Submarine Love Quotes

I love you more than words. And I am a big fan of words.

That's a big love letter," she says, squinting. I know what I'm going to say and for a moment I wish there was a film crew documenting my day-to-day life: "I've got a big heart," I say.

Oh diary, I love her, I love her, I love her so much. Jordana is the most amazing person I have ever met. I could eat her. I could drink her blood. She's the only person I would allow to be shrunk to microscopic size and explore me in a tiny submersible machine. She is wonderful and beautiful and sensitive and funny and sexy. She's too good for me, she's too good for anyone! All I could do was let her know. I said: "I love you more than words. And I am a big fan of words.

To us and a wonderful evening of love making.

Falling in love is like submerging beneath the ocean with a submarine; you leave the outside world and wander in the silence of dimness.

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être, which is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, which is in France, obviously, my anus would say, “Ce n’étais pas moi!” What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboard down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

And for the first time in their existence, their mean, unhappy lives became happy and meaningful because of one simple phrase... LOVE.

H for Hurry, E for Er-gent, L for Love Me Do and P for Please, pl-ea-se help me!' pleaded Fred. Ringo creaked open the door. 'Your story has touched my heart... Come in.' 'Bless you!' 'Did I sneeze?' Ringo smiled.

At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death; the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens; the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments; the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page; the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses, for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert; the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self; the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors; the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl; the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought; the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands; the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language; the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love.

Îmi amintesc de mama în fiecare zi, așa cum i-am promis pe malul Oceanului. Încerc sa nu mint. Ochii mamei erau o greșeală Ochii mamei erau resturile unei mame frumoase Ochii mamei plângeau înauntru Ochii mamei erau dorința unei oarbe împlinită de soare Ochii mamei erau lanuri de tulpini frânte Ochii mamei erau poveștile mele nespuse Ochii mamei erau geamurile unui submarin de smarald Ochii mamei erau scoici crescute pe copaci Ochii mamei erau cicatrice pe fața verii Ochii mamei erau muguri în așteptare

female i hope the future really is you not soft, but softer, alternative mainstreamed left sided divinely feminine. a woman is a man with a whoa. exponentially deeper internal seas, wish i had a submarine to explore your ocean floors. smarter because she has to be vulnerable empathy with force, taught remorseful but she has nothing to apologize for, she deserves the sorriest. everything comes first from you every single one born from them by me she is love, loved, loving in the origin of power, you are who i try to be, feminist. you wondered woman, wonderful you.

The Beatles were bubblegum cards and Help at the Saturday morning cinema and toy plastic guitars and singing 'Yellow Submarine' at the top of my voice in the back row of the coach on school trips. They belong to me, not to me and Laura, or me and Charlie, or me and Alison Ashworth, and though they'll make me feel something, they won't make me feel anything bad.

The next thing Jordana says makes me realize that it's too late to save her. "I've noticed that when you light a match, the flame is the same shape as a falling tear." She's been sensitized, turned gooey in the middle. I saw it happening and I didn't do anything to stop it. From now on, she'll be writing diaries and sometimes including little poems and she'll buy gifts for her favourite teachers and she'll admire the scenery and she'll watch the news and she'll buy soup for homeless people and she'll never burn my leg hair again.

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad's voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of "Yellow Submarine," which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d'etre, which is a French expression that I know.

Yours till submarines have screen doors.

SEALs are warriors in every sense of the word: men who actually go into combat on missions that bring them eye to eye with their enemy, up close and personal. Even their methods of insertion are extremely dangerous; parachute jumps, submarine launches, and ocean swims in treacherous seas are very serious business. I guess that's why I find it hard to accept how our society tosses around the word "warrior" when describing an athlete, businessman, or even a politician. To me the term "warrior" is a sacred one characterizing a lifestyle of personal sacrifice. A warrior's training is continuous in order to maintain a constant state of readiness, often taking him away from the ones he loves and those he's sworn to protect. A warrior does this not for reward but for a chance to join his brothers on a high-risk mission. It doesn't sound like any civilian occupation I know of.

