Teach Head, Hand And Heart
- Talk: Dada J P Vaswani
Date: 5th September, 2011
“Judge a tree by its fruits,” said the great teacher of Palestine. Judged by its fruits, our current education system has failed miserably. A new type of education is needed, an education which should be related to life, real life.
Education must not be merely academic or abstract: it must not aim at stuffing the student with information acquired from dead books or a set of sterile moralities and superficial values. True education should equip the student to cope adequately with life, with what lies ahead of him so that he may become a worthy participant in the adventure of life.
Intellect has developed but reverence is lacking. Critical faculties are given free play and sympathy, the power that binds and builds, is receding. Knowledge without sympathy does more harm than good. It makes us suspicious and cynical.
Ideals that inspired education in ancient India must be rediscovered and introduced in our educational institutions, if we are to make our contributions to civilization and to the freshness of human life.
The number of schools and colleges and universities in India is multiplying. Graduates and holders of doctorates are increasing. Knowledge has spread. But have we grown in freshness, vitality and strength? Have we become more appreciative of the deeper values which alone give meaning and significance to life? Or do we feel bored, cut off from great ideals, hearts bereft of the song of sacrifice?
A new type of education is needed – an education which will not merely develop brain power, but an education which will give a triple training of the head, hand and heart.
Nation-building is character-building. What is wanted is not mere intellectual improvement but education that helps us become whole. The final end of education is not the gain of scholarship or education, power or financial independence. For all these without self-discipline and self-control could well transform to becoming anti-social forces. The object of education would be to form character.
Ancient Indic guru-shishya parampara was a beautiful blend of discipline and emotion. Today, students receive information but not much by way of training of emotions. Communion with nature was another part of ashram life. It developed the aesthetic side of the student’s life; it purified the heart.
True education is not dead knowledge; it is pulsating with life. Vidya or education is the search for the spiritual centre of life. Vidya is culture and this is possible with mental and physical discipline.
Today, knowledge has made us cynical. Education is analytical and critical, but lacks power for the creative life of society. It has made alliance with secularism, with utilitarianism, with “getting on”. The problem of education will not be solved unless knowledge is related to a Spiritual synthesis of Life, to what is called Adhyatma Vidya. There has been too much organization of the machinery of education. We have given too much time to study of processes and too much time to their ends and values. Organization has brought with it officialism, and officialism is the death of true culture.
A sound theory of education is a theory of ideals – the values and means by which they may be secured. The ideal is a vital idea. It is dynamic. The ideal shows the principle of infinite vitality. Thus ideals shape our lives.
From Times Of India (The Speaking Tree)
Conflict Necessary For Creativity
Raj Kachroo
When M K Gandhi was thrown out of a train in South Africa he had a choice to make – either to ignore the event and live in peace or enter into a conflict and face harassment, hardship and the possibility Why? Did he not have a guru who had taught him that living in peace and tranquility was the ultimate objective of life and the best way to achieve this objective was to avoid situations of conflict? Why did he not walk away?
The Dalai Lama chose to live in exile rather than live in peace in Tibet. He is a spiritual master himself. He preaches peace around the world. Does he not know that living in peace requires avoiding situations of conflict?
Aung San Suu Kyi did not have to stay in jail. Winston Churchill did not have to join the Word War. Nelson Mandela did not have to fight a war with Idi Amin. There is a long list of people who have embraced conflict despite standing for peace, otherwise. They had the courage to stand up against repression rather than submit to it.
Both the Ramayana and Mahabharata, revered Indic epics, are stories of war, not peace. Krishna did not tell the Pandavas to ignore the incident of Draupadi’s humiliation in court (the Draupadi vastraharan). He encouraged them to go to war. The Gita says engaging in war to uphold truth is not a matter of choice for a warrior; it is his duty. Islam says participation in jihad is the duty of a Muslim when the fight is to uphold justice when challenged by oppression, as a way of self-defense.
Most of us are confused between conflict and the method of resolving a conflict and the method of resolving a conflict. We assume, incorrectly that Gandhi, as a peace loving person, must have avoided situations of conflict. On the other hand, he faced conflict head-on. Bhagat Singh and Gandhi were both gearing themselves to deal with conflict, except that Gandhi tried to employ peaceful means while Bhagat Singh chose aggression.
