The Moth Radio Hour: Rites of Passage

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I'm Sarah Austin-Geness. In this episode, stories told on moth stages around the world.
We'll bring you to the coast of Kenya, a remote island off Anchorage, Alaska, a stage in Burlington, Vermont, and a swimming pool in Logan, Utah. All are stories of rites of passage.
Our first storyteller, Jennifer Cohen, shares what it's like to live through the empty nester phase of life. She told this at an open mic story slam in Burlington, Vermont, where we partner with Vermont Public Radio.
Here's Jennifer Cohen, live at the Moth. So when my kids were little, the go-to movie to watch when they were sick or it was raining was, for some reason the musical and I would watch them sitting close together three pair of bright blue eyes watching Carol Burnett sing little girls little girls again and again and again and I told them I said you know when you grow up and you go off to college and I'm all bored and lonely I think the Flynn Theater should do the musical Annie and I could be in it because I know all the songs, like every word.
And so this kind of bolstered me into this pretend auditioning for the show that I would do for the kids when I was in the car or on the beach or in the shower. I would sing little girls, little girls and they'd say getting ready for the show mom.
So it's just like a weird family joke. So the years just went by and the first one went off to college and that was horrifying and the second one went off to college and that was horrendous and it was the third one senior year and um i was sitting at the flynn theater in january and a woman comes to the podium and she says i'd like to announce that in the fall we'll be doing the musical ann.
I was like oh my god this is so weird and right at that moment my phone rang and I pulled it out it was my friend from California and her name was across the screen and her name is Annie. And it didn't stop.
I went to the grocery store on my way home and in the checkout aisle there was this little retrospective of Carol Burnett as Miss Hannigan and And then, this is all within three hours, I got home and I was exercising. I was watching the show Shameless.
And you can check in episode two, season three. They refer to the musical Annie.
So I thought, this is just weird. I'm getting these signs from the universe that I should be in this show or something.
So I called the kids and I told them. And I said, oh, mom, you've, you gotta do that real audition now, like do it, do it.
And I thought, you know, being in a musical wasn't really my vibe, but I thought, you know, I'm gonna be so devastated once that third one leaves that I thought maybe this would give me something fun. And, you know, because I'm pretty sure you can't sing, dance, and cry all at the same time.
So that could be fun. So I go to the audition.
And, you know, it's the Flint Theater. And they're, like, you know, kind of serious.
Like, you get a number. And you've got to act.
You've got to dance. You've got to sing.
So I go to the acting part. And that one was okay.
And then I go to the dancing part. And this lady's up there.
It's like, step, ball change, fan kick, pivot, and repeat. And I was like, number 212, like, get your arms right.
And I'm like, not getting the arms right. And I kind of bump into this lady next to me.
She's all mad. It was kind of a disaster.
So then I go to the singing part. And you would think that 16 years might be long enough to practice that song.
But I got up there like, little girls, little girls. And I was like, I just, I didn't know what came next.
So I went home and I called the kids and I said, you know, thank you so much for that encouragement, but we're going to have to think of something else. And I think those signs from the universe were all about me, like just pushing myself out of my comfort zone.
And I did that and it was just funny. So the next day the director called and I said, we'd like to offer you two small singing roles.
I was like, really? Okay. So he started going to the rehearsals and it worked.
You You know, I came home from teaching, and the home would be all quiet. It was terribly lonely.
And I would cry the dog. It even died.
It was just horrible. And so, I know, it was terrible.
But then in the evenings, I would get to go to my, you know, rehearsals. And it was, like, goofy and fun.
So then the months go by. All the rehearsals are done.
It's opening night at the Flynn Flynn. It's like full house.
It's going to be really fun. The orchestra's going and got my weird costume on and everything.
And there's this point in the play when I get to come to front and center, like right in the middle, and the lights are on me, and I just get to belt out this one big line. And I was a homeless woman talking to Herbert Hoover, and here's my line.
I said, you dirty rats, you bureaucrats, you made us what we are to. And then I saw three pair of bright blue eyes just watching Annie again.
And I thought, oh, all those signs of the universe, they were just all about this one really nice mom moment that I get to have. Seeing my kids again surprised me.
So I got all choked up and filled with tears. But remarkably, I was able to finish my song because apparently you can sing, dance, and cry all at the same time.
That was Jennifer Cohen.

