pretty boats

This past week Baltimore played host to the Parade of Sail, the pre-game show for the Great Cheasapeake Bay Schooner Race. I experienced the joy of participating in the parade from the deck of the Lady Maryland, who went on to finish second in the race. In honor of yet another of my birthdays, I decided that this year's celebration should be of boats, which are a touch prettier than rats. Please note, as usual, all photos are mega-huge, and were taken by me in Baltimore's Inner Harbor.

Small, private schooner Martha White. Raised two questions: Are they really all that into flour? Is that really all bottom paint?

Pride of Baltimore II firing a cannon salute in the Inner Harbor. The ensuing audio battle among vessels Pride, Constellation, Gazela, Lady Maryland, Mystic Whaler, and others led to the National Aquarium at Baltimore to call over the VHF "please stop firing your cannons. You're scaring the dolphins."

Sigsbee! Aw, I'm sorry you didn't get to come, darlin. She's lookin' sharp.

Baltimore Clipper Amistad. -Wait, That Amistad?- Yes, That Amistad.

Schooner Mystic from a Boston Whaler.

Square topsail schooner Sultana, from Chestertown, Maryland. Judge her size compared to the people on deck. She's a perfect miniature. And a good friend of Living Classrooms.

Schooner Virginia. has a reputation for being bad-ass. Broke a gaff during the race. I heard everyone is okay. Is it just me, or does she look like the kind of boat Darth Vader would captain?

Schooners Virginia and When and If?, under Lady Maryland's main. So much canvas.

Mystic Whaler, a beautiful vessel in and out, and excellent hosts. Thank you for throwing a great pot luck!

I'll try to add a Lady Maryland "Fear the Pink" shirt soon.

hot sauce, spider webs, and a gallon of coffee

So. I've been out of town.

Having a blast, by the way. Two weeks ago found me in St. Michaels, MD, running some day programs for Eastern Shore kids, which were a lot of fun (if fast!) My crew and I spent nights alternately weathering rain and enjoying brightly starlit skies from Sigsbee's deck after delicious meals cooked over a lead-melting burner. (a welcome backup after a propane tank attachment mix-up. Big Fire make Fast Dinner. And perhaps the most perfect popcorn i've ever tried.) The crew transit back, a trip of several hours, was passed enjoyably, if a bit noisily, thanks to the addition of four bottles of hot sauce and a box of crackers. Yeowza! (technically we only tried three--the fourth was saved to be shared with the captain of another vessel. After watching the reactions of tasters, I'm rather glad I wasn't tempted to try the fourth.)

Last Friday was spent in drink and revelry at the annual Maritime Magic gala, a large party/concert/auction/local restaurant sampler/boozeup to benefit the Living Classrooms Foundation. The music was great, the food was excellent, free, and largely vegetarian, the vendors were friendly, and nobody fell in during my M.O.B. watch. I'd call that a success.

This week found me on a 3-day trip to Kent Island, complete with an entire department-load of insurance agents on a team-building adventure. Also known as a lovely few days on boats, some lovely restaurants, and plenty of lovely beer. They were generally pleasant people, and though we flatly lost the sailboat race against Lady Maryland, no one was hugely surprised and it was a great day on the water in any case.

An odd thing occurred while we were crossing the bay toward Baltimore--in a rather nondescript area of open water we happened to pass through a giant cloud of bugs. I don't know what kind exactly--they looked like largeish flying ants, but with pointier aft ends. They may have been larval wasps or juvenile versions of any number of interesting critters, but needless to say I spent most of this time cowering behind one of my coworkers as the bugs whizzed past. Most of them passed by without even noticing Sigsbee, and the ones that did land on deck were easily shooed off it again. We passed through them in about twenty minutes at 5 knots, so do the math and tell me what the diameter of the bug-cloud was. Seriously. I'm pathetic at math.

Anyway, we got back to the dock and tidied up the boat, and in the process of tying off the gantline a member of my crew happened to look up and see that every line, every lazy jack and halyard was decorated with hundreds of delicate webs--the entire rig was covered in a filigree of arachnoid fibers. We assumed these had something to do with the bug-cloud, but we really have no idea--no one had heard of six-legged or winged insects with the ability to produce a web, and none of them appeared to be ballooning anyway. Some theories we proposed, but later shot down included:

-the Francis Scott Key Bridge, which marks the entrance to Baltimore's Outer Harbor, just doesn't have cargo ships passing under it like it used to get and is overrun with spiderwebs.
-the bugs were being attacked by minute ballooning spiders and we just interrupted, which led to all of the webs appearing to be over four feet long
-we were attacked by something at the dock overnight (this theory was dispelled when we saw the same webs covering the Lady Maryland's lines, and LM anchored out pretty far from land because the water gets too shallow for her)
-our captain is actually a spider and we've just never noticed.

Any ideas?

in any case, my crew has been rather busy lately and, on account of this, have managed to go through three bags of coffee beans in about three weeks. Is that normal for four people?

The Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race is coming up in a couple of days, and boats from up and down the eastern seaboard have been showing up in droves in the inner harbor. Its been a lot of fun to see. I hope to get a chance to schmooze with their crews.

One more thing. This piece of psychadellic art gave me pause to wonder--it looks hand-painted by a giddy stoner with no concept of life-like colors, patterns, or ratios. I think a new religion or at least emphatic cult should form around this clear proof that God trips on acid.

pout, grin, laugh, scream

I was tootling around in the local organic home store, Blue House, today, and came across numerous things that I want but, sadly, even if I could afford them, would be completely useless to me. The Taney is a wonderful home for what it is, but it has its limitations.

Namely, I don't have a stove. Therefore all the nifty tea kettles and cookware they have is completely useless to me. I'm also strictly forbidden from using my electric kettle on the ship, so I can't even use their nifty teabag teapots that i find so adorable. seriously, i live in a place that is highly opposed to the idea of me feeding myself--and for good reason. the wiring around here is historic. anything that draws enough electricity to boil water in three minutes or less is probably a hazard.

Something else I come up short on is windows. I have a 9" porthole, and though it is a very nice porthole, I don't believe the curator of the museum would be very happy with me if i installed a window box below it. Which means, sadly, that all the seeds, planters, and biodegradable flowerpots they sell are not intended for people like me.

I'm also a bit shortchanged when it comes to tables, dressers, and other furniture that appreciate decorative accents. No matter how many doilies you put on them, gunmetal gray cabinets will never look cozy. And vases? recall what I mentioned about portholes and imagine how happy fresh flowers would be in my floating cellar. (And while I suppose filling them with dried flowers is always an option, I really don't have enough cobwebs in my room to pull off the full Miss Havisham look.)

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I had a delightful epiphany today--I have decided that my sister's as-yet-unscheduled wedding must be officiated by a woman with a delightful Scottish lilt--something in the vein of NPR's Fiona Ritchie.

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I happened across this album cover in the record store and nearly did a spit-take. I've never heard of this performer or his music, but sheez. (please note, incidental readers--this is not a joke or an insult directed toward the cover's subject, but is rather a reference to the musician's eerie resemblance to a friend. Eerie.) Sarah, you must see this.

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Another shortcoming of living in a museum is the frequent reminders of which tourist demographic is most likely to visit them--families with young children. A note of advice, parents of toddlers: Children Have No Need to Tour Historic Ships, Watch Movies or Plays, Visit Theme Parks, or Experience Fine Dining Until They Are At Least Ten (10) Years Of Age. Prior to that, you're just wasting your money. And pissing people off. Of Course she's throwing a tantrum. She's 3--its dark, cramped, smelly, confusing, and boring in here! Don't make your child bear with it--learn from it. They don't cry when they're happy.

sketchup

"When the installation process is complete, you should see a SketchUp application icon (it looks like a little house.)"

Oh Google, this is why I love you.

In other news, I'm feeling much better now, I've removed all my facebook friends who vocally support Sarah Palin, and i'm most of the way through Alan Weisman's The World Without Us, which i daresay is a thoroughly enjoyable book about the end of the human race. I'm sure everyone else has read it twice by now, but I tend to wait until books' hype has cooled somewhat before embarking upon them, so as to not appear hip.

In other news, I'm on the search for a nifty, useful, likeable tablet pc. I'd prefer a linux interface, but I have a number of constraints to that end--I like Google Talk far better than Skype for its crystal-clear audio interface and obviously greater stability (though those concerns may not be noteworthy on a faster, happier computer than this 1998-edition Dell Latitude dual boot Win2K/Ubuntu 5gb hd/45omhz pentium II--hey, don't laugh. It was free, and i'm grateful for it.) and unfortunately Google and Linux are, if not mortal enemies, not the best of friends. I tend to avoid downloading anything i don't desperately need and store all photos, music, and misc online, where I have more storage and I believe safety than on this rather senile machine.

I don't think I'll buy anything while i still work for LCF--the Taney's thick steel hull prevents any semblance of wifi from penetrating into my room, and I don't really have much need for more than I have--everything that requires a faster computer and a newer GUI is generally an idle amusement that keeps me cooped up in here when I should go outside and be sociable.

I still haven't bought a pair of Earth shoes, but I may go ahead and get some today. If nothing else, i'm going to get some new Keens for winter. and maybe an additional pair for the rest of the season. yay Keens!

