Marvelous World

Possibles

2011-08-09T20:17:00.000-04:00

Caution: Non-proofread material ahead!!

4:00pm, Friday August 5

It's been awhile since I felt compelled to write anything. This is due in part to some lingering sea-sickness through the last two trips, and in part to the fact that we've been either sitting on our hands in port or hauling up close to empty nets for three weeks now.

You can imagine the compounded demoralization writing about all of this would create.

And you might imagine that if I'm writing now it's because things are better....

Well, we were stuck in port the last couple of days trying to get our refrigeration fixed, and waiting for Paul's girlfriend whose flight ended up getting cancelled. Once we found out she couldn't make it Thursday, we fueled up the boat and cast off heading to the southwest section of Kodiak Island for the first time all season. The guys and I were pretty excited, as so far we had only really fished two areas, and our consistent bad luck at one of those areas (and the Skipper's consistent choice to return to said area) had pretty much made us sick of the eastern top of the island.

About four hours in to our trip, we emerged from the foc'sole to see the windmills and buildings of Kodiak. That's weird, we thought. Soon enough we were informed that, though they were catching "some fish" down southeast (one of the Skipper's favorite understatements), it was too windy and snotty seas for his liking. So there we were passing Kodiak going back towards our old unlucky haunts. On the way, about two hours out, we stopped at a bay fronted by three small islands where two other boats were fishing. Actually ended up doing pretty well here: in 5 hours we made 4 sets and probably hauled in about 4500 pounds, a decent spattering of dogs and reds mixed in with the less lucrative pinks that make up the largest runs at this time of year.

Great, we thought, we're actually catching fish. Maybe we'll stay here a few days?... Not quite. We woke up to a wind our Skipper said tends to blow all the fish out of that area leaving it completely empty. So this morning, once more, we shook ourselves up from some dozing to see we were passing Kodiak again, heading south. About one hour later we came on an area the skipper wanted to try. After a forty minute wait, he apparently got some intel about prohibitive shallows (our net is deeper than many) and away we went again.

Eff.

About three hours later, we showed up at our current location. Of course, none of us crew members have any idea where we are. We did one set and hauled up about 2,000 pounds of jellyfish. They were kind enough to leave 20 fish in our net, which we pulled paralyzed from the 22 inch deep jellyslop all over the deck. Like most areas, this one has 3-5 sites that seem the most productive to set at. Suffice it to say we moved down a few hundred yards from jellyzone to try another set where people were catching some fish. Just as we got the net laid out and the deck cleaned, Paul radioed in a problem to the skipper.

Fuel leak in the skiff. Five gallons already lost. One end of the net dead in the water. Of course.

So we backpiled the net on to the deck and waited for the bad news. I went for a beer to help take the edge off my despair. You see, I stayed on an extra two weeks—differing a trip to Portland to see a good friend, and fam time back home—as the pinks generally run strong at this time, and the guys and me could see some more $1,000 days if we ever actually find some fish. We may (Meh) have earned that much in the last 15 days.

Usually this sort of a radio announcement from Paul sees us securing the skiff and rigging and heading post haste back to town. We seem to have gotten lucky though. Paul looked around and figured out that one of the fuel hoses seems to have merely slipped off its fitting.

One Pabst Blue Ribbon.

One Fifteen minute fix.

Back on track?

Like so many things in this entry, that remains to be seen. We headed to the other side of this bay to see what we can find. We'll probably be setting here in a few minutes. Maybe it was a good omen that a potentially serious problem had such a simple solution. Maybe this site will produce some lucrative sets for us. Maybe the pinks will slam in and I won't regret staying on longer up here. Maybe I'll end up zooming back home for three days before heading to Mississippi and school with an extra couple grand in my pockets.

Maybe.

11:35am, Sat August 6

Last night turned out alright.

We drove across the bay to another set site where the Kilokak was doing some work. Had four or five solid sets (800-1200 pounds) and worked till just after ten. Last set was a heartbreaker. We just had the powerblock* teeth re-welded to beef up its gripping power, and until some of the metal added to the teeth wears down it tugs extra-strong on the leadline, outstripping the corkline as we pile the net on deck. This has been leaving us with extra corks in the water at the end of some of our sets--and extra corks in the water means the fish can spill out when we're hauling up the last few fathoms to dump the fish on the deck. So that last set was a heartbreaker because we lost about half of a 1200-2000 pound set that way.

Today has been scratchy but productive. Made our first set a little after 6 am, and did 3 or 4 decent scratch sets averaging 100-120 fish (400-500 pounds). I guess our last set got the captain thinking the fish were dropping off because we lit out across the bay right after. Drove around for about an hour checking out potential set sites and met up with the boat we were fishing next to. Sure enough they pulled in 20 fish on their last haul.

Skipper radioed down from the tophouse to let us know we were going to anchor up so he could take a long nap, and to make sure I knew how to spell "useless" when I describe him in this blog entry. I think he's a little miffed that he hasn't put us on major fish today.

C'est la vie. Of course, we'd always rather be slaying lots of fish, but I wanted some time to work on a couple projects anyway. I might even do some illegal sports fishing (the other two crewmembers bought sports fishing licenses; as long as there's only a total of two lines in the water, I have a hard time being concerned about which of us is jigging them).

Well, having finished a novel while performing the sacred morning rituals today, I guess it's time for...

Novel Opinions!

Cormac McCarthy is, or at least has been, one of my favorite writers. Earlier in the year I finished Blood Meridian (19--), which many call his masterpiece, and found myself rather underexcited. For me, it didn't measure up to his work in Child of God (19--), The Road (19--), or even All the Pretty Horses (199-), all of which are powerful books. The latest read is called The Orchard Keeper (197-). It's one of his first published books, and reads like it. The action and character work—when any of either manage to sneak into the novel—are engaging despite being quite experimental. However, nearly half of any given page is filled with overwritten landscape descriptions pertaining to locations in which the reader has no clear stake. Additionally, these descriptions read as if McCarthy was preoccupied with using every archaic descriptor, meteorological term, and rare coinage he could, perhaps to cross them all off some list for pretentious writers.

Set in the Appalachian backcountry surrounding Knoxville, TN—and occasionally venturing into the city itself—The book is principally concerned with three or four characters: Marion Sylder, a local whisky-runner; John Wesley Barrett, a pre-adolescent befriended by Marion; and Arthur Ownby (Uncle Ather), an aging intriguing character from whom the novel takes its name. There are quite a few journalistic moments—detailing a Knoxville crowd on market day in the '40's, lengthy discussions of the mountain region, etc—that add to a sense McCarthy was attempting to encapsulate a particular moment and culture in order to preserve its memory.

For my money, I call Eudora Welty's Delta Wedding—set in the same interwar period—a much more even, compelling, and altogether successful attempt.

A lot of people say southern writers of any ambition have to write through Faulkner in order to arrive at their own voice. That definitely rings true here as the tone, literary devices such as italics to represent memories that interrupt the "present" action, and even the purposely obtuse plotlines call to mind a lot of Faulkner's Absalom! Absalom! and The Sound and the Fury. So, at the end of the day, I was hoping McCarthy might be an exception to the rule that the early work of great authors is often rather dull and I was disappointed. Still, if you like McCarthy, the novel is a fascinating place to see him working with a lot of the devices he would later hone to craft much more powerful works (i.e. an acute sense of place, more useful coinages, judicial use of archaic wording, intriguing obtuseness in plot and character development rather than near-opacity).

Meanwhile, back in Alaska...

The guys are napping, and the alarm just beeped on some fresh coffee, so it looks like a perfect opportunity to tackle some other writing.

Including today, I've just got three more days of fishing left. We've sort of adapted dear, sweet, 8 pound, 11 ounce Baby Jesus [link: Taladega Nights] as our patron this summer. Hopefully, once the sleepers awake, he'll come through with a few big sets to boost my summer paycheck.

*suspended from the boom, the power block is a large—about 28 inch diameter—aluminum wheel run with a hydraulic motor that we use to pull the net back on to the deck.

Fizzlers

2011-07-20T02:52:00.000-04:00

8:30 am, Sun July 17

Currently on the tail end of a five day trip up to Malina Bay. Pretty scratchy fishing. After a day or so in port last week, we did laundry, showers, and shopping; filled up with ice at the cannery; and drove out around 8pm.

That night took watch with the Skipper and drove north through Whale Pass and the Narrows to anchor up in a bay at the top end of the Narrows. Next day arrived in Malina to rolling and choppy seas. Made a couple sets before we anchored up to wait for the weather to come down.

Shitty sleep throughout this trip began that night; after the weather and a few sets, we anchored at the exposed mouth of the bay rather than drive in to one of the smaller coves. Rocked and rolled all blessed night. Woke up groggy to more scratch fishing. Tendered that night, then two more days grinding it out to today.

Yesterday actually showed some promise—a couple of 150+ fish hauls. But those dropped off pretty quick. We tendered again last night; the boat was called the Kendra D. The crew was more chummy with us than any of the other tender crews, and the guy running it chatted with us as we sorted fish up on the line. His name is Val and he owns a place called the Rendezvous a few miles past the airport. Skipper said it's a nice little tavern; hope to check it out some time.

Today is pretty meager like the others. We've been at it for about 5 hours. Misunderstood the Skipper and thought we'd be heading back to town today. Terrible fishing hasn't made that disappointed expectation any better.

11:00 pm, Sun July 17

Fishing didn't get any better, though we did pull in a bunch of kings, including one massive, beautiful 30 pounder (unfortunately, we don't get paid for kings, so most of these we field dress for personal use). We tried a different area of the bay in the afternoon though, and on the way over I caught about 20 minutes of bunk time that made me a brand new man. As the afternoon dragged on, the Skipper finally decided that 100 lb. hauls didn't justify missing the tide and our chance to get into town tonight, so we beat feet back to Kodiak, dumped the fish, picked up some ice for our Kings and tied up at the dock.

So it's back to the old moorage. Back to our charter boat neighbor on one side, and pungent wafts of ganja from the beer-slammers on the other. Back to cell service, fresh water in abundance, and cannery showers.

Home sweet...something.

Ronnie Dunn single we love to shout along with (don't knock it till you try it! ...And a couple 14 hour days and cans of American Flag Budweiser might help): Bleed Red

10:50pm, Tues July 19

Leaving from a two day town visit to go back out tonight or tomorrow. Hope some of the runs are picking up for the last mandatory opener here. We'd all really love to go out and catch a few boatloads of fish and see these rumors of a Biblical season come true. Especially after all that scratch fishing. Vamos a ver...

Four-Day Opener

2011-07-12T23:58:00.003-04:00

10am, July 8

Just finished our second set in a six boat line. Left anchor at 4:30 am this morning and showed first at our spot. Yesterday was a good day: nearly 9,500 lbs of fish, and over 3,000 of those reds (which go for twice the price of the dog salmon that are also running right now). The first set today was respectable—probably about 300 fish (about 1,500 lbs). Second was just 184.

Spirits are good, but we're all pretty whipped. Only had about four hours for sleep last night, and that was spotty since our sleeping quarters are right next to the engine room. We had to go the whole night with the engine on to keep the circ. running (that's the circulation system for the Refrigerated Sea Water [RSW]). This last set also hit us pretty hard on deck: had to deal with a lot of kelp and some tangled lead lines.

