Scale

Last fall, the Nina and Pinta were in town on the Ohio River. Actually, they were replicas of those ships. I took a group of people to see them. They were surprised at how small they were, although I don’t think they fully appreciated the scale.

Imagine being in one on the vast Atlantic, out of sight of land for over a month. Few people ponder that. Or, know that the Santa Maria survived only half the trip.

But, what an adventure that must’ve been. Being out on the open sea like that. I think I’ve touched on that with some offshore kayak trips, but it’s far from duplicating it.

I’m hoping to capture some of the essence with a kayak trip through the Apostle Islands this August. Don’t let the month mislead you. August on Lake Superior resembles August in Ohio only in spelling.

I posted the trip on a paddling web site and drew all kinds of interest. The announcement contained the necessary qualifications, but not everyone pays attention to that. Or, maybe they don’t register what an open water crossing is.

Some of them do. The others, I strongly suggested they join me in a preparatory course on Lake Erie beforehand. That reduced the number of candidates.

I informed the remainder that the course would take place on South Bass Island, where we would camp, which everyone thought was great. After further discussion with the instructors, we altered the plan a bit. As part of the course and preparation, Plan A would be to camp on the mainland and paddle out to the island, barring extreme conditions.

I communicated this to the group and the question was predictable. How far? Twelve miles. The group became smaller. Better to find out now than after a drive to the tip of Wisconsin. If you’re not comfortable with a couple days of double-digit crossings on Lake Erie, you’re going to have a hard week with five of them on Lake Superior, paddling from island to island.

Most of the paddling we usually do is within sight of land, if not a stone’s throw from it. You don’t get a sense how vast things can be like you do when you’re little more than a dot on a big body of heaving water, out of sight of land. That’s scale.

Ropes Course

A smile came over her face last night and I knew exactly what was on her mind. I was elated for her. We were out paddling a river and she had just executed a deft move in a whitewater kayak. A lot of people do that, but there are some extenuating circumstances here.

She just started paddling a year ago. And, she’s had a whole lot of birthdays (about as many as me). But, the key factor is that she’s had a lot of challenges in her life. Few things buoy the spirit like accomplishing something you doubted yourself about.

A couple decades ago, I was on the board of a mental health hospital. The staff proposed building a ropes course, which met with a lot of resistance. What’s accomplished by having people walk from treetop to treetop across a telephone pole, aside from increasing liability exposure? I’ll footnote here that that wasn’t the only element of the course and that participants were on belaying lines, in the event of a slip.

I vehemently supported it. Prior to that, I had been involved in instructing for an outdoors club. I noticed we got a lot of “damaged” people coming through, primarily women coming out of one-sided, toxic relationships. They had been made to feel totally dependent and had little self-esteem. Becoming accomplished paddlers, backpackers, etc. usually turned around their lives.

We built the ropes course and had very good results. Someone would look at the elements and declare that they weren’t capable. Then, they were helped to do it. The point was made. You didn’t think you had it in you, but you proved you did. That applies to all your other challenges. You have more capability and value than you perceive. You proved you’re not a failure.

So, when this paddler smiled last night, I knew what she was thinking. She had gone from zero to pulling whitewater moves in a year, and at an advanced age, at that. That erases a lot of bad tapes. And, will create many more smiles for her.

The Great Tron War

This blog has two principal audiences. Those who are computer-challenged will be comforted that they are not alone. The mavens will have an opportunity for some chuckles and head shaking.

I think I won the war. It may be like one of those monster movies where they bring it down and are all relieved and hugging each other, and then it springs back into life. At any rate, I have at least beaten the monster back into the sea. At no small cost.

It all began with a few hiccups on the computer. I have the latest and greatest security software of the mainstream variety, so I wasn’t too concerned about that. Of course, the same brand of software failed to deal with the barbarians at the gate a year ago, and I was forced to do a total wipe and rebuild.

Was my computer filling up? I do some video projects, but buy big enough to leave breathing room and, hopefully, not have to upgrade for years. Was some internal gadget wearing out? You can tell I’m a computer whiz kid.

I decided I could live with the minor annoyances for a while. Nonetheless, I hastened to finish some projects that had deadlines looming. That may be the one thing I did right.

