Prestige

“Anyone in such torment who has the gift of opening his heart, rather than contracting it, accepts the means of salvation in his heart. Someone who in this way penitently open his heart to God in confession lays it open for other men too. In doing so he loses the dignity that goes with his personal prestige and becomes like a child. That means without official position, dignity or disparity from others. A man can bare himself before others only out of a particular kind of love. A love which acknowledges, as it were, that we are all wicked children.  We could also say: Hate between men comes from cutting ourselves off from each other. Because we don’t want anyone else to look inside us, since it’s not a pretty sight in there. Of course you must continue to feel ashamed of what’s inside you, but not ashamed of yourself before your fellow-men. No greater torment can be experiences than One human being can experience. For if a man feels lost, that is the ultimate torment.” (Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, 46e)

Panty Store

Danny G: So Joey, where do we get all the panties?
Komacho: Joey, you gonna get us some panties man?
Joey: The distance between the adult and child is measured by the state.
Steve G. Ah, Joey, you're crazy man.
Ivan: In the Philippines, my monkey, man, in the Philippines. Shit. Forgot what I was saying.
Komacho: Joey, show us all them panties man. Are they used?
Danny G.: I don't think Joey's got any panties. Show us the panties.
Komacho: Cuz I tell you man [looks around, dazed], if you can get me a big batch of panties, man, I'll fucking sell them for you. All the fucking tourists man. Fucking panties.
Joey: If the child will not heal, he will be mollified by prescription drugs.
Ivan: My monkey, in the Philippines, one day my monkey got in my neighbor's co-co-nut tree...
Boom Boom: You gotta get the pussy, man. Fuck them panties, man! Pussy, man, you go for the pussy!
Steve G.: What's his name? Hey, Boom Boom!
Joey: Boom Boom.
Komacho: Hey, Boonboon, man, you got the panties?
Joey: The child is the enemy of the state.
Komacho: Hey, fellas, I don't know about you, but I've got bad diarrhea man.

Got my life

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5jI9I03q8E

Sympathy and communication

228. Sympathy and communication

How satisfying it is to finally read sympathetic anthropologists, who turn the project of anthropology on its head—the anti-anthropologists. Indeed, how thrilling it is to read Nietzsche’s analysis of the philosophers themselves, their motivations—some have called Nietzsche the anti-philosopher. Indeed, how thrilling to read Sass’s destruction of the psychological concept of schizophrenia! How satisfying to read Wittgenstein’s criticism of On Golden Bough!!!

Yet how can these philosophers be doing anything other than what they are doing—even in their confusion and doubt? How can Wittgenstein put them in the right direction? Isn’t that like putting the schizophrenic in the right direction? Or the Eskimo in the right direction? What was the philosopher’s project? Why was the pursuit of that project meaningful to him? 

229. There is a common observation that certain philosophical problems had their beginnings as the product of a scientific attitude, what in Western language could be described as a process of observation or data gathering and statistical interpretation. The argument is that, with the growth in popularity of this vantage point or technique, certain philosophical problems arose, among them ‘mind-body’ problems, problems of defining human consciousness (or articulating what, with respect to consciousness, actually exists with respect to ‘consciousness’), and problems of ‘other minds’ (the challenge of articulating, using a ‘scientific’ manner of thinking and expression, the phenomenon of another human consciousness). It could further be argued that the course to certain ‘philosophical problems’ is somehow inherent in the nature of ‘philosophy’ itself—philosophy’s being a Western phenomena in the history of humanity, a project rooted deeply in language: deeply imbedded in a history of legibility, standardization, and systemization of human experience and expression.

At first it could be tempting to consider the prospect of an anthropological approach to certain of these philosophical problems. Why not get on the ground, get back to real observations, trace back the path to where human beings began to circumscribe and delimit human experience into a powerful matrix—a system, tool, or prison—that is commonly referred to as ‘language.’ The problem is that the anthropologist will never be able to wash himself of his original sin, for his approach to his project is shaped, guided, and described by language, and his account of his project will similarly operate under its conduit. He will realize that the very project of anthropology—observation, description, prediction, etiology—all emanate from the very material of the language that he uses. His only escape from this matrix of language would be to abandon the very project of expression using language. Abandon communication. Eschewing contact with language, which would mean avoiding all contact with any living being who either speaks or writes a written language, he could then attempt to carry on some form of activity. What would he get back to? What insight might be the result of his new course? Outside of language, outside of his communication—his speaking, his writing, the books and articles and journals of his past—what would be expressible to those who remain in a matrix of language, a matrix that our anthropologist has presumably escaped?

