Bridgeton Legends

Survival on Las Tortugas

2008-03-03T15:29:00.000-08:00

Art McKee is regarded as America’s “Grandfather of Treasure Salvage,” and his life was nothing short of epic. A while back, McKee was profiled here on Bridgeton Legends via an excerpt from Robert “Frogfoot” Weller’s outstanding biography of McKee entitled Galleon Hunt. Meticulously researched, Weller’s book recounts (among other things) McKee’s tense armed standoff on the high seas; McKee’s friendship with famed novelist Mickey Spillane; and his lifelong quest for sunken treasure. For McKee, a Bridgeton native, this was all just a day at the office.

I’m proud to say that McKee’s back, this time with a story he wrote himself detailing how he almost died on a desert island in South America.

I must warn you: proceed with caution, because moment by moment, McKee’s island saga unfolds like nothing short of a nightmare. What this man endured rivals the most gruesome of horror novels. His very survival is a clear testament to his great strength and intelligence (shameless plug for the Bridgeton Public Schools?).

Perhaps most striking is this: in his darkest hour, as the jaws of disaster were mercilessly clamping down, Art McKee’s thoughts turned to the one place where it all began. You’ll see that, as McKee was dying of thirst, he found himself screaming Bridgeton High School football cheers at the top of his lungs. I can only speak for myself, but, to think of those words echoing with desperation in the South American night simply blows my mind.

Okay, on with the show. Thanks once again to Robert “Frogfoot” Weller for his gracious permission in allowing this to be excerpted here on Bridgeton Legends. Enjoy.

Survival on Las Tortugas
By Capt. Arthur McKee

Introduction by Robert “Frogfoot” Weller

In 1976 Art McKee made his first, and almost his last, land expedition in search of buried treasure. His objective was the Island of Tortuga. In history there were two Islands de las Tortugas. The first is located off the northern coast of Hispanola and was the hangout of Beccaneers who got their name from the little dome-shaped huts called boucanes, where they cooked the meat of wild cattle and boars that roamed the island. The second island is located off the northern coast of Venezuela and was on the route taken by the Spanish treasure fleet as they made their way from landfall near Trinidad across the Caribbean Basin to Cartegena. It was on this island that McKee almost lost his life.

During his lifetime of treasure salvage, and his search for the Genovesa, Art kept meticulous records of his expeditions in the hope that some day he would write a book. His manuscript was close to being finished when he died in 1980. The only “works” that Art completed for publication was his “Survival on Las Tortugas,” his personal account of what happened when an underwater treasure hunter turned to an unfamiliar pattern…looking for buried treasure on land. Art would be proud to have his works in a book, and for that reason we have printed here the story, exactly as he wrote it, “Survival on Las Tortugas.”

Survival on Las Tortugas

As a hard-hat deep sea diver, my primary interest had been in the deep, blue sea and I had been fortunate enough to discover, identify and salvage many sunken vessels, some of which were authenticated as being sunken Spanish treasure ships. I finally established a Museum of Sunken Treasure at Treasure Harbor, Plantation Key, in the Florida Keys and displayed many treasures which I had recovered, including 60 to 75 lb. bars of Spanish silver bullion. One of the silver bars was purchased by the Smithsonian Institution at Washington, D.C., where it was acclaimed as being the prize of the year for that famous museum.

We had explored the sunken city of Port Royal in Kingston Harbor, Jamaica, which had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1692. With the help of my trained divers, who specialized in Marine Archaeology, we also located the treasure fleet of Don Rodrigo de Torres, wrecked in 1733 off the Florida Keys. Some of the treasure ships, including the EL CAPITANA (Rubi), the EL INFANTE, SAN JOSE and several other ships of the fleet, were excavated and a considerable amount of treasure was recovered. We kept the location of these ships of De Torres’s fleet a secret for many years. It being the era when scuba gear was being introduced, and in its infancy, we had little competition in our field.

On this particular occasion involving Tortuga, I was contacted by two men from Venezueala who stated that they wished to discuss with me some strange markings which they had found on some old documents. These documents had been discovered at an old house in Venezuela which had been torn down. Apparently the documents had been a part of some ancient collection as several different treasure sites were indicated. Some of the documents were inscribed on a skin-like material and leather and dated as early as 1557. One document indicated an old Fort or hideout, which had existed on the island of Tortuga, located about 110 miles off the coast of Venezuela. According to the document the Fort had been built by pirates in the late 1550s and had been in the possession of rival pirate groups operating on the seas of the Spanish Main, one of which was referred to as “The Organization of the Doble Cruz.” Their sign of the double cross is indicated in the documents by two crosses which invariably accompanied the signatures.

I had made a considerable study of “Paleography” and soon we were studying the ancient documents. Many of the documents contained messages in code, which consisted of marks and symbols made by the pirates in recording secret information.

Later, I was to find a very faded but identifiable document which contained one of the coded alphabets which assisted us to a great extent in deciphering information contained in the documents.

According to the ancient documents, written in old Spanish, the organization of pirates known as the “Doble Cruz” was organized and consisted of a group of very powerful and influential persons, who in their normal life, were honorable men. However, they made a very lucrative livelihood by plundering treasure ships and conducting raids on the coastal cities of the South and Central Americas.

A translation of one of the actual documents reads: “The formidable association of the ‘Doble Cruz’ was first born on London the 26th day of May, 1548, being its mother justice, and its father the Conde Alonzo Machui. Its rule to punish to Blazons and the offense made to the honor. This organization was led by the Conde S. Helen DR and A. Olmedo Dgl. David Vonwil and the General Roman Raviere were annihilated in 1635 by the criminal hand of the Silivalo. The documentation can be found underground in America. In Tortuga can be found the treasure of Mexico 1635, the cargo of ‘La Magdalena,’ the cargo of gold which was taken from Montezuma to Islas Canaries. The one of Brazil was not buried in Tortuga because the guides had to take refuge in the Islas de Junanacoco. They hid it and after were sacrificed by the English fleet. It is lost but there is documentation of the other treasures.”

This powerful pirate organization of the ‘Doble Cruz’ included Henry Morgan, Ventinila (believed to be the wife of Henry Morgan), Fardi, F. Carmou, Borein, General Maximilliano Machui and his brother Colonel Francisco Machui, Ansermote, and other powerful persons.

A letter signed by the two Machui brothers (Hermanos) swore to the fact that the secret of the ‘Doble Cruz’ would die with them.

The following is more of the actual translation of the document found on leather: “On the 24th of June, 1585 arrived in Port of Gold the ship ‘Santa Eufemia.’ The captain of this ship was General Elias Machui. By superior orders they went to take a look off the coast. The sailors Bormi, Tom and Sermo. Sermo took the north and Tom the south. Big was Tom’s surprise when he saw a lot of nuggets which he took and brought them to the ship. Then their chief ordered them to go back for more gold, but they met an Indian tribe. The Indian chief was Araue who gave them some gold for some powder. The General wanted to be friendly to the Indian chief. Three days later the General was taken to a place from where the mine was seen. The mine has the name of the men who discovered it.

The 11th of August of that year, as they were coming back from Gibraltar, they came by point of ‘Bormiton,’ the General Machui and Tom walked three miles in a straight line, up to the cross, eight miles to the south, up to the arm of the dead man, six miles .75 to the southwest up to the brook of the Black man, two miles .87 to the north up to the mine. ‘Bormiton’ was registered in Santiago de Los Caballeros the 11th day of March of 1621. It was worked from the 7th of July, 1627, and it stopped of working and was closed in 1639. Look for the mine from ‘Pozo’ of White Hill---Cerro Blanco.””

The official records at the Archives in Maracaibo stated that Maracaibo had been raided five times by pirate groups and special precautions were finally established so that the population, after being warned, would conceal their valuables and escape to places of safety in view of the threat of pirate invasion.

The convent in Maracaibo has a secret tunnel which leads out from the Convent, under the city, and extends to the shore of Lake Maracaibo. Extending from this main tunnel, another leads under the city to the site of the former prison. Still another tunnel leads off to a huge underground room where the church officials would hide the church treasure of gold and silver and was also equipped to house the nuns and other church officials until the pirates had concluded their raid and put out to sea.

One such document which I had studied was on leather and shows the actual existence of the above-mentioned tunnels.

But to get back to Tortuga, finally the Spanish Crown and the Church organized a fleet of warships to seek out and destroy the pirates at their fortress hideaway on Tortuga. An actual plan of the Fort indicated various rooms, also four corner watch towers. The pirates not only used this fort as a hideaway for their men but concealed much of their loot in the vicinity of the fort.

The fleet of ships converged on Tortuga and after a devastating attack by cannon fire, the Spanish Marines made a landing and massacred all of the people there except two pirates; who managed to hide and eventually made their way to the mainland. The fort was leveled to the ground and the story of the destruction of “Forte la Tortuga” was recorded on the very documents which we were studying!

I was asked if I would be willing to go to Venezuela and not only assist them in deciphering other documents but to become involved in the actual search and excavation of the several archaeological treasure sites, and I agreed to do so.

On May 14th, 1976, I arrived in Maracaibo, Venezuela, where I was met at the airport by Prof. Alberto Cribeiro Valiente. We arrived at his home and immediately made plans to investigate the several treasure sites indicated on the ancient documents.

We finally decided that Tortuga would be our first objective and made plans to conduct an aerial survey of the island. This accomplished, we carefully set up our expedition to search, find and excavate Fort Tortuga. We hoped to find some marks on a slab of rock in the vicinity of the Fort which would lead us to some “very valuable loot,” cached by the pirates prior to the destruction of their hideout.

We prepared a list of all necessary gear: a tent, four large containers of drinking wather, three 2 quart canteens, which we would carry when we left our main base, and a sufficient supply of food to last us a week or ten days. It was decided that we would fly our gear in to Tortuga by helicopter.

A few hours before we were scheduled to take off I received an urgent cable from Miami advising me that my aged mother was critically ill in the hospital and was not expected to survive. It was decided to postpone our expedition. We unloaded the helicopter and stored our gear and supplies in the hangar until I could return to Venezuela. Each box had been marked, designating its contents, and one box, containing our metal detector, the water canteens, and our new compass, was stored along with the other equipment. I had made an itemized list of all equipment and this I carefully filed in my brief case.

I arrived in Miami on May 27th just an hour before my mother passed away. I returned to Maracaibo on June 15th, 1976. I arrived at the heliport and found that the equipment was being loaded aboard the helicopter. I immediately contacted the Professor and asked him if he thought we had sufficient water to last us during our proposed stay on Tortuga. I also asked him if he was sure that all the equipment had been loaded aboard. He assured me that everything was in order and that we had plenty of water. However, I decided that I would check over my list of equipment but found that my brief case, containing the list, had already been stowed aboard the helicopter and was buried under the boxes of equipment. I had a hunch that I should have checked the boxes of equipment anyway. However, as it was getting late in the afternoon, we decided that we should take off immediately for Tortuga. We had discussed our plans with Colonel Torrelles Paiva, who was a friend of the Professor and a senior officer in the Venezuelan Air Force, assigned to the helicopter service.

The three members of the expedition included Professor Albert Creibeiro Valiente; his son, Jose Valdes, affectionately called Marachucho by his family; and myself.

We had been assured that upon our pinpointing the old fort ruins we would be joined by ten guards and four workmen to assist us in the excavation.

“Isla la Tortuga” is owned by Venezuela and is located approximately 110 miles east north east of Caracas, in the Caribbean. It is approximately 30 miles long and 12 miles wide. It is of volcanic origin and its surface consists of volcanic slab rock about one foot in thickness. The top layer of slab rock is cracked and from the air, resembles huge pieces of a giant jig saw puzzle. Upon striking these rocks with a hammer each piece will give off a different sound and ring like a bell. Various types of cacti patches cover most of this rugged surface. The cacti appeared to be of the “tree Cereus” specie and grows in thick stands which are practically impossible to penetrate, except by laboriously hacking a path with machetes. This condition makes it almost impossible to follow a direct compass across the terrain. Some of these cactus patches extend over an area half the size of a city block. Some areas are covered with an orange-red sand which is the only comparatively smooth surface of this desert island. A section of white sand beach extends over the western tip of the island and the shallow sand bottom extends over the western tip of the island and the shallow sand bottom extends a considerable distance into the Caribbean. The so-called iron shore area is constantly pounded by huge breakers which, upon striking the rocks, send a spray of water high into the air. The almost constant breeze comes in gusts. During the heat of the day when the sun is blazing down on the rock, the first gust of this unusual breeze is unbearably hot. This breeze usually lasts from two to four minutes and the air is practically unbreathable due to the beat from the hot surface of the rocks. However, the latter part of the gust is exceptionally cool. Several hours after nightfall, when the hot rocks have cooled, the breeze turns quite chilly. At about four a.m. the breeze becomes so cool that without a covering of some kind once actually shivers from the cold.

