It's beginning to feel more like winter than Fall. More and more nights when the temperature drops below freezing. It's time to be inside with dancing flames in the fireplace and carols playing. It's a time for good food and good wine and good friends.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Panama - a Trip to Embera Puru -Part II
On our arrival in Embera Puru we were escorted by most of the village up from the river bank and into the meeting house, a large rectangular open sided building with palm thatching.
The chief and his wife greeted us in Embera, and the shaman translated into Spanish. Anne Gordon de Barrigon our tour guide is married to Otniel, a member of this tribe. She translated the Spanish into English for us as our hosts described life in the village. This group had lived in the region called Darien, which includes the southernmost part of Panama and adjacent lands in Columbia. About 35 years ago they fled the abuses and bad treatment they were enduring, and came north, searching for a better place to live. They found it in the rainforest off a branch of the Chagres River, a spot with a high bank above flood level, relatively easy access to more populated areas down stream, plenty of fish, and good hunting in the forest. They were already living there when the government of Panama formed the 500 square mile Chagres National Park in 1985 to protect the watershed that is so essential to the continued operation of the Panama Canal. Water is vital to the function of the canal locks since each boat that crosses the locks needs around 52 million nonrecoverable gallons of fresh water. The Chagres River is dammed downstream from Embera Puru, creating a large reservoir lake that feeds water in Lake Gatun, which in turn functions as a big section of the canal, and provides water for the operation of the locks. The Embera were grandfathered in and allowed to stay on their land, living pretty much as they always have, hunting and fishing, growing a few rainforest crops and harvesting a wide variety of medicinal plants from the surrounding jungle for their own health needs.
Their homes are built up off the ground about ten feet to keep things dry in a very wet, rainy region and to reduce the risk of snakebite from fer-de-lance, coral snake, and the central american bushmaster, all of whom are very venomous. Access to each house is via a log with steps chopped into it, leaned up against the elevated floor. The springy, resilient floors of the houses are made from the thick flattened bark of a local tree. Under the house is reserved for storage and hanging things to dry.
The cooking is done above. Each house has a rectangle of small logs near one edge of the floor. Into this has been placed multiple layers of banana leaves, covered with six to eight inches of dirt, providing a place to build a cooking fire on a wooden floor. We were served a delicious lunch of patacones (twice fried green bananas smushed into delicious little crisp yellow patties, and fresh river bass caught that morning. We rinsed our greasy fingers in a bowl of water with crushed basil leaves in it. Refreshing! We finished off the meal with slices of fresh, sweet pineapple and papaya.
We had some time to wander the village wherever we wished. Some of us went back to the meeting house to look at beautiful carvings, lovely decorated baskets woven so tightly that they will hold water, and other handicrafts. I bought a wooden flute like the one I had heard played by the welcoming committee as we first were arriving.
Another option that Lynne and I both took advantage of was to be decorated with an Emerba-style tattoo. Every member of the village does this. A dye is made from the fruit of the jagua tree. Held in a small coconut shell cup, the purple-grey liquid is applied carefully to the skin with a small forked stick of bamboo, making a double line. The designs are first outlined, and then the tattoo artist uses fingers and hands to fill in solid the space between the designs by applying more of the juice. Lynne chose an open design that looked like a necklace of leaves around her neck, and I opted for the full design on chest, arms, and back down as far as my waist. Since I was wearing long pants instead of a loincloth, I decided to stop there. In addition to being dramatic in design decoration the tattoos also serve as an excellent insect repellent, even though the dye has no particular odor to humans. It is also used for its antiseptic, antibiotic, bactericidal and fungicidal properties, and provides an amazingly effective screen against sunburn. At first the tattoos were very light, but they continued to darken for a couple of days until they turned black. The designs last only about ten days or two weeks at the most before fading away, and as they disappear the Embera renew them with different designs. At least that's what we were TOLD; it remains to be seen how long they last on pale North American skin!
We took a half hour walk with the village shaman up hills and down hills on a forest trail, clay slick in places, stopping often as he pointed out various plants that are used for a wide variety of treatments that include, headache, indigestion, fever, snakebite, the improvement of birth contractions, erectile disfunction, and antibiotics.
On our return to the village a number of the men and women had assembled in the meeting house, and they invited us in to be entertained with some music and dancing. The men drummed and played flute as the women sang and danced.
First was a bird song and second was a jaguar dance. All the women lined up, oldest in front, youngest in the back, and they moved in a line around the room, bent forward and slapping bare feet on the smooth clay dirt floor in a syncopated rhythm as they sang. These two performances were followed by some more music they called a rumba, and we all were invited to participate. Great fun!
All too soon it was time to leave, and those of us not staying in the village overnight made our way back down to the edge of the river to get back in the big dugout for the long trip back downriver and across the lake to the waiting van. The men of the village gathered again on the high riverbank, playing the flute and drums to say goodbye, and the music faded as we headed downstream.
The chief and his wife greeted us in Embera, and the shaman translated into Spanish. Anne Gordon de Barrigon our tour guide is married to Otniel, a member of this tribe. She translated the Spanish into English for us as our hosts described life in the village. This group had lived in the region called Darien, which includes the southernmost part of Panama and adjacent lands in Columbia. About 35 years ago they fled the abuses and bad treatment they were enduring, and came north, searching for a better place to live. They found it in the rainforest off a branch of the Chagres River, a spot with a high bank above flood level, relatively easy access to more populated areas down stream, plenty of fish, and good hunting in the forest. They were already living there when the government of Panama formed the 500 square mile Chagres National Park in 1985 to protect the watershed that is so essential to the continued operation of the Panama Canal. Water is vital to the function of the canal locks since each boat that crosses the locks needs around 52 million nonrecoverable gallons of fresh water. The Chagres River is dammed downstream from Embera Puru, creating a large reservoir lake that feeds water in Lake Gatun, which in turn functions as a big section of the canal, and provides water for the operation of the locks. The Embera were grandfathered in and allowed to stay on their land, living pretty much as they always have, hunting and fishing, growing a few rainforest crops and harvesting a wide variety of medicinal plants from the surrounding jungle for their own health needs.
Their homes are built up off the ground about ten feet to keep things dry in a very wet, rainy region and to reduce the risk of snakebite from fer-de-lance, coral snake, and the central american bushmaster, all of whom are very venomous. Access to each house is via a log with steps chopped into it, leaned up against the elevated floor. The springy, resilient floors of the houses are made from the thick flattened bark of a local tree. Under the house is reserved for storage and hanging things to dry. 
The cooking is done above. Each house has a rectangle of small logs near one edge of the floor. Into this has been placed multiple layers of banana leaves, covered with six to eight inches of dirt, providing a place to build a cooking fire on a wooden floor. We were served a delicious lunch of patacones (twice fried green bananas smushed into delicious little crisp yellow patties, and fresh river bass caught that morning. We rinsed our greasy fingers in a bowl of water with crushed basil leaves in it. Refreshing! We finished off the meal with slices of fresh, sweet pineapple and papaya.We had some time to wander the village wherever we wished. Some of us went back to the meeting house to look at beautiful carvings, lovely decorated baskets woven so tightly that they will hold water, and other handicrafts. I bought a wooden flute like the one I had heard played by the welcoming committee as we first were arriving.
Another option that Lynne and I both took advantage of was to be decorated with an Emerba-style tattoo. Every member of the village does this. A dye is made from the fruit of the jagua tree. Held in a small coconut shell cup, the purple-grey liquid is applied carefully to the skin with a small forked stick of bamboo, making a double line. The designs are first outlined, and then the tattoo artist uses fingers and hands to fill in solid the space between the designs by applying more of the juice. Lynne chose an open design that looked like a necklace of leaves around her neck, and I opted for the full design on chest, arms, and back down as far as my waist. Since I was wearing long pants instead of a loincloth, I decided to stop there. In addition to being dramatic in design decoration the tattoos also serve as an excellent insect repellent, even though the dye has no particular odor to humans. It is also used for its antiseptic, antibiotic, bactericidal and fungicidal properties, and provides an amazingly effective screen against sunburn. At first the tattoos were very light, but they continued to darken for a couple of days until they turned black. The designs last only about ten days or two weeks at the most before fading away, and as they disappear the Embera renew them with different designs. At least that's what we were TOLD; it remains to be seen how long they last on pale North American skin!
We took a half hour walk with the village shaman up hills and down hills on a forest trail, clay slick in places, stopping often as he pointed out various plants that are used for a wide variety of treatments that include, headache, indigestion, fever, snakebite, the improvement of birth contractions, erectile disfunction, and antibiotics.On our return to the village a number of the men and women had assembled in the meeting house, and they invited us in to be entertained with some music and dancing. The men drummed and played flute as the women sang and danced.
All too soon it was time to leave, and those of us not staying in the village overnight made our way back down to the edge of the river to get back in the big dugout for the long trip back downriver and across the lake to the waiting van. The men of the village gathered again on the high riverbank, playing the flute and drums to say goodbye, and the music faded as we headed downstream.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Panama - a Trip to Embera Puru -Part I
My daughter Lynne and I traveled in a small van this morning for 40 minutes in the traffic and dirt and noise of this city of about 800,000.
As we left Panama City behind, the roads became less congested but in worse condition, with lots of potholes capable of swallowing half a tire at a single gulp. The high-rise buildings disappeared, replaced by cinder-block one-room tin-roofed houses with trash in the yards to decorate the rusting old cars. If it hadn't been for the bananas and mango trees, I might have thought I was in West Virginia!
The farther we got from the city, the narrower the road became, now muddy and rutted, spanning small streams in deep worn creek beds with crumbling cement bridges that any cautious person would hesitate to walk across. The paving was far behind us as we lurched up clay-slick hills, back tires spinning just a bit faster than we were moving forward. The jungle crowded down to the edge of the road.
Eventually the van stopped when it couldn't go any farther without going into Lake Alajuela. There was a huge wooden dugout canoe waiting for us, captained by an Embera man wearing a bright blue loincloth and nothing else except his tattoos from neck to knees.
Ten of us climbed in the boat to sit two abreast, and the canoe backed out onto Lake Alajuela. Swinging around we headed down the miles-long lake at full throttle, the bow throwing up a standing wave higher than the gunwhales. The water was kept out of the canoe (mostly) only by a narrow splash rail. A steady flow of water dribbled over the edges and squirted under pressure from the small cracks near the bow, running down the 35 foot length of the canoe between our feet. It's the rainy season in Panama, and we skimmed along the coffee-with-cream colored muddy water, skirting around floating plants, sticks, and logs. In the dry season the water level is 30 feet lower, and the trip would involve navigating a small stream instead of a lake.
About 40 minutes into the ride the canoe tilted toward the right as we made a sharp turn and slowed to enter a narrow side channel. Negotiating twists and turns past low hanging branches, and ducking under those we couldn't avoid, a few minutes at idle speed brought us to a lovely waterfall that tumbled down over a ragged basalt scarp. We clambered over the sides into shin deep water and waded the remaining hundred feet or so to the pool at the base of the falls.
It took no additional encouragement for me to plunge into the cool water and swim over for an impromptu shower under the cascade. Refreshed and soggy, we clambered back into the canoe and it backed out the way we had come. A man standing in the bow used a pole to wedge the long canoe first to the left and then the right as a means of steering.
A short run later we left the lake itself and entered the Chagres River. Another fifteen minutes of a tributary brought us to Em-bear-AH PUru, the Embera Village home of about 150 people who continue to live off the land as they always have. They welcome the occasional small group visits arranged by the American wife of one of the Embera men.
The throaty roar of the outboard motor alerted the people of the village to our arrival long before we actually got there, and there was a group of eight men on the river bank above the landing, drumming and playing a bamboo flute to welcome us. It appeared that the entire population of the village had come down to the water's edge to meet us, the men wearing loincloths that hung to knees in front and covered much less behind. The women wore brightly colored pieces of cloth that reached from waist to just above the knees, and nothing else.
Men, women, and children all wore purply-black elaborate tattoos with intricate geometrical designs on shoulders, backs, breasts, stomachs, buttocks, and thighs. We soon found out that the tattoos are not permanent, lasting only a week to ten days before they wear away or wash off. They are renewed frequently, both because the designs are pleasing, and because the chemicals in the plants used to draw the designs serve as a very effective bug repellent.
more to come.....
As we left Panama City behind, the roads became less congested but in worse condition, with lots of potholes capable of swallowing half a tire at a single gulp. The high-rise buildings disappeared, replaced by cinder-block one-room tin-roofed houses with trash in the yards to decorate the rusting old cars. If it hadn't been for the bananas and mango trees, I might have thought I was in West Virginia!
The farther we got from the city, the narrower the road became, now muddy and rutted, spanning small streams in deep worn creek beds with crumbling cement bridges that any cautious person would hesitate to walk across. The paving was far behind us as we lurched up clay-slick hills, back tires spinning just a bit faster than we were moving forward. The jungle crowded down to the edge of the road.
Eventually the van stopped when it couldn't go any farther without going into Lake Alajuela. There was a huge wooden dugout canoe waiting for us, captained by an Embera man wearing a bright blue loincloth and nothing else except his tattoos from neck to knees. 
Ten of us climbed in the boat to sit two abreast, and the canoe backed out onto Lake Alajuela. Swinging around we headed down the miles-long lake at full throttle, the bow throwing up a standing wave higher than the gunwhales. The water was kept out of the canoe (mostly) only by a narrow splash rail. A steady flow of water dribbled over the edges and squirted under pressure from the small cracks near the bow, running down the 35 foot length of the canoe between our feet. It's the rainy season in Panama, and we skimmed along the coffee-with-cream colored muddy water, skirting around floating plants, sticks, and logs. In the dry season the water level is 30 feet lower, and the trip would involve navigating a small stream instead of a lake.About 40 minutes into the ride the canoe tilted toward the right as we made a sharp turn and slowed to enter a narrow side channel. Negotiating twists and turns past low hanging branches, and ducking under those we couldn't avoid, a few minutes at idle speed brought us to a lovely waterfall that tumbled down over a ragged basalt scarp. We clambered over the sides into shin deep water and waded the remaining hundred feet or so to the pool at the base of the falls.
It took no additional encouragement for me to plunge into the cool water and swim over for an impromptu shower under the cascade. Refreshed and soggy, we clambered back into the canoe and it backed out the way we had come. A man standing in the bow used a pole to wedge the long canoe first to the left and then the right as a means of steering.A short run later we left the lake itself and entered the Chagres River. Another fifteen minutes of a tributary brought us to Em-bear-AH PUru, the Embera Village home of about 150 people who continue to live off the land as they always have. They welcome the occasional small group visits arranged by the American wife of one of the Embera men.
The throaty roar of the outboard motor alerted the people of the village to our arrival long before we actually got there, and there was a group of eight men on the river bank above the landing, drumming and playing a bamboo flute to welcome us. It appeared that the entire population of the village had come down to the water's edge to meet us, the men wearing loincloths that hung to knees in front and covered much less behind. The women wore brightly colored pieces of cloth that reached from waist to just above the knees, and nothing else.
Men, women, and children all wore purply-black elaborate tattoos with intricate geometrical designs on shoulders, backs, breasts, stomachs, buttocks, and thighs. We soon found out that the tattoos are not permanent, lasting only a week to ten days before they wear away or wash off. They are renewed frequently, both because the designs are pleasing, and because the chemicals in the plants used to draw the designs serve as a very effective bug repellent. more to come.....
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Panama City - First Impressions
We're here!
I went to bed on Tuesday at about 8:30 p.m. and actually got almost, solid four hours of sleep. I had the alarm set for 12:30, but woke a few minutes early. We were already packed. I had everything stowed in a backpack, since we were headed for the tropics, and it was only for a week. We pulled out of the driveway right on time at 1:00 a.m.
It rained the whole 120 miles from Richmond to the Dulles Airport west of Washington, D.C. The Copa Airlines ticket counter was open when we entered the terminal, but we had to wait until 4:00 a.m. for the security inspection, so we got bagels at the only food concession open.
The sky was still pitch dark as we cleared the runway at 5:38, and the city lights disappeared immediately in the low, wet overcast. With the cabin lights out it was easy to drift off into the uneasy dozing that masquerades as sleep on an airplane. Somewhere, sometime later, breakfast was announced in Spanish, and we practiced the preying-mantis contortions necessary to cut pieces of food on a miniscule tray without knocking the bite of egg omlette off the fork of the person beside you. High rise buildings admired their own reflections in the waters of Miami Beach as we flew by.
More dozing.....half-watching the featured movie Julia and Julie, and playing with the channels to see how well the audio wizards were able to synchronize English lip movements with Spanish dubbing. Down through the hidden bumps and dips of low-hanging clouds, and onto the runway in Panama City 45 minutes early.
The cab Lynne arranged was waiting for us, and it was about a 20 minute drive into the city. What a big city it is! There are literally hundreds of very tall, very narrow high rise buildings, with construction cranes all over the place putting up more. We are on the 33rd floor of a high-rise condo with spectacular vistas sloping up gently to the hills behind the city a few kilometers away, and the shoreline of Bahia de Panama. The bay is really nothing more than a slight curved indentation on the Pacific shoreline, and the mud-flat bottom slopes out at such a shallow angle that at low tide the water recedes a quarter to a half mile!
After getting settled we walked about three quarters of a mile to a shopping mall that makes any large mall that I've seen previously look puny by comparison! This mall was easily twice the surface area of any I've seen before, and three stories high. We found the food court and had lunch, then wandered several levels before we found the supermercado (Super Market), where we picked up bread, milk, bananas, and a half papaya. Half a papaya may seem silly until I mention that half of this fruit was a good five inches from center-slice to rind, and about 20 inches long, by far the largest I have ever seen. It will let us eat papaya with lime juice every morning for several days!
The contrasts here are interesting. It is as if some mischief-maker took a giant stick and stirred and swirled opulent high rise buildings, abandoned factories, modest homes, small old apartment buildings, empty blocks where buildings have been or are being demolished, and tiny one-room tin-roofed houses until they were thoroughly mixed, then sprinkled all with various open-windowed schools throughout for a garnish, the drone of student recitation competing with the constant roar of traffic, horns blaring long blasts to express driver frustration at the congestion.
I need a nap! More later!
I went to bed on Tuesday at about 8:30 p.m. and actually got almost, solid four hours of sleep. I had the alarm set for 12:30, but woke a few minutes early. We were already packed. I had everything stowed in a backpack, since we were headed for the tropics, and it was only for a week. We pulled out of the driveway right on time at 1:00 a.m.
It rained the whole 120 miles from Richmond to the Dulles Airport west of Washington, D.C. The Copa Airlines ticket counter was open when we entered the terminal, but we had to wait until 4:00 a.m. for the security inspection, so we got bagels at the only food concession open.The sky was still pitch dark as we cleared the runway at 5:38, and the city lights disappeared immediately in the low, wet overcast. With the cabin lights out it was easy to drift off into the uneasy dozing that masquerades as sleep on an airplane. Somewhere, sometime later, breakfast was announced in Spanish, and we practiced the preying-mantis contortions necessary to cut pieces of food on a miniscule tray without knocking the bite of egg omlette off the fork of the person beside you. High rise buildings admired their own reflections in the waters of Miami Beach as we flew by.
More dozing.....half-watching the featured movie Julia and Julie, and playing with the channels to see how well the audio wizards were able to synchronize English lip movements with Spanish dubbing. Down through the hidden bumps and dips of low-hanging clouds, and onto the runway in Panama City 45 minutes early.
The cab Lynne arranged was waiting for us, and it was about a 20 minute drive into the city. What a big city it is! There are literally hundreds of very tall, very narrow high rise buildings, with construction cranes all over the place putting up more. We are on the 33rd floor of a high-rise condo with spectacular vistas sloping up gently to the hills behind the city a few kilometers away, and the shoreline of Bahia de Panama. The bay is really nothing more than a slight curved indentation on the Pacific shoreline, and the mud-flat bottom slopes out at such a shallow angle that at low tide the water recedes a quarter to a half mile!After getting settled we walked about three quarters of a mile to a shopping mall that makes any large mall that I've seen previously look puny by comparison! This mall was easily twice the surface area of any I've seen before, and three stories high. We found the food court and had lunch, then wandered several levels before we found the supermercado (Super Market), where we picked up bread, milk, bananas, and a half papaya. Half a papaya may seem silly until I mention that half of this fruit was a good five inches from center-slice to rind, and about 20 inches long, by far the largest I have ever seen. It will let us eat papaya with lime juice every morning for several days!
The contrasts here are interesting. It is as if some mischief-maker took a giant stick and stirred and swirled opulent high rise buildings, abandoned factories, modest homes, small old apartment buildings, empty blocks where buildings have been or are being demolished, and tiny one-room tin-roofed houses until they were thoroughly mixed, then sprinkled all with various open-windowed schools throughout for a garnish, the drone of student recitation competing with the constant roar of traffic, horns blaring long blasts to express driver frustration at the congestion.I need a nap! More later!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Richmond Marathon 26.2 miles - I DID it!
The week before the Richmond Marathon, Joe Sullivan, Sports News Reporter for the NBC-TV Channel 12 in Richmond, called me to say that he had heard that I was the oldest person on the Marathon Training Team, and that he'd like to do an interview.I met him down on Riverside Drive near my house, and he recorded lots of video footage of me running on the road beside the James River before doing the interview.
The piece aired on the evening news the Tuesday before the race.
An article appeared in the Richmond Times-Dispatch the same day, titled "At 71, Set For Debut"
Better late than never, indeed. George Hastings, a California native who moved to Richmond in 1984, says he has been "in and out of running most of my life He will make his marathon debut on Saturday. At age 71.
Hastings said he has been toying with the idea of running a marathon since he was a teenager. As a 16 year old, he said, he would run from his home to Oakland Technical High School, a distance of about two miles. His goal each day: to try to beat the school bus.
Years passed, and Hastings did much running but never entered a marathon. As his 71st birthday approached, he said, "I thought to myself, 'Good grief! I'm actually getting old. I've been talking about running a marathon for most of my life. It's time to either put up or shut up.'"
He has prepared for Saturday's race as a member of the Marathon Training Team.
The morning arrived. It was time. I had run a short three miles on Thursday the previous week after the TV interview, and had finished with a very sore right knee. A quick visit a few days later to the doctor revealed through an MRI that I had a torn meniscus in my right knee. The doctor, a specialist in sports medicine, said that as long as I took it VERY easy, especially going up or down hills, and wore a neoprene compression sleeve on my knee, that I could attempt the 26.2 miles, with the understanding that my knee kight just lock up, or become so painful that I would have to drop out. After five and a half months of training, I accepted those terms.
I met other runners gathering a few blocks from the starting line on Richmond's Broad Street, and as we walked the short remaining distance there was excitement and tension. The over 5,000 marathon runners were grouped according to pace per mile, with the fastest of course being in front. The winner was Jynocel Basweti, a man from Kenya, who finished the entire run in 2 hours, 18 minutes, 22 seconds!
I started out deliberately slowly, being extra cautious of my unreliable right knee. Out Broad Street a few miles, jogging a few blocks over to a few miles on Monument Avenue, a few more blocks over for another long stretch on Grove Street, and finally along Cary Street and down a steep hill to the James River. From there, across the Huguenot Bridge and along Riverside Drive. I had a big cheering section of friends and neighbors as I passed the intersection a block from my house, and Jane handed me a most welcome banana to refuel as I left the ten mile mark behind.
From there up a long climb to Forest Hill Drive, and a very long run all the way downtown to the Lee Bridge. Crossing the James River, my running muscles began to tell me, "That's it! We're finished! We're not going to do this any more!", but my brain kept pushing the unwilling mutineers for a few more miles before the muscles won the argument. There were many times I thought that I had reached the point where I would have to stop, but discovered that walking muscles are really quite different than running muscles. I found that I could keep up a brisk pace walking.
As I came up Main Street I was joined by my friend Marilyn Elder, who ran and walked with me, holding a sign that said, "Go, George, GO!", and exhorting spectators on the sides of the street to join in the chant. It kept me laughing, and my mind off the fatigue and pain I was feeling in my hips by now. It seemed as though there had been no start and would be no end to the run by now. It was just one foot in front of the other, over and over and over. I wasn't out of breath, but the tiredness was building. I crossed Broad Street, and headed into the north side of Richmond in the last six miles, now covering distance I had never done before. My faithful self-appointed coach and publicist Marilyn joined me again as I shuffled my way toward the finish in downtown, dropping out only about a half mile from the finish line. 
A block later I was joined by Chelle Quinn, the head coach of the Orange Team, and she covered the last few blocks with me. As she peeled off about two blocks from the end, I could look down the hill the remaining distance and see the huge crowd watching the stragglers coming in. I was by now the almost the only person on the street, and as I approached the finish line I was propelled onward by a wave of cheering.
Joe Sullivan from Channel 12 was there, pointing a camera, congratulating me and asking how I felt. Of course I felt wonderful, exhausted, and in pain all at the same time, but mainly elated that I had finished!You can see the post-marathon show that aired the next day here My post-marathon interview appears at about 13 minutes, 35 seconds into this 28 minute program
Training for the Richmond Marathon - 2009
It has been fun, at 71, being the oldest member out of more than 1,200 people on the Marathon Training Team! We first met at the SportsBackers Stadium in Richmond the first week in June, and the first group run seemed intimidating. It was a total of 4 miles, and by the time I had completed it near the back of the group of about 50 I was running with, I was huffing and puffing.The following week we were to run on our own 3 miles on Tuesday, 3 miles on Wednesday, and 3 miles on Thursday, getting together with my small training group, the Orange Team, on Saturday to run 5 miles together. Although there were more advanced intermediate groups and I was with the novice group, I discovered on each run that some would take off from the beginning at a brisk pace that they maintained throughout the run. Others like me would start out more slowly, and the Orange Team would rapidly be spread out over great distances, finishing with widely variant times.
Early in the training I attempted to keep up with the fast runners. I discovered quickly that I wasn't able to do that, so I would start out with the fast runners, and cut back to a slower pace partway into the run. I really was paying attention to the time it took me to run a mile, and trying each week to improve the time. For me, that was the wrong approach.
Each week the total mileage increased, and the Saturday group runs became longer too. Each time a longer distance was scheduled, I saw it looming as a goal that I might now be able to achieve.As I look back at the log I kept, I see that the Saturday long runs increased up to 10 miles, then back a bit to 7 the following week, jumping to 12 miles the week after that. Back to 10 miles the next week, and then in mid-July the first half-marathon distance of 13.1 miles. Each time I finished a longer distance I felt elated that I had been able to complete it, but dreaded the next mileage increase.
I was very nervous as I started the official Patrick Henry Half Marathon in Ashland, Virginia in July. I pushed hard for that, and finished the race second in my age group of 70-74 in 2 hours, 38 minutes, and 5 seconds, only about a half hour behind another man in his 70's!
As August, September, and October slid past the running progressed to longer and longer distances, both on the weekday runs and the group runs on Saturdays, building up to a 20 mile run three weeks before the date of the Richmond Marathon.
I finally realized that the average time I took to run a mile was not particularly significant, being that my goal was only to finish the marathon, not to beat anybody. I began to do a better job of setting a deliberately slow pace of not any faster than 13 minutes per mile. I was better able to sustain that pace without "bonking", completely running out of energy near the end of a long run.
The last two weeks before the November 14th Richmond Marathon were planned to taper off on the running intensity to allow muscles and body to recuperate a bit before the big event.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Marathon Training
I'm 71 years old, and I've been in and out of running most of my life.Mostly out, but I can remember when I was 16 I would run from Oakland Technical High School to downtown Oakland, a distance of about two miles, and try to beat the school bus going the same direction. The bus would pass me with jeering students catcalling out the windows, but then would slow in traffic or stop at a traffic light, and I would pass the bus. Sometime I beat the bus and sometimes it beat me, but it was always a fun challenge. I thought to myself, "Someday, I'll run a marathon!"
After a year of college I entered the Army as a draftee, and of course there was lots of running in training, both during Basic, and later in Germany as a member of the infantry. That wasn't fun, but I can remember thinking to myself, "With all this training, I'll bet I could run a marathon!"
I finished college, got a teaching degree, taught 6th grade in Monterey, California, and after a few years was offered a position as an elementary school principal with a big educational television project in American Samoa. My first assignment was to open a new school on the tiny, mile-wide island of Aunu'u. The school was built on newly cleared land about a mile from the only boat landing. All the school supplies were delivered once a week by motor launch from the harbor at Pago Pago, so on Wednesday mornings I would leave the school office, climb a low sand dune to get a clear view of the ocean to the east to look for supply boat. When I saw it in the distance I would get all the boys from the one eighth grade class, and together we would run along the soft sandy path around the island to the boat landing to offload and carry all the supplies back to the school. I was in wonderful shape, and thought to myself, "If I had more space, I bet I could run a marathon!"
Many years later I lived on another beach when I was working for the educational programs office of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. I would run for miles in the sand along Cocoa Beach, and think to myself, "I'm strong enough to run a marathon!"
I moved to Richmond in 1984 to teach astronomy and space science at the Mathematics & Science Center, and often would run the four mile loop around the Central Gardens neighborhood during my lunch hour, thinking to myself, "Maybe one of these years I'll run the Richmond Marathon!"
I first ran the Monument Avenue 10k in 2002, and completed it in only 54 seconds over an hour. I thought to myself, "I bet if I trained I could do it in under an hour!"The next year I was delighted when I finished in just over 58 minutes.
I became over confident. I didn't train as rigorously the next year. I finished four minutes slower. I thought to myself, "I'd never be able to run a marathon!"
The next year, I didn't even bother to enter the 10 k race.
In 2006 I was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and had a successful prostatectomy. Because I was incontinent as a result of the surgery I thought my days of running were over, but 7 weeks later I managed to run a 5k race while wearing a leg bag. With exercise the problem improved. I was able to get rid of the hardware, but running was still problematic.
The following year I had another surgical procedure which almost completely restored normal bladder function. I completed the the Monument Avenue 10k again, and I thought to myself, "Maybe I could run a marathon!"
I ran another 10k the following year, and although it took me more than an hour, I kept thinking, "I ought to see if I could run a marathon!"
As my 71st birthday approached, I thought to myself, "Good grief, I actually getting old, and I've been talking about running a marathon most of my life! It's time for me to either put up or shut up!"
Ignoring the incredulity of friends, I signed up for the Marathon Training Team. During our first meeting at The Diamond with over a thousand other registrants, I was surprised to hear announced that the youngest participant was 18, and the oldest was 71!....WHOA!...That's ME!
I'm a proud member of the Orange Team of novice runners, and have been doing the weekly runs on my own and the group runs on Saturday mornings since the beginning of June. This past Saturday I participated in a 16 mile group run, farther than I've ever run before, and when I huffed and puffed back to the starting point I thought to myself, "I really AM going to run a marathon!"This week is a "slack-off" week: Four miles on Tuesday, eight miles on Wednesday, five miles on Thursday, and a group run on Saturday of 12 miles for a total of 29 miles for the week.
The week of November 5th will be more challenging: 4 miles, 9 miles, 5 miles, and a Saturday run of 18 miles! That will be followed by a slightly less demanding week, and then a week where the Saturday run is 20 miles!
The Richmond Marathon is scheduled for Saturday, November 14th. I WILL finish a marathon!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Adventures in British Columbia - July 25th
Saturday, July 25th
In Victoria, B.C. The alarm went off this morning at 5:30, and I bumbled around getting up and dressed in shorts, running shirt and shoes. I put fresh batteries in the GPS, strapped on a water belt, grabbed a cup of coffee with extra sugar from the motel lobby, and was out the front door at 6:06. I’m till hanging in there on the marathon training. From the motel in downtown I ran downhill to the harbor, along the waterfront, past sailboats and fishing boats, floating houseboats, the seaplane dock, and fisherman's wharf, past lots of waterfront condos, and finally out along waterside park trails overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca, with the state of Washington and snow capped mountains in the distance. I’m still huffing and puffing on long distance runs, but I’m pleased with my finish time of 1 hour and 48 minutes...right on the 12 minute per mile pace for the whole nine mile route.
After I showered and changed clothes, we ate a big breakfast of potatoes, eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee in the restaurant adjoining the hotel. Gale and Sabra came to pick us up at 9:30. They took us on a meandering tour of Victoria, then back to the motel to pick up the rental car, and we followed them out to the airport to return the car. We all rode together the short distance to Bouchart Gardens, only to find out that the admission price was jacked up today for the fireworks display this evening. We opted to come back on Sunday instead.
The Victoria waterfront is a great place to be on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon in July! Buscar bands and acts spread themselves arbitrarily along the quay just far enough apart that each could command its own audience. In one spot a group in their teens and early twenties belted out punk rock with considerably more enthusiasm than talent. Farther along a darkly tanned guitarist was singing “Brown-Eyed Girl” along with a Jamaican steel drummer. A comedian/juggler hustled up his own crowd with audience participation schemes, wild antics, and witty patter that kept everyone in his venue laughing.
The narrow, deeply indented Victoria Harbor is continuously criss-crossed with tiny passenger ferries that are not-too-distant cousins of the little boats we saw herding rafts and logs in the sorting pond at Beaver Cove. Each one of these slightly tippy little aquatic taxis holds a maximum of 10 people. For a few dollars the captain will take you anywhere in the harbor, cheerfully pattering about the shoreline sights, and should you see something you like before your stated destination, will hand you a token good for re-boarding his or any other ferryboat after you’ve strolled around on shore long enough.
We got off at a dock surrounded by thirty or forty houseboats. They lay snuggled together side by side and gently jostling each other in the slight motion of the water. Some were small, single-room affairs, while others were two stories tall, with several rooms, lounging decks with planters, and all the comforts of a real home. Along the wharf there were several food stands, and we enjoyed a couple of overpriced hotdogs on buns before boarding another putt-putting little ferryboat to head back to the hotel.
There was considerable publicity on posters and in guidebooks about the annual “Luminara” festival to be held in a city park that afternoon and evening, but the weather began to look threatening. Just before sunset it began to rain. We waited. Then waited some more. It seemed as though the heaviest rain had slacked off, so we put on rain jackets and started to walk down to the park. We saw lots of wet, bedraggled people heading the other way, many of them herding young children in soggy, drooping costumes.
A paved path led up a wooded slope in the park, and pulsing sounds of music floated down through the dark. Big drops of water dripped from overhanging branches and leaves, and I was thankful for the hooded rain jacket. Several hundred people were in the clearing at the top of the hill where the path emerged from the woods. They were jumping and twisting, arms over heads or holding long skirts up out of the mud, prancing and dancing, or standing on the sidelines clapping or nodding heads while the throbbing rhythms of the Chikoro Marimba Band pounded out through the pouring rain. There were at least five marimbas, the largest of which had deep toned wooden bars eight inches across and a couple of feet long. PVC pipes of different lengths hung underneath, resonating and amplifying the hypnotic beat.
No one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to the rain, which continued to pour down on dancers and musicians alike, and water splashed off the marimba bars as the padded mallets pounded on. The set finally came to an end, and lights on sidewalk stands began to turn off. As the marimbas were being dismantled the crowds of people began to wander off into the dark with smiles on their faces.
In Victoria, B.C. The alarm went off this morning at 5:30, and I bumbled around getting up and dressed in shorts, running shirt and shoes. I put fresh batteries in the GPS, strapped on a water belt, grabbed a cup of coffee with extra sugar from the motel lobby, and was out the front door at 6:06. I’m till hanging in there on the marathon training. From the motel in downtown I ran downhill to the harbor, along the waterfront, past sailboats and fishing boats, floating houseboats, the seaplane dock, and fisherman's wharf, past lots of waterfront condos, and finally out along waterside park trails overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca, with the state of Washington and snow capped mountains in the distance. I’m still huffing and puffing on long distance runs, but I’m pleased with my finish time of 1 hour and 48 minutes...right on the 12 minute per mile pace for the whole nine mile route.
After I showered and changed clothes, we ate a big breakfast of potatoes, eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee in the restaurant adjoining the hotel. Gale and Sabra came to pick us up at 9:30. They took us on a meandering tour of Victoria, then back to the motel to pick up the rental car, and we followed them out to the airport to return the car. We all rode together the short distance to Bouchart Gardens, only to find out that the admission price was jacked up today for the fireworks display this evening. We opted to come back on Sunday instead.
The Victoria waterfront is a great place to be on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon in July! Buscar bands and acts spread themselves arbitrarily along the quay just far enough apart that each could command its own audience. In one spot a group in their teens and early twenties belted out punk rock with considerably more enthusiasm than talent. Farther along a darkly tanned guitarist was singing “Brown-Eyed Girl” along with a Jamaican steel drummer. A comedian/juggler hustled up his own crowd with audience participation schemes, wild antics, and witty patter that kept everyone in his venue laughing.
The narrow, deeply indented Victoria Harbor is continuously criss-crossed with tiny passenger ferries that are not-too-distant cousins of the little boats we saw herding rafts and logs in the sorting pond at Beaver Cove. Each one of these slightly tippy little aquatic taxis holds a maximum of 10 people. For a few dollars the captain will take you anywhere in the harbor, cheerfully pattering about the shoreline sights, and should you see something you like before your stated destination, will hand you a token good for re-boarding his or any other ferryboat after you’ve strolled around on shore long enough.
We got off at a dock surrounded by thirty or forty houseboats. They lay snuggled together side by side and gently jostling each other in the slight motion of the water. Some were small, single-room affairs, while others were two stories tall, with several rooms, lounging decks with planters, and all the comforts of a real home. Along the wharf there were several food stands, and we enjoyed a couple of overpriced hotdogs on buns before boarding another putt-putting little ferryboat to head back to the hotel.
There was considerable publicity on posters and in guidebooks about the annual “Luminara” festival to be held in a city park that afternoon and evening, but the weather began to look threatening. Just before sunset it began to rain. We waited. Then waited some more. It seemed as though the heaviest rain had slacked off, so we put on rain jackets and started to walk down to the park. We saw lots of wet, bedraggled people heading the other way, many of them herding young children in soggy, drooping costumes.
A paved path led up a wooded slope in the park, and pulsing sounds of music floated down through the dark. Big drops of water dripped from overhanging branches and leaves, and I was thankful for the hooded rain jacket. Several hundred people were in the clearing at the top of the hill where the path emerged from the woods. They were jumping and twisting, arms over heads or holding long skirts up out of the mud, prancing and dancing, or standing on the sidelines clapping or nodding heads while the throbbing rhythms of the Chikoro Marimba Band pounded out through the pouring rain. There were at least five marimbas, the largest of which had deep toned wooden bars eight inches across and a couple of feet long. PVC pipes of different lengths hung underneath, resonating and amplifying the hypnotic beat.
No one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to the rain, which continued to pour down on dancers and musicians alike, and water splashed off the marimba bars as the padded mallets pounded on. The set finally came to an end, and lights on sidewalk stands began to turn off. As the marimbas were being dismantled the crowds of people began to wander off into the dark with smiles on their faces.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Adventures in British Coloumbia - July 24th
Friday, July 24th
This morning we drove down Highway 1 from Parksville to Nanaimo, where we explored the old log Bastion, built in the 1850’s by the Hudson Bay Company to protect its coal mining operations here. I marveled at an old map of the mines that showed literally hundreds of tunnels beneath the waters of the harbor. We wandered through the terraces and craft stalls overlooking the marina and harbor before heading south again.
The town of Chemainus, pronounced Chuh-MAIN-us, used to be a prosperous lumbering town before the sawmill shut down. In 1982 the town began to invite artists to paint murals depicting different aspects of the town’s history on buildings around the town. Today there are 39, with several more planned.
We ate lunch in the city park while listening to a Bolivian musician playing flutes and panpipes, and then took a walking tour. We covered the remaining 78 km to Victoria in the afternoon, checked into a motel near the city center, and were hosted for dinner at Gale and Sabra’s house.
This morning we drove down Highway 1 from Parksville to Nanaimo, where we explored the old log Bastion, built in the 1850’s by the Hudson Bay Company to protect its coal mining operations here. I marveled at an old map of the mines that showed literally hundreds of tunnels beneath the waters of the harbor. We wandered through the terraces and craft stalls overlooking the marina and harbor before heading south again.
The town of Chemainus, pronounced Chuh-MAIN-us, used to be a prosperous lumbering town before the sawmill shut down. In 1982 the town began to invite artists to paint murals depicting different aspects of the town’s history on buildings around the town. Today there are 39, with several more planned.
We ate lunch in the city park while listening to a Bolivian musician playing flutes and panpipes, and then took a walking tour. We covered the remaining 78 km to Victoria in the afternoon, checked into a motel near the city center, and were hosted for dinner at Gale and Sabra’s house.
Adventures in British Coloumbia - July 23rd
Thursday, July 23rd
Woke up early, and at 7:00 I decided to do my run in the morning instead of the afternoon. I peeked out the door of the motel to find thick fog obscuring everything more than a couple of blocks away. After some stretching I stepped back in to take off my fleece so I wouldn’t overheat, and removed my glasses since they don’t have windshield wipers! The first few minutes of running were chilly with the air at 52 degrees and the wind blowing a fine misty rain, but I warmed up quickly. I ran down the main road two miles toward the edge of Tofino, then back again along the same up and down undulating bike path. When I got back I was delighted to find that I had clicked off four miles in 39 minutes, 30 seconds…better than a 10 minute per mile average…the best I’ve done in a long time.
We went for breakfast at Darwin’s Garden, a botanical garden, then drove south out of Tofino south along the coast. We drove up the steep incline of Radar Hill where there is supposedly a fine view of the surrounding mountains, sounds and islands, but all we saw was thick fog. We parked the car at Long Beach, wedged in between bushes on one side and an enclosed utility trailer, one of several belonging to various surfing instruction companies. A short walk through wind-twisted evergreens brought us to a wide, hard packed sandy beach sloping very gently to the edge of the water almost a quarter mile away. We could just make out many moving black spots looming in the fog at the edge of gently breaking waves. This may be the most popular surfing beach in all of British Columbia. One of the surfers told us that the summer waves, generally 2-3 feet were mostly for beginners, and that the big waves that come roaring in from the northwest on the backs of winter storms bring out the serious surfers.
We drove a little farther to the Wickanannish Beach, where there is an interpretive center. The upper edge of this beach was covered with tumble-worn logs, piled in a jumble that looked like giant pick-up sticks. There were only a few surfers here at the far end of the beach, away from the offshore rocks and the closer in sand bars at this end that create wicked rip currents that sweep rapidly far out from the shoreline. We briefly considered having lunch at a restaurant there, overlooking the surf, but a plain hamburger was $13, and the prices went up from there.
We drove on toward the other oceanside town of Ucluelet (pronounced Oo-CLUE-eh-let). There the meandering hilly streets gave vistas of a small bay and led us to the Canadian Coast Guard station and the Amphitrite Lighthouse on a rocky point at the end of town. We walked down to look at the tidepools and surging surf, and found a nice bench in the warm sunlight that was finally beginning to burn of the morning’s thick fog, and sat there for awhile, listening to the groaning and moaning of a buoy bobbing on the waves a few hundred yards off the end of the point. We made a quick trip back to the car to get lunch materials, and on the way back, I could have sworn I heard the WHOOSH! of a whale’s spout. Soon after, we saw a boat heavily loaded with people, surging and rocking its way across the swells not far from shore, and saw people pointing and calling out to each other. Sure enough, a few seconds later a humpback whale surfaced, took a quick breath, and submerged again. Perhaps 30 seconds later the whale repeated the performance, then again, and one more time before disappearing to stay under for awhile, looking for tasty snacks.
In the late afternoon we started on the sinuous road back across the spine of Vancouver Island. Reaching the east coast, we turned south again and stopped for the evening at Parksville. We had an inexpensive, but delicious dinner at Tim Hortons, dessert at a Dairy Queen, and then drove down to the beach to watch the sunset at 9:15 p.m.
