an Ulchi by any other name

“Saretsky, Eric W. CTMC (UFL N39 COPS3)” <xxxxx> wrote:
It’s 6 AM in El Cajon and I’m hoping that you’ve been able to sleep. I know how hard it is for you when you are in the middle of problem-resolution (baby-sitting) teachers and students!
I’ll be here all night, so I am just sending you lots of virtual hugs to comfort you!
Love you,
me

My wife found and shared with me old email we exchanged over ten years ago when I was on a Navy Reserve assignment to COMSEVENTHFLT AOR.   It was my second visit to  Yokosuka, Japan.  Seven years earlier, in 1998 or 1999, I had been on Active Duty, aboard the USS CORONADO,  when it visited Japan and Korea.   That previous time,  I had only just begun dating my future wife, and our exchanges by email were very slow and tedious.  This,  from a ship that was “state of the art” in most things electronic.  In 2006 I had been a Reservist nearly six years, married five years and when I received orders to the SEVENTH Fleet for ULCHI FOCUS LENS,  it was my first time in seven years that I was again on sea duty.  And email was quite a bit more advanced in comparison.

My assignment aboard the USS BLUE RIDGE during UFL was interesting work, simulating tactical intelligence options, “PsyOps”( (psychological efforts to dissuade North Koreans from participating in the event of hostilities) and so forth.  Other teams had different scenarios to develop.   One of the things I learned, working with a joint unit of intelligence professionals ( Reservists who were also civilian experts in the fields they supported in uniform),  is that some battlefield commanders, i.e. the Active Duty Army general heading up this exercise, are “warhead on forehead” types and not given to deep consideration of other forms of military conduct.  I had previously seen that in a prior year working with an Air Force team who were reluctant to employ a new technology- because it was new, and not part of their manual (printed before the technology was in development).

Were I to do it again,  I would again prefer to be a Navy Chief Petty Officer aboard ship.  There is truth in Rank Has Its Privileges.  While a Reserve Commander from my unit was also on this same Exercise,  he had neither the camaraderie, nor the access to good chow that came with being a Chief in the BLUE RIDGE CPO Mess.  It’s a tradition that all Navy Chiefs past and present are one, and all Navy units’ CPO Mess are one Mess

  new Chief Petty Officers initiated into the BLUE RIDGE CPO Mess (Sept 2006)

One other thing that seems to remain constant over the years since I last donned a uniform, is the fondness for change – in uniform styles, acronyms and Joint Exercise names.   When I was reminiscing about ULCHI FOCUS LENS,  online I found that this Joint exercise was subsequently changed to ULCHI FREEDOM GUARDIAN.   In the decade that this has been in use,  I presume the Pentagon is probably searching for a new name.  “ULCHI FREEDOM MAGA”?  Anyone?  It undoubtedly will be huge.

170918-N-JN784-156

article:  U.S. Army STAND-TO! | Ulchi Freedom Guardian

the measure of a Man

In hindsight, one of the things I miss the most about military service, is the camaraderie.  In particular,  when independently- acting individuals, which all civilians are,  go successfully through the crucible that begins in boot camp or basic training, that shared experience is indelibly stamped on one’s character. Sit three individuals from three different eras and three different branches of the military, and quite soon all will be talking, laughing and swapping tales as though they knew each other for decades.

From boot camp, individuals are shaped and reshaped into a highly-effective team in their units, in field operations and exercises, in ships or aircraft,  armored vehicles or in combat squads. There is a common jargon and understanding that comes from overseas assignments, difficult environments, passable chow, and either adrenaline-pumping action or numbing boredom.

And one day, it all comes to a end.  A final enlistment concludes with retirement, and with the hanging up of the uniform,  so end also the phone calls from your peers or your “reporting senior” (the officer you report to).  Also,  the periodic transfers, carefully-written evaluations, frequent deployments, and daily Physical Training ( running along the beach at 5AM) – and periodic assessment – are left to others.

Sadly, unless the now-retired military member obtains employment in a profession closely allied to the military,  the camaraderie of the Chiefs’ Mess: the traditions, courtesies, and respect that a Chief Petty Officer has earned in the naval service are only weakly understood by a civilian employer and less so by your never-serving civilian supervisor.