Wow. I think this may be my first product-oriented blog. I generally don't talk about stuff, i talk about thoughts. But thankfully my mind has been blissfully vacuous these past few weeks and all I've concerned myself about has been shoes, computers, and boys.

sniffle

I enjoy the Wombats. particularly the backing vocals. I think everyone should.

I recently bought my first set of Grundens foul weather gear. they are mighty.

I have a bad head cold. the first thing that goes when I get stuffy is my balance. then everything gets funny. then starts the coughing. now i've hit the slap-happy-headache stage. I think its Grayhounditis. When in doubt, blame public transit.

Since I moved to Baltimore, New York City has become less of a hated, feared, nasty place and more of a haven for fun drunken weekends and culture. NYC, I don't hate you anymore!

I still panic in crowds though.

people feets

has any reader worn or tried out a pair of Earth shoes? i'm really curious about them--i hear good things, but they're a bit too expensive to buy on the off chance that they're comfortable.

I'm heading to NY tomorrow afternoon to visit with a foreigner who is quite dear to me. No details to follow.

out and about

i have been very busy with work the past few weeks. A nasty side effect of this is that i've had to endure the torments of sunshine, fresh air, and human interaction and leave my poor computer behind in the dark. O the woes of life.

I spent today scraping and painting the hull of the Lady Maryland with her crew in Georgetown. As a direct result of this, I shall be showering with steel wool. I'm sadly too claustrophobic for tyvek suits and safety glasses, and only direct orders could get me to wear a respirator. Things...around...face... eeurgh. don't like. The disposable outfits help you avoid absorbing the antifouling bottom paint through the skin, so by now i should have absorbed enough copper to spend like 27 cents.

orzo with chopsticks

and eggplant in bed. Nothing says "single stateroom accommodation, shared kitchen facilities" quite like it.

I think my home hits bottom and leans to starboard at low tide. i typically go to sleep on level and wake up tilted about 5 degrees--not enough to make me fall out of bed but enough to make me hold on in my sleep. Life's little quirks.

When it comes to ranking ginger ales, Blenheim's is at the top, The Ginger People's ginger beer is second, Reed's is third, and all others go in the recycle bin. Mmm.

claustro-angria

I'm not claustrophobic in the typical sense of the word. I do not fear that the walls are closing in, nor do I feel that I'm drowning in small spaces...i just get very, very angry. I become a fiery ball of elbows and feet, kicking and throwing whatever I can find to get it away from me. Frequently this makes matters worse as now I'm not only still in a small, confined space, but all my stuff is broken.

My home is a small, confined space with lots of pointy-outy areas to hurt yourself on.

I need a cup of tea.

go species!

I got a charge out of an Olympics-themed Visa advertisement which emphasized the unifying human element of the games. maybe its not the athletes' countries that make you cheer for them, but the fact that they're human, and hey, you're human too, so their accomplishments are your your accomplishments...at the widest level of classification. We admit its a bit of a stretch, but hey, we're Visa--one of three globally unifying entities, the other two being death and taxes.

ubuntu

I have changed platforms. I am very happy.

Unrelated, but longer, side note: A recent Charlotte Observer column mentioned the columnist's child enjoying a spray park--quite literally a large concrete slab dotted with sprinklers and sprayers for the express purpose of running through. Think of it as that fountain at the mall you always wanted to jump in, but your mom wouldn't let you. All the water is chlorinated and recycled, so in these drought-ridden times it's a far more eco-friendly option than setting up a sprinkler in the yard for your runts to jump through. I would seriously love to find this park and run around in it...except perhaps after all the little sticky tripping hazards have gone home for dinner.

The thing is, when I was a kid I hated running through the sprinkler. It was absolutely no fun. Not the sprinkler bit--that was a delight. What made me sulk and sit it out was the boys. We typically set up a sprinkler when there were numerous kids to play in it--on neighborhood-friendly holidays such as July 4 and the like--and there were always dozens of kids who wanted to splash around. Most of the kids were fine with waiting our turns to run through it, but the neighborhood rascals would grow tired of that quickly and decide to turn this harmless garden tool into a weapon or a game. After ten minutes of jump-splash-whee the event suddenly turned into run-spray-argh or some bizarre, confusing team-based contest in which we were required, usually by an older, blond male, to run around or through the spray before the contraption tilted and hit a designated mark or person. It never made much sense, it wasn't fun for the girls, and I usually wound up getting an elbow to the face and storming off to cry in a dry lap. Well, initially dry.

The thing is, i've always hated games. I don't enjoy having an objective to my leisure time and I despise abiding by arbitrary rules. I've always sucked at video games for that reason--while most players are off trying to kill other players or obtain weapons, I'm contenting myself with exploring the game space and trying to talk to other characters. I usually wind up being killed within minutes. I tend to drive safely in racing games and was actually mocked ruthlessly for asking a game owner what button flipped indicator lights. Apparently blinkers are not commonly used in Mario Kart. I've never gotten the point of Mortal Kombat, found myself bored and lost in Doom, and only enjoyed X-Wing until the Imperial troops came into view and started firing. The star background was fun to fly around in...that is, after I figured out how to take off from the mothership. That sort of fiddly stuff is needlessly difficult. In any case, I don't understand physical or social competition outside of the biological imperative to earn a mate, and will never understand how an afternoon of playing in the sprinkler can be improved upon by adding rules. Particularly the common childhood rule of "if you're not playing the game, you can't play in here." Okay, fine. I'll take my sprinkler and go.

labels

this evening I have spent an inordinate amount of time labeling my blog posts. In so doing, I have proven to myself that I'm a fairly predictable person with very little to say. Regardless, the blog is now fairly well compartmentalized. The only labels I have refrained from adding are "the Man, Man", "why people are stupid" and "existentialism" as these three themes recur with such frequency it would be a waste of a category. Labeling each post "why people are stupid" is akin to going through the dictionary and labeling entries "word."

CTY

Anyone who is curious as to what i've been doing for the past month would gain insight by visiting Here, then Here. (note, the second "here" is only the trip 2 bit, not one, three, or four.) The Sigsbee kids kinda got distracted and never finished blogs for days 7-9, but you may rest assured that they enjoyed themselves.

Kids navigating, Sigsbee Trip 1. Please note that, as usual, photo actual sizes are mahoosive.

The rest of this blog post is going to sound like a "Dear Mom and Dad, I'm having a wonderful time at camp..." letter. be forewarned. my favorite event on the Sigsbee trip was kayaking around Wye Island. i'd forgotten how delightful that pursuit is. Feels good to row, you know? And it kept the kids occupied without my having to entertain them, which is always a breath of fresh air. And my favorite event with Lady Maryland was whale watching--while the trip was nausea-inducing, i'd never seen humpbacks up close before and it was amazing.

Baby Humpback Breaching, Gloucester, Mass. The kid is just farting around waiting for its momma to surface.

I met some very interesting people--both adults and kids--on these trips, and I'm glad i got to go. I had no idea that my first night in Gloucester would be spent in the company of Angus the Shipbuilding Giant on a midnight tour of a half-built tea ship. Or that full foundations existed for the sole purpose of disentangling marine mammals from fishing lines. (and no, i don't believe they've ever disentangled a duck-billed platypus. its a polite, inclusive-sounding term for whales.) I also tried my first ice-cream made with cardamom. yum! The girl who served it up, in Provincetown, Mass, was one of those pretty lesbians with a buzz-cut and a thick Ukrainian accent who has no patience for people who can't make up their minds on what flavor to get. I didn't dally.

Gloucester Light

This past week I actually spent back on Sigsbee doing day trips, like usual, except with some rather unusual groups. Imagine a trip of ten 16-year old male drug addicts and seven cops. They were surprisingly interested in bay ecology. I think some of them got a lot out of it. Then imagine a trip of two 16 year old female drug addicts and 2 cops. and 4 crew. It was the most relaxed, comfortable, easygoing trip ever. I never knew I'd have such a pleasant time with junkies.

Not Sigsbee, but similar. At Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum, St. Michael's Island, Maryland. I watched her raise sails. Its really hard to take pictures of the vessel you work on from afar.

Have you ever met a kid who looks and behaves exactly like you did when you were their age? Its eerie. Since April i've seen two of them, one girl scout and one with a city camp last week. Interestingly, both of these girls were completely nuts, had loud, sort-of annoying voices, and latched onto me within seconds of their arrival. They're both about 10 years old now, blond, healthy, science whiz kids with total comfort talking to adults but little patience with or acceptance from their peers. I still argue that if it hadn't been for my science teachers grades 7-9 I could be a rockstar biologist by now. But I didn't learn anything new for four years and eventually lost interest. (to be fair, my 9th grade science teacher went on maternity leave three weeks into school and we had an intern for the rest of the year.) Anyway, i'm a bit weirded out by these little carbon-copy mes running around--i mean that's two kids who've gone on trips on sigsbee in four months. Think how many else there must be. And how many came before me. And how many are thinking the same thoughts as me right ....Now.

Sorry. got a bit existential back there. Everyone come through okay? Good. Make sure your seat belts are buckled and your volume is turned way down 'cos I'm going to post a video down here, but please note that it is shaky and has a lot of wind whistling around. Allow me to share...Whales! out of sight of land but near Gloucester, Massachusetts. Courtesy of Captain Bill's Whale Watching Charters. We did have our own neat adventures with whales on the lady maryland, but by then my camera was full. And most of them were Finback whales, which aren't nearly as playful or fun as Humpbacks.

prey

Has any group of scientists done an environmental impact study on the utter removal of mosquitoes, biting flies, no-see-ums, and fleas from the planet? What would happen if we forced the extinction of predatory insects? Who depends on these horrible creatures for sustenance? What else needs them, aside from themselves? Does the right to live extend to critters that prey routinely upon humans?

