Callie

This may cause some of you to scoff, “Valerie, you need to get out more.” Scoff if you will, but this clearly illustrates the amazing power of the Internet’s social networks.

Throughout the ages man has been able to stir emotions through the use of various media. It would seem impossible to compare emotion caused by “art” to that caused by life. Nevertheless, the protagonist portrayed in novel or film suffers a loss, we feel that loss. He experiences triumph; we too bask in the glory and success. Every emotion is possible to evoke by word, photo, painting, music, etc. We never discredit the emotion as fake, but applaud the artist for the skill to capture our heart and soul, for bringing us along on the escape, an escape that brings us right back to the reality of human experience, an emotional connection to our world and others. (Aren’t we all going to cry when the last episode of Lost airs?) Friendships borne on the Internet suffer no loss in the ability to tap into a connection of human experience.

For the last year I have been on Twitter communicating with those who responded to the insane, poignant and humorous musing of my cat Diablo, known as Southbound Cat. My twittering cat is not novel. Millions of others do the same. For Southbound twittering was the next step in the evolution of expression. Diablo and her—yes Diablo’s online persona is a male, an often confusing point for others when I discuss my cat—companion, Phoenix, have blogged since my book tour in 2006.

There were only so many observations the cat could make in the confines of the house, and since my imagine lacks at times, I allowed Diablo to escape and begin a four month journey across the country. Ultimately, she would end up in Hawaii just about the time I would leave.

Along the way Diablo has brought with her a pile of followers, mostly other felines, the occasional airport, marketing firm and a few XXX’ers. I can’t explain it. She kept her reciprocal following to a minimum to filter out the drivel and concentrate on a special few who regularly have something entertaining to say. I am socially challenged and can not keep track of much more than a couple hundred others. Diablo’s cadre of followers is now over 1000. By the way, my own twitter account has only 23 followers.

She has developed some unique friendships with equally feisty if not wittier felines, cats with cat-titudes suffering the embarrassment of living with humans just because they can’t operate a can opener. It is an opposable thumb, not a lack of intelligences issue. Of equal attachment she has a community of humans with a fondness for the felines.

Diablo conspired to take over the world with the help of a few other felines. They have developed The Code, and have weaseled enough Tuna out of their humans to put Charlie the Tuna out of business. Diablo has been invited to stay with numerous feline and human friends and even a hedgehog during her transcontinental traipse. While most communication has been banter from a cat’s perspective behind the scene real life occurs. And that is were the connections rest.

Diablo shared in the joys of new kitties and loveable adoptions. "He" laughed out loud at hilarious antics and comments. "He" especially enjoyed taking stabs at foibles. Diablo shared the pains of illness and death, which included Boots, my mother’s cat. Some cats twitter the daily tribulations of their battles with disease and sickness. We watch, listen and pray. Others never mention their woes. Humans share their experiences in the similar fashion. Diablo offered sympathy to those whose pets have crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. In Direct Messages Diablo has come out of character to extend prayer to a friend whose father-in-law is gravely ill. While the adventures and tales of the Twitter characters are unreal (come on, a typing cat?), their personas, created by the person behind the keyboard are no less real.

Of this group, Diablo’s best friend and partner in crime has been a cat named TooncesCat. Toonces helped develop Diablo’s bad ass yet, loveable male character. As Diablo morphed on Twitter a connection to other fellow Twitterers, both cat and human grew. You may say virtually, but that does not diminish the resulting friendships.

I acknowledge all the emotions I have experienced on Diablo's behalf, yet I was caught off guard this morning, when I received a message that one of Toonces’ sibling house kitties passed away with kidney failure. Sadness met my heart and filled my eyes with tears. A real loss. I so felt the loss of a cat I had never met, never twittered to, and rarely discussed. But this cat belonged to Toonces’ owner. My heart goes out to The Human of Toonces on the loss of Callie, a beautiful 15 year old calico, the sister of Toonces, the friend of Diablo.

Weird yes, but that little bit of me that hurts is no less real.

$75 Tomato

The only thing I’ve ever been good at growing has been my toenails. As a little kid, my first gardening attempt involved peas. I netted five pods and ever since I’ve never been a fan of peas. When I attempted tomatoes I lost the battle to cutworms the size of hotdogs. In January, when I was making a salad I sliced open a tomato and found little sprouts. I decided to see what would happen if I planted them.

It started as a simple whim, an experiment in my backyard, kept it simple and inexpensive, after all, condo rules state no fruit bearing plants. Something about attracting rats. If I got caught and had to remove the plants, I didn’t want a lot of money sunk into a few illegal plants.

It began with some dirt taken from beneath my palms and a cottage cheese container. No big investments. Four days after I planted them I took off for two weeks. I stuck the plastic container in one of my ti pots hooked up to a drip irrigation system. I placed the pot in a shady area of my lanai so the sun wouldn’t fry them. The tiny sprouts were not given much chance to survive. When I returned I had two dozen plants about three inches tall. That’s when I got emotionally involved in the experiment. And that cost money.

My nursery of little seedlings needed something larger than a cottage cheese container. And they needed more dirt. My Hilo cousin, an organic fruit and sheep farmer explained dirt was what you get on your clothes. What I needed was soil. I bought two bags soil and a window box size flower container, although I was advised I needed bigger containers. I transplanted the tiny plants expecting to lose some to shock, but all twenty seven seedlings made the first transplant. Surprised me. I knew I had to thin the herd, but like I said I got emotionally attached to the little guys. Pulling some of them up by the roots seemed criminal.


Over the course of the next few weeks they grew to be a foot tall. I needed more dirt and more pots. Cha-ching, cha-ching. I culled some of the plants and transplanted the rest into four more pots. Again, I expected some to die in the process, but all made it. In the culling process, I pulled one plant up and then decided to jam it back into another pot. The next day it lay limp. I continued to water it and it regained its upright posture, although stunted. Eventually it began to grow. In all I kept ten. They grew. I purchased tomato cages. (That was a sight. Traveling home on my scooter with four cages strapped to my basket. Looked pretty much like a scene from Bangkok, minus five other passengers.)


Bugs attacked the leaves. I bought a biological insecticide. Later the leaves started to yellow. I began to feed them Miracle Grow.

The plants are on the west side of the condo. By the afternoon, when they could get direct sun, the clouds have moved in. They are lucky if they get two hours. When I read that tomato plants need 6-8 hours of sunlight I went all out and bought a 120 watt grow light which are damn expensive in Hawaii.





My experiment was a measured success. I harvested my first tomato today. It cost about $75, not counting the cost of the original tomato purchased at the local farmer’s market back in January.

PHOTOS MISSING

Welcome to my blog. As of this morning, morning Hawaii time, there seems to be a major blogger problem. Photos are missing. I've communicated with others and they are experiencing similar losses. I hope this gets fixed soon. At least the words have not gone missing. CRAP if they do as I have never backed up posted documents.

American Evil Exceptionalism

Last week, I attempted to tackle the subject of evil as a chapter in my book. Yeah, I go after the big stuff. This is why it is taking so long to write it. I had no intentions of writing a blog about the passage of the health care bill. I made it plain last summer and fall where I stood. You know the saying about the dead horse.

After dinner and the crossword puzzle on Sunday night, I began to jot a few random thoughts on the subject of evil. Suddenly, I began writing about health care. I wasn't going to post any of this, but a friend asked what I disliked most about health care reform. Unfortunately, my answer wasn't very succinct.

An Evil Solution
The role of government is to protect its citizens’ God given rights. For some, the concept is hardly indisputable, particularly given the fertile ground plowed for government’s expansion through the recent passage of the Health Care Bill. It saddens me that people are now beginning to wonder what health care reform will mean to them. Kind of like the horse and that proverbial barn door. I’m not a scholar nor an intellectual, but I do know when something doesn’t smell right. This may be one thing not considered: the expansion of government expands evil throughout the world.

A wise man knows evil exists. Evil is a normal part of life. Evil makes us understand the full vibrancy and richness of life. Not the crazy and insane shit, like torture and genocide, that’s not normal although certainly evil. I’m talking the whole realm of human experiences including the fact that life is not fair: you can’t have everything you want, losers don’t get trophies and women generally live longer than men. It’s no bed of roses. Yet a growing number of people feel the need to rectify injustices through government intervention, regulation and defining rights. To rid the world of injustices citizens increasingly turn to their government, unaware and uninformed of the consequences.