It is an important, practical question, because, as I write, there is a man, who has gone off in the wilderness, who has realized his project of anthropology was problem-filled. In his recently discovered notes, I have found the following:

1.      First, the problem with my project is that it is a project. I don’t even know or care anymore about the definition of a project or what a project could possibly be. It’s some scary fucking ritual. Not a ritual I’m dancing anymore. Fuck it. Fuck the funding. Fuck every motherfucker who ever wrote a fucking book. Fuck every class I took. Fuck that dissertation. What waste of time. I could have lived in those years. What a bad charade my life has been.

2.      The second problem is that all this shit is pre-literate experience. How the fuck can I go about writing about pre-literate experience? Does anyone put a big fucking warning label on this shit—“Waste of time. Not gonna go anywhere. Can only make you miserable and confused.” What sick curiosity do we have that makes us want to go look at all the last living relics of all the shit we wiped out? What do we get from it? Entertainment? Wisdom? Are we just apologists? It’s like we’ve sent radiation that killed everyone. We make visits to the hospital bedsides to wipe the brows of people we have ourselves murdered. Some Western asshole is going o find my work ‘interesting,’ tantalizing,’ fascinating,’ or ‘enjoyable?’ Is that what this is all about? Some asshole thinks the whole fucking thing is interesting??

3.      I get lost and hope no one ever finds me.

Is someone going to get him? Can he really go up and escape like that? What sort of interesting or fascinating work would he have written had he chosen to continue with his project?

Schreber

227. First thoughts on Schreber
It is strange to travel from a no-nonsense world in a sense very different from the idea of ‘non-nonsense’ back in a far more populated and ‘modern’ town. The 'sensible' concerns in [this town] seem nothing more than rabid, phantom-like cancers of the spirit. Once a man has experienced the possibilities of great freedom in the wilderness of Alaska (or the wilderness of Argentina or Chile), he cannot but dive into what many would call a world of fantasy—but here is the rub for those of this developed, modern matrix: the world of fantasy your wild man seeks as his escape, is not a world of delusion, but a real place, a real environment in which he once lived. His insanity, as you call it, his delusion, his paranoia, is that his earth, and the men and women who once populated it, have died, have all died in the worst of holocausts. He screams back to a world that is alive and well, yet his screams fall to the ears of prisoners, of a type of man beaten, abused, manufactured, neutered, castrated of spirit, heart, soul, feeling, freedom, love, village, and autonomy. These western cities are a nightmare for such a man—yet when will the sun rise to make this bad vision end? This is all he is asking--but the walking dead can do nothing but ascribe insanity to such a man.

The shock of his transfer to the environment is so intense, bewildering, disorienting, and confusing—he sees this 'very normal,' operating reality as his worst nightmare, as the apocalypse of man.

Everything worked out fine in his previous life. He walked out to the lake with K and the family and they threw stones. They drank beer and they shot guns in the woods. They chopped wood and fried fish late into the nights and slept until noon. K would speak for hours about land, about how to build a home and stay warm, about working hard and getting a man’s roots planted. He knew these things because he had done it himself, was living in the very home he built, had lived on his land for 19 years.“These hills,” he told me, “are my last but they are mine. They will be were I am buried.”

Yet I read about the “delusions” that Schreber had and that are apparently characteristic of schizophrenia and it is clear to me that these so-called mental illnesses are products of the human spirit’s resistance against high-modernist schema—we lose the exploration, we lose our freedom, we lose the thrill of escape and wander, we lose our experience of the lake, the stars, the sky, the snow, the great mystery of our ascending and descending the mountains, of our deep and ecstatic love of others, of the real risk of our death or what we might better describe as our becoming one with a great and vast and eternal nature, a great and final release that may well be just the beginning. Indeed, our primitive past was a utopia, plain and simple, but what cruelty have been these modern times: for not only do these times seek to annihilate a past which was man’s great freedom and paradise, but it has attempted to cauterize man’s very spiritual tie to this past in such a way that a man must have a complete rebirth to enter into, once again, such a mystic, such a limitless, such a free world.