When my father was 17, he went to Montreal and found these submarine sandwich shops that were really successful, and weren't in Toronto [his home town]. So he went to my grandparents and said: "Look, you have to give me the seed money to open up one of these places. We'll make a fortune. They've got lines going round the block. There's nothing like that here." And my grandfather's response was: "Look, I'm sure these sandwiches are really good, and if we scraped the money together we could make a lot of money and your mother and I would be really proud of you, but you need to find something that has *magic* in it for you." It was off of that conversation that my father went to college on a music scholarship, started a film club and became one of the most successful directors of all time.

Those of us who would follow Jesus are precluded from drawing the sword. We are people who love our enemies; who prefer to undergo violence rather than inflict it upon others; who reject every form of violence, from nuclear weapons to chemical weapons to Trident submarines to handguns. (...) We renounce war and violent self-defense, tear up the just-war theory, and embrace gospel nonviolence. We not only put back any swords we have, but we beat them into plowshares. The unarmed Christ disarms us. Christ's community, the Church, is a community of nonviolence.

Lollipops and raindrops Sunflowers and sun-kissed daisies Rolling surf and raging sea Sailing ships and submarines Old Glory and “purple mountain’s majesty” Screaming guitar and lilting rhyme Flight of fancy and high-steppin’ dances Set free my mind to wander… Imagine the ant’s marching journeys. Fly, in my mind’s eye, on butterfly wings. Roam the distant depths of space. Unfurl tall sails and cross the ocean. Pictures made just to enthrall Creating images from my truth Painting hopes and dreams on my canvas Capturing, through my lens, the ephemeral Let me ruminate ‘pon sensual darkness… Tremble o’er Hollywood’s fluttering Gothics… Ride the edge of my seat with the hero… Weep with the heroine’s desperation. Yet… more than all these things… Give me words spun out masterfully… Terms set out in meter and rhyme… Phrases bent to rattle the soul… Prose that always miraculously inspires me! The trill runs up my spine, as I recall… A touch… a caress…a whispered kiss… Ebony eyes embracing my soul… Two souls united in beat of hearts. A butterfly flutter in my womb My lover’s wonder o’er my swelling The testament of our love given life Newly laid in my lover’s arms Luminous, sweet ebony eyes Just so much like his father’s A gaze of wonder and contentment From my babe at mother’s breast Words of the Divine set down for me Faith, Hope, Love, and Charity Grace, Mercy, and undeserved Salvation “My Shepherd will supply my need” These are the things that inspire me.

The Chinese nation is the most patient in the world; it thinks of centuries as other nations think of decades. It is essentially indestructible, and can afford to wait. The "civilized" nations of the world, with their blockades their poison gases, their bombs submarines and negro armies, will probably destroy each other within the next three hundred years, leaving the stage to those whose pacifism has kept them alive, though poor and powerless. If China can avoid being goaded into war, her oppressors may wear themselves out in the end, and leave the Chinese free to pursue humane ends, instead of war and rapine and destruction which all white nations love.

How much do I love our family? This much. When any kind of emergency strikes, good or bad, we snap together like parts in a machine, like a submarine crew at war in the tin-can clutter of our home, none of the usual debate, character assassination, woeful monologues, and turgid hand-wringing. I've learned to love crises for this reason, how they make us pull together and forget our separateness and sadness; this was the second great gift of the moonfish.

In England, I built ships, looked at ruined castles, listened to the thud of bombs dropped by German zeppelins, and wrote The Islanders. I regret that I did not see the February Revolution, and know only the October Revolution (I returned to Petersburg, past German submarines, in a ship with lights out, wearing a life belt the whole time, just in time for October). This is the same as never having been in love and waking up one morning already married for ten years or so.

She was so small that, forward of the mast, there was hardly any deck room between the central hatch and the ship’s boat on one side and the hen-coop (Lucy fed the hens) on the other. But she was a beauty of her kind, a “lady” as sailors say, her lines perfect, her colors pure, and every spar and rope and pin lovingly made. Eustace of course would be pleased with nothing, and kept on boasting about liners and motorboats and aeroplanes and submarines (“As if he knew anything about them,” muttered Edmund).