Some may take exception to the usage of the word evil to describe injustices. Too strong? You may also believe green is a value. Green is not a value. It's a color.

American Experiment
Our founding fathers wisely recognized the source of man’s rights. They are God-given. It was a huge deviation from the previous courses throughout history. Never before had a nation been founded on the premise that the individual was created equal by God, and the individual was responsible for his own destiny in a nation that protected his life, his liberty and his pursuit of happiness. Never before was a nation founded on the guiding principles that government was formed by the people, controlled by the people, for the purpose of assuring that his God-given rights were not diminished. Never before had a nation been established uniting the values of E Pluribus Unum, Liberty and In God We Trust. Keep government small with a clearly defined role to protect liberty, not provide equality (God already did), and the individual flourishes.

Thus was born a nation that spawned individual aspirations and dreams. To experience one's own success and failure. Yes, even failure. It was a risk, but for that risk, man was free, unburdened by the whims of a few elite who could take away anything whenever they decided.

Government's Creep
To sway its citizens and seize an opportunity the government had to paint a picture of great atrocities. Instead of recognizing the US medical care system as a leader in developing technology, and a system where it was illegal to deny medical care to its citizens, the government trotted out every hardship case they could find to demonstrate the evils of the system. The case was made that insurance companies were villains without considering the free choice people had in a market less regulated by government. People suffered economic hardship accessing medical care, but few recognized that when hit by a car, shot or fallen in a ditch medical attention is given and THEN someone asks, “how are you going to pay for this?” Premiums were too high, but who addressed doctors who in fear of malpractice suits order unnecessary, but ass-covering procedures? Profits were too high, but who acknowledged the slim profit margins that actually do exist? And horror of horror, young adults kicked off their parents’ plans. Perhaps it is time to grow up, get a job and buy their own insurance. Oh, yeah, people are dying in the street. I know this for a fact, I saw two people die in January.

While I realize that there was a need to reform the medical system, reform was promoted by the government’s twisted versions of reality in order to convince the people that health care should be a right. Or, it maybe it is the right to have health insurance. I’m not sure. You see, when the government gives the citizen a right, it isn’t as clearly defined as God-given rights. God-given rights: Five words-Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Government-given right: 2700 pages of health care voodoo.

If health care is a right, why not food? Isn’t that important? How about housing, jobs, transportation, education (actually the government has been messing with this) and reproduction? Will we need a 5000 page bill to clarify that any consumption over 1500 calories/day will be taxed unless you can prove that your state job requires a higher intake? You know them fat people are burdening the medical system. (Oh, is that a far reaching scare tactic?)

However, expecting the government to solve social and economic shortcomings is not the problem, nor is it that once government defines citizens’ rights the government can take away those rights, at any time, for any reason. The real problem is how this erodes the character of the individual and ultimately society. The true problem is what this does to man.

Imagine No Responsibility. It's Easy If You Try.
“If anyone does not provide for his relatives, especially his immediate household, he has denied faith and is worse than an unbeliever.” Yep, right out of the Bible, 1 Timothy 5:8. With God-given rights comes God expected responsibilities. But when we deny our responsibilities, why fret about our God-given rights?

Many believe that if evil does exist its roots are in social shortcomings caused by poverty, economic disparity, lack of proper nutrition, inadequate housing, poor education and lack of health care. Since the days of President Hoover this view has been growing. If only these disparities could be eliminated by providing equal access for all. Combined this belief with a man who takes less responsibility for himself and we have the coming of a societal train wreck. Man turns to government to take care of everything. It is an arrogant, self-centered idealism, more evil than the evils it pretends to address. For man wrongfully assumes that evil can be controlled and fixed through laws, rules, and regulations.

Give a dog a stick and he will never fetch it. Man by his nature is similarly lazy. Give him something for nothing and he becomes a self-center individual waiting for the next hand out, even demanding the next hand out, while all along appreciating it less and less. If he doesn’t have to scratch for his own living, he won’t. Create a dependent relationship on his government and it is a slippery slope to his own demise and a far cry from eliminating evil.

A self-centered person doesn’t care about anyone but himself. That includes making generous donations to charitable organization, (statistics show conservatives donate a far greater percentage of their income than liberals), or enlisting in the armed services to defend the freedom in his own country or around the world. A self-centered person stays home, selfishly waiting for the next distribution. It is delusional to think otherwise.

The Consequences
In the quest to cure societal ills through government intervention two things happen. We arrogantly believe that the problem and the solution are in our control, turning away from the faith-based nation created by our founding fathers. From God, we turn to government to grant new rights and we neglect our responsibilities, not only to ourselves, but to others. At the same time, we lower the bar of excellence: excellence in the individual who will strive in a society free of government handouts; excellence in industry created by the most talented individuals who recognize opportunities, and excellence in society, for welfare states don’t fight evil, they create it (Mao, Stalin, Che, Hitler). I won’t outline the differences of socialism, communism or progressiveness, as this is not the point.

When rights are determined and defined by government, the citizen doesn’t get more rights without incurring a deep cost. The most obvious cost is the loss of liberty as an ever-increasing portion of the individual's sweat-equity goes to the state to fund the ever-increasing entitlements for others. But I’m more concerned with diminished spiritual freedom. Not the I-go-to-church kind of freedom, although historically that is lost too (China, Russia, Cuba, Germany), but the freedom to be valued in a society that recognizes this as a gift to itself. When a German solider comes home from Iraq, he is jeered. When an American solider returns home, he receives a standing ovation. Why is that? For the time being, it is because service is recognized as a contribution, freely sacrificed.

The premises on which America was built built strong character which is not inherent in a fallen man separated from God. To have an accountability to a power, higher than government, instills a purpose to serve others. It creates a needed individual. But for those who are dependent on government, they horde dearly the crumbs received from their master who must ration limited resources produced in a society built on fears. Hardly inspiring, hardly a society that will take up the causes of the oppressed, the down trodden, the tired. Yes, the bar of human excellence becomes dramatically lower.

The trade-off between God-given rights and government-granted rights is huge for all nations. For America to be a nation like all others is to lower the standard of excellence and generates citizens with little concern beyond the disparities between him and his neighbor. It will doom all nations. We just took one giant leap toward government sponsored laziness. That's evil.

Nettle Cats

I noticed the other day that I had not written a blog on Beyond the Sail since the end of February. (Diablo has written several at SouthBoundCats.) I resolved for the New Year to write three or four a week. I’m hardly upset about it. I’ve been plugging along in my book, so the keyboard efforts are alive and somewhat well. I say somewhat because I reread something I wrote in mid-Feb. What a piece of crap.

But this morning my writing routine was postponed due to an urgent mission to search and destroy the Stinging Nettle Caterpillar. As I write, I fight an urge to scratch a tormenting itch on the back of my hand.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered my ti plants and areca palms were vanishing nearly before my eyes. Some unknown pest chewed the leaves to the stems. Two years ago snails made dinner of my ti plants and last year little worms built nests from the leaves they chewed. After some research and discussion with the kids at Ace Hardware in the middle of the pesticide aisle, I significantly reduced these two invaders. It wasn’t all pesticides that helped. With the vigilance of a North Korean solider on the DMZ I patrolled the garden, examined foliage and earth for the insurgents. The organic approach was tedious, but I enjoyed pushing through the mini-jungle to find the foe. The snails were either flushed down the toilet or tossed over the fence to die in the middle of the busy road. The worm-leafhouse bugs were crushed under foot. I proved to be formidable predator, proud of my top-of-the-food-chain intellect and cunning.

When I discovered the caterpillars among the stalks of once green leaves I knew I had found a new enemy. I recalled a brochure the condo association sent out a couple of years ago on a particular caterpillar with a sting. I paid little attention to this information, for at the time, my areca were about two feet tall and my daily pest patrols yielded no caterpillars of any sort. Plus I was under the impression that these imported pests from Indonesia were on the Hilo side.