The only animal life I saw was a lone brown field mouse and numerous lizards. I did catch a very quick glimpse of a bush tailed creature, the size of a cat, month the cactus. Numerous birds including sea gulls, pelicans, mocking birds, humming birds, parrots, canaries, man-of-war birds, and a type of black vulture are native to the island.

The various types of cacti included the very tall “tree Cereus,” growing in vast patches; the Turks Cap or “Cactus Intortus,” and some other species, some of which contain a white, milk-like sap and is very sticky and quite toxic. To get some of this white, milk-like sap in the eyes produces temporary blindness unless it is washed out immediately with warm, fresh water.

There is no fresh water on the island, and rain quickly evaporates, leaving an eerie, weird fog or mist. It seldom ever rains on Tortuga and we experienced practically no rain during our stay, except for a one minute drizzle.

Such was the island we now found ourselves looking down on from the helicopter at 2,000 feet. We crisscrossed the island at the spot designated on the old chart and documents but saw no sign of the ruins. We made several passes at 800 feet, but decided that the ruins must be concealed under one of the many vast clumps of cactus. Finally, the pilot sat the helicopter down on one of the flat, red-orange sandy areas in the interior of the island. I suggested that we move our base closer to the coast but the pilot indicated he was low on fuel so we proceeded to unload our gear. As I got out of the helicopter I stepped on the handle of one of the shovels and twisted my left knee which had been injured in my school days, during a football game. At the time I did not consider this to be serious.

The helicopter pilot was instructed to return and pick us up on the seventh day at 4:00 p.m. He then took off for his base at Caracas.

We proceeded to set up our camp site which was easily distinguished by our orange and blue tent. We cut a 20-ft. pole and tied a red shirt to it. Thus we established our base of operations in La Tortuga.

We checked our water supply, which was in three plastic 5 gallon containers. Then we discovered we had only the one quart canteen which I had carried with me. The list of equipment I had made out at Caracas included three one-half gallon canteens which were now missing. We also discovered that I had the only compass. We had paid $90.00 for a very fine compass in Caracas but that too was among the missing.

By sundown we had eaten our first chow, downed a cup of water each, and turned in for the night. I chose to bed down outside the small tent and finally fell asleep watching the stars which seemed so near I felt like I could reach up and touch one.

In the early hours I awakened, feeling very cold and checked my watch. It was 4:15 a.m. and the wind had set up a series of gusts which were cold enough to cause me to shiver. At daybreak we were all up and had a cup of coffee and some breakfast. We had a conference and Prof. Cribeiro suggested we “take a look” at the sea coast. He remarked that it was only a short walk and we would search for the fort on the way. I checked my compass heading and noted that we were walking north to the coast. I made certain the canteen was full and after a big drink from our main supply we started for the coast. I knew that as soon as the sun came up, our day of intense heat would begin.

The cactus patches were thicker than they had appeared from the air and we had to go around them. Soon we were slashing our way with machetes on a course which took us over some very treacherous rock ridges. Some of the cracks in the foot thick volcanic rock were wide enough to lie down in. This rock was very difficult to traverse and we had to watch every step we took.

After walking a couple of miles we called a halt and rested under a semi-shady tree. My injured knee was swelling considerably so we slowed our pace. Finally, after about 4 hours of beating our way through the jungle of cactus we reached the beach. The seas were high and breaking over the rocks, sending a cool, misty spray over us. We welcomed this natural air conditioning. We stripped off our clothes and, locating an area of beach sand, we soon were enjoying the surprisingly cool water. After the heat and the long hike we really enjoyed the swim. It was getting late and I knew we should be starting back. I left the water first and after dressing I made a disturbing discovery, only about a pint of water remained in our canteen. We would have to ration our drinks to one canteen cap full each. I figured that we were going to be in some trouble if we did not get back to the base camp soon. It was getting late in the afternoon and it would be impossible to fins safe footing to travel after dark.

On our way to the sea, we had passed a large nesting area of young, white-feathered pelicans; took a couple of pictures and planned to get some close-up shots of them on the way back to the camp. When we realized we had missed the nesting area, I noticed that the compass was acting up. The needle would spin like a top when the compass was moved. I realized that we struck an area of magnetic rock. However, I noted the sun’s position and we continued “south” toward camp. My knee was swelling more and more and soon I found the pain was almost unbearable. I called a five minute rest period and we each had a cap full of water. I tried walking a few steps and found I could not step over the rocks.

It was then I made my decision.

I told the two men to take the compass and what water we had left in the canteen and to make their way to the campsite, which I estimated was about one and one-half hours away. I told them to watch the sun and to compass and when they made camp to fire two shots from their .38 pistol. I would answer with two shots to let them know I had heard them. They were to get a good night’s rest upon reaching the camp and at sun-up they were to bring me food and water. I figured with rest my knee would be improved by sun-up. I made them realize that I was slowing their pace and it was late in the afternoon. They reluctantly started out for the base camp without me.

I curled up under the only tree in the immediate area with leaves on it and waited for their signal shots which never came. I wated for the sun to go down and ceared away the sharp rocks from under the tree. Using a rock and a glove as a pillow I soon went to sleep. I was awakened by a lizard crawling over my face. He was gone in a flash and I immediately fell asleep again.

In the meantime, I had established and took stock of my scanty possessions. My clothing consisted of shorts, pants and a long sleeve shirt, along with a big towel, which I used for a flag. I sued the string from my tennis shoes to tie the flag to a long pole. I had a .38 pistol, 12 shots, my watch, a machete and an 8 inch knife, 1 glove, 1 sombrero and an empty camera which “Maracoucho” (the professor’s son) had left with me. Searching my pockets I found two medicated throat lozenges and a tube of sun screen ointment with a coconut oil base. I slept well until the four o’clock gusts of air began to hit me and I shivered until the sun came up.

When I awakened, I felt like I had a mouthful of bone-dry cotton. I waited all morning to hear a signal shot from their gun. I noted that the swelling in my knee had somewhat subsided and so I walked a short distance from my camp and cut some cactus. It contained a white, milky substance. I tasted it carefully. It burned my lips so I went back to camp and applied some sun screen ointment on my lips. The sun screen gunk was almost as bad as the cactus milk. Finally, I cut one of the larger cactus stalks and found a few drops of green juice in the pulp. I was hesitant to taste any more strange cactus juice so I sat down and watched the lizards catch flies from the rocks. Then, I got to wondering where they obtained their drinking water. I decided to squeeze a few drops of cactus juice on a rock and was elated when one lizard and then another proceeded to extend their forked tongues and drink the cactus juice. I waited and watched, expecting to seen the lizards suddenly flip over on their backs and die. Then, when I saw them back to feeding on flies, I cut a fresh cactus and squeezed the juice into the palm of my hand. My gigantic thirst finally overcame my reluctance to taste the juice. I wet my lips and then I swallowed some juice fully expecting to become sick as the juice was quite bitter. I waited two hours before taking any additional juice into my system. I continued to put a few drops of juice on the rocks for the lizards and on my parched lips.

In the meantime, the blazing sun was reflecting heat from the hot rocks and I decided I had to devise additional shade. I cut a few branches with leaves on it from another tree and proceeded to add them to my tree for shade. This effort caused my mouth to go bone dry again and my throat was feeling like I had swallowed sawdust. I immediately noticed the lizards still darting about and I realized that the cactus would have to supply my only source of liquid. I chewed the pulp and my throat took in my first bit of liquid in two days. Drop by drop, I relieved my thirst. I cut some extra cactus for use in the night as it was impossible to handle the needle-like spiked cactus in the dark.

The next morning, after squeezing cactus juice for over two hours, I felt I had enough water in my system for the time being. I learned to save the well chewed cactus pulp and to set it out on a flat rock during the night. The pre-dawn cold of the breezes produced a condensation situation and the cactus pulp then produced a good supply of cactus pulp in the pre-dawn hours and felt I had won my first point on my survival.

I did discover one bad side effect of using cactus juice. After I had satisfied my immediate thirst problem, I took some slabs of cactus pulp and proceeded to rub the comparitvely cool and moist pulp over my face and neck.

However, some of the juice went into my eyes.

When I awoke the next morning, both my eyes and mouth were dry-sealed shut.

I had to unseal my lips every time I awoke from a sleep of any duration. My lips and inside my mouth became very sore and bled constantly. It took two days for me to clear the dried mucous from my eyes and remove the scale which had formed on my eyelashes. In spite of my lack of food, I felt no hunger pangs. I was too thirsty, I suppose.

I decided to cut the date on a tree limb and also cut my name in the bark. Each notch that I cut in the tree every morning was some consolation as I knew the copter would be returning by the time the seventh notch had been cut. My watch had a date indicator on it but I had taken it off and hung it in the tree so it had stopped running. I relied on my notches for time and waited for the copter to arrive. I reset my watch by the setting sun which proved to be quite accurate.

I used my medicated discs to take away the bitterness of the cactus juice and I would put them back in the wrapper after each session of juicing. I was much disturbed when, after unwrapping my last little bit of throat disc, I accidentally dropped it among the rocks. It was too dark to find it but at daylight next morning I searched and found it entirely covered with black ants. I quickly attempted to brush them off but finally put the bit of lozenge in my mouth, ants and all! Never did a piece of candy taste better, in spite of its being medicated.

In the meantime, I listened for the sound of a motor but all I heard were the two or three jets which flew over at 35,000 ft. every day. Soon I imagined myself listening for the stewardess to ask me if I “cared for a cold drink? Sprite? Coke?” I dreamed and imagined all sorts of cool situations like snow melting, ice cubes, ice skating, etc. I would wake up very thirsty and had it not been for the cactus juice I would certainly have gone out of my mind.

At night I tried counting stars and then in the still of the night I would yell as loud as I could, calling Alberto. I began to experience dizzy spells and had to grasp onto tree limbs to get to my feet. I found myself singing and then I started remembering the cheers from the bleachers at our hometown track meets and football games. I yelled cheers until I became hoarse. I tried to remember back to the earliest days of my childhood. I passed the time a million ways and would often fall asleep only to awaken either in the heat of the sun or the cold of the 4:00 a.m. breeze. I realized that I was getting weaker every day. The intense heat which soared to well over 120 degrees, and the pre-dawn hours of cold was getting to me.

I discovered that the big flat volcanic rocks would absorb the heat from the sun and were hot enough to fry an egg, if I’d had one. I took advantage of this condition for as soon as the sun started to go down I would test the heat in the rock and then stretch out and try to enjoy the warmth of my hard rock bed. The heat in the rock lasted well into the night. Then the cold breeze would begin. I would curl up into a ball and try to conserve my body heat. I was tempted several times to take down my flag-towel and wrap myself in it. I thought better of the idea when I realized how weak I was and would be unable to put the flag and pole back up again.

I worried constantly about how my companions were getting along. I counted the notches in my calendar tree a couple times a day, this finally became confusing as I would lose count of the notches and have to begin all over again.

I was invaded by ants, attracted by the cactus juice and fresh cut pulp. I set up a cactus juice processing area away from my shade tree but still they came. Finally I cut some cactus pulp and watched the ants swarm over it. Then I would pick up the ant covered cactus chunk and throw it as far away from camp as I could. Thus, I finally depleted most of the local ant population. However, a stray ant bite was all it took to make me do a midday or midnight strip act. If those ants were as big as a cricket, one bite would require some stitches in the bite area.

I was continually pestered by ants getting in my ears, or small gnats buzzing in my ears, which became very uncomfortable. Not having ear plugs or cotton, I inserted on of the .38 cal. shell casings in each ear. Thus, I could get good sleep without any bother from those pests.

Late one afternoon, a small beady-eyed brown mouse came out of the brush and I heard myself say “Buddy you better get going or I might eat you.” At the sound of my voice he disappeared into the brush and I spent each afternoon waiting for him to come back.

The lizards became very tame. I soon had them lapping up cactus juice from everywhere but the palm of my hand. They must have sensed my intention. However, I doubt that I could have closed my hand fast enough to catch one. Finally, I began to feel quite bad about the trick I proposed to pull on those poor lizards. After all, didn’t they show me that the cactus juice was safe to drink? I even felt sorry fot eh ants I had killed. This territory belonged to the ants and lizards and, really, I had no business there. I began to envy the ants and lizards as they were safe at home.

Suddenly, I began to think of selling the cactus juice to Coca-Cola. “Pure Cactus Juice! Sure to quench the thirst!” Wishing for a pencil and pad, I dreamed up an entire package deal to sell to Coca-Cola when I arrived home.

Then I vowed to take one of the cactus plants with me when I was rescued. I would have it analyzed and find out how the water got into the cactus in this dry inferno of heat and cold. Then I began to think of condensation, air-conditioners and compared the vents and rib-like structure of the cactus to the radiator cooling system on cars and air-conditioners. My mind was full of ideas. I tried to keep my mind working. I never gave in to any thoughts of not being rescued.

