Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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STROMO Abruptly, from the wild expanse of restless wind-torn waves, rise the shear basalt cliffs of the isolated group of Faeroe Islands. A wilder, more desolate scene is unimag- inable. The Faeroes ' highest cliffs, some towering majes- tically almost two thousand feet above the sea, face the advance of the waves from the west, and here daily is enacted one of the most violent and awesome dramas of nature. Against these black barriers the Atlantic sends her mighty combers to break with explosive force and to burst into the most remarkable clouds of foam and surf to be found in the world. This ceaseless, relentless assault of the breakers on the braced shoulders of rock is slowly dissolving them into the ruthless ocean. On such barren islands, one would hardly expect to find any inhabitants. Yet, clustered in partially sheltered hollows and around the few and poor harbors are some three thousand primitively constructed dwellings of old Viking origin. Within the walls of these structures over twenty thousand people cling to the five hundred and forty square miles of unfertile, almost tree-less, storm-rocked Faeroes and eke out a meagre living from fishing, cattle- raising, and bird-catching. The people, like their crude and staunch homes, are of Viking and Danish descent, com- ing from that bold, sea-faring stock that produced the adventurous Lief Ericson. Their appearance and person- ality are those of a strong forebear ing race; their faces without exception are lean and tan, drawn with hard firm lines set from continued exposure, hardships, and unexpect- ed death in their unending struggle with nature. Eric Jensen, a true son of the Islands, walked down the main street of t he capital city, Tliorshaon, situated on Stromo, the largest of the Islands. The natives were proud of their kinsman, Eric, for, although he was but a little over twenty, he owned and commanded a fishing vessel and maintained the most prosperous fishing industry yet estab- lished in the Islands. Eric was well over six feet tall, very erect, broad-shouldered and massively proportioned — a very tower of strength and endurance. His eyes, set deep and far apart in a square firm face, were startlingly blue. His hair was light flaxen browTi and inclined to curl. His appearance was that of an honest and intelligent man — a leader of men. Today, however, the erect head was bent; the broad shoulders drooped slightly; the flashing eyes were dull and dreamy. Eric was thinking, rather debating within that intelligent mind of his. A long and earnest talk with his widowed mother was directly responsible for this unusual pensiveness. Eric, said she, as she reiterated what she had tried to impress upon him before, You are simply wasting your life here in these lonely islands. You are different from us; you are intelligent enough to make a name for yourself in the world if only you would go to Denmark or Germany and get an education. You have money enough now, and how could you spend it more profitably? What good does it do you here? There is absolutely no future for you; you can go no farther than you ' ve gone. You know these islands are treacherous and dangerous. And you know what happened to your dear father and Uncle Carl ... There she stopped. Eric remained silent for a long moment, head bent. His father and uncle had met their death whUe bird-catch- ing over the cliffs off Store-Dimon. Their suspension rope had frayed through and dropped them six hundred feet to the frothing waves below. At the time Eric was twelve years old. Finally Eric rose, slowly. Mother, I know you ' re right, but I hate to leave these islands. Somehow I love them with all theii- loneliness and treachery. I love them as you do Mother, just like all the other islanders. Give me time to decide. I don ' t know what to say now. I must go, for my ship is waiting to start. I can ' t make my mind up yet. We shall retm-n in three days, and I will give you my answer then. Do what you think is best, Eric, she counselled in the parting embrace. You have made good here, and I ' m sure you could in the educated world. Goodby. This was the problem that Eric was turning over in his mind as he made his way along the narrow street he loved so well, toward the pier where his ship lay waiting. The name of this ship like that of the Island was Stromo, which means storm defier. Truly the Stromo was a staunch and worthy ship. It had battled many a furious storm without serious mishap and deserved its fitting name. Eric ' s eyes brightened, and his heart quickened at the trim sturdy lines of his own boat, one of the finest the Islands could boast. The men who had been lounging aboard the craft came to attention as their captain approached. Although most of these men were older than Eric, they had supreme faith

