Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Cerveza, por favor
Back in the prehistory of 25 years ago, I crewed on some offshore sailboat races in the Gulf of Mexico. The highlight of the season was the race from Galveston to Veracruz. There were many memorable moments that year, but one day stands out. That day was at the end of the race, so I will have to lead up to it.
The race is 500 or so miles and usually takes five or six days. Most boats head due-south across the Gulf. A few boats go west along the coast hoping for shore breezes and hoping that those out in the middle of the Gulf will have light air. We went straight south.
Typically, the wind blows out of the southeast at that time of year and the race is more or less against the wind. For our year, the wind blew out of the north the whole way and it was a sleigh ride, as we say in the trade. Several boats, including ours, beat the record. There were ten of us on board the 36-foot sloop. We finished in 96 hours.
We left Galveston with the floor raised a foot by solid cases of longneck beers. Many racing boats do not drink much during competition. We were not in that group.
After three days of flying the spinnaker downwind, we began to look forward to the finish. This was before the days of GPS satellites and online charts so we plotted our course using the compass and our estimated speed. On that last day the wind piped up to a steady 30 or 40 knots. We had taken down the spinnaker and gone to a smaller one we had that we called the ‘storm chute’. In early afternoon, the storm chute exploded and sounded like a four-story balloon being popped (which is exactly what it was). After that we sailed with no sails at all. In sailing that is called ‘bare poles’. Fortunately, the wind was blowing exactly where we wanted to go. The boat was moving faster than we had ever been. The waves were as big as houses. Our mast was 53 feet and, when we were in the trough, the crest was above the masthead. When we reached a wave crest the wind would power us and we would begin to surf down the face of the wave at an unknown speed. When we reached the trough, the speed would come down enough to register. This was great fun. The only problem, and only a small one, was that we had run out of beer.
Our first landmark was the volcanic snowcap of Pico Orizaba amongst the clouds to the southwest. Land was not in sight and hours later we would see the the huge cranes in the port of Veracruz rising from the sea on the horizon.
Veracruz is surrounded by reefs a few miles out. There are towers on the margins of the reefs to guide the mariner. We picked two towers that we should go between. By this time the wind had cut back to 30 knots or so, so we had put up a tiny jib and a deeply reefed mainsail.
All of a sudden, there was a horrible noise that sounded like surf. A few hundred yards ahead we saw breaking waves. We were between the wrong two towers. The helmsman pushed the tiller hard, the main jibed and we escaped by the skin of our teeth. A few minutes later, we were inside the reefs and, suddenly, the house-size waves had disappeared and we were in a relatively calm ship channel. The wind was still high, we were flying fast, but the deck was stable for the first time in days. We were followed in by a freighter that was listing about thirty degrees from the wind.
We radioed to the race officials at the Hotel Emporio and some of our wives and loved ones were there waiting for news. We asked them to please meet us at the dock with some beer.
Now comes the best part of the story. Actually, the whole point of the story.
The finish line was at the end of a very long jetty that curved around the harbor. Finishing yachts were required to pass close to the end of the jetty. Our loved ones, in their eagerness to help, had brought a case of bottled beer to the finish line. As we crossed, they began to throw the bottles of beer at us. We were all barefoot, the wind was still blowing like a bitch, and the beer bottles were breaking all over the deck of the boat. The good part is everyone managed to catch a beer.
We all cut our feet, but for a moment we got to stand there, safe, holding a cold beer in that howling wind, knowing we had arrived, and to see the proud faces of those wonderful drunken women to whom we were so grateful.
The race is 500 or so miles and usually takes five or six days. Most boats head due-south across the Gulf. A few boats go west along the coast hoping for shore breezes and hoping that those out in the middle of the Gulf will have light air. We went straight south.
Typically, the wind blows out of the southeast at that time of year and the race is more or less against the wind. For our year, the wind blew out of the north the whole way and it was a sleigh ride, as we say in the trade. Several boats, including ours, beat the record. There were ten of us on board the 36-foot sloop. We finished in 96 hours.
We left Galveston with the floor raised a foot by solid cases of longneck beers. Many racing boats do not drink much during competition. We were not in that group.
