Ocean-Moonshine

September 20, 2005

An ocean story.

I've wanted to post this for a while now, but I am hesitant. Hesitant because I'm likely to screw up what I am trying to describe as some of it is rather indescribable, and I have'nt been able to get into a writing flow. I also suspect that much of it will be simply dismissed. There is no exageration, nothing over-emphasised, nothing made up.

A little backround. As a kid, I went to a Lutheran sunday school. It never clicked, I always thought something was not quite right. Later, in I guess 7th or 8th grade, I actually went to church for a while to satisfy my parents expectations that I get "Confirmed" as a good christian. I went along, told them what they wanted to hear. Walked out, rolled my eyes, shook my head, and never went back to church (except weddings/funerals). It was all to simplistic, fake, concrete, man-made, and non-sensical to me. I always felt there was something else going on in a divine way, but wandered from agnostic to skeptical, still knowing there was something else out there, in there. Always wondering, always confused.

I was around 17 years old, a senior in high school. It was october and I was in great physical shape, the result of football season. I've been very comfortable in the water since I was very young, and was a strong swimmer. My friend "T" was probably more athletic than I was, bigger, stronger, better endurance. The tail end of a hurricane was blowing up the coast. We cut school to check out the waves.

I was a tremendously powerful day. The wind was blowing hard, sand was flying sideways stinging. The beach sand had been compacted to a strange hardness that was good for walking on. And the waves were the biggest, most turbulent I had seen irl. We decided to walk down to a rock jetty about a half mile away. It stuck out into the ocean about 100 yards, and the waves were pounding it, throwing up magnificient walls of water and spray. We climbed on the jetty, onto the rocks that were sitting on the shore. Almost immedietly, a huge wave hit, and the explosion of water rained down on our previously dry perch, throwing us off balance just a bit, but soaking us to the skin. Our first impression was not the power of the wave, but its warmth. The hurricane had blown all the warm surface water from offshore to onshore, and the bath-like water grabbed our interest in mid-october. We got the hell off the getty, and back onto the beach.

So it occurs to me that, ...well since the water is so warm, and we are already wet... why not wade in - just up to our waists, to feel the energy? We took off our shirts, belts, wallets, and sneakers, and walked in with our jeans on, safely away from the jetty, maybe 50 yards away. We were waist deep for no more than a few seconds, when we found out the hard way that we were close to a rip. Another huge wave broke in the wrong spot - over our heads, and held us down for what seemed like over a minute. I'm thinking WTF is this? This is fucking crazy, when is it going to let me up? We finally popped up, more than disoriented, and as we gasped for air, another wave hit immedietly. This time it was a short 15 second dunk, but it added to the disorientation. As I was grabing air, I was realizing what had happened. We had been swept out by that first wave, about 100 yards. We were out past the majority of the breakers, enough so that we could usually take a breath and dive under the remaining ones, before getting hit by the next one. But it was now full alert. I quickly realized our predicament. The current was towards the west - towards the jetty. Where we were was at the end of a rip. "T" and I got closer, I told him what was up. I was actually feeling kind of good at this point, kind of enjoying the excitement, but concern started to creep in fast. We were swimming, and swimming, and swimming. We couldn't go with the current because we'd literally get killed on the getty. We couldn't swim in against the rip. We couldn't swim very well against the curent. Fortyfive minutes later, I was in the same spot, and stopped swimming for minute, just going with the ocean, resting. I was getting exhausted. My focus was now out to sea. On the crest of the non-breaking swells, I boosted myself up in the water and started scanning for ships. There were none of course, but it would have been an option. At this time, I'm starting to realize that I am running out of energy. I consider tying my jeans into a life vest, but the jetty threat was still there, and just removing the pants would have been risky in the frothy chaos. Bad time to breath water. One breath of water might be it. I figured my best shot was to get back into the area where the waves were breaking the hardest, and hope that they would push me towards shore, and that the rip would somehow be less strong, or have moved or altered with the tide. I got a hold of "T", and said I was going for it. He looked nervous, scared shitless, but was right there, following my lead. I really didn't think I had enough energy to get to where I wanted. I said "lets go", and went for it.

