The Moment

"The Spirit of the Great Auk arguably the finest example of epic story-crafting in modern times." Maurice Ewing

By Maurice D. Ewing

Reprinted with Permission from Journal of Tar Heel Tellers

September 2008

It started the day before. I scurried into Earl and Nancy's hardware store on that cold October morning in 1997 – a day along the Johns River Gorge where winter's first frost clings to the mountains with a gentle warning of the frigid months to come. The day's quiet beginning gave no indication that this would be different from any other day on the mountain.

The narrow aisles and creaky floors of the old store held everything needed to manage on the mountain. The old heater in the corner gave a little heat, but the warmth of Earl and Nancy was enough to warm the whole store.

Earl was always delighted to see me because he knew that I never had the right stuff for my chores. He would craft his advice in ways that guaranteed a sale. Nancy lived behind the register and always had sharp retorts for my smart remarks – a game we both enjoyed.

As I rummaged trough the crowded shelves one ear was always tuned to Nancy's latest gossip. In minutes I would know more news than what was in the small pile of papers stacked neatly by the register. Later I would find one of these papers tucked in with my purchases. I probably paid for some of the papers, but mostly they were a sign of friendship from Nancy and Earl – the kind of thing that kept me roaming their dingy aisles instead of the broad well-lit ones at the home improvement store out on the by-pass.

I'm not sure what drew me to the article about the festival. Everybody knew about it and how our own Ray Hicks helped revive the lost art of storytelling. I did not suspect how this particular little article would change my life.

You know how it is – we rarely explore our own backyards. I had always found a reason not to attend the festival – there was always some pressing household chore – one that required hardware – so the festival remained on the list of things to do.

Somehow that particular article lit a spark, and the next day I was off across the mountain to Jonesboro, Tennessee. As I approached the little town, the first evidence of the festival was a hand-lettered sign pointing to a field where I left my car and boarded a school bus humming with excited chatter. After buying a calico patch ticket, I was swept by the crowd along a walk, and across the narrow footbridge that led to a large white tent next to the town library. There was nothing fancy about the scene-a stage up front, a simple wooden stool, a microphone and out front a thousand folding chairs.

Where to sit? The Presbyterian in me chose the back row where I could hunker down and slip out unnoticed if this storytelling thing went sour.

All around me there was a sense of family that crossed the lines of race, religion, ethnicity, national origin and all manner of potential prejudice. Was I the only first-timer?

The crowd grew stone silent when a jovial little man in a Panama hat, grey beard, white slacks, and a red-striped shirt tapped on the microphone. When he finished the festival code of conduct which ended with "turn off your cell phones" he said simply, "I'm here to introduce Jay O'Callahan, he tells stories." And abruptly he left as a thousand of my newest best friends erupted in raucous cheers. I wondered if I had stumbled into a revival or some other spiritual experience. Looking back on it now, that's exactly what it was. I didn't quite understand, but whatever was going on had captured my complete attention.

There was nothing striking about the appearance of Jay O'Callahan who walked onto the stage, acknowledged the applause, and in a fluid movement turned his back to the audience. I watched as he gathered his thoughts, absorbed the moment, and took a deep breath. I don't think one of the thousand people under that tent was breathing. Nothing could have torn me from that back row seat.

Slowly Jay turned around and for the next hour immersed us in The Spirit of the Great Auk arguably the finest example of epic story-crafting in modern times. It's a tale of a 60-year old Dick Wheeler's last great adventure. A 1500-mile sea kayak journey from Newfoundland to Cape Cod.

For sixty-two minutes we felt the pain in our shoulders as we strained to make thousands of paddle strokes, we felt the deep solitude and penetrating loneliness of a single person on the open sea. We rode with the uncontrollable rise and fall of mountainous waves. We felt the smallness of a human in the vastness of an immense ocean, and the power, courage and determination of the human spirit under impossible circumstances. And we came to understand in a profound way the undeniable connection all humans have to the sea.

Jay did not miss a word, a phrase, a pause, or an inflection. He did not miss a breath or a heartbeat. For an hour Jay O'Callahan captivated a thousand people of all ages an attitudes. He held us with the power of his voice and his ability to awaken our imaginations.