Category Archives: Observing Changes

Ski the Mississippi: Citius, Altius, Fortius!

~
Olympics.svg

Faster, Higher, Stronger

This weekend a band of merry members of Anchor Yankers from the Mississippi Alton Pool swapped their boats for ski equipment. We drove to Dubuque, Iowa, a vibrant community that boasts river boating, skiing, five car garage homes and the new distribution center for Bacon Bits and Spam (the Godonlyknowswhat food stuff invented during WWII). Saturday’s daytime temperatures hovered around 12º (-10ºF wind-chill). Thick snow obscured the river valley and cemented dripping noses with upper lips. Sunday’s mercury climbed to a balmy 21º with pristine skies and 4” of fresh powder. Humans aren’t meant to hibernate – we played games in the snow.

BonnevileSaltFlats

a) Summertime Bonnevile Salt Flats or b) Snow Field in Iowa?
Ans: b

IMGP2612

Big G does a Black Diamond run above the River Valley

Summer visitors from northern US states to Utah’s Bonneville Salt Flats, west of Great Salt Lake often feel chilled rather than fried, as they should. Their brains are trained to recognize wide expanses of pure white terrain as snow and ice, not blistering desert sand that’s white as angel wings.

IMGP2611

Doesn’t get much faster or higher than here. Be strong and Ski!
Photo by JAL @ Sundown.

Our family’s first ski trip to Dubuque set off a similar disorientation. Our skiing experiences were in New England where skiers ride lifts up mountains in plain sight. George and I were confused to arrive at a farming region with rolling hills, no apparent snow and no elevations that could even mildly be described as ski territory. We were more befuddled when we arrived at Ski Sundown and looked down the river bluffs at the maze of well-groomed ski trails.

The Olympics’ motto, Citius, Altius, Fortius (Faster, Higher, Stronger) represents athletes’ aspirations to demonstrate personal bests – the ultimate upper limit of their speed, grace, and strength on ice and snow. This year Bode Miller earned the honor of being the oldest alpine skiing medalist in Olympic history.  He’s only 36 and is considered an elder athlete. Society is weird. It expects skiers to stay fit until age 70 so they can pay reduced Senior Ski Rates but entices 60+ year old people with Senior Reduced ticket prices to sit in movie theaters snacking on buttered popcorn.

DonGeoShar

Spider Men & Sharon Apres Ski @ Sundown. Thanks for organizing the annual trips for Don’s Gang, Sharon. Photo by JAL

This year George and I, Sharon and Don (Woelbling), elder but not yet senior clan members since the beginning reminisced about our decades of trips to Sundown. Faster, higher, and stronger effects of the sport include a blown knee (darn moguls), a broken nose (darn edge boundaries that separate the slopes from the wild), elegant style (we girls don’t wear darn hats because it musses our hair), updated and stylish ski gear (darn ski shops’ end of season sales), stolen skies (darn bar tender gave me a free beer and didn’t even offer to store my skies in the free, locked corral). We watched the third generation stretch their limits on the Bunny Slope. We spat out mouthfuls of snow while trying to keep pace with last year’s novices. We’ve celebrated kids’ graduations, weddings, and careers.

As life would have it, we’ve also mourned the loss of a spouse, two sons, and a granddaughter who had boated and skied the river.

1010966_10202792262743563_775942150_n

Advice to 3rd Gen: Don’t eat or make yellow snow!” Yes, those are Gina’s triplets and Zoe! Ski Wee Champs! Photo by Shana

The Winter Olympics gather athletes from around the world to take part in games where winning really matters. When my daughter at four years young first tried Ski Wee she melted down and didn’t want to go back for lessons the second day. Sharon took her aside, ever the schoolteacher, and firmly explained, “Here’s the deal -our families boat in the summer and ski in the winter. Unless you want to be home with a babysitter while we ski, you’d better get back into Ski Wee so you can always be with us.” Great advice. Families who have things to do outside and play with friends are truly blessed. They grow together faster, reach higher aspirations, and savor stronger bonds across generations. Our Dubuque ski trips aren’t about winning. The informal motto of the Olympics is, “The most important thing is not to win but to take part!” Skiing down river bluffs beats sitting home, eating spam on any winter weekend.