We're about to finish a movie and hopefully get some solid naptime, as we've got nearly a two-hour wait before we can set again. Which brings us to....

Movie Deets!

Today we're talking about Outlaw Justice, an early 2000's film (?) featuring Travis Tritt, Willy Nelson, and some of the worst acting combined with the most self-indulgent "star" control I've seen. It may rival The Polar Bear King on the slop-scale, if you're at all familiar with that winner. Someone should've fired whatever flopped sitcom screenwriter they got to write this thing. Speaking of writers, here's...

Novel Opinions!

Finished a novel, Inherent Vice (2010), by Thomas Pynchon a few days back. Not a bad read, though there's plenty of drugs and sex. Set in L.A. in the early 70's, it's sort of a stoner-detective fiction novel, riffing on the hard-boiled genre. I think Pynchon—a fairly serious, and for many a very important writer—wanted to capture the 60's as a moment/era of possibility that is fading from the screen, to be followed by corruption (think Charles Manson, Richard Nixon & company...) in the present day of the novel.

Funny enough, as certain "evil" characters turned out to be just as much played as playing, and just as susceptible to forces like love and intimidation, the thing actually reminded me a hell of a lot of Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday, and I wonder if Pynchon had that in mind. That'd be a weird/interesting pairing.

Anyway, P.T. Anderson (dir. Boogie Nights, Magnolia) is supposed to be making it into a movie currently, which I'm stoked to have heard about from a friend, as I thoroughly dig what I've seen of his work.

Started yesterday on McCarthy's The Orchard Keeper (1965). So far so good, though—predictably—it's pretty grisly. The style is engaging and he seems to be working out his attention to scenery and seasons: Appalachian setting, bootlegging, a mysterious old man who guards some woods, a concrete cistern with a dead body inside it, events only half told. Interesting stuff. Maybe good source material for my buddy Bret's Thunder Road/moonshine movie script?

That's it for right now—time for crappy cinema. Here's some miscellany...

Quote of the day (so far):

Skipper (as he turns to a crew member, vegetable in hand, following the crew's delayed response to his request for a chips and salsa snack): "Good, I thought you had forgot; you almost made me eat a ****ing carrot."

Vid List (what the crew are currently telling each other they gotta see):

Leroy Jenkins Halo

Chronic of Narnia Rap

12:00pm, July 10

Yesterday we made our biggest set yet—potentially in the range of 6,000 lbs. Combined with our work on the 8^th we dropped off over 22,000 lbs at the tender last night. A steak dinner (courtesy of our 18 inch Cabela's propane grill) was a fitting end to a day that saw us haul in upwards of 12,000 lbs. of salmon, despite being in a seven boat line all day and making only four sets.

Today, the 10^th, has been strong, but doesn't seem to be of quite the same magnitude. We arrived first to our spot this morning and had a very nice first and second set. After our second set, the skip decided to go straight out and try one on the "outside."*

It was not a success.

We saw salmon jumping as we lay out and everything looked good, but the current seemed to push our cork line around, our leads were a little jumbled, and we had to stop repeatedly to pull kelp out of the net. Final count on the set: 3 fish.

At least one was a silver.

Spirits are still good though; it looked fishy and we gave it a shot. If the set had come in, the line would be moving faster (always two boats setting rather than one) and everyone would be catching more fish. We lost nothing but energy. Um, lots of energy...

Speaking of which, it's getting harder to get mobile in the mornings.

And while it is frustrating to have a boat line like ours, it can also be a mercy when you're rolling out of bed at 5am to pull the release cord on the skiff and clean the deck before you've had a chance to swallow down a gulp of coffee or cereal.

It's during these early sets that the boat line you loath, the line that ties your hands after you've just made a giant haul, the line of boats you wish would get sick of milling about so you don't have to wait so long to dip back into your honey hole, that two hour line becomes a godsend. Because that's two hours for odd jobs, necessaries like cooking and cleanup, and—most generously—sleep.

Just get on shoes and sweater so you can pull the release cord. Just clean and prep the deck. Just plunge a little. Just get your raingear on. Just plunge a little more. Just get the net stacked and hauled in. Just get through this set. Just do this and you can shuck off your neoprene exoskeleton, dry your face, crawl down the stairs and back into your bunk. You might even slip into unconsciousness before the skipper comes on to the PA and announces it's time to pick the anchor.

Mornings are tough, but we seem to fall into a rotating sleep schedule. One night we'll come in around 7:30pm. After dinner, clean-up, odd prep work for the next day, we slip into the bunks by 10:30 or so. Then it's up at 4:30am. Conditioned by repetition, you can make your body roll out of the bunk before you're even conscious enough to realize how silly the idea of "awake" is at this point. That night we might work later. Make one more set. Eat dinner at midnight. Get up again by five. Work through the day. By the third night, batteries drained, we'll sleep in; maybe miss the first turn and show up at our spot near 7:00. Then we're juiced up for another round.

Like the two-hour line, repetition is a mixed mercy. You may feel like a lead sack start to finish, but already, with less than a month of deck work, once the hands touch the net, the body starts working without asking questions.

*Most purse-seiners set with the boat or skiff along the shore of a bay or point and the other end of the net laid out to catch the fish as they school at the set spot. In the Kodiak fishery, the general rule lets a boat tow for half an hour to allow the fish to stack up. As the boat and skiff turn in toward each other to close the circle of the net, the next boat in line will lay out its own net, either in "front" of the closing net, or "behind" that set. With a long line, the fishermen might decide to follow this "inside" set along the shore with an "outside" set, just beyond the far end of the boat after them. Thus boat A sets inside, closes, boat B sets inside, boat A sets right after them, boat B closes, boat A closes and anchors up in line, boat C sets inside, boat B sets outside, etc... I know. Riveting. You can hardly wait for more details. If you're very (un)lucky, sometime I might explain to you how our diesel stove works...

How to Catch A Salmons

2011-07-12T00:03:00.000-04:00

July 4, 9am

Of course, there are at least as many ways to catch a fish as skin a cat. For instance, Paul is an accomplished sport fisher and I think it's especially strange for him to see so many and such beautiful fish running straight into our hold each set. We and the rest of the fleet do catch quite a few; however, since the state took over the fishery from the Japanese, the Alaska salmon industry has become one of the most well-managed sustainable agro-industries on the planet.

The basic concept behind our work is fairly simple: lay out a net, tow on it so the fish bunch up, haul in the net and dump the fish in the boat. However, the actual practice of the craft--the knowing of where and when to fish, of the dozen or so sub-trades necessary to keep a vessel functional (net-sewing, engine repair, carpentry, welding...), that actual practice is as full of challenge, complexity, and risk as any.

As I've mentioned, our boat is outfitted for a type of fishing called seining or purse-seining (as opposed to dragging, or gill netting with drift- or set-nets). The boat has a large stern deck that holds the net. One end of the net is connected to the boat; the other is connected to a smaller skiff. When we are ready to make a "set," our captain gives the word, we release the line tying the skiff to the stern, and our skiff driver pulls away in the opposite direction. The skiff functions as a sort of mobile anchor, executing smaller maneuvers, and maintaining the shape of the set.

The net is stacked so as to easily roll off the back deck; the skipper lays it out, trying to achieve a long arc (usually off a point or at the mouth of a bay). Our net is 250 fathoms long (a fathom is about 6 feet) and contains four main elements: a floating cork line, a weighted lead line, the purse line, and the webbing itself. Between the corks and the leads, there are up to 20 fathoms of webbin. The leads stretch the web down towards the bottom. Since the lead line is shorter than the cork line, the bottom of the net automatically puckers a little.

When we are towing the net, this creates a physical barrier and an area of higher pressure that work to push the fish back up toward the surface and the center of the set. Since we set against the direction the salmon are instinctively swimming, those that get spit back up in this manner generally turn to swim back into the net.

Once the net is laid out, we tow for 20-30 minutes. Eventually (as is actually happening now) the captain and the skiffman turn their vessels toward each other, turning the arc into a circle and closing the net. It's at this point that the purse line enters the process. The purse line actually runs through a series of steel rings that sit below the leads and are connected to them by shorter lines.

One end of the purse line is kept on deck from the beginning of the set; the other is spliced to the "king ring" at the opposite end of the net. Once we have hauled the king ring on deck, we begin tightening using a powerful deck winch (usually referred to by one of a variety of strictly non-PC terms, the tamest of which is "gypsy-head"). As we tighten the purse, the natural pucker in the bottom of the net is exaggerated to cinch the bottom of the net together. At this point we've got something that resembles an upside-down purse.

From here, John and I finish hauling in and stacking the net, the skipper makes some disparaging remarks about Paul*, and we hopefully dump a few thousand pounds of salmon into our fish hold.

Here's a fast-forward version of a set as seen from the deck. Though the boat in the video has a slightly different set up, they're using essentially the same method we do to Catch Salmon.

*In the skipper's (and Paul's) defense, I actually overheard the boss say that Paul has a pretty good touch with the skiff, which can be a difficult monster for a greenhorn to handle. In fact, despite all his barking, he is fond of saying that he has no complaints about any of us newbs or our work, other than the fact that we "can't keep his damn galley from looking like a ****in pigsty!"

Freedom Fishing

2011-07-11T23:37:00.001-04:00

7:00 pm, July 3

Left port yesterday late afternoon and arrived at Ruth Bay near 7pm. Whales all over the place so capt. decided not to set. Guys & I chilled and had a few beers. Watched The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence. Big surprise, John fell asleep within five. Paul stayed up till the end with me though. P-Dubs said it was one of the few John Wayne movies he hadn't seen; neither of us much impressed (A soundstage for a highway robbery? Really John Ford? You know you could have done better); even so, it was interesting to see Wayne and James Stewart playing together.

Woke up this morning at 4:10 am to the engine starting. As usual, John (on our boat—not Wayne) rolled out of his bunk cursing in eagerness to winch up the anchor before Paul or I were even coherent enough to realize how godforsaken early it was. I actually did pretty well this morning. Fell out of my own bunk and straight upstairs trading night shorts for the pants I've worn the last four days—and a shirt looks like I've been working in it the last four weeks. After pulling clothes and boots on, we generally sit around slack-faced pouring coffee down our faces and eating cereal. Today was pretty much the same—me slightly more energized by the thought and awe of Alaskan summer daybreak.

Sunrise was pretty enough that I snapped some pics during the first set; boats silhouetted against the horizon hauling in their nets and all that. Did pretty well on our first few sets. The fourth was possibly our largest yet. We estimated upwards of 400 fish (approx. 1800-2000 lbs).

Later in the day, a giant kelp monster assaulted us. For some reason there's all kinds of shit floating in the bay today. We threw one giant log and plenty of smaller drift logs over the net. But this kelp monster: we had already avoided two huger floating islands of the stuff, our Skipper dodging around them in our less-than-sporty 88,000 lb. trawler. But this thing managed to swamp into the net, costing us nearly an hour of exhaustion slamming around giant balls of slimy tentacle and tail before we could shuck it from the boat. For our pains, the monster shit behind it 64 fish onto the deck. Thanks a lot mother eff—uh, Mother Nature... Chalk it up to a coastal karmic return.

I said we made what was probably our largest haul this morning; ironically enough, our haul in on the kelp catastrophe was much heavier than that set.