I’ll start in the air,” I said, far more steadily than I thought I could, considering. I knelt to tie the shirt around his thigh, cinching it tight above the wound; he stiffened but let me finish the knot. “The air first, the airship, and then-then I’ll dive.” “You can’t swim,” broke in Armand. “You told me that you can’t.” “Maybe I can now. If I’m a dragon.” “Don’t be an idiot! If you can’t swim, you can’t swim, Eleanore! You’ll drown out there, and what the bloody hell do you think you’re going to do anyway to a U-boat? Bite it open?” I stood again. “Yes! If I must! I don’t hear you coming up with a better-“ “You’ll die out there!” “Or we’ll all die here!” “We’re going to find another way!” “You two work on that. I’m off.” I fixed them both with one last, vehement look, the Turn rising inside me. Remember this. Remember them, this moment, this heartbreak, these two boys. Remember that they loved you. Armand had reached for my shoulders. “I forbid-Eleanore, please, no-“ “No,” echoed Jesse, speaking at last. “You’re not going after the submarine, Lora. You won’t need to.” Armand and I paused together, glancing down at him. I stood practically on tiptoe, so ready to become my other self. Jesse climbed clumsily to his feet. When he swayed, we both lunged to catch him. “Armand will take me to the shore. I’ll handle the U-boat.” “How?” demanded Armand at once. But I understood. I could read him so well now, Jesse-of-the-stars. I understood what he meant to do, and what it would cost him. I felt myself shaking my head. Above us, the airship propellers thumped louder and louder. “Yes,” said Jesse, smiling his lovely smile at me. “I already sense your agreement. Death and the Elemental were stronger joined than apart, remember? This is our joining. Don’t waste any more time quarreling with me about it. That’s not your way.” He leaned down to me, a hand tangled in my hair. His mouth pressed to mine, and for the first time ever I didn’t feel bliss at his touch. I felt misery. “Go on, Lora-of-the-moon,” he murmured against my lips. “You’re going to save us. I know you will.” I glared past him to the harsh, baffled face of Armand. “Will you help him? Do you swear it?” “I-yes, I will. I do.” I disentangled Jesse’s hand, kissed it, stepped back, and let the Turn consume me, smoke rising and rising, leaving the castle and all I loved behind me for the wild open sky.

The sun was just dipping below the western horizon when we pulled up to our little house on the prairie. Despite the obvious turmoil I knew was swarming in the periphery, I couldn’t help but instantly smile when I saw our little home. Home, I thought to myself--a strange response, considering I’d never spent a night there. But, being back there, I felt the heartbeat of our love affair that had started on that very ranch, the drives we’d taken, the dinners we’d cooked, the nights we’d spent watching submarine movies on his old leather couch, which Marlboro Man had already moved to our new little house so we’d be able to enjoy it immediately. Poor couch. It must have been awfully lonely without us.

Hall loved the surprise of intelligence work and loved knowing the real stories behind events reported in the news, which often were censored. For example, Room 40 learned the real fate of a German submarine, U-28, that attacked a ship carrying trucks on its main deck. One shell fired by the U-boat's gun crew blew up a load of high explosives stored in the ship, and suddenly "the air was full of motor-lorries describing unusual parabolas," Hall wrote. Officially, the U-boat was lost because of explosion. But Hall and Room 40 knew the truth: one of the flying trucks had landed on the submarine's foredeck, penetrating its hull and sinking it instantly. "In point of actual fact," wrote Hall, "U-28 was sunk by a motor-lorry!

Driving home that night, I felt so much better. I was no longer a freak of nature--the kind of freak that spends every waking hour with a man for months on end but has some sort of bizarre mental defect that prevents her from articulating her feelings for him--the kind of freak that allows the man to express his love time after time but gives nothing in return. I felt good about it, too, that I’d had the uncharacteristic boldness to tell him I loved him before he’d had a chance to say it to me first that night. I wanted to say I love you, not I love you, too. I knew there was a reason I liked submarine movies. I had no idea where our relationship was headed. But I did know that I meant what I’d said. I slept like a baby that night.