IMGP2608

Ski Sundown 2014
Photo by Carrie Smith

Just an Old Salt Doing Time

~
QuartermasterDickLibby

Quartermaster Dick Libby, USN, an Old Salt: “Twenty years in the Navy. “Never drunk on duty – never sober on liberty.” Portrait painted circa 1834 by Charles O. Cole. Image is in the Public Domain of USA

Midship2helm

Big G @ Helm of Ex Libris
Mississippi River, Alton Pool
Photo by JAL

Midship

Midship @ Narrow River – No Challenge?

Back in the grand age of fighting sail, an oldster was a midshipman who’d acquired at least four years of seniority. Most of the crew on 18th century sailing vessels went to sea as young boys so many midshipmen were generally obnoxious adolescent oldsters.

Seafaring career ladders divided the crew by skills. The waisters, sailors with dim wits and skimpy skills worked at or below sea level doing heavy hauling. Two in ten men earned the rating of Able or Ordinary seamen that qualified them to climb the mast and dance the rat lines. These “topmen” saw themselves as elite sailors because they worked above the officers and perceived waisters, odds and sods were beneath their esteem.

Regardless of where a man had done time aboard– sailors who survived a few tours of duty and had decent story telling skills were revered as Old Salts. Any man fortunate to celebrate 66 birthdays in good health should be thrilled, as my husband is today, to be called, Old Salt.

TAB_3_Special_Offers_Tees

Smells like love to Me.

 A research study on whether or not we pick our mates according to some magic formula of DNA involved college women sniffing men’s sweaty T-shirts. The study required the co-eds to sniff through two sets T-shirts and rate each  for its intensity, pleasantness, and sexiness. It was a study where guys majoring in science and geography felt comfortable wearing their cotton Ts for a couple of nights knowing a chick was giving it the sniff test later on in the lab. The women were pysch and bio majors. The results showed women prefer the Ts of  men with “dissimilar” DNA from their own – thus variety – viva la difference – rules the Hungryfor Mates Games.  Fuhgetabout birds of the nest flocking together. Women prefer men who are somewhat genetically rather than personality different from themselves. They can detect these DNA differences by scent. We hunt our baby makers by their genomes not their trust funds. It expands and strengthens our gene pool so Baby Einsteins and Walking Dead can flourish. George was a lifeguard when we met – and I confess – the scent of his T shirts were drove me wild. He smelled of sunshine, the sea, and Coppertone.

Years later, I learned that my mother in law had used only Tide detergent for – ever!  All of those years of thinking I’d fallen in love with the scent of a sailor when in real life I was seduced by Proctor & Gamble’s laundry perfume. Perhaps the T shirt study was on to something. George and I were different but powerfully attracted to each other – despite our parents’ cautions. When we met in the summer of ’69, I was a rambunctious art major favoring floppy hats and loose academic pursuits while he favored preppy clothes, criminology, and a serious grad school fellowship. I loved rock ‘n roll – he’d played bass in a youth symphony and the accordion for grins. He loved to relax on a beach while I yearned to be aboard a boat – preferably my own. There must’ve been magic woven into his 100% cotton Ts -we’ve spent 44 of his 66 years together on land, alongshore, and afloat.

George prefers to be a deck monkey and work the winches, take the helm, and weigh anchor. I don’t believe he’s a waister even though he does the heavy hauling – he’s not Ordinary either. Let’s say by virtue of his 66 candles today that he is definitely an Old Salt with a lot of sea miles in his wake and rich with stories to share. And, no matter what detergent we use – he smells better than any topman who hasn’t bathed since the ship left port. In fact – he smells terrific – and does the laundry – like an Able Seaman First Class.

IMG_4033

66 Candles w/Amberley & Nick, Houston, Feb. 2014
Photo by JAL

Greetings from the Entropics, Southeast of Disorder

~
IMG_3115

Got lobstahs? @ $3.99 per lb. we gotta lotta!

