The Silence of Snow

The White Mountains were silent yesterday. The fifth storm to hit New England since returning from sea had coated every tree with a foot and a half of new snow. Stopping amongst the evergreens and young softwoods branches mounded with beautiful dry snow muffled every scrape and thud a snowboard makes in the back country. A holler from a skier looking for his partner further down the stream bed was hardly audible in the noise dampening forest.

These were perfect conditions for being out of bounds; ample snow to cover every rock face and fallen tree trunk along the trail and provide sufficient control to carve through the trees. A few skiers had all ready been down the stream we were following so it wouldn't be so easy to get lost on the back side of the mountain. I had been down this glade a few weeks before with a brother so I had a good idea where speed was needed to avoid unstrapping and walking to the top of the next rise and I knew where to slow down and duck in the tighter areas to avoid wayward tree branches.

My helmet and goggles were all ready scratched and my board had received a few gouges when there was less snow so the paranoia associated with ruining perfectly good equipment had subsided. A friend also on vacation from sea was following close behind so if one of us broke something we'd probably be able to extricate ourselves and not have to pay for our own evacuation (Rescue is not gratis when you're out of bounds).

After 78 days at sea just standing in the woods on the side of a mountain after a proper blizzard was almost as much of a thrill as snowboarding in the best conditions of the year. The sensation of freedom dry land and free time provides a sailor kept me pumped throughout the day as we made run after run on my favorite mountain in New England.

It's days like this that provide my greatest justification for spending at least half of my life away from the world and they become an important source of energy and confidence when I'm exhausted and fed up with life at work. My last hitch was no exception.

All in all it was a great trip. We had one of the best crews I have ever worked with. The steward department put out some of the most edible food I've had at work or at home. The Boatswain managed the deck gang as all Boatswains should; handling beefs before the mast whenever he could and giving the guys breaks when they needed them while completing my ceaseless to do lists. The cargo was delivered in the condition in which it was loaded and there were no major accidents or injuries. Despite all of our small victories, for one reason or another, this last trip had a draining effect on my energy level and interest in remaining at sea indefinitely for the rest of my life.

Ask anyone who sailed in the U.S. Merchant Marine prior to the grounding of the Exxon Valdez and they will tell you sailing isn't anything like it used to be. No more port time, no more fun time, more liability, more paperwork, more headaches. After working in the industry myself for the last seven years even I can see that change isn't relegated to the 1990s. The industry continues to change and the changes are coming fast and none of it seems to be improving my working conditions, benefits or professional liability.

2010 was a very interesting year for the merchant marine. There are a hundred topics I'd just love to give my opinion on ranging from the Oil Spills in the Gulf of Mexico to Piracy to shifting environmental regulations but I'll just stick to what really gets me pacing back and forth on the bridge wings.

The "Global Recession" has made the business of shipping even more competitive than it all ready was and every where I look companies are reducing costs. After two years of scrapping old tonnage and laying up new ships cargo volumes are slowly picking up but there is still an oversupply of vessels. Cost cutting measures such as slow steaming, voyage routing guidance focused on fuel efficiency more so than weather avoidance and enhanced fuel / lube oil consumption monitoring are being introduced at my company. The senior officers in my fleet are seeing an increase in oversight from the office via satellite based technologies that once upon a time would have been unimaginable to the skipper of any freighter.

For managing the condominium association in which I reside, my finances and socializing I adore having the internet aboard ship but being out of sight of land no longer provides the cloak of anonymity a ship at sea once received. Imagine an 18th century whaling ship. A Captain was employed, usually as a partial owner in the venture and fitted out with crew, stores and provisions to last months at sea. The vessel much like a warship of the time was meant to be self sufficient for years save for fire wood and water. The ship would sail from Nantucket and disappear around Cape Horn and not reappear in New England for one or two years.

The success of the entire voyage was entrusted to the Captain. He would hunt down whales filling the holds with blubber oil and not return to Nantucket until the ship was full and down providing a large enough profit to the owners and himself to justify his livelihood. Save for the occasional stop at a whaling station or encounter with another ship when letters, news and, among the literate, books could be traded the ship was completely out of touch with the rest of the world. Even when disaster struck not a soul would know until survivors were rescued or hundreds of years later an anchor is discovered on the top of Frigate Shoals as it was this week.

To compare the experience of a merchant sailor two or one or even a half century ago to seafaring today provides such a contrast that it's hard to believe anyone can still be romantic about the life of a 21st century mariner including myself. On a personal level the escape once afforded to the sailor who wanted to leave a troubled history over the fantail is no more. Running from the law, the IRS, family problems, the ills of society or simply the drudgery of a nine to five just isn't possible.

Seafarers are subject to thorough background checks at a minimum every 5 years. Any conviction besides a "Minor offense" is grounds for even more scrutiny requiring written statements and waivers. Driving records, criminal records, and now even your health records can prohibit the issuance of a merchant mariner's credentials. We are subject to enhanced physical screenings where conditions such as asthma, kidney stones, recurrent back pain, arthritis or restless legs require medical review by the Coast Guard and a waiver to work. Once upon a time American mariners received free health care thanks to the founding fathers knowledge that the fledgling nation required able bodied and fit sailors to keep commerce flowing and cannons thundering but today the health care provided by the major unlicensed union is a joke (Just ask my brother). Just before Reagan closed the USPHS hospital system, the first uniformed service in the United States, I was born at no cost because my mother held an MMD.