Woke up early, and at 7:00 I decided to do my run in the morning instead of the afternoon. I peeked out the door of the motel to find thick fog obscuring everything more than a couple of blocks away. After some stretching I stepped back in to take off my fleece so I wouldn’t overheat, and removed my glasses since they don’t have windshield wipers! The first few minutes of running were chilly with the air at 52 degrees and the wind blowing a fine misty rain, but I warmed up quickly. I ran down the main road two miles toward the edge of Tofino, then back again along the same up and down undulating bike path. When I got back I was delighted to find that I had clicked off four miles in 39 minutes, 30 seconds…better than a 10 minute per mile average…the best I’ve done in a long time.
We went for breakfast at Darwin’s Garden, a botanical garden, then drove south out of Tofino south along the coast. We drove up the steep incline of Radar Hill where there is supposedly a fine view of the surrounding mountains, sounds and islands, but all we saw was thick fog. We parked the car at Long Beach, wedged in between bushes on one side and an enclosed utility trailer, one of several belonging to various surfing instruction companies. A short walk through wind-twisted evergreens brought us to a wide, hard packed sandy beach sloping very gently to the edge of the water almost a quarter mile away. We could just make out many moving black spots looming in the fog at the edge of gently breaking waves. This may be the most popular surfing beach in all of British Columbia. One of the surfers told us that the summer waves, generally 2-3 feet were mostly for beginners, and that the big waves that come roaring in from the northwest on the backs of winter storms bring out the serious surfers.
We drove a little farther to the Wickanannish Beach, where there is an interpretive center. The upper edge of this beach was covered with tumble-worn logs, piled in a jumble that looked like giant pick-up sticks. There were only a few surfers here at the far end of the beach, away from the offshore rocks and the closer in sand bars at this end that create wicked rip currents that sweep rapidly far out from the shoreline. We briefly considered having lunch at a restaurant there, overlooking the surf, but a plain hamburger was $13, and the prices went up from there.
We drove on toward the other oceanside town of Ucluelet (pronounced Oo-CLUE-eh-let). There the meandering hilly streets gave vistas of a small bay and led us to the Canadian Coast Guard station and the Amphitrite Lighthouse on a rocky point at the end of town. We walked down to look at the tidepools and surging surf, and found a nice bench in the warm sunlight that was finally beginning to burn of the morning’s thick fog, and sat there for awhile, listening to the groaning and moaning of a buoy bobbing on the waves a few hundred yards off the end of the point. We made a quick trip back to the car to get lunch materials, and on the way back, I could have sworn I heard the WHOOSH! of a whale’s spout. Soon after, we saw a boat heavily loaded with people, surging and rocking its way across the swells not far from shore, and saw people pointing and calling out to each other. Sure enough, a few seconds later a humpback whale surfaced, took a quick breath, and submerged again. Perhaps 30 seconds later the whale repeated the performance, then again, and one more time before disappearing to stay under for awhile, looking for tasty snacks.
In the late afternoon we started on the sinuous road back across the spine of Vancouver Island. Reaching the east coast, we turned south again and stopped for the evening at Parksville. We had an inexpensive, but delicious dinner at Tim Hortons, dessert at a Dairy Queen, and then drove down to the beach to watch the sunset at 9:15 p.m.
Adventures in British Columbia - July 22nd
Wednesday, July 22nd
We got a leisurely start this morning after a sumptuous gourmet breakfast prepared by Bill and Agathe the Bed & Breakfast hosts.
We drove to Qualicum Beach, where we turned toward the west coast town of Tofino on Highway 4, the Pacific Rim Hwy. We spent a pleasant couple of hours a short distance out of town, exploring the provincial park at Little Qualicum River. There is a narrow, sheer sided rocky gorge here, and impressive waterfalls that plunge down into deep crystal clear pools that reflect back the green of the surrounding forest.
We stopped at Cathedral Grove where there were cedar, spruce, and hemlock trees twelve feet in diameter and as much as eight hundred years old. Nowhere else have I had the same sense of awe that I’ve felt when walking through groves of ancient California redwoods. One of the unexpected differences between these groves and the redwood groves was that the air here smelled like Christmas trees!
We drove on a narrow winding road through towering jagged mountains with patches of snow lingering on the upper rocky slopes. We stopped for a picnic lunch in Port Alberni, then on along more twisting and turning two lane road, pulling off frequently at wide spots to allow the cars piling up behind us to go whisking past. I was reminded of a very different but strangely similar road to Hana in Hawaii. There are two kinds of travelers on both roads: those who take the time to take the curves gently, driving slowly and stopping often to absorb the beauty of the surroundings, and those who take pride in their ability to squeeze every mile per hour out of their cars as they careen around the turns.
Late in the afternoon we drove along the shores of the huge Kennedy Lake and pulled into Tofino. Evergreens crowd the edges of the road and occupy the spaces between buildings. It some ways it is reminiscent of the town of Carmel, California. The air is chilly, and filled with the pungent iodine smell of the kelp beds offshore. Like Carmel, Tofino is an artsy community and a get-away destination for the well-to-do. It is passed around with not too secret pride that John Travolta maintains a place here. There are lots of art galleries and crafts shops, and prices for everything from meals to lodging are exorbitant.
Tofino is also a surfing destination. Wide flat beaches and gentle waves that surfers can ride for long distances attract novices to practice in the summer fog, and professional surfers from all over the world to ride the big storm waves in the winter months. You might even say that Tofino has surfing mania; even the drugstore sells wetsuits!
We got a leisurely start this morning after a sumptuous gourmet breakfast prepared by Bill and Agathe the Bed & Breakfast hosts.
We drove to Qualicum Beach, where we turned toward the west coast town of Tofino on Highway 4, the Pacific Rim Hwy. We spent a pleasant couple of hours a short distance out of town, exploring the provincial park at Little Qualicum River. There is a narrow, sheer sided rocky gorge here, and impressive waterfalls that plunge down into deep crystal clear pools that reflect back the green of the surrounding forest.
We stopped at Cathedral Grove where there were cedar, spruce, and hemlock trees twelve feet in diameter and as much as eight hundred years old. Nowhere else have I had the same sense of awe that I’ve felt when walking through groves of ancient California redwoods. One of the unexpected differences between these groves and the redwood groves was that the air here smelled like Christmas trees!
We drove on a narrow winding road through towering jagged mountains with patches of snow lingering on the upper rocky slopes. We stopped for a picnic lunch in Port Alberni, then on along more twisting and turning two lane road, pulling off frequently at wide spots to allow the cars piling up behind us to go whisking past. I was reminded of a very different but strangely similar road to Hana in Hawaii. There are two kinds of travelers on both roads: those who take the time to take the curves gently, driving slowly and stopping often to absorb the beauty of the surroundings, and those who take pride in their ability to squeeze every mile per hour out of their cars as they careen around the turns.
Late in the afternoon we drove along the shores of the huge Kennedy Lake and pulled into Tofino. Evergreens crowd the edges of the road and occupy the spaces between buildings. It some ways it is reminiscent of the town of Carmel, California. The air is chilly, and filled with the pungent iodine smell of the kelp beds offshore. Like Carmel, Tofino is an artsy community and a get-away destination for the well-to-do. It is passed around with not too secret pride that John Travolta maintains a place here. There are lots of art galleries and crafts shops, and prices for everything from meals to lodging are exorbitant.
Tofino is also a surfing destination. Wide flat beaches and gentle waves that surfers can ride for long distances attract novices to practice in the summer fog, and professional surfers from all over the world to ride the big storm waves in the winter months. You might even say that Tofino has surfing mania; even the drugstore sells wetsuits!
Adventures in British Columbia - July 21st
Tuesday, July 21st
We got a leisurely start down Highway 19, and at the town of Campbell River turned onto 19A, which runs along the eastern shoreline of Vancouver Island instead of down the middle. We passed through several small waterfront towns, mostly places for vacation homes.
At Buckley Bay we took the ferry across the narrow Straight of Georgia to Denman Island. There is an “almost village” there with a post office and a few craft stores, and not much else. We drove to the north end of the island, and then back down the main road that crosses the island west to east. This connects to a second ferry to Hornby Island, but we opted to explore Boyle Point Provincial Park.
We took about a mile hike through woods to the point on the southern tip of the island. A very narrow channel separates Denman from the tiny Chrome Island and its lighthouse. We barely made it back to the dock in time to catch the 4:30 ferry. We were the last car aboard.
Just a short distance on south down 19A in the town of Fanny Bay we found the Ships Point Bed & Breakfast. The view is spectacular from the deck of this house on a promontory that overlooks the Strait of Georgia and Denman Island. The owners were gracious, but unobtrusive hosts who obviously take great pride in their home and garden.
We got a leisurely start down Highway 19, and at the town of Campbell River turned onto 19A, which runs along the eastern shoreline of Vancouver Island instead of down the middle. We passed through several small waterfront towns, mostly places for vacation homes.
At Buckley Bay we took the ferry across the narrow Straight of Georgia to Denman Island. There is an “almost village” there with a post office and a few craft stores, and not much else. We drove to the north end of the island, and then back down the main road that crosses the island west to east. This connects to a second ferry to Hornby Island, but we opted to explore Boyle Point Provincial Park.
We took about a mile hike through woods to the point on the southern tip of the island. A very narrow channel separates Denman from the tiny Chrome Island and its lighthouse. We barely made it back to the dock in time to catch the 4:30 ferry. We were the last car aboard.
Just a short distance on south down 19A in the town of Fanny Bay we found the Ships Point Bed & Breakfast. The view is spectacular from the deck of this house on a promontory that overlooks the Strait of Georgia and Denman Island. The owners were gracious, but unobtrusive hosts who obviously take great pride in their home and garden.
Adventures in British Columbia - July 20th
Monday, July 20th
I walked up Main Street in Port Hardy past the totem pole at the corner of Hastings to the coffee shop to have French toast while Jane used the motel internet connection. We checked out at 11:00, heading south. On a winding side road that led to the east coast we passed Beaver Cove, a HUGE log sorting operation. An enormous area of the cove was filled with floating logs waiting to be bundled into rafts to be towed to a sawmill. On land, giant front end loaders with big steel claws in place of scoops picked up eight or ten logs at a time, moving them around to different piles according to size. Deformed logs or those that were too short were dumped sideways into the maw of a machine whose spinning innards chewed them quickly into shreds that were carried away along a conveyor belt to some unknown destination. Other machines grabbed the piles of sorted logs, whipping bands around them to tie them into bundles, and trundled them to the edge of the water where they were dumped. Tiny little boats, tipping and rocking alarmingly, their narrow widths and high pilot houses making them look in constant danger of capsizing, scurried around a very large pond, pushing and nudging the groups of logs into larger collections to be rafted together.
A few miles farther we came to Telegraph Cove, an interesting collection of quaint old small houses balanced touching a steep, heavily forested slope and extending mostly out on pilings over the water. Long ago it was a logging camp, then a fishing village. Now it has a marina and a big motel out over the water on the opposite side of the small cove. It provides services for private recreational fishing boats that take advantage of the strong tides through a narrow channel that brings rich nutrients to the surface for the salmon that abound here.
Driving south again on Hwy 19 we pulled off at a rest stop, and discovered a nice woodland trail along the side of a beautiful lake. A short walk down a trail to the water’s edge revealed how quickly the land can recover from clear-cut logging. Pines, spruce, cedar, and alder trees with trunks a foot or more in diameter provided dense shade for ferns and other low bushes that lined a pleasant path that used to be a logging railroad bed.
Another hour’s drive brought us to the little town of Sayward. Driving along a narrow two lane road through scattered houses, we never did find any town center. We continued a way down the road to Kelsey Bay. There IS a discernable village here, set around a green, and just a bit farther, a bay opening into the sound. There WAS a big logging operation here sometime in the not too distant past, but everything is shut down and empty. Very strong winds were whipping up big whitecaps on the channel outside the bay. There were a few boats huddled behind a massive breakwater of large sharp rocks at the left edge of the bay, and several rusting hulks of old ships formed a gloomy looking breakwater on the opposite side. Describe the Cable Cookhouse.
Driving back up the road almost to Hwy 19 we checked into the last available cabin at “The Fisherboy” motel/campground. All the rest of the accommodations were occupied by firefighters who spent each day miles away battling a forest blaze in a box canyon over some distant ridge. They showed up with blackened faces and clothes at around 9 p.m. an hour before sunset, looking pretty exhausted at about the same time I showed up, also exhausted, after running 10k. There was much chuckling, not-very-well-muted commentary, and elbow nudging about my short running shorts on their part as I turned my back to go into the cabin.
I walked up Main Street in Port Hardy past the totem pole at the corner of Hastings to the coffee shop to have French toast while Jane used the motel internet connection. We checked out at 11:00, heading south. On a winding side road that led to the east coast we passed Beaver Cove, a HUGE log sorting operation. An enormous area of the cove was filled with floating logs waiting to be bundled into rafts to be towed to a sawmill. On land, giant front end loaders with big steel claws in place of scoops picked up eight or ten logs at a time, moving them around to different piles according to size. Deformed logs or those that were too short were dumped sideways into the maw of a machine whose spinning innards chewed them quickly into shreds that were carried away along a conveyor belt to some unknown destination. Other machines grabbed the piles of sorted logs, whipping bands around them to tie them into bundles, and trundled them to the edge of the water where they were dumped. Tiny little boats, tipping and rocking alarmingly, their narrow widths and high pilot houses making them look in constant danger of capsizing, scurried around a very large pond, pushing and nudging the groups of logs into larger collections to be rafted together.
A few miles farther we came to Telegraph Cove, an interesting collection of quaint old small houses balanced touching a steep, heavily forested slope and extending mostly out on pilings over the water. Long ago it was a logging camp, then a fishing village. Now it has a marina and a big motel out over the water on the opposite side of the small cove. It provides services for private recreational fishing boats that take advantage of the strong tides through a narrow channel that brings rich nutrients to the surface for the salmon that abound here.
Driving south again on Hwy 19 we pulled off at a rest stop, and discovered a nice woodland trail along the side of a beautiful lake. A short walk down a trail to the water’s edge revealed how quickly the land can recover from clear-cut logging. Pines, spruce, cedar, and alder trees with trunks a foot or more in diameter provided dense shade for ferns and other low bushes that lined a pleasant path that used to be a logging railroad bed.
Another hour’s drive brought us to the little town of Sayward. Driving along a narrow two lane road through scattered houses, we never did find any town center. We continued a way down the road to Kelsey Bay. There IS a discernable village here, set around a green, and just a bit farther, a bay opening into the sound. There WAS a big logging operation here sometime in the not too distant past, but everything is shut down and empty. Very strong winds were whipping up big whitecaps on the channel outside the bay. There were a few boats huddled behind a massive breakwater of large sharp rocks at the left edge of the bay, and several rusting hulks of old ships formed a gloomy looking breakwater on the opposite side. Describe the Cable Cookhouse.
Driving back up the road almost to Hwy 19 we checked into the last available cabin at “The Fisherboy” motel/campground. All the rest of the accommodations were occupied by firefighters who spent each day miles away battling a forest blaze in a box canyon over some distant ridge. They showed up with blackened faces and clothes at around 9 p.m. an hour before sunset, looking pretty exhausted at about the same time I showed up, also exhausted, after running 10k. There was much chuckling, not-very-well-muted commentary, and elbow nudging about my short running shorts on their part as I turned my back to go into the cabin.
Adventures in British Columbia - July 19th
Sunday, July 19th
We woke up early the next morning in Port Hardy, and walked a few blocks down Main Street for some breakfast at the coffee shop. We drove in two cars a few miles south to Port McNeill to meet the whale watching boat.
At the appointed hour we roared off south down the straight at about 40 mph to pick up a family at Hidden Cove, past Alert Bay. When they were safely aboard we hurtled back north again, flying along at full speed past McNeill, Port Hardy, Bell Island, Hurst Island, Balaklava Island, and Scarlet Point out into the Queen Charlotte Straight. Once we reached open water the captain slowed to a stop and turned off the engines. Lowering a hydrophone, he listened in vain for whale sounds.
Dense morning fog hung low over the water, obscuring vision and deadening sounds. The engines rumbled into life again, and the captain proceeded with more caution now, keeping a close eye on the radar screen. He spotted the approaching sailboat several minutes before it loomed out of the fog a few hundred yards off the port bow. Another ten minutes farther out into open water the captain stopped the engines again to listen, but still there were no sounds of whales in the area.
W started slowly back on a course to Port McNeill, and at this point we all thought that it would turn out to be a nice, but expensive boat ride. Fifteen minutes later we spotted the surfacing and spouting of a pod of orcas, and eased over slowly to meet them. The captain stayed the required 100 meters away, and we wallowed along slowly beside them for the better part of an hour. Individual pods of orcas are led by an elder female. Babies born into that pod stay with their mothers for life. Although males will swim with other pods long enough to find a mate and procreate, they always come back to mother. This particular pod was unusual. Several years ago a dying mother orca was found with a severely malnourished baby. The mother died soon after, and rescuers took the baby to be nursed back to health. After more than a year in a large open water pen near the shore the youngster was deemed healthy enough to be released. It soon found a pod to swim with, but wasn’t well tolerated, and soon left. After some time on its own it began to swim with the pod we saw, and was soon adopted into the family. We could see this young whale surfacing along with the others, still not fully grown at age nine.
We got a special treat when one orca swam leisurely under the boat, just a few feet below the surface. We cruised with them for at least an hour before coming back to Port McNeill.
We drove back to Port Hardy where we said goodbye to Jerry, Ruth, John, and Sheila. They headed off to the airport to catch the small plane to Vancouver, where they would stay overnight before their Monday morning flight back to Richmond.
There were festivities that afternoon and evening as people from miles around came into town to celebrate FILOMI Days. FIshing, LOgging, and MIning are the three industries that support the Port Hardy Economy. There was over-amplified rock and country music coming from a portable bandstand that had been parked at the curb next to the waterfront park, a small array of the midway arcade booths you can find at any county fair, face painting for the kids, and an unusual attraction consisting of a twenty-by-twenty foot inflatable pool filled with water and three very large inflatable transparent plastic balls. Kids would climb inside a ball which was then inflated, zipped, and velcroed, then rolled onto the surface of the pond. Big crowds watched with great amusement and the kids tried to stand and walk or run, but mostly fell down inside the floating balls. The crowds began to pack up and head for home when the sun set about 9:00 p.m. and we headed back to the motel.
We woke up early the next morning in Port Hardy, and walked a few blocks down Main Street for some breakfast at the coffee shop. We drove in two cars a few miles south to Port McNeill to meet the whale watching boat.
At the appointed hour we roared off south down the straight at about 40 mph to pick up a family at Hidden Cove, past Alert Bay. When they were safely aboard we hurtled back north again, flying along at full speed past McNeill, Port Hardy, Bell Island, Hurst Island, Balaklava Island, and Scarlet Point out into the Queen Charlotte Straight. Once we reached open water the captain slowed to a stop and turned off the engines. Lowering a hydrophone, he listened in vain for whale sounds.
Dense morning fog hung low over the water, obscuring vision and deadening sounds. The engines rumbled into life again, and the captain proceeded with more caution now, keeping a close eye on the radar screen. He spotted the approaching sailboat several minutes before it loomed out of the fog a few hundred yards off the port bow. Another ten minutes farther out into open water the captain stopped the engines again to listen, but still there were no sounds of whales in the area.
W started slowly back on a course to Port McNeill, and at this point we all thought that it would turn out to be a nice, but expensive boat ride. Fifteen minutes later we spotted the surfacing and spouting of a pod of orcas, and eased over slowly to meet them. The captain stayed the required 100 meters away, and we wallowed along slowly beside them for the better part of an hour. Individual pods of orcas are led by an elder female. Babies born into that pod stay with their mothers for life. Although males will swim with other pods long enough to find a mate and procreate, they always come back to mother. This particular pod was unusual. Several years ago a dying mother orca was found with a severely malnourished baby. The mother died soon after, and rescuers took the baby to be nursed back to health. After more than a year in a large open water pen near the shore the youngster was deemed healthy enough to be released. It soon found a pod to swim with, but wasn’t well tolerated, and soon left. After some time on its own it began to swim with the pod we saw, and was soon adopted into the family. We could see this young whale surfacing along with the others, still not fully grown at age nine.
We got a special treat when one orca swam leisurely under the boat, just a few feet below the surface. We cruised with them for at least an hour before coming back to Port McNeill.
We drove back to Port Hardy where we said goodbye to Jerry, Ruth, John, and Sheila. They headed off to the airport to catch the small plane to Vancouver, where they would stay overnight before their Monday morning flight back to Richmond.
There were festivities that afternoon and evening as people from miles around came into town to celebrate FILOMI Days. FIshing, LOgging, and MIning are the three industries that support the Port Hardy Economy. There was over-amplified rock and country music coming from a portable bandstand that had been parked at the curb next to the waterfront park, a small array of the midway arcade booths you can find at any county fair, face painting for the kids, and an unusual attraction consisting of a twenty-by-twenty foot inflatable pool filled with water and three very large inflatable transparent plastic balls. Kids would climb inside a ball which was then inflated, zipped, and velcroed, then rolled onto the surface of the pond. Big crowds watched with great amusement and the kids tried to stand and walk or run, but mostly fell down inside the floating balls. The crowds began to pack up and head for home when the sun set about 9:00 p.m. and we headed back to the motel.
Adventures in British Columbia - July 18th
Saturday, July 18th
Saturday morning we made one last trip down to the dock, this time hauling our suitcases to be stowed aboard the launch “Hurst Isle” for the trip back to Port Hardy. Once again the day was cool and grey, and the water was an undulant grey mirror that we skimmed across. While our traveling companions dragged luggage up the ramp to the pier I jogged back the four blocks to the motel to pick up the rental car waiting for us in the parking lot.
I transferred luggage to the motel and then took our friends to the Port Hardy airport to pick up a second rental car. We drove in two cars to Port McNeill to catch walk-on ferry to Cormorant Island and the town of Alert Bay.
We ambled along the waterfront street passing a well-used marina occupied by many motorboats and a few sailboats. Several ancient wooden trawlers lolled at odd angles on the rocky beach, most of their paint gone and widening gaps showing between the planks of their hulls. A cedar log at least five feet thick lay in a grass covered empty lot, showing ax-chopped holes where spring boards had been wedged in on opposite sides to provide a place for loggers to stand while sawing down the tree.
Newer cedar logs with the bark carefully removed lay near the First Nations Cultural Center, waiting to be shaped into carved poles honoring the different clans who live here. Completed totem poles had been erected near the entrance to the museum.
After exploring the cultural center we walked up the hill behind it past a decaying old three story brick building that for many years was a residential school where children were placed after being taken from their parents at age six. They were taught to speak English only, and punished if they spoke in their own tongue. By the time they had finished at least six years, it was thought that they would be fully absorbed into proper Canadian culture, and were released. Today the building is being used for offices, and there is a workshop in the basement for indigenous woodcarving.
The Big House, a very large cedar sided meeting center with a low pitched roof built by the First Nations people sits high on a hill behind the harbor. Standing far out in front was the tallest totem pole I have ever seen, probably more than one hundred feet high. The traditional figures of turtle, bear, raven, salmon, eagle, moon, sun were clearly visible on the lower parts of the pole, but it was so tall that it was hard to identify the faces near the top. At the very highest point on the pole sat a real eagle, surveying the world from his lofty perch.
We entered the meeting house through the wide front door. The inside, perhaps sixty feet wide and twice as long, was a single large room with a dirt floor and long tiered benches along each side. Parallel cedar log ridgepoles three feet in diameter spanned the entire length of the room, supporting the rafters of smaller logs. The center of the roof opened into a large rectangular cupola where the smoke from the fire burning in the middle of the room found exit.
We took seats on the side benches, and when a good crowd had gathered the performance began. Flanking the door were two winged totems depicting ravens and at the opposite end of the room two eagle totems kept watch over the single bench that faced the fire. Seated at that bench were several young people whose job it was to sing the tribal chants and keep time by pounding with short heavy sticks on a long hollowed out wooden log drum. Dancers ranging in age from four or five years old to adult demonstrated parts of the ceremonies performed to mark seasons, harvest, and fishing. It was gratifying to see that the language, the culture, and the customs of the people were experiencing a rebirth and growth in the younger people.
Saturday morning we made one last trip down to the dock, this time hauling our suitcases to be stowed aboard the launch “Hurst Isle” for the trip back to Port Hardy. Once again the day was cool and grey, and the water was an undulant grey mirror that we skimmed across. While our traveling companions dragged luggage up the ramp to the pier I jogged back the four blocks to the motel to pick up the rental car waiting for us in the parking lot.
I transferred luggage to the motel and then took our friends to the Port Hardy airport to pick up a second rental car. We drove in two cars to Port McNeill to catch walk-on ferry to Cormorant Island and the town of Alert Bay.
We ambled along the waterfront street passing a well-used marina occupied by many motorboats and a few sailboats. Several ancient wooden trawlers lolled at odd angles on the rocky beach, most of their paint gone and widening gaps showing between the planks of their hulls. A cedar log at least five feet thick lay in a grass covered empty lot, showing ax-chopped holes where spring boards had been wedged in on opposite sides to provide a place for loggers to stand while sawing down the tree.
Newer cedar logs with the bark carefully removed lay near the First Nations Cultural Center, waiting to be shaped into carved poles honoring the different clans who live here. Completed totem poles had been erected near the entrance to the museum.
After exploring the cultural center we walked up the hill behind it past a decaying old three story brick building that for many years was a residential school where children were placed after being taken from their parents at age six. They were taught to speak English only, and punished if they spoke in their own tongue. By the time they had finished at least six years, it was thought that they would be fully absorbed into proper Canadian culture, and were released. Today the building is being used for offices, and there is a workshop in the basement for indigenous woodcarving.
The Big House, a very large cedar sided meeting center with a low pitched roof built by the First Nations people sits high on a hill behind the harbor. Standing far out in front was the tallest totem pole I have ever seen, probably more than one hundred feet high. The traditional figures of turtle, bear, raven, salmon, eagle, moon, sun were clearly visible on the lower parts of the pole, but it was so tall that it was hard to identify the faces near the top. At the very highest point on the pole sat a real eagle, surveying the world from his lofty perch.
We entered the meeting house through the wide front door. The inside, perhaps sixty feet wide and twice as long, was a single large room with a dirt floor and long tiered benches along each side. Parallel cedar log ridgepoles three feet in diameter spanned the entire length of the room, supporting the rafters of smaller logs. The center of the roof opened into a large rectangular cupola where the smoke from the fire burning in the middle of the room found exit.
We took seats on the side benches, and when a good crowd had gathered the performance began. Flanking the door were two winged totems depicting ravens and at the opposite end of the room two eagle totems kept watch over the single bench that faced the fire. Seated at that bench were several young people whose job it was to sing the tribal chants and keep time by pounding with short heavy sticks on a long hollowed out wooden log drum. Dancers ranging in age from four or five years old to adult demonstrated parts of the ceremonies performed to mark seasons, harvest, and fishing. It was gratifying to see that the language, the culture, and the customs of the people were experiencing a rebirth and growth in the younger people.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - July 17th
Friday, July 17th
By now the whole crew considers itself experts, and we demonstrate our group skills as we paddle easily past the end of Balaklava and up Browning Channel all the way past Bob’s Landing, crossing the channel, and passing two small timber covered islands that guard the entrance to Alexander’s Bay, indented deeply into Nigei Island. We haul the kayaks up on a beautiful grey slate shingle beach. There are perhaps 50 feet of flat gravel beach sloping up gently to an immense linear pile of logs and driftwood, funneled into the bay by winter storms.
Immediately behind the barrier of logs is a dense forest that is almost entirely composed of spruce trees. We clambered over the log ramparts and found a trail leading off into the dark, mossy forest. We walked single file about a mile through rain forest with moss so deep and thick that it covered the forest floor like a carpet, covering the ground, the rocks, the trunks and branches of standing trees, and fallen logs and branches the littered the forest floor. The trail, twisting and turning through the jumbled old branches and fallen trees was almost invisible, and it would have been easy to wander astray if it had not been for the ugly old plastic bottles and jugs tied to branches at frequent intervals at eye level.
We emerged from the dark forest into the light at Clam Cove. Across the water was a cluster of ramshackle buildings, and I speculated that it was a tribal village. It wasn’t until later that day that I found out that it was a very run , but still operative dive center. After a brief pause on the shore of the cove, some scurried and others ambled back to the beach at Alexander’s Bay for lunch. By the time we had all regrouped the morning overcast had cleared almost completely, and it was actually hot. I wandered a few hundred yards down the beach and around a huge pile of driftwood, and felt inspired to test the water. It was icy, but refreshing in the heat of the afternoon. After putting my clothes back on and returning, a couple of others also wandered down to that sheltered part of the beach to indulge in the pleasures of skinny dipping.
It was late in the afternoon before we started the long, hard, five mile paddle back to the cabins. As we crossed the last half mile of channel to the dock we must have been a sight. Eight long kayaks moved as a phalanx, sandwiched close together in perfect formation, paddles dipping vigorously, surging ahead of the others a foot or two for mere seconds before the falling back again. We were tired and winded as we hauled the kayaks up on the dock one last time. It was a perfect ending for an adventure filled week.
By now the whole crew considers itself experts, and we demonstrate our group skills as we paddle easily past the end of Balaklava and up Browning Channel all the way past Bob’s Landing, crossing the channel, and passing two small timber covered islands that guard the entrance to Alexander’s Bay, indented deeply into Nigei Island. We haul the kayaks up on a beautiful grey slate shingle beach. There are perhaps 50 feet of flat gravel beach sloping up gently to an immense linear pile of logs and driftwood, funneled into the bay by winter storms.
Immediately behind the barrier of logs is a dense forest that is almost entirely composed of spruce trees. We clambered over the log ramparts and found a trail leading off into the dark, mossy forest. We walked single file about a mile through rain forest with moss so deep and thick that it covered the forest floor like a carpet, covering the ground, the rocks, the trunks and branches of standing trees, and fallen logs and branches the littered the forest floor. The trail, twisting and turning through the jumbled old branches and fallen trees was almost invisible, and it would have been easy to wander astray if it had not been for the ugly old plastic bottles and jugs tied to branches at frequent intervals at eye level.
We emerged from the dark forest into the light at Clam Cove. Across the water was a cluster of ramshackle buildings, and I speculated that it was a tribal village. It wasn’t until later that day that I found out that it was a very run , but still operative dive center. After a brief pause on the shore of the cove, some scurried and others ambled back to the beach at Alexander’s Bay for lunch. By the time we had all regrouped the morning overcast had cleared almost completely, and it was actually hot. I wandered a few hundred yards down the beach and around a huge pile of driftwood, and felt inspired to test the water. It was icy, but refreshing in the heat of the afternoon. After putting my clothes back on and returning, a couple of others also wandered down to that sheltered part of the beach to indulge in the pleasures of skinny dipping.
It was late in the afternoon before we started the long, hard, five mile paddle back to the cabins. As we crossed the last half mile of channel to the dock we must have been a sight. Eight long kayaks moved as a phalanx, sandwiched close together in perfect formation, paddles dipping vigorously, surging ahead of the others a foot or two for mere seconds before the falling back again. We were tired and winded as we hauled the kayaks up on the dock one last time. It was a perfect ending for an adventure filled week.
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - July 16th
Thursday, July 16th
This misty morning we had a strenuous pull across the Christie Channel and up along the eastern shore of Balaklava. The lighthouse at Scarlett Point came into view as we neared the northern end of the island. It perches on a promontory at the top of steep cliffs close to a small indentation in the shoreline that leads to a cleft in the rock only a few feet wide.
Spanning the gap of the small bay, a thick cable droops its catenary curve toward the kelp floating below, and at the low point, an attached rope with a bulbous float hangs to within 20 feet of the water. High on the lighthouse rocks above a cable and pulley with a winch attached stands ready to be lowered, spider-like to pick up cargo whenever a supply boat stops below.
We string out single file and paddle one by one under the cable lift and through the narrow opening into a small shallow lagoon. Scattered along the wooded shore are old channel marker buoys, a barnacle-encrusted marine railway, several ancient outboard motorboats sleeping on cushions of old tires, and a boardwalk leading up the slope into the trees. We lift the kayaks carefully only a little way onto the rough shore, since the tide is ebbing, and walk along a path into the woods.
Walking in the temperate rainforests of British Columbia you can still believe in magic. The forest floor is springy underfoot where thick layers of moss cushion each step and mute all sound. The grey misty daylight struggles down through branches of close growing cedar and hemlock, and you feel compelled to tiptoe, talking only in soft voices, half-expecting wood-nymphs to peek from behind moss covered tree trunks or to duck behind tangled windfalls.
A short climb brought us to the top of a rocky cliff at the edge of the forest to a view of the wide Queen Charlotte Channel, with other dark islands looming out of the fog in the distance. The breeze off the cold water was chilly, and we turned back into the still woods to make our way down to the lighthouse.
Unlike the United States where virtually all of the lighthouses have been automated, in British Columbia most are still manned. As we strolled out into the cleared area close to the lighthouse we were met by Ivan, the head keeper at Scarlett Point. After serving as an assistant at several other lighthouses he was certified as a head lighthouse keeper, and has been living here for the past seven years in one of two houses on the grounds. The second house is assigned to the assistant lighthouse keeper, who was presently away on vacation for a week.
Ivan obviously loves his job, and took great pleasure in telling us about the operation of the light and its equipment. He said that only a week before he had stood for several hours watching the annual return of hundreds of orcas following the movable feast of salmon that are heading in to spawn in the rivers where they were born.
Deer are frequent visitors, for they enjoy nibbling the acres of grass that cover the grounds. Several, including a doe and very young fawn, wandered along the edges of the grounds, apparently unconcerned about the presence of human visitors.
By the time we had returned to the kayaks the lagoon had drained almost completely, the tidal ebb looking like a rushing mountain stream. Ribbon and leaves of seaweed were now the only cover for rocks that had been underwater when we arrived. Every few seconds, small jets of water shot a foot or two into the air as hidden clams squirted miniature geysers from their siphons. We had to wait a half hour for slack tide to make our escape. When we observed the saltwater river reverse its direction and beginning to flow back into the lagoon we launched our kayaks, and steered a narrow winding route between rocks and through thick kelp to make our way to open water. There were strong winds and following waves at our back as we paddled down the Christie Channel, speeding us on our way back to God’s Pocket, but by the time we had finished dinner the surface was once again as smooth as glass in the low rays of the setting sun.
Bill and Anne, the owners of the God’s Pocket Resort invited the lot of us out for an evening sunset cruise, and we all trooped down to the big motor launch. As the sun disappeared behind the ridges of Nigei Island we spotted a humpback whale spouting in the distance. Bill spun the wheel and headed over to where we had last seen the whale. Everyone was watching on the port side of boat, waiting for it to surface again when there was a loud WHOOSH off to the starboard. The whale had swum directly underneath us and surfaced about 30 yards away with an exhalation of fish-breath!
After the excitement Bill took boat up the channel between Balaklava and the Lucan Islands, along the Browning wall, all the way past Point Scarlet, flashing its beacon in the gathering darkness. By the time we had sped back down the Christie Channel and had tied up again at the dock it was 10:30, and we all headed for bed at the end of a wonderful day.
This misty morning we had a strenuous pull across the Christie Channel and up along the eastern shore of Balaklava. The lighthouse at Scarlett Point came into view as we neared the northern end of the island. It perches on a promontory at the top of steep cliffs close to a small indentation in the shoreline that leads to a cleft in the rock only a few feet wide.
Spanning the gap of the small bay, a thick cable droops its catenary curve toward the kelp floating below, and at the low point, an attached rope with a bulbous float hangs to within 20 feet of the water. High on the lighthouse rocks above a cable and pulley with a winch attached stands ready to be lowered, spider-like to pick up cargo whenever a supply boat stops below.
We string out single file and paddle one by one under the cable lift and through the narrow opening into a small shallow lagoon. Scattered along the wooded shore are old channel marker buoys, a barnacle-encrusted marine railway, several ancient outboard motorboats sleeping on cushions of old tires, and a boardwalk leading up the slope into the trees. We lift the kayaks carefully only a little way onto the rough shore, since the tide is ebbing, and walk along a path into the woods.
Walking in the temperate rainforests of British Columbia you can still believe in magic. The forest floor is springy underfoot where thick layers of moss cushion each step and mute all sound. The grey misty daylight struggles down through branches of close growing cedar and hemlock, and you feel compelled to tiptoe, talking only in soft voices, half-expecting wood-nymphs to peek from behind moss covered tree trunks or to duck behind tangled windfalls.
A short climb brought us to the top of a rocky cliff at the edge of the forest to a view of the wide Queen Charlotte Channel, with other dark islands looming out of the fog in the distance. The breeze off the cold water was chilly, and we turned back into the still woods to make our way down to the lighthouse.
Unlike the United States where virtually all of the lighthouses have been automated, in British Columbia most are still manned. As we strolled out into the cleared area close to the lighthouse we were met by Ivan, the head keeper at Scarlett Point. After serving as an assistant at several other lighthouses he was certified as a head lighthouse keeper, and has been living here for the past seven years in one of two houses on the grounds. The second house is assigned to the assistant lighthouse keeper, who was presently away on vacation for a week.
Ivan obviously loves his job, and took great pleasure in telling us about the operation of the light and its equipment. He said that only a week before he had stood for several hours watching the annual return of hundreds of orcas following the movable feast of salmon that are heading in to spawn in the rivers where they were born.
Deer are frequent visitors, for they enjoy nibbling the acres of grass that cover the grounds. Several, including a doe and very young fawn, wandered along the edges of the grounds, apparently unconcerned about the presence of human visitors.
By the time we had returned to the kayaks the lagoon had drained almost completely, the tidal ebb looking like a rushing mountain stream. Ribbon and leaves of seaweed were now the only cover for rocks that had been underwater when we arrived. Every few seconds, small jets of water shot a foot or two into the air as hidden clams squirted miniature geysers from their siphons. We had to wait a half hour for slack tide to make our escape. When we observed the saltwater river reverse its direction and beginning to flow back into the lagoon we launched our kayaks, and steered a narrow winding route between rocks and through thick kelp to make our way to open water. There were strong winds and following waves at our back as we paddled down the Christie Channel, speeding us on our way back to God’s Pocket, but by the time we had finished dinner the surface was once again as smooth as glass in the low rays of the setting sun.
Bill and Anne, the owners of the God’s Pocket Resort invited the lot of us out for an evening sunset cruise, and we all trooped down to the big motor launch. As the sun disappeared behind the ridges of Nigei Island we spotted a humpback whale spouting in the distance. Bill spun the wheel and headed over to where we had last seen the whale. Everyone was watching on the port side of boat, waiting for it to surface again when there was a loud WHOOSH off to the starboard. The whale had swum directly underneath us and surfaced about 30 yards away with an exhalation of fish-breath!
After the excitement Bill took boat up the channel between Balaklava and the Lucan Islands, along the Browning wall, all the way past Point Scarlet, flashing its beacon in the gathering darkness. By the time we had sped back down the Christie Channel and had tied up again at the dock it was 10:30, and we all headed for bed at the end of a wonderful day.
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - July 15th
Wednesday, July 15th
There is such an abundance and variety of delicious food each morning at God’s Pocket that I have to restrain myself at breakfast. By now all of us here have bonded as a single group, a team, a crew. We waddle away from the dining room/kitchen cabin to get ready for the day’s activities, and are all reassembled down by the kayaks on the dock at 9:00. This morning Dan turns to the right as we leave the tiny bay to skirt the shoreline of Hurst Island.
We see eagles on the rocks. We see eagles perched high on bare branches of trees overlooking the water. We see eagles in flight. It seems there are eagles everywhere, especially when the salmon are running. Dan, our guide from Sea Kayak Adventures jokingly says that there are so many eagles around that they call them Vancouver Island pigeons.
Around the northern tip of Hurst Island we go, paddling through the edges of great masses of kelp, and we breathe in the pungent but pleasant smell of iodine and salt that floats like invisible fog in the chilly morning air.
Harlequin Bay, named for the harlequin ducks often seen there, cuts at an angle for perhaps a half mile into the eastern shore of Hurst Island. We stop near the head of the bay for a water break and rest before retracing our path back out.
Now heading southeast we reach then southern end of Hurst, and group close together, side by side, to cross the deep, narrow channel between Hurst and Bell Island. The combined effects of strong wind and current in the Christie Channel along the steep rocky edge of Bell Island created a heavy chop that made the going hard until we reached a narrow sheltered passage less than fifty meters across. Suddenly the water was calm in the wind shadow of a small hemlock and cedar covered islet. The still water reflected back the images of the trees on both sides as we coasted along, dipping our paddles quietly. Before long we came to a shingle beach where we hauled the kayaks up on the flat-sided gravel for a lunch break.
A short steep path up the bank behind the beach led to a spot where other kayakers had camped. The thick layer of moss on the forest floor would have provided a soft mattress for anyone lying there looking out and down to the green water of the channel. A lovely boat, with sails loose and slack came softly chuff-chuffing down the passage on diesel power, rounded a bend, and slid out of sight as we made our way back down to a hearty lunch spread out on a camp table by Mike and Dan.
We were a bit anxious as we headed back along the return path, anticipating hard, wet work paddling in the open channel into the wind and choppy waves when we left protected waters. It was a welcome surprise to find that the wind had completely died. All the chop was gone, and our trip back across the passage between Bell and Hurst was no more difficult than paddling on a lake. We could focus less on the process of moving forward and more on our surroundings. We saw more eagles, and while passing through a narrow opening a few yards wide between Hurst and offshore rocks, we spotted a mink scurrying about the tide pools, hustling up some dinner. More than once while we completed the circumnavigation of Hurst Island we saw harbor seals popping up for a quick breath of air and a peek above the surface. Off in the distance the dorsal fin of a Dall’s dolphin broke the still water as we rounded the point of our bay and headed for the dock.
There is such an abundance and variety of delicious food each morning at God’s Pocket that I have to restrain myself at breakfast. By now all of us here have bonded as a single group, a team, a crew. We waddle away from the dining room/kitchen cabin to get ready for the day’s activities, and are all reassembled down by the kayaks on the dock at 9:00. This morning Dan turns to the right as we leave the tiny bay to skirt the shoreline of Hurst Island.
We see eagles on the rocks. We see eagles perched high on bare branches of trees overlooking the water. We see eagles in flight. It seems there are eagles everywhere, especially when the salmon are running. Dan, our guide from Sea Kayak Adventures jokingly says that there are so many eagles around that they call them Vancouver Island pigeons.
Around the northern tip of Hurst Island we go, paddling through the edges of great masses of kelp, and we breathe in the pungent but pleasant smell of iodine and salt that floats like invisible fog in the chilly morning air.
Harlequin Bay, named for the harlequin ducks often seen there, cuts at an angle for perhaps a half mile into the eastern shore of Hurst Island. We stop near the head of the bay for a water break and rest before retracing our path back out.
Now heading southeast we reach then southern end of Hurst, and group close together, side by side, to cross the deep, narrow channel between Hurst and Bell Island. The combined effects of strong wind and current in the Christie Channel along the steep rocky edge of Bell Island created a heavy chop that made the going hard until we reached a narrow sheltered passage less than fifty meters across. Suddenly the water was calm in the wind shadow of a small hemlock and cedar covered islet. The still water reflected back the images of the trees on both sides as we coasted along, dipping our paddles quietly. Before long we came to a shingle beach where we hauled the kayaks up on the flat-sided gravel for a lunch break.
A short steep path up the bank behind the beach led to a spot where other kayakers had camped. The thick layer of moss on the forest floor would have provided a soft mattress for anyone lying there looking out and down to the green water of the channel. A lovely boat, with sails loose and slack came softly chuff-chuffing down the passage on diesel power, rounded a bend, and slid out of sight as we made our way back down to a hearty lunch spread out on a camp table by Mike and Dan.
