Fullagar's Fancy

Magical cabin for sale.

2011-10-04T23:17:00.000-07:00

I had a few minutes to kill while my iPhone was being repaired (don't ask), and instead of twiddling my Angry Birds thumbs I picked up the real estate brochure that was on the peeling walnut laminated table in the waiting area.

Apparently the northern California realtor representing this listed property doesn't understand that our economy isn't exactly robust.

Here's what the agent advertised:

"Cute and funky old cabin" with "a certain magical feeling".
Built in 1932, the cabin with its "redwood walls...feels like you are in the woods".
Lot size: 8833 square feet. (That's a whopping 88 feet by 100 feet!)
2 bedroom, 2 bath.
Fun to remodel or great lot for rebuilding."
"Priced very competitively".
Offered at $1,499,000.

Let's see what $1.5 million will buy in:

Grand Haven, MI: Five, count them F-I-V-E, attractive homes close to Lake Michigan, the Grand River and Spring Lake. (Grand Haven houses.)

Charleston, SC: beautifully restored 19th century home in the historic district. And since this home is listed at $1,000,000, you can use the $500,000 you saved to buy a really cute mountain cabin in Colorado. (Charleston house.)

Santa Fe, NM: If the desert is where you want to be, how about this fantastic southwest style home with its many vigas, chollas and sweeping views. (Santa Fe house.)

Anyone care to make an offer on that cute and funky old cabin?

Scottish roads and bridges.

2011-07-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

Scotland is a beautiful country. It's rocky, lochy Highlands offer beautiful vistas and breathtaking glens; Edinburgh has its ancient castle and Royal Mile; and the islands have their own misty maritime allure.

And Scotland is full of Scottish people. They're the ones who thought it best not to waste money on roads wide enough for two cars to pass. Instead, they'd just put in the occasional "passing place".

These same Scots also decided to save on a bridge to Castle Stalker. Who needs a bridge when it's really easy to walk there at low tide.

I'm not sure what they're saving it all for. If it's for a rainy day, they'd be broke by now.

That said, when I'm an old, old lady, I will remember Scotland as one of my all-time favorite travel destinations.

Black Badger.

2011-07-16T23:14:00.000-07:00

Coming round a bend on the Scottish coast we came across this sad sight, the result of a recent wicked storm. Having just toured Glencoe, this dialog came to mind:

"Uh, hello, Mr. Campbell, it's Duncan MacDonald here.

"Morning Duncan, how are you?"

"...well, Mr. Campbell. It seems we had a wee bit of wind here and that Black Badger of yours got a mind of it's own to go for a wee sail."

Well, I'm sure you did a fine job of taking care of her, just as always, right Dunc?"

"Well, Mr Campbell, I saw the weather coming in last night and thought I'd sleep aboard for safety's sake, but then I remembered the last time that a Campbell slept in a MacDonald bed, and that made me think it might not be a good thing for a MacDonald to sleep in a Campbell bed.

Good thing, too, Mr. MacDonald, or we'd have had another Glen Coe. I will tell you though that your Black Badger is now out of harms way, so to speak..."

The Terminal—stuck in Immigration.

2011-05-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

Always travel with a photocopy.

After a great cruising season in Mexico, we put the boat to bed for the summer and caught a flight back to the States. Somewhere between seat 1B and immigration line 13 at LAX's Arrivals Hall I lost my passport and very nearly my mind.

Pulling my ransacked wheelie to the window, I told the agent what I'd done and asked him to please not send me to Guantanamo. The guy was good, he never even flinched. I produced a photocopy of my passport (never travel without copies tucked away in your bags) and was whisked off by another agent to Area Z. I wasn't sure what Area Z was, but it must have been the end of the line otherwise they would have called it Area J or B or T.

What I did know was that Area Z was something like Area 51—that other place for undocumented aliens. The people around me spoke Norwegian and Hindi and Chinese, not English; so there I sat, silently awaiting my fate.

While I cooled my jets, Alaska employees were searching the plane, shuttle bus and corridors on my behalf.

In less than an hour an Area Z agent handed back my photocopied document and welcomed me into the United States—I was free to go. If it turned up, my passport would be sent to the State Department where it would be destroyed, not mailed to me. It wouldn't be a problem except that I had an upcoming international flight and not enough time to get a replacement.

Right on cue, an Alaska employee approached, and holding up my passport, said, "This is your lucky day, Mrs. Fullagar".

I'd like to say this was my first encounter with aliens and U.S. Immigration, but...We just wanted to have lunch.

Paper nautilus.

2011-05-15T20:47:00.000-07:00

A strong wind blew through much of the night. Normally I wouldn't care, but Mystic was at anchor for the final night of our six month cruise and I didn't want any trouble. Besides, it was Friday, the 13th.

Despite sleeping fitfully, I was wide awake before the sun poked over Baja's dusty hills. Pulling on yesterday's clothes, I jumped into the dinghy and in my haste to get to the beach I didn't even bother to pump up the tubes that had gone a little soft overnight. This was my last chance to do a little beach combing before we went into the marina in LaPaz and put Mystic to bed for the summer.

A quick survey of the beach turned up tracks in the sand along the high tide mark that despite the early hour showed someone had been there before me. First to arrive was a tejon, but not to worry, he was hunting for his breakfast, not shells. Tejons look like raccoons but have pointy snouts and long, cat-like tails. Cute, but vicious little creatures. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coati)

Not finding anything exciting (the tejon probably had the same luck), I picked up a few olive shells, nothing special, but at least they filled my pocket.

Working back towards the dinghy, my eyes continued to sweep the beach for one last, though unlikely, treasure. And there, partially buried in the sand, was a conchologist's prize--a paper nautilus! And I'm not even a conchologist, or at least I wasn't. The whoop that escaped as I bent to retrieve the delicate three-inch shell surprised even me. It was followed by a quick thank you to the very wind I'd been cursing just a few hours earlier.

The paper nautilus is actually an egg case created by an octopus and not a true shell at all. Because they are so fragile most are crushed by the sea long before they reach land. This Argonauta Nouryi was rare find indeed. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noury%27s_Argonaut)

I hope the tejon found what he was after before leaving the beach. I certainly did.

Blindfolded dinghy races.

2011-04-30T22:44:00.000-07:00

Put two people in a dinghy, blindfold the driver and have the other person navigate. Trust. It's all about trust.

Today, Betsy of Mystic and Katie of Miss Teak entered the LoretoFest Dinghy Race. I was driving, Katie was navigating.

The rules were simple: cross the starting line, circle a boat in the distance (without hitting or damaging it), return to the start and retrieve a big Micky Mouse that's been tossed into the sea.

Easy? Not on your life.

Katie and I, the only all-girl entry, laughed and cheered the dinghies that went before us. Then suddenly it was our turn. Looking us in the eye, the rough, gray-haired race organizer said, "I'm counting on you two". Jeez, as if we didn't have enough pressure from the talented, speedy teams that had gone before us!

Easing toward the starting line, Katie positioned herself low in the bow as I pulled the blindfold over my eyes. I heard the starting gun, goosed the throttle and we were off. For the first forty-five seconds we were flying. Then I stopped trusting Katie's instructions. I heard her emphatic starboard, starboard, but instead let my own head and blind sense of direction take over, throwing us off course.

I so wanted to pull off the blindfold and see where in the heck we were. All the while, Katie kept shouting directions and managed retrieved that life-jacketed Mickey Mouse. And as you might have guessed, we did not take home the trophy.

What a powerful lesson in trust. I just wish I could have seen it.

Surrounded by the Mexican navy.

2011-03-20T03:40:00.000-07:00

We left Puerto Vallarta early this morning for an overnight passage to Mazatlan. We always want our passages to be uneventful but we don't always get our way.

Midday surprise

Stealth mode

This afternoon a Mexican navy vessel came racing at us then swiftly veered off, but not before I snapped a quick photo. Strange, but this is Mexico. At dinner we commented on a boat that had been shadowing us for several hours, but no biggie, it's usually just some other cruising boat traveling about the same speed at Mystic.

Later, alone on night watch I dimmed the lights and was enjoying an amazing full moon (the brightest in twenty years) when my moon suddenly morphed into a five million candlepower spotlight. I quickly eased back on the throttle—our signal that the off-watch person was needed topsides—which brought David running. We tried to identify the boat that was nearly on top of us: drug runners, navy, fisherman wanting a beer, we had no idea.

I repeatedly hailed the menacing boat and got the same response: a spotlight in my eyes from 50 feet away. I asked their intentions, same response. Fed up, David got out our spotlight and shined it back at them: it was the Mexican navy, again. That finally got them talking. After a few Spanglish questions about us and our boat they announced they were launching their rubber boat and would be boarding us for a "routine inspection" in ten minutes. Routine? At night? We waited as Mystic wallowed 25 miles offshore. David and I have a rubber boat too, and it takes us about three minutes to hoist it off the boat deck and pop it into the water.

It took the navy an hour-and-a-half to launch their rubber boat and send six men over to us. More specifically, it took the Mexican navy an hour-and-a-half to call in the three big boats that now were circling us.

Once on board the seamen took off their shoes but kept their guns. One guy asked the questions, another cradled a big radio that continuously transmitted everything we said, and a third just stood there, Uzi in hand, pointed downward, thankfully.

It was soon clear to them that we were just cruisers on an overnight passage and the conversation shifted to the beautiful sights in Mazatlan, the Mexico of years past, even tacos al pastor.

I followed the boss down below as he made his "routine inspection", and there, out of earshot of that transmitting radio he told me why the navy had surrounded Mystic. They'd had a tip that a boat similar to ours was transiting the area with a shipment of bad stuff that they hoped to intercept. He acknowledged that the navy had been shadowing us, apologized for the inconvenience and advised that they were keeping the waters safe for everyone.

As I write this I can see the lights of the Mexican navy in the distance, one boat to port, another to starboard. And I'm kind of glad they're there.

(This was Mystic's second boarding in six weeks, the previous one really was routine.)

Gasoline, Mexican style.

2011-02-25T15:30:00.000-08:00

David and I are still enjoying Mexico and as we travel from anchorage to anchorage we always manage to sample a little bit of the local color.

Today it was a girls trip (plus Ted, one of the husbands) to the Careyes Resort for lunch.

The guys ferried us ashore in Chamela where we strolled down a beautiful sandy beach and up to the main road where one of the women thought we might be able to catch a taxi for the 25 minute ride to Careyes. Not. We're in Chamela, not San Francisco. I suggest that perhaps we can find a guy with a pickup truck to squire us but my idea is poorly received. Eventually I find a young woman whose brother, Luis, is willing to drive us in his van.

Luis quotes a price of about $20 round trip for all of five so we climb aboard and are off. I'm sitting in the front seat chatting away with Luis about the latest iPhone exploit and sharing our thoughts on what the next iPad is going to look like (who would have thought that our driver was actually a full time geek who was just kind enough to give us a ride!) when he suddenly pulls off the narrow road onto the dusty shoulder.

The local gas station.

Luis explains that if we are going to make it to Careyes -- and back -- he needs to buy some gas. The gas station turns out to be a shack with an assortment of jerry jugs, a few bottles of engine oil and a huge pin-up calendar of the hot babe of the year.

Luis places his order with the gas station attendant who brings out a couple of well used jerry jugs and a length of hose. The man hoists the jug onto his shoulder, puts one end of the hose in the jug and the other in his mouth and in no time at all gravity has done its job.

Human gas pump.

We all pile back into the van and continue on to Careyes and a delightful lunch.

When it's time to go back, Luis is ready and waiting for us. We retrace our steps, climb back into our dinghies and zip back to our boats. I'm feeling a bit richer for my interesting ride with Luis.

Luis and the girls (minus Ted)

(David and I are resting up this evening in preparation for a midnight departure north. Mystic will be traveling in the company of several other boats, all of us hoping the weather window is big enough for us to get around Cabo Corrientes and into Puerto Vallarta before the next big blow.)

Boarded by the Mexican navy.

2011-02-02T19:59:00.000-08:00

We arrived in Tenecatita, one of our all-time favorite Mexican anchorages, and within ten minutes of putting the hook down the Mexican navy came aboard Mystic. They didn't announce themselves nor did they ask permission to board. They just brought their launch alongside and stepped aboard.

Three well-armed men stood on our swim platform and were about to enter the boat when I stopped them and (in my best Spanish) said they were welcome to come into the boat but they needed to take off their black-soled shoes first. They looked at me like I was crazy (and so did David) but I stood my ground and after a moment of "What the ...?" two of the Uzi-wielding soldiers took off their shoes and came inside.

While their companion waited outside the other two asked us two pages of questions in Spanish. Did I mention that David and I barely speak Spanish? We offered them lemonade and chips with guacamole but they kindly declined saying they'd already had lunch on their big gray mother ship. The guys in the salon were polite and friendly and the third guy stood on the aft deck looking totally left out.

Having satisfactorily answered their many questions one of the guys pulled out a small camera and took photos of our passports, our radios and all the electronics in our navigation console. As they prepared to leave I said they couldn't go until we had a photo together. David looked at me again like I was crazy but picked up a camera and took a shot of me with two of the Mexican Navy's finest.

After a few more pleasantries the two guys put their heavy black shoes back on, climbed back into their launch and shot off back to their mother ship.

Mind you, this experience was far more pleasant than any experience we have had with our U.S. Homeland Security. See: We just wanted to have lunch.

Salt on a bird's tail.

2011-01-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

Magnificent Frigatebird.

When my sister and I were little my mother used to tell us to go catch a bird. She said that if we approached a bird very slowly and quietly we could put a little salt on its tail and would be able to catch it. Armed with salt shakers my sister and I spent ages sneaking around the yard chasing down robins and chickadees that would quickly flit away. What my mother really wanted, and got, was a some peace and quiet without kids underfoot.

Isabela fishcamp.

We recently visited Isla Isabela, a small, rocky island off the coast of Mexico that would have my mother running wild with a salt shaker. Isabela is host to an unbelievable concentration of seemingly tame birds. Other than a small fish camp and a tumble-down research station with a few birdwatching grad students, the island is undeveloped and predator-free.

Brown-footed Booby

The birds, brown- and blue-footed Boobys and Magnificent Frigatebirds, rule this roost.The boobys have got the ground covered and the frigates control the shrubs and low trees. Not to be outdone, large numbers of iguanas warm themselves each day before disappearing into rocky nooks and crannies when the sun goes down.

They might be yellow but these
are actually "Green Iguanas".

What makes this place so fascinating is just how approachable the birds and iquanas are. It's easy to get within a few feet without scaring them off. I'd happily salt and catch a booby in memory of my mother but I don't think the bird would appreciate it.

Booby mother and chick.

Looking for a hot chick!

Following an elaborate courtship dance the boobys build a rough nest on the ground. After laying two eggs (the second is insurance should the first one not survive), the booby stays put for nearly a year to raise its young as well as protect the chick from an opportunistic frigatebird out for an easy meal.

Like the boobys, the frigates have an unusual mating ritual. The males have what looks like a red turkey wattle under their beaks that they inflate to attract a female. Once properly courted the frigatebird builds its twiggy nest in low trees and shrubs
and never leaves it unguarded for fear of losing its nest material to other frigatebirds. Walking around the shrubbery I was surprised to find the ground littered with eggs that awkward would-be parents bumped from their nests. Given the number of birds on the island I don't think the occasional lost egg will put the frigatebirds on the endangered species list any time soon.

Isla Isabela is an amazing place and well worth the small detour we made to get there. If you ever want a little kid-free time send your child into the garden with a salt shaker. If you want them to bring home a bird, take a trip to Isla Isabela.

Night watch.

2010-11-20T14:01:00.000-08:00

We do our best to avoid night watch. Sometimes we have crew on board to maximize our sleeping hours, but having crew changes our boat mode. This time it's just the two of us running down the coast of Mexico's Baja peninsula, so we've been making day hops from anchorage to anchorage when possible. But now we can't avoid the big "N" any longer.

This morning we poked around a dusty little town collecting a few provisions to tide us over for the next several days until we reach Cabo. We stowed the dinghy on the boat deck, raised anchor and were underway before noon. The next time our anchor touches bottom will be in Magdelena Bay with its rich marine life and perhaps a chance to trade some Goodwill hoodies for lobster with the local fishermen. But first we have to run 26 hours to get there.

By mid-afternoon David is sick. He never gets sick, but he is violently ill. And it isn't seasickness. Must have been the food in Turtle Bay. At one point I find him bent over the bed in our cabin. He's trying to come up to stand his watch but is too sick to even make it up the stairs let alone keep an eye on the boat , so I tuck him in and go back to the pilot house.

It's a lonely feeling being fifty miles offshore, out of sight of land, watching the moon rise as the sun goes down and hoping David will feel better soon.

Before the sun is gone I turn on the running lights so other boats, if there are any, can see us. In the pilothouse, I dim the displays on the navigation equipment and switch on the red console lights to save my night vision.

The hours wear on and occasionally a big wave catches the boat swinging us from side to side before the stabilizers have a chance to do their job, Mystic's long-familiar creaks tell me she is groaning back at the sea. The autopilot grinds as it works to correct our course and once or twice its siren-like wail gives me a start. By the time I jump up to have a look the alarm has stopped and we're back on course. Sometimes we get a "slippery" wave and each time I hope David is asleep and doesn't feel it.

I haven't heard a peep from him in a couple of hours and am hopeful that the drugs he took are working. Just to be sure I go down to check. The night lights are on and I can tell he's asleep. Finally, some rest for him.

I'm feeling peckish, but it's not much fun dining alone so I start the generator and pop a bag of popcorn instead. A glass of wine would be nice, but not with popcorn, so I skip it.

Running in daylight is so different from nighttime passages. During the day I am futzing around the boat doing a little cleaning and chasing down dust bunnies that magically appear in all the regular places. I keep up with my iPad Scrabble. And now that the water is warmer, I put out two fishing rods, one with a cedar plug, the other with a Mexican feather lure. So far the fishing has been terrible. I've managed to catch a bird, yes a bird, and one Bonito, a so-so edible fish that made a mess of the back deck.

Traveling at night is another story. I glance at the radar every few minutes to see if there are any boats in our path, but there aren't. Most boats don't travel at night. I also keep an eye on the various gauges; oops, I suddenly realize the generator is still running after making popcorn and jump up to turn it off. Then I wonder if we have enough fuel in our day tanks to get us through the night. If I open the engine room door to check it's sure to wake David up. Hmmm.

Looking out the pilothouse windows the moon lights up the sea as it rushes by. If only it would rush by faster so we could be anchored in Mag Bay and David would feel better.

David suddenly appears and offers to stand his watch. But he's still sick. Back to bed with him.

It's only 10:30 but I've been in the pilothouse since noon and am starting to feel drowsy. Maybe another game of iPad Scrabble will get me going again.

Traveling on a boat at night is like flying a plane at night but with a heck of a lot more room for error. Everything is done by instruments and you have to trust them because it's just plain dark outside.

The sea has quieted a little and the boat motion is gentler now. As the night wears on it might settle some more.

The various boats noises have become part of my night watch rhythm and the slightest change is cause for attention. Fortunately, Mystic has carried us a long way with little trouble and she'll make it through this night without a problem. And so will I.

At 2:00 a.m. David manages to drag himself into the pilothouse. He doesn't look great but says he feeling better. Probably a white lie, but I'm ready to go below for a little rest. Thank you, David. I hope you feel better soon.

Mexico bound.

2010-11-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

We've been planning to take the boat from Canada to Mexico for most of this last year. After a short summer in Canadian waters, Mystic left the beautiful Pacific Northwest, ran down the coast, and settled a short while in San Diego. After some final preparations and some serious provisioning -- half of Trader Joe's and a lot of Costo, we cast off our lines and crossed the border to Manana Land.

Other than a few lumps on our first day out, the seas have been kind to us. Our first anchorages were a bit rolly but Mystic took them well and kept us comfortable -- as well she should since she weighs 100,000 pounds.

The sea has changed from the cold steely gray of the pacific northwest to a friendly deep blue, and the sun that we see every day looks like a million diamonds bouncing off the sea. We're seeing lots of dolphins -- they love ride our bow wave, sometimes staying with us for 30 minutes or more. There's something about dolphins that makes them seem like big kids out for fun. We also had a run on whales one day as several of them blew and flipped their tails and fins. Trivia: the Gray whale makes a 12,000 mile round trip from the arctic to its calving grounds in Mexico, one of the longest known migrations.

We anchored Mystic at Isla Benitos one afternoon and couldn't believe how many elephant seals littered the beach -- it is calving and mating season. There were a few fights going on between males who were after mating rights, fights that sometimes end in death for the weaker male, or at the very least, a bloody snout. The seals around Benitos are incredibly curious especially compared to their Pacific Northwest relatives. Fifteen or 20 of these guys will come racing toward the dinghy and bob around close by for a bit, then suddenly, they'll race back to the rocks before starting their little adventure again. These small seals tend to stay away from the beaches where their ungainly cousins have hauled themselves out.

We're starting to meet other sailors who are also seeking warmer waters, they're coming mostly from California, Washington and British Columbia, though we did meet one couple that came in from Australia via Japan. Also, one very young couple bought a boat in San Francisco in July, quit their jobs in September and jumped off in October. They're final destination is a nice one: the Caribbean.

Eager to turn the corner at Cabo...nice beaches, warm water, colorful fish. Soon. Very soon.

Broken shopping trolleys.