I decided a test should be made of the body chemistry of a person who had existed on cactus juice for seven days. Right! Seven days was right, I said aloud, as I counted the notches in my tree calendar. Then I realized that this was the day for the copter to pick us up. What about my two friends? Were they dead or did they make the coast? I checked the flag and it was flying in the breeze. I checked my watch and it was 3:00 p.m. Was my watch correct? If so, in one more hour I would get some nice, wet, sweet water. My mouth was dry but I did not chew cactus during that long hour’s wait. My gums bled constantly and it was very painful to chew the cactus pulp.

I had pushed up my machete so it shined bright in the late afternoon sun. I practiced holding my watch so the shining back of it would act like a mirror. If the pilot saw one flash he would certainly search the area. I took off my shirt and with my watch and shirt in one hand and my bright bladed machete in my right hand, I waited for zero hour.

Suddenly, I heard a far away hum and as it got closer and closer I came to recognize the chop of the copter blades. Then I saw it! He was on a south to north course, but too far east to spot me or my “flag camp.” I waved and flashed my machete but the sun was wrong. The sound became fainter and I figured he must have reached the north coast. Would he find my two companions there? Was he landing to pick them up? Would he come back? Then I heard the sound of the copter returning and then I saw it. It was headed directly for my flag and me. I felt my heart beating a mile a minute. I jumped up and down in spite of my injured knee, waving my shirt with one hand and the machete with the other. He surely had to see me as I could see the forward section of the big plastic blister and the divider down the center. He was on a beeline course for me! Suddenly he veered to the right and I figured he was maneuvering for a landing. I continued to wave and suddenly realized that hew as continuing away from me. I said out loud “No! He had to see me!” Then I rationalized. He saw me and is now going for the others. I waited and waited. The sound of the copter had slowly faded away and there I was standing in my little clearing holding my shirt and machete. Then I realized I had been swinging my machete like a mad man. Had I scared the copter pilot off? Was he going for help? It began to get dark and the gnats began to get into my years. I had to put up with them as I couldn’t put my cartridges in my ears to keep the bugs out or I might not hear the copter, should it return.

It was getting late and the sun had set. I cut a cactus and chewed for juice. I sat up most of the night and finally fell asleep from pure physical and mental exhaustion. I dreamed of them finding my clothing and a pile of bones that once was me.

When I did awaken it was due to the cold 4:00 a.m. breeze which made me shake with cold. However, I thought of the blazing sun soon to be endured. I cut another notch in the tree. This is the eighth day! Well, did he find the camp and the others and did he fly them back to Caracas? Were they sick, alive, or dead? I dreaded to think of facing Alberto’s wife and family as I had said I would look after the Professor and his son and for them not to worry.

In the meantime, back in Caracas, a search and rescue team headed by Colonel Torrelles Paiva was fueling the big Hewy copters and other units of the Venezuelan Air Force were on the alert for a rescue mission to bring back Prof. Valiente and his son and to find the remains of the Americano Capt. Arthur McKee. They took off early on their mission and were soon in sight of Tortuga, commonly known to the natives as the “Island of Death.”

The pilot of our original copter had not reported to the authorities of his not finding the passengers whom he had left on Tortuga. Why? He could not be located at his job with the copter service and thus no explanation is available as of this date.

Of course, I knew nothing of what was happening in Caracas. When I realized the tenth-day notch was due to be cut in the tree I made a decision. I had to get to those pelicans nesting or it was all over for me. I would cut them down in their nests and drink the blood and eat the meat raw.

I cut a good supply of cactus and cut the pulp into sections to fit in my pockets. I gathered my scanty gear and then I took some pieces of volcanic rock and laid out, on the ground, and arrow pointing in the direction I intended to take. The volcanic rock is blocked by the sun on the top side but the opposite side is white and this I figured would show up good from the air should the copter return.

The round ball of heat of the rising sun was just appearing on the eastern horizon. I looked up at my towel flag as it waved in the early morning breeze. I checked the notches, then I took my machete and cut off a branch of the tree which had shaded me through the nine days of blistering hot sun. I really felt bad about cutting it. I cut a message in the bark which read “will try to get to sea. Follow arrow.” I cut the date also.

Was I doing the right thing or was I getting out of the frying pan into the fire? I almost changed my mind after staggering about 100 yards. I looked back and saw the flag. “Still in sight,” I thought. My legs were like rubber but I was determined to make the beach. Suddenly, I tripped and fell into a bush, or what I later found out was “Pringo Mosa”---similar to poison ivy, only it has a thorn in addition to its poison leaves. I tried to get up but was entangled in the thorny vines. I rolled over and finally got clear of the mess. Immediately I felt a severe burning sensation and red welts appeared on my arms.

I finally was able to get to my feet and I staggered on and then fell again, got to my feet only to fall again. This final fall proved to be a bad one as I landed on a big rock and I heard the ribs in my right side crunch. I had severe vertigo and must have passed out. For how long, I’ll never know, but I vaguely recall the bright sun blazing in my eyes. As I opened them I thought I was blind. I turned my head to one side and then realized I was lying in the open, exposed to the blazing sun. My mouth was dry as dust and I tried to get up. A bad pain in my right side! Must get some shade! I reached in my pocket and got a piece of cactus pulp.

I tried to chew it but my mouth was bleeding and my teeth felt like they would fall out, being loose from the effects of severe dehydration. I tried crawling but every move was unbearably painful. In spite of my loose teeth and bleeding mouth I finally managed to obtain a few drops of water from the cactus pulp. My head cleared a bit and I realized I was only a few feet from a tree with some scanty shade. How long it took me to get under that tree I’ll never know but I did not care as I was out of the sun. I felt very, very tired and either fell asleep or passed out.

In the meantime, the search party had landed their groups of men from the big “hewy” helicopters on Tortuga. Colonel Torelles Paiva was on foot leading his team. They had spotted my flag camp, saw the arrow and my message cut in the bark. They could not read the crudely cut message cut in English, but saw the arrow and continued on the way it was pointed. I have a vague recollection of people speaking in Spanish and felt myself being picked up. The pain in my right side seemed to fade away and then the next thing I realized, I was feeling drops of cool water to my face and lips. Then I realized that someone was trying to open my mouth which was dry-sealed shut. I choked on the first drops of water and again passed out as I did not hear the copter take off. I recall somewhere along the trip to the mainland that Prof. Valiente was speaking to me and said “We’re both OK.”

The next thing I remember was being bathed and submerged in what seemed to be a rubber tub-like affair, although it seemed that I was flat on my back in bed. I never did figure that one out. After a couple of days, I discovered that I was hooked up to oxygen and all sorts of tubes protruded from my nose, mouth and arms. I had been incoherent for two days, reliving my last two days on Tortuga.

X-rays showed that I had three broken ribs as a result of my final fall. I had been coughing up blood and a blood clot had broken loose in my injured knee, passed through my heart and into my right lung. I had lost a total of 41 pounds in ten days! After a few days in the hospital in Caracas, I was airlifted to the “Hospital Coromoto” in Maracaibo. Following two weeks of extensive treatment in the hospital I was taken to the Professor’s home and several days later placed aboard a plane for Miami. The 2 ½ hour trip exhausted me completely. I was examined by my own personal physician, Dr. John B. Liebler, and entered Doctor’s hospital in Coral Gables, Fla. My feet were swollen and both lungs have fluid in them. On my flight to Miami another blood clot had passed into my left lung. My ribs are still sore. My many health problems are yet to be resolved. However, when I am released from the hospital, every day will begin with the question “When will I be strong enough to tackle ‘La Tortuga’ again?”

Soon, I hope!

The End

Epilogue

So whatever happened to McKee’s fellow explorers?

McKee writes:

“Later I was to learn that my companions had missed the base camp site and wandered for five days, existing on cactus. When they finally reached the sea coast they found and ate shellfish, snails, etc. They also found half a dead fish which they ate raw and which made them sick. Finally, on the afternoon of the fifth day,, they sighted a small yacht out of Caracas. In response to their frantic signals, they were given some water out of a jug which had recently held kerosene. They were refused their request to be taken aboard. The kerosene-tainted water made them ill but they continued up the rocky coast and picked sea creatures from the rocks and thus got the benefit of the fresh water which they contained. Later, they saw a small boat coming down the coastline and soon they were shaking hands with some fishermen who were camped at the extreme east end of the island. They were given food and water and then they told the fishermen that they had left an American under a tree in the interior of the island. The fishermen refused to make a search in spite of the fact that Prof. Cribeiro offered them $5,000.00.

They considered the island haunted.

When they first arrived at the fishing camp they tried to make contact with the mainland by radio but the reception was poor. The next day, however, they were able to get a message through to Caracas. The newspapers carried huge red headlines announcing that three men, including Prof. Alberto Cribeiro Valiente, had been lost on Tortuga and one was an American who was presumed dead, as only two men were reported to be saved at the fishing camp.”

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

The Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza

2007-12-23T13:24:00.000-08:00

by Kyle

Introduction

Untold decades ago, the very prominent owners of a stately south Jersey home made one of their many lavish trips to New York City. Although the exact purpose of this particular trip has been lost to history, it was most likely a mixture of business and pleasure (they were the owners of a prominent garment company, and as the following story suggests, they let nothing stand in the way of a good party). Upon arriving in the Big Apple, the couple were saddened to learn that their favorite hotel in all of Manhattan was set to be demolished, and along with it, their favorite Manhattan bar, which was located in the lobby of the hotel.

Most people, when faced with such news, would raise one final glass in honor of the establishment that provided them with so many happy times, and all they would have for the remainder of their days would be the warm memories of time spent in this special place.

But these weren’t most people…

They were from Bridgeton.

Instead of saying a tearful goodbye to their cherished haunt, they did something far different.

They bought it.

That’s right. They bought the bar and had it shipped to their elegant Bridgeton home.

And not just the bar.

They bought the dark wood walls, and the glass-front cabinetry, and the mirror overlooking the bar. The entire room was shipped to Bridgeton and installed in the basement of their house---where it remains to this day.

I won’t say who owns this home, and I won’t say where it’s located (not because the current owners would care---I just believe that a little mystery never hurt anyone). But I will say this: I spend a part of every Christmas Eve in this bar, and the holidays just wouldn’t be the same without a long, midnight walk down memory lane with good food and great friends.

Last Christmas Eve

Let's turn back the clock. The stars were aligned on Christmas Eve 2006. It had been many years since this particular group were all in the same room together and (sadly) it will probably be many years before all of us reunite. But that night, in that bar, will definitely stand out. Present were the following: a physicist who is currently working on one of the most important scientific endeavors of the modern age; a world-class sprinter who walked away from a cushy job in corporate America to sail the Caribbean; a decorated military intelligence officer who completed two tours of duty in Iraq; a guy who did a backflip off a sixty-foot cliff in Jamaica; and a pioneering documentary filmmaker who should really get a lot more credit for starting this blog. As you can see, BHS alumni were in effect. [There was also a nun somewhere in the house, as well as a Wharton grad and the woman who gave birth to "The Deer Slayer."]

It was one of those nights where the sheer fact that all of these people were under one roof at the same time is what makes it so legendary, because, as our lives become increasingly complex, each year it becomes a little harder to see each other at the holidays.

So, for those of you who are unable to connect with your favorite Bridgeton friends this year, I put together a special collection featuring tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago. It’s my gift to you.

I just hope you realize how difficult this was…

After all, there are so many great Bridgeton Christmas stories to choose from: like kids in the 1950s roaming the outskirts of town, firing BB guns at each other on Christmas morning with no regard for shooting each others’ eyes out; or the time two girls spent all day slowly opening every single gift under the tree while one of the girl’s parents were at the casinos, then carefully rewrapped all of the gifts before the parents returned home later that evening. There’s also a story about a kid who stole a decorative gift box off the front porch of a (certain somebody’s)home, which actually led to brokered peace talks for the safe return of the festive adornment on the last day of school before Christmas break.

Clearly, the holidays bring out the best in Bridgeton. With all this great material to choose from, selecting which stories to tell in greater detail was no easy task. Yet here we are. The First Annual Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza. As you’ll see, at Christmas-time, nothing is what it seems. Especially in Bridgeton. So throw another log on the fire, grab some hot cocoa and enjoy the following tales of yore. I hope you like it…

Ryan’s Nintendo

It was around October 1988 when Mr. and Mrs. O bought their son a Nintendo for Christmas, and in every way, it was the perfect gift for a twelve-year old---there was just one problem: their son was Ryan, and Ryan was diabolical. Mr. and Mrs. O knew they needed to hide the Nintendo somewhere for the two months leading up to the big day. This, however, would be easier said than done, for Ryan was a devious, cunning little feller who was undoubtedly gearing up to launch his annual Christmas recon mission, in which every inch of every possible hiding spot would be infiltrated and probed, not unlike the way Tom Cruise rappelled into that CIA computer lab in Mission Impossible. No joke. Ryan used to dress in black from head to toe and would practice diving flip moves so that he could make a daring escape in the event of sudden parental suspicion. And (I swear this is true) he strategically hid razor blades throughout his house so that he could slice through even the finest gift wrapping without detection. This kid wasn’t just good---he was his own chapter of the DSM.