We ate dinner and talked, and I sipped chilled wine slowly, savoring every single swallow, even as I savored every single moment with the man sitting next to me. I loved looking at him when he talked, loved the movement of his mouth. He has the best mouth, I’d think to myself. His mouth drove me absolutely wild. We wound up on his couch, watching a submarine movie and making out, with the chorus of “The Navy Hymn” in the background. And just like that, it happened: the executive officer had just relieved the captain of command of the ship. It was a tense, exciting moment in the movie, and I was suddenly so overcome with emotion, I couldn’t control myself. My head rested on his shoulder, my heart rested entirely in his hands. And in a whisper, my words escaped: “I love you.” He probably hadn’t heard them. He was too focused on the movie. But he had heard me; I could tell. His arms enveloped me even further; his embrace tightened. He breathed in and sighed, and his hand played with my hair. “Good,” he said softly, and his gentle lips found mine.

Chiar și când nu era vreo cădere de tensiune trăiam într-o lumină slabă, pentru că era important să faci economie: părinții mei înlocuiau becurile de 40 de wați cu unele de 25, nu doar pentru a face economie, ci din principiu, pentru că lumina puternică e risipă, iar risipa e imorală. Apartamentul nostru micuț era întotdeauna ticsit cu suferințele întregii omeniri. Copiii care mureau de foame în India, de dragul cărora eram eu silit să mănânc tot ce mi se punea în farfurie. Supraviețuitorii infernului lui Hitler, pe care englezii ii deportaseră în lagăre din Cipru. Orfanii zdrențăroși care încă mai bântuiau prin pădurile copleșite de zăpadă din Europa în ruine. Tata lucra la biroul lui până la două dimineața, la lumina unui bec anemic de 25 de wați, chinuindu-și ochii, pentru că nu i se părea corect sa folosească o lumină mai puternică: pionierii din kibbutzurile Galileii ședeau în corturile lor noapte de noapte scriind cărți de poezii sau tratate filozofice la lumina unor lumânări ce picurau, și cum ai putea să uiți de ei și să șezi aici ca Rothschild, la un bec orbitor de 40 de wați? Şi ce-ar zice vecinii dacă ar vedea dintr-odată la noi lumină ca într-o sală de bal? Mai bine să-și distrugă vederea decât să atragă privirile furișe ale celorlalți. Nu ne număram printre cei mai nevoiași. Slujba pe care o avea tata la Biblioteca Națională îi aducea un salariu modest, dar regulat. Mama dădea meditații. Eu udam în fiecare vineri grădina domnului Cohen din Tel Arza, pentru un șiling, iar miercurea mai câștigam patru piaștri pentru că așezam sticlele goale în lăzi, în dosul băcăniei domnului Auster, și pe lângă astea îl învățam pe fiul doamnei Finster să citească o hartă, cu doi piaștri pe lecție (dar asta era pe credit, și nici până în ziua de azi nu m-au plătit Finsterii). În ciuda tuturor acestor surse de venit, făceam tot timpul economii. Viața din apartamentul nostru micuț semăna cu viața dintr-un submarin, așa cum se arăta într-un film pe care l-am văzut cândva la cinematograful Edison, unde marinarii închideau după ei o trapă ori de câte ori treceau dintr-un compartiment în altul. În clipa în care aprindeam cu o mână lumina la baie, stingeam cu cealaltă lumina de pe coridor, ca să nu irosesc curentul. Trăgeam lanțul ușurel, pentru că nu se cuvenea să golești toată Niagara din rezervor pentru un pipi. Erau alte funcții (pe care nu le numeam niciodată) care puteau justifica, uneori, golirea completă a rezervorului. Dar pentru un pipi? Toată Niagara? În vreme ce pionierii din Negev păstrau apa cu care se spălaseră pe dinți pentru udatul plantelor? În vreme în lagărele din Cipru o întreagă familie trebuia să se descurce cu o găleată de apă timp de trei zile? Când plecam de la toaletă stingeam lumina cu mâna stângă și în aceeași clipă aprindeam lumina de pe coridor cu dreapta, pentru că Shoah a fost doar ieri, pentru că erau încă evrei fără adăpost care bântuiau prin Carpați și Dolomiți, lâncezeau prin lagărele de deportare și pe corăbii greoaie, gata-gata să se scufunde, scheletici, acoperiți de zdrențe, și pentru că și prin alte părți ale lumii erau greutăți și sărăcie: culii din China, culegătorii de bumbac din Mississippi, copiii din Africa, pescarii din Sicilia. Era de datoria noastră să nu fim risipitori.