After about another 20 minutes, I was about 10 yards from where I needed to be, in the break. I actually started thinking that I was might make it. Almost. Maybe almost make it. This is where the story begins.

T is lagging 20 yards behind me. (bastard). He is exhausted, completely. He starts to panic. He calls out for help. I'm barely moving myself and tell him to swim, that I'm in a little trouble here myself. A few seconds later, he cries out again, this time with panicky urgency. I'm 5 yards from the breakers. I look at the shore. I can make it. Yeah, I can pull this off, I can make the shore. A few more yards. I look back. I do not have the strength, energy, reserves to go out and get him. I simply do not. It would be suicide. I look back to him again. He's going under again. I look at the shore. Fuck. Then it happens.

I look up to the sky, to the heavens, to the whatever, my thoughts simultaneously asking if "god/something" is testing me?, what I should do? Help? Before my thoughts are even fully formed, they are gone. Time is gone. Everything is different. I am on another plane. If I die at 17 or at 87, it doesn't matter. Time does not exist - in a very real sense. It doesn't matter if I die, because life is death and death is life. There is no fear. There is no thought. There is just an "is-ness". I dont know how to describe it. I swim out towards my death. Only its not "me" swimming. Something more than me is swimming. There is no ego, no me, yet there is much more flowing through me.

I reach T in about 10 seconds. I help him keep his head up and catch his breath. After a moment, we grab each other's right wrist with our right hands. I'm swimming backwards, pulling him. Maybe a minute passes. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an immense wave breaks on my chest, pushing me violently. It was bizarre. T didnt catch the hit, but he didnt let go, and was pulled out of the water by the jerk. The wave took us both down, for about a minute, and we popped up very close to shore. I kept pulling him in, with the help of breaking waves, until we were about waist deep again. Then it all started to fade. Time came back, slowly. I yelled at T that he could stand, and that he better start running, to give it everything he had left. He went. I went. I collapsed on the shore, gasping, burning, completely drained. But still in a dream-like state. I noticed T was not there and looked back out. No sign. I turned and looked up the beach - he was 50 yards away from the water, still running, untill his calves cramped up, he fell and started throwing up.

It was all cool. There is a sense of that experience that has never left me. There is a bigger sense that too much of it has.

...Ocean

(I'm outta time, I'll probably edit).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I feel frustrated - frustrated because it didnt flow out as magically poetic as it should have. But how do you describe these things. You can describe time as in real everyday terms, but how do you describe experiencing its non-existance in a incredibly profound way? How do you describe temporarily experiencing immortality. "A temporary taste of immortality - its just not logical. But it exists. How do you find yourself, swimming towards death and be 100% accepting of everything, having knowledge that it really doesn't matter in the real grand scheme of things - that death is but a minor detail? How do you describe the experience of the universe flowing through you?

I got the idea of posting this after jase's inner power post. I believe, to use his terms, pulled the sword out of the stone. I believe I had direct communication with the unverse, and the Tao was flowing unrestricted. I also feel I passed a huge test that day. Had I not gone back out, T would have drowned. I would have had problems living with that, and I would not have had this experience. It almost felt like, once I made the dicision to go back out, - if it was even my decision at all - I felt like I received help. We were practcally delivered to the shore. And I dont believe in a god up in the clouds that looked down and helped me. But, there is ...Something. And it was me. And it wasn't me.

The experience has had a profound effect on me. I know i have more inner strength than I ever thought possible back then. I "know" certain things that are not what we consider reality. I have experienced them. It is incredibly real. This is a fairly common theme in my life - this was just the most vivid example, by far the strongest connection.

My problem is that too much of these experiences have left me. Left me knowing and aware of possibility, but not lable to tap into it. This leaves me in the human condition of suffering, and being able to realize it for what it is, but unable to do anything about it. I've had a taste, but my ego shit is so strong, it doesn't let me eat.

(This has to do with why I often talk about being addicted to Flow).

...Oh, I wanted to add that at the point where I looked up to the sky, I got a sense of surrendering to universe or whatever it is.

