, not one person, was paying any attention. It was like it had never even happened.

I walked to the security attendant at the entrance to check-in and explained what had happened to me. He listened to me intently and asked me if I would be getting in line to check in. I told him that I would like to find someplace to get a band-aid, a bandage for my bloody knees and he very politely said “of course sir, you can go to our medical clinic as soon as you check in. Please get in line. ” I got in line. Since carts were not allowed in the check-in line, I asked him to keep the broken cart there until I had checked in, so that I could show it to airport management. He nodded and said “of course sir.”

I approached the business class counter in a suit with both knees ripped out, blood oozing from both legs, my hands scraped and my hair in disarray. No one said a word. There was blood on my passport. Fresh blood. The lady behind the counter wiped it off on a tissue without so much as a glance up at me and very calmly checked me in. “Have a nice flight sir,” she smiled sweetly. For a moment I felt like a ghost. No one was looking at me. No one cared that I was torn and bleeding. Everything was absolutely normal to them. I went back for the cart.

“May I help you sir?” said the sweet young security girl working at the check-in line where I left my cart. “Where is the man who was here a moment ago?” I asked. “He has gone sir. Is there something I can do to help you?” “I need the cart I left here a moment ago,” I told her. “Did he take the cart?” She looked at my laptop, and must have wondered why I wanted a cart when I had no luggage. She pointed to a cluster of carts about ten meters from where we were standing. “You can get a cart there if you like sir, but you can’t take it through security.” I must admit feeling a bit defeated. I just stood there a second to determine what to do next. “Is there something else sir?” “Yes,” I replied. “I need to get a bandage for my knee. I don’t want to get blood all over the plane.” She pointed towards a sign at the other end of the terminal and said “Good luck sir, I hope you aren’t too sick!” I began to look around for Rod Serling… (TO BE CONTINUED).

Twenty-eight years in the Army.  Five continents, twenty-three moves, travel or work in thirty-some countries, hundreds of friends and thousands of experiences.  Learned eight or more languages, earned three graduate degrees, have a bucket-load of ribbons and medals.  Dozens of separations and deployments and exercises and operations.  Been held at gun point three times, kept in a foreign prison (briefly) once and toured foreign prisons multiple times.  Been hauled up the side of a mountain on a rope and pushed out of an airplane at altitude.  I’ve trekked in the High Himalayas, walked across the highest motorable road in the world, lived through dengue fever and dysentery and worse.  Ridden elephants, camels, horses, donkeys and oxen.  Flown in gliders and single props and massive C-17s in combat zones.  Cleaned up suspected anthrax, and worked in and around wars, tsunamis, hurricanes, insurgencies, acts of terrorism and foreign internal violence.  In 110 ten more days I get to see how the rest of the world has been doing it all these years.    I think I might be more nervous about the future than I have been in the past…

This was first published on Errant Dreams on 8/1/2007, and was the second in a series following a discussion on how tabletop game worlds are created. I plan to write further if there is interest. You might wish to read “An Interesting Nexus,” below, first.

I am flying back to Kabul from southern Afghanistan on a Spanish CASA 295, a small cargo plane with aluminum frame and nylon webbed bench seats that run down either side of the plane. It is much smaller than the US C-130 that it emulates, and its two engines are fitted with six propeller blades each, twisted at the end at an odd angle that reminds one of a scimitar. The windows are small and round, perhaps 12″ across, and if you are seated, as I am, in line with the propeller, you can twist around in your seat and watch the dust and sand thrown constantly against the window by the churning blades. I must admit that I know nothing about the influences of microclimates on the movement of sand and dust particles, but I do know what distracts me from danger.

It is near dusk as the CASA prepares for departure. As the pilot reverses direction at the end of the runway to begin acceleration, the rear door gunners on either side of the plane pull themselves and their heavy weapons back inside for take off. They remove their heavy body armor and helmets, and strap into the side seats with us. As the doors seal, the buzzing whine of the engines is muted somewhat and I feel, more than hear the familiar silent sound of apprehension. We all wait for the plane to begin moving forward. With the door gunners sealed inside, and until we reach a certain altitude, there is more than the usual risk of enemy action. I sense the common concern on every face in the plane, and then I turn again to face the window.

Sand swirls across the glass like eddies in a swift moving stream and the dim green light from the wingtip backlights the individual crystals as they move and dance. I partly close my eyes and see the dim green light filtering through the swirling patterns in the circle before me. No longer a window threatening to shatter at any moment from a blast of enemy fire, the luminescent circle reveals itself for what it truly is, the long lost and forgotten mirror of the Blue weirder Jamshid.

Is that you traveler? Have you really returned to me so soon? Do the mysteries of Jamshid’s Mirror call to you so strongly? It has been so long since I’ve beheld this wonder that even I cannot remember all that it countenances. Do you truly believe yourself to be one of the chosen? I do not see it written thus at the moment, but perhaps, in time, it will be so. If you insist, then come with me and we will see what portends with this ill-crafted Mirror. Whatever it may be, I own it cannot be for good.

