The Old Prof

August 22, 2007 Rampage

Drove down to the bay to go Kayaking. Turned out that the hardest part was finding a parking place. It’s all very pretty and sort of old town like, with little houses and then of course apartments but old foliage. Sort of the bay in the 1950’s. I enjoyed that. The harder part turned out to be parallel parking in the only space in the whole town. By the time I had finally gotten the right rear wheel off the curb and actually parallel I was afraid to try anything harder and deeply worried about the aerial combat thing the next day. I just prayed I wouldn’t have to back the plane up.

We found the little shop that rented the kayaks and… a guide. Since “your shoes will get wet” I got to walk down to the beach, carrying the double-ended paddle like a Wagnerian spear, barefooted. I am not a California kid. Barefoot on the sidewalk for four blocks wasn’t my idea of a good time. Steve of course thinks that’s a real treat.

We got the kayak, a two man affair, and choosing our moment paddled out thru the shore break, hoping not to get dumped into the surf, though that would have only gotten us wet. Still there is the humiliation factor and you want to look good. Made it. . Two man kayaks are guaranteed to break up any family or friendship. We watched a mother and a son melt down in the next boat. By the time we got back they were dealing with each other in strained civility. The guy in the front is supposed to set the pace and guide things but the guy in the back often doesn’t agree with either direction or stroke pattern or rhythm. Often.

So our guide who informed us he had just graduated from, it didn’t seem possible, San Diego State or something, began his spiel. Standards must have gone straight to hell in the last few years.

He pointed out a couple of buoy’s a few hundred yards out and said he would meet us there. Then he explained the three ecco systems we would be paddling through and showed us how the color of the ocean changed in each one. Fascinating. He then led us in search of the “three to five foot long Leopard Sharks” which hunted the shore. “But don’t worry cause they don’t have front teeth, just back molars that they crunch things on”. So as we paddled in search of those magical sharks Steve and I did a running monologue on toothless sharks with “mouth parts only as big as a quarter”. It was pretty good. When we got to their area and didn’t see them the guide said,” yeah I didn’t think we would. I haven seen any for a month or more”. But just to be sure he paddled over to a couple of young teen-age girls floating in the quiet ocean and yelled, “ Have you seen any Leopard Sharks around here? This is where they usually hang out. If you do would you tell us?” I got the feeling that if they did see any we would know immediately. In fact, from the tight flesh over their cheeks, I think the whole interchange sort of made their bathing experience. Graduated? From College?

Then it was across the bay to the caves in the “North facing cliffs”. We couldn’t go in the caves for some reason or other which seemed to have to do with cormorants nesting above them and spreading white poop on the cliffs “which is why the cliffs look so picturesque”. The guide himself had once been pooped on. I was surprised at the strange restraint of the cormorants. Once! Personally I would have bet on large flocks of the birds following him home and circling his house.

We finally got him to let us go into one of the nicer caves but since there was a two-inch swell, he got out of his boat and towed us in under his arm. It was interesting how no one whacked him over his head with a paddle and yelled, “ get out of our way you wee ninny hammered twit”. People are really a lot more self controlled and nicer than you would think. At last, having gotten almost twenty feet into the hundred-foot cave the guide then turned around and pushed us out to sea. And still suffered no concussion or other debility, though Steve’s neck was turning red.

I love the ocean.

Posted by Old Prof at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Posted by Old Prof at 09:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Palomar Field

Top dog aerial combat

Well, it was another of Steve’s wild Ideas. We would drive down to Palomar air field and do aerial combat. They offered it and we wanted to so, so I said sure. It sounded great and down we went. I waited for the icy hands and butterflies but… they never came. Very odd because I dont like high places and I don’t like tight ones..

We drove in and looked around and wandered out to the field to look at the planes. Perfect. A two seat, tandem, trainer from WWII that had never actually been adopted by the Air Force. .

http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldprof/

We sat and watched a little kids birthday party in the mouth of the open hanger.