Suffice it to say, three sets later we haven't seen a dramatic increase back to that othwer stellar set. It's getting late and we're pretty friggin exhausted. I'm finishing this entry while we tow on what will be our last set unless we have a large enough pay off to warrant one more go.

It occurs to me that words like "haul" "set" etc. might not make much sense yet since I haven't described the basic process of what we do as commercial salmon fishermen. I'll give a brief run-down of how the job works in the next entry.

Just made that "maybe final" set. 161 fish = here we go for another round. We've been at it for over 15 hours today, but a haul like that most def keeps you motivated.

5:45 am, July 4

Today I imagine a slightly modified Neil Sedaka hit as our morning anthem. Because "Waking up is Hard to do" ::groans from the audience::, even with the sound of a 400 lb. lunk of cast iron and 750 lb. chain chain screaming just over your head as John raises the anchor. This morning I actually covered my head with my arms as I heard the thing clanging up into its rest right above the foc'sole, simultaneously reflecting how useless those arms would be if the the anchor should somehow break through its housing and the steel deck to crash our sleeping quarters.

Such morbid considerations only go so far towards getting me mobile in the morning (I have nearly as strong a tolerance for alarm clocks as the Dread Pirate Roberts had for iocane powder, ask my former roommates). It did help when the Skipper barked for someone to winch up the skiff (usually my chore). Paul beat me to that one. I got the Skipper's bagel and took first deck prep to feel like I was contributing to our little wake up routine.

Besides, I gave the guys a little serenade. Chasing cereal and coffee with my breakfast cocktail (multivitamin, ibuprofen for hand de-inflammation, adderall), I grabbed the iPod right before the first set. When all else fails, nothing beats a little Italian Opera for getting the brain and bones moving. As a bonus, my machine shuffled out some ocean-appropriate Jack Johnson.

And before you know it, I'm humming along to a glaring Alaskan sunrise over Afognak Island, then I'm typing a mile a minute, then it's time to go out and haul in our first set...

Good morning Independence Day.

Memo: Good news on the crimped hands front! About ten days ago John and I were feeling the tendinitis through our wrists down to the elbow and all through our hands. In addition to the bald, not-let-you-sleep-more-than-a-couple-hours-at-a-stretch pain, there was the tingling and eventual numbness in most digits and through the palm to get excited about. Boss consoled us that it would go away in three or four years, that we were pansies anyway, but that a wrist brace might help (wrist brace: alternately referred to as a bowling sleeve—John says it's sort of inspired him to join a league when he gets back home).

Four days ago I realized I was waking up in the middle of the night more from the sound of the engine than from the ache. Two more days and I got really excited when I realized I could feel my pinkie and ring finger. Mostly it's all in the fingertips now: it's the little things.

Una notita

2011-07-01T23:55:00.000-04:00

Just hit up the local biblioteca on the tail end of two hours of "personal time" the bossman gave us before we leave port this evening (For "personal time" see also, "sharing a few pitchers over a couple games of poorly played pool" and "our captain wants to get the hell away from us for a few hours").

Thought I would chime in with some memorable quotes from the day, though...

Paul (Crewmate): Hey, Bob just to remind you, I need to go to the post office to mail a package for my girlfriend--
Bob (i.e. the Skipper): You already told me that once; you think I f****in care?

--------

Bob: John! Are you keeping an eye on the lazarette like I told you?
John (Crewmate): Hey, there's a joint floating in the water?

--------
(from 2 weeks ago...)

Paul is working with the skipper in the tophouse. As his hand, recently lacerated, crosses the skipper's field of view...

Skipper: Ah! Get that away from me you aids-infested butt-pirate.

(sorry, but remember I offered warnings in the last post. As the journalists say, it's just my job to report the news....)

So that's all for today folks. Hopefully tomorrow will find us taking in massive hauls of red and dog salmon in Duck Bay. More likely, it will find my crewmates waking up in the bunk to my late night dreams (complete with yells) of stacking the net, repairing the boat, fixing the net after whale-events. You know, just the usual.

Salmon Slaying

2011-06-29T00:40:00.000-04:00

23 June, 2011

A little over three weeks ago I shrugged up from a naplike stint on a bank of vinyl gate seats in the Anchorage airport to go wash up for my flight into Kodiak, Alaska. I've found that most states of exhaustion can be relatively and at least momentarily shaken off with a doze, maybe a bite to eat, and a solid scrubbing of the teeth, face, and hair. If you are male, and have the opportunity to shave, this also seems to help. I remember the staff psychiatrist at a small university I attended for a while who advised the students to do things like look in the mirror every day and say This is a sharp looking guy! I like this guy! or walk around the school self-talking, What a great place! I'm really glad to be at this place. He also told us that brushing one's teeth, whether or not you've eaten recently, is an effective way to enhance one's mental state.

So while I can't say that I hit the tarmac of the Kodiak airport full of energy, at least I showed up at my job with a nice little hygienically sound endorphin boost to get me through the last puddle jump of a 24-hour travel day.

What job? Well, turns out I managed to land a spot on a commercial salmon fishing boat for the summer. I've decided to fire up this old blog so I have somewhere to share stories with folks back home. It also doubles nicely as an open-access locale wherin to dump info, pics, and digressive narration for my fellow crew members and myself to remember.

Back to the arrival though...I especially appreciated that little wake-me-up after deplaning, driving the ten or so minutes into Kodiak, and throwing my stuff onboard what was to become my and my crewmates' project for the next two plus weeks: F/V La Mer. A 48 foot steel-hulled trawler outfitted for seining, the La Mer (yes, the "the" is redundant) draws about 8 feet of water, is blue with a grey aluminum tophouse and, as I was reflecting the other day, bears a remarkable resemblance to her skipper: Bob Bowser.

Bob himself led me to start comparing his project and possessions to his person. Bob is 6' 2" and about 370 pounds. Discussing the galley (read: kitchen, dining, and sometime sleeping area) that had been completely taken apart and not yet put back together, Bob mentioned that he might have gone a little overboard when building the supports for the old galley dining table, but that he liked to make things bulky and strong. I already knew Bob worked in his offseason as a machinist and blacksmith, making it an easy stretch to imagine him as some jolly Phoenix-Hephaestus mashup, emerging every Spring from the fires of who knows what subterranean forge to exchange his leather apron and drill press for Carhart overalls and Cabella's rain jacket, shake hands with Neptune, and chase the Chinook down the Aleutians with his great net of steel.

Of course Bob himself, an excellent storyteller, tends to eschew such overblown descriptions. And of course we tow our nylon-webbed net around Kodiak Island—far east of the Aleutians—and don't intentionally fish for Chinook. Still, the 40 lb. steel triangle and crossbar lying at the end of our float (one of the old table supports) speaks of a preference and a man that, if not a demi-god, is at least larger than what some of us call normal life.

More about Bob later. And believe me, there is plenty. However, I better get around to some snapshots of the last three weeks before we get to wherever the hell the boat is currently taking us (because, as is typical in Bobworld, we have no idea) and start catching fish.

So, to backtrack again, my rather long day of airline travel began in Augusta at 11am EST, May 31^st. After Charlotte, Phoenix, and Anchorage, I got to Kodiak at 7:45am Alaska time (just about 12 noon EST) June 1. Bob was waiting in his midsize Dodge pickup. I threw my single carryon and bookbag in the bed, and we drove to town. I at least three and a half hours talking with Bob on the phone to prep myself and my expectations for the trip. While I knew there was some carpentry work waiting for me and the other crew, I still held out some kind of hope that the boat would be in better shape than we found it.

Bob moors his boat bow first in the slip he has leased from the harbor for more than 15 years. From the float, you approach the La Mer on her port side (left, if you're facing the front or bow of the boat). Since she's a fishing vessel (f/v) fitted for seining, the galley and wheelhouse are forward, up towards the bow and foc'sole. This creates a large open stern deck from which you can easily lay out and draw in your net while underway. Additionally, this give you space for a large belowdecks fish hold midship (the fish hold on the La Mer can hold about 20,000 lbs of fish). Of course none of that was important to explain to a crew that didn't even have a place to eat, so we'll get to it later.

In the meantime, when I got there, the backdeck was full of work litter: some rickety saw horses, a couple power tools, sheets of plywood, 2x4s, totes, extension cords, rigging lines, boxes... As I stepped inside, what still remained of the galley was disheartening to anyone hoping to go fishing at...well, almost any point: on the starboard, the old diesel stove, single counter, and sink were piled with last years sauces, seasonings and dishes—in addition to assorted tools and a healthy coating of dirt, grease and sawdust. On the port side was Bob's old bunk, now a funky memory foam mattress piled with all manner of beanbag cushion, pillow, man-funk smelling sheet, junkbox, and—of course—the odd tool. As I mentioned, I was instructed to toss my stuff into the forecastle or foc'sole (here a lot of people pronounce it fox-ole). Of the three bunks, only one wasn't piled with boxes of hydraulic parts, small appliances, books, and tools. In contrast to my 21 years of experience in the Karin Phillips Cleaning Brigade, I could see that—as I expected—most guys that had gone before me here weren't exactly preoccupied with neatness.

After breakfast at a local diner, I started working on Bob to figure out what the hell we were going to make out of the cluster-chuck that was our living and dining area. It took a few stories and digressions, but I think on that first day we got a floor in on top of the angle iron frame someone had constructed, and started brainstorming the benches and table.

The next night Paul Wall (not actually his last name) showed up, followed within a few hours by Big John (slightly smaller since he stopped playing D-1 football and cut his calories). We all went to El Chicano for some mid-level tex-mex and high-level oogling (the two most attractive girls any of us have seen in Kodiak both work there). By the next morning, we were working full bore to get the boat ready for the season. As the crew of the Sisiutul sat patching their net in the slip next to us, prepping to leave port in mere days, we were staring at two plus weeks of work before we would even fire our engine (let alone begin to rig fishing tackle).

This post is getting almost as long as the summer days here... Of course, even that attempt to finish up leads to another digression: we're two days past the solstice now and the sun barely sets before peeking back over the horizon ("dark" is fairly unknown, outside of the cave that is our sleeping quarters). Between this overabundance of daylight, Paul and John's overweening desire to start fishing, and our collectively strong work ethic (and a healthy supply of adderall), we spent these first weeks extending Dolly's workday past 11pm most nights. It's a strange feeling to drive about looking for an open restaurant at midnight with dusk still settling, briefly, in.

So to make a long story of long hours short...er, here is a list of some of the projects we've undertaken (organized with loose attention to chronology and project type—some of the carpentry and skiff projects were done by, or with the assistance of, Bob's friend and former crew member, Rick). More, and plausibly more interesting, stories to follow:

Carpentry & Such:

Installed plywood galley floor

Built and installed fore and aft galley benches and backs, and starboard box seat

Scrubbed and organized kitchen

Cleared out foc'sole/bunks (moved and stored shit, vacuumed, put in new mattresses...found 8 bucks loose change for beer fund...)