I am covered in tiny bites from an outing this weekend--there's some from skeeters, some from no-see-ums, some from who knows what--about 50 in all, all of them itching and swollen. I even have them on my legs, and I was wearing long pants. Natural bug repellent does nothing (except make me smell like a candle) and DEET-containing sprays are very bad for you if you don't wash them off daily (long camping trips? showers? ha.) I can't figure out how to avoid these things while still performing my job, but an idea popped into my head regarding their forced removal from the world.

Mosquitoes are known carriers and transmitters of disease. These horrible animals suck up infected blood from one mammal, carry it around a bit, then shove it uninvited into the flesh of another mammal, infecting and frequently killing them, without ever contracting the disease themselves. This made me wonder--to what extent do mosquitoes interact with other skeeters? do they have skeeter mixers? Is there a way for humans to play their game back at them--infect one mosquito, and have it pass a skeeters-only disease to the rest of them? I know poisons are supposed to work like that for colonies of cockroaches, but would it work with a disease? How could that backfire on us? Could the disease mutate and infect humans, or infect all insects, upsetting the food chain? Would they pass it to one another or would it just die with one? Could it be mixed into bug spray--if buggy bites, buggy dies--without being harmful to the wearer? So far I think all insect killers are harsh chemicals that kill by dissolving the critter where it stands, which isn't exactly pleasant for people and pets. I don't want to wipe out bugs altogether, but I seriously can't see any particular value for bugs that bite me but don't wind up being eaten by frogs and birds. Can we isolate the blood sucking bug community and level it?

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So I just did a store location search for Barnes and Noble Booksellers in my area, and lo and behold, the first hit was none other than...the Barnes and Noble Bookseller I can see from my porthole and actually could hit with a well-lobbed book of my own. Wow. Impressive. Some mornings this brain of mine forgets my name. Can I trade it in?

We Apologise for the Inconvenience

So. Erm. Wow. I've had an interesting week.

It begins last Wednesday, when I flew out to Berkeley for my cousin's wedding the following day. It was a beautiful civil ceremony with sunflowers, beautiful mountains, heartfelt vows, numerous interrelated organisms, silly songs, delicious cake, and too much wine. The following days were filled with family, alcohol, sushi, amazing food, alcohol, Napa, family, excellent friends, alcohol...and precious little else. The weather was beautiful, another cousin's purse was stolen, a dog wandered into the reception hall, the eggs at the hotel breakfast were decent for being so geometrically pleasing, my old house was empty for summer, I installed Kim's window box and held a sweet kitty...and then it was time to fly again.

I arrived at the airport at 9:45pm for an 11:45 flight. The check-in area was completely empty aside from my airline, which had a massive line. All four attendants were working frantically but it was hectic. I waited, numbly, for my chance to get my boarding card cum grocery receipt--seriously, it was ticker tape with a bar code--and just as I approached the desk with 45 minutes to spare, i was asked to stand aside so people heading to Indianapolis could move through. Passengers whizzed through as I stood, confused, and watched the clock tick by. Their flight was early, and was trying to leave early for some reason. That seemed suspect. Eventually they ran out of Indiana-bound customers and I was allowed to check in.

Uh-oh. My flight time was listed as 10:49pm, a time which had come and gone a while ago. The attendant didn't appear concerned. My confirmed time, however, and the time listed on the departure board, which read On Time, were still both 11:45. I thanked the man and hurried off to security to figure out what was going on.

The security line was long but moved quickly, and as I mooed along with the herd I studied another nearby departure board. This one had my flight listed as Delayed. The next time I looked, the flight time had been changed. 2:00A. Some innocent, optimistic part of me hoped that meant 2 minutes after, but the jaded, realistic area of my brain hung its head.

Yes, the flight was delayed until 2:00 AM. Both the 10:49 and the 11:45 had been shunted to this plane, so it was to be packed. Would-be passengers waited, cracking frustrated jokes about missed connections, until they dozed off. People shouted at the desk attendant, who got annoyed and shouted back. I curled up on the freezing floor, after deciding my connecting flight time was surely a misprint, and attempted to sleep. I failed but did get a great carpet mark on my face. When I got up again, shivering violently, I met up with the now-calm desk attendant. I asked if we would be accommodated for somehow in Milwaukee if our flights were insane. She didn't think we would. 'What if I pitch a fit to them?' I suggested. "I think that's an excellent idea. Go for it." she said, with genuine zeal.

The flight to Milwaukee, Wisconsin was uneventful, and I did manage to sleep in that dizzy, nauseated, in-flight sort of way. I always wake up from that every few minutes disoriented, in considerable pain, and still tired. A fourth-grade boy near me, who had been politely asking me questions about air travel since we checked in, had begun mimicking my actions. I'd stretch, he'd stretch. I hung my glasses off the tray table, he hung his glasses. I dozed off, and when I woke again a few minutes later he was cuddled to his mother, his sleeping eyes smooshed into her shoulder. It was cute.

We arrived four hours later, at 8:00AM, and immediately formed a quiet mob around the gate attendant's post. Surprised and very busy she asked us all to wait for our questions until she had gotten the same plane loaded with passengers for Atlanta. We did, patiently, only to find out that thirty passengers, bound for Orlando, had just missed their connection while they patiently waited. Apparently San Francisco had not mentioned that there might be problems, or indeed that the flight had been delayed at all.

I was confirmed through on a flight that would leave in exactly 10 hours, at 6pm. They didn't have any options open for an earlier flight, and they didn't have any means of putting me in a hotel during the day ("had it been night time, ma'am, of course...") but they did offer me a $10 complacency coupon which bought me exactly 1 mini-pizza, 3 breadsticks, and a medium soda at the concourse pizza hut...three hours later, when the restaurants opened.

While waiting and wandering idly I happened to espy a departure board with a listing on it for Washington, DC that left at 2:00pm. What joy! I can get to Baltimore easily from there, and will get home much earlier, I thought to myself. I hurried to the gate attendant, who agreed that that was a fine idea and printed me a brand-new boarding pass, cutting out 4 hours of waiting.

I thought.

The 2pm flight was delayed a little at the gate. Just 30 minutes, and what did I care? There was a train every hour. We boarded, enjoyed the seat belt demonstration, and settled in to watch the day pass in fast-forward as we headed east. Er...North. West? Oh certainly not South. Ah, East again...no...Damn that river looks familiar...

Yes, we flew in circles. Big, lazy circles, for over an hour while the control tower in DC held us out of their airspace. There's a big storm, ladies and gentlemen, and its just not safe. The pilot cut another big donut to show everyone on both sides the scale of the anvil-shaped clouds. But...erm...we're running out of fuel. Oh dear.

Another forty minutes found us landing without ceremony in Dayton, Ohio. Half an hour passed while crew and remote operators ummed and erred as to whether we should get off. Eventually they decided we must all de-plane, if only to use the restrooms, and handed us nifty plastic boarding passes to show we belonged. I used the free internet console down the hall and considered getting a drink. I didn't, which was just as well as we shortly re-boarded, found all of our stray passengers, clipped in, revisited the safety lecture, and shot back into the sky. It was 7:30pm.

The pilot had been offered a small window of opportunity by the meteorologists as they projected the storm would have moved a few miles away from the airport, if briefly, in about an hour and a half. We flew to a strict timetable and were able to land comfortably, even as a giant lightning storm raged a stone's throw away. It was highly cool to watch from just under the cloud level, as electricity coursed down from our elevation to make contact with the ground below. A few more minutes and I was marching toward the Metro station and eventual freedom.

Except. The first train was no problem. I had to connect in Chinatown. The connecting train conductor caught my eye as I ran toward the open doors, arms flailing, and pressed the Close button. We all shouted, helpless, as the near-empty train raced away, and settled in to wait the measly ten minutes until the next one arrived.

I arrived in Union station ten minutes too late to get a ticket for the 9:30 train to Baltimore and settled in to wait for the 10:45. A young Starbucks employee suggested I get a triple-shot mega-massive latte, and I took him on it. He was nice, and rather cute, if a bit young. I pondered my rapidly-increasing age and read a little further into Something Happened, by Joseph Heller, which I'd picked up in Berkeley a day and a half before while waiting to go to the airport.

The waiting area filled up slowly, and when time for our train to arrive arrived, we were asked to follow a pleasant train employee...not to the train, but to a smaller waiting room. He apologised, but the 8:40 train had broken down en route, and our train was being used to push it to the mechanic. It was around this time that I started laughing maniacally and the air filled with little golden stars. They wouldn't go away, but I knew they weren't real. I called my mom. She informed me that I was hallucinating from exhaustion, but I wasn't crazy. Reassured, I began to cry and said if the train broke down, I was going to walk home. She suggested that this was a bad idea, and said so in such a calm, soothing voice that I figured she was probably right.

11:15 rolled up and we all boarded, midnight rolled around and we all got off. I got a cab, shared some jokes with the friendly cabbie, was dropped off at my door, showered, and crawled into bed. It was 1:00 this, Tuesday, morning, 29 hours after I left Berkeley, 16 hours after I was supposed to be home. I missed a day of work but my coworkers were glad I made it home safely.

