Bright white streaked across the sky. Everyone’s eyes followed the path. “It is time,” the old man said. He placed the bones in the fire pit on top of the red hot coals. Cracks formed in the bones. They looked like crazed spider webs. The old man examined the strange patterns. He stood and turned to the crowd.

“We will go south,” the old man said.

The pirate ship glided into the sound. It slid next to the sheer cliff and within minutes they were filling barrels from a sparkling waterfall.

Many eyes watched from above. They resented this intrusion.

In single file they padded over the bare rock. Not one foot touched a dry leaf or twig. They moved through the forest like ghosts. They reached their places and waited for orders. Hundreds of lean muscled men stood in silence.

The leader waited until the ship dropped its anchor and stopped for the night. His eyes calculated distances, heights and angles. He raised his bronze arms in the air and looked in all directions. He saw his men, hundreds of them, waiting patiently.

Using both hands he explained. All eyes locked on the rough callused palms and fingers. The leader gestured at the ship and then gave the command.

First the small stones rolled off the cliff. The leader watched intently to see where they landed. The pirates on the ship below didn’t notice the small plops as the pebbles entered the water. Now that he had the range he waved an arm and the larger stones began to hit the ship.

The lookout heard the noise and didn’t think much of it. He thought someone was playing the fool and tossing things about the deck.

The leader stared at the boat hundreds of feet below. He thought about all the men who would be killed. Each one probably had a wife and children. They were the children of others. There were many on the ship below.

The leader gave the order. A boulder the size of a brown bear hit the main deck. The wood splintered and the leader heard the shouts and cries. Rocks rolled off the edge of the cliff striking all parts of the ship with deadly accuracy.

Some dove overboard and tried to swim to safety. The leader’s eyes narrowed as he saw arrows thunk into their writhing backs. “It’s like hunting salmon. They do not belong in our land,” he said.

“Maybe this will be enough. Maybe they will not come back.  I did not want to do this,” the leader said to himself.

We humans do odd things. It is a hallmark of our species.

Why celebrate a birthday?

Why devote so much time and energy to preserving a date and year for an individual organism?

I doubt if other organisms do this. Maybe whales and dolphins have crustacean cakes with luminescent algae icing. We shall never know until we become smart enough to communicate with them.

I wonder when it happened. There must have been an initial eater. Some brave male or female human or proto-human managed to catch the reddish orange monster we so love today. Can you imagine what it was like? Getting pinched by the claws and feeling the hard outer shell. How did they know that is was edible?

Did they eat the lobster raw? I can’t imagine that it was very good unless the first lobster eater was starving. I’ve never eaten raw lobster although sashimi can be quite good.  How did they figure out how to cook it? You certainly couldn’t fry it.  Maybe they roasted it over a fire but I don’t know how that would work out.

It took a stroke of genius to plunge a writhing lobster into boiling water. Maybe by then humans had a tradition of boiling foods such as rice and roots and stem tubers.

It must have been a great day when someone did manage to catch, cook and eat some of the sweet lobster meat inside. I doubt that they had butter but who knows.

Every home should have a front porch.

As I write I am seated in a comfy wicker chair on the porch of a bed and breakfast. I don’t know why this simple setting produces so much relaxation.

Maybe it brings back fond memories of porches past. As a kid I loved porch swings. There was a sense of danger as I sat on the rickety wooden swing. I could hear the screw fasteners above squeaking and ceiling wood cracking with every move.

I guess what I like most about porches now is that they seem to be unsuitable for anything except rocking, sitting, swinging, reading , writing and talking. You certainly can’t have a productive meeting or teach a class on a porch.

It’s kind of nice when you can’t do something in a place.