She looked like she was being towed through the store by two submarines,” said Simon. “Major hooters,” said Troy Lee. “Major-league hooters.” Tommy said, “Can’t you guys see more in a woman than T and A?” “Nope,” said Troy. “No way,” said Simon.

We couldn’t stop following the news. Every ten seconds we refreshed our browsers and gawked at the headlines. Dully we read blogs of friends of friends of friends who had started an organic farm out on the Wichita River. They were out there pickling and canning and brewing things in the goodness of nature. And soon we’d worry it was time for us to leave the city and go. Go! To Uruguay or Morocco or Connecticut? To the Plains or the Mountains or the Bay? But we’d bide our time and after some months or years, our farmer friends would give up the farm and begin studying for the LSATs. We felt lousy about this, and wonderful. We missed getting mail. We wondered why we even kept those tiny keys on our crowded rings. Sometimes we would send ourselves things from the office. Sometimes we would handwrite long letters to old loved ones and not send them. We never knew their new address. We never knew anyone’s address, just their cross streets and what their doors looked like. Which button to buzz, and if the buzzers even worked. How many flights to climb, and which way to turn off the stairs. Sometimes we missed those who hadn’t come to the city with us— or those who had gone to other, different cities. Sometimes we journeyed to see them, and sometimes they ventured to see us. Those were the best of times, for we were all at home and not at once. Those were the worst of times, for we inevitably longed to all move here or there, yet no one ever came— somehow everyone only left. Soon we were practically all alone. Soon we began to hate the forever cramping of our lives. Sleeping on top of strangers and sipping coffee with people we knew we knew but couldn’t remember where from. Living out of boxes we had no space to unpack. Soon we named the pigeons roosting in our windowsills; we worried they looked mangier than the week before. We heard bellowing in the apartments below us and bedsprings creaking in the ones above. Everywhere we saw people with dogs and wodnered how they managed it. Did they work form home?Did they not work? Had they gone to the right schools? Did they have connections? We had no connections. Our parents were our guarantors in name only; they called us from their jobs in distant, colorless, suburban office parks and told us we could come home anytime, and this terrified us always. But then came those nights, creeping up on us while we worked busily in dark offices, like submariners lost at sea, sailing through the dark stratosphere in our cement towers. We’d call each other to report: a good thing happened, a compliment had been paid, a favor had been appreciated, an inch of ground had been gained. We wouldn’t trade those nights for anything or anywhere. Those nights, we remembered why we came to the city. Because if we were really living, then we wanted to hear the cracking in our throats and feel the trembling in our extremities. And if our apartments were coffins and our desks headstones and our dreams infections— if we were all slowly dying — then at least we were going about that great and terrible business together.

I loved Annora. Deeply. Madly. I doubt I would have put up with her all those years if I hadn’t. When I saw her again on the submarine, as a human… and she kissed me the way I’d wished she would for the longest time, I was afraid. Afraid that all those feelings would return.” He slid his hand beneath my chin, tilting my head up to look directly into his eyes. “But they didn’t, Rose. I wondered at first whether it was just the shock of seeing her and the rush of feelings would come later. But they still haven’t and now I doubt if they will ever return. She’s…

The plan was born in the mind of a novelist and took shape through a most unlikely cast of characters: a brilliant barrister, a family of undertakers, a forensic pathologist, a gold prospector, an inventor, a submarine captain, a transvestite English spymaster, a rally driver, a pretty secretary, a credulous Nazi, and a grumpy admiral who loved fly-fishing.

I open Dusty's pages and picture myself in a submarine, sinking into them, urging the world around me to dull. It's never taken effort - that's what made me fall in love with reading: the instant floating sensation, the dissolution of real-world problems, every worry suddenly safely on the other side of some metaphysical surface.