The duty of a scientist, artist or professor is also to engage in conflict against repressive regimes of knowledge. Any kind of limited knowledge is a form of bondage. Albert Einstein advanced the boundaries of scientific knowledge. James Joyce did the same in the world of literature. He flouted rules of writing as he saw them as restrictions on creativity. Picasso and M F Hussain, for example, explored realms beyond accepted rules in visual art. Mother Teresa redefined the concept of caring. Every one of them faced criticism and controversy, yet they remained convinced of the nature of their work and the methods they used to fulfill their vision. They remained engaged.
One can only conclude from this that the people we admire and even those we worship have all rejected the existing as being adequate and have chosen to engage in conflict to expand the existing. They have redefined the purpose of our life.
The purpose of our life is not to live in passive acceptance but to engage with conflict in order to be creative. Creativity is the purpose of life. The purpose is to advance an individual soul and the collective Consciousness. The only word of caution here is that we must first settle ourselves spiritually so that we know whether a conflict is justified or not.
The Old Man And The Sea
Ernest Hemingway
Continue…….
Date: July 4, 2011
When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbour from the shark factory; but today there was only the faint edge of the odour because the wind had backed into the north and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace.
‘Santiago,’ the old boy said.
‘Yes,’ the old man said. He was holding his glass and thinking of many years ago.
‘Can I go out and get sardines for you for tomorrow?’
‘No. Go and play baseball. I can still row and Rogelio will throw the net.’
‘I would like to go. If I cannot fish with you, I would like to serve in some way.’
‘You bought me a beer,’ the old man said. ‘You are already a man.’
‘How old was I when you first took me in a boat?’
‘Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fish in too green and he nearly tore the boat to pieces. Can you remember?’
‘I can remember the tail slapping and banging and the thwart breaking and the noise of the clubbing. I can remember you throwing me into the bow where the wet coiled lines were and feeling the whole boat shiver and the noise of you clubbing him like chopping a tree down and the sweet blood smell all over me.’
‘Can you really remember that or did I just tell it to you?’
‘I remember everything from when we first went together.’
The old man looked at him with his sunburned, confident, loving eyes.
‘If you were my boy I’d take you out and gamble,’ he said. ‘But you are your father’s and your mother’s and you are in a lucky boat.’
‘May I get the sardines? I know where I can get four baits too.’
‘I have mine left from today. I put them in salt in the box.’
‘Let me get four fresh ones.’
‘One,’ the old man said. His hope and his confidence had never gone. But now they were freshening as when the breeze rises.
‘Two,’ the boy said.
‘Two,’ the old man agreed. ‘You didn’t steal them?’
‘I would,’ the boy said. ‘But I bought these.’
‘Thank you,’ the old man said. He was too simple to wonder when he had attained humility. But he knew he had attained it and he knew it was not disgraceful ant it carried no loss of true pride.
‘Tomorrow is going to be a good day with this current,’ he said.
‘Where are you going?’ the boy asked.
‘Far out to come in when the wind shifts. I want to be out before it is light.’
‘I’ll try to get him to work fat out,’ the boy said.
‘Then if you hook something truly big we can come to your aid.’
‘He does not like to work too far out.’
‘No,’ the boy said. ‘But I will see something that he cannot see such as a bird working and get him to come out after dolphin.’
‘Are his eyes that bad?’
He is almost blind.’
‘It is strange,’ the old man said. ‘He never went turtling. That is what kills the eyes.’
‘But you went turtling for years off the Mosquito Coast and your eyes are good.’
‘I am a strange old man.’
‘But are you strong enough now for a truly big fish?’
‘I think so. And there are many tricks.’
‘Let us take the stuff home,’ the boy said. ‘So I can get the cast net and go after the sardines.’
The Old Man And The Sea
Ernest Hemingway
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is worst form of unlucky and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and furled; it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.
Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same colour as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.
‘Santiago,’ the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. ‘I could go with you again. We’ve made some money.’
The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
‘No,’ the old man said’ ‘You’re with a lucky boat. Stay with them.’
‘But remember,’ the old man said. ‘I know you did not leave me because you doubted.’
‘It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him.’
‘I know,’ the old man said. ‘It is quite normal.’