Jennifer is still living in Vermont, still teaching high school English,

still an empty nester, and still missing her daughters.

She hasn't been in any more musicals, but when her daughters came home during COVID,

they bought a golden retriever puppy named Leo for their mom. So Leo is kind of a stand-in for the girls now that they're back in college.
To see photos of Jennifer and Leo and Jennifer on stage in Annie, go to our radio extras page at themoth.org. A rite of passage is stepping into a new chapter.
It can be uncomfortable.

It can be a little risky.

But sometimes you need to just dive right in.

Literally.

Justin Hawkins told our next story at a Moth main stage in Logan, Utah,

where we partnered with Utah Public Radio and the Cache Valley Center for the Arts.

Here's Justin, live at the mall.

I stood there in the water, waiting for my swim lessons to begin.

I was pretty nervous.

I started to see parents usher their kids to the pool and then take a seat off to the side.

I started looking for my own parents, but they weren't there because I was 33 years old. I didn't know how to swim.
The week prior, I had stared at my computer screen for like four hours debating back and forth as to whether I should purchase these swim lessons that I found on Groupon, which I guess if you're going to put your life in somebody's hands, you should do so at a discounted rate. Every moment of indecision that I stared at my computer, I kept reliving these moments of great fear where I almost drowned as a kid, followed by these experiences of failing to learn how to swim, which led to my mom ultimately deciding that swimming was off limits for me.
To make matters worse as a kid, my school would bus to the local YMCA every week for gym and swim class, and my mom every week would handwrite me a note to shamefully hand to the teacher excusing me from getting into the pool for a fictitious chlorine allergy. Every week, I would watch my friends swim and have a good time, and that lasted for like five years until I switched schools.
I was pretty set on the fact that going forward, I was going to have to scroll through a Rolodex of excuses about why I never wanted to go to the beach or to somebody's pool party. I could have been having a lot of fun.
So I had gone 30 years without knowing how to swim. I could probably go another 30.
But this was much more than about learning how to swim for me. I was greatly loved as a kid, but any fundamental growth that I should have had, it was severely stunted by the fact that I grew up in a home with a parent that was mentally unstable and it was I was led to believe that everything was dangerous everything came with risk and consequences if it was thundering or enlightening out me and every one of my siblings literally every time had to line up in an entryway in our house just in case the house got struck by lightning and collapsed.
We were allowed outside to play but only for a few minutes at a time just in case we got bit by a bug with a disease or kidnapped. Like it was bad and I had to be afraid of so many things even on the smallest scale of risk and I ended up missing out on a lot of stuff.
The greatest decision I ever made in my life was to start seeing a therapist and it wasn't until then that I started to give myself a crash course on life in my 30s. When I started therapy my therapist and I came up with a long long list of everything I had experienced or done, and swimming was on that list.
I didn't need to know how to swim, but I had to conquer this fear in order to put my other anxieties on notice. So I purchased these swim lessons, and the teacher was late the first day, which led to a lot of questions from parents and kids.

Are you the teacher, the parents ask?

No, I'm not the teacher.

I'm just trying to learn how to swim and not be a weirdo about it.

Which led to the kids asking me, why don't you know how to swim and why do you have a beard on your face and your back? I had called prior to this to avoid this very situation because the description on these adult swim classes said ages 12 and up. The voice on the other end of the phone, which clearly was going through puberty, said, relax, don't worry about it.
We put like ages with like ages. However, that's based on demand and availability.
Well, demand and availability led to me being stuck in a class with a 12-year-old, a 13-year-old, and two 15-year-olds. Oh, God, kill me now.
As soon as these classes started, these kids were frickin' Michael Phelps. They were merpeople.
Like, not beginners at all. the whole first day was a huge disaster for me which I choked on every ounce of pool water and for the most part I just clung to the side and at the end of the first lesson one of these kids ran off with my bathing cap the following week though I was determined to do better,

and I was very encouraged by my therapist who told me I needed to see this through.

I was also pretty pumped up by the fact that before every swim lesson,

right before I got into the pool,

I would be binge-watching every motivational movie speech I could find on my phone

because goonies never say die.