Posted by Ocean at 05:45 PM | Permalink | | Comments (2)

May 19, 2005

An Extra Week

One fine summer several years back, I found myself in the curious situation of having an extra week of vacation. Having no plans, and no friends around who were out of work, I figured I'd hit the beach, do some fishing, catch up on to-do lists, and try to repair some entropy. That lasted about two days.

I woke up and decided to go for a ride. I packed in half an hour and was off. Saddle bags hanging on the back, backpack bungy netted on the back seat, and a tank bag. Plenty of room. It was a good set-up. I scrunched into the cockpit, the backpack providing a backrest, the tank bag a comfortable pillow to lean my chest on. The Kawasaki GPZ 750 was a sport bike, but its relative upright rider position was very comfortable for a long haul.

Being it was summer, meant there was really only one general direction - North. No maps needed. I had my helmet's face shield up as I drove through the congestion of the bridges and construction zones outside of NYC. Then North. Away. I probably should have checked the weather, but the Throughway has plenty of overpasses to rest under when the light sprinkles turns to torrents. I needed two of them, then pulled into a rest stop for a bathroom break. OK, now I was a bit wet, and I must have had crazy helmet hair, but all those staring eyeballs made me uncomfortable. I used the facilities and washed my hands and...holy crap! My face was speckled dirty, almost black. Do not ride through NYC with the visor up!

Somewhere up in the Adirondacks, tired and hungry, I pulled into a comfortable little restaurant. Strech my legs and seat myself at a quiet table off to the side. The waitress comes over.

"Out for a long ride by yourself, huh?"
"Yep."
"I'm just getting off. Beer?"
"Yep."
Back with two cold pints of beer, "Mind if I join ya?"
"Nope."

I was an enjoyable dinner. Guess I did a good job washing my face. Another 20 minutes down the road, I find a cheap little hotel and get a room key. I'm tired. Its raining. I drive the bike through the door and park it next to the bed. My baby. No need to unpack.

The dawn wakes me up and I'm ready to ride. I go out toward's the office for coffee. The old lady who owns the joint yells at me, "Where the hell is your bike?"
"Um, its in the room - it was raining and - don't worry, it doesn't leak oil - I..."
"Oh", laughing, "I don't care about that. I thought it was stolen! Go get yourself some coffee. I just made it."
"OK, thanks." Cool.

Smooth, twisty, single lanes winding through the mountains are the best roads to ride. It becomes a moving meditation. Both feet, both hands on automatic, your body swings its weight into the gravity void inside the curve. Into the zone. Fortunately there are two sides to every coin. Open another corner of your mind, and slow the bike down. The Adirondacks are just to pretty to race through. Pull over at nice spots and look around. Drink from a clear stream. Take an hour to gaze at a pair of Peregrine falcons doing their thing.