Ryan’s peeps knew that if they didn’t hide the glorious vessel of 8-bit technology somewhere completely out-of-reach, then the surprise would be ruined, and their little Evil Cleaver would have the last laugh. Under the eaves in the attic was out. Behind his sister’s New Kids on the Block Posters was out. Everywhere was out: the boiler in the basement, the trunk of the car, the wood-burning stove; the boathouse on the dock, the outhouse in the neighbor’s backyard; and so on. This kid was willing to look just about anywhere.

So Mr. and Mrs. O hid their son’s coveted gift in the one place they knew he’d never look…

His bedroom closet.

Two months and one utterly baffled child later, Christmas morning arrived in Bridgeton in all its shining splendor, and never before had the theme of Super Mario Brothers sounded so sweet as when it made its way through the O family home on that cold, bright morn.

Kyle Keeps It Real

When I was old enough to know the deal about Santa (but still young enough to totally want cool toys), I accompanied my grandfather to an event where a bunch of kids would sit on Santa’s lap, chat it up, then get handed a toy on their way out the door. And the toys at this event were known far and wide for being awesome.

So we get to the hall where this thing was being held, and it was packed, and Pop literally knew everyone. And when I say “literally,” I mean that literally. My grandfather literally knew everyone that was there. At least it seemed that way.

I get in line and wait forever with a bunch of strange kids barely out of diapers, and finally, after like thirty minutes, it was my turn.

I bounded up the stairs onto the little stage-like contraption that had been constructed for the occasion, furtively cast my eyes about the room (to make sure that none of my friends were there to witness me sit on Santa's lap), took a deep breath, then sat down on Santa’s lap.

I know. Believe me, I know. But I wanted to score a sweet toy.

Me and this guy dressed as Santa made some initial small-talk (whether I had been good that year; what I wanted for Christmas; blah blah blah). Standard fare, really. It was all going exactly as I had envisioned it. “Swimmingly,” as they used to say. Just a few more seconds, and a toy would be mine.

Then something happened.

Santa flipped the script.

“So, Kyle,” he said. “You go to (insert name of school I went to).”

This caught me by surprise, but I took it in stride. I simply figured Pop had put him up to it, and rallied with how impressed I was with the school’s curriculum. Or something like that.

Santa then starts naming like, all of my teachers and every kid in my class. This blew me away.

I remember looking directly into this man’s eyes thinking, Santa?

And then he zeroed in and started asking me about this one kid in particular. “He lives right down the street from you, doesn’t he?” Santa asked.

Now I was convinced. My still-developing brain reached the only logical conclusion that could be reached without a fully-grown frontal lobe: This was actually Santa Claus!

I had to think fast. I assumed that Santa only had a finite number of toys he could give away on Christmas Eve, and any student of history knows that one of the main reasons people go to war is because of competition for limited resources. In that spirit, I decided to make a preemptive strike. I spent like ten minutes talking a bunch of smack on the kid, and ended my rant with an unequivocal declaration that Santa should skip this kid’s house that year.

Then I hopped off his lap and made a bee-line straight for the pile of gift-wrapped toys, my greedy little hands wringing with glee.

Years later, I learned the truth: the guy playing Santa was that kid’s dad.

And in a twist that only Ryan could fully appreciate, the toy I got was a G.I. Joe villain (anyone who’s read “The Breaker Summit” knows where I stand on G.I. Joe).

Which is what I get for acting like Scott Farkus.

The Exact Opposite of Great

In preparation for this special edition of Bridgeton Legends, I asked a bunch of friends from Bridgeton what their greatest Christmas memory is. When I got to Biggz, he said: “My greatest Christmas memory? I’m not sure. But I know my worst Christmas memory…”

“Do tell,” I said. “Do tell, indeed.” (I didn’t actually say this, but it helps the narrative flow to pretend that I did.)

“It was Christmas Eve,” Biggz said, his voice still haunted by this ghost of Christmas past, “and my dad told me I was allowed to open one gift. Just one gift only. I had to wait until Christmas morning to open the rest. I knew I was getting a video game system that year, and my brother convinced me that, of all the boxes under the tree, this one box in particular was the one that had the system.”

(Little did he know that his dad and his brother were in cahoots.)

“So I opened it up,” he said, “thrilled that I had outwitted my parents and was going to get my big gift on Christmas Eve, and when I look inside, it was a little girl’s dress. My dad had gone to Goodwill and bought me a dress.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I completely freaked out,” he said. “I begged to be allowed to open another gift, but my dad refused. My whole family was like, Sorry, Biggz. A deal’s a deal. Just one gift only.”

I asked Biggz if the dress fit, but he claims he didn’t try it on. “Although it probably would have fit,” he said (which, to me sounds a lot like, “Yeah, it fit.”).

And so concludes The First Annual Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza. I hope you enjoyed reading it. See you next year.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

True Story

2007-04-17T11:55:00.000-07:00

Imagine you're a kid, and you live in Bridgeton, on a quiet street in one of the quietest parts of town.

Imagine living on this street, and one day, a sleek black car turns the corner and begins to slowly creep toward you.

Imagine this car stopping, and the driver's side door opens, and a man steps out, wearing an expensive black suit.

Imagine talking to this man, just for a moment, right here in this very spot in this quiet part of the world, and then you watch as he walks into the house of one of your neighbors.

Imagine this happening every few months.

Now imagine he's a movie star.

This will be my next Bridgeton Legend.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

This Sums It All Up...

2007-04-05T13:29:00.000-07:00

Jared sends this with one month to go. Many, many people can't wait for his return---myself included.

It was a place where my father was born and raised. A place where the majority of my friends and their families where born and raised. Where we all grew up living less than a mile from each other. The place where you could just stop by a friend's house and walk on in. If your friend was not there you could hang out and talk to his family for a bit and then leave. A place where no one used to lock their back doors.

It was a place where your parents, met, fell in love, raised a family and still live.

It was a place where your 10th grade math teacher had been taught by your Grandmother, then subsequently taught your father, all your siblings and then eventually, you. A place where you wore the same jersey your brother wore when he played for the varsity team. A place where generations of one family had all walked on to the same field and played their hearts out.

It was where the first twelve years of schooling all took place within less than a quarter mile of where you lived. Where the manager of the local hardware store knew everyone in your immediate and extended family by first name. A place where, at 15, you could walk into a liquor store, order a case of beer and put it on your Dad's charge account without showing proof of ID. It was a place where you and all your buddies worked part-time jobs at the local shops downtown every summer.

It was a place that had all the strange, but special, characters roaming around that are known to anyone and everyone by a nickname. At any given time you could possibly encounter Shorty, The Cat Lady, That Bum Gary, Bernie, or many others.

It was a place where there was a developed waterfront, a zoo, an amphitheater for summer concerts, several lakes, a park, historic sites and re-created Swedish and American Indian villages. You could take canoe rides through the raceway out to Sunset and just float all day in the sun.

It was a place where you buried a few of your childhood friends way too early...but their memories have never left you.

It was the place you could not wait to leave and swore you would never return to. It was THE place you returned to whenever you got some free time to come home. A place where you and all your friends would meet up over Christmas and Spring break to drink beers and catch up.

After a few years you realize it's the place that's always anchored you and the grass is not always greener. It's the place you've always called home even though you haven't spent more than 30 days there in the last five years.

It's a place that you longed for during an entire year full of fear. A place that you told everyone about, every chance you got, because it made you forget about where you were and what you were actually doing.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Surf's Up

2007-03-10T17:01:00.000-08:00

by Beefy

While all my friends dove straight into college, I found my dream job and dream lifestyle on the island of Maui. After surfing all morning I'd work as 1st mate on the America II, a retired America's Cup yacht harbored in Lahaina. We'd take tourists sailing in the channels between Molokai, Maui, and Lanai. Occasionally, we'd have a private charter for the rich or famous. Jack Nicholson entertained his 20 year old girlfriend on our boat, and I once took Troy Aikman whale watching.

On this particular charter, we hosted a bachelorrette party of Brazilians. I could hardly believe my eyes as about 15 beautifully sculpted and bronzed women sambaed onto the deck. I'd learned from Jared and Royce to play it cool, so I ignored them while pretending to inspect the rigging and sails as we motored up the coast to Kaanapali. Once at the snorkel site, I dropped anchor and helped the girls into the water.

Although no piece of fabric on the bikinis of my guests was larger than a Dorito, I coolly and professionally played lifeguard, showed them some marine life, and got them back in the boat.
By now the tradewinds were picking up so we set sail as I laid out a buffet of pastries and fresh fruit on a bench centered in the cockpit amongst the beauties. As I straddled the bench, I sliced a fresh local pineapple, taking care to keep my biceps and abs flexed. Just giving the ladies something to enjoy. I started to hear muted giggles coming from a few or them. I just smiled back and continued preparing the fruit.

Soon, all the Brazilians were whispering and giggling and smiling in my direction. As I don't know any Portuguese, I assumed they were trying to decide who would have the guts to ask me out for a night on the town. "What would Royce do?" I asked myself. Yes, I would act as if I had no interest in them and let them come to me.

But these were no coy American girls. They were uninhibited, exotic foreigners. Surely I would be waking up tomorrow entwined with 2 or 3 of them.

So I flashed a smile over to the left, a wink over to the right. The giggles escalated to a few outright laughs."Is this how a girl comes on to a guy in Rio?"

No...they were actually laughing. At me?

The one thing worse than being laughed at is not knowing why. After a few seconds, I looked down and to my horror, I now knew why they were laughing. My shorts, soaked with water, had ripped open from the inseam all the way up to the drawstring.

I spent the final 6 hours of the charter wondering how to say (in Portuguese): "There was shrinkage!"

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Less Is More

2007-03-09T13:45:00.000-08:00

Jared writes from Germany with a modern classic which shows that growing up in Bridgeton teaches everyone how to communicate with anyone.

By the way---in many ways, the line that he writes about has taken on a life of it's own. Like the man who spoke it, it's a genuine Bridgeton Legend.

Here we go. Big thanks to Jared for sending this in...

Women are a funny thing. Approaching them is always a 50/50 toss-up. You have a very good chance of being rejected and walking away humiliated. But one night, back in the day, a good friend of mine amazed me with one of the simplest pick-up lines I’ve ever heard. And it actually worked.

A group of friends and I were at the movies in Deptford watching the latest release of Scream. After the movie, we were getting into the car to leave when we noticed two girls who may have been checking us out. Without hesitation, one of my friends approached the two girls as they were heading toward their car. Without introducing himself or even attempting to engage the girls in a lengthy persuasive conversation in hopes of hooking up, he simply uttered four words---“Yo, you with us?”

Without hesitation, the girls replied with an affirmative and followed us back to his house, forty minutes away.

To this day, I’m still amazed.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Where's the Beef?

2007-02-21T21:24:00.000-08:00

After roughly nine months of no contact, I was finally able to speak to Bridgeton Legend Beefy tonight. This guy moved from Bridgeton to Hawaii all by himself when he was only 17 years old. He's now living in southern California, but happens to be back in Hawaii for work until July.

With the right amount of prodding, we just might be able to convince him to contribute stories of his travels, as well as some classic Bridgeton memories.

Big shout out to Beffy for putting me in touch with Beefy. Believe it or not, that last sentence will make a whole lot of sense to a whole lot of people.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

The Galleon Hunter

2007-02-11T19:58:00.000-08:00

This next story is about Arthur McKee, a Bridgeton Legend unlike any other. McKee was a real life treasure hunter who was born and raised in Bridgeton. In fact, the author of the piece which appears below calls McKee the "Grandfather of Treasure Salvage." This story is actually part of a larger work---Robert "Frogfoot" Weller's fascinating book about McKee called Galleon Hunt. Frogfoot has been gracious enough to allow me to reprint portions of his book here on Bridgeton Legends. We're going to start with Chapter II of Galleon Hunt (entitled "McKee's Early Years"). In the weeks to come, I plan on including other portions of Weller's book on McKee (notably, a piece written by Capt. McKee himself entitled "Survival on Las Tortugas").

About McKee, Frogfoot writes: "He gave America its first look at treasure being recovered from an old Spanish galleon and was able to show young people, and old alike, that sunken treasure was not only a serious business, but one filled with fun and excitement. He created an American dream, a dream that anyone could strike it rich on the trail of gold doubloons and pieces of eight. Like an Irish leprechaun, he chased every treasure rainbow that somehow found its way into his life. And he led the life he always wanted, one filled with the excitement of the hunt, one with a golden condor waiting for him...just over the next reef."

