Slice of Life

I need to get my towel from the line. (Starts waking)
I will be passing by the kitchen, so, I should take this dirty plate. (Turns back starts to pick up the plate)
I do not have a shirt on and should present in public with modesty. (Turns to the bed, pick up shirt, starts putting shirt on. Catches a glimpse of a water bottle in the corner of his eye.)
I have not had much water today. I should drink some. (Halfway through putting the shirt on he  drinks a bottle of water. Finishes putting the shirt on. Takes plate and the now empty bottle to the kitchen. Cleans the plate. Refills the bottle. Returns to the room and finishes packing...without the  towel.)

The Tourist Trap

I was told I had purchased a small boat tour with a maximum of 20 people. Upon handing in the ticket I found it to be a large boat with 50+ other tourists hoping to enjoy a relaxing jaunt around the islands. I liked that there was room to spread out.
Our first stop was at another tourist pick-up where 50+ more got on.

I spot a plack that sais the maximum capacity is 80.  We are now well iver 100.
People are sitting in the aisles, on the stairs, on each other.
We bounce and weave through the water for an hour and a half. I do not know how many people threw up, but many could not make it to the side in time.
We pull into a "small fishing village" that resembles more of a strip-mall. There is a resort, a few restaurants, and endless stalls of souvenirs. An ice cream cone costs 5euros. A small 500ml water...also 5euros. That is it.  The sidewalk abruptly ends on one side and becomes the road out of town on the other.
After an hour of standing watching the crew spray down the deck, we reboarded and headed out for another hour and a half of a puke dodging, sweat fest.
We docked for lunch at what was advertised as a "traditional Croatian meal in an old village".
However, the village is on the other side of a high barbed-wire fence sepparating the well maintained greenery and ancient rock homes from the hundreds of tourists off four boats now. There is a tented seating area for maybe 200 and a makshift outdoor kitchen.
We ate first: grilled fish and french fries. Then we were rushed off to the beach so the other half could eat.
The beach was about 40m long and maybe 3m deep. The water was a nice reprieve, save for the constant cloud of engine exhaust that hung at the surface.
I swam out past the boats which prompted many loud yells and whistles that doing so was not permitted.
On the beach I found my towel covered in sand and my water bottle gone. Luckily, my bag was being watched. I sat down and was immediately covered in sand by people shaking their towels off to leave.
I did the same and we all reboarded. The final hour on the water can only be describbed as test. The one toilet stopped working and was now overflowing from the fluidity of bowl movements brought on by our undercooked meal. Stomachs so recently filled were now being eptied in every direction. And each time someone moved to escape the spatter their sweat would soak those around them.
Back on dry land I made a promise to myself: I would never again take part any anything touristy.

Why I Hike

I enjoy hiking.
That statement may seem a bit commonplaced, so I will define it further.

When I follow a path, I find myself only seeing that path...spotting the markers...letting the path lead me.

When I hike off-trail I see the trees, the under brush, the wildlife. I'm able to hear insects or the wind and to know from which direction their sound is comming.
I can see the deer paths.  I can since the elevation change. To see striations in stones...ripples in water.
Every step I take is my decision of right or left, forward or back.  It is my decision of weather I'm going the right way,
Do I want to find an easy rout? The most direct rout? Do I want to investigate a more adventurous path?

I do not hike to get from point A to point B.
I do not hike to put a check mark on a page in a book.
I hike because I enjoy it.

I Hate This Place

The women of Laos get to do everything. They cook, they clean, they raise the kids, they work, they do the home repairs, they are all bike mechanics. Meanwhile, the men are relegated to doing nothing but fishing and drinking beer.
I'm sitting now in my personal, hand made, bamboo cabana watching the sun set over the Mecong River. It's hot. I guess I could step into my airconditioned bungalow, lay on the king-size bed, and watch it from there, but then I probably won't be waited on when I need another drink. I really do want a photo of this scene, but the ripples on the water obscure what would otherwise be a clear reflection of the clouds as they grow a deeper heu of red. Oh well. Some other time.
And this food? WTH?? If I wanted to eat noodles I would have gone to Italy!  I ordered a steak and they give me this Outback sluf!? I was expecting Ruth's Chris. They just don't understand the needs of travelers. And you'd think they could at least make a proper drink!?! There is way too much gin in this martini.
I hate this place!!