We were a bit anxious as we headed back along the return path, anticipating hard, wet work paddling in the open channel into the wind and choppy waves when we left protected waters. It was a welcome surprise to find that the wind had completely died. All the chop was gone, and our trip back across the passage between Bell and Hurst was no more difficult than paddling on a lake. We could focus less on the process of moving forward and more on our surroundings. We saw more eagles, and while passing through a narrow opening a few yards wide between Hurst and offshore rocks, we spotted a mink scurrying about the tide pools, hustling up some dinner. More than once while we completed the circumnavigation of Hurst Island we saw harbor seals popping up for a quick breath of air and a peek above the surface. Off in the distance the dorsal fin of a Dall’s dolphin broke the still water as we rounded the point of our bay and headed for the dock.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - July 14th
Tuesday, July 14th
Everyone was on time for a hearty breakfast at 8:00. The kayaks were ready for us to slide into the water at 9:00, and we already felt like old pros as we donned spray skirts and life jackets and helped each other steady each kayak as we scrambled off the low dock into the boats. We got ourselves into formation with Dan at one end and Mike at the other for the paddle west across the Christie Passage to Balaklava Island’s southern end at Nolan Point. We skirted the very small sparsely forested Jerome Island, an old Indian burial ground, more accurately designated a place of the dead. It was the practice of the people who lived here originally to put their dead in cedar boxes on the ground or simply hang the bodies on tree branches and let the ravens take them away.
We strung out in a long line, paddles bobbing, dipping, and dripping as we made our way leisurely toward the northwest between Balaklava and the nearby Lucan Islands. In the Browning Passage vertical rock cliffs drop down deep underwater, and we paddled within a few feet, exclaiming at the sight of sea anemones and brilliantly colored sea stars clinging to the rock wall below us in the clear water. This spot in particular is a destination for scuba divers from all over the world for some of the best cold water diving available anywhere.
Several miles later as mid day approached we landed at a pebble beach called Bob’s Landing, although no one could tell us just who “Bob” was. Beyond the sloping rocky beach we could see two huge logs lying on the bank, bound together with thick strands of rusty steel cable. The cleared land behind was smooth and grassy, sloping gently away from the shore, leveling off, and then slanting down to an old sorting pond where lumbermen had floated their giant logs. Perhaps it was “Bob” who had supervised the building of a big boom rig here that could lift the logs in bundles into the small bay to be towed to some distant sawmill. The lumbering operation had been abandoned for a long time, and thick clusters of tall foxgloves hid the old logging road, showing their brilliant stacks of bell shaped flowers and nodding gently in the breeze.
On our return trip we rounded the southern end of Balaklava and skirted the eastern shore toward the north for awhile before “sandwiching” again for the crossing to Hurst. The tide had turned and was flowing with the strong breeze down Christie Passage. My GPS clocked us at 7+ kph as we made the crossing. We were drifting south about as fast as we were paddling east and our vector brought us to a point a bit beyond the entrance to the bay at God’s Pocket. As we paddled between the slopes of the island and the rock outcropping close to shore the buildings and dock were a welcome sight!
After a change of clothes and a few glasses of nice red wine provided by SKA, Steve got out his guitar. He strummed and sang while I tootled on my tin whistle for awhile on the sunlit deck before another sumptuous dinner.
Everyone was on time for a hearty breakfast at 8:00. The kayaks were ready for us to slide into the water at 9:00, and we already felt like old pros as we donned spray skirts and life jackets and helped each other steady each kayak as we scrambled off the low dock into the boats. We got ourselves into formation with Dan at one end and Mike at the other for the paddle west across the Christie Passage to Balaklava Island’s southern end at Nolan Point. We skirted the very small sparsely forested Jerome Island, an old Indian burial ground, more accurately designated a place of the dead. It was the practice of the people who lived here originally to put their dead in cedar boxes on the ground or simply hang the bodies on tree branches and let the ravens take them away.
We strung out in a long line, paddles bobbing, dipping, and dripping as we made our way leisurely toward the northwest between Balaklava and the nearby Lucan Islands. In the Browning Passage vertical rock cliffs drop down deep underwater, and we paddled within a few feet, exclaiming at the sight of sea anemones and brilliantly colored sea stars clinging to the rock wall below us in the clear water. This spot in particular is a destination for scuba divers from all over the world for some of the best cold water diving available anywhere.
Several miles later as mid day approached we landed at a pebble beach called Bob’s Landing, although no one could tell us just who “Bob” was. Beyond the sloping rocky beach we could see two huge logs lying on the bank, bound together with thick strands of rusty steel cable. The cleared land behind was smooth and grassy, sloping gently away from the shore, leveling off, and then slanting down to an old sorting pond where lumbermen had floated their giant logs. Perhaps it was “Bob” who had supervised the building of a big boom rig here that could lift the logs in bundles into the small bay to be towed to some distant sawmill. The lumbering operation had been abandoned for a long time, and thick clusters of tall foxgloves hid the old logging road, showing their brilliant stacks of bell shaped flowers and nodding gently in the breeze.
On our return trip we rounded the southern end of Balaklava and skirted the eastern shore toward the north for awhile before “sandwiching” again for the crossing to Hurst. The tide had turned and was flowing with the strong breeze down Christie Passage. My GPS clocked us at 7+ kph as we made the crossing. We were drifting south about as fast as we were paddling east and our vector brought us to a point a bit beyond the entrance to the bay at God’s Pocket. As we paddled between the slopes of the island and the rock outcropping close to shore the buildings and dock were a welcome sight!
After a change of clothes and a few glasses of nice red wine provided by SKA, Steve got out his guitar. He strummed and sang while I tootled on my tin whistle for awhile on the sunlit deck before another sumptuous dinner.
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - July 13th
Monday, July 13th
The sun was up at 5:30 a.m., long before we were. We walked a short distance along the waterfront to a local coffee shop for breakfast at 7:30, and back a block to the government dock by 8:00. The 20 foot tide was close to its lowest point, so the metal ramp down to the floating dock was steep. The aluminum hulled 60 foot motor launch Hurst Island was waiting for us. The crew of two plus the twelve passengers made short work of carrying boxes of food, supplies, and personal luggage down to the boat where it was passed from hand to hand aboard and stowed below decks.
By 8:30 the big twin diesel engines were pushing us slowly away from shore, turning the reflections of the shoreline trees and grey overcast sky into undulating green and silver abstract paintings. Once clear of the inner harbor the engine sound rose to a throaty roar and the wind across the open deck increased to gale force as we went ripping across the still surface. Small islands loomed in the distance and scrolled past in rapid succession. The huge propellers slashed the water into a churning turmoil of spray and whirlpools that were quickly sucked into the bubbly wake streaming out behind us, but out to the sides the sea was so calm that it bounced back the grey-silver sky like a pool of cliquid mercury. Float bulbs of kelp we saw bobbing on the surface were easily mistaken for the heads of harbor seals at a distance. The occasional real seals we did see ducked out of sight quickly as the sped closer.
Forty minutes later several bald eagles watched us warily from the tops of spruce trees as we rounded the point at the end of Hurst Island. The engine roar subsided to a low rumbling as the God’s Pocket Bay came into view. The rock walls of the cove drop sharply into the water on one side of the densely forested island. A hundred yards away the other shore slopes more gently toward a tree covered rocky outcrop. Some of the rustic buildings of the resort are perched over the water on pilings the head of u-shaped bay while others cling to the slopes above, connected by boardwalks and steps.
The tide was just starting to flow in, and the ramp connecting the walkways with the floating dock descended to it at a steep angle. Everyone pitched in to unload the supplies and baggage. Boxes of food disappeared into the cook house, and we hauled our suitcases and backpacks to our assigned cabins.
After lunch we gathered on the dock for an introduction to the tandem kayaks, the thick lifejackets with multiple buckles, the spray skirts that keep water out of the openings, and exit strategies to be followed in the unlikely event of a capsize. Dan and Mike, the two guides provided by Sea Kayak Adventures assisted in sliding the kayaks one at a time off platforms that were only a few inches off the surface of the water. Easing down into the kayak’s two openings and checking to make certain that the spray skirts were stretched securely over the rim of each cockpit, one by one we paddled out to cluster at the opening of the bay.
Dan and Mike herded us into a side-by-side line not much more than a paddle length apart and told us to remain in this “sandwich formation” while we crossed the mile-wide
Christie Passage to the next island. In case strong winds or currents moved us up or down the channel at unexpected speeds, this formation would guarantee that we’d stay together as a single group.
We paddled along rocky shores and once in awhile through thick beds of kelp as we skirted the west shore of Balaklava Island. We watched lots of eagles watching us pass while they perched on bare branches keeping an eye out for salmon swimming too close to the surface. Although the air was a chilly 55 degrees I found out quickly that a warm flannel shirt and a windbreaker were way too much clothing! As we approached the Christie Passage on the way back we could see that the wind had picked up quite a bit, raising moderate waves and small whitecaps. Once again back in sandwich formation we all made the crossing without incident, but were very happy to have the spray skirts when small cold splashes sloshed across the tops of our kayaks.
Everyone was happy to have the luxury of hot showers and clean clothes waiting. The sun was hanging just above the ridges of Balaklava and the air was cool so we all crowded into the cozy meeting hut for a few glasses of nice red wine before the dinner bell clanged a summons to a mouth watering dinner of fresh caught salmon in the dining hall.
The sun was up at 5:30 a.m., long before we were. We walked a short distance along the waterfront to a local coffee shop for breakfast at 7:30, and back a block to the government dock by 8:00. The 20 foot tide was close to its lowest point, so the metal ramp down to the floating dock was steep. The aluminum hulled 60 foot motor launch Hurst Island was waiting for us. The crew of two plus the twelve passengers made short work of carrying boxes of food, supplies, and personal luggage down to the boat where it was passed from hand to hand aboard and stowed below decks.
By 8:30 the big twin diesel engines were pushing us slowly away from shore, turning the reflections of the shoreline trees and grey overcast sky into undulating green and silver abstract paintings. Once clear of the inner harbor the engine sound rose to a throaty roar and the wind across the open deck increased to gale force as we went ripping across the still surface. Small islands loomed in the distance and scrolled past in rapid succession. The huge propellers slashed the water into a churning turmoil of spray and whirlpools that were quickly sucked into the bubbly wake streaming out behind us, but out to the sides the sea was so calm that it bounced back the grey-silver sky like a pool of cliquid mercury. Float bulbs of kelp we saw bobbing on the surface were easily mistaken for the heads of harbor seals at a distance. The occasional real seals we did see ducked out of sight quickly as the sped closer.
Forty minutes later several bald eagles watched us warily from the tops of spruce trees as we rounded the point at the end of Hurst Island. The engine roar subsided to a low rumbling as the God’s Pocket Bay came into view. The rock walls of the cove drop sharply into the water on one side of the densely forested island. A hundred yards away the other shore slopes more gently toward a tree covered rocky outcrop. Some of the rustic buildings of the resort are perched over the water on pilings the head of u-shaped bay while others cling to the slopes above, connected by boardwalks and steps.
The tide was just starting to flow in, and the ramp connecting the walkways with the floating dock descended to it at a steep angle. Everyone pitched in to unload the supplies and baggage. Boxes of food disappeared into the cook house, and we hauled our suitcases and backpacks to our assigned cabins.
After lunch we gathered on the dock for an introduction to the tandem kayaks, the thick lifejackets with multiple buckles, the spray skirts that keep water out of the openings, and exit strategies to be followed in the unlikely event of a capsize. Dan and Mike, the two guides provided by Sea Kayak Adventures assisted in sliding the kayaks one at a time off platforms that were only a few inches off the surface of the water. Easing down into the kayak’s two openings and checking to make certain that the spray skirts were stretched securely over the rim of each cockpit, one by one we paddled out to cluster at the opening of the bay.
Dan and Mike herded us into a side-by-side line not much more than a paddle length apart and told us to remain in this “sandwich formation” while we crossed the mile-wide
Christie Passage to the next island. In case strong winds or currents moved us up or down the channel at unexpected speeds, this formation would guarantee that we’d stay together as a single group.
We paddled along rocky shores and once in awhile through thick beds of kelp as we skirted the west shore of Balaklava Island. We watched lots of eagles watching us pass while they perched on bare branches keeping an eye out for salmon swimming too close to the surface. Although the air was a chilly 55 degrees I found out quickly that a warm flannel shirt and a windbreaker were way too much clothing! As we approached the Christie Passage on the way back we could see that the wind had picked up quite a bit, raising moderate waves and small whitecaps. Once again back in sandwich formation we all made the crossing without incident, but were very happy to have the spray skirts when small cold splashes sloshed across the tops of our kayaks.
Everyone was happy to have the luxury of hot showers and clean clothes waiting. The sun was hanging just above the ridges of Balaklava and the air was cool so we all crowded into the cozy meeting hut for a few glasses of nice red wine before the dinner bell clanged a summons to a mouth watering dinner of fresh caught salmon in the dining hall.
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - July 12th
Sunday, July 12th
Kim, who checked us into the motel last night is manning the desk again this morning, but passes off the duty to someone else to drive us in the motel van out to the airport to pick up a rental car. On the way, she entertains us with tales of spending seven months on a fishing trawler modified for pleasure use.
She and her husband cruised from the south end of Vancouver Island up the inside passage all the way to Alaska with no particular destination in mind, stopping in out of the way harbors and villages. She recalled vividly pulling in to one northern anchorage. He husband, a former member of the Canadian Coast Guard, contacted the local Coast Guard station and discussed the weather forecast with them. He was advised that a series of severe storms was sweeping in from the northwest, and that if he didn’t leave immediately there was a very good chance that he’d be stuck there until spring!
The left right away, but the first of the storms caught up with them anyway. The winds reached hurricane force and the seas built until the wave heights were more than twenty feet. Her husband, an experienced seaman stayed at the wheel, and sent her below where she’d be safer. Kate told us that she spent the better part of a day and a night in a lower bunk with her back on the mattress and her hands and feet braced against the wood framing of the bunk above to keep from being tossed and slammed around inside the heaving cabin. She obviously survived to tell the tale and the boat proved itself to be very seaworthy, but she did confess that she and her husband have given up cruising!
The drive north on Highway #19.Vancouver Island’s main road from Victoria to Port Hardy is a long one. The most spectacular overlook along the way was out across the Seymour Narrows of the Discovery Channel. The distance across the narrow channel is only about 700 yards, and much of the entire tidal flow from the Georgia Straight rushes through here at speeds of up to 20 miles per hour! Ripple Rock used to be submerged only 9 feet below the surface at one point, creating enormous whirlpools over 30 feet in diameter which could, and did swallow whole boats. Over the years 119 boats were lost here, and several unsuccessful attempts were made to dynamite the top off the obstruction. Finally in 1958 tunnels were dug under the seabed and up into the rock and more than 1300 tons of explosive were placed to blow up the rock.
Today the narrows is navigable, but care must still be taken by smaller boats to avoid the still wicked currents and eddies.
There are high mountains in middle of island, a few with patches of snow lingering in late July. Far up the slopes there are large sections where lumber companies have done clear cutting of all the trees. Reseeding has been carried out in those areas, but the result is a patchwork quilt effect of trees of different heights and different shades of green. In places on the steeper flanks of some mountains you can see avalanche paths through forests on steep terrain.
As you approach the north end of Vancouver Island the high rocky mountains give way to foothills with gentler slopes, in some places with second growth forest and in other places covered with older cedar, hemlock, spruce and alder. Port Hardy is a small town with a tripartite industrial base of fishing, logging, and mining.
This far north in July the sun doesn’t dip below the horizon until almost 9:00 p.m. so I had time to go for a three mile run before dinner. The motel was directly across the street from a swath of grass and a narrow rocky beach. Off to the right several piers jutted out into Port Hardy Bay. Rusty fishing boats and a 35 foot long Athabascan cedar wood canoe repeated themselves in the dark slow ripples beneath them. A paved path led along the waterfront and through a small park where tall cedars cast long shadows in the setting sunlight. I jogged slowly uphill through a neighborhood where many residents were out and about, chatting with each other on sidewalks or sitting on front porches. Most of them were First Nations people, the term that now describes better than the word “Indian” the people who have lived here for thousands of years. I saw some beautifully carved totem poles in front of the elementary school and the community center. A bit farther up the hill the pavement stopped and the unpaved one-lane washboard road curved off into the dark woods, so I headed back to the motel and a delicious dinner of cedar planked salmon.
Kim, who checked us into the motel last night is manning the desk again this morning, but passes off the duty to someone else to drive us in the motel van out to the airport to pick up a rental car. On the way, she entertains us with tales of spending seven months on a fishing trawler modified for pleasure use.
She and her husband cruised from the south end of Vancouver Island up the inside passage all the way to Alaska with no particular destination in mind, stopping in out of the way harbors and villages. She recalled vividly pulling in to one northern anchorage. He husband, a former member of the Canadian Coast Guard, contacted the local Coast Guard station and discussed the weather forecast with them. He was advised that a series of severe storms was sweeping in from the northwest, and that if he didn’t leave immediately there was a very good chance that he’d be stuck there until spring!
The left right away, but the first of the storms caught up with them anyway. The winds reached hurricane force and the seas built until the wave heights were more than twenty feet. Her husband, an experienced seaman stayed at the wheel, and sent her below where she’d be safer. Kate told us that she spent the better part of a day and a night in a lower bunk with her back on the mattress and her hands and feet braced against the wood framing of the bunk above to keep from being tossed and slammed around inside the heaving cabin. She obviously survived to tell the tale and the boat proved itself to be very seaworthy, but she did confess that she and her husband have given up cruising!
The drive north on Highway #19.Vancouver Island’s main road from Victoria to Port Hardy is a long one. The most spectacular overlook along the way was out across the Seymour Narrows of the Discovery Channel. The distance across the narrow channel is only about 700 yards, and much of the entire tidal flow from the Georgia Straight rushes through here at speeds of up to 20 miles per hour! Ripple Rock used to be submerged only 9 feet below the surface at one point, creating enormous whirlpools over 30 feet in diameter which could, and did swallow whole boats. Over the years 119 boats were lost here, and several unsuccessful attempts were made to dynamite the top off the obstruction. Finally in 1958 tunnels were dug under the seabed and up into the rock and more than 1300 tons of explosive were placed to blow up the rock. Today the narrows is navigable, but care must still be taken by smaller boats to avoid the still wicked currents and eddies.
There are high mountains in middle of island, a few with patches of snow lingering in late July. Far up the slopes there are large sections where lumber companies have done clear cutting of all the trees. Reseeding has been carried out in those areas, but the result is a patchwork quilt effect of trees of different heights and different shades of green. In places on the steeper flanks of some mountains you can see avalanche paths through forests on steep terrain.
As you approach the north end of Vancouver Island the high rocky mountains give way to foothills with gentler slopes, in some places with second growth forest and in other places covered with older cedar, hemlock, spruce and alder. Port Hardy is a small town with a tripartite industrial base of fishing, logging, and mining.
This far north in July the sun doesn’t dip below the horizon until almost 9:00 p.m. so I had time to go for a three mile run before dinner. The motel was directly across the street from a swath of grass and a narrow rocky beach. Off to the right several piers jutted out into Port Hardy Bay. Rusty fishing boats and a 35 foot long Athabascan cedar wood canoe repeated themselves in the dark slow ripples beneath them. A paved path led along the waterfront and through a small park where tall cedars cast long shadows in the setting sunlight. I jogged slowly uphill through a neighborhood where many residents were out and about, chatting with each other on sidewalks or sitting on front porches. Most of them were First Nations people, the term that now describes better than the word “Indian” the people who have lived here for thousands of years. I saw some beautifully carved totem poles in front of the elementary school and the community center. A bit farther up the hill the pavement stopped and the unpaved one-lane washboard road curved off into the dark woods, so I headed back to the motel and a delicious dinner of cedar planked salmon.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Sea Kayaking in British Columbia - The adventure begins
Saturday, July 11th
The alarm goes off at 5:30, and as I sit up bleary eyed, as I always do whenever I wake up, the first grey of a summer morning is already beginning to lighten the sky. We packed late the evening before, so all we have to do is get dressed and cart our luggage out to the rental car in front of my sister’s house.
Even this early on a Saturday morning the traffic is moderately heavy as we approach the toll gates for the Oakland – San Francisco Bay Bridge. Our $4.00 is taken by the man in the tollbooth without comment to a proffered “Good morning!”, and we keep pace with all the other cars flying along at 15-20 mph over the posted speed limit. The top two thirds of the towers on the suspension side of the bridge are invisible in dense low lying fog as we thread the maze of splits and off ramps and successfully negotiate our way onto Highway 101.
We turn in the rental car, collect our luggage, and trundle on down to wait our turns for the thrill of going through security. It’s not especially a thrill for us; only the minor inconvenience of taking off shoes, emptying pockets of loose change, extracting the laptop from its case and the camera from the backpack, but the stainless steel parts of Jane’s artificial knees invariably set off the alarms when she walks through the security gate. The thrill is for the security officers, who suddenly look more alert. More than once I’ve seen smiles of satisfied self-importance as they usher Jane to a nearby glass booth to begin the ritual of the waving of the magic wands as she assumes a wide stance and stretches her arms out to the sides while the guard confirms that there really isn’t a bomb hidden in either of Jane’s legs.
Once through security and we have collected and repacked scattered belongings and put our shoes back on, we head down the long corridors to the waiting area. We stop to buy some breakfast from one of the vendors that feel justified in charging at least triple what any reasonable person would pay for comparable items anywhere else. I extract a slightly stale cinnamon bun from its clear saran shroud, only to find that it has been baked with about three times too much sugar to be palatable. Perhaps that explains the treble price. I take a few bites just to have something in my stomach before I set it aside. I mistakenly assume that at least the coffee will be good. If you find the bitterness of quinine, combined with a hint of slightly burned plastic and the acidity of mild heartburn then you would have labeled the coffee delicious. My coffee cup, still mostly full, followed the remains of the cinnamon bun into the trash can. At least I had a good book to read while we waited for our flight to begin boarding.
The climb up through the fog into brilliant sunshine lifted my spirit as well as my body, and I sat in the window seat wit my head turned as far as it would go to the left to watch the ground far below and the anti-solar glowing point with the tiny shadow of the plane in the center racing across the countryside to keep up with us. It was exactly 10:00 a.m. as we passed over Redding where we had been just a few days before, and I could see the city’s famous Sundial Bridge, the Sacramento River winding through town, and Shasta Dam where the river’s falling waters turn the turbines and generators that provide power for much of northern California.
As we descended into the Seattle-Tacoma Airport, dysphoniously tagged with the name “SEATAC”, I was impressed with how the waters of Puget Sound embrace the edges of the city. During our long layover we had the chance to explore this city within a city. There are several thousand residents, all transient, either scurrying between concourses and flights or providing food, shopping, security, ticketing, custodial, and transportation services to others.
It was a short half hour flight to Victoria, whose airport is about a half hour drive north of the city at the edge of the charming waterside town of Sidney.
Our friends Sabra and Gayle met us for a mellow dinner on the outside terrace of a restaurant at the water’s edge looking out across the Haro Straight to the San Juan Islands, and far beyond, Mt. Baker in the State of Washington.
Click here for a video of the flight and the trip on Vancouver Island
The alarm goes off at 5:30, and as I sit up bleary eyed, as I always do whenever I wake up, the first grey of a summer morning is already beginning to lighten the sky. We packed late the evening before, so all we have to do is get dressed and cart our luggage out to the rental car in front of my sister’s house.
Even this early on a Saturday morning the traffic is moderately heavy as we approach the toll gates for the Oakland – San Francisco Bay Bridge. Our $4.00 is taken by the man in the tollbooth without comment to a proffered “Good morning!”, and we keep pace with all the other cars flying along at 15-20 mph over the posted speed limit. The top two thirds of the towers on the suspension side of the bridge are invisible in dense low lying fog as we thread the maze of splits and off ramps and successfully negotiate our way onto Highway 101. We turn in the rental car, collect our luggage, and trundle on down to wait our turns for the thrill of going through security. It’s not especially a thrill for us; only the minor inconvenience of taking off shoes, emptying pockets of loose change, extracting the laptop from its case and the camera from the backpack, but the stainless steel parts of Jane’s artificial knees invariably set off the alarms when she walks through the security gate. The thrill is for the security officers, who suddenly look more alert. More than once I’ve seen smiles of satisfied self-importance as they usher Jane to a nearby glass booth to begin the ritual of the waving of the magic wands as she assumes a wide stance and stretches her arms out to the sides while the guard confirms that there really isn’t a bomb hidden in either of Jane’s legs.
Once through security and we have collected and repacked scattered belongings and put our shoes back on, we head down the long corridors to the waiting area. We stop to buy some breakfast from one of the vendors that feel justified in charging at least triple what any reasonable person would pay for comparable items anywhere else. I extract a slightly stale cinnamon bun from its clear saran shroud, only to find that it has been baked with about three times too much sugar to be palatable. Perhaps that explains the treble price. I take a few bites just to have something in my stomach before I set it aside. I mistakenly assume that at least the coffee will be good. If you find the bitterness of quinine, combined with a hint of slightly burned plastic and the acidity of mild heartburn then you would have labeled the coffee delicious. My coffee cup, still mostly full, followed the remains of the cinnamon bun into the trash can. At least I had a good book to read while we waited for our flight to begin boarding.
The climb up through the fog into brilliant sunshine lifted my spirit as well as my body, and I sat in the window seat wit my head turned as far as it would go to the left to watch the ground far below and the anti-solar glowing point with the tiny shadow of the plane in the center racing across the countryside to keep up with us. It was exactly 10:00 a.m. as we passed over Redding where we had been just a few days before, and I could see the city’s famous Sundial Bridge, the Sacramento River winding through town, and Shasta Dam where the river’s falling waters turn the turbines and generators that provide power for much of northern California.
As we descended into the Seattle-Tacoma Airport, dysphoniously tagged with the name “SEATAC”, I was impressed with how the waters of Puget Sound embrace the edges of the city. During our long layover we had the chance to explore this city within a city. There are several thousand residents, all transient, either scurrying between concourses and flights or providing food, shopping, security, ticketing, custodial, and transportation services to others. 
It was a short half hour flight to Victoria, whose airport is about a half hour drive north of the city at the edge of the charming waterside town of Sidney. 
Our friends Sabra and Gayle met us for a mellow dinner on the outside terrace of a restaurant at the water’s edge looking out across the Haro Straight to the San Juan Islands, and far beyond, Mt. Baker in the State of Washington.Click here for a video of the flight and the trip on Vancouver Island
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Running In the San Francisco Bay Area - July 8th & 9th
Wednesday, July 8
My sister and her husband were fortunate enough to have bought a house in Oakland BEFORE real estate prices went crazy. They have lived there many decades, and have always extended their hospitality whenever we have visited from Virginia. While visiting this July I have always started my training runs from here.
This morning I headed up the gently climbing road toward the Golden Gate Avenue intersection that everyone for miles around just calls "The Big Tree". Ocean View, Acacia, Cross, and Golden Gate all crisscross here, and slightly offset from the middle of the intersection stands an old eucalyptus tree whose trunk must be at least six feet in diamter. It appears unchanged since I saw it daily from the Key System bus I rode to Tech High in the mid-1950's. Actually, it is a bit less full, since virtually all its leaves and most of its branches were burned away in the Oakland firestorm of 1991 that laid waste to over 1,500 acres and burned 3,354 single-family dwellings and 437 apartment and condominiums to the ground. It took several years before The Big Tree, its root system still intact, was able to grow enough new leaves to look normal. Today it appears pretty much the same as if it had never been burned.
My next running challenge was the long steep hill of Broadway Terrace. It climbs straight up the slope toward the top of the ridge, and before I had gone a block I had to slow to a shuffle, and then to a walk. I followed the old bus route, through the neighborhood where I had a paper route so long ago that I remembered one customer who had invited me into the house to see the newfangled television set they had just purchased so that they would be ready to receive TV signals when the first TV station in San Francisco, KGO-TV, was completed and began broadcasts for four hours a day!
As the street leveled out I was able to resume my run along Moraga Avenue toward the old firehouse. It was closed long ago, but I can still remember the shiny brass pole just inside the main doors, and seeing the firemen slide down it to the waiting trucks. I always thought that it was cool that the roof of the firehouse was made to look like there were flames coming from the peak.
The firehouse is right next to Montclair Park which used to be a dark swamp. The WPA - Works Progress Administration, formed to create jobs for the unemployed during the Great Depression, built stone walls, paths, terraces, and a nice duck pond. The weeping willow trees that used to grow all around the pond are gone, as is the tunnel under the embankment where the Sacramento-Northern trains (also long gone) used to run but the park is still pretty, and well used.
The train tracks may be gone, but on the opposite side of where they used to be is Montclair Elementary School where I attended kindergarten through sixth grade. In fact the "temporary" portable classroom where Miss Milne taught me in 4th grade is still there 60 years later, and still in use.
A couple of blocks away is the Montclair Shopping Center. When I attended Montclair Elementary School, the shopping center had a big horse pasture next to the park, and several streets were still undeveloped vacant lots with water-filled sinkholes. La Salle Avenue, the main street, still look pretty much the same even though virtually all the stores have changed.
Heading back past the school down Mountain Boulevard toward my sister's house again I jogged past the quaint slate-roofed cottage that is the Montclair Library. Mrs. Glover the librarian has long ago gone to her reward, but I still owe her a debt of gratitude for encouraging my interest in books that has lasted me a lifetime.
The last point of interest on this nostalgic run was Lake Temescal, which long before even my time served as the water supply reservoir for the City of Oakland. It has been part of the Oakland Parks for many decades, and this is where I learned to fish, and spent many long summer afternoons hanging out at the beach and playing on the floats at the swimming area. Very early one morning in September when the air was chilly, the water still warm, and a thick layer of fog hung over the lake, Paul Maxwell and I, riding our bikes from Montclair to school at Clarement Junior High School stopped for the thrill of skinny dipping in a forbidden part of the lake.
By the time I had completed the loop I had put more than six miles of pavement under my running shoes.
My sister and her husband were fortunate enough to have bought a house in Oakland BEFORE real estate prices went crazy. They have lived there many decades, and have always extended their hospitality whenever we have visited from Virginia. While visiting this July I have always started my training runs from here.
This morning I headed up the gently climbing road toward the Golden Gate Avenue intersection that everyone for miles around just calls "The Big Tree". Ocean View, Acacia, Cross, and Golden Gate all crisscross here, and slightly offset from the middle of the intersection stands an old eucalyptus tree whose trunk must be at least six feet in diamter. It appears unchanged since I saw it daily from the Key System bus I rode to Tech High in the mid-1950's. Actually, it is a bit less full, since virtually all its leaves and most of its branches were burned away in the Oakland firestorm of 1991 that laid waste to over 1,500 acres and burned 3,354 single-family dwellings and 437 apartment and condominiums to the ground. It took several years before The Big Tree, its root system still intact, was able to grow enough new leaves to look normal. Today it appears pretty much the same as if it had never been burned.
My next running challenge was the long steep hill of Broadway Terrace. It climbs straight up the slope toward the top of the ridge, and before I had gone a block I had to slow to a shuffle, and then to a walk. I followed the old bus route, through the neighborhood where I had a paper route so long ago that I remembered one customer who had invited me into the house to see the newfangled television set they had just purchased so that they would be ready to receive TV signals when the first TV station in San Francisco, KGO-TV, was completed and began broadcasts for four hours a day! 
As the street leveled out I was able to resume my run along Moraga Avenue toward the old firehouse. It was closed long ago, but I can still remember the shiny brass pole just inside the main doors, and seeing the firemen slide down it to the waiting trucks. I always thought that it was cool that the roof of the firehouse was made to look like there were flames coming from the peak.
The firehouse is right next to Montclair Park which used to be a dark swamp. The WPA - Works Progress Administration, formed to create jobs for the unemployed during the Great Depression, built stone walls, paths, terraces, and a nice duck pond. The weeping willow trees that used to grow all around the pond are gone, as is the tunnel under the embankment where the Sacramento-Northern trains (also long gone) used to run but the park is still pretty, and well used. 
The train tracks may be gone, but on the opposite side of where they used to be is Montclair Elementary School where I attended kindergarten through sixth grade. In fact the "temporary" portable classroom where Miss Milne taught me in 4th grade is still there 60 years later, and still in use.
A couple of blocks away is the Montclair Shopping Center. When I attended Montclair Elementary School, the shopping center had a big horse pasture next to the park, and several streets were still undeveloped vacant lots with water-filled sinkholes. La Salle Avenue, the main street, still look pretty much the same even though virtually all the stores have changed.
Heading back past the school down Mountain Boulevard toward my sister's house again I jogged past the quaint slate-roofed cottage that is the Montclair Library. Mrs. Glover the librarian has long ago gone to her reward, but I still owe her a debt of gratitude for encouraging my interest in books that has lasted me a lifetime.
The last point of interest on this nostalgic run was Lake Temescal, which long before even my time served as the water supply reservoir for the City of Oakland. It has been part of the Oakland Parks for many decades, and this is where I learned to fish, and spent many long summer afternoons hanging out at the beach and playing on the floats at the swimming area. Very early one morning in September when the air was chilly, the water still warm, and a thick layer of fog hung over the lake, Paul Maxwell and I, riding our bikes from Montclair to school at Clarement Junior High School stopped for the thrill of skinny dipping in a forbidden part of the lake.By the time I had completed the loop I had put more than six miles of pavement under my running shoes.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Roaming Near Redding - 3
July 5th
Click here for the video
After a leisurely Sunday breakfast, the three of us climbed in the pickup and headed out of Redding. Not far from town Bruce turned off on an unmarked dirt road and less than a quarter of a mile later pulled over to the side and stopped. We could see that there was a deep gully ahead with a narrow wooden bridge across it. We walked to the bridge, and looking down saw rushing water cascading from an upper pool down over jagged rocks at the bottom of the chasm. We made our way cautiously down through scrubby underbrush and jumbled rocks as near as we dared to the edge of the dropoff, and admired the cataract of Montgomery Creek Falls.
I was reminded of the Robert Southey poem that I was required to memorize in my high school drama class because to read it you had to exercise breath control:
The Cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among:
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound!
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And thundering and floundering,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And diving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OK, now take a breath!
Back on the highway, a short drive and a few miles off the main road again, we cruised through French Gulch, a booming mining town during the California Gold Rush back in 1849. The town was named for the French Canadians that mined gold there during the gold rush. Located on the Oregon Trail, it was the largest of northern mines. During it heyday it boasted 4 saloons, 2 hotels, a post office and 2 mercantile stores. Today the population hovers right around 100.
We turned toward the town of Weaverville, and after climbing and curving for awhile along the sinuous road we dropped down into a narrow valley, crossed the Trinity River on an old steel truss bridge, and came to the center of Lewiston, another booming mining town in the 1850's. It faded almost into a ghost town, but now has a population of about 1300. The old buildings from the gold rush days include a restaurant in the old stage coach stop where we bought marvelous hand made milkshakes. Across the street is antique shop in the mercantile store where ancient glass-tank gasoline pumps recall the earliest days of automobile travel.
Our last stop of the day before heading back to Redding was at the old Taoist temple in Weaverville.
Bruce and I both bought bamboo flutes as souvenirs of our roaming near Redding
Click here for the video
After a leisurely Sunday breakfast, the three of us climbed in the pickup and headed out of Redding. Not far from town Bruce turned off on an unmarked dirt road and less than a quarter of a mile later pulled over to the side and stopped. We could see that there was a deep gully ahead with a narrow wooden bridge across it. We walked to the bridge, and looking down saw rushing water cascading from an upper pool down over jagged rocks at the bottom of the chasm. We made our way cautiously down through scrubby underbrush and jumbled rocks as near as we dared to the edge of the dropoff, and admired the cataract of Montgomery Creek Falls.I was reminded of the Robert Southey poem that I was required to memorize in my high school drama class because to read it you had to exercise breath control:
The Cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among:
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound!
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And thundering and floundering,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And diving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OK, now take a breath!
Back on the highway, a short drive and a few miles off the main road again, we cruised through French Gulch, a booming mining town during the California Gold Rush back in 1849. The town was named for the French Canadians that mined gold there during the gold rush. Located on the Oregon Trail, it was the largest of northern mines. During it heyday it boasted 4 saloons, 2 hotels, a post office and 2 mercantile stores. Today the population hovers right around 100.
We turned toward the town of Weaverville, and after climbing and curving for awhile along the sinuous road we dropped down into a narrow valley, crossed the Trinity River on an old steel truss bridge, and came to the center of Lewiston, another booming mining town in the 1850's. It faded almost into a ghost town, but now has a population of about 1300. The old buildings from the gold rush days include a restaurant in the old stage coach stop where we bought marvelous hand made milkshakes. Across the street is antique shop in the mercantile store where ancient glass-tank gasoline pumps recall the earliest days of automobile travel.
Our last stop of the day before heading back to Redding was at the old Taoist temple in Weaverville.
Bruce and I both bought bamboo flutes as souvenirs of our roaming near Redding
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Roaming Near Redding - 2
Saturday, 4th of July
We got an early start on Saturday morning. We drove to the Ahjumawi Lava Springs State Park, a vast grasslands region that was the ancestral homeland of Pit River Indians who have lived in the area for thousands of years. We walked along the banks of clear sloughs, wishing that we had kayaks to explore further. Off to the north we could see the flanks of Mount Shasta looming in the distance.
This was a day for roaming. Only a few miles away is the tiny town of Cassel, home of Packway Building Materials. Business there during the snowy winter months is slow, so the owners entertain themselves in their spare time making giant welded metal scuptures.The cast of colorful characters on Cassel Road includes a dinosaur, dachshund, goose, fish, snowman, penguin, skier, ant, chicken hawk and rock man.
The first one they built was a 40 foot long,16 foot tall, five ton big blue dinosaur, based on the Packway Materials logo. Its body is a Readymix drum and part of another one. Chutes from a concrete mixer were for its neck. Its head is a gasoline tank and the tail is part of a sawdust collection system from a sawmill. The most intimidating sculpture however, is the giant ant.
From there we traveled on to the spectacular McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park.
The park's centerpiece is the 129-foot Burney Falls, which is not the highest or largest waterfall in the state, but possibly the most beautiful. Teddy Roosevelt once described Burney Falls as the "eighth wonder of the world". As we descended the short walk down to the bottom of the falls we noted that every few feet lower, the air temperature dropped another degree or two, and by the time we reached the base of the falls the temperature had dropped from over 90 to a cool 65 degrees!
We found another cool escape from the day's heat when we made a stop to get out a flashlight and explore Subway Cave, an old lava tube formed when hot molten lava cooled and solidified on the surface, but kept flowing beneath the ragged crust. As the flow diminished the still liquid lava drained away, leaving an empty rock tube that with a little exercise of imagination could remind you of a subway.
We reached Mount Lassen in the early afternoon, and drove the circuitous road around the mountain that climbs to about 8,000 feet.
The three of us left the pickup truck in the parking lot at the base of the trail that leads to the summit, and walking slowly to accommodate to the thinner air, started climbing the dusty gray pumice rock path, pausing every few minutes to catch our breath. Jane stopped to sit on a rock and enjoy the view at about 9,000 feet, and Bruce and I continued higher.
Another hour's climb brought us, still a thousand feet below the summit, to a 45 degree slope with a patch of very icy snow a hundred yards wide. A narrow ledge had been hacked out of the snow, and people had managed to inch their way across this treacherous stretch, but the day before two people had lost their footing and gone spinning and sliding down the steep incline for 1,500 feet down the mountain. One had escaped with serious cuts and scrapes, but the second had hit his head on a rock, and had to be carried out on a stretcher several miles to a spot where he could be airlifted to a hospital by helicopter. We weighed the risk against the goal, and decided not to try to reach the summit. We jogged most of the way back down, reaching the bottom in less than half the time it had taken to climb to the 10,500 foot level.
By the time we had driven back to Redding we were all pretty tired. About the time we were seriously thinking about sleeping, we heard deep thumps and distant explosions. Climbing to the upper balcony of the motel, we were able to watch a wonderful fireworks display. A perfect end to an adventure-filled Independence Day!
We got an early start on Saturday morning. We drove to the Ahjumawi Lava Springs State Park, a vast grasslands region that was the ancestral homeland of Pit River Indians who have lived in the area for thousands of years. We walked along the banks of clear sloughs, wishing that we had kayaks to explore further. Off to the north we could see the flanks of Mount Shasta looming in the distance.This was a day for roaming. Only a few miles away is the tiny town of Cassel, home of Packway Building Materials. Business there during the snowy winter months is slow, so the owners entertain themselves in their spare time making giant welded metal scuptures.The cast of colorful characters on Cassel Road includes a dinosaur, dachshund, goose, fish, snowman, penguin, skier, ant, chicken hawk and rock man.
The first one they built was a 40 foot long,16 foot tall, five ton big blue dinosaur, based on the Packway Materials logo. Its body is a Readymix drum and part of another one. Chutes from a concrete mixer were for its neck. Its head is a gasoline tank and the tail is part of a sawdust collection system from a sawmill. The most intimidating sculpture however, is the giant ant.From there we traveled on to the spectacular McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park.
The park's centerpiece is the 129-foot Burney Falls, which is not the highest or largest waterfall in the state, but possibly the most beautiful. Teddy Roosevelt once described Burney Falls as the "eighth wonder of the world". As we descended the short walk down to the bottom of the falls we noted that every few feet lower, the air temperature dropped another degree or two, and by the time we reached the base of the falls the temperature had dropped from over 90 to a cool 65 degrees!
We found another cool escape from the day's heat when we made a stop to get out a flashlight and explore Subway Cave, an old lava tube formed when hot molten lava cooled and solidified on the surface, but kept flowing beneath the ragged crust. As the flow diminished the still liquid lava drained away, leaving an empty rock tube that with a little exercise of imagination could remind you of a subway.We reached Mount Lassen in the early afternoon, and drove the circuitous road around the mountain that climbs to about 8,000 feet.
The three of us left the pickup truck in the parking lot at the base of the trail that leads to the summit, and walking slowly to accommodate to the thinner air, started climbing the dusty gray pumice rock path, pausing every few minutes to catch our breath. Jane stopped to sit on a rock and enjoy the view at about 9,000 feet, and Bruce and I continued higher. 
Another hour's climb brought us, still a thousand feet below the summit, to a 45 degree slope with a patch of very icy snow a hundred yards wide. A narrow ledge had been hacked out of the snow, and people had managed to inch their way across this treacherous stretch, but the day before two people had lost their footing and gone spinning and sliding down the steep incline for 1,500 feet down the mountain. One had escaped with serious cuts and scrapes, but the second had hit his head on a rock, and had to be carried out on a stretcher several miles to a spot where he could be airlifted to a hospital by helicopter. We weighed the risk against the goal, and decided not to try to reach the summit. We jogged most of the way back down, reaching the bottom in less than half the time it had taken to climb to the 10,500 foot level.By the time we had driven back to Redding we were all pretty tired. About the time we were seriously thinking about sleeping, we heard deep thumps and distant explosions. Climbing to the upper balcony of the motel, we were able to watch a wonderful fireworks display. A perfect end to an adventure-filled Independence Day!
Roaming Near Redding - 1
Friday, July 3rd
It's a little over 200 miles from Oakland north to Redding, California, and the small rental car zooms comfortably along at 70 on the east side of San Francisco Bay. We cross the Carquinez Bridge at the north end of the bay, top the ridge, and leave the cool air behind. The Central Valley is always hot and dry in July, and the rolling hills have taken on their tawny golden summer hue. Dark green California live oak trees are scattered randomly across the slopes, and parallel paths along the hillsides worn by wandering cattle look like contour lines on a map.
Skirting east of Sacramento on the Winters Cutoff, we have all the car windows open, and the blast-furnace roar of hot air around and into the car recalls to my mind all the trips across the valley to Lake Tahoe in the old family 1941 Pontiac, back when there was no such thing as car air conditioning. As we get closer to Redding, far off in the distance we can see the outline of the dormant volcano Mount Lassen.