Most of us, most of the time, live in blissful ignorance of what a small elite, heroic group of Americans are doing for us night and day. As we speak, all over the globe, American Sailors and Submariners and Aviators are doing something very dangerous. People say, ‘Well, it can’t be too dangerous because there are no wrecks.’ But the reason we don’t have more accidents is that these are superb professionals; the fact that they master the dangers does not mean the dangers aren’t real. Right now, somewhere around the world, young men are landing aircraft on the pitching decks of aircraft carriers – at night! You can’t pay people to do that; they do it out of love of country, of adventure, of the challenge. We all benefit from it, and the very fact that we don’t have to think about it tells you how superbly they’re doing their job — living on the edge of danger so the rest of us need not think about, let alone experience, danger.” George Will commenting after the loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger, January, 1986

As a therapist, I deliberately allow myself to be swept up in whatever feelings I have toward my clients, which I believe is often useful information. It’s like I have an antechamber in my mind, like an airlock in a submarine. I allow part of me to bathe in whatever the emotion is—annoyance, helplessness, repulsion—but the emotion stays contained in the antechamber while the rest of me, the observing me, decides how best to use that emotion.

I was doubled over weeping, clutching the book, as the submarine slid through the alien waters toward a safety I didn’t want, away from a death I would’ve welcomed, abandoning everyone I loved.

Dear friends and enemies, Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You are special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows! Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it! Number one: I ended a war. You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the real war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone … Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times! Soul Train! Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love! There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire. Next: Decline of Florida Roundup. —They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one? —Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something. —They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks. —Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results. —In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me. Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition…In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008—ouch!)

When he returned to Florida in the early part of 1939, Hemingway took his boat the Pilar across the Straits of Florida to Havana, where he checked into the Hotel Ambos Mundos. Shortly thereafter, Martha joined him in Cuba and they first rented, and later in 1940, purchased their home for $12,500. Located 10 miles to the east of Havana, in the small town of San Francisco de Paula, they settled into what they called Finca Vigía, the Lookout Farm. On November 20, 1940, after a difficult divorce from Pauline, Ernest and Martha got married. Even though Cuba had become their home, they still took editorial assignments overseas, including one in China that Martha had for Collier’s magazine. Returning to Cuba just prior to the outbreak of World War II, he convinced the Cuban government to outfit his boat with armaments, with which he intended to ambush German submarines. As the war progressed, Hemingway went to London as a war correspondent, where he met Mary Welsh. His infatuation prompted him to propose to her, which of course did not sit well with Martha. Hemingway was present at the liberation of Paris and attended a party hosted by Sylvia Beach. He, incidentally, also renewed a friendship with Gertrude Stein. Becoming a famous war correspondence he covered the Battle of the Bulge, however he then spent the rest of the war on the sidelines hospitalized with pneumonia. Even so, Ernest was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery. Once again, Hemingway fell in lust, this time with a 19-year-old girl, Adriana Ivancich. This so-called platonic, wink, wink, love affair was the essence of his novel Across the River and Into the Trees, which he wrote in Cuba.

You would think that after fifteen years of war on terror, waged by a country with nuclear submarines, all terror on earth would be destroyed. I’m shocked that nary a nightmare has made it out alive. Yet somehow, killing the shit out of people – thousands and thousands of people – doesn’t make the living not scared. What you do wind up with are millions of refugees and armies of genocidal fanatics.

Amaris keeps texting me pictures of him. She took him to the record shop. She says he’s really into Pink Floyd.” He laughs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I mean, who doesn’t love The Wall?” “I always thought he was a Yellow Submarine kind of frog.

Stalling the submarine in the same spot where she had been leaving it for days on end, she waited while holding her breath. Her eyes locked on the kelp in front of her, every muscle in her body seized as she waited. “This is getting ridiculous,” her droid muttered inside the wall. “Eventually you’re going to have to do something other than stare at him.” “I’m not staring at him,” she replied. “I’m waiting for him.” “Sure looks like staring to me.” They couldn’t even speak with each other, but that didn’t matter to Alys. They talked in other ways. Hand gestures, heart felt looks. She knew without a doubt that he found her as interesting as she found him. And together, they were discovering so much about each other’s species.

It was, to those on the inside, a period of “mutual falling in love,” a bonding that went well beyond the usual backstage infatuation. It also spilled over, even those on the inside knew, into arrogance. Tom Schiller saw it as “the bringing together of Lorne Michaels’ chosen people…a traveling family circus, like an amoeba, a cell that started to grow.… We lived the show; we breathed the show; we slept with each other about the show. There was no private life. I would compare it exactly to living on a submarine.