No-nonsense, back in the woods, in Alaska, meant none of the bullshit of the city and any of its mental illness. Yet everything we do here outside of your matrix, our values, our lives, our pursuits, our desire for privacy and seclusion, our desire to be left alone from the machine that eats both the wilderness and the free spirit of man—everything we do away from you people and your nightmare of a civilization has no value because it has no place in your scheme of legibility, coersion, and control, because it is a sphere of freedom that will never willingly be relinquished, because men of death and darkness burn in the presence of light, burn in the energy of free men, are deafened by the laughter of wind.

Walk that land

Find your land, son. Go out and find it. You'll find your land but you have to be patient. You have to find your land because it's the only thing you'll ever have that's yours. Your misses might walk out on you. Someone might die. People die. But that land, that land is yours. You can die for that land and who'd blame you for it. But walk your land before you buy it. Watch out for wetlands. Black birch means there's water. You want water but not so much of it. Don't let that man sell you anything that's a wetland. Everything's negotiable. Don't let him tell you otherwise. WALK THAT LAND. Walk that land. Walk the land you intend to buy. But if you walk your land, carry a gun. What type of gun do you have.

A 9mm glock.

That'd just tickle him. Get yourself a shotgun with slugs. Walk that land. And then don't take any shit from that man and his wife. Everything's negotiable. They want the money. You tell them what you pay, not the other way around. You'll find yourself the land you want, but you've got to be patient. You'll find the land you want, son, but you can't listen to what anyone says. You have to be patient and walk that land. When you find your place, you'll know it.

Jeff and Charles

Hughes, Eddie, Esteban, me, Christiana, a beauty from 1945, wooden, large wheel room with 6 flat screens, 2 story crew quarters, they make it look easy, 30,000 pounds of halibut. It takes luck, skill, patience, and youth to get on a Kristiana, there are never openings, on the front dock you pitch the fish, you’re spent—in 5 days these men caught enough fish, took enough ice and bait to exhaust 4 men in 2 hours. The boat arrived clean and each coil of line in a neat spool, every tool where it should be, the top deck already smelling of lemon Joy. Getting off the boat in the morning I asked Jeff if he’d be going out at night, and he said he’d be going out all day, so when I ran into him at 9 that night he was lit, one of his crewmatessaying his goodbyes and pleading with Jeff to head back to the boat, at least take it easy, and if neither of the two be safe, and if not even that at least win the fight, and if not that the crew mate asked me to watch his back, and I agreed.

I don’t see what you’re doing here man. What are you, a secret boss? I’d kill to have your out, not to put up with the shit I have to put up with. Fucking accountant. Smart guy like you could do anything. You wanna be a deckhand?...well I..what do you wanna do, huh? Shovel ice from my boat, take your coat off and pitch fish and shovel ice? If I had your smarts, an educated—do you know I’m doing this because it’s the only thing I can do? I’ve worked my ass off to get here but it’s the only thing I can do. You have an out Jimmy, I don’t. That’s what you don’t see man. You have an out. I don’t.

Yeah but you’re just burnt out, man. You’re on one of the best boats out there, best crews. You have a wife and young kid. You make 100k a year. You work 7 months out of the year.

Fuck that, man, you wanna trade? Let’s trade. I wanna see my kid. I wanna see my family. I don’t wanna be a slave.

Do you know how many people think what you do is the coolest thing on earth? You have 5 months free. You’re doing one fo the the last things a man can do. The cube jobs are an even split of men and women. You want a woman as your boss? You want to work with women all day and deal with their shit?

Nah, I don’t want that. But you can also make it work for you, man, use the system, avoid those problems. Be in charge. Be a fucking millionaire, man.

Maybe Jeff wanted an office job in Seattle, something physically easier, a drive home from work and dinner with his wife and young daughter. Maybe he wanted to meet his neighbors and see his parents, bathe every day, not work under anyone, be his own boss. I didn’t think there was a great freedom with an office job as there were many false problems, artificial situations created in offices, many, inefficient, beaurocratic tasks. If a man played with the system and had it work in his favor, he would then be faced with the burden of sustaining his advantage, whether created by his own merit or his own manipulative charisma. At least with fishing, his work was simple and the crew share straight-forward—men either fished well or they didn’t; they were poor deck hands, in which case they would be kicked off a boat, or they were good deck hands, in which case they would prosper or at least maintain a certain percentage share of a catch (which itself would be determined by a certain amount of luck and, to a lesser yet no less relevant extent, regulation of the fishing industry).