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SEA FEVER I sat on the rocky promontory, my eyes not on my line like those of a good deep-sea fisherman, but on the distant horizon where, faintly etched against the far blueness, a racing yacht was in its beauty the excuse for its creation. The waves swirled around my lonely stronghold, until I re- minded myself of many heroines of the ancient Greek myths — chained, or cast away on some deserted rock, in the midst of the raging deep. But suddenly my thoughts left that field, as a fresh breeze from the sea sent the white caps higher, and brought a stronger tang of the salt to my eagerly sniffing nose. My Grecian maidens vanished, and I thought of that sturdy old salt, my paternal grandfather, and realized how he must have felt when he declared that he hoped only that God would let him die on his ship, and that his body, wrapped in tarpaulin, might be consigned to the ocean on which he had lived. I tried to skip over the remembrance of the fact that he had died prosaically enough in bed of heart failure, and to remember only the glowing, exciting life he had lived, sailing the seven seas, seeing everything there was to be seen, buying curios in different ports to bring home to his family, and, above all, staying on the sea the year around. In some previous existence, I wondered if I might not have been one of the Northmen, making my ship my home during the warm months, raiding the coasts of England, France, Spain, even Italy, bringing back to my northern home the spoils of the Southland, about which to spin many a saga when the winter imprisoned me there. Or perhaps an old seaman, tried and true, in the service of Magellan, Drake, Da Gama, or any of the explorers, accompanying them on their distant journeyings to unknown ports and places. Or, in later times, the master of a lively Yankee clipper-ship when they reigned the seas, racing from ocean to ocean, enduring the wrath of the angry sea; if conquer- ing, to ride triumphantly home; if conquered, to rest in quiet content in Davey Jones ' s locker. No matter when I lived, no matter from what clime I came, still I must have been near the sea. And some day, perhaps some very far day, I shall return to my sea again, where the wind blows salt, and the stars shine clear, and I shall find happiness once more. Madeline Greer, ' 31. A POSTER Before him stretched a broad empty sheet of white. Quickly he bounds this limitless expanse with shaky lines along the sides. He scratches his head contemplatively, and then pulls a disfigured sheet of paper — through the thumb prints and smooches it seems to be a poster cartoon — from a folio beside him. Hesitatingly he makes some faint lines, erases them, almost repeats them, but thinks better of it, and finally, after some pencil chewing, arrays a queer misshapen figure before him. Its eyes have an unnatural stare which no amount of revision seems to remedy, and the rest of the body is in harmony. By dint of much head tilting, neck craning, and eye squinting, his figure assumes a more rational appearance. Some last erasures and the figure seems complete, so the artist turns reluctantly to the crude lettering beneath. For ten minutes he bends to his task, rubbing, scrubbing, replacing, and erasing, his mouth working curiously, and his brow wrinkled with exasperation. With a satisfied grimt he finally relaxes and tilts back his chair. Yes, fairly good if — oh, for heaven ' s sake — spelled wrong! He grasps the board, and for a moment he seems about to break it over his knees; but he relents, replaces the board, and with a resigned air obliterates the offending line and replaces it corrected. At last, with a swirl of triumph — or disgust — he leaves his board and gathers together an alarming array of weird- ly daubed, but brilliantly colored, paint jars. One arm embracing these latter, his mouth clamped shut on some brushes, and the other hand balancing an overfull water dish, he makes his way back to his desk. Arranging the prints before him, paper towels to one side, and water dish at his elbow — placed conveniently, alas, for shoving onto the fioor — he commences painting. Considering his frame of mind and his experience in the particular medium, he attains creditable results. The lettering turns out to be weak-kneed and these graceful flourishes seem oddly still and awkward. Undaunted he attacks the figure, we can pass over the club foot and the variance in leg size, but oh, how ruddy the face is compared to the deathly pallor of the hands! The artist, however, in spite of his air of profes- sional dissatisfaction, receives some inward satisfaction. The final touch is a border to pull it together — unfor- tunately the border serves its purpose as a millstone for dr owning kittens — to excess, but the artist is above such minor defects. Stepping back with a wonderful flourish, he strikes an attitude — his masterpiece. Clarence Doore, ' 31. MOBY DICK By Herman Melville Here is a story for excitement-seekers! Moby Dick is a tale of the high seas and of the stirring adventures and hardships of the whales. In a manner that bespeaks of intimacy with that industry, Herman Melville sets forth the story of those courageous men who wrenched their living from death ' s hands. We read amazing descriptions of the methods employed in catching the whales; and the many hazards which accompany such work are sometimes preposterous in their fearfulness. Melville draws splendid pictures of the typical whaleman, lean, leathery skinned from being continually buffeted by wind and salt-spray, and with a keen eye and a mind ever on the alert. The small formalities on board ship, and the often childlike supersti- tions of the sailors give an intimate touch to the tale, and, as in every whaling story, the spii ' it whales, of whom amazing things are told, lend mystery to the narrative. Moby Dick, one of those half-mythical whales, was a giant, white, malformed animal, the dread of every honest whaleman. This colossal whale had been many times sought for, and terrible was the havoc he wrought among those who dared to combat him. In a sea battle he tore off the leg of the dauntless Captain Ahab, whose mind from that moment on, was obsessed with the desire of revenge. The story of how, over half the Pacific, he pursued Moby Dick and of how at last he met his just fate at the hand of the whale, as punishment for the soul-consuming desire for revenge that swallowed all the good in the terrible old man, is a story that will thrill you to the last page. Elizabeth Humphrey, ' 33.