‘He hasn’t much faith.’
‘No,’ the old man said. ‘But we have. Haven’t we?’
‘Yes,’ the boy said. ‘Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we’ll take the stuff home.’
‘Why not?’ the old man said. ‘Between fishermen.’
They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen. The successful fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and carried them laid full length across two men staggering at the end of each plank, to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana. Those who had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a block and tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting.
23rd May,2011
The plane flew over the illuminated area once more. Those magnificent trophies for the sharks the blazing globes-continued to burn in the waves. If only they could have burned in the sharks’ bellies! The plane circled once and flew off into the night sky. They did not see it again.
Heidi was given the sparklingly clean isolation ward. There she was met by Natasha Popova.
One of the mates went to the bridge and spoke to the captain. “You’ll be going below to isolation ward now, of course.”
The captain filled his pipe, and then asked, “What for?”
Stress, bruises, exposure, exhaustion – Heidi had gotten her full share. But the joy of being rescued works wonders. Heidi regained her self-control. She tried to do everything herself: take off her own clothes, walk, pour her own water….it was if she were showing her gratitude for being rescued. She could not manage everything the weakness she felt was stronger than she was. But she tried. And smiled as she did. She had held out alone in the ocean and now she wanted to hold out among others.
A captain was drawn over the window of the isolation ward: half the ship’s company was milling around noisily outside, as though Heidi was about to give birth.
……. When she asked for a style dryer, Natasha realized that Heidi was fine. She gave Heidi hers.
The young pilot was ready to meet the captain. And the captain came.
“Well,” he said in English, “how do you feel?”
“Okay!” Heidi replied brightly. “It’s all over now. Thank you.”
“We’ve been in touch with Honolulu,” the captain told her. “Now we’re sailing towards one another – an American ship and ours. We should meet in about four or five hours. You’ll be transferred to it. Get some rest.”
Heidi nodded. “Captain,” she blurted out, “ I don’t know what would have happened to me if you’d come half an hour later than you did. Or not come at all… I don’t know.”
And I don’t know, Mochalov wanted to say, but refrained because he knew quite well what would have happened. He laid his hand on her shoulder for an instant, “It’s all right.”
The Soviet refrigerator ship and an American military vessel met five hours later, as estimated. Dawn was approaching. The storm still raged. Almost everyone came up on deck to see Heidi off. She kissed the sailors, hugged the ship’s doctor and shook hands with the captain and his mates. The boat from the American ship approached. In the light of the deck lamps a rope was tied around Heidi – for safety’s sake. Then she was led to the Jacob’s ladder. Heidi dashed fearlessly to the twelve meter drop and descended. Below she was caught by her countrymen. She waved and waved until the boat was concealed from view. The ships parted.
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
22nd May, 2011
The pilots saw that a boat had been lowered into the water. The plane turned and flew off. Half a minute later it reappeared, speeding just above the waves towards the boat. When it was about one hundred meters short the pilots switched on a powerful searchlight. Its long white ray traced an exact course for the boat-right up to Heidi’s life raft.
The plane shot upwards and vanished into the darkness. The next minute it reappeared, flying even lower, and again the white beam traced the same course. The third time the plane flew higher and the beam glided along the water at an obtuse angle.
The burning globes danced around the boat. Thus, the riddle was solved. Ahead a tiny electric light twinkled. Heidi’s life raft was fitted out with a light bulb and battery. The captain’s radio came to life.
“There are luminous buoys around us,” Logvinov reported. And a bit later, “A little girl.”
They opened the cowling and went in closer. Went right up to the raft. Now they could see that it contained not a child but a young woman. They calculated the amplitude of the waves, and then grabbed the raft. It broke away. Heidi could not bear to wait-she tumbled towards them. Arms gathered her up and pulled her into the boat. Water streamed from her. Her legs buckled- room was made for her on a seat. A slight attack of hysterics: she seemed to be laughing. Or perhaps she was crying. The difference between her situation now and the predicament she had just been in was not so very great. Two sailors fished her raft out of the water. The first mate spoke to the captain: “The woman’s in the boat. What next?”
“Where’s the little girl?” the captain asked.
Logvinov said, “It’s her.”
“Can she talk?” the captain asked.
“Yes,” the first mate replied. “She’s already talking.”
