Hanging With Some Serious Ghosts

I've got a story of how this past April I came to live in Waltham, Massachusetts, home of The Waltham Watch Company and the first assembly line to produce watches for the masses. Piece by piece, much like the Waltham watch, my story was built. However, this is not that story. This is the story of a day after I arrived in Waltham, the birthplace of 40 million timekeepers and a neighboring town of Walden Pond. Henry David Thoreau said this about time: It is a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. 

Standing on the shores of Walden Pond, I understand the magnitude of Thoreau's words. A watch keeps shallow time. 

I walked Walden Pond for more than an hour. Others boated, swam, and fished it, something I found strange until I learned from a teacher, there with 65 of her middle school students, that Walden Pond has always been a place of leisure for the locals. "Even when Thoreau came to the woods to live deliberately," she told the one or two of us who were listening, "people used this pond for recreation." Learning that consoled me somewhat about the amount of activity; however, I longed to have Walden to myself the way I always imagined it for Thoreau, but this is Massachusetts and solitude is relative.



After Walden, I went into Concord with plans for lunch and a trip to the Concord Museum. I'd heard that one of the lanterns which signaled Paul Revere's midnight ride to Lexington was on permanent display at the museum, and I meant to see it. However, I never made it to the museum. If you've ever been stopped by the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, imagine coming upon the house where he wrote those words.

Standing at his gate, it slowly occurred to me that perhaps I was someplace special; someplace that didn't require museums and artifacts behind glass walls to understand its significance. But where was I beyond Concord, Massachusetts? I stood still and let things come. When I did, I felt the air vibrating around me. It was charged, and would remain so for the rest of the day. I didn't know it yet, but I stood only a half mile from Louisa May Alcott's home where she penned Little Women and fought for women's rights. Increasingly, I came to understand that Concord is a ghost town, but it is hardly abandoned. 

Despite the charged air, the growing inclination that I was onto something special, and the fact that I had just visited Walden Pond, I was starving. It takes more than a hallmark of American literature for me to forget my appetite. As I looked for a place to eat, I noticed a small sign on a street corner with an arrow and the words Author's Ridge on it. The air again felt magnetic, like it was drawing me into something preordained. I didn't feel I'd lose the magnetic pull if I stopped to eat first, and like I said, I was starving. I found the Colonial Inn, an old restaurant built in 1716, and sat outside. By now, I knew the Alcott home was nearby, and I'll admit- I ordered the Alcott-wich special on the menu. I scarfed down the sandwich and quickly left for Author's Ridge. The charged air crackled around me, although there was little sound. Headstones appeared in the grass ahead. A cemetery? Soon, I stood at the main gate of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. A slight chill raised the hair on my arms. This was no ordinary cemetery. 

I followed the signs to Author's Ridge. Gravestones for soldiers of the revolution marked the pathway in places. I walked to the back of the cemetery to a ridge, Author's Ridge, that holds the graves of Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and their families. "You're hanging with some serious ghosts," a friend wrote to me on Facebook.
  
Birds chirped and weed eaters sounded. The wind blew leaves across the cemetery roads. The ridge hummed with energy as I walked among the dead. Buried on this ridge are those individuals that scholars, historians, librarians, teachers, and political leaders across the country keep alive every single day. How naive of me to think they'd lie quietly just because they're dead.

"Let us know what they say," wrote my friend. 

"The universe is wider than our views of it."

- Henry David Thoreau

"She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom."

- Nathaniel Hawthorne

"I like good strong words that mean something."

- Louisa May Alcott

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Later, sitting at the doorstep of The Old Manse, a hundred or so yards from the first battle of the American Revolution, I remembered what my friend wrote. Who could know what the ghosts of Concord, Massachusetts would say? I told her I needed another afternoon with them. Probably longer. Still, I learned that the things they fought for and against in the 18th and 19th centuries remain relevant today. Maybe they'd suggest we relight the lanterns and signal another revolution. Perhaps they'd invite us to sit at their doorstep, like I was, but only for a moment, because we have an obligation to ourselves and to our country to rise and walk on our own two feet. Think with our own minds. Who can know? 

Before going home, I made one final stop.

Here, Louisa May Alcott wrote, "Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe."

I hope I've done a decent enough job today of describing the beautiful hours.

The Big Blue

Come with me 

below the sea.

Twenty-two scenes from sea to see.