IMGP2289

Before the fall there’s June Bloom.
Middlebridge, RI

Last August our Middlebridge friends bid us farewell with a lobster feast. It was a balmy August evening and we savored each other’s company late into the night. One of our friends sighed, ‘It’s amazing Labor Day is just three weeks away. Every year we think summer will last – but every Labor Day Mother Nature flips her thermostat to cold – the temperatures plummet over night and the weather turns nasty. Then everyone waves good by and we all hibernate until Memorial Day. This place turns into a ghost town – everything looks dead.”

I’ve been hibernating all year. It’s more than just being a passive New England Patriots fan – I’ve been holed up like Sri Lankan sloth bear. I can’t blame the Polar Vortex or recent snowstorm – I’ve got a closet full of winter jackets so there’s no reason not to get out. I’m not suffering from SAD (seasonal affective disorder) – in fact I’m quite cheery, content, and comfortable. I simply have no motivation or energy to venture beyond my snug little nest.

IMG_3874

The flow of entropy – the Ex Libris is going nowhere fast.

I’m stuck in an entropic free fall. My energy vaporized right after the winter solstice when winter took the season by force.

Nature is enforcing the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics. To hip Newtonians, this means people who live in the colder climate zones of the northern hemisphere are quite literally, chilled out. The reason for this, physics wise, is it’s impossible for heat to flow from a colder body to a warmer body without any work having been done to accomplish this flow. Nobody feels like working once they finally take time to chillax. Blame Mother Nature – she threw the sun in the pen with very limited time to shine in the yard. Or ask a physician and she’ll confirm that during winter a lot of people complain that they don’t feel so hot.

It’s a new year only because some old pope came up with a calendar that says so. It is foolish to decide on the first calendar day of the year to put your life in order by proclaiming New Year Resolution when most living things outside are abiding by the 2nd Law. They’ve already progressed from order to the state southeast of disorder. And that’s why setting resolutions this time of year is futile. Even the sun can’t shine for even half of the 24 hours of any given day from now until we drink green beer to celebrate an Irish saint who rid the emerald isles of snakes. Right now in the comfy confines of your winter burrow life is about as chaotic as it is going to be – and it’s not so bad is it?

Unknown

Clean Up! Clean Up! Every Brain Cleans Up!

It’s silly to think your brain can take command of your behavior and meet the challenges of resolutions that sounded good after the last champagne toast of last year. After a certain age people get excited during the season of longest nights because they can go to bed early rather than get out and about. Winter brains are in janitor mode. Brains use these long nights of deep sleeps to do some much needed house keeping. During winter naps your brain has plenty of time to do a thorough glial wash (scrubs out neural waste formally known as brain junk). While you’re sleeping the brain sucks energy from your body to rev up its neural circuits needed to clean out lots of things you really don’t need to think about and certainly can live without remembering. Nocturnal brain washing is essential for clear thinking after the morning wake up call.

During a natural period of disorder when brains are busy vacuuming and dusting it makes absolutely no sense to make unrealistic pledges to bring fresh order into your lives. We don’t have the vigor to go from chilled to warmed up with the notion of change. Accept that the bulk of your energy has been routed to the brain’s clean up detail. Use what little energy you’ve got to go with the flow. Accept that we’re all milling about in the Entropics – an imaginary island chain where we can wiggle our toes in the water and all of our energy disperses with the receding surf. Here’s where what goes around, comes around. Diddle about on the beach long enough and the sun will concentrate its energy in your toe and you’ll feel the heat and high tail it for the sunscreen. For now, abide by the 2nd Law – conserve your energy because ice cubes melt in a warm room whether or not you get involved.

IMGP0654

Winter’s sun casts long shadows to honor shortened days. IRB, FL
Photo by JAL

Sails and Sheets

~

IMG_3867The bard, Buffet lamented to Mother Ocean that the men who rode her switched from sails to steam. He was a pirate who arrived too late and pissed his fortune away. Today’s forecast is for bone cracking subzero temps and buckets of snow. Aside from heeding a friend’s warning of a French Toast Alert (plunder the grocery stores stocks of milk, eggs, bread and toilet paper), it’s imperative that we get a bubbler under Ex Libris’ hull before the ice damages her hull and Boat US cancels my policy for not keeping our winter berth ship shape.