Cut storage hatches in galley floor and benches

John ordered into foc'sole to organize wrenches and sockets

Cleaned out old galley bunk (topside)

Attempt to fix stereo system

Tacked up foc'sole entryway carpeting

Built boot bench

Installed assist water pump for toilet

Cleaned and zipped hynautic and hydraulic hoses

Rewired main switch panel (running lights, new bilge pump alarm, etc)

Installed new/rebuilt main throttle controls

Rewired foc'sole bunklights and fans

John ordered back to the engine room and wrenches

Rebuilt pots n' pans drawer

Installed new outlets and light switch

Took boxes of boat junk to warehouse

Covered bench faces, etc w/formica

Installed linoleum flooring in galley

Sanded rust off stove

Cleaned rust and sawdust off kitchen counters and dishes

Connected wiring to previously installed outlets to control panel

Built roll-proof shelf for coffee-maker

Re-rebuilt angry-John-proof pots n' pans drawer

Installed trim on all new carpentry

Cleaned and sorted kitchen area again

Took more shit out to warehouse

Replaced hydraulic deck hoses

Replaced more hydraulic deck hoses

Installed macerator pump (i.e. shit and toilet paper chewer) in head (i.e. toilet)

Installed mini-fridge under kitchen counter

Replaced fuel pump in boat

Brought boxes of needed boat junk back from warehouse

Refit topside bunk with pillows and sheet

Foil-wrapped stove exhaust

Replaced vhf antenna on mast

Moved control and exterior light switches from galley to tophouse

Installed new mast lights

Cleaned and zip-tied wires to mast lights

Washed & cleaned engine room

Removed 200 lb boom winch (to drop off for rebuild @ shop)

Replaced rebuilt boom winch and lines

In Dry Dock

Pressure washed and grinded entire boat below water line

Primed and painted boat bottom

Changed Prop

Installed zinc plates (corrosion prevention)

Splash-zoned all potential net snagging spots on boat bottom

Heated and hammered dented edge of keel

Skiff

Replaced busted starter

Almost blew up skiff (meanwhile frying new starter)

Replaced fuel filter

Installed functional new starter

Skiff almost blew up again on first trip around the bay leading to...

Replaced skiff impeller

Installed new kill switch, horn, and temperature and oil gauges

Fixed bilge pump

Skipper accidentally fried new horn, and temperature and oil gauges

Replaced main exhaust hose

Restored jet bucket to functionality

Replaced busted side bumpers, and inflated all side bumpers

Miscellaneous

Used grinders and chisels to break welds on 2800 lbs of steel bars (ballast) in fish hold

Removed steel ballast using cannery crane and forklift attachment

Cut and fit skewed table top (to match unplump, non-squared seating area)

Welded nuts to table mount; installed pedestal for tabletop

Replaced pump in fish hold

Installed new freezer on tophouse

Cut and installed wet/dry runner for galley and grip runner for table

Picked up net from cannery

Sewed up holes in net and lead line

Ran new purse line

Fabricated new pelican/tow line for net

Coast Guard Dog & Pony Show

Prepped survival suits

Rewelded and refit inflatable life raft release cage

Partially replaced EPIRP satellite system

Replaced entire EPIRP satellite system again (during coastie inspection)

A brief asterisk: as I'm spending my summer with a bunch of sailors, the humor and language are apt to flow over into my typespeak. Just sayin...

Asterisk number two: I'll be uploading these things as I can whenever we pull into town and I can't make it out to the library. This was written about ten days ago. Since then, we've had more or less seven days of fishing—some of it very good—and are starting to see some return on our work. It's kicking our asses, and John and I sleep with our hands crimped over our chests like meningitis sufferers (coiling the net 7-10 times a day leaves most greenhorns with at least temporary tendinitis), but morale is high, we're making money, and we wake up every morning to vast Alaskan blue and green land- and seascapes. We're back in port for two days now to fix a skiff seal and better repair our net where a whale busted through it...

See, I told you there would be more interesting stories.

Snow, Snow, Snow

2010-12-13T07:38:00.000-05:00

So we gots some snow in Knoxville, TN. Not sure how much, but definitely enough to make me readily agree to reschedule a meeting I was supposed to have today and spend the next twelve hours or so huddled next to a space heater writing, grading, and maybe taking a nap.

Anyway, I got all inspired by the snow to hook up some snow-themed references. I posted this link on facebook to share a little Christmas cheer (and latent racial othering: note the extremely black barman's hand brought in to contrast nicely with the snowy drinks and white people free to roam about the car...) as I was saying, to share some cheer from the 1954 classic White Christmas starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney. Of course, I could never get why Rosemary Clooney was the lead female when my childhood self was so much more easily taken by Vera-Ellen. Maybe Hollywood figured it would get the best out of its female roles and balance Clooney's prestige and acting creds. with Vera-Ellen's sexy legs, pretty face, and solid dancing chops. Say, whatever happened to dancing and singing in film anyway? Not complaining, just wondering what shifted in our preferences (and consciousness?) to cause musicals and dance films to loose their appeal.

Regardless, here's a guy who died the year after that film was produced and apparently isn't too concerned with Dickensian ebullience. That's right! It's Wallace Stevens's...

"The Snow Man"

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

So whaddaya say: Nihilist? Spiritual disciple of the via negativa? Mere writer of confusing sentences parading as poetry? Something completely different?

I report. You decide. Or rather, don't decide, but posit your best response in a public forum of constantly developing conversation.

(Man, that would make a horrible Network tagline)

Peace of Mind

2010-12-01T23:42:00.002-05:00

These weeks I've been lamenting the lack of musical variety in my life.

My iTunes is about played out and I haven't been quite ready to flip the switch on Christmas music--especially since the Winter Wonderland has been a little delayed in arriving (sweaty days at last week's end). As I drove to school this morning, it fell in some fuller force with the whitey flashmob that blew across my windshield.

Which is why I started this post in the first place: not to say anything long-winded. Just to register my own little Hosanna in Excelsis: all because of Boston.

Well, Boston and the 8 bucks it cost me to pick up their greatest hits in the checkout line at Walgreen's yesterday (I also got CCR's Cosmo's Factory for $4!). I've been getting dangerous around stores. Since I like to cultivate this general feeling that I'm ludicrously busy (I'm really only stupid-busy: big difference)--anyway, since I cultivate this feeling, I put things like cooking, laundry, and grocery shopping off for pretty non-existent reasons. So when I do get to a commercial center of any sort, something primal that senses the need to hunt, gather, and accouter my camp with all necessary provisions sort of freaks out.

Last week I went to Kroger for Cereal and left with $67 worth of stuff--about half of which was edible product. Of course, the only reason I even made it over to the Krog was because I had decided to stop in at Taco Bell for some reading instead of using the drive through. That's how I have to do it: self-entrapment. I have to juke out my own tendency to avoid the simple and necessary deed that should be done, and done quickly. Approaching the car after my fresco fit tacos and 4,000 calorie soda I reason...

Oh? Look at that! You're like forty-three steps away from the store. That store that has the stuff you need to continue the whole cell growth and production thing.

I turn towards the store.

Dude. What are you doing--you're way too busy (didn't I just spend forty minutes eating tacos and reading a non-assigned book?) busy busy busy! Besides, you've got like--half a shaker of pepper, and a jar of peanut butter left in the pantry.

I turn towards the car.

Yeah, but the mayo is almost gone!

Forty-five minutes later I walk out of Kroger. I don't even know what I've bought. I have three or four bags. There are edible things in some of them I am pretty sure. I'm almost certain that I got at least two more cans of the weird sirloin and shrimp canned soup I've never actually eaten. Bewildered I lurch to the car, throw in the bags and drive home.

Fast forward.

By the time I got to the counter in Walgreen's, I'd lost track of what exactly was in my hands. I remember eyeing a foam device that spaces out your toes.

That might come in handy some time (Dude, the photo expressly illustrates these are designed for people who wear dress shoes). Man, I should get my black dress shoes out of that locker in the aquatics center...they've been there for like--two months. I'd like to be able to wear black slacks again: all my khaki and earth tone pants are dirty...so are my jeans (Dude, I think you should just do some laundry: wait, stop. Focus. Put that toe-foam shit back.) Man, I bet these feel cool (Don't you see the pointed open-toe design in the picture? And the elevated heel? N/A: Not applicable.) Oh, look, there's that foot cream I came here for...

Some inner wisdom turns me away from the seasonal isle.

Notice I said lost track of what was in my hands. Because I didn't get a basket: I'm only here for two toiletry items. That's it. What the hell is all this junk. Snazzy socks for a buck a piece: oh yeah, clean socks and no need to do laundry for a couple more days. What else? I'm not sure. Before I can register all the crap my provisioning mania has left me holding (is that triple antibiotic ointment?) I spot the discount CDs.

Oooo: only $2?

Somewhere in the mix I hit the jackpot. I couldn't make out the CCR album as such at first. When I read the label on the side I was suspect. The first title on the back wasn't that impressive (Really? "Ramble Tamble?" I can probably count the amount of radio plays that one got on the fingers I'm not using to tote all this crap around the store) But wait! "Travelin' Band"? I've heard of that one... "Lookin' Out My Back Door"! Then they kept coming, "Who'll Stop the Rain," "I Heard it Through the Grapevine."

What a score.

Then, as I shuffled through the backwards angled stack with one hand, the storejunk shifted over to the crook of my left arm (by now I'm on one knee directly in front of the register, I have to reposition the junk and myself to let a guy get past me), I thumb upon a Spaceship emblazoned case and register certainty simultaneous with my disbelief. Yes: this does bear the trademark of the covers that have passed many a time on my Pandora feed. This is, in fact, a collection of the greatest hits of Boston. "Peace of Mind" is there. So is "More Than a Feeling." I can't believe my good fortune (when you don't download songs and rarely get around to buying albums since Pandora plays most of what you want, a good CD is kind of a big deal. Then again, a lot of things are kind of a big deal in my world). "Long Time" "Amanda" and "Rock and Roll Band" (Classic!!) are all there as well.

It's a short trip back to the house. I don't listen to the CD till this morning. Which felt like Christmas morning for more reasons than the flurries. It's really rather strange that I haven't taken the five to fifteen bucks it costs to iTunes this stuff or grab it from a used CD's place before now. Especially when I enjoy it so much. Just to think: any time I want, I too can sing along with Tom Scholz's crew and their ironic falsettos and killer guitar riffs.

Today I told someone that I was really stoked because I picked up a Boston CD and was rocking out with it on the way to school. "How do you rock out to Boston?" I didn't really know what to say. Is asking that question tantamount to a constitutional inability to comprehend the answer?

Later on, in a small computer lab half-filled with enervated grad students I mentioned the CD. This time one of my compadres launched into a pretty full-throttle "No, we didn't have much money / We barely made enough to survive" and I joined in.

Awesome.

Then it was back to copying essays for evaluation and getting over to an office across campus to drop the forms off that should have been taken care of in the morning (well--should have been taken care of yesterday). Luckily, the next major activity to totally devour my attention was actually related to finishing coursework. A few hours later, around five pm, I emerged from a seat in the Library in a daze, having more or less completed my basic formal mapping of a novel.

What is it that I'm supposed to get done today?

Man, I need to get some agency.

Sunday Sunday

2010-11-14T14:30:00.003-05:00

Maybe I was being punished. After all, at breakfast I had ignored the promptings of my conscience and continued in the book I was reading while I ate my Special K Red Berries (what can I say, it was on sale) and drank my O.J.

The book wasn't even that good, and now I was stuck in a liturgical time-warp. To begin with, I couldn't get over the fact that the entrance hymn began with the same riff as Chicago's "Where do We Go From Here."

