When Ya Gotta Go

I first met a jellyfish off the shore of the Turkish Black Sea in August of 1973. I was encamped there on a beach near the village of Akcakoca with my fellow backpacked wanderers, Paul and Dan. I had seen jellyfish from boats or washed up dead from the ocean, but never met one face to face.

The night before, we had gotten drunk on wine while dining on swordfish kebabs at a local restaurant. We then stumbled back to our secluded spot on the sea and laid out our sleeping bags for a long summer's nap. During the night heavy winds blew in and the lovely lap, lap, lap of the waves crescendoed into a violent crashing of cymbals. At dawn, Paul, Dan and I woke to find ourselves submerged and pulled out to sea. We dragged our soggy selves and saturated bags to higher ground and laughed our hungover asses off. Paul, though, got pissed when he learned his sandals were swept away forever. While our sleeping bags lay in the sun that day to dry, I had the greatest day of bodysurfing in my life.

When one wanders for weeks, out and about, come what may, it's can be hard to find a good place to poop. On the Black Sea that day, with all that bodysurfing and great portions of swordfish the night before, I worked up a mighty need to go. You didn't find friendly facilities off the beaten path (or in Turkey at all generally) so I cast my eyes out to the harmless sea. I decided to do my business beyond the breakers and swam out some fifty meters.

As I treaded water there, with the swells lifting and lowering, I removed my underpants and prepared to purge. I noticed a translucent umbrella of white floating a ways away, right on my path to shore, and knew that I had better get to it fast as jellyfish give off a nasty sting. So (forgive me) as I was pushing and forcing the issue, I noticed another translucence a ways to my left and yet another to my immediate right. They seemed lazy and unhurried, but by God, they were closing in. I did an immediate about-face out to the open sea to surmise an escape route, out and around, but five or six more were easing in to greet me. Completely encircled, I panicked and released my underwear. Viewed from high above, I would have looked like the yolk of an enormous egg frying and shrinking on the Black Sea surface.

With a huge gulp of air, I dove down, straight down, in twenty feet of water. With saving adrenaline coursing through my veins, like spinach to a cornered Popeye, I swam under and away from that horrible siege, breaking water speed records en route. I believe I could have swum underwater all the way to Istanbul. And soon after my harrowing escape, I sat naked on the beach, hunkered under my sleeping bag, teeth chattering.

That, I'm afraid, was not my first brush with disastrous shitting. Five years before when I was sixteen, my family went camping at Lake Abant which lies in beautiful forested mountains a hundred kilometers west of Ankara. True to Turkish form, there were a few rustic campsites but no restroom facilities at all. By the second day I couldn't put it off any longer. I really had to go.

Armed with a roll of toilet paper, I sought a spot of seclusion. We were tented near the lake with campers around and all solitary paths only led up. So off on a vertical hike I embarked, straight up the mountain, crossed a sidewinding dirt road, then further and further up I climbed, just me and my toilet paper. Finally out of breath, I arrived at a fine spot on the slope which afforded a magnificent view of crystal blue Lake Abant far below. As I stood there in the open sun, I knew I had found pristine privacy. No eyes could spy me way up there. I had worked hard to seize this reward and felt quite glad.

I dropped my drawers to my ankles (forgive me yet again) and with careful adjustments, I managed to squat. My feet became somewhat footed as my left hand grasped a pine sapling while my right held the toilet paper. I was ready to roll. Just then, I noticed some movement on the dirt road a hundred meters below. Three Turks escorted two slow water buffalo that pulled a wagon loaded with logs. I panicked that I might be seen in this embarrassing state and tried to right myself, but in so doing, I accidentally dropped the toilet paper.

As I squatted there, the toilet paper began to roll down the hill. And as it rolled it picked up speed and the paper unfurled and in its unraveling painted a white stripe straight downwards right at the loggers beneath me. Strange, but I mustered the memory of being at Purdue football games and how the fans would throw toilet paper rolls after Purdue scored a touchdown and how a hundred paper streams made a glorious show of celebration there in the stadium, like fireworks.

But there was no papery celebration that day. My toilet paper, now descending at top speed, hit the road in front of the man in front, bounced a time or two in the crossing, then continued like a meteor on its way to the bottom. The logging crew came to a halt and stood there slightly stunned. In unison three heads slowly and silently followed the white line upwards to its original launching pad.

Nothing prepares you for a moment such as this. As I squatted there, my pants around my ankles, I had no words. I suppose I could have shouted, "Iyi gunler arkadashlar! (Good day, friends!)" But I just waved a sheepish hello. They didn't respond, but finally spoke among themselves. Rural Turkish people were not familiar with the concept of toilet paper, let alone the sight of a fair-haired boy so strangely disposed on the side of their mountain. They gawked for an interminable time until, finally, onward they trudged. But I kept my position as it was, awkward as it was, because they looked back at me as they made their exit from sight.

Now five years later my comrades and I hiked back into Akcakoca to catch a bus for Ankara. Along the road, we saw women in brilliantly colored bloomers raking out hazelnuts on flat roofs to dry in the August sun, the Black Sea in the background spread out to the northern horizon. Paul was excited by the scene, and while Dan and I waited, snapped dozens of photographs. Sitting there in the shade of a tree, I noticed that my chest was scraped and raw from the constant pounding earlier when crashing waves beat me dizzy against the grey sand. The pain arose and yet I felt fully glad. No jellyfish had punctured me.