I don't know why I was called to watch in the Wheelhouse, I didn't have the experience to handle the wheel in the storm we were in. It had been a tough afternoon, mostly trying to keep things from being destroyed (eg. lifeboats) and we were all dog tired. The bridge was tense, even the so-called "old salts" seemed apprehensive, scared. The Captain paced around, getting on his own and everyone else's nerves. The waves, huge grey-green water were certainly the highest I had ever seen, and some of the older crew said they hadn't seen anything bigger.
You looked out toward the bow and then this enormous wall of water came luming up, and up, and up some more, and then it passed over us, the wheelhouse, the stacks, everything, and the shudder was truly frightening in itself. Everything was tied down, and the Executive Office stayed below in his cabin; we thought it just as well with the Captain roaming around and giving orders some of which seemed to us to be meaningless.
One of the people from the Black Gang showed up to try and fix a broken something or other, a man from the engine room, who seldom came above deck, I saw him only in waterfront bars. He was huge, tattooed all over, and was seeing something he had never seen before. This was the biggest scared man you ever want to see. He kept working, but couldn't keep his eyes off the forward port holes, and was completly distracted from his work, dropped his tools several times.
He got done what he set out to do, I guess, and fled below, probably to his bunk (in which he would have to be strapped in). The Captain came back up, cursing and wandering around. The entire trip had been beset by weird happenings, and being the Captain's last voyage before retirement, and feeling extremely superstitious about it, it seemed that this voyage created its' own problems, its' own reasons for fear and dread; the Great Northern Route icebergs (with ailing 2nd WW radar) and last the lobster pot field we found ourselves plowing through near Noval Scotia (again, no radar), the broken line in Bremerhaven, etc. Even our ultimate tying up in Staten Island had some strange problems as I recall.
As the Skipper was piped off for the last time, and we all stood and saluted him as he went down the gangplank, it was fitting and somehow predictable that he didn't look back, nor acknowledge our work in getting him through the last days of his final command. As a man who had been through the Second World War, even been an Admiral for a time, and then got stuck with the Korean "Conflict." Capt. O'Daniel had paid his dues. My hope is that he didn't have to face anything like those huge walls of grey green water again, even in nightmares driven by superstition.
I found out later that the giant mechanic who had come to the bridge was on one of his own last trips before retirement, and had shared the superstitious feelings of the Captain. He didn't have to face another storm like that and left the ship before we went through the Caribbean to the Panama Canal, and the Pacific. He was from Iowa and intended to return with his Navy pension to farm to live out his days there. Bless his huge, tattooed heart, and I hope too that he is not bothered with stormy, wintry sea tale nightmares.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Fiction
Stories and more stories, some of them mixed with fact, most completely contrived. I have known consumate liars who could remember their lies in such detail that it would take a mastermind (Sherlock Holmes?) to catch them up on their stories (and I think of a man I sailed with, who knew he was lying, but created stories which jibed with each other, seemingly without contradiction (?). He was an imposter, and the only way I knew was that he trusted me to let me into (some of) his mazes of lies. I thought of turning him in a few times, but ended up being an accomplice (unwittingly) until he suddently left the ship.
Some of my stories are so old at this point that I'm not completely sure of the details. & yet I want to share some of them, and will in this blog. They will be labelled fiction, if and when I can figure out a way to do that. Part of this is identity concern, perhaps, wanting not to use exact circumstances, names and dates (etc.) in order to "protect" some of the people involved. On the other hand, at times I will use the names, in part because I feel these individuals are either passed along, or wouldn't care one way or another.
My Grandfather Roberts told me legends, stories with meanings, sometimes (like LaFontaine) with animals as the characters. He did not, as far as I know, tell these stories to my siblings, but passed them along to me as the first born grandson. Unfortunately I did not inherit his memory for these tales, and now would have to visit some of the books which he had seemingly memorized to share these. He was a reader, but came from a time where aural memory was much more important. His memory worked well for songs too, and would sing to my Grandmother at times. I have gone back to some of the books and found them disappointing, it was better to me to get them live, from Grandfather's memory (eg. the tales that warned you about dangerous behavior, Cautionary Tales, or the Fables of LaFontaine).
Some of my stories are so old at this point that I'm not completely sure of the details. & yet I want to share some of them, and will in this blog. They will be labelled fiction, if and when I can figure out a way to do that. Part of this is identity concern, perhaps, wanting not to use exact circumstances, names and dates (etc.) in order to "protect" some of the people involved. On the other hand, at times I will use the names, in part because I feel these individuals are either passed along, or wouldn't care one way or another.
My Grandfather Roberts told me legends, stories with meanings, sometimes (like LaFontaine) with animals as the characters. He did not, as far as I know, tell these stories to my siblings, but passed them along to me as the first born grandson. Unfortunately I did not inherit his memory for these tales, and now would have to visit some of the books which he had seemingly memorized to share these. He was a reader, but came from a time where aural memory was much more important. His memory worked well for songs too, and would sing to my Grandmother at times. I have gone back to some of the books and found them disappointing, it was better to me to get them live, from Grandfather's memory (eg. the tales that warned you about dangerous behavior, Cautionary Tales, or the Fables of LaFontaine).
