We all know how great German engineering is. But this is ridiculous. Check it out. You won't believe it.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
One Of My Favorite Places
Sunrise, Ft. George Inlet, Florida.
 |
| Self portrait |
 |
| Skeeter found a mouse, in an impenetrable brier patch. |
A panorama created out of four shots stitched together.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Of High Seas and Love Found
Nancy and I hit it off immediately. It's pretty hard for four people to spend the weekend on a 27' sailboat without becoming intimately familiar with each other and ours was a weekend of shared fun and laughter.
Over the next several months our relationship went from friendship to lovers to significant others to roommates. Over the five years we were together we spent countless hours on the boat and I came to know every Jimmy Buffett song by heart. There still isn't any better music to sail by.
We slowly took over the boat from the racing crew as, little by little, the stuff left over from our weekend junkets began to add weight to the boat and she became less competitive. However, I became so familiar with the boat and the St. Johns River winds that I once single-handed her to an outright victory in the King's Day Regatta, one of the major river regattas of the year. My crew, Bobby and Nancy, mostly drank beer, providing ballast and, of course, good company. The first place trophy looked like a cow patty stuck on a piece of wood. I think it was supposed to be the king's wax seal. We hung it in the bathroom.
I quickly plugged into Nancy's circle of friends, most of them sailors, some of them owners of big boats of 40' or so. We would often spend the weekend on the big boats, three or four of them rafted together, and party all night long.
I remember one particular New Year's weekend when we anchored off of a river fishcamp and dinghyed in for the New Year's Eve party. There is almost no describing the precariousness of a bunch of drunks in an inflatable dinghy on a cold winter's night. But we made it, unscathed.
The next day we sailed into town and anchored offshore of a trendy riverfront apartment where a friend was having a New Year's Day party. We took the girls in first and they had to scale a small bulkhead to get ashore. They didn't realize until it was too late that the small grassy area on top of the bulkhead was the neighborhood's favorite dog walk. So, the girls arrive at this trendy party, all dressed in their finest foul weather gear and jeans, covered in dog poop.
Of course, being girls, they went immediately into the "ladies room" to make themselves presentable. In the meantime, we men arrived. If we had dog poop on us, none of us noticed. We went straight for the bar and the food. For about an hour or so we pretty much turned an otherwise sophisticated party upside down and then bid our adieu.
A few days later, the party host told us that from the perspective of his apartment, and most of the guests, through the picture window they had all watched the beautiful sailboats as they came up the river. Were interested when we anchored. Curious when we came ashore. Aghast when the pirates arrived, soiled the bathroom, ate all of the food, drank most of the booze and left.
Also a sailor and a close friend, the party host thought it all extremely entertaining and the best party he, an accountant, had ever thrown for his clients, who talked about it for years afterward.
We got our comeuppance however when one of our boats found itself hard aground on a sandbar as the tide had fallen whilst we partied. Had to flag down a powerboat to pull them off. The humiliation of it. Arrrrgggghhh.
I have many such fond memories of my time with Nancy. Why we split, I really don't know. I suspect neither did she. Just one of those things. We remained friends.
Sadly, Nancy passed away about a year ago. Cancer.
Fair winds and calm seas sweetie. I still love ya.
Over the next several months our relationship went from friendship to lovers to significant others to roommates. Over the five years we were together we spent countless hours on the boat and I came to know every Jimmy Buffett song by heart. There still isn't any better music to sail by.
We slowly took over the boat from the racing crew as, little by little, the stuff left over from our weekend junkets began to add weight to the boat and she became less competitive. However, I became so familiar with the boat and the St. Johns River winds that I once single-handed her to an outright victory in the King's Day Regatta, one of the major river regattas of the year. My crew, Bobby and Nancy, mostly drank beer, providing ballast and, of course, good company. The first place trophy looked like a cow patty stuck on a piece of wood. I think it was supposed to be the king's wax seal. We hung it in the bathroom.
I quickly plugged into Nancy's circle of friends, most of them sailors, some of them owners of big boats of 40' or so. We would often spend the weekend on the big boats, three or four of them rafted together, and party all night long.
I remember one particular New Year's weekend when we anchored off of a river fishcamp and dinghyed in for the New Year's Eve party. There is almost no describing the precariousness of a bunch of drunks in an inflatable dinghy on a cold winter's night. But we made it, unscathed.
The next day we sailed into town and anchored offshore of a trendy riverfront apartment where a friend was having a New Year's Day party. We took the girls in first and they had to scale a small bulkhead to get ashore. They didn't realize until it was too late that the small grassy area on top of the bulkhead was the neighborhood's favorite dog walk. So, the girls arrive at this trendy party, all dressed in their finest foul weather gear and jeans, covered in dog poop.
