About three days ago, I started hearing stories of the Black Eyed Kids for the first time in years
I'd heard the stories as a teenager, and everyone has seen the creepy photoshopped images of freaky kids somewhere on the net, but I never paid any mind to them. I thought it was just an urban legend.
I'm a bit of an occultist(this is important later), and I went through a phase as a teenager where I studied almost everything paranormal I could get my hands on, but these days, I'm mostly a skeptic where spectacular creature phenomena are concerned. Or, I was until about 3 days ago.
Around that time, I was on a drive and I heard a really old podcast about black eyed kids... The original internet post from Abiline, and I almost wrecked my truck. The story was so similar to an experience that I had with my boyfriend back in January... But let me tell you about that first, because it's weird in itself.
I was in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, on a date with my boyfriend. It was actually our first date, despite having met online over a year ago, and being an official couple for four months at that point.
We decided to drive down to Baton Rouge for the weekend after the college football national championship, so partying was in full swing from the LSU victory, to party and hang out in general.
Our first night there, we decided to see a movie... I think it might have been the 1917 movie.. And we got to the theater about an hour early so we could make sure we got good seats. We got our tickets, and having time to kill, we decided to walk across the street to the Mall of Louisiana and take a quick look around, and window shop for our planned outing the next day.
It was kind of late, around 730 or so, so most of the shops were closed, but we decided to go to the Mall anyways, like I said, to window shop, and also to walk around and stretch our legs.
We had just crossed the street at the cross walk right there between the theater and the bowling alley/arcade, and it happened.
I never saw them walk up, which is odd, because I have a really hyper focused sense of observation. I grew up in a bad environment, and you learn early to take note of everyone and everything, no matter if you think someone is a threat or not. Just in case.
Me and my boyfriend, who is younger than me, and also a slim individual, had just made it to the other side of the street when two boys approached us, seemingly out of nowhere. One looked to be about 16 and the other was about 12 or 13. Both of them were caucasian in appearance, the older one having either brown or sandy blonde hair, and the younger one with brown hair. It was just light enough outside still to be able to see that much.
My first impression was that their clothes were weird. They looked like the kind of abercrombie or hollister clothes a typical suburban kid would wear... But from the mid 90s, kind of faded almost.
The older boy started talking... And it immediately creeped me out.
"Do you have a car." He just walked up to me and asked that... But, im a nice guy, and other than the weird feeling that something was off, and despite jt being such an odd question, I decided to answer....
Bear in mind, that at this point, my boyfriend is beside me, and slightly behind to my left, because he was following me and we had been talking.
But we had both stopped talking, because of how weird we both felt this situation was...
This is really hard for me to type... I'm honestly creeped out and scared at the present moment... But I want to put my whole story out there.
I looked at my boyfriend, and he had his head down, and had moved behind me. I'm a bigger guy, because I used to work out heavily before my job took over, and I could tell he was getting behind me because he was scared... And my boyfriend doesn't scare easily. Hes never backed down from a fight, and his headstrong nature has gotten him into trouble before. But now he was hiding behind me, and when he saw me looking at him, he raised his head, and shook his head NO, before putting his head back down. He also wasn't on his phone, which was weird because he had just been in the middle of a lively snapchat convo moments earlier, that being his preferred social media app.
I looked back at the boys, and neither of them had moved.
I don't know why I said it, because my first instinct was to lie and get my boyfriend away from there, but I told him "well, not really, I mean... I have a rental, im parked over there." I pointed to the movie theater parking lot.
"Can you give us a ride?"
Despite the complete sense of uneasiness I had, and the extremely strong sense that they did not need to be anywhere near my car... I was curious. I've been a youth pastor and youth addiction counselor in the past, so when I see a kid in need, my first instinct is always to try and figure out what's going on and how to help.
"Where do you need to go?"
"We came to the mall, but we need to get back to our house. Its not far from here. Our parents will be mad if we don't get back."
"Well... Why don't you call them? Maybe they can give you a ride."
I was headset against giving them a ride... Despite their average appearance, I kept getting imagess of maniacal smiles andy throat being slit from behind in the back of my mind.
"We don't have phones."
I have a habit of scanning my surroundings, and I looked up just then, to see if the other people milling around were trying to get past us on the sidewalk, or looking at this strange conversation of young men in the middle of a busy thouroughfare, but just as I looked up, I heard the younger one say
"They're not paying attention."
Heard him say. I never saw him speak, despite having stand not three feet from me, and his face being very much in my field of vision.
I also thought he was speaking to his "brother". His brother looked at him, and I heard "They can help us."
The younger one looked back at him "They can see us."
I thought this was odd, but I was more concerned with finding a polite end to this conversation, and seeing these boys on their way safely.
"I really would help you, but there's all kinds of stuff in my back seat... and we have to see a movie soon."
"It won't take long. It's not far."
The older one had spoken, and turned to face me again. I barely managed to notice that the rest of the small crowd at the mall looked kind of washed out, almost not there, really, when I saw his eyes for the first time.
They were the palest shade of green.
Yes, odd for a BEK story, but bear with me.
His eyes, though I could see them, were kind of ethereal... Almost not really there. Almost transparent. Like ghost eyes. They had bits of yellow in them. Maybe they turned blue... I'm not sure... They were hypnotizing though. I noticed fear in his eyes... Not "I'm about to die" fear, but "I need serious help" fear. The fear a kidnap victim might feel. Or a lost kid.
He looked at the younger boy again. "Yeah, he can see us".
" ask him for help. He can help us"
I was sketched out by now, and I just wanted to leave.
"I can't give you a ride... But you said its not far... Can you walk? Or can I let you use my phone to call your parents"
"They're not at home, they're still at work... Its too far to walk. Its a couple of miles."
I was desperate to get away by now. The sense of urgency to help was getting too strong, and I didn't like it, because everytime I thought about helping, I got a stronger sense that I was going to be murdered. I just knew, that If I survived the trip there, I would be invited in, and I wouldn't be able to refuse, and their parents would be inside, and it would be bad.
My boyfriend wasn't even a thought then... Except that he was so close behind me that I could feel his presence... We had to go.
"I can maybe give you a couple kf bucks for bus fare?" There was a bus stop right there...
"We just moved here. We don't know the bus stops. We just need a ride"
"Where are you from"
"Far away"
"Look, I wish I could help, but we've got to go."
And with that, I started to walk away, and made sure my boyfriend was with me. We left that spot in a hurry.
I turned around about five seconds later to look at the two weirdos, and they were gone.
My boyfriend was pissed. "I can't believe you did that!"
"Did what?"
"Talked to them!"
"What? They needed help."
"They were fucked up."
"What, you mean high? Their pupils weren't dilated..."
"No, they didn't HAVE pupils. They were fucked up."
"I didn't see anything..."
"I can't believe you didn't see anything. I'm telling you, they were fucked up. That's why I didn't say anything. And I'm not crazy. I know what I saw."
I believed him, kind of. I thought he meant drugs.
I joked with him about it for a few moments, honestly not seeing anything amiss except for their weird attitude and the insistence of getting in my car, but he got even more upset.
"Just. Stop. Talking about about it. I'm done. I'm not crazy."
And so I dropped it. Until three days ago, when I heard a story about BEKs on an old podcast show I had recently discovered....
I called up my boyfriend to ask him... Those guys at the mall back in January... Did they have black eyes?
"Yeah". Was all he would say. He was still too scared to talk about it.
But looking back... I remember that weekend. It was bad. Me and my boyfriend argued about trivial stuff... We almost broke up.
He developed a nosebleed that night. After he went to bed, I almost went crazy. I drove across town, full of unexplainable angst, and stopped at one of the riverboat casinos - the Belle of Baton Rouge. Out on the promenade... I had this strong urge to throw myself in the Mississippi and drown myself.... It was raining, and the water looked rough. I knew I wouldn't survive... But somehow, I held back against the unexplainable urge.
In the weeks that followed, he had a near nervous collapse. I was having issues at work that almost cost me my job. We almost broke up again.
I had a psychic help me do a cleansing... And things, which had slowly been spiralling into an abyss, especially with virus related layoffs, started improving.
Now, I mentioned that I was into the occult (I'm a pagan). Well, yesterday I was talking to a which friend of mine who has a lot of lore knowledge and experience dealing with the paranormal. A lot more than me at least.
I told her my story, and she wasn't the least bit surprised.
" Yeah", she told me "they're the spirits of kids who were horribly abused in life."
I thought about it.... And considered the Scandinavian Mylings... Children with black eyes, come back for revenge on the living.. Killed at a young age, and denied a proper burial.
