Pirates, Mermaids and the Old Man and the Sea

It's okay. I really wouldn't read this either, but I have a large table in the back of a hotel restaurant and am alone. Lydia and Christina are upstairs snoozing like teenagers do and Dad and Steve are long gone. I heard brash whispers this morning, "Pssst. Steve. Hey Steve..."
"Ya, he replied in a Maryland accent..."Let's go".
I saw him push the blanket over from across the room and heard Dad grabbed his keys. It was about 5am, but the crabs were waiting under the waves.
I tried to sleep longer but ended up just working on some writing and waiting for the contentential breakfast to open, which is why I am here right now. This hotel is full of characters as if to add to the already elaborate characters that seem to make up this town, Westport WA. Literally, a large man with a beard to his chest and a old cap makes his way around the back lawn with his dog, and he walks on a pegleg. After spending the day on the docks pulling in crab cages and smelling the salty air it wasn't a leap to imagine him a salty old seaman full of tales of grandour, and there is no reason to believe he is not. Yesterday I was sitting at the computer in the hotel lobby, researching a kite festival that is going on today and felt a nudge on my arm. Looking over I saw the bulging eyes of a greyhound looking up at me, tail wagging. He looked like a stretched out tiger the way his fur stripped him up and down in shades of grey. Two men marched in carrying a mysterious large strapped case and Steve leaner over and suggested that it contained one of the exquisite kites that would be whipping through the air later on.
Yesterday we grabbed some towels and wandered down a empty road that anti-climactically seemed to lead nowhere, until we heard the constant whoosh of the ocean. The road turned into a sandy path lined with long sea grasses and the hill curved up and over until the whole of the Pacific Ocean was waiting, lapping at the shore. For as far as you could see on each side was beach and behind the sand, dunes of grasses and old fences, falling voluntarily it seemed towards the ever calling water. Blues deep faded from light to dark into the water and mirrored into the sky. I left my sandals at the foot of a smooth stump and coasted down to the water. The sand was smooth and light as silk, warmed in the sun and let me sink deep with each step until I got closer to the water, where it turned into a mosaic of broken shells, sandollars and water-smoothed pebbles in every color. With each rush of the water the jewels rolled with the push up the shore and down again as it retreated with a delicate tinkle and clattering as they hit one another. Again and again.
You could walk to the end of the world it seemed on this beach, and perhaps come back again from the other side, glorious adventures in between. Pirates and mermaids and the old man and the sea. I considered my options and headed towards the end, to see if maybe beyond that hazy cloud there really was something. The water teased me into it more deeply as the tide pulled closer to shore and I soon was wet and felt the little stones and shells skip over my feet as they rocked back and forth with the waves.
I've been to the oceans before and seen the country from both sides, but it never gets old. Staring into the water, wondering if the ocean itself knows the rhythm it is keeping, a method to the swirls of its waves. It seems to, as it pushes you in and out and tempts you further in, or chases you back it with an especially hard splash.
Later that evening we came back to the shore to watch the sun slip underneath the waves. Rounding the corner over the hill to the ocean was breathtaking. For as far as you could see the sky was pink and yellow, orange and purple. The water loyally rushed back and forth, ignoring the brilliant colors and carrying on with its duty. As time and the sun slipped down the colors grew explosive, a grand finale to the day and I watched with great satisfaction that this happens every night, but that night, I was able to see it.

i need you so much closer

(july 11)

