sjfn;ajsn

Video Block

Double-click here to add a video by URL or embed code. Learn more

sjdnfljsnAFLJAKSDZKC AN

my days in the Coast Guard

Recently I presented a post about my days in the Coast Guard and my acumen in boat seamanship. It didn’t start out that way by a long shot. My first mission in that 44’ MLB (Motor Life Boat) came by accident. Not only that, it was recorded on television! And…I contemplated shooting myself afterwards.

Until that first sortie, I had operated the 41’ UTB (Utility Boat) which unlike the MLB, had an aluminum hull and fiberglass superstructure. The UTB was designed for moderate to flat seas and could reach speeds of about 28 knots with its large turbo-charged twin 903 Cummin’s engines. Unlike the motor life boat, if this vessel flipped over, it stayed over. This was deemed problematic, hence the protocol to not take it out in heavy seas. We had two at the station, CG41367 and the 41369. The first two numbers designated the length, the next three were the number in production.

Being new at Coast Guard Station Monterey, at this time I was certified to operate the utility boat, but could only ‘crew’ the MLB.

We had received a call from the Coast Guard Cutter Cape Hedge—a 95’ patrol boat, out of Morro Bay that they found a boat which had been declared lost several days earlier. They found it almost 100 miles off Big Sur California and happily, the lone fisherman was alive. The boat, approximately 16 feet long had experienced engine trouble and the hapless sailor was drifting south west along with the currents and winds. They had him in tow and they brought him into Monterey where he began his fishing trip.

Our 41-footer was out on a call near Santa Cruz and there weren’t any certified coxswains (pronounced ‘cox’ns’ to you landlubbers) around. The CO looked at me and said, “Nielsen, take the 44 and meet with the Hedge, take the boat into side tow into the marina.”

I responded, “Uh, sir, I’m not certified on the 44. I’ve only operated it a few times.”

He looked at me a moment, then said, “You are now. You’ll have a crew by the time you reach the dock.”

“Aye aye, sir.” With no small amount of trepidation, I walked the quarter mile from the station to the docks. Awaiting me were a seaman named Stanley (last name) and engineer, Harris. The two experienced men knew my experience, or lack thereof. I climbed onboard, Harris went below, opened valves, pushed breaker switches, then gave the okay and I pressed the buttons to start the port engine, then starboard. Both GM engines rumbled into life. Able to tow vessels over 100 feet in length and take on stormy seas, these steel-hulled powerhouses were like Clydesdales of the seas.

Near the breakwater, the Cape Hedge slowed with the little boat in its wake. We cast off lines and made ready to take it in tow with a bow, stern, spring line and fenders. Motoring past the sea lion and gull covered rocks we came alongside the small boat and unhooked the Hedge’s tow line.

I took the radio mike and clicked the transmitter: “Coast Guard Cutter Cape Hedge, this is the 4-4-3-4-6, your line is free and we’re taking the boat in alongside tow. Coast Guard Station Monterey, do you copy, over?”

“4-4-3-4-6, this is Cape Hedge, we copy and will dock and refuel. Out”

“4-4-3-4-6, this is Station Monterey. Acknowledge. Out.”

With the boat snugly along our port side, the skipper asked, “Do you guys have any water or food?”

My crew and I all looked at each other. Everyone shook their heads.

“Oh,” I said frowning. “Sorry. We didn’t bring any.”

The haggard looking man in his early 30’s looked even more forlorn. He slumped down on the seat as we cruised past the moored boats and to the harbor entrance. This is the amusing part of Monterey marina as vessels are required to sound their horns as warning to vessels leaving or entering. On the 44-footer, the horn is a modified ship’s horn, capable of being heard miles away which is very helpful when seeking lost mariners in the fog. However, if you’re a tourist leaning on the rail fifty feet away, watching the grand Coast Guard boat with its blue light flashing, waving at the young crew members (we felt so proud), the last thing you expected was: BLAAAHHHHH!

It never failed to make us laugh. Birds would take flight in terror, children screamed, adults screamed, everyone jumped. As the last echoes reverberated around the marina, we passed the entrance, then slowly turned to the left down one of the wider fairways that lead to the small boat docks.

Here’s where operating the 14-ton motor life boat differed greatly from the far lighter utility boat—it drifts as you turn. I noted this as we rounded the corner and compensated by reducing RPM’s on the port engine, which turned the boat faster to the port. I noted that in a PR opportunity, our Station Commanding Officer, along with another officer and two petty officers, stood at one of the far docks along with KSBW channel 8 television news reporters.