And then oddly, over the course of the next few sessions,

I started doing strokes in the pool that I had never done before,

and it was coming almost naturally to me.

I was seeing progress in something that I had never seen before, and it felt good. It felt really good.
From where I stood, the fear seemed like it was gone, but it wasn't. It was just waiting, because on the last day, graduation day, the instructor took a ring and tossed it into the deep end

of the pool and everybody had to go down and get it.

I started freaking out.

Just like a best friend I hadn't seen in a long time, Fear and I picked up right where

we left off.

I leaned over to the kid next to me and I was just like, hey, how are you feeling

about this, dude? Like, I'm about to shit my pants here. He was 13, by the way.
He just

looked at me with a blank stare and he was like, well, um, my mom said that if we all

do it, she's going to get us all pizza afterwards. He dove in and popped right back up with the ring.
And it was my turn next. I stared down through the water at the ring and whatever demise waited for me down there.
And I was like, you know what? I'm good. I'm good.

Like, I'm going to pass on this.

And I went to the instructor, and I was just like,

hey, I'm good. I've come further

than I ever thought I could with this,

and I could be perfectly satisfied to walk

away not diving down there.

And then oddly, a couple

of the parents off to the side were like,

come on, Justin, you got this. And I was like, no, no, I don't want to do this.
And this isn't a Disney movie. So I grabbed my towel and I grabbed the keys to my locker and I told the instructor, thank you so much for everything that you've done for me to get me to this point.

And he's like, listen, Justin, don't worry about the ring, okay?

It's fine.

What you should be worried about is the keys to your locker.

And then this jerk grabbed my keys and tossed them into the deep end. I dove in.
I could barely see, but I felt those keys, and I bolted straight back up to the surface, came out of the water, unscathed, baptized anew by chlorine. I showed those keys to everybody and I said a lot of things I probably shouldn't have said in front of those kids.
And they all cheered. I can't describe to you the wave of satisfaction that came over me

and the feeling of relief that I had finally slayed this fear.

I never told anybody about what I had achieved that day

or the awesome pizza party we had afterwards.

That summer, I swam in the ocean for the first time. Thank you very much.
That was Justin Hawkins. When this story took place, Justin was a 30-something living in New York City and working in television.
But a few years ago, Justin moved to Hollywood to get out of the entertainment industry. Now he and one of his closest friends fabricate furniture together.
He still swims and he jumps in the pool without having to think twice about it. To see photos of Justin in the pool, go to themoth.org.
After our break, a young woman in Nairobi, Kenya goes against the grain when

the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. is that while I can use the internet to strum a stunted version of La Vie en Rose, when it comes to taking care of my mind, there's no replacement for real human relationships.
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This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janess, and this episode is all about rites of passage that make us who we are.
I met Susan Mueni, our next storyteller in Nairobi, in a workshop with the Moth's global program where we help advocates use their stories to change the world. And Susan always shows up to her story rehearsals on the back of a motorbike with a leather jacket on, just to give you a sense of her mojo.
She told this story on stage with us in Thailand for an event all about women's rights.

And this recording is from a Moth main stage in Washington State, where we partnered with Seattle Arts and Lectures. Here's Susan Mweni, live at the Moth at Benaroya Hall.
I am the only girl in a family of six children. I'm seated across my mom

in our tiny partially lit living

area in Kibera, Nairobi,

Kenya. And we are having

one of our mother-daughter

talks. I asked her,

Mom,

why do you have six children?

And she said,

because your father and I were looking for a baby girl and I asked mom why is it then that you never stopped after giving birth to me and she said because children are a blessing from God, so we accept the number that God gives to us. And I said, well, mom, I have something that I want to tell you.
This is hard for me to say, but I have to tell you. And I said, Mom, I have no desire whatsoever to marry or have children.
Shocked and devastated, especially this coming from our only daughter, she asked, Mueni, why don't you wish to have children?

And I said,

Mom, it is my personal choice.

I'm also taking care of my siblings,

and the girls I work with in the community are equally my children.