The focus of the night began to blur. Jeff had been drinking since noon and it was nearing eleven. I had begun only a few hours earlier but was able to walk steady, unlike Jeff, who was holding himself up on the bar and stumbling about each time we went for a cigarette. A group of rowdy, brawling cannery employees arrived and Jeff gave each one a great bear hug; he outweighted any one of them by 30 or so pounds and his 6’4” stature gave him a certain reach advantage were there to be a contest of fists. He and the tall mohawed cannery worker began to exchange words of belligerence, contempt, and intimidation. I tried to intervene between the two of them, but no one was worried because each man was accustomed to fighting and no one was particularly outmatched, althought the cannery worker was far less drunk.

Nate, Nate, listen here, man, listen here. Here’s what you’re gonna do, Nate. Jeff stared at Nate seriously and intently. We stood to observe the fight. Your gonna crack my back.

Jeff waked up to Nate, turned around, and placed Nate’s arms around his back. Nate tried his best to lift and crack squat and lean and pull and pop and adjust a back in a friendly and violent and proper manner yet despite the force of his effort, Jeff’s feet did not leave the ground, and the crowd stood confused, more alarmed at the failed spinal adjustment than the aftermath of a fight. Jeff laid on his stomach and Nate got on his back with his knees on Jeff’s back and used his fists and full body weight to press the tension between Jeff’s shoulder blades, then working down each side of the spine.

After the massage we poured into a cab and Jeff fell directly onto his face twice, stumbling from chair to chair to booth to barstool. The clouds of blur landed upon my horizon and I cannot recall the sequence of the rest of the evening except the following memories: a fat woman told me to leave her table, and I commented on her rude behavior and received an apology for her cursory dismissal. I purchased a sandwich at the Chevron, and then awoke just past eight to go to the breakroom for coffee. I cooked eggs and drank orange juice and wondered how Jeff returned to his boat but wasn’t worried because the man knew his way around bars and harbors. After reading for several hours I was about to leave when Charles, the plant manager, asked me what I was doing, if I was free, and if so, to wait where I was, and oh, did I have a fishing license on me (in my back pack at all times).

We walked with his wife Marge and his small border collie Tiger to his boat, a small craft with two powerful Yamaha 150cc engines. We untied the vessel and motored out, first stopping by one of the plant waste pipes to report its exact latitude and longitude to the EPA, and then down through Ressurection Bay, passing several islands, among them Fox Island, where during WWII the Army had installed gun turrets which did not prevent the Japanese submarine from slipping through. We moored in front of a glacier and looked out to the open sea and chain of islands. We cut squid and baited hooks and dropped our line and jigged. Tiger grew nervous but was brave. It began to rain heavily and rough seas and fog ensued and we determined it was best to head back to harbor. Suddenly, on channel 16, one reserved for Coast Guard emergencies, we heard a local boat, Bad Dog, radio the Coast guard for help. They needed a tow as their main engine was out. Charles motored to the craft and there was a woman and her daughter and husband who were out on their first trip and the man was navigating the small engine cross current, getting nowhere. Charles told the man to head straight (the Dip Shit is gonna waste fuel and get nowhere doing what he's doing) and called in the boat’s coordinates to the Coast Guard. As a courtesy, we continued to keep a watch on the Bad Dog for the next 3 hours, motoring ahead, fishing, motoring to the boat to give navigation instructions, radioing in to the Coast Guard for progress reports, trolling, jigging. I took the helm for an hour and Charles insisted I eat popcorn with my left hand while navigating with my right. A typical long liner goes no faster than 7 knots, but with this powerful boar I took it to 20 knots and she was smooth and agile and jumped over the waves at time. We moored again and I pissed off the side of the boat and sought grey cod off a shelf at about 250 feet. They weren’t biting. By then my feet and legs were cold as I was without my boots and bibs yet we had been fishing in a downpour. We motored back to harbor and set down lines again at the gutpile, yet again, no bites. By then the Bad Dog had made it back to Seward, radioing to us gratefully for our escort and assistance. Year, sure, Clear. We had used some sockeye as bait to trawl and now the fillet was fully defrosted and Charles gave me the filet for my dinner. I was out of oil in the break room, but Sham insisted I fry up the fish with the used oil can next to the burner. It fried up well and made a fine dinner and I was sound asleep by 9 and shoveled 7 tons of ice from a long liner the following afternoon.

