I keep a bottle of cognac in my house all the time. No, I don’t keep it to get high, I keep it to return to my youth. Let me explain.

In 1947 I was newly minted naval aviator. I was 21 and had just been attached to a stateside multi-engine bomber squadron. World War II had ended two years earlier and cuts in defense spending had reduced the money available for fuel, so training flights were limited. It looked like it might be a boring tour of duty. But this squadron had one blessing. They had a three plane detachment in what was then French Morocco, and that was my opportunity. I volunteered to go on deployment to this exotic location.

I arrived at the North African base in November, 1947, and was immediately taken with the strangeness of the place. I had never been outside the United States, and now here I was, in a land where the natives dressed in peculiar and strange clothing, where French and Arabic were spoken and where even the climate and vegetation was different. I was in awe.

It was not long after my arrival that one of the other officers, who had been at the detachment for nearly six months, invited me on a short tour of exploration to see the local sights off base. We checked out a Jeep from the Motor Pool, left the base and headed into the nearby town. We drove past burned out WWII tanks on the ridges, three bombed and sunken ships in the winding Sebou River, natives winnowing wheat piled in big circles by prodding tethered mules over it, large black and white storks nesting on chimneys and Arab mothers, some with tattooed faces, with babies on their backs, heads dangling over the side. Wood smoke from cooking fires permeated the air and food smells that I had never smelled wafted past. Wow!

Once in town my guide parked the jeep and walked me through the native market where there were open drainage ditches and baskets of local vegetables and raw meat (covered with flies) hanging in the food stands. Dark-skinned natives in hooded jlaiyyah, some with sheathed daggers hanging from their belts, haggled over prices. This was NOT the Bronx!.

We used up a couple of hours exploring this way when my guide asked me if I was hungry. Nodding in the ascent he walked me into a nearby ancient French bar, and after settling down barside he motioned to the bartender who came over to take our order.

I had no idea what to order or what was available, but my guide went right to it. “Un poulet et un cognac, se il vous plaît ”

“What’s that?” I queried.”

“Oh, I just ordered a cold cooked chicken – they’re small here – and a shot of cognac.”

I thought, “What the hell is cognac?” But I nodded, and not wishing to seem dumb or timid, I said, “I’ll have the same.” And so, my introduction to cognac!

Now, if you are not familiar with cognac , it has a very distinctive flavor, and it’s a hard liquor, similar in alcoholic content to whiskey, rum, and the rest, and that flavor implanted itself in my brain in a way that I did not then understand. In fact, that implant was not only a flavor, but a sensory memory that recorded not just the taste of cognac, but all of the memories of that exotic day. Burned out tanks, sunken ships, youthful excitement – all the memories.

Strangely, I did not realize the strong connection until perhaps forty years later when I casually bought a bottle of Courvoisier Cognac just to sample the beverage again. Wham! I was 21 again, new gold navy wings on my chest and transported back to 1947 Morocco. This French booze was the elixir of youth. I had found what Ponce de Leon spent his life looking for! One sip from the bottle – even a good sniff – and I am no longer an old guy living in Coronado, but a young naval aviator back in an old French bar, in a primitive war-torn Arabic town in North Africa, ripping a small cold chicken apart for lunch.

That, then, is the explanation, and so: “Un poulet et un cognac, se il vous plaît “

My Dad’s folks were very religious, and coming from England, they belonged to the Episcopal Church. They were also very poor. There was little work for my grandfather in New York (he was a mezzotint artist-that is a classy form of etching, and photo-engraving had pretty much made mezzotint work obsolete) and the family finances were pinched to the breaking point. Sadly, one Sunday, the minister of their church got up and read the names of the people in the congregation who weren’t making regular contributions. My grandparents were on the list. Their names were called out. It was a crushing embarrassment. My grandmother was especially affected, and soon after, she became quite sick and died. My dad always connected the two events and became alienated from the church. As a consequence I was never baptized or required to go to church as a kid.

Oh yes, once in a while I went to the nearby Methodist church with my pal, Rodney, but just for the heck of it. Rod was living with my grandparents and grandma periodically gave him the order. Frankly, the entertainment at the church was the stout minister who would shout and rant about the devil and gave a very good performance. Rod and I would sit there and snicker. We named the guy Old Bristle Belly. However the religion never took. It was not for me.

Suddenly World War II broke out and every healthy male either enlisted in the service or was drafted. Casualty reports began coming in and the blue stars on the service flags began being replaced with gold ones signifying that someone had died. Then, in late 1943 I enlisted in the navy to begin my training as a naval aviator.

My German grandmother (Gram) had lived through the carnage of World War I and was now witnessing World War II. She had seen, and was seeing again, people being killed, and she knew that if you weren’t baptized you wouldn’t have a chance at eternal life. You would go straight to hell. Donald MUST be baptized or be doomed. I was strongly reminded of this every time I went home on leave. Fearful grandmothers can be persistent.