2010-07-15T13:37:00.000-07:00

I love deserts and in a few weeks will be heading to the Gobi in Mongolia. In preparation, my online searches have produced a number of good first-hand reports of other people's Mongolian adventures.

In particular, one woman, traveling solo, had joined up with a couple of strangers and hired a guide to show them some of the country. After traveling several hours along tracks masquerading as roads, they stopped to go horseback riding. When I read her account I had tears of laughter running down my cheeks:

"...I was ready for a horse with a bit of Va Va Voom. What I actually got was a broken, shopping trolley type of horse. I´d point it in the direction that I wanted it to go, give it a little encouragement to go forward and wait. It´d take a few steps forward and then slowly drift off to the right as if it had a broken wheel, before coming to a halt. It was a bit of a pain to keep pulling to the left and saying Choooo, but at least I got there. MaiKhoi´s (the American) and Anne´s (Danish) horse both refused to go at all, and if they did it was in the wrong direction. I took advantage of these times to bond with my horse. I´d find a nice bit of green grass and then let it eat while the guide would head back to rescue the other two..." (posted by Irax at Travelpod.com)

I'll remember to thoroughly check out my horses and camels before leaving the ger.

Back to basics.

2010-06-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

This image about sums up my recent experience in Zimbabwe.

It's the first grade class at Gwanda's Ward 22 Primary School. The school is in the middle of nowhere, fourteen kilometers from the nearest town. That said, there are squatter huts on the land adjacent to the school that were built by women who were so determined to have their kids educated that they moved from even more rural locations to this tumble-down school in the middle of nowhere.

Understaffed and with no resources but chalk and blackboards, the teachers at this school, who earn $100 a month, are educating kids, and believe it or not, they are learning. First graders are learning simple addition and seventh graders are studying geometry.

My hat goes off and my heart goes out to the parents and teachers who are succeeding when everything around them is failing.

Speedos -- oh no!

2010-05-24T09:12:00.000-07:00

I stepped into a German hotel elevator with two 30-something American guys who had just arrived in Frankfurt on business. One said he was going to hit the hotel gym and the other planned to swim laps in the pool. The gym guy jokingly asked the pool guy if he was going to swim American style or wear a Speedo. Even though both men were quite fit I just couldn't hold my tongue, and I turned to the would-be swimmer, and with a smile, I said, "No Speedos".

Moments later the elevator stopped and the door opened to reveal a woman wrapped in a white bathrobe. Beside her stood a man with a small Speedo peeking out from under his large beer belly.

I quickly glanced toward the two fitness guys and we all burst out laughing! Luckily for me, we'd stopped at my floor so I was able to make a speedy exit.

Moral of story: boys over the age of five shouldn't wear Speedos.

No photos. (They would have been censored anyway.)

Americans in Africa.

2010-05-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

In African Shoes currently has three volunteers working in Boxahuku, South Africa. I was able to spend a few days with them before turning them loose on the village. What a joy and a relief to see how quickly they settled in, made friends and got down to work. Taking volunteers to Africa has it's own challenges and the volunteers need to adapt from moment they arrive. There are tribal customs to learn, no flushing toilets, dodgy Internet access, and power cuts to deal with to name just a few. Martin, Samantha and Sameer have been amazing. In addition to changing lives in the village, they are changing their own lives. Keep up the good work guys!

Darwin's near Darwin.

2010-04-03T17:45:00.000-07:00

We were having dinner at a Japanese restaurant the other night. A thirty-something couple with a young child had finished their sushi and were preparing to leave. While papa was paying the bill and mama was paying attention to her pocketbook, their little boy, perhaps three years old, made for the door. We watched as he toddled on the sidewalk, wondering how long it would be before one of the parents went running after him.

His little legs were closing in on the busy street so David jumped up to intervene; he also told the boy's mother where her child was headed.

Mama yelled out the door, "Darwin! Come back here!"

Were it not for David, young Darwin could have taken himself out of the gene pool that night.

Obviously, the boy's parent's hadn't heard of the Darwin Awards (www.darwinawards.com) when they named their adventuresome little boy.

The People's Desire.

2010-03-09T03:26:00.000-08:00

I traveled half way around the world to experience Burma first hand and came across this sign in Mandalay that demonstrates the brilliance of the 25 General Stooges who run the place.

They work overtime to dictate what the people desire. Unfortunately, speaking your true desire (democracy) in Burma may cause you to disappear in the middle of the night.

Lobster in Phuket.

2010-02-28T17:18:00.000-08:00

While chartering a sailboat in Phuket, I fished a little bit using a rapella at the end of a handline that I tied to one of the boat's stanchions. Since I wanted to catch the fish, not drown it, I rigged a "bobber" on deck by wrapping a bit of line on another stanchion and clipping it off with a clothes pin. That way when a fish hit the rapella the tension would pop the clothes pin and alert us.

For two days I rigged and rerigged my fishing line and clothes pin without success. Then on the third day I had a hit. And the darn thing took the bait while I was below decks so I never even got to see my "bobber" snap free. Hauling the line in hand-over-hand took a while and I even questioned whether there was even a fish on the line or just some stray bit of ocean stuff. Eventually, the "ocean stuff" came close enough for us to see that we had a barracuda - long, skinny, big teeth...

Shortly after landing the fish a local fisherman in his long-tail boat came alongside and offered to sell us some of his day's catch. His wife smiled as she held up some squid. No thanks. Needle fish? No thanks. Baby shrimp. Nope. Big prawns? Hmmm. Lobster? Let's talk.

I climbed aboard the grubbiest, smelliest boatI've ever been on to pick out some big juicy prawns and plunk them into a bucket that the leathery man's wife was holding. Then I turned to the fisherman and asked for that lobster he'd offered and added it to the bucket. Then the negotiation began.

He held up three fingers and slowly counted out loud: one-two-three. Three hundred baht (about $9.50). No thanks. We went back and forth and finally I climbed back aboard our boat, picked up that sorry barracuda and offered him my fish and 100 baht ($3.00) for the bucket of lobster and prawns.

Deal.

$18,382.

2010-02-18T23:08:00.000-08:00

That was the amount of the bill we received from Los Gatos' Good Samaritan Hospital the other day. $18,382.

Two (well, technically three) rabies injections, one bitchy nurse, one nice nurse, and 3.5 hours = $18,382. Go figure.

David checked out what it would cost in the U.K. to keep me from foaming at the mouth and the price is nine pounds, about $15 U.S.

And some of you are questioning the need for health care reform? How would you feel if you got a bill for $18,382?

"Excuse me mum..."

2010-02-01T21:34:00.000-08:00

When I'm in Africa I get a little weary of being singled out by beggars. They are usually men in their twenties or thirties who think I'll feel sorry for them and give them money. Sometimes, when in a shopping area I am approached by men who tell me they have no money and ask me to give them a few rand. I either ignore the beggar or just flatly decline and turned away. These people probably have about the same amount of money as everyone else, they just think they might find a sympathetic white woman to enrich them.

Alweet and I were in the ShopRite in Malamulele the other day and as we exited I handed over my receipt to the guard at the door and opened my shopping bag so he could verify that I was not a shoplifter. I wished him a good afternoon and had gone just a few steps when a stranger asked me for money. I told him no and said to go away. That was the first time Alweet had actually seen the begging happen. In the car driving back to Mabiligwe I told him that the next time someone begged I was going to deal with it differently.

Fast forward slightly, Alweet and I are in the Saselamani ShopRite this time and as I'm cooling myself off in front of the wilting lettuce in the refrigerator section a short-ish, little bit unkempt man approaches me. He takes his hat off and literally "hat in hand" tells me he doesn't have any money and would I be so kind as to give a few rand. I narrow my eyes and as why he's asking me for money. When he doesn't answer, I ask why he doesn't ask the guy standing near the racks of bread for money. The man says, "That guy doesn't have any money". "Oh, okay", so I take him by the arm to a different man and ask that man if he will give the beggar some money; and of course, he won't. So, still holding the guy's sleeve, I lead him to a woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties who is eyeing a tube of baloney. In South Africa they call it Paloney; either way, it's a disgusting bright pink lump of reconstituted meat. "Excuse me, mum", I say, "this man needs money. Will you please give him some?" She looks at me like I'm a crazy woman so I repeat the question. She looks back and forth between me and the man, who by now is really starting to wonder what is going to happen, and with a small smile she shakes her head and says no. I thank her and turn back to the beggar, who by now is convinced that I'm a crazy woman and rues his decision to approach me. "So, there you have it! Nobody, black or white, is going to give you any money. Now what are you going to do?" As the guy turns toward the door, another man, who has observed the entire exchange laughs and says, "You have bad luck today, brother!" Meanwhile, Alweet was so busy choosing a tea kettle (they only sell one kind) that he missed the whole funny event, darn it!

Rabies.

2010-01-24T16:44:00.000-08:00

I was bitten in the thigh by a nasty dog on my last trip to Africa. Normally, the dog would be checked for rabies and that would determine the course of action for the person who'd been attacked. But I was in Africa and things work differently there. I cleaned up my own wound and a couple of days later when I was at the medical clinic on an errand, I asked the nurse about my bite. She insisted on beginning the rabies series but I politely declined saying I was heading home in a couple of days and would deal with it there.

David had made arrangements for me to receive the first shot in the rabies series as soon as I got home. So, my plane lands and and he whisks me off, first to my doctor for a written rabies prescription, then to Good Samaritan hospital for the rabies and immune globulin injections. I hadn't yet begun foaming at the mouth and was happy to be treated in the US where we have competent medical staff.

At 4:20 p.m. I check in at Good Sam's triage office. They asked me a load of questions, put an ID band on my wrist and passed me off to a nurse who put me in cubicle #24, just outside the nurse's station.

At 4:30 a doctor came in, asked all the pertinent questions and said the shots were on their way from the pharmacy. I'm impressed because I'm going to be poked by a couple of needles and out of there in no time.

At 5:30 we hear the medical staff discussing rabies. One of them said that in Africa the rabies shots they use on people are the same ones they use on animals, and how could they be so backwards and incompetent, and so on.

At 6:00 p.m. we hear the medical staff discussing my dosage, trying to figure out just how much to give me.

At 6:15 p.m. the medical staff is still struggling with the dose so I get up from my skinny little bed, pull the hospital gown closed behind me, open the curtain to my cubicle, and say, "Excuse me, but you're making me a little bit nervous with all these questions about how much to give me." A cute little nurse dressed all in pink whips around and snaps, "If you weren't so close to the station you wouldn't have even heard this conversation!" (Not the point.) I suggest they call the doctor and she says they don't have his number. I tell her I do and give her the number.

At 6:35 p.m. The doctor comes into the ER, takes two seconds to tell the nurse what the dose is, comes in to chat with me about Africa, and leaves.

At 7:00 p.m. another nurse (a nice one this time) comes into my cube, takes 20 minutes to enter the vacine data into a computer.

At 7:20 p.m. I get the rabies shot, then the nice nurse injects the immune globulin smack in the middle of the wound, she also stabs my arm. Ouch! Ouch! and Ouch again!

At 7:21 p.m. I fall asleep. (I'd only been awake for 49 hours at that point.)

At 7:40 p.m. the nurse wakes me up, and showing no sign of reaction I am released to go home.

My total time at the US emergency room was 3 1/2 hours.

Rewind four days: At the clinic in Africa the nurse took one look at my dog bite, went into another room, came out with the rabies shot and was ready to stick me with it. At the clinic in Africa a competent nurse would have had me out of there in five minutes flat.

Go figure.

David's German car, part 3.

2009-12-30T20:38:00.000-08:00

So, David's nice German car overheated and went into the garage for a $1300 thermostat. But as car repairs go,$1300 became $1600. Annoying, but what could he do.

When the garage called to say his car was ready to be picked up, I dropped David off and headed home. Within 30 minutes, he called to say his car had overheated, again. And he called Ed's towing, again.

Fast forward one week. David still has the rental car provided by the garage and is heading to BestBuy to get some speakers for our IAS effort in Africa. His rental car suddenly breaks down -- in the middle of traffic in front of Santa Row. I rush to his rescue and we wait in my warm Lexus until Ed, from Ed's towing shows up for the third time. "Don't I know you..."

Don't hold your breath -- you will probably expire before David's $1600 thermostat is sorted out!

David's German car, part 2.

2009-12-21T17:13:00.000-08:00

The garage called to say that David's German car was ready to be picked up so I dropped him off in Palo Alto and headed home. Oops.

Within 20 minutes he called to say his repaired car had broken down before he even reached the highway! He also said that I could go on home because the garage was providing a rental car.

Who knows when this nice German car will be out of the repair garage and back in the Fullagar garage.

German cars.

2009-12-16T20:43:00.000-08:00

You'd think David would have had his fill of German cars by now.

Some years ago he had a Mercedes that would have been a nice car had the engine not blown up one dark, rainy night on a blind curve on Highway 17. When he called the Mercedes emergency road service for towing he spoke with a woman in New Jersey who said she'd send someone right away. He didn't have to wait for a tow truck to arrive from New Jersey, but it was still a very long wait.

Then David bought a 740 BMW, and one freezing night the door handle came off in his hand when he tried to open it. Fine German engineering. Because the car was nearly 2000 miles out of warranty that new door handle cost $900. And a year later when a tail light burned out the repair estimate was over $10,000 because the electrical wiring had melted. Rather than sell the car and risk some serious liability, David traded it in on a new Lexus for me -- Merry Christmas, Betsy!

Will he never learn? Yesterday, David called and asked me to pick him up at a garage in Palo Alto. Turns out, his fancy Audi overheated and needed a new thermostat. Not a big deal since the part only cost $20. But believe it or not, the labor charge is over $1300 because half the car needs to be dismantled to get at the thermostat!

Maybe next time my husband will buy a reliable Japanese car. Then again, by the time he gets around to a new car the Chinese will probably dominate the market!

Domestic difficulties.

2009-11-19T19:25:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've noticed lately that the dishes have been coming out of the dishwasher looking as though they'd had nothing more than a quick rinse. I even complained to David that the new Electrasol dishwasher tablets were worthless and wished Costco still sold the Cascade brand.

Then, when emptying the dishwasher yesterday I noticed a cache of Electrasol "pills" in the bottom of the dishwasher -- each one of them still wrapped in plastic. Huh?

Then that I remembered that my brilliant husband came out of Cambridge with a degree in physics, not chemistry, and he was putting the tablets in the dishwasher without first removing the Polyethylene wrapper.

To be entirely honest, I put the Electrasol tablets in the Cascade container because the Cascade tub was better designed... but I didn't tell David I'd made the switch.

No doubt my wonderful husband will try to post a rebuttal.

Class 7B.

2009-09-19T06:15:00.000-07:00

I stopped by the primary school next to our African learning center and was stunned to see that many of the classes had students but not teachers. Without thinking I walked into one and was able to quiet the kids enough to ask where their teacher was. "Absent", they said.

Since I'm neither teacher nor parent I should have high-tailed it out of there, but just couldn't. "What are you supposed to be studying right now?", I ask. No response. I repeat the question. Again no response. I slap my hand down on one boy's desk and ask again, only this time I'm loud and in his face. The class goes instantly quiet. "Life science.", he whispers. I snatch up another boy's notebook and see notes about the circulatory system.

Back in front of the class I ask what red blood cells do, what arteries do, and so on. I really should have been asking myself what I was doing in front of a class of 12-15 year old seventh graders!

The kids regurgitate a few answers but are totally lost, so I, the non-teacher, try to give life to the lesson. Will white blood cells save you from HIV/AIDS? What would happen if the red blood cells hit a road block. With each of the questions I draw my hand across my throat and make a croaking sound. They start to pay attention and they start to talk.

When the bell rang signaling the end of the school day, the learners started to jump up and I gently closed the door. They sat back down and I gave them the talk about what they could do with their lives if they truly wanted to succeed. I told them that I came into their class and yelled at them because I cared about them and that I would be back. Then I opened the door. Nobody moved. I told them that class was over and they could leave. Still nobody moved. At that point my eyes started to well up. One of the boys came over and put his arms around me. Quietly they came, one by one, some hugging me, some taking my hand. About half the class left. The others stood around talking until I left.

There is hope for these kids. They just need a teacher who cares. It's not me, I'm not even a teacher. Somewhere in this frustrating, wonderful place there are teachers who care enough to make a difference. If only they were in Class 7B.

Do you have any rum on board?

2009-07-05T21:23:00.000-07:00

Here we are back on Mystic in the Pacific Northwest. We arrive in Roche Harbor, Washington, to clear back into the U.S. from Canada. The sun is shining and there are lots of people on lots of boats enjoying the Independence Day weekend.

For some reason I am always the one goes to the customs office to clear Mystic in. David stays on board, I suppose he's the smart one. I walk in with our passports and vessel documentation in hand and take a seat to wait my turn. The man ahead of me hands over his Canadian passports and starts answering the questions posed to him by Officer Jim who keys the responses into his computer. It's going along just fine until the agent asks him if he has any alcohol on board. "Yes, we have alcohol.", the man answers. "Do you have any rum on board", questions Officer Jim. Then me, being who I am, pipes up, "What's so special about rum?" The female agent at the next computer lifts her head and gives me a sharp look. I don't know what she hopes to achieve by that -- it certainly isn't going to silence me. But before I have a chance to bother her further, Officer Jim saves me with, "It could be Cuban rum."

"Oh.", I mumble. Now I understand. This guy on his tiny sailboat might be a rum runner. Who knows? He might be carrying a liter of illegal rum. And of course he would call in at Roche Harbor to announce himself .

I like Officer Jim. We have a history together. (See "We just wanted to have lunch", 9-7-07, post.) But sometimes I think parts of his job are just plain dumb. And I think there are far better ways of spending taxpayer money than chasing down the odd bottle of Cuban rum.

Care for a cigar?

Safer to be Greek?

2009-05-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

We're wandering around Rome at the moment. In addition to being awed by massive numbers of fantastic monuments I'm struck by the number of bit and pieces of statues floating around. I don't know what Venus de Milo had to complain about. That Greek girl just lost an arm and a half! Every one of these Italian guys lost their heads, and a whole lot more!

Self portrait.

2009-03-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

I was looking for a certain photo today and came across this self-portrait from April 2008. Just had to post it. That's David on the camel in front of me.

I can't remember what I was originally looking for. Must be that juvenile Alzheimers setting in, darn it!

Which old bag made it home first?

2009-03-02T22:09:00.000-08:00

If you made a wager with yourself about which old bag would get home first, I hope you were betting on me because Air France managed to lose my bag -- again!

They also left four busloads of passengers on the tarmac in Paris for an hour and a half -- there we all stood packed in like sardines while they cleaned the plane. The resulting delay caused me to miss yet another connection. In the end, I missed three flights.

Thank you Air France.

Air France and a couple of old bags.

2009-03-01T13:37:00.000-08:00

I arrived at the Air France counter in Johannesburg only to be told that check-in for my flight was closed. When I pointed out that it was too early to close the flight, a supervisor came out and led me to customer care. She said the flight was definitely closed and suggested I get a supervisor. But I'd already seen a supervisor, so the supervisor said she would get her supervisor. Meanwhile, some other passengers in the same situation got unruly and loud, and eventually violent. (Note to self: never get unruly, loud, or violent at the Jo'burg airport because they confiscate passports, call the police and haul you off to jail.)

The supervisor's supervisor finally arrived and explained they had overbooked business class by five seats hence my denied boarding. She said I'd be rebooked on the o'dark:30 flight to Paris. Not a problem except that I would miss my connection to SFO. Okay, so Paris isn't the worst place to have to overnight, especially since Air France would be paying for one of those incredibly small rooms that Paris is so famous for.

Just as I'm thinking I'd soon be visiting the Louvre, the agent advised me that Air France doesn't fly to San Francisco on Tuesdays and would I care to spend two nights in Paris. "No. Can I fly home from Paris through LA or Seattle?" "Oh, yes. Certainly." After more shuttling back and forth I finally stood before the man who would issue my boarding passes.

And that's when an Air France employee pulled the rug out from under me--literally. He took it two counters over and replaced my red carpet with a blue one. It really didn't matter much since I hadn't had the red carpet treatment anyway.

Then, when the agent tagged my bag for LAX I asked if he would please turn the conveyor belt on so I could see it go. (I'd been in S. Africa for two weeks, but my bag had only been here for one and it had been destroyed en route.) When the agent hit the button to send my bag on its way nothing happened. At this point we all burst out laughing for the umpteenth time. After several attempts the guy just picked up my bag and hand-carried it to the main conveyer belt.

So, here I am heading home with a wallet full of "We're so sorry" vouchers, a wooden fish, and low expectations for the timely arrival of my bag.

Care to place a wager on which old bag gets home first?

The hyenas ate our drums.

2009-02-24T04:34:00.000-08:00

Bringing four volunteers to Africa makes me see just how much of the country I take for granted. WIth Elizabeth, Joan, Melissa and Sally I am seeing see this place with new eyes and new ears. Yesterday at lunch we commented on some of the things we've heard.

Here are just a few of the words along the way:

"My smile has expired." (Take the darn photo)

"I'm here to do everything for you", said Margaret, the cook, as she reclined on the bed outside the kitchen. (We had just finished preparing our own lunch.)

"Dessert is coming just now", said the waitress with a smile. We asked if we could first have the main course that we'd been waiting an hour for.

"Get Inside", barked a friendly villager as she invited us into her home.

"Here is a bucket for urine." (It saved some volunteers from hiking to the outhouse in the middle of the night.)

