The Hunt for Red October

I just bought a canoe, something I haven’t owned in many years. It’s stirring up some pleasant memories.

I had never set foot into a canoe until the summer of my freshman year in college. A job I had lined up fell through and I glommed onto a last minute opening at a camp in the Pocono Mountains. Which is to say, I became a POW. Working 24/7 with a horde of rich brats banished by relieved parents to be warehoused for the summer is not something I’d wish on anyone. But, that’s another story.

One day, the head counselor took me aside and said I would co-lead an overnight canoe trip for the 14 year old girl bunks. Excuse me? I was co-counselor of a boys bunk and ran the boxing/weightlifting programs. And, a city boy, I had never been in a canoe. This makes sense how?

The explanation was that the girl counselors didn’t want to be out there without a man and that I had my water safety instructor certification (swimming). Also, they could trust me with the wild girl bunk. That speaks volumes on the qualities of the other male counselors.

The event was a travesty of epic proportion, but that’s also another story. I didn’t anticipate any subsequent circumstance where I’d repeat the attempt. However, the following summer I spent at college and some buddies talked me into renting canoes one weekend. It consisted mainly of drinking ridiculous volumes of beer and tipping each other over. That’s more like it. We’d do that many times before graduation.

Subsequent to that, I was too immersed in career and then starting a family to give it a thought. As the children grew, I searched for a vehicle to bond with them. Paddling and camping would get us away from distractions and facilitate the process. But first, I should learn the right way.

So, I signed up for a course one chilly spring weekend. They worked us hard and I came to appreciate the canoe as an art form as well as a sport.

The kids grew up and I migrated to kayaks for my own entertainment. They were more versatile and easier to solo. The overall trend in paddling was that they eclipsed canoes. From time to time, I’d see canoes and the graceful lines would give a tug at my heartstrings, but I never acted on the feeling.

That’s the way it was until a couple months ago when a friend expressed a desire to do some canoeing. It just struck me right and the search for a worthy steed commenced.

In the eternal quest to find the perfect kayaks, I have purchased about four dozen in the past six years, developing good sourcing in the process. One would think this would carry over to canoes and the task would be simple. One would think.

The first step is defining the objective. I researched available models and variations, generating a short list. It would be 16-17’ long, constructed of Royalex and have certain design features. I was a little disappointed to find that most Royalex canoes come in but two colors, red and green.

Since canoes had waned in popularity, I did foresee that the selection of used boats would be somewhat limited. Pickings were slimmer than I thought. Those who had the models I wanted were apparently hanging onto them.

I emailed my industry contacts, who are usually a great source of overstocked and blemished kayaks this time of year. This was a different story.

With kayaks, they’d have deep stock in a broad variety of make and model, and were happy to let me pick and choose. In canoes, they were saddled with a few losers and many tried aggressively to steer me to them. A couple crossed the line.

In one case, a dealer intimated that if I didn’t help him unload one of his orphans, I couldn’t expect any more deals on kayaks. Odd technique with a volume customer. The declining economy could be affecting his mood. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and simply thanked him for the response.

Another emailed a tirade against the model I had inquired about. Didn’t I know that company had been acquired by a large corporation three years ago (this was off by about 25 years) and most of the money went into overhead instead of their boats? He suggested – check, make that insisted – I look at this other boat he did have in stock. Ranting, skewing of facts and denigrating a brand he carried did not bode well. It was obvious what I was dealing with and I didn’t even bother to reply.

This was looking like a dry hole. I still had on-line classifieds and auctions to work through. The canoeing hotbeds, such as they are, are located some distance away. More of a problem than with kayaks because the lower value: size ratio of canoes makes shipping a more significant variable.

I usually enjoy this process, but this was getting frustrating. Then, fate took a hand.

We were having a boat swap meet. I didn’t recall anyone ever showing up with a canoe, but a woman emailed me that she was bringing one. Hmmm. It was a notch or two above what I had been looking for and she hadn’t mentioned condition, but maybe… Nah, didn’t want to get my hopes up.

So, the appointed day came up and no sign of her, at first. That happens. Then, the door swung wide and she carried it in. Beautiful lines and it hardly had a scratch on it. Best of all, it wasn’t green or red. A very attractive burgundy. I tried not to salivate.

She placed it in the boat row and came over to me. And, quoted a price not that much less than retail.

Was she serious? Not exactly a boom market for canoes and initial depreciation on paddlecraft is a steep drop. In the art of the deal, you don’t want to get adversarial so I didn’t point out her weak position. “Thanks, but not interested at that price.”

“Make me an offer.” I went a little low, testing the water.