After some lunch with Bruce we headed north again for about an hour and a half. Bruce and I worked until near sunset, excavating and laying the forms for pouring a concrete pad on the property near the town of Dana. By the time we finished and drove the few miles to Fall River Mills, it was close to 9:00 p.m. The stores were all closed, but the old Fall River Hotel dining room was still open, and we enjoyed a wonderful dinner.
It's a little over 200 miles from Oakland north to Redding, California, and the small rental car zooms comfortably along at 70 on the east side of San Francisco Bay. We cross the Carquinez Bridge at the north end of the bay, top the ridge, and leave the cool air behind. The Central Valley is always hot and dry in July, and the rolling hills have taken on their tawny golden summer hue. Dark green California live oak trees are scattered randomly across the slopes, and parallel paths along the hillsides worn by wandering cattle look like contour lines on a map.
Skirting east of Sacramento on the Winters Cutoff, we have all the car windows open, and the blast-furnace roar of hot air around and into the car recalls to my mind all the trips across the valley to Lake Tahoe in the old family 1941 Pontiac, back when there was no such thing as car air conditioning. As we get closer to Redding, far off in the distance we can see the outline of the dormant volcano Mount Lassen.
After some lunch with Bruce we headed north again for about an hour and a half. Bruce and I worked until near sunset, excavating and laying the forms for pouring a concrete pad on the property near the town of Dana. By the time we finished and drove the few miles to Fall River Mills, it was close to 9:00 p.m. The stores were all closed, but the old Fall River Hotel dining room was still open, and we enjoyed a wonderful dinner.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Running in the San Francisco Bay Area - Thursday, July 2nd
Although my jetlag is fading, I still woke up this morning around 6:00 a.m. I dressed, drank some water to hydrate, grabbed a double handful of trail mix, and headed down the hill from my sister's house.
Jogging down upper Broadway, I passed Oakland Technical High School where I graduated in 1957. When new strict codes were enacted to make building safer in earthquakes, none of the high schools in Oakland met the standards, and several were torn down. The city spent several million dollars on well-hidden reinforcements to Tech, and the school still stands as beautiful as it was over 505 years ago.
I made my way along sidewalks through downtown Oakland, dodging people in business suits toting briefcases on the way to work, and all the way down to Jack London Square, which overlooks San Francisco Bay. There are several really good seafood restaurants here, a hotel overlooking the water, an and the dilapidated old Heinhold's "First and Last Chance Saloon", where the writer Jack London used to hang out. It still does a thriving business.
I cut over a few blocks and ran past the old building on 4th and Jackson Streets that used to to be Safeway Stores corporate headquarters. My Dad was head consulting architect there, and got me my first real job there running a blueprint machine and filing all the architectural plans for every Safeway Store.
Now heading uptown, I ran for awhile along the side of Lake Merritt. Originally a shallow tidal lagoon that opened into the estuary between Oakland and the Island city of Alameda, by the mid-1800's it had turned into a convenient cesspool for Oakland's sewage. Samuel Merritt, Oakland's mayor was responsible for pushing through an initiative that diverted the sewers elsewhere, and cleaned up the lake. Although the water level in the lake still rises and falls with the tides, it is now surrounded a beautiful park.
Finding my way back to Broadway I headed for my starting point. I was pleased that I had done the first 3.1 miles in only 28 minutes and passed the 10k mark at 6.2 miles in one hour and 6 minutes. Slogging along, I began to run out of steam, and stopped at a neighborhood grocery across from Tech High for a bottle of fruit juice. It didn't revive me as much as I had hoped, and I slowed to a walk for the last mile and a half. Still, I was pleased that although my marathon training schedule had called for 3 miles today, I had completed 10 miles and even with all the walking had averaged four point seven miles per hour
Jogging down upper Broadway, I passed Oakland Technical High School where I graduated in 1957. When new strict codes were enacted to make building safer in earthquakes, none of the high schools in Oakland met the standards, and several were torn down. The city spent several million dollars on well-hidden reinforcements to Tech, and the school still stands as beautiful as it was over 505 years ago.
I made my way along sidewalks through downtown Oakland, dodging people in business suits toting briefcases on the way to work, and all the way down to Jack London Square, which overlooks San Francisco Bay. There are several really good seafood restaurants here, a hotel overlooking the water, an and the dilapidated old Heinhold's "First and Last Chance Saloon", where the writer Jack London used to hang out. It still does a thriving business.
I cut over a few blocks and ran past the old building on 4th and Jackson Streets that used to to be Safeway Stores corporate headquarters. My Dad was head consulting architect there, and got me my first real job there running a blueprint machine and filing all the architectural plans for every Safeway Store.
Now heading uptown, I ran for awhile along the side of Lake Merritt. Originally a shallow tidal lagoon that opened into the estuary between Oakland and the Island city of Alameda, by the mid-1800's it had turned into a convenient cesspool for Oakland's sewage. Samuel Merritt, Oakland's mayor was responsible for pushing through an initiative that diverted the sewers elsewhere, and cleaned up the lake. Although the water level in the lake still rises and falls with the tides, it is now surrounded a beautiful park.Finding my way back to Broadway I headed for my starting point. I was pleased that I had done the first 3.1 miles in only 28 minutes and passed the 10k mark at 6.2 miles in one hour and 6 minutes. Slogging along, I began to run out of steam, and stopped at a neighborhood grocery across from Tech High for a bottle of fruit juice. It didn't revive me as much as I had hoped, and I slowed to a walk for the last mile and a half. Still, I was pleased that although my marathon training schedule had called for 3 miles today, I had completed 10 miles and even with all the walking had averaged four point seven miles per hour
Running in the San Francisco Bay Area - Wednesday, July 1
I missed my Tuesday run. We were getting packed and running last minute errands, then flying from Richmond, VA to San Francisco, California, and the flight attendants don't approve of any attempts to run three miles using only the aircraft aisles!
My internal clock woke me up late, Virginia time, but it was only 5:30 in Oakland. I tried to go back to sleep for a half hour, but gave up and got out of bed at 6:00 a.m. I put on my running shoes, shorts, and shirt, and trotted down to College Avenue.
Turning north, I jogged past Claremont Junior High School (now Claremont Middle School), on past the boundary between Oakland and Berkeley, and past the Elmwood, and old neighborhood theater that is still thriving.
Soon I reached the campus of the University of California, Berkeley, and ran past the campanile bell tower that chimes the hours and whose carrilon bells still provide daily concerts.
Then across campus past Dwinelle Hall and out through Sather Gate on Telegraph Avenue.
Although it was still early, the sidewalk vendors were already setting out their wares...jewelry, leather goods, incense, tie-dyed shirts, and other handicrafts, making jogging along the sidewalk more like an obstacle course.
By the time I'd made my way back to College Avenue and back to my sister's house, I'd covered 6 miles.
My internal clock woke me up late, Virginia time, but it was only 5:30 in Oakland. I tried to go back to sleep for a half hour, but gave up and got out of bed at 6:00 a.m. I put on my running shoes, shorts, and shirt, and trotted down to College Avenue. Turning north, I jogged past Claremont Junior High School (now Claremont Middle School), on past the boundary between Oakland and Berkeley, and past the Elmwood, and old neighborhood theater that is still thriving.
Soon I reached the campus of the University of California, Berkeley, and ran past the campanile bell tower that chimes the hours and whose carrilon bells still provide daily concerts.
Then across campus past Dwinelle Hall and out through Sather Gate on Telegraph Avenue.
Although it was still early, the sidewalk vendors were already setting out their wares...jewelry, leather goods, incense, tie-dyed shirts, and other handicrafts, making jogging along the sidewalk more like an obstacle course.
By the time I'd made my way back to College Avenue and back to my sister's house, I'd covered 6 miles.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Chasing Adventures at Age Seventy-One
At the ripe old age of 71 I've decided that it's never too late to be young! Five weeks ago I started, along with about a thousand other people all younger in years than I, to embark on a training schedule designed to prepare for the Richmond Marathon. Each week you run on your own on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, and participate in a group run on Saturday mornings. Sunday is for other exercises. Each week between June and the race in November is a bit more challenging, working up to the goal of completing 26.2 miles. I think I can do this!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hawaii = Day 12
Saturday, November 8We ate raisin bread toast and coffee fixed in the room for breakfast and checked to make sure that we had packed everything back into bags to load in the trunk of the car. We left this charming old-style Hawaiian lodging with some regrets that the stay was over, and met Janet Arisumi at her house at 9:30.
The three of us headed out of Hilo, slowly climbing up the long gentle flank of the Kilauea volcano, stopping along the way at an outlet that offered literally hundreds of different varieties of orchids.
Turning off at the tiny town of Volcano, we located the Bed & Breakfast imaginatively named The Tara Firma Inn, and dropped our luggage before continuing on to the entrance of Kilauea National Park.
We ate a leisurely lunch on the terrace at Volcano house overlooking the huge Halema’uma’u caldera, the main crater of the Kilauea volcano. Within this miles-wide crater a new 180foot by 200 foot crater has recently opened, continuously spewing a column of noxious smoke containing choking sulfur dioxide and caustic sulfuric acid droplets so poisonous that the downwind section of the crater rim road has been closed off as hazardous to your health.
We explored the upwind side of the caldera, stepping cautiously through clouds of mist where rainwater seeps into the ground until it encounters rock hot enough to vaporize it and force it back through pores and cracks to emerge again as steam.
Sometime in the not too distant past, red hot liquid lava, gushing out of a volcanic rift near the top of the mountain had poured down the slopes, cooling as it flowed until a solid crust formed on the surface. Beneath the jagged black surface the lava continued its rush downward, and when that eruption slowed and stopped, the melted rock drained out of its huge self-made pipe, leaving an empty tube. Empty lava tubes like this exist near the surface in many places on the flanks of the volcano, and we made our way for some distance through section of the Thurston Lava Tube that was lighted. If we'd had flashlights we could have explored for at least another quarter of a mile underground.
Just a short distance from the Volcano House we walked along the Desolation Trail. Here, in November and December 1959, a spectacular fountain of glowing lava had jetted fifteen hundred feet into the air at the side of the Kilauea Iki crater. 
Now 49 years later there is still a lot of barren cinder covered land, but trees and plants are beginning to recover the surface.
We drove down the Chain of Craters Road that used to go to the oceanside town of Kalapana. Lava from Kilauea flowed across the road and buried it in 1969. It was reopened ten years later, but continuous flows since then eventually completely covered seven and a half miles of road, and it remains a dead end.
We ate dinner at the Lava Rock Café, an unpretentious neighborhood restaurant with good food in the town of Volcano, and lingered for awhile close to the wood stove that took the chill off the mountain air at the Tara Firma B&B before retiring for the evening.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Hawaii - Day eleven
Friday, November 7
Jane’s 70th birthday adventure: A Trip to the Mauna Kea Observatories
After breakfast we drove to Janet Arisumi’s house, where she introduced us to her neighbor, Mr. Tanaka, who works for Subaru Telescope. His job involves maintaining the equipment on the infra red sensor that can be attached to the telescope. He spends much of his time in an office in Hilo, but makes the trip to the summit three or four times a month. He joined us in our rental car, and we drove up the Saddle Road, turning right onto the road that leads to Mauna Kea.
We stopped for an hour at the Elison Onizuka Space Center, acclimatizing there at the 9,000 foot level for awhile before driving a few hundred yards farther up the mountain to the place I’ll call the Mauna Kea Village, a place where people who work at the various telescope facilities at the top have dormitories, a cafeteria, offices, etc. We signed release forms acknowledging the risks inherent at traveling to very high altitudes, put on sweaters and jackets, and transferred to an official four wheel drive Subaru Telescope car (no, it wasn’t actually a Subaru!) so that Mr. Tanaka could complete the drive to the summit.
Just beyond the village, the paved road ends, and the washboard surface takes a noticeable change in pitch, becoming much steeper. Very quickly the last stubbly vegetation disappears. As we looked out of the car windows we could easily imagine ourselves on the surface of Mars. The volcanic soil in many places is a vivid red, and large chunky rocks like scattered across the surface. I think that here, as on Mars, the larger rocks were deposited simultaneously with smaller rocks, cinders, and dust. Over a long period of time the finer material gets blown away, leaving the big rocks sitting on the cindery surface, looking as if they had been carefully placed there.
The road twisted and turned, zigging and zagging back and forth through a series of hairpin turns, skirting large cinder cones that bulged up a hundred meters or more above the main steep slope of the volcano. In some spots the edge of the road was marked with big lava rocks that had been placed there, but in other places only a small lip of piled up cinders showed the edge of the road where the ground dropped away at a 45 degree angle. The rear end of the car occasionally fishtailed a bit as the wheels bounced around on the loose bumpy surface, diverting our attention briefly from the spectacular vistas opening below us.
White fluffy clouds embraced the top of Hawaii’s active volcano Mauna Loa, but farther down the slopes, many miles away, we could see veils of grey smoke rising above the surface along a line from the summit to the sea where lava has been flowing continuously for more than two decades. Visible off in the distance was the thousand foot high column of steam where the hot, viscous lava pours into the ocean. Half hidden by puffs of low lying fair weather cumulous clouds, the top of Haleakala on the island of Maui showed its head in the distance, the intervening miles turning it blue.
The air temperature hovered just above freezing as we climbed out of the car at the base of the Subaru Telescope, the powerful winds making it seem even colder. We hurried for the door. Inside we were given yellow hard hats to wear while visiting. At about 14,000 feet it is not wise to move anywhere quickly. After just a few steps, Jane was feeling dizzy, and sat on a bench while Mr. Tanaka went to get a portable oxygen tank that could be worn on the belt, and tubes that ran up just underneath the nostrils. That worked well, and we proceeded to the floor of the telescope to see the working end of the huge machine. We were glad for the coats and sweaters, since they keep the inside of the building as close as possible to the outside ambient air temperature to minimize problems with the equipment when they open the dome for the night’s viewing. We went up several levels to view the telescope from high up, and considering the wind whistling around the building, passed on the offer to walk around the outside perimeter of the dome. We ate lunch in the dayroom before heading across the summit by car to take a quick look at the Keck multi-mirror telescope.
The trip back down was as slow and cautious as the trip up, the vehicle jouncing and whining along in the lowest gear range to save the brakes during the steep descent. It was almost completely dark as we entered the outer edges of Hilo.
After dropping of Mr. Tanaka with heartfelt thanks, we stopped for dinner at the Ice Pond Restaurant a block from the beach. Tables situated right next to wide open windows look out over the amazingly transparent waters of Ice Pond, so called not because any ice ever forms in Hilo, but because the spring-fed water in the lake is icy cold.
After dinner and a quick stop at Arnott’s Lodge to change to cooler clothes in our room we headed back down to the waterfront to investigate “Black and White Night”. Sponsored by all the businesses along the waterfront Kamehameha Avenue, it was a wildly popular super-block-party. Almost everyone from children in arms to teenagers and adults to tottering seniors was wearing some sort of clothing that reflected the theme of black and white. Jane wore a white T-shirt birthday present from the Subaru Telescope, and I wore a black T-shirt with the planets of the solar system on it while we strolled along the sidewalk with hundreds and hundreds of other people, looking in shop windows, listening to various bands that were set up about every two blocks, and generally gawking at all the other people milling about or dancing to the music. Probably the most interesting person we saw was wearing a black and white checked jacket, a black fedora hat, his face painted white, and a pair of black trousers with an inseam measurement of approximately 92 inches! Of course the man had five foot long stilts strapped to his lower legs, covered by the long trousers. The stilts went no higher than his knees, which gave him remarkable agility. He cold stride along the pavement with four foot paces, pause to dance for a bit, kicking back his stilt-legs one at a time so far that the ends almost touched the back of his head!
We stopped in a furniture store where they had set up a karaoke microphone, which wouldn’t seem all that unusual except for the fact that almost everyone sitting watching and everyone performing was Japanese.
After a couple of drinks and some more strolling, we headed back for our last night at Arnott’s Lodge.
Jane’s 70th birthday adventure: A Trip to the Mauna Kea Observatories
After breakfast we drove to Janet Arisumi’s house, where she introduced us to her neighbor, Mr. Tanaka, who works for Subaru Telescope. His job involves maintaining the equipment on the infra red sensor that can be attached to the telescope. He spends much of his time in an office in Hilo, but makes the trip to the summit three or four times a month. He joined us in our rental car, and we drove up the Saddle Road, turning right onto the road that leads to Mauna Kea.
We stopped for an hour at the Elison Onizuka Space Center, acclimatizing there at the 9,000 foot level for awhile before driving a few hundred yards farther up the mountain to the place I’ll call the Mauna Kea Village, a place where people who work at the various telescope facilities at the top have dormitories, a cafeteria, offices, etc. We signed release forms acknowledging the risks inherent at traveling to very high altitudes, put on sweaters and jackets, and transferred to an official four wheel drive Subaru Telescope car (no, it wasn’t actually a Subaru!) so that Mr. Tanaka could complete the drive to the summit.
Just beyond the village, the paved road ends, and the washboard surface takes a noticeable change in pitch, becoming much steeper. Very quickly the last stubbly vegetation disappears. As we looked out of the car windows we could easily imagine ourselves on the surface of Mars. The volcanic soil in many places is a vivid red, and large chunky rocks like scattered across the surface. I think that here, as on Mars, the larger rocks were deposited simultaneously with smaller rocks, cinders, and dust. Over a long period of time the finer material gets blown away, leaving the big rocks sitting on the cindery surface, looking as if they had been carefully placed there.
The road twisted and turned, zigging and zagging back and forth through a series of hairpin turns, skirting large cinder cones that bulged up a hundred meters or more above the main steep slope of the volcano. In some spots the edge of the road was marked with big lava rocks that had been placed there, but in other places only a small lip of piled up cinders showed the edge of the road where the ground dropped away at a 45 degree angle. The rear end of the car occasionally fishtailed a bit as the wheels bounced around on the loose bumpy surface, diverting our attention briefly from the spectacular vistas opening below us.
White fluffy clouds embraced the top of Hawaii’s active volcano Mauna Loa, but farther down the slopes, many miles away, we could see veils of grey smoke rising above the surface along a line from the summit to the sea where lava has been flowing continuously for more than two decades. Visible off in the distance was the thousand foot high column of steam where the hot, viscous lava pours into the ocean. Half hidden by puffs of low lying fair weather cumulous clouds, the top of Haleakala on the island of Maui showed its head in the distance, the intervening miles turning it blue.The air temperature hovered just above freezing as we climbed out of the car at the base of the Subaru Telescope, the powerful winds making it seem even colder. We hurried for the door. Inside we were given yellow hard hats to wear while visiting. At about 14,000 feet it is not wise to move anywhere quickly. After just a few steps, Jane was feeling dizzy, and sat on a bench while Mr. Tanaka went to get a portable oxygen tank that could be worn on the belt, and tubes that ran up just underneath the nostrils. That worked well, and we proceeded to the floor of the telescope to see the working end of the huge machine. We were glad for the coats and sweaters, since they keep the inside of the building as close as possible to the outside ambient air temperature to minimize problems with the equipment when they open the dome for the night’s viewing. We went up several levels to view the telescope from high up, and considering the wind whistling around the building, passed on the offer to walk around the outside perimeter of the dome. We ate lunch in the dayroom before heading across the summit by car to take a quick look at the Keck multi-mirror telescope.
The trip back down was as slow and cautious as the trip up, the vehicle jouncing and whining along in the lowest gear range to save the brakes during the steep descent. It was almost completely dark as we entered the outer edges of Hilo.
After dropping of Mr. Tanaka with heartfelt thanks, we stopped for dinner at the Ice Pond Restaurant a block from the beach. Tables situated right next to wide open windows look out over the amazingly transparent waters of Ice Pond, so called not because any ice ever forms in Hilo, but because the spring-fed water in the lake is icy cold.
After dinner and a quick stop at Arnott’s Lodge to change to cooler clothes in our room we headed back down to the waterfront to investigate “Black and White Night”. Sponsored by all the businesses along the waterfront Kamehameha Avenue, it was a wildly popular super-block-party. Almost everyone from children in arms to teenagers and adults to tottering seniors was wearing some sort of clothing that reflected the theme of black and white. Jane wore a white T-shirt birthday present from the Subaru Telescope, and I wore a black T-shirt with the planets of the solar system on it while we strolled along the sidewalk with hundreds and hundreds of other people, looking in shop windows, listening to various bands that were set up about every two blocks, and generally gawking at all the other people milling about or dancing to the music. Probably the most interesting person we saw was wearing a black and white checked jacket, a black fedora hat, his face painted white, and a pair of black trousers with an inseam measurement of approximately 92 inches! Of course the man had five foot long stilts strapped to his lower legs, covered by the long trousers. The stilts went no higher than his knees, which gave him remarkable agility. He cold stride along the pavement with four foot paces, pause to dance for a bit, kicking back his stilt-legs one at a time so far that the ends almost touched the back of his head!
We stopped in a furniture store where they had set up a karaoke microphone, which wouldn’t seem all that unusual except for the fact that almost everyone sitting watching and everyone performing was Japanese.
After a couple of drinks and some more strolling, we headed back for our last night at Arnott’s Lodge.
Hawaii - Day ten
Thursday, November 6
This morning we had coffee, and fresh papaya and lime juice, purchased at the farmers’ market yesterday. We drove along the waterfront of Hilo, and headed out of town along the north east shore of the island, stopping frequently at spots where you could look out over the ocean.
Taking the narrow winding road off the main highway down to the beach at Laupahoehoe, I remembered reading long ago about the tragedy that struck there in 1946, when a tidal wave swept over the low lying land behind the beach, carrying away 19 students and two teachers to their deaths.
We stopped for lunch in the town of Honoka’a, and then drove up and over hills to Waimea, stopping briefly for a look at Hawaii Preparatory Academy where we had attended field trip classes in the summer of 1991. Turning to the north again, we drove over the Kohala Mountains and then down to Hawi, the northernmost town on the island of Hawaii.
Completing the loop back to Waimea, we took the Saddle Road across the vast grassy uplands of the Parker Ranch between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa back toward Hilo.
We wrapped up the day with dinner at the Ice Pond Restaurant, so called for the icy-cold, crystal clear spring water that fills this lake just inland from the Hilo beach.
This morning we had coffee, and fresh papaya and lime juice, purchased at the farmers’ market yesterday. We drove along the waterfront of Hilo, and headed out of town along the north east shore of the island, stopping frequently at spots where you could look out over the ocean.
Taking the narrow winding road off the main highway down to the beach at Laupahoehoe, I remembered reading long ago about the tragedy that struck there in 1946, when a tidal wave swept over the low lying land behind the beach, carrying away 19 students and two teachers to their deaths.
We stopped for lunch in the town of Honoka’a, and then drove up and over hills to Waimea, stopping briefly for a look at Hawaii Preparatory Academy where we had attended field trip classes in the summer of 1991. Turning to the north again, we drove over the Kohala Mountains and then down to Hawi, the northernmost town on the island of Hawaii.
Completing the loop back to Waimea, we took the Saddle Road across the vast grassy uplands of the Parker Ranch between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa back toward Hilo.
We wrapped up the day with dinner at the Ice Pond Restaurant, so called for the icy-cold, crystal clear spring water that fills this lake just inland from the Hilo beach.
Hawaii - Day nine
Wednesday, November 5th
We're staying in Hilo at Arnott's Lodge, a wonderful departure from the fancy and expensive beach-front luxury resort chain hotels. Arnott's offers a variety of accomodations ranging from a place to pitch your tent on the lawn through men's and women's hostel-type dormitories to regular motel-type rooms with bath, where we stayed. There is a community kitchen, an open air lounge and another covered open dining area open to all. We loved it!
We had a late breakfast at “Ken’s” …a pancake house, and then walked along the beach of Hilo Bay. The surf is almost non-existent, stopped by the harbor breakwater a quarter of a mile offshore. The sand is clean, but its dark brown color makes it look dirty. We saw nobody swimming or lying on the beach. We did see lots of very large outrigger canoes, racked carefully in the sheds of several canoe clubs. Outrigger racing is a big deal here!
We spent the better part of an hour poking in and out of the shops along the waterfront drive, and then bought tickets at the old restored Palace Theater for a live Hawaiian story telling and dance show. After the performance we explored the open air farmer’s market and handicrafts market before heading east out of Hilo.
We stopped at the town of Pahoa for a sub sandwich lunch, and then drove on back down toward the coast and the road to Kalapana. This two-lane drive along the shore passes through dense tropical growth where ancient Poinciana tree trunks are almost hidden under the huge crowded leaves of giant philodendrons. Stands of bamboo are scattered along the sides of the highway, interspersed with the graceful green nodding of long needled ironwood trees. Here and there is a splash of brilliant red where heliconia blossoms hang down, keeping company with red, yellow, or white ginger flowers that spice the air with their sweet scent.
We turned off the road to see the lava tree park. At some time in the not too distant past, fast flowing liquid pahoehoe lava flowed down from the flanks of Mauna Loa toward the sea, incinerating almost everything in its path. As it oozed around large trees, the moisture in the wood cooled the lava just enough to solidify a thin layer of it around the trunk. As the trees burned and the lava drained away, casts of the tree trunks were left behind, rising like hollow black ghosts of the forest that was once here.
Further along the road we began to see signs indicating that the “public hot pool” was just ahead. Soon we came to a shady parking lot, and there, spread out just behind some rocks that protected it from the crashing surf was a natural pool perhaps 30 yards across and about 70 yards long. A number of people were splashing around lazily, enjoying the very warm water. I descended some steps leading down to the pond, and stepped in. The water was like a nice, hot bath…not uncomfortable, but very warm indeed. We had neglected to bring bathing suits, so the toes were the only body parts that benefited.
We went on down the narrow road that hugged the beach, snaking back and forth and rising and falling as it progressed over old lava flows, now hidden under heavy tropical growth. At another state park we paused under the branches of a grove of ironwood trees that whispered in the wind, telling each other tree-secrets that you could almost understand. A few steps brought us to the edge of a sheer cliff that dropped forty feet to huge waves crashing against the cliffs, sending their spray high into the air.
In places where the road came close to the ocean we could see a large column of steam rising into the air where still molten lava was still plunging into the sea. Before long we came to the end of the road at Kalapana. For many years the black sand beach at Kalapana was world famous. White surf foamed up a steep jet black beach there and slid back just short of the graceful curving trunks of tall palm trees.
The lava flow from Kilauea swept down the flank of the volcano, right through neighborhoods, consuming everything in its path. Houses burned. Cars were entombed. Streets were obliterated. The beautiful ponds known as “the queen’s baths” were engulfed. As the flow reached the shoreline, the coconut trees were destroyed, the black sand beach was covered, and within a short time the entire bay was filled in, turned into a jagged black landscape.
The shoreline is now more than a quarter of a mile farther out, and a twisting path winds it way out to a new, sterile black sand beach. People still live in the remaining houses, commute to jobs or run souvenir shops, restaurants, or the town store.
They have also undertaken the Herculean task of changing the desolate lumpy black lava landscape into a place of green beauty. All along the path from the road to the new beach, and for many yards to each side, thousands of plants have been carefully placed in cracks and holes in the jumbled lava surface, each plant with it’s own nest of imported soil and humus to catch and hold moisture for the roots of baby coconut trees, ti plants, vines, plumeria, and other flowers. Fifty years from now it will again be more like paradise.
We bought a snack at the small grocery store, and as we were heading back in the twilight toward the car we heard the sounds of a ukulele and a clear voice singing in the lovely falsetto range you can hear in many old Hawaiian songs. The music was coming through the vegetation between the store and an open air restaurant on the next property. We decided to wander over that way, maybe get a beer, and sit and listen to the music for awhile.
We had no sooner gotten into the driveway leading up to the kava bar than a lady in a mu’u mu’u came up to us and said that we were welcome to join the party. The party turns out to be a weekly community potluck held every Wednesday. The make welcome anybody who wanders in, with or without food, to partake in the meal and entertainment.
The Hawaiian singer, reputed to be the best in the region, was accompanied by another man playing guitar, and a lady playing very soft harmony on a keyboard. The combination was enchanting; we sat and listened for close to two hours and left thinking that it would be really nice if we had something as warm and sharing in our own neighborhood.
We're staying in Hilo at Arnott's Lodge, a wonderful departure from the fancy and expensive beach-front luxury resort chain hotels. Arnott's offers a variety of accomodations ranging from a place to pitch your tent on the lawn through men's and women's hostel-type dormitories to regular motel-type rooms with bath, where we stayed. There is a community kitchen, an open air lounge and another covered open dining area open to all. We loved it!
We had a late breakfast at “Ken’s” …a pancake house, and then walked along the beach of Hilo Bay. The surf is almost non-existent, stopped by the harbor breakwater a quarter of a mile offshore. The sand is clean, but its dark brown color makes it look dirty. We saw nobody swimming or lying on the beach. We did see lots of very large outrigger canoes, racked carefully in the sheds of several canoe clubs. Outrigger racing is a big deal here!
We spent the better part of an hour poking in and out of the shops along the waterfront drive, and then bought tickets at the old restored Palace Theater for a live Hawaiian story telling and dance show. After the performance we explored the open air farmer’s market and handicrafts market before heading east out of Hilo.We stopped at the town of Pahoa for a sub sandwich lunch, and then drove on back down toward the coast and the road to Kalapana. This two-lane drive along the shore passes through dense tropical growth where ancient Poinciana tree trunks are almost hidden under the huge crowded leaves of giant philodendrons. Stands of bamboo are scattered along the sides of the highway, interspersed with the graceful green nodding of long needled ironwood trees. Here and there is a splash of brilliant red where heliconia blossoms hang down, keeping company with red, yellow, or white ginger flowers that spice the air with their sweet scent.
We turned off the road to see the lava tree park. At some time in the not too distant past, fast flowing liquid pahoehoe lava flowed down from the flanks of Mauna Loa toward the sea, incinerating almost everything in its path. As it oozed around large trees, the moisture in the wood cooled the lava just enough to solidify a thin layer of it around the trunk. As the trees burned and the lava drained away, casts of the tree trunks were left behind, rising like hollow black ghosts of the forest that was once here.Further along the road we began to see signs indicating that the “public hot pool” was just ahead. Soon we came to a shady parking lot, and there, spread out just behind some rocks that protected it from the crashing surf was a natural pool perhaps 30 yards across and about 70 yards long. A number of people were splashing around lazily, enjoying the very warm water. I descended some steps leading down to the pond, and stepped in. The water was like a nice, hot bath…not uncomfortable, but very warm indeed. We had neglected to bring bathing suits, so the toes were the only body parts that benefited.
We went on down the narrow road that hugged the beach, snaking back and forth and rising and falling as it progressed over old lava flows, now hidden under heavy tropical growth. At another state park we paused under the branches of a grove of ironwood trees that whispered in the wind, telling each other tree-secrets that you could almost understand. A few steps brought us to the edge of a sheer cliff that dropped forty feet to huge waves crashing against the cliffs, sending their spray high into the air.
In places where the road came close to the ocean we could see a large column of steam rising into the air where still molten lava was still plunging into the sea. Before long we came to the end of the road at Kalapana. For many years the black sand beach at Kalapana was world famous. White surf foamed up a steep jet black beach there and slid back just short of the graceful curving trunks of tall palm trees.
The lava flow from Kilauea swept down the flank of the volcano, right through neighborhoods, consuming everything in its path. Houses burned. Cars were entombed. Streets were obliterated. The beautiful ponds known as “the queen’s baths” were engulfed. As the flow reached the shoreline, the coconut trees were destroyed, the black sand beach was covered, and within a short time the entire bay was filled in, turned into a jagged black landscape.
The shoreline is now more than a quarter of a mile farther out, and a twisting path winds it way out to a new, sterile black sand beach. People still live in the remaining houses, commute to jobs or run souvenir shops, restaurants, or the town store.
They have also undertaken the Herculean task of changing the desolate lumpy black lava landscape into a place of green beauty. All along the path from the road to the new beach, and for many yards to each side, thousands of plants have been carefully placed in cracks and holes in the jumbled lava surface, each plant with it’s own nest of imported soil and humus to catch and hold moisture for the roots of baby coconut trees, ti plants, vines, plumeria, and other flowers. Fifty years from now it will again be more like paradise.
We bought a snack at the small grocery store, and as we were heading back in the twilight toward the car we heard the sounds of a ukulele and a clear voice singing in the lovely falsetto range you can hear in many old Hawaiian songs. The music was coming through the vegetation between the store and an open air restaurant on the next property. We decided to wander over that way, maybe get a beer, and sit and listen to the music for awhile.
We had no sooner gotten into the driveway leading up to the kava bar than a lady in a mu’u mu’u came up to us and said that we were welcome to join the party. The party turns out to be a weekly community potluck held every Wednesday. The make welcome anybody who wanders in, with or without food, to partake in the meal and entertainment.
Hawaii - Day eight
Tuesday, November 4
A day that involves air travel is mainly just that…a day for travel only. We were up at 6:30, and on the way to the Kahului Airport by 7:00 a.m. Soon we were high above the ocean, heading toward the morning sun, and landed uneventfully at the Hilo airport. We pi9cked up our rental car, and headed into town for a visit with Jane’s friend from the 60’s in Okinawa.
A little before noon we headed across town to the ‘Imiloa Science Center, an interesting place that has the unusual dual focus of astronomy and Hawaiian culture.
Our friend Shawn Laatch is in charge of the planetarium there, and after the public show was over took us in to show off the new all-digital SkyScan 3D computer/projector system. The images were crisp as he flew around the solar system with a joystick, zooming in for close- up looks at planets and moons, eclipses of the sun, then at hyper warp-speed outpast local star clusters, out of the galactic plane, then ever faster past myriad galaxies to the edges of the known universe.
Remember this was all in incredibly realistic three-dimensional projection, viewed through special glasses.
Shawn told us that astronomers whose specialty is the structure of the universe were amazed and delighted at the visualization of complex concepts this makes possible.
In the evening we rode with Shawn to a little Italian restaurant where he eats often. His wife Kim, a psychologist, met us there, and we had an excellent dinner along with a couple of bottles of fine wine that Shawn had brought with him.
A day that involves air travel is mainly just that…a day for travel only. We were up at 6:30, and on the way to the Kahului Airport by 7:00 a.m. Soon we were high above the ocean, heading toward the morning sun, and landed uneventfully at the Hilo airport. We pi9cked up our rental car, and headed into town for a visit with Jane’s friend from the 60’s in Okinawa.
A little before noon we headed across town to the ‘Imiloa Science Center, an interesting place that has the unusual dual focus of astronomy and Hawaiian culture.
Our friend Shawn Laatch is in charge of the planetarium there, and after the public show was over took us in to show off the new all-digital SkyScan 3D computer/projector system. The images were crisp as he flew around the solar system with a joystick, zooming in for close- up looks at planets and moons, eclipses of the sun, then at hyper warp-speed outpast local star clusters, out of the galactic plane, then ever faster past myriad galaxies to the edges of the known universe.
Remember this was all in incredibly realistic three-dimensional projection, viewed through special glasses.Shawn told us that astronomers whose specialty is the structure of the universe were amazed and delighted at the visualization of complex concepts this makes possible.
In the evening we rode with Shawn to a little Italian restaurant where he eats often. His wife Kim, a psychologist, met us there, and we had an excellent dinner along with a couple of bottles of fine wine that Shawn had brought with him.
Hawaii - Day seven
Monday, November 3
We drove to Makawao this morning to have breakfast again at Casanova’s, enjoying a completely clear sky and gentle tropical breezes as we sipped coffee on the front porch.
It was about 45 minutes drive from there around the flank of the island, past the wealthy resorts and hotels that line the beach of Wailea. We passed Little Beach and Big Beach, headed for the jumbled lava flows of Ahihi Kinau Natural Preserve.
Located on the lee side of the island, this area is quite literally a desert, with very little rainfall. Lava flows down the side of the mountain here were not composed of molten lava. The lava cooled as it flowed, and the surface was churned into a jagged, sharp, alien looking landscape that is miles wide. The view toward the mountain at first glance is one of utter and complete desolation. On closer examination, you can see widely scattered places where extremely hardy plants are beginning the slow process of colonization. The lava flows are very old, but even now there is almost nothing there except an environment so hostile that were you to attempt walking across it that you would probably not survive if you fell down.
Close to the shore however, small drought tolerant trees and bushes have taken root, providing a little bit of shade, and the constant pounding of the waves has produced a beach composed of rounded black lava pebbles and rocks, and in a few spots, even some black sand.
We spread our towels on the lumpy surface and shuffled into the water with masks, fins, and snorkels. Below the surface was another alien, though not nearly so forbidding a landscape. Myriad varieties of coral have covered the bottom with strange and beautiful shapes and colors, and an amazing number of different kinds of colorful fish are in great abundance. We paddled along slowly, enchanted.
Corrugated fingertips were a clue that we’d been in the water a long time, so
we headed back to the beach for some lunch. Before long though, we were back in the water, leisurely paddling along the shore in the opposite direction. In one spot we saw three sea turtles. The largest was almost a meter across the top of his shell, and he looked at us from no more than five feet away, completely unafraid. Moving slowly as not to alarm him, we swam above and alongside him for several minutes before we finally headed off in another direction.
Back in the car we drove back toward the main town of Kahului, then turned uphill, climbing up to turn back again on another road along the flank of the mountain. From high above the populated lowlands we watched the sun set behind distant clouds, and headed back one more time to Makawao for a sumptuous dinner of spaghetti carbonara and fettuccini with scallops at the elegantly appointed side of Casanova’s.
Tomorrow we fly to Hilo on the big island.
We drove to Makawao this morning to have breakfast again at Casanova’s, enjoying a completely clear sky and gentle tropical breezes as we sipped coffee on the front porch.
It was about 45 minutes drive from there around the flank of the island, past the wealthy resorts and hotels that line the beach of Wailea. We passed Little Beach and Big Beach, headed for the jumbled lava flows of Ahihi Kinau Natural Preserve.
Located on the lee side of the island, this area is quite literally a desert, with very little rainfall. Lava flows down the side of the mountain here were not composed of molten lava. The lava cooled as it flowed, and the surface was churned into a jagged, sharp, alien looking landscape that is miles wide. The view toward the mountain at first glance is one of utter and complete desolation. On closer examination, you can see widely scattered places where extremely hardy plants are beginning the slow process of colonization. The lava flows are very old, but even now there is almost nothing there except an environment so hostile that were you to attempt walking across it that you would probably not survive if you fell down.
Close to the shore however, small drought tolerant trees and bushes have taken root, providing a little bit of shade, and the constant pounding of the waves has produced a beach composed of rounded black lava pebbles and rocks, and in a few spots, even some black sand.
We spread our towels on the lumpy surface and shuffled into the water with masks, fins, and snorkels. Below the surface was another alien, though not nearly so forbidding a landscape. Myriad varieties of coral have covered the bottom with strange and beautiful shapes and colors, and an amazing number of different kinds of colorful fish are in great abundance. We paddled along slowly, enchanted.
Corrugated fingertips were a clue that we’d been in the water a long time, so
we headed back to the beach for some lunch. Before long though, we were back in the water, leisurely paddling along the shore in the opposite direction. In one spot we saw three sea turtles. The largest was almost a meter across the top of his shell, and he looked at us from no more than five feet away, completely unafraid. Moving slowly as not to alarm him, we swam above and alongside him for several minutes before we finally headed off in another direction.Back in the car we drove back toward the main town of Kahului, then turned uphill, climbing up to turn back again on another road along the flank of the mountain. From high above the populated lowlands we watched the sun set behind distant clouds, and headed back one more time to Makawao for a sumptuous dinner of spaghetti carbonara and fettuccini with scallops at the elegantly appointed side of Casanova’s.
Tomorrow we fly to Hilo on the big island.
Hawaii - Day six
Sunday, November 2
This morning we strolled downhill from the Phillips’ house through a huge pineapple field for about a mile and a half to the edge of the 80’ cliff that drops into the ocean on the north side of Maui.
Just offshore here, during big north pacific storms, the surf can reach 20 – 25 feet. You have to be issued a license to even attempt these monster waves at the spot the surfers call “Jaws”! The waves are so big and travel so fast that a surfer cannot catch one just by paddling. They are towed on the end of a line by a jet ski, come whipping around on the end of the rope and are injected into the curl. The have to kick out or ride off the side of the curl, since there is no beach here, only jagged rocks! Jaws indeed!
Today however, it was a less frightening sight to stand at the top of the cliff and watch the gentle swells roll in from the north.
After the hike back to the house we tossed together some things for a bag lunch and headed for Hana. The road to Hana is better than it was when I last drove it in 1991. Seventeen years ago the pavement was more patches than pavement. In the period of time between then and now the full length of the road has been repaved, and is nice and smooth.
However, there is nothing that can be done to change the character of the road. It has an absolutely amazing number of twists and turns. It is narrow, in many places much less than two cars wide. It has 59 single-lane bridges. If you plan to make the drive to Hana, here are some things to remember:
1- Leave early! I know that 50 miles isn’t far, and on the map it appears that the road to Hana is a short distance. It isn’t! Your average speed will be between 15-20 mph if you push hard!
2- There really is very little to see in the town of Hana. The only sensible reason for going there is the trip itself. The road to Hana is really a metaphor for life: it isn’t the final destination that is so important, it’s the process of getting there that makes the whole thing worthwhile.
3- Drove slowly! Plan on taking as long as possible rather than trying to make good time. Move along at 10 mph or maybe as much as 15 mph on rare occasions. Pull over to the side into one of the many slightly wider passing spots when cars come up behind you, determined to travel as fast as they can.
4- Stop often. There are many breath-taking vistas, streams, pools, waterfalls, cascades of ferns, forests of bamboo, wild guavas to be picked, fern grottos, a blow hole, a couple of state parks, shave-ice stands, stands of sweet-smelling white and yellow ginger, wild orchids, hiking trails, and other experiences to be discovered and savored. If you take time, the road to Hana will sooth your soul.
This morning we strolled downhill from the Phillips’ house through a huge pineapple field for about a mile and a half to the edge of the 80’ cliff that drops into the ocean on the north side of Maui.Just offshore here, during big north pacific storms, the surf can reach 20 – 25 feet. You have to be issued a license to even attempt these monster waves at the spot the surfers call “Jaws”! The waves are so big and travel so fast that a surfer cannot catch one just by paddling. They are towed on the end of a line by a jet ski, come whipping around on the end of the rope and are injected into the curl. The have to kick out or ride off the side of the curl, since there is no beach here, only jagged rocks! Jaws indeed!
Today however, it was a less frightening sight to stand at the top of the cliff and watch the gentle swells roll in from the north.
After the hike back to the house we tossed together some things for a bag lunch and headed for Hana. The road to Hana is better than it was when I last drove it in 1991. Seventeen years ago the pavement was more patches than pavement. In the period of time between then and now the full length of the road has been repaved, and is nice and smooth.
However, there is nothing that can be done to change the character of the road. It has an absolutely amazing number of twists and turns. It is narrow, in many places much less than two cars wide. It has 59 single-lane bridges. If you plan to make the drive to Hana, here are some things to remember:
1- Leave early! I know that 50 miles isn’t far, and on the map it appears that the road to Hana is a short distance. It isn’t! Your average speed will be between 15-20 mph if you push hard!
2- There really is very little to see in the town of Hana. The only sensible reason for going there is the trip itself. The road to Hana is really a metaphor for life: it isn’t the final destination that is so important, it’s the process of getting there that makes the whole thing worthwhile.
3- Drove slowly! Plan on taking as long as possible rather than trying to make good time. Move along at 10 mph or maybe as much as 15 mph on rare occasions. Pull over to the side into one of the many slightly wider passing spots when cars come up behind you, determined to travel as fast as they can.
4- Stop often. There are many breath-taking vistas, streams, pools, waterfalls, cascades of ferns, forests of bamboo, wild guavas to be picked, fern grottos, a blow hole, a couple of state parks, shave-ice stands, stands of sweet-smelling white and yellow ginger, wild orchids, hiking trails, and other experiences to be discovered and savored. If you take time, the road to Hana will sooth your soul.
