My Watery Self: Memoirs of a Marine Scientist by Stephen Spotte

By Stephen Spotte

In My Watery Self: An Aquatic Memoir, author/scientist Stephen Spotte strains a desirable path via a lifestyles that all started in West Virgina coal camps, drifted via reckless bohemian instances of countercultural indulgence in seashore Haven, New Jersey, and ended in a occupation as a highly-respected marine biologist. jointly, those tales shape a view not only of 1 man's existence, yet that of a iteration that frequently refused to take an immediate route to the place of work, insisting in its place on a winding unveiling of precise self-realization, to accomplish previously-unimagined results. For Spotte, the major was once water: His years of seashore residing resulted in a self-initiated learn of literature and the ocean. He finally again to school and bought his education as a marine biologist, and came upon, via his singular voice, a rainy and infrequently very bizarre standpoint at the global. His writing is engrossing all through, the tales he shares--such as his stint as curator of the hot York Aquarium at Coney Island on the tail finish of the hippie era--are compelling and carefully relaxing as he elevates the folk and events he encounters to legendary degrees, mixing empirical statement with literary prose.

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Uncle Dirty now began comforting Sherryn, an activity that usually ended in copulation. They fell in love and swore eternal fidelity. In his new state, Uncle Dirty shaved, got a haircut, took his clothes to a Laundromat, and went looking for a job on the mainland with the notion of supporting Sherryn and the kid. Then, as often happens, one of them fell out of love—Sherryn in this case. George was in California or Florida, I forget which. He and Sherryn were divorced by then, and Sherryn found a new guy who had real money, inspiring Uncle Dirty to return to the unemployment office—this time legally, because he’d actually been working for several months.

They had one big tent set up in the middle with lesser tents and other attractions spaced around it like satellites. I went inside and looked at the ring where the barker would stand surrounded by the chairs in which the spectators would sit. Overhead was a tightrope with ladders on each end topped off by platforms. I had two dollars in loose cash and planned to stay all day and well into the evening. Just as I was coming out of the big tent an old man stopped me by putting his hand gently on my chest.

I run over to the big tent and pushed through the gawkers and seen my girl laying on the ground. I grabbed her hand. She was all broke up and bleeding. I leaned down and she said in a whisper, ‘I waited for you. . ’ “I looked up at the wire and must of went deaf. Not the sirens nor the hollering jarred me out of it, and the place seemed still and cold as if I was underwater and starving for air. I looked at my girl and that special thing was gone from her eyes, that something shiny like a pond or a camera’s eye where your picture’s reflected back.

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