Chapter 77: That Dang Bottle

September 10, 2007

I left Albuquerque at ten o'clock the previous evening. Heading out of town on Interstate 40 westbound, I crossed over into Arizona. At Flagstaff, I exited onto I-17 southbound. I hit the Phoenix metropolitan area not too long after four a.m., thankfully long before the morning rush hour got underway. I took the loop around the downtown area before finding my way onto I-10 westbound. Before leaving the Phoenix area behind entirely, I stopped and had an early breakfast at Denny's.

Back out on the road, I continued westward on Interstate 10, as dawn broke behind me. Not losing sight of the aim of this trek, not even for an instant, I jumped off the interstate onto Route 85 southbound, which took me to I-8 westbound. Now, barely noticing the morning sunlight illuminating the southwestern Arizona desert landscape, embellished by saguaro cacti of all shapes and sizes, I sped onward toward Yuma, the Colorado River, and California. I passed in the vicinity of some honest-to-God sand dunes before traversing a stretch of flat, stark terrain. Suddenly, my surroundings transitioned over to a desolate region featuring some of the most otherworldly rock formations I'd ever seen. I eventually made my way into a forested area before, at long last, entering the San Diego suburbs. I exited the freeway just before it ended, with downtown San Diego off to my left. I made my way down to the harbor, where I parked my car, forking over ten bucks for the privilege.

It was now about eleven-thirty; I stepped outside, stretched my arms and legs a little nervously, and then popped the trunk of my BMW. I removed the one personal item I'd brought along: a medium-sized ice chest. It was a little heavier than one might expect at first glance, and I did my best to conceal that fact as I strode over to the check-in booth for the next phase of my little excursion. I set the chest down gently, more so than one might under normal conditions. I paid the fee for the upcoming half-day boat trip, along with a rod and tackle rental charge and the cost of a State of California fishing license. I followed a few fellow anglers as they headed off toward the dock and our fishing boat. To be sure, you'd never mistake me for a fisherman. It's never been my thing.

Fishing, of course, was the cover for the real purpose of this trip.

We did put our heads together that earlier night in New Jersey following Lightning in a Bottle's talent show win, trying to somehow resolve the bottle crisis. George, Inez and myself batted around idea after idea, the magnitude of our problem slowly coming into focus. Just how could we ensure that the dang bottle would remain intact for what would hopefully be several decades?

"Listen to The Sensation," George suggested, "and try to deduce its message. Perhaps it's trying to offer a solution."

I focused inwardly, trying to figure out just what I had to do to decipher a supposed message being supplied by a mysterious force within me. Shortly, I came to the realization that there was a certain order to my thoughts.

"The harder I think about this," I finally said, "the more I'm getting the feeling that we need to move the bottle as far away from here as we can."

"So you're saying we should somehow take it back to New Mexico?" queried Inez. "I'd prefer we handled it as little as possible. Besides, the bottle will still be close to you."

"What I believe your husband is saying," George interjected, "is that the bottle needs to be far away from here, not necessarily far away from himself. Am I correct, Pat?"

"When I think about the bottle being in this vicinity, the sense of unease is quite a bit stronger than when I think about it being in New Mexico. It's too weird to even explain, but yes, I believe that's exactly what The Sensation is trying to tell me."

My skeptical wife was convinced at that point, and our ideas became more directed. "We'll have to figure out how to get the bottle back home," I said. "But assuming that's not a problem, why don't we just surround the bottle with cement, both inside and out? When the cement dries, we'll just bury the whole thing. Hell, we can even dig a hole in our back yard and stick it there."

George proceeded to lay waste to that idea.

"The problem with that is," he explained, "cement expands and contracts very slightly with temperature changes. So does epoxy resin, another common casting material. There are definitely four seasons out there in New Mexico. Plus, the level of moisture will no doubt vary as well, which also induces expansion and contraction. All of that might be hard on the bottle in the long term. And if you ever decided to move, you'd have to dig it up and transport it to your new place, which means handling it once again. Yes, it might be an adequate solution, but do you really want to chance it?"

"No, I don't," I replied without hesitation. "Point taken. What we need to do is identify a permanent means of disposal where there is no chance whatsoever of any harm coming to the bottle."

"You know what just might fit the bill?" said Inez, looking as if a light bulb had gone off in her head. "Some kind of a disposal at sea. We somehow seal it up permanently with ample protection, weigh it down, take it offshore on a boat, drop it in the water, and bingo, the problem's solved." We tossed the concept around a bit, as the issue of geographical location crept back into our discussion.

"Could you do it here in New Jersey, say, from Atlantic City? Just find your way onto a boat, perhaps a charter fishing vessel, and drop your payload in the Atlantic," George suggested. "What does The Sensation say about that, Pat? Is that far enough away?"

Here, The Sensation spoke loud and clear. "No. I feel like it has to be much further away. I'm continuing to get vibes that are pointing westward."

"There aren't any oceans close to New Mexico," Inez noted wryly.