And I also want to enjoy my time independently and freely." She looked at me and said, Mweni, I hope you eventually change your mind because as a woman it is important to have your own children. Well, I am out of high school and I jumped straight straight into the dating pool, kissing a few frogs here and there.
Of course, I am human. I might not desire the whole idea of marriage and having children, but the desire for companionship is there.
During my escapades, I met my Prince Charming. My ideal type of a perfect man.
Stunning looks, amazing personality, great sense of humor and style. Always including me in his plans, both present and future.
The most patient, intentional and loving man. He'd buy me flowers,

take me out on romantic dinner dates and vacation. And I remember this one Thursday he called

and asked me, babe, what are your plans for the weekend? And I said, babe, you are my

plan.

And he said, okay,

it's not going to be

going to be

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going to be going to be going to be going to be going to be going to be going to be going to be going to be going to be your plans for the weekend? And I said, babe, you are my plan. And he said, okay, start packing.
We'll be spending our weekend together at the coast. Excited, I reminded him, I will also pack the condoms, just in case he forgets.
Days passed, weeks turned into months,

and months into a year.

Our love kept growing strong.

He became my to-go person,

my gossip mate and my best friend.

But still, there was that anxiety and dilemma that I carried deep within me.

And I'm thinking, if I tell him, will he end the relationship? Will he convince me

to change my mind? Or will he love me for me?

One year turned into two years. I still can't say it because I know we have different expectations and my expectation will hurt him.
Two years. At this time, he had introduced me to his family.
Mentions of moving in together and having children dominated most of his conversation. We were strolling around the busy market.
He sees cute baby's shoes and baby clothes and says, Babe, I can't wait to buy such for a baby. At the supermarket, he sees baby diapers.
And he says, Babe, I can't wait for the day we'll include baby diapers in our shopping list.

I always found a way to avoid the subject.

We're making love.

He'll say, Babe, I can't wait for the day we'll stop using the condoms.

Well, I knew that time will never come.

But still, I did not communicate.

Not because I was questioning my decision,

but because I didn't have the strength to tell him,

and I knew it will hurt him. You know marriage is our cultural norm and as women we are expected to marry and have children because it's a belief that is that that is what defines us.
Almost all my My friends are married and they children. And I feel alone in my desire.
I've attended several baby showers and bridal showers. And every time they tell me, Susan, you should be the next one.
I'm now feeling the pressure to conform, not only from my boyfriend, but also from the society. Four years down the line.
I can't bring it up. I know at this time it will hurt, and will hurt deep.
One day my phone rings. It was one of his close friend.
I picked up the phone and he said, Susan, I have exciting news for you. You know what? Your boyfriend is planning to propose to you on your birthday.

This is a surprise. This is a secret.

So act surprised when that time comes.

Talk of fear and anger.

Why would he want to propose?

Determined not to let him go down on one knee,

I started distancing myself from him.

I can't call him. And at times, I wanted to call him.
One month passed and I thought, oh, my strategy has worked. Two months since my birthday passed, I thought, oh, he's moved on.
Three months later, on a chilly Sunday, I was relaxing in my house, listening to reggae music. I had a knock at the door.
I immediately paused the music, walked towards the door to see who it was. And to my surprise, it was him.
For a moment, I froze, contemplating whether to let him in or not. I finally decided to let him in.
He walked straight to the coach, sat down, and requested me to come sit beside him.

He reached out for my right hand,

held it with both his hands and told me,

Babe, I don't know what I've done wrong.

Babe, let's talk things out and go back to where we were.

All this time I had not uttered a single word. Looking straight into my eyes, he said, babe, I'm not leaving this place until you tell me what is going on.
I told him, babe, I love you. I love you so much.
I just didn't know how to say this to you, that I have no desire to marry or have children. In disbelief and in tears on his face, he asked in a low but firm voice, Why now? Why wait for that long? Why hold such important information that you will have communicated from the start? Susan, you've broken me.
I felt crushed and sorry for hurting him.

He left until just recently when he reached out to me to inform me that he is in a relationship and he is happy. I am so happy for him.
and as for me my stand on being child free

and marriage free

still remains.

But I have decided that I will always communicate from the onset, because I don't want to

hurt another person the same way I hurt my Prince Charming.