He switched off the radio. The whole story tumbled out. Logvinov repeated what Heidi had said to the captain.
“She’s alone,” the first mate said. “She insists she was alone. She was piloting the plane.”
“Look around,” Mochalov nevertheless urges. “May be she’s delirious.”
“Now,” the first mate said, with less assurance. “She seems all right. She wasn’t bobbing out her all that long: 15-18 hours.”
“Come on back,” the captain said.
It look half an hour to get back to the ship – the wind drove heavy, thundering billows along. The sailors looked at Heidi – she was shivering. Heidi looked at them. She was beside herself, no doubt about it.
The ship. The deck. Fate’s nasty joke was undone.
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
18 May 2011
Heidi saw a brilliant globe drop from the Coast Guard plane. It was followed by a second and a third. The globes fell into the water but were not extinguished: in fact, they burned even brighter in the waves. Heidi could have hugged herself: these guys knew what they were doing. Not one of the white creatures that was hanging about would mess with her now. Those pea brains are scared of things they do not understand.
The light from the floating globes was broken up by the roaring waves-a spasmodic cardiogram-and gilded the night air. The darkness could not close over Heidi’s head.
The captain focused his binoculars. Forty-fifty degrees off to the starboard of the course they were following he saw multicolored streaks on the horizon. To all appearances a fire on board a large ship.
The Americans sighted the approaching refrigerator ship and fired a series of orange flares. The signal meant, “ A man in distress needs help.” Now the sky shone, too.
The captain saw all this. It conjured up a picture in his mind: rockets over the black ruins of Leningrad buildings. He was making his way through a pitch-black courtyard, he was a puny 14 year old, and buildings were on fire after an attack. The way was illuminated by an orange light.
And rockets were in the air.
The captain shook himself.
“Man overboard!” he said. “Turn on the searchlights!”
Three searchlights-one on the bow and two on the deck house-lit up simultaneously. Those who would be working in the waves pulled on life jackets. The windlasses began to hum. Tarpaulin slapped in the wind. The ship’s doctor, Natasha Popova, drank down some tincture of valerian and got ready to save the lives of the burned people.
The ship had been moving at top speed-now it needed to be slowed to a halt. Otherwise, the multiton vessel could add to the misfortunes of those who had gotten a full dose already. The calculations had to be perfect. Captain Mochalov directed the approach to the site of the emergency.
Heidi’s raft was tossed about like a child’s shoe. Her last ounces of strength went towards holding on. The ship and plane were before her eyes.
Heidi got ready to live!
The Ussuriiskaya taiga performed a couple of ponderous maneuvers and hove to. The point of the maneuvers was to protect the starboard lifeboat from the waves. Everyone not on watch-everyone who was loitering idly about-had come up on desk. They looked at the roaring night sea. From a distance some took the lights to be the burning remnants of a ship, others for lifeboats.
“All of you go,” the captain ordered his mates: Logvinov, Stepanov and Zarichansky. “Take 12 sailors with you.”
Twelve young men took their places in the boat, and it set off alone to contend with the waves. Four hundred meters-that was approximately where the boundary lay between the pinkish darkness and the yellow-red light of the globes.
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
17th May,2011
Heidi perceived that on top of everything else-the waves, wind, thirst, hunger and uncertainly-it was getting colder-winter was still not over in the southern hemisphere. The water of the open ocean was cold. A track suit was all Heidi had on and her head was bare-casual dress for a routine flight over the ocean. The waves had been drenching Heidi for more than twelve hours by then. She shivered. The life raft became less safe.
There was no doubt about it-a shark fin had cut through the water. Heidi felt as if she had died. The impact of a wave brought her to her senses. She clutched the rubber side of the raft. The next wave almost washed her overboard.
Killed by those creatures! Killed by creatures that attacked anything! Killed by creature with a mania for food! Killed by creatures that ate their own innards!
Heidi had seen Jaws. She remembered.
In the next moment she saw something else-a four engine plane was speeding right towards her. The Coast Guard! The plane passed overhead, turned around and came back. The sharks and the airplane, the horror and the joy all but caused her heart to burst.
Then a thought occurred to Heidi: how could the plane help her? Indeed, how?
“It can’t,” Heidi shouted.