Yesterday, the problems intensified and the machine became almost useless. I was getting weird messages and alerts. One was an error message about a faulty video driver and I could go to Mother Microsoft for a download. Theoretically. If you crash long before you can wend your way through their menu and download, you’re screwed. A classic Catch-22. You can fix the problem (maybe) by going to the website, but the problem won’t let you do that.

I tried a few other things, including reloading the original software. Nice try. Well, at least I had added an external hard drive last year to back up my files. But, from some of the irregularities, I half suspected it had something to do with this.

This morning, it hit rock bottom, so I went to the major league computer store, in hopes of finding some miracle cure of a software repair program. The clerk looked suitably geeky and had one of those new age names, so I trusted him. He suggested we go see a tech. More than I expected and spirits soared.

The tech looked like a darker version of Yoda. It just gets better and better. He listened as I ran down the list of symptoms, showing no sign of emotion or anything else. When he determined I was through, he enumerated a lengthy list of possible culprits, none of them easy or cheap to fix. One of them was a virus, but I told him what software I had for that. He didn’t quite snort.

Did I want to sink this kind of effort and money into a box that had been developing its share of quirks over the years anyway? Let’s check out the cost of something new and do the math.

My clerk escorted me to the hardware aisle and asked me what I did with the computer. Word processing, email and video production. He led me to a machine and enumerated some of the qualities.

I said it sounded okay, but was there something a notch up? He looked a little puzzled or offended, I couldn’t tell. So, he pointed out another black box that appeared about the same. I noted its price and asked him if there was something even more powerful. I didn’t want to have to come back and visit him in a year.

He slapped his hand on top of the next box down. “This is it.” Out came the recitation of gigs, megas, cores, cards and a bunch of other things that had minimal meaning to me.

I mused about it and, all of a sudden, he lit up. He grabbed my arm and drew me across the floor. “This is the Super Blastermaster 10,000 (or whatever), the baddest game box in creation!” He was a little too aroused for my comfort level.

“I don’t play games.”

“Yeah, but this has more power than you can imagine. You can rule the world.”

It cost more than my last roof job. “Kids pony up those kind of bucks to play games?”

“You bet.”

Let them. I went back down a notch. I don’t need to rule the world. I can barely supervise a cat.

I expected to get the pitch for extended warranty and did. I parried that. What I didn’t expect was a special price offer on Office, since I wanted to word process. “But, it has that included.”

“Not Word, Works. You said you did word processing.”

“Works has Word.”

“Not all Works has Word.”

“But that’s what Works means, everything. Give it to me with the works. Everything.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.” Apparently, I wasn’t conversant in geekspeak, or maybe no idioms of the current century.

“Now this does have some feature that transfers files from the old computer, doesn’t it?”

“Never heard of anything like that.”

I was pretty sure it did, but he had the nametag. He suggested something called “The Tornado” that would whisk all the stuff over. I still had my doubts, but liked the sound of “whisk.” I wanted this to be as easy and seamless as possible, even though that seemed most unlikely.

Then, I recalled the external drive and told him I could probably copy off that. “Not really. You can usually only use them to recover your current computer.”

What did I have it for, then? My confidence in him was flagging.

More good news. “You do realize that this is a 64-bit not a 32 like you have?”

“Uh, sure.” What was he gabbling about, now? “Wait, does that mean that some of my programs won’t run?” He shrugged, amazingly unconcerned. “But, I have to dig up the phone company’s disk so I connect to the internet,” Panic was creeping in.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll connect as soon as you plug in.” Yeah, right. He wasn’t there for the run of the gauntlet I had to do when I switched to them from dial-up
“And, I can give you a special price on security software. The computer comes with a trial of what you have now, but this is much better. We use it.”

Good enough for me. I wasn’t in love with my current product, which seemed to have been modeled after Swiss cheese. But, I thought I’d better check out before he sold me one of everything in the store.

My work space was already crammed with the current computer, printer, scanner, CD burner and photo printer, not to mention enough artifacts to imbue my den with an Addams Family feel. I call it my kitchen of the mind. So, setting up the new box was an exercise in cramming the proverbial five-pound bag.

