I was in third grade when I started snooping in my older sisters high school literature books. I had all I needed with Dick and Jane, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, the girl with the crazy braids and freckles (whats her faceah, yeah, Pippy Longstocking). Then there was Nancy Drew who began to annoy me because her stories all ended the same. Yawn. But the classics were much more interesting and expanded my vocabulary. So each time I snuck into my sisters bedroom to tackle the stanzas of the 18th century, Rime of the Ancyent Marinere, my heart pounded with the way Samuel Taylor Coleridges words sang to me. As a little kid, what was most memorable about the long, poetic tale of an old, guilt-ridden sailor were the words, water, water, every where nor any drop to drink. Stuck at sea during a violent storm with his dying crewmates and the ghost of a huge dead bird, there was so much water yet they dared not drink it. Seawater is not palatable and would only make you thirstier because of its salt content.