"We take care of the whole bang-shoe", volunteered the lodge receptionist.

"The entertainment has been cancelled because the hyenas ate our drums." (Apparently the drums were left outside one night at a safari lodge)

I can only imagine how our African friends chuckle at our attempts at their language.

A country girl goes to New York.

2009-01-13T19:31:00.000-08:00

My husband is an accomplished sailor who was invited to join the Cruising Club of America (CCA) a few years ago. The organization is made up of bluewater sailors who have nosed their boats into places many people will never hear of. By the very nature of their kind of sailing these adventurers sometimes find themselves in pickles that would be the undoing of most people. Some have survived hurricanes, sinking boats, burning boats, even pirate attacks, yet they usually manage to sail themselves out of these situations. Their boats are sometimes big impressive yachts, but most are modest little boats, just the right size for a competent sailor to handle. Sometimes they sail alone, usually they sail with their spouse or a couple of friends. Most of these sailors are modest men but when you put them together in one room their collective stories, mostly true, will make you want to give them awards for courage, perseverence, and at times a little stupidity.

David and I are in New York this week for the awards dinner of the CCA. Since the club has no clubhouse of its own (I guess they assume the membership is usually out sailing) the dinner was held at the New York Yacht Club.

We had a very nice lunch at the NYYC where "blue jeans are never considered tasteful attire" followed by a tour of the building. We visited the spot where the America's Cup trophy used to reside. (At the moment a neutral little land-locked nation has bragging rights, and a legal snarl. (www.americascup.com)

We also visited the yacht club's library, an old boys room replete with oriental carpets, dark paneling, and of course, a number of old boys dozing in leather, hob-nailed chairs surrounded by tales of mooncussers, buccaneers and rum runners.

While the guys were in a meeting the girls were going to a museum. This is where I entered the picture and very nearly exited it!

To bring this story to a close: I came out of the NYYC onto a grid-locked, one way street. As I looked toward the oncoming traffic to hail a taxi, I was hit by a car coming from the other direction. The limo driver was completely unaware that he had backed right into me! Fortunately, I was able to slip out of the way before being pancaked. The next time I'm at the New York Yacht Club I'll be sure to take a pass on the museums and join the old boys in a hob-nailed chair instead.

Betsy's aching back.

2008-10-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

David and I decided to have pizza and 60 Minutes tonight and zipped over to Nonno's to pick up a half pepperoni (Betsy), half Hawaiian (David) take-and-bake pizza. While the guy at Nonno's was making up our order we browsed through their impressive wine selection.

The wine labels today are fantastic, and I especially liked seeing a South African red called Herding Cats -- it had the back end of a cheetah running off the label.

Just before our pizza was ready I came across Betsy Backacher with the sub-title was Bottle Blond. Now how did Nonno's know to put that bottle out where I would see it? It would have been a good dumb blond joke but I was too tired to be dumb.

At 7:30 this morning I went into the garden to clean up our jungle. My four Mexican helpers who were supposed to arrive at 8:00 showed up at 9:30. Then they wasted my time trying to re-negotiate our agreed upon rate. Eventually they settled down to substandard (unusual for them) work.

By 3:00 p.m. they'd packed up and gone home, each one of them $80 richer. At 5:00, I pulled off my gloves, raked the decaying bits of leaves from my hair and put the spades, pruners, brooms, tarps, weed wacker and leaf blower back where they belong.

My jeans were too dirty to wash so I put them in the trash, then I stood (mostly bent over) in the shower hoping the hot water would wash away my aches and pains. Not.

I was too tired to cook and proposed a pizza from Nonno's.

That is where I saw the bottle of Betsy's Backacher, Bottle Blond wine. (www.spannvineyards.com)

I'd have laughed but my darn back was aching too much, and I'd have bought the wine but didn't have enough cash in my purse for the wine and the pizza. The pizza won out.

Next time I'll get a bottle of Betsy's Backacher just to find out if it will neutralize the pain.

--Betsy

Adam's geography lesson.

2008-09-23T07:18:00.000-07:00

We, in the US, often lament the education our children receive today. We are frustrated when children in other countries out-perform our kids. Yet we somehow fail to note what is happening in many other parts of the world.

When a school has few, or no, educational resources it’s pretty darn hard for teachers to create citizens of the world. David and I discussed this at length during our seven hour drive back to Johannesburg en route home. You know what? You can’t be a citizen of the world without exposure to the world. That doesn’t mean traveling from country to country, it means learning about and understanding other cultures and ideas, and it means learning how to think.

The other day there was a young man, Adam, who was invited to one of our library sessions. He’d walked more than three miles to get to the B&B and only spoke his native Tsonga during our meeting. Afterward, I offered to drive him home and on the way I learned that Adam’s English was good enough to make small talk, he was just shy about using it. During our conversation he asked if California was close to Johannesburg and I struggled to suppress a laugh. Had I laughed it would have been an angry one because I suspect he’s seen precious few maps in his life and I’ll bet he’s never seen a globe.

Adam’s geography is horrible partly because his circumstances never permitted him to make it to the 8th grade and partly because the village schools don’t have the educational tools they need. Yet Adam has an amazing natural ability to visualize and draw.

Adam is the man who is designing Makuleke Community Library.

I think we’ll be sending some globes in that library shipment.

Ouch.

2008-08-27T13:18:00.000-07:00

The dinghy doctor called this morning to say that the bandaging was done but that we might not be happy because his assistant used the wrong color patches.

When we saw it we weren't happy, but to wait for the repair to be repaired meant we'd be stuck in Nanaimo for another day, so we took the dinghy "as is":.

You can see five of the six patches in this photo. The large one around the cone covers most of my sins.

Just the other day I was saying that maybe it's time to consider a new a dinghy with a steering station...

My Bad.

2008-08-26T21:28:00.000-07:00

Mystic is at the dock in Nanaimo Harbour while her tender is being tended to.

We've had a problem the entire season with the dinghy losing air and needing to be pumped up at least once, sometimes twice, a day. This afternoon we had a call from the service center. The news was bad. Specifically my bad!

The dinghy doctor said he suspected that someone was having too much fun catching too many rockfish from the dinghy because he had found 17 fish spine punctures. To be honest, I have caught hundreds of fish from that dinghy and if only 17 of them managed to exact their revenge, well, I'd say that's pretty darn good.

We get the bandaged boat back tomorrow.

Sometimes being a good citizen isn't good.

2008-08-26T20:20:00.000-07:00

David was off buying boat bits at the marine store and I was working on my computer when I heard a lot of engine noise nearby; I looked up to see a large, 70 foot boat coming in to tie up. Since no one was on the dock to help with their lines I scooted around to give a hand, as did a guy from another boat. When we arrived on the scene there were several people on board tying off the stern line while their captain gave orders from the flybridge.

The other good citizen had taken a bow line so I said I'd take the spring line, but the guy holding it didn't seem to hear me so I said, "Throw me the line", and he did. All of it. He hadn't bothered to tie off his end of the line. He just picked up the whole mess and threw it at me. I gave him back his end, and he asked what he should do with it. About the same time, Captain Bligh started yelling to tie up the stern (again) so my guy just let go and moved aft to "help" his companions.

Not only was this Captain Bligh's crew clueless, they were trying to tie up the boat by committee.

By some miracle the boat was secured without incident and when the captain came down I thought he was going to thank us for our assistance. Instead, he yelled at the other good citizen and I for handling his boat so poorly. We just looked at each other and walked away.

Later as I was telling David what happened we heard loud engines again and saw that Captain Bligh was moving his boat. We could see the action on the bow and it looked like another round of keystone cops. Two women were in a tug-of-war, one on the bow and one on dock, and both struggling to hold on while Captain Bligh raced his engines and thrusters. It wasn't until a couple of guys showed up that the boat was secured a second time. Note that I didn't go back for another dose from Captain Bligh.

Thank God I sail on the love boat with Captain David!

Scene along the way.

2008-08-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

The scenery along the waterway is different from scenery along the highway. Instead of semi-trucks we get cruise ships. Notice that log in the foreground. Logging is big business in Canada and the waterways are littered with strays. Hitting a log is serious business and for that reason the prudent mariner does not travel at night.

Believe it or not, I caught this salmon with my bare hands. Really.

I have to confess though, that a bald eagle caught it first. Then a gull so harassed the raptor that it dropped the fish back into the water and the gull promptly scooped it up and flew off. Of course the eagle wasn't going to let the gull get away with those monkey shines and went after it until the salmon was back in the water again! When we finally arrived on the scene the salmon was swimming just below the surface and I scooped it up. What you can't see in the photo is a big gash made by the eagle's talon.

We came on a pod of nine orca whales playing in Johnstone Strait and stopped to watch them. Actually, Orcas, aka Killer Whales, aren't whales at all. They're the largest member of the dolphin family.

Just look at the way these guys lined up for this photo. I wouldn't want to be too close to them though because when they exhale they have really bad breath!

How do you scratch your back when you're a whale? Ask a friend to do it for you!

Here's a night shot during a full moon. Love the ring around the foggy side of the moon. It was a beautiful night.

This shot was semi-hand-held. I braced the camera on a bow rail and crossed my fingers that the boat wouldn't rock.

Shot at midnight, ISO 500, 1.8 seconds.

A misty shore with a two tree islet. This was taken the next morning in the same anchorage.

Internet lighthouses.

2008-08-13T15:00:00.000-07:00

Most of us check our email from our home or work computers, but what do we do when we're away from home? If we're traveling light we stop in at internet cafes and if we have a laptop along we pick up networks wherever we can.

The other day David and I scored in an unexpected place in the middle of nowhere. As we approached a lighthouse we noticed a couple of satellite dishes and thought we'd do a quick wifi check, and bingo, we were online!

We stopped the boat and let her drift while we grabbed our email, posted to Fullagar's Fancy, and read the New York Times.

Then a couple days later we paused for email again, but only briefly, as the seas were getting rough.

Gotta love those lighthouses!

Gone fishing.

2008-08-08T21:55:00.000-07:00

We're at Princess Royal Island, quite far north in British Columbia. We'd heard that the salmon may be biting up here, so this morning I went out in our little dinghy to give it a try. There were a number of "big boys" out in fish boats fitted with electric down riggers and electronic fish finders, plus they had local fish guides on board. My equipment? A depth sounder that didn't work, a cheap rod and reel combo, an eight ounce sinker and a hook baited with a piece of freezer-burned herring left over from last year. I couldn't hear the chuckling on all those fancy fish boats but I bet it was happening.

I plunked my line over the side, released the lock and promptly snarled the line inside the reel -- I'd forgotten to control the speed as it played out. Darn it! Now those boys were probably having a belly laugh. It took me a couple of minutes to get the snarl untangled, and then, with great care, I let out 150 feet of line. As my bait sank I began trolling, making sure I didn't foul the lines on any of the other boats -- I just couldn't bear to have them start yelling at me. Next I pulled out my iPod, picked a good playlist and set it to shuffle.

Bonnie Raitt was only halfway through "No Business" when a fish took my bait! I started reeling in just as fast as I could, and at the same time I was tearing those earphones out of my ears and trying to cut the motor. Then I stood up in my little dinghy and played the fish. It wasn't a smart move but it had the desired effect -- the guys in the other boats took notice. I somehow managed to boat the fish and raced back to Mystic with it jumping around in the bottom of the dinghy. David was waiting to take photos, and said that when he saw me coming really fast he figured I'd either lost my fishing rod or caught a fish.

After cleaning the salmon I went back out for another try, but didn't even have a chance to get my iPod going before a second salmon hit the same freezer-burned piece of herring. I just had to stand up again to get that fish in the boat. I'd reached my daily limit of two chinook salmon and went back to Mystic. Skill or just dumb luck? It didn't matter. We enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner!

Where there's smoke, there's fire.

2008-06-13T21:02:00.002-07:00

Today started out warm, became hot, and then in no time at all, it got cold. The reason? The sun was obscured by the smoke of the Bonny Doon Fire.

In less than a month, we have been oreo'd between two large wild fires. First it was the Summit Fire to our east that consumed 4300 acres. Now it's the Bonny Doon Fire to the west of us that has yet to be contained. Our hearts go out to those impacted by these wildfires.

These photos were taken at 5:00 this afternoon. Hardly what you'd expect as we approach the longest day of the year.

Inkomu (Thank you).

2008-05-26T23:03:00.000-07:00

Leaving Boxahuku, and leaving Africa, was difficult because I had been so touched by the people of the Makuleke community, and I knew there was so much to be done. I thought I had already cried enough over this village, yet when I got back home and found this email waiting for me, the tears started anew.

I'm not posting Alweet's email for a pat on the back; I'm posting it because his words, both beautiful and simple, demonstrate how difficult life is for the Makuleke people.

Inkomu

Thank you for all that you have done for me

thank you for all that you have done for us

Thank you for the gifts you left me

thank you for the gifts you left for us

Thank you for sharing our food and eating with hands

thank you for a listening ear

Thank you for sharing our pleasure and our pain

thank you for patience and passion

Thank you for your generosity

thank you for giving of yourself

Thank you for giving of your money and efforts

thank you for coming to us

Thank you for having us at heart

thank you for caring

Thank you for reaching out the the helpless and vulnerable

thank you for embracing the seeming hopeless and forgotten

Thank you for Charlotte...Duncan

thank you is not enough to say thank you.

Words fail to say thank you

What a setup this is

How wonderful this is

How worth-living-for this is!

It's been great, it's been wonderful.

Thank you for making the difference

(Alweet, I can only say Inkomu. B.)

www.inafricanshoes.com

A few animal shots.

2008-05-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

You never know what you'll get if you have your camera ready. Sometimes the photos are funny, sometimes sweet, sometimes downright strange.

No comment.

Learning to use his trunk.

Yellow hornbill, aka flying banana.

Lion tails.

Vervet monkey. No comment.

Roughing it.

2008-05-10T23:28:00.000-07:00

For those of you who thought my sisters and I were roughing it on Safari -- let me set the record straight.

The lounge at Hamilton's Tented Camp.

Does your dining table look this nice?

One of Hamilton's tents.

Sundowners with Collin at Inyati

Breakfast at King's Camp.

Eat with your eyes first.

Our hut at Inyati.

My what big teeth you have!

2008-05-10T11:31:00.000-07:00

Seeing animals in their natural environment offers some interesting photo opportunities:

After seeing this, I will never venture into hippo water. In Africa, hippos kill more people each year than crocodiles do.

Cheetahs are pretty hard to find in South Africa, and we were lucky enough to see one while at Inyati, and another one at Hamiltons. Each one made my day.

Hyenas have nasty teeth. We found a pack of them and their young that had taken over a huge termite hill. Their interaction was so interesting that we didn't leave until the light was low.

Want a front row seat? That's what we got when these lions pounced on a fresh impala kill. The first thing they did was go for the stomach and when they tore it open the stentch caused my own stomach to lurch.

There are only about 350 wild dogs in all of the Greater Kruger National Park and they are seldom seen. It was thrilling to have the rare opportunity to observe a small pack of them. (We were told that the owner of our lodge is supposed to be called whenever they are spotted. He drops everything and flys in from Johannesburg to see them.)

If this little lion cub survives to adlthood he'll have some pretty big teeth for tearing apart hapless impalas!

Dead Elephant.

2008-05-09T23:05:00.000-07:00

We made our way to Kruger National Park and headed for Hamilton's Tented Camp. Not far from the camp we spotted roosting vultures by the dozen and took lots of photos. It wasn't long before we found out why the vultures were hanging around: an elephant had died in the river fairly close to the lodge the previous week. When Patty and I were taken to the tent we were sharing the stench was so unbearable that we immediately asked for a tent on the other side of the camp and were lucky enough to change rooms.

Fortunately, we were upwind of the elephant most of the time and didn't have to suffer the horrible odor very often.

Through our binoculars we could see the elephant in the river playing host to all sorts of animals. There was some debate as to the cause of this elephant's death and I don't thing we ever learned. When a dead elephant is discovered in the bush it must be reported immediately to park officials who come to investigate. The first thing they do is take the tusks to keep them out of poachers hands. Then they try to determine cause of death.

We learned that elephants get six sets of molars during their lifetime, each new set replacing an old worn out set. When the sixth and final set of teeth wear down the elephant can no longer eat the rough branches and grasses it normally feeds on, and knowing the end is near it will go to a river or waterhole to spend its last days eating a little bit of the softer grasses at the water's edge. It it can't make the trip on its own another elephant will often walk with along with it to literally provide a shoulder to lean on. Before long it dies of starvation and the herd will come to mourn the loss. It's a rough life for animals of the bush.

Six sisters on safari.

2008-05-04T11:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve been planning a family safari for the last year and here we are. Six sisters in South Africa. I invited our brother to join us but he declined. I think he couldn’t bear the idea of being the lone man at a hen party.
Our first lodge, Inyati, (www.inyati.com) has been fantastic. The rooms are spacious and inviting, the food terrific, and unfortunately, abundant, and the game drives have been amazingly productive.

On our first game drive, Collen, our ranger, conjured up a leopard and loads of lions, including one lioness chewing on the head of a warthog. Getting up at O’dark thirty, the next morning, scored us jackals, lots of elephants, and a leopard high in a tree with his dinner at hand. In two days we’ve seen so many animals that it’s hard to decide which has been our best game drive.
Seeing an ambling giraffe that stopped to chew on a bone (no kidding) was certainly one of the highlights for me!

Collen also took us on a little adventure. And you know how much I like adventures! He stopped the Land Rover three miles from our lodge and told the "strong sisters" to get out of the Land Rover. I'd barely stepped down when he took off in a run. Fortunately, for us, the run was brief. But we did have a fast three mile bush-hike back to the lodge. Collen carried his elephant rifle and said that if we were charged by an lion, he would only need one bullet. Crack shot? Maybe. But he laughingly told us that the bullet was for himself, not for the lion! The rest of us would have to suffer. Collen is such a character.

One more night at Inyati in the Sabi Sand Reserve and we’re off to King’s Camp in the Timbavati Reserve.

The chicken or the egg.

2008-04-28T00:51:00.000-07:00

Fes. The medina (old town) is a city of 15,000 streets and most of them are a donkey-cart wide. They are often dark and sometimes mysterious as they wind deeper and deeper into the heart of this old city. There are thousands of little shops selling all the usual market goods. You can buy most anything you want in the medina, but the packaging is often a little bit different. Imagine going into Trader Joe's for some chicken breast and having the chicken weighed first.

Or how about a dozen eggs? You'll need to bring your own basket to carry them. From behind the veil it might be difficult to see if they are brown or white. But rest assured: they're organic!

Giving the finger.

2008-04-25T17:32:00.000-07:00

Our photo workshop ended last night, and as the others were catching flights home, David and I were picking up a rental car so we could spend a couple of extra days in The Rif area of northern Morocco.

I was the driver as we headed toward Tangiers. The highway speed limit was 120 and occasionally I had to ease off the gas pedal just a little bit. Coming down a slight hill I saw a uniformed policeman casually stroll into traffic and knew instantly that we were in trouble. His colleagues were huddled around a tripod-mounted radar camera that had picked up our tiny car from a long distance away. I came to a halt in the slow lane and rolled down the window. No hello, no howdy ma’am, just a very serious expression. When I handed the officer my license he immediately said, “Cal-i-fornia”. I could have sworn I was listening to Arnold.

Normally, in situations like this, I go into my babbling “baffle ‘em with bullshit” routine, but since I didn’t speak Arabic I was reduced to facial expressions and gestures. So, holding up my hand, I made a fist and raised one finger, then I raised two fingers, and finished by carefully curling my fingers to my thumb to make a perfect zero. 1-2-0. The speed limit. The officer looked me in the eye and raised first one finger, then he raised three fingers, and finished by raising three fingers again. In perfect English he said, “1-3-3. Not 1-2-0.” He said a few things in Arabic, then wagged his finger at me and waved us on. Whew.

David had watched this exchange in silence but burst out laughing as we quickly approached 1-2-0. I said that I had visions of us rotting in a Moroccan jail. “What’s this ‘us’ business?”, he crowed, “You mean ‘you’, not ‘us’! ”

I couldn’t believe that Ibrahim, our driver, had squired us around Morocco for eleven days without incident, and yet, in only three hours I had managed to offend the current king.

Footnote: Morocco has the second most expensive car rental rates in the world. Our miniscule economy car is more than $130 per day. We calculated gasoline prices to be somewhere between $6-$8 a gallon.

Camels. Camels. Camels.

2008-04-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

Leaving civilization and the paved road behind we climbed into 4x4's and made a beeline for the Sahara. Our driver wove his way east toward Algeria following tracks that came out of nowhere and seemed to go nowhere.

After a couple of hours we reached our destination, a magical collection of bedouin tents at the foot of the dunes. But before I saw the tents I saw the camels! There were ten or 15 of them resting in the sand not far from our tents.

They smelled, their bellies groaned, they ground their teeth constantly, they occasionally nipped at each other, and they were wonderful. Max Klinger on M*A*S*H once cursed someone with, "May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits." Now I understand.

Our tents appreared to be a hodge-podge of burlap and rugs but when we got inside it all made sense. The "burlap" roofs were actually woven from camel hair, and the walls we hung with a colorful assortment of rugs. The area inside the compound was literally carpeted with carpets and I never had to walk on the sand once inside our little world. I would have been happy to take any of those rugs home with me! That evening we chatted by firelight and listened to a small band of musicians as they sang their haunting ballads. That we didn't understand a single word didn't matter; we enjoyed every minute of it. Later, our little band of temporary nomads sat around a low table in the largest of the tents and feasted on an assortment of tagine dishes.