Fortunately for many of my friends in uniform, a transition from military life to a civilian career or self-employment went smoothly. Bringing the same focus to task accomplishment, a university degree, or a business resulted in continuing success.

New Year’s field day

shopping

Anyone who has served in the military knows that at some point, their installation, military unit, or occupational speciality, will reorganize, merge, or close (“disestablish” in military-speak).  In my experience aboard the USS TEXAS (CGN-39), when the ship entered the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard at Bremerton, Washington in 1992  for an overhaul but was decommissioned part-way through, one of my duties was to remove an accumulation of years of my division’s electronic maintenance materials, records, files, and publications.  Twenty-five years ago,  electronic storage required several cabinets and boxes in an auxiliary storeroom; paper binders, manuals and the local records pertaining to two prior decades of repair, acquisition and transfer of equipment had to be reviewed, removed and sent for destruction.

0512-0707-1115-1056

While not due to any closure,  the reorganization of my garage this past week has drawn on some of those analytical skills in reviewing or disposing of things collecting cobwebs and dust in the garage.  The last time I did this was at least a year ago.  Since then,  most things have been moved from on top of the rafters in the garage, to one side and then the other side of the interior.  (I haven’t been able to park a car in the garage for at least seven months.)  However, I did find (again) my Navy Senior Chief uniforms in a trunk, as well as a box with random uniform insignia in the former Navy working uniform style (blue-gray “camouflage” pattern).   I sorted through boxes of old framed pictures, loose papers, photographs about 50 years old, cards and letters I sent my mother thirty or forty years ago from my duty stations at the time.   

This was all as a result of putting Christmas decorations away for another year.   Since I was boxing them up and looking to consolidate what my wife had already consolidated,  I started to put other random boxes together.  And now. perhaps, I will finally be able to move everything to the opposite side of the garage, so I can pull down all the uninsulated pegboard and half-tacked drywall on the other side, and install new.   At least, before Spring cleaning.

140226-N-YO710-013

Intermediate Maintenance Availability (IMA) periods stink.  I have to continue using the garage (or at very least keep the laundry facilities operating) and preserve my access to my tools and “stuff” throughout this period.   At least, I do not have to stand watch around the clock.   But I do have to keep an eye out for refuse removal.  The crew keeps putting the galley waste in the garage, when the pier trash bins are a short walk to the driveway.  We do not tolerate any stink in my workspaces. 

bezpomoshten (stranded)!

Watching the movie “Castaway”,  I think anyone got a little emotional when “Wilson”, the soccer ball with the hand-stained face,  was adrift in the open ocean.  It might have been the character’s (loose) connection with sanity.   Now,  I’ve never really had that one thing that I held onto for dear life;  I’ve never been stranded either.    Yet,  I have been known to leave ballcaps,  bluejeans, and engraved Zippo lighters behind when leaving port.  Most of the time, it was a voluntary trade for something unusual such as a Soviet Navy belt buckle.  Or a Turkish lighter, an Ecuadorian fishnet hammock and even an Egyptian thobe (male one piece garment).

The USS PETERSON visited the Black Sea on the way back from a Red Sea deployment.  We  were unaccustomed to being welcomed as tourists; however, the Ukrainians were just as welcoming to American ships visiting Sevastopol.  And we had cameras openly, not the kind you see in spy movies set in Eastern Europe, but like tourists from Scotland to Burundi: Japanese models.   Like everything else marketed in the early 1990s.   DD969

Taking my new camera,  I went out to look for amber  .  I tried to order a Black Russian (vodka and coffee liqueur) in a  hotel bar that looked out upon the Black Sea; I had an equally impossible time finding an ice-cold Pepsi.  And there were other distractions.  Several of us ventured into a nightclub that was a bit of a circus.  It featured a woman doing an acrobatic dance floor show that might have been a strip show.  Who spoke or read Bulgarian to know from the marquee?  Later, I was looking at some Russian znachki,  these enameled badges or pins, that were collected in Russia like sports memorabilia or Hard Rock Cafe pins, back in the early 1990s.  And  walked away only to realize that I didn’t have my camera over my shoulder.

maxresdefaultAt the waterfront, I found a Port official to report my loss.  He spoke no English and I spoke no Bulgarian.  But nearly a dozen years after my last college class in Russian,  we could haltingly converse about my missing camera in a common language.   A few months later, the reply to my inquiry sent to the Canon marketing office in Sophia, Bulgaria was not promising.   How many regular people could possibly own a Canon SLR camera in a nation that only had capitalism (glasnost?)  for five or so years?