Today a sailor who never sets foot on U.S. soil but simply sails on a U.S. ship must pay the same tax as a citizen ashore on a wage that has stagnated in most industry sectors over the last quarter century. Unlike many European nations which historically have only taxed a portion of their mariner's wages the United States treats sailors no different than any one else, despite the best intentions of Martin Kapp.

With access to news, email and calling cards crews are now as up to date on global events and family happenings as anyone else. While this is usually good for morale it is now easier for the crew to become focused on things occurring at home or in the world providing more distraction for the crew, something Captains not long ago never contended with.

On an operational level shipping as mentioned before is under more scrutiny than ever before. Messages from the home office once relegated to packets of mail or the morse code of a signal station moved further offshore with the advent of radio stations. While satellites brought us cheap phone cards and eventually the Internet they have also introduced telephones in the Captain's and Chief Engineers office. 24 hours a day the Captain is accessible through phone and email. Any vessel can be tracked by any person on line through AMVER weather reports or AIS when in range of a participating port. Long Range Identification Tracking through SAT-C ensuring port states know which vessels are headed their way is light years apart from the observatory on Munjoy Hill that once hoisted the house flag of ships standing off Cape Elizabeth for a pilot to prepare the agents and merchants on the dock for a cargo's imminent arrival.

Even when the Master of my ship determines his route across an ocean the waypoints are reviewed by a routing agency who more often than not disagree and recommend a route through rougher seas in search of more favorable winds. In their eyes a reduction in fuel oil consumption outweighs a better ride and safer cargoes because in the short term the company saves money justifying their service. Who cares if it's too rough out to swing from a boatswains chair chipping rust or change gear oil on the bow? Who cares if we increase our lashing checks to every day because we're rolling ten degrees for days on end if it means a quartering wind to push us?

The science of saving money is becoming so precise that vessels are now being fitted with monitoring equipment to track fuel and lube oil consumption. While no one dares run an oily water separator because they are prone to malfunction and extremely burdensome in their testing, inspection and maintenance requirements (The operation of the OWS is also satellite tracked), the company will pay millions for slop removal in port.

Port time is also under more scrutiny and it seems that the trend is to spend no more time in port than is required for cargo. That would be fine if it meant that cargo was all my crew needed to focus on but as it turns out the only time for receiving stores, provisions, spares, lube oil, fuel oil, contractors, inspectors, regulatory agencies, company representatives, audits and on-signing crew is when the vessel herself is in port means which means that our STCW "Minimum" manned vessel is taxed to the limit. Combine this with the impending increase in STCW required rest hours and you can see how unrealistic adhering to each and every regulation becomes. Can you see me pacing now?

Thoughts like these and many more are why the mountain silence punctuated only by the sound of my snowboard is something I cherish so much. I really feel that in our quest for a safer, more efficient and secure world we humans have given up much in the way of personal liberty. When you get back a little piece of your life whether on a mountain or at a concert or in your home with family it must be held on to. Otherwise we wouldn't have any reason to climb back up that gangway.

Vacationland

Undoubtedly seafaring is a life steeped in extremity. Take for example where the mariner toils day after day. There is no place save for the most remote desert or outer space as empty as the deep ocean. Years of our lives are spent there floating in an azure void interrupted only by occasional wild life or rare surface piercing mountaintops.

I remember conversations I would have with the crew on the cable ship where I spent this past winter. The Filipinos always wanted to know how many kids I had and were surprised to learn that my home not only lacked a wife but a progeny of a wee merchant mariners. As they smoked cigarettes in the early morning light waiting for the ROV to surface from another repair they would share how many children and extended family their meager paychecks supported under one roof.

"When was the last time you were home?" I would ask the Boson and the four or five ABs standing along the rail. The reply was a mix of not weeks but months numbering anywhere from four to twelve to eighteen.

"How long will you see them for when you go home?"

"Maybe three months, maybe two" Roberto the Boson would say as they all nodded in agreement. Two months out of twelve, no occupation requiring your absence from those you love could be more extreme than that.

I have written about the extremities of going to sea before; the long voyages, insane work hours, unstable personalities, the risk, liability and intense boredom; all symptoms of a career that keeps us longing for an easier livelihood closer to home. But for those of us who are fortunate enough in the world's merchant marine to get as much vacation time away from the ships as we do living on them there is a flip side which balances out the extremes of work.

At the moment I am in the midst of one of those memorable vacations enjoying all there is we go without at sea. It's been busier than anticipated but I suppose there is no other way to get as much hiking, kayaking, diving and surfing in as I can. I have a list of criteria I strive to fulfill during the first few weeks at home which begins with sleeping in my own bed as long as I wish.

Next on the list is immersing myself in the land and getting as far away from the sea as possible in New England for a few days. Like the last three years I accomplished this by driving five hours north of home and camping out beneath the granite wall of Mount Khatadin, Maine's highest hill. This hike is one of the best I've done. Compared to the high mountains of the world Kathadin is a mere 5,260 feet above sea level but the grandeur of such a monster rising from Maine's expansive woodlands really gets my heart thumping.

Also on the top of that list is ending a streak of sobriety by getting snockered around a camp fire or two, eating as much seafood as possible without paying the exorbitant tourists prices, and once my yearning for the ocean comes back spending as much time on, in or under the surface as I can wearing a wetsuit.

All of these activities though have worn me out and I'm beginning to understand why my dad avoided all contact with the outside world when he would come home from sea. His standing orders were simple. "Do exactly as I say at all times or I'll put my foot up your ass and if the phone rings, I'M NOT HOME!"