IMG_3868

Like the finest silk. Thin enough to examine under a microscope.

It’s a new year and if we’re lucky, things are going to change and old habits will catch a second wind. There are a couple of changes that, personally, I find perplexing. TP is #4 on the French Toast alert.  We dealt with an unexpected change when our California crew arrived for the holidays. When Barrett visits he has the habit of sending ahead an air humidifier and a load of disposable diapers. The new quirk is that he also provisioned the upstairs bath. Not a 12 pack of Charmin. He gifted us with thousands of sheets of 100% Tree Free, Septic Safe, Single Ply Bath Tissue made from Sugarcane Husk & Bamboo. The wrapper testifies, “We believe in living well and making positive choices.”

Nick says that he butts heads with Amberley when grocery shopping because as she promised at age 13, when she grew up she would never buy generic store brands – it’s only top shelf for her. Being a CPA and proficient with counting beans, Nick protests that much of the stuff on the shelves is the same except for more expensive branding. Yet he yields on one non-negotiable point taught by his father in law – “Never choose to buy cheap toilet paper.” Barrett lives the mantra with his choice of Bath Tissue – his choice of brands is not about the room or the paper – it’s the wellbeing gained from a clean swipe and a good choice. Still, I question his choice, bamboo husks? Does he know the going rate for feeding pandas at the Washington Zoo? I do. It costs around $500,000 a year to keep two pandas healthy and content on a bamboo and Purina Panda Food diet. Our son’s Tissue must be the Johnny Walker Blue of commodes.

Dealing with bamboo and pandas is a delicate process. The lovely panda Yan Yan on loan from China to the Berlin Zoo had a hardy appetite for bamboo but died tragically. The autopsy revealed she died of constipation that triggered a heart attack. It’s a tough tush life.

IMG_2797

Chillaxin above the Bubbler

A couple of swipes of the flimsy 100% pure bamboo treeless Tissue will help you empathize with the tragic demise of Yan Yan. It’s hard to switch from trees to grass unless you’re in Colorado this week. I’m going back to Mr. Peeble’s Charmin and will save the rest of the sugarcane and bamboo for our boat. The bamboo seems to disintegrate on contact with liquids and solids so there will be little risk of a plugged head on Ex Libris – unless we arrive too late and the pipes freeze because we don’t get the bubbler installed before the big chill.

The greatest irony is, the Tissue was made in China. It’s your choice, trees and paper or bamboo and starving pandas.

IMG_3870

Tinnitus

~
IMG_2797

Sound of Deep Sleep

It’s not what you hear that matters, its how you listen. Some of us hear different drummers and step to a beat heard only in our own heads. Do you hear what I hear? For the past couple of weeks, when all is quiet, my ears resonate with a high-pitched whine. It’s not as loud or annoying as a backyard full of circadas or a bullfrog in heat. It gives me a chance to think of other sounds of the season; carols, snow, UPS trucks, firelogs, and Salvation Army bells. Jingles.

IMG_2793

Softly – Like Pachabel’s Canon

The winds have joined forces with the cold and hammer the sail halyards against the masts. It’s a hallow sound as the sails are stored in darkened basement closets to wait out winter. Chilly gusts chaffe the arthritic joints of trees that are not likely survive the season. We’ll warm our hands with mugs of hot chocolate, pull on thick socks, toss another log on the fire, and listen to the silence of winter nights. Pa rum pa pum pum.

Bass

Noteworthy

Every month has a particularly strong grip on at least one of the human senses. March smells like worms – it’s nature’s signal that the ground is warming. July tastes hot and sticky. October’s vivid foliage sears retinas. November envelops us in the warm touch of family and friends. December saturates our auditory senses with hustle, bustle, voices silenced long ago, whispering angel wings, and familiar carols. Ding, dong.

IMGP0923

Seasonal Sounds

I like the sound of the word /tin’ nuh tus/. I know it will quiet down as my sinuses heal so there’s no reason to alter my pace for the long run. My ears are tuned to catch the cacophony of kindergarteners belting out their first Christmas concert and the scrunch of lightly frosted snow beneath my boots. The older I am lucky enough to grow, the more I relish listening to nature and people. I think this is why the last month of the year holds such a lock on our ears. There is much to be heard and enjoy – if you just take the time to listen. Tidings of comfort and joy.