Off into the east, the Green Mountains of Vermont are softer, gentler, with miles of green rolling hills. Hit the throttle. Its 1AM. The cool of the night has fog settled low in the valleys. Its getting late and I'm in the middle of nowhere with no clue. I'm just riding the twists at 75mph, enjoying, until I find somewhere to crash. Pun not intended. Then I smell -

~~~~~~
Then I smell - COWS. The STRONG smell of cows. Manure and cows. Backing off the speed, I slice a corner and find almost no room left to break. Cows. (If you ride, it is a very, very good thing to practice hitting the front brake hard, at speed. Maximum front brake without skidding is the second fastest way to stop, the fastest way being to hit something). Like cows. They are sleeping in the road. Over 50 of them. I stopped with a good 10 feet to spare, but the closest one didn't even flinch. Not even a moo! I beep my horn - still no moo. And they are not about to move, let alone moo. Weaving through them is harder than negotiating those cones during the licsencing test. At least if I fell over the bike would be ok. The cow too, I'm sure.

The White Mountains of New Hampshire contain some of my favorite spots in New England. Its 79F at the base of Mt.Washington. At the summit, its 37F. Rugged beauty. On the decent, my breaks start burning, even though I'm abusing the gears to slow me. This area is as close as the east gets to the west. At the bottom, I collect my little "This Bike Climbed Mt. Washington" bike bumper sticker, which is kind of cool, but its not going on the bike.

Still heading east, I'm scouting out a place to camp along the Kangamangus Hwy. This gorgeous stretch is famous for its own congestion when the leaves peak. Apparantly the leaves on this road are "special". To be fair, it is a special place. I pull over here and there for some short hikes and watering holes. Doubling back, locate my spot - an grassy road with a boulder blocking traffic. I head in and find a nice bed of pine needles for me sleeping bag. Dinner is GORP. Cashews, peanuts, sunflower seeds, raisins, and M&M's. I sleep early with the darkness and cool pine air. Long day tomorrow.

Further east, down route 302 to Naples, Maine. Great food and a beer at Rick's cafe. Watching para-sailing and float planes on Long Lake from my outside table. I'm starving. The result of last night's dinner. Clams, mussels, lobster, corn on the cob. Twenty minutes south, I pull into a special place. One particular cove on Sebago Lake. I say hi to friends and swim in the refreshingly cold water. Its still "refreshing" in June. Its too nice here, I stay the night.

In the morning, I hit the interstates heading south. Paying tolls is a pain in the butt when you are on a bike. But there is always room on the ferry when you have no reservation. Its a rough day, so the crew ties my bike to the iron rafters with heavy rope. Across Long Island Sound and I'm home.

I check my phone messages. The boys want to go riding. If they massage my butt. We settle on fishing.

(too tired to read, proofread, or edit... so its a too early release like everything else. I'll be back. I have fans now, ya know ;)

Posted by Ocean at 07:04 PM | Permalink | | Comments (2)

May 11, 2005

Full Moon Fever

Cozumel, Mexico.

Some secrets are better left unrevealed. Then again, who knows how long it will last?

Cozumel is an island of limestone, 12 miles off the Yucatan Peninsula. It is across from Playa Del Carmen, a bit south of Crazy (Cancun). A strong azure current of 100-200ft visibilty flows through this 12 mile funnel, creating some of the best drift diving in the world. Spectacular coral reef formations and abundant and varied fauna provide a surreal backdrop to fly through. The reef is visually intoxicating when you are up real close. The intricacies of patterns, colors and lifeforms can hold your attention far longer than your air will hold out. Back up your ocular lenses a bit, and you feel spidermanlike, gliding in, through, and around 80ft skyscrapers of rugged coral. Just try not to touch. Fragile. Another world. This is no secret.

Back at the beach after two great dives, the boat deposits you back on the beach somewhere around 2PM. Plenty of day left. So many options - shopping at the Mayan jewelery, art, craft shops; perhaps a Margarita or three; back to the room for a nice romantic nap. The afternoon vacation time blends seemlessly into the night. Great restaurants. Night dives. "Carlos N Charlies", where you can smell tequila puke in small spurts as the cruise ships let off the young party crowd in downtown, San Miguel. (recommended, but only for a single 15 minute, people-watching drink). Most places have there own little quiet bar where you can enjoy the stories of you fellow divers. You can have your pick, as long as you are fresh for diving at 8AM. No secrets here.

However, on the night of the full moon, it is often wise to throw a chang-up into the plans. A fiesty little ex-girlfriend, (I'll call her "L" to protect the "innocent"?), and I strolled down to have a frosty beer while we figured out what else to do that night. It had been a great day of diving - material for another post. There was another couple at our outdoor bar. It turned out they were in some band from NYC. She was sitting on the bar, singing loudly, trying to be sultry and lounge-like. Is it actually possible to be more annoying? (No). He had endured this painful trial before, but all I got out of it was knowing that I wasn't wasting vacation-time around them.

Then she said it. "Are you guys going to the Full Moon Party? We rented a VW Thing. You could jump in the back!"...

~~~~~~~
There is a happening when the moon is full. Obtain a ride, and drive south along the coast, for about 20 or so miles. Stop when you see it. Its on the southern tip of the island.

