Survival Scenarios
Minus Times Minus
Last Saturday I met my cousin Rolf at the shopping center. He looked good, he had always been a lively lad, flaxen-haired with an oily shimmer, but now he looked really fattened up. In his arms he was holding an exotic beauty; he introduced her to me right away. “This is my novia Blanquita from Venezuela,” he said with the expression of a conqueror, and beautiful Blanquita smiled at me obligingly. With his smooth features, slightly shiny sheen, rosy cheeks and jolly manner, he came across like a well-fed little pig. “Rolf,” I shouted, “hey, I thought you were in prison.”
To tell the truth, Rolf had had a few awful stories on his hands. As relatives we were of course on his side and didn’t want to learn the details. He was a cunning financial juggler and nobody in our family understood his dubious business dealings. We didn’t even know what he was actually doing, but we always saw him happily living the high life, with beautiful women, expensive cars and in a constant party mood.
I was only aware that his shady financial dealings had caused trouble recently. He must have taken things too far. A number of companies had gone bust, and all fingers were pointing at him. The journalists were hot on his heels and some newspapers had spread nasty stories about him, even on page one. After a short-notice, partly secret trial with reduced witness testimonies, he was surprisingly quickly sentenced to a fraction of the prison term that the public prosecutor had requested.
“Haha,” he said, “not on my weekend leaves, for which I have a blanket authorization from the very top. I can practically do what I want on those leaves as long as I don’t break the electronic leash.” He took me to the side and whispered in my ear: “The prison belongs to the GoodPeopleBank. With the CEO I’m on a first-name basis. He understands quite well that today I’m in and he’s out and tomorrow it could just as well be the other way around. And you know what? It’s one of the banks I owe a huge amount of money to. They have to treat me like a maggot in bacon or they won’t get anything, you understand?”
“Gosh,” I said, “you seem to have been a lucky piggy again.” “No lucky pig,” he said, “you just have to know the right chicks and owe money to as many people as possible, then the whole world will take care of you.” And as usual when he talked, his little eyes danced behind his fat bulges, and his grin ran the whole gamut of human well-being from good-natured chuckle to derisive laughter.
“In other words, no Abu Ghraib,” I said. “No,” he said, “of course there are dark corridors and cells where the guards occasionally swing their clubs, but only the poor creatures, the stupid ones who have no idea about life and its true beauty languish there. Of course I have nothing to do with them, in my department we are among ourselves. It’s called the castle of celebrities, and used to be a duke’s residence, ultimate elegance I tell you. A true luxury hotel, you must imagine, it’s really fantastic. An orderly daily routine like in a fine resort, pure relaxation, it’s good for your health and good for business. No reproaches from the wife, no stressful problems with the children, no arguments with girlfriends, no annoying phone calls, no tabloid scribblers with stupid questions, no drunken sprees with business associates, no court, prosecutors, creditors or bailiffs breathing down my neck. Ohh, everything is nicely arranged,” he exclaimed, prancing, while lovely Blanquita cradled herself in his arms, “and my lawyers are watching over my well-being, while I drive my schemes forward with my business friends inside and outside. During the week I’m looked after properly, so to speak, and on the weekends I’m firing away, full of energy. It’s practically the same as outside, just with the signs reversed, but as you know, minus times minus equals plus and the difference is what I live off! On top of that it’s much quieter, oh yes, basically a paradise.”
“We’re going to build a skyscraper in Taiwan,” he said, “right in downtown Taipei, trapezoidal, with rotating interactive platforms, a virtual multimedia cyber experience, all already financed. I’ve got a whole consortium behind me, they’re all terrified to death that I’m going to file for bankruptcy, so they’re feeding me with abandon. That’s love in this day and age!” He began to explain his project to me, pouring a torrent of words over me, waving his arms, jumping from one foot to the other, sprinkling in his favorite phrases, “I’m telling you” and “you understand” and “that’s how it’s done” and “can you imagine”, and “the world will be amazed”, and “it’s never been done before”. I glanced around, looking for a way out, waved a cab over, “I’d better get going Rolf, the children are waiting for me.”
“Rolf,” I said as I left, “it’s going to end badly with you.” He laughed, “Never mind,” he called after me, “if you look closely, won’t it end badly with all of us?” I jumped into the cab and his words resonated with me, haunting me all day. Here you work hard and try to be a righteous person, and what do you get for it? Doesn’t it end badly for all of us? Rolf had ruined my day, and I wished I hadn’t run into him.