On many youthful occasions I would answer the phone telling the state revenue service or local constabulary that the old man was still out to sea and my mother had no idea when his ship would be pulling in. This was his way of ensuring that time not being paid a wage to deal with crew, cargo and maintenance would not be wasted by the burdens of society which were obviously meant to plague landlubbers not sailors. I can empathize with his disinterest in anything not involving family or the lake during his vacations. I'd probably have a lot more on this blog if I followed his footsteps.

Socializing with friends I haven't seen in months is another item on my vacation punch list and well worth leaving the serenity of home. Below is the fruit of one such social event where a friend and I baked up enough shell fish and vegetables to feed fifty people. Fueled by the meat of fifty lobsters, a keg of Sheepscot River Ale, and a bottle of 1800 tequila it was the perfect late summer day and one of the most memorable nights of my summer.

The process for a proper lobster bake was easier than I had remembered working on the windjammers in Penobscot Bay. Cut an oil tank in half, situate it on top of six concrete blocks and stoke a raging fire underneath. Lay down a thick blanket of wet seaweed, insert potatoes, lobsters, unshucked corn and clams (We used new bait bags to hold them). Place another thick layer of seaweed with an egg on top and cover with wet canvas or tinfoil. In one hour make sure the egg is cooked through and it's done. Can't think of a better way to prepare a meal than that.

As the full moon is past and summer now celestially over I'm hoping to buckle down and get ready for my next trip to sea. The leaves are turning along the Salmon Falls River and cooler weather is surely on the way.

Winter

It's the end of another weekend here in New England. The sound of a road sign blowing down the street echos off the brick buildings surrounding my home. The pelting rain, some of which is now dripping through my ceiling, is depleting my hope for one more winter sport sustaining snow storm.

At least with my wide open social agenda I have been able to fit in more snowboarding in the last couple of weeks than I've gotten in since I had a seasons pass in college. Below is a short photo essay of my recent forays into the wildernesses of northern Maine and New Hampshire in pursuit of all things wintry and wonderful. A reminder of why I do love living where it actually snows in the winter. My only regret is that with all this free time I haven't yet made it back out west where I know the snow is deeper, lighter and not far from some good friends and family.

For starters this is a waterfall I passed on my way up Mount Washington this past year in the full verdant lusciousness of summer. Compared with the picture of the same waterfall below it is a reminder of seasons and change, an aspect of the natural world of which I am extremely fond.

Below we can see Lola, a fierce Alaskan hunting hound and an unidentified snowboarder, ascending the final ridge before Hojo's.

The view of Tuckerman Ravine and Hillmans highway.

The same view on a much more humid and warm day.

The bowl of Tuckerman Ravine.

The avalanche board and rescue shed covered in snow. Having never attempted the bowl on snowboards we left it for another day.

Renowned Alaskan hunting dog Lola leading the charge down Shelburne trail.

Another day, here at Sugarloaf, shows the formation of a lenticular cloud as stable moist air flows over the ridge adiabatically cooling.

The view west from the summit of Sugarloaf.

Mount Washington as viewed from the top of Sunday River on a blue bird day.

It just doesn't get any better than this...

Simulation

Harnessing the power of coffee, I'm sitting in between two Pratt & Whitney PW 200 turbofan jet engines struggling but determined to get all my thoughts written down. Bloody exhausted; that’s how I feel after two weeks in south Florida. What I pictured as a relaxing series of training courses for work intermingled with a little scuba diving and beach barbecuing turned into an all out social extravaganza that left me lacking sleep, solitude and sobriety. No sense in complaining though, I was having such a swell time that I almost extended my mini vacation down south. A meter of new snow in the White Mountains dissuaded me however and so I'm headed home to get into my foul weather gear and spending a few days riding chair lifts.


As per usual it’s been a busy first six weeks of vacation. Perhaps my coping mechanism for feeling cut off from friends and family when I’m at work but I routinely over schedule my vacation in order to visit as many people as able by car, plane or any other conveyance necessary. Maintaining a social network of friends has always been something I have expelled a considerable amount of energy doing. It certainly has it’s rewards as I get to watch the children of friends grow and celebrate birthdays and keep track of what amazing stuff other mariners I know are up to.

The training courses, a constant theme for merchant mariners, were a mixed bag. I have spent months in union sponsored training since finishing my bachelor’s degree and receiving a third mates ticket. Under the International Maritime Organization’s licensing structure in order to have upgraded from Second Mate to Chief Mate I was required to take several months of upgrade courses. The cost of attending these courses is akin to a year’s tuition at a state university and luckily for me was inclusive with my union benefits.

For any aspiring officer outside of a union or without company sponsorship the courses are prohibitively expensive and represent another roadblock to advancing up the ladder, especially for hawespipers like my younger brother. At least the quality of instruction, most of which is review for anyone recently coming out of a maritime academy, has been good. Since I wrapped up my upgrade business two years ago I now mainly attend either renewals like radar and breath alcohol testing or company required training such as Fast Rescue Boat.

This time around I had the chance to spend five consecutive days in a 360-degree full mission bridge simulator. The course, designed for masters, is solely focused on ship handling and was both challenging and humbling. I was a little disappointed that my performance was far from flawless but having the chance to dock, undock, and maneuver multiple ship models in one of the worlds most sophisticated (And expensive) maritime simulators was incredible.

One of the benefits of simulator based training is the ability to spatially orientate oneself prior to commencing an exercise. Pictured above is the port of Freeport Texas where we were tasked with docking a 100,800 DWT LNG tanker. By shifting our vantage to a birds eye view it enabled us to see just how much room there was beyond the vessel for turning within the basin.