And I did it all without screaming.

nag champa

I knew there was a reason I should only call my mother from the grocery store--it provides me with means by which I may wander aimlessly and look at things without wandering aimlessly across town until I'm lost. Today I foolishly called her from outside a cafe and wound up following the harbor halfway to the marine terminal before my battery died. I looked around, gained my bearings, and immediately ran for cover as the storm which had been tiptoeing behind me suddenly leapt. The nearest shelter was a head shop with a patient kitty in the doorway who graciously allowed me to scratch his ears before ushering me toward the rack of colorful, beaded skirts. Compelled to at least browse while the sudden downpour ravaged the streets, I did my best impression of a shopper and examined their wares with what I hoped was a look of genuine discerning interest. The store was packed with low-cut summer dresses in Egyptian cotton, which I've always coveted but have always found disappointing on my own form. Typically these frocks are cheaply made for growing teenage girls who will have only fleeting encounters with them--the bust is cut for small, high breasts, the waist is practically aligned with the hips, and there's simply no allowance for a behind of any kind. I must pause here and note that I never had this figure--by the time I lost my baby belly I'd grown the large, jiggly thighs I continue to despise today and completely bypassed the svelte high school body so many women regret losing.
Imagine my delight, then, when I idly tugged one of these gossamer garments from the hanger and found it was cut to flatter a grown-up's shape! I tried several on and found each delightfully comfortable and attractive. Gleefully I skipped from one rack to the next, for the sheer joy of trying something on and having it fit. Thirty dollars and the backside of a raincloud later I emerged from the shop, triumphant, resplendent in bright, flimsy fabric and a pair of $3 paint shorts. Ah, consignment.

I'm heading to Berkeley for a wedding later this week. I'm excited to revisit my old haunt and hopefully will have time to catch up with friends. If you're going to be around, do let me know.

The Heat Index or When A Gallon Just Isn't Enough

So it's pretty dern hot and humid out. This weekend saw the first day of hazardously hot weather for the greater Baltimore area so the computer voice on the weather station had helpful tips and reminders for how to stay safe. In addition to the temperature, wind, and waves, the weather voices occasionally are programmed to offer little quips such as "turn around--don't drown!" and "on frosty days, cover your delicate seedlings and bring potted plants indoors." While the voices are a bit more sophisticated than the typical "Alvin" speech replicator, they nevertheless sound pretty funny when called upon to say anything more than "at Thomas Point Light House, Fog was Re-ported. The TEMperature was Nine-ty Four deg-rees. Now for some Ob-Ser-Va-tions from the surrounding A-rea."

In any case, I realized I drank 5 liters of water today and still felt a little dehydrated. We've reached a point at which it's just too damn hot to eat, but if you don't eat you get even woozier with nothing to hold your water. Bleh. Interestingly, this hot weather has brought with it the smell of salt and a number of breathtaking lightning storms, pretty much overnight. I'm glad I got my hair cut when I did--curls plastered to the back of my neck would be intolerable right about now.

picture time!

Buy Boat Mildred Belle (who just celebrated her 60th birthday on Friday!) in front of the Francis Scott Key Bridge. The buoy near the span is actually the Francis Scott Key Buoy, which marks the spot where the British boat was anchored during the battle. If you look closely, the buoy is a cone with the stars and stripes painted on it. The city had just put it out when I took the photo. By the dawn's early light, Mr. Key saw the star spangled banner nearly 4 miles away, at Fort McHenry, visible because the dern thing is 60' long. Mahoosive.

Pungy Schooner Lady Maryland. Near Dundalk Marine Terminal, Fort McHenry Channel. Taken from Sigsbee. I helped raise her topmast. Lady Maryland was built by the Living Classrooms Foundation, for the Living Classrooms Foundation, in 1986. She's 108 feet long.

Sigsbee interrupted a regatta recently down near Annapolis. While these little boats were impressive in and of themselves, with their spinnakers flying, Sigsbee and Mildred Belle ambling through with our historic selves made an impression.

Gratuitous Kitten Shot! Awwwwww look at the Teddy. he's HUGE. Memorial Day '08.

Osprey nest on Day Marker 1, near Dundalk Marine Terminal. This little family just hatched at least two osprey-lets. This pair has been mated for life and returns to this nest every year after going their separate ways for months at a time. They're very protective of their offspring.

My room, from my bed. Yep. That's it. Home Sweet Taney.

My watch tan. I'm trying to get rid of it without burning the white skin.

And my sandal tan. I'm not bothering to try and get rid of it. Its just too funny.

Someone else's racing boat.

as of yet i haven't actually taken any photos Of Sigsbee, but I've taken dozens From her. You can kinda see bits of her.

Please note the original images are massive and not of awesome quality. I wouldn't bother waiting for them to upload. Well, they look great when they've been auto-scrunched by your browser. If your browser does the auto-scrunch thing. Mine doesn't.

home

I decided to come home for my long Memorial Day weekend. I avoided I-95 and got here in a little over 7 hours, no traffic, beautiful skies, Jim Dale reading the misadventures of three wizard people over the car stereo.

I arrived home to find the house updated and beautiful--a room that I had painted back in February is now furnished in a funky post-modernist style, my bedding has been replaced to complement my room's hip brown and blue color scheme, Teddy is easily larger and heavier than Boots ever got (all lean--he caught a rabbit yesterday for me. what a sweet (horrifying) welcome home gift.), and all the neighborhood foliage is lush and deeply verdant, hardened and ready for a southern summer.

Yes, home--the land of mimosas on the back porch while the last of the morning dew turns to steam. The place where high school and college memories are encapsulated and stored as plaques and boxes of photographs. A house of gin, sushi, sofas, and...carpeting! the floor is soft! The effing Floor is Soft. CRAZY.

clunk

today I whacked my head a good one down in the fo'c'sl, whereby I earned a fun little goose-egg right on my hairline. It already hatched into a throbbing headache and died down, but man, i hadn't clocked myself like that in a while--literally knocked myself down.

This was after waking up this morning without the ability to speak. My voice came out as a pinched, scratchy, bubbly whine that rarely peaked above a whisper and was a source of some amusement for my crew and students. I am currently enjoying a lovely throaty-coaty tea, donated to the cause by my friendly co-worker (who's been battling the same microscopic invader for some time now.) Mmm. Tea.

In short, today was a bit rough on the ol' upper body, but the kids were excellent and our helpful intern did my speaking for me, so things worked out okay. And though I have had "Nice Weather For Ducks" running through my head since i whacked it, I don't think I'm concussed.

Now please excuse me while I give this pink elephant directions to Candyland.

musing fruit basket

So I finally saw Passing Strange this weekend, and dare I say--It was awesome before, and it has improved by leaps and bounds. And the cast, who were pretty before, have become even more attractive and fit. Leave it to Broadway to make men into Supermen.

In order to see PS, however, I had to go to New York. I took the Chinatown bus, an interesting venture by day. A nightmare in the dark. Imagine getting out of the cab to join an angry, shouting mob, inches from violence--half on the curb, half staging a sit-in on a nonmoving bus, about a third speaking English. The group had been waiting for hours for the 7:30 bus, which had never arrived. Another bus from another company had driven in and they all boarded, only to be told to get off, which they refused to do until their proper bus arrived. I believe the company had screwed something up or had simply decided to not run service out of the city that night, and they probably would have ignored the mob outside, but when they boarded the vehicle their hands were suddenly tied, so they got someone. A very sleepy someone who spent a disquieting amount of time drifting into the noise-ridges on the side of I-95. Terror gave over to exhaustion, however, and I napped fitfully until we actually arrived where we were supposed to in Baltimore. I hope the folks riding through to DC made it home okay.

I don't like New York. It is not a fun, or pretty, or pleasant-smelling place. It is an angry, noisy, competitive, paranoid, expensive, congested, compacted, compartmentalized place. It is a land of lunatics in the streets, excrement, shouting, insults, hassling, ugly buildings, and ugly shoes. It is a place where children board subway cars with boxes of candy and impart the same sob story to passengers as bums to make a buck because some idiot thought it would be a good idea to give children candy instead of drugs, not realizing they're contributing to the same problem. "With a good story and a winning smile, I can annoy people in public places into giving me money! Wow, these schmucks are a gold mine!" (Please buy candy from me--as long as I'm selling candy I'm not selling drugs. When I run out of candy I'll come back with drugs.) It is a place of romance in the streets. Damn happy people kissing other happy effing people on the effing sidewalk why don't they have the effing decency to be lonely and dejected like the rest of us...

It's just odd--New Yorkers are so used to their entire lives being on display, living crammed together like pickles in a barrel, that they're completely comfortable doing all of those private-moment things--making out, picking their noses, talking to themselves, pissing--in plain view of their neighbors. While there is nothing wrong with these actions, I think I would have a hard time adopting their comfort in doing them in public. Especially pissing in the streets. The city smells bad enough already. I remember being yelled at for kissing by a fountain not too long ago (and not even told to get a room. We were told to break it up. By a cop. This was in college, folks. I'd understand if i was like, 12.) Folks in the south find public displays of affection--anything more than a warm greeting--astonishing and offensive. (the same people who came up with abstinence-only sex education. Do the expect anyone to abstain? Of course not. But it's the closest they could come to not mentioning those things in polite conversation.) Ah, cultural diversity is not restricted to national immigration.