Thank you. That was Susan Mweni.
Susan lives in Nairobi, Kenya. She's the founder of a grassroots feminist organization called Making a Difference Sisters, Mad Sisters for short.
These days, Susan has a new boyfriend. She says her ex-boyfriend has met a new partner too, and everyone is now on the same page about what they want for their futures.
Her advice is not to feel pressured by the rites of passage that society may push on you. She says, Self-honesty leads to a happier life.

To see photos of Susan with her mom,

her nieces, and nephews,

go to themoth.org.

After the break,

a man makes his yearly journey

to a tiny island in Alaska

in search of moose

when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janess.
We've been producing Moth Nights in Alaska with the Anchorage Concert Association once a year for some time now. And this next story is from an Anchorage local.
Before we hear the story, here's a little from James Domek Jr. when we talked a short time ago.
My new palp name is Millikruk, and I'm from above the Arctic Circle in northwest Alaska. And my great-grandfather, Palangan, was one of the last great Inupiaq storytellers.
And he was born before the missionaries came. He never knew English, but he knew all the stories.
And as a kid, I always knew that my family were storytellers when we did the moth in Anchorage you asked me to do the 12 minutes story and I said I don't know if I could do that these it's the winter it's storming out it's cold what's the rush you're in Alaska and back in day, some of these stories could take days.

You would sit and you would listen and this person would talk

and he would tell a story.

He said, come back tomorrow and I'll tell you the middle part.

Tell the story all day, come back tomorrow and I'll tell you the ending.

You could survive if you paid attention to the right story.

With that, here's James Domick Jr.

Live at the Moth in Anchorage, Alaska. I'm at the Kotzebue Boat Harbor.
I'm pushing a boat out into the water. I jump on the bow, I climb in.
My hunting partner, John, turns on the boat motor and we're off. Three and a half hours later, into the wild, off the grid,

we're setting up our Arctic oven tent on a heavily wooded island

in one of the many braids that make up the Cobuck River Delta.

It's a perfect spot to set up a moose hunting camp.

It's right in the bend of a river, it's on a sandy beach. It's flat.
We set up our tent. We're working, we're getting it going.
The Inupiaq elders from my area used to say, a long time ago, life was a struggle. It was very hard to live, but the people were fulfilled.
And nowadays, it's very easy to live, and the people are not fulfilled. And I think about that as I struggle setting up the tent and getting everything ready because we had to get up early because to catch a moose, you've got to meet the moose on its own terms.
You've got to get up real early. So we go to bed early.
We put wood in the stove and we go to bed early. And in the middle of the night, I have to use the bathroom.
I go outside the tent. And I'm immediately greeted by a million sparkly diamonds.
The full moon was up over the hills and it was making all the ice crystals dance. Because while we were sleeping in that hot tent, a deep freeze had set in.
And the once soft sand that we were walking on was now hard as concrete. The thing was frozen.
All I could hear is the wind blowing through the trees and the sound of this little waterfall that was flowing off the tundra into the river and we liked that little waterfall we picked this camp for that reason the sounds would mask our sounds in the camp the sounds of the water falling would mask our sounds but also if things got hairy we'd be close to a fresh source of drinking water.

And the full moon, I'm looking at it,

and it reminds me of all the wolf tracks we found in the sand around this camp

that we set up, lots of wolf tracks,

big wolf tracks.

And the locals, I heard from some of the locals,

there's a super pack in that area, 15 to 30 wolves. In my sleepy brain, I start trying to do the math of just how many teeth and claws 30 wolves would be.
So I haul ass back to the tent. I'm getting in the tent.
I put in a log. Try to get a few more minutes of sleep before we have to get up and go look.
So we get up super early. I make coffee.
I make breakfast. We get ready.
We get all our stuff on. We're bundled up.
We look like a Diderod dog mushers. We got headlamps on.

We go to leave. It's quiet.
We could barely see. The moon has going down over this horizon.
The sun was not even close to coming up. It's very dark, but we could just barely make out the edges of this little river.
I go and kick the anchor to try to get it loose, and it's frozen solid into the sand, frozen.

I quietly as I could and kick the anchor to try to get it loose, and it's frozen solid into the sand, frozen.

I quietly, as I could, jostle it loose, put it in the boat real quiet, and we get in. We try to leave.
The boat's frozen to the riverbank. It's cold.
But hey, no mosquitoes. So we finally rock back and forth.
We get the boat going. We get it out.
The plan was to slowly putt-putt down this river, real quiet and slow, calling for the moose and trying to catch it, the bull drinking its water in the morning on the riverbank.