I turn around and look across the plane at Colonel Diaz, the Spanish Officer responsible for arranging this flight. It is too loud to be heard over the engines, so he nods and smiles, the universal sign for I’m ok, how are you doing? I smile back at him. He’s a good officer, very collegial and professional, but then I can’t help but notice how much he looks like someone I know…or is it that someone I am about to create will look just like him? My worlds seem to blur together, and just before I turn back towards the window/mirror, I notice Colonel Diaz gazing at me with a slightly puzzled look on his face. He can’t possibly sense what I am thinking. It’s far too out of the ordinary to apply in his reality, and yet I can feel the intensity of his stare on the back of my head. As the plane banks to the south to avoid a range of mountains ahead, I can see Diaz’s face reflected in the window, still looking at me in questioning contemplation. Can it be that the mirror has already begun to work its evil?

Jamshid was a weirder from the period of the six golden kings, long before Gustava attempted to conquer the central kingdoms and longer still before Ballaton the White crossed through the nexus and opened the gates between worlds. Magic was less controlled in Jamshid’s day, and an element of chaos coruscated through all of the great powers. Only in the weirding discipline, where ancient skills and secrets allow a mage to slip into the infinitesimally narrow plane between worlds and travel at high speeds from place to place, did order reign. In what many sages and historical commentators have alternately argued was either a lapse into madness or a brilliant display of genius, Jamshid crafted his mirror.

He believed that if he could look into and through the spaces between worlds, he might be able to better understand the inner workings of the multi-verse and there, find clues that would enable him to bring order to the other great powers. A highly skilled weirder in his own right, Jamshid enlisted the aid of three others who combined their four powers of weirding, scrying, object manipulation and augury to create the ultimate tool for viewing and manipulating the nexus. History tells us that creation of the mirror and the resultant linking of world-lines caused a cataclysmic event in Thraveon that cost the lives of Jamshid’s three co-conspirators and inserted an element of chaos into its core essence. Azsus Rey of Hakas has long theorized that the three were not killed, but are instead somehow trapped within the mirror itself, and it is their bitterness and wild magic that causes the mirror to work in unexpected ways. Whatever the truth of its creation; the mirror is, in no uncertain terms, a sign of great trouble to come.

Looking through the mirror now I can see clearly into Thraveon, and into the face staring back at me. I am amazed and yet somehow assured at how much this Viodex looks like Colonel Diaz. A broad forehead under bushy brown hair hangs ominously over a nose somewhat large for his face, and a mustache that hides an upper lip continuously on the verge of sneering. Viodex stares back at me with a slightly puzzled look on his face. He can’t possibly sense what I am thinking, and yet he seems to know somehow that I am there. He moves closer to the mirror as if to pass through it and I back away as his face nearly brushes against mine. I am somewhat startled at the power I feel emanating from the mirror, perhaps I should not have let him find it. I could take it away with a thought, and yet, it might be the perfect tool to test abilities of the chosen. For now, I will let him believe that he has some control over his destiny.

Viodex looks directly into the mirror, as though he is staring straight into my eyes. While I know he is impotent against my powers of creation, I still feel a chill as he speaks to his reflection in the mirror.

“This world will be mine,” he says with no hesitation, sure of himself and his future. “First I will set the races and kingdoms of Thraveon against one another to weaken the power of the Chask while they sleep. Then I will find the Ur-chask and set them upon the world and each other. Finally, when Thraveon is decimated by the ensuing chaos, I will hold open the portals between worlds and let flow the great wonders that exist in the realm beyond. The Eldar cannot stop me, the lesser gods cannot stop me; even the creator will hold no sway over me once I control his precious chosen.” A thin smile begins to form on his lips, and he closes his eyes as if in meditation. “Soon, creator,” Viodex says, “Soon, I will have powers to rival yours.” His face seems to come closer…

I turn my head abruptly away from the window and stare into the eyes of Colonel Diaz. He has moved across the plane to put his face near mine so he can be heard over the engines. “Soon, my friend,” he says loudly, “Soon I will have a new phone to rival yours.” He shows me a picture of a cell phone that is very similar to the model I’ve been issued by the U.S. Government. He has long coveted my phone and never misses an opportunity to ask about it. “How much does it cost?” “Where do you get it? “Can it be purchased on the internet?” If he is getting one of his own, perhaps I will not have to listen to him go on about mine any longer.

“That’s great Roberto,” I nearly yell, looking briefly back at the window, uncertain which reality I am currently in, Diaz on one side of me, Viodex on the other. “That will be really great for you. I love my phone,” I lie.

In truth, I despise my phone. It is nothing more than an electronic leash that keeps me tied to local issues all day long and wakes me from sleep to deal with Washington based issues all night long. I take a deep breath, look down at the floor and I send a long puff of air out of my cheeks in a slow exhalation. Then I let my eyes close somewhat, the universal military signal for “what a long day, I think I’d like to take a nap, so please leave me alone.”

Diaz pats my arm and nods his head in understanding. He turns, fastens himself in next to me and holds the picture of the phone out in front of his face, turning it from side to side to examine the features elucidated in the margins.