Couldn’t have been more perfect. Then we drove off and killed an hour looking over a beach town we hadn’t seen, till the Top Dog fight was scheduled.

Back in plenty of time, we signed away our rights to sue and hold anyone accountable in any way if we got killed. I thought, “sure”, “What the Hell will I care. I will be dead.” I mean, dispite my assurances to her that I am one of the smart ones my wife is cetain that I’m a “dumb ass” anyway. Ahhh. I wonder if this sort of thing has any thing to do with her opionon. Nah, probably not.

We met our pilots and they sat us down to a twenty minute talk about the rules of the game which included a lot of time with model planes on a stick (all of which whizzed right by us) and some directions on how to handle a plane. When they asked if there were any question I replied that I didn’t remember anything. GED, who got the call name because he didn’t finish high school and took a program out of submarines into officer status that was tried for forty men who hadn’t graduated from college, said “don’t worry we will talk you through it”. . So I, call name loner, because…well, just because, strangely didn’t worry.. We walked out to the planes, I stepped up onto the low wing and stepping in on the seat cushion. worked my feet and then legs into spaces on both sides of the seat in front of me. I thought idly, “there’s no getting out of this if there’s trouble”, and then I relaxed cause there were no parachutes anyway and any impact was probably going to be hard enough that I wasn’t going to have to try to get out. Some one else would be handling that.

Had to tuck my elbows in because I tended to hit the throttle.

I began to wonder what the heck had happened to me. All I felt was joy. As I did up the harness I did feel one second of odd dread but I realized it was just a hold over from tightening my life jacket on the white water rafting thing. above the class V rapids. And then that was ok and I cinched things “tight”.

We rolled out and took off in formation. “Because its cool”. Agreed.

Then my pilot dropped down and under “Cloud and Skipper” just because it was also a pretty cool thing to do. And seeing the other plane from about twenty feet away and directly above us was. (Warning , all distances are approximate and may sound closer than they really are”)

Out over the ocean we went.

Ged said, “now I am going to do a three G move to get you heart beating” he did and it did. Wow! When he pulled sharply up I thought it would never end and wondered if I could stand much more. It lasted and lasted. Then At 2500 feet Ged said “you have the stick”. “Give me a little up angle on the nose” “whoops, too much,… oh ok”.. “Good correction.” (I thought it would take a few moments for the plane to react to the stick but it was immediate. That took me by surprise but I learned immediately to prize it instead.) “Give me thirty degrees left down angle on the wing and watch the horizon. Well, perfect!” (I like being told that sort of thing) “Now give me sixty degrees down on the left wing, a little up angle on the nose, keep back pressure on the stick watch your horizon and hold it”.. (I think that’s what he said.. You understand it’s been a day since it happened.) I thought, What? Thats a whole bunch of stuff to do, let alone remember and promptly did it because you just have to. Theres no time for “please repeat that stuff”. And you get the feeling that youre dealing with professionals who would be astonished to hear such silly stuff..

“Perfect”.

We then did more left and right turns at sixty degrees and up yo yo’s and down yo yo’s. and I have never had so much fun in my life.

Then, …

Ged said “he is at you eleven and closing. The controls are yours but wait for my command”. I saw the little dot out on the edge of the horizon, over the ocean but seen against the clutter of the shore. We approached on parallel courses but several hundred feet apart at the same altitude. They said five football fields but it seemed like three. At the moment that Steve’s wings were exactly opposite mine I got, “ It’s on”! “Left, sixty degrees down on the wings, nose slightly up, a little back pressure on the stick, watch your horizon and … hold it… yes, perfect”.

And was it ever!

Damn!

And then over the ear phones: “Hmm. You are very aggressive…. But… that’s good”. I may have that tattooed on my forearm..

I didn’t tell him I wasn’t really aggressive but that I was just doing everything he asked, immediately, and everything just felt perfect. The plane reacted exactly as I asked it to, no more, and no less,. I felt great, the g’s felt great, the world looked wonderful, I had never had that much fun in my life. It was like pure joy had moved in and was sitting in the area between navel and chin. And all the fear that I would embarrass myself went away under the constant positive reinforcement from the plane, the stick, the feeling in my chest and the pilots’ constant commendation.