Airborne

Some days are better than others. There are people around the world who will go to sleep tonight on a concrete floor. Some will not have eaten. Some will be dealing with medical conditions. 
I may not be able to save the world, but I can assist in that endeavor. And maybe, through my efforts, one person will sleep better.

And so, on this cold Saturday morning, Brian and I are driving toward downtown Raleigh to take part in a community wood chop. The firewood we make will be taken to people's homes who are too poor to afford it or too frail to split their own. With an axe, a maul, and 3lb wedge in the back seat, we sped off into the sunrise.

Another reason I was excited to be out was that I had just recently purchased my first car. At 22.5ft (6.8m) long, 6.5ft (2m) wide, and made of solid sheet metal the '71 Plymouth Furry II was refered to by many as a tank. But such a moniker is inappropriate since it was actually larger than the US-made T92.
On the rolling hills of Creedmore Road, once you passed 75mph, it would sway from side to side and up and down. Maneuvering this beast was not unlike that of a boat. And so on this morning my grin was particularly cheesy as we made our way to Hillsborough Street.

Past the NCSU bell tower. Through a few yellow lights. A sharp right then left. Morgan widened to three lanes, one-way. The last time I had been on this road I lost my stomach while going over the bridge above the railroad track. 
My eyes focused further ahead to the light at West Street. It had just turned green. I checked the mirror for cars that may be following too close. No one. 
"Hey, Brian. Check this out."
I gave my boat a little more gas. We went up the gentle side of the bridge and dropped quickly off the other; both of us felling the split secound loss of gravity. 
"Wooo!" Brian exclaimed.
I managed only a laugh-mixed, "Yeah!"
At the bottom of the dip, the g-forces brought our butts deeper into the leather bench seat. 

The notion of putting my seatbelt on crossed my mind, but I thought it better to wait until we had come to a safe stop.
My eyes reconnected with the light which was still green. My foot reconnected with the gas peddle which was still pressed low.
A shinny black car pulled out from a parking spot on the left; not into our lane, though. He stayed in his. Another was just making the right hand turn from West onto Morgan; again staying in his right-most lane. The path down the middle was clear as far as I could see and the green light at Harrington gave me the right-of-way.
We went under the light at West. 
Something in that moment lightened my mind and relaxed my hands. On a given weekday you'd be lucky to make it two blocks without having to stop at a light or wait for crossing traffic to clear. On this day the sun shown bright. The sky a deep, cold blue. Narry a pigeon to give reason or warning as we were fast approaching the other two vehicles and the intersection with Harrington.
We went under the light.

South Harrington was reconstructed some years prior with a water main running directly under it. The line was raised higher than most others, on account of a large chunk of granite that the contractors decided not to remove: It's shallow depth requiring a more severe curvature to the road above. The resulting marvel of engineering meant the street we were to cross was cambered a good foot and a half above the one we were on.
We hit the abrupt incline at probably 60mph.
With a thounderous roar of metal scrapping on concrete; shocks put to their full test; the Furry took flight.
Brian had been preparring to point out that I was exceeding a safe speed; his attention having been drawn to the rear-end of the Chevy Nova in the lane to our right and its trunk tied to the bumper with a bungee cord.
He turned his head, his gaze fixed on the trunk; then the roof with its worn away paint spots. Then the front windshield; doubting that anyone had ever seen their Wolfpack bobblehead on the dashboard from that perspective.

