Sea Sense - Doing the Math

   If there's anything at all I've learned at sea, if you are going to get where you need to go, you have to do your homework. It doesn't matter what size the boat is - if you miscalculate your equations doing the math in your navigation, the mistakes can be painful.
   Literally.
   That's one thing I've admired about Julian Stockwin, author of the well acclaimed "Kydd" series novels. He writes of the days when our seas were defended with wooden ships of fighting sail and iron men.
   And no GPS.
   Julian is definately one who does his homework. He's a seaman who has seen the harder ways of a life at sea, and in reading one of his novels, "Quarterdeck", I couldn't get past the navigational solution worked out between Kydd, now an officer, and his navigator Rawson at the end of Chapter Four, without remembering a time when I would have enjoyed a bit of peace having Julian along.
   There have been times when knowing the sea and the way she works has saved me. During the ice storm related in the beginning of this web log was only one such incident.
   The one time that memory recalled Julian's novel "Quarterdeck", only fortunately without the fog, happened several years before that day in the Arctic. But it proved just as memorable, and with just as unexpected an ending.
   Kodiak Island, Alaska is located at the northwestern head of the Gulf of Alaska, where the Japanese Current comes up along the Aleutian Chain and then curls down into the Southeastern Panhandle, as we Alaskans refer to it. The weather that these colliding fronts can create is serious business, especially beginning in August, and hits the southeastern side of the Island and it's archipelagos quite hard. 
   But it's through this open coastal waterway I had to travel each fishing season, to get to my commercial fish site on Kupreanof Straits, over 140 nautical miles away. In an 18 foot open double ender.
   Then after the fishing season was over in August I had to use this same route to return, to get to our home at the village of Old Harbor, tucked just inside the straits of Sitkalidak Island. Over two thirds of the passage was across the open face of the gulf of Alaska, and it's not a run to take lightly. The weather picks up suddenly and hits hard across this stretch, and several of my friends are no longer with us now because of it.
   On this occasion I had completed a good season, and was towing a new skiff I had designed and just shelled in to complete once I had it home, for the next year's fishing season. She was a gull wing 18 foot built to run with twin outboards, but until it was finished I would not have use of her. So she had to be towed behind the tough little double ender.
   I had been watching the weather fronts - Alaska has some of the best weather channels I've seen, covering marine weather at sea as well as for flight operations. I studied the moving fronts, calculating the effect on the tides and the wind patterns that I would encounter on the way home. The currents would play a serious part in the way the passage was effected by the oncoming weather, especially across the open waters of the Gulf, and timing the tides with the hours of daylight remaining that time of year was critical. A mistake would find me in a building sea at night, with several rocky areas across my path - and a falling 20 foot tide exposing their hazards to a wooden hull.
   Not good.
   I'm known for being safety conscious, especially at sea. I did the math, worked out the time and distances with the tidal effects, and calculated the positions I should find myself in at each point I knew needed to be specific.
Then I went over the boats again to make sure everything was in order. The little double ender was a proven, tough little boat. We had weathered a lot of rough seas together, and I knew the route well enough that, if things got too bad, or the unexpected happened, I could find a hole to get out of it. Even if I had to get rid of the new skiff to do it, I would make it.
   As long as knew where I was - even in the dark.
   Which meant doing the math.
   It was a good thing I did.

   The day I was to depart, unexpected family complications held me up, and I didn't cast off until several hours past my planned departure. I knew from the allowance I had made, that the tides would work with me past the worst of the points across my path. But approaching the Straits into Sitkalidak, if the weather started to build, I would be hunting a hole.

   At night.

   The long Alaskan days were starting to shorten enough that I knew I wouldn't make it in time if the weather turned. The forecast was good, and was usually reliable, but anything could happen. I rechecked my positioning as I went, the tide finally changing and my time and distance calculations with it. Dusk had settled in long before I cut across Boulder Bay as I passed Dangerous Cape, and adjusting for the building ebb tide, I approached the entrance of Sitkalidak Straits in darkness.

   Here's where a moon would have been nice. Any light at all. But the new moon was invisible and the stars that sparkled above me, while helping me to maintain my course, only gave enough of a visual aid to show the black outlines of a cliff side to either side of me. There was no references of any kind to indicate how far I was from either side. Or the rocky shores defending them.