Around and around and up and down and tighter and …. I mean it was wonderful. The horizon was also always where I wanted it. (That was so much better than diving into the ocean) the controls were precisely responsive. I……. Well….

I didn’t so much want to win as to just keep doing this chase and adjustment forever. And then there was Steve slowly, “gamely”, inexorably, incrementally coming into my sights. Up yo yo, down yo yo, but reeling in closer and closer and more and more into my sights. I found the firing button, placed my thumb on it, waited and….gave him “a burst of five” and another “a burst of five”. And they declared victory. (That “fire a burst of five” thing is left over from fifty years ago and firing the fifty caliber in the Guard and done to avoid burning out the machinegun barrel. My former F 14 (16?) ( steve says 18) pilot, Ged, never did know why I was doing that but he did like the short burst theory.)

We had drifted many miles south down the coast so we got to fly back up north and align again.

And again…..

Then my pilot said, “He’s got you but lets go out with glory”. i was more than willing. Anything to keep it going.

“Sixty degree left angle on the wings, nose down, watch your horizon, a little back pressure on the stick and hold it”.

“Perfect”

And damned if it wasn’t.

I went to bed that night at about midnight. I lay there for about an hour and then threw back the covers and just sat on the edge of the bed. I was WAY too jazzed to sleep. I kept hearing the commands in my ears and reliving the bright beautiful day at 2,500 feet over the ocean and in view of the little coastal communities above San Diego.

I think now of Omar Khayyam, the alcoholic poet who “wondered what the vintners bought half so precious as that they sell”.

What replaces daily professional flying for old pilots? Sham aerial dogfights on the week end?

I’m just going to have to let this go. I can’t touch the reality of it in any way.

Posted by Old Prof at 04:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well….

I recovered the lost eleven pages and six days of work so I guesss there will be no high tech wall sconces after all. iI was a narrow thing though.

I suppose if I were honest I would admit that I had nothing to do with it, any part of it, neither the going away nor the returning. The pages blew away, would not under any urging re-appear, showing only a blank page where eleven had before lived, save an address of the last loaded bit of information. then for no reason know to man suddenly reappeared after five hours of hiatus. Who knows what they were up to or where they went. it is perilous to inquire too deeply into the ways of the enemy. I am just going to ignore the whole thing and whistle in a insoucient manner as if I never even noticed the infidelity in the first place. There is apparantly some sort of free will involved with the whole thing and I can not claim the loyalty of the computer. it will do what it damn well pleases and its better not to annoy it.

But just between you and me, it better behave itself in the future and quit acting like some wry crossgrained teen ager or its going to be hosting multi-colored candles while jammed in the drywall of my room.

Posted by Old Prof at 10:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

so I have had this new lap top for about a month now.

elegant

but

nothing about it is the same as the PCs I have been using happily for all these years.

nothing is intuitive.

None of the terms are the same and none of them actually describe what the function behind the term is.

I am thinking of measureing the distance between the joists inside the dry wall and seeing if the lap top could be jammed, forceably, between them so it would sit horizontallly in the wall and could be made to hold a candle on its level flat surface. i think a red one woud be nice, especially after burning for a few hours so the wax drips down in that beautiful pattern.and runs all over the surface. or perhaps it would be better to get a wine bottle and put the candle in the bottle on the computer.

No, wait. Other than the pleasure of jaming it into the wall it would be beter to put up a shelf and open the computer so that beautiful big screen would reflect the burning candle.

Its hard to decide.

Posted by Old Prof at 01:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Or Damn, Not Twice

Or There’s a new moon over my shoulder and a bit of the river still in my lungs.

Or

“The drums, the drums!”

