Midway Atoll
There's a large cross on a point on Midway Atoll about 30 Degrees North Latitude and in the longitude just to the west of the International Dateline. On a plague near the cross there is a proclamation that on Easter morning (as on each other day), the sun rises for the last time in the last time zone of the space-time delineation registered on Earth, on the chunks of land above the water line clinging to the top of a somewhat dormant volcano that rises from the Pacific Ocean floor just there.
The last time I was there in the summer of 1982, the bright fuchsia-colored bougainvillea that decorated a trellis over the entranceway to the front door of the commander's quarters was blooming brilliantly. The only time I was in the house, however, was for a Christmas Eve Reception that the skipper put on for all of us after the Christmas Eve Service in the Cannon Memorial Chapel. The party was held concurrently with another celebration in the Navy Chiefs' Club. One of my Navy friends who was a P-3 aviator and I had left the party at the Chiefs' Club in time to join the small group of observant people for the Candlelight Service.
At the end of worship, we left the sanctuary lit only by the glow of our candles and walked out on the ironwood tree covered Midway roads. Our candles were not as bright as beautiful full moon and the sparkling stars over the vault is sky and shimmering on the turquoise water of the lagoon made glowing with the iridescent light reflected back from the tiny black-light-like pearly sands under the water, on the beaches, and under the layers of long and elegant ironwood pine needles so useful to the gooney birds (AKA Laysan albatross) that covered the island in winter, but were almost totally gone from the little pieces of sandy atoll islands for the almost five months a year that included summer. . .
The contrasts between the islands in December of '81and January of '82 compared with how they looked from mid-July through early September were varied and beautiful.
In the summer most traces of gooney nests where the very large eggs sat while gestating and being tended and talked to in that marvelous gooney language complete with chirps, whinnies, clicks, honks and other noises was non-stop day and night with perhaps only one short period of time it seemed like all creatures and inanimate k next a of nature held their collective and individual breaths in order to await, honor and celebrate the biggest and most important event of the day when the great firey bright orange/magenta/yellow/flaming red orb churned its way out of the eastern edge of the sea with a show of glory and majesty that was worth waiting for and impossible to resist.
So in about fifty-two hours for now that is what will be happening on the Easter morning as humans or other creature might be able to experience if they are so inclined.
I may be watching from 11 time zones to the East . . . so very much earlier that same day. The joy and the wonder will keep being passed on and shared almost like a "Wave" in a football, basketball, baseball, soccer or rugby stadium.
(Who starts those "Waves," anyway?)
Do you suppose they do them at bullfights or do you think they might have occurred at gladiator contests?'
What might one be like if the Colosseum in Rome or some other city of the Roman Empire were built? Do you think that audiences at figure skating tournaments or gymnastic meets could catch the fever and try them out?
Certainly they must happen at hockey games.
But what about jai alai games or political pep rallies of demagogues?
Excuse my obsession with the idea of "Waves", please. My imagination carried me away.
Ciao bella and bello!
There's a large cross on a point on Midway Atoll about 30 Degrees North Latitude and in the longitude just to the west of the International Dateline. On a plague near the cross there is a proclamation that on Easter morning (as on each other day), the sun rises for the last time in the last time zone of the space-time delineation registered on Earth, on the chunks of land above the water line clinging to the top of a somewhat dormant volcano that rises from the Pacific Ocean floor just there.
The last time I was there in the summer of 1982, the bright fuchsia-colored bougainvillea that decorated a trellis over the entranceway to the front door of the commander's quarters was blooming brilliantly. The only time I was in the house, however, was for a Christmas Eve Reception that the skipper put on for all of us after the Christmas Eve Service in the Cannon Memorial Chapel. The party was held concurrently with another celebration in the Navy Chiefs' Club. One of my Navy friends who was a P-3 aviator and I had left the party at the Chiefs' Club in time to join the small group of observant people for the Candlelight Service.
At the end of worship, we left the sanctuary lit only by the glow of our candles and walked out on the ironwood tree covered Midway roads. Our candles were not as bright as beautiful full moon and the sparkling stars over the vault is sky and shimmering on the turquoise water of the lagoon made glowing with the iridescent light reflected back from the tiny black-light-like pearly sands under the water, on the beaches, and under the layers of long and elegant ironwood pine needles so useful to the gooney birds (AKA Laysan albatross) that covered the island in winter, but were almost totally gone from the little pieces of sandy atoll islands for the almost five months a year that included summer. . .
The contrasts between the islands in December of '81and January of '82 compared with how they looked from mid-July through early September were varied and beautiful.
In the summer most traces of gooney nests where the very large eggs sat while gestating and being tended and talked to in that marvelous gooney language complete with chirps, whinnies, clicks, honks and other noises was non-stop day and night with perhaps only one short period of time it seemed like all creatures and inanimate k next a of nature held their collective and individual breaths in order to await, honor and celebrate the biggest and most important event of the day when the great firey bright orange/magenta/yellow/flaming red orb churned its way out of the eastern edge of the sea with a show of glory and majesty that was worth waiting for and impossible to resist.
So in about fifty-two hours for now that is what will be happening on the Easter morning as humans or other creature might be able to experience if they are so inclined.
I may be watching from 11 time zones to the East . . . so very much earlier that same day. The joy and the wonder will keep being passed on and shared almost like a "Wave" in a football, basketball, baseball, soccer or rugby stadium.
(Who starts those "Waves," anyway?)
Do you suppose they do them at bullfights or do you think they might have occurred at gladiator contests?'
What might one be like if the Colosseum in Rome or some other city of the Roman Empire were built? Do you think that audiences at figure skating tournaments or gymnastic meets could catch the fever and try them out?
Certainly they must happen at hockey games.
But what about jai alai games or political pep rallies of demagogues?
Excuse my obsession with the idea of "Waves", please. My imagination carried me away.
Ciao bella and bello!
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