A week later I once again loaded up my boat. I started the motor and rode the waves out of the bay. When I reached the spot I put on my tanks and face mask and flippers and was about to throw myself overboard when…I stopped. I looked at the cool green water, and felt the spray of the waves on my face, and tried again. I couldn’t. I looked at the water, dismayed, as a growing sense of fear and dread overtook me. Sadly, I took off my tanks. I took off my mask. I took off my flippers. I started the motor and headed back to the shore.
Back at my little beach cottage I moped and paced, trying to shake off this fear. Nothing helped. I forgot to eat. I tossed and turned all night. In the morning I woke with huge dark half-moons under my eyes. As I splashed my face with cold water, I thought over the situation. I couldn’t stay afraid of water for the rest of my life! I decided I’d try once more.
I walked down to a deserted part of the beach. I waded in up to my ankles. Then up to my knees. Then up to my waist. The water came up to my chest, and stopped rising. I couldn’t force myself to go in farther. A cold ball of fear settled in my stomach. I wanted to scream, to shout at the unfairness of it all, but instead I quietly turned around and went back home. I knew I would go back to my job as a curator after all.
That evening I moodily walked along the water line, scuffing my toes in the sand. Then, as though through a fog, a voice reached me. Continue reading “The Dive: Chapter VI”
When I came to I was lying in the bottom of a boat. Underneath me I felt the water slapping on the bottom of the boat. Evidently it was moving fast through the water. My head swam for a moment, but then cleared. I raised myself on my elbows, coughing violently, and saw a man at the tiller. When he saw me move he stopped the engine and knelt next to me.
“Thank God you’re awake!” he exclaimed. “Take it easy, now. There. You okay?”
“O-okay, I guess,” I stuttered. My lips felt thick. “Wh-what happened?”
“I found you floating on the surface, unconscious. I pulled you onto my boat and when I couldn’t revive you I knew I had to get you to shore in a hurry.”
“I-I blacked out. I didn’t have enough air. Do you have my bag?”
“Yes it’s right here. You’re oxygen mouthpiece was still keeping it up.”
“Who are you?” Continue reading “The Dive: Chapter V”
Contrasts are important in any kind of book, but more so in autobiographies. With novels, you can weave patterns and plots that are according to your own fancy. Autobiographies are a factual recount of a person’s life. Whether the book is exciting or not depends on the life of the person. Contrasts are very important because not only do they add color and spice to the story, but they make it easier to follow the book.
For example, in Kourdakov’s autobiography The Persecutor he explains his life as a Communist leader. He eventually loses faith in Communism and escapes to Canada. He was a secret police agent in Kamchatka province, Eastern Russia. He persecuted the Believers (Christians) until his conversion. A sharp contrast is made in the following example.
On a Sunday afternoon, Kourdakov and his twenty men went to a beautiful spot in the middle of the forest. They were there to disrupt a baptism ceremony of the Believers. They got there early, unpacked their lunch and vodka and made ‘an afternoon of it.’ Kourdakov makes a sharp contrast with the beauty and serenity of the scene and the chaos that ensued when they fell upon the Believers. Continue reading “Kourdakov’s Use of Contrasts In His Autobiography”
And so there I was. I had discovered the wreck. I had found a sunken treasure. But I wanted to find out more about it and maybe bring up some of the metal bars before I reported it to a local university.
The next day I loaded up the Sunshine again and headed out to the open sea. When I reached my destination I heaved the heavy anchor overboard and watched it sink until it disappeared into the greenish-blue depths. I hauled on my oxygen tanks and pulled on my face mask and flippers and flipped overboard, carrying a canvas bag with a parachute material hood over it attached with strings. As I sank beneath the surface I caught my breath at the awe-inspiring underwater beauty. But today was no site-seeing trip. I was here to do business. I swam towards the wreck, checking my watch every few minutes. Continue reading “The Dive: Chapter IV”
Is it immoral to be wealthy? Is it immoral to be poor? Is it immoral to work? Is it immoral to not work? Morals are set according to a person’s values. In my view, it is not immoral to be wealthy or poor. Situations are such that some can be wealthy, some cannot. If we have a choice, we obviously choose to be wealthy. It is immoral to not work, because then we expect money and help even though we are not working for it.
Again, is it immoral to be wealthy? Again, no. Without material wealth one cannot do very much. Some have to be wealthy to help the poor. That is the way things are. If we all had the same amount of wealth, the same amount of everything, life would be very boring. It would lose its spark and joy.
For example, let’s take a man named Donald Trump. Donald Trump is a very rich business man who sells apparel and shoes. He also manages construction companies. He is very, very wealthy. Currently, he is running for president. If he was not wealthy, he would not be running for president. If he was not wealthy, he would not be able to fund his own campaign, thus losing some of the appeal which gains him valuable voters.
There are many other people, too. Bill Gates, for one. If he was not wealthy, he would not have founded Microsoft. If he had not founded Microsoft, I would not be writing this essay on my computer right now. Continue reading “The Morality of Work and Wealth”
Six years later I graduated from the college in St. Louis. I had my degree as a museum curator. I planned on joining a museum in St. Louis within the month.
I had grown used to St. Louis. I had even begun to like it. But as I finished high school I had a nagging memory of the wash of the surf on the beach and of shells and clams and of scuba diving. But when I started college these memories were pushed into the back of my brain, temporarily forgotten.
In my new job, I was curator of the quarter of the building titled: ‘THE SEA SECTION’ in bold letters over the archway. I worked there for a year and a half. I attracted the attention of the manager by my excellent explanatory skills and he placed me in a higher position. After working for another six months, I was granted a month’s vacation. I spent a few days with my parents and my sister Kit, who was now married, and then, after consultation with my parents, decided I would spend the rest of my vacation by the ocean that I loved. Continue reading “The Dive: Chapter III”