The locals are of Mayan decent. Friendly, humble, proud, some great people. And they know how to throw a party. (although, I don't think they metabilize alcohol that well).

Park on the grass on the left side of the road. Then walk away from the party, across to road to the ocean. Large translucent turquois and aqua colored waves rolling in and breaking under moonlight strong enough to dive in. Hammocks swaying in the gentle breeze. Curse to youself for not bringing along your camera, because you have never quite seen this example of perfection before.

Back across the road. Find a good spot on the grass, amongst the 200-400 locals. Maybe 10% tourists. Dead center is the stage, a rectangular box about eight feet high. The band is amazingly good, pulsing the breeze with highly dancable reggae and rock. Close your eyes, and you would bet money the guitarist was Santana.

To the right is the consession area. Propane bar-b-que grilling burgers, hotdogs, chicken, fish, vegetables, and more. Huge coolers full of equal portions of ice and beer - cold! Cocktails. Salads. $1.50 / almost frozen beer. On the left is the bonfire. Its hard to get too close. The flames easily flash upwards of 20 feet.

Dance. Watch people. Fun. There was this one Mayan cowboy, complete with boots, spurs, bandana, denim, and turquois and silver who could easily walk into Hollywood as a star. He pulled off every aspect of his flair in such a genuine way that is a rarity these days. And he danced as a dolphin playing in waves, better than I've seen anyone dance in person, so weightless, fluid, graceful, yet masculine in movement. As far as women, I had brought my girlfriend "L", who was looking mighty fine, and as the party wound down, we had to find a ride back to town.

We started looking for a ride as we walked to the parking area at the road. I was looking for another couple, or small group with a bit of room, when L shouts me over with her ride. I say no. She says yes. I say no. She says come-on! I say OK, you'll see.

I'm finishing a bottle of Corona, under the full moon, in the open back of a big white work truck with 10 highly intoxicated male locals, "L", and three more guys in the cab. Its a two lane road, but the lanes are kind of wide, with dirt shoulders on each side. Our driver took great advantage of this set-up. When he felt or heard dirt under the left wheel, he pulled right. When he got dirt under the right wheel, he pulled left. My thoughts are now centered on visualizing how to land and roll without getting under the truck. That and the 10 drunk Mexicans staring at "L".

Suddenly the driver hits the dirt on the right, keeps going, bouncing through a small drainage ditch, and slowly, very, very, slowly comes to a stop in a clearing next to the road. No one says a word. We are in the middle of nowhere, and everyone just jumps off. It becomes apparant that this is the "rest area". Everyone gets off to take a piss, except the driver, who can't stand up - literally. They relieve him of his driving duties and prop him against the truck while he relieves himself.

We start up again with a new driver. "L" is now in the cab where it looked safer, and the previous driver is sleeping at our feet. The new driver ain't to bad - he's not even hitting the dirt, although he is having some trouble straddling the center line. I figure we are about five miles from town, when the driver hangs a right, inland. This is not towards town. The only guy who spoke english - lets make that the only guy able to actually speak - explains that they go this way to drop the work crew at their homes. Of course, this guy is the first to be dropped off. We zigzag left, right, left, right, going further inland, making stops to drop off people. About five people have been dropped off when the driver pulls over, says nothing, gets out, and walks to his home. This leaves no drivers. Next thing I know is the tranny is getting mangled, the gears are getting crunched, and the clutch is smoking. "L" was now driving. She starts following the same direction pattern - away from where we need to get to. I start to complain that we are getting too far off the beaten track. Then the 60 something year old drunk next to "L" starts trying to kiss her.

This whole atmosphere has been one of a small dose of danger, vigilance, and a whole lot of amusement. But now I am annoyed at being ignored like a ghostlike gringo. And things are getting out of hand. I bang on the top of the cab roof with my empty Corona bottle, and shout in the window to change direction. No response. Now I'm pissed off and worried. I break the bottle over the roof, swing over the bed railing, and stick my face in the window, yelling god knows what. Finally everyone got my message and we turn straight towards the center of town to where the pier embraces the cruise ships and subsequently gathers the police force. "L" pulls to the side smoothly, not really in a parking spot, and we hop out, cross the street ducking into the nearest club for a relief beer, leaving the truck running with half a dozen mexicans too drunk to drive or walk.