Bulgaria became a hot destination for inexpensive vacations by young western Europeans staying in hotels and hostels. Beachgoers enjoying the Black Sea.  varna_beachPerhaps some young entrepreneur used my camera to start a business.  (Babes of the Black Sea?)  Marketing ads for amber jewelry.   Fashion images for the newest Yuppies.  And perhaps my old camera is living there still.  Twenty-three years ago I left my heart in Varna, Bulgaria.  Well, not really.  But I did leave my  camera there.

“Wilson!!!!”

 

Coffee lore

A conversation this week with a Marine “no longer on Active Duty” (my friend and mentor, Colonel Andy Weddington (USMC, Ret) taught me this) at work related to coffee mugs and salty Navy Chief Petty Officers.  As I have related previously  in this blog, it is a thing of Pride, while not necessarily beauty, to health professionals and civilians, to have a caked black, coffee-encrusted mug – the Chief’s coffee mug.

So Bill and I were discussing, with his wife – also employed at my company – coffee, mugs, Chiefs he had known as a Marine, and our Chief’s lore – particularly the Chief’s mug.   I related to her my tale as a poor -just out of Recruit Training-schmuck Sailor cleaning the CPO Mess that took years to live down.   I was asked how my wife endures my Chief’s cup.   And I explained that I have “two” mugs:  (1) any random mug at home.  Sheri washes all the mugs in the house.  When my spouse makes my coffee,  I will drink it any way she serves it to me, black, with almond milk, or French Vanilla creamer.  Even at Starbucks, I will have “hazelnut coffee – when we are having it together.

At the office,  I have my office mug, a new one that I was given this year by the company, getting saltier and saltier and saltier.   With THIS mug,  with the “guys” and particularly with old Navy buddies – strong black coffee.   You may call me a double-minded man.

I live by something I learned years ago:  The Senior Chief’s wife is still the ISIC  (Immediate Superior in Command), and sets policy – even in bare feet.

appreciating the thorns

I’m trying my hand at fiction today.   I’ve not written fiction before, except for a couple of assignments for a college class a million years ago.    I hope you will enjoy it.   

When Earnest was a small child, age five or maybe six, he was caught with his pants down. Literally.  With two little girls from across the street, they were playing a “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” between the rose bushes and the side of the house.  Mrs Dahl,  at that moment,  suddenly appeared. All Earnest remembers was her garden bonnet, and rose fertilizer spilling in all directions.  “WHAT ARE YOU KIDS DOING!,” she screeched.   

His parents were appropriately mortified.   This completely shocked their careful world.  They were emotionally very reserved and showed very little affection either to each other, or to Earnest.  They apparently had been raised in the same manner, in a very spartan home,  and the only expectation was to be seen and not heard.  Correction?  Do what was expected of you, or spend time in the closet.   Earnest doesn’t remember much fondly  of those early years, but he was always embarrassed and timid around girls at school after that.   The boys in Grade 5 would call him “four-eyes” and “weiner-dick”.  He  never responded.  The girls would whisper to themselves, and one would run up behind Earnest and give him a peck on the cheek.  Just to watch him turn purple-red with embarrassment.  They giggled.  In high school, the bullying continued until one afternoon,  a week before the summer break in his Junior year.  Apparently, two bullies ganged up on him behind the gym.  He broke one fellows jaw in two places and dislocated his shoulder.  The other bully suffered three broken ribs and was in a coma for two days.  When the principal found Earnest he was sharing an apple with a girl from his English class.  He was calm.  He spent the next couple years, until age nineteen, in a “state school” ( a juvenile detention center).  He was able to apply to college which at the time had a tuition-waiver for formerly incarcerated.   It was one of the state’s least used opportunities (most applicants re-offended within their first months of freedom).