“Wow,” I thought. “I’m going to be on TV!”

We came to the next turn, which was to the right. On the Wharf #2 side port/left was a dock with a sail boat, then the Sand Bar and Grill restaurant overhanging the water. On the starboard/right were the docks with two small boats secured. The passage was somewhat narrow. In the utility boat, it wasn’t a problem.

It was just after noon, the high tide was at its peak and the restaurant was full. Diners lined the window tables and watched as the TV news cameras rolled, an entourage of Coast Guard officials stood waiting on the docks and a large white Coast Guard boat motored forward. With the tide at its crest, I literally looked down into the restaurant. People were smiling and enjoying a variety of seafood. I felt so excited, so proud to represent ‘The Guard.’

Then, we started the turn and it all went to…feces.

Afterwards, yes, afterwards, I was told to, ‘think a boat-length of what you’re about to do.’

This would have been helpful had I known it then.

However…

In making the turn, the heavy 44-footer slid like a truck on a frozen lake.

I pulled the starboard engine control back, slowing the engine. The boat now moved sideways towards the restaurant.

The diners began to take note. Some stopped eating.

We were only moving at less than two knots, but it was fast enough.

I turned the rudders until the wheel locked and gently goosed the port engine. Now the boat pointed in the right direction, but continued to slide. My heart began racing, cold sweat oozed from every pore. I jerked the wheel again to no avail.

The people in the restaurant now ALL had stopped eating and stared, many wide-eyed and open mouthed at the huge Coast Guard boat bearing down on them. I’m sure to them, it looked gigantic.

I pressed both engines gently forward. Too fast would kick the stern end around.

No longer in danger of drifting into the sailboat, the boat seemed to take a kamikaze attraction with the Sand Bar and Grill.

My crew stopped what they were doing—preparing to dock the boat in a slip—and stared at me.

“Uh…Nielsen?” Stanley stammered.

The small boat’s occupant looked at the restaurant, then me, then back at the restaurant. He started to back away as far as his little boat allowed, stumbling across fishing gear.

I pushed the throttles a bit more, then turned the wheel to rudder amidships to insure a straight course.

It was as if the boat turned into a giant magnet and the restaurant a block of iron. All laws of physics morphed into a void. The boat did not turn in the least. It hated me.

The patrons were no longer diners, they were a frightened mob. Chairs overturned as they evacuated the corner tables and dashed for the far side of the restaurant or for the opportunists—outside. The manager ran outside and was bellowing in Italian. At that time, most restaurants on the wharves were owned by Italians. As my linguist skills were limited to English and high school Spanish, I (probably thankfully) couldn’t understand what was being relayed.

I glanced over my shoulder to see my commanding officer, slack-jawed, observing the slow-motion impending disaster. The Channel 8 News cameras were pointed my way. The reporter held her microphone at her side, eyes huge, mouth agape.

The 14-ton Coast Guard steel-hulled Motor Life Boat pressed the little fiberglass runabout effortlessly into, then under, the restaurant.

It is truly amazing how time slows during times like these. Details become crystal clear, everything seems in amazing focus. The screams of the crowd inside were quite audible as was the Italian dialogue streaming from the pier. The rumble of diesel engines below deck. The crunch of a small boat being pushed under a restaurant, now almost literally an arms-reach away. The sad expression of a guy who after being lost at sea for three days, only wanted to return home—on the other side of the marina fairway.

I jammed the starboard engine in reverse, the port forward.

The boat, now partially under the Sand Bar and Grill, moved to the windshield. It bent a second, then the tempered glass EXPLODED in a geyser of crystals. Each tiny fragment capturing a bit of sunlight and casting pretty colors all over the boat cockpit, our boat, and spraying across the restaurant windows.

For a moment we stopped. I looked at my engineer, a guy with years of experience, and said, “Can you take the helm?”

He shook his head and crossed his arms, his eyes narrow. “You’re in command. Do something.”

For a moment, time froze as I stared, fighting tears of frustration and embarrassment. Then, time started up again. Something happened inside, as if a star had gone nova. Clarity returned.

“I am in command,” I said, my voice deeper, startling me as if someone else spoke the words. It was as if the Sea Gods bitch-slapped me into realizing what my job was and who I was. “I am in command,” I repeated.

I pointed, “Stanley, take the boathook and fend off the, uh, restaurant. Harris, grab the other hook and lever the little boat out from underneath.”