I glance sidelong at him then close my eyes. Instantly, I am flying over the kingdoms of Thraveon, the capital cities and large towns illuminated in the night sky beneath me. I am headed to the Valley of the Ancients to check on…an important detail. I am certain that it has already been taken care of, but something about the confidence in that Viodex’s eyes makes gives me pause. I could be there in an instant if I chose, but flying allows me to check on other issues as I progress.

Watch fires along and on both sides of the borders of Karak and Dirlon tell me that the inter-kingdom still rages as I had planned. A host of lanterns far out on the Sea of Ormarra indicate the approach of the massive force that will soon land on the western coast of Karak. Wind swept peaks of the mountains north of the Azure City glisten with more moonlight than is usual for this time of year. I pause in flight and wonder if I should turn up the light a shade or two. What if the chosen do not notice? What if they pass this vital clue without even a pause?

It is enough, I decide to myself, continuing northwards. Everything is a clue to something, isn’t that what I always tell them? Of course, everything is also a clue to nothing much in particular. I tell them that too, but they never seem to listen. “Why would the creator have put this here if we weren’t meant to find it?” they ask. But, if they are truly the chosen, they will be able to tell the difference. I slow as I fly past the mountain in which Khelek’s empty lair awaits his return. The mountain breathes and there is a light emanating from upper cave on the precipice. I stop in mid flight and focus on the cave entrance. This is not right. Something is not right. I put no light here. No one dares enter Khelek’s demesne. Where are the guardians? Who could have entered the upper sanctum?

I move my focus to inside the cave, but keep my essence hovering far above. I am in no danger here and yet, this is an anomaly I cannot explain. Perhaps I have become forgetful. Did I leave Hill Bandits climbing in search of treasure? Did I send Ironfist’s Dwarves in search of the Dragon Prince’s burden? I do not recall setting any story line in motion here. My focus moves slowly into the back of the cave, past the ominous dragon statues at the cave mouth, beyond the cavernous entry hall and down the massive steppes towards light that should not exist.

Men! Dozens of men in livery I do not recognize! They are waving torches about and shouting to each other in a language I do not speak. They seem to be searching frantically for the hidden doorway down to Khelek’s chambers. Down? How could they have come to the upper sanctum without passing through the principality below? How came they to be here at all, these strangers? How often have I said this world creates itself? Can it be that it is truly happening?

My heart begins to race and I feel a slight panic. I speak all the languages of Thraveon and the worlds beyond. I created all that exists here. I know every heraldic device in the several kingdoms, in fact, I personally approved each one. Yet these men are unknown to me. I do not understand their words. I wave my hand to erase them, but they do not vanish. I attempt to use the force of my mind to turn off their light but it seems to glow brighter. It dances across the roof of the hall as the men continue their search for Khelek’s passage and in the shadows the light creates, I think I see a future that I did not create.

I do not like to change what has existed since the beginning of the world, but I must protect Khelek’s interests in his absence. If I cannot keep these men from the mountain, I will keep the mountain from these men. I take a breath, and the hidden passage is gone, erased from the world as though it never existed. Let them search forever, I think, there is now nothing to find.

A sharp pain behind my eyes and an “Oh sorry,” muttered in a French accent jars me from my thoughts. Devereaux, the French lieutenant colonel has accidentally flashed his light in my face as he waves it about looking for something. Ahah! I think. It was his flashlight and my lack of sleep. All is well.

I close my eyes again but the light remains. The men are pounding on the walls of the cavern with sledge hammers, trying to find what no longer exists. This is serious, real serious. Perhaps you shouldn’t be here traveler. Perhaps there is danger after all. If you stay, I take no responsibility for what happens. It’s your choice alone.

The mountains pass swiftly beneath me as I race back southward. I will have to check on the Valley later, right now there is an even more important task. I flash forward to Derrawood and hover for a moment above the town. All seems as I left it. Nothing is out of place. No anomalies.

I drift slowly down to Torin’s shop to check the water droplets hanging over his anvil. Water is the first element to change of its own accord. It took me some time to master the art of water creation and keep it believable. Too many bodies of water are flat and lifeless on a map, so I gave mine some small degree of independence. Water drops however, I hold in perfect control. I move one droplet slowly up, then quickly back down, checking the drop’s shape and alignment. Nothing changes. Every detail remains as I left it. Everything seems in order.

“Not everything,” a deep, familiar, and warm voice behind me says. I turn quickly and head towards the voice. “What are you doing here my old friend? You don’t often venture this close to the created. Are you taking a turn at adventure?”

I stare in awe at Bellzon, Primus Equinus; the first great horse of Thraveon and miraculous steed of Etags past. His eyes twinkle at me as I slowly approach and the edges of his mouth turn up in a small smile. No matter how often I have seen him, I still stand in wonder at the first and best of all my works. I have questions to ask, but I sense he has more to say, so hold my tongue.

“I’ve sensed it for days,” he says. “There are changes in the world lines that do not bear your mark. Something is wrong, if I am not mistaken.”

I stroke the side of his ancient head and run my hand through his mane as I have done a thousand times before. He looks at me calmly, awaiting an answer. “You are not mistaken old friend. There is great mischief in Thraveon and I do not know the cause.”

