8-20-2024

 

 

Let’s see, I was born in 1953 and that would have made me 15 y/o in 1968. During the summers before 8^th grade and my freshman year at St. George High School I cut grass at Rosehill Cemetery. Being frugal, I saved enough cash to buy the equivalent of a Husky 10 speed bicycle. Granted it was not as sophisticated as my friend’s Schwinn and European racing bikes but it was a workhouse and in the end proved to be expendable.

 

It was obvious, even to me, that in 1968 the world was in upheaval. In Chicago there were lock downs and a dusk to dawn curfew after the MLK assassination. My family lived on the second floor of a northside two-flat not far from where I live now. Being on the Northside I did not see or experience any of the carnage until a year later when at 16 I borrowed dad’s Pontiac Tempest, and drove to the south and west sides to survey the damage. Probably not the smartest thing I could have done on my first forays driving in the city. 

 

As I mentioned in a previous posting, I often road my bike downtown. As the time of the DNC neared I noticed that I did not have Lincoln and Grant Parks to myself any longer. An exceedingly odd group of revealers began to populate the parks. It is common now to see tents in the park but then this was unique. I found it curious that the police tolerated the intrusion. 

 

I began to forsake my ride north and daily ventured south into the mix. Back then the motorcycle cop’s rode pan-head Harley trikes. I distinctly remember them riding through the protestors where an unspoken truce prevailed. Both the foreign invaders and the police could not quite comprehend their roles in what was to play out. 

 

My daily ride went on for a couple of weeks. The tempo in the park picked up as did the population count. The uncensored goings on were quite a sight for this sheltered north side kid. I don’t remember there being any discussion of this in catechism class. 

 

It all came to an abrupt end after the riot in front of the Michigan Avenue Hilton Hotel. I had enough sense not to venture south for some time. Summer drew to a close and my bike rides were curtailed by football, track and schoolwork, though I do not remember doing much of that. 

 

Chicago has never lived down the 1968 debacle. It tarnished the city, the Daley’s and lead to police crack downs and show trials like the Chicago Seven.

 

My ten speed was stolen two years later in Grant Park at the Sly and The Family Stone concert riot. It was my first taste of tear gas and hiding in hedges to avoid the roving bands of hoodlums who took advantage of the chaos. There is much to be said for growing up in interesting times . . . even if my bike got stolen!

8-13-2024

 

Seagulls are as rapacious as they are comical. They are communal but completely out for themselves. They whine like wimpy dogs and growl like forest beasts. They are magnificent aerialist that relish a stormy wind. I say relish because for days on end I have watched them soar without any attempt to fish. But once they catch a fish all hell breaks loose. 

 

Their comrades appear out of the sky to do battle. In the aerial dog fights that ensue it is not odd for the catch to be lost to all. I have seen them swallow enormous starfish whole and have watched them pathetically peck at a squirming fish to get only a few tiny scraps of flesh before abandoning the bloody mess. 

 

Recently, on an admittedly slow day, I watched a big white gull drop mussels repeatedly on a wooden deck. I, bored with the routine, drifted off only to awake and see numerous mussel’s open, their flesh picked clean. 

 

Seagulls are primed to fly over flat expanses of water, which must equate to shopping mall parking lots. Of course, when over pavement they know better than to dive head first into the asphalt, instead they gently glide in to capture their often as not fast food remnant. 

 

Once in the southern most Florida Keys I saw a frigate bird. It was larger than expected with a formidable curving beak and thin angular wings. They specialize in absconding with the catches of other seabirds, most commonly seagulls, who are no match for the frigate’s aerial abilities.

 

Seagull’s like to roost on a nice flat surface to feast. Thus, inspired humans have invented many contraptions for keeping them off boat roofs. Some of these have arms that slowly spin in the wind while making an almost (note the word, almost) imperceptible high pitched squeal that, I suppose, is meant to disturb the seagull’s peace while dining. Others are like a cascade of thin metal wands weighted at the ends that wiggly take up space. And then there are the medieval plastic spikes that commonly cover many urban structures to prevent pigeons from roosting. These find themselves atop super yacht communication towers well out of the way of the casual observer. 

 

Carrie Rose’s pilothouse roof has a 4 by 6 foot solar panel that is an irresistible destination for dissecting and eating fish. If we are lucky to be onboard, the gull gives away their intentions with several great thunks on the roof. I drive them off but often must despose of a bloodied fish. If we are not in house, we are alerted on our return by the scent of fish, blood and poop.