“No way. It’s like new.” True enough, but the golden rule applies. He who has the gold rules. I shrugged and she walked away.

She wasn’t getting much traffic, so I walked over after a bit. I could’ve tried another offer in the low range, but I like to see both sides happy with the deal. I offered to split the difference, saying that she was getting a fair price and could leave with a pocket full of cash instead of having to haul the boat back home. She declined. Okay.

As we were closing up, she came over, tipping her position, and countered my offer for $10 more and not a cent less. The deal hung on a measly ten bucks? I smiled. It was all about winning to her. To me, it was just about getting a nice boat at a fair price. I took it.

That would be the end of the story except for an hour later I entered by home to find the message light flashing. An industry contact had located a cache of ridiculously low priced factory seconds. Did I want one?

Isn’t that the way it always is? I had to laugh.

Turning to gold

Thanks, but it’s just not significant to me.” That’s the response to those who have wanted to organize birthday parties for this milestone of turning 60, like I was the ol’ Ford clicking up another row on the odometer. Is there a threshold I don’t discern? Maybe I should revisit the concept.

Contrast with what I thought this age would be like could add context. My vision was pretty well underway as a child, observing the elders of the tribe. Except I would learn that our priorities and preferences change, and that we have the ability to shape our futures and outcomes. Calvin Trillan said that we’re all who we were in high school. True enough in some cases, but I don’t stand pat.

As a boy, my hopes were to make it to the millennium, which would’ve been age 51. People didn’t live long where I grew up, so I had some doubts. My father never saw 50.

The older people in the neighborhood were bent and crippled, having lived lives long on hazardous manual labor and short on healthcare. A diet heavy in pizza, pasta and cheesesteaks probably didn’t help. I had only one living grandparent and he dwelled in a rocking chair.

On the other hand, I couldn’t envision myself like that. I was always training hard for sports and felt indestructible. Concussions can affect your perception.

I am alive at 60, apparently. I’m not the unbreakable machine I thought I’d always be, but am mobile, within limitations. I’ve worked out and played sports a good part of my life, which adds and subtracts. The net is that I don’t live life in a chair.

Okay, I have the advantage of modern medicine. In the 60s, I had knee reconstruction by way of the old saw and chisel method. Recently, I had a shoulder done with arthroscopic surgery. A bee sting compared to the old school method and something unavailable to my predecessors. I hadn’t factored in healthcare advances in my musings. Healthcare had gone something like, “You just think you’re hurt. Get back to practice.” Or, I could imagine my father saying, “You just think you’re dead. Clean out the ash pit, now.”

Somewhere along the way, possibly in high school health class, I was informed that the sex life was essentially over at 40. Not good news, but seemed like a reason to front-load the experience. Even though it turned out to be untrue, not a wasted effort.

I assumed I’d be working in a steel mill, or some factory, living in a row house with a wife and four kids. I’d hang out at the Disabled American Veterans hall, like my dad and uncles. Our family had a vast collection of purple hearts. It was speculated that my talent for being in the middle of things would propel me to carrying on that tradition.

The vision changed in my mid-teens. A bachelor pad on the beach at Avalon (NJ) or Laguna Beach (CA) emerged in my daydreams. My Brian Wilson period. But, I reverted to conventional expectations.

I did manual labor as an adolescent. Nothing wrong with that. But I came to see that it didn’t buy some of the things I wanted before I checked out. At first, it was the finer things, but I progressed through that phase. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it does provide freedom from a lot of constraints and boundaries. Happiness is having options to do what you want.

There’s also the satisfaction of achievement, something I enjoy. Conceiving, spawning and guiding an enterprise provides more than being a role player. It also engenders more risk. I was willing to play. Covered in the scar tissue of entrepreneurship, but had the sense to get out at the top of my game. Still have the energy and desire to create, so I dabble.

Married a great person and had children. Not everyone is happiest as half of a couple, so I dealt with that. Fortunately, the kids turned out great and I still have a relationship with the ex. Limiting offspring to two was within my depth and a good idea. I don’t know that I could’ve provided sufficient attention and resources for more, like the four I had envisioned. I’m not Mike Brady.

Happiness is also in relationships. But, only the kind that fit you. Time is limited, so I spend it with people I’m excited to see, and on the terms that optimize the experience. Work or other activities can impose on that. But, you still have control within those parameters. The good people matter and are a source of positive energy, so that’s where you focus.

I don’t live in a row house, which is good because I like some space. Having a lot tied up in the abode never seemed like a good idea to me, so I never stretched the budget for something huge. With the help of my ex, I found the perfect nest. Great location, but it also has privacy. And, of contemporary design, it has a touch of the funkiness that I appreciate.