IMG_1428

The magic’s in the music, and
the music’s in you.

Whistle While You Work

~
IMG_1404

Narrow River, RI
Boats Afloat

My Mom could whistle really loud by putting a piece of grass between her thumbs, cupping her hands, and blowing. My brother Scot caught on pretty quickly but I never mastered the grass thumb whistle. Whistles are a big thing in the lives of boaters. Coast Guard Rule 33 mandates that vessels 12 meters or more in length carry a whistle. Boats of 20 meters or more must have a bell in addition to the whistle. For those of you planning a Caribbean cruise with a bottle of Kaopectate and a few thousand other vacationers, take comfort in knowing your safety is ensured with a whistle, a bell, and a gong on board that makes a loud tone and sound that can’t be confused with a bell. Little boats like our Whaler, Finn and fleet of kayaks can get away with just a whistler aboard.

PoppyTrain

Grandpas and Trains

My grandpa was a railroad-man who worked the caboose. Like sailors who built their homes with a view of the sea, Grandpa always lived near train tracks. One warm afternoon he took my brother, cousins and me to watch for trains by standing near the tracks that bordered the lawn. He checked his pocket watch and grinned, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” and waved at the approaching freight train. To our amazement it stopped right in front of us. The engineer stuck his head out and in a deep baritone called, “All Aboard!” We clamored aboard the massive locomotive engine, waved at cars stopped at the crossings and rode from Caledonia to Retsof right into the round house. Each of us got to blow the whistle at least once as we powered through cross roads. I probably got to blow it more than once, because I was the oldest and my brother could always just blow his grass whistle.

IMGP1667

Newport Homage to the Sea

Two advancements in scientific research were announced last week. First, dolphins whistle at each other by name. They apparently choose their own whistle signal and keep it for their entire lives. Proper dolphin etiquette is to address others by their name before launching into conversation.

Play it Like Jagger

The second announcement involves the connection between music and workouts. Our gym caters to Baby Boomers and the sound system blasts rock and roll oldies and moldies. Classic rock often makes me feel like Keith Richards looks, it does not enhance my endurance or the joy of a good sweat.  According to researchers, making music, by singing, humming – or whistling rather than just listening while exercising makes for easier workouts. It’s daunting to think that fitness centers will morph into karaoke lounges. I know a lot of words to many songs but not all of the words to any songs so I’m going to follow the seven dwarves and whistle while I work out. If we meet during one of my sessions and you hear a whistle – consider it a dolphin sort of greeting.  However, if I blow out five short blasts – back off. I’m trying to tell you the workout is killing me, or my life is off course, and I need some space between you and me.

Caboose

End of the Line
What a ride we shared.

Railroads decoupled cabooses long ago and liability lawyers assure us that wayward children are not allowed in train engines where they could be tempted to blow the whistle. I’m glad whistling increases one’s emotional motor control while messing with boats because playing in and on the water demands a degree of fitness. With all of the physical energy required to sail or kayak it’s nice to know that by simply whistling we can boost our sense of wellbeing and better enjoy time on the water.

IMGP0061

Season of the Switch

~
Image

Switchy Woman

The Red Sox wore red caps and helmets for Saturday’s Game Three of the World Series. Sunday they switched to blue.  Most Midwesterners have switched the AC off and the heat on. All of the harbor masters along the Alton Pool have warned their members that the water and pump out facilities will be switched off within the week as temperatures are bound to fall below freezing at night. The sun that recently glared mercilessly to further overheat the hemisphere now rides the horizon at hip-height, its rays lazily grazing the cooling waterways. It sleeps late and retires early allowing the supercilious river waters to brusquely deflect its tepid brassy rays. Red to blue, warm to chill, on again, off again. Must be the season of the switch.