Yesterday while I reviewed the decimation and culled through the remaining foliage for the caterpillar, I accidently made contact with one of these spiny bugs. I cussed out loud in pain. With a sharp flick, the caterpillar sailed off the back of my hand. Its spiny hairs caused an intense pain, far greater than the “fiberglass-like” irritation described in the brochure I down loaded from the internet.

This morning my hand is slightly swollen, has a series of small blisters and madly itches. I called the agricultural hotline for invasive species to report the infestation. Expecting they would send out the National Guard and require an ten acre evacuation zone when they doused everything with chemical insecticide, I was disappointed when told they would make a note. A note? No wonder the coqui frog is hopping all over the island. I was told that Neem Oil might be a good non-chemical way to eliminate the caterpillar.

I bought Neem Oil from the same kids at Ace Hardware (one claiming he played with the caterpillar as a kid. My first thought was no way. But second thought he could have been a kid when this first arrived in Hawaii in 2001.) I tested the natural oil on a few captured caterpillars. They flinched. They later died.

Dressed in a sweatshirt, hood pulled over my head, a bandana over my face and gloves I entered the battle zone, spray bottle in hand. The spray smelled like dog shit. No, I don’t mean it smelled bad, I mean it smelled like dog shit. Hours after I finished the odor still drifts in the air. Just, terrific. I await the results.

Now, there is a whole other issue of the illegal plants in the back yard. That’s another blog.

Tsunani Event

I’m exhausted. It’s tough work, this evacuation business. Doesn’t matter that nothing happened. I say nothing happened, but a lot really did. It began last week when I went to Hilo to visit the Pacific Tsunami Museum with my cousins and Dad. The tiny museum holds a great collection of tsunami information, including videos of first hand accounts of the 1960 and 1947 tsunamis that hit Hilo. Fascinating and sobering information. I emailed my sister that Hawaii was overdue for a major volcano, earthquake, hurricane, tsunami event.

The last big tsunami was back in 1960. It wiped out Hilo, forever changing the water front and town. The wave originated off the coast of Chile, after a 9.1 quake rocked the coast. Fifteen hours later, traveling at speeds of over 500 miles an hour, a 30 foot wall of water slammed into the town located on the west side of the Big Island. This wasn’t the first time. Hilo has been repeatedly hammered by tsunamis as if the bay rolls out a welcome mat for the water.

On Friday night, I was on Twitter. A little after 8:30 HST, I started seeing tweets about a huge earthquake in Chile. Immediately, I wondered if a friend of mine, Rodrigo was okay. But my stream of thoughts shifted to what I learned at the museum. If this was a 8.8 magnitude quake, we could expect a tsunami in Hawaii. I researched the quake, even getting to sites in Chile that carried early video of damage in Santiago. All in Spanish of course, I learned little, but a picture is worth a thousand words. This quake was located in a similar spot to the 1960 quake. Shit, tsunami, for sure. I collected important papers, writings, camera gear, water and a pair of socks and staged the stuff in the living.

About 11:30 I discovered a huge ant colony moving its headquarters into my bath shower. An early evacuation? I had heard the whales were disappearing ahead of the tsunami.

Following the trail I discovered the origins in my closet, in an old bathing suit. Yes, that’s where they were. Thousands of them and an equal number of eco-skeletons. I cleaned up the mess drowning them in the bathroom sink. (A sign of things to come?) Finally, I headed for bed. I slept fretfully, thinking of ants, not tsunamis.

At 5:15 I woke. I felt something different. There was more traffic than normal,less cars in the complex. Over night we went from a tsunami advisory to a warning. The expected time of arrival was 11:19 am, no change from the night before. First tsunami sirens blared at 6 am. I went to wake Dad and gave him the news. Today, we get to have a unique Hawaiian vacation experience, an evacuation.

Before leaving I cleaned the dishes and sprayed the shower down. Both acts I thought silly if indeed a wall of water crashed into my place. (My condo is the first building on the opposite side of the road from the beachfront.) If a wave didn’t come, I didn’t want to return to another ant invasion nor did I want to scrub soap scum off the shower walls.

In Florida I was prepared for hurricanes. With my camping gear I could easily live for days off the grid in the rubble of a disaster. Not so much here, where my part-time living never seemed to warrant the accumulation of survival gear. I figured an evacuation meant I had to immediately move to higher ground. No time to grab anything, just hightail it to higher ground as quickly as possible, and on foot. I never expected an official five hour warnings for impending doom.

Public officials advised to take five days worth of food and water. Get real. Do you really know what five days worth of water is? I don’t even have that many days of food at any given time in my condo. I threw together crackers, granola bars, raisins and every drop of liquid I could muster - soda, Power-ade, water. Maybe three days for both Dad and me if we weren’t too thirsty. At least in Hawaii one doesn’t have to worry about packing snow boots, parkas, mittens and other cold weather gear.

Dad and I left by 7:30 am. Early, but we were hardly the first. The upstairs neighbor sent his two teens off to higher grounds with the instructions, “Don’t come back until it is all clear.” It must have been a rare public display of affection for Dad. He yelled out, “I love you.” Both teens, a brother and sister, paused and eyed each other. The teens then jumped on their scooters and disappear into the predawn darkness. Shortly thereafter, the parents got into their car and were gone.

Once you leave the evacuation area, you’re out. Road blocks appeared at every intersection manned with police officers who casually slumped on the hoods of their cars. The atmosphere was a quiet abandonment. Everyone seemed to move in slow motion, in orderly fashion. Whether on the road or in line at the grocery store, everyone was relaxed, having no sense of urgency. Few people acknowledged that something might happen. After all, this was the Kona. What was going to happen here?

We picked up a hitch hiker along Alii. He looked like he desperately needed a ride into town. He did, to retrieve his dive gear. He was a master diver. In town, Alii was blocked so we dropped him off at the farmers market and turned up out of the evacuation zone. No going back.

I joked about going to WalMart. Its high and out of the zone. From the retaining wall there is a good view of the town and the harbor. Choice seats to view the inundation of Kona. But it is also exposed to sun and held a mob of people. Cars clogged the parking lot as shoppers came for toilet paper, bread, beer and other essentials. Instead, I drove a bit higher to an empty office parking lot. Now I could view the mobs below.

For most of the morning Dad and I sat there alone. Later a couple leaving on a 2 PM flight pulled in to wait. Then an elderly couple arrived. And finally a traveling man from Chicago who had been in Hilo that morning. These were my lifeboat occupants. The quieter, more private group, we kept to ourselves not even exchanging names. Our conversations were minimal. I had the internet feed going and provided sparse updates as the uneventful tsunami began.

Times passed slowly. The ocean calmly waited. The crowd below calmly waited. The expected time of arrival came and went. Where was it? Watching Channel 2 out of Honolulu dragged on. Because Hilo closed the airport at 6 am, no reporters from Oahu were in Hilo to carry the expected surges live on TV. However, Skypers, a video camera internet service, called the station ready to deliver blow by blow coverage of the destruction. I saw lots of fuzzy, unclear video of what appeared to be Hilo Bay and the ocean. Ah, the technology. At least I knew what was happening in Hilo. I didn’t care about what was going on with the sand bar on Waikiki.

Finally, an oceanographer said wave two just passed. What? Where? When? At that point I knew we dodged a huge bullet. No thirty foot wave. No six to eight foot wave. A sloshing of a couple feet. Whew. Then the wait for all clear. That seemed like eternity.

I had a head ache and butt ache. I was exhausted. Today, I'm still exhausted.

It was a good exercise and reminder of what is needed to be safe and survive. Fortunately, no damage occurred on any of the islands. I have a new reference. I know where to find a less crowded evacuation spot with the conveniences of electricity for charging phone and laptop, a good internet signal, running water and shade - all within the stones throw from Safeway, WalMart, Subway and Lowes.

But this event doesn’t mean the next will be the same. Time and circumstances could change everything. Nevertheless, over the course of the rest of my stay I’ll begin to assemble my survival gear. There will be a next time because yes, we are still long over due.

When we returned home that afternoon, after pulling into the parking lot Dad hi-fived me. I think that was a first.

Sammy Lu II

From the shore all Captain Jeff could do was stand and watch. The Sammy Lu II moaned under the torturous twist of Pele’s stones as they gnashed at the hull. Bits from the underside of the bucket-of-a boat drifted in the surf. Unable to break free of the crush of water and tangle of lava, the 39 foot craft outfitted for a fishing expedition endured the battering.