© Maniwolf – German Original by Maniwolf. Translated with DeepL.com and edited by Maniwolf. To be reviewed by USAtranslations.org
A Far Cry from Home....or Dog Luck!
Here I am, exhausted, dumped in a park, wandering about aimlessly in the middle of a big city called Houston. I feel like a stray dog. Am I a human creature transformed into a stray dog of dubious provenience or vice versa? Is it late fall or winter? I spot an old, mossy, dark bench in a corner, shaded by a giant oak tree. Just right! I clutch my legs around its moist, decrepit boards and sink down. Uuuh, can it hold my weight? When you are tired you are heavier, I heard them say. And street canines must be especially heavy, heavy with solitude, I think. The bench sighs, barely putting up with my weight. Vulnerable, worn out like me, we are friends. The bench has no name. I am sure the park has a name, but for me it is just as nameless as the bench. Nameless parks are the best places to hang out when you are lost, and nobody knows your name. Even that city would be nameless, weren’t it so insolently famous that I couldn’t miss its name.
Now I realize it is late November. Yesterday John F. Kennedy was assassinated in this area, shot at high noon in Dallas. The reporters went over and over that tragic event on the radio, agitated, alarmed, breathless, shocked, desperate, struggling for words, pouring out the latest details by the minute. I was on the road, had hitched a car on a highway in the Deep South early in the morning. We were all struggling with the dramatic news, the driver, another young hitchhiker and me. The driver’s pale face became even more pale, morbid, will he have a heart attack and die on the spot? I would have become pale and morbid as well for the rest of my life hadn’t I mobilized my street dog survival instincts. Holding on to the back of the driver’s seat, I screamed “He was the best president you ever had.” The Louisiana hitchhiker objected vehemently, and I remember there was a long, spirited discussion between the three of us. All of yesterday’s events are already disappearing in an endless mind fog now. Was that really yesterday? Or a long time ago? When was it? How long ago?
Nowadays some benches hold names, like “In memory of J. F. Kennedy, born May 29, 1917, died November 22, 1963. He left us too early; we always will remember his boyish smile”. His forced smile. No, just smile. “On this bench he used to sit, kind soul”. No, this bench was never honored to carry JFK, nor his name nor somebody else’s name. No, it wouldn’t carry my name either. But I will carry its nameless trace in my memory. Nameless bench, you are the first to support me, even though barely, during one of the most pivotal events of history, one of the most wounded times of my life. Yes, you are my companion in these moments, fragile, flying, fleeing, yet unforgettable moments.
I pull a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket and hold it in my hands. My last dollar bill. Yes, green twenty bucks. I examine the bill, never looked at any bill with such diligence. In God we… aaah, here they capitalize god. Yes, capital G. Why? Don’t ask, don’t tell, just follow the rules. Stop at stop signs, wait patiently in line, write god with capital G. Sorry, I have a hard time capitalizing. Could be my German background, there we capitalize even the ugliest nouns. Should I really trust that god on the dollar bill? Which god? Or goddess? Being heterosexual, I actually would prefer goddess. Oooh, wait a minute here they allude to a god and I don’t even know what to do with myself. What’s the next step in my life? Where should I go? Where will I sleep? Eat? Twenty dollars is not much money to live on forever. But as it is my last dollar bill, I need to cherish it. Adore it. Pray to it, American style. Isn’t it sacred in its innocent green beauty?
Sitting there I keep staring at the bill. I am all alone with the godlike bill! To be fair, it not only talks about god. It talks about numbers, signatures, history, a white house, Jackson. He looks old-style adventurous and a trace too unfriendly, maybe even a bit like a criminal, oh man, be kind. You are dead now, anyway. Well, I am spending a lot of time on that shaky bench together with that holy bill!
In the distance I see another bench on the sunny side of the walkway. A friendlier bench. The only problem is that a young woman is sitting there. Or a blessing? Should I go over there? It sure is brighter, more welcoming. And a human being comes with it, a package deal so to say.
Maybe she will be my soul sister, equally stranded, forlorn, in this vast, dense city? Hesitating. Should I say good-bye to my loyal bench? Go for a more attractive one? Two benches in competition. Spineless as we all are, I leave mine and approach the other bench. With my envisaged soulmate. What will I say? Don’t we know each other? Haven’t we seen each other before? Are we related? Are we creatures in kind, desperately roaming about the planet? Did we meet before, maybe in a different life? Or “Nice to meet you, may I sit down here, I feel so lonely? It’s a big city, wouldn’t you agree? And of course, a great country. You know what? When you can’t lose, it doesn’t matter what you say. And when it comes from your heart, it doesn’t matter either. Well, my heart is pure, does that mean I can’t lose? Don’t think, just tell the truth. Didn’t Janis Joplin take in lost dogs? Could I just sit here, dog or not, breathe in harmony with a true human being? Recovering from my stray dog metamorphosis?