Ok, so we didnt dive the next morning. There's always night dives!

Posted by Ocean at 11:01 AM | Permalink | | Comments (2)

May 02, 2005

Empty My Cache

During the Carboniferous Period, about 290 million years ago, the forces of nature placed a large mass of igneous molten rock into the more ancient existing metamorphic rock. The result was the granite bedrock underlying much of the lakes region of south-western Maine. As the molten rock cooled, crystals of quartz and feldspar and slivers of reflective dark and light mica formed, giving the granite its colors of whites, light pinks, light tans. Varying fluid pressures allowed for variable grain size of the crystalline structure. Higher pressure and slower cooling time allowed the individual crystals to develop larger in size. There are also dark colored rocks, the result of Mesozoic Era (225 to 65 million tears ago) intrusions of new and different composition igneous molten rock. These dikes can be seen as the narrow bands of basaltic black, cutting through the light granite. Some of these rocks and formations are quite beautiful, but they are only foundation upon which the glacial ice sheets carved their art.

The last ice sheet melted in retreat over 13,000 years ago. Glaciers are immensely powerful rivers of ice. They flow downwards at a slow pace, but the weight and pressures created by the flow over the lanscape is enough to carve out and pulverise the existing granite bedrock. This was this process that carved out an area that is today, roughly 47.5 square miles wide, reaching down to a depth of around 325 feet.

Sebago Lake is large enough to now serves as the public water supply for the city of Portland and surrounding areas. It also serves as Vacation land, due to its beauty. Surrounded by the evergreens of the Maine woods, the shoreline of the lake consists of sandy beaches, granite outcrops, boulders, and cliffs, and marshlands. The fresh air smells of pine, and the water of the lake is possessed by magical properties of which you can drink.

In summer, surface temperatures are pleasant for swimming. Dive to 100ft and you will feel youself pass through five to seven distinct thermoclines. Your bubbles will sound oddly crystalline. It is cold. The clarity of the water and the geological artwork allow you to endure the shivers.

There is this boulder the size of a huge house. It is cracked open in the middle - a split of three to four feet. Within this split opening are lodged many smaller boulders that didnt quite make it to the bottom. Fun swim-throughs. But what most people miss - is the cave. Its at the base of this split rock. You enter a small dark chamber which leads to a small opening. You need to take your tank off and feed it through, then follow. Your flashlight now reveals a small chamber that has a small drop-off ledge on the far side. You must be very careful not to stir up any silt. A dive partner can place his arm into the opening to remain in contact with your fins. However, if you wish to explore a little more, you must break contact. It is you alone. Proceed to the small drop-off ledge. With full arm extension, you can almost reach the bottom. There you will find a pillowcase. The contents of the pillowcase were hermetically sealed in a long fire-side night's worth of candle wax, almost four years ago.

I have forgotten the brands and vintages, but I recommend the premium white with a Maine seafood dinner. The red will work, chilled on a cool fireside night. But dont wait to much time after the dive to celebrate with shots of some good, smooth, tequila. You won't need any rocks. ...Cheers!

Posted by Ocean at 10:58 PM | Permalink | | Comments (0)

February 24, 2005

Crash

...an old story

(operation#3, ...hardware X-ray, right tibia and fibula)

Here is a small example. When I used to motorcycle a lot, I called it a "moving meditation", because I developed that sense of always knowing what was going on around me, without thinking. Bikes are hard to see sometimes, and often when driving on a road with two lanes in my direction, I'd be in the left and a car in the right lane would come over into my lane. I usually KNEW this was going to happen. I'd calmy slow down, and let the car go infront of me. I got so in tune with what the other guys were doing, and felt so comfortable, that after a while, when I knew a car would be changing lanes right into me, I'd stay there, move towards the left shoulder, driving on a 6 inch strip. Then, I'd hit the gas a bit, let go with my right hand, lean over, and knock on the guys side window. It was all calm, comfortable, and I knew I was safe. It was most entertaining observing the drivers when they were startled by me at their window. It was like play.