Finally, when I was in the final phases of training in Pensacola, in 1946, I decided to set Gram’s mind at ease and do the baptize thing, but I decided to do it on my own terms. Gram was a Lutheran so I checked out that church. No dice, too straight laced and stuffy, and loudly proclaiming that animals could not go to heaven. I tried the Episcopals, but I had that bad “Dad” memory about them and they were too similar to the Catholics with too many trappings of splendor. Baptists were prevalent in the south so I checked them out. Uh, uh! I was not about to be pushed under water by some preacher with a heavy southern accent. I don’t remember if there was a Presbyterian church in town or not, but if there was I checked them out as well with negative results. Finally there were the Methodists. What I found here was a copy of old Bristle Belly shouting hellfire and brimstone. This was my choice. The minister happily agreed to baptize me the following Sunday.

I guess opportunities like this don’t come to ministers every day. He alerted his ushers to keep a lookout for me the following Sunday. How could they miss. I was clad in my dress navy blue aviation cadet uniform with gold buttons and anchors on the lapels, with white starched collar and black tie, shoes shined to perfection and completely out of place in the gathering congregation. They singled me out immediately and led me to the front pew, center seat and left. I was alone.

The service was normal with much gesturing, finger pointing towards heaven and then down when the talk came to punishing sinners. The plate was passed and the regular service terminated.

I was now the dessert.

The minister began: “To all of you here today we must welcome this young man from New York” He pointed down at me, “who is here to be baptized!” There were some more words of praise and reassurance. Then I was summoned to the lectern for the final blessings. “Kneel down!” I kneeled. Words were spoken and then a hand-full of water scooped out a baptismal font was unceremoniously (or maybe that WAS part of the ceremony) poured on my head. Surprise! My head was soaked, my neck was soaked, my starched collar was soaked, the shoulders of my crisp blue uniform were soaked. I was a mess.

Now the wilted, newly baptized mess had to stand and meet the oncoming congregation. Nice people, many invites to dinner, but I was more interested in getting back to the base and out of the classy blue uniform and into my usual khakis. I thanked everyone and then backed out the door and headed for the base bus.

I never returned to that church (or any others), but now my German grandma was satisfied. I could go to heaven. I wrote her the next day. The promise of heaven was probably depending on other factors as well, but I decided to chance these when the time came.

End of story!

Don Hubbard, The Baptized

MYTHS AND RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS—KAPPA

Given the lack of true physical evidence of gods and supreme beings that control our lives, mankind has invented them, and that seems to be true of all races across the spectrum of mankind. There is nothing wrong with this, and conversely, lacking contrary evidence, the imagined being(s) may in fact be invisible but true. In addition, the comfort that religious or spiritual beliefs bring us greatly outweighs the complete dismissal of these concepts. Having said that, let me talk about one mythological creature that I truly have faith in. That creature is an obscure Japanese River God named Kappa.

Kappa wrestling a frog

Kappa is alleged to live in rivers and swampy areas, and physically he is unusual looking. He walks on all fours and his skin has reptilian scales on it. His back has a carapace similar to that of a turtle and his mouth is a beak-like structure, not unlike a parrots. But the most important physical feature is the top of his head where he has a bony structure shaped like a dish with a small hole in it. It this is peculiarity that causes grief for other creatures. This is because the dish can hold water and the hole lets it trickle down on to his brain. When that water accumulation becomes excessive, the pressure on Kappa’s brain irritates him, making him want to create problems for others. He becomes mischievous! Or, saying it another way, Kappa is bad news and a pain in the whatever!

From your point of view, you will know when you are his target when numerous petty problems begin to plague your life. For example: The car battery is dead just as you need the vehicle for an important meeting, and then, as you get the car started, you notice a large oil stain on your jacket. Of course you have to change the jacket before leaving, but when you get to the door you remember that your keys are still in the car and you must return there to get them. You get the idea! This is Kappa at work!

Now, what to do? The solution is quite simple – really. Kappa is a Japanese God, and given his ethnicity there are certain characteristics that you can expect. The first of these is politeness. Kappa is polite to a fault! The second, and from your point of view the most important, he responds to polite gestures from you. There is the solution to your problem. When you realize that Kappa is causing you grief and you want to be rid of it, a polite gesture is the answer. Turn to face west to where Kappa resides, (if you are in the United States) and politely bow to him. Kappa will return this gesture in the Japanese manner. He will bow back. Understandably, when he does that the water spills out of the depression in his head and relieves the annoying pressure on his brain. With the pressure released Kappa’s need to commit mischief disappears and your problems are over.

Does this work? I mentioned at the beginning of this essay that the one belief that I have faith in is the one involving the Japanese River God Kappa, and I have that belief because I often put the above technique into practice. I may look strange to unknowing observers as I turn west and bow, but I have gone from being harassed to tranquility in just moments – thanks to that simple bow. Try it and see if it doesn’t work for you

©  Don Hubbard 2012