Sweet Delphinium

Upon the fall of night I rode my bicycle to the Breeze to play some pool with the prospect of female companionship, as I had recently met a twenty one year old Austrian girl a few weeks earlier, there had been romance between us (we had fucked in the filthy outback, my roommate grumbling about the stench of her pussy mid coitus, her leaving in the night, scared of the gravel, fish scales, bundles of line: it would have been a dirty shed for a lawnmower, yet two men slept and a twenty one year mountain rescue adventurer laid awake, staring at the duct tape covering the particle board ceiling, wondering if all fishermen lived in such conditions), and the feeling of female companionship was something I had lost and often longed for in my days among men, days spent carrying the burden of fish, fresh yet dead, their temperature (cold), the timing of their death (1-2 days for salmon, irrespective of its species, 3-5 days for black cod and halibut, 1-5 days for pacific cod), their capture, their internal organs, how they live to spawn and how, as many see it, how their reason for being—the spawning, the sperm and the egg, the fertilization of eggs spread into the river: men call these eggs ‘roe,’ and the Japanese, specialists in identifying what is to them ‘fresh,’ high-grade roe, evaluate this still birth, this displacement of the salmon’s reason for being, more mechanical, frenetic and calloused men stand over the refrigerated saltwater bins and speak about the similarities between men and women of the human race and their apparent counterparts in the ocean—“We all eat, consume water, work, have sex, and die. That’s about it.”—and the same man spoke about these fish, these creatures who are seen only after their recent death, as protein sources, no different than a body builder would speak about quality protein and his whey powder, one must not simply question the judgment but the sanity of such a man—indeed such a man believes his vision, his informal analysis, to be quite coherent, yet the man has already, as we have witnessed above the refrigerated saltwater bins amidst the hum of the sorting belt, bins open and filling and soon filled with hundreds of thousands of ‘pinks’—a short name for the momentary glace at the lives but certainly not the world of these fish—likened men and women, with their general goals, habits, and patterns, their key characteristics as this man sees men and women (his fellow men and women?; or perhaps some general vision of a globe, of an earth—a scientist, perhaps?) as roughly being the same as salmon, only differentiated by their shape, environment, their noises—why wouldn’t such a man see other humans as a protein source, or at least a configuration of protein to be used as machinery?, call him evil, or, generously, call him insensitive, but why not call him crazy?, why not say that the man does not see what is living in the ocean but what is only ‘freshly’ dead, that he might as well be a hog farmer were it not his supposed love of fish “Look at that pink, what a beautiful, beautiful fish, aren’t you a beautiful fish? (he brings the pink salmon close to his face, and speaks) “If you were a woman, I’d marry you," and indeed it would be his third marriage, or “She spawns her eggs out there and all the guys have a go at her”—not quite at her of course, but at her eggs—he has taken great meaning from the womb of woman, he has culled her for her egg sack, had her for a product—sujiko, for example, or ikura, as another—

The first time I saw her it was her companion who took me with her youth, her sweetness, her glasses, she was a Ranitzstava and her friend, her friend was a Ralitca, the spelling not quite the same in English but the transliteration identical and the Bulgarian spelling the same, the same as my perfect woman, the one who I had abandoned and ruined,that night I told them both my perfect woman was Bulgarian, I hadn’t ever recovered from her or what I had done to her, and, and the night grew blurry, rather than my being concerned for the love of this replacement, I reached for a wall, found an openening, discovered the expanse of outside, I wandered from the bar and walked towards the ocean and found my rest in a park shelter and slept on a picnic table, how I leave my Ralis standing, hopeful, heartbroken, bitter, poison. 