This model is also a great example of how a pilot organization can use simulator "Modeling" to improve the design of ports. The pilots from this particular locale recommended new depths and widths for the channel and turning basins to the Army Corp of Engineers based on their experiences with this simulator.

Providing pilots the ability to test different harbor arrangements with multiple ships in all kinds of weather conditions prior to beginning large and expensive dredging or construction project is a huge benefit. It is also a revenue stream for the simulator where as providing two mariners five days of non stop simulation surely was not a big money maker.

Above is a view of the bridge console complete with all the instrumentation needed for ship handling. In this case we're bringing a 40,000 DWT tanker alongside the berth at Drift River using an offshore anchor to control the bow in a four knot ebb current. The use of the anchor in ship handling was a foreign concept for me but a tried and true method for our instructor, a retired ARCO Captain.

Since two of the students never showed up to the first day of class it was only myself and one other student, a classmate from college, receiving invaluable pearls of wisdom from a former master. No matter how sophisticated the simulator it would have done little good for us without the instruction, feedback and criticism of a mariner who spent his career handling the worlds largest crude oil tankers afloat. After handling a 150,000 DWT VLCC in Long Beach harbor docking an 11,000 foot Maersk Container Ship in the port of Miami didn't seem so difficult. Especially with the help of two very large tractor tugs and a 3000 horse power bow thruster.

The second week of courses began with a CPR/AED re-certification followed by a Medical Person In Charge refresher. Towards the end of the week a mind numbingly boring drug test collector and breath alcohol testing certification left me loathing power point presentations.

The medical refresher course was excellent and very necessary having received no additional advanced medical training since my initial PIC course in 2004. While I have had a little practice at suturing and at diagnosing the rare appendicitis the insertion of catheters, nasopharyngeals, gastric tubes and I.V.s are all skills in need of constant honing. I would never want to feel rusty at this stuff when a sailor is entrusting me with medical treatment prior to or in lieu of evacuation.

Now that I have a new stack of embossed certificates and a few more frequent flier miles I'm reluctant to spend any more of this particular vacation in the classroom. I'm pleased to be headed for home with no obligations or plans on the horizon. I'm doing my best to take a lengthy break from work to focus on some of the aspects of life I haven't paid enough attention to over the last couple of years. While it does feel strange to just lounge while several of my neighbors are unemployed or just scraping by it feels good to simplify the stuff of life that sustains me.

Roots

At times life feels as if it is a movie. I like it best when I'm starring in my own action adventure like yesterday which started out waking up three hours after I had fallen asleep at a friend's apartment in Chicago. The night began in a fabulous French restaurant, Le Bouchon, with my cousin and her friends to enjoy the best onion soup I've ever had, a bouillabaisse and a bottle of Cote du Rhone. Afterward I remained awake far past any reasonable hour for someone who had a flight the next morning playing pool and drinking beastly Milwaukee brews in a very local bar in Bucktown.

The Bean

Waking up with a start I slung my pack over my shoulder and made a dash down Milwaukee Avenue for the blue line train where I had a half hour to sort through my luggage to ensure all liquid toiletries were ready for the T.S.A. I had left myself just enough time to get through security and to my gate before the jet-way door closed when the train came to a sudden halt. For the next ten minutes the conductor informed us that we would be waiting for a clear signal on the track before pulling into O'Hare station.

As I watched the minutes tick away on my Seiko now certain I wouldn't make the flight I double knotted my shoelaces, tightened my pack straps, did a little stretching and prepared myself mentally to be the dolt who didn't leave enough time to catch his plane. As soon as the doors opened I was off at a sprint running down the platform towards terminal 2 and into the tunnels overtaking startled Friday morning travelers with a pounding headache all the while. There was no line to print my boarding pass and a momentary delay at security before I had my shoes back on.

In dire need of greasy food I sacrificed a few precious moments at the McDonald's counter thinking I still could make it. With a sausage McMuffin in hand I rounded the corner to the boarding gate and yelped "Wait!!!" as the attendant was just about to close the ramp door. Had I been a second later I would have been eating my breakfast on the train back to Chi-town wondering when my cousin would be done working to let me into her place to crash for another week.

But I made it and felt pretty smug to be such a savvy traveler. As the airplane taxied away from the gate into the early morning line up I polished off my breakfast and feeling much better in mind and body opened the USA Today to read the headline: "Mid-Atlantic buttons up as storm nears".

"F.M.L." I thought as it continued: "US Airways, which has an international hub in Philadelphia, canceled all 300 of today's' flights in and out of airports in the Washington area, Philadelphia and LaGuardia in New York." My stomach sank at the thought of spending the next three days sleeping under one of the 3000 stockpiled blankets at Philadelphia International as the mid Atlantic was pelted with what papers were hyping up as the "snowpocalypse".

My life as a movie had gone from action adventure to dark comedy. Had I even caught a whiff of this impending “snowmageddon" I would have staid put with friends and family in Chicago and attended the Saturday night underground dinning party a local celebrity chef had given me an open invitation to. Instead of starting dinner off with an amuse-bouche along with 30 other guests in a high end Chi-town condominium I would be eating Sbarro pizza for 7.99 a slice for the next three days!

My annual visits to the mid-west center around spending time with my almost 88 year old grandmother, Beatrice, while trying to fit in time with any and all of the aunts, uncles and cousins that have remained in the land of our Swedish and English forefathers. A night or two out in Chicago is always included in the itinerary.

