Sea Salt Captain and Parrot

 A small memory from 80 Years ago:  When I was just in the first grade we had a neighbor in Oceanside CA. He was an old man. Perhaps the age I am today.

Across the street was a “Court”. In those years a Court was what we now call a Motel, with some variation. In the 1940s, the nation was just becoming motorized. People were starting to travel in automobiles. If you traveled by automobile, where could you put your car while you slept in the hotel? Most travelers in those days used trains or buses and the hotels were near the stations, so no need for large parking lots like we have today. Courts solved the problem, You rented a small cottage with an attached car port that was again attached to another cottage, and so on. You may still see them around today. These were often in vacation destinations. Oceanside was a vacation destination. The cottage included a living space with a fold away Murphy bed and a toilet and a kitchen.

The old man, a retired Sea Captain, owned the Court. He had spent his earlier days sailing “Square Riggers” 'round the Horn and was now retired.

Much of Oceanside, in those days, was retired sailors. There were homes built on the cliffs overlooking the ocean where an old sailor could retire and still enjoy the sea from a safe distance. The old man retired into a world that was not of his making, because the War changed things..

He built the Court so that it would supply him with a living...those

years were before Social Security and Medicare....   Around the Court was a concrete wall about a foot high into which he had 
embedded sea shells from his travels in the South Seas. The walls of the apartments were concrete embedded with pieces of Petrified Wood from the nearby desert.

He sat on the front steps of his apartment in his dark blue uniform with brass buttons and a Parrot on his shoulder.

Willing to talk to anyone that would stop. He had no family and was alone in this new world ashore. Few stopped as they hurried to their destination. Often, as we kids walked by, he would stop us and tell us tales of the sea that he had lived. As young children, we were in a hurry to some new adventure so didn't have the interest to truly listen to an old man telling stories. I wish now that I had cared more. Then I could have told you some of his amazing life stories. But now it's too late..

Today I realize it's about validating another person, and relieving their loneliness.

Emotional Ocean

 Jim: In 1970 I was in a Sea Shell shop in Mazatlan, Mexico. Just browsing. The owner, seeing that I was not buying anything suggested that I might like to look upstairs. I went up the rickety stairs to the attic where they had more junk than what is in my garage. Amongst the chaos was this painting, in the frame, and covered with dust. The price tag was 10 Pesos. But I thought they might have meant 10 dollars. The difference is that Pesos has only one strike across the “S” while dollars has two strikes across the “S”. So I asked and was assured that it was 10 Pesos. So I bought it! This painting is unsigned and I have no idea who did it, but for 10 Pesos, including the frame I could not resist. 10 Pesos in 1970 was the equivalent of 53 USA cents. It has hung in my living room ever since.

Bringing it back on the airplane was an ordeal. At the condo I took the frame apart and removed and rolled the canvas. The whole shebang was still too big for cabin luggage but the stewardess let us put it in the coat closet. 

Misale:  Even though most of the time we sit with our backs to this painting, it reflects in the glass doors and seemingly is ever present. In days gone by, I would have thought the artist was over dramatizing. Now, I look at it realizing it is not possible to show and tell with paint and words, the immense magnitude of an ocean with emotions. We humans are so small in creation.

This artist had experienced it and tried to bring forth that greatness. Yet, his story was worth only a few cents.. We all have amazing lives, every moment of it. If only we can value it. In the end we are only dust.

Bilge Treasures

 “The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allen Poe came to mind when I found these bottles of grape juice, lying helter skelter, in the basement. These are not Amontillado, they are vintage grape juice. Purchased about 20 years ago as I was fitting out the “Millennium Falcon” for her circumnavigation.

I was looking for stores to squirrel away in the boat as a hedge against misfortune. In a local grocery store I found a sale on Sparkling Grape Juice. Liter bottles that normally sold for $2.75 were being offered at $1 a bottle! I sensed an opportunity here..... They were getting rid of their older stock! I called the bottler and I asked what would happen to them when they went out of date and was told they might ferment. To which I responded, “And that is bad?.....”.

I asked the manager if I could make an offer of 25 cents a bottle and I would take ALL he had. At first he balked, but 10 minutes later he accepted the offer. I had no idea how many bottles he had!   We began loading the XJ6 first in the trunk then into the back seat. When all were loaded the rear bumper of the Jaguar was only an inch off the ground! I don't remember now how many bottles there were, but it was more than 300.

We took them home and carefully loaded them into the bilge of the “Millennium Falcon” packed in layers of straw. It served as excellent ballast and we would not die of thirst when becalmed in the Sargasso Sea.

Later when the circumnavigation was abandoned we took the grape juice to the basement and just stashed it there. After 20 years, just before my marriage to Misale, I rediscovered the stash and we opened two for testing. They were fine and we enjoyed them. I toyed with the idea of serving them at the wedding on New Years Day, but didn't want to open each one to test it. They will be savored as time goes by. We plan to drink the last one on our first anniversary. 

