Tuesday, July 1, 2008

My apparent submarine obsession

It didn't hit me until I saw it.

Last month Duane sent over an inked copy of our first issue's page eight, which takes place, as you can see from the picture to the right, on a high-tech submarine out in the open water.  I had written the script calling for the sub, but until I saw the finished product I didn't realize that I, apparently, have some weird fascination with the water-faring craft.  I can't explain it, but it must be true.

A few years ago I wrote a short story titled "The Deep," which was very ably handled art-wise by Jason Seabaugh, Rusty Gilligan and Adnan Virk.  The story deals with two poker-playing skeletons trapped on a sunken...wait for it...submarine.  Now, two appearances don't in and of themselves make for a mental disorder per se, but the fact that they keep sneaking into my subconscious is interesting nonetheless.  If you click on the picture, you'll see a clip from page eight of Teddy and the Yeti #1 on top, while the sub from "The Deep" is on bottom.  Great stuff from both art teams.

Spending time dwelling on these ships reminds me of a piece of my own history.  Like many people my age, I had a grandfather who served in World War II (the other barely missed being drafted, turning 18 in September of 1945 and being stationed in post-war Japan).  My father's father spent time aboard a submarine in the European theater, seeing active combat in what I could only guess would be a terrifying sequence of events the likes of which I'll never be able to comprehend.  His ship was attacked and hit with a torpedo that crashed through the hull, striking my grandfather and breaking his back.  The torpedo, however, was a dud and therefore did not explode (my grandfather, who also went blind from the incident, later regained his ability to walk and see, much to the doctor's amazement).

This is an incredible story of its own right, but when I think about how it pertains to me and my very existence...well, it's more than a little worrisome.  To think, the only reason I'm alive - the only reason my dad and uncles and aunt and sisters and cousins are alive for that matter - is because some Nazi building torpedoes screwed up and didn't do his job.

Kind of scary.

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