Then I thought about another BEK story... Where the parents of the kids actually DID arrive, after a lady invited them in.
Which brings me to the second story
I was staying with some friends of mine once... And this was actually about the same time that I first met my boyfriend online.
Anyways... They were a couple, and we... Were all close. Ill just leave it at that.
They had a son, whom ill call "robbie". Not his real name.
Anyways, robbie was the coolest kid ever. He was seven, got good grades at school, and was fiercely independent. Knew how to cook a little bit, did chores, liked to chop firewood, and was known to steal alcohol on occasion.
Then he had a side of his personality where all he wanted to do was snuggle up to either me or his mom on the couch and watch a cartoon and fall asleep on the days where it raining and he didnt have school. (Mom worked weekends, and I didnt, and dad wasnt the affectionate type. and like I said, we were all close. He called me " uncle")
Anyways, he was a sweet but tough kid.
Well, one time he started having nightmares and sleepwalking... Which is typical seven year old kid stuff. No big deal. I dont remember the nightmares, because they were eclipsed by something else... The spirit.
We would all go to another friend's house for the day and come back... And the front door would be open. At first, we thought the two puppies did it. They were six month old black labs and could be rambunctious.
So we put the dogs outside when we left... And the door would be open when we got back. We called the police eventually after about a week of it, and they set a patrol for the area.
The door started staying shut... But the inside doors would all be reversed. Doors that were closed would be opened and vice versa. We were getting freaked out.
A couple of times mom would swear she heard someone on the porch outside here bedroom window (we were in a doublewide trailer with a porch that ran the length of the whole thing).
Once, i thought I saw a small figure run past the living room window, but didnt hear footprints... And there werent any prints in the sand or grass around the porch... We all looked.
This all came to a head the night that, asleep on the couch, I bolted awake when the dogs growled. The dogs NEVER growled. They were too scared to chase a frog. Innocent little puppies. The growling set me on edge, and I woke up... Alarmed... And there was a dark man shape trying to get through the front door. The dogs ran from the kitchen and tried to attack it.
Im a brave guy. Ive run into burning buildings. Jumped into a snake infested creek to grab a kid who couldnt swim. But this.... I screamed.
The whole house came running. At first, they didnt believe me (the figure disappeared). They thought the dogs were play fighting and just happenned to hit the door. But the door was locked. Every night. And I pointed that out.
Suddenly, we knew we had a situation.
We were all pagans to an extent, so we tried everything. Sage. Salt. Rituals. Sigils. And still, strange happenings. The kids sleep walking was getting worse.
I remember the dreams now... Omfl.
"I dont want to go with them. They want me to go, but I dont want to."
We thought it was a joke (at first) and told him "well hell kid, dont go. Tell them to go away."
And then, excitedly, a while later, he said "I told them to go, and to leave me alone and I kicked their butts, and they left!"
"Robbie, who tf are you talking about?"
"The other kids."
Right after he "kicked their butts", the stuff started happening with the doors.
Flash back forward. We know we have a haunting, and none of the usual stuff is working. I decide to go all in.
Im going to trance out, Edgar Cayce style, and see if I can maybe contact "the other side." It worked.
There was a lady there. She had a message for me.
"I know you think this kind of stuff is a joke, but you need to know that it isnt. Robbie in in danger. He was raped as a toddler by his grandfather, and now his grandfather's spirit has come back to destroy his soul. He will turn the boy into a monster. You are all in danger if he succeeds"
I woke up.... People were watching me (the mom and dad). I didnt want to soud weird... So I asked...
"Kat" (her, but not her real name) "Was robbie.... Molested as a child?" Her eyes got huge... Dad, who was really 'stepdad" looked at her, confused...
"Well.. People used to tell me that my mom would abuse him... But I thought they were talking shit... I caught her with her hand down his diaper one day, though, and flipped out. But I never told anyone."
Step dad looks at Kat "Is that why your mom isnt allowed to babysit him?" The situation had actually been a point of bother and inconvenience and source of several arguments between them in the last few months, when their work schedules had collided horribly.
Kat grimaced. "Yes".
But... It still didnt make sense... Because my vision said " grandfather" specifically... Unless...
"Kat... Did your mom ever claim that her own father molested her?"
Her eyes almost popped out of her head when I asked...
"Yes! But..."
"Did he ever babysit robbie before he died?" (I knew her grandfather was dead - her mother and her son were her only living relatives).
"No! He died before he was born!"
Still not making sense... But one more question... "Did your mom ever claim that her father raped her?"
Kat was practically crying. These were FAMILY SECRETS, buried for years, coming from the mouth of someone who certainly never had them told to him.
"Yes... But what does any of this have to do with the haunting?"
"The Spirit in my dream last night told me that robbie was molested as a baby by his grandfather and that his grandfather's spirit was trying to corrupt Robby's soul and turn him into a monster. If we go off of that victimized children repeat the cycle by victimizing other children as adults, then, in a sense, since your grandfather possibly molested your mom, and she likely did the same to him, then, in a sense, since he started the cycle, he was the one who technically molested your son... His sin passed on to him"
She was freaking out, full blown panic attack, and the stepdad wasnt far behind. They both stood up, alarmed.
"So what do we do?!!"
" we have to banish the old man's spirit, and protect your son's. End the cycle."
Which we did. With a series of specific pagan rituals.
But thats my theory... The BEKs were abused in real life... And then their souls were taken captive by the spirits of their tormenters.. To pass on torment to others. To feed off of happiness and replace it with pain and misery
If the Scandinavian tales are anything to go off of, and my own experience... Im not going to say invite them in... But perhaps a banishing ritual and warding charm could go a long way to preventing further harm...
In mundane terms I think those kids are already eternal slaves... But we should try to prevent harm in our own communities... Watching out for abused kids... Keeping harmful folks away from kids... Taking certain nightmares and experiences seriously and preventing what comes next...
I think of all the mysteriously vanished people and kids who never turn up again... And I wonder.
submitted by This one is a doozy...
So, a fateful day around 2010ish I was in that dingleberry of a swampy butthole of land known as Fort Polk doing my train up for a deployment. That's a fucking story in itself.
Anyhow, the end of the rotation had occurred, the war against whatever made up name country was won, and we were returning from Polky-land to our dependapotamuses. I was on a contact high as I was personally selected to be a part of my Battalion Commander's personal security detachment and all our joes were hand-selected by the Platoon Leader, Platoon Sergeant, and myself so we had a really awesome platoon. How awesome? When we did an escort mission with the Chaplain meeting with local religious leader, at the end, our division chaplain told us that "You guys fucking rocked that shit. Gave me a fucking hardon. That's what this division is all about. Fuck yeah."
Preach on brother.
Fast forward, fast forward.
Anyhow, my Platoon Sergeant came to me and told me I needed to go to the bay where my Commander and First Sergeant were. My first thought was of deep consideration and reflection.
"Shit." This can't be good.
When I arrive, my First Sergeant's first question to me "Do you have government travel card?" I nodded a confirmation from our Operation BS in Egypt. He looks at me and says "No, you don't." What fucking Jedi mindtrick is this? Did I forget to pay off a debt? Will I be summoned straight to the Division CSM for a beheading as seems to be the operating procedure whenever government travel cards payments come into question. Casually, my commander slides a brigade memorandum towards me and motions for me to read it.
I start reading and realize it's a tasking memorandum stating what each company will provide from brigade.
Alpha Company...
Two NCOs and three soldiers. "Suckers."
Bravo Company...
Three soldiers. "Nerds."
Charlie Company...
Three E6 NCOs. "Lol, loooossers..."
Delta Company...
Staff Sergeant Pickleindabutt. "well fuck me in the butt."
BY NAME?! I was the only fucking individual chosen by MY GOD DAMN FULL NAME in this memorandum. How does brigade even know I exist? Why am I being tasked directly? Who put this memo together and how the fuck did they know my name. Who the fuck volun-told my name without me receiving a whisper of such curse. Suddenly it dawned on me and I realized what this tasking needed me for.
"hazmat"
Apparently I was the only person in brigade who could effectively fill out the forms for our HAZMAT containers. It started where I was just doing it for the company, moved to me declaring for battalion, and now BRIGADE is tracking me. AMO-62 qualification got me again and I was hand selected because my paperwork was the only one that kept getting cleared so they came after me.
My dudes and dudettes, I literally volunteered for this course to get me out of a field exercise so I could watch the SEC championship - no shit. I was a dumb grunt and I didn't even know what the course was and just wanted to get my Roll Tide on. I get there for class and they're like "This is for declaring hazardous material for shipment by land, sea, air, teleportation pods, Skynet time travel, and rail." My dumb ass E5 self was like "Lol, when the hell does any infantry dude declare HAZMAT. Cake."
