Holograms
May 3rd, 2001.
If ever you are sixteen years old and living in Anacortes, WA without any realistic connections to finding hallucinogenic substances, you know that drug-experiment prone teenagers have to be resourceful in finding ways to get fucked up. Fort Ebey[1] became the initial drug playground of my inner friend circle. We discovered that for some ridiculous reason our parents were okay with our occasional weekend vacations to this monumental place. We drove about an hour away on ultra-fresh drivers licenses’ to go camping with a conspicuously zealous frequency. We went because we could, because it was huge and unfamiliar and weird. Our parents weren’t there, the beach was beautiful, the cliffs were steep and felt dangerous, and the empty World War II forts were creepy and echoed eerily with the slightest of sounds. On top of that, we could be wild there.
However, on this particular weekend, our hopes of wandering around with our minds whirling with LSD or psilocybin mushrooms were thwarted with a failed rendezvous with some sketchy guys who probably would’ve ripped us off anyways.
So we improvise.
Bronzewick has a bit of weed, I cover the food, and Benji had previously ordered a small vial of 20x Salvia Divinorum[2] from Japan. Salvia is legal, incredibly powerful, and the experiences that last under ten minutes make it attractive to our desires of escaping reality .A small-town high school environment can be an incredibly mild and mundane existence, so I guess we just needed some spice.
On our way, we stop at a grocery store in Oak Harbor and make a decision that is not only impulsive, but also un-researched and dangerous. I don’t know how we pull of this suspicious and somehow legal purchase, but we select different checkout lines and each of us buy a tube of Dramamine[3] and a specific bottle of cough syrup that’s only active ingredient is DXM[4].
When we arrive at the Fort Ebey campsite we set up our tent and smoke a little weed. As we nibble on the snacks lifted from my parent’s pantry we discuss the plan of our evening. Bronzewick suggests a procession of drug imbuement.
“Let’s take turns hitting the salvia, down the cough syrup, & stumble down the cliffs to the fuckin’ beach. There, we should smoke another bowl, down the Dramamine and then see what happens.” We agree that this is a good idea, and begin the adventure.
“I’ll hit it first.” Bronzewick says, inspiring a needed initiative.
Bronzewick returns from the woods; his face is solemn and stone.
“How was it?” I am anxious. Bronzewick doesn’t answer.
I decide to go about ten paces back into the woods to trip. Bronzewick stays at the picnic table, winding down from his own experience as Benji comes with me to watch from a distance. I sit on the ground as I fill my pipe with a marble sized bowl of salvia. I hold my lighter high above the glass and lower it slowly until the flame licks and ignites the plant matter. I inhale deep and slowly and hold my breath as I lean backwards into the brush. I stare straight up at the tree canopy far above and the blades of sword ferns stabbing into my vision from the sides. As I exhale, my consciousness begins to experience the indescribable reality-crashing-down-world-imploding-collapse of all that one knows and is real – of refined salvia divinorum. As this phenomenon begins to kick in, Benji leans above me – his head breaks into my field of vision as he asks, “Is it working?” The spherical shape of his head remains as he pulls back, the look on my face conveying the answer to his question.
The sphere begins to hum, vibrate, and pulse as it shimmers flashes of silver, white, and gold. Each flash of the alternating colors pulses in my body as well as cascading emotions of fear, utter astonishment, and orgasmic elation. The sphere blinks and hums a thumping bass sound into the center of my vision as my head remains completely immobile. Five sword ferns emerge from the sphere, all evenly spaced out, and it begins to spin. All the while, the sphere that was at some point generated from Benji’s head, continues to flash between bright colors that are resonating with a thumping, humming, distorted bass noise. Suddenly it splits apart like cell division; straining against itself for a fraction of a moment before splitting and spitting out a clone. This process repeats itself until there are five spheres spinning and rolling around, bouncing only at the end of my vision – like a screen saver. My chest rises and falls like I imagine a person’s does when experiencing the sharp plummeting of a plane crashing. I do not know who I am, where I am, or what life is. All I know is that this is immense, terrifying, and I am absolutely helpless to what is happening. The sword-fern spheres begin rotating faster, the pulsing sound that seems to emanate from inside of my body becomes louder, a crescendo of many emotions at once all rushing towards the climax – the crash.