After three days of flying the spinnaker downwind, we began to look forward to the finish. This was before the days of GPS satellites and online charts so we plotted our course using the compass and our estimated speed. On that last day the wind piped up to a steady 30 or 40 knots. We had taken down the spinnaker and gone to a smaller one we had that we called the ‘storm chute’. In early afternoon, the storm chute exploded and sounded like a four-story balloon being popped (which is exactly what it was). After that we sailed with no sails at all. In sailing that is called ‘bare poles’. Fortunately, the wind was blowing exactly where we wanted to go. The boat was moving faster than we had ever been. The waves were as big as houses. Our mast was 53 feet and, when we were in the trough, the crest was above the masthead. When we reached a wave crest the wind would power us and we would begin to surf down the face of the wave at an unknown speed. When we reached the trough, the speed would come down enough to register. This was great fun. The only problem, and only a small one, was that we had run out of beer.
Our first landmark was the volcanic snowcap of Pico Orizaba amongst the clouds to the southwest. Land was not in sight and hours later we would see the the huge cranes in the port of Veracruz rising from the sea on the horizon.
Veracruz is surrounded by reefs a few miles out. There are towers on the margins of the reefs to guide the mariner. We picked two towers that we should go between. By this time the wind had cut back to 30 knots or so, so we had put up a tiny jib and a deeply reefed mainsail.
All of a sudden, there was a horrible noise that sounded like surf. A few hundred yards ahead we saw breaking waves. We were between the wrong two towers. The helmsman pushed the tiller hard, the main jibed and we escaped by the skin of our teeth. A few minutes later, we were inside the reefs and, suddenly, the house-size waves had disappeared and we were in a relatively calm ship channel. The wind was still high, we were flying fast, but the deck was stable for the first time in days. We were followed in by a freighter that was listing about thirty degrees from the wind.
We radioed to the race officials at the Hotel Emporio and some of our wives and loved ones were there waiting for news. We asked them to please meet us at the dock with some beer.
Now comes the best part of the story. Actually, the whole point of the story.
The finish line was at the end of a very long jetty that curved around the harbor. Finishing yachts were required to pass close to the end of the jetty. Our loved ones, in their eagerness to help, had brought a case of bottled beer to the finish line. As we crossed, they began to throw the bottles of beer at us. We were all barefoot, the wind was still blowing like a bitch, and the beer bottles were breaking all over the deck of the boat. The good part is everyone managed to catch a beer.
We all cut our feet, but for a moment we got to stand there, safe, holding a cold beer in that howling wind, knowing we had arrived, and to see the proud faces of those wonderful drunken women to whom we were so grateful.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Hello, again, and a Dream
After a few months off, I am going to try again to get going here. It has been kind of a chaotic summer for me and I am blaming everything on that.
I had a dream last night. Maybe some of you amateur dream analysts can tell me what it means.
I was in a foreign airport. It felt like eastern Europe, perhaps. As I was heading for my gate I felt in my pocket and realized I had my keyring that is attached to a small Swiss Army Knife. This is my actual keyring in real life and I like it, so I was a little flustered that I would have to lose it. I started to throw it away, but I looked around to see if there was someone I could just give it to. I approached a vendor of some sort and showed it to him. He was a skinny, weasely, hairy sort with a Cockney accent. He excitedly said he’d buy it and asked how much it had cost me, “What? Twelve pounds? More? I want it.” He started waving some bills at me. A couple of other people suddenly were there and we were all sort of scuffling. He was holding the bills over his head and wouldn’t release them until he had his paw on the knife. When I gave it to him, he somehow thrust, instead of the money, three pairs of rolled up socks into my hand. I said, “Hey, wait a minute.” He said he never promised any money and it was a fair deal. I was trying to tell him that I had planned to just give him the knife to begin with, but since he had teased me with the money, he should at least give me some of it, and I certainly didn’t want the socks in any case.
I realize that isn’t a very exciting dream, not like some of the ones where I shoot somebody, or am chased by wild animals, but that is the one I had.
I had a dream last night. Maybe some of you amateur dream analysts can tell me what it means.