As mass progressed, the effect of the drab architecture and soggy day was compounded by the mash-up of leftover late-seventies samples: a strange cacophony of disco-jazz voices apparently stolen variously from Abba, old Shaft reruns, and the soundtrack of any Disney film set in New Orleans--oh and whatever Jimmy (Page, Hendrix, Smith?) inspired the kid with the Les Paul and the wah-pedal.

When the cantor got up for the responsorial psalm, we listened to her model the refrain "The Lord is kind and merciful" and I wondered what sort of congregation this was that could possibly match her virtuosic lounge singer melodies. I didn't try. I was too distracted: with all my head-scratching modernist angst I feel out of place as it is in a place of worship. Moreover, in addition to the wet day making it hard for me to stay energized, my attempt at some semblance of weekly reflection was now getting sidelined by the prima-donna with a predilection for wind-chime crescendos.

Like I said, it's my own fault. If I had put my book down and been more diligent I could have made the ten-o'oclock downtown, enjoying the blend of traditional hymn and charismatic effluence I'm a little more used to: you know, a little "Eagle's Wings" mixed in with the "Godhead Here in Hiding," and a nice bit of silence under vaulted ceilings after communion. Or maybe you don't know. Regardless, I was the one who dallied. Then again, it's a bit of a miracle for me to be functionally anywhere before eleven am these days: my weekly (or semi-monthly) hauntings are the closest I get to communing with the divine unbeing and the choir was throwing off my chi.

The priest threw it back a little. Readings about the end of times, one of my favorite topics (and part of my intended research), and he could have gone with the standard, don't worry about apocalypse, just make sure you've been to confession, but he stretched a little further. It was a bit of an esoteric stretch--something about the Second Coming not possible till the Sacraments were at an end--but the end result was exciting: don't worry about when God's coming back, since the whole point of him coming the first time was to say he'd always be here. If nothing else, I could appreciate the logical elegance. I closed my eyes through the second half of mass and drank in the semi-silence of the his prayers, thankful the choir is only sporadically present till the great Amen.

Like apparently all things these days, this eventually led my thoughts back to the stuff I'm reading along with schoolwork. Girard likes to think of apocalypse as a more secular/cultural phenomenon that's always potentially happening. Things get out of hand, we kill somebody, things get better. He thinks it's getting worse. Then I thought of the kiss of peace and the fact that there was a minor apocalyptic struggle for seat space in my pew at the beginning of the service. I ended up between a dark-skinned couple of north African extraction on the left and some older suburbanites on the right.

I was thinking about pettiness till the lady on the left told me not to worry about the books I had crowding the seat. It was still residually present till the couple on the right--as we exited--each said some nice words to me about being happy to worship together. In case you're not Catholic, this is a little exceptional. Half the reason a Catholic Church is a great place to let your inner introvert run wild is that no one who doesn't know you is likely to give you a second glance, let alone speak kind words to you.

These were appreciated. I have to confess I actually thought of coming back next week, annoying music and all: if you sit next to someone enough times they're likely to offer you a homecooked meal, right?

With the parentals and younger sibs coming in next week, and the roomie offering a family berth for Thanksgiving festivities, though, maybe I'll just stick to the Zatarain's and PBJ's for now. And get back to work at some point. On the agenda for today: reading, grading, more reading, printing a mess of articles and some concrete mapping out the writing sample. Here goes...

Poetry Much?

2010-09-24T17:21:00.000-04:00

e.e. cummings on love and lust (apologies for formatting glitches and giant spaces)

Soon to follow (maybe?): A brief review of Oliver Stone's Wall Street, starring Michael Douglass and Shia Lebeouf. With a separate spoilers section.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

N.b. Cameron Diaz recited this poem to her on-screen sister in the 2005 movie In Her Shoes.

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg.  ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

         (it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

Summer Syndrome

2010-06-21T14:01:00.004-04:00

Last night I drove home in my shuddering car at one in the morning, making intensely responsible plans for today. The car was shuddering because - well, actually I'm not sure yet. But it's been shuddering for about three days. And pulling intensely to the right. I fear major alignment and suspension woes.

My responsible plans involved a quick bed-prep, some reading, then six hours of solid snooze before waking to an eight-o'clock cup of coffee, some practical this-n-that, and six hours of solid read time for the M.A. comprehensive exam. I thought I could do it. I thought I could make a quick stop at Super Smash Brothers on my way to the bed. Play a few rounds. Read. Wake. Produce....

Fail.

Four hours later I finally have my ante-somnulent reading time. Starship Troopers and pre-dawn light outside my window: see if I can salvage a few hours of sleep and some sort of Monday responsibility.

Even when I finally did wake up I was sillily hopeful.

Respond to friend's inquiry: check.

Coffee: check.

Call the mechanic:...

I wonder how Chile is doing against Switzerland.

Better go back upstairs and get that miscellaneous stuff done.

You know, other than the U.S., Chile is the only team I'm really following.

Skip soccer, stay on target! Stay on Target!

Tied nil nil at halftime? I haven't gotten to see Chile play since qualifiers - where's Suazo?

Doh.

Apparently my curiosity as to how much and what quality of work I could get done with a modicum of discipline and regularity is to remain still-unsatisfied.

Enter the afternoon: Showered and Shaved and ready to work promptly at one pm. Gear organized - gameplan restructured.

Enter the digressions: Oooooo, funny blogs! - should send this link to someone; I agree, Final round of the U.S. open was a major let down... Hmm, that'd be a clever status update...

Back on track. Phone calls responded to: Check. Contracted for a small job with needed cash flow: Check. Call mechanic, set up car appointment: Check. Find tax forms to mail for refund: Check. Budget check-up: Check. First three hours of comps reading:... Any comps reading?... It's two-thirty?

Chill out: you totally only took three days to respond to a potentially major car issue! Achievement win! Break out the stickers!

This could be depressing. I could get really annoyed with myself. I probably should. However, I am still pretty stoked about a.) that totally ninja preventative-attention car move, b.) work contracted, c.) good news on another cash opportunity, and d.) imminent tax rebate mailing! (got the extension back in April).

And what's more, I quite possibly may start on a book this afternoon. Of course, the fact that I've so far read all of two books this summer is a little depressing for someone who claims to love reading and has, in fact, decided to make a career out of literature. But, then again, one of them was Henry James' 650-page study in perpetual story-telling, The Portrait of a Lady. That's a different story though (ha. haha).

So: two-thirty (uh, two-forty-five). Still time to be productive. Enter third productivity restructure: tax mailing, library, comps reading, tutoring session, evening run: Check?

Now entering Stage Three Sleep Deprivation:

2010-04-30T08:03:00.002-04:00

Characterized by mild tremors, reduced motor control, cognitive lag, and speaking to oneself in improvised voices. Also, may produce waves of manic excitement and feelings of euphoria. Occasionally accompanied by random outbursts of enthusiastic singing-along-to-80's-music anterior to complete somatic collapse and degeneration of cognitive function (see Stages Four and Five).

Condition at Stage Three is moderate, recommendation is 8 or more hours of uninterrupted sleep. If this is not immediately possible, subjects are encouraged to find a couch or quiet corner of a library for brief napping....

The good news is that--for better or worse--by 5 pm this evening I'll have two of my still-outstanding assignments out of the way (a syllabus complete with teaching introduction and course rationale, and a set of journal entries on films and selected critical readings) and can look forward to a (hopefully) full night's rest. Who-hoo! After that there's one week of intense effort writing a take home essay exam and a conference length research paper; then I'm scott-free for the semester with one year of grad school under my belt and a Summer of significantly relaxed academic pressures to look forward to. The only question now is, how can I get my blasted fingers to start hitting the right keys again so I can finish up this course rationale for my pedagogy class?

A Little pretty bit of Pound

2009-12-06T23:38:00.003-05:00

"You dragged your feet when you went out.

By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses

Too deep to clear away!

The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.

The paired butterflies are already yellow with August

Over the grass in the West garden;

They hurt me.

I grow older.

If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,

Please let me know beforehand,

And I will come out to meet you

As far as Cho-fu-Sa."

-from "The River Merchants Wife" by Ezra Pound

oops

2009-08-23T20:53:00.000-04:00

(please see revision of entry below)

Vacations (old) and a Very Short Update (new)

2008-10-28T17:26:00.007-04:00

I think I win the award for most negligent blogger.

Here is a salvaged post I rescued from my "drafts" box.

Just to fill in some spaces.

It should be immediately followed by another entry briefly highlighting the end of the program. But who knows: things in Chile often don't go as planned.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

...I have been planning to set aside some time for a well-thought-out post, but as that time may never come in the midst of final month in Chile craziness, I'm going to write what I can and hope that whoever reads will pardon any lack of organization, detail or cohesiveness.

Sunday evening (40 or so days ago....) marked the end of a mostly pleasant long-weekend getaway to a more southern region of Chile, following on the heels of my mostly pleasant trip down to Santiago the weekend before. I've mentioned before that Chile is divided into 13 or 14 "regions." We live in Region II, Antofagasta--which is the second northernmost region. South of us is Region III, below that Region IV, etc... I was at first hesitant to go on the trip: there is quite a bit to do between now and November 25th when we ship out for debriefing and closing ceremonies in Santiago. We have an English Festival on the 14th of November, for which I have foolishly committed-with my very limited musical knowledge-to prepare a girls choir to sing "With or Without You" and possibly "Can't Take my Eyes off You." Then there's an essay project with the 4th level kids (h.s. seniors), applying to graduate school and my normal teaching and tutoring schedule. Then there are of course financial issues and just plain laziness that doesn't want to do anything extra.

However, in the end my buddy Bryce convinced me, so Wednesday night off we were to La Serena in Region IV of Chile. Why Wednesday night you ask? Maybe I should explain. You see, here in Chile it is the custom that for the municipal elections (mayors and councilpersons) the army occupies a couple of schools as voting centers. In places like the capital, Santiago, this means the army comes in Friday or Saturday, the vote takes place on Sunday, and the school starts up again Monday or Tuesday. For my school, on the other hand, voting means we had no classes Thursday through Tuesday: that's four school days plus a weekend.

Awesome.

At least for spontaneous vacationing purposes. For educational purposes it's kind of terrible, especially since such extended pauses are par for the course. The volunteers here have actually started to plan their traveling around such sporadic breaks in the academic schedule. Recently someone suggested a short trip to Iquique--a city to the north, but wasn't sure when we might be able to go. The response from someone else in the group was: "Well, if we just wait a few weeks, I'm sure some kind of holiday or vacation will come up." Sure enough, last week we had Friday off for "Día del Profesor" (teacher's day), where all the teachers spend the day at the beach. This week, as mentioned, two of our schools were off for the voting proceedings, and this Friday some folks are taking advantage of "Protestant Day" (Día de los evangelicos) to make their own little trip to the South.

Our own trip, as I said, began Wednesday night and was a mostly very pleasant experience...

(At this point begins heavily abbreviated version composed a month and a half later)

...mostly pleasant because it involved a fair amount of mareado (nausea) near the end there, along with unbearable periods of not passing vehicles moving at 15-20 kilometers (10-15 miles) per hour. Our driver was a rather over-cautious small town fellow under the strong impression that highways involving steady inclines are a thing not only to be handled with kid gloves, but also obstacles which justify the addition of various hours to travel-time estimates. Bryce and I had a hard time understanding why automobile travel should thus be concieved like bicycle travel, but since out encouragements that he dale! dale! (go! go!) when there were wide vehicle-passing opportunites were met with less than pleasant reception, we succummed (sp?) to putting on the headphones and checking into our own personal backseat universes.