Then it is gone. Instead of the loud sound of an explosion, there is an unexpected bell-chime of the seatbelt symbol blinking off. The plane is righted and I, the only passenger, remember everything. My name is Ryan Shipman. I am sixteen years old and a sophomore at Anacortes High School. I am laying on my back in the damp moss and twigs at the Fort Ebey campground. I am here with my friends, Benji Wolfe and Chad Bronzewick. I am blondish, I play music and like all food, and I am alive. These facts immerge in a wave of re-realization from conscious awareness to finer detail.
I sit up, and am eager to relate my experience to my friends. My limbs feel as if they are being jerked around with finely coiled cables instead of sinewy muscle as I head towards the picnic table. Bronzewick and Ben look at me expectantly. As I open my mouth in an attempt to describe the hypnotic pulsations of the bouncing sword-ferns, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is garbled incoherence. My mind is frustrated as the dialogue is brutally destroyed by the incapability of my mouth. I try again, and again I am met with a string of words incomprehensible to anyone. My friends laugh at me, with a knowing understanding. A few more minutes pass, and I am able to sound out my thoughts. However, words lack the capability of describing a hallucinogenic experience.
Benji is taking his Salvia dose as Bronzewick and I prepare to ingest a horribly viscous tincture that tastes like a vile bastardization of what one may have been tricked into thinking cherries tasted like. Yes, cough syrup is gross. When Benji returns, we down the medicine as fast as we can manage without vomiting and gather our backpacks to walk to the beach. The trail from the bluff to the beach was steep, rocky, and a pleasure to descend. It gives a feeling of security as no decrepit drug-hating old people could likely traverse it without assistance and ride us for our transgressions. We pop our entire tubes of Dramamine and wander around, tossing rocks and reflecting about how our brains had been destroyed in moments and debating all sorts of existential crises, I’m sure.
A short chunk of time has passed when Benji begins to act very crass and irritated. He is thirsty, we have no water, and his body is beginning to experience intense duress. All of our bodies are beginning to feel the weight. It is getting dark, everyone is starting to feel funny, and we need to climb the path back up the cliff to return to the safety of our campsite. The journey was harrowing as things began to haze and our flesh-vehicles began to dip below optimal performance.
It’s an interesting cocktail. One of these grocery store drugs was intended to stop motion sickness and the other was supposed to suppress coughing. We were not suffering from these ailments. Little did we know what this mixture meant when one ingested an entire container of said drugs at one time.
Soon enough, Benji and I find out what happens. We arrive back to our campsite, unscathed by the cliff ascension. We are restless. The three of us decide to walk around the camp loop. This should have taken us about fifteen minutes, but Benji and I are gone for over five hours. At this point, memories and consciousness are only present in fractions of moments; bizarre recollections of what may have been. Bronzewick has more of his wits about him and realizes that things are getting too deep. He tries to lead us back to our tent sanctuary but is unable to due to our complete inability to understand anything. He gives up as he too is battling the same chemicals that would carry us into a nightmare.
Flash: Bronzewick is telling me that we need to go back to the tent. He reminds me “Campsite six man, remember? We’ve got to get there.” His face is flashing, morphing into Benji’s, his voice is doing the same thing. I do not know who he is. At this point I black out and collapse.
Flash: I lift my face off the pavement and stand up. In front of me is a wall of leaves. As I turn around slowly I discover that I am completely surrounded by bushes. I push into one of the walls to try and find the path. My hand passes through the leaves I have tried to push aside. They are holograms. I do not understand. I black out and collapse.
Flash: I am standing on the concrete path and two lighthouse beams are flashing towards me in long knife-like shafts. I do not remember a lighthouse but I want to go towards it. As the light gets brighter and closer I hear two voices. I freeze, and two campers pass by with their flashlights. They seem uncomfortable by my presence and say nothing as they shuffle by. I am confused. I remember “Campsite Six” and the need to find a number post to find my bearings. When I locate one, the number on the post is 23; but only for a second. It then blurs into 4, blurs into 43, and continues to cycle through different numbers without stopping on one. I stumble on. My campsite will be difficult to find. Loss of consciousness.