And when you're driving and you're hunting, there's lots of time to think because you've got to be so quiet.

And I think about how my ancestors really needed this meat.

They needed it.

And how for me it was just kind of a want, because I live in Anchorage now. I think about how I was raised, born and raised in Kotzebue, living off the land, learning from my uncles how to hunt, how to fish, all the tricks to live off the land up north.
I think about how when I moved to Anchorage in 96, I felt very disconnected from all of that. We get going.
We make a way. We're slowly going.
We'd stop once in a while. We'd get out and look.
We'd get up and look around, glass around. We'd call for the move, still nothing.
We keep going, still got time to think. I think about how last year me and John went out twice up two different rivers, spent about a week total, and got skunked.
All we saw were bears. I don't know, maybe it was too warm.
We didn't see anything. So this year we had to get something.
And about an hour after slowly going down, we decided to turn around and slowly putt-putt our way back to our hunting camp. And just then the CB radio went off.
John C., do you copy? John, oh, someone's calling my name. He picked up the EHF radio.
He said, go for John, and the voice on the other side said, congratulations, John. You're the proud father of a baby girl.
He looked at me stunned because a week before, him and his wife were down here in Anchorage they were set to adopt a baby

that was taking a long time to come into this world

and the window of opportunity to go hunt was closing

it was getting colder and colder

so it was decided John would go up north and go hunt with me

and his wife would stay here with the baby

Thank you. colder and colder.
So it was decided John would go up north and go hunt with me, and his wife would stay here with the baby. John just looked at me stunned and said, holy shit, I'm a girl dad now.
And I said, John, it's going to be the best. It's the best.
I know a couple things about being a girl dad. Because a week prior, my own daughter had just turned 18.

So I shake his hand.

I slap his back.

You know, he's still stunned.

And I say, John, now we got to catch that moose.

He said, yeah, yeah, we have to. We're about a half a mile from our camp.
The sun is not up yet. It's slowly trying to come up over the Cobuck Valley.
There's a meadow to the left. We decide to go stop at it.
John makes his moose call. I get out of the boat.
I put the anchor in the mud real quiet. I climb up the steep riverbank about five, six feet.
And on top of this riverbank was the tundra. And it was walled by these spruce trees way back in this meadow.

But right at the top of this riverbank were these willows about three feet high,

three, four feet high.

So I get up onto the riverbank,

and I stay low.

I stay crouched down.

I'm on my hands and knees, and I'm low,

and I feel like one of them wolves.

And I slowly lift my head up over the willows and look around towards the back of this meadow looking around I quickly drop back down and I look back at John and he signals he signals to me quietly anything and I squinch my nose. No.
This means no in Inupiaq. No.
And we're at this point, we're talking in Navy SEAL type hand signals. So I tell him I'm going to look one more time.
He says, yeah. So I slowly raise up again.
I'm on my hands and knees still. I'm down.
And I slowly raise up over the willows. And I look back, and that's when I see them.
Two big antlers bobbing over the willow tops, coming us about 200 yards away and I turned back to John and as quietly and as loudly as I could I put both thumbs to my head and made the international moose sign John turned off the boat

He grabbed his rifle

He was the one with the tag

He grabbed his rifle

Put on his ear protection

He walked up and I told him

Right over here

So he climbs up

And I wait down by the boat

And just a little while later

I hear boom

And I run up there I run up and I said John did you get it? and just a little while later, I hear, boom!

And I run up there, I run up, and I said,

John, did you get it?

And all he said was, yep!

And at that moment, we raised our hands in the air,

and we screamed, we were so excited.

We were so excited to have caught something, we were screaming, we made our sounds. We do in our calls.
We were so happy. But then we realized the work had just begun.
You guys know. You know.
And all that excitement quickly. Okay, here we go.
This is where all the glory is.

Carrying that meat back to the boat.

So we start field dressing.

We start cutting our moose.

And in just that moment, it starts snowing.