Hawaii - Day five
Saturday, November 1
It’s an amazing discovery; if you’re where the morning sun is not blocked by the dense foliage of a heavily wooded lot, you wake up when the Sun comes up. What a delight! Then to walk out onto a lanai that overlooks a deep blue ocean in the distance, that’s just heavenly!
We got an earlier start this morning after breakfast, and retraced yesterday’s route along the dry leeward highway along the ocean’s edge toward Lahaina, then turned right toward the resort town of Ka’anapali. A string of big hotels and upscale condominiums stand shoulder to shoulder along the beach. Manicured lawns, elegant landscaping, golf carts, uniformed attendants, and lots of “residents and guests only” signs make it abundantly clear that this is where the country club set play.
We drove around the end of the island on smaller and smaller roads that finally became a narrow single lane road curving high along cliffs that dropped down either directly to the ocean or to jagged black lava beds. When we met oncoming cars one would have to back up to the nearest slightly wider spot so that the two cars could squeeze past each other. It really wasn't as bad as it sounds if you weren't in a hurry. I poked along at 10-15 km/hr, and that worked well. The scenery was spectacular.
At a much wider spot on the road I pulled off and parked, and climbed down
over the rocks for maybe a half km to see a blowhole up close. As the big waves crashed against the cliff a few meters below, a hole in the flat lava would begin to moan, then howl, spitting a fine spray into the air that quickly became a jet of water that blew violently out of the hole perhaps 10 meters into the air.
Eventually the road got wider again and we began to see houses. We drove to a very deep steep sided valley called I'ao Valley, where the sides of the valley rose like walls up into the low overhanging clouds.
We finished off the day with a mahimahi fish dinner at “The Fish Market” in the town of Pa'ia.
It’s an amazing discovery; if you’re where the morning sun is not blocked by the dense foliage of a heavily wooded lot, you wake up when the Sun comes up. What a delight! Then to walk out onto a lanai that overlooks a deep blue ocean in the distance, that’s just heavenly!We got an earlier start this morning after breakfast, and retraced yesterday’s route along the dry leeward highway along the ocean’s edge toward Lahaina, then turned right toward the resort town of Ka’anapali. A string of big hotels and upscale condominiums stand shoulder to shoulder along the beach. Manicured lawns, elegant landscaping, golf carts, uniformed attendants, and lots of “residents and guests only” signs make it abundantly clear that this is where the country club set play.
We drove around the end of the island on smaller and smaller roads that finally became a narrow single lane road curving high along cliffs that dropped down either directly to the ocean or to jagged black lava beds. When we met oncoming cars one would have to back up to the nearest slightly wider spot so that the two cars could squeeze past each other. It really wasn't as bad as it sounds if you weren't in a hurry. I poked along at 10-15 km/hr, and that worked well. The scenery was spectacular.At a much wider spot on the road I pulled off and parked, and climbed down
over the rocks for maybe a half km to see a blowhole up close. As the big waves crashed against the cliff a few meters below, a hole in the flat lava would begin to moan, then howl, spitting a fine spray into the air that quickly became a jet of water that blew violently out of the hole perhaps 10 meters into the air.
Eventually the road got wider again and we began to see houses. We drove to a very deep steep sided valley called I'ao Valley, where the sides of the valley rose like walls up into the low overhanging clouds.
We finished off the day with a mahimahi fish dinner at “The Fish Market” in the town of Pa'ia.
Hawaii - Day four
Friday, October 31
This morning we drove around the west side of Maui to the old whaling town of Lahaina. In the town square there is a banyan tree, planted in 1875. Today it covers a whole city block. It looks like a forest, but on closer examination you can see that each separate trunk comes down from a branch of the original tree, and that everything is connected. It is larger in area than any other tree in North America.
We wandered through the shops along the waterfront for most of the day, stopped for lunch at "Cheeseburger In Paradise" and ate on the second floor, open on all sides to the tropical breezes, and had a leisurely meal overlooking the harbor. It took some time to eat, since the cheeseburgers, complete with a slice of cooked pineapple, are the largest I’ve ever seen. It was more than enough for lunch and dinner combined.
About halfway back from Lahaina we stopped at a beautiful beach and sat watching surfers and distant boats as the sun set in the ocean near the island of Lana'i. As the sunset colors faded from yellow toward orange and red, a lovely thin crescent moon appeared right next to bright Venus halfway up the evening sky.
This morning we drove around the west side of Maui to the old whaling town of Lahaina. In the town square there is a banyan tree, planted in 1875. Today it covers a whole city block. It looks like a forest, but on closer examination you can see that each separate trunk comes down from a branch of the original tree, and that everything is connected. It is larger in area than any other tree in North America.
We wandered through the shops along the waterfront for most of the day, stopped for lunch at "Cheeseburger In Paradise" and ate on the second floor, open on all sides to the tropical breezes, and had a leisurely meal overlooking the harbor. It took some time to eat, since the cheeseburgers, complete with a slice of cooked pineapple, are the largest I’ve ever seen. It was more than enough for lunch and dinner combined.
About halfway back from Lahaina we stopped at a beautiful beach and sat watching surfers and distant boats as the sun set in the ocean near the island of Lana'i. As the sunset colors faded from yellow toward orange and red, a lovely thin crescent moon appeared right next to bright Venus halfway up the evening sky.
Hawaii - Day three
It's about time that I completed posting the accounts of our adventures in Hawaii last November!
Thursday, October 30
We did a little better at sleeping last night, waking up this morning at 6:30 instead of 6:00 a.m. Just about the time we’ve totally adjusted to Hawaii time we’ll be changing time zones again!
We ate breakfast at the Phillips house, then traveled the Hana Highway back toward Kahului and across the flat isthmus that spans the distance between the two high volcanic peaks that form the island of Maui. Skirting the town of Kihei we got off the highway and turned toward the beach resort area. Since coastlines of islands are irregular and curve back upon themselves, directions in Hawaii are apt to contain the phrases “makai” and “mauka”, which mean “toward the ocean” and “toward the mountain” respectively.
More often than not, that’s much more useful in finding your way than the more traditional north, south, east, and west.
We found our way, with the help of a not-very-detailed tourist map to Ulua Beach, where the snorkeling was reported to be pretty good. There we swam along black lava rocks, and saw lots of fish.
We walked maybe a mile along a winding pathway that meandered along between the posh hotels and condos.
We stopped on the way back for a beer. We moved on to Little Beach (nude but no nudes), and then to Big Beach where hundreds of people were leaving ahead of rainstorm sweeping in from Kahoolawe, and finally on to La Perouse Bay. By the time we got back to the P’s house it was dark.
Thursday, October 30
We did a little better at sleeping last night, waking up this morning at 6:30 instead of 6:00 a.m. Just about the time we’ve totally adjusted to Hawaii time we’ll be changing time zones again!
We ate breakfast at the Phillips house, then traveled the Hana Highway back toward Kahului and across the flat isthmus that spans the distance between the two high volcanic peaks that form the island of Maui. Skirting the town of Kihei we got off the highway and turned toward the beach resort area. Since coastlines of islands are irregular and curve back upon themselves, directions in Hawaii are apt to contain the phrases “makai” and “mauka”, which mean “toward the ocean” and “toward the mountain” respectively.
More often than not, that’s much more useful in finding your way than the more traditional north, south, east, and west.
We found our way, with the help of a not-very-detailed tourist map to Ulua Beach, where the snorkeling was reported to be pretty good. There we swam along black lava rocks, and saw lots of fish.
We walked maybe a mile along a winding pathway that meandered along between the posh hotels and condos.
We stopped on the way back for a beer. We moved on to Little Beach (nude but no nudes), and then to Big Beach where hundreds of people were leaving ahead of rainstorm sweeping in from Kahoolawe, and finally on to La Perouse Bay. By the time we got back to the P’s house it was dark.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Hawaii Log = Day 2
Wednesday, October 29
Tired from jet-lag, we slept late, finally rolling out at about noon...
(Actually that was Virginia time...in Hawaii it was 6:00 a.m.!)
There is a beautiful view from our friends' house. Out across pineapple fields you can see the ocean in the distance.
A short walk to the end of their street, through a gate and down an unpaved road through the pineapple fields will bring you to a dark cliff that drops into the cobalt blue ocean, where big swells sometimes roll out of the north, lifting and curling as high as twenty feet at a spot the surfers call “Jaws”.
We left the house about 9:30 and drove to a little town called Makawao where we drank coffee and ate croissants outside at Casanovas, overlooking the town’s only major intersection.
Appetites satisfied, we strolled across the narrow main street to a small grocery store that stocks only organic foods. We bought some wonderful, nut and grain filled whole wheat hamburger buns, some cheese, sesame sticks, apples and something to drink for lunch, and wandered our way toward the sinuous mountain road that climbs 10,000 feet in 22 miles to the summit of Haleakala.
“The House of the Sun” is one of Maui’s two ancient volcanoes. Actually it’s not all that ancient; the last eruption from the side of the volcano was a little over 200 years ago, so it is still considered "active".
There were truly breath-taking views from the top down into the crater.
We hiked partway down into the crater on trail, and met people riding horses coming back up.
We hiked several other trails around the edges of the volcano,
and watched the sunset from above the clouds.
Polli's Restaurant in Makawao was the perfect spot
to eat dinner with our friends at the end of a perfect day.
Tired from jet-lag, we slept late, finally rolling out at about noon...
(Actually that was Virginia time...in Hawaii it was 6:00 a.m.!)
There is a beautiful view from our friends' house. Out across pineapple fields you can see the ocean in the distance.
A short walk to the end of their street, through a gate and down an unpaved road through the pineapple fields will bring you to a dark cliff that drops into the cobalt blue ocean, where big swells sometimes roll out of the north, lifting and curling as high as twenty feet at a spot the surfers call “Jaws”.We left the house about 9:30 and drove to a little town called Makawao where we drank coffee and ate croissants outside at Casanovas, overlooking the town’s only major intersection.
Appetites satisfied, we strolled across the narrow main street to a small grocery store that stocks only organic foods. We bought some wonderful, nut and grain filled whole wheat hamburger buns, some cheese, sesame sticks, apples and something to drink for lunch, and wandered our way toward the sinuous mountain road that climbs 10,000 feet in 22 miles to the summit of Haleakala. “The House of the Sun” is one of Maui’s two ancient volcanoes. Actually it’s not all that ancient; the last eruption from the side of the volcano was a little over 200 years ago, so it is still considered "active".
There were truly breath-taking views from the top down into the crater.
We hiked partway down into the crater on trail, and met people riding horses coming back up.
We hiked several other trails around the edges of the volcano,
and watched the sunset from above the clouds.Polli's Restaurant in Makawao was the perfect spot
to eat dinner with our friends at the end of a perfect day.
Hawaii Log = Day 1
Tuesday, October 28
It’s 8:00 a.m. in Detroit and I’m sitting at Gate A66 of the Northwest Airlines terminal, waiting for the next flight toward Maui, our final destination today. Our day almost didn’t begin at our planned time this morning. In my seventh year of retirement I’ve gotten out of the long-practiced routine of setting the alarm on the clock-radio.
Before going to bed early at 9:30 last night, I pushed all the right buttons to change the digital alarm display to 3:30 a.m. I slept fitfully, and woke often, peering with bleary eyes at the glowing numbers, but was totally unaware when Jane woke up to do the same. She noticed something that I didn’t with my frequent clock-checks. I had failed to move the switch that actually turns on the alarm, and if she hadn’t gotten up to correct it, we might be waking up just about now, dismayed at missing our flight!
The concourse here in Detroit looks like something out of an old science fiction magazine, with big talking faces on huge wall-mounted television screens, and a bullet shaped red tram gliding silently along up near the upside-down steel rod trusses that support a curved corrugated ceiling.
The airport at Minneapolis-Saint Paul was clean, efficient, and not particularly memorable. Our Northwest Airlines flight left from there for Honolulu on a huge wide body Airbus A300. In a plane two thirds the length of a football field, the aisles seem to stretch out forever. Each seat had its own entertainment center, complete with a small screen TV screen on the back of each seat, stereo earphones, and an armrest controller that allowed the selection of your choice of about 20 different movies on demand, as well as a variety of video games to keep you occupied for the eight and a half hours we were in the air.
It seems that all airlines have stopped providing complementary meals, even on very long flights, so the apples, granola bars, and snacks we’d brought were a welcome supplement to the soft drinks that were offered.
Since the last time I was in Hawaii the airport at Honolulu has grown and changed so much that I didn’t recognize any of it any more. Of course the same amount of change has also happened at the airport in Richmond. Anyone who had not visited the former Byrd Field since 1991 would not recognize any part of RIC today.
The final leg of our trip necessitated claiming our baggage and dragging it about a quarter of a mile to the next building.
The Sun was low and so was our energy as the plane made the final turn past a ridge where huge windmills were generating electricity and coasted down toward the airport at Kahului, Maui. We were soon in our rental car, making our cautious way through heavy traffic past the town of Pa’ia on the way to Haiku on the road to Hana.
Our Friends Lisa and Ed P. made us feel welcome, and we stayed up chatting until 10:30 p.m. We realized as we dragged toward bed that we had been up for 25 hours!
It’s 8:00 a.m. in Detroit and I’m sitting at Gate A66 of the Northwest Airlines terminal, waiting for the next flight toward Maui, our final destination today. Our day almost didn’t begin at our planned time this morning. In my seventh year of retirement I’ve gotten out of the long-practiced routine of setting the alarm on the clock-radio.
Before going to bed early at 9:30 last night, I pushed all the right buttons to change the digital alarm display to 3:30 a.m. I slept fitfully, and woke often, peering with bleary eyes at the glowing numbers, but was totally unaware when Jane woke up to do the same. She noticed something that I didn’t with my frequent clock-checks. I had failed to move the switch that actually turns on the alarm, and if she hadn’t gotten up to correct it, we might be waking up just about now, dismayed at missing our flight!
The concourse here in Detroit looks like something out of an old science fiction magazine, with big talking faces on huge wall-mounted television screens, and a bullet shaped red tram gliding silently along up near the upside-down steel rod trusses that support a curved corrugated ceiling.
The airport at Minneapolis-Saint Paul was clean, efficient, and not particularly memorable. Our Northwest Airlines flight left from there for Honolulu on a huge wide body Airbus A300. In a plane two thirds the length of a football field, the aisles seem to stretch out forever. Each seat had its own entertainment center, complete with a small screen TV screen on the back of each seat, stereo earphones, and an armrest controller that allowed the selection of your choice of about 20 different movies on demand, as well as a variety of video games to keep you occupied for the eight and a half hours we were in the air.
It seems that all airlines have stopped providing complementary meals, even on very long flights, so the apples, granola bars, and snacks we’d brought were a welcome supplement to the soft drinks that were offered.
Since the last time I was in Hawaii the airport at Honolulu has grown and changed so much that I didn’t recognize any of it any more. Of course the same amount of change has also happened at the airport in Richmond. Anyone who had not visited the former Byrd Field since 1991 would not recognize any part of RIC today.
The final leg of our trip necessitated claiming our baggage and dragging it about a quarter of a mile to the next building.
The Sun was low and so was our energy as the plane made the final turn past a ridge where huge windmills were generating electricity and coasted down toward the airport at Kahului, Maui. We were soon in our rental car, making our cautious way through heavy traffic past the town of Pa’ia on the way to Haiku on the road to Hana.Our Friends Lisa and Ed P. made us feel welcome, and we stayed up chatting until 10:30 p.m. We realized as we dragged toward bed that we had been up for 25 hours!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tales of Samoa -O le afa o tausaga 1966 - The 1966 Typhoon in American Samoa
The 1966 Typhoon in American Samoa
The wind made a soft whistling sound as it slipped through the wire screens. The sound was always there, along with the constant background booming of the surf crashing on the edge of the reef just a hundred yards from my back door.
The salt spray, carried in the south east trade winds, coated the copper wire screens that faced the ocean, turning them green by the day after they were first put on the house.
The moist breeze carried the smell of the sea and salt through the open rooms, leaving a crystalline layer of salt on wooden walls, and left the woven floor mats, the cushions on the furniture, and even the sheets on the bed always feeling slightly damp.
We had lived in the new principal’s house on the school grounds of Aunu’ufou School since September of 1965. It was a wonderful blend of North American and South Pacific architecture. Four-by-four posts evenly spaced around the outside of the house held up a low pitched roof that was covered with heavy cedar shakes. The 30’ X 30’ concrete slab floor, covered with woven pandanus mats, made a cool surface in a hot, humid climate. Breezes from any direction could flow through the openings all the way around the house, which had no exterior walls. The breeze could be moderated and blowing rain stopped by pulling up heavy canvas curtains that were attached with grommets to sail tracks on the sides of the supporting posts. Inside there was a 10’ X 30’ living room on one side, three 10’ X10’ bedrooms on the opposite side, and an island in the center that was divided into a long narrow kitchen, a small bathroom, and a utility closet. A wall mounted ladder next to the door of the kitchen ascended to a small open loft.
On our bookcase near one of the living room windows was a single-sideband radio, our only two-way connection with the rest of the world from the little mile-wide island of Aunu’u. Some men on the island made the early morning trip to work before sunrise each day, rowing in longboats across the narrow channel between Aunu’u and the main island of Tutuila, but as school principal I lived at my work place. Whenever we needed school supplies, or food for the cafeteria, had mechanical problems with the pump that supplied the only running water on the island, or wanted groceries from the Burns-Phillp Store in Fagatogo, the single-sideband radio was the means to communicate our needs.
Squeezing the hand-held microphone and holding it close to your mouth you’d call, “Pago Radio, Pago Radio, Pago Radio! This is Aunu’u, OVER!” and wait for the reply, "Aunu’u, this is Pago Radio, OVER”, and the conversation would begin. Most often we would need a phone-patch, which simply meant that the radio operator in Pago Pago would dial the telephone number of the Department of Education, the Department of Public Works, the Burns-Phillp Store, or anyone else who actually HAD a telephone. Telephone conversations required the active participation of the radio operator, since he had to switch the telephone connection from broadcast to receive each time the party on the opposite end had finished talking. We got in the habit of ending each sentence with “OVER!” and pausing long enough for the switching to take place.
The single-sideband radio also acted as an open party-line, connecting us 24 hours a day to all of the other isolated schools whose only communication was via radio. In the mid-1960’s when there was only a single, mostly unpaved road only along the southern shore of Tutuila, a few very bad, very slippery, often dangerous roads led zigzagging over steep mountain slopes to villages on the north shore, and some villages were accessible only by boat. Schools at Aoloau, Nu’uuli, Vatia, Masefau, Aoa, Tula, and even Swain’s Island 200 miles to the north all kept in touch with each other via the single-sideband radio.
Our first Christmas 14 degrees south of the Equator on a one-mile-wide island in American Samoa had come and gone. Christmas in the tropics was different than it had been in California. Granted, California has mild winters and doesn’t fit the Christmas stereotype of snow-covered roofs and roasting chestnuts, but in Samoa it was steamy! We were south of the Equator where summer begins on December 21 and winter begins on June 21, but Samoa is close enough to the Equator that it makes little difference, except that the normally steady southeast trade winds often die out completely, leaving temperatures in the upper eighties and humidity in the nineties.
We had drawn the outline of a Christmas tree on brown butcher paper, and cut out pictures of ornaments and toys out of a Sears Roebuck catalogue to paste on the paper in lieu of real decorations, but of course that magic smell of evergreen boughs was not there, replaced by the fetid scent of the nearby flooded taro patches, with overtones of sulfur dioxide. We’d sung Christmas carols, read the nativity story, wished friends and neighbors “Manuia le Kirisimasi ma le Tausaga Fou!” (a healthy Christmas and New Year), and we opened presents, but somehow it just wasn’t the same.
January had brought little relief from the heat and humidity. The cooling trade winds had not yet returned. Hordes of mosquitoes, normally blown downwind away from the house and school by the sea breeze now hovered in swirling clouds around the window screens, many finding their way into the house each time a door was opened. Those that found their way in were most annoying at night, when they would hover with high-pitched whining wings only inches away from sleepy ears. An energetic dance performed by men is Samoa is called the “fa’ataupati” or slap-dance (you can click on fa'ataupati to view it, and then come back to finish the story). It is said that it was originally meant to depict the actions of dealing with swarms of hungry mosquitoes. That is wholly believable!
Friday, January 28th was pleasant. The breeze was once again blowing off the ocean, making the day seem a bit cooler. It did seem unusual that the wind was blowing more from the west than from its almost constant southeast direction. Long, streaky looking clouds scurried across the sky, constantly dimming and brightening the sunlight.
Our first hint of impending trouble was in the early afternoon, when we heard a voice half garbled with static on the single-sideband radio. It was the school principal on Swains Island, two hundred miles to the north, calling via Pago Radio with the information that conditions had been deteriorating there all day. The wind velocity had been picking up all morning, and at high tide the surf was actually washing into the edges of the vegetation at the top of the steep coral sand beach on the western side of the island where the school was located. This was startling, since it was a first quarter moon, a time in the lunar cycle when tide levels experience far less change than at full moon or new moon. The principal said that he had dismissed school early and sent all the children home to help their parents get ready for the storm that was coming.
By late afternoon the sky over Aunu’u was dark, with chunky looking low hanging clouds scudding rapidly from horizon to horizon. When I walked the half mile down the path to the village and boat landing I noticed that the surf was up here too. As the longboats came in carrying the men from work on the nearby island of Tutuila, they had to pause just beyond the waves that were breaking where there was normally no surf to contend with, timing their approach to the beach to come between the wave sets. They jumped quickly overboard into shallow water as the bow of each boat touched the sand, and hurried up the beach to grab the lago, slippery sections of wood that they placed at intervals up the slope. Every available person scrambled to grab sides of the heavy wooden longboats, sliding them much farther away from the water’s edge than usual.
Then they did something that I had never seen done before. Each longboat was cumbrously manhandled and rolled upside down and left on the flat ground high above the beach. I asked what was going on, and was told that there was a big storm coming, an afa … a hurricane.
They could read the warnings of wind direction, of cloud shapes and speed, could take heed of the unusual number of frigate birds heading away from their normal ocean patrols toward the land.
As I headed back home I could see much scurrying about in the village. Teenage boys and young men were hitching themselves up the trunks of coconut trees, machetes in hand, and hacking off large numbers of whole coconut fronds. As the long sections fell to the ground they were immediately gathered by younger children, and one at a time dragged toward the scattered fales, the open-sided thatched roof houses. There the adults were busy setting the heavy coconut fronds on end, side by side, all the way around each house, and binding the branches to the fale, girdling the entire house with sennit, the thin strong rope made of braided coconut-fiber strands.
The single-sideband was full of chatter back and forth between the various school stations now, and the Swains Island principal came back on the air about 6:00 p.m., saying in a slightly shaky voice that he was going to sign off the air now, and would not be back on again, since the waves were now beginning to crash against the outside walls of the flimsy building he was in!
Everyone else there had already left the tiny village to make their way cautiously toward the old Victorian style house “Etena” on the lee side of the island, through coconut groves where gale force winds were knocking off coconuts at an alarming rate. Getting hit by one of these would cause serious injury if not death.
The weather was deteriorating rapidly, and there was little we could do by way of preparation. I pulled all of the canvas curtains up on their sail tracks to the tops of each opening, and tied them securely. There was still a gap at each edge almost an inch wide, and it had begun to rain. The strong wind was sending raindrops right on through the cracks at the edges of the curtains, straight into the living room.
We moved all of the furniture to the far side of the room away from the openings, and turned the heavy bookcase against the wall to protect the books. Soon the power went off, and with it our radio connection to the outside world. We lit a kerosene lantern, put our three year old son Mark to bed in his bedroom on the side of the house away from the wind, and went to bed ourselves. That was the start of one of the longest nights in my life.
We lay there in the dark, listening to the developing storm. It is true that the wind sounds similar to an approaching freight train. A distant roaring sound with deep rumbling noises underneath grew louder and louder as it approached. The air around the house was still, but the sound was still growing in intensity, louder and louder until you were certain that any second the entire house would be hit. Instead, the entrained gust went howling past, near, but leaving only gentle swirling eddies to puff around the house.
Over and over the pattern would repeat, terrifying in each approach, sometimes passing on one side of the spot where we huddled, sometimes on the other, sometimes scoring a direct strike, grabbing and shaking the walls until we were certain that we were seconds away from being crushed under collapsing roof timbers. The whole house would shudder and tremble, and Mark woke up in his room calling, “Daddy, it’s raining in my bedroom!” We rushed to snatch him out of harm’s way, bringing him into our room which had the distinction of having solid walls on three sides instead of only two, as the other bedrooms did.
About the time the storm reached its peak around three in the morning on Saturday, there was a loud bang and a tearing noise, followed by violent flapping and crashing. I went cautiously toward the sound, coming from the living room, and found that the force of the wind against the strong canvas curtains had pulled the screws holding the sail track right out of the wood posts, and the sail, with heavy wood battens at top and bottom was standing out almost straight from the opening, flapping wickedly in the hurricane wind. I grabbed a hammer, some 16 penny nails, and a couple of boards from the utility closet and like Don Quixote charging the windmill, marched in to challenge the beast.
I put a single nail through one end of a board, nailing it to the post on one side of the opening. Rotating it, I moved it across the flapping canvas to nail the other end to the opposite post. At that point another violent rush of wind hit the house, and boards and I were sent tumbling to the floor halfway across the room. Charging back into the battle, I managed during a brief lull to get two planks nailed across the canvas, bringing it more or less back into position.
To add to the stress of that night Jan, who was eight and a half months pregnant, began to have contractions! I was certain that I’d have to deliver a baby during the height of the storm. Fortunately they were false labor pains, perhaps heightened by the tension of the storm, and faded away with the coming of morning.
The first light of dawn found us exhausted and groggy from lack of sleep. As we opened the door to explore the rest of the house we found in the back hallway books from the case that had been turned against the wall on the other side of the house. What violence of turbulence had managed to extract them from their shelter and fling them around several corners I couldn’t imagine. We later learned that the wind vane at the weather station on Tutuila had registered speeds of up to 120 before it snapped off its pole. By today’s standards the 1966 typhoon would have been classified as a Force 4, and maybe even a Force 5.
I used my pre-video 16mm movie camera a little later that morning to film the violent surf just outside the house, trees still whipping around in the strong winds, and damaged and collapsed houses in the village.
It was another couple of days before a motor launch was able to make its way through still rough seas to the island to find out if we were still alive. Very seasick friends helped Jan and Mark aboard the launch for the trip back to Pago Pago, and I stayed behind to help with cleanup in the village and at the school. The next day storm driven swells sent monster waves across the reef with such force that surged over the low places in the sand dune that separated the house and school from the ocean. Churning torrents of salt water swirled a foot deep around the foundations of the school buildings, threatening to undermine them, and children and adults from the village came to pile chunks of coral rock to break the force of the waves.
It was several days before I could join the rest of the family, and another 39 days before my daughter Lynne was born in the old Navy hospital in Utulei. Samoan friends, following the tradition of naming children after significant events near the birthday, suggested that perhaps we should have named her “Afa”!
The wind made a soft whistling sound as it slipped through the wire screens. The sound was always there, along with the constant background booming of the surf crashing on the edge of the reef just a hundred yards from my back door.The salt spray, carried in the south east trade winds, coated the copper wire screens that faced the ocean, turning them green by the day after they were first put on the house.
The moist breeze carried the smell of the sea and salt through the open rooms, leaving a crystalline layer of salt on wooden walls, and left the woven floor mats, the cushions on the furniture, and even the sheets on the bed always feeling slightly damp.
We had lived in the new principal’s house on the school grounds of Aunu’ufou School since September of 1965. It was a wonderful blend of North American and South Pacific architecture. Four-by-four posts evenly spaced around the outside of the house held up a low pitched roof that was covered with heavy cedar shakes. The 30’ X 30’ concrete slab floor, covered with woven pandanus mats, made a cool surface in a hot, humid climate. Breezes from any direction could flow through the openings all the way around the house, which had no exterior walls. The breeze could be moderated and blowing rain stopped by pulling up heavy canvas curtains that were attached with grommets to sail tracks on the sides of the supporting posts. Inside there was a 10’ X 30’ living room on one side, three 10’ X10’ bedrooms on the opposite side, and an island in the center that was divided into a long narrow kitchen, a small bathroom, and a utility closet. A wall mounted ladder next to the door of the kitchen ascended to a small open loft.
On our bookcase near one of the living room windows was a single-sideband radio, our only two-way connection with the rest of the world from the little mile-wide island of Aunu’u. Some men on the island made the early morning trip to work before sunrise each day, rowing in longboats across the narrow channel between Aunu’u and the main island of Tutuila, but as school principal I lived at my work place. Whenever we needed school supplies, or food for the cafeteria, had mechanical problems with the pump that supplied the only running water on the island, or wanted groceries from the Burns-Phillp Store in Fagatogo, the single-sideband radio was the means to communicate our needs.
Squeezing the hand-held microphone and holding it close to your mouth you’d call, “Pago Radio, Pago Radio, Pago Radio! This is Aunu’u, OVER!” and wait for the reply, "Aunu’u, this is Pago Radio, OVER”, and the conversation would begin. Most often we would need a phone-patch, which simply meant that the radio operator in Pago Pago would dial the telephone number of the Department of Education, the Department of Public Works, the Burns-Phillp Store, or anyone else who actually HAD a telephone. Telephone conversations required the active participation of the radio operator, since he had to switch the telephone connection from broadcast to receive each time the party on the opposite end had finished talking. We got in the habit of ending each sentence with “OVER!” and pausing long enough for the switching to take place.The single-sideband radio also acted as an open party-line, connecting us 24 hours a day to all of the other isolated schools whose only communication was via radio. In the mid-1960’s when there was only a single, mostly unpaved road only along the southern shore of Tutuila, a few very bad, very slippery, often dangerous roads led zigzagging over steep mountain slopes to villages on the north shore, and some villages were accessible only by boat. Schools at Aoloau, Nu’uuli, Vatia, Masefau, Aoa, Tula, and even Swain’s Island 200 miles to the north all kept in touch with each other via the single-sideband radio.
Our first Christmas 14 degrees south of the Equator on a one-mile-wide island in American Samoa had come and gone. Christmas in the tropics was different than it had been in California. Granted, California has mild winters and doesn’t fit the Christmas stereotype of snow-covered roofs and roasting chestnuts, but in Samoa it was steamy! We were south of the Equator where summer begins on December 21 and winter begins on June 21, but Samoa is close enough to the Equator that it makes little difference, except that the normally steady southeast trade winds often die out completely, leaving temperatures in the upper eighties and humidity in the nineties.
We had drawn the outline of a Christmas tree on brown butcher paper, and cut out pictures of ornaments and toys out of a Sears Roebuck catalogue to paste on the paper in lieu of real decorations, but of course that magic smell of evergreen boughs was not there, replaced by the fetid scent of the nearby flooded taro patches, with overtones of sulfur dioxide. We’d sung Christmas carols, read the nativity story, wished friends and neighbors “Manuia le Kirisimasi ma le Tausaga Fou!” (a healthy Christmas and New Year), and we opened presents, but somehow it just wasn’t the same.
January had brought little relief from the heat and humidity. The cooling trade winds had not yet returned. Hordes of mosquitoes, normally blown downwind away from the house and school by the sea breeze now hovered in swirling clouds around the window screens, many finding their way into the house each time a door was opened. Those that found their way in were most annoying at night, when they would hover with high-pitched whining wings only inches away from sleepy ears. An energetic dance performed by men is Samoa is called the “fa’ataupati” or slap-dance (you can click on fa'ataupati to view it, and then come back to finish the story). It is said that it was originally meant to depict the actions of dealing with swarms of hungry mosquitoes. That is wholly believable!
Friday, January 28th was pleasant. The breeze was once again blowing off the ocean, making the day seem a bit cooler. It did seem unusual that the wind was blowing more from the west than from its almost constant southeast direction. Long, streaky looking clouds scurried across the sky, constantly dimming and brightening the sunlight.
Our first hint of impending trouble was in the early afternoon, when we heard a voice half garbled with static on the single-sideband radio. It was the school principal on Swains Island, two hundred miles to the north, calling via Pago Radio with the information that conditions had been deteriorating there all day. The wind velocity had been picking up all morning, and at high tide the surf was actually washing into the edges of the vegetation at the top of the steep coral sand beach on the western side of the island where the school was located. This was startling, since it was a first quarter moon, a time in the lunar cycle when tide levels experience far less change than at full moon or new moon. The principal said that he had dismissed school early and sent all the children home to help their parents get ready for the storm that was coming.By late afternoon the sky over Aunu’u was dark, with chunky looking low hanging clouds scudding rapidly from horizon to horizon. When I walked the half mile down the path to the village and boat landing I noticed that the surf was up here too. As the longboats came in carrying the men from work on the nearby island of Tutuila, they had to pause just beyond the waves that were breaking where there was normally no surf to contend with, timing their approach to the beach to come between the wave sets. They jumped quickly overboard into shallow water as the bow of each boat touched the sand, and hurried up the beach to grab the lago, slippery sections of wood that they placed at intervals up the slope. Every available person scrambled to grab sides of the heavy wooden longboats, sliding them much farther away from the water’s edge than usual.
Then they did something that I had never seen done before. Each longboat was cumbrously manhandled and rolled upside down and left on the flat ground high above the beach. I asked what was going on, and was told that there was a big storm coming, an afa … a hurricane.
They could read the warnings of wind direction, of cloud shapes and speed, could take heed of the unusual number of frigate birds heading away from their normal ocean patrols toward the land.As I headed back home I could see much scurrying about in the village. Teenage boys and young men were hitching themselves up the trunks of coconut trees, machetes in hand, and hacking off large numbers of whole coconut fronds. As the long sections fell to the ground they were immediately gathered by younger children, and one at a time dragged toward the scattered fales, the open-sided thatched roof houses. There the adults were busy setting the heavy coconut fronds on end, side by side, all the way around each house, and binding the branches to the fale, girdling the entire house with sennit, the thin strong rope made of braided coconut-fiber strands.
The single-sideband was full of chatter back and forth between the various school stations now, and the Swains Island principal came back on the air about 6:00 p.m., saying in a slightly shaky voice that he was going to sign off the air now, and would not be back on again, since the waves were now beginning to crash against the outside walls of the flimsy building he was in!
Everyone else there had already left the tiny village to make their way cautiously toward the old Victorian style house “Etena” on the lee side of the island, through coconut groves where gale force winds were knocking off coconuts at an alarming rate. Getting hit by one of these would cause serious injury if not death. The weather was deteriorating rapidly, and there was little we could do by way of preparation. I pulled all of the canvas curtains up on their sail tracks to the tops of each opening, and tied them securely. There was still a gap at each edge almost an inch wide, and it had begun to rain. The strong wind was sending raindrops right on through the cracks at the edges of the curtains, straight into the living room.
We moved all of the furniture to the far side of the room away from the openings, and turned the heavy bookcase against the wall to protect the books. Soon the power went off, and with it our radio connection to the outside world. We lit a kerosene lantern, put our three year old son Mark to bed in his bedroom on the side of the house away from the wind, and went to bed ourselves. That was the start of one of the longest nights in my life.
We lay there in the dark, listening to the developing storm. It is true that the wind sounds similar to an approaching freight train. A distant roaring sound with deep rumbling noises underneath grew louder and louder as it approached. The air around the house was still, but the sound was still growing in intensity, louder and louder until you were certain that any second the entire house would be hit. Instead, the entrained gust went howling past, near, but leaving only gentle swirling eddies to puff around the house.
Over and over the pattern would repeat, terrifying in each approach, sometimes passing on one side of the spot where we huddled, sometimes on the other, sometimes scoring a direct strike, grabbing and shaking the walls until we were certain that we were seconds away from being crushed under collapsing roof timbers. The whole house would shudder and tremble, and Mark woke up in his room calling, “Daddy, it’s raining in my bedroom!” We rushed to snatch him out of harm’s way, bringing him into our room which had the distinction of having solid walls on three sides instead of only two, as the other bedrooms did.
About the time the storm reached its peak around three in the morning on Saturday, there was a loud bang and a tearing noise, followed by violent flapping and crashing. I went cautiously toward the sound, coming from the living room, and found that the force of the wind against the strong canvas curtains had pulled the screws holding the sail track right out of the wood posts, and the sail, with heavy wood battens at top and bottom was standing out almost straight from the opening, flapping wickedly in the hurricane wind. I grabbed a hammer, some 16 penny nails, and a couple of boards from the utility closet and like Don Quixote charging the windmill, marched in to challenge the beast.
I put a single nail through one end of a board, nailing it to the post on one side of the opening. Rotating it, I moved it across the flapping canvas to nail the other end to the opposite post. At that point another violent rush of wind hit the house, and boards and I were sent tumbling to the floor halfway across the room. Charging back into the battle, I managed during a brief lull to get two planks nailed across the canvas, bringing it more or less back into position.
To add to the stress of that night Jan, who was eight and a half months pregnant, began to have contractions! I was certain that I’d have to deliver a baby during the height of the storm. Fortunately they were false labor pains, perhaps heightened by the tension of the storm, and faded away with the coming of morning.
The first light of dawn found us exhausted and groggy from lack of sleep. As we opened the door to explore the rest of the house we found in the back hallway books from the case that had been turned against the wall on the other side of the house. What violence of turbulence had managed to extract them from their shelter and fling them around several corners I couldn’t imagine. We later learned that the wind vane at the weather station on Tutuila had registered speeds of up to 120 before it snapped off its pole. By today’s standards the 1966 typhoon would have been classified as a Force 4, and maybe even a Force 5.
I used my pre-video 16mm movie camera a little later that morning to film the violent surf just outside the house, trees still whipping around in the strong winds, and damaged and collapsed houses in the village.
It was another couple of days before a motor launch was able to make its way through still rough seas to the island to find out if we were still alive. Very seasick friends helped Jan and Mark aboard the launch for the trip back to Pago Pago, and I stayed behind to help with cleanup in the village and at the school. The next day storm driven swells sent monster waves across the reef with such force that surged over the low places in the sand dune that separated the house and school from the ocean. Churning torrents of salt water swirled a foot deep around the foundations of the school buildings, threatening to undermine them, and children and adults from the village came to pile chunks of coral rock to break the force of the waves.
It was several days before I could join the rest of the family, and another 39 days before my daughter Lynne was born in the old Navy hospital in Utulei. Samoan friends, following the tradition of naming children after significant events near the birthday, suggested that perhaps we should have named her “Afa”!
Monday, September 22, 2008
All Things Being Equal...
Autumn officially arrived in the Northern Hemisphere this morning at 11:44 EDT when the Sun was exactly over the equator at noon local time. That point on the equator this year was located on the north bank of a stream that is unnamed on any map I could find, in the tropical rainforest of Brazil, some miles north and west of the nearest town...Obidos.
It was warm and summer like in Richmond, although the nights are now a little cooler. It was just right on Saturday morning for the 9th annual Virginia Naturally 5k run in the James River Park to benefit the Virginia Junior Academy of Sciences. The cool morning help me turn in my best 5k time out of the last 6 races I've run at 31 minutes, 30 seconds. More than a hundred other runners turned in faster times, but at age 70 I'm delighted to be running at all! My goal is to finish a 5k in less than a half hour.
We went for a long sail on Sunday, moving along briskly on a broad reach, powered by a steady wind from the North East. We explored the eastern shore of Mobjack Bay as far as the mouth of the East River, put in briefly at the very small Compass Marina and mad a tight U-turn in the narrow confines before heading back out into the bay. The wind slackened to the point where we were making only about 1.5 kts, and at that point I started the motor and headed back to Mobjack Bay Marina under power.
Signs of Fall are beginning to appear. As we approached Greenmansion Cove I spotted two beautiful white swans near shore, something I've never seen here before. As the StarLady motored on past, they took flight and silently headed due south in the late afternoon sunlight.
On the way back to Richmond you could see long rivers of enormous flocks of small birds undulating across the sky. Back in Richmond several days earlier I had spotted another pair of swans on the James River. They hung around for two days, and were also gone.
Now that cooler days are on the way, it's a good time to be outside. I took my new bicycle out for its first spin this afternoon, and it felt good to be pedaling along the road. I was quickly reminded however, that the muscles used for pedaling a bicycle are not the same muscles used in running! I'll have to be consistent to get those muscles, long neglected into better shape.
I've put a nice gel-cover on the seat, but my backside got sore anyway, even though I only rode 5 miles. How on Earth do the competitors in the Tour de France survive those incredibly narrow racing seats?
Friday, September 19, 2008
Skydiving at Zephyr Hills, Florida
My first tandem skydive. In some ways it was similar to weightlessness training at the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City, Russia, but there were some surprises.
First of all I was surprised leaving the aircraft that there was virtually no sense of falling. Instead, the illusion was that we stayed in one place while the plane suddenly shot up into the sky away from us.
The second surprise was the startling amount of noise that is roars in your ears as you fall through the sky at 120 miles per hour.
It didn't feel as though I were weightless. As you very quickly reach terminal velocity and do not gain any more speed, the pressure of the air rushing past your body almost makes it feel like you are floating on a rapidly oscillating cushion!
Not much more verbal description for this adventure; the video pretty much says it all!
First of all I was surprised leaving the aircraft that there was virtually no sense of falling. Instead, the illusion was that we stayed in one place while the plane suddenly shot up into the sky away from us.
The second surprise was the startling amount of noise that is roars in your ears as you fall through the sky at 120 miles per hour.
It didn't feel as though I were weightless. As you very quickly reach terminal velocity and do not gain any more speed, the pressure of the air rushing past your body almost makes it feel like you are floating on a rapidly oscillating cushion!
Not much more verbal description for this adventure; the video pretty much says it all!
White-water Kayaking in Richmond
If you look at a map of the Eastern United States you will notice that there are a number of large cities that are located near, but not ON the coast, including Trenton NJ, Philadelphia PA, Wilmington DE, Baltimore MD, Washington, D.C., Fredericksburg VA, Petersburg VA, Richmond VA, Roanoke Rapids NC, Columbia SC, and Columbus GA.
All these cities owe their geographical location to the fact that early settlers could bring their ships only so far up rivers before they encountered places where the salty, tidal rivers ended suddenly where rapids spilled fresh water down over short expanses of steep, rocky terrain, creating impassible rapids. This is called the Fall Line.
The rapidly moving water makes the fall line a good location for water mills, grist mills, and sawmills. Because of the need for a river port leading to the ocean, and a ready supply of water power, settlements often developed where rivers cross a fall line.
In the city of Richmond, Virginia the river front was once heavily industrialized, and the rapids were merely something to be avoided. Early in the history of our country such notable people as George Washington were invested in the Kanawha Canal company whose goal was to build canals and locks around the Fall Line so that narrow shallow draft boats carrying heavy loads could be poled or towed up rivers to communities farther inland.Just a few miles east of downtown Richmond the James River begins its turbulent trip down across the Fall Line. A series of dams were constructed across the James River at various times, to back up the water to provide smooth deeper water for boats, to power the grist mills of industry, to spin turbines that generated electricity for the city. One by one the commercial uses of the dams have ceased, and although the dams remained, they remained a barrier to fish attempting to swim upriver to spawn.
It has only been in recent times that notches have been blasted in several dams in Richmond and a fish-ladder constructed around the Bosher Dam, allowing fish to swim upstream for the first time in more than a hundred years.
The James River in Richmond has experienced a huge increase in recreational use. It may be the only city in the United States where you can go white water rafting through the center of the city. It has become a popular recreational activity to play in the rapids of the James River in Richmond.
The City of Richmond James River Park stretches out along both sides of the river, including 11 miles of river front and over 500 acres of woods that provide a semi-wilderness area within the city limits. One of the more popular destinations in the Jame River Park is "The Pony Pasture", where there used to be, you guessed it, a pony pasture in an area by the river where in long gone times men labored with hammers and drills to quarry the granite for Richmond's cobblestone streets, curb stones, and buildings.