The Sammy Lu II was out of Honokohau Harbor. A tired boat, her hull coated with algae and slim, what was once white now a shade of pale green and rust as prevalent salt in the sea, she had known better days, but they were long ago. The smell of sea, and fish punctured the air and mingled with the odors of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee and sour beer. Her diesel engine coughed hard every morning, dying a slow death for her Captain's attention to her needs was as shallow as the tidal pools where he flung his nets for bait fish. Though he spent his days at the helm and his nights in the cabin sprawled out on two planks stained with sweat, he promised her tomorrow, but delivered more of the same.

Captain Jeff was an expert, an expert at sinking boats. Sammy Lu II was the third boat under his command that took its last voyage. He now watched helplessly, hindered from retrieving any gear. The Coast Guard and Harbor Crew stood near-by and would not permit him to re-board the dying boat.

The morning had promised a prosperous day. Fishing had been good. A bride and groom hired him to provide a catch for their wedding reception. He was armed with five poles and plenty of bait fish. A twenty-four pack of Bud sat on ice in a large cooler that was intended for his take. Before setting out he topped the tank with enough diesel to take him beyond the horizon where mahi-mahi blazed through the deep waters off the Kona Coast. As he loaded the supplies, Sammy Lu II’s engine complained. There just wasn’t enough time or money for maintenance. He thought, “Tomorrow, when I get back.”

A north and west swell broke on the rocks just outside the channel mouth. He’d seen this slop before. But when the Sammy Lu II dipped her nose into the spray, she paused and her engine choked. The Captain found the boat wallowing in a six foot swell. It didn’t take long before the fishing vessel fell into the grasping claws of the lava rocks.

At quarter past the nine am hour word went out that the Sammy Lu II was sitting high off the swell and taking a beating. Each wave licked at the hull as if searching for the sweet spot, that place where boats are the weakest. She took the pounding for four and a half hours before one single high-rolling swell lifted her port side and dropped her. Fiberglass splinted and Captain Jeff turned away in pain. The next series of waves torn the bow from the stern and toppled the cabin’s canopy into the water where two sea turtles leisurely cruised.

To add insult to injury when the life raft box hit the water it self-inflated bobbing casually in the surf that began to disperse the contents of the boat and the boat herself. A paddle boarder rescued four life preservers and towed the raft into the harbor.

When I left the bow was behind the stern and the groom’s family gathered to retrieve boat pieces from the shore line. The bride's family was probably at Costco's buying fish.

Looking for Work

Last year, I had a hard time accepting the truth. Looking back through my notes I had a miserable time. My economic situation was dismal. I accumulated an unexpectedly large medical bill. My apartments needed some electrical work that rang up to $700. Then a tree fell on my roof. There was a major increase in property taxes and I can’t forget Uncle Sam coming after my life savings. I looked for work while on island and turned up nothing. Fortunately, I landed three jobs back in New York and worked June through September with little respite.

This year I’ve come back to Hawaii with all bills paid in full, again debt-free. I’m recharged to write, with the mission to finish the first draft of my book. Nevertheless, I pursue the classified looking at jobs, out of curiosity. You know, what if.

I’ve found some good ones this past month. I’m not serious, but if I was...

The Royal Kona Resort wanted a human resource professional. The work was temporary. Perfect. Of course every time there is an HR job on island, they want someone with hospitality and labor experience. It doesn’t sound like those two go hand in hand. I think union; I think steel.

Hawaii is one of the most unionized states with 23.4 percent of workers belonging to a union in 2007, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. Only New York and Alaska are more unionized. How did that happen? After all, in a major study of unions and the American workplace, Professor Barry Hirsch of Georgia State University (my old school) found that unionized companies suffered not only lower profits but lower investment in physical and intangible capital and slower growth. It makes perfect sense to throw in a union in the mix when your economy is dependent on tourism. Maybe my manufacturing background would not be a good fit. I’d expect too much out of labor, and management.

Looking elsewhere… It’s that time of the decade. The Census2010 needs enumerators, those door to door knockers who show up to ask you about Jesus. Oops, those are Jehovah Witnesses.

The other day I took the online sample test, because I was seeking mental stimulation after I got only three clues on Saturday's crossword. I needed some reaffirmation of my mental abilities. I aced the test and celebrated by dancing around the condo(not really).

Posting for Census2010 jobs are popping up on telephone poles, bulletin boards at the co-op, on the Hele-on buses. Maybe I could get a job posting these bulletins. I can use a staple gun. Training for enumerators is on Oahu. I’m not spending $200 to fly to Honolulu to take a test for a job. I’ve done that twice with the New York Racing Association to be security guard.

Now here is the perfect job. The Fair Wind has an opening for deck hands. Since 1971, Fair Wind has been the leader in snorkel cruises on the Big Island of Hawaii. I’ve been in two cruises. My last trip was a night manta dive. Awesome. The job requires a four day workweek, 10-12 hours/day. Ninety percent of the time is spend outside and most of it on a boat helping people with their fins and snorkels. Some boat cleaning and taking orders from the captain required. Hell, baby, have I got experience. This would be a blast, except for the small fact that I get sea sick in elevators. And I hate getting my hands wet.

The airport was looking for security guards. Did I ever tell you that I took the TSA exam and failed it? Makes you think twice about those people in the blue uniforms doesn’t it? I don’t think I failed, but they told me I did. There was some snafu the day of the exam. The tester didn’t show. I and another person waited 90 minutes for someone to administer the exam. This required a log-on within a certain time frame(Can you say, "Be on time?"). I think we got booted because we missed the twenty minute window. That’s my theory anyway.

I know I didn’t fail the math and English, but I did have some difficulty deciphering the scanned images. Everything looked like a bomb. Trust me, reading those scans is about as convoluted as interpreting a baby's ultrasound. A boy? That thing? Right, it's a bomb.

Finally, the West Hawaii Today wanted photographers and writers do to community interest stories. All I had to do was summit samples of my writing. I’m sticking to my book. I’ve reworked the outline and assembled my notes and random pieces I’ve written over the past year. Boy, it's no way to make a living.

RIP JD Salinger.

image from: http://www.changeairportsecurity.org/

Back to Micronesia

They are invading my sanity. So tiny, they are almost invisible. But I know they are there. Little ants, piss ants, the shade of cream soda, and the small enough to crawl through the eye of a needle.

While in the Peace Corps, I came to accept these ants, even in my food. My Mom cooked French Toast on occasions, a delightful treat sprinkled with ants that had invaded the cookware that sat in the outdoor cook nahs. At first, I picked them off, with the tinge of my fork, a utensil not used by any other family member. Later, I adapted a stickier approach and used my fingers. It wasn’t long before I just sighed and ate them with imitation maple syrup.

When you live in a jungle, ants come with the décor. These ants were everywhere including on me. Because their size made them difficult to see I lived by the axiom, if it feels like an ant, it must be an ant. When it feels like something is crawling on you, you brush it away even when you don’t see anything. This also served to retain sanity. If it feels like an ant, it must be ant was more acceptable than, if it feels like a cockroach, must be a cockroach. That happened too. Fortunately, the ants didn’t bite, or at least I never felt a bite.

Here in Hawaii, I’m being plagued by a similar ant. If I were a slob and left food and crumbs everywhere, I could understand the invasion. But I learned long ago that if I leave anything out my cat gets it. Although Diablo is not here, I apply the same principle, only on a greater scale. After preparing food, I clean up and wipe down everything My garbage is kept in the refrigerator until the bag is full. (Actually this is not gross. In fact, my garbage is fresher than most because it doesn’t begin to rot and it doesn’t stink like that can of beans you opened two months ago.)

There is nothing for these ants to pillage, except water. It hasn’t rained in this decade, so they are on patrol in my kitchen and the bathroom.

This is most annoying. I dry off everything. The kitchen is as arid as the Sahara. Now think about that. No water in the kitchen, including the sink. It drives me crazy and I’ve done all I can think to do this side of bombing the condo to get rid of them.

The worst annoyance is the tea pot. They love the tea pot. It’s a 24/7 liquid way station. And they know it. I see them communicating. One ant leaves, meets his buddy along the invisible trail back to somewhere beneath my cabinets and reports, “Hey Joey, the distilled stuff is in the lid. No deposits, no chlorine.”