They jumped to action. I moved the engine controls back and forth. The grinding sound told me that we were pulling the boat from under the restaurant. And I was incurring more damage by the second. I visualized my third class Boatswain’s mate rank being lowered dramatically, my pay docked for the next fourteen years, possible time in the brig, the family dog slinking away at my presence.

The final fiberglass crunch echoed into silence. The Italian, and crowd screams, however, continued. We cleared the restaurant, again the odd clarity had me noting that customers had left some tasty-looking meals on the tables, but I wasn’t hungry and probably wouldn’t be for the next year or so.

We moved to the fairway and brought the 44 to the appropriate slip. Harris and Stanley walked the now ravaged boat to dock and secured it to cleats. I glanced at my CO and the others, who happily were focused on the sailor. The TV cameras rolled as his wife and two children ran down the dock.

That was a wonderful made-for-prime-time moment. The four of them collided with joy, hugs and kisses. The camera, thirsting for drama, recorded every moment.

My CO walked over. I stared at the fathometer, then the radar, watching the green sweep designate the marina details.

He stood next to the boat and cleared his throat.

With the enthusiasm of facing a firing squad, I turned at looked at him. Lieutenant David Lyons was a good man and commanded well. I respected him and didn’t think I could have let him and the Coast Guard down any further.

“Nielsen.”

“Yes sir?” Shall I withdraw my rigging knife and commit seppuku, sir?

“You can turn the blue light off now.”

I reached up and flicked the switch.

“Sorry sir.”

He looked at the boat, the happy family, then at me. “The important thing is the skipper is back home alive. We’ll talk when you return to base.” He gave me a wry smile, then was engaged by the KSBW reporter.

Harris and Stanley climbed aboard and we returned to the station. As we passed by the Sand Bar and Grill, Stanley said, “Well, that’ll be known as ‘Nielsen’s Corner’.”

We laughed.

Upon returning to the docks, we followed the routine: store the lines and fenders, wash and fuel the boat, check for readiness. Go up to the command center and report on what happened.

As we entered the com center, Stanley burst out laughing. “Fucking Nielsen ran into a restaurant!”

It took probably four minutes before everyone on base knew. Happily, the story was told and retold without my short-term emotional breakdown or asking Harris to take over. Kudos to them for allowing that shred of dignity.

The commanding officer informed me that the Coast Guard would take care of repairing the boat. Everyone was grateful that we brought him back alive.

At the six o’clock news, most of the off-duty personnel were present in the break room to watch what they showed. Cheers arose when the 44-footer was videoed cruising down the fairway, blue light flashing. The reporter giving a narrative as we approached, crediting the Cape Hedge for finding the lost sailor so far out to sea. I started to cringe. The next shot was of the man and his family, with our commander alongside. Everyone was smiling. The sailor gave a short statement of his ordeal. His wife offering an amusing stern expression when he described the engine failing. In the background, a rather demolished 16-foot boat lay moored to the dock.

And then, weather.

Two days later I received my orders: Report to Small Boat Handling School in Alameda. A two week class on boat operations.

It helped.

That’s where I learned to think ‘a boat-length ahead’.

All in all this experience, which I laugh about to this day, was the turning point that taught me about what being in command or in charge means.

The moniker: ‘Nielsen’s Corner,’ lasted for years.

More sea stories to follow…

She asked me to kill the spider.

She asked me to kill the spider.

With love for all creatures, I grabbed a cup and a flyer from a law firm offering to sue Chevy for everything that's happened to my car from a blinking light to an exploding engine.

With adoring care, I crept up to the spider and raised the cup to place it over and allow it grace of outside safety.

It moved about three feet, then crawled onto the ceiling.

I followed it with the cup, sending it feelings of care and well-being.

The spider seemed to crouch on the ceiling.

With steady hands, I guided the cup of caring to the...

The spider dropped, legs outstretched, directly at my face.

I yelped like a seven year-old girl and jumped backwards.

One of the dogs was right behind me and I fell over the dog.

The spider fell on my leg.

With the litigation flyer, complete with pleasant picture of the attorney and a white sedan, I brushed furiously, knowing that the venomous arachnid would at any time sink its long dark fangs into my thigh all the way to the femur, injecting a potent toxin that at the least would see a huge hemorrhaging wound fester to gangrene, at worst--agonizing death with me surrounded by family and friends arguing over who gets what after I'm dead.

The dog, sensing opportunity, sprang to action and began chasing the kitten who was minding its own business lounging on the couch.

