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Sounds fun, I'm in!
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Sep 9, 2021 10:08
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| # ¿ May 10, 2024 18:14 |
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Chili posted:Oh, also, we're still seeking someone to help copy the stories from here, to a google doc, so we can judge them anonymously. If you're interest in lending your hand for this task, let me know! Nm, someone who's not writing should do it My Shark Waifuu fucked around with this message at 22:17 on Oct 8, 2021 |
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Oct 8, 2021 20:52
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I am!!  Link here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/13Y_iuh8MFKlrZ6XpC6UPKjDCHpYd3HHXnnvSxW2iALw/edit?usp=sharing
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Oct 9, 2021 01:57
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Rakiura 1260 words The tiny town of Bluff clings to the bottom of the South Island, the cold southern ocean lapping at its doorstep. It’s known for two things: the world-famous-in-New Zealand Bluff oysters and the ferry to Stewart Island. The oysters taste mild and sweet, while the trip across the Foveaux Strait is notoriously rough. Naturally, I was there for the ferry. The ferry building is little more than a shack on the dock, so I wait outside and stare at the choppy grey sea, telling myself that I’m not running away. I’m just taking a break, recharging, all those positive things my mindfulness apps encourage me to do. Sure, they recommend activities like yoga instead of booking a multi-day trip at ten o’clock the previous night, but it’s the same idea. I’m going to do something to rejuvenate myself. I’m going to do a three-day hike on Stewart Island. I haven’t done an overnight tramp before, but that’s why it’s good. Accomplishing a new challenge will surely reinvigorate me. An Antarctic gust slaps me in the face and I shiver, despite my fleece coat. Thoughts of the client projects I left behind, dumped on the rest of my overworked team, bubble up and I do some deep breathing to banish them again. I’d have to work late nights and over the weekend when I got back, but that was fine. That was normal. To distract myself, I watch a fishing boat slowly crawl into the harbour, a sign on the side advertising Bluff oysters. My traitorous brain immediately thinks of my first date with Steven, where we ate oysters and drank white wine all night in a bustling Auckland bar. I wince at his last words the night before: come back when you’re ready to prioritize us, Martha. The unfairness still stung, he knew work kept me busy. I told him, as I had a hundred times, that it would all be worth it when we landed the big contract, but he didn’t believe me. Finally, the ferry arrives. I stow my bags in the waterproof bins and take a seat between some rugged fishermen. A paper bag hangs ominously on the seat in front of me. I hope that I won’t need it, but as the ferry clears the harbour, that hope dies. The boat rocks side to side, up and down, rolling like an aggressive carnival ride. I cling to the seat and stare fixedly at the horizon, but I still vomit halfway through the trip. An attendant, walking casually as though she’s on dry land, wordlessly takes the full bag and gives me another one. After a tortuous hour, the ferry docks on Stewart Island. Town population: 400. I shakily step off the ferry and the locals around me scatter into the little cluster of buildings that make up the town. I trudge up the hill to my accommodation, a tiny cabin in the woods behind the town. It’s dark by the time I get there. I unpack and decide to skip dinner in favor of just going to bed. I desperately want to take a bath first but the water is cold. I’m stumped until I read in the house manual that I have to make a fire in the wood stove to heat the water. I wasn’t in Girl Guides, so I stuff the stove full of logs. It won’t light and I’m about to give up and/or cry when I remember the newspaper. Finally the fire gets going, but I cry anyway. I’m just as miserable as I was at home. The next day, I set off on the hike. I stop in at the ranger station in town, where they warn me that it’ll rain for the next two days. I wave off their concern; what’s a little rain? Just adds to the challenge. Within a few minutes of walking, I’m out of the town and into the untouched forest that blankets the vast majority of the island. The only evidence of humanity is the trail that I follow. I breathe in the cool air, super-oxygenated from all the plantlife. All the suffering I endured to get to this point was worth it, I think. I am being rejuvenated. Of course, the rangers were right: the rain starts in the late morning. I pull on my raincoat but within the hour I’m soaked. Whenever I rest, I start shivering, but I tell myself I can dry out once I reach the first hut. The rain intensifies as the trail winds down into a gully. Soon I’m trudging through ankle-deep mud that threatens to suck the boots off my feet with each step. Rain streaming down my face, I grit my teeth and push on. This is the challenge, I tell myself. It’ll feel so good to overcome it. I sit on the driest log I can find for lunch. The rain turns my sandwich to mush before I can eat half of it. A cold wind blows through my damp clothing. My socks are more mud than wool and, upon inspection, my backpack hasn’t protected my sleeping bag from the rain. I tell myself to get up and carry on, but my body stays sitting on the log. I’m so alone. Tears start to mingle with the rain and I wish I was back in my cabin, warm and dry next to the fire. From the depths of my despair, a new thought arrives: why not go back? It’s not like I told anyone I was going to do this hike. You’d be letting down yourself, my old voice says, think of how rewarding it will be to finish! But I’m miserable now, the new thoughts argue, will the sense of accomplishment cancel out all this suffering? You need this, the old voice says, you need to do this to feel better about yourself. No, I don’t, I realize. The rest of my life is hard enough, recovering from it doesn’t need to be hard too. I stand up and turn back towards the town. Even though the trail heads uphill, I make good progress, my backpack feeling lighter with each step. The mud is as sticky as ever, but the promise of a hot bath kept me from worrying about it. Even the rain seems to lighten up. I arrive back in town in the late afternoon, pick up groceries from the tiny market (apologizing to the owners for tracking mud everywhere), and skip back to my cabin. I strip off my wet clothes, light the fire easily, feeling like an expert already, and cook myself a filling steak dinner. Afterwards, I fill up the bath with wonderfully hot water and sink into it, glass of wine in hand. For the first time in days, my shoulders relax. I close my eyes and listen to the rain patter on the tin roof. I spend the next three days in a similar fashion. In the morning, I stoke the fire while I drink coffee and read a book. During the day, I check out the town, chatting to the locals, or go for small walks to the beach. At night, I cook and take a hot bath. By my standards, I do nothing, but it’s glorious. On the last day, I ruefully leave my little haven and catch the ferry back to Bluff. My phone blows up with notifications as soon as I’m back on the mainland, but I turn it off. There will be time to deal with the real world tomorrow.
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Oct 9, 2021 03:59
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