There were a few other real accident avoidance scenarios, where the only thing that let me escape was that total focused calm. A knowing something was gonna happen, and then a instant calm focused reaction without thinking. The body just reacting perfectly, all by itself.

Exception - The one time I got run over by a truck, I knew it was going to happen, I had the brakes ready, but he came over SO fast (he was trying to avoid rear-ending a car in front of him), that my fingers didn't even start to squeeze the brake. I flew through the air about 75 feet, twirling around...seeing the sky, my pretzel of a bike, the sky, my bike, ... the whole time thinking... "Wow this is neat!, but my bike is trash, damn, ok, I'll get a new one. Hmm, when am I gonna land? Oh, ok, Im coming down now. There are the rear wheels of the truck and I'm about to land under them. Ok, arch, twist, yeah ok, cool! I landed against them, instead of under them. I'm laying in the street, all calm, thinking, Ok, I lost my bike, but that flight was a cool experience, and I'm fine. No problem. I get up on my left leg, and go to take a step, when I notice my right foot is hanging on by some skin and muscle, so I hop over to the curb, sit down holding my leg up. People start running over, and I'm still kind of calm, I start telling people what to do. "You. Call 911. You, can you get this helmet off of me? Thanks. Hey you guys, can you get my bike out of the road, its blocking traffic." Once everything seemed under control, only then did the pain start. But there was an element of "fun" again, when the EMS guys showed up with nitrous oxide.

I think the last story, was just a tad more than "nine" calmness and focused awareness, there was also, adrenaline, endorphins, and shock. But, I'll never forget knowing that that truck was coming for me. And I'll never forget the amusement I had while flying through the air.

If I didn't have this "knowing, calm, focusing" ability, I'd be dead 9 times over. That or be very bored. I really have too many stories like that. (not the crash) I had to promise my ex, that when we had kids, I would curtail pushing the edge, but she never understood how safe it all was. Or how "that" focused awarness was so, ...peaceful? Flow. Real flow. Not just going along with the whatever flow.

Its amazing how much sand and pebbles and road can get embedded deep into your skin, and how the rubber from tires can go in so deep that it takes a month and a half for the tattoo to disappear. Always ride with a leather jacket. (...and helmet!).

Posted by Ocean at 01:35 AM | Permalink | | Comments (0)

Striped Bass

...from last fall.

Sunday was an unusually warm November day, and the stripped bass fishing was supposedly pretty good on the outgoing tide, after dark. I called two friends to see if they wanted to go; they couldn't. Rather than twist arms, I figured I'd go out by myself. Sometimes its more enjoyable that way, ...I can do whatever I want, be self reliant, and more into the moment. So I decide to go and try something a bit new, fishing technique-wise. I grab what I need, jump into the boat, and head down the canal. The electronics (GPS, fishfinder...) are not working. WTF? Ok, no problem, I know what I'm doing anyway. I get to the outer bay, just after sunset. Something is wrong with the engine, its not pushing out maximum rpm's. Another WTF?, but its running well enough. The outer bay leads to the inlet to the ocean - rocks, waves, current, boat traffic. The outer bay is also a conduit for the tidal water flow from both the inner and outer bay. When the tidal flow is ripping, the current drifts you along at about 5 knots give or take.

I get to the outer bay at slack high tide, the period between incoming and outgoing water. Its calm and windless, the sunlight fading, beautiful. I figure I have about an hour, so I start looking around. On one pole, I have a bait catching rig - a series of 5 shiney, dressed up hooks, with a 4oz diamond jig at the terminal end. I see shad swirling on top of the water. After casting in the general direction, and jigging it back in, I have one shad. Live shad are great bait - into the livewell he goes. Two more tries, two more fish. These fish are a foot long, and fun to catch, but I have three for bait, figure I could probably get more later if I needed too, so I stop fishing and just hang out. I'm feeling competent - I caught the bait I need - first time I tried shad. I have no clue why others have touble with this. I feel good. Still got 55 minutes until the tide starts going out, so I just hang out watching the water, the sky, both changing over from sunlight to half moon and stars. Im thinking its gorgeous out here and I'm happy to be there. The feeling of competency diminishes as I try to plot a game plan to catch the real fish, the bass.

