Looking through my files for something interesting, I ran across this. I wrote in Y2K. One of my first fishing reports. This one really takes me back. Even though it is about fishing it demonstrates what sleep derivation can do to ones thinking processes, even an old shift worker.
F I S H I N G R E P O R T
...It's almost dawn. As the eastern sky slowly begins
to grow a little brighter, the pale, unenthusiastic
sun struggles to rise under a heavy, gray sky that
looks like one solid cloud. He pulls his Ford Ranger
over into the parking lane along the seawall, next to
the pier and kills the engine. He sits, dazed, for a
moment or two, having worked all night and feeling
hypnotized from the 50 minute drive to get to the
beach. His reverie is shattered by a passing truck
that goes by so closely that it gives the little
Ranger a good shaking. He opens the driver's door and
steps out, and stands facing the crashing surf and
struggles to extricate himself from the somnambulistic
stupor which is trying to overtake him. He inhales
deeply, filling his lungs with the fragrance and
"texture" of the gulf. His heart begins to pound and
adrenaline coarses through his veins as the
anticipation of the day washes over him like a gentle,
yet completely enveloping wave. Now, fully alert from
the excitement, he quickly unloads his gear and sets
up his pier cart. As he is walking onto the pier those
of his friends that are already there greet him with
big smiles and enthusiastic speculation about who will
catch the biggest this or the most that. He rigs up
his rods, baits up and makes his first casts of the
day. Flawless. His friends can only watch in jealous
wonder (they have never even HEARD of Rocket Fuel).
They stare in silence at the water, and wonder if
there could really be any fish that far away from the
pier. We're talking about never-before-fished water!
:-)
The hustle and bustle of the first part of any fishing
day soon settles into a lazy, quiet period and, with a
certain alarm, he is aware that no one is catching any
fish, and worse, no one is even getting any bites. He
Clings doggedly to his confidence and enthusiasm,
after all, it is still very early. He reflects on the
countless times that he has been sitting around day
dreaming when the fish turned on all of a sudden and
everyone with a hook in the water was fighting a fish.
He is certain that such an event is eminent.
The morning wears on, and , with reluctance he is
forced to accept the reality that "they aren't biting
today". He is enjoying the morning anyway, as the wise
cracks and laughter entertain the luckless fishermen
and help to soften the disappointment which all are
feeling, but no one wants to acknowledge. All are
aware that it is the balance of good day/bad day that
makes fishing the exhilarating sport that it is.
Now, with no hope left in any of the gang, they all
begin to put away their rods and pack up their tackle
boxes. As he waves goodbye and offers the always
encouraging, "we'll get 'em next time", he feels good
inside because he has given it his best. He knows that
a "skunk" once in a while only serves to sweeten the
days when he pounds them into submission.
Back at home now, he kisses his wife and relates all
the events, or lack there-of, and gets caught up on
the home front goings on. Eventually, he staggers into
the computer room and it occurs to him that he has
been awake for nearly two days. In his current mental
state, he realizes that he would most certainly be
capable of a load of BS that would exceed even his own
usual abilities, which are considerable. The wheels of
consciousness begin to turn, slowly at first and then
begin to pick up speed. He sits down at the computer
and pauses, searching for the right beginning. The
clouds in his mind mysteriously part and he begins to
type: "It's almost dawn. As the eastern sky slowly..."
Looking back....
Linear Mode