David and I retired to our tent to discover that because of a faint breeze the Sahara had made its way into everything in just a few hours. Worst of all, it found its way between the sheets. It was a gritty night, and I was restless and slept very little thanks to a cold that had hit me the day before. Except for the occasional snoring coming from a nearby tent, the silence of the desert was powerful reminder of the lives we had briefly left behind. At one point I went into the little courtyard formed by our tents and was struck by the brilliance of the full moon. As with so many things in Morocco, it's hard to describe. I could have read the finest print in that light!

4:30 rise and shine. We pulled on some clothes being sure to wear lots of layers and stepped out to into the night. While we'd slept, a dozen camels had been delivered silently delivered to the edge of our tents. We climbed aboard then as they knelt and held on for dear life as they hauled themselves up to their full height. David's turbaned camel driver took the lead and I had to chuckle as he swayed to and fro from the odd gait.

The plan was to ride into the dunes a ways and then leave the camels behind and climb a big dune on foot to watch the sunrise. When my camel knelt down so I could dismount it felt like I was going end-over-applecart.

That Saharan sunrise is at the top of my sunrise list. Shooting was tricky because of the blowing sand so we kept our cameras in big zip-lock and pulled them out for a quick shot before zipping them back in their bags as fast as we could.

Footnote: One Moroccan man approached me and whispered in my ear, "I would pay a thousand camels for you." Tall, dark and handsome? No way! The guy was greasy, had about six teeth and smelled as bad as the camels!

Morocco, a magical land.

2008-04-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

Flying to Morocco is relatively easy, but it's still a big time difference.

On Monday I was feeling jet-lagged in Casablanca but my sleepiness disappeared when we reached Marrakech today. This place is downright amazing! Our first stop was the huge plaza, Jemaa al Fna.

As we entered this broad square we saw dozens of horse-drawn carriages ready to carry anyone and everyone around the square, for a fee, of course. Eager to reach the center of activity we passed veiled fortune tellers with worn decks of tarot cards and henna artists waiting to create intricate designs on our hands and feet. Their temporary tatoos last a week or two.

We stopped to watch snake charmers working their magic with a pair of cobras. Based on how close they got to those snakes I have to believe their cobras were fang-free. Even so, it was fascinating to see the coiled snakes flatten their hoods and make occasional lunges at the charmers.

This first group had a horn player that sounded very much like a bagpiper minus the bag. He was backed up by drummers who kept a steady beat on tambourine-like drums with skins pulled tight across the top.

There were six, perhaps seven snake charmers in the square, each one trying to out-perform the others. I especially liked this guy because he most closely matched the image I've carried in my mind since I was a little girl.

Everywhere I looked there was something happening. Performing monkeys, story tellers, dancers, vendors selling the most amazing things. The sights and sounds were overwhelming and so were the smells: pungent spices, incense, three day old fish... It's just so hard to describe Marrakech, here are a few photos instead:

Mint tea vendor. Each glass is stuffed with mint and topped with an unbelievably huge sugar cube. Place your order and in no time at all you have a delicious glass of Morocco's favorite beverage.

And when you've had too much tea you get to pay a visit to this guy! Anyone need some dentures?

If mint is not your cup of tea, you can buy a cup of water from this guy. On his back is a big water jug made from animal skins. Just pick your cup from the selection hanging around his neck and he'll fill it up for you. That'll be five dirham, about 75 cents.

One of many interesting lamp shops.

This guy might not be Alladin but his swarthy look could sell a lamp or two.

Some women were veiled, some weren't. But most wore a jalaba, that traditional long cotton gown over their clothes.

Each time a bunch of these snails came close to making their escape someone would come along and sweep them back into the tub. Eventually they all met the same fate.

Hungry? Based on the number of vendors I would guess that escargot is a popular dish. Merci.
a
a
a
properly. We will leave

Traditional medicine. An amulet filled with a few grains of assorted "medicine" is sure to cure what ails you. It's also supposed to bring good luck. I'll be carrying mine everywhere I go.

While his father was selling vegetables across the way this little guy was busy with his own business. Look closely and you see he just a has few little candies to sell. With his personality I bet they were gone in no time at all.

Spices. Lots of them! What an amazing display.

We'll be in Marrakech two nights before slowing making our way to the Sahara.

Death Valley, part 2.

2008-03-14T21:14:00.001-07:00

Disappointed by the many footprints on the dunes during our evening shoot, I fell asleep wishing for a strong wind that would die down in the morning. David thought it was wasted wishful thinking but that’s exactly what happened. So at dawn we dined on Fig Newtons as we loaded up the car and headed for the dunes.

When we walked out on the sand there wasn’t a footprint to be seen. David and I separated, each heading for our best-guess spot, and had our cameras set up and ready to go well before sunrise.

I don't know who this photographer is but he managed to find his was into a number of my photos.

These "cobblestones" appeared on one end of the dunes and I found myself fascinated by the varied formations.

The sun greeted the day dramatically and every now and again the wind would come up and whip the sand off the tops of the dunes. Many times I had to tuck my camera under my jacket to keep the sand out.

We both shot away and when the light became too harsh to continue we went back to Stovepipe Wells to download our photos over breakfast.

David later dropped me off to hike into Golden Canyon while he, having been there before, went to the Furnace Creek Visitor Center to gather information about some of the other Death Valley locations.

He gave me very clear instructions to get to the primo spot in Golden Canyon: After you walk up the canyon for ten minutes, you take a path to the left. Then you scramble up a smaller path to the right – if you do this you'll find yourself in a spot with a spectacular view. Having seen his earlier photo I knew it would be a gorgeous location. I followed his directions to the letter and found myself climbing up a washout area on my hands and knees. I knew full well I was in the wrong spot because David would never climb the washout with a camera pack on his back, but I was determined to at least get to the top. After going up about 100 feet I still had a further twenty feet to the “summit”. The whole thing was so vertical that there was no way I’d make it up that last bit, challenge that it was. I picked my way down, mostly on my bottom, and continued on. I went along another path to the left, then up a path to the right and found myself at the spot David had described. There was a guy up there who looked like a young Ansel Adams, and we talked a bit. I told him how David had described that spot as being perfect and what a great photo he’d taken a year ago. I couldn’t help staring at the guy and then it hit me, “Are you from the Bay Area?”, “Yes, I’m Jim Sherwin.” “Oh, my gosh...”.

Through their work, Jim and David go back more than thirty years, and I had actually met him once or twice. Jim was in Death Valley on a photographic road trip with a couple of friends. He introduced me around and the four of us walked out of the canyon together meeting up with David part way. It made for a nice reunion in a beautiful spot. BTW, the sun was so high that the only photo I took was just to document that I’d been in Golden Canyon.

Wildflowers and Death Valley.

2008-03-13T20:53:00.000-07:00

We’re chasing wildflowers – again. Every year we make plans to photograph the spring bloom in California and every year something gets in the way. We either have scheduling conflicts, or the bloom is poor, as was the case last year because there was so little rain.

This year is supposed to be better. We’ve been watching Carol Leigh’s Wildflower Hotsheet, http://www.calphoto.com/, and the here were are. We loaded up the car and went south to Kernville. The wind was so strong when we arrived yesterday afternoon that Lake Isabella had a two foot chop. Have you ever tried shooting poppies on a breezy day. The answer my friend is blowing in the wind --- and boy, oh boy, was it. By the time the wind calmed down the poppies had closed up shop for the night. This morning we went back to the poppy fields but the closed sign was hanging -- poppies are real sun worshipers. Okay, no biggie. We’ll scoot on over to Death Valley, some four hours away, shoot the dunes, and try some calmer wildflower meadows (generally located in south-facing swales) on the return trip.

We stopped, en route, for gas at Panamint Springs. Oil prices hit a new high yesterday and so did the pumps at Panamint Springs! At $5.15 a gallon we weren't willing to put in much. This was the first time we’d been scalped in the wild west and it wasn’t even by Indians! So the guy's an opportunist. Shame on him. Does he care? No. I think a lot of people stop at his Shell station just to photograph his sign!

Here are two photos of the approach to Death Valley. They were both taken standing in the same spot in the middle of the road, one looking to the left, the other looking to the right. Snow-capped mountains on one side, parched earth on the other. What a contrast.

This is my first trip to Death Valley. To get to Stovepipe Wells where the dunes are located we needed to cross two sets of hills. The first hill peaked at 4000 feet at Father Crowley’s Vista, then after dropping down to a sandy valley we climbed up the second set of hills, which peaked at nearly 5000 feet. Coming down from that second mountain felt a bit like a roller coaster ride.

We were fortunate enough to get a De-Luxe room at the Stovepipe Wells Motel on short notice, and while David checked us in, I checked out the gift shop next door. I was browsing through the post cards in a small alcove when I heard David’s voice. As I came around the corner I heard a second voice, "Yer tryin' to stay hid from him, aren’t yer!”, said the woman behind the counter as she smiled at me. Huh? Where in the heck am I anyway???

The dunes. Our photographs taken during the sunset shoot on the dunes at Death Valley were punctuated by people and footprints. You can’t just tell someone to get out of your photograph, and by the way, "can you take your footprints with you!". I came away thinking that White Sands, New Mexicio, had better dunes, and at dinner when we were making our plans for the next day I wasn’t very enthusiastic about going back in the morning.

New Mexico's high desert.

2008-02-29T09:44:00.000-08:00

We recently slipped away for a few days of photography in New Mexico's high desert. We started out in Santa Fe and quickly moved north to Taos before heading south toward White Sands.

Here's a standard shot of the old church and graveyard at Taos.

From Taos we went a bit farther northeast to see the remains of Fort Union. It was here that the two branches of the Santa Fe Trail -- the Mountain Route and the Cimmaron Cutoff -- joined up before continuing on to Santa Fe and points south. The store at Fort Union did a brisk business and in its heyday the cash register rang up $3000 a day in sales. Many of today's shop owners would be thrilled at those numbers!

The ruts from countless wagons are still quite visible more than 150 years later.

Traveling south, we stopped at the pueblo in Pecos to try to shoot the two kivas that have been restored there. No easy task, but certainly interesting.

A brief detour turned up this church, "San Rafael", standing by itself in what seemed the middle of nowhere.

We spent the night in Socorro and made a pre-dawn start to shoot the birds at Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge. As luck would have it we didn't see the sun at sunrise. It turned out to be a drippy, gray day but we made the best of it.

The birds were out in huge numbers and we loved watching the sandhill cranes as they came in for a landing before doing their mating dance.

In addition to its resident bird population, Bosque plays winter host to oodles of migrating birds. We saw cranes, bald eagles, herons, pheasants, road runners, all sorts of geese and ducks...and the list goes on and on.

Our last stop of the trip was White Sands National Monument. Wow! I grew up with the fantastic dunes of Lake Michigan and expected something similar. White Sands is, well, miles of white sands! These dunes go on and on with a sameness that is occasionally punctuated by a bit of dry grass and not much else. They are hauntingly beautiful. (That's David shooting a few dunes away from me.)
We were able to shoot briefly at sunset (cold, cold, cold) and then again very early the next morning (not as cold).

The park posts warnings about getting lost in these dunes. One glance and we knew why. When we left the car the first night I was certain we'd never find it again. The next morning I dragged my tripod through the sand to leave a trail so I could find my way back. I even drew the occassional arrow pointing in the direction of the car.

I could have easily stayed another two days at White Sands but we needed to get home. Darn.

When it rains, it pours. And more.

2008-01-11T15:18:00.000-08:00

If it's not one thing, it's another. Or maybe your neighbor.

We barely recover from our power outage, and here we are with more excitement. This time it was next door.

Some fool coveted our neighbor's _______________ (fill in the blank). Before he helped himself he made sure nobody was home. Then he broke into the garage and finding that the door to the house was locked he just broke it down. And voila, off went the alarm. The would-be thief attempted to silence the alarm by cutting the power to the house. Not too brilliant.

David heard the alarm and went over to investigate; fortunately the thief had already left to find a quieter neighborhood.

The police responded with two squad cars, and after a search and a fingerprint dusting they left. David and I secured the house, reset the alarm (we think), and even remembered to pick up our mail on our way back to our house.

We'll be sure to lock our doors tonight. (See Cops and Robbers, April, 2005 post)

End of story. We hope.

Day Six. The cavalry has arrived.

2008-01-09T09:51:00.000-08:00

Although we awoke to a cold house again today, I'm happy to say that the cavalry finally arrived. By late morning our power was on and our generator was off. At last.

These are a few of the trucks that came to our rescue.

And here are a few more.

And these are a few of the guys who came with the trucks.

And this is the reason it took them so long to arrive...it's a long ride from Pennsylvania.

It took all of these men and all this equipment to do a job that normally takes one man just five minutes to complete. The guys told me that a single branch resting on a power line a few feet from the road was the source of our woes.

And this is what my 50 year old fingers looked like after they were pinched in the garage door less than five minutes before the power was restored.

Our power was fixed after six days. My fingernails will be fixed after six months. Damn it.

Day Five. No Power.

2008-01-08T13:56:00.000-08:00

We woke up to a really cold house this morning. Still no power.

David keeps rattling the PG&E cage so maybe we'll have some action soon. He did a little scouting today and followed the power lines until he reached the end of the road. The end of the open road, that is, and it wasn't far from home. We keep seeing lots of utility trucks driving all over the mountain -- I wish they'd stop driving and start working on our power!

Here's the latest from the PG&E website:

"Customers in parts of Monterey and the Santa Cruz mountains continue to experience extended outages with restoration efforts not expected to be completed until Thursday evening. Additional resources are being shifted from less impacted areas to assist with repairs, but customers in these locations should still be prepared to be without service for several days."

We're prepared. Our $1000 generator is costing us $75 a day in gas to keep the lights on. I've been showering at the club, and even though we're conserving water, the water tank is running low and we can't refill it. I guess it time to start using our fine paper china. I guess if we really got in a bind we could start eating MREs -- they don't even require paper plates. The laundry is piling up; hello "Fluff 'n Fold", oh joy!

There's another bit of weather coming in, but it doesn't seem to be packing much of a punch. This is the current view from the backyard. On a normal day we can see the Pacific ocean and Monterey from here. Not today.

Day Three. Make that Day Four.

2008-01-07T20:01:00.000-08:00

The wicked storm that hit before dawn Friday morning knocked our power out by 9:00 a.m. It's now Monday evening and day four will soon be drawing to a powerless close.

David has been making frequent calls to PG&E and each time he gets a different recording. Initially, the messages were encouraging and we thought our power would be restored soon, but yesterday the estimate changed to Wednesday night. Tonight we're hearing that it will be Thursday night. Thank you PG&E. News changes quickly -- maybe we'll be lucky and wake up to a warm house tomorrow.

Several of our neighbor's have moved into hotels or gone to stay with relatives in the valley. Some of those who stayed have generators, while others are toughing it out, relying on fireplaces, flashlights, coleman stoves, and and bottled water.

We're lucky. Our little generator is keeping the house warm and its constant drone has almost become white noise. That said, we really do appreciate the peace and quiet when we turn it off for the night.

Yesterday, David cut up our poor olive tree to clear a path to the workshop. It's still a mess, but now it's just a better organized mess. Here's what it looked like when the rain stopped. Our poor little house looks so naked now!

January Storm.

2008-01-04T18:56:00.000-08:00

This wasn't a good day for the Santa Cruz Mountains.

A vicious winter storm brought ten inches of rain to Loma Prieta today. And with it came mud slides and flooding. In addition, gusting winds approaching 100 mph brought down trees and branches everywhere, including here, at our house. These aren't the kind of "before and after" photos I like to post, but here's our entry. I'll soon be picking out a replacement for our downed olive tree, darn it. Bad Luck.

If th at weren't enough, our power went out this morning and PG&E has advised that we may well be in the dark all weekend. Hearing that, I hurried down t he mountain to Costco to buy a generator. The highway was closed behind me so I had the entire road to myself -- that's a rarity on Highway 17. If the road hadn't been littered with fallen rocks and flying tree branches it would have been fun to really zip around some of those curves!

Lucky me, I managed to score one of the four generators Costco had in stock -- the other three went out the door before I reached the loading zone.

Next, I stopped at the hardware store to buy gas cans to fill on way home. The store had lost its power so customers were lined up to be escorted inside one at a time by a flashlight wielding clerk. After standing only semi-protected from the wind and rain I was finally lucky enough to get inside. That's where my luck ran out -- the hardware store had sold out of gas cans.

On the way home, I plowed through more flooding and mudslides, and managed to get past the nasty bits just before conditions worsened and forced the closure of the highway behind me. Lucky me. (Here are a couple of iPhone snapshots of the road muck. I'd have shot some of the nastier areas but couldn't drive and shoot at the same time.)

While David wired up our new generator, I took our old, empty gas cans to Scotts Valley for filling. Finding passable roads was a trick. I love my navigation system and am pretty good with the backroads, but I have to admit that they were somewhat daunting today. Fortunately for me and a lot of others, many of the guys on the mountain are resourceful, and on days like this they don't leave home without their chain saws. Who needs American Express! (This little creek near our house is rising fast from all the run-off.)

Our generator is up and running. It's noisy as can be, and we can't heat the air and the water at same time. But we don't care. The house is warm and we had a hot meal tonight. Lucky us.

Damn those kidneys!

2007-12-21T22:54:00.000-08:00

Damn those kidneys! When they aren't doing something good, they're doing something bad. Last summer I had the joy of suffering through kidney stones at a remote location in British Columbia. David was wonderful throughout my ordeal: when I woke up in the middle of the night with full-on pain he was full-on awake and steamed Mystic to the nearest hospital for treatment. When I couldn't stop vomiting he took the dinghy to town and hiked to the nearest store for 7-up. And when the doctor ordered new drugs he took the dinghy to town again to fetch them. Kidney stones on a boat is a bad thing. The very least I could do was return the favor. So when David curled up in a ball on our bed the day before Thanksgiving I unknowingly returned the favor. Unfortunately for him, the outcome (so to speak) was a hospital stay because he ended up poisoning himself as a result of his kidney stones. Back home and minus the problematic stone he felt he could tackle anything!

Until this morning, that is, when he felt "uncomfortable" again. Same symptoms, same problem. Damn those kidneys stones! Only two days ago the doctor read his CT scan and announced there were four more of those puppies lurking about. The doc also said they could stay there for years without trouble. In David's case, "years" equaled two days.

Poor darling. I hope this problem passes soon. If not we'll miss the Cuthbert's party tomorrow night and the one year anniversary of your U.S. citizenship.

Croatia Post Script.

2007-10-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

This has been quite the trip. The sights have been fantastic and the experience educational; the food and lodging have been abysmal. For example, our $200 a night hotel has turned off the air conditioning because it is now "winter". Did I fail to mention that it was over 80 degrees today, our room faces west and the blinds were open all day.

Then at dinner tonight David ordered their speciality, lamb, but they didn't have any. I asked for butter for the bread but they didn't have any of that, either. We ended up with schnitzel, gooey roast potatoes, and some sauteed mushrooms that I would have thrown out days ago had they been in my refrigerator.

Insult to injury, though entirely our fault, we topped off the fuel in our rental car before turning it back in and without thinking filled it with gas. It's a diesel car. We waited an hour for the mechanics to show up and they towed our VW Golf away using a strap that they tied to the bumper of their Yugo. We didn't know if we'd ever see the car or our luggage again as we had no idea who the guys were or where they went. And there we sat passing time in a smoky bar while the mechanics purged the tank of fuel. When they came back an hour later, their bill, including towing and half a tank of diesel, came to just about $75. We paid them using the last of our kuna and they left. Unfortunately, when we tried to start the car the engine wouldn't turn over so David ran lickety-split down the street after the guys who thankfully did a u-turn and got it running again. The rental car company has it now and we're keeping our fingers crossed.

We fly home tomorrow and are looking forward to a good bed and good food.

Dubrovnik's Steps.

2007-09-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

Dubrovnik is a city of steps. As a distraction from the burning in my calves I found myself counting the steps as I climbed. There were a total of 76 of those puppies just to reach the entrance of our room at 23 Palmoticeva Street. Then we had to climb seventeen more to get to our floor. To challenge us further, the imbecile who built our street (a few hundred years ago) often made the rise equivalent to one-and-a-half steps! Adding a half-step into my count every so often would have overtaxed my simple little mind so I didn't bother. I do believe that I should get extra credit for all the times I made that climb, especially since I very nearly had my knees bumping my chin. People were quite a bit shorter five hundred years ago so I imagine all those steps must have been a nightmare for them. BTW, I bet there isn't a single Stairmaster in Dubrovnik.

And think of the poor nuns. How many steps do they have to climb up and down before they even reach the entrance to their work? And then when they get inside what do they have to do? They have to kneel down and then get back up again. You'd think God would exempt them from genuflecting considering all the steps they had to climb just to get to work.

Some steps are so much work that even the maintenance man has to take a break before he can begin his days' work!

Walking around the city's walls is equal to two very long sets of tennis. Steps up, calves on fire; steps down, calves on fire. When did I get so out of shape? I found myself taking an injury time-out every now and again, and even managed to create special photographic opportunities after every big set of steps. Back in our room I downloaded my "special" photos and promptly deleted ninety-nine percent of them! Shame on me. In tennis I at least get the satisfaction of winning a match now and again. In Dubrovnik my satisfaction was that I made it all the way around the walls.