Today all traces of the old industrial railroad are gone, placid ponds hint at the location of old quarries, and the pony pasture now has a shady parking area, a place to launch canoes, kayaks, and rafts, and miles of woodland trails to explore. The favorite activity here though, is playing or sunbathing on the rounded worn rocks that protrude from the shallow, swift moving water.Just a quarter of a mile upstream from the Pony Pasture, a notch has been cut in the Z-shaped dam that stretches from the bank on Riverside Drive across to Williams Island in the middle of the river. The water roars, cascading down through the notch, creating a turbulent hydrolic churning area just below where it plunges into the deeper water below. This is a dangerous spot! Many people have been drowned here, caught in the spinning currents that forced them under the falling water and kept them there.
It is also a place that attracts expert white water kayakers, who deliberately nose their tiny craft into the treacherous waters that grab, shake, and even flip their boats upside down.
Swift strokes with paddles and sudden shifts of body weight allow these daredevils to right their kayaks easily, and they spend hours darting and diving, spinning and rolling in the Z-dam notch.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Cruising the Galapagos Islands
Saturday, July 1, 2000
The alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., very early since I had stayed up until almost 2:00 a.m. the night before, finishing the very last of the paperwork for the summer school classes I had taught during the last two weeks in June.
Shorts and T-shirts for traveling, check one more time that everything we needed was packed: toothbrush, deodorant, underwear, enough socks, and medicine. Passports, cash, additional identification and a credit card in the concealed waist belt. Mask and snorkel, wet suit; we want to swim with the seals!
Finally everything in the car, and rolling up the driveway by 7:30. We met our group of fellow travelers at the Holiday Inn on Staples Mill Road in Richmond Virginia, consolidated the luggage in one van, and split the passengers between two. We were on the way to Washington, D.C. by 8:30.
The old National Airport, reborn as the Ronald Regan Airport, has also acquired new life during a major upgrading and total renovation during the last few years. Previously flying into or out of the National Airport was like joining herds of unruly cattle, shuffling along long, crowded plywood walled halls to reach temporary gates for boarding. The new facilities are impressive, arched arcades that let in lots of light, polished terrazzo floors, shops and eating establishments so numerous that reaching the departure gates was almost like going shopping at the mall.
Our two hour and forty minute flight to Miami took off right on time. However, when we were approaching for landing, we were waved off due to a huge thunderstorm stalled directly over the airport. All incoming and outgoing flights were delayed until the storm with its extreme danger of microburst activity had moved on. After circling for at least a half hour, we were told that the flight was being diverted to Fort Meyers for refueling. Another fifteen to twenty minutes, and the public address system came on again, this time the pilot told us that there was some faulty instrument landing equipment at Ft. Meyers, and that we were being diverted to Tampa. Another twenty minutes passed, and dodging towering clouds, we finally zigzagged our way down to the runway at Tampa. By now the time of departure for our flight to Guayaquil, Equador had come and gone.
The plane now refueled, we headed into the sky again for Miami. The thunderstorm had finally passed, and we landed there without further incident, at least three hours later than we had expected. Fortunately, all of the other flights had also been delayed, so it was only another hour and forty-five minute wait at another gate until we boarded our flight to Ecuador.
Sunday, July 2, 2000
We landed in Guayaquil sometime around 2:00 a.m. I took 45 minutes to clear immigration and customs, but a bus was waiting to take us to the Hotel OroVerde. Only about 15 minutes drive from the airport, the OroVerde was a pleasant surprise. First class service, cheerful and helpful personnel, everything well maintained. We crashed in bed sometime around 3:30 a.m. and didn’t stir until 8:00 on Sunday morning.We dressed leisurely, and then strolled downstairs for a sumptuous breakfast at 9:00. We didn’t have much time to look around the city on the way back to the airport. Guayaquil is the biggest city in Ecuador, with a population of over three million. Its primary sources of income are oil and bananas. There is runaway inflation, which often hits over 60% per month. The current exchange rate, more than likely to be considerably different within the week was 25,000 sucres to the U.S. Dollar! The rate of inflation was so astronomically high that about six weeks later, the Equadorian monetary unit of sucres was totally abolished, and the U.S. Dollar was adopted as the official currency for the entire country. It remains that way today.
There was considerable political unrest in Ecuador in the year 2000, and our original plans to stop in Quito for several days on the way here were changed because of the perceived danger in Quito. In Guayaquil, all the streets past the hotel had been blocked by huge concrete planters with flowers in them. There were at least five heavily armed soldiers carrying fully automatic rifles patrolling the block and the corners where to hotel was located.
At the airport, I purchased a finely woven Panama hat for $12. I was glad to have that to protect my bald scalp from the burning rays of the equatorial Sun!
Our flight to the Galapagos was uneventful. It did, however, fool me. After take off, I noted that the Sun was shining directly into my window on the airplane. Since it was only a few minutes after noon, I could tell that we were flying east, away from our destination. As seconds stretched into minutes, and continued after the plane had reached cruising altitude, I began to wonder if the plane were going to Quito before heading west to the islands. It took quite some time before I realized that we were ON the equator! At this time of year, the Sun is always in the NORTH at noon, not south like it always is at noon in Virginia. We were, in fact heading west. The lack of sleep soon caught up with me, and a snooze made the flight time to the island of Baltra in the Galapagos seem very short.
Baltra has an airport because the U.S. armed forces occupied the island of Baltra from 1941 to 1944, using it as a strategic base and as the first line of defense against the Japanese that might have coveted land in South America. It was ceded to Ecuador soon after the end of WWII. Today, about 16,500 people live in the Galapagos Islands, most of them sustained by the growing tourism industry.After a quick trip through customs, we boarded a waiting bus that took us through desert countryside with much exposed bare volcanic rock, lots of prickly pear cactus and other plants that thrive in an arid land.
We were met at the landing by two large Zodiac boats that transferred us to the 120 foot three masted sailing ship M/S Alta. The décor aboard is elegant, with a large sitting room on the main deck near the bow, a tastefully decorated dining room, and neat, if small staterooms, each with its own shower.After the mandatory emergency drill, we all climbed into the two Zodiacs to explore Black Turtle Bay. We spent almost two hours threading our way along channels defined by the ubiquitous mangrove trees with their aerial roots. We saw pelicans, blue-footed boobies, and several kinds of finches, golden warblers, and two different kinds of rays. We saw a six foot white tipped shark cruise by, and watched flights of dive-bombing boobies crash diving for dinner. We finally headed back to the Alta for a marvelous dinner. Although it was only 10:30 p.m. on the clock, everyone was exhausted. I was the last one up. Tomorrow would be another busy day.
Monday, July 3, 2000
M/S Alta weighed anchor around 9:30 p.m. from Santa Cruz Island, headed for Genovesa or Tower Island. Although Alta is a fairly large vessel, 140 feet long, the heavy rolling as we crossed open ocean made it somewhat difficult to sleep. Sometime in the early morning, around 3:00 the crew dropped anchor in Darwin Bay, only about a hundred yards from the steep 100-foot high basaltic cliffs of the flooded volcanic caldera that makes the bay safe anchorage. The cliffs go almost all the way around a circle, with only the seaward side, less than a quarter mile open to the ocean.After breakfast, we all donned the mandatory life jackets, and scrambled over the side of the ship into the two waiting Zodiacs. They pounded their way across Darwin Bay to the side opposite the anchored ship to a spot dubbed Prince Phillip’s Steps. Presumably they got their name from the route Prince Phillip of England took to climb up the cliff when the royal yacht HMS Britannia visited here many years ago. Our Zodiacs scooted in turn up to the edge of the rocks where there was a small natural platform. Hopping ashore, we clambered up the steep uneven rocks to the top of the cliff, about 70 feet above the ocean.
Our walk on this morning with our guide Alec took us through dry scrubby looking brush for several miles. We stopped frequently for descriptions of the things we were seeing. We saw blue-footed boobies, red-footed boobies, and masked boobies. It is interesting to note that the blue-footed boobies have red bills, and the red-footed boobies have blue bills. We saw lots of frigate birds. It was fascinating to watch these large birds; with the slightest movement of their forked tails or a minor adjustment of wing angle, the frigate birds are masters of the sky. They floated on the ocean of air effortlessly, often hovering in one place as they balanced their downward glides with the updrafts. We also spotted a Galapagos owl, and Galapagos finches.Back to the Alta for a snack and a rest, and then off in the Zodiacs again, this time for snorkeling along the flooded walls of the old crater. I was happy to have the wet suit, since the water was quite chilly. Although the Galapagos Islands straddle the equator, ocean currents bring very cold deep-ocean to the surface here. I decided to take some pictures underwater with my Nikonos waterproof camera. Ducking under the surface and rolled over on my back to get some candid shots of the other members of our group in their snorkeling gear. Unfortunately, I miscalculated how far I was from the edge of the underwater cliff, and banged my head on a rock. Very little damage was done, but since it was bleeding a little bit, I hailed the pilot of the Zodiac to come get me out of the water until I could realistically assess the damage. After a few minutes it was apparent to me that the bleeding had stopped completely. I put my mask, fins and snorkel back on and rolled into the water. Our guide Alec was still concerned, though, so he sent me back to the Alta. On arrival at the ship, the captain asked me to go in the Zodiac over to the next tour ship, where they had a doctor. I felt a little silly, but complied. The doctor cleaned the scalp, put a dab of antibiotic ointment on the scrape, and sent me on my way.
Back onboard the Alta, I decided to play with one of the sea kayaks for a while. I paddled along the side of the cliffs toward a white coral sand beach that was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. As I got close, I could see several sea lions dozing in the sun at the water’s edge. They let me get within ten feet of them without showing any signs of alarm, and stay there long enough to snap their pictures.After lunch and a nap, we got on the Zodiacs again, this time bound for the same beach I had visited before lunch. This was a wet landing, with the Zodiacs pulling in stern first to within a few feet of the beach. Everyone had to jump over the sides and wade ashore. On a short walk we saw a number of sea lions up close to within a few feet, and many of the same kinds of birds we had seen on our earlier walk. We also saw a black lava gull, one of only about 400 left in the world.
Back on Alta, we relaxed on the big thick blue cushions way up in the bow for awhile, before getting ready to attend our nightly lecture and briefing on the next day’s activities. We spent the whole night heading toward our next destination, the island of Fernandina. Open ocean swells have seriously disagreed with at least five members of our party. They abandoned the deck or the dining room tables, feeling miserably worse by the minute. Jane and I were both lucky; no seasickness so far. I’m glad that we got the scopolamine patches before leaving. So far they seemed to be doing the job.
About eight o’clock ten or twelve people gathered on the big blue cushions way up by the bow. I’m not sure how many were there; it’s hard to count in the pitch dark. Jane and I pointed out familiar constellations that you can see from Richmond, except that they all seemed upside-down in the sky, this far south.
We also spotted several things in the sky that are too low to be seen from Virginia, such as the Southern Cross, and Alpha Centauri. At a distance of only 4.5 light years away, it's the next closest star to us besides the Sun. We watched a beautiful golden waxing crescent moon sink beneath the waves. A little group singing, accompanied on the harmonica made a pleasant end to a busy day. The last people left the main deck for bed by 9:30. It SEEMS late when it is three hours past sunset. Here, that makes it a little after 9:00 p.m. but in Virginia at this time of year that turns out to be somewhat past 11:30 p.m. That may help explain why everyone is retiring so early. Tomorrow starts early with breakfast at 6:45.Tuesday, July 4, 2000
The Alta didn’t rock and roll as much last night as the previous night, and I woke up refreshed, ready for adventures. We heard the engines stop in the middle of the night, and assumed that we had reached the island of Fernandina. In about a half hour, however, the engines started up again, and were still running when we made our way up on deck at 6:45 a.m.
The crew said that they stopped to change the fuel filters which had become clogged, and that instead of going ashore at 7:30 we were still a couple of hours away from our destination. Fernandina is a big island, with slopes similar in appearance to Mauna Loa on the big island of Hawaii. A bulging shield volcano, you could see where many lava flows had poured down the sides of the island and then spread out, making large fan tailed almost flat flows gently sloping down to the water’s edge. It was on one of these low lying aprons that we landed, on Punta Espinoza. This was a dry landing. The zodiacs brought us up right the edge of the lava flow where it dropped a few feet into the sea. The constant wash of waves over these rocks does make them slippery, however, and Alex, our guide, laid an old bath towel down on the rocks to give us extra traction as we scrambled ashore.
The old lava flow we walked on looked in many places as if old rope had been discarded, lying in heaps and piles in every direction. This kind of flow happens when the temperature of the lava is very hot. Because of its decreased viscosity, the lava flows rapidly down the steep slopes of a volcano, often in lava tubes, just underneath the surface crust. When it reaches flat land, the flow slows, but more lava is now pushing it from behind. As the newer lava shoves older lava forward, it tends to wrinkle, producing the ropey textured surface called pahoehoe. There were places on our morning walk where coral and pahoehoe had both been ground together by tidal action, wind and waves eventually wearing the hardest material into gray sand.We saw lots of sea lions sunning themselves on the rocks and sand, totally unconcerned about our approach. We could walk to within three feet of them, and they might or might not open one eye to look us over. The total disregard for human presence seems to be the rule here in the Galapagos Islands. We walked right up, two or three feet away from nesting blue-footed boobies that were sitting on eggs or on chicks, and they would act as if we were invisible.
We returned to the ship for a big lunch and a short rest. We moved to an anchorage off the shore of Isabella in the early afternoon. Enroute, there was much excitement when we spotted a pod of dolphins converging on our ship. The caught up with us easily, and for the next half hour entertained us and themselves by riding the bow wave of Alta, racing along effortlessly at eight to ten knots.
We anchored in Elizabeth bay at Isla Isabella, and hopped into the two inflatable boats that the people here call pangas for an afternoon of prowling through the mangrove bays. We saw a number of black sea turtles, Galapagos hawks, schools of mullet, and some bright yellow warblers. We also saw a few Galapagos penguins, about a foot and a half tall. This is the only place where penguins, normally associated with Antarctic climates, are found this far north.
On the way back to Alta we diverted to go all the way around two tiny islands, rock outcroppings really, to see the penguins, blue footed boobies, and marine iguanas that were clinging to the jagged rocks and resting in small crevices.
In the tropics, the sunrise and sunset times do not vary much over the course of a year. The sun consistently goes down around 6:00 p.m. and rises again around 6:00 a.m. It is totally dark by 7:00 p.m. every evening. After dinner about ten people gathered again on the bow of the ship to look at stars and sing songs. Tonight we are in a protected anchorage, with large islands all around that block the heavy open ocean swells. Last night as we looked at the stars, the swaying of the boat made the tall masts describe huge arcs across the starry sky, making it seem as if the whole sky was swaying back and forth in rhythm with the waves. Tonight is so still that there is no apparent motion. The next day we were scheduled to get underway early, heading along the coast of Isabella to Urvina Bay, and later in the day to Tagus Cove. It was strange, spending the 4th of July, Independence Day, on a motor-sailer at the equator. It seemed more like a traditional 4th of July though when one of the group broke out a gift they'd brought with them...bright red bill-caps with the name "ALTA" and underneath...July 4th, 2000!
Wednesday, July 5, 2000
The Alta got under way in the middle of the night, or at least it felt like it. I’m not sure what time it was but the engines coming to life with a roar almost directly under our bed woke us with a start. We soon got back to sleep, but woke up early. All engines stopped. Urvina Bay is a spectacular anchorage, not more than a mile across. The water was glassy smooth, reflecting the other boats at anchor.
The two pangas brought us to a gray beach composed of both volcanic and coral sand. A short walk into the brush behind the beach brought us to an area of bare dirt that looked as if it were flooded from time to time. Alex told us to wait, and he went striding off down a bare dirt trail, stopping from time to time to bend over and peer under the leaves. He came back shaking his head; no giant tortoises to be seen. The group followed him along the hot trail. For the first time, it feels like a tropical island. The air was still, hot and humid, and the smell of damp vegetation hung heavy in the air.
As we walked single file along the dusty path, Alex stopped to point out tortoise droppings the size of baseballs. We encountered the Galapagos land iguanas for the first time. They have much less pronounced spines along their backs, are probably about three to four times the weight of the marine iguanas, and are yellowish brown.
Finally I spotted a huge tortoise off the right side of the trail where it had plowed a path through the underbrush. We moved on a few hundred yards farther, and came to a strange open meadow, littered with the old black skeletons of mangrove trees, all covered with morning glory vines. Alex explained that we were standing on the floor of a very recent bay. In 1956 the volcano on Isabela had erupted. Before erupting, however, the pressure of the rising magma had inflated the dome, raising this area from a shallow bay to eighteen feet above sea level. It also made a perfect feeding ground for Galapagos tortoises, who love to eat the morning glory vines. The path branched many different ways through the vines, and all of them were very dusty. The dust itself was about the consistency bath powder, and no matter how carefully we walked, the group raised traveling dust clouds.
We explored the meadow, making our way around clumps of trees, and before long found another giant tortoise. Although this one was smaller than the first we saw, Alex estimated that it was about 35-40 years old. Fifty yards more and we found two juveniles, only about two feet across the carapace, and probably no more than ten years old.
By the time we got back to the beach we were all hot, sweaty, and dusty, and looking forward to our promised time to go snorkeling. We all tugged and wiggled into wet suits, since the cold upwelling currents that make the Galapagos an area for such bio-diversity also make it difficult to swim without additional insulation. Getting into the water was a minor shock, but moving in the water soon made it quite tolerable. We swam together along the side of the bay, peering into the tumbled volcanic rocks, and marveling at the parrot fish, sergeant majors, and brilliant electric blue damsel fish. We were soon joined by several curious sea lions, who seemed to take great delight in zooming past, twisting and rolling and blowing air bubbles as if to show us who were the real masters of this environment.Back aboard the ship we began another elegantly prepared lunch under the awning at the bow as the Alta began to move to Tagus Cove for the afternoon. Partway through lunch, dolphins joined us again, and we watched in amazement their effortless antics as they rode the pressure wave at the bow of the boat. High, almost sheer cliffs wall in Banks Cove or Tagus Cove, showing layers upon layers of volcanic ash that have hardened into rock. This cove was historically used as an anchorage by pirate ships and whalers. You could see the names of hundreds of ships carved or painted on the layered rocks of the steep cliffs. This is now prohibited.
Three kayaks, each with two people put out to paddle along the cliffs, looking at the sea birds that perch and nest there. The remaining members of the group elected to travel the same route in the larger of the two zodiacs. About a quarter mile from the Alta, one of the kayaks got into trouble, sinking lower and lower in the stern until it capsized in the chilly water. Our boat scooted to the rescue, pulling the two cold paddlers over the side into the boat, and took the leaky kayak under tow. After traveling along the cliffs some distance further, we all turned back to the boat.After a half hour rest, eight of us elected to hike up the steep path away from the bay. The first part of the hike was steep, up wooden stairs. By the time we got to the top in the hot still air we were all out of breath and soaking wet. What a pleasant surprise; the air got noticeably cooler, and a gentle breeze made it pleasant. We continued up the trail to the top of a cindery hill of scoria for a spectacular view of the huge shield volcano that made this part of the island, and back down to Tagus Cove looking over a salty lagoon lake. We were pretty well worn out by the time we got back to the shore and the waiting panga that brought us back to the boat for dinner.
As soon as we were all aboard, the Alta weighed anchor and headed north again, to skirt the northern end of Isabela and head down the eastern side of the island to James Bay where we would visit on Thursday. A little before sunset at 6:10 p.m., I spotted a school of flying fish skimming the wave tops, rushing away in panic before the ship. Before heading to bed, I headed out to take another look at that mysterious glowing blue bow wave and its blue-spark phosphorescing turbulence. It was nothing short of magical, and I regretted that the light was not bright enough to register on my video camera. It was totally fascinating.
THURSDAY, July 6, 2000
After an overnight passage, the Alta anchored shortly after sunrise in James Bay, also known as Puerto Egas on the island of Santiago. From the ship we could see the ruins of a cinder block house, and a hundred yards along the shore, a large old metal water tank. Alex told us that there used to be a commercial salt mining operation here, but it had been abandoned years ago. We made a wet landing, hopping out of the pangas into knee-deep water at the edge of the black sandy beach. Our walk this morning was along the shelving lava formations at the edge of the sea. Lots of tidal pools held small fish, brilliantly colored Sally Lightfoot crabs, and sea urchins. A little further along the shelving coast we came to an area where there were many old lava tubes that had collapsed into the water, leaving strange natural bridges, deep crevasses, and underwater passageways where we saw sea lions and smaller sea lions that are called fur seals here. The light shining through these grottoes made the water surging back and forth inside them appear as green, gray, deep cerulean blue, and pale sky blue. It was beautiful.
Retracing our steps a mile or so back to the beach, some of us wiggled into wet suits and braved the cold water to go snorkeling. Getting into the water was somewhat of a shock, even when it was expected, but as soon as we began moving around it became quite tolerable. I had borrowed another dive mask, since the one I brought from home was leaking so badly the first time I used it that I had to stop every 5-10 seconds to empty the mask of water. The new borrowed mask made the dive pleasant. We floated out around a point of rocks, floating through huge schools of small red fish, colorful damselfish, bright yellow tangs, trigger fish and beautiful angelfish that looked as if an artist had cleaned his paintbrushes on them.
We pulled our tired bodies into the zodiac just in time go spanking across the water back to the boat for yet another sumptuous lunch. This afternoon we dropped anchor offshore of the island of Bartolome. Pinnacle Rock, the highest point on the island, juts like huge rock wedge into the air at the edge of the water. We waded ashore from the pangas with our snorkeling gear, which we dumped on the beach, and immediately followed Alex along a trail across the vegetation covered sand dunes a few hundred yards to the other side of the island. A beautiful long curve of yellow sand rimmed the edge of the water. We waded in about knee deep, and Alex pointed out that this beach was very well patrolled by sharks which cruised along the shore hoping to intercept newly hatched sea turtles as they scrambled from the sandy nests where they hatched toward the deep water. As we stood there we saw sharks passing as if in review on parade. We saw white tipped sharks about four feet long, black tipped sharks six or seven feet long, and Galapagos sharks about the same length. Not too surprisingly, we didn’t see any human swimmers in this bay!
The surprise was that not more than a couple of hundred yards away on the other side of the island, sharks are seldom if ever spotted. We pulled on our wet suits on the beach for one more chance at snorkeling. We saw small flounder, damsel fish, blennies, trigger fish, black sea urchins, pencil sea urchins, green sea urchins, sea anemones, huge schools of sardines and of some little red fish I couldn’t identify.
Back to the boat to shower and change into dry clothes, and then back to another landing, this time a dry landing on the rocks, for a hike up to the top of a cinder cone about 400 feet above sea level. From the top there was an impressive 360-degree view of islands in all directions. We got back to the bottom and ferried to the boat just about the time the sun was disappearing below the horizon at 6:10 p.m. The crew gathered with us in the lounge for a farewell toast.
We will move tonight, traveling to our final anchorage just off the island of Mosquera. Breakfast at 7:00, one last shore excursion – a wet landing on the beach of this tiny island less than a kilometer long, to look at the sea lions here. We’ll be back on board by quarter to ten in the morning, and be pulling in to dock on the island of Baltra around 10:30 a.m. The plane arrives at noon, and we will be departing for Miami at 12:45 in the afternoon.
One of the most memorable moments of the trip was a chance happening in the evening. Just after dinner, when almost everyone was still in the dining room, I stepped out onto the deck to see if there were any stars visible. There were none, but as I looked out across the black water, I saw a tiny streak of blue light, only a few inches long, moving rapidly through the water, followed by a large swirl of phosphorescence. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was looking at a fish, fleeing from a pursuing sea lion. I stood fascinated for several minutes watching the chase, painted in streaks and whirlpools of blue glowing light as the fish and the sea lion darted this way and that, first close to the side of the boat and along its hull, plunging deep, fading out of sight, and exploding back into view. Sometimes within inches of each other, then with a sudden change of direction widening the gap. Several times as the pursuer and the pursued swept through the lights of the boat there would be a sudden glowing jewel of the sea lion’s eye shining back at me like a moving beacon, quickly dimming again to it blue ghostly appearance as the two plunged back into the darkness again. I never did see the end of the chase; they headed straight out away from the Alta, the blue ghostly magic fading with the distance.
FRIDAY, July 7, 2000
Mosquera is barely more than a sandbar: just under a kilometer long, and about 200 meters wide, it is separated by narrow channels at each end from the islands of North Seymour and South Seymour. No trees, no bushes, only some patches of ground-hugging succulent leafed plants that cling to the sandy soil. Still, it is one of the more interesting islands we have visited, because of the number of sea lions that are there. Along the beachfront on the sheltered side of the island, the big bull sea lions have staked out territories of about 50 - 70 meters each. They stay in the water a good deal of the time, patrolling up and down. They bark warnings at all they think may invade their territory to steal the females from them.
They bellowed at our zodiac inflatables as we came in to the beach, but did not bother us once we were ashore. All up and down the slope of the beach were hundreds of sea lions, sleeping in the morning sun. Some were still sleek and black, indicating that they had just recently come from breakfast in the water. Others were the color of coffee with cream, and looked much fluffier. These had been out of the water for some time, and their fur was dried to its natural color. None of them paid any more attention to us than to perhaps open one eye to peer disinterestedly at us for a second or two before drifting off into sea lion slumber again.
Young sea lions lay like overstuffed light brown sausages next to their mothers, sucking milk noisily with great gusto. Adolescent sea lions swam and swirled in barking mobs in the shallow waters, chasing each other in endless games of tag and mock battle. Standing watching on the beach close to the water would indicate intrusion to a bull once in awhile, and he would swim toward us menacingly, barking his challenge. We would back up quickly, and the bull would swim away to resume his patrol against other sea lions. Several times as we stood there, young females, unbelievably curious, would swim to the beach, and humpty hump their way up the sand to have a look at us. As I ran the video camera, one of them stopped only about four feet away, then inched closer and closer, finally reaching out as far as she could with her long-whiskered nose to sniff at my shin. After doing this several times, she gently opened her mouth and slowly reached for my leg as they do with each other in greeting. That was a little too much for me, and I backed up quickly!
Our time was up all too quickly, and we headed back to the Alta for the last time. Soon we were landing at Puerto Ayora on the island of Baltra, piling into the bus for the short trip to the airport. Our bags had been taken ashore ahead of us to be transported to the airport. We were dismayed as we rounded a curve near the airport, and saw the baggage truck overturned next to the road, on top of a great pile of luggage! We drove on past, and checked in at the airport. We could see the wreck in the distance, and watched as ten or fifteen men got on one side of the truck and heaved it right side up again. Within a half hour the luggage truck, one wheel badly bent, but still rotating eccentrically, pulled up and unloaded the luggage, seemingly unharmed by the incident. We could discover no damage to our bags, and after a moderately long wait, finally took off for Guayaquil.
Saturday, January 8, 2000
As we approached the coast of Ecuador, the pilot announced that the plane would not be landing at Guayaquil, as scheduled, but would instead continue inland to Quito. No particular explanation, just the announcement. We could see as the aircraft approached that Quito stretched out in a valley, curving upwards at the edges toward rocky peaks, as if the city were sleeping in a hammock.
That was really all we saw of the city. We waited in the terminal for quite some time before the announcement finally came that boarding was underway for Guayaquil. As we climbed up out of the valley we could see steamy clouds rising from the cinder cone of a dormant volcano at the edge of the city.
On arrival at the Hotel Oro Verde in Guayaquil our bags were unloaded and whisked away to our rooms. A farewell dinner for the group turned out to be an elaborate affair. When I arrived at our private dining room the headwaiter announced that he had a problem with the fact that I was wearing shorts. Fortunately I had, at the last minute, thrown a pair of jeans into my suitcase before leaving home. I almost hadn’t brought them, and I had not worn them once on board the Alta. I returned to the room and changed to long pants. Even though they were denim, the length was acceptable, and I was admitted to the dining room. The banquet was served in courses, each a culinary work of art, served with great decorum. Fabulous!
The flights back to Miami and Regan airport were uneventful, except for the inevitable delays. We flew low over Washington, D.C. just about sunset, sightseeing from the air, spotting the Potomac River at Great Falls, the National Cathedral, the Mall, the White House, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol Building. By the time we had reclaimed our baggage, gone through customs, and retrieved the vans from the long-term parking area, it was dark. Most of us dozed as we headed back toward Richmond.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Cosmonaut Training - Star City, Russia - 1992
I pulled on the T-shaped handle with the fingers of my right hand, a quick tug and release. I heard the short, high-pitched hoot of control gas escaping from the four corners of the Ikarus "flying chair", and grinned as the Russian manned maneuvering unit began to back away from the airlock of the MIR Space Station.
A light touch sideways on the other hand controller activated the yaw thrusters, and my view of the space station slewed to the right as the Ikarus began to rotate me toward the left. The main core module of MIR drifted past my face plate, and the Kvant module came into view. When I had turned far enough to see the Kristal module directly in front of me, I flicked a toggle switch under my fingers, and the automatic stabilizers kicked in. They canceled out any movements I had initiated, holding me in place about a hundred meters from MIR, pointing in the direction I wanted to move next.
In automatic mode, I pushed forward on the controller, and the space station loomed larger in my field of view as I approached. Releasing the pressure on the hand controller, I came to a halt, floating in the blackness within easy reach of the hand holds on the space station exterior.
I could hear the voice of the commander speaking in Russian and the translator's voice in my earphones relaying his congratulations on the successful completion of my first flight in the cosmonaut mobility unit. Suddenly the unit lurched back sharply, the space station began to recede, and a bright white light split the darkness at the edges of my vision as the chair was pulled out of the black box surrounding the simulator. It was time for the next cosmonaut trainee's familiarization run on the computer driven equipment.
If I had been preparing for an actual spacewalk, an Extra-Vehicular Activity assignment on a MIR flight, I would have spent hundreds and hundreds of hours with this sophisticated simulator, but I had only a week to sample of all the major areas of training experienced by guest cosmonauts preparing to travel to the Russian MIR Space Station.
There were an even dozen of us here in Russia as guests in July of 1992, the first American civilians ever to be admitted to primary spaceflight training northeast of Moscow at the Yuri A. Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City (Zhvezhdny Gorodok in Russian, which literally translated means “Starry Town). Two were professional cameramen, here to video tape a television documentary. Four were people with a keen interest in the Russian space program. The other six of us were teachers, applicants in the competition to select an American guest cosmonaut for a flight to the MIR Space Station as Educator In Space.
Aerospace Ambassadors, a private American organization, had a signed contract with Russian space officials to act as the coordinating agency for science experiments to be transported on a paying basis to MIR. When enough experiments had been booked to pay for the flight, two American educators would be selected to enter the year-long Intercosmos Cosmonaut Training Program in Star City. At the end of the years of training, one of the two would be selected to ride as a guest cosmonaut on a Soyuz flight to the MIR Space Station. Our week in Star City was an intense, compressed introduction to the 9-12 months of training the selected Educator In Space would experience.
We attended lectures and briefings by top Russian scientists, engineers, and cosmonauts. Inside the full size training model of the huge MIR space station, we became familiar with the general configuration of the orbital complex and its life support systems,
including how to use the vacuum toilet in zero-gravity where everything floats! 
We were given flight physicals. We experienced the physiological effects of high altitude in the hypobaric chamber, where the air pressure was reduced to reach the equivalent of 5,000 meters.
We rode the centrifuge, where we experienced the forces felt during liftoff in the Soyuz-TM spacecraft. On a nominal flight, Soyuz passengers experience only about 3 G's, the same as astronauts on a space shuttle flight. The maximum centrifuge load of up to six G's would only be endured in the event of an emergency ballistic reentry of the Soyuz.
Rendezvous and docking training inside the Soyuz-TM simulator was not for the claustrophobic. The spacecraft was designed for maximum efficiency, and that means minimum weight and volume. The three cosmonauts in a Soyuz-TM lie on their backs in acceleration couches just big enough to cradle body, head, and upper arms. The footrests were placed closer together create a radial arrangement for the seats. With my feet in place, my knees were bent almost up to my chest. Part of preparing for launch involved strapping over your knees a bra-like harness to keep your legs from being forced violently apart during the acceleration of lift-off from the pad at the Baikonur spaceport in Kazakstan.We all gained a new respect for extravehicular operations when we donned the "Orland" EVA space suits used outside MIR. When you hear that the suit is entered through a door in the back of the integrated life support system, it sounds easy. It isn't! Blood pressure, respiration, and heart rate monitoring telemetry were attached to my body.
The hooded cooling garment that I put on next had woven into it tubes about the diameter of my little finger. Chilled liquid circulating through the tubes removes excess body heat from head, arms, torso, and upper legs. Cloth mesh headgear equipped with earphones and microphones, worn under the liquid cooling garment hood allowed me to communicate from inside the space suit.
Sitting on the edge of the space suit door, it was easy to slip my feet into the legs. Left arm into the sleeve. I ducked my head and hunched my right shoulder at the same time to squeeze through the narrow opening. As I struggled to get both hands into the attached gloves, I thrust my face close to the front of the helmet. Breathing hard, I could feel the carbon dioxide level building up in the helmet. Groping down blindly across my body with my left hand, I found the ring shaped handle on the end of a cable. Tugging on it hard, I strained to lift it over the edge of a hook on the front of the suit, and I could feel the door in the back of the suit being pulled closed. I grabbed a lever at the side of the suit, and shoved it down, sealing the door. I heaved a sigh of relief as fresh air began to blow into the helmet and the liquid cooling garment began to work.
As the suit came up to full working pressure, I found it easy to move the rotating shoulder and wrist joints on the suit, but bending elbows and fingers was hard work. Cosmonauts must be in excellent physical condition to work in EVA suits outside the MIR!
The highlight of the week was weightlessness training on board the Ilushin-76 MDK aircraft. Ten of us sat expectantly on the four inch padding covering the floor of the twenty meter long fuselage of the plane while it climbed to high altitude. As the pilot nosed the plane into a slight dive to pick up speed, I felt as though I was in a fast dropping elevator. The plane pulled up sharply, engines at full power, and I sank into the cushioned floor covering as the G forces built up. At maximum speed and rate of climb, the pilot eased back on the throttle and pushed forward gently on the controls.
As the aircraft nosed over, the floor floated out from under me, and I was floating weightless, feet and body off the floor, hanging on to the handrail on the wall. There was no sense of falling, just freedom and elation. As I looked around I saw one cameraman floating in the middle of the room, feet flailing around, but eye pressed firmly to the view finder, determined to catch on tape this extraordinary event. His partner, hanging on to a railing, pulled him to the floor just as we pulled out of the dive twenty five seconds later, and assisted him with the large video camera that now weighed three times as much as it normally would.Each time the IL-76 MDK flew through successive parabolic arcs I was weightless for about thirty seconds. With each period of weightlessness I was given a different skill to practice by the cosmonaut working with me. I practiced moving hand over hand along railings. I pushed off the floor gently, and floated to the ceiling, staying there until I pushed myself back to the floor. Crouching on the wall, I straightened my legs slowly, and flew across the room. I stuck my feet under floor straps and moved around a 100 kilogram package that was weightless, but which still had a 100 kilos of mass. By the time we had completed ten flight arcs, I had been weightless for about five minutes. The five trainees that were busy by this time filling plastic bags with the morning's breakfast were glad that this part of the training was over, but the remaining five of us were ready to fly another ten arcs.
When we boarded the Aeroflot flight at the end of the week back to Helsinki and connecting flights to the United States each of us was hoping to be included in the full length guest cosmonaut training program in the not too distant future, dreaming of feeling the freedom of movement in weightlessness and the reward of space science experimentation aboard the MIR space station.
Not long after that the Soviet “Teacher In Space” program initiated by the U.S.S.R. was cancelled by the new Russian government that had replaced the old Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and an agreement of cooperation with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, specified the exchange of American astronauts and Russian cosmonauts. Astronauts would fly on Russian Soyuz-TM flights to MIR, and Russian cosmonauts would fly on American space shuttles.
That week in Star City is still, in my memory seventeen years later, one of the most exciting adventures I’ve ever had!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Monday on Mobjack Bay
I woke up early Monday morning a bit worried. Tropical Storm Hannah had swept up the coast, the outer edges dumping brief, heavy downpours on Richmond, and knocked over a few trees. One of those had fallen across our street, just missing the telephone pole on the corner of our wooded lot, but breaking the power lines. A little lower and a fraction of a second later, it crashed against the steel line that supported the cable television service.
That didn't break, but the weight and momentum of the tree snapped the telephone pole. The power company showed up promptly, and with floodlights blazing and engines rumbling into the night, had the pole replaced and power back on by 2:40 in the morning.
So... the worry wasn't at home. It was at Mobjack Bay. I had driven down to the marina, an hour and a half from home on Saturday morning, and found lots of other boat owners doing the same thing I was doing, doubling all the mooring lines and either lashing sail covers tightly or removing sails completely, as I did.
Hannah's track took it almost exactly across the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay and on across Mobjack Bay, with winds predicted to be perhaps in excess of 50 mph, and storm surges of up to eight feet, which would have put the docks at Mobjack Bay Marina under the storm driven waves.
The marina was almost deserted when I got there, except for a couple of other sailboat owners. The air was still...so calm that the trees across the cove were twinned upside down on the still surface.
The sky was gray, and fog and mist drifted getween the trees and close to the flat water. All the boats had fared well. My sailboat "StarLady" floated serenely in her slip, and there was no sign of damage. All the lines had held.
I opened the hatch and went below. Everything was dry except for a couple of cushions that had been under a drip from the outside. I put the main sail back on the mast and boom, cleaned up the deck, and by then the sun was breaking through the clouds. Well....since I'm already here...
I hanked on the jib, ran the jib sheets back to the winches, checked the gas tank, started the Yamaha 9 hp outboard engine, cast off the mooring lines, and chugged quietly out of the slip. Rounding the red marker that warns of shallow water at the entrance to the cove, I noticed that the osprey nest built on top of it that had been home to a pair of the bay fish hawks in the Spring was now empty.
StarLady slid quitely across the dark mirror of Blackwater Cove past the green marker at Roy's Point, and as I headed out into the salty water of the North River, little wisps of the faintest of breezes scuffed their way across toward me from the southeast.
By the time I had run up the main and the jib the breeze had freshened enough to fill the sails nicely, although not strong enough to heel the boat at all. I went ghosting across the open stretch of water toward the not too distant shore, leaning back comfortably with one arm draped over the tiller.
Tacking into the wind can be strenuous, but this was not to be one of those times. A leisurely series of tacks back and forth across the Mobjack Bay brought me in about an hour to Ware Neck Point.
The wind had strengthened some and shifted a bit toward the south. As I crossed the middle of the bay, a pod of dolphins I had spotted in the distance changed course to intersect StarLady. They overtook me easily, and played around the boat briefly before heading off on their original track to look for breakfast.
Starting my last starboard tack into the wind, I sheeted in the jib tightly, pulled the traveler on the main sail as far as I could to the port side, and went plunging through the increasing waves toward the mouth of the Severn
River.
At the channel split marker between the Ware and Severn Rivers, I turned to run before the wind, now blowing 15-20 mph, and we went corkscrewing back north up the bay surging along in following seas. Running directly on a broad reach instead of having to tack back and forth, the trip back took less than half the time it took to sail out there.
Approaching the entrance to Greenmansion Cove and the Mobjack Bay Marina, the water was almost as calm as it had been when I had left.
That didn't break, but the weight and momentum of the tree snapped the telephone pole. The power company showed up promptly, and with floodlights blazing and engines rumbling into the night, had the pole replaced and power back on by 2:40 in the morning.
So... the worry wasn't at home. It was at Mobjack Bay. I had driven down to the marina, an hour and a half from home on Saturday morning, and found lots of other boat owners doing the same thing I was doing, doubling all the mooring lines and either lashing sail covers tightly or removing sails completely, as I did.
Hannah's track took it almost exactly across the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay and on across Mobjack Bay, with winds predicted to be perhaps in excess of 50 mph, and storm surges of up to eight feet, which would have put the docks at Mobjack Bay Marina under the storm driven waves.
The marina was almost deserted when I got there, except for a couple of other sailboat owners. The air was still...so calm that the trees across the cove were twinned upside down on the still surface.
The sky was gray, and fog and mist drifted getween the trees and close to the flat water. All the boats had fared well. My sailboat "StarLady" floated serenely in her slip, and there was no sign of damage. All the lines had held.
I opened the hatch and went below. Everything was dry except for a couple of cushions that had been under a drip from the outside. I put the main sail back on the mast and boom, cleaned up the deck, and by then the sun was breaking through the clouds. Well....since I'm already here...
I hanked on the jib, ran the jib sheets back to the winches, checked the gas tank, started the Yamaha 9 hp outboard engine, cast off the mooring lines, and chugged quietly out of the slip. Rounding the red marker that warns of shallow water at the entrance to the cove, I noticed that the osprey nest built on top of it that had been home to a pair of the bay fish hawks in the Spring was now empty.
StarLady slid quitely across the dark mirror of Blackwater Cove past the green marker at Roy's Point, and as I headed out into the salty water of the North River, little wisps of the faintest of breezes scuffed their way across toward me from the southeast.
By the time I had run up the main and the jib the breeze had freshened enough to fill the sails nicely, although not strong enough to heel the boat at all. I went ghosting across the open stretch of water toward the not too distant shore, leaning back comfortably with one arm draped over the tiller.
Tacking into the wind can be strenuous, but this was not to be one of those times. A leisurely series of tacks back and forth across the Mobjack Bay brought me in about an hour to Ware Neck Point.
The wind had strengthened some and shifted a bit toward the south. As I crossed the middle of the bay, a pod of dolphins I had spotted in the distance changed course to intersect StarLady. They overtook me easily, and played around the boat briefly before heading off on their original track to look for breakfast.Starting my last starboard tack into the wind, I sheeted in the jib tightly, pulled the traveler on the main sail as far as I could to the port side, and went plunging through the increasing waves toward the mouth of the Severn
River.
At the channel split marker between the Ware and Severn Rivers, I turned to run before the wind, now blowing 15-20 mph, and we went corkscrewing back north up the bay surging along in following seas. Running directly on a broad reach instead of having to tack back and forth, the trip back took less than half the time it took to sail out there.
Approaching the entrance to Greenmansion Cove and the Mobjack Bay Marina, the water was almost as calm as it had been when I had left.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tales of Samoa - o se asiasiga i Aunu’u
o se asiasiga i Aunu’u - A visit to Aunu'u
It was a given that if you lived on the mile-wide island of Aunu'u, you would have very few visitors. Although barely a mile of open water separated the beach in front of the village from the boat landing at the village of Auasi on the island of Tutuila, it could be a daunting trip.
The long ocean swells, driven by the steady trade winds slipped easily past the eastern side of Aunu'u, rolled across the channel, and crashed mightily on the point of land that gave partial protection to the beach at Auasi.
The twenty to thirty foot long boats used by the men of Aunu'u to row across the channel each day at dawn on the way to jobs in town were carefully handcrafted on the island, the design copied from early Yankee whaleboats and handed down from father to son over several generations. During the day four, five or even six of these bobbed gently on the ends of their short mooring lines over the sunlit sandy bottom just off the beach of Auasi, sheltered from the ocean swells by the fringing reef thirty yards offshore where the waves spent most of their energy.
A trip to Aunu'u most often involved waiting for the busses bringing the men and women back from work and shopping trips to the stores and businesses around Pago Pago Harbor. You would wade with the ten or fifteen people out to one of the longboats scramble up out of waist deep water over the side into the boat, finding a place to sit among the returning villagers and the woven coconut leaf baskets of taro, coconuts, bananas, store-bought goods, and occasional chickens or trussed live pigs.
