Death, Dying, Surfing, and the Absurd (Oct. 2008)

Life, at times, can be relentlessly serious. A family member of a friend (who has already suffered a disproportionate amount of loss in her life) is weeks away from dying too young….she has actually already gone and soon her body will follow as her loved-ones sit and wait, and hopefully, make some kind of peace with it all. Another dear friend has just come through a final surgery and is thankfully recovering from cancer and embracing life with a fierce, new gusto. And my adopted Jewish Grandmother, in her 80s, has just won her second battle with breast cancer and is worried about her pending trip to Europe, hoping she will be well and strong enough to share the adventure and joy with her granddaughter. This is the stuff of life and death and love…the looming of the inevitable while we work to appreciate the now. These are some of the dramas that are personal to me right now.

And then there is the “out there” I read about and watch on the news. I watch as the Atlantic Ocean launches cyclonic bombs at the islands and the southern coast. I watch as the banks fail and the value of our houses and retirement funds plummet. I watch as the price of gas skyrockets while oil companies reap record profits and the politicians babble on about what to do. I watch as McCain gains in the poles and the war rages on and on. I note again and again the conspicuous absence of reporting on the death tolls for non-Americans in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. And last night I made the mistake of watching the chilling documentary, “Witness 911” (I should not have done that). And I listen to the pundits pontificate…and I watch as the debates narrow into ridiculous sound-bite slinging….and I marvel at the absurdity. And yet, I don’t want to write about these things. In fact, I can’t write about these things.

On Saturday my friend Deb and I headed to the beach even though it was overcast. We go where Deb has been going for decades, Scotchman’s Cove on the Newport coast, a picturesque stretch of clear water and rugged bluffs hugging a sandy beach peppered with rock reefs and jagged outcroppings. As we pulled into the parking lot we noted a large party of surfers putting on wetsuits and unloading their longboards…unusual for this particular beach. We grabbed our stuff and headed down the steep stairs to the beach and pitched our spot in the sand. We gabbed about this and that and the sky slowly cleared as the sun burned away the marine layer.

Then Deb suddenly says, “Look, it’s a funeral.” I turn around and sure enough there are about twenty-five surfers paddling out past the break towards a small power boat sitting in the calm sea. The surfers paddle into a circle next to the boat and Deb and I sit and watch in silence. A group of people stand at the stern of the boat apparently addressing the circle of surfers. After a few minutes the surfers begin cheering and splashing in unison. They are out there in the circle for some time remembering and celebrating…and then they paddle back to shore. They collect on the beach and eat and drink….the living remembering.

When we leave Deb and I walk along the water and we see the flowers, roses and plumarias everywhere…a beautiful littering of sentiment washed up along the edge of the great Pacific Ocean. I turn to Deb, my friend of 32 years, and say, “If I die before you, ask folks to paddle out for me, ok? Use my boards and spread me over the sea.” She smiles and nods, “Of course.”

Tales From the Bungalow: Jimmy is Tortured by What Only He Can Hear

My brother Jimmy has very sensitive ears, which, if you knew him as a young boy, seems a bit ironic. He was a loud young lad. Very loud. His favorite TV show was Emergency, that 1970’s series that chronicled the do-goodings of two competent young paramedics working the streets of Los Angeles. In those days common was the sight of Jimmy sticking his head out the window of the family station wagon wailing like an “Emergency” siren. We used to joke that so compelling was his siren imitation that cars actually pulled over for the would-be emergency vehicle. The boy could belt it out.

Since those early years it is now well known in the family that if one shrieks or yells in close proximity of Jimmy, he will immediately sport a pained expression and seek to get away from the offending sound-source. He regularly, after getting into my car, turns down the stereo while making faces like an annoyed little-old-lady, declaring, “that is just too loud.” Granted, I tend to play my music quite loud, especially in the car….but Jimmy, we’re in our 40s, not our 90s dear brother!