My hands gripped tight enough to damage my fingers against the hard spikes of the ergonomic wheel. The black Porsche 911 Turbo I had, for a brief moment, longed to own, dissapeared below my window.
I could see a discarded cup from Circle-K rolling under a parked car: A car I should not be able to see. And then it hit me, "very soon I WILL own that Porsche...or at least what is left of it."
With another Earth shattering, spark filled crash the Furry landed...bottomed out...lifted up again...then settled into its familiar, gentle oscillation.
I found the wherewithal to hit the breaks,  though using both feet might have been a bit aggressive. We slid half a block stopping with a jolt just on the white line of Dawson Street. My hands sore from their grip. Brian's eyes wide, his face white.
The two neighboring cars pulled slowely beside us. Each driver seeming to want to coment, perhaps even to ask if we were ok, but then again probably wanting more to find the nearest car wash and laundromat.
The light turned green. Unsure the car wasn't in pieces, I slowely pressed the gas. We inched forward.
A few blocks, without comment, without a sound, we pulled into the parking lot. Got out. Collected the tools. And then, with a renewed since of purpose we began to breath.

Bettering the World

Bettering the World

By Nathaniel Swearingen

The convoy of taxis progressed slowly down a brilliant white gravel drive lined on either side by stately oak trees; towering sentinels which had stood guard over this farm since their infancy hundreds of years ago.  We past perfectly manicured rolling fields, majestic horses, gardens, ponds, the occasional barn, and at least three spotless John Deer tractors.  “It’s good to be King”, I mused.  We encircled the main parking area complete with Ferrari, horse stables, and a fountain which would have been right at home in an Italian Piazza.
Our host was a glass maker.   His father had been the same as was his father before him and so on.  He was very proud of the craftsmanship.  His home was equally a part of the family.  In its heyday it had all the modern conveniences of archer battlements, a draw bridge, moat, and toilets cantilevered off the high exterior walls so as to allow ones excrement to drop into the water below.   I used to envision this as how airplane toilets worked.  They flushed with such force that your waste would be obliterated into millions of particles shot out the back of the craft.  An unsuspecting jogger far below might feel a drop and run his fingers through his hair. Giving them a sniff his face would scrunch, eyes blink, and he would say to himself, “Oh. Yeah.  I live in Toledo.”  And go about his day. By the time of our arrival modern plumbing and electric had been added, but without the slightest detraction form the original esthetic beauty that was, for one man, his castle.
Though informal, this was not just the coming together of people, but of ideologies.  We represented the light at the end of a Cold tunnel.  Dignity, professionalism, “Bettering the world: one person at a time”: this was our purpose.  All of that would change.

***

In the summer of 1989 the 2 world superpowers finally found a way to end what had become known as the Cold War.  “Soldiers” across the globe had been conscripted through 3^rd party Warlords. Men who spoke neither Russian nor English had taken sides, fought, and died in the name of defending Communism or Democracy. But far more often they simply defended themselves against their neighbors who had been similarly equipped by the other side.  Back home, in the minutia of everyday life, it would have been difficult to tell the difference between Moscow and Washington.  Every occupation, no matter how mundane or magnanimous, lay somewhere along an endless “ladder”: every job-holder working their way to the top.  But the “top” was just an illusion. Ladder rungs were inevitably replaced with strings of the marionettists.  
One of the biggest casualties which came from ending the Cold War was that of intellectual knowledge.  Some would argue at the same time that such a thing became a prized commodity.  In November of ‘89 the most tangible representation of that era also saw its end when Mikhail Gorbachev announced the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. While sections were dispersed to museums around the world, political figures, business leaders, and scientific giants who remained loyal to the Soviet Union uprooted and moved to the Mother Land.  In the wake of such a sudden leadership vacuum people who could trace their ancestry back thousands of years found themselves, for the first time, Free.  Free from political propaganda.  Free from providing for the Central Government first…family second.  Free from the hierarchy of a need-to-know based business machine.
There was, however, one glaring problem with this Freedom:  No one knew how to fill those upper-level jobs.  Few even knew what those positions were.  This was the climate in which I found myself after whirlwind introductions and last minute name-tag changes when I took the opportunity to join a group from my home town on a trip to Wraclow Poland.  To further map this time in history, Lech Walesa—the first non-Communist President of Poland or any other Eastern European country—had yet to be elected.  My fellow Delegates were pillars of the community:  Our Mayor, State and local Representatives, architects and contractors from both residential and commercial sectors.  There were communication experts including those who ran newspapers, radio and Television stations as well as the people who actually made those systems work on a daily basis.  And then there was me:  An 18 year old wild-eyed Southern Boy whose biggest contribution to society had been that I had not gotten anyone pregnant.  
On our first day in Wraclow we met an elderly gentleman who made sewer pipes.  His father did the same as did his father before him and so on.  He was very proud of the craftsmanship:  All lengths and diameters and all manner of material.  Some looking as though they had been made years ago.  Some shinny and new.  In fact, it became all too obvious that he and his small shop had continued to produce the items most commonly requested by the central Polish government.  However, there was no more central Polish government.  There were no renewed contracts.  There were no sewers being repaired or constructed…anywhere.  And what had until recently been a large neighboring goat farm now resembled more of an expansive oddly designed graveyard.  We had Civil Engineers to work with such companies.
The hotel had been selected for us mostly from the shiny pamphlet brought back by one of our Crew from a previous trip a few years prior. It advertised “Phones and water in every room”.  We checked in. I laid down.  Thought I’d call my mother.  No dial tone.  Got up to use the bathroom only to find the seat heavily wrapped in cellophane.  I had played that trick on friends a few times, but the Poles evidently hadn’t figured out you had to stretch it tight to make it all but invisible.  Turns out, the wrap was no joke.  The plumbing had issues.  And since there was no one to fix it (in a town of over 1 million people) the best they could manage was having one operable toilet and shower per floor.  Our construction and design people had their work cut out for them.