Chicago, unlike so many other cities I've visited, feels like a small town to me despite its sprawling flat expanse. The bar where I spent last night getting schooled at pool felt as if the only thing that had changed in the last thirty years was the bar tender had stopped pulling patrons over the bar when arguments over the Cubs got heated.

The patrons, unlike the more stylish hipsters and yuppies of New York and L.A., looked like any other Schlitz loving Midwesterner from Joliet or Peoria. No gel in the hair, no Italian shoes, no big city attitudes. It helps that most people I know in Chicago are from the mid-west and perhaps the homogeneity of the city people contributes to this, but they don't put up the egotistical front city dwellers do elsewhere.

One of the places that this small town U.S.A. atmosphere is fostered is none other than Galesburg Illinois. A city of 33,000 Galesburg is historically known for it's importance as a railway hub, evidence by the immense "Hump yard" and mile long freight trains. It is also the birthplace of Carl Sandburg, the first anti-slavery society in Illinois (Also a stop on the under ground railroad), my dad and the home of my Grandmother.

In a town where Ronald Reagan attended primary school my Grandmother has been an ardent and active supporter of the Democratic Party throughout her life. Working on the city council, assisting candidates and volunteering in prison literacy programs (Besides raising 5 children) are some of the accomplishments of her life. Before moving to Galesburg my grandmother also championed the working class man as the swing vote on a county ordinance to legalize the consumption of liquor on a Sunday. She has never taken a drink in all her life.

On the campaign trail with Obama

She also has an amazing collection of family photographs, journals, letters, postcards and bibles dating back to the mid 19th century. It was amongst these documents that I spent the better part of this week searching for the naturalization documents my great-grandfather carried with him on that ocean passage long ago from Sweden to the United States. My search came up empty but in the process I discovered not only his first leather billfold but original photographs of the entire family on both sides of the tree.

My grandmother as a single woman

On my grandmothers side I read through journals detailing the day's weather, the condition of the crop, visits and trips, every financial transaction for the family as well as an announcement of my grandmothers birth. The journals especially impressive reminding me of my own infatuation with trying to keep a record of each passing day of this life.

I always have been fascinated by the lineage of ancestors who forged a life on the plains of Indiana, Iowa and Illinois after arriving from Northern Europe leading to my creation. Sifting through these photos and belongings allows me to look back into a very personal history derived from the love of family, hard work and faith.

That faith rooted in Quakerism on the matriarchal side was evident in the leather bound family bible measuring roughly 18 X 15 inches and 5 inches thick hidden away in a bureau drawer. In between old and new testaments was a written record dating back to the 1850s of the births and deaths of family members from all over the mid-west. Having no one else interested in taking the massive book I volunteered to keep the bible and look forward to preserving it for future generations.

Swedish immigrants who bestowed on me both blue eyes and blond hair but shorted me on the height genes

After an afternoon of going through boxes I was left with more questions than I had started with. When did my great-grandparents immigrate? Where in Sweden were they from? What was their faith if not Quakerism? What did they do for a living? Were they well to do? Their photographs made it appear as such so why did they leave? Taking a break we went to Applebee's for some "Neighborhood" cooking which left me determined to reserve our next meal at the finest dinning establishment in Galesburg rather than spending another penny on undercooked shrimp and burnt chicken salads lathered in the local corn syrup.

The following day on our way to Farm King for a new bird feeder I fulfilled my uncle's orders of showing my Grandmother how to slip the engine into neutral while braking if her Toyota Carola uncontrollably accelerates. It was in the Farm King, a Reny's-esque department store for the mid western farmer (An Illinois adventure for certain), that I overheard the old boy working behind the gun counter say to a corn farmer as he chewed his gums in consternation that he had never sold so many guns so quickly. Over the last couple of weeks increased sails had dwindled his inventory of both semi-automatics and ammunition. Oh America the brave, always so quick to arm ourselves against the unseen foe during uncertain times.

Back at the house I replaced the squirrel mutilated bird feeder with the new iron clad feeder of Chinese design and manufacturing and bid my grandmother adieu promising to come back soon. On my way towards Peoria for lunch with another cousin I spotted something that might actually lead to real security here in the American heartland.


Two massive wind turbines were thumping away on the edge of interstate 80 glistening in the mid morning sun. I snapped a few pictures of these from the car window but I liked this one the most. A diesel burning tractor trailer, something I would like to see relegated to short distance overland hauls rather than long distance cross country shipping, passes beneath a pair of tri-bladed American built wind generators. Alas there were only two where as the thousands needed to help put oil in it's rightful place as a precious, useful and limited commodity were still on the drawing board.

Over lunch my cousin and I caught up on the last two years of our lives. She was interested to hear what exactly a profession at sea entails as I was curious about her legal work. As a clerk for an appellate judge in Illinois I was surprised to hear that she was handling an appeal from none other than the infamous former law officer Drew Petersen. Again, the stuff of Hollywood.

My cousin told me that she would soon be headed to Seattle to begin a new chapter in her life and I suggested she might look into firms that handle Admiralty Law. How awesome would that be to have my own cousin on quick dial as legal counsel if I ever had bad day at work?

Now three weeks into my vacation from work I find myself reflecting on my short visit to Illinois. Driving through the cornfields, stretching from horizon to horizon much like the ocean broken only by water towers, power lines and the silos of distant farms, I imagined what a secluded life my ancestors led here. How many days it would have taken to reach Harper's ferry where distant relatives met their end as "terrorists" or Africa where a great grandmother did missionary work is so distant from my life experience as a wandering mariner.

In this modern world I believe it's necessary for my existence to understand the lives of those who went before just as I know it's important to keep in touch with the cousins and aunts and uncles I know. Visiting my living relatives is a reminder that my personality attributes are not wholly my own fault.