That said, we loved the city.

Wilde or Joyce.

2007-09-27T00:24:00.000-07:00

The sun had yet to show itself and we were already an hour into exploring Dubrovnik's old town before the crowds had a chance to clog the city. Cameras in hand, David went one way and I went another. I climbed a hundred steps and wandered a dozen back streets looking for just the right scene to photograph. In one narrow alley a bird whistle caught my attention. Looking up, instead of a dove, I found a shirtless, middle-aged man with long gray hair poking his head out of his bedroom window. "And a good morning to you, too.", I said, startling him. "I'm whistling to wake up my friend, the guy in the house across the way.", he replied.

We chatted for a minute and I started to move on when I heard, "Wilde or Joyce?" I turned back, "Excuse me?" "If you could have Wilde or Joyce for breakfast, who would you choose?", he asked. Tough choice since both were colorful men. I thought a moment and chose Wilde. He laughed and we chatted at bit longer. As I took my leave a second time my new friend started whistling again.

I wondered if he saw himself as a modern Oscar Wilde, so I asked him if he was whistling for a date for the night. He was still laughing as I turned the corner.

(Wilde could be considered the patron saint of homosexuality having been tried and jailed for his sexual preferences.)

Another day, another country.

2007-09-24T23:21:00.000-07:00

Two years ago we tried to visit the Dalmation Coast using our air miles. We could get two of us there but could only get one of us home. Thank you, air miles!

We finally made it to Croatia last week. We flew into Zagreb, hopped in a rental car the next day and headed for Banja Luka, the first of two overnight stops en route to Dubrovnik on the Dalmation coast.

At midday, David, the three-squares-a-day guy, found a restaurant in a little village for a lunch stop. We couldn't read a thing on the menu and with four languages between us to make our basic needs known we still had trouble ordering a ham sandwich. What arrived at the table was a greasy fried pita bread about the size of a dinner plate. Yikes. When I lifted the lid on my sandwich I wished I hadn't. Inside I found some slimy cheese, raw bacon dressed up as ham, and a gray piece of beef. We managed to swallow a couple of bites before paying our bill and getting the heck out of there. This was a low point for European cuisine which meant it could only get better.

Our crossing from Croatia into Bosnia hardly drew a glance from the border guards. Less than a kilometer along I my eyes grew as big as my ham sandwich and I let out an "Uh oh!" that was just a whisper compared to David's, "Holy shit". We both started laughing uncontrollably. Our language problem had just expanded into a spelling problem --- we were face to face with the cyrillic alphabet! How in the heck were were going to make our way through Bosnia when the road signs didn't resemble anything we knew. Relying heavily on our U.S. purchased roadmap we navigated our way to Banja Luka.

Before the war there were 16 mosques in Banja Luka. After the war there were none. They are being rebuilt, but because Banja Luka is 92% Serb the progress is painfully slow. There are lots of Orthodox churches, of course, and a few Catholic chuches. We even saw a sign for the LDS, but it turned out to be a political party, not the Mormons.

Continuing south we were happy to see the road signs beginning to transition to an alphabet we could read. Our route took us through the muslim populated town of Donji Vakuf where we were stopped behind a line of cars at a road block. Investigating the delay was a waste of time since I didn't speak the language. Heck, l couldn't even read the darn alphabet! David found a guy who spoke some English and asked if there was an accident up ahead. Struggling to translate, he said it was a mine. I asked if a coal mine had collapsed. "No, a mine", he repeated. Stupid me, we're in Bosnia. We're talking land mines, not coal mines. The English-speaking man said he was on his way to a wedding some 50 kilometers down the road and now he was going to be late. It was okay though because his car wasn't going to be the first one to pass the road block. We all laughed a nervous laugh. The problem turned out to be in a farmer's field beside the road. When we finally got the all-clear signal we hurried by, but not before seeing the red sign with a skull and cross bones that identifies landmine areas.

Travelling on we began to see more signs of war in the bullet riddled houses and bombed out buildings. Our destination was Mostar, a city known for its many bridges, nearly all of which were destroyed in the war. The Stari Most, its most famous bridge, had stood for 450 years and almost survived the war. Unfortunately, it was blown up by Croatia in 1993. David has wanted to photograph that famous bridge for the last forty years. He finally got his chance, but instead of the original, we were up at dawn to photograph the reconstructed one which was just as impressive as its predecessor. We wandered the streets and alleys of Mostar commenting repeatedly that we couldn't believe what we were seeing. Entire neighborhoods had been reduced to rubble and bombed out shells of buildings. Many of the beautiful stately homes on one particular street still carried the pock marks left by thousands of Serb bullets. In the midst of these homes was a cemetery that filled the void where two or three houses once stood. Each and every tombstone was engraved with the name of a man who was between 15 and 50 years old. Each one had been killed in 1992, Mostar's bloodiest year. The city's beauty will be forever tainted by the death and destruction of the Bosnian War.

To digest what happened in the Balkans you really have to see it with your own eyes. As my friend, Dawnie, says, "When something raises the hair on your arms you know it's the chill of truth". In Bosnia I would call it the fear of truth.

On to Dubrovnik and lighter things...

We just wanted to have lunch.

2007-09-07T15:19:00.001-07:00

I have always been a flag waving American, but I have my limits.

Without getting political, I'll say I've been pretty disappointed by my government and it's policies. I don't know about your government but mine is just plain stupid. Case in point:

David's English cousin, Anne, and her husband, Trefor, have been guests on board Mystic for the last few days and we've enjoyed their company while showing them around the Canadian Gulf Islands. Today we decided to cross the border and make the short one hour trip the U.S. for lunch at the lovely Roche Harbor Resort.

We tied up at the Customs dock to clear in to the U.S. and while the others waited on board I took our vessel documentation and our four passports into the customs office for this routine procedure. (Only one person is allowed to leave the boat -- the others are quarantined on board until cleared in.)

I was happy to see Officer Specht was on duty as he and I have enjoyed a friendly banter through the years. He flipped through the English passports and asked me why I thought my guests should be allowed into the United States. I smiled and said it was because they were good people, and besides, they we were our guests. Big mistake. Officer Specht said that since they didn't have visas to visit this country they wouldn't be allowed in. He explained that while aliens don't need a visa to enter the U.S. by commerical boat, private car or even on foot, they do need a visa when arriving by private boat. I asked if he could issue the visa and was shown a memo itemizing the new fee structure for aliens who arrive illegally. The visa fee was $545. Per person.

I said that they didn't want to stay in the country -- they just wanted to have lunch.

What followed was unbelievable:

Officer Specht (with his side-arm holstered) boarded our boat to interview the two elderly aliens. Satisfied that they were not terrorists we walked back down the dock to his office and he called a higher authority to ask for an okay so we could have lunch. Next thing I know, I've been sent back to the boat to fetch our guests so they could be photographed and finger-printed. Silly me, I thought this meant we'd soon be in the restaurant. But no, the Lloyd-Jones' were not allowed to enter the United States. I joked that if this was going to take a while perhaps we should order a take-out lunch and eat it before they were deported.

Officer Specht kindly offered Anne and Trefor a seat opposite the Homeland Security flag and asked me to step outside for a chat. He had taken my comment seriously and offered a menu from the restaurant we'd intended to visit. He also offered to skip the finger-printing and photos. I thanked him for his kindness but declined, "Absolutely not, let's just get on with the finger-printing."

The Lloyd-Jones' waited patiently as my friend got down to business. He had two forms to complete, one for each criminal. Filling them out by hand takes a while, but eventually I was asked to review them and okay what had been written. In the comment section was a notation that the officer had offered to skip the finger-printing and photographing. Officer Specht said he wasn't going to "twist their hands to print them" (don't want to cause them physical harm). I protested, "Of course you are. Everything else has been done exactly by the book so you have to do that, too." Turning to his colleague, Specht said that in the interest of their health he was not going to do it. His colleague agreed.

Next, he filled out yet another form for us to deliver to the Canadian customs agent when we cleared back in to Canada. Already steamed, I pointed out that we didn't need to clear back in to Canada because we'd never even gotten into the States. Wrong. Because of the "incident" we had to report to Canadian officials immediately upon leaving U.S. waters. Unbelievable, again.

David, who had been waiting patiently on the boat all this time (Did he have a choice since he was still quarantined?) photographed us returning from the little Customs and Immigration Office with our passports and our form for the Canadian officials in hand. Mind you, the Lloyd-Jones' were not allowed a copy of their deportation form. (though I managed to sneak a photo)

An hour-and-a-half after we arrived in the U.S. (though not really) we left the Customs dock and headed back towards Canada. Within minutes we spied a Navy warship coming our way. No kidding. Fortunately it wasn't after us. My best guess is that they were probably hot on the trail of a yacht that had tried to sneak a poodle into the U.S. without a rabies vaccination.

Back in Canada (the country we hadn't actually left), David cleared us in without incident, and in just a couple of minutes we were all free to enjoy lunch.

Perhaps I should become a flag-waving Canadian, eh?

Issues or Problems.

2007-09-02T22:13:00.000-07:00

I have a problem with issues.

At some point in the last few years our "problems" became "issues", and I'm not quite sure just when it happened. I understand that some people need to sugar-coat their problems. And I understand that "having an issue" doesn't quite have the sting or bite that "having a problem" has. And I understand that people can somehow resolve their issues more easily than they can resolve their problems. But sometimes I wonder if we are dealing with issues or problems.

When I wake up in the middle of the night and know with absolute certainty that I need to go to the hospital that's a problem, not an issue. And when we are four hours by boat from the nearest hospital and cannot raise anchor until dawn for fear of hitting a log and sinking the boat, that's a problem, not an issue. When the nurse shoots me full of morphine that makes me throw up for hours on end, that's a problem, not an issue. And when I can't pee (I hope you don't have an issue with me saying that) for three days, that's a problem, not an issue. The next time you have a kidney stone would let me know if your experience was an issue or a problem?

When I fly home to help out with my elderly mother and miss my already rescheduled jury duty, that could be a problem, but it's probably just an issue and besides, I have it covered with a letter that the local hospice is mailing to me. Unfortunately the letter never arrives, so I plead my case and offer yet another date to do my civic duty. No problem. Then I take leave of my senses and book a flight to Zagreb that overlaps my fourth scheduled jury duty. Now that's a problem because the jury commissioner wasn't too happy with me before I booked that flight. I wonder if I will have the same issues with jail that Paris Hilton had. For me, that could be a problem.

I'll let you know if prison food is an issue or a problem.

Fish Tales.

2007-07-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

I love to fish!

My first fishing pole was a thin branch cut from a tree by my father. Using the pocket knife he always carried in his change pocket (along with his lucky elk's tooth), he smoothed down the bumps, then attached a short length of line with a sturdy knot. He finished the whole thing off with a little bronze hook--not one of those rusty old hooks with bits of dried worm stuck to it; mine was a brand new hook just about the right size for a little girl to catch a little fish.

Pole in hand, I joined my brother beside the stream that flowed past our family cabin in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. In no time at all I was squealing, "I got one, I got one!" My brother, five years older than me and a seasoned fisherman, figured I was hooked on a rock and paid me little attention. But my tiny trout, perhaps five inches long, got his attention! That trout wasn't the only thing hooked that day--I was too!

From my fishing stick I graduated to a fat bamboo pole with a bobber. Early mornings found me peddling to the lake on my blue one-speed bicycle with that unwieldly cane pole teeter-tottering in one hand while the other gripped the handlebars and a big galvanized bucket. In the bucket was a coffee can of freshly dug worms and a couple of spare hooks and bobbers...just in case. Peddling back home was even more of a balancing act because on good days that bucket was heavy with bluegills and sunfish. Eventually I figured out that there was no advantage to carrying back a bunch of dead fish floating in a bucket of water. The ride was a breeze once I'd poured out that water!

When I was about nine I abandoned that long bamboo pole for a bright blue rod with a little black casting reel. I'd hit the big time and didn't look like a little girl anymore. Who cared if old Mr. Bunnell caught big fish all summer long with his cane pole! I also experimented with artificial lures: red devil spoons, hula poppers, even some flies I'd tied with my father the previous winter, but I never caught a single fish with them! Rather than waste any more time on useless lures I went back to worms and nightcrawlers.

Yes, nightcrawlers. After a good rain my brother would let me tag along in the dark when he would hunt nightcrawlers in our neighbors yards. Armed with a flashlight and and an old coffee can I tip-toed along because, as my brother whispered, "You need to walk real quiet so they don't know you're here." We'd shine our lights across the ground and when we spotted a night-crawler we would quickly (but quietly!) reach down to grab as much of the body as we could, and then slowly, slowly pull the rest of the worm to the surface. "Don't pull too fast, Betsy, or you'll break him, and if you put a dead nightcrawler in the can then the others will die, too." I got to be pretty good at nightcrawlering. I just can't believe that we dared prowl the neighborhood after most people were sound asleep. Not once can I remember a neighbor throwing open a window to see who was intruding.

My fishing life went on sabbatical during my high school years for obvious reasons, but I took it up again when I was old enough to not be embarrased about loving to fish.

I live on the coast now and fish in the ocean instead of on lakes. My blue bicycle has been replaced by a dinghy, and that old coffee can of worms is now a tackle box filled with metal minnows and an assortment of mostly useless lures.

When David and I sailed to Hawaii in 1994, we caught mahi-mahi and yellowfin tuna using big heavy rods, miles of line and huge lures. We'd just let the line out, tie the rod to a rail and pop it in a rod holder. Then we'd sit down with a good book or take a nap. When a fish struck, the screeching of the line running out had of us on deck in a flash. The big question was always, "who gets going to fight the fish?" Trust me: girl's don't always get to go first.

Some time back I was up at the crack of dawn to try my luck around some interesting looking little islets. It was the kind of morning we all dream of: the fog was still low in the cedars as the dinghy skimmed along leaving ruffled water behind. I plunked down my lure at the islet and just like that I had a fish. It was thrilling to see a nice lingcod finally come to the surface. There I was without gaff or net (again!) yet that fish still found himself in the dinghy. The tricky part was retreving my lucky lure from the big jaggy teeth in his wide green mouth. I managed to get it back, and with the fish slapping around in the bottom of the dinghy, I raced back to the big boat at full speed. David snapped a couple of photos and the lingcod swam free.

Sometimes I think I have a big fish on my line only to discover it's a dogfish, a member of the shark family, and the last thing anyone wants to catch. Dogs are annoying. They're everywhere and they're a waste of good fishing time. Once, while fishing with Lauren and her boyfriend, Shane, the dogs kept jumping in the boat. After a while I got a bit careless de-hooking one and the fish was suddenly spurting blood. Turning him around to find the source of the blood we discovered it was me who was bleeding, not the dogfish. The dog had twisted in such a way that the big spine on his dorsal fin gouged a hole in my wrist and nicked a vein. Lauren blanched, Shane took the fish, and I clamped my free hand on the wound. I wasn't having much success so Shane put the death grip on me while driving us back to the big boat. I tended my wound on board while the kids freshened up the bloody dinghy. When I catch dogfish today I'm not so careless.

These days I can have any rod and reel I I'd like. I still buy inexpensive little combos. They work just fine and the equipment hasn't lost a fish yet. The fisherman has lost many--usually because she tied a bad knot.

What's in a name - On the water.

2007-06-14T22:02:00.000-07:00

Boating season is here so guess where we are. Yesterday we left Canada and cleared through U.S. Customs at Roche Harbor, Washingon. After assuring the Immigration and Customs agent (Department of Homeland Security) that we didn't have any Cuban cigars or lamb chops on board we were free to leave the customs dock. We moved the boat into the anchorage and enjoyed a beautiful northwest sunset from the fly bridge before going below for dinner. No lamb chops on our menu, instead we ate the chicken I roasted on the way over. (Cooked chicken is allowed. Raw chicken is confiscated and disposed of in the dumpster behind the Customs Office. We've seen so much good "bad" meat go in that dumpster through the years that David is convinced that the customs officials are dining first class most every night.)

Today we strolled the docks admiring many of the hundreds of boats moored here. While some are quite modest, most fall into the "average" category which is not a bad thing. There is a separate category for the guy who doesn't have a lot of buying power but has to have the biggest boat for his money. He doesn't care about quality or craftsmanship; just make it as big as the bank will allow. I wish we owned the company that makes those boats because there are thousands of them out there. The last category belongs the the guy who has a pile of money and wants everyone to know it.

If you are a boater you can appreciate the pleasure we get each time we walk the docks. We admire a lot of boats, feel sorry for those that are neglected, and wonder what stories they could tell. We're also curious about some of the boat names we come across. For example:

Sack Time. Tired or Fired?

Hankruptcy? Come on Hank, it's not even a big boat.

Ink on Paper. Did they print their own boat bucks on a four-color press?

Golden Delicious hails from Yakima, Washington, the other big apple. How many bushels did they pick for this big boat?

Hurricane. Go ahead, tempt fate.

Spin Cycle. Stay away from Hurricane.

Protector. Guess who needs your help?

Party of Five. Looks like this boat only has room for a table for four.

No Reservations. See above.

Me Too! No Alpha Dogs on board? Or just keeping up the the Joneses.

Double Exposure. Unless I'm mistaken that's a bad thing.

And a few others we've come across:

La Dolce Vita docked near Bella Vita. Who has the better life?

Crescendo. You could be heading for a big let down.

The Good Years. We're not talking about the bad ones.

Hard Rock. Better not hit one in that plastic boat of yours.

Genius. This guy's ego is way too big.

Dutch Treat. Probably not good tippers either.

SOCI. Spending Our Children's Inheritance.

Running Shoe. Their dinghy is named Smelly Sock. (Go figure.)

Early Bird. Their dinghy is named Worm.

Bolero. Some idiot (me) loves the Ravel piece, but forgot about Bo Derek in the movie 10.

Now you know to be careful when naming your boat. Sometimes we are too clever for our own good!

Good night,

Betsy
Mystic.
Don't ask me how we conjured it up.
And please, don't call me a witch, I might cast a spell you.

What's in a name - In Africa.

2007-06-09T16:30:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl my kindergarten class was populated with girls named Judy, Linda, Vicki, and Cathy. The boys were Mark, Steve, Mike and John. Today it's Taylor, Jordan, Ashley, Emily, Alex and Connor, and half the time you don't know if it's a boy or a girl.

In Africa, many babies names came straight from the mouths of our missionaries. We met Trinity, Lord, Israel, Shadrack, Bless, Elijah and Miriam.

One of my favorite names belonged to little Adventure who was named by her uncle Alweet. (Yes, that Alweet.) Another personal favorite was Mumsey, a young woman who wore her name well. She had a delightful personality and a winsome smile.

The prize for the most unusual name goes to a waiter we met at Lion Sands Lodge. He was called Advice. We toyed with possible reasons for this choice but finally gave up. If only we'd thought to ask Advice. Guess we'll have to go back to Africa to get to the bottom of his name.

Betsy
Not Betty or Becky or Elizabeth or Elisabeth.
I didn't sew a flag, didn't come from Pike, and I didn't kill 75 people 1965.

Alweet, part III. Susan's home.

2007-06-05T09:24:00.000-07:00

Not far from Alweet's home is Susan's family home and it was a hive of quiet activity when we pulled up. Some of Susan's 14 siblings were there as well as several patients of her father, Derrick, a doctor. A glance at the number of rondavels and other buildings gave evidence that he was a prosperous man.
Derrick was treating a patient, so Susan gave us a tour while we waited for him to join us. We learned that some of the buildings were family quarters and others housed patients for up to a month or two. A visit to the farm portion of the property showed lots of fruit trees, a number of goats, an assortment of poultry, and one cow with a broken leg. (The other cows were out grazing.) For some reason I was fascinated by that injured cow.
To cool off we went into one of the rondavels which served as a small store offering snacks plus assorted sodas and milk kept in a commercial "coca-cola" type of fridge. Susan offered us a glass of ice cold milk; not that thin, lowfat milk we drink at home, but rich, real milk straight from the cow. Then Susan left. And Derrick arrived. Had I not called to her, Susan would not have joined in our conversation with her father. My best guess is that this is a cultural thing.
Derrick is a handsome, charming man with a warm smile. Though he understood English, Alweet translated just to make sure nothing was lost. Especially memorable was our conversation about the milk we were drinking. I'd commented that I'd just tasted my first straight-from-the-cow milk. Derrick was amused and a little bit surprised and probably wondered what I'd been drinking all my life. I think he was also a little bit surprised that we didn't own cows. For some crazy reason I was embarrassed to explain that our milk comes from the grocery store, not our cow or our neighbor's cow or even a local dairy. That led us to describe some other cultural differences that non-westerners would find curious. It made us think about just how complicated our lives have become.
All to quickly it was time for us to say our goodbyes and move on..
Alweet told us that Derrick is a "traditional doctor". I didn't quite understand that at the time and later googled it. More specifically, Derrick is a "Sangoma". We would call him a witch doctor.

Alweet, Part II. Boxahuku.

2007-05-28T18:00:00.001-07:00

We skipped our morning game drive to visit Alweet's village. The kitchen at Pafuri sent us off with a picnic lunch which we tucked, along with our camera packs, in the back of our rented mini-minivan. (No, that's not a typo.) We were excited about our adventure and no doubt Elweet was excited too. He was about to see his new bride.

The last bit of our drive took us along a gravel road, not the washboard type we'd come to know (see the 4-40 rule below), but a soft road that led us into the Boxahuku Village. Translated Boxahuko means "Piercing the Chicken". Go figure.