Snorkeling with stingrays - all ray, no sting.

These rays are friendly and curious about people. Because of daily excursions from the motus, they are habituated to humans, especially humans with huge eyes and strange tubes coming from their mouths. 

Blacktip reef sharks were also in the area. They enjoy an easy meal when fed by the tour boat captains. I would be sure to stay on my tour boat captain's good side. 

 Blacktip reef sharks typically grow to about 5 feet. 

 That's my length.

Is it their rows of teeth that make them seem so much bigger?

Perhaps these pictures make me seem brave. The truth is blacktip reef sharks are usually quite shy of humans. If you ever have the chance to snorkel or scuba dive in reef shark territory, take it. You will be awed by their prehistoric and enduring beauty. 

Before leaving the area, I dove underwater one last time to say a silent thank you for their presence. I wished them well, then boarded the boat to the coral gardens.

Kimi is in this picture somewhere. She dove into the water with bread and was quickly swarmed by hungry scissortail sergeants.

Eye to eye with the sarge.

Diving for a closer look at the fish.

The biggest blue beckoned 

from beyond the reef. 

Lemon sharks are rumored to lurk in these waters.

Lemon sharks typically attain lengths of 8-10 feet.

"Get in," said our guide. 

"You can see them better from the water."

Sure, why not? 

A lemon shark soon appeared with a hook in its mouth. 

Motai, our guide, tried to get closer for a look.

Unfortunately, nothing could be done. The fish swam away as soon as he approached.

Sharks will be sharks. This one likely followed a fishing boat and got caught on a hook when trying to steal the boat's catch. 

I hesitated mentioning the hook because I didn't want this post to end on a sad note. However, it's a part of the story. I don't blame the fishermen. They were only doing their job, but it's a reminder of the thread from which we're all sewn. An invisible thread connecting us all. 

A Valentine for the Earth

Only those working the water are out this early. The frigate birds overhead, the rays below, the few boatsmen, and me, balancing, all of us, on this thin seam of a morning in Bora Bora. The day is beginning to wake; its promise rides the sun like a cloak over the horizon.

A ray feeds beneath me on the lagoon floor. I consider slipping into the water for a picture, but the words of Walt McLaughlin come to me, gracefully, like the ray itself. Life is hard enough for wild animals as things are, he wrote. Grateful for McLaughlin's observation, I remain on my paddle board and leave the ray to its purpose.

The salty air cools my lungs; the salty water, my toes. A small fish suddenly lands on my board. Its pursuer, a large trevally, swims below confused by the disappearance of its breakfast. I'm pleased to be the little one's refuge; humored that nature lets me return the favor in this way for the many times it has refuged me.

In his book, The Great Chain of Life, Joseph Wood Krutch suggests that very little of the natural world is necessary for our own survival. We don't need the sting ray or the sea bird. The shark nor whale either. Quite simply, they do very little to benefit our insatiable quest for self-preservation and dominion. Krutch writes that the wild will survive "only if man feels the necessity of sharing the earth with at least some of his fellow creatures to be a privilege rather than an irritation."

But it's more than that, isn't it?

I paddle close to a lagoonarium where fish are kept to entertain the guests with fish feedings twice a week. Also close, is a restaurant that has what's called a "shark park," an enclosed area of the lagoon where blacktip reef sharks are kept for show. We are on the path to a world so domestic that it won't be long before the great barracuda is a fish only our grandfathers will recall. The cougar will become a beast of mythic proportions. Our grandmothers will say, "You had an uncle once who was carried away by the big cat." We will laugh in disbelief as we picture the fat mountain lion in the city zoo who sleeps in the sun and gets his food from a big red bucket, the kind your child plays with at the beach. One day, this fat cat will sit high in a tree, the only one in his exhibit, looking out at the world he once ruled. Only the ghosts of his ancestors will roam the street-lined forests, now subdivisions, all phantoms of what once was.

They need us, these wild and beautiful things. They need us to care, to legislate, to think, act, and consume differently. They need us to love more than ourselves. Only we humans, those of us not quite of the air or the sea, but infinitely and intimately connected to both, can decide if existing, if coexisting, with the natural world is something to protect or plunder. There is no longer any in between. We must consider this better. I know I will as I paddle by another ray moving beneath the waves, majestically, like a sacred secret waiting to be told.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Bora Bora, French Polynesia

Sailing With Dad

My ship sailed away, quite literally, two years ago. Missed opportunity- it's the stuff of legends, isn't it? A tale as ancient as the seas themselves. Equally ancient, however, is a truth that with opportunity, missed or otherwise, it's what you do next that counts.