The kitten scrambled, using its claws for traction--right over my leg. I'd been wearing shorts, and immediately felt the penetration of sixteen kitty-litter contaminated spikes.

The spider, seeing this wide-eyed furball thing rush at it, now bolted for the nearest dark and presumably safe place--up my shorts.

Again screaming, now more akin to a five year-old seeing mommy in a face-treatment mask, knowing that my favorite, okay, only, testicles were in immediate peril, I brushed wildly at the thing which appeared the size of a hairy dinner plate. I backpedaled over the floor in phobic terror.

The useless flyer, both useless as a spider capture module, spider abatement sweep and as something with any chance of winning against one of the largest manufacturers in the world, flew into the air. I grabbed the nearest thing--a dog leash and lashed out at the multi-legged horror show monster on my knee as if chiding the horses from Ben Hur for the final victorious lap.

The spider, throwing all caution to the wind, lept onto my thigh. It looked to be drooling for my blood. In that microsecond, I wondered if spiders, in fact, do drool, but comforting panic returned and all sense departed.

My screeching voice, coming from the throat of a pixie falling onto a cactus, spouted blasphemes and censored words with the rapid call of a 600 round-a-minute minigun.

The spider leaped again and now landing on my shirt, looking with its eight beady eyes into my paltry two, and ran forward.

Beating my chest with the leash like a highway masticator, the kind that reduces weeds to nubs and covers your recently washed car with a layer of dust, the spider dodged and jumped. Every action taking it closer to my face where I knew it schemed to sink those fangs into one of my eyes. Again, a microsecond of black fantasy of the spider standing on my cornea and stabbing through my lens into my optic nerve. All sanity departed.

I swept the Demon of Eight with my hand and it jumped onto one of my fingers.

Yelling with such ferocity that my voice, lost in terror, had all the decibels of a giraffe mating call. I shook my hand furiously lest the beast poison me like the creature from Book Three of the Lord of the Rings, where Frodo is captured and eventually rescued by Sam. I don't know anyone named Sam, therefor knew my fate would be sealed.

The spider, unable to cling to my epidermal substrate, flew into the air and landed behind the couch.

I lay panting, checking my pulse for fibrillation and my pants for lost bladder control. Both still intact.

She asked me to look behind the couch.

I said no, it will kill me.

Then, devoid of shame or discretion, the spider emerged from under the couch, and took several steps towards me. It didn't move far as for a spider, several steps means just three of eight legs.

Acting like a action hero, towering far above the spider, whose height didn't exceed 3/16th of an inch, I raised my size 10.5W foot, which makes buying shoes on sale at Big 5 Sporting Goods all but impossible, to crush the homicidal arachnid into atoms.

The spider, sensing impending doom, ran under the door and outside.

To freedom and away from the terror of the house of humans.

She sent it love.

A Deadly Balance

It's always a great thing to finish a novel. The next great thing is to finish the edits prior to sending it off to the professional editor. Tonight, just a little while ago, I completed the second phase after dozens of rewrites and edits. Bigger, better and stronger with a new title.

A Deadly Balance

By Richard Nielsen

Chapter One

Colombia, near the Venezuelan border

The US Army camouflaged MH-6 Little Bird helicopter swooped low over dense rain forest vegetation and descended into a clearing between tall tropical trees. Its occupants, Sergeant First Class Garrett Drake and Sergeant Mitch Burner, made a swift hover exit, dropping several feet onto a grass-covered clearing.

upcoming novels

People have asked what the titles of my upcoming novels are. Arriving this year are:

*A Deadly Balance* An antisocial sniper gains the ability to heal with a touch through an accident in the Amazon. His challenges are: he must heal at least one person a day or he dies, avoiding the government scientists who want to experiment on him, and protect the woman he's grown to love from nefarious operatives. (This one stars one of my nieces, Sara Martinez, who wanted to be a character in one of my novels. Sara, who's this awesome woman, holds multiple jobs and has always been responsible said when I asked what kind of character she wanted to be, "Uncle Rick, I want to be a bitch."

Wish granted.

*The Ultraviolet Castle* In post apocalyptic Santa Barbara, a couple fights to survive in a world populated by night-dwelling human predators. What makes the battle worse is the approaching marauders and the predators are getting smarter.