(I dont really know what that means either. its just some thing left over from
a movie in my youth about some awful adventure or orther)

We finished drifting the first day, beached and the guides made supper, taking the three hours necessary to make the schedule come out right. It was good. I don’t know how many of the rafters noted how long the dinner-making took because one of the first things that was ready was margaritas. The liquor flowed like water. We sat and talked and got to know each other. It turned out our boat had a PhD in econ at USC, an aerospace exec, another aero space high level wonk, a fourth highly educated computer whatsit, ( I got confused. Well, everyone got confused. I was just one who got confused without also getting drunk), and me. (I will have to ask Steve what these guys all were).

We camped in the sand under the trees with a rocky hillside at our heads. The “head” or rest room by the way was 25 yards up stream, in a willow screened declivity on the river. This open space worked because if no one was using it the last user placed a long paddle , propped up against a log. As you went forward you took the paddle with you, if you valued solitude in these things.. Then on the way out you replaced the paddle. All this was on the river; I mean “on the river”. That worked because no one travels the river after a certain time of day, cause the river flow is dependent on timed releases from the dam. Otherwise you can’t navigate it. So there you were in gorgeous solitude, (if you took the paddle with you) gazing beatifically at the swirling river and the verdant growth of the opposite bank of same river. I’d like to import that idea.

Ok, I was camped under the trees, but as the evening wore on more and more of the other guests threw air mattresses all over the sandy bank. It was Omar Khayms “Guests Star scattered on the grass” theme except it was sand not grass, their being a paucity of that object. Getting up in the middle of the night required some skill in night time navigation. It was not to be idly undertaken.

Come morning the boat crews made breakfast. Being a river guide must be like becoming a Stewardess. There is the glamorous side you probably had in mind and then there is the cooking, dishwashing, serving, repairing equipment, setting up and taking down of the portable toilet and general jollying along, edifying and entertaining of the guests. They do that well. These men and women have remarkably diverse backgrounds and are articulate and interesting. They will surprise you with their depth and breadth. Listening to them and talking to the other rafters is one of the pleasures of the river.

Things have to run on schedule too. We were up and about by about 6:30 but you can’t float the river till the dam release at about 11:30. so various guides were charming and educational for several hours and then we paddled across the river to see an abandoned gold mine. Time was of the essence, the wasting of it that is. We slowly made our way into the darkened mine shaft, with inadequate light. The guide pointed out the rusted iron rails. People speculated on what in the world they could have been used for. Yes they did. I heard them. We reached rock face at the end of the mine. The guide pointed out that that was where the mine ended. We wended our way back along the shaft, in three inches of water, past other uninitiated “guests” still headed for the end of the mine, all of us thinking of earthquakes, all bumping our heads and shoulders and out again onto the mountain side,where again the guides showed us Poison Oak and advised against walking through or handling said substance, and then back down the side of the mountain/ hill, through the boulder strewn gully, where I was complimented on for my agility. I like that about as well as I like young women opening doors for me. Seventy three isn’t the end of the world. (Well, ok … but not necessarily the very, very end. Besides since I lost my glasses in an incident a little further into the story I think I look kind of cute, in a harmless, endearing, deceptive sort of way) Then onto the rafts and back to camp where we sat in the rafts and pretended to notice some rise in the water level while we sauteed in the sun on the slowly sweltereing raft sides and waited for
the water to rise.

Somewhere in all of this carefull time wasting someone, I think It was “Jake”, said, “We know what you’re doing.” This wasn’t a group to toy with. Every one was pretty much a professional, some were even intelligent. After a bit, the requisite time having been wasted, so the time schedule would work, (pick up at the lower bridge has to be at a certain time) we pushed off.

I’m easing into this I think because every time I close my eyes I see enormous green, glassy gorges of rushing water, foam and rocks, sometimes from an under water view. I occasionally, usually, have to open my eyes and think of something else. I was afraid I’d have nightmares. Don’t want to encourage that. The Crocadile dreams are bad enough. though let me add they didnt come from this trip (or any other) Hey, we had a guide on the Middle Fork of the American, last year who wanted to guide on a crocidile infested river in India. Does that help understand what kind of people these guides are?