Two years ago, standing on the beach in Bora Bora, I envied the few people, mostly men, who had enough sailing ability to take the hotel's catamaran out on the lagoon. They skimmed over the water with an ease that's often perceived when watching people do something you don't know how to do. Without knowing how to sail, I was relegated to either the two person peddle boats or the kayaks. "Water toys," I mumbled crankily from the sand. "Take the sailboat out," Kimi encouraged. She tends to think I can do anything I put my mind to, and if I can't, well, we'll deal with that later. I didn't have the courage, however, and instead settled for a kayak. We had fun paddling around our villa looking for rays and parrotfish, but I promised myself if I were to ever return, I would sail that boat. "Of course you will," said Kimi to which I rolled my eyes. I wasn't in the mood for eternal optimism.

Sailing was in my family at one time. When I was young, I sailed with my father on occasion. Mostly, on one occasion. He and my sister and I were invited by family friends to sail with them to an island on Lake Champlain in Northern Vermont. My dad managed to swindle his sister's Sunfish, a small boat with one sail, for the trip. An adventurer at heart, he said good bye to us on the morning of departure. My sister and I, we learned, were to sail with the friends on their boat; he would be taking the Sunfish. He would meet us on the island later in the day. With barely a thought given to the fact that he was about to take a 13 foot sailboat miles away from land in a time before cell phones and GPS devices, we said, "Sure, Dad, bye." He did things like that and we were used to it. Still, later in the day when we were moored in the deep water just off the island, my sister and I kept watch for him and were relieved when his red, white, and blue sail came over the horizon. We watched him with binoculars as he sliced towards us in Lake Champlain's choppy afternoon waters. He had had a good sail, he said giving us each a hug.

Because my father never acted with bravado, I never considered if he were brave. He just did things, sometimes crazy things, and didn't protect my sister and I from doing the same. Once, when I was perhaps ten, my sister eight, he took us camping on that same lake- Lake Champlain. He brought a two or three person blow up boat and some plastic yellow oars. You know the ones. He helped us get the thing inflated and down to the beach. Told us to have fun. He then lit a cigarette, watched us for awhile, and eventually returned to the tent for a nap.

Let me pause here to give you a few facts about Lake Champlain: it's big; it may be home to a lochness monster; and its most distant shores reach New York State.

When my sister and I got back to camp tired because the wind had picked up and pushed us further from the beach than we thought, he said, "Yeah, it looked like you guys were out there pretty far." That night, he read us bedtime stories until we fell asleep.

Another time we had the same blow up boat in one of Vermont's perfect backwoods swimming holes. This swimming hole had a waterfall. Unfortunately, we got a little too close when paddling around and ended up going over it. My sister and I, mind you, not our father. He was up on the rocks talking with his buddies. Although he asked us not to tell our mother about this particular event, there was something in his voice that said, "That's life, kids. Some days it takes you over a waterfall, some days it doesn't. Nothing to worry about." And so, we didn't. He was raising his daughters to take chances; an upbringing I'm forever thankful for.

That weekend, the one on the island, he tried to teach me to sail, but I didn't want to learn. Swimming and exploring the island were much more interesting to this 12 year old than knowing the direction of the wind. I didn't mind being out on the boat; I just didn't want to run it, which is how I came to stand on a beach in Bora Bora some twenty-odd years later having to decide between the peddle boats or the kayaks, and promising myself that next time the sailboat would be an option too.

Funny how life listens. This past summer, a Groupon came across my email advertising a three hour introductory sailing class for 50 dollars. I jumped on it. The fact that there was no wind the day we went out, and instead of instruction, received a motorized tour of the Willamette River seemed like minor details. After all, the captain passed out a sailing cheat sheet and when he wasn't sharing his vast knowledge of the Portland bridge system, he told us something about sailing. He explained how to tack and how to prevent uncontrolled gybes. He explained the purpose of the jib sail and how to read the direction of the wind (were there any). Of course, we couldn't practice any of this, but again, that seemed more nuisance than necessary. I took notes which I promptly stuffed in a drawer when I got home. Bora Bora was still six months away and there was a college football season to follow. One thing at a time, right?