   I could tell by the motion of the boat beneath me the way of the water, the depth enough to feel at peace with my position in the channel thus far. But it felt like I was in a black tunnel with only the top of the box open, and no way to see where I was at going through - middle, or sides. But I was familiar enough with the double ender to know what she was telling me, and continued with my faith in her reading the water I couldn't see - and the math that had told me earlier where I should be.

   But after the first hour, now deep into the channel against a strong ebb tide, I couldn't help but long for a light, any light of some kind to confirm my position.

   Be careful what you pray for - you just might get it.

   I was studying the blackness around me when I noticed ahead, that the channel was starting to brighten. And not just a bit, but with a blaze of light as, from around the bend to my port bow, well ahead of me, a large fishing boat came into view from around his side of the channel. His "Norwegian Sunrise", as we refer to the massive array across the masthead light bar on our fishboats, was brilliantly illuminating everything for miles across the channel as he turned my way, and headed for the open sea.

   Suddenly everything was vividly portrayed in every detail - and to my relief, I was right on course, in the middle of the channel.

   And right in the fish boat's way, if I didn't adjust course! Fortunately we passed without incident, and in the fading light I found a perfect little bay to drop the hook for the night. I secured my berth, fixed a welcome meal, and stretched out under the stars after a prayer of gratitude to a loving Heavenly Father who saw the needs of a simple fisherman. Sometimes He teaches us in His answer, and sometimes He teaches us without one, knowing whatever it is, it's something we can handle and learn from ourselves. The important point is that we are willing to learn.

   I fell asleep having learned that either way, He answers prayers.

   And it pays to do your homework.

   Thank you, Julian.

   -WKD

    

Master's Craftsman...

   From a mist, darkness parting; So mysterious the outline, shape of things
                                       To come,

   Like a good horse, closer nuzzling under the arm there feels the breath of life stirring.

   Creation of heart and hands of the sea, speaking trust, she feels peace

                                      and in tenderness awaits

                                      Her growth in patient increments.

               Molded of a Master's Hands, we grow together as One,

   She within me grows before me, vision of my dreams with each careful tooling touch -

   I within Him grow before Him, Master of the Winds and Sea that obey His every Will,

   Work I in careful patience the craft of life He teaches with His Son.

   These with mortal hands carry the reality of art into life, breathing the crisp air of the ocean's majestic power, rhythm of the waves in heart pounding move together;

   Bonding, building, expanding our dreams through the sweat and hopes

                                        of Triumphs won,

   In vision and sweep of blade, pull of mortal arm into dawn of eternal

                                        Victory

   We depend upon each other, live for each other as does He for us.

   Thus mortality speaks its lessons, stirring the dust of man into the

                                        Shape of things to come,

                                        Forever One.

                                                         - WKD

   So it continues, as the frames are now cut and, labled with their length on the ends of each piece, are soaking in a salt water solution awaiting their time in the steam box when it comes. With the Long'l stringers in place, the three jig frames are marked and set to hold each, as the frames are bent around them - set inside what will be the upper surface of the keel, outside of the long'ls, and tucked back inside the long'l gun'l "framing" to cool. The holes within the gun'ls are cut prior to receive the frame ends, then the real shaping begins at the bow and stern, bringing them all together.

   And Keilidgh Irene really begins to look like the living creature of the sea she has been conceived to become...

                                                   WKD

  

Keilidgh Irene - From a Rib...

   If you want a wood frame kayaq, be prepared to climb a tree or two. And if it's on a bluff to get the knees you need, you may have to go out on a limb to get what you want. Either way, I was using muscles I had forgotten I had. The number of times I've climbed a tree since I was a boy you could count on one hand, and probably have fingers left over. If you're careful with the saw.
   The project awaiting my efforts was finding and shaping a knee timber to secure the cockpit on it's forward end, and the deck ridge pole immediately in front of it. The ridge pole would extend forward to be swept upward into the byforcated bow.
   The tree that had the knees I wanted was a close grained pine at the edge of the bluff. It's not a bad drop, but the slope made handling the saws a challange, as a lot of wood was to be cut for the shapes I needed. It took an hour to do, which gave our 115 pound Chesapeake/Sheppard time for some fun on the waterfront.
   We returned to the shop, and set up for trimming the cut knees to shape.