They say that everything tastes better when you are camping, and while I believe this to be true, I contend that Ken is just a really good cook because the french toast I had was perfect. Warm, soft and chewy on the inside but crispy and sweet on the outer crust. It took me awhile to get out of my sleeping bag though, regardless of what was waiting for me on the other-side of the metal zipper on the tent. After breakfast the crew plowed up the slope to see Peggy's Pond but I stayed at camp. I was apprehensive about the trek back on my foot and decided to save my energy. While I am sure the trip was worth it, when the troops returned telling us everything was frozen over, I was fine with my decision. We took an easy morning but eventually began disassembling the tents and repacking the bags, listening to Parker sing Bon Iver beyond his headphones. We toured through the snow fields once again on our way out but I know that Lydia and Christina we a bit nervous about crossing the Ridge of Death again and I wondered how far up it was. Sooner than later we approached it and with the same technique as before cross over it. Now aware of what we were doing, it seemed even more threatening than before, especially a certain quick pass that provided no real foot support besides slippery snow and I know, for one, that my hands were crammed into the snow along the wall next too me as hard as they could be. At one point Ken stopped and urged me to twist around as the clouds parted and Mt. Daniel was revealed behind the curtain of clouds that just as suddenly covered him back up. Later, far enough ahead of Parker and Ken but enough behind the rest of the crew, I was alone groping the rocks over the pass and that experience enough was exhilarating, but nerve racking as-well as my imagination ran wild on what could happen. I stopped many times to just stare into the view that was smashing into my face. Crawling up and out of this pass was done quickly because each person was busy concentration on the next step, the next hand hold or next weight shift of the pack, but once we pulled out of it and all met at a clearing on some flat rocks overlooking a stunning view of the mountain lakes and peaks above I heard Ken laugh "its all downhill from here.."
It was too. Besides brief stints in low meadows and a few remaining snow fields we spent the next hours leaning back into our packs, thumping down the rocky path at a hunched over angle and taking big steps down like going down a lopsided staircase. The only thing that was clattering through my mind was "We went UP!!! this?" All afternoon it was a steep steep downward slant, switching back in and out of the woods. Each step down was calculated on my bad ankle as it hopelessly drug behind the other, I even avoided putting my weight on it as I slipped on the ice once and plopped right into the snow on my butt like a little kid.
It was wearing in its own way, coming down. Hard on the joints and the back but with each descent the accomplishment of going up was emphasized, and moments when the trail did flatten out and you went pleasantly along, with the pack snug around your shoulders and waist was a reminder of how satisfying hiking really is.
Slowly, the trees got thicker and we passed over the same streams again and again as the trail's switch-backs urged. The lush ferns reappeared and peering into rocks that water was pouring over revealed mossy carpets over the stones. As the land gradually leveled we knew that we were getting closer to the end. We ran into traffic on the lower level of the trail, and had to step to the side for horses to pass, but the next thing you knew, there was the car, waiting. I was the last one out of the woods, not quite ready to leave and met the group hearing sounds of laughter and excitement. Taking deep breaths and smiling we arranged the packs on the top of the car and one by one, with a sigh of relief eased into the leather seats.
Stopping in town, Steve wasted no time hitting up and espresso drive-up and we all eventually left the parking lot with mochas and treats in hand on the way to the cabin.
We shook what we could from our gear and laid most of it out on the deck to dry and all sprawled out on couches and easy chairs around the home. Upstairs Parker surfed through channels on the TV and I heard Lydia, Christina and Steve laugh at a movie from the basement. We gathered grimy socks, sweaty T-shirts and smelly pants and throw them together into the washing machine and lined the poor boots out on the deck to dry.
Before long we were feasting on pasta and potato soup, sitting around the table, already turing our stories into legends.
I am proud of what we did. What I did. But even more I am proud of my life, of my family and of my friends. That this is what we spend our time doing and we bond over wildflowers and wild cliff passes. I am proud of a dad that takes his beautiful girls into the mountains to see what the world has to offer and know that they can do it. He gushed that we were incredible, eating up the trail and trudging on and on. More though, I am happy that this is my life, that I am given these opportunities.

like a drum, a rhythm, a beat. a heartbeat.

(July 22)

most of the morning his fingers were curled around mine and he could be found within two or three of his toddling steps from mine whenever I walked across the playground like a faithful and unsure puppy. later, he sat on my lap, facing me with the plastic ends of a toy stethescope in his ears looking at me quizzically. i asked him, after a few minutes what he was listening to, what he heard? i expected him to say "your heart" having being told that was what the pretend instrument was used for.
but he looked up, with big brown eyes and told me, ever so confidently...