“Did you set Khelek on a quest?” he asks, some incredulity slipping into his voice. “I thought it odd to see him out so close to Orthreus, and with these wars underway, but you are master weaver, so I didn’t question your works.”

“No Bellzon, I didn’t set him loose. I suppose I should have pondered his flight more thoroughly, but as he is like you, a first-woven, and long since worthy of some degree of independence, I thought nothing of it. But there is clearly something amiss.”

“What can it be do you think?” Bellzon asks me, though somewhat rhetorically, as if he already knows the answer.

“Only one thing it can be,” I reply, “and only one solution for it.”

“Do you want me to leave off this task and assist you in some other way?” he enquires, turning his head to look back at the green liveried lord in Thorin’s shop.

I briefly consider his offer, and then I shake my head in reply. “No, old friend,” I say, “best you stick to my current plan. I will begin to gather in the stray world lines and weave them into some semblance of order. Khelek is strong enough to take care of himself for a time, and I will just have to check on the other firsts as I find the time.”

“Perhaps you should have them report in,” he suggests. “They still answer to you when you call, even the Ur-woven.”

“I know. But I don’t want to pull them from their current lines. This is confusing enough as it is.” I pause and look him in the eyes, considering whether I should tell him.

“Tell me what?” he asks. I still marvel at his abilities. I made him, yet he knows my thoughts before I do.

I pause again and wonder whether I should admit my lapses. Talking about it may help however, and Bellzon is after all, Primus, my first creation, older than all else in Thraveon save Thraveon itself.

At length I sigh and tell him, “I’ve been having intersections.”

He looks at me with some concern, the smile disappearing from his equine face.

“Sometimes two or three a day,” I go on.

He continues to stare at me, knowing there is more. “Overlaps?” he asks.

“Several,” I reply.

He turns his head to look at the boy. “What of him?” he asks directly, “I sense chaos in his nature yet there is innocence and light. Is he yours?”

“He is,” I reply.

“The focus of a yet undiscovered prophecy?” he asks with a small snort of derision.

“He is,” I again reply. He sees through me so quickly. Bellzon must sense my embarrassment at his question, but he says nothing. Am I so old that the earliest and most time-worn devices must be repeated again and again? Will this boy be the one to put back the threads that are unraveling?

“No sense changing what works, I suppose,” he replies, though I suspect he is really just being kind.

He looks behind me to stare intently into your eyes. “This is new!” he exclaims. Looking you up and down and appraising your soul. “Since when do you let travelers in, especially ones with such strong auras?”

“This is a first,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “And as to the aura, I agree. It is very strong indeed. Look at the curiosity quotient in the upper quad. See how it compares to the adventurousness in the center? I think this one may be chosen, but it’s likely too soon. I didn’t think it would hurt to show off a small portion of the weaving, and besides, if these overlaps continue, I could be killed at the nexus, so I might as well share some secrets before I pass.”

Bellzon jerks his head abruptly away from me and stamps his hooves in response to my words. He bucks and tugs away from me at the thought that I might die. I feel the ground shake under my feet as he stomps and I try to hold on to him to calm him down.

“Whoah,” Colonel Diaz says, “That was a rough one! We usually come in smoother than that. But still, it’s not good to be asleep when we land, because you have to hold on to something. Did you have a good nap, my friend? You slept so soundly I could have killed you in your sleep and you would never have known.” He fixes his eyes upon me in question, but doesn’t expect an answer.

I stare back at the face of Viodex-Diaz and wonder what is real and what is fantasy? For now, I have to move to my armored vehicle for the next leg of my journey, but I have to get back to Thraveon soon before it all unravels. Bellzon noticed you? That is uncommon beyond words. I hope you come back.

This was first published on Errant Dreams on 7/23/2007, following a discussion on how tabletop game worlds are created.   I wanted to discuss how my world was/is created…

Afghanistan. The earth speeds by, several hundred feet below me, and I absently watch the shadow of the helicopter race across the parched desert, jumping over the occasional mud-roofed dwelling, skimming across the tops of sparse trees, and diving now and then onto the floor of a dry streambed. Every few seconds I turn my neck one way or the other, craning to spot the slightest reflection off of a weapon that I know is aimed at us as we fly past. There would be little I could do if I actually saw a Talib before he fired, I am neither pilot nor door gunner.

As a passenger, I could shout a warning in hopes of directing the gunner’s attention, but I know in reality, with so many reflections shining up from windows and rocks and broken objects forgotten in the sand, I would probably not risk looking the fool by crying wolf at a phantom reflection. I keep my mouth shut, but I continue searching anyway. The thought that we might go down in a ball of flame is unsettling, and try as I might to concentrate on something other than the possibility of death; my thoughts continue to return to the invisible assailant that I know is waiting just seconds ahead.

It is not so much a fear of death that troubles me, for I am not as anxious when I am riding or walking over the same dangerous ground. Nor is it a fear of flying, for I truly love to travel and have hundreds of thousands of miles as a passenger in both civilian and military planes. What troubles me is the helplessness and lack of control that comes with being mere human cargo in a low-flying helicopter in a combat zone. If something goes wrong, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. That is the problem with the real world… I can never be completely in control. But what if… what if this wasn’t the real world? What if this was my world?