On several occasions while on a road trip with my brother he has suddenly demanded, “Do you hear that? That rattling noise?” while frantically moving things around the car, shifting CD cases, opening and closing the ashtray, pushing on various panels trying to identify the source of the offending noise. There is no peace until the situation is corrected which sometimes involves pulling off the highway and shuffling things around in the car. I am not kidding. I am not exaggerating. This has happened. More than once. Anyway, you get the picture. The guy is sensitive.

A few months ago a PG&E energy audit of my little bungalow identified my ancient refrigerator as an abominable energy waster and suggested that a new cold box would quickly pay for itself in electricity cost savings. So I decided to buy a new Energy Star fridge, my contribution to saving the planet. Besides, with Jimmy now living with me, we needed more room for his beer and a better setup cause we are both not the greatest bachelors and will forget about food we have bought if we don’t see it front and center. And forgotten food goes bad. And it stinks. Wasting food? Not good for the planet. Stinking food? Not good for impressing would-be girlfriends.

I took Jimmy with me to Sears to pick out the refrigerator. Like some strange Bay-Area couple we checked out the various fridges, contemplating styles, cost versus function, etc. I knew I wanted a bottom drawer freezer with an ice-maker. At last we decided on a nice Kenmore which was delivered and installed a few days later. Ah, a nice new fridge with plenty of room and the food stuff all up top so we could see it and remember to eat it.

The next morning, a Saturday, Jimmy walks into my bedroom and with me bleary-eyed and still in bed he asks “Do you hear that?” “What?” I respond. “That.” I listen hard. “Nope. I don’t hear anything.” I ask him what the hell he is talking about. Jimmy has that pained look on his face and says, “The ice-maker….I heard it all night.” I can’t hear a fucking thing but we head into the kitchen and he opens the freezer drawer, points at the ice tray and explains that after the fridge makes the ice cube it drops noisily into the plastic tray. And the sound is driving him nuts. Now mind you, the fridge sits on the other side of my bedroom wall. I hear nothing. Jimmy’s room is down a short hall away from the kitchen. He is tortured.

In the days following, when hanging out at home, Jimmy would suddenly erupt with, “There it goes! Did you hear that?” Usually I did not. But one night I did catch the little clink of the cube of ice landing on the other little cubes of ice in the plastic tray. Ok, Jimmy is not crazy. At least not for that.

Then one day I come home, open the freezer drawer to grab some ice for my drink and discover a dish towel draped across the ice tray with a few ice cubes resting on top of it. I look at Jimmy inquisitively and he explains that the towel absorbs some of the sound of the ice cubes falling into the tray. He is sleeping better at night with the little makeshift padding strategically placed in our freezer drawer. Weeks pass. Then the other day I went for some ice and saw that the towel had disappeared. Now that the tray is relatively full, it seems Jimmy’s life has gotten a little easier here in the Bungalow. Meanwhile, I still don’t hear a fucking thing.

I Want to Flush the Toilet

After I take a gut relieving piss and pull my pants up over my substantial arse I want to turn around and be in control of the flushing away of my urine. Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong that I don't want to be jolted by a sudden roar behind my half covered self followed by an unwanted spray on my backside because the ghost in the machine has decided it is now time to flush my piss? Please, just give me a foot pedal, let me work back into the security of my Levis, and then I will flush the fucking toilet myself. I promise. I will do it.

Review of Cafe No Se

My friend Steve asked me to write a review for the bar he manages, Cafe No Se, in Antigua, Guatemala. It is my favorite bar. In the world. For the record, here is the fruit of my effort.

If you like dark smoky places with surly bartenders, drunks who speak Latin, soulful musicians, oddballs and freaks, "artists and actors and writers and such" poets and cynics, international do-gooders and people who read books, sloshy raconteurs, excellent tequila and custom infused mezcal (watch out for the pepper hooch)...if you want to be in a place where laughter and love are as free-flowing as the booze...a place where people will see the good in you and forgive you for your sins, No Se is for you! And if you find yourself in this scrappy brilliant place, hug the bartenders for me, tip them well, and please, do not behave yourself! It is against the unstated rules!

