Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: Strange but True Wild Encounters!
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What a Nasty Looking Beast... Those Huge Tusks!
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What is it about memory? Do we strange humans seek to embellish our own stories, our real or imagined lives, our mythology? Are memory and recollection simply fabricated scenarios, created by writers and film crews for viewing on a big screen, the hero a masked paladin battling miscreants, villains, outlaws and murderers?
Is all of that the heritage, mere artifice, the inheritance of a long life, of GeezerHood? We tell ourselves tales of triumph, of what we'd actually like to have become, how we'd prefer others, our peers to perceive us, our self-created and self-aggrandized legends?
Maybe it's all a load of crap. I don't know... As a professorial friend suggests, we really don't know who the hell we truly are; we're in a constant state of flux, different personas emerging in different states of existence and personal evolution! Perpetual mysteries?!
What the hell's the difference? Truth? Pretence? I'll tell stories in any case, of what may or may not be believable. In any event, it's true. Memory demands it must be!
During my time in military service, in the nation of Turkiye, adventure called, like a beckoning nymph, like a great challenge proffered to a knight errant! A quest, a need to be brave, heroic. Or merely curious...
There were beautiful hills, almost small mountains behind the base on which we were stationed. A friend and I -- we'll call him Webster -- chose a glorious sunny day, and began our trek up those daunting inclines, hoping to find a wild boar, perhaps some wild native inhabitants, living free but undiscovered. In time, we found both.
The boar did indeed have great and fearsome-looking tusks, fang-like weapon-tools, conjuring alarming images of being eaten alive. He -- we somehow knew it was a male --
looked at us greedily, menacingly but after a long while, during which we stared fixedly at one another, it hungry, we scared witless, the boar turned and trotted slowly away. Then another giant shock!... We hadn't become aware of the dark-skinned man who so quietly, stealthily appeared like a specter behind us, frightening the stuffing out of us in the process.
The man was dressed in a kind of robe, suggesting the guise of an Arab tribes-person. I knew a smattering of Turkish. My companion knew not a word. The man smiled, crooked a finger and insisted we follow. We did -- sort of hypnotically, cautiously -- eventually arriving at his home, a well-concealed cave-like dwelling. Wide-eyed, we looked about, both of us in a state of fear and wonder, and then entered...
Inside it was illuminated by a fire. Beside the fire was a handsome woman and two dark and beautiful children. Introductions followed, haltingly, each using signs and language to the best ability of each of the six of us. Some Turkish, but mostly signs and smiles, facial expressions 
and gestures. It was a magical encounter, delightful, warm and remarkably kind, filled with wonder and curiosity, ultimately quite human, a kind of bonding the likes of which neither my American friend nor I had ever before encountered. How could we have? This was entirely new, entirely alien in a way! We greatly enjoyed the food and drink we were offered. (Wild boar, maybe?). Raki to sip, or maybe not something alcoholic (Muslims!), causing Webster and me to weave a bit as we left the family... I think it was Raki... maybe not! Perhaps a heady reaction, an illusory effect, owing to the strange and wonderful encounter!
We did not meet another wild boar, but swore we heard snorting and shrieking and eerie cries in wooded environs we passed as we began our descent back to the air base, that place a cluster of nondescript buildings that lay at the bottom of the large green hills we had just traversed and explored, both up and back.
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Webster and I did not encounter one another for at least a couple of months after the boar and native cave-dwelling Turks adventure.
When we again did, it happened in Istanbul, along the Galata Bridge. He was wandering aimlessly; I was climbing out of a taxi cab after visiting Turkish friends. Though traveling in opposite directions, I asked if he was heading somewhere in particular.
"Just seeing the sights..." Webster answered cryptically. He seemed confused, uncertain, lost... He sort of mumbled, possibly in a kind of daze or daydream.
"I'm going to go down to the Galata Port area on the Bosphorus, where big ships dock. If you have no specific plans, join me if you like," I said. Webster did so.
At the port, a gigantic and very modern looking cruise ship was docked. Its stairway or "gangplank" was invitingly down, daring us to board.