Other than that though, things were pretty amazing. It was great to get into that green, man. The Great North, as previously mentioned, is only made attractive for human habitation due to very lucrative copper mining. The region of La Serena, on the other hand, boasts giant grape-laden valleys, beaches and attractive cities. Bryce and I were also happy to see attractive women: older than 18 and younger than 35 (a demographic rather scarce in Taltal). We were also recieved quite hositably by a teacher of Bryce's and regaled with asados, tesitos and the local sights--including an in-laws valley resort and petting zoo.

Awesome.

We also stayed in an internado, a girl's boarding school that lets out certain rooms to guests. I think we paid 5 dollars a night. Rediculous. Although it came at the cost of a little East wing-abandoned-corner-of-the-old-orphanage-maybe-there-are-spooky-things-here feeling. Bryce said it would be perfect for an Anniesque movie, or a horror movie involving foreign travelers, among other things. The awesomeness of the trip was compounded exponentially for me by the fact that we hit up a go-cart track in La Serena. One of the dudes who ran the place demolished me, but I otherwise held my own. Hugging the curves and letting rip on the stretches. Fun fun. Go-carts aren't that popular down in Chile, so they charge more, but it's made up for by the fact that you ride for about 15 minutes.

Alright peeps. Time's up. Looks like that entry concerning the last weeks will have to wait a few days, or until the next time we share a brew together. Suffice it to say that life in Chile is very pleasant, very exciting, but very relaxed right now. I just spent 2 days at Viña del Mar with some of my favorite people from the program, went to my first real casino and behaved very moderately, spent this afternoon basking on the beach (mid-summer down here now), ate some great mexican food, had a gelatto, and came back to the hostel. Tomorrow I head down towards the city-centre to spend the next two weeks working for the MC's with disabled kids (and spending as little cash as possible). Looking forward to the work, rubbing elbows with some MC's and mooning about the national library and other locales here in the capital.

My best to all. I hope you are well wherever you are.

Much Love,
Billy

Hey There

2008-09-12T22:40:00.003-04:00

Stardate Friday:

Hey all. I've been thinking of saying a word here for a while, just a note to say hello, so here goes....

Here I am at 10:30 on Friday night, at the end of my first full trimester of teaching in Chile: exhausted. And my friends are all waiting for me to come over and learn how to dance Cueca (Chilean national dance) with them. Oh man. Oh, how I want my bed.

This week was pretty crazy. I tutor a friend in English twice a week in the evenings and Tuesday he invited me to have once (tea) with him and his family, which of course meant that we didn't actually start our hour of instruction till about 11:30pm. Next day it was up at 7 o'clock as usual.

That night, after watching a beautifully played World Cup qualifying match between Chile and Colombia (Chile won 4-0: ¡Vamos Chile!), I had already fallen half-asleep when my buddy Max invited me to come have fried fish with his co-teacher's family. I wasn't about to miss an opportunity to eat real food at night (rather than the usual dinner of tea, white bread, and butter--with jelly and maybe some cheese if one is lucky), and also the opportunity to hang out with a really beautiful family, so I roused myself for another round. Suffice it to say that the food and company were wonderful enough to keep me out till almost 2am...on a Wednesday.

Yeah: welcome to Chile.

It was so good though, and also justified in being a going away party for Max, who left the next night for a planned 2 week ski-trip. No prob., I thought: I'll get the sleep back with a siesta tomorrow.

So I got the siesta Thursday (1 and 1/2 hours of midday goodness) which was fortunate, because that day was also the hieght of end-of-trimester grading craziness. 320 odd students; foreign grading system; a million homeworks to grade; a million more turned in at the last minute; wanting my grade to count and be logical--not wanting to mess up some kids high school carreer...It was so much fun (he said sarcastically). So much fun that I decided to stay up most of last night grading...spent most of today grading...and finally finished at about 6 pm, making the last last minute correction and signing out at the high school. Felt so good.

Anyway, now they are calling me: "are you coming to practice with us?" Oh bed, I love you. But I love my friends too...and I need to learn Cueca. Hopefully I won't let myself get persuaded into another late night. Whatever the case, I see before me a long stretch of weekend, filled with all kinds of sleeping in and lazing about and enjoying of folkloric entertainment in preparations for Fiestas Patrias next week. Ahh....

So. Here I am. At the end of 3 months(!!) in Chile: exhausted, but super-satisfied with my work here; more attached to my students every day--feeling like I have more of an impact every day; more engaged in my relationships (with gringos and Chilenos) everyday. Missing home and so excited at the thought of returning in December, but mourning slightly the oh-so-short time that I have left.

And here I go! "Once more into the breach!" I hope this finds you all doing well.

Much love,

Billy

Happy Birthday Mom!!

2008-08-27T23:45:00.005-04:00

¡Feliz Cumpleaños From my Chilean Students!

(please ignore my really embarassing voice in the background trying to direct them)

Happy Birthday Mrs. Phillips!

Happy Birthday Mom! I hope you had a great day. I love you and have been thinking about you guys a lot. Love,

Billy

All Aboard!...for real this time

2008-07-29T21:34:00.006-04:00

As I was saying earlier...

The point of bringing up the pub in the first place was to eventually get to all the wonderful details of my 2 weeks of vacation. If you are wondering what I am talking about, it is becuase this blog lists entries in order of chronological publication. Thus, to hear about all the stuff leading up traveling in Perú, go back one entry. To see what is behind the creaking door, turn to page 7. Otherwise, just keep reading.

Following all the craziness of town anniversaries and marching in parades and the opening of Corwatt's Corner on the back of our house, I last left you at the bus stop at 3:30 in the morning, Monday the 14th of July. The original travel plan from this point was to arrive in Antofagasta by 8am, buy my ticket North to Arica (northern Chilean border), take care of some financial stuff when the banks opened, and head towards Perú. Unfortunately for me, a whole lot more South Americans use the bus system than North Americans, so the bus from Antofagasta to Arica routinely gets full well in advance. I couldn't find a bus company around in which the trip wasn't agotado (that is, booked straight up). Not catching the bus meant that I would be a day late in my travel plans, and miss meeting up with the crew of volunteer friends in Arica (i.e. traveling alone through foreign parts in Chile and Perú). A great way to start vacation, right?

As frustrating as it was, things actually turned out alright. After taking care of my bank stuff, I got a hold of Mike Krax--another volunteer living in Antofagasta--and was able to hang out with him for most of the day. We took a walk up one of the hills that backs Antofagasta and got to look out over the city and the sea. Not the most impressive thing to look at, as people don't bother so much beatifying the outsides of their homes in Antofa., but it was a welcome pleasure to kick around talking philosophy with Mike. Later we went back to his house and shared a meal with his family. It was so pleasant to get a glimpse into the life he has there in the big city, and especially nice to spend some time with such a great Chilean family. When all was said and done, Mike's host-dad took me to the hostel we routinely use in Antofagasta and I settled in for the night. The next day I was up bright and early (ticket in hand this time) to catch the 6am bus to Arica.

Arica is one of the northernmost cities of Chile, and sits right across the border from the Peruvian entry-point of Tacna. The plan, at this point, was to stay in Arica that night with a teacher from the school where I work who was taking his vacation there with his family, and then leave the next morning to cross the border into Perú. This plan started off working splendidly. I got into Arica around 4pm, had time to be given a tour and see el Morro (giant rock outcropping/old fortress overlooking the city. I was routinely informed that if your boyfriend/girlfriend left you, this was were you came to end your misery), and also to enjoy a beautiful meal at el Pollón (which I think means "the chicken-lover"). You see, the Chilean food I had been eating at my house for the past 6 weeks was wonderfully nutritious, and I was always more than full--but I had rarely been satisfied by it: Just different taste buds I guess. When I got to el Pollón though, where instead of Double Whoppers or 1/4 pounders you order 1/2 or 1/4 Chickens to eat, I suspected things might be different.

Yeah, they were.

My quarter-chicken (breast and wing) came out on a bed of french fries, and accompanied by an avacado salad--topped off with an Inca Cola and condiment assortment. Super-delicious.

So then it was to home and bed and the next morning to cross the border. I had a 12:30 bus to catch and my fellow teacher sort of chuckled at me because I insisted on getting a collectivo (kind of a group taxi that runs a specific route) to cross 3 hours before my departure time, for a trip that he said would take--at the very worst--2 hours from start to finish (see how responsible I was being Mom). Little did we anticipate that on the feast day of Chile's patroness, Maria del Carmen, three-fourths of the country's northern population would decide to try to cross the border into Tacna and celebrate their day off. Suffice it to say that my border crossing took slightly more than 2 hours. In spite of our drivers best efforts to hurry things along every step of the way, I got into the bus depot in Tacna about 40 minutes too late, thus missing another bus. Though slightly frustrating, this pattern of delays became something of a serious adventure, making my journey to Cuzco--if not completely enjoyable--at least really exciting and educational. I learned all kinds of things about navigating South American bus and hostel systems (like how to carry yourself in a manner that makes the three million or so independent, questionable taxi, collectivo, or bus agents that fill the stations not interested in trying to sell you a fare). In all the long days, strangeness and confusion, I feel I also grew a bit interiorly.

At last I made it on board a bus from Arequipa to Cuzco, where I arrived after 4 days of travel, 2 missed/booked buses, 2 unplanned hostel stays, and a ride or two with the Flores bus line (Flores: 1970's hippie-daisy decor., and really heinous on-board 80's music videos for no extra charge). The unpleasantless of the trip was alliviated by chatting things up on the 10 hour ride with a really sweet Peruvian girl named Anghela who was passing through Cuzco on her way home for her own school break. I am coming to believe more and more, also through my time by the sea and some beautiful literature, in the power of beauty to help life make sense.

In Cuzco I stayed with my buddie Max and his buddy Connor who is renting an apartment there. Connor was more than gracious, and refused to accept any cash for his pains--said having people come through kept things from getting boring. After a couple of days in Cuzco, I booked my trek to Machu Picchu: 5 days in the Peruvian mountains, food, equipment, entrance fees and all that goodness to the tune of $170. Pretty sweet deal. The trek itself was, due to sickness that hit me on the last day, actually more enjoyable than the final destination. There happened to be 5 kids from Santiago there, and since I was the only one from the U.S. I was able to split my time pretty pleasantly between the Chilean college kids and the English-speaking folks from Ireland, Australia and Sweden. The Chilean kids were a pleasant and refreshing surprise as I haven't often run into people raised in such a similar environment as myself. That is, these kids had gone to a Christian school (Catholic, in their case), all came from really strong Catholic families, and prayed the rosary together on the trail everyday. Seriously, I felt like I was hiking with a group of kids from Alleluia. So that was nice, and it was easy to feel comfortable with them.

As far as the trek, just being out hiking after such a long absence from the woods was nice enough. The end of the first day found us camped in a rugged little valley, carpeted with oliv-green grass, staring up at two gigantic glaciers in the distance. Sometime after nightfall, when the temperature was starting drastically to drop, and we all emerged from the dining tent, we were dumbfounded by a view of the two glaciers turned a glowing, irridescent blue by the rising moon, which hung over the shoulder of one of the ice-giants. The next day was the most challenging, having some of the toughest ascents (and therefore, in some ways, the most enjoyable). There is something to fighting oneself all the way up the long switchbacks and straight climbs of a mountainside that gives its own reward regardless of whether any spectacular view is achieved at the end of it. Luckily enough, this particular fight also bestowed its visual benedictions--we passed through two small and really enchanting little meadow-valleys, run through with streams, and eventually arrived at the knees of Salcantay: one of the two giants that looked down on our campsite of the previous night.