I want to thank Robert "Frogfoot" Weller for his gracious permission to publish portions of Galleon Hunt here on Bridgeton Legends. Anyone interested in purchasing Galleon Hunt or learning more about Frogfoot can do so by visiting http://www.1715fleet.com/1715fleetbooksbyrobertweller.htm

So, without further adieu, I present Chapter II of Robert "Frogfoot" Weller's Galleon Hunt...

McKee's Early Years

Arthur McKee was born November 2, 1910, in Bridgeton, New Jersey, a small, not so sleepy community in the southwestern corner of the state. The nearness of the Delaware Bay---and the Cohansee River flowing along the city limits---provided a made to order setting for youthful hihjinks, if a young man were so inclined. Young McKee was so inclined. He had energy that seemed to mount up and ride off in all directions. The boy groups in town always gathered around young McKee for ideas on how to get into trouble, or out of it.

Art played high school football until he tore the cartilage in his left knee, an injury that would plague him throughout his life. It would almost cost him his life on an obscure island in the Caribbean.

A local doctor operated on the knee, but it was in the days before much was known about athletic knees and the arthroscopic surgery that now mends them. In his case the operation made the situation worse, and his knee and leg began to atrophy. He visited a local osteopath, who treated his injury and did his best to strengthen he limb with exercise. His advice to Art: “Swimming is the best therapy you can possibly give that knee.”

Young McKee needed no further encouragement. He applied for the lifeguard job at Sunset Beach, a local summer center of activity for the younger crowd, and was able to swim to his heart’s content. He kept the job after graduating from Bridgeton High and, along with other odd jobs, he remained a local spark plug.

In 1933 a Florida hurricane swept up the coast, aiming its fury at the New England coastline. South Jersey was inundated by the torrential downpour that followed, and the Cohansee River overflowed her banks. Two oyster schooners broke their moorings, and the rush of water carried them downstream, where they took out the bridge at the end of town.

It was about the same time that young McKee and a buddy decided to take a canoe down the rapids as well. The current was like an express train, and it was great fun until their canvas-covered birch canoe hit the broken pilings in the middle of the river. It broke in two, sending the two young men into the swirling, muddy Cohansee. Even as they swam ashore they were laughing at what a great ride it had been.

The hurricane had a side effect; it dried up he lake at Sunset Beach as the waters receded. Art’s job was now a “mud guard”---as the local papers put it---because the lake had become nothing more than a large, oozy flat.

The city had hired a diver and a barge to repair the bridge, so Art soon made friends with this man who obviously enjoyed the water as much as he did. As a means of introduction, he mentioned that he was the local lifeguard. The diver replied that, being a good swimmer, he should try this deep sea diving outfit. “It’s a different world down there.” But even as Art was agreeing, the diver went on to say that having insurance and his parent’s permission was first priority before even trying on the hard hat. Both seemed pretty impossible at the time, so Art applied for and got the job as line tender.

Each day he would dress the diver, start the compressor and make sure it ran smoothly all day long, then watch for line signals to lower various tools down where the work was being done. At the end of the day it was his job to wash the heavy canvas suit down with fresh water and hang it up to dry.

The forty-pound lead shoes were always covered with mud and had to be scrubbed thoroughly. During the rest breaks, the diver would sit on the edge of the barge and spin stories to Art about the various jobs he had been on and about the accidents that always stimulated an audience. He was told that once the air compressor wasn’t turned on, and the diver was lowered to over 150 feet. When he was finally brought to the surface, the diver had been squeezed like jelly into the cavity of his helmet.

Another time, the chin dump-valve, the valve that a diver regulated with his chin to dump the excel air from his suit, was stuck in the closed position. The tender on the surface kept pumping air to the diver, and soon he shot toward the surface like a hot-air balloon. The closer to the surface he got, the more the air expanded and the larger the suit inflated. By the time he came out of the water like a bloated whale, his arms and legs were sticking straight out from his body. The sudden rush to the surface caused the diver to have the bends…and other complications.

The there were the stories of large, toothy fish that the diver liked to tell all his young audiences, always including an octopus or two. No doubt the stories had a lasting impression on McKee, but not once did it ever dampen his desire to try the diving suit.

His opportunity came one Saturday morning. As a ritual each Friday night, the diver would take his weekly paycheck and drink dinner with it. His hangover always lasted well into Sunday, so the barge was always empty every weekend. Art got one of his buddies to dress him in the 191-1/2 pounds of lead shoes, weight belt, and brass helmet. He explained about keeping the compressor running at all costs, and to watch that his life line and air line didn’t get fouled in the bridge abutment or under the barge.

The friend then helped Art to the diving ladder, a sort of shuffling process because Art could barely lift each foot to take a step. The suit was extremely heavy on his young shoulders, but the challenge was there, and he was determined to see it through.

There were moments of misgivings as he climbed down the ladder, but the suit seemed lighter as soon as he entered the water. As he slipped beneath the surface, someone turned out the lights on him. It was inky black in the Cohansee River. He couldn’t see in any direction, and there was sudden panic as his buddy continued to lower him, deeper and deeper. There was no way but down because he had forgotten to tell his partner on the surface about “hand signals.”

With pressure building on his eardrums, his feet finally struck bottom some thirty feet below. It wasn’t exactly solid bottom because the Cohansee mud had collected there over many years, so Art sort of oozed into the bottom. Before he could take a step, he was up to his knees in mud. More panic as he pulled one foot out and tried to take a step, then pulled the other one out behind him. It was pitch black and he had satisfied that curiosity. Now he had had enough and wanted to come back up.

He knew that the diver worked the valves on the side of the helmet to put air into the suit and start the rise to the surface, but which valve…and how much air? He now began to remember all the stories that the diver had related to him about diving accidents, and he suddenly realized the predicament he was in. He didn’t want to take the chance of cutting all the air off, nor of pumping too much air in and end up floating over the city of Bridgeton on the end of an air hose for all his friends to see.

Finally, he made the decision to walk his way to the side of the river, if he could figure out which direction that was. Slowly leaning into the current, he knew that the river bank was somewhere to his right. So, carefully picking up one foot and then the other, he made some progress. Soon the oozy mud in the center of the channel gave way to a little firmer footing, and he knew that he was going in the right direction. But it as slow going.

It seemed as though he had been underwater for hours. Gradually, he was able to reach the edge of the channel, but now he faced a new problem. The bank was steep and slick, and he couldn’t get a footing to climb up! Art was getting tired now, and it was difficult for him to think his way through this new crisis.

Suddenly he felt himself being pulled, bodily, up the steep bank. Soon the black midnight of the muddy bottom turned to a hazy brown. The next thing he knew he was being dragged through the weeds that bordered the river’s edge by a group of men that his buddy had solicited to help him get Art back to the surface. His buddy had seen that Art was trying to reach the side of the river, and he knew he couldn’t pull him up by himself.

A group of spectators had gathered that Saturday morning to watch this young diver on the bottom, and they wound up dragging him to safety. The two young men spent the rest of the day cleaning the mud off the suit and getting their story straight in case the diver should ask questions about why the suit was still wet. It was a lesson that McKee would not soon forget.

It was also a summer that McKee would not forget for another reason. He met, and fell in love with, an eighteen year old local beauty. It was the love of his life, and before the summer was over, they were married. When his wife first let him know that a child was on the way, McKee was ecstatic. His head was in the clouds, and everything seemed so much brighter and simpler then…a world full of sunshine.

How quickly that evaporated when, in childbirth, his young wife died. Art named his new daughter Phyllis and tried to pick up the threads of his life. Her grandparents had other ideas. After a short court battle, they were awarded custody of the daughter. Art was allowed meager visitation rights, and Phyllis grew up hardly knowing her father at all. He would watch from a distance as she was walked by her grandmother near he playground. He was heartbroken.

In a life that had been so carefree, there was this sudden realization of how tragic life can sometimes be. He decided to leave Bridgeton, and the words of his osteopath now came through loud and clear. His knee still hurt, and he now walked with a noticeable limp. The only place that he could swim throughout the whole year was sunny Florida and, before long, he was headed south.

Arthur McKee never looked back until he reached Homestead, Florida, at the head of the Florida Keys. Here the palm trees lined the center of Main Street, the air seemed a little cleaner, and the rain, when it fell, gave everything a fresher smell. The people seemed as friendly as they were back in Bridgeton---possibly a little more laid-back---and Art was immediately accepted.

He had gotten his easy smile back. As an ex-lifeguard, he first searched out the city pool, only to find it in a sad state of disrepair. The bottom had been leaking, so the city had drained it some time before. There had been no one to take an interest until Art McKee came to town. He played the banjo and soon was able to organize a small group of musicians that began to play at weddings and benefits for donations to the “pool fund.”

Before long they had enough money to repair the pool, fill it, and open for business. The locals found in McKee someone they thought could bet their city recreational program together, so they gave him the job as city recreational manager. This meant chief lifeguard as well, and he was back to his swimming routine.

He saved his money and was soon able to buy a used hard hat diving rig in Miami. Everyone who spent time at the pool was quick to describe the crystal-clear waters of the Keys and the great myriad of fish that lived in the reefs there. He had to see for himself. It wasn’t long before his weekends were spent in slow motion, walking the bottom in twenty to thirty feet of water. It was, indeed, a whole new world for him, certainly a far cry from the muddy Cohansee.

Here the bottom around the reefs was white sand and the water was crystal clear. Some days he could see well over 200 feet in all directions, and with the helmet and bubbles, this new apparition was a natural attraction for fish. Whenever he was on the bottom he would be surrounded by a circus of sea life. Fish of all sorts would nuzzle his faceplate, peering in at this new stranger, or playing fish fantasy among the bubbles that expanded as they neared the surface. And these creatures were everything that everyone said they were. But soon there was something more exciting to Art.

He found himself exploring some of the old shipwrecks that line the reefs facing the Gulf Stream. Many were plotted on charts and were easy to find. Others he would stumble onto as he walked the bottom. No one had ever spent this much time on the bottom along the reefs because it was before the advent of the “aqua-lung.” The great explosive invasion of skin divers to the Keys was still many years away.

As he slowly walked his way around the debris of these once-proud ships, he would spot large sections of copper pipe, now turned a bright green color by long immersion in salt water. Brass fittings sometimes shone brightly, but often they too wore a green patina. Before long he began tying a line around his valuable metal and hauling it aboard his small boat. It surprised him how much money the scrap brought in at the reclamation yards along the Miami River. Soon he was able to purchase a larger boat and bring in scrap iron as well…not as valuable perhaps, but there certainly was a lot more of that littering the bottom than the copper and brass he searched for. Art was enjoying life again.

His love life took a turn for the better as he met, and soon married, a local Homestead beauty. For the next two-and-a-half years he walked a tightrope, doing the best to keep the home fires burning and still spend his spare time out on the reefs. He had this insatiable curiosity about shipwrecks along the edge of the Gulf Stream.

Soon, his son Wayne was born, and Art became a model father. But, as he worked to provide for the family, it meant more time out on the reefs, searching out the scrap that provided a decent income. The city job jever was enough to pay all the bills. It was this constant separation that proved the breaking point, and his marriage dissolved.

Although he had been married only two-and a half years, he was able to keep a close relationship with Wayne in the years to come. Wayne would accompany Art on many dives, and the underwater bug would bite him as well. It brought Art a great deal of shock and sorrow when Wayne, an electrician with the Homestead Light Company, was electrocuted on a light pole at the age of thirty.

Art was to marry again. In fact, it seemed that he married everyone he ever fell in love with. He was a happy-go-lucky guy who felt that he could make everyone as happy as he was. But personalities change, and each time, unfortunately, divorce was the ultimate outcome. He was married to Sarah, and in that marriage his son Mick was born. Then it was Madge, and two red-haired, freckled kids---his son Rick and daughter Pat---were born. When Madge asked for, and received, a divorce, it ended Art’s amorous lifestyle. But his love for exploring the ocean bottom never diminished.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Mash-Up

2007-02-09T18:33:00.000-08:00

It was Friday night in Bridgeton and L Purple was ready to party.

He had just eaten Big John's pizza for dinner and heard we were heading to Dills for a few beers.

The left side of his brain, without consulting with the right side, decided to combine the two:

"So, he asked, "are we going to Big Dills?"

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

L Purple

2007-02-05T19:50:00.000-08:00

This is the actual grocery list of one of my favorite Bridgetonians. I'm reprinting it here, word for word, letter for letter. I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Q-Tibs
Cleaner
Teethbrush

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

The Hits Just Keep On Comin'

2007-02-05T12:52:00.000-08:00

Special thanks to Befff for pointing out Jonathan Adler's website and south Jersey heritage during a mid-morning conference call. Befff's exact words: "When you watch him on Bravo, you can actually hear the Cumberland County in his voice." I consider that a good thing.

http://www.jonathanadler.com

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

From York Street to Hollywood...

2007-02-03T10:16:00.001-08:00

I just got word that Dave Tozer, BHS Class of Ninety-Something, is now working with the likes of John Legend and Kanye West.