I walk over. I say hi. I look for her eyes, find them. Olive-green like mine. Big pupils. Is she on drugs? You have beautiful eyes I say. May I hug your eyes, or your whole body? Just one time? Or one day? Or one life? Two lives? Many lives? Forever? Should I wave with my twenty-dollar bill? No, that’s tactless. You don’t do that with strangers. Nor with friends and family! And definitely not with unknown women. Can I just sit down beside you join you on this bench? Ohh, am I coming too close, too soon? Will you say, thank you, but I want to be by myself. Rather alone. Well, that sounds perfect, I am alone, too, couldn’t we just exchange vibes on that level? Relate from lonely soul to lonely soul? I promise to give you as much space as you need, as long as we may share the same bench. Not bed for now, to be clear. Please be kind to me, even though I am a homeless street dog by nature.
Actually, strictly speaking, I am not homeless, you know. I have my pride, well somewhere, in my guts. Or in my innocent heart. Traveling around the globe with no money to get away from the military draft. You understand? Conscientious objector. The only problem was they objected to my objection. They merely approved of religious reasons. Oh god. So that’s why I disguised myself as a dog and disappeared, out of moral principles, so to say. Yes, some canines actually have morals, you know, maybe even more than humans? Of course it comes with unreal scenarios, like a pack of ferocious wolves chasing you through the world, howling at your tail. A wild flaming fire tail is all they have got to chase, haha. Should I cut off my tail, leave it to them and escape? As kids we tried to catch lizards, and all we ever got was their tails. Maybe even crocodiles can dump their tails when they are dangerously stuck? I would love to leave the militaries a crocodile tail! Or a whole crocodile? The urchins in my street claimed that even the whole creature would grow again out of a severed tail. But those were the same urchins who also insisted they found the end of the rainbow in Rheinau. No, I didn’t believe them. Still, I like the idea of dumping a voracious crocodile on the militaries!
I decide to keep it simple and ask her how she is doing, with a friendly smile of course. May I sit here just a little bit on that sunny side of the street? Ohh, she smiles back, surprise. Full lips, white, healthy teeth. Is she beautiful and kind, would she be so generous to become friendly with a stray dog? We talk. Small talk, heading towards large talk. What are you passionate about? What is special about you? Do you want me to discover what makes you unique? I am good at that. At what? Discovering what is special about a woman. Or a human being. What’s the trick? The trick is to realize that we are all special. Miraculous, unique. Never ran into a man I didn’t like said Will Rogers. What about a woman? Haah, that used to be included for free, stupid. While I am trying to connect deeper, from soul to soul, I can tell she starts feeling uncomfortable. Okay, then back to small talk. We are actually having a lively conversation. She even asks my name. However, in this country, when she asks your name, she is on her way out. People tend to introduce themselves before they leave, never will understand that. What do you do with just a late, ethereal name on the road? Yes, she says goodbye. Nice talking…Just like that. Quick, short, no hug, no kiss. I guess I am a veritable street dog indeed.
The next day I get hired on a ship! I go to the Houston ship channel and stroll along the docks from one ship to another. Twenty ships? Thirty ships? Imposing, shiny ships, cruise ships, oil tankers, container ships, no chance. Sailors on railings, lazy, bored, waiting for the next voyage. May I talk to the captain? Or somebody else who happens to like homeless dogs? Or just somebody who could have pity with me and take me in? Actually, you do not need to mobilize your pity reservoir, I am a hard worker I insist. And strong. I can prove it!
I catch the attention of an officer with two golden stripes on his uniform. Protruding teeth like a wolf, tall, broad built, commanding, He looks down at me from the railing of the ugliest, tiniest, rustiest ship, suspiciously. Rude, mean, but they do need a deckhand. One crew member got sick and was left behind. Ohh, I will go for it, deck hand is fine, and to be the youngest by age, grade and rank, that’s fine, too. My title will be junior ordinary seaman. I know that means hammering rust, painting, climbing, ropes, rudder time. Dog shift on the rudder, miserable dog shift, from 12 to 4 during the day and 12 to 4 during the night. And extra hours on deck. Didn’t I come readily transformed into a dog? Re-impersonating my true nature? But loudly I say, it’s perfect, I have experience, done this many times before, across the Baltic Sea and the Mediterranean. I want to return to Europe, I add. Somewhere there could be my home, could it? There is waiting a woman for me, well, maybe. What’s her name? Ylajali?
