By Jim Bourdon

A large half moon hung, illuminated face down, just above the Baltimore skyline. It struck me, as we drove north, that it was the first tranquil sight of the last 30 hours.

Memories from Aurora are usually derived from the Beaufort County earth's fickle nature -- to surrender or not a souvenir of its past. Fellow collectors, wildlife or weather are details that are useful when telling a story, not the story itself. The weekend of November 2nd was to be much different.

Breakfasting at Jackie's Place foreshadowed the day's events. The conversation and food were no different, but rain poured just beyond the refurbished windows and the occasional lightning bolt was dismissed as flickering lights. "Dougie" Douglas lamented that he'd chosen not to bring surplus ponchos that weekend. Anticipation was still the word for the day, we'd all been rained on in the mine and anyway, it was supposed to stop by late morning.

True to the norm, the rain was only a drizzle as water logged permission forms were handed to Eric Thompsen. It would be a one-bus day, the timid elected not to show at all. By the time we arrived, the rain had stopped and a gentle breeze swept over the mine from the Pamlico.

I stayed back to watch this weekend's assault from the ramparts of the mine face. Several fortes chose the older tailings to the north, fording a short but chest-deep channel. The bulk of the attack headed south into the newer exposures. The easy to reach and usually productive Pungo River tailings, directly in front of the bus, had been left untouched -- that's where the memories would start.

On location, I removed the sweatshirt wom in anticipation of cool weather, and left the rain jacket unzipped; the rain and wind had stopped and fifty-degree temperatures held great promise. The collecting was good but not noteworthy. I had set a low objective for the day, carry back five bags of Yorktown sand and collect as many broken myliobatoid teeth (good roots required) as possible.

By 9:30, a light rain returned with little or no impact on collecting. This intermittent annoyance continued for a couple of hours. The wind had been increasing imperceptibly. Distracted by collecting, I didn't appreciate its strength until I realized that the precipitation I was feeling only occurred near the shorelines -- it was spray, not just rain I was fighting against. Crossing to the leeward side of the tailings did little more than change the side of my glasses that was getting wet. It was now noon, rainy and windy -- and was that a chill I now felt in the air? Now it was time to head deeper into the mine to some good Yorktown exposures.

I had packed three types of gloves for the day, but all were in the car. Finding my hands sensitive to the conditions, I pulled them into the sleeves of the rain jacket. They'd come out if required, but selectivity increased markedly. Several falls on the wet tailings were stopped by knuckles only. I had succeeded in obtaining a reasonable quantity of myliobatoid teeth, but I'd be damned if I'd scrape up sand under these conditions -- I'd prospect till the weather improved.

Coming upon Melissa Manwaring, I got word that Eric had found another Megachasma (megamouth) tooth in the Yorktown earlier in the day. (I hear he's the leading candidate for Lee Creek poster boy this year.) I guess this warmed my body as well as my heart, because I soon found an exposure that held potential. The pack came off, the shovel out and my hands abandoned their protective enclosure; I removed a gallon of wet sand. No sooner had this been accomplished than I felt the impact of nearly five hours of unforgiving weather -- I was cold.

I'd once taken the two o'clock bus so I could deal with the pride issue, but it's a long trip just to get to the mine and there was a special section of Yorktown level two that needed collecting. On my September trip, a gallon bag had produced four Isistius teeth (albeit damaged) and excellent Galeorhinus & Squalus specimens. Earlier in the day I passed it, and a small Notorhynchus tooth lay exposed on the surface. It had to be swnpled despite the weather; I only hoped there'd be a break in the rain. Around two thirty, the gods smiled down and closed the tap. I headed to the site, quickly grabbed two gallons and headed back for the relative protection of the bus. With five minutes to spare I came over the crest of the mine face -- there was no bus.

Yes, the weather was the memory. There was a 1:00 bus, standing room only on the 2:00, a few hard souls on a 2:30 and a 3:30 pick-up truck for two individuals without the common sense to get out of the rain.

As we made the trip north from the phosphate pit on I-95, we approached the Fort McHenry tunnel. I stared at that evening's large brilliant half moon. It looked very much like the cutting edge of a pendulum, threatening the city just below. I couldn't help but see the connection, and despite being a Cowboys fan, wondered how the Ravens would fair on Sunday.