"your music"



(July 24)

most of you, people i see on a daily or weekly basis have heard my "your music" story and this is because everytime i think of it i still smile and get a little rush of happiness.

that multifaceted part of humans, the heart. the way it is so much, and in so many sometimes opposite ways. i can use my heart to tell you something you need to know, even if i don't want to say it. and it can make me turn around and fix a wrong, a hand up and sometimes a step down. but usually i hope it says things lighter than that. it dances and it sings. it sways and it twirls and in all of that i hope you can't help but hear music. my music.
i don't know what it sounds like, that is something only you perceive. i know that sometimes it snaps at you and startles you. i know that sometimes it creeps up and brushes you from behind but i hope it feels like a warm breeze. i know that sometimes it's too loud, too harsh and too much. i know that it makes mistakes. sometimes it stumbles along the way and sounds very much like it needs more practices, but be patient.
i never expected it to be perfect.
but in that, the heart can do other things too. it pumps hard and fast tearing down the streets at night, it keeps me moving down the river and up the mountain. it pushes me forward, and pulls me through.

my heart can just as well be my music, the way the little boy told me, the only confident words out of his mouth that day. i hope it lingers in the air like a perfect note, hovering and hesitant to land. i hope it hangs with you and brings you only the best.
i hopes its rich and something you'd listen to more than once. i hope its easy to understand and you never have to ask twice.
i hope you hear things here that change faster than the waves and move quicker than the leaves. but i hope that behind that, loyally there is something you will always count on and always expect.
like a drum,
a rhythm,
a beat.
a heartbeat.
my music.
my heart.

getting greedy (july 26th)

At first it sounded like a distant waterfall, who's deafening sound was muffled by the scores of trees surrounding it, but if that had been true, why then would it be getting louder? And perhaps more intriguing, why was the smile on Nate's face getting bigger and his eyes more twinkling? I turned around in the kayak, hearing the sound of the pelting rain falling and upsetting the thick woods that were above the gorge of the river. Like pencil streaks the water was coming, hard and fast, and like a approaching wave it was rolling onto the river, and the once calm water was rippling with the force of the drops which were thick and full. The line of rain came rolling towards us, in a progression as distinct as a line being drawn in the sand, or an army taking over a field.

Like the radio slowly being cranked up, the rain flushed over us and like a wave, telling us that it didn't care that we were getting wet. That it was its turn, it was coming through and we would have to agree.

And all we could do was smile, laugh and getting very very wet.

We coasted down the water of the river and we paddled amongst the dancing drops on the surface for a little while until the cloud had its say and relinquished our attention back to the calm of the day and passed us without looking back.

It was as close to magic as you will find on a beautiful Saturday afternoon on the river. In fact, it probably was the best definition of magic you'll ever find, and the best use of a Saturday on the river you'll ever have.

Isaiah's eagles

We had pulled off the road and parked the car. Our doors clicked in unison as we hustled down the path, anxious not only to get out of the car but to see just what it was on the other edge of the cliff.

Dad had a pretty good idea. A tall, gushing, foaming waterfall slipped past the trees and crashed below, somewhere in the mist rushing back up.

It was the kind of thing where i couldn't actually hear him talking as we got closer.

Gazing into the blue clear honest sky i saw a black line, lazing along the currents he was finding up there. Up and down and side to side and back again the hawk hung in the air, letting anyone watch.

I took my eyes back to the water, memorized like we all are at its movement and after a few minutes, satisfied i let them rise again to see if the hawk was still around.

that is, until he met me midway instead.

its not often you get to look a large bird of prey in the eyes, as he scans the earth below, but there he was. soaring at my side. no, not near my shoulder but close enough where i just might have been able to touch those shimmery wings if i outstretched my fingers to their very tips and hoped a little extra. being that high up, i was in his world more than he mine.

the ground froze me to it, as if to prevent me from disturbing this bird. but i stared. completely humbled. it was like seeing a puppet on a string, hanging, perfect in the sky. except there was nothing keeping it up. the wind whipped under his belly and over his wings. light and clear as the air he was in.

and in an instant, as if spooked by my wonder, he dove and was gone.

gone at least from sight, but there is a big black hawk i still think of that flies in the cascades.