Swirling the water around the inside of the pot, I flushed 24 ants out the other morning. I now dump all the water and dry the inside to discourage the ants from congregating in the kettle. It’s a pain in the ass.

This morning I regressed to Micronesia. I inspected the kettle before I filled it with just enough water for one cup. Despite this I found two ants swimming in my brewed cup of tea. I rolled my eyes, tried to fish them out but they sank into the abyss.

I drank. There feels like I got something caught in the back of my throat.

Massachusetts

After hearing the liberal pundits explain Scott Brown’s victory in Massachusetts, I am angry at being called angry. I, like many Americans, am concerned about the socialist experiment Congress is bent on conducting. I’m not angry. I am alarmed. The people in the Commonwealth didn’t vote for Scott Brown because they are stupid. They didn’t vote for Scott Brown because he is good looking, drives a pick up truck and wears denim well. They didn’t vote for Scott Brown because they like their state's health care and selfishly want to deny the same to the rest of the country. If you believe that, pack your bags come November. You have no clue.

Scott Brown took basic conservative substance,a moderate, above-board, positive tone and campaigned to reclaim America’s founding principles. The Senatorial race’s outcome was about Congress trying to ram 2000 plus pages of staggering laws, taxes and fines down America’s throat under the guise of Health Care Reform. It was about the government’s attempted to replace America’s free enterprise system with socialism. It was about government taking control over 1/6 of the US economy.

Despite what liberals think, Obama wasn’t given a mandate to turn this country into a European-style polity. He won because he offered some nebulous change when America became disillusioned with President Bush. Let’s be honest, Mussolini could have beat John McCain.

In September, the people of Massachusetts began to reinvest in America. At first quietly, but purposefully. Nobody was paying attention. The fact was clear: this was blue state Kennedy territory. Yet, the people stood on street corners with hand made signs. They went to Washington and pleaded. They went door to door. They attended town hall meetings. There wasn't anything angry about it. Last night, at of the end of Obama’s first year as President, a new shot was heard around the nation, if not the world. Call them Tea Baggers. Call them crazy. Call them misguided Independents, or fed-up Democrats. Massachusetts citizens were energized and ready to battle, tired after a summer and fall of no response out of Washington.

America dodged a torpedo. The loss of a key seat in the Senate now gives Republicans the power of a filibuster. We came close to sinking the ship. Mind you the Democrats still command Congress and the White House. While the battle might have been won, the war is hardly over. We must not abandon our positions. All hands need to remain on deck. Back door deals, lack of transparency, favoritism to special interest groups, outrageous debt creation, bigger government spending, irresponsible taxation is not acceptable. One man won’t stop that. The movement must continue.

When the Democrats lost the New Jersey and Virginia gubernatorial races they denied what this meant. The losses were pushed aside, as if not important. The question is will they continue to sleep despite this epic defeat?

Up in Flames

I’m sorry, but this time I got to laugh. Call me insensitive, but when Jaison’s road side memorial went up in flames yesterday afternoon, I thought it was hilarious. Stupid hilarious.

I helped get it started, not the fire but the memorial. Last Sunday night, after Jaison and the motorcyclist were pronounced dead, my upstairs neighbors bought flowers, a lei. I just got back with my new moped. They caught me in the parking lot and asked if I cared to join them. I parked the bike and we, with little fanfare strolled to the place where Jaison landed.

On the bougainvillea along the side of the road we placed the flowers, briefly shared our common disbelieve about the event and adjourned. Every mindful of the traffic, Maria tugged at me several times to pull me closer to the bushes, away from the street. I smiled, every time she did. We came back into the complex, and that was that.

Except the next day, more flowers appeared. Then candles and mementoes were placed on the bushes. A box, a poster, more candles, a few bottles and cans of beer. More candles. A couple tiki torches. And where ever a motorcyclist passes, they blast their horns. More for the other guy, not so much for Jaison.

One morning after I crossed the street to retrieve the newspaper from the minimart, I noticed the candles were still lit. Apparently they burned all night. Of course, there was a potential disaster sitting in those bushes. It hasn’t rained here all year. Okay that is two weeks. But it hasn’t rained in Kona in a very long time. So I wasn’t too surprised when the memorial went up in flames. Now, a charred reminder remains, a scar in the bushes that will take time to recover, much like the scar Jaison left his family and friends.

Maybe I laughed as my way of coping with the week's events. I lost a couple nights worth of sleep. I chilled for two days. I plowed through a friend's first draft to keep my mind occupied. I was moved to renew my CPR and first aid training. I had to chuckle, especially when the conflagration got more coverage in the local paper than the accident itself.

Life is funny.

Speak English?

The other day I went to register my Honda Metropolitan moped at the Department of Motor Vehicles. For those who are not following me on faceBook, you do get the news a few days late. But this blog is not about my expanding world of transportation. It’s about accommodations and you can draw the conclusion if this is about your money.

I had been to the office a day earlier to check on the procedure of registering my new ride. I purchased the moped from an airline pilot who was currently laid off from the soon to be, if not already be (said purposefully) defunct Mokulele Airlines. It is tough to compete against the dominate player, Hawaiian, but it is an uphill battle when your name can’t be pronounced, remembered or said, by your potential clients. It was bad marketing. Most visitors look at this word as a foreign language. It is. Most adults tune out foreign words. If they can’t or won’t pronounce it, they won’t fly it. Mokulele is not hard, to say or pronounce but Hawaiian and Go. Now that is familiar and easy.

Anyway, my pilot buddy was liquidating assets to move to Newark. He had a moped with a registration signed back in September 2008 by the previous owner. Uninspected and unregistered. I wondered how the DMV would handle this. Registration transfers are suppose to be done within ten days or the fine is up to $100.

I wasn’t going to purchase the moped if I couldn’t resolve this matter without another $100 coming from my pocket. But the lady at the DMV after a brief consultation with unknown persons behind partitioned walls said, “no worries."

A current inspection was needed before they would transfer the registration for $5.00. Such a deal. I wondered if I needed to get that in writing.

The inspection cost less than ten dollars. I needed to replace a light bulb in my head lamp, which I knew about because I arrived home the day I got it, in the dark. The mechanic discovered my brake lights were not working and fixed that using pliers to unjam the wire at the hand brake. He also instructed to change the oil every 1000 miles and check air pressure in the tires every two weeks. With inspection done, and two new stickers slapped on the back of my moped, I returned to DVM.

A different lady. I should have gotten this in writing. In the entrance way I fished the necessary documents out of my backpack.

“Whenever you are ready, I can help you,” she politely offered. So far, so good. Set the tone.

I sat down at her desk. “I would like to transfer this registration.” I handed her the papers. She was pleased that I had the inspection. “Yes, I was in here yesterday to find out what I needed. I was told there would be no fine.”

She accepted this and proceeded to process the paperwork. “Color of the moped?”

It’s not a true blue. It’s sort of between a blue violet and a slate blue. Depends on the light. “Hum, purple and white.”

“Purple? I’m going to have to look up the code for purple.” Moments later she officially sanctified my moped as M, the code for purple. Magenta maybe? If it ever gets stolen I’m reporting it as slate blue.

As she typed up the paperwork, I looked around her desk. If Mokulele went belly up because tourist wrestled with the name, then rest assured that the DVM in Hawaii will never fold.

There was a sign that said if you need an interpreter point to the language and the department would provide one. Maybe this is what Mokulele needed.

Apparently the DMV has access to people who will help you register your vehicle in twenty-one languages, including Pohnpeian.

Idih wasabt ma ke anahne soun kawehwe ni lokaia wet.

If you can’t say it in English, maybe you shouldn’t be driving it. If you can’t say it in Hawaiian, maybe you won’t fly it?

Moving On

It’s not like I am able to just walk away. Not only was I there, but it happened here, where I live. It didn’t happen to total strangers. I knew one. He lived upstairs, but over one unit. What I saw is imprinted in my head.

I had a hard time engaging today. Yesterday’s accident haunted me into the night. I stayed up until I was so tired sleep would not elude me. To help, I struggled through Sunday’s crossword puzzle. It was almost two in the morning before I surrendered.

