Beware of the Quijie Board

My first and only encounter with a Quijie Board was at a party when I as seventeen. I couldn't wait for my turn at the board. My girlfriend would marry a handsome fellow. That left me out. One of the guys would be a great doctor, others a famous musician, a super sleuth and an oil baron. The ridiculous board predicted I would die before I was twenty one. Everybody, but me, thought it was funny. What a dumb thing to predict, I thought, but I soon forgot about it until six
months later.

That's when five of us were cramped into Richey Magyar's junkmobile, heading for an ice cream parlor in east Pittsburgh. New on the market, it was called "The Dairy Queen." During the return trip, it seemed the car was ging too fast down a steep hill. Pittsburgh has an abundance of very steep hills.

"Hey, Rich, don't you think you'd better start slowing down?" one of the guys asked.

"I would," Richey calmly replied, "if we had any brakes. You'd better hold on to something."

There wasn't much to be said. We braced for the inevitable collision. The car skidded into a pole and spun seemingly in slow motion, but a witness said it was over in seconds. The car turned over and even as we were spinning out of control, my only thought was "that damned Quijie Board." We luckily survived with minor bruises. I worried for days about the prediction, but again, it slipped my mind.

A year later, I was a member of the Cherry Point Marine football team in North Carolina. We were flying in a military DC-3 transport to Miami for a post-season benefit game against the University of Miami -- sponsored by the Kiwanis Club. Most of us were dozing and were awakened by the crew chief. A red light blinked above his head. "Listen up," he yelled, "we're having engine trouble, so put on your parachutes." Then he disappeared back into the cabin.

We were confused. Straps for the chutes were on the seat; the chutes were on a shelf above us. We were young and had never handled a parachute. When the chief returned and saw nobody had followed his order, he cursed and screamed: "Get those damned things on and do it fast."

"How the hell do we do it?" a player yelled back.

We were given a quick lesson on how to don a chute, and not a minute too soon. Just as the instructions were completed, the plane shuddered as thick black smoke and flames burst from the port engine. The crew chief opened the door and I was first in line, scared almost out of my wits. All I could see were tiny cars and houses thousands of feet below and I knew my parachute wouldn't open and I'd splat on top of one. "Oh, God," I moaned. Until then, flying had been so much fun. The co-pilot came back and the crew chief put a hand on my should and yelled, "get ready."

"Wait," the co-pilot yelled. "Return to your seats. We might make it."

"Oh boy," a player yelled. "What happens if we can't and it's too late to jump?"

"Then pray," the man said and returned to the cabin.

The seating area was a long canvas bench with no belts. I pictured myself rocketing down the passageway like a missile when we hit. Much of my body was soaking wet and I wasn't sure if all of it was perspiration It didn't matter. I would soon be dead anyhow. Myriad thoughts raced through my mind. Why should I die when I'm only nineteen? What will they tell my mother? Your son died a football
hero's death? Will they even be able to identify what's left of me?

Oddly enough, I might die in minutes and I thought again about the Quijie Board. I cursed it and wondered if it really could predict the future through some mysterious dimension of which we know nothing.

As we approached the field, fire engines and ambulances raced down the foamed landing strip. It was not an encouraging sight. But we landed safely and as firefighters doused the flames, I muttered: "Take that you stupid Quijie Board." But the odds of me reaching my twenty first birthday were not good and I wondered what could be next.

I didn't have to wait too long. Six months later, I was sunning in a gun turret of an LST (Landing Ship Tanks) off the coast of North Carolina. The morning was serene, the water calm. It was mesmerizing as silvery flying fish skimmed the surface and porpoises led us serenely over the ocean swells. But by mid afternoon things changed. The winds increased and storm warnings were posted.

The thought of struggling through the raging waters of Cape Hatteras, "The Graveyard of The Atlantic," was not a happy one. By eight, waves were splashing across the deck; by ten, they were crashing against bulkheads and sweeping back overboard. We were ordered to stay below as the flat-bottomed LST was tossed wildly about. There was no letup, and I, along with a hundred other Marines, was getting sick. I was tossed back and forth against bunks as I staggered to the lavatory. It was useless - an ungodly mess. Everything that should have been flushed down was now up and floating along the passageway. My stomach contents added to the concoction.

Despite the order to stay below, I headed for a door. I couldn't stand the smell, the cacophony of clanging pots and pans, the noise of the thundering storm, water and raw sewerage swooshing in the passageway, screeching of chain tie downs on vehicles not far from the quarters, and men groaning. I had to have fresh air. As I stepped out on deck, I was smashed by a gigantic blast of water. Soaked in a
second, I was upended and skidded across the deck. I knew I was going to die; sure I'd be sept overboard.

Fortunately, the lower half of the ship's railing was fenced and it stopped me, but not without inflicting very painful bruises. I struggled to my feet, my hands gripping the rail like a vice. Water cascaded over my head, crashed against the bulkhead six feet away and smashed with fantastic force back into my face. I could barely breath. My heart pounded at a pace I had never before experienced.

It took but a few seconds to realize a thundering crash above me was caused by a lifeboat that was losing its tie downs. If it came down, I wouldn't have to worry about being swept overboard. I had to do something and fast. I gauged the roll of the ship and stumbled and slid like a novice ice skater to the door. It was a struggle to open it and when I started in, another booming wave sent me crashing
against the builkhead.

I made it back to the odorous sleeping quarters and threw my aching body heavily onto my bunk. The noise of the crashing lifeboat, pounding of the ocean, clamor of equipment, cursing by deathly sick Marines and the noise of the splashing backed-up lavatory was like music to my ears compared to what I had experienced on deck.

By morning we had sailed out of the storm. I was back in the turret watching a veil-like curtain of rain, thousands of yards distant, drift silently toward the horizon. I again survived the prediction.

A few months later, I was told I would be going to Korea. That damed board was going to get me yet, I knew. But Iit didn't, and it wasn't long before I reached my twenty-first birthday, and there was a celebration that was something to behold.