IMG_3532

Cool Sails Warm Bluffs Illinois Great River Road, Alton Pool, Mississippi River Aboard S/v Sandpiper

Fall foliage is a clever disguise for a certain arrogance that permeates fall. When it comes to high honors for best-dressed landscapes, New England wins. Nature flips a switch around the Equinox and the green fields and mountains ignite with a Red Carpet display of organic haute couture. Northeastern foliage screams, “Envy my brilliance – it’s all about me, me, me!” Inflamed crimson  leaves glow with golden auras. Brazen mums dominate gardens and resonate with pride. Swirling clouds of leaves slap away at summer highs and signal the all clear for in bound winter lows. Foliage, like guild actors, eventually lie quiet and forgotten as the season passes and they muster patience to endure until next year’s season premier.

Last SoccerGame

Pitch Perfect Attire

October is far less dramatic and a more humble of a season here in St. Louis. Rusty pin oaks dominate the sights beyond many windows. Locals are satisfied when the grass fades beneath a loose shawl of dull brown leaves. Pumpkins brighten lawns and dark pots of chili satisfy cool weather appetites. A sea of red floods Busch stadium. This is the season to awake in darkness, switch the alarm clocks off  and the lights on to greet the day.  It’s strange.

TallerWLongerSahdows

Red Bird, Red Girl, What Do You See?

Thousands upon thousands of men, women and children in and around St. Louis adapt to the season by piling on more stitches of clothing to ward off the chill. Short shorts are switched out for tight jeans. Tank tops are flipped for layers of thermo-dynamic, sweat sucking – heat preserving attire. Body heat is amped up by joining a cacophony of revelers bedecked in scarlet, gold, and navy outerwear highlighted with ornamental birds, wild prey, and beasts burden. We’re swapping the last thrills of Cardinals baseball and kids’ soccer for Mizzou and Rams football. Everyone is soaring from hot to cold, dockside to fireside, and outdoors to indoors. It’s a switch.

Pack up the flip flops – break out shoes and socks. Pull out and hunker down with those books you meant to read last summer. Chill. All of the year’s long sunny days have been redeemed for languorous evenings to savor HD TV shows recorded for “the time when we’ll have time.” Crock pots fill as grills chill. Slow food beckons us to while away time savoring a good meal shared well. The Cards are still wearing their red caps for tonight’s game. I don’t know about the Sox. Must be the season of the switch.

Ewok&Dad

Sox Fans Unite! Photo By SMCL

Higgs Bosun and Huck Finn

~
IMGP0424

Fair Winds and Current on the Alton Pool

Last week the Nobel Prize for Physics was awarded to two guys who confirmed that all stuff exists in a sea of energy. The Laureates explained that the dark voids of the universe are more like molasses than Tanqueray Gin. The sea of energy known as the Higgs Field is precisely where It was built and to where everything, including us, came to be.

Visualize the universe as a snorkeler would while exploring a coral reef three meters below the surface. You’ll wear a diving mask because human eyes are made to see through air not water. The mask puts a barrier of air between your eyes and the water so that you can see clearly. There are zillions of particles a millions times smaller than anything visible. What you can’t see even with goggles makes the universe happen. Every gazillion or so of these minute particles is an unstable piece of stuff that makes much of the universe matter. It’s the missing piece of the creation of the universe – the fuse that set off the Big Bang. In a universe that appears perfect this one tiny, incredibly complex and unstable particle broke the perfect symmetry between dark and light, matter and energy. This Higgs Boson particle energizes nothing into everything.  We are all children of this ocean of energy.

IMG_0597

Ex Libris on the hook behind Slim Island – Holding Against the Flow

Quantum physics has finally answered the age-old question, “What’s the matter?” Matter is everything that interacts with energy. Stuff encounters a lot of resistance along the way and that’s known as matter. You know matter because you can feel its resistance – like poking the Pillsbury Doughboy. Unlike emotional anxiety or depression that destabilizes people, matter is made to deal with resistance. We matter because we flow with energy. Dealing with friction or drag doesn’t stop us from being – it is what causes us to be something of matter.