A week later I was declaring HAZMAT for my brigade to Haiti so shows how well I could foreshadow things. You know how my paperwork always made it through? Let's break down the process.
Me arrive. Me find MSDSs for hazmat. Me find civilian inspector who is overshadowing the process.
"Yo, how do you want me to fill this out." Everyone else would be digging around the CFR 49 and I was just like "Lol, I can't read. Let me find the civilian who makes a career of this and ask them." And that's how I became the HAZMAT guy.
Fast forward, fast forward.
So now I'm part of a tasking that is ensuring our containers make it out of Beaumont, Texas. I already came to Polk on advance parties where I basically had AT&T screaming at me to stop using data while I watched all the episodes of Breaking Bad that was available at the time. Now I'm not even the rear detachment, I'm the past - I'm on fucking ice basically, a forgotten artifact of my brigade's Polk rotation. "Yall remember that one Staff Sergeant?... He told funny jokes... Whatever happened to him? I seem to recall him telling his soldiers to run over g-men at Polk whenever they surrounded his humvee while blatantly ignoring that a 50 cal was rocking them the whole time and then he just... vanished."
Fast forward, fast forward.
Me and two others will be grabbing a rental and driving to Beaumont. God damnit, I deploy in a few weeks and I'm already getting less time with my succubus future exwife that has a spending habit that makes Target wet thinking about it. Anyway, they move me to the brigade's bay. If you've never been to Polk, they have these hangers where they just stick a metric-fuck-ton of bunk beds when you're field rotation is over and you're either leaving or preparing for war with the g-men. The g-men are the Louisiana equivalent of Taliban and should never be trusted. They call themselves soldiers but they are the true enemy. While you're sludging through the swamps and wondering if you're in Vietnam, they come out of no where with their significantly enhanced miles laser gear and somehow your miles can never kill them. You just hear the beep of death of your gear to inform you that traitorous scum g-men nailed you. Probably for killing a Staff Sergeant they get a three day weekend or something.
So, here I am in the brigade headquarters and we just acquired a rental car with a fellow NCO and fresh out of the officer-oven Lieutenant. Lieutenant asks a fateful question "You guys want to go off base." Unfortunately I came to fight the g-men and did not know I was going to be traveling so I had no civilian clothes. So, we agree to go to Wal-Mart in town so I can buy the cheapest of the cheap threads since my wife at the time absolutely had to buy "live, laugh, love" useless items from retail stores at an alarming rate.
Listen to me, Polk is the middle of no where. It is a fucking swamp. I hated going there. I literally would shake the hands of people stationed there and tell them "You're in my thoughts and prayers." The place has a random wild horse herd and farm animals all over the place because people just dump their animals there. I had never left the base before and when we drove off I was basically like "Oh my..." It was like driving into a Flannery O'Connor novel but with strip clubs. There is absolutely nothing in Leesville but several strip clubs, a Wal-Mart, some shitty steakhouse, and trailers. Listen, I'm from Alabama and I was even like "Fuck. This isn't even deep south this is deepest south."
So anyway, I buy the literal cheapest threads from Wal-Mart for my journey to Beaumont and we decide to go into one of the strip clubs for a few drinks and... holy shit, this place was the most Jabba the Hutt's palace experience I have ever had except instead of Leia they had Jaba on the poles. I quietly order a beer, get propositioned for a backroom dance from a human opossum and could only quietly respond "No thank you I'm Christian" in an attempt to ward off others, and wonder how the fuck am I going to get this LT to drink his beer faster so we can fucking leave.
Fast forward, fast forward.
We finally arrived to Beaumont and check in our hotel. I'm suffering from a wicked hangover from the night before in Lake Charles which had about 10 women for each male at the bar we went to. When we get to the hotel, we all agree that we just want to get some food and the clerk recommends this Cajun themed restaurant down the road. We go there and there were no tables but three open seats at the bar so we chose that. As always, Army guys are only just going to talk about the fucking Army so we proceed with our usual dose of bitching and whinnying.
Suddenly, this older gent leads forward sitting beside us and says "YALL IN THE SERVICE?!"
"Sure 'nuff."
"YALL DEPLOYED!?"
"We have and we're heading back to Iraq in a few months."
"FOOD AND DRINKS ON ME - BARTENDER, SHOTS OF TEQUILA FOR ALL OF US AND MY MISSUS"
"That's not necessary sir we-"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP. FOOD - DRINKS ON ME."
And that's how I met who I will refer to as Chief. I call him Chief because later he told me he was a Navy veteran and later he told me he was a Seal - like 98% of Navy veterans you meet. Chief had his lovely girlfriend with him and was the loudest fucking Texan in a bar full of Texans. He was pretty funny but mind you I'm still dealing with this wicked hangover and really just wanted sleep. We eat our respective meals and have a few more shots and beers.
"WHAT'S YOUR PLANS TONIGHT!?"
"We're tired so we were just goin-"
"NOT IN MY TOWN ON A FRIDAY NIGHT. YOU BOYS ARE MEETING UP WITH ME."
"That's really not neces-"
"YOU HAVE TO TAKE MY OFFER BECAUSE I PAID YOUR MEALS AND DRINKS AND YOU'D BE DICKS IF OTHERWISE, MEET ME AT CHILI'S."
Well, fuck. Fair point. We ended up driving to this random Chili's after exchanging texts with them and shit. My LT is all worked up and excited like a puppy because he's hoping they're a rich couple who want to rain down upon us the riches of the world for THX 4 UR SERVICE. I'm more in the tune of thought that they're swingers and probably want untie one of our balloon knots in some heated up sexcapade.
All the sudden, this SUPED the fuck up Mustang pulls up beside us.
"HEY YALL SEEN SOME ARMY DOUCHEBAGS!?" as the window rolls down.
"I'm sorry, we're not like submarines or Marines, you can't go down on us sir."
"HA! LET'S SEE IF THAT PIECE OF SHIT CAN KEEP UP"
"It's a fucking rental Dodge of course it won't-" his Mustang goes flying off 2 Fast 2 Furious style. The Lieutenant is driving as I watch this Mustang Toyko-fucking-drift into the highway.
"Slow down and ask him the location by text. I don't want to die on the road." So Chief proceeds to text us the location of where they are heading. And of course, strip club. We pull up and it's about the nicest fucking strip club I have ever seen. Polar opposite to that fucking swamp trailer we had seen before. I'm walking in my Wal-Mart bin threads clothes like "Fuck I'm not dressed for this shit."
There's another couple with Chief now who introduce themselves to us. They're roughly around his age and married. Oh yeah, we are totally in a swinger situation. One of us is going to have to pay the dues and it isn't me. We walk in and sit down at this table and this place is two stories. Huge. Multiple dancers everywhere.
"ALL DRINKS ON ME, YOU WANT A DANCE, PUT IT ON MY CARD." He then proceeds to pull out $300 in ones and shuffles them to each of us so we total $100 each. Dude. WTF is this. Then he proceeds to buy a tray of jello shots and puts that on the table. At this time, a Mafiaso looking dude walks up to us in a nice suit.
"Thank you for getting the VIP section. Just so you're aware, you will have to purchase a $500 dollar bottle of champagne or a $1000 bottle." What. The. Fuck. We're in the VIP section of this club? Holy shit, how much does that cost? Here I am dressed in clothes that probably in total cost $17.67 and about to be drinking a bottle of $500 champagne.
"I DON'T WANT CHAMPAGNE! I WANT SOME REAL LIQUOR!" Gents and gentettes, I proceed to watch this man argue with the owner that he wants Captain Morgan over champagne. I am now at a loss of processing this TDY adventure. Finally the owner agrees to Captain Morgan but it will still cost $500 dollars.
He agrees. I just witnessed a man pay $500 dollars for a bottle of Captain Morgan. That I am almost positive that we never opened. I shit you not. I am holding back on throwing this dude's cash around because I'm still worried about the whole swinger aspect and them getting some soldier butthole later in the night when the festivities end.
Fast forward, fast forward.
Night ends. We bid our farewells to Chief and his friends. None of us was required to fuck one of them. Other NCO didn't drink at all so he drives us back to the hotel so we can finally crash. We do. TDY adventure now can get official and we can focus on our containers like professionals...
Hold fast. Rewind, rewind.
It's a Saturday. We don't have shit we can do. I'm awoken early in the morning by a knock at my door in which I answer and the Lieutenant is standing there with Chief on speaker yelling about jet-skis or some shit. wat?