*The Trouble Shooter* An alien abductee, Chalton Lennah, escapes his captors onto a worm hole station far away in our galaxy. In an effort to get enough funds to pay for a trip home, he joins the Interstellar Situation Manager Corps; a sanctioned group of diplomatic mercenaries who run clandestine correspondence and try to keep peace between warring races. During his training, Charlton discovers his former captors have dozens of human captives and plans their rescue.

*The Trouble Shooter: The Gron Fronsi Incident* After seven years experience as a Trouble Shooter, Charlton, now called Shakran, is called to negotiate between the race of Lingsway, who are known for lying, subverting and exceptional greed, and the Gron Fronsi, possibly the most vicious warrior race in the quadrant. The Lingsway are members of the Universal Council and by decree are allowed Trouble Shooters to negotiate. The Lingsway kidnapped a Gron Fronsi princess and thought they could extort a ransom. They underestimated the forces of the violent Gron Fronsi and now hold the Princess Saloonamor for their very survival. Shakran and the other Trouble Shooters face the challenge of keeping the Gron Fronsi from exterminating one race and threatening every solar system within 1000 light years with war.

*The Bodice and the Blade* A duo time piece with half set in 1720's Caribbean with Anne Bonney and Reginald Langsforth trying to stay a step ahead of pirates and the British Navy while seeking treasure sequestered on a deserted island. The present day has the descendants of the aforementioned group, now smugglers and businessmen, stealing a gold-laden museum exhibit, trying to kill each other and avoiding the wily detective Morgan Moray.

The novel is forthcoming:

The novel is forthcoming:

Before the beginning there were no voids. The dimensions were easily traversed. However there was no one, nothing to traverse them. All appeared to be perfect. A silent infinity. Not even the gods could say what happened next. Only that it did. Something did. A flaw perhaps. Two dimensions collided is another possibility. Then it happened. Billions of years before what humanity called the Big Bang, a cataclysmic explosion in the silence erupted. All that was perfect became flawed. The perfect order of what had existed for over a trillion years was irreparably altered. Things appeared. Energy. Matter.

It coalesced into irregular masses. Gravity discovered itself. Matter was attracted to other matter. In coming together in a dimensional need for closeness, the matter collided, grew, separated and collided again. In all that, something appeared. Warmth. Then light. The matter congealed into larger and larger masses. Whirling free like dancers on an open stage, it drew forth substance to that which had no name, not a void, but a universe. For so many billions of years this dance of chemicals and elements continued. Molecules created themselves. The first star was born. The light shedding any semblance of humility as it broadcast its radiance for the first time. Shadows appeared where there had been eternal dark.

Or was it the first time. Even the gods don’t know. Some don’t care. Others investigated but could not explore beyond that first singular flaw. All they knew was eventually the molecules themselves became part of the larger substance. The stars grew, other substances became dust, planets, dark matter and what was and is the universe. Unwritten history continued in a long long series of nows. On a turbulent planet near a white star, the liquid soup thrashed by vicious tempests mixed ingredients into amino acids, proteins and the first spark of life appeared.

It was theorized that this happened elsewhere, but the god’s history records this planet breaking free from mineral bonds to create the first active organic molecule. Another series of billions of years passed. Plants, animals, minerialians raised themselves up to gaze at the stars. The animals advanced, evolved. Intelligence added a new dimension in what came to be known as ‘life.’ The new dimension was self-awareness.

The first creature looked at its hands, seven-fingered claws that flexed and grasped. It saw its reflection in a pond, touching its face in wonder. Taking a deep inhale, it gazed at the surroundings for the first time. It uttered a tiny hum.

More eons came and vanished into the now that became the past. History was not something that was realized. Present and future concepts were invented and acknowledged.

The creatures developed civilizations, utopias that waxed and waned, populated and diminished, but always advanced. The creatures built vehicles, first to move across their planet, then to fly, then to travel at first to the close planets, then to the stars.

They learned, studied everything, absorbing knowledge with a thirst and hunger that was never quenched or satisfied. They discovered how the building blocks of matter and energy worked. How to manipulate the universe. They learned how to live forever, shedding the material forms for energy. They developed into beings without gender. Beings of incredible capabilities. In this new phase of their existence, they remembered everything. Who they were, the humble origins and the continuing evolutions. They moved from star to planet in an instant, conversed with each other across the astounding expanse of the universe. Exploring the galaxies, the stars and planets and sharing the information.

They were the first gods.

They didn’t think themselves gods. They had no concept of deities. That came after one experimented with energy and matter and created a rift, a bead of existence plucked at the fabric of their reality just beyond the present universe.