The traits of my dad, uncles and cousins are so similar to my own that I can't help but feel connected to these people even if I only see them once a year. As a family we have a high regard for doing the right thing, honesty, priding ourselves in our work and striving for the things we want. I have also noticed we love to give good solid advice to people which often includes career advice that we know we should have followed ourselves. We like to listen and are good at it but enjoy being listened to as an authority on a topic just as much. We have a stick-to-itivness that compels us to work and aspire but grow bored if our setting doesn't change or our responsibilities do not evolve. And a few of us tend to be dreamers.

I'm happy to report that my dark comedy of spending three days in the airport with other stranded travelers had a happy ending. My connection was made before the snow had started flying and I was able to make it to Boston unimpeded to clear and crisp New England skies.

In one of the boxes in my grandmother's garage I found a half dozen Swiss Army knives still in their original unopened packages. On the back of each one my grandfather had written one of his grandson's name written next to their age when he was to receive what would be his first knife. Apparently we were never old enough to receive the knives before his passing so they have remained in the box over the ensuing years.

Amongst the black and white photographs, antique cameras, and old family slides I could see my grandfathers calculating wisdom in preparing ahead of time a number of birthday gifts. I knew that buying a basket full of Swiss Army knives for grandchildren well before they're old enough to operate the scissors and saw blades is definitely something I myself would do. It's not just a good idea; it's in our blood sans changer.

The Sunday soul choir

Sunday mornings in my vacation abode are an audible experience unlike no other I've known. I haven't been to a proper church service since I fell out of liking with the Lutheran church of my teens. I have been to a few Christmas services and stop by the seaman's chapel in Southampton every chance I get to say a silent prayer in the serenity of that little space for the voyage but beyond that I mainly avoid organized deity worship.

That is not the case though for our next door neighbors. A tired old steeple and fake stone and mortar siding encloses one of the most reverent and boisterous preachers I've ever heard. For up to five hours each Sunday the congregation is led my their pastor in round after round of "Hallelujahs" and "Amen's" which crescendo in a full drum, bass and guitar band of soul hymns and gospel. If our windows are open then the music drifts right in to sound as if we were sitting right there in a pew ourselves.

Joyful expressions of love and devotion are really quite uplifting and moving unlike what some other members of the cloth are up to in these hard economic times. Read the link to this New York Time's article from yesterday to see what I mean.

While I find religion to be a personal thing, something I do not spend an overly large amount of time contemplating in these busy modern times, I do appreciate the significance of faith in communities and culture. While we vacationed in Guatemala seeing, hearing and running from the fire works of a mix of Maya and Catholic beliefs proved to be one of the most endearing and amazing aspects of our experience there.

Summertime

People frequently ask me if I like having so much time off in between jobs at sea. These days I can answer with surety that I do enjoy the six months of the year which I have mostly to myself, now that so many of my mandatory training courses are completed. When I had just started sailing though it was a different situation figuring out how to spend those idle days away from work.

At first it wasn't an issue at all. I worked in sail training right out of school waiting for the ink to dry on my license. Once it had stopped smudging I went on to tankers and then back on the schooners. After a full year into my seafaring career I finnally had more than a month off which meant ample time for me to contemplate how to spend it.

This proved problematic. Even though I was often telling friends how much I liked having long vacations the truth was that I had no idea what to do with myself. I had grown so accustomed to the constant challenge and action of being at sea that everything ashore seemed a bore. This was ironic since I spent most of my time at sea telling the crew what I'd be doing as soon as I was off the boat.

I began experimenting with my vacations by living in different places and pursuing a variety of activities. Cycling, yoga, scuba diving, surfing all became new interests of mine. I wandered around Argentina a bit, spent more time in Montreal and New York, went to Spain and saw the Balearic Islands. It took a while but eventually I found a home near where I was raised and attempted to start settling a little.

Still I was vexed by an internal nagging that if I wasn't gaining sea time, paper endorsements or most importantly experience in my profession than I was loosing the head start in a race I never knew existed. This spurred me from job to job and sooner than was sane I would find myself back at sea looking for the next license.

Luckily that unrest is beginning to settle as I discover some of the finer things in life that really can only be had with ample time in one place. The best so far is a sense of community, something that I tried hard to keep intact despite my travels. After being abroad for the better part of five years walking into a cafe or a bar and being recognized is very satisfying for me.

Technology has definitely helped in this endeavor, especially since I continue going to sea. Despite how uninteresting I find daily facebook banter I really appreciate having my entire web of friends at my fingertips to update whether I'm in the same hemisphere or not.


After that doing the things I enjoy and having the time for them is a true privilege and this summer has been no exception. I've been fortunate to have a little extra time off waiting for the next job and have taken advantage of it. After sailing to Bermuda and back from hiking the highest point in Maine was top on the list and this long time desire was satisfied shorty after the schooner trip.

There is no lack of natural beauty in Northern New England. I was especially impressed by the remoteness of Baxter State Park and the immensity of Khataddins rock slides. Last year when I headed up to Baxter in late September the summit was snowed in. This year though we made it, the knife edge was as awesome as expected once the cloud cover cleard out. One foray into the woods wasn't enough so a few days later I ventured to one of the prettiest spots in New Hampshire and spent a day swimming in the frigid pools of a mountain stream I've spent days at sea dreaming about.

On the way down from those heavenly pools we stumbled upon this guy munching away in a clearing not five feet off the trail. A sizable bull that could have easily trampled me hardly paid any attention as I backed away to snap pictures from a safer distance.

