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Eyebrows Raised Incredulous, the questioner exclaims, "You're going to Antarctica? Why ever for?" As though I were either a fool or mad, not knowing it would be cold. And then pursues, "And what's to do?" As though it were a barren, lifeless desert, a sheet of slippery ice, designed to crack a hip, or wrist, at best, a lip. And adds, "You surely know you are too old, you're reckless, at ninety-two, a rocking chair's the place for you." I can't deny the thought's occurred to me. Within limits, I have sought, romantically, to be at places others most avoid, tempt 'mal de mer' in storms at sea, sense tremors of an earthquake, tread on foreign sands, softer than pavements, float on fabled seas, "Why ever for?" There's more to do than crawl a mouse on my computer.
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