Is it really true no one else will find this cute?

So, they say that people who talk about their pets are really boring. That each of our own pets has a face that truly, only a mother could love. Are you nodding in agreement? Well, OK, so sue me. This video of my cats is cute, darnit! Still nonplussed? How about some context. Einstein said that "everything makes sense if you understand the context." So, the black & white cat, Killer, is 18 and diabetic. Liitleittle, the tiger-faced one is about 9, and they've been best buddies for 8 years. It warms my heart how Killer hangs in there. He was diagnosed 3.5 years ago, and since then, I have had to give him insulin injections every 12 hours. But I don't mind. I would do anything for him. It's just sometimes alarming for first-time guests to my house when they see the syringes on my counter. He and LittleLittle hang out together, protect each other, nap together and take care of each other. What more could you ask out of life but to have a relationship like that, right? Still not willing to watch a silly video about cats? Ok, well, next time you have a stressful day, or need a smile, come back to ths page and click "play". I think it will help.

Why isn't this a silly idea?

I really need these pants. In every color, in every length. If only I could sew. One thing I CAN do really well is NOT keep my butt glued to my chair and write. So this morning, in between my inaugural cup of coffee and the 12 hours of writing I'm supposed to be doing, I came up with this new product idea, named it, wrote the copy for it, and mocked up an ad for it. Oh, and now I'm blogging about it. Sigh. I really need these pants.

How could I spend 10 days on Maui and still be so pale?

Actually, a better question might be, "Why would I travel to Maui with an HP printer, four packages of paper, a stapler, and eight #22 ink cartridges in my luggage?" It's called the Maui Writers Retreat & Conference. For nearly 15 years, I've been dreaming of coming here. This is the nation's premier writing conference, and OMG I'm finally here. You have to apply to get accepted to the retreat, and it took me all these years to get up the guts to do it. It's just wonderful. There are 3 "tracks", Non-fiction, Fiction, and Screenwriting. I'm in the Non-fiction track. I'm surrounded by all these talented writers and I get to hear details about their projects. It's like seeing a best-seller list come to life in front of my eyes. Some day, when they all make it to the bookstore shelves, I can say I knew them when. I have an amazing teacher named Sam Horn. Look her up on amazon.com and you'll see why I feel lucky to be in her class. Many of us have come here both to work on our proposals, and to pitch them to agents and publishers who are here. Normally, you might spend your whole life mailing your book proposal around and never ONCE get the chance to meet face-to-face with these luminaries. But here, we are all given this unprecedented access. We pay handsomely for the priviledge, but we also hope it pays off big. I have my meetings on Friday, and am pitching 2 different book projects. Stay tuned, and I'll let you know how it goes.

How do little kids get abducted in broad daylight in a public place?

I stopped off at a little park in my neighborhood today. When I got there and sat on a bench, I was the only one in the park. I sat there sipping my iced Starbucks and enjoying the birds and scenery, and after a few minutes, a woman's yelling caught my attention. I looked over in the direction of the yelling, but saw no woman. Instead I saw a little boy on his bike...all alone. Then I heard her yell again, "BRIAN!" The little boy was ignoring her and just pedalling slowly around the park. The woman kept screaming his name, "BRIAN!" I expected to see, any second now, the woman appear and be frantically running after him.
Nope.
Instead she just kept screaming his name. Now Brian had peddled over to the side street, which was heavily shaded. Just then a pickup truck pulled to the curb and crept closer to Brian before it stopped. "Uh oh", I thought. I was certain that Brian would promptly peddle in the opposite direction because even at a distance, the truck had a creepy feel to it, and it was obvious there was a lone man in the cab. But to my amazement, Brian PEDALLED UP TO THE TRUCK! See pic above. You can see Brian's little helmeted form in the yellow oval, and the truck in the violet oval. The woman kept yelling for Brian, and because she was so loud, the driver of that pickup would surely now know the little boy's name... as surely as I heard it from the other end of the park. I decided that if the man got out of the truck, I would intervene. "Maybe he knows the driver?" I thought. Nope.
The little boy now pedalled away, slowly, toward the main street (see pic above). Finally, I saw the woman make an appearance, but she stayed WAY over on the other side of the park (see pic above. She's in the green oval, barely noticable) I just couldn't believe what I was seeing. First I was worried about the potential pedophile, now I was worried he'd get run over.
"BRIAN!" she kept screaming. But not moving. Just screaming. Finally Brian started back toward the screamer. As he passed me, he noticed my camera phone, and hid his face behind his hand. I thought that was odd... I mean, he's worried about having his picture taken (granted, I was a stranger on a park bench), but he freely pedalled up to a strange pickup truck on a side street. Sigh. I'm glad Brian didn't get pulled in to that truck, but now I understand how that could happen to a child.