No New England holiday would be complete without a canoe trip. This site, my absolute favorite, is situated a couple hundred feet from where I grew up in Maine. I was relieved to see that after ten years nothing on the island had changed and despite four years of midsummer highschool parties in this very spot the island wasn't any worse off for it. The only change was that the boat traffic had increased ten fold including one speed boat that almost swamped the canoe and all of our gear.

Guatemala

I've never registered with an American Consulate prior to traveling until this last trip south. Then again I had never read as many travel advisories on an Embassy's website as I did the week before we left for Guatemala. After browsing each of the unfortunate events involving Americans there in 2008 (Which are well cataloged but short on circumstantial facts) I felt compelled to inform the American Embassy in Guatemala City that two more citizens would be joining the ranks of backpackers invading this small nation at Mexico's southern end.

One of the first travel warnings I read reported that the most common time for being robbed in Guatemala City, where the international airport is, was between 7 and 10 am when departing the airport itself. This struck me as a red flag for our personal safety since to me airports have always been secure places sanitized of the criminal elements likely to stick a knife in your face and demand all your worldly possessions which are strapped to your back.

But the report was not joking around and gave instances of taxis being hijacked on the airport access roads at gun point in the wee hours of the morning just as a van load of groggy and disoriented travelers had arrived. For this reason as we began stuffing our packs full I felt compelled to tell my girlfriend "Don't pack anything you wouldn't be able to give to a mugger without hesitation."

I made sure that anything vitally important; passport, cash, credit cards, vaccination records etc., were stashed away in our money belts and that our cell phones were also tucked away on our person. Additionally I ensured that we would have a wad of small bills at the ready for handing over if the occasion arose. We then insured that we had a reliable pickup at the airport arranged with a recommended hotel at our first destination. Even after taking all the precautions we could, like bringing disposable cameras rather than both of our digital cameras, I still left Boston wondering if we should have chosen a country a little more accustomed to protecting tourists.

After touching down on the single run way at La Aurora International we breezed through customs and were impressed by the clean new look of the terminal. Once outside instead of finding a gathering of potential pickpockets and muggers we instead found a hoard of security officers maintaining an orderly boundary between the terminal doors and awaiting taxi drivers vying for our business. We easily picked out our diver who had a sign bearing my girlfriends unique name and were soon being whisked away onto Guatemala's daring roads.

As we wound our way in a tired tourismo van through the back streets of Guatemala City I noticed the prevalence of armed security guards in front of every car dealership, grocery or hardware store and even a florist. Each store had a Guatemalan standing guard with either a large sub machine gun or more commonly a cheap looking 12 gauge shotgun.

As we made our way out of the city passing dozens of these armed men replete with bullet proof jackets and side arms is struck me that if there is one business booming in Guatemala private security is it. Unfortunately all of these guns did not make me feel any safer.

Our first destination was the city of Antigua which is ringed in hills and two immense volcanoes, one named fire and the other water, which look down from the southern side of town. Once in the small hotel we quickly divested ourselves of two overloaded back packs and headed off for the parque central but due to our keen sense of direction instead wound up in the bustling market on the northwest edge of town.

A market in Guatemala is a constant adventure. They are noisy and chaotic and filled with endless streams of people coming and going, shopping and selling, haggling and gossiping. This is where Guatemala's easily identified indigenous population, the women wearing traditional blouses and dresses, the men in cowboy boots and hats, come to take care of their shopping. Anything and everything can be found at one of these markets. Produce, clothing, DVDs, small livestock, grains, pet food, machetes, breakfast lunch and dinner are for sale. There are even t-shirts and wooden souvenirs for the extranjeros or foreigners that frequent the markets toting easily plucked wristwatches and digital cameras.

My favorite thing about these markets, or any other gathering of indigenous Guatemalans, was the rainbow of colors in the dresses and shirts which are intricately woven according the the region or town from which the Mayan descendant hails from. Adding to the variety and color were the languages spoken in the markets which are anything but Spanish. They ranged from Kaqchikel to K'iche' to Tz'utujil and are over 30 in all. Some are so localized that heading to the next town over, such as on Lake Atitlan, would require an interpreter even for a Guatemalan, so instead they resort to a more common native tongue or just plain old Espanol. This is fortunate for me because my second favorite part about the markets was getting to haggle over the price of goods in my neglected Spanish.

As we made our way out of the market clutching a camera in one hand, my spending cash in the other, I started to get the feeling that Guatemala wasn't that sinister of a place. That everyone wasn't as interested in robbing or injuring foreigners which I had presumed to be a common occurrence. Of course in cities like Antigua the government has taken great steps to ensure the safety of travelers by hiring large amounts of tourist police to be present at often visited streets and sights. But this sentiment would hold as we made our way through the country over the next 4 weeks.
(I'll put my neck out here and say that this is one of the best beers I've ever had abroad! I believe when marketed outside Guate it's called Famosa. Give it a try.)

Our travels would take us to some of the most beautiful and interesting places I have ever visited abroad. Unfortunately there isn't a square inch of Guatemala that hasn't all ready been discovered by some adventurous visitor and there isn't a square mile of Guatemala that hasn't been littered on by the locals but the lack of real developed tourism, the kind we would later find in Costa Rica, meant that where ever we went it was very very authentic.

I can now look back at my apprehension before we left as a little too worst case scenario. Yes bad things happen to travelers but they happen all over the world and I'm sure plenty of visitors to the United States have fallen victim to crimes on some of our more unsavory streets. It seems that safety when traveling anywhere has more to do with being street smart and using your head rather than bracing for what's happened to less lucky and possibly more naive tourists in the past.