I woke to the sounds of my neighbors. I stared at the ceiling listening to their day begin: the sound of water running in the shower, the blender making a smoothie in the kitchen, footsteps moving across the living room. Despite what happened, today was here and it was going to happen, despite shock, grief, pain and death. As long as God was creating time, the next day was coming.

A friend had given me a first rough draft to plow through. I was honored to be the first and only person to read it, but she wanted it back within a week. I made no promises that I could make my way through the 50,000 word document. But last night and today I was grateful to pour though the pages, offering suggestions and critic. A healthy distraction, to concentrate on someone else’s work.

When I wasn’t reading, I tended to my palms and ti plant, but even then I was keenly aware that on the other side of the fence two make shift memorials had been erected. On the far side of the street the telephone pole was cluttered with photos of the motorcyclist, an array of flowers, a San Diego Charger football jersey. On the bushes along the roadway in front of my unit sat a cluster of flowers, candles and torches. A Raiders’ plaque was tucked into the shrine. On each memorial, the names of the two men were posted. Between the two memorials investigation marks in white, orange and yellow dotted the street.

I mourned. This afternoon, Jennifer called and asked how I was doing. I had called my aunt on Maui last night to talk about the accident. Jennifer and I talked for almost an hour. I felt better after wards. Just talking. What cheap therapy we should all engage in more often.

At sundown I crossed the street stopping to look at each memorial. Oddly, I hold the motorcyclist at fault. But does it matter?

At the ocean’s edge, a huge winter surf pounded ashore. An angry red sun drop slowly through the clouds. I sat feeling the waves roll in and crash on the lava. An off shore wind caught the crest and blew a mist off the arched neck of each wave, like a flowing horse’s mane. The roar absorbed everything around me. I was lost.

As the sun hit the horizon, a humpback whale fully breached. To no one I exclaimed, “Whoa.” Others look, but he was gone. I waited for the encore. He never came back to the surface. I didn’t even see a blow hole mist. He completely vanished, but in that one moment he reconfirmed the power of life. I knew I would be alright. It was time for me to move ahead.

Hot Tamales

This is how I got forty tamales in my freezer. Actually, there are only thirty seven. Confused? Of course.

Early on, I recognized I had a mission in life. Everyone is put on earth for a reason. Mine is to find the best-grandma-tasting tamales in the world. Yep, they’re out there, and in unusual places. I have found them Cleveland, Ohio and Rogersville, Tennessee. I suppose if I lived in the southwest, or hung out in LA, I’d have retired by now with an unlimited supply of pork stuffed masa wrapped in a corn husk. But my roots are from upstate New York, and from the day when being of Mexican didn’t bring to mind “illegal alien.”

When I came to Kona to purchase my condo I slipped into a little establishment called Habaneros for a bit to eat. Fortunately, it was a Wednesday, the only day of the week that they serve tamales. I ordered a couple and headed back to the resort where I had a rented a very nice condo on a golf course near with ocean.

It had rained most of the week and second thoughts about relocating to Hawaii haunted me. I needed to enjoy something, so the anticipation of munching down on the tamales made my mouth water. I sat on the lanai to watch golfers trudge the back nine as they tried to sneak in a round on an iffy afternoon. I felt for them. At least I wasn’t on vacation. One bite and my weather woes disappeared. I only regretted that I wouldn’t be on the island come the following Wednesday.

I won’t say I moved to Kona because I found the perfect tamale, but it is a good reason.

Being without motorized transportation requires a good deal of planning and it seems I’ve spent too much time on transportation. My first week on the island has been busier than I expected. And I pounded the pavement on foot and on bike. I try to plan the day, and minimize the number of hills I must ascend because I hate climbing hills, I’m lazy and I always arrive drenched with sweat.

Most everything I need is within a short distance and doesn’t require a hill: the library, the farmer’s market, the church, community pool, hardware store and now with Target on the island, I can even get some groceries without trucking up to KTA, Saveway or Wal-Mart. But when I have to climb, like to go to the bike shop, the hills albeit short are killer steep. Okay, maybe not for a sixteen year old, but for a 55 year old woman on a mountain bike, they require a bit of muscle. I got it. I can do it, but my knees are beginning to feel the pain.

Tamales are down the road about five miles and then up a hill, a killer hill. I ordered twenty to freeze for dinners. (Planning dinners reduces the need to ride up hills. So does not eating dinner. I've done that too.) On Wednesday morning I went to pick up mu order. Hermando, the owner was surprised I showed up on my bike. The tamales had to be repacked to fit in my back pack.

Do you know how much twenty tamales weight? As much as a fat cat. Do you know how much warmth is emitted from twenty fresh tamales sitting on your back? As much as a fat cat.

I considered the mission a success until I got home and decided to eat one. Sure it was before ten am, but it wasn’t a beer. Disappointment registered when I tasted one very salty tamale. The tamales either fell into the ocean on the way home or absorbed a lot of my sweat. Neither happened. Someone goofed in the kitchen.

Frankly, I chalked it up and individually wrapped each tamale in foil and tossed them pile of them into the freezer. I figured with a bit of rice and beans, topped with salsa, the masa would be okay.

That evening, I got a call from Hermando. “I’m sorry. We not taste them and we discovered the tamales are too salty. We already made you more. Come by, tomorrow, yes, if you like and pick up.”

Oh my knees. But worth the trip.

Death on Alii

WARNING: NOT AN EASY READ

The only thing Jason ever said to me was, “Sorry, sister.” In my head I sneered back, “I’m not your sister.” The apology lame. Issues with my upstairs neighbors.

His friends parked their cars in my parking space, even after I told them that the guest parking was just across the parking lot. While I don’t have a car or any use for the space, it is directly in front of my condo. The visitors brought loud music and conversations that filtered into my bedroom window, some times past midnight. The irritation pushed me to complain to the condo office. It wasn’t the first complaint. Before I arrived on island, the police had been called to quell a domestic disturbance.

Every day life carries all sorts of challenges. My challenge was to keep peace with my neighbor. But, Jason faced greater demons, ones I can only imagine and then not very well. His “sorry sister” apology was delivered with too much friendliness, a type of familiarity that drifts through the air when someone is intoxicated. Jason and his parade of friends were a nuisance. Yes, I lost a little sleep, found oil stains on my parking space (I'm responsible to keep it clean), but the crossing of our paths left my life unscathed.

Until this afternoon. I only heard the impact, a loud yet muffled sound, the type of sound a baseball bat makes when striking a pillow. Something wasn’t right about that sound right outside my condo. It happened fast and stopped suddenly. The sound of flesh meeting metal, flesh crashing on pavement.

On the asphalt heated by the mid afternoon sun, Jason laid bleeding. Struck by a motorcycle, carried down the street, his body bounced off the pavement, not like a rag doll, but like the body of a man, twisted and confused. He came to rest face down. Seconds later a stream of blood ran out from beneath his head. Slight gasps of air gurgled as his body tried to do what it had instinctively done since birth. Breathe.

My towel cradled his head soaked in red. It was all I could offer. Others got there first. I turned to my Lord and prayed.

It could have been a gun battle, except the motorcycle laid wrecked further down the hill. Twenty feet away from Jason the motorcyclist, also drunk and doing sixty in a 30 mile per hour zone, was sprawled face down. His blood looked like Jason's, thick and dark as it seeped away from him, no different than a bad oil leak.

A woman dressed in a short black dress check for a pulse. She yelled over, "Does he have a pulse?" I looked at Jason's wrist. I didn't answer. I don't know if anyone did. In the distance sirens screamed. She turned the motorcyclist over and began to administer CPR. The sirens were too far away, on an island that suddenly seemed so big. He’d never know who he struck.

There was too much blood. The thickness crawled along the pavement, as if it tried to escape the place it had always been. When they rolled Jason over to allow air to reach his brain, his mouth was filled with blood, his face smeared with flesh. The indignity of force stripped his pants from his waist exposing him. But he would never know the embarrassment.

I've never seen a body so broken. I turned away and clutched my chest. I felt my heart beat, but how fragile it was.