Carelessness
It seems we are in an era of carelessness, lots of mistakes being made. Is it because of self and mass preoccupation? No sure. When I was racing automobiles many years ago (or was it motorcycles?) I told my Mother that my middle name was Careful, so she wouldn't worry & be preoccupied with my safety. Julia did not think it funny, but did seem to backoff on being upset and critical.
Reading the amazing book by Bell Hooks on love ("All about Love; New Visions") she makes a valuable distinction about the differences between care and love. Seems that a lot of caregiving is called loving, but does not really go there; eg. cared for but not loved. I think part of my problem is that I am a much easier caregiver than a lover. Too bad. I do like to care for people, and be cared for. Love goes another way, and I have been uneasy there.
Carelessness is indicative of neglect, of a lack of attention to details, which the "devil is in..." Carelessness is the turning away at the crucial moment, when something might be saved, or healed. To be careful may be too cautious to apply care when it is timely needed, "timing is everything." My hope is to love and be loved more in the years I have left. But it may take some work, OK? & caregiving will continue too.
Reading the amazing book by Bell Hooks on love ("All about Love; New Visions") she makes a valuable distinction about the differences between care and love. Seems that a lot of caregiving is called loving, but does not really go there; eg. cared for but not loved. I think part of my problem is that I am a much easier caregiver than a lover. Too bad. I do like to care for people, and be cared for. Love goes another way, and I have been uneasy there.
Carelessness is indicative of neglect, of a lack of attention to details, which the "devil is in..." Carelessness is the turning away at the crucial moment, when something might be saved, or healed. To be careful may be too cautious to apply care when it is timely needed, "timing is everything." My hope is to love and be loved more in the years I have left. But it may take some work, OK? & caregiving will continue too.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Wabi Sabi
in a "Shambala Sun" article on Wabi Sabi, Elizabeth Farley focuses on "imperfect beauty," from the Japanese notion "the beauty lies in what is flawed." In a world that prizes cheap goods, machine made and mass produced, she has dealt with examples as wide ranging as the "Wall-E" robot in the movie of the same name (eco-fable) to neighborhoods of Venice, Italy, where tourists are invited to see the aging, deteriorating canal walls and structures as fragile beauty.
In a recent radio program a man described finding a precious, small, wooden box, which he purchased (thinking it might be an antique?). And then found to be mass replica, (probably made in China or Indonesia). At first he was a little miffed, but then decided that the box had its' own authenticity, that it needn't have the approval of the "Antique Roadshow" on PBS to have a "time worn" authenticity. Can its replication be said to have the imperfect beauty described by Farley? I guess, but it would probably not appeal to the originator of wabi sabi, Murata Shuko, a fifteenth century Zen monk and tea master from Nara.
In a recent radio program a man described finding a precious, small, wooden box, which he purchased (thinking it might be an antique?). And then found to be mass replica, (probably made in China or Indonesia). At first he was a little miffed, but then decided that the box had its' own authenticity, that it needn't have the approval of the "Antique Roadshow" on PBS to have a "time worn" authenticity. Can its replication be said to have the imperfect beauty described by Farley? I guess, but it would probably not appeal to the originator of wabi sabi, Murata Shuko, a fifteenth century Zen monk and tea master from Nara.
Getting by
One of my Father's sayings was "getting by is not enough." I heard it first in the late thirties, at a time when we were on the edge of the Second World War. We were still in the depression, of course, although his skill and business as an automotive mechanic was doing fairly well. But what he saw was people just trying to get by, and he equated that with some kind of laziness, as I recall, sometimes called "bad habits." As a person who was used to 12 to 18 hr. work days, he looked around and saw neighbors, customers and friends who were indeed lucky to get by ... and he was not always understanding about that.
Norman was a tough teacher, a man who was blunt about quality control. If you didn't learn to complete tasks, to be demanding of yourself, then you would be playing into the traps of trying to "get by" with less effort and intelligence. I can well remember a few times when I tried to move along before that was practical. No, no, forget it. & now I have not only those old lessons riding with me, but I am still tempted to share them with others.
The saying has stayed with me, obviously; and I am, in a sense stuck with it. It comes up when I see people who seem perfectly OK with just "getting by," and it seems that there will be more and more of them as things get tougher, worse. "The Long Emergency" will be with us a long, long time, and with it will come a continued sense of helplessness which in turn will produce a sense of rationalizations which may bring with them a kind of shrug and turn. Norman's character was formed by lessons which came from an earlier century, and mine is as well.
Norman was a tough teacher, a man who was blunt about quality control. If you didn't learn to complete tasks, to be demanding of yourself, then you would be playing into the traps of trying to "get by" with less effort and intelligence. I can well remember a few times when I tried to move along before that was practical. No, no, forget it. & now I have not only those old lessons riding with me, but I am still tempted to share them with others.