It isn’t like I could just dispatch the current rig. The transfer of files had to be done with two live computers. This was exacerbated by the fact that the current one was on life support, not to mention finding enough electrical outlets to keep everything humming.

Job one was to breathe life into the new machine. I slit open the box and grabbed the instructions. I was careful to put them aside where I could find them if I ever decided to consult the book. Who had time for that, now?

I cleared some space and strung the wiring. There was some breath holding when it came time to push the button, but it lit up. “It’s alive. It’s alive!”

I was put through the usual hoops of supplying personal information, creating passwords and making choices that I understood about as much as I grasp Chinese calculus. Then, it was time to add software, but where?

The visage of the box was a gleaming monolith in “piano black.” Why anyone wanted a computer equated to that is anyone’s guess except their marketing department. I sighed and retrieved the manual to locate the CD drive. Nothing was designated as that, or much else that I recognized. Modern speak. Like, no one is unemployed anymore. They’re in transition. Do they collect in-transition payments from the state?

Something called an optical reader was located behind one of the secret doors. Close enough. All I had to do was noodle out the open sesame for the portal. I managed to do that and it was time to crack open Office. Good luck on that one. The plastic box was some kind of 3-D puzzle.

I pried and prodded, with no effect. Finally, I surrendered and grabbed the readers to scan the packaging for a hint. Push the tab and the core rotates out. Whatever happened to the simple jewel case?

The slot hungrily ate the disk and instructions began to fire at me. Not far down the road, it asked me for the product key, as expected. No sweat. It was too soon in the process for me to have misplaced that. Pride cometh before the fall.

The rotation of the package core had scraped off one of the digits from the label. Great design. That relegated me to a period of trial & error, manufacturing various combinations and permutations of curses. But, I finally cracked the code. It hooked right up to the internet to register and I hadn’t even loaded the phone company disk. I took that as a good omen and hoped I would be able to pull off the same trick when it was time. I also noticed that it gave me an option of file transfer from my present computer. So much for the geek’s product knowledge, although it did appear slightly complex.

Now to transfer the files. In the showroom, the clerk demonstrated the ease of the Tornado by plugging it into two floor models. Each computer immediately displayed a split screen of file menus, this computer and that one, so you could easily effect the transfer. My next challenge dawned on me. I didn’t buy a new monitor, so I had only the one that was now connected to the new machine.

That shouldn’t be a problem, since it would show both menus. I plugged the Tornado into both boxes and my sense of foreboding was validated. It displayed only this computer. What fresh hell is this?

I surmised that the old boy was up to its tricks but couldn’t see a display for it and know what error messages were blinking or if had frozen. Geek boy told me it wouldn’t make a difference, but obviously something was awry. I couldn’t even reboot because there would be no display of buttons for me to click to log on.

More variations on curses. I calmed myself to think this thing out. The geek had said I could also simply pull the hard drive out of the old computer and download off that. Simply. Disemboweling a computer wasn’t in my skill set.

But, there was the external hard drive, so I plugged that into the new computer. It came up with a file menu. Hallelujah. But, the drive wouldn’t surrender the booty without my loading its software into the new computer. And, even then, nothing was guaranteed. I already had some suspicions about this device and was loathe to infect the new computer.

Back to the drawing board. It occurred to me that there was an ancient monitor sitting in the garage from a couple generations of hardware ago; one of those older jobs the size of a countertop refrigerator with a screen a little more expansive than a thumbnail. Would that even couple up with a newer device? I was now in a pessimistic mode. The couplings didn’t match, but I had a box full of adaptors and was surprised to find one that worked. I soon had a display, thanks to not dumping the old monitor years back. Score one for hoarders.

The display told me that the old computer had taken advantage of its cloak of darkness to get into all kinds of mischief. I restarted and got the desired split screens on both computers. Oh yeah!

But, I knew enough about these things to understand I wasn’t out of the woods. There were hurdles, stemming from the differences in the machines and operating systems. The computers are the same brand and the software also shares the same publisher. You would expect them to be completely compatible, but not so. I get along better than that with my ex, and we’ve exchanged gunfire.

I could live with some of the transfer gaps. There were still some of my old programs to attempt to load, but I was anxious to take a test drive. For the first time, I took a good look at the screen. I had moved from Windows XP to 7, but still expected something recognizable or at least intuitive.