Going in groups, tucking away that wristwatch or digital camera and going where the crowds go (As long as they aren't angry ones) seemed like the best precautions we could take. Remembering that an easy target is more likely to become a victim and that not just the tourists have to live with Guatemala's epidemic of crime is important. In the end it was the very people that I was concerned about doing us harm, the Guatemalans, that ended up protecting us by offering advice, calling out scam artists and watching our backs.

It would appear that the most dangerous part of the entire trip was the three hours we spent in a chicken bus one foggy morning hammering down the mountain passes from Chichicastenango to Chemaltenango. While my girlfriend could sleep I could only clutch the seat in front of me white knuckled as I stared at the oncoming traffic cussing out the driver under my breath every time he laid on the horn and the gas at the same time.

Video: Eruption of Volcan Santiaguito

This volcanic eruption is one of the most incredible natural phenomena I've ever seen. The video was shot in Guatemala at 5:30 in the morning after an all night trek up the side of Santa Maria, a 12,375 foot high inactive volcano. The eruption of the very active Santiaguito, far below our vantage point, surprised everyone with how quickly it happened and how fast the ash plume rose. It will typically erupt every two hours or so so we did not have to wait long. Sorry for the shoddy camera handling.

It's alot more fun

Something I've been noticing more and more over the course of this vacation has been how many of the new acquaintances I make feel compelled to sympathize with my situation as a merchant mariner. Yes, I know I'm gone for long periods of time, sometimes weeks but usually months, and I know it makes things difficult.

If you're single then you'll never have that Australian Shepard you've always wanted, much less a goldfish for a pet. If you're married you miss out on many of the small joys of family life and a few of the big celebrations. Believe me I know, my mother raised four boys in the woods while my dad was off at sea. There were many Christmas's and Birthday's when the best we got was a Single Side Band ship to shore call from Goonhilly, UK.

What I'm trying to say is that myself and anyone who knows me understands the hardship of being at sea for months at a time (Or away for weeks and weeks of training courses while on vacation). The last thing I need is for a stranger to remind me of this unfortunate aspect of my chosen occupation.

How did I get onto this rant? I was at the doctors office having the tartar noisily scraped off of my teeth when the dental hygienist began the usual latex gloves in your mouth chit chat.

D.H. "So, what do you do?"
Patient "I'm a Merchant Mariner."
D.H. "Like in the Marines?"
Patient "No, I work on ships."
D.H. "Like in the Navy?"
Patient "No, I work on commercial cargo ships carrying cargoes from ports all over the world."
D.H. "Oh, so how long does that take?"
Patient "I'm usually gone for two or three months."
D.H. "Oh my! That is a long time...it must be hard?"
Patient"Yes it can be but I like my job."
D.H. "Are you married?"
Patient "Suction please...spit...no I'm not."
D.H. "It must be hard to date."
Patient "Yep."

To make matters worse, when the doctor had a look at my mouth he ran me through the same questioning. He then felt compelled to relate a story about a patient of his who also was a merchant mariner. This poor fellow was married, had several children and was left by his wife of 23 years when she finally gave up waiting for him to come home.

Doctor "He was quite devastated."
Patient "Can I have the bill now?"

To add to my distemper, once outside of the office I recognized an ex-girlfriend of a friend who also ships out. We stopped to talk and she was glad to hear that her ex had moved to West Africa, an obvious symptom of his sailing disease, where he now has a family. She also informed me that she was married (Something she did shortly after their breakup ensuing his first trip to sea) and left me with some uplifting advice:

"Get a shore job and get married. It's a lot more fun."

So it goes in the life of a merchant mariner. You've always had that twinge of doubt since the first days at the Maritime Academy when you would talk to your old high school buddies who went to colleges with a 4 to 1 student ratio in their favor or to party schools where class was a break in between keg stands. Now you're all educated and deployed in the work force and still you wonder what it would be like if you had a day job and if weekends only lasted 48 hours.

One thing I'm sure of, I wouldn't be sitting in the sun on my porch writing about it. No, I'd surely be in a cubicle somewhere at least an hour from wherever I lived.

Fall in the Klondike

This past weekend I initiated, with the help of a friend, my own fall foliage tour of New England. I've never considered myself to be a leaf peeper but having spent the last five days in between Boston Massachusetts and Millinocket Maine I've gained an appreciation for the variety of the sights and smells of a proper fall.

Included in our itinerary was igniting a huge pile of brush wood into an all night conflagration consuming micro brews until there were only coals left, journeying to the great north woods to be told by a park ranger that all the summit trails to the top of Mount Katahdin had been closed due to weather, and spending a perfectly placid blue day on the waters of Damariscotta lake content to do little else than gawk at the foliage and take one last dip in the cold but very clear water.

Baxter State Park, about 250 miles from home, was the best part of the tour. Despite being refused our ascent of the highest point in Maine we made due and roasted corn, potatoes, and onions on the fire. T-Bone steaks and a flask of red breast led to the best out door sleep I've had all year. The next morning we set off on the 20 miles of dirt road to arrive at the other side of the park to hike Coe, South Brother, and North Brother peaks. The trails were in poor shape in spots but a hand full of hikers had made it up despite the increasing clouds. I was amazed to find the peaks of Katahdin shrouded in snow, the reason for the trails being closed. Our own ascent up North Brother, a mere four thousand footer was met with freezing temperatures, ice and snow, portents of the months to come.