It is not often that Alii Drive becomes a quiet street. Traffic in both directions halted. The sounds of Sunday afternoon became muffled whispers of speculation. Residents, joggers, walkers, bikers all stopped to study what had happened. As if we could understand and put it back together. One moment a man, standing in the middle in a wide center turn lane, carrying a bag of ice is displaced when motorcyclist coincidentally arrives in the same time and place. Two lives collide with such force life is knocked right out of both.

I never heard the ambulance leave. Jason and the motorcyclists were pronounced dead before it arrived at the hospital.

Tonight, the neighbors set a lei on the bougainvillea near the spot where Jason's bag of ice landed. Two men lost their lives just outside my condo. I don’t suppose you see souls rise from catastrophe. Too bad. I waited. If I saw Jason's soul standing there I would say, “Sorry Brudah.” And mean it.

A Decade in Review

I didn't know the end of a decade was so important. Seems like everyone is summarizing the past ten years. So I rummaged through the old memory banks, computer files and the internet to find my personal highlights.

2000 Chile
On the eve of Y2K we expected planes to fall out of the sky, ATM machines to stop working and electric grinds to spark wildly through the night. Boy wasn’t that ho-hum? The New Year did find me wide awake at midnight. With twelve others whom I had met just a week earlier I ate lamb cooked over the coals of a campfire. It never tasted so good. Somewhere deep in the mountains of Chile my trekking crew and I from North Carolina Outward Bound paused for a little rest.

Later,I wrote in my journal…
"Tonight, the moon rose over the shoulder of Osorno. Standing on the shore of Lago Llanquihue, I stare up at the summit in self-amazement. I must tell myself I was there - just last night, descending from the peak under the star-filled sky, following my moon shadow down the slopes. Time is a funny thing, for tonight last night seems like a lifetime ago.

My presence on this mountain when measured in time and size is merely a spec compared to its age and its stature. I guess today's bright sun melted my foot prints and all traces of my being has been erased from the surface of this great mountain. In this regard, Osorno appears unchanged. I can not say the same for me. To any stranger my feat is just another mountaineering yarn. And if I must tell myself I was up there on Osorno's slopes, how will anyone believe me? I know I was there. I can feel it."

2000 Chilean "Millennium" Mountaineering alumna, 32 days
Posted on North Carolina Outward Bound

2001 Ecuador and Peru
Somewhere in my past I saw a photo of Machu Pichu where emerald green mountains touch the sky. A five day trek and I found myself looking down to the stone city. I was invited to spend the night at the hotel near the summit. After the last bus shuttled the tourists from the peak, I walked among the ruins in a solitude. Few get to experience this.

The next morning I climbed Huayna Picchu in an hour. I’ve got a great photo of me at the top taking by a couple of Germans. Alas, those were the days before digital and that photo is buried somewhere in the archives of my storage unit.

I combined this trip with another Outward Bound adventure to Ecuador. Something about the mountains. I climbed to 19372 feet, dragged through the fog with the help of an angel. I got my sorry ass to the top to see absolutely nothing. Fog threw a thick blanket around me. Complete white out. A month later National Geographic’s Adventure magazine had a photo spread of the mountain. Couldn’t believe what I missed!

2002 Singapore, Katmandu and Bangkok.
My first experiences in Southeast Asia. Overwhelmed with language, smells and sounds, and that was in Singapore. I ventured out alone to see the Royal Palace, hire a longboat captain to take me across the river and a private guide to show me the ancient capital. The people in Nepal taunted my life long dream to join the Peace Corps.

My last evening in Bangkok, feeling adventuresome I ordered a chili bass and nearly gagged when the fish arrived with head and scales. It was delicious.

Little did I know I was headed to Micronesia in a year where my host father would offer the raw heart of a tuna and I would see a young man spear a fish and eat it while hanging off the back end of my boat.

I puked in the Sheraton Katmandu lobby after a wild ride in the backseat of a Landrover. I told them I wasn’t feeling too good. And I cussed like a sailor on the accent to Kala Pater. My guide, Anna Griswald, insisted everyone drink two quarts of water during our treks. And every night I had to get out of my sleeping bag, don my frost covered jacket and pee. One night I stepped out of my tent to see the full moon kissing the Himalayas. I couldn’t help but reach out and touch the white light. No one saw me do this.

Later I road an elephant and went looking for tigers. I’m still looking for tigers.

2003 Federated States of Micronesia
“Downstairs the youth group practices Christmas carols in Mwoakillese. Over and over again, they sing with no less enthusiasm than the first time. This morning after digging the tree ornaments out of the closet in my room, I helped my little sister, Juliet, decorate a four-foot fake Christmas tree. The presents sent by my mother and father arrived and I have placed them under the tree. If I could only smell pine instead of the ubiquitous island mold, I might convince myself it is Christmas time.

In town, the lights are hung on the all the store fronts. From the PA system in Wall Mart, an endless supply of Christmas music spills out on aisles of Spam and Ramen. In the freezers, air filled Santa balloons accompany the shipments of turkey tails. Next door at Senny’s, a small retailer where you’ll find everything from rice to mattresses, a life sizes Santa wiggles his hips and dances to the techno beat found on the CD decks of most Micronesian cars.

It’s Christmas time in Micronesia. Hardly feels like it. I feel like this one is going to be a tough holiday for me.”

2004 Slogged through Micronesia
Okay, it was a lifetime dream, turned into nightmarish experiment of boredom. If it had not been for the other volunteers and my cool new family I would have lost my sanity. My assignment consisted of waiting for someone to show up to work. That usually happened on pay day when the staff of four seemed to magically appear before running off to some relatives forty day funeral.

Many a morning I sat in a burnt-out cement block building with windows boarded in plywood. Then I found a project on the island of Nukuoro. I poured my heart and soul into researching and writing a grant to built a library equipped with solar powered computers hooked up to short band radio for email. Clever me.

Clever until I asked for technical support from a salty sea captain.

2005 The High Seas
When the New Year rolled in I was rolling in the belly of the Cosmic Muffin. Remember puking in Katmandu? That was little league. Sailing from Micronesia to Majuro turned out to be a sixteen day roller coaster ride. You would think I would learn, but a promise is a promise and so I found myself sailing from Hawaii to California once again on board the Cosmic Muffin.

My July 29 journal entry
"Took the 8:30 p.m. to midnight watch. With music to listen to, a book to read, stars to gaze at, and the job of sailing a boat using crib sheets, time passed quickly. These hours usually do, especially when the alarm clock is set for every twenty minutes. We should all be nervous tonight, for I am in control using my trusty cheat sheet to keep the boat a sailing.

It is a warm night and the weather is clear, so the captain is sleeping on the foredeck. Maybe he is covered with flying fish? I don’t know.

Don’t accuse me of having a dull, uncomplicated life. "

2006 East Coast
It was on the high seas that I decided to turn my journal into a book. I scribbled out The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and I self-published my first book.

While I worked on remodeling one of my apartment kitchens, I devised a marketing plan for my memoir. I wrangled a radio show host into following my exploits then jumped into my parents' 20 year old RV and peddled the book in seaports, campgrounds, farmer’s markets and even a roadside corn stand.

The best of plans can't prevent life from happening. Mom passed away and suddenly becoming a famous author didn’t seem too important.


2007 Florida
In my never- ending search to stay warm, I packed my two cats into my Jeep and headed south. I had a whim that I would go to Key West, to pick up where Hemingway left off. Instead, I ported in the Greek sponge diving community of Tarpon Springs and joined three writers groups.

I met up with some old friends and made a few new ones. And at the end of the year, after kaykig, swimming and biking all year, I got to go sailing again. But never let land get out of sight.

Considered the year a total success.

2008 Europe
I've always had a lot of places I wanted to go, but Europe was never on the radar. I was never too impressed with the French, finding them rude even in my own country. Why go chasing after that?

But then my brother Mark thought it would be cool to go to Europe and tromp around where Dad did some of his World War II campaigning. My Uncle David, Dad and I joined a tour and set off to see Paris.

I wrote a blog excerpt...
"The soldier was aware of the constant threat of death. It slept beside him. He merely had to reach out to answer its call to end the misery. Somehow he resolved to ignored it. It wasn't mind over matter. Will-power could not have been enough. Each day he’d take slow crucifying steps toward his enemy, his only companion fear and anxiety. His backpack heavy with despair, yet he continued to grip his bayoneted rifle and a hopeless sense to live.