Rule Number One: the Game Master is always right. Rule Number Two: When in doubt, see rule number one. If this was my world, judging from the style and arrangement of dwellings, the desertification of once proud forests, and the nomadic peoples moving about with dromedaries and horses, this would be the kingdom of Karak. More precisely Northern Karak since it would have to be within reach of the lair of Khelek Ernil, the great Dragon Prince. Only his presence could explain the large shadow moving swiftly over the villages below. Only his broad wingspan could temporarily blot the sun and cause villagers to turn their heads aloft in awed response. The feeble weapons of invisible assailants that might lie in wait ahead hold no danger for Khelek’s scales even if there were any man alive foolish enough to tempt the wrath of the great prince of the north.

I do not so much ride Khelek as I direct his flight. I see Karak from this angle because I choose to do so. I created this kingdom and all the others of the world. But why, I wonder, have I decided to wake Khelek from his long slumber? Where does he head and what future lies before him? I close my eyes and the last vestiges of reality fade away, replaced by images of my own creation. The sound of the helicopter engine becomes the powerful wing beats of the Dragon Prince. My anxiety subsides.

In this place I am invincible. I am order and chaos, good and evil, all that ever was and all that will be. As I look into the reservoir of untapped creativity that is my inner sanctum, a vast storehouse of new ideas opens before me. I take hold of the fabric of the universe and begin to weave the future for all those who live below me and for all those who will test their fates in my world.

Welcome to the World of Thraveon, noble traveler. You must have followed me into this sphere by choice as I have no powers to force you here, but now that you have arrived, I warrant you will not leave voluntarily. I can see the curiosity and intellect that is alight in your eyes and can sense the love of adventure that hangs like an aura about you. Can it be that you were meant to find you your way here?

Since my real-world self is trapped temporarily in that wretched helicopter, and since you seem to be well-behaved for an outsider, I will allow you to accompany me, for a short time, into the realms of the thrice-born and beyond the hidden reaches of the Urchask. We may observe dangers as we pass over the land, but as long as you do not stray too far from me, you will enjoy the mantle of my invincibility. Watch for a time, as I craft new wonders for the inhabitants of my world and weave the tangled webs that will define their lives.

If your heart is true enough, and your courage deep enough, perhaps I will one day allow you to set foot upon the soaring peaks of Ered Bethel or to wander the verdant forests of the Dearthwood. Since you have come to me unbidden, you might be one of the chosen, but I think it is too soon to tell. For now, I will continue to weave and gauge your reactions to my work. There is no sense in trying to keep your thoughts from me; this is, after all, my world.

In time, I will know if you continue to be intrigued just as I now know the path upon which Khelek Ernil speeds. His future is now entwined with yours in ways that are at once invigorating and mystifying, even to me. He strains against the weight of a great burden that he has born for centuries and pushes ever further to the south beyond the normal reaches of his principality. Nothing but this task could have lured him from his peaceful slumber. How, I wonder, did he come to know so quickly that you were here? I am surprised that I did not realize his purpose before now, but I cannot share it with you just yet, as that would be unfair to those who compete against you. Let us forget Khelek for the moment and turn the fabric over to a different fold altogether.

Do you see it? There on the very edge of the weaving? That small village nestled in the crook of the River Sotu? A blacksmith waits there for us. I know because I just put him there. If you grab hold and follow me for a moment down this single thread, perhaps you will begin to understand…

The village needs a name, as does my blacksmith. I open my eyes and the Afghan heat blasts through the open doors of the helicopter, momentarily taking my breath away. Perhaps in my excitement I had stopped breathing. Who can tell what happens in the moments between worlds? I glance down at the map in my hands to find the first three district names that pop off the paper; Dehra Wod, Ghorak, and Terin Kowt, three places that have recently seen much violence and bloodshed. One of my fellow travelers gives me the thumbs up and raises his eyebrows in question, shifting his weapon to a more comfortable position. I return the thumbs up sign to let him know I’m fine and glance quickly down at the village below. A lone horse is tied to a post outside a hut, one Afghan boy races to catch a ball that is about to go over his neighbor’s mud wall and a woman, shrouded in a blue burkha, trudges slowly away from village well with a large plastic jug filled with water. From these few words and images I will create a future. If it is your destiny, that future may intersect with your own.

I close my eyes again and see the village on the River Sotu. It has grown of its own volition since I first imagined it moments ago, but I see now how important it is to our purposes. Nestled between the river and a small expanse of cultivated forest, it is called Derrawood, a small market town known principally for its ghoren, a spicy dried fish pulled daily from the river in vast nets woven of local fiber. Most of the townsmen work the nets along the river, catching the spotted ghoren as they swim upstream to spawn, but several craftsmen have set up shop on the forest side of town, providing various necessaries and luxuries for the people of Derrawood.

In the small smithy, the blacksmith tends to a new customer. The smith is a middle-aged man with a large frame and sturdy muscles developed over many years at the anvil. His name is Torin. He has been working this trade since he was apprenticed to the village smith at the age of ten, and only recently inherited the shop, the tools, and the custom when his late master died at the ripe old age of sixty-one. The customer speaks,

“I have traveled long to find you Master Torin, for I have heard tell of your work, even in the far reaches of the Azure City. Yours is, shall we say, a rare talent.”