Flash: I am very dehydrated. I see a can of soda lying ahead of me in the middle of the path. I am relieved. I reach down to pick it up and my hand passes through the can. I continue trying, convinced that my depth perception is tricking me somehow. I eventually give up. My fingertips hurt. I stumble on to find another campsite post with whirling numbers. No help here. I need to find our car.
Flash: I am talking to Benji, I think, although his face and voice are at times that of Bronzewick. We are both scared. He doesn’t have shoes. “Do you know where campsite six is?” I might have said. He responds that no, he doesn’t but is very tired and confused. I am also confused. I realize that I am cold and I no longer have my coat. We lose consciousness or each other or both.
Flash: I am surprised to find Bronzewick’s Suburban. Sanctuary. I am saved. I am also surprised because I did not know that he owned a Suburban but I know it is his. I try the door handle. Locked. I wonder why they would lock me out. I knock on the windows, and violently try the door two or three more times. Someone yells at me from their tent, “Hey! What’s going on out there?! What are you doing?!”I realize Bronzewick does not have a Suburban and I am in someone else’s camp. I leave the scene quickly.
Flash: I notice a picnic table on the path in front of me. I feel that standing on it will give me the vantage point I need to see our car and tent. I approach it and raise my leg to plant it firmly on the bench seat. The bench seat is not there. It is a hologram. I lose balance and face plant. Blackout.
Flash: I find myself almost pressing my face up against a sign post. I am running my finger along the groove of the indicated number over and over. My hands are dark with soil and grime. The number is still whirling and indecipherable but the fluctuations between numbers have slowed. I become convinced that the swirling motion of my fingers have been tracing a six, or perhaps an eight, despite what my eyes are telling me. I venture past a car and see a tent on my right. As I unzip the zipper, it drapes inside and reveals the sleeping face of Bronzewick. Specific lines of his features are blurring and morphing but I touch my hand to his face and it stabilizes. I am sure that this is him. He groans and swats at my hand and opens his eyes slowly. “What the fuck happened to you? Where’s Benji?” he asks. “I don’t know.” I answer as I plummet face-forward towards his feet. I am asleep.
We wake up pretty much simultaneously. Our return to reality is a chain reaction of consciousness returning and our mouths are all moving at the same time. We are all investigative detectives inquiring for details of our own stories. There are many facts missing and the list of witnesses are impossible to contact through our means. We debate if we would even want to interrogate the witnesses or if in fact this activity would incriminate ourselves. “Ignorance is bliss.” Bronzewick reminds us. Benji is missing his socks, his shoes, and his wallet. His jacket pockets are stuffed full of leaves. He thought, at some point during the nightmare, his luck had struck and he had found bushes full of cash money.
“You know there is a very common saying that relates to that.” I guess Bronzewick thinks this is funny. Bronzewick found the tent before the nightmare struck. He didn’t experience the inability to stay conscious for any amount of time, or the frustration of three dimensional holograms that limbs inexplicably pass through. However, Bronzewick does understand the potential repercussions of the night as his eyes widen and he mutters, “Fuck.” We follow his gaze to see a uniformed Ranger approaching us. We look awful. Benji and I both have raw and bloody fingertips from attempts to pick up holograms and dirt from digging around wherever we had been digging around.
“Good morning Gentlemen. I have a couple questions for you.”
“Of course Officer. What questions are those?” I am sure all of us say this in chorus.
“I had a report of a young male prowling last night in Campsite 42 at around 2:15 am. Have you boys been drinking? Does this have anything to do with you?” His eyes glance around for signs of meth, PCP, Carlo Rossi, something.
We shake our heads though. No trouble lying here, as we had no alcohol. We wonder in a panic what he might think of the three discarded tubes of Dramamine or the bottles of cough syrup and their respective packaging in the back of the car. We are too petrified to say anything, knowing the explanation of combined chemicals and our recollection of what occurred would put the Officer in a very interesting position.
Instead we all put on, “What the fuck are you talking about?” faces except with innocent and polite eyes but our little act is obviously weak and he spares us the confusion. The ranger then sighs and says, “Does this belong to any of you?” He produces from his pocket a wallet that is clearly Benji’s.
“The campers at 42 reported that a young man tried multiple times to enter their tent and seemed unresponsive to their attempts to communicate. Can you tell me about this?” says Ranger Tom.