"He said he told you that we were going on his boat today." Umm.... negative.
"MEET ME AT THE DOCKS" Chief yells on the phone and hangs up.
So, we ended up meeting them at whatever lake is near Beaumont and let me tell you what... I would have given up my butthole for the amount of fun we had on his boat and jet skis. Jesus Christ, that was one of the funnest days of my life. I had never ridden a jet ski before but was going nuts on it. In less than two hours of meeting up with him, I'm driving a jet ski for the first time in my life trying to keep up with his fucking boat so I don't lose him. I don't really have much to add to that but god damn jet skis are amazing.
Fast forward, fast forward.
So we get the boat back to the dock and, in case I didn't mention, it was Chief, his girlfriend, and the other couple I mentioned before. I hear them talking about going to some boat casino with a Jack Daniels restaurant. Chief's friend keeps telling me they make a steak that is so good you will want to "fuck it on the floor to relieve your erection" which I believe is a high compliment. They get ready to leave and we bid our farewells.
"THE FUCK ARE YALL TALKING ABOUT, SEE YOU THERE." Well okay, I guess we're going to a boat casino lol wtf. We go to a casino and they park the boat at the docks. I proceed to watch these fools drop mad money after eating a steak that I'm not sure I would call floor fucking worthy but pretty damn good. They then proceed to go nuts on the gambling. I mean fucking leaving me at their table with like $1,000 dollars so they could take a quick piss and I don't even gamble so I just stood there like a lost child. At one point, I notice Chief is missing so I decide to go check his boat.
Lo and behold, there he is swimming in the dock with his boat blaring music loud as fuck. As I am walking towards the concert, there is literally a party of people dancing to his music outside of a hotel room on a balcony. I walk down and he's climbing back in. About this time, the other NCO from my merry band of adventurers walks up to. Chief asks what service-members carry now in the Army and proceeds to pull a glock out of his boat glove compartment.
Alrighty now... I don't really care much for someone to be intoxicated and holding a gun. "Hey you should probably put-"
BANG
Mother. Fucker. Fucking. Fuck. FUCK. He totally just fired a round into the water. We are at a god damn casino and on the casino property. We are so about to taken the fuck down into depths of hell that I have never seen before. That dancing crew that I mentioned early, they're gone. Andddddd here comes security. Two behemoths of security guards heading our way. Once again, I go into the fucking zone and start walking towards them.
"HEY DID SOMEONE FIRE A GUN OVER HERE!?"
"Hey brother, that shit scared the fuck out of me."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"
"It must have been like a boat backfire or something. I thought for sure it was a gunshot at first. I think the water made it sound weird. Scared the fuck out of me."
"How do you know it wasn't!?"
"Oh I'm in the Army bro. That shit made me think someone was shooting at us."
"Oh... Okay... You cool?"
"Yeah, I'm good man. Just spooked me."
"You need a drink? On the house if nee-"
"Nah, I'm good man. Thank you though. Have a nice night."
And that's how I avoided being taken into casino prison.
Fast forward, fast forward.
We bid our farewells and return back to the hotel. Sunday I get a call from Chief's friend who I will refer to as "Victor" calls me and asks if we would like to get a few Sunday beers. We agree and meet at this chill local bar and are just shooting the shit.
District Attorney for the area happen to be sitting in there and buys us rounds. God damn Texas really does fucking love the military, Jesus. At this time another older gentleman that knows Victor sits beside me and greets Victor. He asks me if I had deployed and I told him I had and was heading back over.
"I thought my war was bad, I feel bad for your situation with those bombs they put on the roads. Scary stuff."
"You were in?"
"Army, Vietnam. I was a forward observer."
This dude then proceeds to tell me stories about hiding in the brush from dog handlers who were hunting them down since they were forward observers. He proceeds to mention that if it wasn't for some Native American teaching them how to hide their scent, he would have been found. Basically learned how to rub shit on themselves so they could evade dog handlers. I'm sitting there in dismay at how he felt bad for my war... I may have gone into Iraqi shit creeks more than I cared for but I wasn't purposely rubbing shit in my hair so I could be behind deadly frontlines.
He then proceeds to talk about a battle he was in. How they were being overran at one point by the Vietnamese.
"We lost a lot of good men that day. Lots of friends." A slight tear rolls down his cheek and I saw him brush it away. You can usually spot a bull shitter with their gloats of heroism and valor. You know you're dealing with a man who had seen some shit when eyes water. A man who had seen some real hard shit in the bush. I could be wrong but I got the feeling he was the type that buried his experiences deep into his mind and never really got the chance to express his memories. He was a successful construction owner but I'm sure he still has nights judging by what he was telling me. Only to be probably spit on when he came home.
He asks to be excused so he can piss.
"I never knew he was in the service nor in Vietnam..." Victor says.
"I've known him for over 15 years and I had no clue." Bartender says.
Gentleman comes back and I ask if I can buy him a beer for his service as he had bought one for me. He agrees. Victor ended up picking up the tab before I could pay for that round. God damnit can I not fucking pay for anything here? I give him a firm handshake when I leave and tell him it was nice to meet him. Later I gave Victor my Combat Infantryman Badge and asked him to give it to the gentleman. Tell him I appreciate him telling me stories and mad respect for a man who had been through some real shit. While we were talking, he said something along the lines of not getting anything like infantry guys. Normally this would be debate worthy to me but I'm not saying shit to this gentleman. He's been through it.
"Does it mean anything when I give it to him?"
"Means essentially nothing but maybe it will be something to him."
Fast forward. I'm going to skip the part of going to a Roller Derby team after-party at a strip club where I saw behemoth sized women picking up strippers and toss money at them left and right. That was another doozy of a day. They were more crazy in the strip club than I had ever seen any crowd be.... Coming from a survivor of Fayettenam's strip club venues, that means something.
Alright. I'm on my final day and I've left a fuck ton more shit out of this story that occurred down in Beaumont for respectful reasons. We had to leave abruptly so I was on my last night. I went down to the hotel bar that I had gone into a few times. The bartender Steve was like the youngest 50 year old dude I had ever seen. I thought he was younger than me. Apparently my man Steve is a millionaire with a landscaping business and I ask him why he bartends and he says "Because of the funny fucking stories I get to hear from dudes like you." Oh, okay, word.
This other dude is sitting beside me and asks if I was in the Army as I well telling Steve the shit show of an experience I had since being in Beaumont.
"I was in too. I didn't go overseas or nothing like you did." I then proceed to have a very meaningful conversation with this dude on how he shouldn't look at it that way. He served and if called upon, he would have answered too. I offer to buy him a drink. He agrees and I ask Steve for a glass of their best scotch at the bar for both of us. I'm paying something in this god damn town before I leave. Just fucking something. I haven't dropped a dollar since Wal-Mart basically and this place has been so fucking kind to me, I'm putting something into Beaumont's economy. So help me God.
We talk. We finish our drinks. We shake hands. He departs. I look at Steve and realize that this will wrap up this adventure. My precious Beautmont adventure. What a time. You have been so kind and generous to me. Now it's time to pay for something for this town. Here we go.
"Get me tab Steve."
"It's on the house, Pickleindabutt."
FUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
I go on this rant about how everyone is paying everything for me and fuck let me just buy a round. Steve is laughing at me and refuses.
"JUST LET ME BUY AN RC COLA STEVE, SHIT!"
I finally convince him to give me $0.00 receipt and leave him a $20 dollar tip.
The next day we get back into uniform and realize we grossly did not estimate our trip to the airport accurately at all so we are speeding away from lovely Beaumont to whatever airport we needed to get to in Louisiana. While speeding we get pulled over by some Louisiana state trooper. He walks up to the passenger side where I am sitting at.
"Who the hell do you think you are speeding like - what the hell, yall going to war or something?" when he sees the uniforms.
"Well, we're trying to make our flight at the so we can go to Iraq."
Ehhh, not a lie necessarily...
"Alright, after you pass the next state trooper at the end of the coming construction zone, you should be able to gun it the rest of the way there. Be safe now!" Wasn't expecting that response but we'll take it.
And that was that. I went back to Fort Bragg. Beaumont's adventure was over and I somehow managed to survive. I came back on a regular workday night and went to bed. Woke up to my Staff Duty desk calling me at like 5am and my dumb ass Sergeant Major was on the line which is not what I wanted...
"Hey SSG Pickle! Were you trying to fucking kill yourself!?"