The tide starts slowly going out. I rig up a shad, and try two short drifts - nothing. The rig snags the bottom, the 1st shad is gone. The tide is starting to really move now and there are a lot of boats out, so I decide to just drift away from the conjestion towards the inlet, where Im sure there is another armada of nutty fisherman. I hook up the second live shad, let the weight take it to the bottom, and drift towards the inlet about 2 miles away, all by myself in peace. I start moving pretty good, the current is picking up.

(This is boring huh?)

Im about a half mile down the stream, when I go to start the boat. The battery is dead. WTF??? No anxiety at all, but I'm slightly concerned that this is going to interfere with my fishing. VHF radio dies. I keep fishing, and with the other hand, reach for my cell phone. I had just gotten a new battery for it earlier that day... ($76...WTF?). So I call my cousin, ask him to come out with jumper cables. Ok, no problem. I keep fishing, ...its obviously my last drift, as I have no power, no manuverability and I still have about a mile before danger. When I get another half mile, I put the pole in the holder, and go to get the anchor ready. I set it on the bow, making sure the line is clear and untangled. I go back to fishing. No problems, lets fish! Suddenly BOOM, fish on! I'm fishing with light tackle and this fish feels big. You have to play a fish like that, ...its a delicate balance of give and take. Try to yank him in too fast, with too tight of a drag setting, and you loose him. So I get him to the top, he freaks and takes all the line back out to the bottom. This happens four times and takes about 10 minutes. I take an occasional glance at my surroundings, but I am so absorbed by the fighting fish, I feel connected to life, literally. Finally I get him close enough and get half of him in the net, and haul him into the boat in the darkness. Now I look around at my situation. WTF??? I run to the bow, throw out the anchor with a lot of scope, it holds. I grab a flashlight and go back to the fish. Damn, ...nice fish! I unhook him, get him out of the net. I try to measure him, but he's bigger than my tape measure. I attempt to put him on ice, but he doesn't fit in the cooler, so I get most of him in the ice with his tail hanging out. I bleed him in the ice, so he dies fast. I'm feeling pretty competent again. It was my biggest striper, and I got him doing my own thing. Played out the circumstances perfectly. But I also start thinking...well this should impress the boys. I figure I'll give it to my cousin for rescueing me - if he ever shows up.

When he finally gets to me, the current is ripping so hard, that he crashes into my boat with his stern quarter. My fault really, I had a line out with third shad, letting it drift out with the current, restricting his movement. Anyway no damage, no problems. With the jumper cables, I start the boat and separate from the other boat. The additional drag of the other boat tied off to mine, pulled the anchor. I see we are getting close to the rocks, yet, still no anxiety, just aliveness. I run to the bow, pull in the anchor, run back to the console, and put it in forward. Its still fun times, and looking back, I see I have another 30 yards before I smash on the rocks. OK, so? No big deal, I didn't hit them.

Heading home, I lead my cousin through a shallow shortcut in the dark, saving us about 20 minutes. We get to his dock, I give him the fish. Neighbors start gathering - these people must smell fish, WTF? They are all impressed with the fish; I am becoming less so. Still I'm feeling competent and confident, but the fish is no longer a big deal. A neighbor measures him, someone takes a picture. We clean the fish and put the fillets in zip lock bags. We wind up splitting the fish, half and half, ...I have 4 or 5 meals in the fridge. We talk about some engine mechanical stuff. I head home. In the morning, I realize that this nagging feeling I have is not worry about the boat problems, thats not really a big problem. In all the fun chaos surrounding the catching the fish, I had forgotten something. Although "I" felt good about myself catching the fish, I forgot about the Fish. I never paid my respects. Never said thanks.



(The thanks came in the preparation and devouring of the fillets).

Posted by Ocean at 01:16 AM | Permalink | | Comments (0)