Of course, being girls, they went immediately into the "ladies room" to make themselves presentable. In the meantime, we men arrived. If we had dog poop on us, none of us noticed. We went straight for the bar and the food. For about an hour or so we pretty much turned an otherwise sophisticated party upside down and then bid our adieu.
A few days later, the party host told us that from the perspective of his apartment, and most of the guests, through the picture window they had all watched the beautiful sailboats as they came up the river. Were interested when we anchored. Curious when we came ashore. Aghast when the pirates arrived, soiled the bathroom, ate all of the food, drank most of the booze and left.
Also a sailor and a close friend, the party host thought it all extremely entertaining and the best party he, an accountant, had ever thrown for his clients, who talked about it for years afterward.
We got our comeuppance however when one of our boats found itself hard aground on a sandbar as the tide had fallen whilst we partied. Had to flag down a powerboat to pull them off. The humiliation of it. Arrrrgggghhh.
I have many such fond memories of my time with Nancy. Why we split, I really don't know. I suspect neither did she. Just one of those things. We remained friends.
Sadly, Nancy passed away about a year ago. Cancer.
Fair winds and calm seas sweetie. I still love ya.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Of High Seas and Square Groupers
I am a river rat. Grew up in a fish camp. Spent my life on the water, mostly with an outboard tiller in my hand. I suppose like most young boys my dreams were often filled with swashbuckling pirates, sailing ships and high seas.
So it was, many years later, that I jumped at the chance to participate in an offshore sailboat race. I had never been on a "real" sailboat before and was as excited as a fat rat in a cheese factory to finally get the chance to feel the wind in my hair under billowed sail.
She was a small craft, a Morgan 27, but well founded and designed to compete in the MOR (Midget Offshore Racer) class. The race was from Baja Georgia up to Fernandina Beach, a distance of about 30 miles. The plan was for me and my buddy, Bobby, and his brother, Dennis (ship's captain), to motor the boat from its inland marina out to the Inter-coastal Waterway and anchor for the night. The next morning we would pick up Nancy (ship's owner) at a diner in Mayport and head out to sea for the race start.
The Friday night trip from the marina was one of learning the "ropes" or, I should say sheets and cleats, halyards and lanyards, forestay and backstay, jibs and spinnakers and the like. I will never forget the feeling when we hoisted the mainsail and the boat heeled in the wind. I've been a junky ever since.
We arrived at the starting point, the St. Johns River sea buoy, just before sunrise and joined about 80 other boats all circling for starting advantage. This was a handicap race so boats of all sizes and ability were involved, the winner of two classes determined by a handicap points system.
As the starting time approached, the circle of boats got tighter and tighter, each crowding the starting line, each trying to judge wind and boat speed against the clock. I was positioned on the bow sprit. A rather harrowing place to be in the pitching sea. My job, to avoid collision by informing the skipper how near we were to any other boat and prepare to fend off if necessary. It's like a chess match as those on starboard tack (the wind from the left) have right of way. Near misses were often only a matter of inches.
When the starter's gun sounded, everyone set their course and we were off. That is, we were off for about 45 minutes of an 8 hour race when the wind died. It didn't actually die, it did what sailor's call "lie down," that is, there was still a slight breeze but the ocean was calm, just large, gentle swells which made for a pleasant sail as the boat glided over them but would make for a very long day if the wind didn't pick up.
After about three hours, the fleet was spread out across the ocean. We were among the lead boats and the string of sails behind us was a beautiful sight to see.
Then a strange thing happened. I was sitting on the windward rail just enjoying the ride, when I noticed, in the distance, a seagull appeared to be standing on the water. I grabbed the binoculars to take a closer look and sure enough, a seagull was standing on the water. As we sailed on I saw another, then another. I alerted the crew but no one seemed interested. They were focused on their charts and scanning the horizon for wind.
After seeing several more I said, "Look boys, I might be from the woods but something ain't right here." Finally, they took notice and we altered course just so slightly as to sail past one. When we drew close, the gull flew away and we saw that he was standing on a plastic wrapped bale of something floating just on the surface. I grabbed the boat hook and pulled it over. Bobby cut it open and, you guessed it, Mary-Jo-Wanna!
It had obviously been in the water for quite some time as it was waterlogged and already had barnacles growing on it but still, here before us was an entire bale of the magic weed. I hinted that this could be fortune smiling on us as a whole bale of this stuff might be worth as much as the boat itself, but my law-abiding crew took no notice and set it adrift as nothing more than an idle curiosity.
I didn't even get a hand full. My heart ached as it floated away.
Altogether, I counted 13 seagulls standing on the water.
Again taking up the binoculars, I scanned the fleet behind us and saw one boat after another drop sail and drag something out of the water. By the time we reached the Fernandina sea buoy half of the fleet had dropped out of the race and turned back for home.