Huckleberry Finn understood that things that matter change other things. People who never get to be on the river don’t understand the freedom of getting away from stuff. Huck found it lovely to live simply on a raft with the sky “up there, all speckled with stars.” He and Jim spent many a languid evening just looking up and debating whether the stars “was made” or simply “happened”. Huck figured there were so many stars that it would take too long to make them – so they must’ve just happened.

CaptainRon

Courtesy of Captain Ron, “If it’s gonna happen, Boss, it’s gonna happen out there.”

The Nobel winners would probably sit on Huck’s raft, puff on their pipes and nod. Seems something came along and spanked that dark empty space up there above the river and found it wasn’t nothing a’tall – it was some thing. Outer space is a big jiggly thing that sort of snapped a bit when God only knows what gave it a spanking and a little teeny tiny speck o’ stuff – so tiny it could hide behind light – flew off. That little Higgs Boson rogue was different from all the other stuff. It didn’t spin around and around like other particles and it gets smaller and smaller the longer it exists. Then the universe started to move and more stuff was made as things moved through the Higgs force field.  Pretty soon that energy and stuff were everywhere making galaxies, planets, life and everything known to be something, happen.

water_ripple

Resistance Makes it Matter More

And so it is that a young freckled kid born of Twain’s imagination became as real to readers as the Higgs Boson, “God Particle” is to scientists. Some people are closest to nature and answers to eternal questions when like Huck, they “escape cramped and smothery places” to “feel mighty free and comfortable aboard a raft”. A raft is as good as any place to ponder the unknown. To exist as a human being or an Asian Carp is matter that deals with energy. Like the flow of the river it’s something that just is. Huck Finn felt free and easy when he was on the river, away from land. The stuff between people became matterless  while onboard a raft. The stuff back on land seems to have no mass, or to quip in Spanish, “No mas”, our worries weigh nothing.

Huck found that by lying comfortably aboard his raft he came to understand that some things happen to be because it takes a bunch of energy to make them be and energy’s gotta do something. The God particle is everywhere – within and around everything in the universe. It’s an energy field that is felt but not seen and only recently begun to be understood.  It always was, is and will be, part of Huck’s river.

IMGP0420

Mass and Energy

Wakes and River Life

~

IMG_2419

IMG_1568

Confluence of Illinois & Mississippi Rivers

The dynamic relationship between a river and the land is constantly changing and it’s all because of water. When there is a lot of precipitation a river rises, breeches its banks and floods the land. A river shrivels during droughts when its flow is not much more than an old guy straining to pee. It rips up some parts of land while at the same time building new land in other places. Whether raging or meandering, life in and on a river is ever changing. Fail to respect water’s power and it will kill you.

Wakes on the river are the natural effect of boats breaking through the surface tension of water. We once crossed a wake head on with our powerboat, flew above water, slammed into the next wave with an impact that seemed as solid as hitting a Sequoia. Injuries to the crew, guests, and vessel were relatively minor but the experience was upsetting. Going into a wake head on amped up our respect for the fearsome power of water.

IMG_1562

Flow

We saw many of our river friends today at the wake of one too young to die. If all the tears shed  today were dumped into our river the force of gravity would take them far downstream and finally out to sea. Our tears would encounter life forms barely imagined by Dante as he pondered Hell. They would become the new normal as we adapted to the currents. A tear is so small among billions of gallons of dark churning water that even if it’s pumped through a carp’s gills the tear would be comfortably floating free in no time. Its seaward journey would be punctuated by terrifying encounters with the unknown and the ecstasy of learning how all systems connect.

IMG_2426

Drifting with the Current

On very hot days it’s fun to set the anchor, put on a life jacket, tie a strong line around your waist and secure the bitter end to a cleat on the boat. Even when the water seems gentle and listless the current is strong and tireless. Being swept downstream would be life threatening. Looking face down at the water it’s impossible to see your own feet. As Mark Twain mused, our river is, “too thin to plow, too thick to drink”. I have never seen below the surface but my belief that all sorts of life exists below keeps me on high alert. I do not need to see fish to believe they swim nor snag myself on a branch to fear letting go of the safety line.