as she deserves to be remembered

This morning I set off with my camera. I have decided to bring it along with me more often these days, because from what I can tell, I may soon be leaving. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let my loud music fade off. I got to the point, about six months ago that I can't get lost here, even if I try. I got to the point where all roads lead to home.
Maybe its not such a big city after all. I had stopped to take some shots of tulips in a road-median on Stinson and later received a call from my cousin wondering if it was me he had seen.
Minneapolis sways and groans and lets us all have her. In a matter of minutes you can go from crusty young bikers dressed in skinny jeans and short brimmed hats to business men yelling into their earpieces. Cruise a few more blocks and you will find half dazed women pushing babies in strollers and if you stick around you might run into your aunt, or forth grade teacher. Bikes whiz by like birds. I have danced in the streets with Mayan decedents and knocked on doors which have been opened by refugees who woke at dawn to cook goat for me and my family and entertain us late into the evening. Minneapolis is a rare retrieve, where Minnesota's infrastructure flourishes. Como zoo swells each summer with immigrants from Laos celebrating the summer days away.

The roads taught me to swerve quickly from parked cars and avoid their lazily opened doors, on my bike, but also the ecstasy of flying downtown in the dark of the night the cool breeze escalated by my speed with the buildings glowing behind me. Last week I stumbled, drunk with happiness not booze from Picosa after salsa dancing with strangers for hours onto the banks of the Mississippi and saw the skyline just blocks away beaming onto the water and thought "damn, is she sexy", and smiled as I climbed into my car to head home. Shit. I was already there.
She is too. Very sexy indeed. You can roll over the 35W bridge and breath her in, or crane your neck flying down 10th avenue and watch her glisten at you, the river doubling her beauty. In 7corners you will loose track of the number of theaters, and in uptown I dare you to go into a franchise store. The Greenway will bring you straight through the city and back to the lakes and if you want, you can probably draft behind a perfect stranger.
Another evening we rolled through the park and saw an enormous screen playing an old movie, with the city, across the Stone-arch bridge, gleaming behind. We smiled and pedaled on, for we had places to be.
Waiting on a bridge taking in the view over Hiawatha a smiling young man approached us one night and with laughs traded a cigarette for a beer.
One semester, I chatted with the same man, at the same time, for three weeks both of us shivering into our coats as we waited for our bus transfers downtown outside the central library to haul us home after our night classes at the U. He initially wanted to bum a smoke off of me, but since I don't, he ended up bumming a conversation instead.
Minneapolis is a great place. I know this. Alright fine, I probably don’t really know this. If I leave I will probably finally appreciate the liberal policies, the warm people, even if I never do come to appreciate the cold air.
At least, right now, I can remember her. As she deserves.

save the sanctity of marriage?

This afternoon I saw some friends add themselves on facebook as "becoming a fan" of Protecting Marriage, one man and one women. Really guys? Come on.
And as you may have expected....I got a little upset. Its may not be the reasons you thought of though. I can be okay with an individual hoping that marriage is saved for one and one women. I personally do not believe such and am comfortable and happy to say that I think love and commitment is found in all forms, yet I want to respect people's religions and beliefs and experiences enough not to react to their opinion. The problems is that losing the sanctity of marriage did indeed happen, but not when two men or two women got married legally. It was gone far and away long before that. When we listlessly (yet loyally) watched shows that auctioned off a "marriage" to young women for a handsome millionaire. That left it at the ground with a chunk taken out and a crack on the bottom. When our paparazzi follows celebrities here and there with cameras on trips couples take and fill their every moments with video cameras. And we happily watch and browse the magazines in line at the grocery store. We lost a bunch then too. When Craigslist has a section for "casual encounters", where people can get together and married men and women not openly admit they are married but that they are seeking to fulfill their sex drives with some who can be discrete. And that they might pay that person's rent for it. The fact that those posts get responses. Yeah, I'm just going to say we didn't have much left after that.

I make me disappointed to see a culture that doesn't acknowledge that these are some of the things that push our divorce rate so high, these are the reasons that marriages somethings mean nothing. I would like to get married someday. And more importantly, I would like that marriage to be faithful to the end of my days. Harm and threats from society at making this happen have nothing to do with whether or not my gay friends are legally allowed to do that too.