Alweet's brother opened the gate to the family compound and we rolled through. If his kin were as nervous to meet me as I was to meet them, they surely didn't show it; they seemed curious and eager to say hello. I approached Alweet's mother with an outstretched hand, and with a broad smile Kate raised herself up from a huge tub of laundry and took it warmly. Next came the chaos of introductions so typical when meeting large families. Hello Ethel...Hello Adventure...Hello Derrick. Especially memorable was "Hello Susan...". Alweet's wife is poised and charming and beautiful.

We photographed and chatted with the various relatives a while, then slipped into Alweet's rondovel to relax a few moments with the newlyweds, minus the extended family.

When we think of a child's bedroom we typically think of a room down the hall next to a sibling's room. Alweet's room is a rondavel, a separate round building within the compound that was built by his mother in three days...after she made and cured the bricks. Truth be told, Kate didn't thatch the roof herself, she paid someone else to do that.

The kitchen rondavel, also built by Kate, with its cow dung walls and thatched roof was interesting. In the center, a small fire keeps a pot simmering, but with no chimney the smoke wafts and swirls and eventually finds it way out through the doorway or the window. The cooking fire burns all day and is fed by long sticks that are pushed into the flame as they burn.
I also got to visit the family bathroom, a one-holer some distance from the rondavels. Shame on me for drinking too much water on the drive over! Next to the pot were a couple of magazines. Not much different from the rest of the world in that regard.

The newlyweds took us to their local grocery store for a look around. The market resembled your typical Mexican village market but instead of bags of rice, the African market sold bags of corn. When cooked the corn becomes pap, a mush similar to cream-of-wheat that is the mainstay of the villager's diet. There are no set mealtimes; when you're hungry you scoop out a bit of pap with your hand and eat it.

The next stop was Susan's family home. That will be it's own blog posting.

A visit to Boxahuku wouldn''t be complete without stopping by the New Life Praise Church where pastor Rodgers told us he had "matramonialized" Susan and Alweet. The church is huge and laid out like those in the U.S. The difference lies in the accoutrements. Heavy wooden pews have been replaced with a hundred or so plastic chairs, and instead of wood or tile, the floors are the same rich, red dirt we'd seen in much of South Africa. The church had recently been blessed with a concrete pulpit so pastor Rodgers could be better seen when preaching, though I imagine it must be hard to hear him when the summer rains pound the corrugated metal on the roof.

You can't visit a church without visiting the minister. Lunch at pastor Rodgers' house was a picnic outdoors. Susan brought a bowl of water for us to wash our hands before we tucked into the lunch we'd brought from Pafuri Camp. Alweet and Susan preferred a plate of pap served with fried chicken's feet and in no time at those feet were stripped to the bone. After a quick tour of Rodgers' home, we dropped Susan off (to Alweet's regret) and hustled on back to Pafuri in time for the afternoon game drive.

To reduce our visit to Boxahuku to a few paragraphs would be like reducing Casablanca to Rick's Cafe. We saw and experienced so many things that were so different from what we know our own little world!

The 4-40 Rule: When on a washboard road you have only two real choices: you can drive four miles an hour or you can drive forty miles an hour. Anything in between will have your teeth chattering and your brain rattling. (We applied this same rule on a recent road trip. See February 2007.)

Alweet, part 1.

2007-05-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

Until we met Alweet (Al-vee-it), our ranger at Pafuri Camp, our adventure had been entirely safari-related. Through him we experienced a different Africa. As it turned out there were no other guests in our vehicle on the game drives so we had Alweet to ourselves and our conversations meandered like the tracks we travelled on. Especially interesting were those discussions about African life, both during and after apartheid. We learned that Alweet, 28, was recently married and had paid a "bride-price" for his wife. In his culture a man who wants to marry approaches the girl's father through intermediaries to ask permission and to negotiate a fair price that will compensate her parents for the loss of her labor in the household. In much of tribal Africa the bride-price is paid in cattle because cattle frequently make the difference between comfort and abject poverty for an entire family.

The bride-price negotiation follows specific rules: While the prospective groom kneels at the gate of the bride's family home, his carefully chosen delegates follow young children (acolytes...) into the home to begin bargaining. The process follows strict rules and any infraction results in a "fine" to be paid by the groom to the bride's parents. The family will often set traps in hopes of greater fines. For example: delegates aren't permitted to sit during the meeting, so the father might place a chair nearby hoping one will take a seat. In Alweet's case, one of the young girls arrived in pants instead of a dress. Big mistake. Girls aren't allowed to wear pants on this occasion and Alweet was fined $140.

When all was said and done, Alweet paid in cash, not cows, and his father-in-law was enriched by $2100 (plus the fine!) for the loss of his lovely daughter, Susan. They were married the end of April.

Alweet and Susan are well educated which makes them different from many in their village. Additionally, they are selective about the tribal customs and traditions they embrace. They are modern Africans who will carry their village forward. According to custom, Susan moved in with Elweet's family when they returned from their seaside honeymoon. Unfortunately, he isn't there with her because game rangers have tough schedules. They work six weeks straight followed by two weeks off.

We asked Alweet if we could visit his village, about 75km away, and he offered to take us there...

(Alweet, if you read this please feel free to comment.)

www.inafricanshoes.com

No sleeping bags here.

2007-05-18T20:00:00.000-07:00

Here we are at Pafuri, (http://www.pafuri.com/) our last camp. And as David will attest, my tension grew as we took the long hike on a raised boardwalk to tent #1, the farthest from everything. I'm grinding my teeth and Ursula (one of two Ursulas at Pafuri) keeps chirping about how much we are going to like our room. She also reminds us that we must never leave our room after dark unless Alweet, our guide, is with us. I doubt that Alweet and a boardwalk six feet off the ground will save us from any hungry leopard or lion that wants to snack on us!

We finally reach our tent and I'm happy to say that there are no sleeping bags at Pafuri. Our tent has a thatched roof over it and most of the comforts of home.

Just like all of our lodges we have another great bathroom and both indoor and outdoor showers.

I have a feeling we'll be just fine here. Pafuri has redefined tents and I'm glad they did!

Birthdays.

2007-05-18T18:06:00.000-07:00

How often do we get to celebrate our birthdays while driving around in the bush surrounded by elephants, lions, giraffes and zebras? That was David's day -- but not before uncorking another bottle of champagne, compliments this time, of Pafuri Camp. (www.pafuri.com)

For sundowners we went to Crooks Corner to watch the hippos and crocodiles play (if you can call it that) in the river. Crooks Corner is just that: a corner where the Limpopo and the Luvuvhu rivers meet. Except for the hippo pools, the rivers are mostly dry, and we could have crossed on foot to Zimbabwe to the north or Mozambique to the east. It's sort of an African version of the Southwest's Four Corners. I think this is one birthday David will remember. Happy Birthday, Darling.

My Big Day started at 5:15 (that's a.m., again) and by 7:00 a.m., I'd met my first black mamba, a deadly snake that thought he'd cross the road in front of our vehicle. We surprised each other and the mamba went back in to the bush with lightening speed but not before raising two-thirds of his body straight up in the air. Our ranger estimated him to be "two meters and a bit". No photo of this guy, I was too busy thinking about staying 50! Before 8:00 a.m., a cobra crossed our path and he, too, was a lucky guy and managed to slither away before getting a Land Cruiser design on his back. These creatures, not my favorites, all made for an interesting morning.

Safely back at camp we'd hardly begun brunch when the staff came out singing and delivered a birthday cake to our table. Almost like "loaves and fishes" the cake fed staff and guests alike.

With a little time to reflect on turning 50, I came to one conclusion: I kind of like it and hope I wear my wrinkles well.

Shumbalala.

2007-05-15T23:14:00.000-07:00

Shumbalala is hands down the most stunning lodge we've visited thus far. With just a handful of rooms and a staff to guest ratio of about 4:1 you can bet we are getting amazing service and first class meals. When we dream of Africa, we dream of Shumabalala (www.shumbalala.co.za) with its thatched roofs supported by lots of dark, heavy beams, its fireplaces and floors beautifully laid with stone, and its to-die-for bathrooms and dreamy beds wrapped up in netting. Our room is amazing!

The food is gourmet and the presentation has us eating with our eyes first! We have most meals in the outdoor lounge though last night's dinner was in the wine cellar. How are we supposed to go home after this?

The animals continue to impress us. David is most interested in the big cats while I'm looking for elephants, zebras and giraffes. Quiet as it is here there is always some racket going on outside with the animals. We get a kick out of the monkeys with their cute little faces and curious behavior. They hang out in the trees waiting for an opportunity to nick an easy snack or maybe a piece of shiny jewelry. We know to keep our things safely tucked away in the room with the doors closed. At mealtime there is always one person on "monkey duty" to keep these guys away from the petit fours.

One of the staff made an old fashioned sling-shot and just the sight of it instantly scatters the monkeys. And at night when the guests clear out these rascals make themselves at home in the open lounge -- I can just picture them sitting on the sofa or in an easy chair browsing through a coffee table book on the primates of Africa!

We had high tea with the giraffes today. When we arrived in the lounge for yet another round of sweet and savory treats we saw three giraffes amble to the watering hole for their high tea as an impala was finishing his. The giraffes cautiously surveyed their surroundings before splaying their front legs just enough to reach the water. Stopping at a watering hole puts these guys in a vulnerable position; their only defense against predators is a lethal swift kick with a hind leg and when drinking it looks to be pretty difficult operation.

For our last evening game drive our ranger asked what we wanted to see. One couple was interested in owls and jackals and I asked for baboons. We all asked for a cheetah, the most elusive animal in the area. There are no guarantees on the drives yet our ranger and tracker delivered all but the cheetah (I'm starting to think are extinct!). In lieu of the cheetah we came on a pride of sleeping lions and stopped within ten feet of a sleepy old male whose only reaction was to briefly open one eye to let us know he had no interest in us. We watched him for several minutes hoping for a little more activity but finally gave up and made our way back under a glorious starlit sky.

Our room here is pretty special and while the devil might be in the details he's been exorcised at Shumbalala. When we opened our door tonight we found lots of candles burning, the fireplace crackling and a path of rose petals leading to the bathroom. The manager, Elize, had drawn a hot bath for us and on a small table she'd left a bottle of champagne chilling in a cooler. This is our anniversary trip and both of our birthdays are this week but we weren't expecting any special treatment. Thanks Elize, you are terrific!

It's going to be difficult to leave this lodge. We have one more game drive in the morning before we pack up and head north to Pafuri Camp where we'll be sleeping in tents. Yes, I said tents.

Scratch my Itch.

2007-05-13T10:13:00.000-07:00

Because of the huge black market for rhinoceros horns this disgustingly ugly creature was nearly hunted to extinction by the 1970s. Today it is protected throughout all of Africa and its numbers are increasing but poachers are still doing a brisk business.

Though the rhino population is quite small they seemed to appear everywhere we went. We were actually getting a little bored with them until one night when our group was fully entertained by a crazy rhino doing his thing.

Note: The camera shake is the result of too much laughing. Shot with a Canon PowerShot SD800.

Into Africa.

2007-05-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

Kruger is amazing!

First we saw impalas and zebras, then came wildebeest, buffalo, and rhinos. And that was just in the 30km that took us from the Kruger entrance to our lodge. At the end of the first day David said we could go home because we'd already seen most everything!

Arriving at Jock Safari Lodge (www.jocksafarilodge.com) on a Monday scored us two game drives to ourselves as a large group had just cleared out that morning. We have our own guide, Rodgers, who drives us, dines with us, and even wakes us up at 5:30. (That's a.m.) Our first game drive was one exciting animal after another. We told Rodgers that on our way to the lodge we'd spotted a dead impala high up in a tree so he wanted to have a look. The impala was still in the tree but in a much different form. In less than six hours a leopard had reduced it to bones, horns and hooves.

Rodgers stopped again and again so we could photograph the animals including a large herd of elephants that surrounded us as we sat quietly in the middle of the road. How fantastic to be so close to them. They are huge, and as David noted, so is their poop -- enough to fill two ten gallon buckets! One mother had a small baby whose little trunk was swinging all around and we learned that it takes several months for a baby to get its trunk under control. (Sort of like when we first used a computer mouse.)

As the sun went down we met up with another group whose guide had set up drinks and snacks for everyone, and coming back after dark we came across a pride of nine lions out for an evening stroll. They took little interest in us so we followed them until they did take an interest. It was pretty chilly when we got back to the lodge and Mumsey, that's her real name, was waiting at the entrance with mugs of steaming hot cocoa. Dinner was a grand affair without the fancy clothes and when it was over we were happy to get some sleep before we needed to get up and start all over again.

Rodgers had us on the road, which was actually just a dirt track, well before sunrise. It's darn cold at that time of morning, especially in an open Land Rover (Diva Range Rovers wouldn't make it here; besides, they might get dirty ;-). Even though we wore layers of fleece we still needed the blankets that the lodge thoughtfully provided. Our morning drive brought lots of birds and fewer animals, though we were lucky enough to see a baby giraffe and a baby zebra.

So often the web photos of a place are better than the reality. Not here. The accommodation, the staff and the atmosphere all remind us of Villa Escondida with an African trim package.

Our room is like a small private compound with inside and outside living areas. It has all the good things about a house without the kitchen and laundry and other "working" parts.

We have our own covered game viewing deck, but have only seen a waterbuck and her fawn so far. There is an "Uncle Remus" style story about the waterbuck that says that Noah was just putting the finishing touches on his ark when the waterbuck arrived. He asked for the bathroom and sat down on the freshly painted toilet seat before seeing the "wet paint" sign. And that's how the waterbuck got the big white ring on his rump.

As fabulous as Jock Safari Lodge is they only have a dial-up connection with a top speed of about 28.8. If my photos don’t make it into this posting check back in a day or so. Lion Sands is our next camp and they just might have a better connection.

Window shopping.

2007-05-04T14:33:00.000-07:00

She was standing in the open doorway and had a nice smile, so I approached her, "I have to ask, how much do you charge?" Her smile disappeared, "I don't do women." I smiled, "Neither do I." Her smile returned, "Okay, 50 Euros, 20 minutes."

We had been walking in Amsterdam's redlight district for a while and my little midwestern mind still couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing. The first women we saw on the fringes of the district were basically old, chunky, and ugly but as we neared the center of the redlight district the girls grew prettier and thinner, and so did their lingerie.

The hookers looked like mannequins in lingerie shop windows as they peered out from behind long french doors. When a man walked by they would strike provocative poses; if he showed an interest they became even more animated. But when nobody was watching they leaned back on their stools and picked at their nails, smoked cigarettes, and chatted on their cell phones, all with a look of boredom. Here and there you'd see a man negotiating at a window. One banker type shrugged on his suitcoat and adjusted his tie as he came out a hooker's room, presumably headed home. ("Sorry darling, you know how I always get held up at the office on Wednesdays...")

There were several narrow meandering streets and alleys that were lined with hooker windows. The occasional sex shop or sleazy show broke up the string of windows. There was a steady parade of gawkers, and probably, genuine customers. Do these girls' mothers know what they do for a living?

Having seen enough, we moved on to a cafe in a more respectable part of town and sat an outside overlooking a canal. Over a glass of wine we discussed the redlight district and how profitable a business it would be for those girls. I guessed that the premier windows commanded a hefty price and that the fat, old girls on the fringes propably couldn't afford them. David felt that once the tourist had had enough to smoke or drink he probably didn't see them as old or fat. We each had our own perspective --I suspect that David is probably right. And who knows? Perhaps they did rent the expensive windows--before they became old and fat.

The Pacific Flyway.

2007-04-19T22:14:00.000-07:00

Another road trip. We'd hoped to photograph fields of California wildflowers but the lack of winter rains caused a pretty poor showing this year. As one wildflower website noted: "We counted 38 plants. Period". I'll keep my fingers crossed for a huge bloom next spring. Instead, we travelled north only a few hours from home to what we hoped would be an interesting location: the Pacific Flyway on the California-Oregon border. The Flyway is a series of marshy wildlife refuges near Klamath Falls, Oregon, and includes nearly 200,000 acres of bird habitat. Each year millions of birds funnel through the Klamath Basin on their annual migration and we were hoping to get a few photos of them.

Approaching the basin from Hwy. 97, I kept asking where all the birds were. Then, just as we passed a sign announcing the beginning of the wildlife refuge we came upon thousands of white Snow and Ross' geese blanketing the water. It appeared that these fowl really knew the boundaries of their refuge!

In just the first ten minutes in the area we saw an owl, a bald eagle, several hawks, a heron, and a jillion different ducks and waterbirds. Never had we seen so many birds in one place.

Photographing birds is not easy. The darn things take off before you can get close enough to shoot! Years ago on a hike at Big Sur I groused because David had a telephoto lens to work with and I didn't. He chose that moment to kindly give me a lesson on wildlife photography:

Lesson 1: Fill the frame when shooting wildlife.
Lesson 2: If you're having trouble filling the frame get closer.
Lesson 3: Don't scare your subject away when you get closer.

When he picked up our processed film a few days later he was surprised to find a sharp, full-frame print of a bluebird. (Never mind that most of the other prints were of branches and the occasional blurry wing.) Back then I had a little Olympus point-and-shoot camera. Today I have a Nikon D80 with an 18-200 VR lens and I still have trouble filling the frame. Those darn birds are just as skittish now as they were fifteen years ago!

For two days David and I drove the maze of levies that bounded the marshes and shallow lakes. There were white pelicans, teals, egrets and herons, avocets and so many other birds we couldn't even name. I managed to get the occasional lucky shot but never completely filled the frame. Leaving the refuge, we again spotted a massive flock of geese resting on the water and stopped to take one last photograph and watch them for a few moments. Suddenly, without warning, and with a giant whoosh of wings the entire flock lifted off lake. The sound of thousands of flapping wings and the sight of 10,000 white geese in flight with stay with me for a very long time.

BTW: We did manage to find a few wildflowers on Table Rock outside Medford, Oregon. We hiked about 45-minutes to get to the top of the rock and there were flowers, not exactly a carpet, but wildflowers just the same.

Secret Canyon? Water Holes Canyon?

2007-04-08T22:53:00.000-07:00

Our January, 2007, road trip took us to the slot canyons around Page, Arizona. After shooting in Upper Antelope Canyon we hooked up with tour operator who took us on a Hummer trip to what he called "Secret Canyon". It was a bargain at $69 a person for the trip and some photographs of this glorious canyon.

Then, tonight while doing some online scouting of other slot canyons to visit I came across the following photo and recognized it instantly.

And here is my photo of the same location.

Surprise. Surprise. That wide angle shot is said to have been taken at Water Holes. If so, then Secret Canyon actually Water Holes Canyon.

I'd love verification.

Otherwise, we'll just have to get on back and find out for ourselves!

Road Trip!

2007-02-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

David and I have travelled the world by boat and by plane but we'd never been on a road trip together. So at the end of January we packed up the car with our camera equipment and our own pillows (who knew what kind of motels we'd find along the way), and headed for southern Utah to photograph in Zion and Bryce National Parks.

Before starting out we made two pacts: first, we agreed to mind our driving (read "don't scare me") and, secondly, we agreed to be up and out before dawn no matter how toasty our bed was or how cold it was outside.

Day one took us from Los Gatos to Las Vegas. A night in Vegas was a stretch for David as he views gambling as a means of separating the classes! That said, I quickly won $175 which paid for dinner. Note that the "upper class" happily dined as a guest of the "lower class"!

Zion National Park
The next day we were in Zion National Park about three hours northeast of Vegas. We took a room at Flanigan's Inn in Springdale, a stone's through from the Zion's south entrance. While lodging is plentiful in January, food isn't. Most restaurants are closed during the winter; even so, we didn't starve.

The first test of our "rise and shine pact" came far too early. Nonetheless, we pulled on layers of fleece, ate donuts from a package we'd bought at a small market the night before, and with a swig of OJ we were out the door. 15 degrees Fahrenheit and dark.

We made for a sunrise spot inside Zion we'd already scouted and clambered down a slippery hill to the Virgen River. While the sunrise wasn't great we found some other notable features including an impressive frozen waterfall. Later, we hiked the trail leading to "The Narrows" but had only gone a mile or so before the trail was closed due to falling icicles. It didn't take much to convince us to retreat to the warmth of our room and download the morning's photos. Why is it that the "great" shots often aren't and the "so-so" shots are sometimes wonderful surprises?

Our afternoon photography turned into a turkey shoot, literally! A flock of turkeys crossed our path and decided to hang out. We'd never heard such gobbling nor had we seen so many ruffled feathers!

Our second day in Zion was just as cold as the first but we stuck to our agreement. Up and out before dawn. We explored more of the park and the interesting rock formations.

Bryce and the Cotttonwood Road
The only lodging was at the Best Western at Ruby's Inn. This is where we made dreamy use of those pillows we'd brought along! Late afternoon scouting turned into good photography. What an amazing place! We took a few evening photos followed by some impressive shots the next morning and then headed east.

Instead of taking the highway, David wanted to drive to Powell via Cottonwood Road. All well and good except that Cottonwood was 46 miles of dirt track that turned to sticky goo and had me wondering if we'd get out alive. Twice the muck got so thick on our tires (and filled the wheel wells) that we had no traction and had to scrape it off with a stick before we cold go any further. Eventually, we reached a real road and got to Page in time for a late supper. The photography wasn't great but the scenery was beautiful and we sure had an adventure.