I was in a foreign airport. It felt like eastern Europe, perhaps. As I was heading for my gate I felt in my pocket and realized I had my keyring that is attached to a small Swiss Army Knife. This is my actual keyring in real life and I like it, so I was a little flustered that I would have to lose it. I started to throw it away, but I looked around to see if there was someone I could just give it to. I approached a vendor of some sort and showed it to him. He was a skinny, weasely, hairy sort with a Cockney accent. He excitedly said he’d buy it and asked how much it had cost me, “What? Twelve pounds? More? I want it.” He started waving some bills at me. A couple of other people suddenly were there and we were all sort of scuffling. He was holding the bills over his head and wouldn’t release them until he had his paw on the knife. When I gave it to him, he somehow thrust, instead of the money, three pairs of rolled up socks into my hand. I said, “Hey, wait a minute.” He said he never promised any money and it was a fair deal. I was trying to tell him that I had planned to just give him the knife to begin with, but since he had teased me with the money, he should at least give me some of it, and I certainly didn’t want the socks in any case.
I realize that isn’t a very exciting dream, not like some of the ones where I shoot somebody, or am chased by wild animals, but that is the one I had.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Dreams
Do dreams mean anything? I went through a period a few years back when I dreamed of being executed. Usually by gassing but sometime by lethal injection. The dreams always ended before the actual moment, by the way. I sometimes arrived for the appointment on my own (like a job interview). I'm glad those stopped. No fun.
What about this one from last night?
My truelove and I are watching a field. The field is cultivated with small plants. Maybe young corn that is only a couple of feet high. There are two white cats in the field. The cats are addicted to opium and are wandering in the field but floating a few inches off the ground as they wander so you can see their tails and heads above the plants. A pretty picture.
Comments welcome.
What about this one from last night?
My truelove and I are watching a field. The field is cultivated with small plants. Maybe young corn that is only a couple of feet high. There are two white cats in the field. The cats are addicted to opium and are wandering in the field but floating a few inches off the ground as they wander so you can see their tails and heads above the plants. A pretty picture.
Comments welcome.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Chicken Killin'
When I was a tot we lived three blocks from the square in Marshall. My brother had a henhouse and a small chicken yard in the corner of our lot. We got our eggs from there.
At some point (I must have been four or five), it was decided that the chickens had to go. The day of the big event there were many extra people around. The usual help was there along with various black, rural friends and neighbors that knew the drill.
A large fire was built and the bottom half of an oil drum was filled with water and put on the fire. It took hours for the water to boil, during which time many stories were told. When the water boiled the slaughter began.
I am not sure if the chickens were beheaded or not. What I remember is the Jemima-esque women swinging the chickens around their heads in the yard. They were either wringing the necks or maybe had them by the feet. I do recollect a lot of blood so maybe they had no heads. The chickens were repeatedly dipped in the boiling water to loosen the feathers for plucking.
For a five-year-old it was just a fabulous blur of fire, white feathers, blood, steam, soot, smoke, and howling black faces for what seemed like hours. Wow!
At some point (I must have been four or five), it was decided that the chickens had to go. The day of the big event there were many extra people around. The usual help was there along with various black, rural friends and neighbors that knew the drill.
A large fire was built and the bottom half of an oil drum was filled with water and put on the fire. It took hours for the water to boil, during which time many stories were told. When the water boiled the slaughter began.
I am not sure if the chickens were beheaded or not. What I remember is the Jemima-esque women swinging the chickens around their heads in the yard. They were either wringing the necks or maybe had them by the feet. I do recollect a lot of blood so maybe they had no heads. The chickens were repeatedly dipped in the boiling water to loosen the feathers for plucking.
For a five-year-old it was just a fabulous blur of fire, white feathers, blood, steam, soot, smoke, and howling black faces for what seemed like hours. Wow!
Thursday, April 15, 2004
A Beautiful Thing
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Dreams
Thursday, March 11, 2004
salut
Pushing the limits of geekdom, I'm blogging from high in the freedom alps. Just got back from a great off piste ski tour on a huge glacier face. Now we're back in the chalet whipping up some fondue and watching some bad governator movie on french tv. I can't tell which one since they're all bad. I think it's called witness protection. There is nudity in all of the commercials. All of their tv is graphic. The madrid bombing coverage is disturbing. Gotta go.