From Russia with Love

Because the truth is that being in love looks the same no matter who’s doing it. Watching someone fall in love is like watching someone eat a really big, sloppy submarine sandwich. The more they’re enjoying their sandwich, the less enjoyable it is to watch them eat it. Savor your true love as much as you can, just have the good grace to do so in private.

He was awake; it seemed like a long time, all dressed, sitting deep in the armchair, small with a grey face. I stopped ast the room entrance in silence, swallowed my words, and thought that maybe he didn’t even go to sleep that night. His facial colour reminded me of a teacher, dying from cancer. ‘Grandpa, what’s wrong? What’s wrong with you? Mother is coming home, did you hear?’ I came closer and touched his hand. It was colder than usual, and the frost went down my back. ‘Do you hear me? What’s wrong with you?’ I asked, and he was silent. Suddenly, I understood everything.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 5: University of Life) “‘Let me tell you this way. In the academy, we were told to marry early, before we go on the first shift. My first shift starts in a few months in July. I shall be half a year under the water in the submarine, carrying nuclear weapons. They advise us to marry and to make children as soon as possible because who knows what will be on that shift. Also, I told you about the radiation. I know submariners’ who cannot make children because of the radiation on the ship,’ said Prohor. ‘How to explain to you, my girl? To make children, a man needs an erection but the radiation kills it. I am afraid until I reach the rank of admiral, I shall be impotent … unable to make children …,’ Prohor told sadly from his bed.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 6: Fiance from Submarine) “So, it happened there; between the two biggest islands of two big enemies, Japan and the USSR. ‘Now I recall that Prohor praised that they can attack unexpectedly from a submarine, from under the water, with nuclear rockets.’ I was astonished that I knew all these things, which earlier had never interested me.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 7: Between Two Men) “‘Do you remember what I told you before I died? You promised me to think big! My little star, if you think big, you will become big! Use my diamonds and the wall clock to become big! Dream big, Anfisa—and you will be more than just a wife to a man. ‘But remember, you have to take diamonds and the clock outside the USSR, where they value these things.’ I heard my grandfather’s voice live, close, but I didn’t see him.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 8: Earner Marriage No. 1)

He was awake; it seemed like a long time, all dressed, sitting deep in the armchair, small with a grey face. I stopped at the room entrance in silence, swallowed my words, and thought that maybe he didn’t even go to sleep that night. His facial colour reminded me of a teacher, dying from cancer. ‘Grandpa, what’s wrong? What’s wrong with you? Mother is coming home, did you hear?’ I came closer and touched his hand. It was colder than usual, and the frost went down my back. ‘Do you hear me? What’s wrong with you?’ I asked, and he was silent. Suddenly, I understood everything.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 5: University of Life) “‘Let me tell you this way. In the academy, we were told to marry early, before we go on the first shift. My first shift starts in a few months in July. I shall be half a year under the water in the submarine, carrying nuclear weapons. They advise us to marry and to make children as soon as possible because who knows what will be on that shift. Also, I told you about the radiation. I know submariners’ who cannot make children because of the radiation on the ship,’ said Prohor. ‘How to explain to you, my girl? To make children, a man needs an erection but the radiation kills it. I am afraid until I reach the rank of admiral, I shall be impotent … unable to make children …,’ Prohor told sadly from his bed.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 6: Fiance from Submarine) “So, it happened there; between the two biggest islands of two big enemies, Japan and the USSR. ‘Now I recall that Prohor praised that they can attack unexpectedly from a submarine, from under the water, with nuclear rockets.’ I was astonished that I knew all these things, which earlier had never interested me.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 7: Between Two Men) “‘Do you remember what I told you before I died? You promised me to think big! My little star, if you think big, you will become big! Use my diamonds and the wall clock to become big! Dream big, Anfisa—and you will be more than just a wife to a man. ‘But remember, you have to take diamonds and the clock outside the USSR, where they value these things.’ I heard my grandfather’s voice live, close, but I didn’t see him.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 8: Earner Marriage No. 1)

When I was growing up in the late 1950s and early ’60s, there was very little in the way of literate adventure writing. Periodicals that catered to our adolescent dreams of travel and adventure clearly held us in contempt. Feature articles in magazines that might be called Man’s Testicle carried illustrations of tough, unshaven guys dragging terrified women in artfully torn blouses through jungles, caves, or submarine corridors; through hordes of menacing bikers, lions, and hippopotami. The stories bore the same relation to the truth that professional wrestling bears to sport, which is to say, they were larger-than-life contrivances of an artfully absurd nature aimed, it seemed, at lonely bachelor lip-readers, drinkers of cheap beer, violence-prone psychotics, and semiliterate Walter Mitty types whose vision of true love involved the rescue of some distressed damsel about to be ravaged by bikers, lions, or hippopotami.