   As the wood was green, the work was slow, requiring a careful shaping with saw, chisel and draw blade. But a few hours later, the knee's basic form was squared off, and the cockpit's forward knee brace was oiled and ready to set aside to cure. By the time I'm ready to start the final shaping of the knee, so it will fit snugly into the framework, it will have set up enough to be worked without cracking.

   The ends are left in the round with additional stock for creating the final shape of the frame to fit into it's assigned section. There is much to do before that is done.
   It's a lot of work for each piece of the kayaq, and there's 56 pieces in each of the Arctic Eskimo boats I build of the North Pacific framing arrangement.

   But the end result is worth it.
   Life can be like that... - WKD

Fighting to Win

   Tradition is a variable. Frame Kayaqs, for example, have traditionally been built of wood, usually spruce as it was readily available, light and easy to work with despite it's strength. Fallen trees have ended up drifted all along the coast of Alaska, in addition to cedar and hemlock, and so have through history been the most ready source of construction material, when it appeared - which wasn't as frequent as you moved farther north along the Arctic coastline.
   The rivers help, however, with their discharge of anything that falls in, and with their amplification of the currents can distribute driftwood considerable distances.
   One learns quickly to utilize as effectively as possible anything available to survive, as the small bone harpoon head on my desk testifies. In the Arctic, as with any other remote survival circumstances, you live by the rules, and you fight to win.

   Traditionally, then, one uses the best you can get to make things work - just because bone, ivory and stone where used before, didn't stop the native inhabitants from seeing the obvious benefits of iron and steel tools, and rifles over harpoons. They wisely kept the wisdom of their past, by adapting to the future. And they've done a far better job at it than most cultures have.

   Some techniques have proven themselves over time, and have advantages not to be forgotten when you really consider what you are up against there. Even today, you can easily find yourself hundreds of miles from the nearest human being, not to mention civilization. So if anything goes wrong, to put it right you either have it, make it, or do without it to keep going. Things can get brutally simple sometimes.

   So survival designing the ice maiden for her home environment is more than just building a traditional boat. What we are about is what makes a Kayaq unique, and becomes who and what she is as a creature of the sea. You can't just think of that casual weekend paddle - there's nothing casual about paddling the Arctic. One paddler who wrote about his paddle there openly admitted getting out of the water when the waves got knee high. I can't fault him, really, though if one's experience and ability is that limited they really shouldn't be there in the first place. The survival fact is he recognized his limitations, and wasn't foolish enough to push them. So, bottom line, he survived. And that's the name of the game.

   Come back alive. Period.

   So, with that thought in mind, the process of creating life begins with life. Which requires a name, as my children have, and so must she. When originally planned as a double, since my Wife Kim and I didn't have a canoe at the time, she was more like a Norse Dragon ship. When Kim and I started to restore the cedar canoe for our trips together, however, she suggested that I allow myself the privilege of creating the Kayaq I've wanted to build for years, but have been unable to. As a result, the Dragon Ship slimmed down, and the mentality of her purpose changed with her. She's become a peaceful joy for my family memories, and a hope for our future. So, now she has a name.

   Keilidgh Irene.

   Having a name gives life to something that otherwise becomes an object, and is treated like one. If you are going to stay alive with what you have, you cannot afford to get that casual. You don't want to get stupidly possessive, but you do want to treat what you have with respect, and consider anything and everything possible that you could encounter, and how to deal with it.

   If you have a tendency to treat your Kayaq more as a living creature than as an object or tool, you'll be more careful with her, and think out her needs so she can continue to function through anything you may encounter together, much more thoroughly. Because as long as she stays alive, you do.

   That simple.

   Back to design, then. Tradition has been wood, and in this case, the frame will also be wood. It is more readily available for repairs out there, can often be reconstructed with what you have on hand - fire, water, a knife and some string - and can be worked with your hands. Keep it simple.

   And since she will be smaller now, I can utilize either an aluminum shell for the hull, which is light and resistant to the abrasion of salt ice as well as the beach compositions, or to a ballistic cloth, which is tough, flexible even in extreme cold and wet weather, and can be repaired quickly in even remote circumstances. Both are simple, strong and seaworthy.

   No metal as fastenings, except where as in the case of the aluminum shell the tig welding is required. Today's nylon and synthetic cords are as tough or better than metal fastenings, won't work loose in a seaway, and can be worked, again, by hand. For something this small, metal fastenings are a needless complication, especially as the ties are protectively enclosed within the kayaq's shell.