It rained today. It was cold and wet. The children, by virtue of this weather, were also cold and wet. It was not fun. There are few things less fun than trying to get fourth graders interested in phytoplankton when they are freezing, soaked, and hungry. I think being punched in the face is less fun, but may be more gratifying. I don't envy today's children--or their poor teachers, who had so much invested in the trip only to have it ruined by cruel fate--but I hope they can appreciate that we tried.

That said, I also didn't like today's children. They were a pack of spoiled self-righteous imbeciles who refused to pay attention--even when tapped on the shoulder--and their asinine conversations actually got Louder when the education staff spoke. I tried three times to politely get a pair of boys to stop chatting and interrupting my oyster station and they just looked at me like I was a mild annoyance and went back to their conversation. Until I manually separated them. When they made a huge mess at lunch nobody bothered to try and clean anything up, even when their teachers shouted at the slobs by name and dragged them physically to the mess site. They didn't even look guilty or try to sneak out of it--they just looked at me like it was my fucking job to clean up after them. We had to work very hard to get their nasty chicken and potato chips off the deck. Parents! Teach your children to respect other people's boats! DONT CLEAN UP AFTER THEM!! Once they've reached age 3 they should have a basic comprehension of their responsibility for their own cleanliness. Don't clean Timmy's room. Make Him clean it. If your kid makes a mess, make Her clean it up. Don't feel bad for Sarah because she spilled milk and then cried about it--eventually she'll learn that if she cries, you'll do the work. There is nothing more useless to society than a bad parent.

spicy thai food causes sudden head colds

Passing Strange has been nominated for 7 Tony awards!!! HOLLA!

I would just like to thank all the little people who got me where I am today...on a sailboat in the Chesapeake...Still, as a member of the crew who built the first Passing Strange set, I somehow feel that it's okay to be proud of the show. My show. PS was the first show I built from scratch at Berkeley Repertory Theatre in the fall of '06 (the set for our first show of the season, Mother Courage, had been built in La Jolla as part of our co-production arrangement. we installed it but I didn't really take ownership of it. That and it was Mother Courage. I mean, c'mon, Brecht? Eurgh.)

7!

Sadly it does not look like it's been nominated for best most awesomest scenery the show no longer uses. Unless they do still use some of it. I doubt it heavily but it is possible. Maybe parts of the light wall? Or the curtain dropper rig? I worked on those things. I know the light wall has changed into something that splits and flies out, which is cool, but not what I built. Sooo... I doubt it. But it was our scenery when it was at the Public, so I can feel good about that, at least.

Congratulations, Passing Strange. If you win, I'm gonna pretend I won too.

Crossword Clues, or Why I Like Meeting Famous People

So my sister and her boyfriend are kind-of the awesomest people ever. He's one of the lighting guys for Eddie Izzard's new tour, Stripped, and by virtue of it coming to DC, I got a free ticket. In the light booth (for those out of the know, the light board operator must be able to see everything that happens on stage, so the booth is typically the best seats in the house.). And backstage passes. Mr. Izzard is a very pleasant and friendly man, if exhausted after making several thousand people laugh until they rupture blood vessels for two hours. I'll never think of badgers or dinosaurs the same way again.

This makes seven people that I've met who I've seen in crossword puzzles. "Ruehl," "Alec," and "Alda" are pretty standard; "Ballard," "Scheider," and "Linden" are slightly more ambitious; "Izzard" is just the crossword puzzle designer showing off. Not bad for a grunt, I think.

In checking the spelling of Roy Scheider's name a moment ago I discovered he passed away in February. I was a bit surprised and saddened. How did I miss that?

Giant Horseshoe Crabs, or Visitors from the Paleozoic

today's trawl hauled in an insanely diverse catch--in addition to numerous white perch and striped bass, which have been our staple catch, we dragged in a heap of sea nettles (jellyfish with pink tentacles), ctenophores (comb jellies), some huge oysters, flatworms, barnacles, mussels, and what appear to be a mating pair of horseshoe crabs. The male was about a foot long from the end of his spiked tail to the apex of his face; the female was easily double that. They were wiggly and annoyed with us for obvious reasons, but we kept them in a tub separate from the other critters and they chilled out.

Crustaceans in general have always been the oddest curiosities to me, with their funny mouths and all the flaps to their bodies. Crabs are like matryoshka dolls--there's always another layer to them. Horseshoe crabs are some sort of aliens, i'm convinced. Either that or they descended from soup bowls. They're perfectly round and even have a lip around the base. Segmented, heavily armored, pointy, barnacle-covered soup bowls with at least ten pinchy, wiggly legs all up inside like the lunch special at the Beetlejuice Cafe.

We bothered them for a while and then sent them along with the Snow Goose, a crab boat from the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, to take them home (and out of the inner harbor where we had tied up. no sense letting these neat creatures be needlessly crushed by a dinner cruiser or a Duck.) CBF are friends of LCF who run similar trips. They motored up and borrowed a cup of salt from us this morning. We're good neighbors.

Analytics, or Why I'm Too Paranoid to be Published

After reading of a certain friend's delight with the Google Analytics tracker she added to her blog, I opted to try this chunk of code out for myself. Who could resist pure curiosity as to who is reading up on you? It's like being back in seventh grade and hoping that that cute guy from pre-algebra is looking at you when you're looking away, except now you can find out for certain if he was.

Alternatively, it could be like being back in seventh grade and hoping that that cute guy from pre-algebra is looking at you when you're looking away, except now you can find out for certain that he was staring out the window, but that scary kid who sharpened his teeth down to points sure was lookin.

I can't deny the fact that I'm somewhat paranoid, but how can it not weird one out that there's...strangers...out there, reading what you write? Admittedly, most of the location hits I saw were from areas where I have known friends or acquaintances, and I can only assume that my readership consists largely of these people, but seriously, I thought I had four readers. Maybe five. And maybe that is what I have, but they all travel extensively. To places like Dublin. and Kansas.

For the overwhelming majority, the hits appear to be accidental--readers spend 10 seconds or less on my main page, which sounds like "oops, I clicked on the wrong Google entry" or some sort of internet-flitting robot trying to glean information off of it at random. Those have a name, I'm sure. But several possible readers have spent more than a nanosecond, and have even read more than one page. That's just...weird to me. Who would want to read what I write? Why? I actually manage to bore myself with my speech and writing, so I can't imagine anyone but an insomniac would seek my idle musings out intentionally.

(complete side-note, but speaking of "boring," in an oyster station on Saturday I explained to my girl scouts how I could tell the Chesapeake Bay oysters apart from the Gulf Coast oysters in our tub (we dredged up the Bay oysters from a sanctuary at Fort Carroll and as such could not harm them--we'll return them to their home tomorrow. we buy the gulf oysters from the market for dissection.) the Gulf oysters are covered in little circular drill-holes from boring snails, which we don't typically find in this area. I asked the girls if they knew what a boring snail might be, and one said "well, they don't do much." I got a charge out of that.)

Anyway, now that I'm officially a little freaked out by the idea of readers of my drivel, I may drop this thing entirely. I'm terrified that people may come across this and judge me according to its contents--while those judgments are likely accurate, I can't imagine any of them are desirable. The best way to avoid making an ass of yourself is to avoid speaking.

backdating

so. the past few weeks have seen me with few pursuits aside from sailing, teaching, and drinking. could be a worse life. here's a run-down of my average day:

0645: wake up
0730: breakfast on Lady Maryland
0800: head to Sigsbee, coffee, flags
0810: engine check, engine log, warm up
0815: begin routine set-up for day. teaching stations: water quality, plankton, navigation, buoyancy, brackish water demo, marine life, oysters. plus raising sails, trawl/dredge, local attraction "tweeners". muster. coil down dock lines, halyards, downhauls, sheets.
0850: polish brass, take sail gaskets, toss lifejacket duffels to pier.
0930: kids expected. wait or hurry. education staff meet kids for bathrooms, teacher intros. i drink coffee and shoot breeze with captain, polish brass, splice or whip lines, finish setting up microscopes, other misc.
0945: circle up kids on pier, discuss goals, safety, divide kids into day groups, lifejackets
1000: board, begin second safety talk
1010: give sail talk, divide kids into main/jib hauling teams. James and Anthony take dock lines, coil down, take fenders, stow. kids raise sails, heave ho
1020: james teaches salt wedge, brackish water, tween about domino sugar. anthony and I coil down hauling lines
1030: divide into groups. kids rotate 20 minute stations: h20 quality (test pH, salinity, temp, dissolved o2, phosphates/nitrates), plankton (tow for plankton, study under microscope), navigation (this is a chart, this is a buoy, this is a bridge, shallow/deep, big boat/small boat, this is a compass, here's a cookie), and buoyancy (build the boat you think will hold the most weight, we'll sink them off this afternoon).
1200: lunch, set up trawl
1230: Sail of Silence (hush a minute, listen, see what you see, appreciate the bay)
1233: trawl talk, set trawl, don't tell the cops skit (its illegal in the bay, why do you think it is, habitat damage/bycatch/if you kill the baby fish they won't grow up to be big fish or make more, okay we have a permit for educational purposes, we're not breaking the law)
1245: haul in trawl, herd kids away from net, sort out catch. James and Anthony begin runoff model, stress importance of wetlands
1300: divide into oyster, marine life, and chesapeake history stations. let kids hold fish, touch oysters, handle crabs, Ctenophores (if caught)
1400: buoyancy sink-off/strike sails/set dock lines/set fenders, return to dock
1415: tie off, kids off, lifejacket hubbub, group thank-you
1430: remove work shirts, shoes, roll up trousers, coil down and hang halyards, downhauls, dock lines, sheets. furl sails. stow ed materials. plug in shore power, sort out catch--keepers, tossers, eel trap bait. keepers to aquarium, toss yesterday's catch.
1530: end of day muster
1540: deck wash with fire hose, handled scrub brushes. some soaking ensues.
1600: day projects: engine maintenance, painting, line maintenance, wiring, etc.
1700: dinner on Lady Maryland
1745: to the bar for a Natty Boh
2000: to Taney, check email
2200: shower, bed.
0315: garbage trucks begin wailing and making huge banging noises behind Hard Rock Cafe
0400: delivery trucks begin beeping and backing into things behind Barnes and Noble Booksellers
0600: *weekends only* Reveille over PA to wake boy scout overnighters

so there you have it. a minute-by-minute overview of my life. i'm on the water about 80% of the time. i get uncomfortable and wobbly on land. you should see my watch tan.

