Tales of a 6th Grade Nothing

A few weeks ago I found my old 6th Grade notebook that I wrote all my short story assignments in. I can't imagine why I would have kept it, but I am glad I did.

As a writer, I have been asked many times when I knew I was going to be a writer. I guess I had always enjoyed writing, as evident by this blast from the past. I have to say, though, I do remember my father pushing me at this age to come up with good ideas and write better than I might have without his pressure. I'm sure many of these stories have his influence on them, and for that I am grateful.

I have typed up one of the first stories in the notebook and have included it here for you to read. I hope you like it.


Reading Guy Galli
Period 2 Feb 7, 1982

Five Miles Off Kotzebue Sound


“Mayday! Mayday! Do you read me? Point Barrow! Do you read me? Iced wings! Repeat! Iced wings! I’m going in for a crash landing. Five miles northeast of Kotzebue Sound.”

The next day I woke up—alive, but cold and numb. I decided to take a look outside. All I could see was snow blowing in my face. I climbed back into the plane for something to east. All I found was a half-eaten pastrami sandwich and a can of beer. The plane was full of supplies, all right, but mostly valves, regulators, and pipe destined for the oil pumping station at Point Barrow.

My flight survival course had taught me to stay with the plan and wait for help, but I couldn’t be sure my “Mayday” call had been heard. If I stayed I could easily starve or freeze to death. I decided to start out on foot for the Eskimo villages which I knew dotted the shores of the Katzebue Sound.

It was mid-morning before I was packed for the journey complete with snowshoes. A blinding snow was still falling and it was difficult to see where I was going. “I might be going in the wrong direction,” I thought. The going was tough and night was coming on. The temperature was falling. I stumbled into a large crevice in the snow which got me out of the wind. I started a small fire using pieces of packing crate I had brought from the plane. I took a bite or two from my sandwich and fell asleep.

That morning I awoke to the sound of a polar bear. I was frightened more than ever now. I didn’t have any weapons except for a pocket knife. By the time I could reach my knife, the bear was all over me. I jabbed and slashed until the knife found its way to the bear’s stomach. The bear bellowed and ran away to find easier prey. I was in bad shape, myself, but I felt that I had better move on because the bear would probably be back. I bandaged my wounds the best I could and climbed out of the crevice.

The snow storm was calming down, and I could see better than the day before. I headed southwest. Four hours had passed when, over a ridge, I saw an Eskimo village. I didn’t speak Eskimo, but I didn’t have to. They saw my wounds and that I was blue and numb and took me in. They warmed me and fed me whale blubber. I was so hungry that I ate it like it was steak.

After I ate and rested, I tried to communicate with my newly found friends. One of them spoke a little English. I told him the whole story of how I had become stranded and my fight with the polar bear.

The next day, the Eskimos loaded me onto a dog sled. It was three days before we reached Nome. If it wasn’t for the Eskimos, I wouldn’t have lived to tell this story.


THE END