There Will Be Stories

Their ‘Poems of the Road Contest’ (timed for National Poetry Month) offers a chance to win $2,000 (and eternal glory on the Esurance blog). In addition to literary fame, the winning poets receive:

$2,000 (grand prize)
$1,000 (second place)
$500 (third place)

NPR’s Car Talk guys, Tom and Ray Magliozzi are the guest judges, and people can read the poems and vote for their favorite via Facebook. To qualify for the contest, a poem must be 14 lines or less, original, and feature the word “road” in the body or title. Submissions will be judged based on equal parts creativity/originality, content, imagery, and audience votes on Facebook. (Voting will be open until May 7, so get those entries in early).

Aspiring writers can enter starting by visiting Esurance’s Facebook Contest Page. The contest runs through April 30, 2012. People can vote on their favorite poems through May 7, 2012. You can find more details in their blog post. Good luck.

Hmm. What rhymes with ‘transmission fluid’?

McConkey Trailer

But then, there’s this terrifying possibility, in which a plucky woman’s cord snaps, dropping her 60 feet into the alligator-infested Zambezi River 365′ below the sketchy-looking leap-off point. Watch to see the aftermath; forget bungee jumping ever again. (Via Adventure Journal)

Ho ho ho, all aboard the S.S. Disastro!

Being the selfless, caring person that I am, I generously give up my seat to an elderly man. My behavior is encouraged by the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and I’m waiting for a ferry that will take me to my home island of Martinique after a holiday in Dominica. After two hours and six minutes of standing, my Mother Teresa-like demeanor is lost. My feet ache, the nonstop Caribbean sun is painful on my already sunburned skin and sweat begins to drip off my chin, bringing my sunscreen with it. Any feelings of merriment and goodwill are gone. I shoot an envious glare at the rather smug man relishing the shade of my seat.

I should mention that this two hour, six minute wait for our ferry occurs after we’ve been hustled through a frenzied ticketing, customs and security check, which entail long, disorderly lines and a man who seems to get a nasty enjoyment from completely unpacking your bag…The entire process takes an hour and a half itself and occurs in a ferry terminal the size of most people’s living room. After making it through the three, separate lines we find ourselves in a partially outdoor, non-air conditioned room that brings out the worst in everyone, especially the locals who notoriously forego deodorant.

In short, the waiting area is a crowded, smelly mess. The lucky ones, like me, are able to claim a seat. The stupid ones, like me, also thoughtlessly give them up, assuming that the boat will be on time.

As we wait we enjoy the afternoon’s entertainment: boatloads of happy (albeit sunburned) Germans being transported to the ferry dock from the vast, luxurious cruise ship they arrived on. The sea is rough and each boat struggles to tie up and safely unload another group of activity hungry Germans. We all allow ourselves a laugh as they’re forced to awkwardly hop from the rocking boat onto land. Of course, it may sound a bit mean, but I have a hard time feeling bad for someone who gets to spend Christmas Eve hiking to one of the island’s 365 waterfalls, biking or visiting the natural sulfur springs – with a native tour guide in tow. We on the other hand, are waiting in the heat for a boat that doesn’t seem to be coming.

As our overdue ferry appears we let out a cheer, a late boat is much better than no boat at all. The choppy water is making it difficult to secure the ferry to the port, but after several tries, the boat is tied up and the boarding ramp is carried over. With the ramp attached and the ferry secured, we watch the first few passengers descend off the boat. All progress is halted as a big wave pushes the boat higher bringing the connected ramp with it. One passenger is caught on the ramp and flung onto the concrete as the boat rears back. He’s rushed away from the rocking boat and an ambulance arrives shortly after.

Shock lingers in the air and now it’s the Germans’ turn to stare as each remaining passenger is forced to run down the constantly moving ramp. Somehow even the high heel clad women manage.
Needless to say, the ferry company doesn’t want to risk re-boarding the boat, so we all turn around and wait in yet another line for an “official stamped ticket” that granted us the “chance” to board the Christmas day ferry. The thought of living through the day’s events again was terrifying. Our Christmas Eve had included five hours of standing in lines and waiting (without a seat). Upon receiving our “official stamped ticket” we were told to find a nearby hotel (on our dollar, of course) and come back tomorrow to do it all again. This time, I tell you, I won’t give up my seat to anyone. —Eve Donegan

The Accidental Extremist loves beer — much of the time it’s the only safe thing to drink! In fact we love it so much that we teamed up with Beer West magazine for a contest you can really drink to. Send them a story for a chance to win. How? Read this piece by Beer West Editor Emily Hutto for inspiration… and then get cracking.

FOOT LOOSE

I step off a cruise ship, disoriented and mildly nauseous from a week of rocky seas. I venture onto the cobblestone pavement of the port in Brazil, where round women in rounder costume skirts serenade the town. I walk to the side of the dock, scoping out the surrounding boats and ships. It’s refreshing to see so much color after a week of blue-waves and sky and ship tablecloths-all blue.

Another ship is pulling in next to mine and a rowboat of fisherman is anchored nearby. I sit on the dock and stretch my foot out to sit cross-legged when off flies my flip-flop into the ocean. Great. My first step into a new country is going to a barefooted one.

Before I even have a chance to react, one of the fishermen anchored for lunch dives into the ocean to rescue my floating flop! His strapping shoulders hoist him back onto his boat. Immediately he turns back to me, waving with a wide smile and flip-flop in hand.—Emily Hutto

Now, it’s your turn: Beer West is calling for submissions of your best 700-word travel narrative and photos. Please email your story to emhutto@beerwestmag.com by December 31st, 2011 to win prizes featured in Beer West’s Spring Issue Road trip Gear Guide. Your story will also be featured in the “Confessions” section of the Spring 2012 Travel issue of the magazine. Please email all submissions and put TRAVEL STORY in the subject line. One story and photo entry per person. The winner will be notified via email.

With full ferocity of the engine we were cutting the fall wedge with the first chainsaw. It ran 6 inches into the burning tree, dulled and became bound. The second chainsaw was slashed in to cut it out. In the frenzy it too jammed, soon slack, dull, smoking and useless. The tree continued to burn, and with only a small wedge just begun, it continued to stand.

As we toiled over the technology that was letting us down a wild idea was thrown out. “What about the cross-cut saw?” someone asked. It sat decoratively above the doorway in the dining hall. It was a bygone hand tool from a bygone time and was now our only option. A counselor took off running to grab this, our only hope. His leather fringe disco vest and afro wig of a bygone fashion bounced and waved as he ran.

We took shifts heaving the cross-cut saw in turn as one would tire out. The swaying hips and bobbing heads of those on the saw in their disco outfits looked similar to the dance moves that were being practiced during the day to prepare for the Saturday Night Fever Dance later that night. It is hilarious to imagine now, only nobody was laughing then. The tree was still standing and still burning. Suddenly a “pop” and then another, and in unison shouts of caution turned to cheers as the tree began to fall safely, thunderously and magnificently toward the meadow. In a fiery swhoosh it landed and a line of campers holding pots of water stretch from the tree to the kitchen sink in the dining hall providing an endless flow of water.

When it was over we stood staring in amazement. The forest was saved. We worked together flawlessly and efficiently without a single designated leader but rather a collective intelligence that made decisions in an instant and, most importantly, in impeccable disco fashion. The dance could go on.

John Cameron writes from coffee places and green spaces around Philadelphia. His art is inspired by travel and all things wild and his bag is never unpacked. Find more online here.