Touching lives

The first time I retired (I’m not very good at it), I got antsy to do something. Oh, I was doing stuff. Mostly hanging out around Charleston, SC, paddling the black water swamps. That had been something on my list. But, it gave me thinking time and I quickly came to know I wouldn’t be satisfied unless I also did something that mattered. When I got home, I made a list of all the things I had enjoyed doing, whether it was for profit or pay, or just volunteering. Most of the best things I had done for nothing. That helped me plot a rough course. Over the recent holidays, I caught up with some people I haven’t seen in a while. Someone asked me about my paddling activities. There was a follow-up question about the portion that entails managing a club and organizing paddling events and what that requires. And the final question, “Why would you do all that instead of just paddling by yourself or with a few friends?” That took me back over three decades to one of my favorite jobs. I was publishing a monthly magazine that was a how-to for aspiring writers. Not technical, promotional or other “profession” genres, but mostly those who embraced the dream of being a published author. It wasn’t a magazine genre that generated a lot of revenue, so we were staffed pretty thin. Also, the production technology at the time was primitive (typewriters, cut & paste vs. electronic layout, etc.), so no amount of planning averted the feverish all-nighters at the end of the month. When the boards for each issue finally were packed up and sent to the printer, it was our custom to meet in the editor’s office. He’d pull out a bottled of good whiskey and some paper cups from his bottom desk drawer and we’d toast another good job done and wax philosophically. One evening, during a contemplative pause in the chatter, a production assistant piped up. “The hours are long, the work is hard and stressful, and the pay stinks. Why do we do this?” I don’t recall having given it extensive thought so I was almost surprised with the answer that emerged from my lips. “Because we touch people’s lives. We could be grilling steaks, selling copy machines or painting walls for more money, but it wouldn’t have the same impact or significantly change the quality of life for them. We touch people’s lives.”

Sometimes

Sometimes, they get it right the first time. Cars are a familiar product and I would argue that the 240Z was the best (and first) of it line. I would opine the same for the true initial Mustang. By that, I mean the first designed from the ground, up. The prior iteration was cobbled together from Falcon parts. But, I digress. The photo you see here is the first rotomolded (plastic) kayak manufactured in this country, an Aquaterra Chinook. It would’ve been the first in the world but the Brits popped one out of a mold a year or two before the Chinook emerged in 1986. These haven’t been made in almost two decades, but I’ve seen a few around. Something in the lines spoke to me. It wasn’t until I did some research that I understood why. Northwestern coast/Rob Roy boats have been around since 1865. Been around and perfected, starting with the rough waters and rocky shores of the Pacific Northwest. When Aquaterra drew up the Chinook, they started there and added some modern features and conveniences, which aren’t that different today. I’d looked for a while, came close a couple times, but was never able to snag one. Then, while on a trip a few weeks ago, I stopped in at a large sea kayaking shop in Georgia. There, in a stack of used boats, was a familiar profile that grabbed my eye. I bought the Chinook. I was almost afraid of paddling it, apprehensive of a letdown. But, I was also curious, so it wasn’t long before I slid it into a nearby lake. It was everything I thought it would be; stable, maneuverable and reasonably fast. Sometimes they get it right the first time.

Guy brains

In the debate about the intelligence of women vs. men, I come down on the side of the girls. You never see them missing fingers. The subject occurs to me as I contemplate going outside to clear the coating of ice and snow off my truck. My thoughts reel back to college days and Speedy. The nickname came from the cadence of his speech. He had a thick southern accent. You could leave the room to get a cup of coffee between his words and you wouldn’t have missed anything upon returning. Over a dozen of us lived in the house and no one was granted use of the garage. It was filled with all kinds of extra furniture and junk, anyway. One day, after an icy snow storm, Speedy had somewhere he had to be. His Ford (of mid-50s vintage) was solidly encased in water frozen in various configurations. He was pondering a fast way to clear it off, or at least the windows. What he came up with was a liberal dousing of the windshield area with charcoal lighter fluid. It was a pretty impressive sight when he lit it up. However, the results revealed this to be a less than ingenious solution. Manufacturers have used safety glass for windshields since the 1920s. That is, a layer of plastic is sandwiched between layers of glass to arrest flying shards in case of a shattering impact. Encased plastic reacts to extreme heat. It turns black. Black isn’t the optimum color for windshields. Male intelligence? Case closed.

Much to my amusement

The county has designated sledding hills in its parks. When it snows, they close the parks.