Dear God, did my Sergeant Major catch wind of all that was going down in Beaumont. I wasn't posting it on social media. Does he know the shennanigans? We got the containers through. Did he catch rumors of his Staff Sergeant parading around in strip clubs, almost crashing a jet ski, partying with Roller Derby girls, having to sit around a hospital waiting area for a day, being selected to be a special guest for a crawfish cook-off... Could they question my professionalism? Am I losing my spot on the security detachment. Did I fill out hazmat paperwork wrong?... What could this mean.
"Uh... negative."
"Oh shit wrong SSG, never mind." Hangs up.
Get a text from my Platoon Sergeant who is acting 1SG at this time and he's basically like "Come in today, now." I get there and he's basically like "Yeah everything has gone to shit for this pre-deployment. I need you in here." Whatever, that's fine. He's solid so I know it's the truth.
"By the way, how was that trip to Beaumont?"
"bro."
submitted by Continuing. After the third pony keg of beer was delivered, it was decided that the next few days would be spent in the conference room discussing what we thought was the best way forward.
We wanted dry-erase boards so we could start taking detailed notes, even though I was well ahead of the curve in that regard. We instead ended up with some mobile elementary-school blackboards and a pile of grainy, sooty chalk.
Leave it to Dr. Cliff to go into a discourse on the genesis of chalk and its economic importance.
Bloody carbonate geologists.
Bloody White Cliffs.
We geologists need to punctuate their conversations with pictures, so these would suffice quite well.
At 1700 hours, the official end to the workday was called; we’d meet here again tomorrow. I’m not certain by whom, but it was readily agreed upon. We were more or less on our own until 1000 the next day. I needed to spend some time in my room with my notes and update a number of dossiers, field notebooks, and other items I was using as a running chronicle.
Several folks decided to invade one of the hotel’s restaurants for dinner. Some wanted to head to the casino, a couple wanted to get a massage, and others wanted to do what tourists are normally wont to do on the second day of being a foreigner in a foreign land.
I declined invitations to dinner and other activities, as I had a long writing session in front of me. I wanted to get this all in its proper place while the memories and notes were still fresh.
30 minutes later, in my room after a 25-minute wait for the elevator; I’m updating dossiers, creating several new ones, and updating my field notebooks. Suddenly, after an hour’s work, I notice something is amiss.
“I don’t have a drink or a cigar,” I said to the four walls. “This. Will. Not. Do.”
I was used to Happy Hour in Russia. Happy hour is slightly different; there are no ice cubes or orange-peel twists in the vodka. Also, it lasts all day.
I remedy that situation by finding and clipping a nice, oily oscuro cigar and digging the bourbon out from under my boxer-briefs in my dresser drawer. I heft the bottle and feel that it’s significantly lighter than when I left it last night. I happen to look in the trash can and spy the wrapper for a box of my festively colored Sobranie cigarettes I obtained back in Dubai.
“Hmmm”, I think, “It would appear that we have some light-fingered Cho Louies or No Louises around here. I’d best guard my supplies a little more securely.”
I move all my smokeables into one of my now emptied aluminum travel cases. They lock with the stoutest of combinations and it will be readily apparent if anyone is fucking with them.
I move some of my best booze into the pretty much worthless in-room safe. With a deft application of duct tape, I seal the safe. It may not be the most secure spot on the planet, but if anyone tries anything troublesome, they’ll leave an immediately recognizable record of what they were up to. It’s just too obvious; they’d have to be crazy to go in after anything inside there.
My money, keys, and passports are in the safe deposit box down in the lobby that the hotel supplies for visiting dignitaries. Even so, they let me keep my shit in one of them anyway.
That handled, I spend another hour writing like a madman. I suddenly realize I’m tired of all this and need a diversion as well as some food and, of course, drink.
30 minutes later, I’m down in the byzantine basement tunnels of the hotel. It’s crowded with hordes of Chinse tourists, and the casino is ground zero for the incredibly loud chatter.
I look in on the bowling alleys all three of them, and they’re full. The massage parlor is hopping, although I leave my name and they promise they will call over the PA when a suitable masseuse is available. Evidently, I ‘intimidate’ some of the more demure ones.
I wander over to the bar, now there’s a surprise, and see it’s packed to the rafters as well. I decide to wait for a seat to open up on Mahogany Ridge when there’s some gargling over the PA and a pair of Chinese nationals leave the bar in great haste.
I grab one of the two newly open seats, much to the chagrin of a couple of Oriental Unidentifiables (OU) who had their eye on them as well.
“Sorry, mate”, I said, “First come, first served. It’s the capitalist way.”
One of the pair grabs a seat and the other just stands there, looking annoyed unspent bullets in my direction. Forget that I’ve literally twice their size and could be an aberration as an angry American. They just order a couple of drinks, and content themselves in giving me dirty looks and probably say nasty things in their own indecipherable language about my national origin and familial heritage.
As if I gave the tiniest of rodental shits.
I fire up a cigar, as literally everyone else in the joint was smoking something more or less tobacco. However, there was a definite barnyard aroma, a regular Dairy Air, in the room. I think some of what was being smoked there was more bovine or equine in origin than botanical in nature.
With numerous hilarious attempts at Korean, pointing at a garishly photographed drinks menu, I was finally served a cold draft house steam porter and 100 milliliters of probably ersatz ‘Russian’ vodka, vintage late last Thursday. This bartender that could at least form some of the phonemes found in American English. A few. A definite few.
Since it all cost the equivalent of US$0.50, I really didn’t care.
Apparently vodka helps flowers last longer when they're dying. But you can put vodka in anything and it'll make it better.
Being a trained observer, I rather enjoy just sitting in any old bar, smoking my cigar, drinking my Yorshch, and watching people. I try and not be intrusive and I never eavesdrop, but I like to try and think of what strange set of circumstances brought us all here together in this place at this time. It gives me writing ideas, some of which I jot down in a notebook I always carry. It also gives me a good shot of nostalgia when I look back at something I wrote some 40 or so years ago.
Yeah, old habits do die hard.
I take a drag off my cigar and set it in the ashtray in front of me on the bar as I go to correct another egregious misspelling in my notebook. I have to immediately proofread what I wrote, or I’d never recall later what the fuck I was trying to convey; especially if it’s in a noisy, smoky, or murky milieu.
Quicker than a bunny fucks, Unidentifiable Oriental #1 (UO #1) deftly reaches over, snags my cigar, and helps himself to a few mouthy puffs.
I look at him, the empty ashtray directly in front of me, him again, and then UO #2.
Since I speak no real Oriental, much less Korean, language, and my Mandarin at this point is worse than laughable; I just point to the cigar, turn out my hands and shrug my shoulders in the international “What the actual fuck, dude?” gesture.
He just smiles a gappy, toothy, and snaggle-toothed at that, grin at me and makes a point of ensuring that I see him enjoying a few more drags on my own damned cigar.
Not able to contain myself any further, I venture a “What the fuck, chuckles? That’s not your fucking cigar.”
Like gasoline being tossed on a fire-ring full of embers, they both go unconditionally incoherently insane.
Yammering, chattering, jumping up and down, and getting right into my face. They wanted me to unquestionably understand that my few words of English insulted them far more than their filching of my $20 cigar.
OK, I’m pretty well trained in Hapkido; an oddly, given the present situation, hybrid Korean martial art. I’m at least 6 or 7 inches taller and who knows how many stone/kilos/pounds/Solar masses heavier than these two clowns. I could easily go all Gojira on their hapless asses and mop significant expanses of the floorboards with them.
Instead, I look around for the bartender. I figured since I was keeping him well supplied with Korean won via tips, and he spoke some English as well as perhaps whatever the fuck these characters were chattering; maybe he could get to the bottom of what was happening.
The bartender walks over and I ask him to ask the two unidentifiable twins why they stole my cigar.
He nods in agreement and goes on in whatever the fuck dialect was being used today by the pair.
“They say they wanted it. So they took it.” They ask, “What are you going to do about it?” the bartender relates.
I deftly reach inside my field vest, as everyone concerned ducks and covers.
I extract two fresh cigars; not a .454 Casull Magnum.
I give one cigar to the bartender and one to OU#2.
“With my compliments.” I pleasantly say.
I was well apprised of the fact that in certain places like this, the local authorities often approach foreigners with, for the lack of a better term, ‘
Agents Provocateur’.
Like the Westboro Baptist “Church”, they try to get a rise out of you so you’ll lose your cool and either create a scene or take a poke at the miscreant. Then they have all the pretext they require to drag you to the local hoosegow, shake you down for every penny on your person, as well as any phones, notebooks, wallets, passports, cigars, cigarettes, etc.