It was different for Earnest.  Twenty years old and being stalked by a strong-willed, sexually-demanding, raven-haired Sophomore in college.   All because Earnest had too much to drink one Friday night at a fraternity party, and woke up in bed  with her – Colleen.   When Earnest met Sandi at a French club social- it was extra credit for the  students – not that he wanted to meet other girls.   But it was Sandi who gave Earnest the excuse to “break it off” from Colleen.   You see, Earnest was gifted physically.   It was one of those whispers that had followed him ever since that day next door to Mrs Dahl and her damn roses.

For the next fifteen years Earnest wandered from small jobs in Phoenix, working in a small restaurant, to the Seattle area – working for the ferry company as a janitor.  Across the country and down the East Coast.  He planned to settle in the panhandle of Florida. renting kayaks and small sailboats to sailors and tourists.  He didn’t like to drink anymore because he often woke up in uncomfortable surroundings.   In each of the “stops” in his travels,  Earnest became somewhat of a celebrity to college sorority sisters, lonely older women and bored waitresses.   

It was during his last year in Florida that he had a dream for several nights.  Not one of those schizophrenic voices, but the tugging at his heart and conscience was God, he thought, prodding him.  He tried ignoring the feeling.  Yet it was hurricane Ivan,  smashing his old Toyota to bits, along with much of Pensacola in 2004, that got him moving west again.   

It was in San Diego, some years later that he found healing for his soul.  He was working on the Boardwalk at Mission Beach, when a couple of Navy sailors and their wives talked to him about coming to a church service.  He said thanks but no.   He’d been hassled before by white shirted, bicycle-riding Mormons, a Pentecostal that wanted him to come to meet women,  a Buddhist who looked every bit the part of Buddha right down to size 50 waist.  Some guy in New Mexico that wanted him to drink green tea and eat some mushrooms.   A Mexican indian shaman that cast demons from him. Church people.  He read their pamphlets.  A guy in the park that said the world was going to end.  Apparently the 3 times this was predicted during his lifetime were all warnings.  “Just kidding!” their god said.   And yet he found a well-thumbed Bible on a park bench that he packed with him everywhere.

One Friday evening enjoying coffee in a little cafe that looked a cross between a Goodwill store and a grandmother’s attic, he was engaged in conversation by a bored woman and her date.  Sure, he agreed.  He’ll come to their church.  That must have been God prodding him still.  He was sober.  He apparently did not hit on the girl.  And her date was walking out, all body parts intact and undamaged.

 Five years to that particular day,  Earnest has been married for three years.  To that gal from the meeting in the coffee shop. Rosie.  He puts his old life in perspective.  His new life is definitely a miracle.   The suffering, the drinking, and the embarrassment are done.  Buried with Christ in that ocean baptismal.  He looks through eyes that see clearly now.
And his “gifts” are a blessing.  So his wife tells him every night.

 

it fit in my seabag

Reading Linda’s (mainepaperpusher‘s  Everyone Else Has the Best Titles) recent blog post of everything she has collected over the years,  I have not -so-fond memories of the random hobbies and collections I had up until I joined the Navy at 18.   Fortuitously, I had Navy training at an age before I had my own home and a place to fill with random things.   As any Sailor can attest,  there was a time that a green canvas seabag contained everything that we would need for the foreseeable future.  it had straps affixed to it so we carried it when we moved.  And it weighed a ton.    We were not provided wheeled luggage nor a handcart.  One bag is what we were allotted.

Amazing things, seabags.  Going back forty years –  I imagine today there are focus groups and management training ( a result of a decade of liberal tinkering with a military) that have minimized how much a Sailor actually has to carry.    I recall as young recruits  you were alternately told to get “your shit in one sock”.  or that “your mama” or “your girlfriend” was “not issued to you in your seabag” so you had better “suck it up!”    Getting excrement in one sock always makes me laugh.  But then I have encountered more than I can count on two hands, people who couldn’t get their “shit” together. Period.   But for those curious souls,  here’s a recent official listing of a Navy seabag’s contents:

