As a young person I lived at the end of Long Island. It was a real small town, maybe 3,000 people. We didn’t have television, or cell phones, or any hi-tech stuff.
One Sunday morning a man came over and knocked on the front door. He seemed excited. He talked to Mom. The only thing I heard was, “Mile Post 68.” I looked out the window and cars were going by like crazy. Dad said, “Let’s go.”
We drove and drove; then we pulled over. “We can walk from here,” my dad said. People were running carrying cameras and guns. We walked along the sand dunes. Dad said, “There he is.” A whale had beached itself at low tide.
As we got closer we could see a huge whale, 50 or 60 kids, and 10,000 flies; people snapping pictures of guys holding guns. You could tell I wasn’t impressed. If anything, I felt bad for the people that lived around there. I bet they couldn’t wait for high tide so the Coast Guard could tow it out to sea.
Now I live in the desert – a few kids, some flies, no ocean and no whales.