WARNING: If you are uptight, sober in spirit (not necessarily in deed), anal retentive, a scaredy-cat, ungenerous with your love, secretive, hate talking about the carnal, don't like wildly inappropriate banter, and can't see the good in the scrappiest of characters, No Se is NOT for you. Go to Applebee’s and order an iceberg lettuce salad and a diet coke. You'll be happier there.

Back In Guatemala

I am in Antigua once again, ambling through the cobblestone streets choked with chicken bus exhaust, smiling and wishing folks good day in Spanish. Things are rough and completely lawless in many parts of Guatemala and arriving in Guatemala City at night was not my preference...I was a little nervous for the hour long cab ride into Antigua. But it proved uneventful and I arrived at Lucky and Jose´s before midnight. They greeted me with shouts from the balcony and then hugs in the street. Everything is much the way it was when I left here last in January. But the recent increase in violence (more violence in an already notoriously violent place), the political corruption and instability, the lack of any cohesive or effective law enforcement, loom as the perpetual back drop to life here...a reality that can pop-out and become bloodily manifest in an instant.

And I am not being dramatic here. I have heard many stories....first hand accounts. During my last trip a few months ago, my Spanish teacher attended two funerals within a month, two young friends lost. The first was a car accident...killed by a drunk driver. The second, a young woman driving home from Guatemala City, was shot in the head and left dead in her car in the middle of the road. The motive is still unknown as it did not appear to be a robbery and she had not been raped.

Then there was a sweet Guatemalan bartender from No Se, who's girlfriend was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) after several men brandishing guns boarded their chicken bus and robbed everyone on board. Thankfully, no one was shot. And then there is another young man, a friend, whom I recently spoke with (he will remain un-named out of deference). He and I had many conversations during my last visit and we have kept in touch, chatting on facebook. But only recently did he share that both his parents were murdered when he was a toddler, part of the purging that was initiated in the early 1980s. You see, his parents were educated, his father a professor at a University in Guatemala City.

This reminded me of another friend's stories (again, I am being vague about the sources out of deference to my friends) about how, during the war, the military would board the chicken buses and search peoples things....if a book was found that person was yanked from the bus (and often disappeared or killed). Being educated, reading or being in possession of books...seditious according to the genocidal Guatemalan military.

And yet, although there are murderous gangs terrorizing the streets of Guatemala City, as my friend Mike noted in a recent email, "Here in Antigua we generally hear crickets." There is a peacefulness here, a predictability, a calm that one cannot imagine feeling in Guatemala City. And so I will amble the streets, sit in the cafes, read my books, and stay in a place of gratitude.

Want to Know if a Woman is a Homosexual?

The following is an actual instant message conversation I had with an old High School friend that recently tracked me down in that strange virtual Web 2.0 world known as facebook. Kerri and I were good friends in the olden days but have been out of touch for most of the past 20 plus years. To the best of my recollection here is what we wrote as we started to catch up:

Mer: Those days feel like a 1000 years ago.
Kerri: Why?
Mer: My life is so very different now.
Kerri: In what way?
Mer: Well, for one thing I am a big ol’ out homosexual.
Kerri: Ya think?
Mer: You knew?
Kerri: I had my suspicions. You always carried my skis for me.

So if there is a woman in your life whom you suspect is a homosexual and you want to confirm that without directly asking her, I suggest you invite her to go snow skiing and see if she offers to carry your skis for you. If she does, she is as homo as homo can be.

Note: I like semi-sarcastically using the word “homosexual” because I find it hilariously absurd.

Remembering the Atomic 4 (And I Am a Big Dork)

It’s true. It’s not that I just realized or discovered this fact about myself as I have been a big dork for as long as I can remember. But there are moments in my life when this reality suddenly comes into hyper-clear focus. Moments when I startle and say to myself, “my god Mer, you are such a dork.”