Male:  ( item,  quantity)
All-Weather Coat, Blue 1
Bag, Duffel 1
Belt, Web, Black, W/Silver Clip 2
Belt, Web, White, W/Silver Clip 3
Buckle, Silver 2
Cap, Ball 2
Cap, Knit 1
Coveralls (Navy), Blue 2
Gloves, Leather, Black 1 pr.
Group Rate Mark, Black 3
Group Rate Mark, White 4
Hat, White 3
Jacket, Blue Working 1
Jumper, Blue Dress 1
Jumper, White Dress 2
Neckerchief 1
Necktie, Black 1
Peacoat 1
Shirt, Winter Blue 2
Shirt, Navy Working Uniform 4
Shirt, White Short Sleeve 2
Shoes, Dress Black 1 pr.
Shoes, Safety Chukka 1 pr.
Sock, Cotton/Nylon, Black 6 pr.
Sweater, Pullover Jersey 1
Towel, Bath 4
Trouser, Broadfall, Blue 1 pr.
Trousers, Poly/Wool, Dress Blue 2 pr.
Trousers, Navy Working Uniform 4 pr.
Trousers, White 2 pr.
Trousers, White Jumper (CNT) 2 pr.
Undershirts, White 8
Undershirts, Blue 8
Undershorts, White 8
Yellow PT Shirt 2
Blue PT Shorts 2
Gym Shoes 1 pr.

That seabag held everything the Navy required you to have.   And “properly stowed”, it all would fit aboard ship in your “coffin locker”, the small storage that made up part of your rack.    Of course, as we got more seasoned, traveled to different ports, gained some rank and privileges, we tended to stuff various equipment cabinets, voids, lockers of Sailors on leave, and our workspaces — especially if darkened –  with our crap:  counterfeit perfumes from the Middle East, persian rugs, leather goods, soapstone chess sets, inlaid mother of pearl wood, carvings and so on.   Sometimes we replaced – that is, shipped home,  a lot of the stuff that we weren’t wearing, so we could stow the other stuff.    And every so often,  one of the senior officers would pull a “uniform inspection” particularly if more than a few Sailors didn’t have the “prescribed Uniform of the Day” but did have several hammocks,  knockoff women’s purses, a few brass knuckles, or a hookah stuffed in his coffin locker.

I learned that if I couldn’t carry it,  I didn’t need it.   And everytime  I transferred from one ship to another,  if it didn’t fit in my car, I probably didn’t need it.   Boxes and boxes of books were donated to the local library (loading dock) when I left that town.

A decade later,  I still have several complete uniforms, with ribbons and name tags hanging in the back of my closet.   I’m still too fat to wear them on the prescribed annual holidays.    My soldier son can have my foreign trinkets.  But he will have a sufficient number of socks stuffed already.   And I imagine that my younger sons won’t have a lot of stuff to go through when I’m gone.

Maybe they’ll find my old seabag.  And try to figure out how, since it is clearly impossible, why the old Chief always said you were never issued  “a wife in your seabag”.

a hole in the ocean filled with cash

The most expensive hobby a rich man could have is a boat, and the second most expensive hobby he could have is a very old house.
– Barbara Corcoran

Hobbies for the rich and powerful, are several orders of magnitude above what I or my co-workers can afford to enjoy.  I take a week-long cruise with six thousand fellow passengers to the Caribbean.  A billionaire rents an island and charters guests to it.  A friend leases a quaint home in an Italian town using AirBnB; an executive I know rents a villa in Florence for a month and brings his entire family.    My neighbor owns a new boat – I assume it is the property of the son, a Navy Sailor.  Nobody will confuse him for a wealthy man.  While not a hobby, the expansion of electric vehicle ownership also reveals a little disparity.  Teslas and a couple BMW electric vehicles share the charging aisles with a couple Fiats and one Ford.

I am always stunned by the embrace socialism has among American and European elitists, academics and revolutionaries.  From my study of history,  the socialists disdained hobbies that symbolized exclusivity, gentility or were impractical for the general welfare, and were very careful about outside influence on their constituency.  Of course, those were the very things the elites afforded themselves.