An Ode to The Occupants of The Titan Sub In the depths where everything is dark, Nothing exists and one tends to lose every mark, Of the reality that lies above, And the memories of the ones you love, Appear to float by like voluptuous sirens, And you think of the benevolent Titans, Then as the pressure mounts you hear a creaking sound, Slowly building up inside the hollow chamber where now only fear does abound, Then as your heart races and it does frantically pound, You feel you are to an unknown and impending doom bound, And you summon all your Gods in the form of your fears, And you gauge the ferocity of all the snares, Building from above, bottom, left and right, It is then you hold your equally fearful companion’s hand tight, And you remember all that you loved and those you still love, But they are far up and above, and you are here in the abyss now, Where darkness spreads endlessly and the creaking sound becomes louder, And all of a sudden you feel you are hit by a titanic sized aqueous boulder, Everything implodes, but only your heart and your memories explode, As they surface on the horizon of perception and your loved ones rush to the abode, Of the Gods where castles of prayers are erected, Prayers rising from the heart that gods have not defected, There they rush, and implore, But the Titans become quieter and they think Gods too ignore, The cries of the lamenting and remorseful heart, But little do they know praying is not an art, It is a feeling sublime and serene that arises from within, And when expressed with sincerity in the universe its resonance does deepen, And then Gods respond with care, And they always say, “darling, there is nothing to fear.” This sounds assuaging for many reasons, known and unknown, And your kin and kith experience the familiarity in these consolations offered by the unknown, And to the five departed adventurers of the deep sea, I hope in their Heavenward journey, now they shall new wonders see, And be the part of a greater adventure, That I call the God’s enterprising venture, As for the wonder of the abyss, There shall always be someone who for its thrill would miss, Anything and everything else, Because if he/she doesn't, then he/she will be someone else, That is why they dare to take on the Gods of the dark and deep, Because human passion is something that into the soul does seep, And unless tasted and confronted, this adventurer residing within the soul does not let him/her to sleep, So let me wish the 5 adventurers all the best on their new journey, Where there is no need for submersibles for in that world one attains natural buoyancy, and this too is one hell of a journey! As for those woe struck loved ones still residing in the realm of gravity, I hope they find assuaging moments in their thoughtful proclivity, Where they notice the universe flowing through their departed and loved one, Because every adventure is an expression of belief in love for someone, That someone who does not fear the abyss, That someone who dares to be the one, and never miss, The adventures that await him/her in those unknown realms, Where even the Titans sometimes bear signs of qualms, There let us go and seek the knowledge that awaits to reveal itself, Only if the adventurer believes in himself/herself, And I think that is where all 5 adventurers can always be found, In the realm of the Titans where knowledge does abound, where knowledge does abound!

So you’re saying money can’t buy you love?” “Yep. I’m wise enough to take Beatles lyrics as gospel now. God help us if I ever find myself on a submarine.

I dragged my gear down to the shore and saw the submariners, the way they stood aloof and silent, watching their pigboat with loving eyes. They are alone in the Navy. I admired the PT boys. And I often wondered how the aviators had the courage to go out day after day and I forgave their boasting. But the submariners! In the entire fleet they stand apart.

Kobzar was loved by his crew and respected by his superiors, who noted how he personally helped train watch officers, oversaw survival training, and could capably handle any job on the sub. He had a question he liked to repeat to men under his command: “Who is the most dangerous man on a submarine? The one who doesn’t know what he’s doing!

The captain blew his whistle and poured the ashes down the tube into the water. He then threw a set of submariner’s “dolphins” into the ashes. The splash as they hit the water and then the silence as they sank into the sea took my breath away again.