Basically, they goad you into a fight, then drop the thousand-pound shit-hammer when you retaliate.
It’s all so parochial. So obviously clear as vodka; this elementary charade only raised a single eyebrow.
I’m not going to even raise my voice over a couple of cheap cigars that neither of them noticed I slipped them instead of the premium ones I was smoking.
Thus defeated, I asked the bartender to ask them if they liked the cigar.
“What do you think?” I asked in cordial English, “Too tightly rolled? Not caged enough? Too green?”
UO #2 slipped and said “It smells very good…” where he realizes he’s blown his cover.
“Yeah, I like it too.”, I replied, “So much so, I buy my own. What are your badge numbers, boys? I will be reporting this incident to Inspector P'aeng Yeong-Hwan, the head of security for the IUPGS conference to which I was invited as special scientific consultant.”
Of course, they immediately dummy up and feign illiteracy.
I say loudly and very clearly, “You bastards aren’t gonna get away with this. I mean, what is going on in this country when scumsuckers like you can get away with trying to sandbag a Doctor of Geological Sciences?”
I ask the bartender to translate, but alas, it was too late. They vamoosed when I turned to talk with the bartender.
They left so fast, they didn’t notice me snapping their pictures with my ancient but trusty Nokia 3310, revised edition, during our little chat. Even with a mere 2-megapixel picture, I have enough to show the North Korean leaders of the project to get an identification and make known my displeasure of being treated like some commoner or buffoon.
They left both my cigar and the one I gave them. The bartender tucked the cigar I gave him into his pocket and stared lustily at the two remaining on the bar.
“Take’em”, I said. I sure as fuck don’t want them. “Just a clean ashtray and a refill, if you would be so kind,” I say, as pleasantly as possible, considering the situation.
Both the unsmoked and my smoldering, as well as well-traveled, cigar disappear as quickly as minks rut. A clean, new ashtray, double beer and ‘vodka’ suddenly appear.
“No charge, Dr. Rock”, the bartender grins, as he shoves my erstwhile high-mileage cigar between his teeth.
“OK, fair enough.”, I say, “Spaseebah.”, and deposit a raft of won on the bar. The pile won’t be touched until after I leave in a few hours’ time.
“Stranger in a strange land.” I muse over a couple of further beers.
The call from the massage parlor never came, or it did and I couldn’t hear it over the clamor of the casino. I went up to the hotel’s Korean restaurant; had some salty soup, a sad, sad salad, and some form of funky fish, I think, for dinner. I retired that night in a slightly foul mood.
I called Es then the next morning and caught her before she retired. With a 14 hour difference between us, I was getting up at 0700 and she was getting ready to hit the hay at 2100.
I told her of the events of the day previous, and she was glad she wasn’t tagging along. She would have never accused the Korean geologists of being behind the times and would have probably bent the guy’s nose that swiped my cigar.
Agreed, that she’d probably be unimpressed with this place. I promised her that we’d go on a holiday when I returned from all this. It would be up to her to find out ‘where,’ and I’d supply the ‘when’ when I could.
Everything else was going along smoothly, more or less, on the home front, and I didn’t want to give the local listening-in
federales too much to say grace over, so we said our parting admirations and rang off.
Shower, shower sunriser of real vodka and citrus, a quick brush and comb, and spiff of cargo shorts and new ghastly Hawaiian shirt; 30 minutes later, back down in the restaurant for the inevitable breakfast buffet.
After what some would consider breakfast and others would consider a vague attempt at nourishment, we reconvened in the conference room precisely at 1012.
Nothing like precision with this group.
We spend the next two days going over, in various groups, what we think would be required to set forth proper the quest for oil and gas in North Korea on track. Everyone got in on the act, and we advocated for that. We needed everyone’s input to make this happen. Or to even map a way forward to present to country officials. Those from the West on what was needed and those from the East to tell us what was available, and the combined wetware to make what needed to be done happen with what existed.
It took no small amount of doing, but we secured a set of maps that covered the entire country. We were watched very closely by the shiny suit squad that we did not copy, photograph or otherwise take any extraneous information from these sheets of infamy. All other maps in the country were intentionally skewed, with errors deliberately added in to confuse “interlopers, spies, or other
personas non grata”.
I made a massive stink and told them that if we didn’t receive the unfuckered maps, aerial photographs and satellite imagery pronto, we’re packing up and leaving that afternoon.
“We don’t have time for monks resisting the carnival. We didn’t come here to try and guess if the maps are correct or if our remedies will actually work on maps that say one thing and reality says something else entirely.”
They hemmed and hawed, but as I made the announcement to all before lunch that if the real maps didn’t appear by the time we returned from tiffin, we’re gone.
And we take tiffin purty durn early round these parts, buckaroo.
No one was surprised as I when we returned and there were folio after folio of government-uncensored maps, photos, and imagery for our program. I guess they finally reasoned it would be a relatively good idea to begin to take us seriously.
We spent one whole day just going over our field geological apparatus. They had a good idea of how to use a direction-finder compass and Jacob’s staff to measure sections. However, they were totally flummoxed by our Brunton Compasses, GPS systems, curiously referred to as ‘position finders’, notebook mapping applications, and electronic data storage and retrieval systems.
Gad. It was like being back in the 1970s before PCs were a glimmer in IBM's corporate orbs.
We spent the next week working to bring our less fortunate colleagues up to, well, not date, but at least up to the brink of the 21st century. We explained that plate tectonics, continental drift, and the precession of the continents was accepted geoscientific principles, not some arcane Capitalist or Socialist plot to undermine the quality of science in the east.
Yep. It was that mindset we had to first conquer. I think we’ve made great headway in that direction today.
The next Chautauqua session had us split up into two separate groups. We decided in a fit of Cesarean inquiry to ‘divide and conquer’. There are two distinct
milieus which are able to contain economic deposits of hydrocarbons: onshore and offshore.
Instead of attacking both head-on, we’d focus initially on the offshore domain. Once we had a good handle on what was going on under the East Korean Sea, the Huangai (Yellow) Sea and surreptitiously, the South Sea; we’d collaborate our findings and work to tie them in and extend them onshore.
The singular Phyongnam Basin is the one large depositional, sedimentological, and structural basin in North Korea. It is filled by the Joeson and Pyeongan Supergroups of sediments, which are Cambro-Ordovician and Permocarboniferous, respectively. These are good hunting grounds for oil and gas. Could be
elephant–hunting country.
But before we could undertake that, we had to get ‘back to basics’. That is, we had to understand and delineate the ‘frame’ of the Korean Peninsula. In other words, we needed to figure out how and when the peninsula came into existence.
South Korea’s geology is much more complex, fortunately than that found in the North. There were nasty side comments that were due to the relative development not of the geology, but of the geologists who studied each country’s geology.
It was, perhaps, a mean way of characterizing the situation. But, unfortunately, it was also probably fairly accurate.
The Korean Peninsula is characterized by huge
massifs, which are sections of a crust that are demarcated by faults or flexures. In the movement of the crust, a massif tends to retain its internal structure while being displaced as a whole. The term also refers to a group of mountains formed by such a structure. It’s basically one huge, semi-resilient rock.
The basement rocks of the Korean Peninsula consist of high-grade gneiss and schist, Paleoproterozoic Precambrian massifs, which formed in the early stage of Earth’s history. These rocks are unconformably overlain by metasedimentary rocks; schist, quartzite, marble, calcsilicate, and amphibolite, of the Middle to Late Proterozoic. The Korean Peninsula is floored by a collation of about five of these huge Precambrian massifs that acted like ‘microplates’ during the aggregation of the peninsula. These massifs consist of thick dolostone, metavolcanics, and schist, which were intruded by Paleoproterozoic granites.
These Paleoproterozoic metasedimentary and granitic rocks underwent repeated intracrustal differentiation, followed by the events of cratonization, i.e., regional metamorphism and igneous activity, at 1.9-1.8 Ga. Sediments deposited in the peripheral basins during the Mesoproterozoic and Neoproterozoic lead to stabilization as the basement of the peninsula.
These early depositional basins formed the locus of deposition that continued on from the Proterozoic through the Phanerozoic. There are at least three, perhaps four, depositional basins in the south which are delimited by structural zones, such as the South Korean Tectonic Line (SKTL), a huge zone of continental transform faults and forms the basis of boundary demarcation between the Okcheon and Taebaeksan basins.