And as soon as it starts snowing,

the sun came up slowly over the Cobuck Valley,

and it was red. And it was making the falling snow look red.
And it was beautiful, but at the same time, me and John knew that red sky meant there was a big storm coming. So now we got a ticking clock.
We got to get this moose out of here. So we cut it.
We're going. We're doing our thing.
And we hear a boat pull up on the river. And we see three guys walking towards us.
And we say, oh, here's the troopers. Here's the game warden.
No, it wasn't. Turns out the guy who called on the CB radio and told John that he was a father.
He was in the nearby village about an hour and a half away. And he brought two young men, strong young men with him, to help carry our meat.
That's the Alaskan one. And it was the best feeling, the best feeling, to see they came to help.
And I said, oh, thank God.

And we start doing our thing.

We start butchering.

And we have so much respect and reverence for this animal.

We have all just, we have very, the fanciest game bags from Bass Pro Shop.

Brand new tarps.

Everything brand new.

We take care of the meat. There's not one leaf, one little piece of dirt, no, nothing on it.
These guys help us get all the meat back into the boat. And then they follow us back to our camp to help us break down our camp.
And in return, we gave them gas.

And they were very excited for this gas because that meant they were able

to go by to the other village

farther down because

there was a very high-stakes poker game

that they wanted in on.

So this gas meant a chance.

And off they went. And so, with about three hours of daylight left, we knew we had to make a three-and-a-half-hour boat ride back to Kotzebue.
With a storm behind us and the setting sun in front of us. So we take off.
We get going. Full boat.
And we put the moose head right in the front. And we do that where I'm from because the story is the moose gives itself to us because it wants to see.
It wants to go for a ride. It wants to see the ocean.
So we put it in the front and we slowly make our way back. Actually, we weren't going slow.
We were going as fast as we could. We were going pretty quick.
Three and a half hours is a lot of time to think. And I start thinking about how a human life was just born and how an animal life was just taken.

I wonder how many times that's ever happened on this river where two friends have gone out, risked it to bring back meat for their family.

I think about the elders and how they say how the struggle makes them feel fulfilled. And in that moment, with every muscle sore, I feel fulfilled.
I feel a sense of belonging to the land. And as we make our way back to Kotzebue we turn the last bend

right as the sun is going down

and the city lights are reflecting off of the water

leading us home

and as soon as I get cell signal

I text my family back in Anchorage

and I tell them

sharpen your knives and hulus

thank you them, sharpen your knives and you'll loose. Thank you.
That was James Domick Jr. James spends his time fishing, writing, playing music and he says he's been in full-time dad mode recently.
James still hunts moose once a year. A moose can weigh 1,000 pounds, and he says one moose feeds six families all winter long.
With the meat, he makes burgers, slow-cooked roasts, lots of stews, bone broth, and gravy for his family. Here's James again.
This year we went out again and it rained and it was windy and it was cold and we saw nothing but cows. We are at the same camp spot we were at last year when I told this story and my buddy looked at me he said you want to check our lucky spot and I climbed back up there just like I did on the first story.
And there it was. A young, fat bull.
Big rack standing broadside towards us. We got the moose this year, not even 20 feet from the one we got last year.
In the same meadow. What are the odds? Alaska's so big.
This year, as soon as we got the one this year, a rainbow, bright, big rainbow went from the sky right to where our campsite was. And we were like, whoa, and it started getting feeling real spiritual out there.
Because in the moth story I told last year, three young men came and helped us carry the meat away.

Well, one of those young men passed away this year.

When we saw that rainbow, we said, maybe that's Brandon.

We got our boat loaded up,

and we left in the dark, putt-putting down the river.

Full moon.

Northern lights came out.

They started dancing everywhere.

And

we made our way back and

I had moose chili last night.

It was good. It was a good time.

It was delicious.

And after you eat, you tell stories.

That was James Domic, Jr.

If you've had your own rite of passage,

consider telling your story at The Moth.

We want to hear from you.

That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour.

We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Sarah Austin-Geness, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.
Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluche, Leanne Gully, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza.
You can find the extended interview with James Domek Jr. and extras related to all of these stories at themoth.org.
Special thanks to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for their support of the Moth's Global Community Program. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.
Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour are from Carol Burnett, George Brandel Egloff, Sonny Rollins, and Bruce Coburn.
We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis.

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story,

and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.