Part 2 (1/2)

There are loads of websites pertaining to the Atlantis legend. I just need to find which ones involve Atlantis and its connection to the ancient languages engraved into the relief, I think to myself. Thankfully, there are a lot of Atlantean whack-jobs out there so finding information isn't the issue. The problem is that most of the people are either guessing or completely bat-s.h.i.+t crazy. All I'm looking for is similarities.

It takes me an hour or so, but I think I have what I need-at least, enough information to make sense of what's going on. I run a Google search on all the historical accounts from all the major ancient empires as they relate to Atlantis. They all have the same round-about description of Atlantis and its destruction. This fact seems odd to me considering that most of these records are from people who lived thousands of miles away from each other. It's not like they had planes and the internet to tell their tales and more than half of them didn't sail either. A big thing called the ocean would have been in the way. Either way, the commonality is very interesting.

The only problematic thing I see is that none of them are accounts of the actual city and its construction. The only thing I have found is a symbol and a general blueprint of its layout-of which, I have no idea if it's accurate. This doesn't surprise me since it is said that most of the historical records would have been destroyed when the city itself was.

Just like the libraries at Alexandria to the Roman rulers in Egypt, I think. But even some of those were saved due to copies that were made and later found in other nations.

I laugh a little on the inside remembering where I learned that. Mom, Dad and I were on s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p Earth at Epcot in Disney World when I was a teenager. The ride was always one of their favorites since it takes you through some of the major events in world history, which was and still is, Dad's forte.

I look back to my iPad and try to get Dame Judi Dench's voice out of my head, her being the narrator of the story in the ride, and continue with my research.

Atlantis was supposedly built in 3 ringed sections with mote-like channels separating each section, almost looking like a giant dart board. The reports-or in this case blueprints-indicate there was one long ca.n.a.l that allowed access to each divided segment.

It seems that none of the descriptions are from within the city though. It's like no one was ever allowed inside it or that they weren't permitted to write about it. I think the latter to be the case since we are talking about an ancient, super-secret civilization after all.

The rest of the flight goes as scheduled. With about five hours of air travel remaining, I finish up with my web-surfing and recline my chair. I lean my head back and shut my eyes, and try to picture the mysteries that await us.

As I attempt to sleep, I flip through dozens of scenarios and situations in my head, but how do you put together a game plan for something that isn't supposed to exist? Everything I have learned and been trained for has completely been thrown out the metaphorical window. This is truly an adventure in its purest sense.

The Mystery.

The Excitement.

The Danger.

And just like a lot of books and movies I've consumed over the years, I can only think of the many ways this can blow up in our faces.

5.

I dream of baseball.

I dream of clay infields, the smell of the freshly cut outfield gra.s.s, cheap hotdogs and stale popcorn. This is the life I should have had. The life I did have, but for a shorter time than I would have liked.

I was once regarded as one of the top prospects in the game, a five tool player. To be viewed as a five tool athlete you must have above average speed, hitting, hitting with power, fielding and arm strength. I had a c.r.a.p ton of all five at the ripe age of 18. At six-foot-two, 190 pounds, I was easily the pick of the baseball litter.

My Grandfather once told me I reminded him of Mickey Mantle, the legendary New York Yankee. He was gritty, tough, and played with the same tenacity that I did. Plus, the guy was one of the best hitters to ever play the game, as well as a tremendous outfielder. Mick was a Hall of Famer for a reason. My ultimate goal.

But, then it happened. Ten years ago this past spring I was playing in the fifth game of my second season in minor league ball. I was barely twenty years old at the time and already playing at Triple-A Toledo for the Detroit Tigers minor league affiliate, the Mud Hens. I was starting in centerfield, the position I mastered in high school while playing for the Wellington Wolverines in southern Florida. A bomb was. .h.i.t over my head and I did the only thing I could do...I turned and hauled a.s.s.

”He got a hold of that one!” The announcer yelled. ”Bradford crushed that ball to straight away center over the centerfielders head. Boyd is in a dead sprint tracking the ball. Man o' man can he fly out there. He's like a gazelle in center, people! Ten feet from the warning track and closing in...”

Now, they call it the warning track' for a reason. Basically, when you hit the fifteen foot wide expanse of dirt in front of the wall you are supposed to slow down. It warns you of an imminent impact.

Well, I didn't slow down. I never slow down. I'm always aggressive and as my coaches always used to say, ”A little reckless at times.” But, I never cared. I, like most people my age, believed themselves to be indestructible-especially when there were big league scouts in the stands. If I tracked down this ball and hauled it in with them watching, I would have been a shoe-in to be called up to the majors for the weekend series against Chicago.

”He's not slowing down-oh my, that was a vicious collision! He caught the ball with two out at full speed, but hit the wall just left of the 412 sign. Boyd is down and not moving. Grillo, the left fielder, is checking on him. Now Grillo is waving for help from the Toledo bench! This can't be good folks! Boyd is still down and not responding...”

I don't remember hitting the ground...or the wall for that matter.

I'm told the play got a standing ovation from the near sellout crowd, but I didn't hear them...I didn't hear anything. The concussion I sustained was brutal. I woke up puking my guts out over the next couple of days.

I'd trade back all the vomit in the world for a healthy shoulder. The concussion faded, but the pain from the torn ligaments and shredded muscles in my right shoulder never went away.

Two surgeries and a year of useless therapy later, I'm out of baseball for good. The joint never healed properly and I can't throw or swing without pain. I even had three second opinions. All three doctors said the scarring was too great and another round of surgeries wouldn't have fixed it. h.e.l.l, one of them said a hundred surgeries wouldn't have made a difference.

The arthritis I developed from the trauma of hitting the wall will never go away, I was told. To this day I have to take anti-inflammatory medication just to sleep. If I roll over on it the wrong way I'll wake up with a start.

I was beyond distraught over losing my career, my pa.s.sion and my love. I did what most people would do in that case. I drank. I drank and did something a little brainless. I got in an arguing match with an overweight cop and asked him, ”Did you marry a piece of bacon, or the whole pig?”

Needless-to-say he didn't take it well.

The next morning my father came and bailed me out of the local drunk tank and three months later I started working for him and the other archeology geeks in D.C.

6.

DING.

”Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be arriving at our destination in about thirty minutes. Please prepare yourselves for landing.”

I wake with a groan.

”What the h.e.l.l hit me?” I mutter to myself, visibly wincing in pain. My head feels like it got hit with a bat, or better yet, a plane. I laugh at the ridiculousness of what happened earlier in the flight and shake it off to c.r.a.p luck.

”You okay?” asks a voice.

I look over at my dad. He's buckled in-which I replicate immediately. I don't need a repeat of this morning's events. Feeling like a ping-pong ball in a tennis ball tube and shaken by a paint mixer isn't my definition of fun.

He watches me strap in and gives me a look that says, Good idea.' I give him a wink and then look out my window. What I see makes me groan with disapproval.

Desert, nothing but desert stretches into the distance from my vantage point. There are a few aberrations on the ground though. What looks like trees and other desert residing flora dot the otherwise unremarkable expanse of nothingness.

I'm still thousands of feet in the air and my arm pits are already moistening up.

This, I think. Is going to suck.

I look back over at Dad and see him rummaging through his pack.

”You lose something?” I ask.