The customer is dressed in the dark green livery of the Marshallate of Wertan, and Torin can see by the fine cut of his clothing and the jeweled pommel of the dagger on his belt that he is, if not noble himself, in the employ of a great noble of the capital city.

“I did not know that hinges and hooks were such a rarity in Wertan my lord,” Torin replies, “but if I can lend my skills to the betterment of the kingdom, I am happy to assist in what small ways I can.”

“Come now Master Torin,” the man answers, “I know your skills are not limited to the crafting of farm tools and household widgets.” The man raises a single eyebrow as if to question the veracity of his statement.

“That would depend entirely on your purpose,” good master, “for I will not put my hidden skills to work without good cause, and will not involve myself in the politics of the kingdom.”

Just as the customer is about to respond, a leather ball, no bigger than a man’s fist, flies into the smithy and lands with a splash into the cooling trough that sits beside Torin’s anvil. It hits the center of the trough with such force that water is splashed upon both Torin and his customer. A young boy, racing behind the ball, rushes quickly towards the shop to fetch it up and stops abruptly, all wide-eyed wonder at the roan stallion that stands peacefully outside the smithy. No scrawny ill-fed village nag this, the boy stares in amazement at the sturdy warhorse. The horse, as if amused at its master’s soaking, turns its massive head towards the boy and seems almost to smile. The boy is clearly unsure what awes him most, the horse’s demeanor, the bright polish of the heavy leather saddle or the menacing two-handed sword that hangs upon the horse’s flank.

“Here is your ball, keyak,” Torin calls, using the affectionate Karakian term for a boy that is unrelated to one’s family. “I think you owe this man an apology.”

The customer turns around, a look of surprise and anger on his face, and he moves as if to reach for the boy.

“I’m sorry sir,” says the boy, “I meant no harm. I’ll gladly do you a service to make up for the trouble I’ve caused you. Is that your horse in the foreyard? Perhaps I could tend to him while you speak with Master Torin?”

The anger on the customer’s face seems to drain away instantly at the mention of his horse. “Apology accepted,” says the man “and if my horse will let you tend to him, I will give you two coppers, though I doubt he will let you within reach, he is a nasty brute most days.”

“Oh no sir,” replies the boy, “he is nothing of the sort. In fact he…” The boy stops mid sentence and cranes his neck to look skyward. For an instant he stands in shadow as most the ancient creature the boy has ever seen passes swiftly overhead. He stands in awe at the passing of the dragon, unaware that his mother races towards him in panic up Crafter’s Way.

Torin stands stationary at his anvil, the water droplets from the leather ball hanging in mid-air over the anvil. The customer glances knowingly out towards his horse, whose eyes twinkle with extra-equine intelligence. The boy gazes transfixed at the motionless Dragon Prince while his mother seems frozen in mid-stride, hoping to scoop her son up before some unknown evil befalls him. They all await the coming of the chosen and will stand in this tableau until I bring them out of stasis. I created them just for you, and you may yet get to speak with them if I find you worthy. In the meantime, there seems to be a rumbling under my throne.

I open my eyes and the crew chief is giving the sign to dismount the helicopter. I blink several times to adjust my eyes to the bright sun then squint to keep the dust that is billowing up from the wash of the rotor blades out of my eyes. Though the blades spin many feet above my head, and I have been through this routine a hundred times before, still I cannot help but ducking to prevent my own decapitation. I am no longer in control.

I turn back to wave my thanks to the crew chief and see the door gun angled down along the flank of the helicopter. For an instant, it looks more like a great sword than a machine gun, and I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Danger lurks at the nexus of my two worlds. I must keep them separate. Will you join me next time I venture to create, or will you choose to remain in your dismal reality? Do you think that you might actually be one of the chosen? Return to me if you think you are, and perhaps I will set you down in the vast lands of Thraveon with a task of your own. For now, however, Afghanistan’s troubles await me.

On a business trip to Germany last year, while taking the train from Frankfurt international airport to Bonn, I whiled away the time by looking out the windows and watching the German countryside roll by in silence. The only sounds were the clacking of the wheels on the track separations, the occasional sound of braking at stations, light chatter from my colleagues and off and on, the internal music that runs through my mind when I am content.

“I’m beginning to see the light!” remarked Toni, one of my co-travelers who was sitting across the table from me. “What?” I asked, somewhat puzzled at her outburst. “That tune you’re humming,” she said, “it’s - I’m beginning to see the light.” She smiled at me, waiting I guess, for some kind of affirmation.

I wasn’t humming,” I attempted, realizing with a growing embarrassment, that either I had been humming, or Toni was a mind reader. “What?” she asked, “you think I can read minds or something?” Now I was embarrassed and stunned. “You always hum sir,” she said, “you do it all the time.” “I don’t,” I tried. “You do,” said Joni, another colleague traveling with me. (I’m not making this up, Toni and Joni). I looked at both of their smiling faces and thought to myself, ok, if I have been humming, it stops now.

