Posted: Jun 20, 08 7:41am

I woke up this morning feeling rested after a good nights sleep. The weather had changed over night and the t-shirt I wear to bed every night was clammy due to this change. I went to pee and after drinking a glass of water settled in front of the computer.

I checked the emails and was surprised to see three letters from TEE BEE DEE. I hadn’t had one from them in three days. After several attempts of finding the TWG: Tier 11 I opened a letter from Mark Trost. His story “Bedlam” I read and found too awkward. I guess I am not used to modern writing. The comments from the group members was positive, which made me decide to include my memoirs, that are formulating in my mind and that are in need to be posted for your comments.

A year ago I decided to embark on joining a writing club at the seniors center. We meet once a month and as the first assignment had been “A Message in a Bottle”, I decided to write about the incident which didn’t take place fifty years ago and which became part of my memoirs. So here goes. Please comment and give me positive/negative feedback, as the seniors group were not capable.

During the summer holidays for the month of July, my parents usually rented a summer cottage at the Black Beach, a sandy beach that stretched almost a kilometer along the west coast of Iceland. It was known by this name because of the black sand that had been deposited from one of the volcanic eruptions eons ago. The surrounding area was covered by a petrified lava flow that consisted of huge boulders scattered about, which made an ideal playground for us children. The Black Beach was a sought after beach because the sand was always warm, even on cloudy, rainy days.

My mother took my sister and I to one of these cottages every summer, while father and my older brother were working in Reykjavik; a two-hour drive away. On weekends my father would come and visit us and sometimes would bring my brother or my grandfather along. Several families also rented cottages along the beach and both my sister and I had four or five children to play with.

Most of the time when the weather was sunny and the sea calm and we children used to roam the beach in bare feet. Walking or running in bare feet on that beach was such a pleasure. The sand was as fine as we have at English Bay, but it was always warm. We seldom went in the water because it was too cold, but many weekend visitors came to sunbathe on warm summer days.

One sunny afternoon for some reason or another I was by my self on the beach. All my playmates either were still having their lunch or were doing something else. On that particular day I was looking for flat round stones that I could throw onto the calm surface of the sea to count how many times they skipped. We children used to compete to see who could skip the most times. As I walked in search of such stones I could see something glitter in the distance. As I reached it I saw that a brown colored bottle was lying on the sand. It must have washed up on the beach during the night, as it had not been there yesterday.

I bent down and picked it up. The glass surface felt almost like touching sandpaper and I couldn’t see through the glass. I had often seen a similar shaped bottle but with a black and white colored label on it known as “The Black Death”. It was named thus due the drawing of the skull with two bones across it. I had seen my father and grandfather often share a bottle like that. The bottle had a cork extending from its top. I twisted and tried to pull the cork out of the bottle but in my eagerness and frustration broke off the top. I was just about throwing the bottle out to sea when I heard something rattle inside. I tried to look into the bottle, but couldn’t see anything. I shook it again and I could hear something was rattling in there. I thought I could smash it on a rock, but decided against it as I would have to clean up all the broken glass pieces. I was wondered how I could open the bottle when I remembered that my mother had a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer.

I raced home and ran into the kitchen where my mother was washing the dishes after lunch. I showed her the bottle. She took it from me and found the corkscrew and proceeded to screw the sharp end into the top of the cork. My mother then bent over and put the bottle between her feet and by holding the bottle with her left hand and pulling hard with her right the cork finally popped out of the bottle. It made a thumping sound. A musty smell of oil lingered in the air. My mother and I sat down at the kitchen table and in turning the bottle upside down and shaking it, a rolled up brown paper cylinder about three inches long fell onto the table. It had been rolled up tightly with a worn khakis colored shoelace tied around it with a bow. The paper was torn on the edges of a faded brownish color that reminded me of the brown shopping bags, which we got at the local grocer.

My mother tried to undo the knot of the shoelace, but couldn’t get it off, so she slid it off the cylinder. Gently she flattened the roll out and it became a brown paper bag that had been serrated at one edge and at the bottom. There was writing on the paper and I stood up and leaned over my mothers shoulder to see better what had been written. I couldn’t read it though as it was written using words that I couldn’t understand. The only thing that I could read was the date in the upper right hand corner 8/31/1942.

My mother started reading it in a low voice. She told me that it was written in English and it was hard for her to read the writing, as some of the words were unreadable and some she couldn’t understand. She gently turned the page and halfway down I saw three letters that I understood “U.S.A” which seemed to be part of an address. My mother finished reading the letter and I could see that she was upset.

She got up and went into the front room to fetch something and I took the opportunity to examine the letter. It had a few black round stains and the surface of the paper felt rough to touch. The writing had been done in pencil in a sloppy hand with a few words crossed out as if the author had been in a hurry or couldn’t spell.

My mother returned with a book that she put on the table. She told me that it was an English-Icelandic dictionary and that she had to look up some words, which she didn’t understand. My mother was learning English after making friends with some American soldiers who were stationed in Iceland after the Second World War. She found a piece of paper and a pen and started writing something in Icelandic looking up words in the dictionary as she read through the letter. She told me that the person who had written on the paper bag was a sailor that had been working on a ship that had been sunk somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean during the Second World War. The man asked the finder of the bottle to send his letter to the address on the second page. My mother continued translating the message into Icelandic and I went out to play with Susan next door.

The following weekend my father and brother came to visit us, and after supper on Saturday night we all gathered in the front room and mother proceeded to read the letter to us.

My name is John Briggs, second mate on the liberty ship SS Alexander

Macomb out of New Port. We have been at sea for a few days now and

have been hit by a torpedo. The ship is sinking. It’s leaning to starboard and we have to evacuate.

Please send this letter to my folks……..

8/31/1942

Dear mum and dad,

I am sorry that I left without saying good bye. I was upset with you both for not

unrstand…You didn’t understand that I wanted to fight for my country…

The ship is sinking and we have to go in the lifeboats…

I hope you will receive this letter, as I want to tell you that I love you and that I am sorry I left in such a hurry.

Give my love to Richard and Lucy and grandpa.

I love you all God Bless

John Briggs

Mother turned the page and about the middle of the next page the following address came to light

Mr. Samuel Briggs

128 Faulkner Way

Allentown, Pa.

U.S.A.

We were all silent for a while. Father finally spoke and decided that we should send off the letter as the young man had requested. A decision taken out of concern for the young man but which would change all of our lives in the future. A decision, which my mother lamented over until her dying day.