Some new stuff I’d not heard. But 1628 BCE is apparently OUT. That goes to a volcano in the Alaska chain.
That also “demotes” the power of the Thera erruption. It was formerly considered the most powerful eruption in recorded human history…but that now goes to Alaska. the current possible dates are 1611 on the high end, mid-1500s, and 1538 on the low end. Archaeology supports the lower end, hard science evidence supports the higher end…so far.
But if it wasn’t the super-powerful eruption previously thought, that would also explain why its impact doesn’t appear to have been as harmful on surrounding civilizations. That’s been part of the puzzle. The eruption of Thira did NOT knock out the Minoan civilization (whatever of those 3 dates turns out to be true, but especially if earlier), or significantly harm the burgeoning Mycenaean one, either. Some evidence suggests the biggest waves his the Palestinian coast instead. But a less massive eruption explains the lesser impacts.
(Less massive is relative, mind. It still blew the top off the island, but there was less ash in the atmosphere than what the big Alaskan eruption of 1628 put out.)
Our First Minoan Episode is in the Final Stages of Production!
Putting the finishing touches on the first of our Minoan/Bronze Age Aegean episodes! The item above (which vaguely resembles a frying pan) will be an item of discussion, along with some other amazing things. I aim to get it out by the weekend, so thanks for your patience amidst the craziness of my life that’s made podcast production a bit more difficult of late. Details about the book giveaway are coming in the next few days also, so stay tuned crew!
I live in the southeastern US, which is almost literally half a world away from Crete, where the ancient Minoans lived. In this modern day, what with the Internet and all, that’s not such a big deal, except for one thing: the seasons aren’t the same in the two places. That makes the equinoxes… interesting.
I watch crewmembers emptying their boats. Against the flat grey sky they look like orange buoys in those rainsuits, shimmering with seaweed and jellyfish guts. They have an entire season ahead of them. 30, maybe 40 days, if they’re lucky. And if they’re not, a whole year will need to pass before they can try again. I want the myths to be true for some reason. For the plight and power of these strange men to be raised up alongside the ancient mariner’s. I want them to be tougher, stronger, better, meaner, worse than me so that I’m allowed to stand in silence when the swelling blue folds into itself and a thousand pounds of fish slide through their gloved hands. So that I can wonder what it is that separates them from me. The trouble with myth isn’t that it’s elusive, it’s that we never stop looking for it, feeling for its shape. It’s like watching someone you love while they sleep and thinking, “Now who is this?”.
Cum e navibus acervos exponunt, nautas specto qui sub obscuro et aequo caelo casulas induti videntur turres phari pictae alga intestinisque pulmonum clarae. Si fortuna erit secunda, triginta vel quadraginta dies amplius piscabuntur; si non erit, necesse est totum annum intercessurum dum rursus proficiscentur. Utinam fabulae sint verae, quae vires atque opera illorum numen Neptoni certant. Utinam piscatores sint quam ego fortior, firmior, melior, inclementior, peior ut retibus sublatis possim tacere cum piscium multa milia pondo manus illorum accipiant, et considerare quae illos a me discernant. Fallaces non sunt fabulae, immo vero semper repetuntur ac refinguntur, sicut amatorem dormientem spectans reputat quis iam sit ipse.
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While they toss their nets from the ships, I watch the sailors, who dressed in hoods beneath the dark and flat sky, look like painted towers of Pharos, bright with algae and the innards of jellyfish. If fortune will be favorable, they will fish for thirty of forty days more; if it will not be, it is necessary to pass the whole year until they will set out again. Would that the stories were true, where the strength and deeds of those men contend with the godhead of Neptune. Would that the fishermen were braver than I, stronger, better, harsher, worse, so that after their nets are raised I can be silent when their hands accept the many thousand pounds of fish, and consider what things set them apart from me. The stories are not deceitful, but rather are always repeated and refashioned, just like the person watching their sleeping lover reconsiders who that person is now.