The boundary between the Seochangri Formation of the Okcheon Basin and the Joseon Supergroup of the Taebaeksan Basin in the Bonghwajae area is a thrust (or reverse‐slip shear zone). This thrust is presumably a relay structure (i.e. a restraining bend) between two segments of a continental transform fault (the South Korean Tectonic Line or SKTL), along which the Okcheon Basin of the South China Craton was juxtaposed against the Taebaeksan Basin of the North China Craton during the Permian–Triassic suturing of the two cratons.
In the late Proterozoic, sedimentation was initiated in basins of the Korean Peninsula, accompanied by deposition of siliciclastic and volcaniclastic sediments as well as carbonates. The massifs were submerged in the Early Paleozoic during a greenhouse period, forming a shallow marine platform and associated environments.
The Cambrian-Ordovician succession unconformably overlies Precambrian granite gneiss. It consists of mixed carbonate-siliciclastic rocks of sandstone, shale, and shallow-marine carbonates. Sedimentation was initiated in the Early Cambrian with a global rise in sea level on the stable craton of the Sino-Korean Block.
There was a major break in sedimentation during the Silurian and Devonian periods in the entire platform. During the Carboniferous to early Triassic, sedimentation was resumed in coastal plain and swamp environments with progradation of deltas.
Major tectonic events were initiated in the Triassic when the South China Block collided with the Sino-Korean Block. The eastern part of the Sino-Korean Block rotated clockwise and moved southward relative to the South China Block along the SKTL.
In the Middle-Late Jurassic, orthogonal subduction of the paleo-Pacific plate under the Asian continent caused compression and thrust deformation. A number of piggyback basins formed along the thrust faults in the east of the SKTL. At the same time, the entire peninsula was prevailed by granite batholiths, especially along the northeast-southwest-trending tectonic belt.
In the Cretaceous Period, the paleo-Pacific Plate subducted northward under the Asian continent, forming numerous extensional (left-lateral strike-slip) basins in the southern part of the peninsula and the Yellow Sea. A large back-arc basin was initiated in the southeastern part.
In the Paleogene, both the volcanic arc and the back-arc basin ceased to develop, as volcanic activities shifted eastward, accompanied by a rollback of the subduction of the Pacific plate. In the Miocene, pull-apart (right-lateral) basins formed in the eastern continental margin.
The Korea Plateau experienced continental rifting accompanied by extensive volcanism during the extensional opening of the southern offshore basin. It subsided more than 1000 m below sea level.
So, as South Korea was mix- mastered by a half-a-billion years’ worth of structural tectonism, which created several depositional basins quite capable of generating and storing economic quantities of oil and gas, the scene to the north was much more quiescent.
The North was composed, from south to north, of the relict Imjingang Belt, which was an old back-arc basin between the Gyeonggi Massif to the south and the Nagrim Massif to the north. It is a paleo-subduction zone, full of volcanics, volcaniclastics and other non-hydrocarbon bearing rocks. It was mashed and metamorphosed, and basically forms a convenient boundary between the complex geology of the South and the more relaxed geology of the North.
Heading north, we come across the Pyeongnam Basin, the only North Korean basin thus far defined that could contain hydrocarbons. Further north is the huge Nangrim Massif. It’s a huge block of igneous and metamorphic rocks that weather very nicely and form some spectacular scenery, but from an oil and gas economic outlook are worthless.
Offshore North Korea, there are two possible petroliferous basins. The offshore West Korea Bay Basin and East Sea Basin, along with five onshore basins could be offering exploration potential. At least ten exploration wells have been drilled in the West Sea, with some showing “good oil shows” along with the identification of a number of potential reservoirs.
The West Sea potentially has oil and has reportedly flowed oil at reasonable rates from at least two exploration wells when they were drilled and tested in the 1980s. Meanwhile, the East Sea has seen Russian exploration efforts previously including the drilling of two wells, both of which reportedly encountered encouraging shows of oil and gas.
Onshore, there has been little exploration to date, apart from efforts by the Korean Oil Exploration Corporation and also recently by Mongolia’s HBOil JSC (HBO). Among five main onshore sedimentary sub-basins, the largest is south of the capital; while unconfirmed reports point to a 1-trillion-cubic-foot (tcf) discovery in 2002.
Historically DPRK was thought to consist of five under-explored geological basins, the
• Pyongyang,
• Zaeryong,
• Anju-Onchon,
• Gilju-Myongchon and
• Sinuiju, Basins.
These basins are all located more or less along the coast, rather than inland. This also points to a certain degree of geological aptitude; as it’s much easier to explore along the more populated coast than it is to venture inland. There may be more hiding in the interior of the country, it’s just that no one’s looked as of yet. That’s difficult. Exploring along the coast is much easier.
With 3 basins supposedly proven to have working petroleum systems; 22 wells have been drilled and the majority are said to have encountered hydrocarbons with some wells testing production at 75 barrels of oil per day of light sweet crude oil. This has yet to be documented or confirmed by the Korea Oil Exploration Corp (KOEC), North Korea’s state-run oil company.
Yeah, our work was definitely cut out for us.
It was decided that a series of excursions offshore in one of the few remaining seaworthy, which was a real judgment call, KOEC seismic boats would be appropriate. The one we received use of was an old, decommissioned Chamsuri-class patrol boat, one Chamsuri-215(참수리-215), PKMR-215 in particular.
It had been basically stripped to the gunwales and completely retrofitted as a seismic acquisition and recording vessel. It had been renamed: “조선 민주주의 인민 공화국 영광” or “Glory of Democratic People's Republic of Korea Science”.
In reality, it was an aging rust-bucket piece of shit that might have possibly seen better days but wasn’t letting on. All the military nonsense, except the powder magazine, had been removed and a new superstructure consisting of slap-dash hunks of poorly-welded low-carbon, cold-rolled steel were erected to form a pilothouse in the area where the bridge once existed. They also built, extra haphazardly, a shooter’s room, galley, cold and wet storage areas, recording room, and storage of tapes and the extra bits and pieces needed for a none-too-extended stay on the sea. It was, being charitable, almost utilitarian.
They could not make their own water, so trip times were limited to about three days in length. Besides, they didn’t really have a hot galley, so it was cold, canned Chinese chow for the next 72 hours. They had a couple of fairly sturdy yardarms with heavy winches to handle the towed seismic arrays of geophones, which were of ancient heritage and showed it. These were probably appropriated back in the 80s or perhaps earlier when they first thought about opening their waters for seismic exploration.
They ‘borrowed’ most of the sensing and recording equipment back then from oilfield service companies and simply forgot to return it once finished. Since they burned that bridge so glowingly, they couldn’t get parts nor service when things failed. Being delicate seismic sensing and recording equipment, fail they did.
So, we had to use what was leftover, or what DPRK industries could cobble together, or what could be salvaged from salt-water drenched recording equipment that hadn’t been too heavily cared for over the span of the last 50 years.
We weren’t terribly optimistic.
So, we load the good ship ‘Rorrypop’, as Viv christened the thing, and head out to the wilds of the Yellow Sea. It was an abbreviated foreign crew, as there was really nothing other than upchuck and curse me soundly for insisting the non-geophysical scientists came along.
Aboard were the two geophysicists, naturally; Volna and Activ. I was there stick-handling the logistics and hoping to help out with the geophysical signal source explosives.
Morse and Cliff, the two other geologists accompanied us on the trip, and Dax decided to go with me as he figured I’d have access to the best booze no matter where we went.
The remainder of the team, the geochemists, Erlan and Ivan, the geomechanic, Iskren, the PT, Joon, and the two REs, Viv and Grako, remained behind onshore at the hotel. They set forth cataloging what data was available; from what sources, it’s vintage, veracity, and usefulness.
Augean tasks, both. Not as fecaliferous as Hercules’ jobs, but still, they held their own rations of shit for each sub-team.
Heading seaward, the Yellow Sea extends by about 960 km (600 mi) from north to south and about 700 km (430 mi) from east to west; it has an area of approximately 380,000 km
2 (150,000 mi
2) and a volume of about 17,000 km
3 (4,100 mi
3).[4] Its depth is only 44 m (144 ft) on average, with a maximum of 152 m (499 ft). The sea is a flooded section of the continental shelf that formed during the Late Pleistocene (some 10,000 years ago) as sea levels rose 120 m (390 ft) to their current levels. The depth gradually increases from north to south. The sea bottom and shores are dominated by sand and silt brought by the rivers through the Bohai Sea and the Yalu River. These deposits, together with sand storms are responsible for the yellowish color of the water referenced in the sea's name.