In this place where death piled up in layers of bones there was one refuge, a fountain. At the only source of water for either side a soldier met his enemy whose thirst had brought him to the same piece of heaven on earth. In misery, he dared not meet the enemy’s eye, for he would see the same fading light of hope. The two would silently dip their canteens in the pool, then slip over the hillside where the smell of burnt horses and gangrene filled their throats."

Lost in the Paris Metro with map in hand a French man, speaking no English, offered to help. Somehow, I managed to tell him where I wanted to go and he managed to give me directions. And suddenly, I thought the French weren't so bad after all. Nothing like a good life experience to prove yourself wrong.


2009 New York
Uncle Sam made me pay for my island retreat in Hawaii, so I worked my ass off at odd jobs to pay a few tax bills. He has no record of such activities. And when he reads this, like everything else I write, I'll claim it's pure fiction.

That’s a good way to bring 2009 and the decade to a close.

New Year Resolutions

Boy my ass is sore. I had an extremely busy first day in Hawaii and some of that time included riding my bike farther than I had intended. Once I figured out the free trolley was no longer free and the schedule had changed, I returned home to ride my bike into town to go shopping, the bank and the farmer’s market. Except I discovered a spoke broke on my front tire and that needed immediate attention, more immediate than the leaky toilet tank, which wasn’t really leaking.

That cylinder thing in the tank was acting more like the two fountains Spic and Spac in Congress Park (Saratoga Springs,New York)spitting water out of the tank. In my attempt to fix the errant water flow, I caused a leak at the shut off valve. Without a car to fetch replacement parts and with a jet lagged head that couldn’t reason where the condo water supply shut off valve was, I enacted plan B. Except the plumber wasn’t available until Monday. Plan C was to put into action: a pan underneath the leak. I went to get my bike fixed.

Bike Works were pretty busy and the guy at the shop couldn’t guarantee he’d get to me, until I told him it was my only mode of transport. During my wait, I constructively used the time to jot a few New Year’s Resolutions.

I resolve not to do a job, unless I have the tools. That ought to make the New Year much simpler. If the job needs to be done I’ll…

1. Buy the tool
2. Hire some one with the tool
3. Leave well enough alone.
   

I like the last option best, but honestly, it isn’t too practical when it comes to plumbing.

I resolve not to go outside unless my face has a thick coating of sun block 15. This resolution was made twenty five years too late, but I figure I have at least thirty more good years ahead of me, so why look like a prune? People say I favor my Dad, but I didn’t inherit his skin. Have you seen a less wrinkled 86 year old man?

I resolve to refurbish the rifle in my Dad’s basement. The gun has been hanging on the wall for years. A couple of weeks ago, something made me reach over the freezer take it off the two inverted deer hooves where it has been collecting dust since dust has been collecting.

I got to pause here and explain those deer hooves. It frankly fits no décor in my father’s house (thank God) except my older brother’s bedroom during those years when he was still young enough to sport a Daniel Boone raccoon cap. Anyway, with gun in hand I was so tempted to pull the trigger. If the cats had not been lurking in the basement, I probably would have.

To the best of my knowledge, there has never been any ammo in the house, but as I stood there with my itchy trigger finger I couldn’t recall where the rifle had came from. Mom hated guns even to the point that she thought toys guns at Christmas should be outlawed. There’s a Democrat for you.

Dad’s M15 from WWII was upstairs in his bedroom and Grandpa’s squirrel rifle was hanging over Robin’s kitchen sink. Where did this one come from?

I completely understood how little kids accidentally shoot other little kids. I was dying to pull the trigger and assuming the gun wasn’t and never had been. That’s when I decided to take it to a gun shop and have them look the thing over. Not just for bullets but, to put it in good working order. Sorry Mom, I think it is time to bear arms, but only if they are lathered with SPF 15.

I resolve to add gold to my portfolio. What portfolio?

I resolve to eat organic at least once a week. No make that once a month. Have you seen the price of organic beets in the supermarket? It's an outrage. You'd think I had money to invest in gold or something.

I’ve been itching to write. All through December, I would not allow myself. I liked the feeling of wanting to get back to the keyboard. I had lots of ideas. But I hung onto the feeling that had not been there all summer and fall. I blamed work for not writing. Truthfully, it has been me. When I applied for a real HR job in Malta, New York I was kind of serious about it. My brother in law asked, “What about your writing?”

“What writing?” I replied.

Well, I didn't get called in for an interview, so I'm back to writing.

I’m pacing myself. When I got back to Hawaii I decided to make sure I put things in order first. This morning I spent three hours cleaning the jungle out of my back yard. I don’t know how it grew because the maintenance guys turned the water off. However, the plants in the pots are just hanging on. I filled two large trash bags with dead leaves. Tomorrow, the aphids die.

Maybe I’ll write about that. My resolution on writing is three fold:

1. Diablo is running away and will Twitter (Southboundcat) about her five month exploits as she makes her way from Saratoga Springs to Kona, Hawaii. That’s one determined cat. Occasionally, she’ll blog at SouthboundCats.blogspot.com.
2. I will reactivate Beyond The Sail, shooting for at least three times a week.
3. Yes, the book. I’m not leaving the island without a book. Even if I have to buy one.
   

There's a resolution worth keeping.

Now about that leak...

Eaters Protection and Affordability Act

According to the USA Today’s editorial Wednesday, November 25, 2009, 49 million Americans lack dependable access to adequate food. That’s the largest number of people since numbers were first kept in 1995.

The number is suspiciously similar to the claimed number of people who are dying in the streets due to lack of assess to adequate health care. So as I peeled potatoes for the Thanksgiving dinner, I thought we could add a few more pages to the Health Reform Bills and fix this problem. After all, what is more critical, eating or sitting in queue to see your doctor?

Here’s my proposal. With some bureaucratic creativity this could be expanded to 1500 pages.

Every man, woman and child in the United States of America should have affordable food. To assure equal assess we need a universal food redistribution program. A single provider system. A universal food distribution program would create centers of food sources. They would require today’s high priced food sources such as Price Chopper, WalMart, A&P, Ralph’s, Safeway, etc to compete. We know they don't compete now. And have you every seen a Ralph's in New Hampshire? Food should be sold across state lines.

Because the government won’t have the overhead of advertisement, coupons, or promotional china give-a-ways, and shopping carts which end up under railroad trestles, food would be more affordable for all those who currently are starving in the street. (Ironically, that’s the poor and uninsured. Isn’t this the only place in the world where poor are fat and own their own shopping cart?)

And speaking of hefty, hefty, hefty. I propose a fat tax, similar to the one the airlines tried to impose on their fat flyers. As you enter the food distribution center you are weighed. All family members must be periodically weighed. Weight is entered into a national data base system for monitoring by the Bureau of Weights and Measures. Based on your weight and limits as defined in the Health Care Reform Bill (just another amendment), food will be distributed to each according to their need, or lack there of.

If you happen to be one of the rich people, who has a pantry stocked for three nuclear winters (my sister), there will be a tax imposed on this type hording. After all, why should these people have all this access to food while others have their ribs showing.

The fare at restaurants, fast food joints, and other dining establishments such as workplace roach coaches, will be taxed based on the caloric distribution on the menu and total consumption. A 40% tax on anything over 300 calories should discourage this gluttony.

Death panels? Not really. But certainly the elderly don’t need to eat that much.

To pay for the government run and controlled food redistribution program I propose taxing those people requiring high levels of caloric intact, say consumption over 2000 calories/day. So the NFL, and Michael Phelps will have to pony up. Oh yeah, and Michael Moore.

Anyone who plants a garden will be taxed. That includes Michelle Obama.

Farmer markets will be taxed.

Road side fruit stands - taxed.

Overweight people - taxed.

Any corn used for food - taxed.

Subsidies will be given to farmers who don’t grow food above the set limits, defined in the Eaters Protection and Affordability Act.

Anyone who doesn’t participate in the food redistribution program will be penalized and if participation is not reported to the IRS you will not be penalized, or face jail time. Definitely food rationing there, but adequate medical care.

Which brings me back to peeling potatoes. Damn it, I cut my finger.

Happy Thanksgiving.