The famous physicist Stephen Hawking once said he had done “all of the math” and could not find Heaven anywhere in the universe. Therefore Hawking does not believe Heaven or God exists. And then he did some more math and determined that there were many other universes and some are the opposite of everything we know. Last week some oceanographers figured out that most of what lives in the oceans resides far deeper than explorers have ever ventured. The scientists don’t know what lies beneath but believe that down deep all life is subject to change. Since we don’t know the nature of life miles below the surface we cannot determine how changes to it will affect relationships between other species, ourselves included. We simply don’t understand how we are related.

There are no Apps for a map of the universe that pinpoints Heaven or a route between where we stand and that destination. Like tears in the river left from a wake, we can take comfort in knowing that every living thing is programed to make the journey with no need for a map. Our guides are those who journey ahead and share the basic wisdom that life prepares us all for death. Just as we share the bias that river floods are disasters, in real life they are predictable and necessary for rivers to exist.  Wakes are the physical effects of movement though water, and of a loved one crossing the boundary between life and death. Wakes confirm our deep desire to live though the powerful currents of compassion and caring. Water is within and around us. That’s life. I’ve never been to Heaven but know it exists because of the peace of knowing that it is where all life flows. I did the math; 1 life plus 1 faith = eternal life. Peace Out, Mackenzie.

universe

Heaven’s just a different address. GHL

Harbingers @ Sioux Harbor

~
SailClouds

Running Before the Wind

Dew

Dew & Spider Harbingers

Sailors are as obsessed with weather forecasts as pirates are with rum. Saturday morning on our dock, Sailor Jerry, the one with mutton chops not the rum bottle, pointed to the cars parked on the lot and said, “There is no dew this morning. That’s a good harbinger for rain.” I stuck my head out of the cabin, squinted at the clear blue sky, donned sunglasses and pondered the use of such heavy vocabulary so early in the day. The wind was brisk but the harbor was as smooth as a pool table. I focused my senses and tried to figure out how missing dew was connected with precipitation.

I watched the water for a bit and noted an awful lot of fish were jumping and small schools were spooling around the boat. A remembered George’s great Aunt Hetta (who owned a patch of land on a Connecticut lake) telling us that when fish are jumping, rains are coming. She also claimed to be an esteemed member of the Degree of Pocahontas, the Women’s Auxillary of The Improved Order of Red Men. They gather to honor Pocahontas by teaching kindness, charity, and loyalty to one’s nation. When I inquired about her tribe of origin, she scoffed that none of the members were Indians or Italians.  I ignored her bigotry and weather forecasting aptitude.

GypsyRose

Web o’ Sails

A Cottonrattlemoccasin Snake glided through the water and slipped beneath the dock. I grabbed the gaff hook and assumed a defensive posture. I recalled a video about robot snakes being developed at Carnegie Mellon to do search and rescue. Sometimes science is just stupid, if a snakebot came searching for me, my heart would simply stop. I counted six new spider webs adorning the standing rigging and bimini cover.  I squished an exceptionally large spider beneath my foot and figured rain was now guaranteed because killing spiders is bad luck. I wondered whether the cows were lying down and noted my knee felt stiff.

The skies were clear as we sailed upriver propelled by 20 knot gusts and warily eyed an ominous strip of nimbus clouds that darkened the eastern bluffs. The western clouds were wrinkled – a verse about cloud wrinkles and sprinkles came to mind. We heeded the dockside harbinger’s forecast of rain and returned to the harbor to caulk the main hatch and secure the sails.

Sometime before midnight cold rain dripped through the open hatch into our bunk. We snapped to attention, closed the portholes and tumbled back to sleep. Sunday dawned with a thick dew that covered the topsides. NOAA weather radio forecasted clear skies and light breezes.

When the mainsail was raised long silky gossamer strands attached to tiny parachutes drifted from the canvas – baby spiders swinging through the air. The captain laughed that sails are like giant milkweeds only instead of incubating monarch butterflies they are nurseries for spiders. That’s nice – spiders are good omens. We watched the sunset from a cantina on the western shore. During the last gasp of daylight, the Mississippi was transformed into an elegant silver-blue serpentine stretching toward the sea. Was this twilight scene a harbinger for good days to come? Best to go with the flow and find out.

RiverClouds

Sailors’ Delight