Dave was always a cool guy so I'm really happy to hear how successful he's become.

http://www.bmi.com/musicworld/entry/334865

Isn't It Ironic?

2007-01-29T14:21:00.000-08:00

It occurred to Nitsua and I that this site may be turning into a metaphor for something.

Pop Quiz

2006-08-27T17:34:00.000-07:00

Will the next Bridgeton Legend involve:

a) a former Bridgeton exchange student turned burgeoning European rock star?
b) a former Bridgeton student turned American rock star for a brief period in the early 1980s?
c) a boy named "Gurp"?
d) all of the above?

Send your answers to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Greatness

2006-07-31T20:43:00.000-07:00

The Western canon needs to make some room.

I recently received a teaser from the forthcoming epic "Tijuana Nights," and am truly convinced that no other stories will ever need to be written once this monster is complete. Not by anyone, anywhere, ever again. Seriously. Just take a look at the following excerpt...

"Everbody has their limits. Apparently, smuggling a spray painted mule across the international border was Aaron's limit that day."

I keep typing and deleting something to follow it up, but nothing seems good enough, so I'm just going to shut up and wait for the rest...

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Spam, Anyone?

2006-07-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

This next story was written by my grandfather about ten years ago, and he was gracious enough to allow me to post it here. One of the things that I love about this piece is that it takes place in the early 1940s, shortly before my grandfather moved to Bridgeton. At that point in his life, he was stationed in the South Pacific and was not sure whether he would ever make it out alive. He had yet to meet the Golden Girl, had yet to have five children, and had no idea he would one day become a Bridgeton Legend…

Spam, Anyone?
A Memory of World War II

by Robert P. McCormick
22nd Marine Regiment
2nd Separate Tank Co.

On the atoll of Eniwetok, the prevailing winds never seemed to cease. The 22nd Marine Regiment having recently acquired the real estate from the Imperial Japanese Forces were bivouacked here, there, and everywhere on the atoll.

Food was scare, but adequate for survival. K-rations and cans of Van Camps beans were the main staple with plenty of hot coffee. The Navy Medical Corps decreed that screened Company Mess Halls and cooking areas were a requirement to prevent illness before the usual cooked food was provided. This was due to the masses of flies on the recently deceased Imperial Forces. Strenuous methods were employed to inter the remains properly.

In every group of men or women gathered together for whatever cause, there are to be found some enterprising individuals whose minds, innate abilities and inventiveness will improve most situations. One such individual named Schultz, from Minny-sotah (nicknamed, of course, "Dutch"), provided those of us near or in his circle of friends with a long lasting memory.

Spam was in much use during World War II, especially wherever I happened to be. Spam sandwiches with catsup, even today, give me reason to pause---Spam stew, even more so. So much spam was available that I actually saw cases of Spam used to construct holding cells for those Marines who attempted to circumvent the strict rules and regulations. Thirty days on bread and water was not unusual.

Dutch Schultz was not to be denied. A can of Spam and a can of condensed milk, along with a tooth-busting chocolate bar from K-rations provided a real tasty treat and much good fellowship. Dutch's recipe will never be forgotten by me. Slice the Spam into1/4 inch slices. Fry in your mess kit over a medium flame until crispy on both sides. Shave the chocolate bar with your ever handy knife into a can of condensed milk and a can of water. Heat over a medium flame and stir well.

Just imagine the dark of night, a million stars, a new moon, the ever-present ocean breeze under a tent tarp with eight or ten other Marines singing barber shop melodies and eating and drinking the Spam and cocoa. Even today, for me, it is an unforgettable memory. I quite often enjoy at home crispy fried Spam with eggs over easy.

I often wonder how those good men are and hope they have been as fortunate enough as I in these years since the successful conclusion of World War II.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Overlook Nights

2006-07-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

This next installment of Bridgeton Legends comes to us all the way from France courtesy of Mr. Bill Fahber. It's was very difficult for me to resist the urge to immediately post it when Bill sent it to me, but now that people are clamoring for more stories, the time is right. Enjoy.

Overlook Nights
by Bill Fahber

Bridgeton's old Overlook Cemetery is a very special place for me. Not only because I have two grandparents laid to rest there. And not because of the enjoyable summer days playing pickup softball games in the field nearby.

The reason Overlook Cemetery is really close to my heart is because it's where some friends and I played our favorite nocturnal summer sport: running from the cops.

The sport never had an official name. Basically it consisted of putting a quarter in the 7-11 payphone late at night, dialing the police station, complaining that there are a bunch of hooligans carrying on in the cemetery, and then running as fast as possible to get to the cemetery before the cops do. Once there and in position, you simply waited until you saw the police headlights racing up the trail. And then, just when they got close, you ran like hell.

Timing the run was critical. Dart too fast and there's no thrill of the chase. Lag a few steps behind and you're a goner. You really had to find that sweet spot—knowing exactly how big those headlights should look before you made your move. It was sort of like base stealing. We were the Vince Colemans and Ricky Hendersons of the Bridgeton Cemetery Cop Fleeing League. Jimmy Kille was All-Conference.

The funniest, though, was the time Kille almost got tagged out.

At night, it gets pretty dark there. Some of the tombstones are visible, but the playing field is hard to read. This was season four, game eight, and Jimmy Kille was going for a record. After seeing the cop cars, the rest of us were already off and running, but this time Kille was still squatting down—like a track star waiting for the gunshot.

We're yelling, "Jim, come on, we're outta here!" and he's still squatting. Then we're hopping the fence. He's still squatting. Then, just when the cars are close enough that we can hear their tires rubbing against the gravel, Kille plunges forward and flies full-speed ahead. Lightning fast. He looked like a glow-in-the-dark Jesse Owens sprinting through the cemetery night. But then suddenly, with a solid thrust, just as he tries to leap between two big bushes…SPLAT!

I swear, if you've ever watched the Road Runner, where the Wiley Coyote smashes flat against a brick wall and then slowly peels off, that's exactly what it looked like. Between the two bushes was a gigantic marble tombstone, totally invisible to anyone not wearing night-vision goggles. Even during the day you could barely see it.

We were sure he was busted. This time we went too far. Somehow, though, he got to his feet and dashed to safety by the skin of his teeth, but not before giving us the scare of our lives. Whoever's tombstone he slammed into, I could imagine the person up in heaven smiling down, thinking, "Ha ha, game over, you knuckle heads."

And it was over. That night was the final run. Jimmy Kille pulled off the impossible and we knew we'd never top it. Plus, it was just a matter of time before we'd likely get caught. Which we would've deserved, since what we were doing was "dead wrong." So in a way, that hidden tombstone probably saved our hides.

But more importantly, it allowed us to finish our Cemetery Cop Fleeing careers with another perfect season. Undefeated.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Hit Me Baby One More Time

2006-07-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

Alright people, I've got two stories loaded but I'm not pulling the trigger until somebody sends me a third. Let's just do this the easy way so nobody gets hurt.

For now, though, I'll toss out a quick one---a cop friend of mine was telling me about a drunk driver he pulled over in the Bridgeton area who was apparently so wasted that it took him several miles to realize he was being pursued (despite the flashing lights and the blaring siren). When asked why he didn't stop right away, the guy said: "I'm sorry, officer. I didn't hear your lights."

If there's ever been a story that's more self-explanatory, I'd love to see it.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Coming Up Next

2006-07-12T19:45:00.000-07:00

A story written by The French Connection himself---Mr. Bill Fahber---will be posted in a few days, followed by a saga tentatively titled "Tijuana Nights."

After that, a WWII piece that you won't want to miss.

Stay tuned.

The Breaker Summit

2006-07-10T21:00:00.000-07:00

J. Robert Oppenheimer, upon witnessing the Trinity nuclear explosion near New Mexico's Oscuro Mountains in July of 1945, paraphrased a quote by The Bhagavad-Gita: “I have become Death," he said, "destroyer of worlds."

I had the exact same reaction the day I watched a pre-pubescent Ryan Olah trade his dignity for a small plastic action figure made deep in the interior of China.

It's a story so outlandish that I sometimes have trouble comprehending its mere existence on the time-space continuum (sort of like my three years at Bridgeton Middle School). This is a tale of high-stakes negotiation and Lord of the Flies-like cruelty which took place during one sweltering summer afternoon many years ago. My best guess is that this occurred shortly before any of us had developed a conscience. Then again, this might have signaled the exact day when our moral compasses began pointing south. In any event, don't read this if you want to continue believing that children are God's sweet miracles. Only read this if you're willing to face the fact that children are the work of the Devil.

The Breaker Summit
by Kyle

This story is dedicated to Gordie. Thanks for reading.

Ryan (who you all remember from the sniper comedy "The Lake Street War of 1984") was one of those kids who was always---how should I put this---militant for his years. Whether he was firing bottlerockets at the police in some sort of quasi-revolutionary protest of local zoning ordinances or using his sister's cans of Aquanet for the makeshift blowtorching of an invasive species of trees, Ryan was never afraid to shake his boyish clenched fist at the world.

One look at his military ensembles would leave little doubt about his convictions. Ryan wore camoflauge and combat boots, carried Rambo-like survival knives (the kind with a built-in compass on the end and a hollowed-out waterproof handle that held matches) and was prone to saying things like "C-4 would blow that place sky high."

Remember, we're talking about an eleven-year old. Twelve, tops.

Today, Ryan is one of my closest friends. Yet this story took place during a time in Bridgeton history when he was my mortal enemy. My mortal enemy who happened to love G.I. Joe.

My mortal enemy who owned every single G.I. Joe action figure on the market.

Save one.

The only G.I. Joe action figure that Ryan did not own was Breaker.

In typical Kyle fashion, I did own Breaker, and it turns out that Breaker was the one worldly possession that Ryan would stop at nothing to obtain. And what makes the dynamic here so particularly interesting is this---Breaker meant nothing to me. I hated G.I. Joe. There's no real explanation for why I owned Breaker except that fate had decided to bestow me with the power to crush Ryan, thus cementing my place as the craftiest member of Lake Street's nine to fourteen demographic.

After all, Jared was the hot one, Zak was the adorable yet opportunistic one, and that left Ryan and I locked at the horns for the title of most skilled negotiator. It was a crown that Ryan had worn for all too long, but, like Little Mac after three rounds with Super Macho Man, I was ready to move on to Iron Mike.

It was time for a trade.

Sociological fact: some cities have skateboarders. Some have graffiti artists. I can't speak with much authority regarding other Bridgeton neighborhoods at that time, but "trading" was the lifeblood of Lake Street youth culture during the mid to late 1980s (also anything BMX-related---remember Rad?).

It didn't take long for the neighborhood kids to pick up on the entrepreneurial charge lingering in the south Jersey breeze, and a summit was convened on my front porch. Austin mediated. The Nerd of All Nerds was there, as was Zak. Gurp may have been present, as well as various members of the Lake Street B-Squad, but I was too focused on emotionally disemboweling Ryan to pay much attention.

The trading started light. Knowing my love of baseball cards, Ryan offered me a 1986 Fleer Wade Boggs. Believe it or not, I didn't view this low-ball as a slap in the face---it was pure posturing. Ryan was testing me to see if I had brought my A-game. In a way, it was a sign of respect. "No thanks," I said. "I've got like three of those."

"I'll throw in an '86 Dwight Gooden," he said. Beat. "Donruss," he added, his voice brimming with confidence.

"Nah."

"Fine," Ryan said. "I'll give you money."

"How much are you offering?" I asked.

"How much do you want?" he replied.

"How much do you have?"

Ryan hesitated. "Five bucks," he said.

I knew Ryan was crafty. Having cut his teeth bartering in the backrooms of local card dealers, he was an expert negotiator by the age of ten. We're talking hostage-negotiator good. Clearly, his first cash offer would not be his best cash offer. Plus, he was a child with a dark heart: this was the same Ryan who dared me to bury a firecracker in the ashes of an old lady's smoldering ashtray. Also the same Ryan who concocted an elaborate plan (aborted, thank God) to push a local merchant to the brink of insanity. Knowing I had to tread carefully, I declined.

"Fine," he said. "Ten bucks."

Austin stepped in, noting that this would be more than a three-hundred percent return on my investment. Still, I wasn't persuaded.

Frustrated yet not defeated, Ryan offered me his Coca-Cola watch (these things were actually considered cool for a brief period in the late 1980s).

The offer was summarily rejected.

Clearly at his breaking point, he shrieked: "That watch is worth like forty-dollars!"

Didn't matter. This wasn't about money. This was about neighborhood domination.

A stalemate appeared inevitable. Ryan had nothing left to offer and, even if he did, nothing would ever be good enough to satisfy my blood craving. It looked like I was going to keep Breaker, and Ryan was going to keep all of his worldly possessions, as well as his self-respect.

Then Austin made a suggestion.