For the rest of the trip, perhaps three or five or fifteen times a day, one of the six analysts I was with would look at me and remind me of my growing dementia. At first, it was a fun game they played, sort of a Name That Tune episode with me as the band leader and unfortunately, the band. Later, when the game wasn’t as much fun for them and I had come to realize that I was, in fact, humming all the time, they would just say, “Sir, you’re doing it again.” Eventually, it only took a sort of two syllable lilting “Sir-ir,” and I would stop. Sometimes I would feebly protest that I had not been humming and try to maintain that they must have been hearing someone else. They were, after all, trained analysts and knew what they were hearing.

Now, about a year later, I don’t hum out loud any more. Well, not as often. Maybe I have gotten it under control. Maybe I am just not content as often. Maybe everyone has just given up on telling me. Whatever the case, I am a Colonel, a full-bird Colonel as they say. Humming, for this bird, needs to stop.

I have a friend whose job requires him to travel. A lot. Today he left at noon for Houston, and Canada and who knows where else, and he won’t be back for two weeks. He’ll have a few days home, wash clothes, repack his bags and head for the airport again. Frankly, I don’t know how he does it.

I returned this summer from a three-plus month tour in Afghanistan, and I have often been away from home for three, six, or more months at a time, usually to fairly dangerous places. But the thought of always being away, on the road, in the air, sleeping in motels, does not appeal to me. Travel is wonderful recreation as a concept, even if it is often somewhat flawed in reality, and I do enjoy the occasional trip to a new country, region, or sight. Spending every night of several weeks in a new hotel, even worse, the same hotel in a different city would get old rather quickly.

Now that I am nearing the end of my military career and have begun the difficult search for a second career, I am going to be very careful about the travel requirements associated with a job before I even consider it. Perhaps traveling 25% of the time would be livable…anything more, at this point in my life, is right out.

A colleague at work spent her holidays in Florida, kayaking on Tampa Bay and fishing.  She caught a crab and several fish that couldn’t be eaten.  Her friend caught a three foot shark, which she emphatically explained, she would not let him bring into the kayak.  I know how she felt.

On one of my first trips to the Maldives, before I actually had a scuba diving license, I went with a friend on a resort dive.  That means that for a fairly reasonable fee you get basic lessons; how to breathe air through your regulator, how to achieve buoyancy, how to clear your mask and relieve pressure in your ears, and most importantly, how to signal the dive master that you were “OK.”  We practiced it several times underwater.  thumb to forefinger…”OK.”  Smiling around our regulators…”OK!”  All together now, “OK!”
I have to admit up front that I was somewhat reluctant to go diving in waters where I believed, however naively, that there were sharks.  But our dive master, a lovely German woman (we’ll call her Helga) assured me that the one place we would actually dive that day was absolutely shark-free.  Isn’t that the scene in the movie where you know that someone is going to die?

My friend Bob and I completed our basic training in waist deep water, had a short break and returned for our actual dive in deeper water.  I was excited, but still nervous about the possibility of sharks.   We stopped at the dive room to get our equipment and were completely outfitted in rental wet suits, rental tanks, rental weights, rental masks.  For a small extra fee you even could rent a waterproof camera, which I did, making me fully prepared to capture on film everything that my eyes might not be able to see clearly.  Since I wear glasses, and didn’t have a prescription mask, vision would be a problem beyond large shapes.   (cue music from JAWS, heard faintly in the background).   Let me be clear here.  My vision is about 20/500 so something has to be pretty big for me to see it without glasses, ok?

We followed Helga out through shallow water to a break in the reef and onto the shelf on the edge of the island where the light streamed down on thousands of tropical fish.  I couldn’t really see individual fish mind you, but I could discern schools of fish and the occasional bright blue or bright yellow of the larger tropical fish.  The water in the Maldives is crystal clear and you can see much farther in the water than you would ever believe possible.   We were very fortunate that day to see giant clams and an enormous sea turtle, bright coral along the reef, and a multitude of eels, rays and parrot fish.  I was amazed and I will admit, hooked.   It was beautiful.

I was relieved to find there were no sharks…except the one.  (turn up the JAWS music please.  A little louder now).  A little three or four footer just over there, watching me and showing it’s teeth.  Sharp teeth just over there.  JUST OVER THERE!  I frantically signaled to Bob to look where I was pointing and tried to get the dive master’s attention.  They both made the “OK” sign.  “HLLLLLGGGGAAA!”  I screamed around the regulator in my mouth, “SSSSHARRRRRRGGG!!”  It was definitely NOT “OK.”  They both smiled at me inanely and made the two handed, double thumbs to forefingers “OK!”  “OK!!”  I was aghast.   I swam around behind them.  If they wanted to ignore the fact that there was a shark in the water, fine.  I didn’t have to be a faster swimmer than the shark…just a faster swimmer than Bob and Helga.

Once I got behind Bob though, I noticed that the shark was gone.  Perhaps they just hadn’t seen it.  It was only four feet long I suppose, and kind of whitish anyway.  They probably just didn’t see it.  But I saw it, and I could barely see anything.  I spent the rest of the dive reminding myself that I was an army officer, a representative of the finest military in the world.  It was not seemly for me to be worried about a little shark in the water.  Right?  I also spent the time watching out for the shark.