Field Hockey in Flippers or Why Fourth Grade Should Be Banned

I don't despise kids. Really. I recognize that I was one once and chances are I was just as bizarre, creepy, and attention-deprived as today's variety. And honestly, one at a time they'd probably be tolerable, if not even fun. But 29? on a 50-foot boat? I'm amazed I haven't given over to alien invasion theories and aluminium foil hats.

Consider this group discussion, which occupied most of a water quality lesson--a typically interesting, fun chance for the kids to do some real science experiments and test qualities such as salinity, pH, dissolved oxygen content, and temperature.

"Why do we care about the quality of the water?"

"Because we go swimming in it."

"We do. What else swims in water?"

"My mom, and my dad swim."

"I mean aside from humans."

"My dog goes swimming sometimes, its pretty funny--one time my dog fell in the pool and he just stayed there so we played with him but then my mom yelled at us because she didn't want dog hair in the filter so we had to get him out and he didn't want to get out."

"Okay, well, what's something that Lives in the water?"

"My hamster sat in his water dish the other day."

"But does your hamster live in the water?"

"No, but he sat in it!"

"Well who can think of something that lives in the water?"

silence.

"Do Fish live in the water?"

"Well some fish...no?"

"Yes! Fish do live in the water. Do we want the fish to be healthy while they live in the water?"

"Yeah, probably."

And so forth. By the end I was happy to just get them to accomplish a salinity test, which involves putting a drop of water on a refractometer and looking through it. somehow they botched the pH test so thoroughly that it was coming up at about a 6, or the same acidity as coffee, and I didn't even bother trying to explain dissolved oxygen beyond "What do humans breathe in?" "Air." "What's the big important element of air that we breathe?" "Um, nitrogen?" "well, we do breathe a lot of nitrogen, but what do we need to survive?" "Food?" "oh good god."

The odd thing is, many of my girl scouts the other weekend were fourth graders, and they picked up on prompts like i was handing them cookies. I don't know what the deal was with these kids, but if it was able to be screwed up, they managed to find it.

Then a crewmember on another boat fell overboard.

Then we discovered that that boat had some pretty hefty damage to its hull and has to be hauled out, throwing everything off for quite some time.

I'm going to bed before today becomes tomorrow and it carries over somehow.

girl scouts, land legs, and the homeless

This past weekend found me sailing with twenty girl scouts and a smattering of moms on a two-day aqueous adventure. It also found the boat turning around and heading back to Baltimore when a massive thunderstorm imposed itself upon our route, but the trip was still fun for all and ended in campfires and s'mores. The event reminded me of why i enjoyed girl scouts so much as a kid--these kids were basically my friends and I when we were their age, and they were smart, sassy, silly, and complete pyromaniacs. They were also a bit nerdy and liked learning some history of the chesapeake, knot tying, pig latin, parts of the fish, and how everything works. It rocked.

We all loaded up in vans and drove over to their campsite after we tied up back at pier 5. It was the first time i'd slept on land in over a month, and it was rather odd. I didn't sleep well, and there was this sapling blowing gently in the wind outside my window, which gave me the impression that the building was rocking. Yeah, a tree, outside my window. There was, like, nature around us. Everyone who lives shipboard had an allergic reaction.

The other day a homeless guy gave me a book. His name is Lonny and he typically hangs out between the Taney and the work boats, and he's very nice and chatty and a big fan of mystery novels. He frequently gets trays of books from the baltimore book thing, which is a local free book program, and keeps a few to read and hands the rest out to his friends. ("Hey, I'm homeless. You think I want to be hauling a huge heap of books around with me wherever I go? Take one, you're doing me a favor.") I took Stephen King's 4 Past Midnight, which includes the Langoliers. It's been interesting getting to know Lonny, as he's clean (he's sober and recommended a laundromat to me) and friendly, and while I think he does panhandle, its not the most important part of his day. He's been friends with many of the Living Classrooms crowd for a number of years and likes to be on top of the latest shipboard gossip. If he wanted to get a job and a house I think he could, but he doesn't want to, and of all people I seriously think he's happy the way he is. Go figure.

It's been getting hot in Baltimore, and yesterday's deck wash was cool and refreshing. We've been painting a bit on Sigsbee when we're not out with kids. Every time I do maintenance someone reminds me that it's not fine furniture, and while it needn't suck, it doesn't have to be pretty. I guess old habits die hard. But the sailing is going pretty well, i think, and so far there really hasn't been any drama that i've been privy to. We work hard, we drink hard, we sleep hard.

Department of Redundancy Department

I like words. I like phrases. I even like colloquialisms, to an extent. What makes this noteworthy is that in my youth I was a mediocre English student at best. I didn't have the attention span to focus on past participles, and I couldn't distract my eyes from all the nice looking boys in my class to learn about verb tenses. By the time high school rolled around I was too busy giving myself carpal tunnel syndrome on ICQ to care about the etymologies of the words I was carelessly bastardizing in my online chatter. Then I went to college and majored in carpentry. Somehow, though, against all odds (and I hasten to add, against my will) I've become a grammar fanatic. I've always enjoyed reading, but I've actually reached a point at which I judge people according to their writing styles and abilities. There are a number of news columns that I read on a regular basis simply because I like the way they sound. There are a number of people I avoid simply because their personal dictionaries are about two pages long. I refuse to look at the lower two thirds of YouTube pages because the comments section literally makes me queasy.

Imagine my delight, then, when my new housemate used the phrases "hot water heater," "ATM machine," and "pharmacy store" all in one tirade. To be fair, she's an elderly shut-in who takes pride in her lack of education, but I can't help but find her mode of speech irksome. It is her diction, not her personality, that encourages me to avoid her.

The fun thing is, when nouns get the redundancy treatment, they become something new. An Automatic Teller Machine Machine may actually be some little contraption for servicing ATMs--perhaps a combination money-slot cleaner/depository hinge greaser. A better name for a hot water heater is "vaporizer"--that is, a unit that super-heats preheated water into a searing gas. If you're headed to the pharmacy store to buy a pharmacy, I believe you'll find that listed as a "franchise licensor."

I admit, I've been guilty of a little redundancy this past week. I couldn't help but say "jib sail" even though the word is just "jib." We already know it's a sail. I'm trying to break the inclination before it becomes a habit, though. Some people strive to be more fit, more outgoing, more green...I'm making it my goal to reduce my redundancy factor.

In other news, I've completely forgotten how to use a tape deck. Does the "Side A" label face me or the back of the machine? Why are some upside-down? How can it really be that readily recordable? Why can't I plug it into my iPod?!

bona-fide

Oh how one weekend can change your life. Last week I was a mere first aid provider, able to help if needed but on a limited, Samaritan basis. Now, after a mere 20 hours, I'm a certified Wilderness First Aid provider, legally obligated to provide assistance wherever I believe it is due, and trained in splinting, traction, basic examination, and CPR, to be performed if i'm further than a 1-hour trip from a hospital, and provide information to EMTs and other hospital personnel in the form of a legal document. Crazy, huh? This training is vital for shipboard personnel who will be working with clumsy children on boats, as typically we're anywhere from 2-15 hours from land, let alone emergency care.

How does this training compare to other forms of first aid training i've received in the past?

WFA vs Red Cross First Aid: Heaps more information, more invasive techniques, more responsibility, more focus on resourcefulness, using what's laying around, than using what comes in the ready-packaged first aid box. less focus on industrial accidents, more focus on climbing falls and the forces of nature. Focus on grim reality of the effectiveness of CPR in the field without access to a defibrillator. Proper techniques for moving, lifting, immobilizing, rolling, and transporting people with suspected spinal injuries. Ruling out spinal injury. Triage.

WFA vs Workplace First Aid: see red cross, and then add "call for help, but don't just hang out with the victim until help arrives. They may not be able to get to you. Continue to monitor and record vital signs, figure out how to get the victim(s) to safety as gently and safely as possible." Shipboard, we hauled some people off the deck by tying them to the gantline and flying them to the dock, complete with 6' long femoral traction splints, a deck box lid-turned-backboard, and
lifejackets tied to immobilize the head. Sure beats carrying 'em.