It started with some sort of meager offer for Breaker (probably baseball cards), yet included a provision that sent a surge of joy coursing up our spines…

"You give Breaker to me," Austin said, "and I'll throw Breaker into Jeddy's Pond right in front of Ryan." Turning to Ryan, Austin said, "That way, you'll never get to have Breaker. Ever."

Ryan squealed in agony.

It was cruel and diabolical and, in typical 1980s Lake Street fashion, we all loved it.

The ball was back in Ryan's court. His window of opportunity was quickly slamming shut and he needed to act fast. Negotiations reached a fever pitch. The more he squirmed, the more the screws were turned.

We had him cornered.

Which brings us to The Dare. For many years, I assumed that The Dare and the utter will that Ryan displayed in completing The Dare were purely figments of our collective imaginations---some sort of harsh emotional karma for what we allowed Ryan to do. But a recently unearthed photograph found deep in the recesses of a Lake Street closet shows the brutal reality of what occurred on that fateful day, and it's just as I remember it.

At the end of Stephen King's "It," the protagonists square-off against the evil entity that has terrorized them since childhood. What they see is a giant spider, not because "It" actually looks like a spider, but because "It's" true form is too horrible for the mind to comprehend. I wish my brain had been so kind. Yet our minds weren't playing tricks on us as we watched Ryan subject himself to one of the most humiliating acts of desperation known to human history, and the photo stands as proof.

It is at this point, dear reader, that I must apologize, for I will not say exactly what Ryan did in the hopes of obtaining a rare yet ultimately pointless action figure. I'll just say that we lost our childhoods that day as we watched one of our own tumble down the rabbit hole. I'm reminded of a quote by Nietzsche: "Insanity in individuals is something rare---but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule."

Yet there is a silver lining to this mushroom cloud---I still have Breaker. Somehow, someway, I still have Breaker. If that doesn't prove I'm one of life's winners, nothing will.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Intercontinental

2006-07-06T20:37:00.000-07:00

We've gone global. Bill Fahber wrote me from France, where he has lived since 2000. He works in advertising, is married and has a two-and-a-half year-old daughter.

He promises to send some material ASAP.

Also, there's a story on the way (from a contributor who will remain nameless, for now) that takes place on the U.S./Mexico border, and I have a feeling that Jared's going to have some more things to say about the Middle East.

Finally, there's a man in Peru who I'm hoping reaches out. We'll see.

From Bridgeton to France to Mexico to Iraq and back to Bridgeton again.

That's how far our influence reaches.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Fancy Meetin' You Here

2006-06-27T18:18:00.000-07:00

by Yours' Truly

Back in 1997 or so, my girlfriend and I had tickets to see Late Show with David Letterman. The folks at Late Show have a policy of overbooking each show, so having a ticket doesn't actually guarantee you a seat. You have to show up a couple of hours ahead of time and have your ticket numbered. Then you stand in line, numbered ticket in hand, and wait to be let inside. Rain, sleet or snow, you stand there exposed to the elements, all for the chance to see the Top Ten List read in person. Meanwhile, there's another line of people who don't have tickets for that night's show, but who are hoping that enough of the people who actually ordered tickets won't show up in time thus, letting some of the standbyers get a seat. Depending on who's appearing on the program that night, the standby line can start forming quite early in the day. This was surely one of those days. It was an A-list lineup: Dan Rather, Tori Amos, and the chick who played Daphne on Frasier. The stars had never shined so bright in the Big Apple!

I knew we had to get there as soon as possible, but we missed the train that we had originally intended to catch and time was running out. If we didn't hit the ground running once we arrived in Manhattan, we probably wouldn't be able to see the show. That would have been a fucking disaster. So we catch the later train and begin run-walking the twenty-some blocks to the theater.

While in the midst of an extremely important argument about who was to blame for our predicament, I noticed a huge (and I'm talking HUGE) person walking straight toward me, his eyes locked onto mine and his arms raised above his head not unlike the way somebody would do if they wanted to intimidate you. Being from Bridgeton, I was used to this. But I was out of my element and this guy was a giant. My fight or flight response was leaning heavily toward flight, so I calmly began positioning myself so that I could shove my girlfriend right into this supposed assailant's oncoming path, thus giving me the edge I would need to escape. Just as I was ready to make my move, I realized who it was, and relief washed over me like a cool splash of Georgetown pool water after Jared's infamous dive.

And so begins one of my favorite Bridgeton Legends of all time: the night I hung out with Bill Fahber in Manhattan.

There, in a city of eight million people, three Bridgetonians found each other. What are the chances?

I forget why Bill said he was in New York that day, but I remember him telling me that he had some time to kill before his ride showed up, so he decided to walk with us up to the Ed Sullivan Theater. Along the way, he asked me if I thought he would be able to get in to see the show. I explained the ticket policy and told him there was no way on God's green earth that he was going to get in to see the show. Bill said he was going to try anyway.

I remember feeling bad, because it was a pretty far walk and I figured that Bill was going to get left out in the cold. What little faith I must have had in the Bridgeton Public Schools. Today I realize that anyone who can make it through Art the Dart's Lab Tech class can surely handle a network page, but back then I was young and stupid and believed the fine print when I read it.

We eventually arrived at the theater, but not before Bill told us about a screenplay he had recently written (which I think was called "Go West"---if anyone has a copy, please send it to me). My girlfriend and I raced to get our tickets "officially numbered" while Bill began chatting with one of the production assistants standing near the doors. The P.A. went inside, then came back out a moment later and handed Bill a ticket.

Long story short, Bill's ticket apparently had some sort of Willy Wonka powers, because it enabled him to jump to the front of BOTH lines. He ended up in the front row on the floor, prime real estate, while the tickets that my girlfriend and I had ordered MONTHS AHEAD OF TIME landed us in the last two seats in the back row of the balcony.

I haven't seen Bill since that night, but I am still extremely impressed with his "Late Show" ticket coup nearly ten years after the fact.

Well played, Bill. Well played indeed.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Technical Difficulties

2006-06-25T13:43:00.000-07:00

Bear with me while I sort out some technical issues.

New material is on the way.

What's In a Name?

2006-06-18T14:16:00.000-07:00

Ryan's back, this time with a story that explores the origin of our town's name. I heard a similar explanation as a child, only mine involved a broken "W" on our fiscally-challenged town's printing press. Either way, it speaks volumes.

Quick side-note: Richie Rich plans on sending a story about "the time Zak's fist met my face," as well as a tennis team first. I'll leave it at that so as not to ruin the surprise. Also, Andy Bodine is working on something about a "yearly event" in Bridgeton. I have no idea what event, but I'm looking forward to his submission like a kid on Christmas Eve.

Finally, I spent the day yesterday baking in the sun at the 23rd Annual Bridgeton Folk Festival. There, Dave Headrick (author of "Fly") reminded me of The Great Chicken McNugget Fiasco of 2005. When this story finally sees the light of day, it's going to make "Super-Size Me" look like an infomercial for Jenny Craig.

And now, back to Ryan, who reminds us that knowing our history does not prevent us from the certain doom of repeating it. But it certainly explains things.

"What's In a Name?"
by Ryan "holaolah" Olah

As an elementary schooler, I took a field trip to Bridgeton. Given our close proximity (Editor's Note: Ryan went to Bridgeton Christian, which is right on the edge of town), we saved $3 dollars on gas for the bus. Hell, we might've even walked.

Anyway, we toured the town, stopping in at historic sites and places of interest. The creme de la cremey climax of the visit was a stop at the newly-opened (and now long-closed) Jersey Cow Cafe.

The thing I remember most about this tour of my hometown was when our guide explained the origin of the name "Bridgeton." As this Bridgeton legend has it, the name of the town comes from the apathy that abounds in this little corner of South Jersey.

The guide said that the town was founded as "Bridgetown" because of our bridge over the troubled waters of the wandering Cohanzick river. The Bridgetown town sign eventually fell into disrepair and the W "just fell off" and the new name of Bridgeton "just stuck".

Don't know if it's true or not but it sure is prophetic.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Golden Girl

2006-05-13T12:41:00.000-07:00

Joining us for this installment of Bridgeton Legends is my grandmother, Janet. I want to get one thing straight: the story she WROTE pales in comparison to the ones she casually told Erin and I when we stopped by the other day, and I'm hoping that with enough encouragement she'll write them all down, sign over the rights and make me a millionaire. I mean it. They're that good.

For instance, she told us about horseback riding as a young woman with a group of her girlfriends through the streets and trails of Bridgeton; about being runner up in the Miss Bridgeton contest (I want to know who the hell won); about her house burning down in the late 1950s and how she raced into one room to save her infant son Dan and then into another room to save her red chinchilla coat which she had recently purchased (on sale) somewhere downtown for fifteen dollars, and how after running outside to safety she sent a guy named Ed Burnight back into the inferno to grab her "important papers"; and finally, she told me about a man stalking the streets of Bridgeton with a gun, searching for my grandfather shortly after he and my Nannan were married.

Her name is Janet McCormick, and those were the stories she didn't write.

This is the one she did…

The year was 1940.

How well I remember beautiful Bridgeton, New Jersey when my parents and four siblings moved here from Millville.

I was the oldest child and worked as a telephone operator for Ma Bell where I made many new friends.

I remember J.C. Penney's and Zambone's department stores. Each store had a cable which ran up to a cashier's cage where the sale was finalized. Zambone's even had an elevator.

The Sweet Shop was our favorite place with cherry and vanilla cokes, hamburgers and milkshakes while the restaurant owned by the Galanos family was always crowded. Jimmy Galanos was often our waiter but he moved on and became a famous dress designer in California.

Although I have other memories that were so nice I will mention briefly only a few more---Saturday nights downtown when stores were open, throngs of people walking and visiting. And oh! Christmas season when everyone you met would say "Merry Christmas!" and you would reply "Happy New Year!"

Doors left unlocked, bread and milk deliveries.

What a nostalgic feeling.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Have You Seen Me?

2006-05-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

I just received an e-mail from a very special someone who promises to send a story very soon. I'm keeping this person's identity a secret for now, but I will say this: get ready for some good stuff. If our future mystery contributor performs only 1/10th as well as I know they can, then we'll all be very entertained. I have nothing but good things to say about this person, but even if I didn't, I would refrain from doing so because I don't want to end up on a mild carton
(inside joke for Zak).

Don't Be Scared

2006-04-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

A very smart, very accomplished friend of mine from Bridgeton recently told me that the quality of writing on this website has been so strong out of the gates that he's too intimidated to contribute. He said, (and I quote): "You've got Pulitzer Prize winners writing for you. I was cracking up reading about Ryan getting shot by a sniper. I actually had tears in my eyes."

Which brings me to this point: if you're from Bridgeton, you shouldn't be afraid of anything. Send your stories.

Second, this friend said that no one would even know any of his characters because he didn't grow up on Lake Street.

I want to address that: it doesn't matter if we don't know exactly who the people are as long as you describe what makes them interesting. Dave's entry "Fly" is a perfect example. I have no idea who that guy was, but Dave brought him to life in just a few short sentences. I know there are countless tales just like that, floating around in the ether, waiting for someone to put them to paper.

What are you waiting for?

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

"Fly"

2006-04-20T13:08:00.000-07:00

This one is great.

Dave, father of Austin ("The Lake Street War of 1984") proves that a story doesn't have to be long to make an impact. I know for a fact that Dave has tons of legendary stories, and I personally hope that this is the first of many. I'll shut up now...

"Fly"
by Dave

The first time I saw him, I was amazed.

Here was a 6' 6" guy that had to be 27 years old playing basketball with a bunch of 12-year olds. I eventually heard the legend that he jumped off the roof and tried to fly as a young boy. They say he never mentally aged after that day. Everyone in my neighborhood and in the 4th Ward met and learned about special people from him. He played baseball and basketball and collected baseball cards with us. Many a slow summer day was spent playing catch and drinking sodas, hanging out with "Fly."

As we grew up and replaced baseball cards with girls, we hung around with him less and less. I like to think another group of 12-year olds became his new friends. I saw him again in my late 30's after I had kids of my own. He had really aged and obviously didn't recognize me, but his Mom got a little teary-eyed when I told her that whenever the old gang gets together and talks about the good old days, Fly still had a special place in our thoughts. As he used to say,"The monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole."

I have no idea what that means, but I still say it all the time.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Nerd of All Nerds

2006-04-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

This next installment of "Bridgeton Legends" comes to us all the way from Germany, courtesy of Jared, who writes: "I think it's only fair that I tell this story since I am the one who actually holds the title."

The title, believe it or not, is "Nerd of All Nerds." This story is one of the all-time greatest hits of our childhood. It's a coming-of-age tale on par with "The Catcher in the Rye." Only "Nerd of All Nerds" is much, much better. And now, without further adieu...