We returned to shore and as soon as I came up I began to berate Bob for not noticing the shark.  “What shark?” he asked.   “The one in the water!” I said, exasperated.  “Well did you get a picture?” he asked.  I looked down at the $12.00 rental camera strapped around my wrist.   I looked back at a grinning Bob.  “There wasn’t time,” I replied.   “Too bad,” Bob said knowingly.  I just glared.  “Are you OK?” he asked.    “OK” I signed.   We went to lunch.

Later that day we merrily climbed on board the resort boat, with some other divers who had no need for an escort, and dropped them off in very deep water, before we came a bit back to shore near a completely different part of the reef where, Helga assured us, there was absolutely no chance at all, that we would see a shark.  (LOUD JAWS music, heavy foreshadowing, blood draining from my face).

W e went off the boat, into the water and I was last in.  Bob and Helga were already swimming away from the boat when I saw it.  I mean, I wasn’t even ten feet below the surface yet and there it was, a five foot long shark!  Helga and Bob were still swimming away from me so I quickly snapped a picture and tried to catch up.  She was happily pointing things out to Bob, a splotch of blue something here, a big patch of greenish something else over there, some red something or other, maybe coral, maybe fish, who knows, I couldn’t really see small objects after all.  Every time I turned around however, the shark was still there, about fifteen feet away.

I finally caught up to the happy couple, idly lolling about in the water, gently floating at ten meters depth, completely unaware that we were all about to be ripped to shreds.  I  got Helgas attention and pointed back at the shark.  She and Bob looked back, as did I, and it was still there.  On the one hand it proved I wasn’t crazy, on the other hand, it meant that there really was a shark just moments away from ripping us apart.  The only thing is, now that it was closer, it wasn’t five feet long.  It was more like eight feet long, maybe even ten feet long.

If you can laugh around a regulator, Helga did.  Then Bob did.  Then they both gave me the, you guessed it, “OK” gesture.  I couldn’t believe it!  I pointed again, thinking perhaps they hadn’t seen it and Bob began to swim towards it.  “NO!” I thought, you have a family to think about.   Bob gestured that I should take pictures, so I did.    The whole roll, except for the few that Bob took with the shark swimming behind me.  Vindicated that I had in fact seen a shark, but terrified that it was in fact still swimming around us, I continued to swim with Bob and the apparently mindless Helga as we finished our dive.  They saw turtles, fish, kelp, coral, eels, clams, shells, rocks and other divers.  I saw the shark…continuously.   And a little bit of water.  Between me and the shark.   Yup.  Clearly a ten footer.  Maybe longer.  With razor sharp teeth.  (JAWS theme on full volume then fade to black).

When the dive was over, Bob and Helga gave me quite a hard time.   “That was just a baby!”  “It couldn’t have been more than four feet long.”  “It was probably vegetarian.”  “There was nothing to worry about.”  I suffered in silence…I endured their insults…I had film this time.  “Just wait til I get this developed,” I told Bob.   “OK” he signed.

There are times in our lives that we would like to forget.  Times that must not have happened the way we recall.  I’ve never been drunk in my life, so I don’t really have many times like that, except perhaps for this one.  Several weeks later I got the film back and discovered that I had a picture of Bob, a couple of pictures of me, and twenty-one pictures of blue water.   The pictures were blue.  As though there wasn’t even anything there.  I mean, one or two of the pictures had a faint shape that might have been a three or four foot shark, but clearly not the one that I saw.   The worst part of all was that I would have to show the pictures to Bob.

To this day, I swear the shark was, I don’t know…ten maybe twelve feet long.  Bob claims it was just a little tiny thing, like the one in the picture.  But you have to believe me, it REALLY was a big shark.  OK?  “OK!”

I joined the army “to see the world,” and I guess you could say I have.  I’ve experienced travel at both ends of the spectrum of exclusivity.  I’ve flown first class, stayed in five-star hotels and luxury castles, eaten at very exclusive restaurants, and have been pampered by the personal staff of a rajah of India.  I’ve also been packed into a cattle car, flown on top of cargo in a freezing airplane, and eaten unmentionable comestibles in unspeakable places.  I’ve ridden on camel, elephant and horseback, flown in goat class, and trekked in the high Himalayas.

Living in Europe, the Middle East and Asia, and traveling the world over, I’ve had so many varied experiences that when I tell a story about some distant event that happened, oh a few years back, I am often surprised by the looks on my friends’ faces.  “Wow! Really?  You should write that down!”  Wow.  Really?  You think so?

Okay, okay.  I’ll write it down…a little at a time.   That is what I intend to do in this category.   I’ll try to recall some of the more memorable events from my wandering and meandering.  Perhaps I’ll even post a few pictures.   Right now, I’m just trying to get the categories up and running.

So, do I start at the beginning, or wander aimlessly through memorable travels til I get caught up?  Hard to say.   I could talk about the sixteen hours of jeep travel on the Karakoram highway, several thousand feet over the rushing Indus River…or maybe tell airline horror stories.  Whatever I decide, I’ll post the first real travel entry tomorrow.