Two weeks later, dancing to local-sung music, I encountered the two again, but they were new to me. Ranitzstava had grown deeply in beauty and I fell deeply in love with her, the girl in the glasses, but again she spoke of her husband and she meant it, there was the Ralitca, again, but this time with her long hair, her long black hair to her buttocks, and I spoke her name twice, and she said she was to leave in a week and why didn’t I come with her to Veliko Turnovo, the great capital of the Bulgarian empire, the town I knew with Ralitza and her high school class, why not come with her, 23, come with her, give her a child, find something right in Bulgaria, find a woman who loves me, right in front of me, she said, come with me, maybe it didn’t work the first time, but I am your Ralica, here is my Facebook, look, I am your Ralica, I could not stand and the room blurred again, do not hit the floor, again the outside, on my bicycle swerving back and forth between the mountain and the sea and between the shrouds of cloud covering the harbor.

In the morning I was manic as I spoke in the hold pitching black cod and halibut, I was manic that I could pitch fish despite my sleepless, alcohol filled night, my hands no longer ached because my heart hurt throughout, let the tote fall on me, let me go as Felix, I threw the fish into the totes and the buckets, the skipper said I was the “fastest fish pitcher on earth,” I pointed to Hughes, crouched under the hold, throwing fish my way, and said “No, that guy, you’re looking at him,” we finished the boat and we sat with Gil and I drank three cups of coffee and read the paper.

Aconcagua

"Acho que no momento eu precisava de algo menos subjetivo. Eu esperava ouvir sobre duas pessoas e vc me fala sobre vento e montanha. Se os seus pensamentos estão tão longe de mim ou de nós, me parece que no momento vc não pode me dar nenhuma explicação.Talvez futuramente eu releia e ache bonito, poético, mas agora eu acho vazio pois não tem a resposta que eu procuro."

But man I can't say that the mountains give me juice. I can't say that. The mountains give you sky. Do you remember the sky at night as the stars rained down to the tent in the cold mountain air on the Paso de los Libertadores? Do you remember the climbing and the wind? It was different for me. I was to ride down into a land I had never encountered and about which I knew nothing. My lord, Chile. I left an Argentina that had become my home. You, on the other hand, were coming back home and you didn't like the other side of the Andes. That thin land that goes along the ridge of the Andes, that land the Brazilian said was “all mountain and ocean.” When you ride high in the mountains you feel god has taken your air but has given you a strong wind which blows your face and chest and bicycle from one side of the road to the other. You reach the top and suddenly you sail into a very bright sunshine and it is called Chile. You ride down from the mountains and into the foothills and through the vineyards and when you stop there is fruit and the large hot empanadas sold by families and they burn your mouth but give back to you some that the mountain has taken.

There's not much that survives that mountain because most of it gets burned from the soul on the way up. A man does it alone and shouts at himself in encouragement but he can't hear a damn thing because of the wind. It knocks him over and he yells back. He yells to every side of the mountain he can see. He yells to some valley he cannot see. He yells to a blue sky. He yells to Aconcagua and feels a chill like the face of a dead friend. Some men get trapped in the city. Some men cling to bad women just so they can have a warm bed at night. Some men run, they run constantly. None of this matters in the wind. There is something altogether different to decide here. The jagged peaks climb and you look up and they continue and the wind blows a wicked pace off this tall stone that has beaten the sky and sleeps even as the wind gives its war.  Some men call this a mountain. Call it a mountain, fine. The tan face breaks into the sky and fights the wind and is lonely and hides in the clouds and feels great shame because it feels great pride in the smiles and cheers from the men who arrive and leave, almost immediately. Who invaded and abandoned? The wind is always there, the cold and the sun come and go and there are still moments when the mountain is alone, still moments when it is just the mountain and the sun and no one else, just a planet with no life, the crust of the earth.

The wind ends and I hear myself think again. I look for the water Moraline said was safe to drink and the cold river runs from the top of Argentina to the bottom of Chile. I follow the river to a home and I camp and ride slowly to a town and the men want to fight me despite my climb. I am lonely, more lonely than I have ever been. I had just seen my good friend but the sun began to set and we parted.  It was at the top and we spoke for 18 minutes. He spoke behind me in a low voice and I lowered my head and listened. I know, I told him, I know. It is bad and it is lonely. I will have to do something very different to hear your voice from now on, I said. “Just simply being there doesn't mean you will always speak or that I can hear what you say, I tell him.” He goes silent for a long time and I hang my head down in the wind and wait for him to say something else. “The ocean,” he said, “is where it all ends.” I look up and he's gone and I'm alone. I get on my bike and descend, sailing into Chile. I see the ocean, the long dead and unheard tears he has cried.