Recently, I experienced one of these moments. As is often my habit, I was eating scrambled eggs at a local diner with a magazine in front of me. I was reading an article in Good Old Boat entitled, “A History of the Universal Atomic 4.”

I once had an Atomic 4 engine in my old sailboat. This giant hunk of metal and I had a long and tumultuous relationship. My Atomic 4 was temperamental, obstinate, and unfaithful. She drove me nuts, emptied my wallet more than once, and regularly bloodied my knuckles. When she was cooperating, I felt a tentative and guarded affection for her, but I was always anticipating her next betrayal. And came it always did. And then I would cuss and throw things and pull out the shop manual huffing and puffing as I began, once again, trying to discern what my cranky Atomic 4 needed now. Eventually, the old gal died, cracked her head, which is a terminal condition for an engine. I replaced her with the ever loyal and dependable Yanmar 2GM20F.

So at the diner I am sitting with my magazine when I suddenly realize that I am getting excited reading things like, “Late-model engines with an integral thermostat housing in the cylinder head…” and “…optional 180°F thermostat that raises operating temperature…” I got a little thrill thinking, “Yes, the thermostat housing! I remember it well…and the hotter thermostat modification for the freshwater cooled engines. Oh boy.”

It was then that I stiffened in my seat and thought to myself, “I am such a big dork.” I actually laughed out loud. And then I thought about how ironic it was that I was reminiscing about that old cantankerous engine that left me anxious all the time I was sailing with her in the belly of my boat. But I also reflected that there were 50,000 of these engines made and put into production boats like mine. Most folks who have been around sailboats for a while know of the Atomic 4, and oddly enough, there was something comforting about reading this history shared by so many sailors and their mechanics.

When my Atomic 4 finally died, Mike, a salty, rambling, brilliant mechanic, was the guy who installed the new Yanmar and scrapped my old Atomic 4. The day I picked up my boat and handled the paper work, Mike caught me at the door and said he had one last thing to give me. He handed me a piece of paper which read:

Certificate of Death

We have some rather sad news. This is to certify that your very old, very sick, very tired, 4 cylinder gasoline engine, that was never designed to be saltwater cooled, has finally expired. It is DEAD. Its’ soul has joined its’ many brothers and sisters in the final resting place of the internal combustion engine.

Engine Model: Atomic 4
Date of Last Exhaust Stroke: 10-17-02
Location: Richmond Boat Works
Cause of Death: Natural, Inevitable
Attending Mechanic: Mike Haley
Witness: Ginger Hobart.

The family has requested that donations be sent directly to your
local Yanmar dealer.

A mechanic with a sense of humor. Nice. Believe me, one needs a reason to laugh after spending the serious money needed to install a new engine in an old sailboat). Mike had witnessed the death of many an Atomic 4 and so much a part of the sailing world was/is this old engine, he thought it kind and respectful to acknowledge its demise after 25 years of service (with a few insults imbedded).

As I drove home from the diner I got to thinking. I learned to be a better sailor because of that old engine. I was more alert and honed my skills because I knew that old engine was not a reliable backup and the San Francisco Bay can be a challenging place to sail. I realized that beyond my anger and frustration with the old Atomic 4, there was some appreciation. I had participated in a popular part of small sailboat history. I had been christened into the world of sailing and marine engines by my years of relating to that old hunk of engine. May she rest in peace.

So there you have it….a personified remembrance of my Atomic 4. And I think this clearly shows that I am, in fact, a big dork.

NOTE: I absolutely love my new Yanmar…she has made sailing the Bay a whole new experience. Push the button, she turns over. Sweet. We never fight and she almost always runs. She only gets cranky when her fuel gets dirty or her lines get clogged. And that’s pretty darn easy to fix (with a sigh and a smile).