   Where pins are needed to align and fasten larger units, tree nails do the job very well, which are wooden pins fashioned for the purpose. They are inserted snugly into the holes drilled for their use, the pieces are formed tightly together, then a wedge is inserted in the slots cut into each end of the pin, and driven into the pins across the grain until solid. Then they are cut off even with the surface of the pieces joined. When done with care, and the appropriate woods are used for the purpose, they hold every bit as well as any metal fastening, though carefully especially in building boats due to the need for the care in aligning the grain of the wood properly to prevent shearing, or snapping apart, the wood under stress. With metal, even a novice can plunk a metal shaft in a hole and tighten a nut to the bolt. Some will even remember the washers.

   One thing I do use in the joiner work of the end pieces is a marine sealant, such as is produced by 3M company, such as 5200 or the like. The sealant works as an adhesive to glue the joints together in a flexible bond, and once clamped together, will dry forming the joints into one solid unit without the abrasion of dry wood to wood joints. The ties are more likely to stay tight and hold their structure together better, while still able to work with a seaway and not come apart. I usually only use it for the larger end pieces that see the most working stress and impact, which enables a quicker and easier repair of the smaller frames, etc. as they can be more easily removed and replaced. But the choice is up to the builder. I would rather not have to try and carve that sealant out of a hole once it's dried. Just working with it on surface joints is hard enough.

   Then the frame, once locked together as a tied unit, is ready for the covering, as mentioned in previous articles. When ready to sew the fabric cover on, you'll want to have a sailor's palm handy. You'll need it.

   Each phase of the design, every piece of wood, every stitch in the covering, bonds you with the creature you are creating. She has life because of you, she will live for you, and you will stay alive because she will fight for you. But only as well as you care for her. That's why there's more to it than just the name. You give her a name, then she has an identity.

   And a place in your family.

   Then, when you are out there, you aren't alone any more.

   You're still together, as a Family.

   And believe me, sometimes that simple fact can make all the difference, between living and trying, or giving up and dying.

   Been there, done that.

                           Welcome to the Family, Keilidgh Irene.

                                                 -WKD

Ice Maiden

   The stability was well proven, when my friends Don and Marilyn Reid came to our home on Kodiak Island. It's the only single kayaq I know of you can stand up in.

   They needed some stable kayaqs to paddle in our waters for a few days and do some photography, before returning to their home on the North Island of New Zealand. We had become friends after meeting on our Alaskan ocean ferry Tustumena, while they were vacationing after skippering Mike Ball's diving operations off the east coast of Australia, but this was the first time they had had a chance to try my kayaqs for any extended period of time. They enjoyed several days along our northern shores and channels, finding the puffins especially humorous when they tried to take off the water after a full meal. (My wife had also found them to be in like character, so when she decided to paint one, she gave them some dignity in "Puffin's Formal Portrait". A fantasy, of course, but she had fun doing him that way!)