Is 60 a noteworthy milepost? I can see things are different than I thought they’d be. But, they were at 55 and will be at 65. Evolution is continuous and I don’t discern anything especially noteworthy at this juncture. Except, I just received my Golden Buckeye card. Okay, let’s party!

Baboon?

Supportive of a small challenge I face next week, a friend offered to treat me to dinner and a movie of my choice. “Gran Torino” and the Quarter Bistro. There was a hesitation before she said that was fine. I guessed it was more due to the movie selection than the pricing of the restaurant, but she had specified it was my honors.

I picked her up yesterday. She usually dresses “business smart,” but this was more Lara Flynn Boyle. “Care package from Lisa?” Lisa is an old friend of hers who married into a mountain of money and spends it adorning her whipcord figure, toned daily with the help of a personal trainer. She goes through more outfits than a human cannonball and ships the obsolete (months-old) to my friend.

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re wearing a five-hundred dollar tube top.”

“Tube tops don’t have shoulders and sleeves. Bite me.” Worth considering.

The Bistro is absolutely first class, with one exception. Its Achilles Heel is a lack of rest rooms. Instead, you use a doorway in the common wall of the establishment next door and use their johns. It’s an arty movie theater. No biggy. Adds to the charm

We ordered, dined and I made the pilgrimage to the theater. On the return trip, I encountered some couples I knew through business way back when. They asked who I was with and I went to get her.

Introductions were made. There was some brief, stilted conversation, which I attributed to the fact that we were standing in the middle of a busy restaurant. Maybe not. I got the look and returned us to our table.

“Men can be such baboons.”

“Pardon me?’

“What made you think it was a good idea to take me over there?

“Your problem is that you care too much what people think.”

“You’re problem is that you don’t care at all.” Oh boy. This can’t end well.

“You mean, I’m inner-directed. So, you’re a little younger and more attractive than them. Catty behavior is its own punishment. The guys weren’t acting silly.”

“Did those women know your ex?”

“Your point?”

“They would identify with her.”

“I’ve been divorced for twenty years.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Absurd.”

“It didn’t help that their husbands were fussing over me. That was insensitive, given their wives were right there.”

“Guys don’t think like that, so they don’t project it to their wives. People don’t see things as they are. They see things as they are.”

“Guys do think like that, just about other things. Women are evaluated by their looks, men by what they do for a living. The guys were happy when you told them you’re doing human service. If you had said you were CEO of ebay, it would’ve ruined their night.” I suppose I growled. “And that’s why you picked that movie.”

The waiter saved me from making a fatal response. “Are you ready to look at the dessert menu?”

“No, we’re full, thank you.”

“Give it to her. We need to bulk her up before she pisses off all the women in the room.” That would cost me.

Pure Jean-ius

It was one of those innumerable meeting up with friends at the tavern things that crop up over the holidays. I do look forward to them at first, but they can wear on you after a few.

The conversation turned to favorite Christmas movies. Mary Ann trotted out “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Greg countered with “A Christmas Story.” He turned to me. You’ve seen that, haven’t you?”

“Jean Shepherd.”

“Was that the mother?’ How soon they forget. Or, never knew.

Steinbeck could turn a phrase. Rand churned out prose by the pound. And, Heller was a one-hit wonder. But, for my money, no one could spin a yarn on the printed page like Jean Shepherd. Or on the air. Garrison couldn’t carry Jean’s microphone.

I stumbled over Jean in the musty pile of “Playboy” that I was tossing in preparation for moving in my new bride. I flipped through them, in case there was something worth archiving. The May 1973 issue had a short story, “Lost at C” and caught my eye with the pun. I started reading it. Anything to avoid housework.

It was very good. I made note of the author and tracked down a few more of his published stories. Even better.

I found books by Jean, which were actually compilations of his short stories and essays. Genius.

I’d divide his work into two categories. There were reminiscences of his callow youth that almost anyone could resonate with. That facet drives the popularity of “A Christmas Carol.” And, there were social commentaries crafted with exquisite wit.

A place we overlapped was that Jean was a self-confessed car nut. And, as he pointed out, any car nut would have to be a motel nut. If you’re a true car junky, you drive. Drive enough and you need a motel. Jean’s writing included his favorite cars and motels.

Shortly after getting married, my wife and I headed west for a rambling jaunt. Entering Wyoming from Colorado, it occurred to me that we weren’t that far from a motel that starred in one of Jean’s stories. Or, I described it as “not that far” when she asked why we left the highway. I doglegged about 150 miles to walk the same hallways that he had. She just saw brick and clapboard, but I envisioned all the characters he had described.