JP-SAUDIPRINCE2-master768
New York Times, 10/15/16

The same media that sympathetically portrayed changes coming to one of the most wealthy, but politically and socially, medieval countries, has been understandably confused.    I heard a story today that a thirty -something Saudi prince, Mohammed bin Salman,  a  powerful deputy in the royal family  was seeming disingenuous about starting an austerity reform campaign in his country.  Apparently, the New York Times only recently learned that this refreshing new leader was the buyer, a couple years ago,  of the most expensive estate in France, the Chateau Louis XIV, a Leonardo Da Vinci painting and a half-BILLION-Euro yacht.  An austerity measure of almost a billion and a half dollars.

Serene_2
By Ngw2009 at English Wikipedia -**

You have to marvel at his hobbies though.  And their upkeep.   I found an article that says he ran his new yacht aground in the Red Sea a month or two ago.   The prince may need to get a skipper for his boating hobby.

To bring Saudi Arabia into the 21st Century, the Prince may need his expensive hobbies.   A Millennial with a vision for his people.  And from his estate in France, if he gets too un-sheikh like, he can let the people eat cake.   In the interim,  if his news media gets a little too nasty,  he probably has an executioner with scimitar on speed-dial.

2_gloicd

 

**  Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons., CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52417631

should an atheist put up Christmas lights and other questions

the-grinch-netflixphoto_1

Google Maps gave me driving directions around the worst of my evening commute tonight that inspired this blog post.  While I have made prior references to driving through San Diego at rush hour,  it is pointless to meander along that sordid topic – it is only going to get worse and not better.  However,  I can use the time to make some observations about some of my fellow Southern Californians.

Driving through an obviously middle class neighborhood in suburban San Diego this late afternoon, two weeks prior to the Christmas holiday,  I was intrigued that no more than perhaps one in forty homes displayed Christmas decorations or lights of any kind.  This was not a section of the city that appeared bound by any homeowners association prohibition,  nor a singularly Muslim area or commune of Ascetic monks,   It was a single-family style,  $600, 000-average price neighborhood (for California, a little more than the median price for 2017.)

christmas-lights-san-diego-vuvfwufpI am not denigrating anyone for NOT displaying Christmas decorations, and I in no way attribute Santa Claus,  decorated trees,  inflatable Minion or Harley-riding Santa Claus to the Birth of Jesus.   But I find it very “unusual”.   For a nation that spends a lot on holiday cheer regardless of their spiritual aspirations,  (a retail survey calculated that Americans spent $3.2 Billion on decorations, lights, trees and so forth in 2015) I found it unusual.  In neighborhoods that become a festive attraction for the surrounding communities, band saws in garages start going in September, and decorations start being put up on the Black Friday shopping day.   I thought I would look up the relationship between decorations and personality.  One article  was particularly interesting in perceptions.   An experiment was conducted on observers perceptions using pictures of groups of more socially-engaged neighbors, not socially-engaged (keep-to-themselves sort), each with decorated and not-decorated homes.  People who were generally unable to distinguish between social traits for decorated homes, could generally determine the level of social interaction  of people with non-decorated homes.  People can tell what you are like by the stuff in your environment.   20171209_202207.jpg

Next post,  I may discuss why some late-middle-age men like to tootle around town in a fire-engine red, convertible Porsche Carrera, and why some young people driving Civics, or BMW 3-series, or a 3-cylinder Prius, feel the need to be the most ignorant drivers on the road.

does a yellow submarine count as sea-time?

I think Walt Disney had something to do with my life choices.  My earliest Disneyland visit was more than 50 years ago.  My latest was yesterday, and nearly 18 years since I last visited.   Long ago,  I enjoying the rafting rides, the submarine adventure,  exploring the future and the past.  As I grew older,  I studied more about the science behind the animated figures and attractions.  I found myself yesterday in awe, and then wondering about the maintenance and the mechanics of these animated attractions. DSC_0190

As a kid, I was fascinated by the steamboat in Frontierland; perhaps that is why in school when we read Mark Twain, I had something to relate it to.  (There were no paddle wheel steamers I saw where I grew up).  Frontierland and steamboats still hold some interest, but there is so much more enjoyment when you go with someone with little kids.

dsc_0149.jpg
don’t think these young’uns are Groot fans?