Well, we were astonished at the long wonderful series of rapids encountered just when we thought it was over. They were just great. Then in “”Hells Kitchen”, I’m not making this up, our guide chose a wrong turn, tried to recover by admonishing : “paddle, two, two times more, two more!” Heaven knows we tried. If any desperate paddlers put their entire backs and wills into it we did.

We were in a foaming hell of wave and rock. And then we hit the big one on the left and while sliding up that smashed into the one on the right too. There was a gap alright but not big enough for us. “High Side!” High side!” the guide yelled! But we couldn’t decide which side was high. The boat was shoved under on the right edge. I suddenly found myself in two feet of water, trying to rise and high side but still sitting, with my left foot jammed, I mean jammed under the rear thwart, and securing myself into the raft. As I tried to rise to “high side”, Jeff or some big one hurtled backwards into my chest. And I was out and filled with wonderful suprised dread. “Not again”!

Out and under water but desperately trying to snag the boat or the strap running around the boat, with the T on the end of the paddle. (it seemed like a good idea at the time) It hit but slid off the slick rounded side. I was able to try again, still from under water because I seemed to be going no where but under. I felt the T hit but not engage the strap and looking up thru about a foot of water I vaguely saw the figure of the guide standing in the end of the boat and pushed the paddle toward him. He caught it! For just a second I felt hopeful. I felt him grab and then sort of swirl me. He had twitched me out of the whirlpool. And then…

he let go. ( Probably because he and Steve both went over the side, ok, fell off the almost verticle raft)

I surfaced, saw two choices. I could try to go for the raft and risk going under it or be pinned between it and the right hand mountain of rock or go right and over a waterfall.

Waterfall it was! The experience was roughly like being hurtled down a hall way, pivoted and sluiced over the stairs. The oddity is that I remember it like you would a dream, as seeing myself from behind and slightly above. The mind is a wonder full thing. I remembering dreading hitting a rock atthe bottom of the fall and a wonderful sense of gratitude that I did not. After that I have no Idea of what happened. The life vest tried to wash from my body but the guide had tightened a strap just before the rapid; though it did sort of hang up on my nose in the strong current. My glasses, on one of those glasses saver thongs were ripped off, ( the thongs saved themselves and stayed on my neck)

I was alternately in the bottom of a trough and then at the top, sort of flung up and dropped at first, breathing foam and gagging on water. The waves were only, I think at two feet in height at most but they hit irregularly and mostly when I was trying to breathe. But I didn’t hit anything that I know of. There is of course the unexplained split lip but cold water takes out blood.

This time I let the paddle go immediately and surprisingly and eventually managed to get into the popular, highly recommended, “California Lounge Chair “position with my legs in front of me. Proud. The ride finnnnnnnallllllly ended with me sighting two boats deployed to pick up survivors’. The guides take that stuff seriously. I swept by the first raft but got the second. Grabbed the coil of rope on the prow and it began unraveling in my hand and I went for the strap that goes around the whole raft. The raft was our equipment boat and the lone oarsman, oarswoman actually, grabbed my life vest straps and just pulled while falling over backwards. Fish out of water!

it was nice lying there on my face in the sun on top of all the baggage.

If you make it, alone and in a vest is really the more intimate way to fully enjoy the rapids. Sort of like doing the rollercoaster on roller skates.

As we finished the rapids and drifted into still water by the bridge-extraction-point our guide said,” I have something to tell you; I’ve never been down this river before.“

I said, in a calm non judgmental way, “I figured that out yesterday”.

But I thought he did a remarkable job for the situation. He never became flustered and managed well on an unpredictable river. After all, in the final section we watched another raft with the most experienced guide slam up a boulder and dump two men. That I think is just the reality of a class IV to V River, especially at low water when the safe routes become few and hard to find.

In fact I should have been equipped with small flags to mark the myriad ways I personally pioneered down the river.

It was really a remarkable experience. I’m glad I did it.

Posted by Old Prof at 06:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)