Fully loaded, the longboats sometimes had as little as four or five inches of freeboard between the edges of the boat and the surface of the water. Regardless, the six or eight rowers would run out the hand carved oars, and one man would sit high on the very tip of the stern, manning the steering sweep.
Back-paddling on the oars, the rowers would keep the longboat from being swept with the current out through the break in the reef until, with a sharp "Ey-yo!", the steersman would call out the signal for everyone to pull in unison, as hard and as fast as they could. The boat would cut sharply through the choppy water, climbing the rising swell of the next wave just outside the reef line, and everyone would settle back and relax for the fifteen minute row across the channel. That was on a calm day!
Living in the school principal's house at the school on Aunu'u, we were relatively isolated. The school was perhaps a quarter of a mile away from the main part of the village, along a sand and coral gravel path that skirted the shoreline. During the week after the students had gone home, and on weekends, the school grounds were usually deserted. Our connection with the rest of the world (in other words, the folks on the big, seventeen mile long island of Tutuila) was by single-sideband radio, which we kept on twenty-four hours a day, sitting on a low bookcase in the living room.
To get in touch with anyone you picked up the microphone,
keyed the button on the handle, and called, "Pago Radio, Pago Radio, Pago Radio, this is Aunu'u. OVER". Usually by the second or third call, someone in the communications office would reply, "Aunu'u, this is Pago Radio. OVER", and you would request a telephone patch to the Burns-Philp General Store to place an order for a couple of week's supply of groceries to be taken down to the boatshed on Thursday for delivery to Aunu'u. We could also call directly the same way, to the other schools scattered around Tutuila, the Manu'a islands of Ta'u, Ofu, and Olosega, and could even talk to the school on Swain's Island, 200 miles to the north.
One Saturday morning we received we were hailed on the single sideband from Pago Radio. It was Kay Purinton, the photographer for the educational television station KVZK-TV calling. Her 70 year old mother had come to visit for a few weeks from the mainland United States, and Kay thought it would be wonderful if the two of them could come out to visit us on our little island over the weekend.
We were delighted! We could show them around our little piece of paradise, and Kay could take pictures. There was only one problem; they wanted to come that afternoon. The longboats that took people to the Saturday market in Fagatogo on the main island had left Aunu'u before sunrise, and wouldn't return until just before sunset. Not to worry; I'd trot down to the far end of the village and talk with Gaosa, who had an old fourteen foot aluminum boat with a 15 hp outboard motor. He'd probably loan it to me. I told Kay to come on. I'd arrange a boat and meet them on the beach at Auasi.
Gaosa wasn't at home when I arrived at his fale a couple of hours later, but his wife gave permission, and sent two teenage boys to bring the outboard motor down to the beach. The boat had seen hard use. Its thin aluminum skin was scraped, dented, and even had a few small cracks high on the sides where the middle seat was attached. The oars that the boys tossed casually into the boat were in worse shape. They were castoffs from one of the longboats. One had an inch wide crack in the paddle, and the handle of the other one was broken off, leaving a stub about three and a half feet long. No problem; we had the motor didn't we?
The two boys and I had no difficulty sliding the boat into the water. The outboard motor started after four or five pulls and a bit of coaxing. We splashed easily over the small waves washing in to the landing, and quickly putt-puttered out into the cobalt-blue channel.
The trip across was uneventful, although as we left the more sheltered water on the windward side of Aunu'u I noticed that the wind was stronger than usual, and coming from directly behind us instead of quartering from the starboard side as it usually did.
The surface of the channel was choppy, but the swells were small, and since the white capped waves were all traveling in the same direction as we were it was easy to navigate through the break in the reef on the opposite side. We slid the bow of the boat up onto the beach where Kay and her mother were waiting.
We gave them a hand into the boat. One of the boys perched himself on the bow, the second one shared the middle seat with Kay, and her mother sat on the stern seat with me. I yanked the lanyard to start the motor, but it was not cooperative.
I yanked it again, several times, but was rewarded by nothing more than a couple of hazy blue coughs. I squeezed the primer bulb in the fuel line and tried several more times. At last the outboard rumbled into life. I eased the choke closed, moved the shift lever to forward, twisted the throttle, and started out through the short chop back to Aunu'u.
We hadn't cleared the reef by more than a hundred feet when the motor gave a shudder and died. I gave the rope start handle several quick tugs, and this time we were able to travel another fifty feet before the motor quit again. I told the boys to use the oars to keep us from drifting too close to the breakers while I tried to restart the engine. Kay moved cautiously to the front of the boat, and the two boys faced front and paddled from the middle seat since they were not able to actually row with the ancient oars.
I tried for another five minutes to restart the balky engine, while the boys paddled energetically. I had just about given up on the motor. When I turned around, I noticed that we were not where I expected to be. There is a very strong current that sometimes flows through the mile-wide channel between Tutuila and Aunu'u. Depending on the tide, it may move east toward the open ocean or west along the coast of the big island. This afternoon it was moving us parallel to the shoreline, and we were no longer anywhere near the opening in the reef. It was too late to try to get the boat back to shore. There was nothing to do but to try to paddle to Aunu'u. I tilted the motor up out of the water to reduce the drag a bit, and the boys really put all their energy into paddling now, dipping and swinging in unison to keep the boat pointed in the right direction.
The boat pitched vigorously as the bow crested each sharp wind-driven wave, slamming down into the trough behind it before rising immediately into the next one. Wind blown spray soon had us all soaked. Kay took off the towel she had wrapped around her shoulders, and began using it to soak up the water that was beginning to accumulate in the bottom of the boat. She wrung the towel over the side each time it was saturated, but was only staying even, not making any progress in lowering the level of the seawater sloshing around our toes.
The boys and I took turns, each paddling as hard as we could for the next half hour, but it was soon apparent that we were not getting anywhere heading directly into the short choppy waves and strong headwinds. In all that time we had succeeded in moving no more than a few hundred yards offshore while the current had carried us east almost a half mile. Now what?
We had no hope of paddling to Aunu'u, and there was no way to get back to Auasi. Between us and safety back on the beach were eight foot high waves crashing loudly on the edge of the jagged coral reef. Were we worried? Not particularly.
We had the wind and the current working to assist us with an alternative. We would simple stop fighting the forces of nature and use them to our advantage. Down the coast of Tutuila just a couple of miles was Cape Fogausa, and just beyond that the sheltered bay and beach of Faga’itua. We'd head there. It would take us a couple of hours, but we'd be safe, and I could use the single-sideband radio at Faga’itua High School to call Aunu'u and let them know we were OK. We had turned the boat and were beginning to paddle in that direction when Kay's mother pointed across the stern toward the east and said, "Look!"
Coming around Matuli Point just east of Auasi was the grey boxy outline of the LCM, an old WWII landing craft that was used by the Department of Education to bring weekly supplies from Pago Pago around the island to the north shore villages and schools where there were no roads. Its course back to Pago Pago harbor would bring it very close to us. Not more than two minutes later Kay's mother pointed again, this time toward the island of Aunu'u, and called, "My goodness! Look over there!"
Someone on walking on the beach, perhaps Gaosa's wife, wondering where we were, had spotted our little boat struggling against the wind and waves, and had summoned help. Heading our way, alternately appearing and disappearing above then behind the intervening waves was a big white longboat, manned by eight oarsmen and another on the steering oar. They were coming at full speed, smashing through the chop as if they were competing in the annual longboat races. A young boy sat in the bow, beating a tattoo with two sticks on a large battered cracker tin, setting the pace for the rowers. Faintly we could hear a voice in the wind, calling, "Malo i galue! Malo I fa'auli" - "Good work! Well done on the steering oar!"
It was evident that the longboat from Aunu'u would reach us before the lumbering supply boat. The rowers were only a few hundred yards away when I heard the long, loud blast of a ship's horn from the west. Turning around to look the other way I saw the sleek white shape of the Coast Guard cutter slicing through the waves toward us at 20 knots!
The longboat pulled up alongside us and threw us a line. About then the Coast Guard caught up, and after a brief exchange with the men on the longboat, threw them a line, taking both boats in tow.
By the time the cutter had started, dead slow, on a course over to Aunu'u the LCM supply boat, rolling along in its own accompanying cloud of diesel fumes, had passed by slowly with shouts of laughter and encouragement. As the entourage made its way back parallel to the Tutuila shoreline we could see quite a few people standing along the road, on beaches, and by their stopped cars, all watching the spectacle. In a place where life usually moves at an unhurried, seldom changing pace, our fa'alavelave, our disturbance of the serenity, was great entertainment!
The Coast Guard cast off the towline less than a hundred yards from the Aunu'u landing, and waving cheerful good-byes to our shouted words of thanks, roared off again at top speed toward the harbor at Pago Pago.
We scrambled out of our little boat on the shore as the men from the longboat leaped
out into the shallow water, calling to the children watching from the beach, "Aumai se lago!" Bring the short logs that we use to slide the longboat up above the high tide line! We all gave a hand pulling the heavy longboat up out of the water onto the dry sand,helped prop it up with sticks on each side so that it would remain upright, and shook hands all around, expressing our gratitude for the rescue.
The two teenage boys that had been with us disconnected the culprit outboard, and went strutting like conquering heroes back toward Gaosa's fale, accompanied by a swarm of younger children all shouting questions at them.
As Kay, her mother and I headed down the path toward the house at the school Kay's mother turned to me and said, "You know, I think that's the most fun I've ever had in my whole life!"
It was a given that if you lived on the mile-wide island of Aunu'u, you would have very few visitors. Although barely a mile of open water separated the beach in front of the village from the boat landing at the village of Auasi on the island of Tutuila, it could be a daunting trip.The long ocean swells, driven by the steady trade winds slipped easily past the eastern side of Aunu'u, rolled across the channel, and crashed mightily on the point of land that gave partial protection to the beach at Auasi.
The twenty to thirty foot long boats used by the men of Aunu'u to row across the channel each day at dawn on the way to jobs in town were carefully handcrafted on the island, the design copied from early Yankee whaleboats and handed down from father to son over several generations. During the day four, five or even six of these bobbed gently on the ends of their short mooring lines over the sunlit sandy bottom just off the beach of Auasi, sheltered from the ocean swells by the fringing reef thirty yards offshore where the waves spent most of their energy.
A trip to Aunu'u most often involved waiting for the busses bringing the men and women back from work and shopping trips to the stores and businesses around Pago Pago Harbor. You would wade with the ten or fifteen people out to one of the longboats scramble up out of waist deep water over the side into the boat, finding a place to sit among the returning villagers and the woven coconut leaf baskets of taro, coconuts, bananas, store-bought goods, and occasional chickens or trussed live pigs.
Fully loaded, the longboats sometimes had as little as four or five inches of freeboard between the edges of the boat and the surface of the water. Regardless, the six or eight rowers would run out the hand carved oars, and one man would sit high on the very tip of the stern, manning the steering sweep.
Back-paddling on the oars, the rowers would keep the longboat from being swept with the current out through the break in the reef until, with a sharp "Ey-yo!", the steersman would call out the signal for everyone to pull in unison, as hard and as fast as they could. The boat would cut sharply through the choppy water, climbing the rising swell of the next wave just outside the reef line, and everyone would settle back and relax for the fifteen minute row across the channel. That was on a calm day!
Living in the school principal's house at the school on Aunu'u, we were relatively isolated. The school was perhaps a quarter of a mile away from the main part of the village, along a sand and coral gravel path that skirted the shoreline. During the week after the students had gone home, and on weekends, the school grounds were usually deserted. Our connection with the rest of the world (in other words, the folks on the big, seventeen mile long island of Tutuila) was by single-sideband radio, which we kept on twenty-four hours a day, sitting on a low bookcase in the living room.
To get in touch with anyone you picked up the microphone,
keyed the button on the handle, and called, "Pago Radio, Pago Radio, Pago Radio, this is Aunu'u. OVER". Usually by the second or third call, someone in the communications office would reply, "Aunu'u, this is Pago Radio. OVER", and you would request a telephone patch to the Burns-Philp General Store to place an order for a couple of week's supply of groceries to be taken down to the boatshed on Thursday for delivery to Aunu'u. We could also call directly the same way, to the other schools scattered around Tutuila, the Manu'a islands of Ta'u, Ofu, and Olosega, and could even talk to the school on Swain's Island, 200 miles to the north.One Saturday morning we received we were hailed on the single sideband from Pago Radio. It was Kay Purinton, the photographer for the educational television station KVZK-TV calling. Her 70 year old mother had come to visit for a few weeks from the mainland United States, and Kay thought it would be wonderful if the two of them could come out to visit us on our little island over the weekend.
We were delighted! We could show them around our little piece of paradise, and Kay could take pictures. There was only one problem; they wanted to come that afternoon. The longboats that took people to the Saturday market in Fagatogo on the main island had left Aunu'u before sunrise, and wouldn't return until just before sunset. Not to worry; I'd trot down to the far end of the village and talk with Gaosa, who had an old fourteen foot aluminum boat with a 15 hp outboard motor. He'd probably loan it to me. I told Kay to come on. I'd arrange a boat and meet them on the beach at Auasi.
Gaosa wasn't at home when I arrived at his fale a couple of hours later, but his wife gave permission, and sent two teenage boys to bring the outboard motor down to the beach. The boat had seen hard use. Its thin aluminum skin was scraped, dented, and even had a few small cracks high on the sides where the middle seat was attached. The oars that the boys tossed casually into the boat were in worse shape. They were castoffs from one of the longboats. One had an inch wide crack in the paddle, and the handle of the other one was broken off, leaving a stub about three and a half feet long. No problem; we had the motor didn't we?
The two boys and I had no difficulty sliding the boat into the water. The outboard motor started after four or five pulls and a bit of coaxing. We splashed easily over the small waves washing in to the landing, and quickly putt-puttered out into the cobalt-blue channel.
The trip across was uneventful, although as we left the more sheltered water on the windward side of Aunu'u I noticed that the wind was stronger than usual, and coming from directly behind us instead of quartering from the starboard side as it usually did.
The surface of the channel was choppy, but the swells were small, and since the white capped waves were all traveling in the same direction as we were it was easy to navigate through the break in the reef on the opposite side. We slid the bow of the boat up onto the beach where Kay and her mother were waiting.
We gave them a hand into the boat. One of the boys perched himself on the bow, the second one shared the middle seat with Kay, and her mother sat on the stern seat with me. I yanked the lanyard to start the motor, but it was not cooperative.
I yanked it again, several times, but was rewarded by nothing more than a couple of hazy blue coughs. I squeezed the primer bulb in the fuel line and tried several more times. At last the outboard rumbled into life. I eased the choke closed, moved the shift lever to forward, twisted the throttle, and started out through the short chop back to Aunu'u.We hadn't cleared the reef by more than a hundred feet when the motor gave a shudder and died. I gave the rope start handle several quick tugs, and this time we were able to travel another fifty feet before the motor quit again. I told the boys to use the oars to keep us from drifting too close to the breakers while I tried to restart the engine. Kay moved cautiously to the front of the boat, and the two boys faced front and paddled from the middle seat since they were not able to actually row with the ancient oars.
I tried for another five minutes to restart the balky engine, while the boys paddled energetically. I had just about given up on the motor. When I turned around, I noticed that we were not where I expected to be. There is a very strong current that sometimes flows through the mile-wide channel between Tutuila and Aunu'u. Depending on the tide, it may move east toward the open ocean or west along the coast of the big island. This afternoon it was moving us parallel to the shoreline, and we were no longer anywhere near the opening in the reef. It was too late to try to get the boat back to shore. There was nothing to do but to try to paddle to Aunu'u. I tilted the motor up out of the water to reduce the drag a bit, and the boys really put all their energy into paddling now, dipping and swinging in unison to keep the boat pointed in the right direction.
The boat pitched vigorously as the bow crested each sharp wind-driven wave, slamming down into the trough behind it before rising immediately into the next one. Wind blown spray soon had us all soaked. Kay took off the towel she had wrapped around her shoulders, and began using it to soak up the water that was beginning to accumulate in the bottom of the boat. She wrung the towel over the side each time it was saturated, but was only staying even, not making any progress in lowering the level of the seawater sloshing around our toes.
The boys and I took turns, each paddling as hard as we could for the next half hour, but it was soon apparent that we were not getting anywhere heading directly into the short choppy waves and strong headwinds. In all that time we had succeeded in moving no more than a few hundred yards offshore while the current had carried us east almost a half mile. Now what?
We had no hope of paddling to Aunu'u, and there was no way to get back to Auasi. Between us and safety back on the beach were eight foot high waves crashing loudly on the edge of the jagged coral reef. Were we worried? Not particularly.
We had the wind and the current working to assist us with an alternative. We would simple stop fighting the forces of nature and use them to our advantage. Down the coast of Tutuila just a couple of miles was Cape Fogausa, and just beyond that the sheltered bay and beach of Faga’itua. We'd head there. It would take us a couple of hours, but we'd be safe, and I could use the single-sideband radio at Faga’itua High School to call Aunu'u and let them know we were OK. We had turned the boat and were beginning to paddle in that direction when Kay's mother pointed across the stern toward the east and said, "Look!"
Coming around Matuli Point just east of Auasi was the grey boxy outline of the LCM, an old WWII landing craft that was used by the Department of Education to bring weekly supplies from Pago Pago around the island to the north shore villages and schools where there were no roads. Its course back to Pago Pago harbor would bring it very close to us. Not more than two minutes later Kay's mother pointed again, this time toward the island of Aunu'u, and called, "My goodness! Look over there!"
Someone on walking on the beach, perhaps Gaosa's wife, wondering where we were, had spotted our little boat struggling against the wind and waves, and had summoned help. Heading our way, alternately appearing and disappearing above then behind the intervening waves was a big white longboat, manned by eight oarsmen and another on the steering oar. They were coming at full speed, smashing through the chop as if they were competing in the annual longboat races. A young boy sat in the bow, beating a tattoo with two sticks on a large battered cracker tin, setting the pace for the rowers. Faintly we could hear a voice in the wind, calling, "Malo i galue! Malo I fa'auli" - "Good work! Well done on the steering oar!"
It was evident that the longboat from Aunu'u would reach us before the lumbering supply boat. The rowers were only a few hundred yards away when I heard the long, loud blast of a ship's horn from the west. Turning around to look the other way I saw the sleek white shape of the Coast Guard cutter slicing through the waves toward us at 20 knots!
The longboat pulled up alongside us and threw us a line. About then the Coast Guard caught up, and after a brief exchange with the men on the longboat, threw them a line, taking both boats in tow.
By the time the cutter had started, dead slow, on a course over to Aunu'u the LCM supply boat, rolling along in its own accompanying cloud of diesel fumes, had passed by slowly with shouts of laughter and encouragement. As the entourage made its way back parallel to the Tutuila shoreline we could see quite a few people standing along the road, on beaches, and by their stopped cars, all watching the spectacle. In a place where life usually moves at an unhurried, seldom changing pace, our fa'alavelave, our disturbance of the serenity, was great entertainment!The Coast Guard cast off the towline less than a hundred yards from the Aunu'u landing, and waving cheerful good-byes to our shouted words of thanks, roared off again at top speed toward the harbor at Pago Pago.
We scrambled out of our little boat on the shore as the men from the longboat leaped
out into the shallow water, calling to the children watching from the beach, "Aumai se lago!" Bring the short logs that we use to slide the longboat up above the high tide line! We all gave a hand pulling the heavy longboat up out of the water onto the dry sand,helped prop it up with sticks on each side so that it would remain upright, and shook hands all around, expressing our gratitude for the rescue.The two teenage boys that had been with us disconnected the culprit outboard, and went strutting like conquering heroes back toward Gaosa's fale, accompanied by a swarm of younger children all shouting questions at them.
As Kay, her mother and I headed down the path toward the house at the school Kay's mother turned to me and said, "You know, I think that's the most fun I've ever had in my whole life!"
Tales of Samoa - o moa i le sami - Chicken in the Sea
o moa i le sami - Chickens in the Ocean
o se tala moni: A True Story - High Surf, Frozen Chickens, and a Rescue
...sometime long ago, perhaps 1966
One of the more unusual jobs as principal on the small Samoan island of Aunu'u was making certain that all school supplies, including lesson plans, television sets, light bulbs, writing paper, pencils, cooking utensils for the kitchen, and of course food for the cafeteria arrived at the school promptly. The list may seem rather prosaic until the location of the school is taken into account.
There were two ways to get to Aunu'u. You could go to the open air market in Fagatogo in the afternoon when all the village aiga busses were there, and either by asking around for the bus to the village of Auasi, or if an experienced commuter, going directly to the correct bus. Clambering up the welded-on back steps, you'd pick your way up the center aisle between the two parallel wooden benches that stretched the length of the converted truck body, ducking your head to keep from banging it on the low supports for the plywood ceiling, and murmuring "tulou, excuse me, tulou" as you stepped in front of people, over bare feet, trussed chickens, and aiga baskets filled with green bananas, taro, breadfruit, and sometimes canned goods.
The driver - in our case a perpetually cheerful man with only one good eye -
would engage the gear with a clash and a roar, and head out, usually with several people in pursuit, running to grab hold of the back and swing aboard at the last opportunity before the bus made a right turn past Nia Marie's Grocery, Haleck's Store, and gathering speed, rushed on down the road past the Burns-Philp store toward Pago Pago at the end of the bay.
The paved road toward the village of Auasi wound around the bay past the Van Camp and StarKist tuna canneries at Atu'u, past Aua, and up over a small rise and around the corner that marked the mouth of Pago Pago Harbor. The south-east trade winds would pick up a bit as we skirted the south shore of the island of Tutuila eastward past Lauli'i and Alega.
The paved road ended at the village of Faga'itua, and the coral gravel washboard climbed sharply for several hundred feet as it rounded the east end of Faga'itua Bay, narrowing to just barely bus-width. The waves broke directly on the rocks below, unimpeded by fringing coral reef at this point, and on days when there was not much wind each swell would build as it approached the shore, curving up and over and seeming to slow its motion just before curling over, opening a momentary crystal clear window into the ocean through which you could catch glimpses of fish swimming along, unaware of the world of air.
Lurching sharply back down and around a few more corners, the bus would stop at the village of Auasi long enough to unload before heading on to Tula at the eastern end of the island. Three or four longboats, their construction unchanged since they were first copied from the designs of 19th century whaling boats, would be tethered to coral heads in the shallow still water just off the beach.
Soon sets of long oars would begin to appear from the houses just up the hill from the road where they had been stored since morning, and the men carrying them would wade into the water, shipping them in the oarlocks, four on each side. In addition to the eight rowers the steersman would man the fa'auli, the long steering oar at the stern of each boat.
Meanwhile, everyone else would be hitching up skirts and lavalavas, wading to the long boats with baskets and burdens and scrambling over the gunwales to find seats between the rowers, or if a bit late, on top of someone else. Often the gently bobbing longboats would sink lower and lower under the increasing loads until there was not much more than a three or four inches of freeboard along the sides.
One by one the longboats would be untied. The rowers would cautiously maneuver the craft to align with the 'ava, or break in the coral reef, and then with short choppy movements backstroke, keeping the boat stationary in the outflowing current. The steersman perched in the stern, keeping a careful watch on the patterns of incoming breaking waves would determine that the time was right, and with a loud "hey-yo!" all eight rowers would bend their backs in unison and pull on the oars with long, powerful strokes, rapidly accelerating the longboat into the riffling current of the cut in the reef, racing to get out far enough to climb the steepening slope of the next incoming wave before it crested.
As the bow cleared the crest it would flop down the backside of the wave with a splash, often sending cascades of water over the edges into the boat. Often there was a carved wooden bailer or a plastic jug with the bottom cut out to get the incoming water back out, but frequently the seawater was ejected by many cupped hands, all splashing the water back out of the boat.
Once past the line of breakers, the mile and a quarter trip across the channel to the island of Aunu'u was uneventful. The landing on the beach on the opposite side was rarely as exciting, since it was on the more sheltered lee side of the island. The oars were shipped, people jumped out in to the shallow water, unloaded their belongings, and a number of small wooden logs, or lago were laid out on the sand leading up the beach to higher ground above the high tide line. Everyone would grab the sides of the longboat, and with a series of united heaves, slide the heavy wooden boats up to safety.
The OTHER way to get to Aunu'u was on the supply boat, dispatched once a week,, if the weather was good out of Pago Pago harbor, about eight miles away. This was the usual route for all supplies coming to Aunu'ufou School.
Our communication with the Department of Education and the rest of the world was through a single-sideband radio kept on all the time, sitting on top of a low bookcase in the living room of the principal's house.
Orders could be called in through "Pago Radio", the communications center, and several week's supplies of groceries could be ordered via telephone patch to Sid Hill, the manager at Burns-Philp General Store. Some other merchants would also take orders for groceries over the radio, but Sid at B.P.’s was very reliable at getting the orders put in cardboard boxes and taken down to the boat shed in Pago Pago early in the morning on days the weekly supply boat was scheduled to run.
The normal supply boat schedule called for delivery of supplies to Aunu'u and then around the eastern tip of Tutuila to bring supplies to the isolated north shore villages of Aoa, Masefau, Afono, and Vatia, weather permitting. That last was significant, since neither boat used to deliver supplies was particularly seaworthy in rough weather.
The first boat "Fiafia" was a low slung diesel powered launch about 40 feet long. Many times it would start out from the mouth of the harbor, only to run into seas too large for it to handle, and turn back to safety. Soon after I would get a call on the single-sideband advising that the supply run for the day had been cancelled, and that they'd try again the next day.
Slightly more seaworthy but considerably more ungainly was an ancient and decrepit World War II era LCM or twin-diesel engine landing craft. The drop gate at the front had long since ceased to be functional, but it could venture out of the harbor when the smaller "Fiafia" could not.
I would leave the school office around 10:00 a.m. on supply boat day and walk the hundred yards or so to the top of a pile of coral gravel that made a low ridge just above the beach next to the school. Squinting into the sunglint off the water I could usually spot the supply boat coming a good half hour before its arrival at the mooring buoy just off the Aunu'u landing.
On sighting the Fiafia or the LCM I would head over to the 7th-8th grade classroom to inform the teacher/assistant principal Petero Savai'inaea that the boat was on the way. Instruction would stop at that point, and the students, teacher, and I would leave the school for the quarter mile walk through the banana plantation and along the narrow paths through the taro swamp to the boat landing. Most often, about the time we arrived the supply boat was idling just offshore.
The boys in the class along with the teacher would slide a longboat on the slippery lago logs down across the beach into the water and without delay row out to the waiting supply boat. Everything was loaded into the lighter, rowed back through the small surf to the beach, and carried up the slope. The longboat was dragged back up and propped in place, and then the long trek back to the school began.
Each student or adult would pick up a box or load and placing it on their shoulders, back or head, begin walking along the soft sand road that skirted the village, heading back to the school. The most cumbersome items were the classroom television sets that corroded out with disruptive regularity and had to be replaced. Two students usually had to pair up to lift and carry these TV's in short stretches with frequent stops to rest, but eventually everything got back to the school and classes resumed.
On the infrequent occasion when something as large as a refrigerator had to be transported from the landing to the school, that had to wait until the return of the village men in the late afternoon. A five inch thick trunk of ironwood, cut twelve to fifteen feet long would be placed on top of the tipped over appliance and tied on. Six or eight men would then position themselves to lift the supporting pole, and then go swinging off down the trail with the refrigerator, all stepping in unison.
It was on a day less than a week after a major storm that this story took place. The supply boat had attempted a delivery four days in a row, and had been turned back by huge seas each time. It was Friday, and from my vantage point on the coral mound I could see the LCM slogging toward Aunu'u, periodically disappearing completely in deep troughs and reappearing on the crests of the storm swells. I rallied the students and teacher, and also Mata'ivasa the cafeteria cook, since the monthly shipment of cafeteria supplies was also scheduled.
When we arrived at the beach there was only one old and rather leaky small longboat on shore, and my own 14 foot aluminum boat. The surf at the landing was rough, even on this sheltered side of the island. The teacher and boys maneuvered successfully through the breaking waves, and quickly rowed out to the waiting LCM. All the school supplies were offloaded into the longboat, which was quickly run back up on the beach so that the now somewhat soggy boxes of school supplies could be removed before the saltwater leaked through the plastic wrappings.
Mata'ivasa the cook, manning two oars, quickly pulled through the incoming surf in the aluminum boat, pulled alongside the LCM and efficiently stowed the boxes of cafeteria supplies, which included three cases of frozen chicken. In his eagerness to return to the beach he let his attention wander. As he exchanged joking comments with others on the sand, a large wave popped up just behind the boat and lifted the stern. Before he could react, the breaking wave had flipped the light aluminum boat stern over stem into the shallow water, dumping its entire load.
The cases of canned goods sank in three feet of water, and boys and girls plunged into the surf to retrieve them, convulsed with hilarity of the situation while Mata'ivasa, spluttering and hooting with laugher, staggered up out of the water, readjusting his sodden lavalava around his waist.
My boat! I watched in dismay as my upturned boat tumbled back out toward deeper water, floating amid splinters of the main seat, chunks of Styrofoam flotation material, and the disintegrating cardboard cases of frozen chicken. I kicked off my flip-flops, charged down the beach, and plunged into the surf in hot pursuit.
A few quick strokes brought me even with the boat, now bobbing upside down low in the water just outside the surf line. This should be simple. Don't bother with trying to turn it right side up. Just grab the bow and side-stroke back close enough so that the kids could help me pull it in the rest of the way to the beach. That was a major error in judgment that almost resulted in my drowning.
The tide was on the way in. As the tide ebbs and flows here, a strong current sets in the channel between Tutuila and Aunu'u. Just beyond the reef line and the breakers, the current was now flowing eastward, parallel to the shore, about as fast as a person can walk. There was no way I was going to be able to swim and tow the boat back to the landing.
I called out "'Aumai le va'a!" bring the other boat! I hung on tenaciously, determined that my boat would not float out to sea to be lost forever. I saw the students and Mata'ivasa running back up the beach to re-launch the longboat. I was not worried. Yet.
The water below my kicking bare feet turned rapidly from green to cobalt blue as I drifted into deeper water.
Bloop! A big chunk of flotation foam popped out from under the boat, and bobbed away rapidly, propelled by the stiff breeze that was blowing in the same direction as the current. The boat settled noticeably.
Smaller chunks of Styrofoam began to escape with alarming frequency, and the boat settled lower, dropping the already submerged stern even lower as I clung to the bow, urgently grabbing whatever pieces of white plastic I could reach to stuff back up underneath. Still the boat floated lower.
I could see that the longboat had been launched, and that they were now in pursuit, but still several hundred yards away. I was determined to hang on and hold out for their arrival.
I looked down into the deep blue water to discover that my white bare feet were almost exactly the same color as the countless pieces of semi-defrosted chicken that were drifting along with me under the surface just below.
I noticed that large fish were beginning to respond to the lure of chicken blood in the water, and were tearing with great gusto at the chunks of chicken. I began to pivot as much as I could, looking all around for the arrival of the first sharks.
Calunk! Another big chuck of flotation escaped. Now the boat was floating vertically, just eight to ten inches of the bow above the water, pointing at the sky. The current had by now carried me beyond the eastern end of the lee shore, and the swells and choppy water increased the difficulty of keeping my head above water.
Every few seconds another small wave would splash over the back of my head and cascade across my face, forcing me to breathe between assaults as I continued to the battle to retrieve pieces of escaping flotation. The longboat was getting closer, and as I yelled to them to hurry I took a great mouthful of saltwater.
I was choking and sputtering now, and gasping for air, and each successive wavelet submerged my head completely. The longboat was only a few yards away. People were shouting, "Hold on! Hold on!", and I gagged on another mouthful of water.
I felt the boat slip under the waves and begin to sink, pulling me with it. My brain processes slowed. Almost as an afterthought I remember thinking, "I'm going to drown! This boat isn't worth it!" I let go, and struggled toward the surface, only a foot or so above.
Two pair of strong arms reached into the water and grasped my wrists. I shot back into the world of air, and was catapulted over the side into the longboat. I coughed the remaining water out of my mouth and nose. When I looked around thankfully, I saw Lisi Thompson, my fifth-sixth grade teacher, leaning over the bow of the longboat, holding onto a rope that was stretched taught, straight down into the water. Could it be a shark?
"Lisi, what is it?” I called.
"It's your boat, Siosi!” he replied.
The last of the flotation had popped out just as the longboat had caught up, and Lisi had reached over and grabbed the floating bow line just as it was disappearing under the surface.
In short order the soggy school principal and his waterlogged boat were deposited safely back on the beach, and everyone laughed about the incident. As for the chickens…sharks and other reef-denizens must have had a special treat that afternoon!
o se tala moni: A True Story - High Surf, Frozen Chickens, and a Rescue
...sometime long ago, perhaps 1966
One of the more unusual jobs as principal on the small Samoan island of Aunu'u was making certain that all school supplies, including lesson plans, television sets, light bulbs, writing paper, pencils, cooking utensils for the kitchen, and of course food for the cafeteria arrived at the school promptly. The list may seem rather prosaic until the location of the school is taken into account.
There were two ways to get to Aunu'u. You could go to the open air market in Fagatogo in the afternoon when all the village aiga busses were there, and either by asking around for the bus to the village of Auasi, or if an experienced commuter, going directly to the correct bus. Clambering up the welded-on back steps, you'd pick your way up the center aisle between the two parallel wooden benches that stretched the length of the converted truck body, ducking your head to keep from banging it on the low supports for the plywood ceiling, and murmuring "tulou, excuse me, tulou" as you stepped in front of people, over bare feet, trussed chickens, and aiga baskets filled with green bananas, taro, breadfruit, and sometimes canned goods.The driver - in our case a perpetually cheerful man with only one good eye -
would engage the gear with a clash and a roar, and head out, usually with several people in pursuit, running to grab hold of the back and swing aboard at the last opportunity before the bus made a right turn past Nia Marie's Grocery, Haleck's Store, and gathering speed, rushed on down the road past the Burns-Philp store toward Pago Pago at the end of the bay.The paved road toward the village of Auasi wound around the bay past the Van Camp and StarKist tuna canneries at Atu'u, past Aua, and up over a small rise and around the corner that marked the mouth of Pago Pago Harbor. The south-east trade winds would pick up a bit as we skirted the south shore of the island of Tutuila eastward past Lauli'i and Alega.
The paved road ended at the village of Faga'itua, and the coral gravel washboard climbed sharply for several hundred feet as it rounded the east end of Faga'itua Bay, narrowing to just barely bus-width. The waves broke directly on the rocks below, unimpeded by fringing coral reef at this point, and on days when there was not much wind each swell would build as it approached the shore, curving up and over and seeming to slow its motion just before curling over, opening a momentary crystal clear window into the ocean through which you could catch glimpses of fish swimming along, unaware of the world of air.Lurching sharply back down and around a few more corners, the bus would stop at the village of Auasi long enough to unload before heading on to Tula at the eastern end of the island. Three or four longboats, their construction unchanged since they were first copied from the designs of 19th century whaling boats, would be tethered to coral heads in the shallow still water just off the beach.
Soon sets of long oars would begin to appear from the houses just up the hill from the road where they had been stored since morning, and the men carrying them would wade into the water, shipping them in the oarlocks, four on each side. In addition to the eight rowers the steersman would man the fa'auli, the long steering oar at the stern of each boat.
Meanwhile, everyone else would be hitching up skirts and lavalavas, wading to the long boats with baskets and burdens and scrambling over the gunwales to find seats between the rowers, or if a bit late, on top of someone else. Often the gently bobbing longboats would sink lower and lower under the increasing loads until there was not much more than a three or four inches of freeboard along the sides.
One by one the longboats would be untied. The rowers would cautiously maneuver the craft to align with the 'ava, or break in the coral reef, and then with short choppy movements backstroke, keeping the boat stationary in the outflowing current. The steersman perched in the stern, keeping a careful watch on the patterns of incoming breaking waves would determine that the time was right, and with a loud "hey-yo!" all eight rowers would bend their backs in unison and pull on the oars with long, powerful strokes, rapidly accelerating the longboat into the riffling current of the cut in the reef, racing to get out far enough to climb the steepening slope of the next incoming wave before it crested.As the bow cleared the crest it would flop down the backside of the wave with a splash, often sending cascades of water over the edges into the boat. Often there was a carved wooden bailer or a plastic jug with the bottom cut out to get the incoming water back out, but frequently the seawater was ejected by many cupped hands, all splashing the water back out of the boat.
Once past the line of breakers, the mile and a quarter trip across the channel to the island of Aunu'u was uneventful. The landing on the beach on the opposite side was rarely as exciting, since it was on the more sheltered lee side of the island. The oars were shipped, people jumped out in to the shallow water, unloaded their belongings, and a number of small wooden logs, or lago were laid out on the sand leading up the beach to higher ground above the high tide line. Everyone would grab the sides of the longboat, and with a series of united heaves, slide the heavy wooden boats up to safety.
The OTHER way to get to Aunu'u was on the supply boat, dispatched once a week,, if the weather was good out of Pago Pago harbor, about eight miles away. This was the usual route for all supplies coming to Aunu'ufou School.
Our communication with the Department of Education and the rest of the world was through a single-sideband radio kept on all the time, sitting on top of a low bookcase in the living room of the principal's house.
Orders could be called in through "Pago Radio", the communications center, and several week's supplies of groceries could be ordered via telephone patch to Sid Hill, the manager at Burns-Philp General Store. Some other merchants would also take orders for groceries over the radio, but Sid at B.P.’s was very reliable at getting the orders put in cardboard boxes and taken down to the boat shed in Pago Pago early in the morning on days the weekly supply boat was scheduled to run.The normal supply boat schedule called for delivery of supplies to Aunu'u and then around the eastern tip of Tutuila to bring supplies to the isolated north shore villages of Aoa, Masefau, Afono, and Vatia, weather permitting. That last was significant, since neither boat used to deliver supplies was particularly seaworthy in rough weather.
The first boat "Fiafia" was a low slung diesel powered launch about 40 feet long. Many times it would start out from the mouth of the harbor, only to run into seas too large for it to handle, and turn back to safety. Soon after I would get a call on the single-sideband advising that the supply run for the day had been cancelled, and that they'd try again the next day.
Slightly more seaworthy but considerably more ungainly was an ancient and decrepit World War II era LCM or twin-diesel engine landing craft. The drop gate at the front had long since ceased to be functional, but it could venture out of the harbor when the smaller "Fiafia" could not.I would leave the school office around 10:00 a.m. on supply boat day and walk the hundred yards or so to the top of a pile of coral gravel that made a low ridge just above the beach next to the school. Squinting into the sunglint off the water I could usually spot the supply boat coming a good half hour before its arrival at the mooring buoy just off the Aunu'u landing.
On sighting the Fiafia or the LCM I would head over to the 7th-8th grade classroom to inform the teacher/assistant principal Petero Savai'inaea that the boat was on the way. Instruction would stop at that point, and the students, teacher, and I would leave the school for the quarter mile walk through the banana plantation and along the narrow paths through the taro swamp to the boat landing. Most often, about the time we arrived the supply boat was idling just offshore.
The boys in the class along with the teacher would slide a longboat on the slippery lago logs down across the beach into the water and without delay row out to the waiting supply boat. Everything was loaded into the lighter, rowed back through the small surf to the beach, and carried up the slope. The longboat was dragged back up and propped in place, and then the long trek back to the school began.
Each student or adult would pick up a box or load and placing it on their shoulders, back or head, begin walking along the soft sand road that skirted the village, heading back to the school. The most cumbersome items were the classroom television sets that corroded out with disruptive regularity and had to be replaced. Two students usually had to pair up to lift and carry these TV's in short stretches with frequent stops to rest, but eventually everything got back to the school and classes resumed.
On the infrequent occasion when something as large as a refrigerator had to be transported from the landing to the school, that had to wait until the return of the village men in the late afternoon. A five inch thick trunk of ironwood, cut twelve to fifteen feet long would be placed on top of the tipped over appliance and tied on. Six or eight men would then position themselves to lift the supporting pole, and then go swinging off down the trail with the refrigerator, all stepping in unison.
It was on a day less than a week after a major storm that this story took place. The supply boat had attempted a delivery four days in a row, and had been turned back by huge seas each time. It was Friday, and from my vantage point on the coral mound I could see the LCM slogging toward Aunu'u, periodically disappearing completely in deep troughs and reappearing on the crests of the storm swells. I rallied the students and teacher, and also Mata'ivasa the cafeteria cook, since the monthly shipment of cafeteria supplies was also scheduled.
When we arrived at the beach there was only one old and rather leaky small longboat on shore, and my own 14 foot aluminum boat. The surf at the landing was rough, even on this sheltered side of the island. The teacher and boys maneuvered successfully through the breaking waves, and quickly rowed out to the waiting LCM. All the school supplies were offloaded into the longboat, which was quickly run back up on the beach so that the now somewhat soggy boxes of school supplies could be removed before the saltwater leaked through the plastic wrappings.
Mata'ivasa the cook, manning two oars, quickly pulled through the incoming surf in the aluminum boat, pulled alongside the LCM and efficiently stowed the boxes of cafeteria supplies, which included three cases of frozen chicken. In his eagerness to return to the beach he let his attention wander. As he exchanged joking comments with others on the sand, a large wave popped up just behind the boat and lifted the stern. Before he could react, the breaking wave had flipped the light aluminum boat stern over stem into the shallow water, dumping its entire load.
The cases of canned goods sank in three feet of water, and boys and girls plunged into the surf to retrieve them, convulsed with hilarity of the situation while Mata'ivasa, spluttering and hooting with laugher, staggered up out of the water, readjusting his sodden lavalava around his waist.
My boat! I watched in dismay as my upturned boat tumbled back out toward deeper water, floating amid splinters of the main seat, chunks of Styrofoam flotation material, and the disintegrating cardboard cases of frozen chicken. I kicked off my flip-flops, charged down the beach, and plunged into the surf in hot pursuit.
A few quick strokes brought me even with the boat, now bobbing upside down low in the water just outside the surf line. This should be simple. Don't bother with trying to turn it right side up. Just grab the bow and side-stroke back close enough so that the kids could help me pull it in the rest of the way to the beach. That was a major error in judgment that almost resulted in my drowning.
The tide was on the way in. As the tide ebbs and flows here, a strong current sets in the channel between Tutuila and Aunu'u. Just beyond the reef line and the breakers, the current was now flowing eastward, parallel to the shore, about as fast as a person can walk. There was no way I was going to be able to swim and tow the boat back to the landing.
I called out "'Aumai le va'a!" bring the other boat! I hung on tenaciously, determined that my boat would not float out to sea to be lost forever. I saw the students and Mata'ivasa running back up the beach to re-launch the longboat. I was not worried. Yet.
The water below my kicking bare feet turned rapidly from green to cobalt blue as I drifted into deeper water.
Bloop! A big chunk of flotation foam popped out from under the boat, and bobbed away rapidly, propelled by the stiff breeze that was blowing in the same direction as the current. The boat settled noticeably.
Smaller chunks of Styrofoam began to escape with alarming frequency, and the boat settled lower, dropping the already submerged stern even lower as I clung to the bow, urgently grabbing whatever pieces of white plastic I could reach to stuff back up underneath. Still the boat floated lower.
I could see that the longboat had been launched, and that they were now in pursuit, but still several hundred yards away. I was determined to hang on and hold out for their arrival.
I looked down into the deep blue water to discover that my white bare feet were almost exactly the same color as the countless pieces of semi-defrosted chicken that were drifting along with me under the surface just below.
I noticed that large fish were beginning to respond to the lure of chicken blood in the water, and were tearing with great gusto at the chunks of chicken. I began to pivot as much as I could, looking all around for the arrival of the first sharks.
Calunk! Another big chuck of flotation escaped. Now the boat was floating vertically, just eight to ten inches of the bow above the water, pointing at the sky. The current had by now carried me beyond the eastern end of the lee shore, and the swells and choppy water increased the difficulty of keeping my head above water.