***

As the sun began to set we were summoned to a “house” just outside of town for an informal meet and greet.  Our line of taxis were given the royal treatment with police escort and others stopping traffic at every intersection.  After a brief tour of the house we were directed to the Grand Dining Room finely appointed with tapestries, sculptures, chandeliers, and enough silver utensils to fund a coup.  My focus, though, was drawn to the immense wooden dining table:  Simple and elegant, dwarfing even the room itself.  At nearly eight inches in depth, long arching cracks had been expanding imperceptibly over any one year, but after hundreds, one could lose his spoon if he were not careful.  Nestled beneath and surly hune from the same tree were thirty chairs fit for royalty; the seats and arm rests wrapped with the finest silk and all the buttons made of gold.  There has only been one other occasion when I have sat at a table of its equal.  Of course, then, I had not been invited to sit.  Just as I had, however, I was escorted OUT of the Biltmore House.
Taking my place I began running my fingers across the grain.  It showed its age.  History lay before me:  The deeper the grooves, the darker the stains, the older the party. Kings, Princesses, Jacks of all trades had graced this place.  In one moment I could feel their stories flowing through me.  In the next, I was terrified for not knowing what mark I would leave for future generations to recollect.
The din of idle chatter within the Great Hall was silenced by the ringing of a crystal clear bell.  Our Host stood and addressed his guests.  A brief history of his family and home was recited while servants began setting the table with trays of simple meats, cheese, and bread.  They also brought to each of us a matching hand-crafted glass bell.  “It has been the tradition of my family for generations that at such gatherings as this we try to complete the Toast Circle. And so, I offer you Poland’s finest.”  No doubt the staff had seen this play out many times before.  Right on cue they placed before us bottles of Polish Potato Vodka.  Thirty 5^th’s in all and more cases stacked at each end of the room.  “I thank each of you for looking beyond yourselves, beyond your country…seeing that we are all here together on this Earth.  And together great things are possible. ZA PIĘKNE PANIE!”  We filled and raised our shot glasses shouting “cheers”!
For the next hour or so we got to know those around us.  We took turns telling stories of past adventures, patting ourselves on the back for assisting people and communities around the world, but never failing to insert the notion that this trip was of upmost importance.  A bell would ring. Noise would diminish. A toast would be made.  Laughter would ensue.  The food was scarcely enough to satisfy a mouse, but the liquor never stopped flowing.  As soon as one bottle was upended another was set in its place.  My green label was replaced with red.  Brief excursions to the Caribbean became magnanimous attempts to combat poverty.  Knowing how to change a lightbulb lead to an offer of rewiring a building.  Half of the Circle had been completed when our Mayor stood, mistakenly tapping a knife on a glass rather than using his bell.  As if the sign had been made, the lady to my right gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs and lifted her bell open-end up.  I filled it with blue label then filled my own.  We downed our three-shot toast and carried on.  A vacation to Paris was described on par with the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.  An internship with the local paper became a column in the New York Times.