 

For some reason cleaning up the mess is considered “boys” work. Charlotte considers that since my profession entailed dealing with bodily fluids I will better tolerate the guts, gore and feces left behind. And I admit that – once again – she is correct. It is all quite comical in the end . . .

7-30-2024

 

In the Midwest we are familiar with storms that diagonally cross the country from Mexico to Canada. They engender squalls, thunder storms and tornados. The one good thing about them, in this age of instant weather apps, is that they are mostly predictable. The storms blow through with much drama causing lots of chaos and then they move on quickly to terrorize another region further north and east. 

Before satellite technology I spent much of my time while sailing on the Great Lakes looking over my shoulder for an unannounced squall. Out east there is the occasional squall. Most of the weather consists of counter rotating low pressure systems. As I write this, a low is stuck slightly west of us and is making its way excruciatingly slow to the NE. As it spins it sucks in a large off shore cloud bank that stretches from Florida to Maine.

 

The arms of the low are ragged, so on occasion we are dosed with sun and bright blue sky. These hopeful moments are quickly dispelled with one look at the satellite image. The jet stream just needed to straighten out and dislodge the low, sending it to Greenland. 

 

The next day the weather was crazy. We woke to dense fog. It lifted slowly to reveal numerous anchored boats that had been hidden the night before. The fog proceeded to roll in and out of the harbor, each time revealing a bit more of the shoreline. With that our little part of the world became less claustrophobic. 

 

All through the morning the harbor’s entrance repeatedly filled with fog. Then as the day heated up the tops of the Camden mountains appeared and then East Penobscot Bay. Ten miles away at Islesboro Island a straight horizontal line of fog appeared between the water and the trees. Variation after variation continued for hours. 

 

In the early afternoon the sky turned blue and cumulous clouds were ushered in. They thickened and the dark clouds brought intermittent rain. In the far distance there were towering thunderheads, and between us and them all variations of wind swept clouds. In the end, as dinner time approached, the south wind picked up and blew it all away. The night was full of stars. On days like this I wonder what the solar panel thinks is going on. 

Addendum: The triangular rock is called appropriately Pulpit Rock and is the home to a reported 300 y/o osprey nest. It is at Pulpit Harbors entrance. 

7-28-2024

For 18 years I wrote a monthly commentary for the Chicago Shimpo, a Japanese-American newspaper. It was first published in 1945 after WWII ended. It chronicles the Japanese community lives in the Chicago region. At first it was published twice weekly, then monthly, then not at all except for a truncated online version . . . so much for history.

 

The past and present editions are stored and cataloged in the collection of a university I can never remember the name. So, in a sense, my commentaries will live on. In case you are interested, they are posted at deanraf.blogspot.com under the name of Thoughts On Japanese Culture.

 

Except for the first commentary, the titles were composed of one word. That word was the inspiration for the next 500 to 1000 words that followed. At times, with the deadline looming, I would search the recesses of my mind for a word, that word. I always found it. In the many years I wrote for the paper I only missed one deadline and that was because of poor planning and not a lack of inspiration. Unbeknownst to me I had trained my mind to offer up a word monthly. 

 

Now back to cruising because I am not sure the above has much to do the with what follows. Today Carrie Rose is moored at Warren Island State Park. We often come here. It is one of the islands in the Islesboro Island group that delineate West and East Penobscot Bay. It is spitting distance north of 700 Acre Island which was found to have Maine’s oldest rock.

 

We can take the dinghy to the park’s dock and hike the 2 mile long circumferential Island trail. Campers show up to the park in all kinds of conveyances: in working lobster boats and large yachts, in tiny skiffs, kayaks and canoes, and a small ferry that arrives on demand. The park is on West Penobscot Bay between Camden and Belfast. The anchorage is often graced by one of the famous vacationer schooners that come to take their paying passenger for a lobster feast on land.

 

It is a protected harbor in any wind other than NW. A fact that we learned at our peril one sleepless night while hanging on a mooring in a NW storm. Generally, it is a place to hang out, put on bug spray and walk around the island. There is usually the antics of an eagle and an osprey to keep us entertained as we gently float around and around the mooring.

 

This year both the eagle and the osprey have been absent other than hearing their calls. There also has not been the teaming schools of bait fish swimming and jumping around the boat, and thus, no seals, porpoises and cormorants hunting them. Warren has been a quiet place this year, perfect for searching for that one word of inspiration.