Instead of a few familiar desktop shortcuts, there was a small array of icons across the top that looked like something inscribed on the portal in “Stargate.” Damn cuneiforms from an alien visit eons ago. I hadn’t been supplied with a manual, not that I would’ve cracked it anyway. But, it would be nice to have a fallback. I messed with them and discovered that they were stylized renditions of objects that reasonably represented a function, however abstractly. I was able to belly crawl through a few functions, but didn’t find it very user friendly and not at all familiar.

All I wanted to know at this point is, can I write and can I reach the internet? I can, so I’m declaring a victory. I still have some cleanup to do, but you take the victories where you get them.

The great tomato conspiracy

I believe I’ve unearthed a cartel, crime ring or whatever you want to call it, that begs to have the full force of global law enforcement come to bear on it. It’s the trafficking of sundried tomatoes.

You may already be aware that this would be far from the first edible to lubricate the engine of organized crime. For many years, the distribution channel for certain cheeses has been tightly controlled and costly. I’m not going to say by who, because they are a bit publicity-shy, but the cheeses are often served with pasta. And, just try to multi-source olive oil.

If you still think that turf wars are limited to controlled substances, open up a store. You want magazines for your newsstand? Get a quote from a magazine distributor in your area. Now, get a competitive quote. Good luck on that. You got a better chance of finding two waterworks in town than a second magazine distributor, unless you check the cemetery.

I don’t eat salads because I like them. They’re bowls of lawn clippings to me. I just ingest them to offset some of the salted, fried and chemically preserved foodstuffs that are the building blocks of my preferred diet. If chemicals preserve meat, then they should preserve my body, right? Unassailable logic. But, eating the foliage keeps my test scores in the range that keeps the doctor off my back.

About the only way I can endure grazing on the flora is to enhance it with goodies. One of my favorites is sundried tomatoes. Remember, they are a member of the somewhat tolerable fruit clan, not the odious vegetable ilk.

Two weeks ago, the grocery store was out of them. Last week, same deal. Is there a tomato famine I haven’t heard about? I cornered one of the more lucid looking employees. He directed me to an aisle that I knew would not pan out.

Tomatoes packed in glass jars of thirty-weight oil will not do. I mean, what was the point of drying them if you’re going to abominate them by sopping them in that? I insisted on the real deal.

He leaned closer to me and whispered he could look into it and let me know. Was he fishing for a kickback? Do I need a “connection” to feed my habit? Alas, I have a monkey on my back!

This morning, I struck paydirt. I scored bags of the suckers. Tonight, I tore the first one open to drop some of the gems into the hideous sea of green. Something on the package caught my eye. “Product of Turkey.”

Holy trade deficit! I can understand why we might import bananas, pineapples and mangoes, but tomatoes? WTF? Is there a square inch of ground in the continental U.S. where you couldn’t spit a tomato seed and get a plant? Have we not mastered the advanced technology of drying fruit? I mean, every third teenager can hack into national defense system, but no one knows how to desiccate a tomato?

I’m not exaggerating about the fertility of the beast. Some years back, a community in Florida was dead set on eliminating chemical lawn fertilizers. Offering a free alternative, they processed their sewage into dry fertilizer and offered it with no charge and a guarantee against offending odor. No problem until after the first rain. Hundreds of pristine lawns sprouted tomato plants from property line to property line. Then, there was quite a stink.

So, a tomato seed can survive the human digestive system, sewage treatment and reprocessing into powdered fertilizer, and still germinate, but we can’t noodle out a better supply solution than shipping from Turkey? And, just how can we expect to maintain our position of world leader in illegal immigration if we don’t have ample pickable crops to attract them?

This whole thing just doesn’t add up, which means there’s a hidden level. Mark my words, when tomatoes are in short supply and being brought in from halfway around the world, palms are getting greased, trucks are catching fire and distribution upstarts are hobbling around on crutches. While Congress concerns itself with such pervasive issues as millionaire (widely) professional football player pensions and dietary supplements of MLB ball chuckers (who collectively comprise a whopping few ten thousandths of a percentage of the population), hundreds of millions of us are crushed under the oppressive thumb of the underworld tomato cartel.