Rolling waves of laughter gave way to people actually rolling onto the floor.  At one point I was asked what the lyrics, “I put the A to the K and my hand shook all day” meant.  It is more than a little awkward to describe the action of firing an AK-47 to someone whose family and friends had died at the hand of one.  My only hope is that they do not remember that part of the evening.  Another bell… Another three-shoots.  I had not consumed this much alcohol since my days as an altar boy in the Episcopal Church.
Lights flickered.  Walls moved.  People were contorted in impossible ways.  I stared at my reflection in a silver plate for an hour…or a second.  She was once an elderly lady, now fantastically young, and began playing suggestively with her bell.  A gentleman’s’ tie landed on my plate--a shoe on the bread.  As the first of the party began to show their low constitution the wait staff kindly directed us down the stairs and into the back courtyard.  
A bon fire was lit. Chocolate and marshmallows. Hotdogs and skewers.  And, of course, more vodka.  Two of my brethren tore open the hotdogs and began reliving their past lives as Knights.  The fire cast a giant silhouette of their sword fight on the castle wall. Each hoping to avoid, above all, the dreaded wet-weeny-to-the-face that would surely be used against them in the next election cycle.  Others began testing their bravery by jumping over the bonfire.  Two made it cleanly; the third did not.  His feet kicked the top two-thirds of burning logs and sent them sprawling across the lawn.  Sparks flew in every direction.  Onlookers cheered and applauded.  It seemed a wonderful display of color to the over inebriated crowd.  What he had not immediately noticed was that our intrepid hero had fallen on top of those logs.  How excited he seemed as he leapt off the ground shrieking with joy.  “If only he had jumped that high the first time”, I thought.  His stop, drop, and roll were replaced with jump, scream, and run as his adoring fans patted him on the back…and chest…and arms…and legs...and head.
We played a game of Cowboy marksmanship, throwing discarded bottles into the air trying to hit them with rocks; succeeding moslty at hitting each other.  Anyone who mellowed to the point of sitting sleepily in a chair was rudely awaken to find his shoe strings tied together or the chair itself tied to his waste.  Behind every tree, behind every bush we challenged each other to who could empty the most out of our mouths, or bladders, or both at the same time.  The giant piss-stained pant suit of our State Representative seemed to faze no one. None of us would bother repacking that night’s outfit for the return flight home.  Knee stains from grass could be washed out, but not those left by sticky, burning marshmallows we had thrown at one another.
I did not leave a mark on the table, but as we were driven home I did leave a trail of Poland’s finest along the road at every stop light.

"Rain"

She set out from her seaside home to clear her mind from the day's haul. So focussed on being in her kayak, alone and away, she had not given a thought to wearing anything more than an old one-piece her favorite cap, and a fadded life vest. The water was calm and the air warm. The aquaculture boats were in. The ferry would not be back for a few hours. It was just her and the cold, comforting waters of the Bay of Fundy.

Passing Stanley Beach, the porch light flickered on at the The Compass Rose. Around the warf. She was happy to have been chosen as one of the crew to work Jerry's boat this season. He only brought on competant fishermen: no first-timers from St. John who can't keep on their feet or pick them up when the traps are being tossed. By the ferry terminal a wry smile appeared on her face along with a slow shake of her head. "Why did I agree to strip the lines from the ferry props this weekend?" She mused, then laughed. "'Cause I'm the only one on this island right now with a dry suit."