WFA vs Lifeguard Training: less focus on water rescues, but without the whole water thing many of the techniques are the same, just heavier--use the victim's arms as bracing for the head, clear the core before focusing on extremities, always do your best to remain calm. Sensitivities to heat and cold are emphasized. Same emphasis on responsibility, except without the pay-for-safety emphasis on legal liability. Less by the books--backwoods usually means "not equipped with a floating backboard strapped to your chair" so you must rely on your own innovation and resourcefulness. It also means "you may be the only person around who's capable of assisting any number of people, so learn the value of triage. If it comes down to it, dead means dead." Lifeguards always have at least one other lifeguard to call for.

Daunting, no?

Cursed

Everyone has something that plagues them. Whether it's bad luck at poker, bad luck in relationships, or the actual plague, there's something that pretty much everyone can encounter and gripe "this Always happens to me!" Some consider this phenomenon one's curse, an individual burden placed upon the shoulders of each person at birth that they will continue to endure until they find a way to defeat it. Maybe there is a way for all of us.

My personal curse has one name but many faces. Plumbing. No matter what, no matter where I am, the pipes suck. It never seems to be my fault--the clog in the toilet has been building up, the water heater was already on its way out, the leaky hole in the ceiling is a known problem, the mold has been growing for years, the last resident just took showers without water pressure--but somehow thanks to my lucky timing I wind up having to deal with the faulty plumbing.
I arrive on the scene and instantly the quietly nagging problem explodes. sometimes literally.

I feel I should mention that I have been effectively using a plunger since I was 5 years old. I've known how to re-light a pilot since i was 7. I have fixed so many different varieties of flushing mechanism I'm amazed the wheel hasn't been re-invented. I've honed my "toilet overflow" senses to a fine point and have water-shutoff reflexes like a ninja. I've been hit numerous times with clots of rust-colored water and have scrubbed myself like a cast-iron pot after manually digging out particularly unappetizing blockages.

I have taken so many cold showers I could cry.

The annoying thing is, I do not have a "Can-do" attitude. I tend to evaluate most problems from the perspective of "is it my fault? is it my problem? can anyone else take care of it?" before moving to handle them. It's amazing, though, how few people know how to do those simple stupid things that I wind up doing--in hotel rooms in Paris at 4am, in the haunted cellar at midnight, after the hired plumbers have come and gone--all standing nearby, helplessly watching, asking what things are.

When I arrived on Taney, the water heater was broken. It was soon repaired, however, and pleasant enough showers ensued. Then the temperature became intermittent. Now the drain, which worked fine yesterday, is backed up like I-95 on a friday afternoon, so i took my shower standing in a lake. I can only imagine that soon enough the knobs will fall off in my hands and it will start pouring blood. And i'll probably fix it.

Ex-Menace to Society

Teddy was neutered this weekend. Everything went fine and he is happy and healing well.

Humans on Wheels and Pre-K Minimalism

There's nothing quite like walking down by the Aquarium on a clear, bright weekend. The tourists come out in force--all shapes, sizes, and hues of humanity jostle for position in line to watch sharks and dolphins swim around in circles as they while away the monotony of their wait for death. People pack into the square and the surrounding attractions--historic ships, historic buildings, historic ice cream shops--all determined to be rewarded for enduring the endless lines, their own families, and the incessant nagging of beggars with a day of fanciful fun. All sadly forced to bring the Baby or Aunt Ruth along, complete with their appropriate wheeled accessories, filling everyone with good karma and the barely-suppressed dread of hauling them through minimum-handicapped-accessibility-requirements-met attractions for the rest of the day.

I'm not a big fan of the Disneyworld approach toward fun. Queuing for an hour for a two-minute ride is hardly a just payoff. Being herded through turnstiles and crammed into the sweaty armpit of a furious father of three screaming toddlers for the better part of a morning just to find that the attraction has broken and closed while you were in line leads to a ticket price's worth of frustration. The mass-market appeal of vacation getaways leads to the mass market amassing on once-secluded islands, dumped off of city-sized cruise liners, bringing along all the BS they were trying t leave at home--lines, beggars, and street entertainers willing to turn tricks for you and your children for a measly $20.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the one form of panhandling I find even more annoying than the toothless junkies rattling their change is the middle-aged pedophiles who squeak out disturbingly phallic balloon animals and cram them on your children's heads. You've seen them--anywhere there's a historic monument, youth attraction, or family-oriented exhibit, these obnoxious failed clowns are sure to settle upon the ticket plaza like flies on carrion. What makes them? I don't know. I can't know what level of derangement leads to Balloon Animal Guys without becoming one, and even I'm too stable for that.

These chain-smoking, child-molesting, pancake made up promenade performers take all kinds--some unicycle, some juggle, some just stand at the center of an interesting bricklaying pattern and shout--but their product is consistent: brightly-colored sausage links twisted into shapes that vaguely resemble household items, particularly with the addition of sharpie-drawn cartoon eyes. I'm sure countless books and instructional videos have circulated over the years to lead the plastic-snapping novice out of his mother's basement and into creepy, tourist-tormenting obscurity, but I doubt that many of them discuss the deeper and far more valuable function of this dumpster-doomed venture--youth exposure to post-modernist art.

Yes, friends and strangers, much as I hate them, balloon animals do clearly fit the criteria for minimalist sculpture--they strip away all the frill and detail of a composition to reveal its essence, its purest form. The muscle, hair, and slobber of a heeling golden retriever are reduced to a yellow dog-like contraption, complete with floppy ears and a distinctly Disney-knockoff feel. Still-life portraits of fruit can be implied by tying red, yellow, and purple tubes to your triplets' heads to resemble an apple, a banana, and a bunch of grapes. Even the subtle humor of ancient dramatists can be evoked with a few tight bends attached to a man's belt. Okay, maybe not so subtle, and maybe not outside the Aquarium. But at Fantasy Fest or something. Fact is, what brings momentary delight to your child's eyes at the completion of a balloon objet is not the air-filled tubes or the creepy guy blowing on them--its the rest of the composition that their minds have filled in for them. To you it's some clear plastic, the static off of which is gradually making your preschooler's hair stand on end. To the child its a kitten, exactly as it's meant to be. The child sees the negative space, the kitten that the lines left out, fluffy and pink and perfect.

This does not, by the way, excuse balloon animal hawkers pounding the pavement outside my house. If I want to visit the drugstore on a Saturday afternoon I should not have to fight my way through the swarm of plastic pirates with inflated parrots to get there. I sympathize with the parents who hadn't planned ahead for their child to covet the glistening gems in the artist's pouch, counting the money they're going to wind up blowing on whimsical nonsense that their brat will pop, lose, or dislike within minutes, watching the balloser pick his target and home in. My parents had the strength to say no at the time and I hated them for it...briefly. Then I got to see the turtles and it was all okay.

Warm Bread in the Morning, Warm Sugar in the Evening

Ah, the smells of Baltimore. Each morning as I begin work the scent of the nearby H&S Bakery wafts over the docks and we're all treated to the aroma of warm yeast and steamy baguettes. Until we remember that most of what they bake is buns for McDonald's hamburgers and that they're probably loaded with preservatives and garbage, just for the sake of being sold in McDonald's. But the smell is wonderful and invigorating, particularly after a hot breakfast on the Lady Maryland and a cup of coffee.

During the day the smell fades--often after a twenty-minute period of the smell of burnt toast--and for a while we smell diesel, brackish water, garbage, and ourselves. Marlin (a type of marine-grade twine) smells like a clean barn or a freshly-changed hamster's cage; pine tar smells like Worcestershire sauce. Epoxy smells bad.

In the evening the wind changes and we're treated to eau de Domino Sugar, whose factory is visible across the river. My brain has linked its pleasant aroma with the smell of hot fresh peanut butter cookies, but deep down I know they're actually different. Its just the brain has a limited number of receptors for olfactory memories and its doing its best to categorize it as it understands.

And the Taney has come up with some even weirder noises to startle and confuse me with--currently a pipe join near my mirror is making an eerie popping noise, which always gives me visions of all of my stuff suddenly being doused in rust-colored seawater. Oy vey, my housing-included lifestyle.

the jib is up

i'm so punny. But seriously, folks, today marked the completion of the mains'l rig and the majority of the jib rig on Skipjack Sigsbee, and for two people, one of whom is learning sailing from a theatrical point of view, I think progress is acceptable. It took the crews of three boats to haul our massive 40' boom from its winter storage site and haul it into position at perfect head-bonking height on our mast.

I spent about half of last week about 70' in the air at the top of my mast, shackling large wooden blocks into position and running line through them while learning the functions of the line systems I was installing. I'm starting to get the hang of the communication style onboard, though it doesn't as yet come naturally. Captain and crew always repeat whatever command they've just received, verbatim, in order to confirm that they got the whole command and they'll get right along to doing it. This technique is helpful given the long distances between crewmembers and the tricky interference that the wind tends to provide. Moreover, if the commandant fails to hear your echo, s/he will repeat it until the echo is provided. If you're new and forget, you start thinking everyone around you is hugely impatient--you're tying the knot as quickly as you can... There's all sorts of terminology and technique that too many years of theatre training are conflicting with.