There is one way, and only one way to attack this. I need to produce a whole bunch of those magnetic ribbons to slap onto cars. Anyone know what color isn’t taken?

61; it's the new 16

Reggie, Clyde and I emerged from the gym this morning, into room temperature air. We all paused just to savor it. Makes you thrilled to be alive. Well, that and a good dose of adrenaline and endorphins coursing through our veins.

We continued to the parking lot. “When you were a kid, did you envision yourselves working out in your sixties?” Clyde wanted to know.

“Hell,” replied Reggie, I didn’t see myself working out back then.” I’m not sure I gave any thought of life beyond forty, if that. If I had, I doubt I would envision myself in the gym. Or, on a bike, in a kayak, etc.

When I first took paddling lessons, at the age of 34, one of the instructors appeared much older than I. I wondered if John could handle it. John kicked by butt. It’s now almost thirty years later and he’s still paddling. And, still kicking my butt.

The conversation continued as we reached Clyde’s car. He rolled down the windows and flicked on the sound system. “You do realize you’re perpetuating a stereotype,” I said dryly.

“That’s the Temps, fool, not some rap garbage.”

We continued our discussion, heads bobbing to the beat of the Temptations. “Ain’t too proud to beg” cued up and head bobbing would no longer suffice. We were boogeying. All we needed was some mint green tuxedos and ruffled shirts. Or, restraints.

A few girls came walking by in tennis togs and smiled at us. I define “girl” as a female under 40. They were taut, tanned and terrific. I’m sure I wouldn’t have envisioned myself noticing that at this stage of life. But, ain’t life grand? Actually, it’s whatever you decide to make it.

I took the hand of the nearest girl and drew her in. Soon, we were all dancing with abandon in the parking lot and laughing our heads off.

Two ladies (close to my age) came toddling by. They stopped and stared. Make that, glared. “Don’t you have any shame, a man of your age?”

“No ma’am, I don’t.” Not one iota.

Executive Disorder

Strange dinner this week. Dave was speaking at it and had invited me along as his guest.

I met Dave a very long time ago, but didn’t get to know him until 20 years after that when we were reacquainted. These days, I see him maybe half a dozen times a year. He’s retired. But, in his day, he was one of the most prominent orthopedic surgeons in the city, and well known for his work with professional athletes. When he does public speaking, that’s usually what people want to hear about.

But this night, he told a story of an earlier time. And, he told it as only he can. I cannot replicate it here. Dave’s humor has a lot to do with his skillful, wry delivery. You’re never sure if he’s being serious or not.

He was just beginning his career and was working one of the less desirable shifts in a hospital near the university. That night, he was seeing a borderline college athlete who had blown out a knee. Dave had done the surgery and they were arguing about the prognosis. The door to the examination room flew open and in walked a hospital administrator with three men in dark suits. They took Dave outside to confer with him.

Dave returned to the room and told the patient that he had to go out on an emergency call and they would have to reschedule, which didn’t please the adolescent. The suits exchanged looks and said it would be a good idea if the boy came along. He objected, but the men flashed credentials and made it clear that it wasn’t a suggestion.

Dave and the boy were escorted to a couple nondescript sedans parked at the front door and whisked away to a nearby hotel. Today, it’s either decrepit or has been torn down. Then, it was a grand old lady of inns. The cars screeched to a halt at the back door and Dave and the patient were taken to a service elevator where they were met by more serious looking men in near identical suits.

The doors of the elevator opened on an upper floor. Dave and his charge were detained while the hall was checked. Then, they were briskly pulled down the hallway to a room. Passwords were exchanged and the door opened. Dave and the boy were quickly shoved inside and the door immediately closed.

A, mature man stood in the middle of the room. “Where’s your table?” No one answered, much less Dave. He was stunned by the sight of the Vice President of the United States addressing him, clad only in his underwear.

Hubert Humphrey was in town to give a speech and raise money. Near bedtime, something popped out of alignment and he was in serious pain. He was advised that the local university anchored one of the best medical complexes in the country and they could surely provide someone on short notice to do an adjustment. Scrambling to accommodate, the hospital administrator came up with Dave, who happened to be on duty.

Dave’s specialty was surgery. He had seen these serious adjustments done, but had never attempted one. He told our audience they are a lot more complicated than one might think.