   The life on the water and surrounding tundra has in their turn, fascinated me in many ways. Yet when there one cannot forget the basics - such as where you are while enjoying that fascination. I needed a solid nav watch to help, and knew that the usual would not handle the strain. There's no greater equalizer on equipment than the stress of the working ocean environment.
   So I turned to Don, who as a Skipper for Ocean Tugs would understand what I needed. He didn't let me down, recommending the Sector watch to take with me. His council was good, the stainless unit standing up to not only the sea, immersed and hammered as it was while kayaqing, but also years later through my service in the shipyards - with only an occasional change of batteries and one cleaning.
   But it was the friendships I gained through association with their company that made the memories special, and Jonathan Nettelfield proved to be chief amongst them as their North American Director. The friendship we forged through our Arctic years went well beyond the watches, and his family likewise. Those two watches are with me still, and the Titanium is on my wrist now as I write.
   Time and distance is everything on the water, and having these watches has stood me well when I had my hands full with building weather. A good case in point was my run from Demarcation Point into Canada. This was a time that the design of the boat and the navigational aids had to hold up.
   I had only been on the water barely two hours, having crossed the Canadian Border when the weather began to pick up - again. Within the next three hours, the previously modest swells were running at six to eight feet high, and the wind blowing at well over 35 knots. The shallow approaches were what were steepening the swells, and after several hours I was also learning as I passed, that the openings which would have normally been available to get out through, had been cut off from me by the surf crashing over the bars. The only refuge left that I could count on was behind Herschel Island, over 50 nautical miles from where I had started. To say the least, I had my hands full.
   By the time I reached the Island, I had been in the boat over 16 hours without a break. What awaited me, however, wasn't the relief I sought - the seas were plowing forcefully into a spit across the small bay I needed to reach to get out of this. As I approached, the seas were steepening and by watching along the shoreline to my right the waves could be accurately measured. And, just as I was realizing that the 10 + foot waves, which were burying my kayaq and me up to my chest, were going to drive me relentlessly into the bar, an opening appeared that would let me through and out of the surf - if I could quarter across the swells enough to reach it.
   Fortunately, the kayaq proved up to the pounding, and maneuvered the seas well enough to allow me a shot at the entrance to the beckoning calm beyond - only to run as I shot for the opening right into an opposing current! The river behind the bar was feeding an ebb tide, which needless to say was only worsening the conditions I was in by piling the seas higher against the wind. I fought for over a half hour just to get through the small opening and into the protection of calm water behind the bar.
   Once in, I sought a spot where I could get out of the boat, only to find a barren land grizzly patrolling the shoals. No brainer as to my next decision - I bid him good fishing, and went down the coast past his domain, then turned up into the bay at the end of Herschel Island itself - and right into the wind. For another hour and a half my 19 foot kayaq and I fought against it, my paddles against the unhampered wind and choppy seas. It was better than the alternative, however, and after working nearly an hour and a half to cover less than one nautical mile, I was finally able to crawl out of the boat. We had been struggling together for over 19 hours, and camp sounded really good - with warm soup!
   I have a general rule of thumb when kayaqing - always set up a full camp at the end of the day's run, no matter how tired you are. If there was ever a time I was tempted to just haul out the one man bivie tent and crash, this was it. But experience has taught me that the weather can turn only too quickly, and what you are caught in could prove to be your shelter for a long time. And if you've been sweating for several hours...?
   I set up a full camp.
   Room to rest, clean up, eat, enjoy light and a good book, stretch out. I've been accused of being too well equipped, but I've lived a subsistence lifestyle and know the difference in what is necessary and too much.
   And in my humble opinion, a roomy tent and a warm meal is not too much to ask. Prior planning prevents poor performance. Wet and miserable does not an intelligent person make. Especially when you know better.
   Here is also where the kayaq herself makes the difference, as it is in her design that the abilities to carry her cargo in a seaworthy fashion begins. I felt a sincere gratitude for my Yupik Grandfather's council in this, given many years ago. Grandpa Tim told me something then I would never forget.
   He had just taken my 17 foot hunting kayaq out on Lake St. George, (in the state of Maine), and had returned my boat to me. At 80 he was still hunting moose in Alaska (which was our home then), so wanting to try out the kayaq didn't surprise me one bit. As we were walking away, he put his arm around my shoulder and told me he had liked the boat, because it wasn't as unstable as the skin boats he had grown up in. I remembered that he grew up being stuffed into the older skin boats as a boy with his mother, and paddling the same boats himself as a teenager. So his next council I took to heart, when he said,"Remember, Bill, that the Kayaq is first and foremost a vehicle of transportation. If you ever forget that, you will not have a kayaq - you will have a toy." Then he smiled, patted my shoulder, and walked to the car.
   With that, knowing his history, he was telling me that the kayaq (not kayak, as is pronounced by outsiders, or gussucqs) was as important to a families' ability to provide for themselves then, as the car or truck is to a modern family today.
   And when returning to my Island home in Old Harbor, as I used my kayaq to hunt and feed my own, I found again the realization of his council to me that day so long ago.
   So the kayaq I am forming now is crafted under my hands in his memory. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, family is everything to me. And though my blood ancestors are Crow and Irish, his warm friendship over the years has kept that part of our family alive for me, and I feel that even now. I miss him. So I tie each knot remembering his council. And knowing that this Kayaq will make him proud.
   She's going to be 18 feet long, shorter now as my wife has expressed a desire to double up in our canoe I'm also restoring, and paddle our kayaqs as they are. I actually don't mind, as this frees me to make this Kayaq an extension of the builder, as tradition would have it, making her distinctly my own.
   The cedar byforcated bow is attached to the keel now, which is close grained fir formed and ready to have the cedar stern piece attached later. The bow stands straight, solid and ready for a life in the sea which she has been formed to embrace. The Arctic I have lived is in her creation, and the wealth of her heritage is going into her lines.