For instance: on stage, all directions are in reference to the stage floor, from the perception of the actor. Barely anyone alive has missed the concept of "Stage right" but it becomes second nature after a while. Likewise anytime a batten is being flown away from the stage, you say the line is Going Out, when it comes back its Coming In, holes in the stage are called Traps, and most of the fabric hanging around is referred to as curtains or rags. When a line is secured to the pinrail you say it is Locked, and if a line is too heavy or out of balance you add weight to the counterweight system to make it easy to handle. When changing out weight on the weight rail you make sure all hands stay clear below, you empty your pockets and tie any needed items to yourself, and if you drop anything you shout "Heads!"

On a boat, all directions are in reference to the boat deck, and are absolute. Barely anyone alive has missed the concepts of Port and Starboard, but I nevertheless have to turn my back to the stern and make the little L's out of my fingers to remember where I'm supposed to be. Likewise anytime a line is hauled away from the deck, you say the line is being Hauled Away, and when it comes back it is being Eased Off. Holes in the deck are called Hatches, and most of the fabric hanging around is referred to as sails. When a line is secured to the pinrail you say it is Fast, and if a line is too heavy or out of balance you get more people and pull harder. When being hoisted up the mast in a bo'sun's chair frequently your haulers are right below you, you empty your pockets and tie any needed items to yourself, and if you drop anything you shout "Stand Out From Under!"

Last week marked a number of accomplishments for me--i learned Mousing (a method of securing shackle bolts with wire), i entrusted my own life to my own figure-8 follow through in a fairly straightforward line transfer at 70', I found the enoch pratt free library central branch (way cool!) and even visited a local free art gallery (the Walters). They had free cookies in the sculpture garden. I also got to paint Sigsbee's trailboards. They're very pretty.

This week has brought its own accomplishments and failures--Sigsbee is about ready to sail, and she's looking pretty sweet, but I'm still a doofus who has a hard time remembering the difference between a halyard and a topping lift. I know every inch of my boat, from the tip of the bowsprit to the four feet of boom that overhang the stern, and the fuzzy lightning rod at the top of the mast, but i can never remember where the lineman's pliers go when i'm done with them. In the process of learning hundreds of new things, at least a few dozen fall by the wayside, and unfortunately my brain lacks discrimination when it comes to forgetting the important things.

Yesterday during deck wash i tripped over a partially-invisible line and proceeded to slip in a soapy puddle, crashing unceremoniously into the bowsprit and causing my entire back to make a delightful "prrrrrit" noise. Its just sore, a day and a half later, but that was pretty scary. The treacherous line has since been moved to its permanent home and is no longer a threat. Skipjacks are work boats, and on account of that as much allowance as possible has been made in their design to ensure their easy and efficient use. And that means limiting the tripping hazards.
Life aboard Taney is going okay. I've figured out that a regular 3:30am alarm is actually delivery trucks to the Hard Rock Cafe next door and not warnings for the ship at all. And the shipkeeper is easy enough to avoid if you schedule your departures and arrivals right. In all, its interesting and fairly quiet, once you figure out how to make it so.

parties, hangovers, and staying warm

What do you do, exactly, with a drunken sailor early in the morning?

Well, a sober person drives her home and she sleeps fitfully as alarms go off at random times throughout the night, and then at around 6:30 the youth activities coordinator comes on over the shipwide PA to wake up the boy scouts on the bunks in the forward crew berths and she holds a pillow over her head until the overwhelming patter of little feet is no longer audible, and then at 11am she forces herself to get up, shower, and go to the post office.

not as exciting as the song makes it out to be.

What led to this pathetic state? The last day of work for said sober person (don't ask me why she stayed sober--i had nothing to do with that) that ended in a visit to the crew's home bar--One Eyed Mike's--and a party back at her house. I met her flatmates, which included three adults, one pregnant belly, two dogs and a kitten, and along with three captains, another mate, a captain's wife, and a keg of leftover local brew, I proceeded to make a complete ass of myself. I think. I do recall having a very poignant and helpful conversation with my captain, who was about as drunk as me, who reassured me that i shouldn't worry about being included in this crowd, as they've all been friends for eons and it was a good sign that they'd invited an outsider to their party at all. These people had a gorgeous townhouse--all hardwood, with a fun clawfooted tub and a peaked skylight in the bathroom, a spacious floorplan and a tidy yard--and if anything was broken i'm sure it could be mended. I appreciated their generosity immensely--not only did they provide everyone with beer--"it may be a little flat, which is why we've got to get rid of it." "hey, if flat equals free!"--but they also made snacks and a little dinner, going even to the extent of making a vegetarian option. that's generous, especially seeing as I think we kinda invaded without much forewarning. I'm not privy to the specifics, but as it all started with an open invitation at the bar...

Anyway. this ship is freeeeezing. My hands, normally dexterous at the keyboard, are stiff and unresponsive. I've been burrowed in my bed all morning, shivering and drinking coffee, trying to stay warm against all odds--i'm in a solid steel ship with no insulation and a pathetic old heating system, floating lazily against the pier with all the doors open for tours. They've hung plastic strips to block some of the wind, but the cold air still slips in with little opposition. i found a way to run an ethernet cable from the router two rooms down into my room thanks to the wonder of huge, gaping holes drilled in all the walls, so while the cable just barely reaches the end of my bed, i'm not huddled on a filthy bare mattress in the room i had originally found a jack in. (a wireless router would be hilariously useless aboard Taney).

And now, some random thoughts:

hours of using a buff-master to de-burr the deck of an historic skipjack vibrates the nerve endings of your hands into really enjoying the feeling of soap. washing my hands has never been more fun!

leave it to the wonders of the universe to provide you with three interviews one week after starting a job. three interviews...from companies you applied with back in October.

the weather in Baltimore yesterday was bizarre and beautiful. I sat at a red light in town, surrounded by yellow skies, with a hailstorm pounding my back window, with a clear, dry windshield and a view of a gorgeous full rainbow.

Filth can be Fun: Discuss

The past three days have been invigorating, demanding, and almost universally pleasant. My captain rocks and, at least for now, has been patient with my utter lack of knowledge, ability, or short-term memory. My body aches and I'm consistently and completely coated in grime, but it feels good to work again.

Dude, I work on a sailboat.

Sigsbee's maintenance and restoration is going fairly well so far. I've been painting, scraping, sanding, buffing, cleaning, and bunging since minute 1 and the time has flown. Photos will follow as soon as my loving mother sends me my camera battery charger. (i left it in the bathroom. it was one of those sorts of move.) Kate and the other winter crew had torn out the entire quarter deck and replaced it, and I had the honor (and backache) of sanding it flat with a 10" buffmaster. The effect was incredible. What had been a maze of cotton cord, blue tape, and sheets of plastic became a gorgeous, honey-colored deck. Sigs is still under her winter tent, and removing that will be a bitch i'm sure, but I think we'll have help. Both Lady Maryland and Mildred Belle have been disrobed and are getting more engine/student preparedness work done by their current crews.

I spent much of today cleaning assorted steering parts with diesel fuel and a grill brush. it was dirty, stinky work, but kinda fun. Afterwards I used a bung cutter and, i shit you not, filled bung-holes. Turns out a bung is a little wooden cork that you cover in epoxy and tap into deck recesses to cover hardware. all fasteners on deck must be protected from corrosion, so they're countersunk deep into the decking slats, then covered with the same decking material. I had to try and keep the woodgrains aligned (i think that was just aesthetic, but i could be wrong) and managed to completely coat the hammer head in epoxy paste and forgot about it. i'm a big help. I just hope that when Kate gets annoyed enough to slap me that she doesn't have epoxy on her hand.

Things are going fairly well on the home front. an Australian man of indeterminate age has moved in across the hall from me--his hair is, self-described, impressively matted. when he takes his hat off the nesting pheasant clicks her beak in annoyance. He seems nice, in that cocky way Australian ex-pats tend to be. At least its someone else to talk to. The shipkeeper, a willfully ignorant and easily confused elderly Austrian lady, complains constantly and frequently tries to Jesus-ify me. I avoid her with something approaching terror. She tried to convince me that true Atheists don't really exist--"come on, you recognize some higher power--maybe not the Judeo/Christian god, but a God nonetheless--like the Force?" I could tell her Evangelical minister had suggested using this tactic to witness to the godless--to try and lure them into a false sense of security by admitting "yeah, i guess there's something out there making it all work, yeah, like the force" so that she could spring her trap by saying "God is that force!" but I replied with "no, there's no proof of any universal cohesion. Indeed, there's no proof of anything, least of all your or my existence. Its possible we're fleeting manifestations of the troubled subconscious of a fourth grader in some far off galaxy. There is no rhyme, reason, or meaning, to anything--there's no higher objective or anything in control, there's nothing causing anything to happen except the infinite circumstances that have led us to this point, and that's just fine. it gives the individual the power to make their own life, safe in the knowledge that it is universally insignificant."

That shut her up. and it was fun to spit out. I'm like a mastery-level challenge for god-botherers, and she's not even a journeyman. (It wasn't like I brought it up just to abuse her with it. She suggested I come to church with her, as I'm new to the area, so I could meet some people and have a church to go to. I reluctantly admitted that church wasn't my scene, knowing that it was opening a big heavy, spring-loaded door.)

Oy, i have a huge splinter in my finger. I think its metal. Its probably historic.

I work on a sailboat!