The officer starts laughing, cruel wolf laughs. Home? That’s a joke! We are on call he says, nobody knows where we will end up. Ultimate destination unknown. But this coming year we will be traveling in between Houston, through the Caribbean to Progreso, Puerto Barrios, Puerto Cortez, then all the way to Guayana and Northern Brazil. Up and down the Guayana river. Mosquitos, malaria and gonorrhea. Curious naked kids waving on the shores. Turtles and crocodiles in the water. He continues laughing grimly. Can you handle that? It’s the smallest ship around, a nutshell, too small for the rough Northern Route to Europe, really. Only 3000 tons cargo, I learn, with just 23 crew members altogether. Anyway, we may eventually cross the Atlantic to the Netherlands, hopefully. It’s a death ship, really. He doesn’t say that, but I learn that later. For now, we are loading bauxite, ….carrying it to Progreso, I believe, later guano, he says.
I don’t hesitate. I learnt that in Southern India. When one of the overcrowded raggedy trains finally enters the railway station, catch it, catch it, no matter where it goes. Get in there, don’t give attention to the hostile crowd staring from gaunt faces at you with cold, desperate, wild animal eyes like out of a concentration camp. Give a bystander a dollar bill to push you in, over the bodies and heads, to wherever some space is left. Who knows if there ever will be another train. Go for it, now or never! That’s the way I end up on this ship, direction unknown. After all the ship can’t leave the globe, I think.
They feed me, because they need strong workers. As much food as you can eat and a crew cabin ceiling over your head. Any ship is a luxury hotel when you come from the road, a luxury cruise ship. But she is always a ship, nothing like that woman on the bench. Or the one waiting at home. Dreams and yearnings. The first night I spent crying in my cabin with walls right beside the hammering machines. Wetting the raw wood with my tears, finding relief in the rotten pillows on my cot. Not believing my good luck. Or bad luck? Dog luck!
It’s a far cry from home. But no matter where you go, isn’t it always a far cry from home?
© Maniwolf – English Original
San Francisco
San Francisco. Crooked, humpbacked streets, houses with faces. Houses that make grimaces when you stop by to look at them, especially those on the corners, the bent and twisted and convoluted corners. Narrow haunted backstreets with structures standing around like spectators at a failed carnival parade, distorted images from a whimsical world. Above, the sky, long, gloomy rain clouds that pierce like spears from the area beyond the edge of the postcard, incessant, unstoppable.
The clouds grow thicker and darker; they roll up into a storm. Soon the sky bursts, lightning, thunder and rain sweep through the street crevices and house cracks. “That makes my task today even more tricky,” I think. I have been called to put this monster truck in motion, which has ended up stuck in one of the steep trackways hunching at an uphill tortuous street corner, fat, shiny and bloated in a ghostly world, with an oversized snout that towers loudly and shamelessly against the sky.
“Are you ready to mount the rig?” asks the driver, a young lad with a pretty, soft boyish face. “Yes, mount this truck and maneuver it out of this witch’s tomb” he begs. “If only I could climb it like a mountain,” I think to myself, “then I would set to work with enthusiasm and love, but we are dealing here with gnarly technology, with the wonderful technical achievements of our time.” Out loud, however, I say, “I’m a specialist in such things,” and I laugh hoarsely as I swing myself already into the cab, “it runs in the family, our forefathers had to manage situations much worse than this, with tanks back then in the vast East, and backwards up the mountain through the undergrowth, while bombs lashed down on the left and right. Once you’ve mastered that, fighting for your life in reverse gear, while you keep writhing your head out of the hatch and twist it backwards, trying to dodge the raining bombs, well, then nothing can knock you down. Everything depends ultimately on the delicate interplay of clutch and gas pedal, and of course on simultaneous steering, as well as on your agility skills and the ability not to freak out. Your feet and hands must practically take on a life of their own, slipping into a highly delicate, wildly artistic juggling trance of sensitivity and harmony, while your heart bleeds into the sky in a world that is going up in flames around you that makes your brain freeze.”