Still, we talked it over some more, and finally, we had a plan in place. The next morning, I hit up the local WalMart for a sturdy cooler and a bag of Styrofoam packing peanuts. Inez gingerly transferred the bottle from George's duffel bag to the cooler. During this transfer, I was nearly overwhelmed again by The Sensation, but I kept it together this time. "I'll need to deal with that feeling once more at home, when we assemble and test everything. But for now, let's minimize the handling time." We put the cooler, with the bottle inside, into our rental 4Runner.

We now intended for that rental 4Runner to be in our possession for a few more days. We informed my parents-in-law and our daughters that we wished to drive back home, with a stop at Evie and Vince's place on the way. Since the girls fortuitously had to start school in a few days, their riding along with us was not an option, and of course Javier and Lupe would need to accompany them. We took the four of them to the airport, said we'd see them in a few days, and proceeded to put our plan into action. I didn't relish lying to loved ones in this manner, and I knew Inez didn't either. But in this case, the end justified the means.

Clearly, traveling by car was the only option here. I couldn't imagine trying to sneak an empty beer bottle in a carry-on bag through airport security, and there's no way we'd even consider putting it in a checked bag. We stowed the cooler snugly in front of one of the rear seats, where the bottle was as safe as could be, barring a serious accident. As we got underway with this latest cross-country journey, The Sensation was still present but barely noticeable; having the bottle secured in this manner seemed to drop the risk level down to where it was almost negligible.

As it turned out, as focused as we were, we didn't stop to visit Evie and Vince. We drove right on through, arriving home three days later. Now, it was time for Phase Two.

Early in the morning following our arrival, I went on a multi-store scavenger hunt to round up the supplies we needed. At the top of the list was a small cooler, solidly built out of rigid plastic (the one we'd picked up in New Jersey didn't have all the features we wanted). It was, of course, easily large enough to contain the bottle, and – equally as important – small enough to fit completely inside of a larger ice chest I'd been kicking around the garage for years.

The new cooler contained a sturdy insert made out of foam, which I removed for now. Next, I grabbed another of today's acquisitions – a bag of cement mix. I proceeded to line the bottom of the new cooler with wet cement. The amount here was critical; I needed to ensure that the cooler's buoyancy was canceled out enough for it to sink readily. At the same time, I didn't want the cooler to be too heavy to carry easily, nor did I want it to plummet downward through water like a large rock. Leaving the cooler open in the garage, I allowed the cement to dry overnight.

In the morning, I carefully cut out the bottom part of the foam insert, enough so that the bottom of the insert rested up against the now-dry cement, and the top of the insert was positioned so that the cooler could be closed. The foam insert would hold the cement slab in place, since I doubted whether the cement would adhere to the plastic surface of the cooler interior. I lined the bottom with crumpled-up rags; we'd ripped up an old sheet to create our own packing material. Then, I placed a simple empty Coke bottle on top of the rags – a "dummy bottle" for testing purposes – and surrounded it with additional rags, before filling the container to capacity with still more rags. I closed the lid, then sealed it shut with a liberal amount of inexpensive, fast-curing epoxy sealant.

That evening, after the girls were asleep, and Javier and Lupe had turned in as well, it was testing time. Inez and I went out into the back yard with the cooler to conduct some clandestine experimentation. My original suggestion had been to just drop the cooler in our swimming pool and make sure it sank. George, ever the scientist, had nixed that idea.

"Ocean water, especially cold ocean water, is denser than pool water," he informed me. "Not by that large of an amount, but it's best to account for it. I know you don't have easy access to sea water there in New Mexico, so you should approximate the density of ocean water by adding enough salt to the water you use." He'd given me a density figure over the phone.

Earlier, I'd gone to a chemical warehouse and compensated them handsomely for three items: a clean, dry fifty-five gallon storage drum, a large quantity of salt, and a clear one-gallon volumetrically-calibrated plastic container. Luckily, they didn't bother to ask what the hell I wanted those items for. At home, I used the garden hose to fill up the drum with water. I'd calculated approximately how much salt it would take, by weight, and threw that amount into the water, allowing it to diffuse and dissolve on its own.

That evening, under the cover of darkness, armed with mere flashlights, our first task was to check the density of the salt water. I dipped the plastic container into the water, allowing it to fill up to the one-gallon mark. Then, I weighed the container on a bathroom scale I'd brought outside and did the calculation. "It's close, but a little on the low side," I remarked to Inez. I added some more salt, stirring the water with a discarded broom handle.

"Double, double toil and trouble," cracked my wife. "You look like a witch stirring a cauldron."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Look at all this ridiculous shit we're going through because of this stupid bottle. I'm telling you, sometimes I want to wring George's neck for being so anal about this stuff."

"It's better to be safe, right?" said Inez quietly.

"There's a lot at stake here, isn't there," I concurred, her point having been driven home.

I measured the density again, finding it more to my liking this time. "Here goes nothing," I muttered. "I'm gonna be real pissed off if this thing floats."

But it didn't. With a piece of rope tied to the handle, I dropped the cooler into the water. It sank to the bottom readily, but much slower than, say, a rock would. "Hooray," cheered Inez in a muted fashion.