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| Litva |
"What the hell," I said. "What d'ya say we take a tour?" Webster smiled and willingly agreed. We boarded, seeing no one as we arrived at the ship's level reached via the walkway. We entered a doorway and descended a stairway, reaching a a kind of common room or perhaps a lounge. On the wall was a huge poster depicting a pastoral scene, another showing a fine-looking town or street scene. At the bottom of each poster were the words, "Visit the USSR."
Webster, a quizzical look clouding his long face, asked, "Why would a Greek ship wish to promote tourism in the USSR." I laughed and searched his face, still a grimaced and contorted mask of curiosity. He had to be joking!
We walked along the ship's passageways, up sets of stairs and eventually reaching the captain's or pilot's bridge or wheelhouse. The bridge, the ship's control center, the most  |
Leander's Tower...
(I think)... approaching
the Istanbul harbor! |
fascinating part of our quest, our "tour." Still we encountered no one. Both of us, foolishly and carelessly, began to fiddle with buttons and controls. As we depressed a few of them, we felt the ship begin an almost imperceptible movement, a listing. Wait! Yes, we did experience a movement, a tilting. Water-tight doors? Oh no...
So, too, did a number of crew members. As if in a chorus of angry barking, we heard men shouting, and they were not friendly.
"We'd better get the hell out of here," I cautioned.
Webster said, "Ach... a Greek ship. What can they do but order us to leave."
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With great haste we ran onto and off of that
gangplank... Running for fear of our lives!
... A blur!! We couldn't even see ourselves!! |
I shot him a stern look. "This is a Russian ship, a Soviet ship. I thought you were joking! I know some Russian. I recognize and can read the Cyrillic alphabet. We gotta get the hell out of here," I repeated. "We're American GIs. We have sensitive information in our heads," I shouted as we ran like Olympic sprinters toward and then down the gangplank.
Webster looked stricken. We ran like hell, panting, gasping... "Where?," he asked in a muffled, if panicked voice. "Should we jump off the ship... into the Bosphorus?"
I had the same thought, but figured we needn't do anything so dramatic, so foolhardy, so potentially cold and wet and demanding of an arduous swim to shore. No guarantee of escape. I could see us getting yanked out of the soup by our hair, burly commie deckhands ready to put us in chains! Torture and interrogation our certain fate!!
"Keep running. Those commies are after us... damn commies!" We raced off the ship, down the gangway, then up an incline, round a turn, ducking low, into a throng of Turks, some carrying huge loads on their backs, some with heavy-looking sacks on their heads. Finally, finally we felt somewhat safe, having been absorbed, having sort of disappeared into the mass of humanity.
We kept going at a brisk pace, onto the Galata Bridge. Only then did we dare look back toward the moored ship, toward the Litva! I spotted a group of agitated-looking men, searching the wharf area. They spied left and right, but happily not toward the bridge. They continued to look angry. I could almost hear them in my pulsing brain, muttering and cursing!
"Phew," I ventured. "I think we're safe... Hope we're safe," I said, reassuring Webster and myself. Sort of... He continued to look a bit ghostly pale and stunned. I thought he would punch me at any moment for getting him into a potentially dangerous pickle!
In time, we made our way back to the quay and the ferry landing. A pleasant return voyage on the Sea of Marmara, past beautiful islands, eventually docking at the Port of Yalova. From there by bus back to the base.
On the ferry, I drank a couple of vodka-lemons (pronounced Le-Moans, accent on the "Moans"!). Munched on pistachios too, usually served along with the booze. I exchanged my concerns with Webster. Our sensitive knowledge. Soviets. Commies. Possible danger to ourselves. Stupid actions aboard the Litva. My stupidity, his too, perhaps. I apologized to him for my own foolish behavior, putting both of us at risk, or seemingly so! Webster's bravado probably came from the "Greek"... his confusion!
"Who uses that ship?" Webster asks, perhaps rhetorically.
"Hmmm... Possibly wealthy Soviets. Maybe Politburo members. Rich commies cruising on the Black Sea. I don't know..."
I never saw him again, or perhaps I did, fleetingly, in a common neighborhood. A brief glance, possible recognition, maybe a mirage?! I made no attempt to hail him or to meet, nor to effect a rendezvous. It was enough, what we had experienced together. It was enough!
Humbly Submitted 10-09-2025 -- by Joel K.