Edgar Allen Poe is my favorite Poet and Author. He lived only 40 years and his works will, all, fit in a single volume. But he was a literary genius that died too young. I used to read his short stories to my daughters as bedtime stories.

“Fortunato had hurt me a thousand times and I had suffered quietly. but then I learned that he had laughed at my proud name, Montresor, the name of an old and honored family. I promised myself that I would make him pay for this — that I would have revenge. “ 

…..and then.....

“I put the old bones again in a pile against the wall. For half a century now no human hand has touched them. May he rest in peace! “

Homesick Angel

 Why Do I Fly?

When I was 10 years old I took my first steps into the air.  It was when I first soloed. My brother and I and a friend decided we wanted to build an airplane. It was a beautiful airplane, a design of three, genius, 10 year old boys. It was made of cardboard and two by fours. Probably weighed 100 pounds.

We hauled it to the top of the garage and secured it there with ropes lest it fly away on its own. Then we had to select a pilot. It was a single seat aircraft so there would be no passengers. It seemed the fairest way to select the pilot would be by “drawing straws.” I won the draw so was now both the Chief Engineer and the Test Pilot. It was an honor that almost killed me!

After much discussing the flight-plan, I picked up the plane...with the help of my crew, and jumped off the roof of the garage. My report upon reaching the ground in less than one second of near VERTICAL flight was that, “There was not enough air under the plane for it to fly.” We had to find a higher place to jump from.

Searching the neighborhood we found that in the “Gravel Pit” less than a mile away was a chalk cliff that was 30 feet high. “That should be enough air for it to fly.” I exclaimed. The pilot was to be the one of us with the most “stick time” which turned out to be me with one test flight already under my belt. What an honor!

But, as Chief Engineer, I was very concerned with safety so was insisting on a parachute in case I had to bail out. We built a parachute using a bed sheet and a frame made of fence lath. It was like a huge tablecloth with a wooden frame. There were four ropes from the corners to my belt loops and it sat atop my head like a Coolie hat. Now I was safe and could proceed with Test Flight #2.

We managed to get the whole set up to the Gravel Pit and on top of the cliff. Then after discussing the emergency procedure, “Drop the plane and let it fall away as I drifted slowly to the earth under the parachute” I prepared to jump off the cliff. I jumped and to everyone's surprise, I survived the inevitable crash, two by fours, sheet, cardboard and me. I didn't even get a scratch. But the plane was totaled and couldn't be repaired which probably saved my life...

Twenty years later with proper instruction from a pilot that had learned to fly from Orville Wright, I soloed for the second time, in a Piper J3 Cub. It was a thrill that far outweighed that first solo. The exhilaration of my real solo flight was only matched by the first time I “caught air” on a Wind Surfer. And the first time I had sex.

The first plane I owned was a 1954 Cessna 170B with crosswind gear. I learned to fly it from that same pilot that soloed me, Morris Norwood. It was a fantastic plane that I could land and stop “before rolling off the numbers”.

I made several trips from Texas to California, Arkansas, and the East coast learning to become one with the “bird”. I fly as part of the plane. We are one. Morris told me on our first flight , after he watched me manhandle the Cub through basic aerobatics, “You must treat your plane like you treat a woman, you don't rape her, you seduce her.” I always remembered that and as I progressed as a pilot, I learned, not to get into the plane, but to put it on like a finely tailored suit that became part of me in the air. I willed it to do what I wanted with persuasion, not with force. I learned from error not to fly into a Box Canyon, not to fly into zero-zero conditions without proper training, not to “fly on top” if you don't know where you will get down, not to stretch your fuel tanks into the reserve, and many other lessons and I survived them. There are Old Wise pilots and Young Dead pilots and the only difference between them is the luck to survive the on the job training. I became an Old Wise pilot in “Three One Three Five Bravo”.

My second plane was doomed from the start. A Piper 140 that I bought with a partner. I never got to pilot it. The day after my partner returned from Florida with the plane we took it to my daughter's college with Pat as the pilot and myself as co-pilot and Maria in the back seat. The next day Pat flew it to a nearby airport to get the radio checked out and on the return flight he managed to screw up the landing and destroy the plane while suffering some serious injuries. That was the end of #2.

Number three was a 1947 Ercoupe. It was flush riveted, had an upgraded engine, controllable pitch propeller and was capable of 135 miles an hour cruise. Quite an accomplishment for an 85 HP Continental engine. 

I spent many an enjoyable hour in the “Homesick Angel”. She could handle ANY crosswind landing and could get better than 20 miles to the gallon back when most cars couldn't do that good. A quarter of my logbook was with N111J in and out of little grass airfields that no one ever visited. The number, “November One One One Juliet” was one I selected from available numbers at the FAA. I wanted one that was easy to remember. Later I discovered that it had once been the number of a famous aviatrix plane. Beryl Markham, from Kenya, Africa, the first to cross the Atlantic Ocean flying westward, against the prevailing winds, had that number at one time.