   I think Grandpa Tim would approve.

                                           -WKD

       
  

Crystal Cathedrals

   Brownlow Point was a barrier that had hung in the distance, as a promise of safety from the approaching ice that July day over a month previous. The wind and ice had other ideas, however, and as related in the first entry, had turned into a corkscrew to cut me off. 
   Now, as I approached this mid August morning, the ice had changed it's strategy. Towering chunks of ice sculptured by the elements were mobilized by the encouraging of the wind, to cut across my path and push me relentlessly into the shore. If I didn't make it past the Point, it could be weeks before the wind shifted and pushed them away to allow my passage through - weeks that I did not have. 
   If they moved at all.
   I bent to the paddle, blades winging into the spray as I pulled with a will in a desperate race to beat the crowding ice. The encroaching pack swayed around me, rolling with the swells as it steadily slid closer into the last opening left. Grinding as a staggering wall into the shallows, they pitched and rolled as they hovered over me. Then the growlers moved out from hiding behind them, to ground and bump their way around the bergs towards the Point. 
   The shallows would not stop the approaching growlers, though they were breaking up in the steepening swells as they began to mass towards the shore.
   But the way the pack was closing in, it could easily stop me.
   I was surrounded by those swaying towers as I made a bid for the only opening left to me - the surf crashing over the bar extending from the Point. If I timed it wrong, the Kayaq's hull would grind to a halt against the bar between the waves, allowing the next breaker to crash over and roll me. But if timed just right...the fan tail stern lifted her up... back paddling hard now to ride the crest for the next, larger swell. Feeling her slide back, then stagger, to lift on the next - This had to be it - Bending into the force of the building sea with everything literally riding on this wave, the sleek hull lifted, hesitated, then shot ahead. The bow protruded from an immersing wall of water, as the submerged Kayaq raced amidst a foaming, turbulant breaker towards a barrier naked of the very water desperately needed to pass. Then the entire wave explodes against the bar - and the Kayaq shot through, carried to slide almost nonchalantly, like a duck settling into a pond of calm, undisturbed water. 
   Taking off the sunglasses to clean them, I turned to look back at the swaying monoliths behind me now, as they bumped and rolled against the bar. The growlers remained to ride the swells around them as they ground to a halt against the shoreline. Before me the water was open, and a calm lagoon at Thompson Point awaited the evening, with a playful Arctic fox in his brown and light tan tux there to greet me. 

   These were the memories that further the design before me now. The tundra wind, the grinding, hammering ice and sea - She will be of either composite construction in aluminum, or of a nylon ballistic cloth and wood, to live again as a creature amidst the sea. Here her challenges are not as intense, but life can be. And as my Wife travels with me often enough, upon the very seas that could care less about any of us who travel her expanse, it falls upon me to design and build her well. Because we never know when or where she may be required to fight to survive, and us with her.

   She is still inquiring after me..?
   And I'm listening.
   A good designer always does...
-WKD       

Ice Breaker

   Her bow is reaching up as I stand studying her, as if asking a question to the skies...

   The beach before me is an avenue of broken chunks of ice along the shores of the Beaufort, crystal boulders and small hills sparkling in the brilliant Arctic sunlight. The beach is torn with the surf, too rough for a loaded Kayaq.
   But the channel running behind the beach is calm, and had an opening allowing me it's access. I beached behind the roaring wall of water, behind the glistening pebble expanse that reached shining as far as I could see under a partially clouded sky. The sun's rays reach out through the apertures as fingers of light radiating through the wet, frozen sculptures before me, wrought by the fluid fingers of an invisible God made real in the gleaming artwork...

   Her bow is still extended in hope, rising up before me, pleading for release from the confinement of her birth. To reach her potential, to stretch her graceful length across the waters of our Arctic home...
   Home, it has always been, hard but honest, uncompromising in it's integrity, demanding the best from me. I realize that now.
   A sea and tundra wind that speaks a silent language to the heart, without the shroud of civilization's confusing noise.
   Is my reality there something of enough worth, that anyone else could want to even begin to understand the emptiness I feel now without it? 
                                                         Maybe, 

 but then...

    Why...?
   -WKD