He didn’t want to reveal his apprehension to the Vice President and make the hospital look bad. His eyes scanned the room and he decided the bed would have to do, although it was too low and soft. He positioned Humphrey on the bed and grasped a shoulder and a hip. With a sudden lurch, he twisted them in opposite directions, hoping for the telltale crack. Nothing, save for a groan from his new patient.

Dave said he was nervous and sweaty at that point and asked Humphrey to roll over on his other side. He was in obvious pain and loudly expressed his impatience, making Dave even sweatier. Again, he attempted the maneuver, with no result.

Dave decided there was only one thing left to do. He told the Vice President he’d have to straddle him. The agents looked at him sternly and the adolescent made a salacious remark and was immediately ordered to shut up.

Dave mounted the executive, pinning his hips to the bed. He gripped parts of the upper body and gave a sudden and powerful heave. At last, there was the crack. Dave sat back on his haunches, satisfied and relieved. He awaited the feedback from his patient and became concerned when it wasn’t forthcoming.

Concern turned to panic. There was not only no feedback, but no movement. No breathing. Dave felt for a pulse and there was none. Holy crap!

Dave initiated some kind of panicky CPR and agents edged closer to the bed, not sure what to do. Dave said he had visions of newspaper headlines, “Doctor kills Vice President of the United States.” He was really sweating now.

The eyes fluttered open. “Get the hell off me.”

He signaled the agents he was okay and they began to whisk the interlopers out of the room. “Just a minute.” He reached into a bag and produced a small box, which he gave to Dave.

Some four decades later, Dave pulled this box out of his jacket pocket. He opened it and showed the dinner guests. “I never heard from him again, but he gave me these. Cufflinks with the Vice Presidential seal, two of them.” Yeah Dave, like anyone gives one cufflink?

Dave’s audience stared at him with some degree of incredulity. And, I understood my role in this presentation.

I had been Dave’s other patient that night.

One last on in this string

I am supposed to be getting away here. But, I'm the only one up, so have a liitle time to listen to the rain and the comments on the previous blogs.

The boat that's calling to me is the liquidlogic Versa Board. I would have to paddle it first to make the call. Always a good idea, but especially so when they're venturing into hybrid territory. That always sounds like a good idea on paper (or, on CAD, these days), to design something that does many things. The question is, does it come out doing different things adequately or with none of them good. I've never seen a hybrid do everything well. That's a panacea.

But, another priority has come up and it's relevant to those blogs. Our paddling group had a swap meet yesterday. I took three boats, two of which were for sale. The third one was just to give others a chance to sample that genre, aiding their shopping processes. A very nice kayak that would provide good benchmarks.

One paddler fixated on that boat and wanted it badly. I did the mental math and decided she would get more enjoyment our of it than I would, so a sale was consumated.

My enjoyment came from seeing her light up when the paperwork exchanged hands. But, replacing it has moved to the head of the to-do list. There is no rest for the Johnny Appleseed of kayaks. :^)

Speaking of which...

There’s rain forecast this weekend. Rain is water. I like water. I have a kayak event scheduled for this morning and a getaway weekend after that. Fine with me.

Last year, we had an expedition scheduled off the coast of Georgia. We drove south for hours, listening to forecasts of monsoon-like storms and possible tornados. I knew it would be a good time and it exceeded expectations. A group like that embraces the variations and copes with adversity. You know it’s going to be fun with them.

Last week, we had an overnighter planned for the Hocking River. Severe thunderstorms crept into the forecast. Many people canceled out. I don’t know many of them well, but it did tell me something about what I could expect from the remainder.

I guessed they would all be people who made the most of any situation and would include some fellow water worshipers. It would be a good time with them, which it was. That’s not to say that there weren’t any among the dropouts, but we were down to a pure mix. The predicted storms failed to materialize in any significant amount. And when they did, we enjoyed it. It’s a life-giving part of nature.

This morning, it’s already raining and undoubtedly some won’t show up. I’m looking forward to seeing those who do.

As for the getaway part of the weekend, what could be better than listening to the rain patter on the roof of a cabin in the woods? It’s water, it’s nature and it’ll be great. Especially if the electricity for the hot tub doesn’t go out.