One day my sister came to visit. She is a white knuckle flier that will only fly after two Margaritas, maybe three... But I managed to convince her to go up with me without booze. We flew in a large circle around Austin TX only landing at grass strips in the boonies. After the flight I asked her if she enjoyed the flight in spite of her fear of flying. Her response was, “Yes, as soon as you landed it on grass, I knew you could land it anywhere.” It's a good thing that she didn't look at the fuel gauge as we were approaching home after flying for almost four hours. .

Longest non-stop flight

 The Rutan Voyager Model 76 was the first plane to successfully circumnavigate the globe without making any stops, either for fuel or repairs. That record still stands today even after 38 years. "December 14 to 23, 1986. The flight took 9 days, 3 minutes, and 44 seconds and covered 24,986 miles (40,211 km), almost doubling the old distance record set by a Boeing B-52 strategic bomber in 1962." (Wikipedia)

It stayed aloft for 216 hours with two pilots aboard. The two engines of the plane weighed more that the aircraft itself. For a flight of 9 days it had to carry fuel and oil for the two engines as well as food and water for the two pilots. I wonder how much weight they saved by dumping the human waste overboard. Where they did it might be a more germane question, prompting the next question of, “Where were you my little man so spick and span...”  Oh, never mind, it's a very old joke...

This picture, autographed by the two pilots, was a gift from the project, that I contributed funds to.

Flying Dutchman

 Covered with fog and salty sea spray, yet lighted by the moon, the two masted square-rigger sailed through the dark of night. I could feel the call of the oceans in my bones. Hearing the creaking of the whole ship in bending movement towards the power of the wind in the sails. Waves crashing in big plumes of spray over the bowsprit onto the foredeck. Were they heading into a storm? Were the currents against them? When we (sv Mylady) rounded the Cape of Good Hope in 2015, we went through a STORM I wish not to remember. The waves where the two oceans met were madly confused. Sickening. Was this painting inspired by The Flying Dutchman?

    Where, when and how did The legend of The Flying Dutchman get started? It is said that if the Flying Dutchman is seen by the crew of a ship it is a forecast of doom. Sometimes a death aboard, or a severe storm, or even the loss of the ship and crew are prophesied. Some versions say that the Flying Dutchman will hail a ship and ask her to take messages to people that are long deceased and if accepted the ship will be doomed.

    Perhaps, In real life the Flying Dutchman was a 17th century Dutch merchantman, captained by Captain Hendrick Van Der Decken.

Wikipedia suggests:  "Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine for May 1821,

which puts the scene as the Cape of Good Hope. This story introduces the name Captain Hendrick Van der Decken for the captain and the motifs (elaborated by later writers) of letters addressed to people long dead being offered to other ships for delivery, but if accepted will bring misfortune; and the captain having sworn to round the Cape of Good Hope though it should take until the day of judgment.

   She was an Amsterdam vessel and sailed from port seventy years ago. Her master's name was Van der Decken. He was a staunch seaman, and would have his own way in spite of the devil. For all that, never a sailor under him had reason to complain; though how it is on board with them nobody knows. The story is this: that in doubling the Cape they were a long day trying to weather the Table Bay. However, the wind headed them, and went against them more and more, and Van der Decken walked the deck, swearing at the wind. Just after sunset a vessel spoke him, asking him if he did not mean to go into the bay that night. Van der Decken replied: "May I be eternally damned if I do, though I should beat about here till the day of judgment." And to be sure, he never did go into that bay, for it is believed that he continues to beat about in these seas still, and will do so long enough. This vessel is never seen but with foul weather along with her.”

Today, this painting by artist: Earl Smith, which was given to Jim by a church pastor in Texas, USA, is keeping alive our salted memories and love for ships and oceans. 

GLASS BALLS

 

In the summer of 1958 I was on Wake Island in the Pacific Ocean, 2,078 miles off of Japan. I was there as a 'weatherman' to assess several particular weather phenomenon for the USAF for six months. While there my job consisted of about 2 hours a day of 'work' and 22 hours to myself. Yes it was a cushy job...LOL I spent a lot of time beach combing, fishing, sailing, diving, playing cards and just plain loafing. Loved that job! The pay sucked, but the benefits were awesome.

The beach combing turned up Japanese fishing floats, about one glass ball a day. These blown glass floats were used to keep the top of a fishing net at the surface of the ocean. Today they are not commonly used anymore, but they were in  regular use in 1958 when I collected these. The earliest ones were used in 1842 and were made in Norway, not in Japan (first use in Japan was 1910) as many would suppose because of the extensive use by the Japanese fishing industry. They are, today, replaced mainly by aluminum, plastic and Styrofoam.