Later that evening, as all of the boats were rafted together at the Fernandina pier, I noticed that the outside boat, A J-24 manned by a youthful crew, was one I saw pull something aboard. Curiosity getting the better of me, I went out and introduced myself and told them I had seen them snag a square grouper and was dying to find out how it tasted. They welcomed me aboard.
They had pulled a pound or two out of the bale and were in the process of trying to dry it out in a skillet when I arrived. It turned out to be worthless. The salt water had ruined it but the whole incident sure made for good conversation over hot rum the rest of the weekend.
Oh, by the way, we finished 3rd in class.
So it was, many years later, that I jumped at the chance to participate in an offshore sailboat race. I had never been on a "real" sailboat before and was as excited as a fat rat in a cheese factory to finally get the chance to feel the wind in my hair under billowed sail.
She was a small craft, a Morgan 27, but well founded and designed to compete in the MOR (Midget Offshore Racer) class. The race was from Baja Georgia up to Fernandina Beach, a distance of about 30 miles. The plan was for me and my buddy, Bobby, and his brother, Dennis (ship's captain), to motor the boat from its inland marina out to the Inter-coastal Waterway and anchor for the night. The next morning we would pick up Nancy (ship's owner) at a diner in Mayport and head out to sea for the race start.
The Friday night trip from the marina was one of learning the "ropes" or, I should say sheets and cleats, halyards and lanyards, forestay and backstay, jibs and spinnakers and the like. I will never forget the feeling when we hoisted the mainsail and the boat heeled in the wind. I've been a junky ever since.
We arrived at the starting point, the St. Johns River sea buoy, just before sunrise and joined about 80 other boats all circling for starting advantage. This was a handicap race so boats of all sizes and ability were involved, the winner of two classes determined by a handicap points system.
As the starting time approached, the circle of boats got tighter and tighter, each crowding the starting line, each trying to judge wind and boat speed against the clock. I was positioned on the bow sprit. A rather harrowing place to be in the pitching sea. My job, to avoid collision by informing the skipper how near we were to any other boat and prepare to fend off if necessary. It's like a chess match as those on starboard tack (the wind from the left) have right of way. Near misses were often only a matter of inches.
When the starter's gun sounded, everyone set their course and we were off. That is, we were off for about 45 minutes of an 8 hour race when the wind died. It didn't actually die, it did what sailor's call "lie down," that is, there was still a slight breeze but the ocean was calm, just large, gentle swells which made for a pleasant sail as the boat glided over them but would make for a very long day if the wind didn't pick up.
After about three hours, the fleet was spread out across the ocean. We were among the lead boats and the string of sails behind us was a beautiful sight to see.
Then a strange thing happened. I was sitting on the windward rail just enjoying the ride, when I noticed, in the distance, a seagull appeared to be standing on the water. I grabbed the binoculars to take a closer look and sure enough, a seagull was standing on the water. As we sailed on I saw another, then another. I alerted the crew but no one seemed interested. They were focused on their charts and scanning the horizon for wind.
After seeing several more I said, "Look boys, I might be from the woods but something ain't right here." Finally, they took notice and we altered course just so slightly as to sail past one. When we drew close, the gull flew away and we saw that he was standing on a plastic wrapped bale of something floating just on the surface. I grabbed the boat hook and pulled it over. Bobby cut it open and, you guessed it, Mary-Jo-Wanna!
It had obviously been in the water for quite some time as it was waterlogged and already had barnacles growing on it but still, here before us was an entire bale of the magic weed. I hinted that this could be fortune smiling on us as a whole bale of this stuff might be worth as much as the boat itself, but my law-abiding crew took no notice and set it adrift as nothing more than an idle curiosity.
I didn't even get a hand full. My heart ached as it floated away.
Altogether, I counted 13 seagulls standing on the water.
Again taking up the binoculars, I scanned the fleet behind us and saw one boat after another drop sail and drag something out of the water. By the time we reached the Fernandina sea buoy half of the fleet had dropped out of the race and turned back for home.
Later that evening, as all of the boats were rafted together at the Fernandina pier, I noticed that the outside boat, A J-24 manned by a youthful crew, was one I saw pull something aboard. Curiosity getting the better of me, I went out and introduced myself and told them I had seen them snag a square grouper and was dying to find out how it tasted. They welcomed me aboard.
They had pulled a pound or two out of the bale and were in the process of trying to dry it out in a skillet when I arrived. It turned out to be worthless. The salt water had ruined it but the whole incident sure made for good conversation over hot rum the rest of the weekend.
Oh, by the way, we finished 3rd in class.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Crude? Yes. Insensitive? Yep. Funny? You betcha!
For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of us have naively thought this was connected with tradition or religion, but the Indian embassy in Ottawa has recently revealed the true story.