Nerd of All Nerds
by Jared

When I was in elementary school my friends Kyle and Ryan held memberships to a private swim club called Georgetown. Every summer Kyle, Zak, Ryan and I would spend our days at Georgetown enjoying the summer sun where the girls were plentiful. This particular pool had a deep and shallow end, sliding board and two diving boards. It was on the high dive that I would earn my title.

One particular sunny, humid day Ryan, Zak, Kyle and I arrived at the pool ready for fun. As soon as we arrived I noticed that the Winnie Cooper of our childhood was there with a friend.
After getting changed and stowing our gear in a locker we hit the pool ready for a good time. I found myself on the diving boards practicing my sad attempts at cannon balls and flips while other more talented guys where doing 1 1/2's to perfection. After a few trips off the boards I noticed that Winnie was hanging out in the deep end of the pool watching the fellas take their turns at diving in.

A great idea hit me. I checked out the more talented divers and thought, "Hey, I can do that. Maybe Winnie will see me and think I'm cool." So, with that thought, I took the long trek up the ladder to the high dive. I paused for a moment to visualize my flip which would finish with a perfect dive into the cool water below. I took a deep breath, ran toward the end and thrusted myself off the platform with all my might. I flipped once, came around the second time and prepared to straighten out for my entrance into the water. Only, the water didn't wait. The water met my chest at a perfect angle for what resulted in the loudest SMACK ever heard at Georgetown. It was like a sonic boom. I immediately felt the pain, not only of embarrassment but physical, as well. I could not breath and sunk to the bottom of the pool hoping no one had witnessed the act and would forget about it by the time I surfaced.

Eventually I rose to the top of the water and swam to the ladder. I distinctively remember the life guard yelling, "Are you alright?" It was at that point that Winnie Cooper announced, "He is the nerd of all nerds."

Job well done on my part. I came away from the experience with a title, embarrassment and a lot of laughs. Good times.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Crazy in Iraq

2006-04-18T10:08:00.000-07:00

Jared writes:

I want to preface this story by letting you know that it is NOT about Bridgeton. But for all my former comrades-in-arms playing Army in the woods behind Lake Street---live vicariously through my experiences...

It was a hot, dry day just outside the city of Najaf, Iraq. My team and I had just been moved over to 1-64 Armor with the 3rd Infantry Division during the push to Baghdad. We were staged about a mile down the road from a major intersection just west of the city. It was about 1000 hours and we had been driving non-stop for the last two or three days. There I was, dressed in my chemical protection suit (minus the gas mask), carrying my M16 rifle, 110 rounds of 5.56 ammunition and wearing a kevlar vest and helmet. I had not bathed in about a week and could only imagine what I must have smelled like.

My team and I got a call that there was a situation up at the intersection and that we needed to get up there with our interpreter to find out what was going on. We jumped in our truck and drove up to the intersection. As we approached, an Army captain was standing in the middle of the road waving us down. We pulled off to the side of the road and immediately knew something bad had happened. When I got out of the truck I saw a US soldier pacing back and forth while mumbling curse words to himself. Just beyond him was a dead man lying on the ground in one of the most contorted positions I have ever seen. This would be the first dead body of the war that I would encounter, but not the last.

The Captain who waved us down proceeded to explain the situation to my team leader and interpreter. As they were talking I walked over to the mumbling soldier and tried to get his story on the situation. I asked him, "What happened man, are you alright"? He replied, "Fucker...so stupid...that guy is crazy, man." I asked again, "What happened here?" The soldier was still pacing back and forth, holding his head and cursing. I finally got him to stop and talk. It was at this point that I noticed a small crowd of Iraqi civilians gathering around the scene.

The soldier began to tell me his story. "I was off to the side of the road, over there in the bushes, trying to take a shit. My team and I were pulling security to screen anyone coming through this intersection. Then all of a sudden this crazy fucker comes running out of his house, from across the street, throwing rocks at me and yelling. I blocked the first rock he threw with my hand." The soldier showed me his bloody hand at that point. He continued, "Then he threw a second rock and it hit me in the head. I yelled to my buddy to shoot the guy. I could not react fast enough because I was in the middle of taking a shit. My buddy fired and hit the guy in the waist but he kept coming. So I stood up and shot the fucker in the chest. I couldn't even pull my fucking pants up man. I shot him with my pants around my ankles man. Fucking crazy bastard!"

It was a strange story to say the least. I immediately believed it though, as the soldier's pants were still undone and he continued pacing. Just as he finished telling me the story an Iraqi civilian emerged from the gathering crowd and asked to speak with our interpreter. The Iraqi explained that the dead body on the ground was his brother. The Army Captain immediately tried to explain the situation and appease the family member. The Iraqi immediately interrupted the Army Captain and stated, "It's okay, it's okay. My brother was crazy anyway. We usually kept him chained to the bed in his room because he was so crazy. He was the village crazy person." At that point two other Iraqi's came through the crowd with a blanket, wrapped up the body and carried it away.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

An Icon Steps Forward...

2006-04-17T09:55:00.000-07:00

Ray Maier, a true Bridgeton Icon, has offered to write up the story of when Jared got thrown out of a Cohansey Soccer Leage game. This should be good.

If there ever were true Bridgeton Legends, it's the Maier family. I've known them my entire life and know for a fact that they have tons of great stories. I've asked Jared to recruit all of them for this project.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

14+1

2006-04-17T09:46:00.000-07:00

I-e I-e I-e I-e I need somebody to write up the history of the greatest fucking rock n' roll band of all time, Thirsty Jerk.

Alex? Bill? Rich?

Of course, we all remember Thirsty Jerk's rock opera "14+1." But what of the origins of that phrase? It will take a bold person to step into those waters.

By the way, what's 5 times 3?

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

A Call to Arms

2006-04-16T20:23:00.000-07:00

The following public service announcment comes to us from Ryan Olah. If this essay doesn't inspire you to start writing and contributing, nothing will. It's incredible in every way. This guy WILL write a bestseller someday.

Two things, however:

1) I am NOT the author of this site. I'm just a guy with a guitar, pouring his heart out.

But really, this site is meant to be a collection of authors. If you've got something good to say, we'd love for you to join us.

2) Just so there's no confusion: Bridgeton Legends is not meant to be limited to Lake Street Legends. We'll take any neighborhood, any era, as long as it's Bridgeton-related. But don't expect to top Lake Street Legends for sheer absurdity. And trust me, we've got a brutal group of witnesses so there will be no doubt by the time we're through: this shit happened.

Prepare to be inspired...

My Past Is Catching Up With Me
by Ryan Olah

Something I've failed to tell you before this point in our relationship: I was a warchild. Dear readers, please welcome the newest blog on the block, Bridgeton Legends. It just so happens that it's about everything that's happened on my block of origin. It's weird, the site is authored by Kyle, the guy who puts more work into holaolah than I do, and he's recruiting the old gang to immortalize the tales of the old neighborhood and town.

I'm excited and scared. Excited because there's a lot of gold in these stories. We had a very rich upbringing and there are laughs a plenty to be had by the readers/hearers of these legends. I guess the scared part comes with the fact that these stories are finally being put down. We'll no longer have the oral tradition to tell around the fires when we take our firstborn out into the woods to teach them the old ways of digging trenches for the impending Russian invasion, how to use a Wiffleball bat as a rock launcher, building match-head bombs, and the lengths that some of us will go to to complete our G.I. Joe collections.

The Lakestreetians will now be chronicled, and the embellishments might cease. We'll have to come to a communally agreed upon version of the truth. There is a danger in documentation, we might lose the flourish of a new voice in the retelling of our old tales. If I do commit the story of the "Fire on the Wire," will I truly be able to capture my father's pride in the event? Can I write it in such a way that will convey his tears of joy in making Mrs. Morvay lose her steaks? Another reason I am kinda dreading this venture goes something like this -- the legends that I am involved with usually end up with me being embarrassed or preyed upon in some way. The legend titled "Rusty's Cage" will basically end with me being captured by the older guys on the block and thrown into the pen of Kyle's horn-dog Golden Retriever, Rusty. To make a long story short, Rusty was a sexual predator, and the kids on my block stood outside his cage laughing as Rusty, well, used me as his bitch. Fun times. This is the reason that I prefer cats.

But really, all of the above can be chalked up to fear. At least we'll be doing something deliberate to try and get this stuff down. That's worth a lot. I think we can tackle all those previously mentioned concerns as they come up. For now, we're starting something, and that speaks volumes about the people of my hometown. There's no more saving this stuff for a rainy day -- waiting till someone pays us to write them or until one of us finds some sweet writing gig somewhere which probably won't happen. I do still think that Mr. Ira Glass and his "This American Life" radio-show should take notice of this cache of great storytelling.

It's like the old neighborhood gang is calling me out to play "Hide & Go Seek Army," or calling me out to fight for some reason I don't understand. There's no point in staying inside anymore, there's nothing on TV. The real life is outside, on the street. I guess I'll go out and play. And if they try and throw me into a dog pen again, make no mistake, I will fight any beast that attempts to have his way with me.

Let's write.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Jared's On Board

2006-04-16T14:09:00.000-07:00

Don't just take my word for it...

Jared, a Bronze Star recipient (and the 2005 winner of The Kyle McCormick Award For Excellence) has called this site---and I quote---"genius." More importantly, he promised to send material for your reading enjoyment.

In addition, we here at Bridgeton Legends continue to eagerly await Ryan "holaolah" Olah's forthcoming saga "Fire on the Wire." All you reader (soon to be readers) can also look forward to the following:

"The Dart" (aka "I Don't Deal in Tissues")

"A Child Called Wombat"

and the first installment of "Where Are They Now?"

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

The Lake Street War of 1984

2006-04-15T17:54:00.000-07:00

Austin writes:

Not many people are aware of a small territorial war that occurred in the back yards of Lake St. during the 1980’s. This was not a conventional war. It was more of an oppression of the wild youth of that time period. On one side, you had Ryan Olah, Kyle McCormick, Zak Headrick, Jared Maier, and a few unsuspecting fishermen (non-Lake St. people---civilians, if you will). On the other side, a lone gunman, a BB Gun sniper. This sniper would fire at any of these enemies who dared fish the waters behind 109 Lake St. Most times, the sniper would miss several times before the victim would realize they were being targeted. Once they realized though, it would become a mad scramble for cover. Innocent kids turned into scared prey in the blink of an eye. That area of Jeddy’s became a mini-Sarajevo.

One August day, the first casualty of the war was taken down by the sniper. By this point, the mere sound of a window opening sent the kids scrambling for safety. The sniper spotted his target. A young Ryan Olah taunted him by fishing in the clearing behind the Morvays. Everyone knew this was a favorite Kill Zone. Yet, young Ryan threw caution to the wind with dreams of a 5 pound carp.

Many speculated the sniper had stocked Jeddy’s that year, just to lure the targets in, but this is nonsense. As the sniper pumped his air rifle, he planned a surprise attack. He would fling open the patio door and fire quickly to try to pin his prey down. Then, he could circle around Mrs. Woodruff’s driveway and rush Ryan’s hideout. Well, it started as planned. The door flung open, and the sniper quickly pointed the rifle and fired. The golden BB went sailing, as if in slow motion. The sniper watched it arc up and start back down. Could it be? No Way! A direct hit. The BB hit its victim in the back, dead center. Ryan should have earned the nickname, “Potato Sack”, because that is what he dropped like. Face first into the dirt. He let out a deafening scream as he went down. At first, the sniper feared he had shot a 6 year old girl. Initially, Ryan lay still, playing possum. But as the distinct sound of a BB gun being pumped reached his ears, instinct kicked in. He jumped up and took off. I fired two more shots at him, as he sprinted home, but just to keep him running. I didn’t want him turning me into the U.N. (i.e. Grandma Headrick). That would have meant some form of sanctions against me. Sorry Ryan, War is Hell.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

The Die is Cast

2006-04-15T13:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers, here's what you can expect in the days to come...

Ryan, by a majority vote, has been assigned the following story: "Fire on the Wire." This is a famous Lake Street legend that only gets better with age.

Also, we'd like to see "The Queen of Sweden 'Frees' Zachary Brownbear" if Ryan can fit it into his busy schedule.

Austin, we're eagerly awaiting "The Deer Slayer." Another classic. You also have something secret you're cooking up? Can't wait.

Zak, I don't expect much from you for a week. Have fun in the Dominican Republic. I hate you.

Nate suggested "The Legend of Buford Biggz." Any takers?

Send the stories to me and I'll post them. Don't be surprised if I do some editorial work.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Bring It

2006-04-15T00:07:00.000-07:00

Zak, Austin, Ryan, Royce, Kyle G., Alex...bring it.

Nate G., if you're reading this, likewise.

And I need you guys to pass this along to anyone else who might bring something good to the table.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Liftoff

2006-04-14T23:31:00.000-07:00

This site is dedicated to the people of Bridgeton, NJ---past and present. If you've got a Bridgeton story, send it to us. If this thing takes off, the world will learn what the rest of us have known for years, that this town is rife with great material. Let's spread the word.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com