The saying has stayed with me, obviously; and I am, in a sense stuck with it. It comes up when I see people who seem perfectly OK with just "getting by," and it seems that there will be more and more of them as things get tougher, worse. "The Long Emergency" will be with us a long, long time, and with it will come a continued sense of helplessness which in turn will produce a sense of rationalizations which may bring with them a kind of shrug and turn. Norman's character was formed by lessons which came from an earlier century, and mine is as well.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Happiness
Awhile back I ran into this definition of happiness: "Infantile optimism." Having studied Tibetan Buddhism off and on for a decade or so, I've seen hundreds of referrals to the word in the teachings, and so I asked a Tibetan Lama for a translation of the root word in Tibetan ... the closest definition of the word he could give me was "gratitude," if I understood him properly. My own reaction to the over use of the word is primarily negative, turning away from what I imagine to be version of a Disneyland of the mind, and endless desires for media driven comfort, self indulgence and forgetfulness, and the like, including possessions. Imagine brimming over with "infantile optimism" while BP oil flows in the gulf as the hurricane season approaches, the Massey Energy mine yet to be examined, Haiti & New Orleans awaiting reconstruction, the latest deaths being reported from Afganistan and other wars & "disturbances."
No argument with being grateful for what you have, for the blessings of well being, but in my play book those feelings are a long way off from the business as usual trappings of h a p p i n e s s . As we reevaluate the nuts and bolts of life in this troubled century we may find ourselves more content with far less, and find it much to our liking. &, it would seem, we may have little to say about it.
No argument with being grateful for what you have, for the blessings of well being, but in my play book those feelings are a long way off from the business as usual trappings of h a p p i n e s s . As we reevaluate the nuts and bolts of life in this troubled century we may find ourselves more content with far less, and find it much to our liking. &, it would seem, we may have little to say about it.
Monday, May 24, 2010
"L.A. Confidential"
Author James Ellroy was born in L.A. the year I graduated from high school there. Published in 1990, it takes place in the early 50s, a time when I was visiting home off of ships; the Korea War was in progress and I was a part of it. What brought me to the book was a portrait of Ellroy in "Rolling Stone," and thus the book served as not only as in introduction to his writing, but a review of what might be called in those days "my stomping grounds." In fact, the Silverlake neighborhood is mentioned more than a few times; our across the street neighbor, Mrs. Ball (a policewoman who undoubtedly knew many of the police and criminals portrayed in the book) took me to a couple of DAP (Deputy Auxiliary Police) meetings
I can see how people could become quite addicted to this kind of writing. Not only is it excellent in quality, but goes into a seamy part of life that seems to be so attractive to so many people ... eg. teenagers and people who are drawn to criminal activity via videos and computer games, not to mention all the "cop shows" & the like. What it brought back for me was a neighborhood (unmentioned in the book) close to Silverlake, Echo Park ,,, where my grandparents Roberts lived, and where there was a park which was the rival of our own neighborhood park. Echo Park was partially a Chicano area, and the team we played was dominated by tough street gang type people (called Pachucos in those days).
The game was rough. even though it was "touch football." and one of our players got his faced pushed into a drinking fountain at half time; & thus did not finish the game. We tied the game at 12 all in the last few minutes, and felt an ominous feeling as we left the playground, to walk to Sunset Blvd. to catch the streetcar. Along the lake we were suddenly surrounded by neighborhood teenagers, and if we had not outnumbered them we may have ended up in the lake, or worse. My prejudices for several years were toward Spanish speaking young people, and it was only after I served with some of them in the military that I was able to turn this around.
It was fascinating to visit Los Angeles again, via the l950s, and I look forward to the film version of the novel via video. It will be instructive to see how the neighborhoods are portrayed, the cars, costumes, speech and mannerisms. Ellroy"s major novels are set in Los Angeles, and he has been for many years recognized as a major American novelist. I may indulge again one of these days.
I can see how people could become quite addicted to this kind of writing. Not only is it excellent in quality, but goes into a seamy part of life that seems to be so attractive to so many people ... eg. teenagers and people who are drawn to criminal activity via videos and computer games, not to mention all the "cop shows" & the like. What it brought back for me was a neighborhood (unmentioned in the book) close to Silverlake, Echo Park ,,, where my grandparents Roberts lived, and where there was a park which was the rival of our own neighborhood park. Echo Park was partially a Chicano area, and the team we played was dominated by tough street gang type people (called Pachucos in those days).
The game was rough. even though it was "touch football." and one of our players got his faced pushed into a drinking fountain at half time; & thus did not finish the game. We tied the game at 12 all in the last few minutes, and felt an ominous feeling as we left the playground, to walk to Sunset Blvd. to catch the streetcar. Along the lake we were suddenly surrounded by neighborhood teenagers, and if we had not outnumbered them we may have ended up in the lake, or worse. My prejudices for several years were toward Spanish speaking young people, and it was only after I served with some of them in the military that I was able to turn this around.
It was fascinating to visit Los Angeles again, via the l950s, and I look forward to the film version of the novel via video. It will be instructive to see how the neighborhoods are portrayed, the cars, costumes, speech and mannerisms. Ellroy"s major novels are set in Los Angeles, and he has been for many years recognized as a major American novelist. I may indulge again one of these days.
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