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in him and obeyed him as little children might have. One of the first to greet him was his younger brother, Leo, who was eighteen. Leo was wharf manager and took charge of drying the flsh, while his giant of a brother sailed forth with his hardy crew to catch the fish. Eric boarded the ship amid the acclaim and greeting of his shipmates and made ready to cast off. A goodly group of villagers had gathered on the shore, for the parting of a ship was always an event in their monotonous and stagnant life. When all was ready, Eric sent Leo scurrying down the plank with a hearty brotherly slap saying, Dry those fish till the bones crack, ' and be good to Mother. And then, with the cheers and farewells of the towns- people shattering the quiet stillness of the day, the anchor was hoisted and the sails set; and the Stromo pointed her nose to meet the advance of that wild expanse of heaving, restless ocean. II Two days later the Stromo turned her bow homeward with a large catch in her hold. The sun was slowly de- scending in the west when suddenly a peculiar cloud forma- tion manifested itself and approached rapidly. Then, with a low ever increasing grumble, it came! Rain and wind. Driving sheets of water slashed and tore about the staunch boat. The rollers increased to seemingly mountainous proportions, with wickedly frothing crests that came crashing down upon Eric and his crew, fighting to keep the Stromo afloat. The wind increased and drove the salt spray and rain, almost hail, in blinding, suffocating blast so merciless and cruel that no living creature could withstand it. Above the roar of the storm came a more sinister grumble. Eric was at a loss to account for this new note until a deep-seated fear struck him, and he forced his head above the deck to look. Directly ahead, not more than three hundred yards away, towered a blacker shape against the blackness of the night. Atop this precipitous cliff twinkled a faint light. Even as he looked, a towering column of phosphorescent brine crashed violently against the precipice, and its luminous foam was seen to mount for over one him- dred and fifty feet up the sheer front. Eric ' s fear was confirmed. This was Myggenaes Head, the westmost point of the Islands. Well Eric knew that nothing could with- stand the irresistible force of these jaws of death. And it seemed inevitable that Stromo — the storm defier — was to go down in defeat in the hands of this challenger, nature ' s master destroyer. Reduced to a leaking hull, the Stromo plunged and wallowed straight towards Myggenae, propelled by a scream- ing wind that drove blinding clouds of sleet across the rolling deck and whipped and lashed at the waves until it transformed them into frothing monsters, heartless and cruel. Helpless and fascinated, Eric stood and watched. Nothing he could do now would save them. Certain destruction was theirs. He thought of his mother, of their last talk, of her hopes for him only to have it end this way. As he stood there, bare-headed, his lips moved in a short and silent prayer: God, I know Thy way is best . . . O God, strengthen my dear mother to bear this added sorrow . . . give her courage ... I am safe; it is she that must suffer ... Then came that last mountainous crest. Far below he saw the waters sucking away from the base of the cliff. Two hundred feet above blinked the Myggenae ' s light, its keeper peacefully unaware of the awful pending tragedy. Down, down, they raced straight for that rocky bottom with tons of water above. Involuntarily Eric leaped into the descending waters. The moment after, the Stromo struck. A momentary glimpse showed Eric the splintering disinte- gration and the bodies of his fellow seamen crushed to death under that mighty avalanche of water. Then he himself was engulfed in the smothering maelstrom. He felt himself being carried up and up and up on its crest. It finally dropped him viciously on the steep and ragged slope that led to the light house. Ill As quickly as the storm had started it ceased, and the clouds parted and cleared. It was early morning, and a late moon shone hazily through the rifted scuds. The lighthouse keeper peered out upon the subsiding waters of the fickle Atlantic, now glittering in the clear, pure light of the moon. With a start he noticed Eric ' s body wedged In the rocks not more than thirty feet down the cliff. Hastily he went to investigate. He let himself slowly and care- fully down the cliff by means of a long rope securely fastened at the lighthouse end. Despite the disfiguration of the features, the keeper recognized Eric ' s apparently life- less body — and knew immediately what had happened. God, how can it be? he murmured in an agonized voice. Eric was not dead, however; he still breathed spasmod- ically. The keeper, Carl by name, fastened the rope around Eric ' s body; then retraced his steps to the lighthouse, assisted by the rope. When secure footing was reached, he slowly and carefully drew Eric to the lighthouse, into which he carried him and administered first aid as best he could. Then, leaving Eric in his vnfe ' s care, he set out for Thorshaon. IV When the day was well advanced, Carl returned, accom- panied by Eric ' s mother and brother and seemingly half of the townspeople, including the doctor. Leo, his mother, and the doctor were admitted to the room where lay Eric, tossing and muttering. Oh, Eric, ' cried his mother, chokingly, My boy, my boy. At the sound of her voice Eric stopped muttering and opened his eyes. For a moment he seemed possessed of all consciousness. Mother . . . he whispered, and again, Mother ... Yes, Eric, it ' s Mother, she sobbed. The storm was bad. Mother, it got us — it got me too. Mother. I won ' t need an education now; Leo can go, though. He must go ... as a dying wish I ask him to go. But Leo, he said, turning to his pale-faced brother, trying hard to conceal his emotions, Never try to defy Natm e. You can ' t do it. Then turning back to his mother, Good- by. Mother ... With an anguished cry his mother threw herself on her knees by his bed and poured out her soul in tears of heart- bioken grief. Eric Jensen now stands as a statue, a monument of courage and strength, to all his ardent admirers. He was indeed a martyr, passing in his youth and vigor for the sake of the lonely, treacherous Islands where he was born, and where his heart ever dwelt. Lloyd N. Owen, ' 30.