“It can’t,” the sharks said silently.
A tall wave raised her life raft and, a second later, crashed down on the Cessna, which, as though tired of bobbing on the surface, went straight to the bottom. Before Heidi’s eyes the plane’s white cross sunk into the ocean depths. It was all over with the Cessna.
Heidi got ready alternately to live and to die.
Emptiness lapped in the lenses of the captain’s binoculars. He lowered them and wondered what was on the radar.
It had been a long time since Mochalove peered into the watery distance as he did now. But he remembered how he had once. That was long ago-almost forty years. Then, admittedly, he had not been a captain. He was 20. the war* was over but their lives hung by a thread each day. The crew was clearing the sea of mines, which outnumbered the fish. He had escaped being blown to smithereens. Though he could have been, he thought.
In all his years of seafaring no one had ever asked him if he liked his work. He had not asked himself that question either. Now it was kind of late. And the answer was clear.
The first mate reported that the radar had picked up the airplane. It was circling over one spot.
“That means it’s there,” the captain said. And, without pausing he added, “Full speed ahead.”
In other words, 18 knots.
“There,” he repeated. No one would circle over one spot just for the fun of it. For no reason at all.
The ship picked up speed. Night descended over the ocean, but it seemed to be waking up.
From – No Man Is An Island
15th May, 2011
Despite his strong nerves and character, the captain was as affected by this tension, as electrified by it, as the next man. Not much was needed to act as a spark-having his ship buzzed was enough. So it could be expected that the captain would slam the bridge door and spit after the plane in defiance. And his ship, loaded to the top with fish, would stay its course, not diverging from it a degree. No one could have accused him of bringing about the American pilot’s death. Rather, the blame would lie with the pilots of American planes, who had so often played on his and his colleagues’ nerves.
But events in the Pacific Ocean took a different turn. It seemed as though the plane had wagged its wings. Somebody thought one of the engines had been switched off. What had actually happened?
The captain went up to the open flying bridge. He had his own, special seafaring experience. In all the decades he had spent on the seas and oceans he had never been in distress. He had never gotten into a mess, only in a storm. He had never given command “Man overboard!” except during drills. Fires, holes, collisions-all that had happened to someone else, not to him. He was perhaps only captain who had never seen a single flying saucer. The merchant navy had given him an award “For 20 years of accident-free service.” But only because they had not come up with the idea of giving on “For 30 years.”
The plane seemed to be summoning him somewhere. Two times it flew off in one and the same direction. That was the only information he had. The radio was silent-magnetic storms could not be discounted. If they followed the plane they might run right smack into the typhoon. And how long would it take? An hour? A day? Two? And most importantly, for the sake of what?
The Americans flew away. Perhaps they decided they had been understood.
Life’s most unbreakable code- what and where? How and when? Who and whom? Why and where to?-presented itself to the captain in classical biblical from.
For everything that happens to man, no matter how unexpected it looks, and for everything he undertakes, no matte how inexplicable it seems, the ground has been prepared.
In the ocean that day there were all the latest achievements of modern civilization: a powerful refrigerator ship and a four engine airplane, both equipped with radar, automated systems and similar apparatuses. The technology worked, moved, did not stand still. But it passed a person by. Something else was decisive-the working of the human heart. Intuition and instinct were decisive now, as they had once been ages ago. The captain swung the ship round and pointed it in the direction of the typhoon, where the plane had headed.
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
12th May, 2011
The waves grew. The jolting exhausted Heidi physically, while the empty horizon undermined her spirits. She realized that no matter how long the day was-she had flown several hours ahead of the sun-it would come to an end. Ahead lay a night in the ocean.
Why had it happened to her? After all, it did not happen to everybody. That hurt.
The waves rumbled and roared. Strange things were going on with the ocean. High in the tropical sky purple and pink shadows gathered. Bright white clouds that lit up the darkness to man lived for its own beauty. Heidi looked away. She felt like a child, cruelly abandoned by everyone.
Heidi was the offspring of the human race.
The Cessna was still afloat. But clearly, if the waves rose by just one more point it would all be over.
“And I’ll be washed into the drink,” was Heidi’s chilling conclusion.
