The Atlantian Name and Memory

By James Greene

This book tackles the Atlantian myth from a very unique perspective. The author explores the deepest depths of ideas through introspection, textual, and social analysis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Greene
• Release date: Oct 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393280583

Book preview

1

We Never Made It Ashore

It gets complicated when we begin to hide things. Whether on purpose or not, what is hidden becomes unfound: secrets, secret locations, the hidden reaches of our mind. We try and navigate towards something. We try to locate these places and name them. We try to develop and remember them in rituals, ceremonies, and norms.

Despite knowing this, my intention was to unload my boat and chug some fresh water.

During college a friend and I decided to backpack around the world. To get to one particular country required an overnight ferry. That morning, the sun was glistening upon the water creating neon oranges and bronze glowing and shimmering among the emeralds and blues. We could see land on the horizon. We drew closer, close enough to make out cliffs that appeared to undulate. They stretched out and protruded from every direction, rolling and flowing with the water. Schools of dolphins swam alongside the boat, seemingly guiding us to shore.

Later, we would dispense with historic touristy stuff and go straight to a resort and relax.

Apparently, several tourists had the same idea. We all converged on a little island resort built into the side of a cliff overlooking a lagoon. It had the party atmosphere familiar to beach resorts, yet still isolated from civilization it maintained the relaxing and calming expectation of a foreign country. We decided to go kayaking.

My friend went first. And before I knew it, went paddling into the distance.  This was when I snapped a photo with my store-bought instant camera. There were no digital cameras back then, no smartphones, no selfies—no social media, for that matter. My genius idea was to put my camera inside a Ziplock bag to keep it dry.

We had a destination. Our plan was to make it past the waves and around to a cliff on the left. By the time I arrived to the cliff’s edge, I was utterly exhausted. I had to stop paddling and catch my breath. For a moment, I just hovered on top of the water.

And then I got the feeling.

The ancients are talking. There is no way to recall their names.

Looking down into the ocean’s depth, I was transported back in time. I did not know the history of the ancient world then, the language, the stories, the myths. I don’t need to; I felt it. It was true mysticism. It was magic. 

I see them in the water, in their boats. I see their world, one made mythic by gods and goddesses, but so indescribable that deification is not the correct term for it.

Finally making it around the cliff face, I see an opening and what appears to be a hollowed out cavern with seawater flowing inside. My friend bravely enters. I’m way too tired, exhausted, overwhelmed, and even worse, out of shape. My arms begin to burn from too much exercise. There is no hope of catching up. It’s time to turn and look back.

The shore is several miles away. Looking from the depths of distance, it appears vague and foggy. I didn’t exactly panic, although I knew I’d have to summon every bit of my being to get to shore safely. I wasn’t wearing a lifejacket.

Again, I stop paddling and rowing and turn my little canoe towards land. I begin to strategize, gathering my thoughts and breath, and thus preparing for the inevitable. There is some fresh water left in a plastic bottle I bought earlier. It tastes hot and nasty from the heat.

I don’t think I’m going to make it.

Water splashes into my little boat everywhere and all over; the sounds, the undulating current breaks my concentration. My camera was probably wet and ruined.

And so I begin my journey back to the beach. It is much more tiresome than even I had thought. Water continues pouring in, splashing on my swim trunks, on my legs, and against my face, and my heart rate increases, the huffing the puffing. I pick up speed and get closer to the shoreline.

Several hundred yards away, I once more fight the tides and the waves. By this time, salt water is smacking against the sun burn on my shoulders and back; my body aches from the strenuous paddling against the waves, and I’m sick of the burning salt, sand, and sun. I’m stressed by the urgency of keeping all of the important equipment dry and intact. It is more than just a camera: it is memory.  

I finally get to the shallows, where I jump out. I need to wade the rest of the way. This is going to be tricky. I must find my footing and keep this little one-man boat from capsizing. Finally, placing my feet on the ocean