A couple of nights before leaving for the trip, I pulled out my notes and watched a few youtube videos. I can't say I was confident in my ability to keep the boat from capsizing or even mildly controlled, but I was confident in my decision to give it a try. And yesterday, I was sure, was the day. I reviewed my sailing notes before breakfast and talked to my dad as I biked to the restaurant.

"I need you to help me with this today, Dad. Help me stay calm and remember how to tack. Let me know the direction of the wind, and if you could keep me from the irons and any uncontrolled gybes, that would be great too." A lot to ask before 9 am, but now you know something of my father's and my relationship, and maybe you understand that time, the hour on the clock, meant little. If we wanted to talk, we talked. All these years later, that still hasn't changed.

After breakfast, I asked the guy at the beach if I could take the sailboat out and told him I had very little, mostly no, experience. "Oui, madame" he said, and explained some things about the boat in French. I quickly regretted paying so little attention in high school French class. Sorry, Madame, I thought. I hope I wasn't too annoying, but before I could think too much more about my 11th grade curriculum, I was sailing. Slowly and without much propulsion, but I was moving. And mostly in a forward direction.

Kimi and I had talked earlier about me staying near the beach within the buoys. We agreed that was probably a good idea for my first time out, but good ideas aren't always fun ideas, so I pointed the bow of the boat beyond the buoys and sailed out past the beach and general swimming area. Nothing to worry about.

I tacked. I gybed, but with control. I sailed upwind, downwind, and across wind (there's probably a more technical term for that). I noticed the breeze at my back and on my shoulder, and steered the boat accordingly. I called hello to my father, thanked him, but sensed he wasn't with me. Maybe he knew I would be okay or perhaps there was too little wind, I thought later. Who knows the ways of the dead?

Back on the beach, Kimi asked how it was. "Great," I said, "but next time I could use more wind."

My uncle asked me recently if I dreamed of my father. No, I said feeling disappointed. I know he's had dreams of my dad that have helped him sort things out or understand things differently. I thought about it a little more. No, I said, I don't dream of him.

My father finds me when I'm awake, and maybe if the wind picks up, I will sail with the old man once again. This time, finally, his daughter at the helm, still taking chances and making the most of life.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Bora Bora, French Polynesia

Lost (And Found) In Translation

I.

The coconuts are swaying, just slightly, to the south indicating that the internet may once again be up and running. Figure I better use the occasion to get a bit of writing up before the winds turn direction and the worldwide web is left to fend for itself like everything else on a 500 ft wide motu located deep in the Pacific Ocean. Well, everything not associated with the St. Regis anyway. The only thing us folks at the St. Regis have to fend off for ourselves, it seems, is sunburn.

II.

En route to Tahiti, and more specifically to Bora Bora, one is reminded that to be in the middle of the Pacific Ocean is to be in the middle of nowhere.


I suppose that's why we come here- to get away, to slow down, to effectively become the sea cucumber who's done nothing but lay on the lagoon floor for the past ten thousand years while the world goes on around her.

We soon learned we had slightly more going on than the sea cucumber and upon arrival, found ourselves promptly at the hotel bar. The sun was ready for us, but our room was not. To help, the St. Regis offered to buy us a drink. To help with what exactly, I wasn't sure. Although we had just gotten off our third airplane, and had flown overnight "alongside of" (I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't through) a massive storm over the Pacific that caused our flight to be, um, quite turbulent for four and a half hours, we were now in paradise, our Shangri La, and would be for the next two and a half weeks. Help? Who needed help?

Clearly us, thought the server as he brought the drink menu over straightaway. His was the fastest movement that would be observed for the next quarter hour. Finally, after watching Kimi stare with glazed eyes at the menu, out to the lagoon, and back to the menu again, I asked if she wouldn't mind making a drink decision sometime soon. After all, sea levels are rising and we're on a motu that is no more than two feet above sea level. We don't have all day.



"I'm thinking," she responded.

"Thinking?" I asked. "Didn't we come here to leave that kind of nonsense behind?"

"Yes, but I'm thinking. I'm thinking, do I want vodka, gin, or maybe some rum?"

Ah, yes. These decisions take time, but please, do hurry. I think the lagoon just lapped at my toes.

III.

We settle into life on the motu. Time and clouds pass. Magazines are read; destinies pondered. "I wish I could stop eating the bacon with breakfast," I mumble. My big challenge of the day.