Bev is the kind of person you can count on. And at one time or another, everyone on the island has. Doesn't matter the situation or the task. If all you needed was a fill-in she'd probably laugh at you for wasting your time asking. But if the job needed to be done, and needed to be right, the list was short and her name was always on top.
The light from Swallow Tail Lighthouse caught her eye as she rounded the rocks to Pettes Cove. Echos rolled across the water from two boys catching crabs along the beach. The tide here is so dramatic. One wave will spill over a boulder and the next will be half a meter below.
"Probably Jane's kids." She thought. "I need to remember to ask Mrs. Barlow if they turned in their homework I assigned while she was out. And they'll probably claim it got wet."

The water rose gently as a wave passed underneath. On the backside the boat hit a rock jolting her into the moment. She paddled a bit away from the cliff without much concern. She knew every boulder well enough to navigate by the stars.
"That one isn't a rock." She thought jokingly as a seal surfaced just five meters away. Then another and two more ahead. The curving fish pens here make for easy meals..."so long as Dan isn't protecting them with his father's Cooey."
Around the point she stared out to the East. Beyond the horizon was Nova Scotia and the town of Bigsby. There she had been offered a job on-share for the season, but that meant living away from Grand Manan. If she were going to do that she'd rather be further away. Much further. 
"I need to check flight schedules again for Cuba. And ask Maria if they have found an apartment."

The long shadows cast on the water by the high cliffs of North Head fadded as the sun disappeared to the West. The stars were out in full force now; millions of dots undimmed on account of the new moon. There were no other lights around, save for a few fishing boats in the distance and the regular interval of Swallow Tail Lighthouse from behind.

In the darkness she watched her paddle move; churning the bioluminescence. Sparks scattering under water. She dipped the other end in and stired the fire. She sat back and smiled. So peacefull. So beautiful. The boat genty swayed. Waves lapped on rocks at the bottom of the cliff. 
Looking up she could barely find the constillations for the brightness of all the accompanying stars. She recounted a conversation with her host family in South Korea. How they'd sat in wounder and amazement at her description of the Heavens as she knew them at home.

Subtle drops of water could be heard in the distance. A small wave of rain overtook the boat. That sudden chill made her sit up strait and paddle a few strokes.
Another wave of rain passed and she decided it was time to head back. But something seemed amiss. There were no clouds. Why was it raining? How?
Just then she could hear a wave of pelting rain approaching out of the darkness. It enveloped her and seemed to stall. She would surely be freezing by the time she made it home. All around were tiny specs of light from the agitated water.

But wait? Her head and shoulders were not getting wet.
Those drops are too big to be rain.
Though it was dark, she could just see the small fish jumping from the water and landing on her boat. She was surrounded by thousands of herring jumping out of the water. A school that seemed to find safety around and on her.
She laugh out loud. "This is crazy" as one nearly slipped down her suit.
A chill ran down her spine. Hairs stood on end. "This is not good."
When the herring run it's usually because something is chasing them. Something large.
If its a shark, that's ok. They are aware of their surroundings and will avoid her.
If it's a whale...
She began paddling with growing concern.
But what seemed a safe direction at first was taking her closer to the rocks. At any moment a wave could lower her onto one and tip her into the freezing water.
The herring dispersed and for a moment all was silent. The light from Swallowtail passed lighting the cliff face; a bit too near now.
She stopped...unsure which direction to go.
Without warning came the abrupt expulsion of air from a blowhole. She was showered. A single moment in time being both terrified and exhilarated.
She should move away. But hitting the whale with the paddle could cause it to move suddenly. Being so large, any movement would sink her.
The light came round again. Another moment. A split second: of both time and space. Burned in her mind forever. The whale had risen and turned slightly on its side. An eye as big as the blade of her paddle staired at her from not two meters away. And then darkness.
She sat. Motionless. Smiling. Fearing. Waiting. Time stood still.
The light came round again. The whale was gone. No sound. No movement upon the water.
Had she been that close to such a magnificent creature? Had she seen what she thought she saw? Only the stars had paid witness to the moment. She sat lost in the dream.
"There is no place in earth I'd rather be."
She began paddling home; judging the distance from the cliff each time a light allowed.
Not a care in the world.