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. And still fast and fun where there are no straight lines to follow.
Being it was summer, meant there was really only one general direction - North. No maps needed. I had my 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 sprinkles turn to torrents. I needed two of them, then pulled into a rest stop for a break. So now I was a bit wet, and I must have had some crazy helmet hair, but all those staring faces made me uncomfortable. I used the bathroom, facilities, washed my hands and holy crap.... My face was speckled dirt and eyeballs, almost black. NYC and bikes don't mix well.
Somewhere up in the Adirondacks, tired and hungry, I pull into a comfortable little restaurant. Stretch 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."
It was an enjoyable dinner. Easy warm smile, deep brown eyes that paid attention. Unspoken understanding. 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 white haired lady who owns the joint yells at me, "Where the HELL is your bike??"
"Um, its in the room - it was, um, raining and - don't worry, it um, doesn't leak oil - I..."
"Oh", laughing loudly, "I don't care about that. I thought it was stolen! Go get yourself some coffee. I just made it, hot n' fresh."
"OK, thanks."
Cool.
Smooth, twisty, single lanes winding through the mountains are the best roads to Ride. It becomes a moving meditation. Rhythm. Both feet, both hands, on automatic, no thought, your body swings its weight into the gravity void inside the curve. Into the zone. This is the real ride. The Ride. The Destination. Fortunately there are two sides to every road. Open into 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 and 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 the destination, 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. Double back, locate my spot - an small vague, grassy road with a granite boulder blocking traffic. I head in and find a nice bed of pine needles for my sleeping bag. Dinner is GORP. Cashews, peanuts, sunflower seeds, raisins, and MnM'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 cold 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. I feel at home. Happily tired.
In the morning, I hit the interstates heading south. A journey. 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.
We settle on fishing.
September 15, 2008
August 11, 2008
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!
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!
Chick sent me high-ee
Parameters which promote Flow. The Flow Channel is the balanced "Zone". The balance is a perfect match-up between your skill level of an activity, and the challenge of the activity. The higher the skill level and challenge level, the more opportunity for intense Flow. The narrower you can fine tune that zone, the stronger you Flow on the razor's edge. Your ego and superego are obliterated, allowing your *body=mind* to take over and Be. Its amazing. Its magical. Its a healthy addiction, leading you out of boredom and anxiety, and into ...well - the real flow of life.
Its a fulfilling, effective way to get rid of anxiety and boredom, but it does entail getting off the couch and shutting off the TV.
There are two cool Flow links on the left.
(from"moflow" link)
"Csikszentmihalyi", the name of the guy who wrote "the book" on Flow, is pronounced "chick-sent-me-high-ee"! Seems to fit :)
August 10, 2008
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!
August 8, 2008
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 shiny, 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 live-well 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 trouble with this. Maybe I'm lucky. 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. I'm 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 congestion towards the inlet, where I'm 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?)
I'm 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 rescuing 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, that's 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. Like I never paid my respects. Never said thanks. Thanks for the connection at his expense.
(The thanks came in the preparation and devouring of the fillets).
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 shiny, 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 live-well 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 trouble with this. Maybe I'm lucky. 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. I'm 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 congestion towards the inlet, where I'm 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?)
I'm 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 rescuing 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, that's 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. Like I never paid my respects. Never said thanks. Thanks for the connection at his expense.
(The thanks came in the preparation and devouring of the fillets).
July 11, 2008
Hard Rain
is gonna fall...
(water overcoming rock, Washington St.)
"A man's excellence is like that of water; It benefits all things without striving; It takes to the low places shunned by men. Water is akin to Tao. . . . In all the earth nothing weaker than water, Yet in attacking the hard, nothing superior, Nothing so certain in wearing down strength: There is no way to resist it. Note then: The weak conquer the strong, The yielding outlast the aggressors."
~ Lao Tzu
(water overcoming rock, Washington St.)
"A man's excellence is like that of water; It benefits all things without striving; It takes to the low places shunned by men. Water is akin to Tao. . . . In all the earth nothing weaker than water, Yet in attacking the hard, nothing superior, Nothing so certain in wearing down strength: There is no way to resist it. Note then: The weak conquer the strong, The yielding outlast the aggressors."
~ Lao Tzu
Slack Tide
Low tide can be highly rejuvenating if it avoids stagnation. As the waters recede, the inter-tidal zone is exposed, revealing a different perspective of the life there. The roots of the warm-green marsh emerge, crabs and snails stroll about, clams spit at your presence by clamping down tight. The marsh is a hidden realm of nutritive resource. Egrets, herons, gulls, terns, all swoop in to steal their share aloft and spread the richness. The smell of low tide is alive with the aroma of fecundity.
As the water pulls out, many of the bait-fish, worms, and crustaceans are swept out with the current, no longer in the luxurious security of the marsh grass. They are funneled down channels to the hungry fish lurking below. The fish feed in swirls of delight and frustration, but they stay in the deep, dark recesses of holes and larger channels. They hug the bottom and wait. Digest and wait for the return.
Patches of deep mud can get you in trouble. If you hit bottom, there is no pushing out. As the tide drops, you are stuck in seemingly higher and higher degrees. Once at dead low, the water doesn't return quickly. It reaches a gravitational equilibrium and there you are in slack tide. Stuck. At the mercy of green flies, gnats, diving birds, and all things annoying. And it seems all you can do is wait. Like a beached whale sufficating under its own weight, you wait in unrest. You could walk out through the mud, but its too much of a slog. Slack tide can last for what seems like eternity. Stagnant. Lifeless.
...And then, what you were waiting for, ...suddenly returns, unexpectantly.
A small minnow swims back to the marsh.
June 10, 2008
The Wild Need
"The love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth, the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only paradise we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need, if only we had the eyes to see. . . . No, wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, as vital to our lives as water and good bread."
~ Edward Abbey (1927-1989)
"You can't study the darkness by flooding it with light."
~ Edward Abbey
~ Edward Abbey (1927-1989)
"You can't study the darkness by flooding it with light."
~ Edward Abbey
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