At times, at least for me, it seems we arrive at something we expect to be powerfully beautiful or moving, without the feelings or responses we expected to have. I think this can be scary, or at least bothersome. We're like: this is the flipping Grand Canyon, aren't I supposed to feel some unimaginable sensation right now? It seems the best thing is to enjoy the thing as you can and rest assured that you will probably have some really profound experience of beauty in the near future--like maybe when you are walking down a dull street not looking for it at all. At least this seems to happen to me. Salcantay and the mountains were amazing though. I can't say that I often felt majestically connected to the divine presence, but I was still pretty blown away--for instance--by how the glacier overwhelmed my field of vision. You could just sit there admiring a whole view, and then turn your head 30 degrees and have another whole powerful vista. Looking back at the pictures now I a even more amazed. It was also pretty neat to see some snow capped peaks with clouds drifting across them further down our path.

So as I said, the trek was pretty great. I also remember a really beautiful spot where two rivers made a noisy collision and ran together as one larger flow. It was nice just to marvel at the force and shape of so much water shoved together over lumbering rocks in some spots. We also we able to see some very pretty waterfalls--often falling right next to the trail. One day, in fact, our descent from a ridge kept offering glimpses of this beautiful waterfall, till the path wound down right past it and I was able to take off my shirt and be one with the water for a few minutes. That same day we later hiked into Aguas Calientes along a set of railroad tracks, singing in Spanish and English and forcing ourselves through the last hours of a very long day.

Just to tie things up now. After four days of hiking we had arrived in Aguas Calientes, the tourist depot at the base of Machu Picchu. In conjunction, I believe, with my decision to stay out till 2am dancing and imbibing one night and waking up at 5am the next day for an 8+ hr. hike (which apparently didn't phase my Chilean buddies, who were among the first up Machu Picchu a day later and in great spirits), in conjunction with that example of rather poor judgment, the old body got rather sick and feverish the night before going up to the Inca ruins. I was more than thankful to purge myself before the porcelin goddess at about 2am, and get another 2 hours of marvelous sleep before pulling out the flashlight and heading up the ancient steps at 4:30 in the morning. Suffice it to say that 2 hours climbing 700 yr. old steps at a serious incline didn't do a lot for my recovery: I spent my first two hours on Machu Picchu camped out half-asleep on one of the terraces that the Incans used, eons ago, for farming...willing myself not to feel like absolute crap. I did have one of the best views of the ruined city though. After waking myself up, snapping some photos, and having a soda with a friend from the trek, I decided I wasn't quite up to going back inside for the guided tour, or even just to walk around. Even if I hadn't had quite the experience I had hoped for in Machu Picchu, I had at least been able to move my body into the ruins, carry it up some stairs, force myself to have a good look, and gladly fork over $7 to take the bus back down to the bottom.

So the rest is pretty much uneventful. Well, at least relatively speaking. I was able to have a really beautiful last day in Cuzco. I got back Thursday night (the trek included a train and bus back down), had 8 hours of sleep, and woke up 300% better. Friday was super chill as I was able to snap some photos, visit a couple of really pretty museums and re-visit the enchanting sections of the city before catching my 8:30pm bus back towards home. The journey back to Taltal was the direct of opposite of the previous adventure. All tickets pre-purchased, no delays, no missed buses or surprise hostel stays, and I arrived safe and sound Sunday about noon with a full 1 and 1/2 days to recover before classes started again on Tuesday.

That was all ages ago by now. We've been back in class for a full three weeks since then. I still love the teaching and am beginning to really love my kids--looking at ways to make the little time that I have with thems more effective, linguistically and as a mentor.

This past week we hunkered down for some serious English debate training as next week begins our regional competition. The kids from Liceo Juan Cortes surprised themselves last year by coming in third place in the region, so we have quite a legacy to live up to and not as much time to prepare. Meanwhile Alfredo is here telling the kids that third was nice, but we want Gold this year. Interestingly enough, I was informed early in the week that we would have debate practice all afternoon, every afternoon this past week. Which is to say, in my school they don't think twice about kids missing a whole week of afternoon classes to focus on one particular extra-curricular. Things just run differently down here. It was really good for the team though, as there was (and is) plenty of preparation to do. So maybe the next blog will cover our English debate exploits, which will include at least two trips to the regional capital (usually quite an enjoyable trip for me) and surely many more mini-adventures. By the way--the regional debates: they take place on two consecutive Tuesdays, meaning another 3 out of 5 days missed two weeks in a row starting Monday. Gosh, they do things differently down here.

Well, until I write again, I wish all the best to all you guys.

Peace,
Billy

P.s. Still no pictures!! What's your problem Phillips?? Okay, so pictures are such a pain for me. I am going to try to make the next entry just a bunch of photos with captions dealing with the Pub opening, the Vacation, and some other adventures. For those who have asked, sorry it takes me so long to get these things up. Much love, Billy

P.p.s. A little section I cut out that I include here for those who still actually care:
....So, when I arrived in Arica (at the beginning of my trip), I was eventually met by my fellow teacher, whom everyone back in Taltal calls Cipe. Cipe, I learned, is actually his last name, which it was no use calling him since I would be spending the next 18 hours with a whole house full of Cipe's (they too, are Catholic, and believers in the wonders of procreation). In fact, more than one of his brother's is named Sergio, so sometimes first names weren't safe either. Luckily he is the only Ivan....

¡A Bordo!....(almost)

2008-07-29T19:46:00.006-04:00

So today saw me back in the classroom after a two-week absence spent navigating my way through the Peruvian mountains and the equally challenging system of buses, terminals and transportation in general in Perú and Chile respectively. My first night of vacation was unexpectedly spent in a hostel in the city of Antofagasta becuase I had failed to purchase my bus ticket from Antofa. to Arica ahead of time, thus forcing me to wait 24 hours in a city only 4 hours from where I live.

In order to aviod chronological dimentia, lets begin at the beginning though. Some blessed day in the second week of July brought the news that the mayor of Taltal was requesting the presence of the students and teachers in a parade on July 12th to celebrate the town's anniversary. This was welcome news, not only because I figured it would be pretty neat to participate in the desfila, but also becuase it meant the mayor was obligated to tack on an extra day to the two-week-long Winter Vacations which would commence immediately after our marching duties were complete.
Score.

Thus I would be free to roam about the continent from the 14th till the 28th of July, giving a little more breathing room to my travel plans, and my pilgrimage to the famed Inca ruins at Machu Picchu. As it turned out, I needed all the breathing room I could get, but more of that later. In order to get to missed itineraries, border delays and floral pattern buses, I first have to tell you about the pub.

You see, Alfredo--my co-teacher in the Ingles Abre Puertas program, and also my host-uncle-brother--seems to be a bit of a dreamer. For a long time now it seems that he has been nurturing one dream or another involving building a quaint beautiful little hotel, restaurant, snack-shop, what have you, in a quaint enchanting location somewhere in Taltal. One such dream took root on La Puntilla, a little point that forms one arm of the Bay of Taltal (once a major trading port in the saltpeter era). It included lodging, food services, and even some sort of building stationed on a rock about 50 yards off the point. Suffice it to say that the Puntilla dream never materialized; however, the same weekend we began our vacation, another vision--that of opening up a pub on the back of the house--did become reality. El Rincón de Corwatt (Corwatt's Corner) has now taken its place as arguably the most happenin' bar in Taltal. And no, that's not because it is the only bar in Taltal (there are actually 3 or 4 others). What makes this place so great--other than the fact that it is located on the back of my house--is that, number one, it has an amazing view of the ocean. Two of the four walls consist largely of window glass and open directly out onto the ocean, a little beach, and--if you are there at the right time--one of the best sunset views Taltal has to offer.

Alfredo's grandfather, Alfredo Cordero Watters, owned the main ship trade and customs-house back in Taltal's heyday. The restobar, as they call it (they open each day as a restaurant for Almuerzo--a heavy lunch, and the main daily meal for most hispanics--and every evening but Sunday as a bar), is fittingly centered around said grandfather and the shipping trade. Trimmed out and panelled in beautiful woodwork, the bar is super-enchanting with everything from a giant model sailboat, a large portrait of Corwatt, a topless mermaid and a bar shaped like a boat (complete with a mast which supports a cross-beam/glass rack).

All that was lacking on the Thursday afternoon before we opened was tunes and customers. The former was installed at the last minute, and the latter showed up later that night for the inaugaración. Having had previous table-waiting experience, I was enlisted as one of the garsons, and even got a sweet apron out of the deal. The first night was, of course, pretty chaotic. I may have written here somewhere about the non-linear thinking of most Chileans (and probably South Americans in general). At any rate, at least in my family, things are not generally planned out in a hyper-organized and regulated way. Life is sort of encountered, and then responses are made to fit the situation. For instance, no one really thought of the fact that a restobar would need a storage room until about three days before the place opened. Thus, three days before opening, the carpenters were levelling ground and pouring a slab for the bodega that would house all our back-inventory and also serve as a prep-room.

In keeping with such non-stratified thinking, a nice little snack menu and list of drinks/cocktails had been printed up and laminated for the bar, regardless of the fact that no one had bothered to list, quantify and purchase all the requisite materials to prepare said food and beverages. Luckily for everyone, one of Alfredo's favorite sayings is: don't worry. Some of the guests were a little worried because there wasn't anything to eat except peanuts and potato chips, I was a little worried because I had to tell a lady that we couldn't make either of the 3 drinks she asked for, but Alfredo, and most of the family/management weren't really that worried. And with good reason apparently. That whole weekend, from Thursday night through Saturday night, the place was pretty slammed from 10pm till 4am. Oh, that reminds me. You know how in the States last call is about 2:00 - 2:30am, and 3 o'clock is a respectably late night? Not so in Chile. Like in Spain, normal kids don't even get together to hang out until 11 or 12 at night, and a 5 or 6am return is looked on as normal. One night we closed at 5am.

Suffice it to say I had a fairly busy weekend before heading North for my Peruvian pilgrimage. In the midst of all this, I got to march with my kids in the town anniversary parade on Saturday, which was highly gratifying. Sunday I spent sleeping, catching mass, and stuffing my things into a bag before catching about 2 hours of sleep previous to my 3:30am bus departure the next day. I am afraid this entry has run a bit long, so I'll insert a pause now, and if you feel like reading on about travel adventures, feel free to read the next installment.

Peace,
Billy

P.s. I'll put some accompanying pics. in this post when I can
P.p.s. Details about the trip itself to follow in a couple of days

To the Desert!

2008-07-06T20:43:00.005-04:00

In order to address certain conerns that have been voiced, I have not recently been kidnapped (though it IS a joke among the gringos here in Taltal that we have often been secuestrado, that is cajoled, convinced or carried off in various ways to attend events with our host families). In the sense of guerrilleras with M-16s and scraggly beards though, there has been no such activity. There has been a lot of activity in general though, so Í'll do what I can to fill you in on a little of life in the past weeks here in Chile.