Slot Canyons. Yeah!
To get to Upper Antelope Canyon we rode in the back of a Navaho woman's pickup truck through a couple of miles of powdery sand. I'm not sure what I was expecting but was surprised to see that the entrance to the canyon was through such a narrow slit in the rock. For about $15 each we spent much of an afternoon mesmerized by the sandstone formations and how they changed with the light. Shooting in Upper Antelope takes a lot of patience because each photograph take a very long time. We surely didn't mind.

On our second day in Page we took a Hummer trip to what our driver called "Secret Canyon". Good thing we were in a Hummer because there is no way any other vehicle could possibly have traversed the rugged terrain of the Navaho Reservation where this fantastic slot canyon was hidden away. David and I had the slot to ourselves and could have stayed all day had our driver not wanted to get back to town. More super long exposures.

Vegas and Home
We split the return journey into two days with another stopover in Vegas, and that's when my luck ran out. To make matters worse I developed an unusual pain behind my ear and couldn't decide if it was a problem or not. It turned out to be the beginnings of Shingles. Get me home, get me home!

David and I managed to easily keep both of our pacts so I think we'll be taking more road trips in the year ahead. We are eager to get back to the slot canyons and to explore some of the areas we missed the first time around. Lucky us!

Shingles -- Not the kind on your roof!

2007-02-03T22:57:00.001-08:00

What started out as a slight tingling sensation behind my ear turned into agonizing pain in less than 48 hours! And there we were in photographing in Antelope Canyon (Page, AZ) 800 miles from home.

I hadn't seen a doctor in several years but as soon as we arrived home I made a few phone calls and in no time I had appointment with my newly-found doctor. Her nurse put the BP cuff on me and after a few moments asked if I had high blood pressure. Me? I play tennis five days a week! It was 150/100. I challenged her on it so she got another BP cuff and suddenlyn I was 160/100. I didn't dare challenge her again, fearing that she would pronounce me dead!

The doctor was just as encouraging as her nurse. One look at the welts behind my ear and she smiled as she announced that I had shingles! Was it a smirk or a sympathetic smile?

In a nutshell: shingles come from the chicken pox virus that has lain dormant in the nervous system since childhood. They show up uninvited and unexpected for no real known reason. They blister like poison oak, they hurt like hell, and they can last several weeks.

Shingles are very contagious but you can't catch them. Say that again? Well, you can't catch shingles but you can catch the chicken pox (if you haven't already had them) from someone who has shingles. But only via skin to skin contact.

With drugs to manage the virus and kill the pain life went on and I'm happy to say the shingles are behind me!

Mystic Log- The West Coast of Vancouver Island.

2006-09-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

(click on photos to enlarge)

This is the story of our trip around Vancouver Island. If you are a Pacific Northwest cruiser it might be of interest. Otherwise, this is pretty boring material. We jumped off in Campbell River and tied up in Sidney five weeks later.

The Boat: 53 foot custom steel trawler

Launched: 2005

Crew: David and Betsy Fullagar

Monday, July 17, 2006 – San Jose to Campbell River
Took the 9:00 a.m. flight from San Jose to Seattle and connected to the Kenmore Air out of Boeing Field to Campbell River. It was sort of a strange flight because we were the only passengers. Arrived Campbell River to find that the Customs/Immigration office was closed. After a few phone calls the agent showed up and cleared us into Canada. Spent the rest of the day provisioning and getting the boat ready to head north.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006 – Campbell River to Small Inlet
More provisioning and preparing for a 1730 departure. Over Ripple Rock and Seymour Narrows. Anchored in Small Inlet where there were two pairs of boats rafted together.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006 – Small Inlet to Port Harvey
Originally planned to motor to Port Neville but decided to go a bit farther and overnight in Port Harvey. Fairly gray day with a bit of rain that settled into a calm, quiet evening.

Thursday, July 20, 2006 – Port Harvey to Port McNeil
Encountered a large pod of Orcas in Johnstone Strait as we approached Robson Bight. John Ford, a Canadian whale expert was studying them close in. Though we kept our distance the local fish cop approached and told us we had to be 100 to 300 meters away from the whales. We pointed out that we were well over 100 meters away and had no intention of harassing the whales. She gave us a brochure on whale trivia and left. Spent 15 minutes or so photographing the pod that included two or three youngsters. Arrived Port McNeil early afternoon and somehow managed to get a spot on the dock (while others circled and were on the waiting list). Filled one propane tank, provisioned, David installed his new (analog) compass, and had a relaxed dinner of tasty ribeye on board and watched as people walked the docks and admired Mystic.

Friday, July 21, 2006 – Port McNeil to Clam Cove
Last minute errands in the morning before taking on 1200 liters of fuel and starting our big adventure just before noon. Seas fell into the dead calm category for the first couple of hours and then became rambunctious as we approached Port Hardy. Even so, we didn’t need the stabilizers.
Worked on whatever needlework letter it is that Kathy gave me. David had a short rest down below. Rather than go on into Bull Harbor we took a short detour to Clam Cove on Nigei (sounds like some kind of sushi) Island and spend the night. We were the only boat in the anchorage though there was a cluster of “float houses” and a dock and ramp leading to someone’s homestead in the woods. Lots of little islets to be explored here. David and I had a dinghy ride and fished for a bit. Caught some perch-like fish. There are a couple of bald eagles, one a juvenile, hanging about fishing.

Chicken Marsala for dinner and we called it an early night.

Saturday, July 22, 2006 – Clam Cove to Bull Harbor
Went around the top side of Nigei Island in the some lumpy water that the boat handled well. Arrived in Bull Harbor to find several boats already at anchor. Among them: Scooter, a J130; C’est le Vie, Beneteau 46, Ed Nelson, a converted fishing boat, Pilgrim, a Nonsuch, and Malachi.

Passing the harbor entrance we went out to take a look at the Nahwitti Bar. The moment we reached it the seas lumped up and rather than risk it we turned back to Bull Harbor.

Dinghied to the Gov’t Dock and were greeted with “The Tlatalsikwala Native Band Welcomes You. Enter at your own risk.” All vessels are subject to moorage fees here whether they are on the float ($20) or anchored ($15) in the bay. Since navigable waters are Crown property, anchoring charges aren’t valid and this amounts to a local racket. Additionally, we learned that the band tried to charge one boating couple a $5 per person landing fee to walk on the island. They returned to their boat. That said, we weren’t charged for anchoring or for walking on the island. Our walk was about a mile to Roller Bay on the north side of Hope Island. What an amazing sight. The sandy beach was littered with piles of stone, some tiny and others melon size. All were worn smooth as could be by the constant rolling of the sea into the bay. Many were perfectly round! With the sun shining through a little bit of mist it was a beautiful sight. I collected as many stones as I could carry back to the dinghy.

Sunday, July 23, 2006 – Bull Harbor to Sea Otter Cove
The converted fishing boat was already gone when we raised anchor at 6:00 a.m. We headed straight for the bar and the moment we reached it this time the seas were so bad that the frig swung open spilling its contents all over the galley. As I tried to hold the galley together David turned us around and headed for the other route around Tatnalls Reef. That turned out to be a smoother ride though still uncomfortable. I downed half a Stugeron and prepared for Cape Scott at the fog set in. The seas picked up as we approached Cape Scott but fortunately the wind stayed around 15 knots. Next we dodged logs that seemed to pop up everywhere. While horizontal, they were so waterlogged that they rode low in the water making them really hard to see. David did a great job of driving through the log maze. As we approached Sea Otter Cove we could see the kelp beds and the breaking seas at the entrance. Given what we’d just been through this was an easy one for David. He took us through and carefully navigated the very shallow waters of the cove. I released my white knuckles and started to breath again.

There was only one other boat in the anchorage, Woody Point, a fishing boat out of Powell River with a young couple on board. We picked up a mooring buoy, launched the dinghy, had a bite of lunch and fell into an exhausted asleep!

After our little nap (two hours) we dinghied around the broad, windy cove. It was a beautiful spot with lots of little islets. Going round the entire bay we were surprised at how shallow it was. Dinghied up the Woody Point and chatted with Larry and Caroline. They were pleasure boaters, not commercial fishermen, as we’d thought and had been there five days waiting for the weather to calm enough to round Cape Cook. Invited them by for drinks.

Around 8 p.m. a trimaran came into the cove and took the mooring next to us. Turned out that it was skippered by Silas, a single-hander who rowed over after he took his dog to the beach. Silas was an unbelievably colorful character who’d come down from Juneau alone. He told us how he’d bought the boat in Oregon three years before when he decided to take up sailing. Since then he’s been up and down the inside passage, and on the outside of Vancouver Island. Silas came 'round with a big coffee mug of whiskey and the odor of one who hadn’t bathed in several days. He told us how he’d run a health food restaurant in Missoula, MT for many years and continued to "eat healthy" while sailing. Every week or so he would chop up cabbages, carrots, onions, broccoli and cauliflower and dump the whole mess into a big black garbage bag. Then he would live on that and perhaps a can of heated corn for a special treat. When the bag was empty he would start chopping vegetables again. We guessed Silas to be about 70 and in good health.

Monday, July 24, 2006 – Sea Otter Cove to Browning Inlet, Winter Harbour
Warm, sunny day.
Had a nice run to Winter Harbour. Lots of fishing boats hunting halibut at the entrance to Quatsino sound. Went just north of Winter Harbour and got the hook down after several attempts at freeing chain that had bounced around during our previous day’s adventure. Winter Harbor consists of almost nothing. A little post office, a store similar to Refuge Cove, a fish company, a few houses and a couple of funky fishing lodges. Bought some herring and moved the boat around the corner to Browning inlet.

Put out the crab pot, did a few jobs and prepared to catch some halibut. On the way out I checked the crab pot and found several baby Dungeness. Tossed them back, moved the pot and raced out the entrance of the sound. I’d missed the tide change, and most of the other boats had already gone in. Even so, I scouted around using the depth sounder and picked my lucky spot. When I reached for the bait my heart sank --- my herring bait was in the freezer on the big boat!. I’d just spent twenty minutes getting out there and didn’t want to spend another forty going back and forth, so I decided to make do. First, I used metal/rubber lures: no luck. Next, I tried the scented rubber anchovies that had been popular in Bull Harbor: no luck. Finally, I caught some rockfish and tried using them rigged like herring: no luck. The wind came up and I decided to bag it and head back to the boat! I checked the crab pot again and this time it was full of baby red rocks. Enough! Not having caught our dinner and with all our meat frozen solid I was hard pressed to produce a meal. Finally settled on some spaghetti sauce I’d from the freezer. A quick defrost and we had our supper. One last check of the crab pot a bit later: one nice Dungeness and one giant Star. In getting rid of the star I lost the Dungeness! Bad end to a bad day of fishing!

It rained a bit overnight which helped wash some of the salt off the boat.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006 – Browning Inlet to Klashkish Basin.
Sunny on the water, foggy and overcast inside.

Had an uneventful ride over rolling seas. Mystic is handling the various sea angles quite well.

As we approached the Klashkish channel Hale Kai (Nordhavn 40) announced itself coming southbound. Chatted with them a bit before passing through the narrow little channel and taking a hurricane buoy next to Miss American Pie, a 45’ fish boat with four guys aboard.

We put out the baited the crab pot with turkey necks but didn’t catch a thing. Time to use some fish heads.

Fished in the little channel and caught pretty big rock fish and some good size greenlings. The fished jumped on the hook just as fast as I put it down!

The men on American Pie were on a five week salmon trip that started in Seattle. They were mooching for salmon and only kept as much fish as they could eat. The rest were released. They came aboard Mystic in the evening with some fresh salmon and wasabi. A couple of minutes on our BBQ and it was sushi time!

Wednesday, July 26, 2006- Klaskish Basin to Columbia Cove
Sunny and hot
We left Klaskish in fog and quiet seas that built up quickly as we approached Cape Cook. Rounding the Cape and then Solander Island we again got to feel the power of the sea but were again pleased at how well the boat handled it. Even so, David and I were relieved when we eventually turned the last corner on Brooks. As soon as we were in the lee of the peninsula the sun sparkled on calmer water and we relaxed. In the shallow anchorage there were two fishing skiffs, two sailboats and one free hurricane buoy. We did our little side-on routine to pick up the buoy and tied off. There were a bunch of people on the beach -- first nations natives who’d set up a fish camp?

With our dinghy back in the water we investigated the anchorage while looking for a reasonable place to go ashore for the little hike to the surfer beach. The books warned us about going off on a falling tide and we soon learned why. The landing spot was on the other side of a very long shallow area. We crossed several hundred yards with only two feet of water under us and decided to visit the beach the next day rather than risk having to drag the dinghy across mud, mud, and more mud. Instead we checked out another little area nerby. Tying up and scrambling ashore we spotted some colorful buoys hanging in the trees. They marked the path to a sandy little “secret” beach bounded by huge rocks. We poked around on it for a while, enjoying the quietness and protection from the seas that the rocks afforded. Going back to the big boat David spotted a hurricane buoy among the rocks. It had apparently broken free…

While David tended to boat jobs, i.e. reading and napping, I went out for a little fishing. Lots of nice sized greenlings, rockies, and even a reasonable lingcod, which I took back to show David before releasing it. In the evening the campers on the beach started at campfire so I went ashore after dinner to say hello. The “natives” were two families: Dale and Pam Beattie, Isabel (16), Taylor (14), Emma (11), from Pemberton, BC, near Whistler; and Ray and Deborah Evans, Shane (10) and Michelle (8) from Langley, BC. This was their annual fishing/camping trip. They'd hired a water taxi to bring in their supplies, including 1000 pounds of ice, a dozen or more huge coolers to hold provisions and the fish they catch, and countless big Rubbermaid tubs filled with all the necessities to keep two families comfortable for a week or more. They were a friendly group full of tales of their adventures. I mentioned the free floating mooring buoy and learned that it had broken loose the day before. It wasn’t until 11:30 that my head hit the pillow in a cloud of campfire smoke. I didn’t get much sleep because the wind had come up, and I was afraid that Mystic would tear our buoy free and we'd end up on the rocks, I spent the entire night jumping out of bed to check on the boat. At dawn I finally fell into an exhausted sleep and didn’t wake up until 10:00.

Thursday, Just 27, 2006 Columbia Cove
Sunny.
Just to be safe we cast off the supposed "hurricane" buoy and moved onto our own anchor.

With the rising tide we left the dinghy on the shore of the shallow cove and found the trail to the surfer beach. The “trail” was actually a ¼ mile uphill trek over, around and under fallen trees and massive root systems. Emerging out of the jungle we were greeted by a very long expanse of white sand beach littered with logs and other debris. There were dozens of floats lost by fishing boats, many of them had Japanese characters on them. There was also a huge white ball about four feet in diameter with massive amount of stainless steel plating and bolts fixed on one end of it. Much as we tried neither of us could figure out what it was.

Hiking back over the trail David spotted fresh bear and cougar tracks. In no time at all I was whistling as many tunes as I knew as loudly as I could. We visited a bit with the campers and invited them aboard Mystic. A nasty, howling wind suddenly came down off the nearby hills, and just like that, we were dragging anchor. At the same time the bimini was torn out of its fasteners and began flogging around on the flybridge. The guys managed to get the shredded bimini down and below deck while David and I re-anchored. Aren’t we just good the hosts!

I’d been invited out for the evening fish but had to pass in the event that we had more williwaws to cause us boat trouble. Our campers were so kind and brought us a whole king salmon as a boat hostess gift. Guess what we had for dinner.

The winds continued to sneak up on us and this time it was David who had the sleepless night.

Friday, July 28, 2006, Columbia Cove to Scow Cove (Bunsby Islands)
Sunny and bright.
Woke to find a black bear snuffling on the beach at low tide. Guess those tracks we saw yesterday really did belong to a bear! The winds calmed in the night making for a comfortable night’s rest. Went ashore to say goodbye to the campers who had packed up their camp and had moved several giant fish-filled coolers and Rubbermaid bins of supplies and equipment

Had a short little eight mile run to the Bunsbys.
Took a look at the bimini, it will be a trick to get it redeployed as most all of the fasteners on the aft end were torn out.
Windy again but went out for a little fishing anyway. Other than one very big rockfish I didn’t have much luck. Returned to the boat to find David looking rather concerned. Somehow we had lost most of our hydraulic fluid in the last day or so. The hoist, bowthruster and stabilizers are all hydraulic which meant we had a problem. We decided to mop up as much of the fluid as we could and look in the morning for any obvious leaks .

Saturday, July 29, 2006, Bunsby Islands to Walters Cove
Sunny.
Yet another bright and sunny day. After breakfast we took a dinghy ride around some of the many Bunsby islets. With so many nooks and crannies it’s easy to see how someone can get lost in there. The water was crystal clear and we enjoyed watching the bottom with all it’s fish and stars and underwater gardens of kelp.

Decided to scoot over to Walters Cove and look into the hydraulic leak. As it turned out we had no trouble bringing up the dinghy and when we tried the stabilizers they seemed just fine and didn’t lose any fluid.

Tied up at the Gov’t float and checked out the store at the top of the dock. They actually had a very good selection but their produce was limited as the provision boat Uchuck III hadn’t shown up this week. Walters Cove had the first phone we had seen since Port McNeil so I checked messages at home. The first message was from El Paseo Limo saying they had my wallet. I thought I’d forgotten it at home but it must have fallen out of my purse on the way to the airport. The next message was from Western Union regarding an order to send money out of the country and after that we from a cell phone company questioning a phone order. Next came BofA calling about suspicious activity on my visa. It appears that our limo driver found my wallet and copied down all the information from my driver’s license and visa card and started shopping online. There were tens of thousands of dollars run up in a very short time. Curiously, David had commented when we reached the airport that our limo driver had a New York mafia look. I guess he was right.

Jack and Judy on Scooter, from Bull Harbor, came in along with Chris and Jim on Heron. They were hoping to have dinner out but the restaurant was shut down. We decided to invite them all aboard Mystic for a dinner of pork tenderloin, risotto, and spinach salad. It was a lively evening that ended about 11:00.

Sunday, July 30, 2006, Walters Cove to Queen Cove
Gray and rainy.
Had a smooth, calm ride to Queen Cove. Launched the dinghy, put out the crab pot and jigged a bit off the cove entrance. Caught one fair sized rock cod and that was it. We are far enough south now and our satellite TV is working again – just in time to watch the Bank of the West final. (Clisters won handily)

Monday, July 31, 2006, Queen Cove to Critter Cove
Cloudy and foggy.
Pulled up the crab pot that had only baby Dungeness in it (again)! David raised the anchor only to find that we had hooked a very heavy old cable on one fluke. He was able to release it by running a line through the loop in the cable and then lowering the anchor enough to put the weight of the cable on the line. Then he freed the line and the cable dropped back to the bottom of the sea. Let’s hope no other boat hooks it!

As we passed Cove Creek in Hecate Channel we came on a youth summer camp. An aluminum boat towing a large inner-tube piled high with kids in brightly colored life jackets was zigzagging around the channel giving the kids an exciting ride. For extra fun the driver cut back and forth over our wake and one unlucky camper bounced out into the 61 degree water. The boat turned around, retrieved the swimmer, and they were off again.

Critter Cove turned out to be a large sport fishing operation. This mostly floating lodge offers rooms on the docks and a few cabins on land for rent, and instead of an assigned parking spot they have assigned moorage. Just step from your room into your fish boat – an interesting concept.

We anchored in a snug little cove behind the marina. On one side of us was a rickety old floating cabin with fish boats tied to it and on the other side was a smart looking brand new floating cabin We worked on getting the bimini back on top of the fly bridge. David had put grommets into the aft edge of the canvas and I tied a piece of line through each one, fastening it to whatever piece of steel was available.

I tried to line up a fishing charter but would have to pay $400 for a five hour trip when all I wanted was an hour or two to show me how to fish for salmon. One guy did give me some pointers though and after losing my camera in the drink while getting out of the dinghy (!) I went out for the late afternoon fish. Of the dozens of fish boats trolling in Tlupana Inlet mine was the smallest, and it was the only one without downriggers or a man on board. I must have been a spectacle. They stared at me so much that I really wanted the satisfaction of catching a fish, but the salmon gods weren’t smiling on me. I don’t think they were smiling on the other boats either as there were few fish caught that night.

We had dinner at the Critter Cove restaurant. David enjoyed chicken fajitas while I had a tasty burger in a soggy bun. Can’t recommend the apple blueberry crisp as it was made with applesauce and was downright miserable. Our first meal in a while and we really preferred eating on board.

Critter Cove has an internet connection, $3 for 15 minutes (text only, no pictures please), so I took my notebook ashore and grabbed our first email in nearly two weeks.

Tuesday, August 1, 2006, Critter Cove to Friendly Cove
Fog and Rain.
Finished getting the bimini reattached just before a brief rain set in. It’s not the most elegant solution but it works. Back into the marina to send off emails and up came the anchor for a short nine-mile run to Friendly Cove. Scooter was already there, having arrived the night before from Tahsis. Jack and Judy had been halibut fishing in the morning and managed to hook a salmon just as they were headed back to the boat. We enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner aboard Scooter that night.