Being shallow, the Yellow Sea is more perturbed by the frequent seasonal storms of the region. The area has cold, dry winters with strong northerly monsoons blowing from late November to April. I was told that the summers are wet and warm with frequent typhoons between June and October; but now all we had to contend with were swelling seas, spraying saltwater, waggling waves, and a shivering, shimmying ship.
All the navigation, communications and other shiply duties were being handled by both members of the DPRK Coast Guard Auxiliary, mostly older guys who were of great and high humorous jest; and an actual pleasure to be around. They were like their scientific cadre on this cruise, basically a political ‘give a shit’ attitude, and a desire to get the job done, smoke the American’s cigars and drink as much as we could get away with.
The scientific portion of the cruise was being undertaken by students of the various universities and members of the North Korean national oil company. The demeanors of these characters ranged from extremely earnest and stringently North Korean politically correct in the students and academicians, to a more relaxed ‘yeah, let’s just get the fucking job done so we can have a lot of drinks’ sort of view of the older members of the DPRK scientific team.
It was a fun admixture of cultures, ages, professions, and behaviors.
Oh, forgive me for forgetting to mention our ‘guides’, or handlers. They were also chosen, nay, ordered to come along. Landlubbers all, they were less than thrilled with the assignment and inevitable seasickness; which seemed endemic to those of Oriental extraction on the cruise. However, our guides did enjoy drinking. As we learned that alcohol is a central part of Korean culture, and they encouraged us to socialize with them when the time was appropriate.
Or, not appropriate, as I was being denounced by one of the geophysical students after only a few hours into our very first day. Hell, we weren’t even in the Yellow Sea proper. We started here at Pyongyang, down the Taedong River, over the Giva Dam, through Pushover, across Shmoeland, to the stronghold of Shmoe; into the very belly of the frothing Yellow Sea.
Most everyone, other than the foreign elements on board, were either making the trip in the bowels of the ship; nursing and cursing seasickness; or by rail, doing exactly the same thing.
“Chum it over the side, ya’ blinkered mucker!”, I admonished one bottle-greenish national. “This ain’t the Captain‘s mess, Chuckles.
You have to clean up your own spew!”
I was reveling in getting back out on the water and regaining my sea legs. I
never get seasick.
Never.
Ever.
Be it a seismic vessel in the heaving Arctic Ocean, a pirogue in the swamps of Louisiana, my cousin’s fishin’ johnboat back in northern Baja Canada, a US nuclear submarine under the permanent pack ice of the North Pole, or VLCC in the Straits of Somaliland; I just don’t get seasick.
Airsick? Nah. Carsick? Nope. Ready to puke in a Hind-20 over the Caspian Sea during a strong local thunderstorm? Close, but no cigar.
So, I’m doing a Titanic scene recreation. Up in the very bow of the craft, standing in stark defiance of the gusting winds and blowing salt spray, smoking a huge cigar, and totting out of one of my emergency flasks while trying to hang on to my Stetson. I am also endeavoring to remain upright, field vest and really, really ghastly Hawaiian shirt billowing in the breeze.
I’m not certain if it was the cigar smoke, the wind-whipped beard, and hair, the give a fuck attitude, or the flapping of the Hawaiian shirt to which the little local geophysicist objected. But he was
pissed. Olive-green with seasickness, rubber-kneed but still standing a good social-distance away, reading me the riot act in high-pitched Korean.
As I usually do in such delicate situations, I just smile and wave. Show them I’m mostly harmless and they either cool down or get pissed off even more and stomp off in disgust.
Either one was a winning situation for me in my book.
So, I return to doing my ship’s figurehead imitation and revel in the wind, spray, and feeling of really being booming. Sure, some might complain of the cold, but not me, the sting of the salt-spray or the windburn; but I eschew what most people enjoy as ‘normal weather’. I live for pushing the boundaries. I love rough weather and situations that thrust the edge of the envelope further past normalcy.
Besides, we were still in sight of land. Hell, if everything went south at this very minute, one could practically walk back to shore. I can hardly wait to see what these wigglers will do if a night storm comes up when were 100 or more kilometers from land.
The boat’s thrumming heavily from both the thrust of the Soviet-era diesel engines and the craft’s bludgeoning its way through the waves. Most hull designs are so the ship will ‘cut’ through the surface waters. This craft’s flattened trihedral hull design didn’t so much ‘cut’, as ‘slam’ it’s way through. The boat would then crash up one side and smash down the other of each large wave we encountered. The boat would shudder whole, adding a new note of resonance along with the monotonous one-note song of the aged Russian diesels.
The spray would fly, the boat would convulse, time would seem to freeze until we bashed into the next wave. The captain of the vessel took his orders very seriously. “Get to coordinates
XXX and
YYY by the most expedient means possible.” If that meant charging, full-throttle into the teeth of the oncoming monsoon-force wind while we were traversing the worst kelp jungle I’ve seen this side of the Sargasso Sea; well, piss on it, full steam ahead.
“Fuck it”, I thought, “Not my pony, not my show. Let’s see how this plays out.” While I light a new cigar and search for Emergency Flask #2.
After I’d been upbraided by the geophysical student for transgressions still unknown, Cliff and Dax wander out to ask me what the hell I was up to.
“Have you gone completely barmy?”, Cliff asked. “It’s a full gale out here and you’re standing in the teeth of it like it was a warm, sunny Sunday in Piccadilly.”
“Nope, not at all”, I replied, “Just reveling in the delights of an angry atmosphere.”
“He’s nuts, I told you”, Dax smirked, “He’d go anywhere and do anything to have a cigar.”
“Not just a cigar, me old mucker”, I smiled and waved my second emergency flack under his nose.
“Figures”, they both respond in unison.
Dax departs and returns mere seconds later with paper Dixie-style cups he liberated from the ship’s one head. We are going to do our very best to extend the lifetime of the onboard water supply for our scientific and military friends. I pour them each a cup full.
“Whoa, Doc”, that’s gotta be 100 milliliters!” Cliff objects.
“As the Siberian saying goes: One hundred versts, roughly a hundred miles, is no distance. A hundred rubles isn't worthwhile money. And a hundred grams of vodka just makes you thirsty. Prosit!” I say in reply.
We retire to the overhang on the fantail of the boat. It’s a sunshade and keeps the worst of the weather out for the lightweights on the cruise. I decided we’d withdraw there to keep these Dominionites out of the worst of the wind and sea spray.
“Rock”, Cliff notes, “You are a complete throwback. You do not belong here in the 21st century. You need to find a way back to the Calabrian and ride herd on the continental Neanderthals. Give them the gift of distilling and tobacco agriculture, and you’d reframe the world.”
Dax agrees, but notes if I do find a way back, he and Cliff would be selected against.
“Good point”, Cliff agrees. “Rock, stay here. We need your expertise now more than ever. Plus your ready supply of strong drink and cigars.”
“Glad to know that I’m truly appreciated around these parts.” I chuckled slightly acridly.
“Ah, Rock. Buck up. You know we’re only takin’ a piss.” Cliff says.
“Aim it starboard. Don’t want it blowin’ all over the seismic gear”, I reply, laughingly.
The trip continued, and I found a not-bolted-to-the-deck chair and moved it outside under the shade back by the boat’s fantail. I refreshed my emergency flasks and replenished my cigar supply. I’m not about to sit inside and listen to the wails and gnashing of teeth of the landlubber crowd, the patter and timor of the geophysical throng as they titter and argue about array design, nor the military hut-hutting all over the fucking boat.
A couple of times, one or more of our ‘handlers’ would venture out as I had the only supply of readily available smokeables and drinkables. Oh, we had food, lots of beer, soju, some knock-off vodka, and some of that
faux homebrew bourbon for later once the workday was declared over; but for now, I was the one and only dispensary.
We’d have some random chats while they screwed up their courage to ask me for a smoke or a tot of drink. I brought several bundles of really cheap-ass cigars for just such occasions; besides, I figured one of my Camacho triple-maduros would have them chumming for the remainder of the trip. I had also many, many cartons of Sobranie pastel-colored cigarettes, and many more cartons of knock-off Marlboros I bought at the duty-free when we hit town.
It was chucklingly funny to see these harsh, military, no-nonsense characters walking their duty beats smoking pastel green, lavender, and mauve cigarettes.
We got bogged down a couple of times when one or more of the ship’s twin screws fouled with kelp as we tried to put some distance between us and the shore. Each time, one really dejected low-ranking young Coast Guard character would go over the side with a rope around his waist and a knife in his hand to free the props. I was going to object as this was moronically dangerous; but, again, not my pony, not my show. This called for full proper tethering and SCUBA gear.
They had neither aboard.
Welcome to the wonders of a centrally planned economy.
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