Its so strange to say "past weeks." Wierd to think that I have been in Chile for over a month. Thankfully, I spent the last of those weeks actually doing something productive. But more about that later. First you need to know where exactly I have been while I have been doing nothing and how it is I got there, why it was I was idle, and what I did with the downtime.

The last entry here left Max and I getting back the hostel in Santiago just in time to hustle our stuff out of the storage room and onto the bus heading to Antofagasta, the capital city of Region II. In Chile, rather than states they have these regions (13 in all) which people usually refer to by their numbers. Roughly, the numbers start with Region I in the North, through XII in the far South, with the Region Metropolitania--the capital Santiago, near the middle of the country--thrown in numberless for good measure. As far as I gather, Santiago was designated as its own region about the same time as they decided to officially switch from numbers to names like, "Los Lagos" (The Lakes), "La Region Atacama" (named for the desert), and our own Region II: Antofagasta (named for the aforementioned principal city). And it was with good reason that they gave the capital its own regional status. Something like 6 of the 12 million people in the country live there. Like I said, in spite of the less formulaesque names, people still widely use the numbers to refer to regions, even the high school kid who took us on a hike today up the cerros (hills) that surround our town.

Orientation in Antofagasta with the other 16 volunteers stationed
in my region, and our director Carla Fuentes (2nd from left).

As you can guess, being in Region II puts us pretty far North. That meant a 20 hour bus ride from Santiago to Antofagasta. 20 hours on a bus in South America probably does not sound like anything anyone would want to do, but the bus situation is actually really nice in Chile. They use the buses much more than in the States, so maybe because of this, and because Chile is one of the most economically/politically developed countries in S.A., the bus system is pretty advanced. For our marathon drive, we took a "salon-cama" bus complete with almost-full-tilting seats, footboards, headphone jacks to get audio for the movies they played, 3 "snacks" and 1 "meal," and a ticker that buzzed whenever the driver exceeded the 100km/hr (60mph) speed limit set, I think, by the bus company.

Thus riding in style, I plugged my phones in and spent the majority of the waking part of the trip watching movies--a pleasure I rarely get to indulge in. Apparently I missed some nice scenery, but most of the time all I saw out my window was dusty brown flatness punctuated by dusty brown hilliness. I kept wondering why anyone would want to live near this sort of life-sapping landscape. The main answer is minerals. Apparently when the Incas were dominating the continent they decided there wasn't really any reason to come past what is now the Northern border of Chile. By the early 1900's however, when man had discovered heavy machinery and saltpeter, Northern Chile became a hot commodity. Beneath all that dead looking dirt and rock, you see, there were all kinds of minables waiting to be tapped and shipped over to England and Germany for lush profits. This is actually the source of a lot of the stories associated with the pub that is opening on the back end of my house...But the pub and stories will have to wait because we still haven't even gotten to Antofagasta!

What I saw outside my bus window

When we did start the approach, I figured that maybe--since at 250,000 people Antofagasta is the biggest city in the region--the blankness would be broken up by well-cultivated, enchanting civilization. I thought about my visit to Spain, where it seems like most cities employ half their labor force in sweeping and washing the streets and sidewalks; where 30 minutes after the raucous gay-day parade that passed through Madrid, the little Street Zambonis were busily brushing and scrubbing all traces of human activity from the pavement. So Antofagasta will be really nice, right? Not quite. Everyone seems to agree (even the natives) that Antofagasta is pretty fea (ugly). It seems like the dust of the desert blows right up to the ocean, giving the city a dulling tint no one bothers to wipe away.

The ocean helps a little

The lack of scenic satisfaction didn't stop a few of us from taking a jog along the coast, or all of us from enjoying the regional orientation with Carla Fuentes--our regional coordinator. And I have to confess that it was pretty awesome to go up to my 5th story hostel room with a bottle of beer (Cristal--the Budwieser of Chile) and spend my evening relaxing on the top bunk, tooling around on my buddy's computer, with the sound of the waves playing right outside my balcony.

View from the hostel: so not everything in Anto. is ugly

The next afternoon we boarded the 4 hour bus for Taltal, where we arrived at about 8pm. I have to confess that my first impression, and the one that stuck with me for quite some time, was quite similar to my first impression of Antofagasta. I remember a Sunday about a week later playing "baby futbol" (roughly equivalent to smallbox) with some kids and looking around at the same blank pale brown and thinking, "Man, this landscape cannot be good for personal interior development."

Back in the bus though, something was happening (qeue corny dramatic music). I don't think I had felt seriously nervous about anything to do with my trip until we pulled into the station that evening and I had gathered my stuff and was moving to the exit. We could see that some of the people there were waiting for us, and this sensation that had been coming on me gradually, got really strong "You will be spending the next six months of your life with one of these families. Are you going to get along with these people? Will they like you? Oh man. This feels a lot like jumping into a cold mountain river or giving blood. Stand up straight. Good first impression. Oh man. Go!"

The First Days

2008-06-18T21:49:00.003-04:00

So. Here I am back in Taltal looking out at a wide expanse of liesure time made available by a nationwide strike of Chilean teachers...which means I´ve got some time to finally write a little about all that has been going on up till this point.
The Great Chilean Enterprise began about two and a half weeks ago with the arrival in Santiago of myself and a little less than 40 other volunteers for the Chile Ingles Abre Puertas (English Opens Doors) program. My own arrival was pretty spectacular. We had gotten an e-mail a few days before departure telling us there would be some filming of the arrival and that a few of the volunteers (not me) would be interviewed. When I came through the airport though, I was a little surprised to see a press of reporters and film crews all really excited at the opening of the sliding doors. Jessica Holt--one of the organizers--flagged me down and explained that I happened to come through right before Selección 23--the Chilean national under-23 soccer team--who had just returned from winning some sort of cup in France or some like business. So we fought the news crowd to the curb with a single, short Ministry of Education camera man manuevering around us the whole time with his single camera.
Thus the Enterprise begun. It continued from Saturday the 31st, the day myself and about half the others got in, until the following Friday, when we celebrated the end of orientation with the Chilean equivalent of a barbeque called an Asado. But I´m skipping over too much!! The week was pretty great. The weather for most of the time was pretty miserable, but that only led to us all becoming closer faster. It was pretty amazing actually, the way all 40 of us formed friendships so quickly. The only thing I have experienced to compare it to is 4 days of orientation when I went to Ave Maria about 5 years ago...Only this time we had the added help of really, really inexpensive alcohol to help the friendship vibes flow.
There was one night when a handful of us discovered a botelleria ("-eria" at the end of anything, by the way, is the Spanish equivalent of "place where whatever came before ´eria´ is sold: thus "tortilleria," where they sell tortillas; "relojeria" where they sell relojes, or watches; and of course, you get your "bottles" at the botelleria) so we discovered this botelleria and everyone bought their own bottle of wine for 1,500-3,000 chilean pesos ($3-$6) and brought it back to the hostel to drink.
I don´t think I´ve laughed that hard, or that much since the first time I saw the Red Green Show. It was pretty excellent. In fact, it was so excellent that the kid running the front desk had to tell us to be quiet 3 times, and eventually had to kick us out to the patio in the back. I´m glad he did though, because that´s where I discovered that one of my roommates--whom I had pegged as a UGA party-hardy frat type--was actually a seriously well-read philosophy major who has also read all stuff on the literature side that I should have read by now as a supposed lit. nerd.
And the roommates were half the fun. Nick, Andrew, Jeremy, Mike and I. It felt like my dorm at Ave again. Some nights I would wake them up shouting in a dream and we would all fall out laughing in our beds once they realized there wasn´t a fire, and I realized I hadn´t been involved in a plane crash (contrary to my dream); another night we all 5 broke out in uncontrollable laughter. In trying to remember what the giggling was all about, the best we can come up with is that at some point we were talking about girls, and at some point I referred to the cute Spanish teacher as "neat."
We did a lot more than just laugh and drink wine, though (we also drank a lot of beer). No seriously, the orientation classes themselves--while sometimes laced with laughter--also provided some great preparation for what we would be encountering as volunteer English teachers working alongside full-time Chilean English teachers. We got great teaching and classroom management strategies--elements which I especially appreciated since I have yet to set foot in a classroom on the other side of the desk. And, as much of a mistake as it was to put the Spanish classes at the very end of the very very long days of orientation, I also felt like these prepared me to jump into the world of Chilean spanish, which differs in certain distinct ways from the standard academic/Spanish Spanish, and the Mexican Spanish I am more accustomed to.
To give you a taste, here are a few "Chilenismos" that we found entertaining...I might put a special column up for humorous Chilean phrases later:
~"cumpleaños de mono" = monkey´s birthday = a big mess, debacle
~"están cayendo patos asados" = roast ducks are falling from the sky = it´s really flippin´hot outside
~"bruja" = witch = wife
~"nada más" = nothing more = say this at the end of just about any sentence if you want to sound Chilean
And many more I can´t remember right now.
So orientation was phenomenal. It was fun. It was hard. It was helpful. And I made some really great friends (whom you can see in the pics. in the earlier post). And it ended with a race to the Cerro San Crístobal on the last day as Liz, Max, Brian and I made a valiant and successful dash for the subway station, through the streets of downtown Santiago, and into the "Fernicular" (a kind of hill-climbing cable car) to see the city from its highest point--this scraggly green hump jutting out of the smog , steel and stone of Santiago. We were dashing because Max and I had only about and hour and a half round trip time to get up the hill, sacar some fotos and zip back in time to catch our bus to Antofagasta along with the other 15 folks who were being shipped to our region. So we got to the top with time to be throughly amazed and resolve to come back and spend more time at the end of the program, before Max and I had to jump back in the cable car and head down, parting oh-so-sadly from Liz and Brian, who were to take the Gondola down the other side of the hill.
Yes. They have Gondola´s to take you down the hills in Chile. My other buddy Mike said he had so much fun taking the Gondola that he did it three times. Ask me some time to tell you other funny stories about Mike--they also involve spontaneous bouts of uncontrolled laughter...and completos. I will explain completos later, but suffice it to say that they are Chilean, they are food, and they are amazing.
Well, Max and I made it back in time--we even had a few minutes for him to buy some lapis lazuli jewelry from a street market for his host mother and sisters. And then? And then Billy decided he had to get off the computer because he had been there so long and his host cousin is politely not saying anything--though he suspects she really wants to be on the Internet.
But there you have a seemingly-long-winded, but actually terribly insufficient account of Billy´s first week in Chile. The next installment should detail our departure for our region, arrival in Taltal, teacher strikes, pisco, laughing schoolgirls and much much more. In the meantime, I send my love and hope all who read this are well. Hit me with an e-mail if you want to catch up personally (though I´m not promising super-rapid correspondance!)
Peace!
~Billy

Taltal: First Glimpses of My New Home

2008-06-14T20:57:00.001-04:00

Photobucket Album

Welcome

2008-06-13T11:26:00.000-04:00

Greetings! So here I am. A blog, finally. Plenty to say, but nothing written yet.

Don´t worry though I will (should) have plenty of interesting and terribly profound things to say real soon...

The plan is to keep a somewhat running record of my adventures here for the present so folks who, for whatever reason, are interested can follow along.

We´ll see how it works out. For now I just want to say welcome to you all, and wish you all ¡buen día!

Peace,
Billy