“So,” I say, “how did you even get here? These aren’t streets for an eighteen-wheeler, especially one with a full load, that should be forbidden by the police.” “I wanted to take a shortcut,” says the guy meekly, “it all looked so easy on the map, but then I got caught up in the chaos of hills and construction sites and rubble mounds and barriers and backed-up cars and one-way streets and dead ends and alley cats and stray mutts and sewer toads and mole burrows and knots of people until I got stuck.” “Yes, on the map,” I say grimly. “And what the heck is wrong with the handbrake?” “The handbrake sparked and burned out,” says the guy, “I turned the wheels of the truck against the curb, and the first gear is also messed up.” “I see,” I say, stepping on the brake and clutch, shifting gears, revving the engine, and releasing the wobbly handbrake as a starting signal, so to speak. “Life is hardest going uphill,” I think, hugging the huge steering wheel, “especially in the curves, the hairpin curves, where you get stuck in the turn with the abyss in front of you and a roaring crowd behind you, and worst of all, of course, is starting on the hill when traffic piles up around you and no one helps you and the whole load pulls downwards, slippery and wet, like now.” .
With my feet balancing the pedals and my head hanging out the window to assess the situation, I manage to maneuver back and forth a dozen times, gaining space inch by inch, until I can lift off the curb, break through the encrusted corners and labyrinthian arches. Slowly we pick up speed, chugging past transversed buildings and crushed cars and remote-controlled people, slaughtered pets and spilled garbage and begin to float beyond the crest, into the valley, toward the sea, toward the sea.
Later, we park on the beach promenade and look out at the ocean, where the storm is raging and the waves are driving forward until they crash close to the shore.
“It’s totally incredible how you managed that,” says my companion admiringly, “without a handbrake, against the hill in the pouring rain with a full load pulling you down.” “Rather tell me something about San Francisco,” I say, “I hear everyone is gay.” “Yes,” he says, “most of us are gay, we are one big family. But you have to pronounce the g more softly.” “G a y,” I say. “No,” he says and laughs, “much, much softer,” as he gently strokes my hair with his hand and looks at me with loving brown eyes. “Believe me, really, I could never have done this alone.” “Yes,” I say, “my pronunciation is a bit rough, but at least I can maneuver trucks and similar creatures out of trouble.” “Or tanks, even backwards up the mountain,” he says. “Let’s go down to the ocean,” I suggest, and as we stroll down, he takes my hand and presses himself against me like a girl. I break free and shout, “Or swim against the storm and dive through the waves,” strip off my clothes, run towards the water and throw myself into the raging sea.
© Maniwolf – German Original by Maniwolf. Translated with DeepL.com and edited by Maniwolf. To be reviewed by USAtranslations.org
Little Genevieve
Here is little Genevieve walking backwards with her eyes closed along the thundering highway. If you have ever gone backwards more than a hundred feet, you know how hard it is to keep a straight line. She is zigzagging on the pure asphalt; there is not even an earthy rumble strip. Did somebody leave her there alone, forget her, abandon her? Is she in a trance, sleepwalking? Why does she not open her eyes? Ohh, I can see now she is trying to lift her eyelids, blinking slightly.
In a haze of fumes and fogs she senses giant bubbles, icy bubbles, steamy bubbles, green, grey, black, orange bubbles, powerful, overwhelming bubbles, thrusting themselves towards her as voracious snakes, crocodiles, hyenas, wolves. Will they attack her, tear her into pieces, devour her with gusto?
Where is she now? Is she already in the mouth of a huge whale, a hungry shark? Is she about to be ground down into a delicious meal, giving joy to the palate of a tiger, the stomach of a lion? Where do those scary, relentlessly pounding bubbles come from? What is going on with little Genevieve?
Seconds later the bubbles are spiraling into clouds, streaming, merging, transforming into smothering towers of life or death. A psychedelic light circus of colors and shapes, a skyquake rocking her from the dark depth of a huge soft womb into the sharp harsh daylight. Is the world going to collapse or explode? Make a move Genevieve, open your eyes, head somewhere, anywhere, get out!
What’s going on now? Genevieve is paralyzed, freezing into an ice beam right in the middle of the road, no words, no screams, no sighs, no whispers. Stillborn? Why doesn’t she move? How could she move? Legs first or head, arms or eyes or mouth or tongue? Why does nothing happen to her? Yes, nothing is happening, deep frost, total ice, stuck forever. Only bubbles that float into clouds that morph into vehicles careening towards her; red sedans, blue pickups, white vans, a black truck, a big blue bus, a giraffe in between, all speeding, dashing desperately towards the water, lemmings throwing themselves lustfully into the black river of death. Hundreds, thousands, an endless race. Will any of those vehicles run her over? Hit her in the stomach, heart, brain? Will she be wounded forever? Crippled for the rest of her life? Or killed on the spot? Is that her end? The end of her life as she knows it?
