I know what you’re thinking: “Did you guys fall off the face of the Earth?”
So here’s the thing. I decided one day to try out my newfound fly fishing skills on the open ocean — drove out to Oxnard and boarded one of those deep sea fishing charter boats, skeptical of the potential efficacy of the contents of my fly box. I’d been standing out on deck casting for quite a while, the heaviness in my right arm pacified only by the immense serenity of the Pacific off the Channel Islands coast, when, suddenly, something bit. I hurried to pull the slack from the line and arrange my rod at the angle once demonstrated by my instructor, but my lack of upper-body strength proved a severe disadvantage in my battle with the marine creature below. Next thing I knew, I’d been pulled into the water’s salty embrace. I flailed and attempted to call for help, but struggled to stay afloat, engulfed by my fear of such situations. Just as I had resigned myself to an unexpected ocean burial, I saw an enormous dark shadow looming in the water below me. Then, the improbable happened. I was swallowed by a sperm whale.
After managing to avoid the monster’s prehistoric jaws, by some anatomical miracle, I stumbled upon a cavern within the whale’s body functioning as an air pocket. I pulled the smartphone from my soaked jeans only to find it rendered useless, surprising given the droid’s impressive track record with submersion. So I sat in my dark, unpleasant grotto, listening helplessly to the sounds of the underwater life beyond my flesh container.
Well, after what felt like years, I perceived a change in pressure, followed shortly by a bumpy ride to a standstill. Turns out my giant odontocete friend had had a run-in with a ship just prior to having me for lunch and was well on his way to becoming a giant odontocete corpse. (Collisions with ships are among the greatest threats to this threatened species’ population.) Once it occurred to me that the vital organ network with which I was surrounded had failed and that we’d been washed ashore, I began the slimy expedition back to terrestrial life. Needless to say, onlookers were overtaken with surprise and horror as I crawled out of the dead whale’s mouth, and more than one offered to return me to the warm clasp of the San Fernando Valley.
And, you see, the trauma of this experience underlies the delay in Issue 42’s release.*
PDFs are available for download from the website. Print copies will be available throughout the Dartmouth campus beginning around Jan. 10; they can also be requested for delivery via mail, free of charge. As the academic term begins, keep an eye out for new blog posts (or subscribe in the sidebar and we’ll do it for you). Happy new year, and safe travels for those of you heading back to campus.
— Grace
*not a true story