When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether he has won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop, a taxi cab or a motel in the U.S. If nothing is there, he must remain in India as a customer service rep.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Mr. C's Big Adventure - In Pictures
It was a nice vacation to journey up to North Carolina and visit for the twins' 3rd birthday party. It turned out that both my daughters were there so we had three 3-year-olds in residence, plus the 5-year-old "big sister."
I know my younger readers are well aware of this, but some of the old farts might have forgotten what a joyful noise four young girls can make. And it's non-stop! Except when they're asleep. Like a light switch, off-on. But there is no greater joy than having a three-year-old run up to you and give you a big hug around the neck. Or climb all over you like a bouncy-ball when you're trying to watch the Schu make a move at Spa on TV. It's what life is all about. The people you love, and those who love you.
Anyway, the drive from Baja Georgia to Charlotte can be a real pain in the ass. The construction around Brunswick is ceaseless and I-95 in South Carolina is a throw back to the 60's, at 80mph. So, I usually get off of the interstate just north of the SC line at Ridgeland and take the backroads from there, often stopping for lunch at the Hampton Inn, a little soul food diner in Hampton, SC. But not this time. This time I decided to take 601 and 521 straight through to the Big C.
Having done a little reconnaissance the night before, I discovered an old plantation just north of the Congaree Swamp and decided to stop and check it out. Only problem was, it was closed for the Month of August. Drats. But when I pulled into the drive, I discovered something even better than the plantation. It was a swarm of butterflies attracted to something in the pavement. The air was alive with beautiful little yellowish green butterflies who would gather, and then take flight, over and over again. Really fascinating.
This was just south of Camden, SC where I knew, because of my previous sleuthing, there was a Revolutionary War site. It was apparantly a major battle and featured some big name generals, including Cornwallis himself. The Redcoat's headquarters was an old mansion that was rebuilt in the early 70's.
Camden proved to be a really pretty little town with a bustling downtown and stately old homes on tree-lined streets. Enough history and beauty there to warrant another visit.
Just north of Camden, in Kershaw, SC, I ran across this gorgeous old tobacco warehouse.
The reason, or excuse as the case may be, for me going to NC in the first place was the twins' 3rd birthday party. Popi couldn't miss that.
It was a great party, complete with a pinata horse and games. Later that evening, the men gathered in the back yard for a friendly game of badminton. My team won, but I was left with a blue toenail. Can't tell whether I actually won or not. The next day, we took the 3-year-old cousins for a walk on a greenway, blue toe and all.
On Tuesday, I drove over to Asheville to visit the North Carolin Arboretum. It's quite beautiful and I suppose if you visit it during each season it changes quite a bit.
Of course, Mr. C can never resist taking photos of flowers. Nothing more beautiful. Mother Nature's gift to creation.
After the arboretum, I jumped over the Blue Ridge Parkway to the road through Bat Cave, Chimney Rock and Lake Lure. Just a flat out beautiful drive. By miracle of fate, I had the road to myself and was happily putting my little VW through its paces. On one particular stretch of windy, curvy mountain road I was getting it on when I passed a speed limit sign. 35mph. Ooops! I anxiously looked down at the speedometer, 35mph.
Fortunately, bruised ego and all, I came across an old memory, stopped and loaded up.
A short distance later, I stopped at an ice cream shop in Chimney Rock, got myself a double scoop of vanilla in a cone, walked down to the Broad River, found a place on a shady rock, kicked my shoes off and soaked my feet in the icy water.
I know my younger readers are well aware of this, but some of the old farts might have forgotten what a joyful noise four young girls can make. And it's non-stop! Except when they're asleep. Like a light switch, off-on. But there is no greater joy than having a three-year-old run up to you and give you a big hug around the neck. Or climb all over you like a bouncy-ball when you're trying to watch the Schu make a move at Spa on TV. It's what life is all about. The people you love, and those who love you.
Anyway, the drive from Baja Georgia to Charlotte can be a real pain in the ass. The construction around Brunswick is ceaseless and I-95 in South Carolina is a throw back to the 60's, at 80mph. So, I usually get off of the interstate just north of the SC line at Ridgeland and take the backroads from there, often stopping for lunch at the Hampton Inn, a little soul food diner in Hampton, SC. But not this time. This time I decided to take 601 and 521 straight through to the Big C.
Having done a little reconnaissance the night before, I discovered an old plantation just north of the Congaree Swamp and decided to stop and check it out. Only problem was, it was closed for the Month of August. Drats. But when I pulled into the drive, I discovered something even better than the plantation. It was a swarm of butterflies attracted to something in the pavement. The air was alive with beautiful little yellowish green butterflies who would gather, and then take flight, over and over again. Really fascinating.
Fortunately, bruised ego and all, I came across an old memory, stopped and loaded up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)