MOVE! This is dangerous. A car will hit you! Is that what you want, do you expect it, or you just don’t care? Are you on a suicide mission? Maybe too helpless or scared to kill yourself actively, or too proud? Hanging on to life or not, who knows? Leaving it up to fate? Playing Russian roulette? A victim of your birth? A sacrifice to your gods?
Genevieve starts opening her eyes, moving her legs, slowly, carefully turning around. She goes straight home now. She survived this time.
© Maniwolf – English Original
You Cannot Get Away From It...
“I need to relax my brain”, I said to the guy in the bright rainbow shirt next to me. I don’t know exactly why I thought he was a local guy, it must have been for his down-to-earth look, his open smile and his weather-bronzed face. We were both standing at the shore watching some vacationers-turned-fishermen trying to get their two little boats into the water. “Relax your brain?” he questioned, “what do you mean, man, what’s wrong, do you have a headache?“ “Not really a headache”, I said, “or maybe, yes, the city gives me a headache, so I am just trying to get away from everything for the weekend, that’s why I escaped out here. It’s a tough world down in L.A., everybody posturing and showing off, wheeling and dealing, hustling and cheating, threatening and suing, a dog-eats-dog world, really”. ”It’s a tough world everywhere”, the rainbow man laughed, “no matter where you go”, and when I saw how amused his tanned face looked, I had an inkling that he knew a bit more than I did.
The fishermen standing in the water burst out shouting as a big wave hit the larger boat and it started sliding away. An older guy lunged forward and tried to control the boat by pushing it down and holding on to the side of it. But he slipped and fell into the water and as he hung on to the railing stubbornly, he pulled the whole boat down with him, it tipped over and most of the rods, bait and live vests went overboard and ended up floating in the waves. The guys all cursed and tried to recover their gear bopping up and down in the water. Just when they had retrieved and loaded the boat and got it afloat again, a huge wave hit the smaller boat with its two passengers in it. They tried to counterbalance but evidently shifted their weight around too slow or in the wrong direction, so it looked for a moment like a fantastic, bizarre dance of two crazy old men, then their boat capsized, they fell into the water, the shouting and cursing got really bad, and a whole struggle started all over again.
It was early evening and I turned towards the sun touching the soft brownish hills in the west leaving grayish shadows on them, watched the spectacle of colors spilling over the sky creating streams of long stripes and fluffy bubbles from yellow to orange and red and carmine and a thousand shades in between, a constant changing skyscape, a flow of intense colors melting into each other, just as lively and powerful as the ever changing seascape. And see, when I looked east a totally different scenario unfolded, a dark underworld of blue and black and lilac opened up, with the nearly full, bright moon dangling on the side with a stream of lights reflecting in the ocean. This eastern world was a bit strange and foreboding and threatening at first, but when I let it sink in, the colors seemed to take on a soft and calming shine.
I could feel how so much wonder on all sides was balsam for my soul. And my brain did start relaxing.
“Hey look at the dolphins out there”, the local guy shouted, and my glance moved towards the horizon. Not too far from us I could see more dolphins than I had ever seen in my life in one place, frolicking, jumping, moving back and forth in front of our eyes, as if they were presenting a show especially for us. But it wasn’t just the dolphins — their appearance created a whole sequence of events. “Wow, this is a spectacular theater,” I exclaimed, “look at all the seagulls and pelicans flying towards where the dolphins are.” Hundreds of seagulls came fluttering about within seconds, circling around and touching the white foaming wave crests. Brown Pelicans were precipitating into the waves with breath-taking speed. “What’s going on there, this looks like a battlefield!”, I exclaimed and I felt like a baby who sees the wild ocean for the first time. “The dolphins are chasing their bait”, the guy said, “and when the mackerels and squid try to escape toward the surface, the pelicans get them.” “That’s a whole tragedy going on there”, I remarked. “It’s a tragedy and a triumph, just like everywhere”, he said and his eyes rested knowingly on the scene, not surprised, really, and I thought he is right, wherever you go you just cannot get away from it.
© Maniwolf – English Original