“I’ve had terrible experiences with sleep-walking, Officer. I woke up very confused and do not remember being at another campsite. I had no mischievous intent, I can assure you. I am a good kid. I am very sorry and very embarrassed.”
Benji manages not to lie. Sort of. Almost all these things are true. Ranger Tom seems as confused as we do. This kind of situation is not covered under normal procedure, clearly. He sighs again as he says, “I’ve just got a weird feeling about this guys. You’re not in trouble but I am going to need your names and the phone numbers of your parents.” Apparently we do not pass for adults at this point. Ranger Tom hands Benji his wallet back and we write our info down on his little pad of paper.
“Be safe guys. Stay out of trouble.” Ranger Tom’s parting words of advice are forgotten easily, but we consider ourselves blessed. Immediately upon his departure from the campsite, we begin to pack up all of our gear and flee. With little knowledge of what had occurred the night before, we feel departing any last known location is our top priority.
All of us are giddy with confusion as we begin to peel around the loop on our way to the exit. “Wait a second, the fuck is that?” Bronzewick says as he stops the car suddenly. Outside the car is my jacket; torn and partially stuffed into a wall of bushes. Twenty feet further, we notice Benji’s socks and shoes hanging on broken branches of a tree trunk. We recover our items and commence our journey back home. Our bodies hurt, our minds are littered with holes, and we’d spend that day and the next one recovering just enough to make it to school on Monday.
Despite our warning, Fort Ebey remained our primary zone of exploration of drugs and vice, until we discovered the magic of the Umpqua Dunes just about one year later.
[1] Fort Ebey was originally built during World War II as a coastal defense near the mouth of the Puget Sound. Located 2 miles north of Coupeville, the park consists of 645 acres on Whidbey Island with 3 miles of saltwater shoreline on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a freshwater lake, and over two dozen miles of hiking and mountain biking trails. Other available activities include fishing, beachcombing, bird-watching, interpretive activities, paragliding, and getting incredibly fucked up.
[2] Salvia divinorum (popularly known by its genus name Salvia) is a psychoactive plant which can induce dissociative effects. Aside from individual reported experiences there has been a limited amount of published work summarizing the effects. D.M. Turner’s book Salvinorin—The Psychedelic Essence of Salvia Divinorum, mentions that the effects may include:
- Uncontrollable laughter
- Past memories, such as revisiting places from childhood memory
- Sensations of motion, or being pulled or twisted by forces
- Visions of membranes, films and various two-dimensional surfaces
- Merging with or becoming objects
- Overlapping realities, such as the perception of being in several locations at once
[3] Dramamine or dimenhydrinate is an over-the-counter drug used to prevent nausea and motion sickness. Dimenhydrinate is used as a deliriant at doses of 200 to 1200 mg, although it should be noted that body weight plays a significant part in dosing of any drug. Frequent users of Dramamine are sometimes called Dramatists, a pun on the name. Tripping on Dramamine is sometimes referred to as Dramatizing or "going a dime a dozen," a reference to the amount of Dramamine tabs generally necessary for a mild trip. The auditory/visual hallucinations coupled with the ensuing confusion and short-term memory loss often leads to mild or intensive paranoia among the users. Though auditory hallucinations are more common than visual hallucinations, the visuals of a "Dramamine Trip" can seem very real. At higher doses the hallucinations are more frequent, realistic and in some cases, frightening. Hallucinations induced by Dramamine abuse are sometimes shared among users; that is, it is common for Dramamine users to hear their own name being called, to see frightening creatures (such as insects or zombies), and to have conversations with non-existing people. When taken before going to sleep, users tend to randomly sit up and look around at their surroundings, sometimes within 2-5 minute intervals.
[4] Dextromethorphan or DXM is one of the active ingredients used to prevent coughs in many over-the-counter cold and cough medicines. Since their introduction, over-the-counter preparations containing dextromethorphan have been used in a manner inconsistent with their labeling, often as a recreational drug. At doses higher than medically recommended, dextromethorphan is classified as a dissociative psychedelic drug, with visible effects that are similar to those of ketamine and phencyclidine (PCP). It can produce distortions of the visual field, feelings of dissociation, distortions of bodily perception, excitement, as well as a loss of comprehension of time.
No comments:
Post a Comment