I missed his old radio broadcasts on WLW, WOR and other radio stations. But, public television later aired “Jean Shepherd’s America.” Absolutely hilarious.

“A Christmas Carol” isn’t one of his stories. Rather, it’s an amalgam of several. He’s departed now, but his stuff delights on. My favorite Shepherd work is “Wanda Hickey’s Night of Golden Memories.”

Many years ago, I left a big corporate job for a position with a small magazine targeted to aspiring authors. One of the attractions was that I saw it as an entrée to meeting writers. That turned out to be a bit disquieting, but that’s another story.

But, I did manage to hit the mother lode by wangling a drink with Jean in New York. I’m not a fawner, but found myself blurting out that he was my favorite author.

Jean looked at me for a few seconds. “I’m not an author. I’m just a story teller.” One hell of a one, at that.

Retiring offshore

Yesterday, I was exchanging emails with John. He’s done a good job of running a paddling club, and I’ve come to get to know him. When you’ve done the same thing, you tend to understand the same things, which forms a bond of sorts.

He sent me a link to his blog and photo sites, concerning a recent vacation in Mexico. He keeps an RV there and plans on transitioning there full time. That’s where we part ways. I’ve never comprehended why leaving the country was the best retirement alternative.


He’s far from the first person I’ve known to elect to do this. Maybe that’s no coincidence. Harry was the first to boggle my mind.

We were driving to our next business destination, so it was a chance for him to regale me with some of his thoughts. Mind you, we could’ve been in the throes of a cyclone and Harry would still seize the opportunity to hold forth.

“I have an ingenious retirement plan. I’m not relying on this pension plan.” Harry and I worked for the same company. “Want to know what it is?”

I was in my twenties and retirement had never crossed my mind. It held no interest for me. “Sure.”

“There’s a small village in the Congo. I won’t bore you with how I came across it.” Not right now, anyway. “Every year, I send them a big crate of food and some other stuff. Few hundred bucks worth. That’s the core of my plan.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I’m not done. They look at me almost as a god. More like royalty. Anyway, they’ve built a nice hut for me. When I’m ready, I go there and they take care of me for the rest of my life. All for a few hundred bucks a year. Clever, no?”

No. Aside from not seeing a hut in darkest Africa as a dream destination, I couldn’t imagine living out my life away from everything that was near, dear and familiar to me. Besides, how do you play shuffleboard on mud?

I just wrote the concept off to Harry’s unique mind. But, later on, I’d hear others talk about moving offshore when the time came.

A couple years ago, an acquaintance packed up and moved to Mexico. His subsequent emails sounded like he was enjoying the life. I attributed it, in part, to the fact that his wife had died recently. Maybe he was going away from something instead of to it.

About a month ago, I was in Costa Rica and met Gene. Gene had been a long-time manager with a large company in Virginia, where he had lived since birth. He was in the process of moving to Costa Rica for his retirement. It’s about as unlike Virginia as you can get. My question was why.

“Because it’s a great place.”

Not that great. “But, you’ve always lived in the states. In Virginia.”

“Always is long enough.”

While I was there, I met a quite a few Norte Americans who had already made the move. I must be missing something.

What would I miss if I retired there or elsewhere? It’s a world community and many things are universal. Most places I’ve traveled, you drive your Toyota down to the McDonald’s and get a burger and Coca Cola before shopping for your Nikes, ipod and Samsung cell phone.

The web certainly spans the globe and even television. On my recent trip, I had access to a TV a couple times and got American shows in English (Spanish subtitles), along with local fare in Spanish (English subtitles). Also, English shows with English subtitles and local with Spanish subtitles. The cable network was a little screwed up. Just like home.

Then, there’s the change of season thing. At one time, that might have been a factor for me. Now, a good variety would be nice, nicer and nicest. I wouldn’t pine for ice scrapers and wool sweaters.

Which brings up creature comforts. I’m not that big on luxuries. Reasonable bed and indoor temperature are enough for me.

I guess that leaves family and friends for the deal breaker. True, you could keep in touch by phone and email, much like we do with crowded schedules, now. But, they’re here and some things just cannot be accomplished through electrons or radio waves.

This bridges to another recent topic. To ensure long-term service to an area covered by a nonprofit service agency I run, I initiated and negotiated its acquisition by a much larger entity. The first thing people ask is why I would do that. Won’t I miss my job? Or, the advantages of being in charge of something?

My job, which was to bring the agency back from the brink of bankruptcy, is done, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been in charge of things before and it holds no magic for me. What I’ll miss is the people I work with.

Palm trees and balmy breezes are nice. But relationships are gold.