IV.

Upon learning our stay at the St. Regis would include two complimentary massages at the uber-chic spa with private pools and beaches for each guest, we handle ourselves with exquisite composure and refinement reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. "Huh?" we sputter. "What?"

Well, I'll be darned if it isn't true. The lovely staff member who delivered this news stated that the St. Regis would like to relieve us of our daily routine when we are ready.

Well, thank you very much, I think. The daily routine of Oprah magazines, afternoon cocktails, and floating in the lagoon certainly does require a bit of relief, and I appreciate you recognizing this.


V.

The staff at the St. Regis must be the most friendly, helpful, and professional staff in all of the South Pacific, and I'm not just saying that because of the free drinks and massages. The employees are detailed and conscientious, often considering the needs of their guests before said guests even realize a need exists. It's that kind of place.

So, when our server at dinner the other night, a slight Asian man born in the South of France, asked if we wanted any advice, I didn't hesitate.

"Yes, please. About what?" I asked. I would not miss this opportunity.

"Region, varietal, vintage....," he responded. I was confused.

Then, Kimi flashed the wine list she was holding letting me know he wasn't offering to teach me the path to inner peace or how to find my true passions in life. Wow, I thought. I need to lay off the Oprah magazines.

So, life continues on this funny little motu. Each day, the wind blows across the lagoon, whispering, "This is the life, this is the life, this is the life." As if I need a reminder. Or relief.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Bora Bora, French Polynesia

Mora Mora of Bora Bora

Returning to the big blue tomorrow.

                                     Off the grid,

                                and on the sun.

Totally Dehydrated

"A crude meal, no doubt, 

but the best of all sauces is hunger."

-Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

I have no idea how much, if any, interest there is in the preparation involved for my long distance hike this summer, but I figure the topic of food dehydration is something that is on everybody's mind- long distance hiker or not! Ok, so maybe not. The truth is I want some kind of attestation of what it took to get ready for the PCT. As they say, anything worth doing is worth documenting, right?

Throughout this process of planning a four to five week hike, I've sometimes wondered if I've bit more than I can chew. Mostly because there is so much to learn. The learning curve is quite steep with next to no backpacking experience under one's sack. Who knew? 

I've got the required reading though- stacks of half-read books on window sills, nightstands, even on the kitchen table all highlighted and bookmarked with pages that will teach me how to cook in the wilderness, how to choose the best campsite, how to treat water, how to read a map, how to read a compass, how to read a map AND compass when lost in the woods hungry, tired, cold, and being chased by a wild beast. How to, how to, how to- sometimes it seems endless how much how to there is. But then it occurs to me that I'm learning this because when Wisdom and I are walking the trail this summer, we will only have what's in our packs and on our backs. We will not go home each night to the comforts of the couch and the flick of a switch. Instead, we'll set up camp somewhere along the Oregon wilderness with only the stars as our ceiling and the trees for walls. Our life in our hands. Isn't that what we all want ultimately?

Yet despite knowing this, yesterday when up to my elbows in raw chicken, sick, moving from kitchen to bed to kitchen again, I felt over my head. Are we really going to be able to dehydrate enough food to last me (and to some degree, Wisdom) a 450 mile hike? Kimi said she didn't know as she loaded another tray of steamed chicken into the dehydrator. Not exactly the answer I was looking for. But it was the truth, and a truth I try live by. I will do what I set out to do. Fear is a part of the picture to be sure, but nothing to be too afraid of. Sometimes I wonder how much we leave untried due to apprehension. My motto: You try, You learn, You do. Or as it says in some book on some page somewhere around my house: Dream, Plan, Endure, Achieve.

So, Kimi is right. We don't know where we'll be in terms of food come August, but why let that stop us from doing what we can do today? If we must know everything before taking the first step, doesn't that first step become so much harder? Ah, lessons from the trail and I haven't even left the house in 5 days (damn sore throat).

So, two dried chickens, two dehydrated bananas, three cups of dried rice, and two moisture devoided yellow peppers later, I'm well on my way to some fancy dining on the PCT this summer. Ok, the bananas were awful. So awful, in fact, that the only way I would ever eat them is if I were lost in the woods hungry, tired, cold, and having just outrun a wild beast, but the rest shows some serious promise. 

Join me for dinner sometime?