We went ashore with Jack and Judy for a tour of the Nootka lighthouse and the Indian-owned and operated Catholic Church. Coast guardsman Kip greeted up as we tied up to their little float. Kip then pulled the whole works to some concrete steps built on the rocks and we stepped off. He led up a very long and fairly steep ramp to the station. Kip and the other light keeper, Mark, briefed us on the operation. In addition to the light station, there were two fairly large residences for the keepers and their families. After twenty years of light houses Kip’s wife had given up and divorced him. Mark’s wife on the other hand loved the life. She had managed to put in a small vegetable garden and was proud of the one small pepper it had produced so far. All supplies for the station come in by helicopter that landed on a smallish wooden landing pad close by. DishTV and high-speed internet makes light-keeping life comfortable. Kip said his wifi network was open and we were welcome to use it if we had wifi on the boat. What a treat for us to go online later that day.

On to the church: Jack had a broken bone in his foot, so rather than make the trek from the light house to the church he moved his dingy around to the native float and joined us on the beach. Sanford, the local native carver, charged him ten dollars to tie to his float which was really just a bunch of logs tied together with a few boards over them here and there. Getting back to the dinghy from the beach was a cross between walking the plank and a log rolling contest. Sanford told us where we could see a nearby totem (carved in 1919) so we took a look. The totem had fallen down and was about 24 feet long, half its original length, but beautifully carved. There were still signs of paint here and there. The blackberry brambles had closed in on one end and would take over completely were it not for tourists like us. The Catholic church was on the top of a hill and as we approached we were met by another native who charged us $10 each to visit it. The insides were in a state of disrepair and as one woman said, “For $10 you’d think they could sweep the floor.” Even so, the whole experience was interesting.

Wednesday, August 2, 2006, Friendly Cove to Hot Springs Cove.
Sunny Day
Hot Springs Cove turned out to be a busy little place. Opposite the anchorage was a small native community of about 100 people. They had no services whatsoever and had to take the water taxi Tofino just to buy a can of peas. The government dock on the other side provided access to the marine park and the hot springs. Water taxis and sea planes loaded with tourists wanting a warm soak arrived continuously. The planes landed right next to the boat and the first time one came in we thought we were about to be run down.

Scooter and Heron both appeared and we made a plan to walk to the hot springs in the evening after most of the tourists were gone. The path to the springs was absolutely fantastic as BC Parks had built a two kilometer boardwalk that was a masterpiece. The foundation so well built that there were no hills to climb – just a few steps. There were no sharp angles – only “soldier and sailor” curves. Here and there along the boardwalk were name-boards customized by visiting yachts. Some were simple and carved on- the-spot, but most were works of art created at home in workshops, perhaps over the long winter. The boat’s names was inscribed on the board with the same typeface and treatment that appeared on the boat. The RVYC had a millennium cruise to Hot Springs Cove and had brought a name board for each participating boat, perhaps two dozen in all. We will be making our own Mystic board to add to the boardwalk on our next visit.

The hot springs were pleasant, not quite like the ones we experienced in Alaska, and still quite busy at 8 p.m. We all enjoyed our outing.

Thursday, August 3, 2006, Hot Springs Cove to Young Bay
Another warm day.

We went back to the boardwalk to take photos before heading for a lunch hook at Hootla Kootla just around the corner. HK was a windy spot so we moved on to Young Bay. I spent the afternoon fishing while David “read” and did some boat jobs. Heron came in to show off a giant Red Snapper Jim had caught. They invited us to share it but we already had a Raclette meal organized and invited them to join us. Another pleasant evening.

Friday, August 4, 2006, Young Bay to West Whitepine Cove
Sunshine.
We anchored in the outer cove and a good thing we did since the inner cove was really shallow and open to lots of wind. Our little nook was perfect for us and within minutes of setting the anchor we spotted a black bear on the beach really close to us. David started snapping away and when the bear began to wander off he jumped into the dinghy and with a push-off from me drifted towards the bear. Can’t wait to see his photos. Grilled beef tenderloin for dinner and had a nice evening -- just the two of us.

Saturday, August 5, 2006 West Whitepine to Tofino
Arrived in Tofino to find there was no room at the inn. Anchored in a very swirly, currenty area. Piepot tried to help with moorage and hydraulic info.

Sunday, August 06, 2006, Tofino to Kennedy Cove
Kennedy river, water slide, no fishing, sockeye starting to run.

Monday, August 07, 2006, Kennedy Cove to Tranquilito Cove
Snug little spot, big enough for one boat. Steep rock walls. Head of inlet went from sixty feet to four feet with nothing in between. For some reason this was the eeriest anchorage thus far.

Tuesday, August 8, 2006, Tranquilito Cove to Tofino

I earned a full Darwin award today by not seeing and then hitting a (submerged?) crab float. David ran aft for a look and saw the float behind us which gave me a moment of relief. My relief evaporated when I tried to turn the wheel to port. There was so much resistance it would barely move. And there we were: still a mile or so from Tofino, in the middle of reefs and steering through wicked spring tide currents! Then we heard yet another thump a minute or two later. A second crab pot! We somehow managed to limp back to that same nasty Tofino spot we’d anchored in a couple of days before. Set the hook and sat down for some chicken soup while we figured out what to do. Glancing out the window I noticed a crab float rather close to the boat and took the dinghy to investigate. As I approached one of the floats it suddenly went several feet under water. A minute or two later it was back at the surface so I grabbed it and started pulling it aboard intending to relocate to crab pot. It took all my strength and then some to hoist that slimy rope into the dinghy and get a look at the pot. I maneuvered around to the swim platform and we managed to get the pot with its ten or so crabs aboard. There was a second line attached to the pot that we just couldn’t retrieve – perhaps it was wrapped around the prop – so David just cut it free. I emptied the crab pot keeping three very large Dungeness for ourselves, and giving the rest back to the sea, reset the pot mid-channel among a minefield of other crab pots. David then went to see Piepot about getting a diver to check out the prop and stabilizers. Piepot said he could do the job for us and after several fits and starts he arrived in his wet suit ready to go.

Before Piepot plunged into the 53 degree sea he stood looking at the water for about the length of time it takes to say three Hail Mary’s which is what I assumed he was doing. David later said that he was doing some breathing exercise that divers normally do. Anyway, one quick look at the prop and Piepot surfaced announcing it was a “piece of cake”. What is it about the French and cake…Marie Antoinette… Before long Piepot had the offending rope in hand along with another float that had wedged between the rudder post and hull. Since he was already in the water he did a quick survey of the bottom and let us know that the stabilizers were fine, the zincs looked good and so did the bottom paint.

Back on board Mystic David offered our diver a glass of wine. He asked if we had rum and settled for a shot of whiskey. Luckily for him, he didn’t ask for a refill as it was an airplane size freebie that we just happened to have on board . Luckily for us, Piepot only charged us $50. David gave him $75 in appreciation for his help.

Went to dinner at The Shelter and finally had an excellent meal out. Back on Mystic, David was musing about where we had anchored and how well the hook would hold given the full-moon spring tides that night. With a glance at the fuel dock he got an idea and buzzed over to inquire about overnight moorage. With a wink the woman working the cash register said that they closed at 9:00 and wouldn’t know if a boat came in after they’d left. She also said they opened at 6:30 a.m. but the first person to arrive came at 6:15. We upped the anchor and were tied to the fuel dock at 8:45, just in time to buy $160 worth of diesel before they closed. After 9:00 I used the huge gushing fresh water hose on the dock to give Mystic a quick, well-needed rinse before going to bed.

Wednesday, August 9, 6006 Tofino to Ucluelet
David’s alarm went off at 5:45. We were showered and dressed and off the fuel dock at 6:14. It was a lumpy ride to Ucluelet. I finally bought a sturdy new crab pot at the Co-Op to replace old ratty one that was held together with cable ties and office binder clips. As I was checking out the guy behind me commented that someone had stolen his pot just the day before. He guessed that the locals could spot a “gringo” pot by it’s shiny float and would just helped themselves. With that in mind, I stopped at The Wreckage, a shop cum museum that specialized in nautical junk. I found a ratty old float and took it to the check out counter. The woman behind the counter must have been nearly ninety years old and looked like a genuine sea hag. She said she sells the floats for ten dollars and that mine was missing a short piece of rope which she includes in the deal. I told her I didn’t need the rope and that ten dollars was way too much. She insisted that she always sells the floats with the rope, and so the conversation went. I eventually left The Wreckage with the float, and minus the rope and two dollars.

Back at the dock, our neighbors who were about to jump off for Mexico gave us a big bag of crab bait that looked like dog food. I scooped some out and went round the corner to set the pot.

Thursday, August 10, Ucluelet
Spent the day cleaning the boat, doing laundry, and other boat jobs. After leaving a message for the Lopp’s at their B&B we went to dinner at Roman’s. Larry and Nancy showed up and had dinner with us.

Friday, August 11, 2006 Ucluelet to Effingham Bay
Provisioned and took off at noon. Nancy brought one of her old Sony cameras for me to use and gave me a quick lesson on its operation. How nice to be able to photograph again.

Saturday, August 12, 2006 Effingham Bay to Nettle Island

Fished the evening fish just outside the Pac Rim Park. Caught a huge big rockfish on the first plunk. The second time my line went down I had the biggest hit of the entire trip. As my luck has been, I lost the fish before even seeing what had taken the bait. Perhaps a big lingcod or halibut! I was sorry to lose the fish (and lure) but excited by the strike and made plans to go out for the morning fish.

Sunday, August 13, 2006 Nettle Island to Refuge Island

Today I got a full Darwin Award for trying to collect mussels on the islets outside Nettle Island and slipping on the rocks. I was so determined to keep Nancy’s camera from going in the drink as I slid that I lost my good sunglasses. Darn it all anyway! Getting back into the dinghy I noticed that one knee of my jeans was bloody. Somehow I managed to cut my knee without damaging the denim. Closer inspection back at the boat revealed a deep gash that had turned back a vary large flap of flesh, yet not a bit of pain. The wound was a good candidate for stitches but the nearest clinic was hours away. As I was cleaning the wound the warden came by in his launch. His had steri-strips in his sizeable first aid kit and I was able to close the flap fairly well.

The four of us went up Lucky Creek at high tide and climbed up the rocks to a pretty series of waterfalls. The setting was beautiful, took lots of photos while enjoying the scenery. Getting back into the dinghy I stupidly put weight on my bum knee that resulted in a very bloody mess. I re-bandaged and noted I’d earned a additional half-Darwin.

Monday, August 14, 2006, Refuge Island to The Pinkertons, The Broken Group
Sunny
We spotted bears on the beach at low tide this morning! Also saw a huge seal feeding on salmon. He actually seemed to toy with them by tossing the fish into the air once or twice before downing it whole in one big gulp!

Made a big one hour (!) trip to the Pinkertons, a very shallow area punctuated by lots of dangerous rocks. Nosed around in the dinghy into areas that almost seemed to be swampy bayous. Put out the crap trap but the dry spell continued. Much the same with fishing!

Crab cakes for dinner made from the crab retrieved from the Tofino prop-pot.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006 The Pinkertons to Joe’s Bay, Turtle Island, The Broken Group
Sunny
Joe’s Bay is a big anchorage surrounded by several of islands and islets with lots of room. There were several boats anchored as well as fifteen or twenty kayaks. We had a dinghy ride around Willis Island and stretched our legs on the beach at Dodd Island. Joe’s Bay was calm and pleasant

Watched “While You Were Sleeping”, the first movie we’ve seen in weeks.

Wednesday, August 16,2006, Joe’s Bay to Ucluelet
Foggy and cool
Back to the dock. Tidied up a bit while the Lopps had a little driving tour of Ucluelet. A new American Tug came in, and finding no open dock space, rafted to us. I had to chuckle because the boat had both bow and stern thrusters on 41 feet. Big overkill. That said, she came in sideways.

Nancy and I had laughed as we did the TP test to determine which brand of toilet paper was best suited to boat heads! In a nutshell: one sheet of paper in a jar of water, shake five times. If it disintegrates it passes the test. Findings: all these years of very expensive and very rough “third world” marine paper was a waste, so to speak. The high-quality, non-marine paper broke down much faster. NancyJo documented the experiment in her watercolor journal. We must have been a little bored to conduct such a test!

The Lopps took us to dinner at Mattersons.

Thursday, August 17, Ucluelet to Dodger Channel, Diana Island (Bamfield)
Foggy a.m. Sunny p.m.
We said good bye to the Lopps and were about to head out when David noticed that we were again losing steering fluid at the pressure relief valve in the lazerette. He had already talked to the guys at the factory who said that they would have to replace the seal but that hw could bypass the valve. So there we were, both of us on our bellies in the lazarette, bypassing the failed valve. It actually turned out to be a fairly simple job.

Before we cast off we had a tour of the new American Tug that had rafted to us. She was only a week old and smelled it – so fresh and new. It was a spacious little boat with lots of features and excellent use of space for her size.

Ran the seventeen miles to Dodger Channel and were pleasantly surprised at the anchorage. Calm, nice beaches, lots of nooks and crannies. Having given up on salmon I went bottom fishing (again!). Every time I my lure to the bottom it came up with a big rockfish, a greenling or the occasional, slightly undersized, but fun-to-catch, lingcod.

After dinner I played catch-up with the men’s tournament in Cincinnati. Andy Roddick was in a third set tiebreak when the recording ran out. I’d extended the recording an extra hour but it wasn’t enough. That has happened so many times.

Friday, August 18, 2006, Dodger Channel to Sooke
Foggy, Sunny
Early 6:30 start. Lots of salmon boats trolling back and forth. Pea soup the whole way with fog so thick that we couldn’t see a thing. Coming on watch took a quick adjustment because there was no horizon. Had a couple of close calls as we approached Port Renfrew. Small runabouts racing flat out came up on radar and even though we changed course they came right at us. No radar, no radio, no nada. One guy was so surprised when he saw us come out of the fog that he came to a crash stop. He probably had to change his lucky brown pants. The small fish boats don't realize that we can’t turn on a moment’s notice.(We weigh nearly 100,000 pounds. Hello!)

This was a good day for marine life. First, we saw some dolphins, something we hadn’t seen in a while. Then, as the fog began to lift, David spotted a baby seal in the water not far from the boat. At first we thought it was dead but as we passed it began flipping its fins and eventually swam a few feet below the surface. Lastly, we came on a pod of ten to twelve rambunctious Orcas and slowed the boat to watch. The whales gave a delightful display of spy-hopping, tail slapping and even leaping right out of the water.

Arrived in Sooke Harbour after an 8.5 hour, 75 mile run, tired and weary from the stress of hand-steering more than six hours in heavy fog.

Saturday, August 19, 2006, Sooke to Sidney.
Sunny and warm
Leaving Sooke our radar screen was speckled with little green dots for several miles as we wove our way through a sea of more than two hundred boats filled weekend fisherman hoping to bring home supper.

We sailed past Victoria and in no time at all were back in Sidney.

As we entered Tsehum Harbour I got out the lines and fenders for the last time.

What a fantastic, memorable trip we've had. The fishing was absymal, the weather was fantastic, and of course, the captain was the best!

And just what kind of adventure is in store for us next year?

Queen Charlottes?

Stay tuned.

More cops and robbers!

2005-10-23T22:28:00.000-07:00

David and I were barging on the French canals a couple of weeks ago and had a wonderful time. After our cruise we spent a few days touring on our own and that's when we had an awful fright! Long story short: we were robbed in our hotel room while we slept!

Long story longer: We took a room in a small boutique hotel in Beaune, had a nice dinner, and fell asleep about 11:30. At 2 a.m. David got up to go to the bathroom, found the door to our room wide open and thought that perhaps I'd opened it by mistake thinking it was the door to the bathroom (Huh?). He went back to bed, but started to have second thoughts and fumbled around in the dark for his wallet. He was rummaging around like a madman when I woke up and turned the light on. Not only was David's wallet missing, but so was his watch, and my purse. Someone had broken in and prowled about our room while we were sleeping! That gave me the hebee-gebee's because I'd put my purse on the floor right beside the bed and David's wallet was on the other side of the room near him! If he'd wanted to, the guy could have murdered us and we'd have been defenseless.

Anyway, I threw on some clothes and ran out to catch the thief (stupid me). I tried to go outside but the door was locked and had to run back upstairs for the the key. The streets were empty and so were the garbage cans after I'd emptied them of their trashbags. (No doubt it was garbage day in Beaune!)

There we were: no cash, no credit cards, no driver's license, and wondering how we could even get home. I called the hotel emergency number and the owner came racing over with two policemen in tow. They checked our door for signs of forced entry. None. Then they checked the outside doors and not a one had been forced. We kept saying that someone had to have a pass key or keys to our room and the policemen kept saying it was "bizarre" and the hotel had never had a problem in the past. After a lengthy conversation mostly in French with a dab of English we were told to go to the police station in the morning to file a report.

As the police were leaving they had a look around downstairs and there on a table in the darkened breakfast room was David's wallet and my purse with everything strewn about. The thief had taken all of our cash, about $550, and David's Omega watch, and some cheese knives I'd bought that day. He left our I.D., credit cards and my camera.

David and I are still wondering why we were singled out and why the thief didn't take everything. Also, why didn't he take my Rado watch and Fope chain or my notebook computer which were on the desk beside the door? Another twist: David had originally put his watch in a niche next to his pillow but moved it because he was afraid he'd forget it in the morning!

The owner of the hotel was very helpful and went with us to file the police report. He was getting all the locks (34 rooms, plus...) changed as we were leaving. Since the hotel was part of a small chain we're hoping for reimbursement. We obviously weren't charged for the room.

For me, the strangest thing is that during the night I dreamt that I heard a door creaking, saw a light, saw a woman walking towards me, and I started to sit up.Did I just dream the whole thing? I don't think so. The reality is that the door to the room does creak when opened slowly, and the room was so dark that the thief had to have a flashlight of some sort to see what he was stealing! Was the thief a man or a woman? Did I stir and cause him (her?) to flee leaving the door wide open?

More than anything I am quite upset at the thought that a stranger could be within two feet of me while I slept. Had he chosen to murder us, we were defenseless.

Please do yourself a favor and put a chair or some other "noise maker" against the door when sleeping in a strange bed.

End of story.

B.

Katrina.

2005-09-14T22:09:00.000-07:00

September 14, 2005

David and I arrived home tonight after spending a week helping out at a distribution site in DeLisle, Mississippi. It was our good fortune through a series of serendipitous events to end up in what is left of the rural coastal communities DeLisle and Pass Christian.

The Delisle Elementary School, through grassroots efforts, became a distribution center and meeting place for large numbers of suddenly homeless Missippians. They are operating a free "Store" where members of the community are invited to "shop" for the food and supplies they need to support themselves.

Each day truckloads of supplies arrive on 18-wheelers, vans, school buses, even a husband and wife on a Harley towing a trailer with a generator and a case of pampers strapped on top. No matter how fast the volunteers offload the supplies and restock, the shelves empty at an unbelievable rate. I am impressed beyond words at the tenaciousness of the DeLisle community. These folks knew who they were before Katrina struck them down and they are picking each other up, finding humor in disaster, and generally doing what needs to be done.

It's a long road ahead for those victims of Katrina.

Cops and robbers.

2005-04-28T22:03:00.000-07:00

2005 isn't turning out to be our best year.

I was sawing logs Tuesday night when our phone rang at 1:00 a.m. It was the county sheriff's office wanting me to confirm our street address.

"Yes. Who is this?" I asked. The sheriff identified himself and asked if I was alone in the house. "No, my husband is here with me", I answered feeling a sudden chill.

"Ma'am, our deputies are at your front door, it's unlocked, and we have reason to believe that there are two armed men inside your house."

Squeaking out an "Oh, shit", I went from a half-sleep to a full-on adreneline rush. David looked at me as if I were crazy until I told him what was happening. Though he had had shoulder surgery only a few days before, David scrambled out of bed, and using his one good arm and my phone-free hand we struggled to to get him into sweatpants, (It would have been embarassing had we become naked hostages!) The surreal situation became even more so when we registered the sound of a helicopter overhead.

Next, the officer told us to block the door and not to let anyone in. (Yeah, right. We're going to invite armed robbers in for bedtime stories.) He then transferred the call to one of the deputies who was at our front door and that new voice told us that the officers were are about to enter the house and under no circumstances were we to open our bedroom door until told to do so. I told him that David had just had surgery and couldn't help. He said, "Just block the door Ma'am!"

After a few moments we heard voices yelling, "Sheriff. Sheriff.", followed by the sound of pounding feet. We could hear noises but were so busy holding the door that we had no idea what was happening in the rest of the house. Soon I could see lights under the gap below our bedroom door, and thinking the coast was clear I started to open it when someone yelled, "Shut the door, Ma'am! Shut the door!" (Obedience has never been my strong suit but that time I did as I was told.)

After making a thorough search of the house and turning up no gunmen, the deputy on the phone said we could finally come out. Poking our heads around the corner we saw that we had slept through the arrival of six deputies in three squad cars with flashing lights, and that helicopter that was hovering overhead. (David insists that we couldn't hear a thing because I was snoring so loudly.) We just looked at each other, jaws hanging in disbelief.

The deputies searched the house and the workshop and turned up nothing so they brought in a tracking dog. It's howling bark went on for several minutes as the hound sniffed out the gunmen. They were apprehended at the bottom of our property.

We later learned that two men had robbed a Santa Cruz 7-Eleven store at gunpoint and had led police on a chase up Highway 17. They turned off the highway at Laurel Road, wound their way onto Schulties and had abandoned their vehicle at the bottom end of our property. They then ran up the hill towards our house.

The entire episode took less than an hour, but when you deduct time for commercials, most made-for-TV dramas are about the same length.

(I think we'll lock the front door tonight.)