A new dimension was created. A new universe was born from that tiny hole beyond what was. The being reveled in its creation, sharing its progeny with the others. A trend began. Dimensions were drafted, each being the creator of its own universe to discover, explore and study.

Some of the beings took delight in their creations, building their own civilizations. Others worked with the mysteries of matter and energy. They found the ability to connect all dimensions with channels. What many billions of years later humans would call worm holes.

Then they discovered a dark truth: possessiveness. Most beings welcomed citizens of their kind as visitors to their universes. Others kept theirs to themselves, jealously guarding their creations. Since the first days of physical life, violence occurred. A war broke out between the beings. Entire universes were destroyed, the work and studies of many eons reduced to the basic elements of matter. Some of the beings themselves were destroyed.

A sorrow came over the dimensions. Word was sent out for all of the beings to convene in the First Universe. They met as an immense globe of light and energy. With much consternation, they established guidelines for themselves and their universes. Permission to gain access to universes not that of a creator being would be required before entry. Those who entered without leave would be subject to banishment. Some of the beings took this as freedom to perpetrate acts of violence to those trespassers. Jealous of their creations, they set vicious traps at the worm holes. Even the newly created emissaries were captured and destroyed. Many of the creator beings drifted apart from the others.

Still others welcomed visitors and extended invitations. The emissaries became a necessity.

Some of the beings would visit other universes, leaving theirs to tend themselves. Freely growing or diminishing, but always in flux. Sometimes they returned quickly, sometimes after long absences, sometimes never.

One of the beings created a universe and became devoted to it. Nurturing and watching, it observed with delight the evolution of life. Inviting others to watch, they marveled at the proliferation of life on the many planets orbiting the many stars.

A neighboring being designed his own universe, one that satisfied his desire to grow and process worlds of creatures. What that being wanted was to be left alone with his creation. She wasn’t malevolent, just desired his own company. She didn’t set any traps, didn’t attend the periodic conventions of creators to share information on his universe or to learn about the others. She just wanted to exist in the existence as he created.

In the neighboring universe, the creator watched the worlds evolve. This deity looked forward to observing their interaction when they began journeying to the stars and planets. She spaced many of the organic worlds apart enough that they would become well developed prior to seeking and finding the others. Other life-birthing worlds were closer together. This allowed the potential of interaction between species. Many of the planets developed plants, but no animated life forms. Some evolved, grew and destroyed themselves. A number possessed a proliferation of life that remained without sentient form, a collection of predators and prey, fauna and grazers on land and in the sea. The other groups developed civilizations. Some mighty. Some modest.

On one planet on the rim of a galaxy, the planet Earth grew and developed. Periodically the creator would visit and observe the progress, record everything then check on neighboring inhabited worlds. These rounds were irregular, sometimes thousands of years passed, sometimes millions. The creator was disappointed when her crop of reptiles all but perished from the impact of an asteroid. The subsequent visit caught her attention when a new breed, the mammals, dominated the planet. The simians had much promise. She observed for many eons then went on her route, like a gardener tending rows of crops.

When the simians developed their own life-energy and awareness, she visited, communicating and learning from them. She appeared in a similar form, partaking in interactions and learning their philosophies and giving them snippets of information regarding their universe. Only enough to tempt them into seeking out more. The inhabitants developed their own theories on the evolution of the universe. So many tribes with so many different theories. The creator delighted in this diversity.

On other worlds, the inhabitants had no theories, on some they were nearly exact on figuring out what had occurred. She wondered what would occur when these different groups met. This gave her, now billions of years old, something to look forward to. For her, time had little meaning. She existed, remembering all that had existed and that was enough.

Other creators were unable to adapt to seemingly eternal life and extinguished themselves, or had gone insane--far worse by her standards. Others, bored, created mischief with neighboring universes, wars, split dimensions that enveloped each other to the mutual destruction or sometimes galaxian collisions ruining billions of years of effort and creations.

On the rim of one of her galaxies, the little planet Earth spun and orbited the single yellow star. The inhabitants continued their lives, progressed and evolved. They made peace, waged wars, created and invented. They journeyed around their planet, to the nearby moon, other planets where they set up colonies in harsh climates.

The Creator of this universe knew someday they would journey to the stars. She would wait and watch. Someday, perhaps, she’d meet them in person in her own form.

The Interstellar Explorer Vessel Rebek began her maiden voyage with much fan faire. Her crew of sixty-eight, composed mostly of scientists and engineers, had the exuberance matching the celebrations of the launch from the space port.