The more she thought about night and the waves, the more it brought to mind land. The firmness and reliability of land now seemed like a sacred gift. That morning it would not have occurred to her. Now Heidi could have given her youth for the chance to feel the earth under her feet-rocky, soft, dry, damp, bare, and grassy. The earth under his feet-that is all a person needs. That first. Everything else comes later.
Fate is not fair. Heidi was clinging to a stabilizer that was gradually slipping away. She still believed she might be rescued. Most who believe perish. Only in a very few instances are those who believe rescue. It is, however, not the majority, who believe and perish, who are remembered, but those few who believe and survive.
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
11th may, 2011
The first minutes after an accident bring man an exaggerated faith in his powers. Time passes and so does that faith. Hope of being rescued arises-someone knows of your existence.
Hope passes. Destructive stages lie in wait: bewilderment (why doesn’t anyone come and rescue me?), impatience, anger, despair. And then the final stage. It is customary to consider it avoid. Thus, the stage does not exist. The victim-if he has not lost the ability to think by that time-realizes that the hope of being rescued he had before is the answer. So is the faith he had in his powers.
Heidi hoped she is would be rescued. And she continued to believed that the world small.
Let us change gears and slow the pace of this story. Heidi was not alone in the mistaken belief that “the world is small.” The author is acquainted with it, too, and not second-hand. A journalist’s work involves travel. I have traveled and flown about the world for many years now. And it really does seem as though distances have been reduced: today you are in one part of the world, tomorrow you are in another. But have they? A few unpleasant occurrences in the mountains and desert helped me realize this was a delusion! One instance in particular come to mind-it bears greater similarity to the story being told here. The incident occurred in an appropriate place-the “Bermuda Triangle.” Three times in a twenty-four hour period the Boeing in which I was flying from Colombia to New York. USA (Heidi Ann Porch’s country) came close to disaster-three times. Each time, when the engines stalled, we found ourselves over boundless, deserted expanses of sea; they were not rushing past below us as before. We were spinning our wheels in a vast space. Each time the barracudas-the worst members of the shark family-were waiting for those the sky promised them. It all ended well-even when the engines caught fire. Ended and was part of the past. But the insight I gained stayed with me: the world we fly in and find ourselves face to face with in times of trouble is not small but vast. It is boundless. It did not become any smaller because we started to fly faster. It is still as it was at the hour of creation. It is constantly huge, invariably dangerous and equally indifferent to all.
Radio operators in Hawaii picked up the SOS, and a Coast Guard plane was sent up. It started looking for traces of a crash. When the pilot’s initial attempts ended in failure they surmised that the search might take longer than expected. Even of they were lucky; however, they would not be able to rescue the pilot. That could only be accomplished by someone who was right alongside; in other words, by sailors. A ship had to be brought to the probable area of the crash. Abandoning the search for Heidi, they began looking for ship. It look quite some time……..
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
9th may, 2011
Water patterned with rainbow colored streaks and swirls of gasoline washed over the Cessna. Somehow Heidi managed to grab hold of an aileron and then pull herself up into the orange life raft. Its low sides would be no protection against even moderately choppy seas, but it floated. Fortunately, there were no waves. All around, as far as the eye could see, stretched the ocean, as calm as a meadow. There was nothing except water and light.
The captain played the piano.
Heidi prayed to God that the Cessna would not sink straight away. First, she would be easier to find the plane was visible to aircraft and ships. Second, the rising wind and waves might carry the life raft away, and then the coordinates she had radioed to Hawaii would seem muddled. Rocked by the waves, Heidi held on to the stabilizer. It was the last service the plane could do her.
A horror of Earth’s boundless expanses brushed against her consciousness. Not long before she had been sure that nothing could be smaller than the world she sped over on the wings of her Cessna and her youth. After all, she had an engine at her command. Late twentieth century man’s belief that the world is ridiculously small was firmly embedded in her soul. That belief, along with her stamina, served Heidi well. She believed that another minute would go by and a ship would appear on the horizon. Or a plane would appear in the sky. Or some kind of sailing vessel even would show up. Or, a submarine would surface, for goodness sake! Youth has a right to count on that, too.
But hope and reality are different things. Hours went by and nothing changed. Heidi had crashed in one of the most deserted areas of the Pacific Ocean.
From – No Man Is An Island
Written by Gennady Bocharov