Every few seconds another small wave would splash over the back of my head and cascade across my face, forcing me to breathe between assaults as I continued to the battle to retrieve pieces of escaping flotation. The longboat was getting closer, and as I yelled to them to hurry I took a great mouthful of saltwater.
I was choking and sputtering now, and gasping for air, and each successive wavelet submerged my head completely. The longboat was only a few yards away. People were shouting, "Hold on! Hold on!", and I gagged on another mouthful of water.
I felt the boat slip under the waves and begin to sink, pulling me with it. My brain processes slowed. Almost as an afterthought I remember thinking, "I'm going to drown! This boat isn't worth it!" I let go, and struggled toward the surface, only a foot or so above.
Two pair of strong arms reached into the water and grasped my wrists. I shot back into the world of air, and was catapulted over the side into the longboat. I coughed the remaining water out of my mouth and nose. When I looked around thankfully, I saw Lisi Thompson, my fifth-sixth grade teacher, leaning over the bow of the longboat, holding onto a rope that was stretched taught, straight down into the water. Could it be a shark?
"Lisi, what is it?” I called.
"It's your boat, Siosi!” he replied.
The last of the flotation had popped out just as the longboat had caught up, and Lisi had reached over and grabbed the floating bow line just as it was disappearing under the surface.
In short order the soggy school principal and his waterlogged boat were deposited safely back on the beach, and everyone laughed about the incident. As for the chickens…sharks and other reef-denizens must have had a special treat that afternoon!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Tales of Samoa - o se malaga ia Olohenga
o se malaga ia Olohenga - A trip to Swains Island
Swains Island, a doughnut shaped low coral atoll that is geologically part of the Tokelau Islands, has been privately owned by the Jennings family since 1856. In the 1960’s it had a total population of about 30 people from Tokelau, who call their island “Olohenga”. Although the Samoan islands are 200 miles south, Swains Island has been under the administration of the Government of American Samoa since 1925. A boat is chartered by the Jennings family once or twice a year to deliver a few supplies and to pick up the dried coconut copra that is the only source of external income.
My only trip to Swains Island was in 1968, the year I taught Level III Science on television for third and fourth graders and Level V Oral English television lessons for high school students in American Samoa. Paul Pedro, a science curriculum supervisor for the department of education had family there, and invited me to go along.
The 60 foot covered wooden motor launch slogged its way through heavy seas and strong winds as we chugged out of Pago Pago harbor, around Cape Matatula, cleared the island of Tutuila, and headed north. I spent a sleepless night on top of the three-foot high hatch-cover. Occasional waves came surging over the bow and sluicing down the decks. It had cleared and calmed by the next morning, and Paul told me not to be too disappointed if we didn't FIND the island!
He said that on more than one occasion they had steered the compass course from Tutuila to Swains for the estimated travel time of 24 hours, spent two days steaming back and forth, looking for any hint of the
tops of green coconut trees protruding above the horizon, and then giving up and heading back for Tutuila. In those days before Global Positioning Satellites if you were more than 5 miles off course, Swains would remain hidden, and the captain had no knowledge of anything as sophisticated as a sextant!
There is no break in the coral reef that makes up Swains Island. This means that visiting boats have to drop anchor in medium deep water beyond the breakers at the only village of Taulaga, and the men on the island come out through the surf to offload supplies and load copra to take back to Pago Pago. The village itself consists of a few thatch roofed open houses, a one room school, and a church.
Dried copra is stored in a large shed whose tin roof captures precious fresh rainwater and channels it into a large cistern. This is the only source of drinking water on the island. The porous coral limestone allows the salty seawater to seep in from the ocean all the way to the brackish lake in the middle of the island.
Wally Jennings the owner greeted us warmly, and took us in his jeep, the only vehicle on the island, on the single dirt track that circles the atoll. A drive almost halfway around, a distance of about three quarters of a mile, brought us to a run down two story house that looked like it might have been transplanted from New England. Wally told us that his grandfather had built the house, and named it “Etena” after the Garden of Eden. Wally, fresh out of an enlistment in the Marine Corps, had brought his new wife to live in Etena. When the marriage ended Wally moved into a small thatched fale in the village of Taulaga.
We watched the few boys and men play an island version of soccer on the village green as the sun set, and sat on laufala mats in Wally’s house for a delicious chicken dinner. Later that evening I was sitting next to the captain on the beach watching the moonlight on the breaking waves when he turned to me and said, apropos of nothing, "What's the reciprocal of three hundred and fifty degrees?"
My confused response was, "What do you mean?"
He said, "You know, if I came up here on a compass heading of 350 degrees, and wanted to turn around and go back the other direction, what would be the compass heading?"
And I was thinking, “Uh-oh! We're in trouble! This is the CAPTAIN!”
I did a quick subtraction of 180 degrees and came up with a hundred and seventy.
The captain said, "Are you sure?", and I responded, "Yes". He thanked me and the conversation moved on to something else now forgotten.
The following morning we started back toward Pago Pago, expecting to cover the 200 or so miles in about 24 hours. The seas were moderately rough, and sometime during the course of the following night a frontal passage brought the clouds down low, dumping rain at that rate only experienced in the tropics.
The rain was still pouring down at the first light of dawn, and the deluge continued, uninterrupted as the morning wore on. We were all wet and tired, and eager to see land. Ten o'clock came and went, as did eleven. By noon everyone was a little anxious as we scanned the mostly obscured horizon to the front and sides of the boat. By two in the afternoon the rain had slacked off some, but the clouds and mist continued to hover close to the heaving ocean. The tension among the passengers was electric.
The captain announced, "I think we've missed Tutuila. I'm going to turn around and go back."
How could we have missed an island seventeen miles long with mountain peaks over 2,000 feet high? My concerns were split between two thoughts: "What if we run out of fuel?", and "I hope he can figure out the reciprocal!"
At that precise moment from the back of the boat a voice cried out, "Land!"
We all rushed toward the stern, and sure enough, off in the distance some miles away we could see a green headland, mostly hidden in the clouds, with steep black cliffs plunging into the sea.
The boat changed course almost a hundred and eighty degrees (no need to calculate reciprocals now!), and headed for the island. We were almost home. We thought!
After almost an hour of heaving and pitching in that direction the clouds began to lift somewhat, and with dismay we discovered that the island we were approaching was not Tutuila at all. As more of its shape was revealed we all realized that we were looking at the outline of Ta'u, and in 30 hours the boat had somehow managed to get off course by more than 70 miles!
Maybe the captain had added a little too much "windage", or maybe had not been paying attention, or maybe he had just forgotten the reciprocal!
It would be another ten hours before we finally staggered into the harbor at Pago Pago.
Swains Island, a doughnut shaped low coral atoll that is geologically part of the Tokelau Islands, has been privately owned by the Jennings family since 1856. In the 1960’s it had a total population of about 30 people from Tokelau, who call their island “Olohenga”. Although the Samoan islands are 200 miles south, Swains Island has been under the administration of the Government of American Samoa since 1925. A boat is chartered by the Jennings family once or twice a year to deliver a few supplies and to pick up the dried coconut copra that is the only source of external income.My only trip to Swains Island was in 1968, the year I taught Level III Science on television for third and fourth graders and Level V Oral English television lessons for high school students in American Samoa. Paul Pedro, a science curriculum supervisor for the department of education had family there, and invited me to go along.
The 60 foot covered wooden motor launch slogged its way through heavy seas and strong winds as we chugged out of Pago Pago harbor, around Cape Matatula, cleared the island of Tutuila, and headed north. I spent a sleepless night on top of the three-foot high hatch-cover. Occasional waves came surging over the bow and sluicing down the decks. It had cleared and calmed by the next morning, and Paul told me not to be too disappointed if we didn't FIND the island! He said that on more than one occasion they had steered the compass course from Tutuila to Swains for the estimated travel time of 24 hours, spent two days steaming back and forth, looking for any hint of the
tops of green coconut trees protruding above the horizon, and then giving up and heading back for Tutuila. In those days before Global Positioning Satellites if you were more than 5 miles off course, Swains would remain hidden, and the captain had no knowledge of anything as sophisticated as a sextant!There is no break in the coral reef that makes up Swains Island. This means that visiting boats have to drop anchor in medium deep water beyond the breakers at the only village of Taulaga, and the men on the island come out through the surf to offload supplies and load copra to take back to Pago Pago. The village itself consists of a few thatch roofed open houses, a one room school, and a church.
Dried copra is stored in a large shed whose tin roof captures precious fresh rainwater and channels it into a large cistern. This is the only source of drinking water on the island. The porous coral limestone allows the salty seawater to seep in from the ocean all the way to the brackish lake in the middle of the island.
Wally Jennings the owner greeted us warmly, and took us in his jeep, the only vehicle on the island, on the single dirt track that circles the atoll. A drive almost halfway around, a distance of about three quarters of a mile, brought us to a run down two story house that looked like it might have been transplanted from New England. Wally told us that his grandfather had built the house, and named it “Etena” after the Garden of Eden. Wally, fresh out of an enlistment in the Marine Corps, had brought his new wife to live in Etena. When the marriage ended Wally moved into a small thatched fale in the village of Taulaga.
We watched the few boys and men play an island version of soccer on the village green as the sun set, and sat on laufala mats in Wally’s house for a delicious chicken dinner. Later that evening I was sitting next to the captain on the beach watching the moonlight on the breaking waves when he turned to me and said, apropos of nothing, "What's the reciprocal of three hundred and fifty degrees?"
My confused response was, "What do you mean?"
He said, "You know, if I came up here on a compass heading of 350 degrees, and wanted to turn around and go back the other direction, what would be the compass heading?"
And I was thinking, “Uh-oh! We're in trouble! This is the CAPTAIN!”
I did a quick subtraction of 180 degrees and came up with a hundred and seventy.
The captain said, "Are you sure?", and I responded, "Yes". He thanked me and the conversation moved on to something else now forgotten.
The following morning we started back toward Pago Pago, expecting to cover the 200 or so miles in about 24 hours. The seas were moderately rough, and sometime during the course of the following night a frontal passage brought the clouds down low, dumping rain at that rate only experienced in the tropics.
The rain was still pouring down at the first light of dawn, and the deluge continued, uninterrupted as the morning wore on. We were all wet and tired, and eager to see land. Ten o'clock came and went, as did eleven. By noon everyone was a little anxious as we scanned the mostly obscured horizon to the front and sides of the boat. By two in the afternoon the rain had slacked off some, but the clouds and mist continued to hover close to the heaving ocean. The tension among the passengers was electric.
The captain announced, "I think we've missed Tutuila. I'm going to turn around and go back."
How could we have missed an island seventeen miles long with mountain peaks over 2,000 feet high? My concerns were split between two thoughts: "What if we run out of fuel?", and "I hope he can figure out the reciprocal!"
At that precise moment from the back of the boat a voice cried out, "Land!"
We all rushed toward the stern, and sure enough, off in the distance some miles away we could see a green headland, mostly hidden in the clouds, with steep black cliffs plunging into the sea.The boat changed course almost a hundred and eighty degrees (no need to calculate reciprocals now!), and headed for the island. We were almost home. We thought!
After almost an hour of heaving and pitching in that direction the clouds began to lift somewhat, and with dismay we discovered that the island we were approaching was not Tutuila at all. As more of its shape was revealed we all realized that we were looking at the outline of Ta'u, and in 30 hours the boat had somehow managed to get off course by more than 70 miles!
Maybe the captain had added a little too much "windage", or maybe had not been paying attention, or maybe he had just forgotten the reciprocal!
It would be another ten hours before we finally staggered into the harbor at Pago Pago.
Tales of Samoa - o le sami faigata
Ole Sami Faigata - The Dangerous Sea
It was proved, over and over again, just how dangerous the ocean could be while we were in Samoa. I remember that two yachts left Pago Pago about the same time headed for New Zealand. They were caught in a big storm. One survived. The other was last heard from via radio somewhere near the island of Niue, in trouble, and never heard from again.
Then there was the trimaran "Extended Adolescence", which brought a young man rumored to be a draft dodger to moor for a time in the harbor. I think I remember that a government agent (F.B.I.?) was sent to "collect" the young man, but before being taken into custody, "Extended Adolescence" headed out to sea. The trimaran did not reappear in any port for several months, and it was circulated that perhaps the boat had been lost. Long after any hope of seeing the sailboat again, it came limping back into Pago Pago, having been dismasted in a storm, and sailed back on a jury rig using the jib sail attached to the mainsail boom as a makeshift mast. The young man in question left the boat moored in the harbor and flew back to the States to face the charges. The "Extended Adolescence" broke its moorings during the big hurricane of 1966, and broke up on the rocks at the head of the bay.
Speaking of storms, I also remember the day that several teenagers decided to take surfboards out to ride the storm surf somewhere off the village of Matu'u. They got caught in a strong current and swept out to sea. Two were eventually rescued by the Coast Guard, but one was never found.
Living on the island of Aunu'u, we had our share of close calls.
Before today's seawalls and breakwater constructions on the landings at Aunu'u and across the channel at the village of Auasi, the 20 to 30 foot longboats from Aunu'u used to make the crossing twice daily, about sunrise and sunset. There were many instances over the years of longboats being shattered on the reef at Auasi.
I can remember vividly some morning trips in to a principals' meeting in town when I wished fervently that I could just get out and walk! The fresh water flow from the small stream at Auasi had left a break in the structure of the coral reef there, probably 15-20 feet wide where there would be an opening in the line of surf crashing on the reef, called in Samoan an avaava. Water tossed across the reef by waves would rush back out through the opening, creating a strong outflowing current.
Whenever there were nearby or distant storms, however, the large swells would break farther out, completely closing out the opening. This made arrivals and departures much more "interesting"!
Incoming longboats would wait just outside the point where the huge waves were breaking, getting a feeling for their size and frequency. At some point which I never learned to discern, the man handling the steering sweep oar would call "ey-yo!" in a booming voice, and the six or eight men manning the oars would bend their backs, pulling with all their strength. Someone would be calling the cadence, "ho, ho, ho, ho", while one or more of the passengers shouted encouragement. "Malo! Malo", and "Malo i fa'auli" (Good work on the steering oar!). The next wave would begin to build behind the longboat, lifting the stern, and suddenly we would be surfing the steepening slope, shooting through the avaava to the calm protected waters inside.
One time, coming home from Fagatogo, I was on the first longboat to go out from Auasi. Since the surf was exceptionally high, our boat waited outside the surf line for the other boat to negotiate the passage. They waited, and waited, and waited some more as giant wave after wave crashed on the coral. Finally we heard the call to row and saw men pulling with all their might as the next wave approached. The swell passed beneath us, and as it approached the reef it began to rise higher and higher. The other longboat disappeared below the racing mountain of water. The top of the wave began to peak and curl over, and there was a collective groan of anxious anticipation, for we were all certain that the other boat was about to be crushed. As the fifteen foot wave began to crash down, the bow of the longboat miraculously came smashing up at a 50 degree angle through the breaking curl, the bow coming down with a resounding smack on the backside of the wave as if to punish it for its bad behavior. Immediately six or seven people jumped overboard from the now-flooded boat to keep it from sinking, and our longboat quickly went to the aid of the other, helping to pull it out away from other waves while everyone assisted in bailing out the half swamped boat with much laughing and hilarity.
The same reef opening almost claimed our whole family on another occasion. We had decided to make the crossing on a fine, sunny day. Although there were some medium size waves as I dragged our 16' aluminum boat across the Aunu'u beach and attached the 20 hp motor, I could see that just beyond the surf the cobalt surface was glassy. Two teenage boys from the village asked if they could come with me, Jan, my 4 year old son Mark, and my 1 year old daughter Lynne. I had no idea at the time my affirmative answer would be so important.
The mile and a half trip across to Tutuila was uneventful, although I started to get a bit apprehensive as we approached Auasi. Although the surface of the channel was very smooth, the ocean swells were very large, and as we got closer to shore we could hear the deep booming sounds that warned that the waves were breaking heavily on the reef.
It was soon apparent that there was no opening in the crashing waves, and that if we wanted to get to shore it would be a matter of waiting outside the surf line and going though the avaava in the gap between the breakers. We waited….and waited some more, trying to get the feel and timing of the approaching waves. At last it seemed that there was a little bit longer opening, and I let one wave pass under us, then followed the breaker close behind... a strange sensation, since we were going forward, but actually climbing up the back of the wave. It left us, crashed down on the reef in front of us, and gave us a clear view of the opening in the reef, marked by the swift backwash of water from the previous wave.
I approached the choppy outflow cautiously. Suddenly one of the boys in the boat yelled, "Look out!"
I glanced over my shoulder to see another huge wave starting to build behind us. I slowed the engine to idle, expecting the wave to pass under us so that we could follow it in. Bad mistake!
Instead, the stern of the aluminum craft was lifted at such a steep angle that the boat began to slide down the face of the wave. If I had cranked the throttle to wide open at that instant, we might have made it to calm water safely. A second's hesitation was all it took; the skidding bow slid off to the left. The wave began to curl. The right gunwale scooped up the choppy water, and the entire boat went stern over bow as the sea crashed down on us.
My feet slammed onto the bottom, and with a push I shot to the surface. Jan had our one year old daughter Lynne securely in her arms. The boys were bobbing in the outrushing water. I couldn't see my son Mark!
As the capsized boat, baskets, suitcase, and all of us were swept back out toward deeper water I heard a muffled "Daddy!" coming from the air pocket under the bow. I reached under the edge and dragged a very frightened boy still in his lifejacket out of the gasoline fumes to the fresh air.
I wrestled with the boat, turning it right side up, but the weight of the outboard motor kept the transom at the stern submerged, making it impossible to bail out the water. I put Jan, Lynne, and Mark in the swamped boat, and grabbed the bow, for it was becoming obvious that the current was slowly pulling us toward the point of rocks where the huge waves were still crashing.
The very next swell unbalanced the flooded boat, and it tipped over again, slow motion. We clung to the overturned hull, and I gripped the bow handle, side-stroking as hard as I could, trying to fight the relentless current.
The two boys in the meantime and swum across the reef, body surfing in on large waves that kept them from being torn to pieces on the sharp coral. They gained the beach, and without hesitation ran up the hill to a house in the village where earlier longboat crews had stored their oars for the day.
They rushed back down to the shallow waters near shore where there were several longboats floating at anchor. Leaping in to one of them and casting off the mooring line from the bow, they began to maneuver the heavy wooden boat to a point near the reef opening. They struggled to keep from being swept into the incoming waves. Without a third person in the stern to man a steering oar, they were hard pressed to keep the longboat from turning sideways and being swamped by the breaking surf.
Somehow the two of them managed to get that boat, normally manned by four or six oarsman and another man at the steering oar, out through surf that would have challenged a full crew, arriving just in time to keep us from being swept by the towering waves onto the rocks on the Auasi point. We all sat in the longboat, thankful that we were alive. Eventually we paddled around to collect still floating suitcase and baskets, but we weren’t yet ready to attempt the reef opening again.
Some sharp eyed observer on Aunu'u had noticed that there was trouble on the other side of the channel, and soon another well-manned longboat came to our rescue, providing extra hands for disconnecting the drowned outboard motor and rowing both boats ashore, towing the aluminum boat. (The outboard never DID run properly after that!)
It was proved, over and over again, just how dangerous the ocean could be while we were in Samoa. I remember that two yachts left Pago Pago about the same time headed for New Zealand. They were caught in a big storm. One survived. The other was last heard from via radio somewhere near the island of Niue, in trouble, and never heard from again.Then there was the trimaran "Extended Adolescence", which brought a young man rumored to be a draft dodger to moor for a time in the harbor. I think I remember that a government agent (F.B.I.?) was sent to "collect" the young man, but before being taken into custody, "Extended Adolescence" headed out to sea. The trimaran did not reappear in any port for several months, and it was circulated that perhaps the boat had been lost. Long after any hope of seeing the sailboat again, it came limping back into Pago Pago, having been dismasted in a storm, and sailed back on a jury rig using the jib sail attached to the mainsail boom as a makeshift mast. The young man in question left the boat moored in the harbor and flew back to the States to face the charges. The "Extended Adolescence" broke its moorings during the big hurricane of 1966, and broke up on the rocks at the head of the bay.
Speaking of storms, I also remember the day that several teenagers decided to take surfboards out to ride the storm surf somewhere off the village of Matu'u. They got caught in a strong current and swept out to sea. Two were eventually rescued by the Coast Guard, but one was never found.
Living on the island of Aunu'u, we had our share of close calls.
Before today's seawalls and breakwater constructions on the landings at Aunu'u and across the channel at the village of Auasi, the 20 to 30 foot longboats from Aunu'u used to make the crossing twice daily, about sunrise and sunset. There were many instances over the years of longboats being shattered on the reef at Auasi.
I can remember vividly some morning trips in to a principals' meeting in town when I wished fervently that I could just get out and walk! The fresh water flow from the small stream at Auasi had left a break in the structure of the coral reef there, probably 15-20 feet wide where there would be an opening in the line of surf crashing on the reef, called in Samoan an avaava. Water tossed across the reef by waves would rush back out through the opening, creating a strong outflowing current.
Whenever there were nearby or distant storms, however, the large swells would break farther out, completely closing out the opening. This made arrivals and departures much more "interesting"!
Incoming longboats would wait just outside the point where the huge waves were breaking, getting a feeling for their size and frequency. At some point which I never learned to discern, the man handling the steering sweep oar would call "ey-yo!" in a booming voice, and the six or eight men manning the oars would bend their backs, pulling with all their strength. Someone would be calling the cadence, "ho, ho, ho, ho", while one or more of the passengers shouted encouragement. "Malo! Malo", and "Malo i fa'auli" (Good work on the steering oar!). The next wave would begin to build behind the longboat, lifting the stern, and suddenly we would be surfing the steepening slope, shooting through the avaava to the calm protected waters inside.One time, coming home from Fagatogo, I was on the first longboat to go out from Auasi. Since the surf was exceptionally high, our boat waited outside the surf line for the other boat to negotiate the passage. They waited, and waited, and waited some more as giant wave after wave crashed on the coral. Finally we heard the call to row and saw men pulling with all their might as the next wave approached. The swell passed beneath us, and as it approached the reef it began to rise higher and higher. The other longboat disappeared below the racing mountain of water. The top of the wave began to peak and curl over, and there was a collective groan of anxious anticipation, for we were all certain that the other boat was about to be crushed. As the fifteen foot wave began to crash down, the bow of the longboat miraculously came smashing up at a 50 degree angle through the breaking curl, the bow coming down with a resounding smack on the backside of the wave as if to punish it for its bad behavior. Immediately six or seven people jumped overboard from the now-flooded boat to keep it from sinking, and our longboat quickly went to the aid of the other, helping to pull it out away from other waves while everyone assisted in bailing out the half swamped boat with much laughing and hilarity.
The same reef opening almost claimed our whole family on another occasion. We had decided to make the crossing on a fine, sunny day. Although there were some medium size waves as I dragged our 16' aluminum boat across the Aunu'u beach and attached the 20 hp motor, I could see that just beyond the surf the cobalt surface was glassy. Two teenage boys from the village asked if they could come with me, Jan, my 4 year old son Mark, and my 1 year old daughter Lynne. I had no idea at the time my affirmative answer would be so important.
The mile and a half trip across to Tutuila was uneventful, although I started to get a bit apprehensive as we approached Auasi. Although the surface of the channel was very smooth, the ocean swells were very large, and as we got closer to shore we could hear the deep booming sounds that warned that the waves were breaking heavily on the reef.
It was soon apparent that there was no opening in the crashing waves, and that if we wanted to get to shore it would be a matter of waiting outside the surf line and going though the avaava in the gap between the breakers. We waited….and waited some more, trying to get the feel and timing of the approaching waves. At last it seemed that there was a little bit longer opening, and I let one wave pass under us, then followed the breaker close behind... a strange sensation, since we were going forward, but actually climbing up the back of the wave. It left us, crashed down on the reef in front of us, and gave us a clear view of the opening in the reef, marked by the swift backwash of water from the previous wave.
I approached the choppy outflow cautiously. Suddenly one of the boys in the boat yelled, "Look out!"
I glanced over my shoulder to see another huge wave starting to build behind us. I slowed the engine to idle, expecting the wave to pass under us so that we could follow it in. Bad mistake!
Instead, the stern of the aluminum craft was lifted at such a steep angle that the boat began to slide down the face of the wave. If I had cranked the throttle to wide open at that instant, we might have made it to calm water safely. A second's hesitation was all it took; the skidding bow slid off to the left. The wave began to curl. The right gunwale scooped up the choppy water, and the entire boat went stern over bow as the sea crashed down on us.
My feet slammed onto the bottom, and with a push I shot to the surface. Jan had our one year old daughter Lynne securely in her arms. The boys were bobbing in the outrushing water. I couldn't see my son Mark!
As the capsized boat, baskets, suitcase, and all of us were swept back out toward deeper water I heard a muffled "Daddy!" coming from the air pocket under the bow. I reached under the edge and dragged a very frightened boy still in his lifejacket out of the gasoline fumes to the fresh air.
I wrestled with the boat, turning it right side up, but the weight of the outboard motor kept the transom at the stern submerged, making it impossible to bail out the water. I put Jan, Lynne, and Mark in the swamped boat, and grabbed the bow, for it was becoming obvious that the current was slowly pulling us toward the point of rocks where the huge waves were still crashing.
The very next swell unbalanced the flooded boat, and it tipped over again, slow motion. We clung to the overturned hull, and I gripped the bow handle, side-stroking as hard as I could, trying to fight the relentless current.
The two boys in the meantime and swum across the reef, body surfing in on large waves that kept them from being torn to pieces on the sharp coral. They gained the beach, and without hesitation ran up the hill to a house in the village where earlier longboat crews had stored their oars for the day.
They rushed back down to the shallow waters near shore where there were several longboats floating at anchor. Leaping in to one of them and casting off the mooring line from the bow, they began to maneuver the heavy wooden boat to a point near the reef opening. They struggled to keep from being swept into the incoming waves. Without a third person in the stern to man a steering oar, they were hard pressed to keep the longboat from turning sideways and being swamped by the breaking surf.
Somehow the two of them managed to get that boat, normally manned by four or six oarsman and another man at the steering oar, out through surf that would have challenged a full crew, arriving just in time to keep us from being swept by the towering waves onto the rocks on the Auasi point. We all sat in the longboat, thankful that we were alive. Eventually we paddled around to collect still floating suitcase and baskets, but we weren’t yet ready to attempt the reef opening again.
Some sharp eyed observer on Aunu'u had noticed that there was trouble on the other side of the channel, and soon another well-manned longboat came to our rescue, providing extra hands for disconnecting the drowned outboard motor and rowing both boats ashore, towing the aluminum boat. (The outboard never DID run properly after that!)
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tales of Samoa - o le momono i le va'a - The Hole In The Boat
My first experience with Aunu'u was in 1965. When we arrived in Samoa in March of 1965, quite a few consolidated elementary schools were under simultaneous construction, and virtually all of the construction was behind schedule (surprise, surprise! Things are almost ALWAYS behind schedule in Samoa. What's a schedule?)
Although I had been hired as a school principal at the tender young age of twenty-seven, when I first walked into the old office that sat approximately where the entrance to the Rainmaker Hotel now stands, I was told that school assignments for principals were still pending, and that we would be housed temporarily in Tafuna, the new government housing area out near the airport on the main island of Tutuila.
Other school principals were also living temporarily in Tafuna, awaiting school assignments, including Dick Danner, Doug Thorpe, Don Miskovsky, & Harold Hooten. Between us we were loaned an old blue government jeep, which we used to go shopping, visit schools under construction, and most often to drive down the dirt road from Tafuna to the end of the airport runway where there was a nice swimming hole!
One afternoon when the whole unassigned principal corps and families were down there swimming, I was wading out of the water after some snorkling when I stepped on the dorsal spines of a stonefish.
It felt like someone had inserted a hot poker through the arch of my foot and rammed it up past my knee almost to my hip! Needless to say, I let out a huge yelp, and yanked that foot out of the water. As I set the other foot down I managed to place it exactly where the first foot had been, thereby puncturing the sole of that foot on the stonefish too! I tumbled into the shallow water, groaning and causing everyone much concern while I contemplated the ephemeral qualities of life. Fortunately, neither wound was either very deep or particularly serious, evidently due to the fact that I had chosen a very small stonefish to exterminate, and within 40 minutes or so I was able to walk around again.I was soon assigned to the newly opening Pago Pago Elementary School until the end of the 64-65 school year to work with Cantley George, the first palagi principal, and Mageo, the Samoan principal.
Not long after that, Dick Danner was assigned to become the first principal of Aunu'u Elementary School when it opened for the beginning of the 65-66 school year. I was with him and Tasi Tuato'o when we went out one day to see what progress had been made on the school construction.
When we arrived at the village of Auasi there were the usual number of longboats bobbing at the end of ropes attached to chunks of coral in the calm waters inside the reef, but nobody there to meet us as promised. Tasi proceded to walk up the road about a hundred yards to the place where the road curved sharply around the point toward the village of Tula. He grabbed a small soft piece of wood and another short stick, and hunkered down just off the road. Using the short stick, he gouged a trough several inches long on the soft wood, and then, his hands and arms working like the pistons on a steam engine, rubbed the small stick back and fort in the groove, faster and faster. In less than a minute there was a wisp of smoke. Just like that there was a tiny fire to which he added other small sticks, then larger sticks. When the fire was well established he dumped a great armful of leaves on the flames, and a column of billowing white smoke rose into the air and blew off toward the west.Less than ten minutes had passed when we saw another longboat putting out from the beach at Aunu'u. Before long the four rowers and the man working the steering oar had crossed the channel, maneuvered through the cut in the reef, and were jumping out into the shallow water to pull the boat up to the beach.
After greetings, introductions, and handshakes were exchanged we all climbed into the longboat for the crossing to Aunu'u. We waited just inside the narrow passage through the reef called avaava in Samoan. The rowers backpaddled to keep the current from taking us out until the proper moment.
The steersman gave a "ey-io!", and the rowers pulled on the oars, shooting out through the cut, surging over the incoming swell with only a little water splashing into to boat, and we were on our way. The color of the water quickly turned from shades of green to light blue as we reached the deeper water just beyond the reef. The clarity of the water was impressive; you could see the coral on the bottom easily, thirty or forty feet below. Within a hundred yards or so the bottom dropped away and the sea became a wonderful cobalt blue. A couple of flying fish erupted ahead of us as we approached, skimming away just ahead of the cresting swells, extending their gliding paths occasionally with a rapid flippity-flip of their tails on the surface of the water.
About a third of the way across the mile wide channel, Dick Danner, sitting between a couple of the rowers, leaned over toward the bottom of the boat, picked up a wad of leaves, and casually tossed them over the side. Much to our surprise, two men simultaneously shipped their oars with a yank, and standing on the seats, leaped overboard! As we gazed at them in amazement and looked at each other, we saw immediately the cause for their unexpected actions; there was a four-inch fountain jetting up inside the boat from a finger-sized hole that had been drilled next to the keel. It seems that all the longboats had several of these holes drilled right next to the keelson. When pulled up on the beach the holes are left open to drain any water that has splashed inside. Before the boats are put in the water a small cone of banana leaf, rolled tightly, is pushed firmly into each hole, sealing it tightly. The rolled up piece of banana leaf that Dick had so thoughtfully decided to clean up turned out to be the PLUG!
The errant soggy plug was duly retrieved from the water while another one of the longboat crew kept his heel on the open hole. As the two swimmers clambered back over the gunwale and stuffed the rerolled plug back in the drain hole everyone, Samoan and Palagi alike, was laughing so hard that we had trouble staying on the seats. Everyone except poor Dick, who apologized profusely, and spent the rest of the ride across to Aunu'uu sitting very quietly!
The tales of the boat, the floating frozen chickens and a near drowning, and another tale of the drifting photographer and her aging mother will have to wait for another posting.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Exploring the Ware River - Saturday, August 23, 2008
Saturday was a great adventure. Our friends Leslie and Scott drove down to the Mobjack Bay Marina with us in the morning. There were nice 5 mph breezes out of the east as we left the slip about 11:00 a.m., which meant that I could put up the sails as soon as we had cleared the first marker. With the wind coming directly out of the east from the port side, Scott and Leslie took turns sailing down the bay, practicing the skill of making slight adjustments in the steering tiller as the wind veered a few degrees one way or the other, keeping the main and jib filled and sailing at optimum angle.
We sailed way down past Ware Neck Point, and then turned west into the Ware River, and I took the tiller. It's a bit tricky keeping the boat sailing directly downwind with the main sail pushed out on one side and the jib out on the opposite side like a bird with spread wings.
We sailed past a beautiful green marshy area called Windmill Point, swung around almost into the wind, and sailed slowly toward the shore until the depth meter showed 5 feet below the hull, then dropped anchor and lowered the sails. We put up a white sailcloth sunshade over the boom, and Leslie got out nice gourmet box lunches that she had prepared for all of us.
In the past few weeks all the jellyfish that I had seen in great profusion in July have now disappeared, so after eating I put the ladder over the side, and Scott an Jane went overboard for some refreshing swimming in water that was neither too warm or too cool.
Since the east wind was coming off the shore, I was able to raise the
anchor and put up the sails single handed as the breeze gently pushed the boat toward deeper water without starting the motor - something I had been wanting to try.
Now came the challenging part of the days' excursion...sailing directly
into the wind back toward the mouth of the Ware River. The wind had picked up to a good stiff breeze of 10-15 mph, kicking up a stiff two to two and a half foot chop. I zigzagged back and forth, back and forth across the wide river, gaining considerable amounts on each tack, while Scott and Jane took turns hauling in the jibsheets to switch the sail from one side to the other each time we came about. With both the jib and the main raised fully, the strong wind heeled the boat over 15 to 20 degrees, and whoever was on the higher side found comfortable positions with their feet planted firmly on the seats across from them.
StarLady plunged and leaped as it crested each oncoming wave and occasionally tossed cooling spray back to us in the cockpit as its bow splashed into each trough. As we rounded the last channel marker at the mouth of the river and turned toward the north everything changed.
Suddenly everything was serene, with following winds and waves coming from starboard side and the stern quarter, and it was time to break out another beer and relax as we watched several other sailboats heading back toward the marina.
To make the outing perfect, a pod of dolphins followed us long enough to pose for pictures.
With three other people assisting it was markedly easier to back the boat into the slip, get all the mooring lines secured and equipment and supplies stowed or
taken ashore.
Leaving Mobjack Bay, Marina Scott drove us past the almost invisible villages of Cardinal and Foster and across the swing-bridge to Gwynn's Island, where we ate fabulously delicious seafood dinners at the SeaBreeze Grill, which has big picture windows on three sides overlooking the water out to the sinuous back channel from the Chesapeake descriptively known as "The Hole In The Wall".
After dinner we explored the meandering roads around Gwynn's Island, stopping to admire a spectacular sunset over the mouth of the Piankatank River.
I snoozed in the back seat through West Point, and woke up as we were approaching Richmond. A most satisfactory day!
We sailed way down past Ware Neck Point, and then turned west into the Ware River, and I took the tiller. It's a bit tricky keeping the boat sailing directly downwind with the main sail pushed out on one side and the jib out on the opposite side like a bird with spread wings.
We sailed past a beautiful green marshy area called Windmill Point, swung around almost into the wind, and sailed slowly toward the shore until the depth meter showed 5 feet below the hull, then dropped anchor and lowered the sails. We put up a white sailcloth sunshade over the boom, and Leslie got out nice gourmet box lunches that she had prepared for all of us.In the past few weeks all the jellyfish that I had seen in great profusion in July have now disappeared, so after eating I put the ladder over the side, and Scott an Jane went overboard for some refreshing swimming in water that was neither too warm or too cool.
Since the east wind was coming off the shore, I was able to raise the
anchor and put up the sails single handed as the breeze gently pushed the boat toward deeper water without starting the motor - something I had been wanting to try.
Now came the challenging part of the days' excursion...sailing directly
into the wind back toward the mouth of the Ware River. The wind had picked up to a good stiff breeze of 10-15 mph, kicking up a stiff two to two and a half foot chop. I zigzagged back and forth, back and forth across the wide river, gaining considerable amounts on each tack, while Scott and Jane took turns hauling in the jibsheets to switch the sail from one side to the other each time we came about. With both the jib and the main raised fully, the strong wind heeled the boat over 15 to 20 degrees, and whoever was on the higher side found comfortable positions with their feet planted firmly on the seats across from them.
StarLady plunged and leaped as it crested each oncoming wave and occasionally tossed cooling spray back to us in the cockpit as its bow splashed into each trough. As we rounded the last channel marker at the mouth of the river and turned toward the north everything changed.
Suddenly everything was serene, with following winds and waves coming from starboard side and the stern quarter, and it was time to break out another beer and relax as we watched several other sailboats heading back toward the marina.
To make the outing perfect, a pod of dolphins followed us long enough to pose for pictures.With three other people assisting it was markedly easier to back the boat into the slip, get all the mooring lines secured and equipment and supplies stowed or
taken ashore.
Leaving Mobjack Bay, Marina Scott drove us past the almost invisible villages of Cardinal and Foster and across the swing-bridge to Gwynn's Island, where we ate fabulously delicious seafood dinners at the SeaBreeze Grill, which has big picture windows on three sides overlooking the water out to the sinuous back channel from the Chesapeake descriptively known as "The Hole In The Wall".
After dinner we explored the meandering roads around Gwynn's Island, stopping to admire a spectacular sunset over the mouth of the Piankatank River.
I snoozed in the back seat through West Point, and woke up as we were approaching Richmond. A most satisfactory day!
Sailing to Wolftrap - Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Today was wonderful; my longest day sail so far. My original thought was to go for a half-day sail on the Mobjack Bay with someone, exploring some part of the rivers or coves I have not yet visited, choice depending on the vagaries of winds and tides. My second choice was my friend Bill, who agreed at first, but then called back to say that he needed to clean out the garage! Jane wanted to spend the day with her friend, so I decided to go down anyway and perhaps to go for a short sail after doing some touch-up painting.
The day was so beautiful when I got there that I threw away all plans of work, rigged the sails, warmed up the motor, and chugged out of the marina into North River, headed for the middle of Mobjack Bay. I had not yet decided whether to sail across the south wind up the Ware River, or motor into the wind farther south to the Severn River to explore the south-west branch, where I hadn't yet been. Maybe with the wind out of the south I could round the Guinea Marshes and into the York River, or even go as far as Hampton. As I continued to motor straight out, I thought that since the waves were only about one foot or even less, I should just sail out into the Chesapeake Bay, al the way over to Cape Charles on the Eastern Shore. It was fun to weigh the possibilities!
By the time I had traveled for an hour, the wind had shifted to the southeast, setting up conditions so that I could shut off the motor and head straight out toward New Point Comfort at the mouth of the Mobjack. I rounded the point well offshore, following the marine markers to avoid the places where the bottom shoals rapidly. Sailing directly across the wind is the easiest and fastest way to sail, and with freshening breezes I decided to sail north up the Chesapeake another 6 or so miles to the Wolf Trap Lighthouse. I had seen pictures of it, but had never sailed that direction before.
My earlier plan had been to sail a short distance, anchor in some sheltered cove and cook myself some lunch, but instead I nibbled on trail mix for energy, and drank some water while ripping along. By the time I rounded the Wolf Trap Lighthouse it was about 2:00 p.m. and time to head back.
The wind had picked up to about 20 mph, and the infamous "Chesapeake Chop" had kicked in, building the short-period waves to about three feet, making for a pretty uncomfortable passage. I was kept busy tacking the boat at an angle into the wind balancing the pull of the tiller and adjusting the angle of the boat to keep it from heeling over too far, but it was exhilarating!
As soon as I passed the New Point Comfort Light and headed up Mobjack Bay, the wind was behind me, and I could relax, setting the mainsail far out to the starboard side and the jib far out to the port side, coasting along "wing-on-wing" at about 6 miles an hour back toward the marina.
I was back in the slip about 5:30, with a slight sunburn, some tired muscles, and a big grin on my face, having put almost 45 miles under the keel.
The day was so beautiful when I got there that I threw away all plans of work, rigged the sails, warmed up the motor, and chugged out of the marina into North River, headed for the middle of Mobjack Bay. I had not yet decided whether to sail across the south wind up the Ware River, or motor into the wind farther south to the Severn River to explore the south-west branch, where I hadn't yet been. Maybe with the wind out of the south I could round the Guinea Marshes and into the York River, or even go as far as Hampton. As I continued to motor straight out, I thought that since the waves were only about one foot or even less, I should just sail out into the Chesapeake Bay, al the way over to Cape Charles on the Eastern Shore. It was fun to weigh the possibilities!
By the time I had traveled for an hour, the wind had shifted to the southeast, setting up conditions so that I could shut off the motor and head straight out toward New Point Comfort at the mouth of the Mobjack. I rounded the point well offshore, following the marine markers to avoid the places where the bottom shoals rapidly. Sailing directly across the wind is the easiest and fastest way to sail, and with freshening breezes I decided to sail north up the Chesapeake another 6 or so miles to the Wolf Trap Lighthouse. I had seen pictures of it, but had never sailed that direction before.
My earlier plan had been to sail a short distance, anchor in some sheltered cove and cook myself some lunch, but instead I nibbled on trail mix for energy, and drank some water while ripping along. By the time I rounded the Wolf Trap Lighthouse it was about 2:00 p.m. and time to head back.
The wind had picked up to about 20 mph, and the infamous "Chesapeake Chop" had kicked in, building the short-period waves to about three feet, making for a pretty uncomfortable passage. I was kept busy tacking the boat at an angle into the wind balancing the pull of the tiller and adjusting the angle of the boat to keep it from heeling over too far, but it was exhilarating!
As soon as I passed the New Point Comfort Light and headed up Mobjack Bay, the wind was behind me, and I could relax, setting the mainsail far out to the starboard side and the jib far out to the port side, coasting along "wing-on-wing" at about 6 miles an hour back toward the marina.
I was back in the slip about 5:30, with a slight sunburn, some tired muscles, and a big grin on my face, having put almost 45 miles under the keel.
Sailing Mobjack Bay 6/14/2007
Thursday, June 14th, Flag Day, 2007...my 69th birthday! My son Mark met me at Mobjack Bay Marina in the morning, and although it was cloudy and a brisk wind was blowing from the east, we decided to go out on my 25' Lancer sailboat "StarLady" anyway.
Looking out into the bay, I could see whitecaps, so I reefed the mainsail before we even left the dock. The wind was blowing between 15-20 knots, and we absolutely ripped along on a broad reach, straight down the bay, past the mouth of the East River toward New Point Comfort.
The GPS indicated that we were making 6.5 mph with occasional bursts up to 7 mph, which is supposedly faster than the possible hull speed for the boat! As we approach New Point Comfort the already strong wind picked up a little more heeling StarLady about 25 degrees, and things began to fall off shelves below in the cabin.
Mark scrambled forward on the deck and dropped the jib, which eased the pressure, and we continued at about 6.1 mph.
We turned and ran before the wind, mainsail far out on the starboard, and ran the jib back up, positioning it off the port bow, running wing on wing, surging along with the big swells back toward safe harbor in Greenmansion Cove.
A memorable birthday!
Looking out into the bay, I could see whitecaps, so I reefed the mainsail before we even left the dock. The wind was blowing between 15-20 knots, and we absolutely ripped along on a broad reach, straight down the bay, past the mouth of the East River toward New Point Comfort.
The GPS indicated that we were making 6.5 mph with occasional bursts up to 7 mph, which is supposedly faster than the possible hull speed for the boat! As we approach New Point Comfort the already strong wind picked up a little more heeling StarLady about 25 degrees, and things began to fall off shelves below in the cabin.
Mark scrambled forward on the deck and dropped the jib, which eased the pressure, and we continued at about 6.1 mph.
We turned and ran before the wind, mainsail far out on the starboard, and ran the jib back up, positioning it off the port bow, running wing on wing, surging along with the big swells back toward safe harbor in Greenmansion Cove.
A memorable birthday!
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