Before Star Wars, kids my age grew up with NASA , and sci-fi television like Lost In Space, the cartoon Jetsons, and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.  In the 1960s and early 1970s, there was a very cool view of approaching new Millennium. Once we all got here,  it had been somewhat close but also  “quaint” sci-fi.  Now Tomorrowland has a very 3D action/  Star Wars feel.  dsc_0218.jpg

Of course, every Sailor has a little pirate in them so Pirates of The Caribbean was a must-do.  Now though it has a very  Cap’n Jack Sparrow/ POTC  movie tie-in.  But it was the original inspiration for multi-billion dollar franchise for Disney, so I guess it had to be somewhat updated.   DSC_0214But perhaps, I need to do a little plundering before I go off adventuring again.    We bought the year Pass for both parks when I last visited.   I think my stash of gold, rubies, and the lot was traded away for 12 monthly payments.

Now that is piracy, but if Capt’n Jack Sparrow trades you a year’s worth of Yellow Submarines, Mater Tow-rides (California Adventure), and a pirate adventure it is fine.  And while walking seven or eight miles just inside the parks, as well as places for grog, chow, fireworks, and music spectacles, I have entertainment AND exercise.   Maybe if the sea dog’s wife continues to prod me,  I  can resist the impulse to buy a little Mickey swag.  Resist at least until grandchildren accompany us.

dsc_0144.jpg

embrace of the sea

I am a happily married man and yet I have a mistress.  No, not that kind.  The Sea.

The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.
– Jacques Yves Cousteau,  ( http://www.brainyquote.com)

The sea used to call to me as a child.  I read stories about life at sea. I was fascinated by Jacques Cousteau’s shows exploring the sea.  As a youth, my family would frequently make the short drive to Half Moon Bay  from Belmont, California.  After body surfing and boogie-boarding in the cold ocean surf we would warm up by a bonfire on the beach.  Moved by my mother to to the Atlantic coast as a young teen,  I would swim and take a sailboat or rowboat out in the waters off Cape Cod, Massachusetts.   Though swept out to sea once by a rip current,  I responded by learning to snorkel and scuba dive.

There is a witchery in the sea, its songs and stories, and in the mere sight of a ship, and the sailor’s dress, especially to a young mind, which has done more to man navies, and fill merchantmen, than all the pressgangs of Europe. -Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast

I was a captive, not unwilling, during eight years assigned to Navy ships.  Then, I spurned my love-interest. I retired from the Navy.  As I  dallied with camping,  hiking, and cycling,  the sea called me back to her.   It was a recent cruise to the Caribbean that has me spellbound again.  I am not too old to don a wetsuit, or rent a boat, or take another cruise, all the while listening to Jimmy Buffett on the radio.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jamaican smoke

“The most futile and disastrous day seems well spent when it is reviewed through the blue, fragrant smoke of a Havana Cigar”.
Evelyn Waugh

“Tobacco is the plant that converts thoughts into dreams”.
Victor Hugo

“If smoking cigars is not permitted in heaven, I won’t go”.
Mark Twain

NOTE:  the following may lead some to engage in foolish behavior,  potential pregnancies, fondness for dens of iniquity, and loose talk.  Forge ahead if you enjoy the company of Sailors, and  such things.

Writers, thinkers, curmudgeons, and satirists enjoyed a fine cigar.  Actors, artists, and politicians also, but it seems the powerful’s lesser vices these days involved tobacco.   Only in America, in 2017,  can we have a state, California,  that now frowns on the cigarette, pipe and cigar smoker, but promotes the consumption of marijuana.

What should an old curmudgeon, retired Chief, and blogger do?  Relax.  With a glass of Johnny Walker Black over ice,  and a  Jamaican -label Montecalvo cigar, purchased on my recent cruise in the Caribbean.    As another post-Thanksgiving day wanes,  it was an accomplished day: some writing, dogs groomed,  yard  trimmed, and exercise.  First a hike this morning and then a former pile of stones now have taken the shape I envisioned three weeks earlier.  Christmas yard ornaments are laid out.    Where a stress-filled work-day can be a disaster repaired with a good cigar, it has been a remarkably good day.