Why did I buy one?

I tried not to. Really. The morning of June 29, I dropped my Treo 650 into the toilet. Despite what you may have heard, this really was an accident. Not to mention the fact that it's also a clear sign that I am way too attached to my phone. Or that back pockets are not where I should place my valuables. And don't worry, I didn't compose this post on the toilet. But I have emailed my boss from there several times over the years. It's a quiet kind of revolt, I guess. Or maybe it's just revolting. But anyways, back to the splashdown. When I heard the noise, I thought I was either suffering from some form of tropical dissentary, or that really was my $600 unlocked GSM BFF hitting the water. If you know me, you'll know I preferred it be the former. Sad, But true. With my cat-like reflexes, I rescued it from the water immediately, but it was too late. I took it apart and laid it out on paper towels on the sink. No matter how much I shook the main body, there was still water sloshing around in the screen. Ick. So I went to the T-Mobile store down the street to get a loaner to tide me over while I decided what to do. Now, on this particular day, when the entire world was focusing on the release of iPhone, you would think the salespeople at the T-Mobile store would have been especially nice to me. I was the ONLY customer in the store when I walked in, and it took the 2 people behind the counter 11 minutes to acknowledge my presence. One of them was on the phone with some other employee, probably a manager, explaining that the woman who had just walked headlong into their glass window wasn't "that badly hurt, just bleeding a lot."
The other employee in the store was deeply enthralled with some laminated pages in what looked like a training notebook. Sigh. he finally came over to me and I explained my situation. "Sorry, we don't have any more loaners", he said without even checking, and went back to texting someone on his cellphone. I said, "Ummm, can you call another store and see if..."
He held up his index finger and took a personal call on his cellphone.
I waited.
And waited.
The other girl was still on the phone, assuring whoever was on the other end that they would "not be at fault".
Finally my helper called another store. He came back over to me and said, "Nope. they don't have one either."
"What should I do?" I asked.
"Uhhh, I don't know", he said as he answered yet another personal call on his cellphone.
AAARGH. I walked out, careful to avoid smashing in to the glass wall, because clearly I'd get no sympathy if I did, and walked across the street to the AT&T store.
I was greeted promptly, with a smile, by a clean-cut looking girl. I explained what had just happened and said I wanted to switch to AT&T. My salesperson sprung into action. I said I just wanted a new Treo (which T-Mobile didn't sell anyways). He showed me the options. I considered them. He said, "We've also got the iPhone". I thought that was charming considering I'd have to be living under a rock not to know that. I pointed to the ever-growing line outside the door and said I simply couldn't stand in line for the next 6 hours. I bought my new Treo, and he had my number ported over, AND sold me a cheaper plan within 15 minutes. Amazing. When will companies learn just how far a little customer service actually goes? T-Mobile totally blew it that day. And I had ZERO complaints about my phone service. Loved it, in fact.
OK, fast-forward 2 weeks. After wrestling with my new Treo's bluetooth car integration, I finally scoured internet forums and discovered that I had, in fact, bought the single-worst phone I could have for bluetooth integration with my car. I couldn't even make calls from my car the old-fashioned way (you know, holding it up to my ear) because the integration was so faulty, the phone itself would lock up while I was in the car. And yes, the forums made it clear that the iPhone was one of 2 phones that WOULD work perfectly with my car's bluetooth. The other one was a Crackberry 8000-something. Sorry. Can't go there.
So yes, I bought one. And OMG, I love it. I do feel like a jackass carrying it around, but a lot less of a jackass than I would have felt like, had I stayed with the abusive folks at T-Mobile.

Would you know what to do?

I was out to dinner the other night with one of my girlfriends. The restaurant was filled to capacity, buzzing. The man seated right behind me suddenly fell out of his chair and went down HARD on his head. And i don't mean the chair fell over... it was still standing. He literally went out cold and down. It was one of those high chairs like a barstool but with a back. So it was a long way down. Immediately, his friends with whom he had been dining started crawling all over him, trying to get him to sit up. As rude as it was, I barked at everyone to stop trying to move him, and I yelled 'Is anyone calling 911?" I could see that someone was. But one thing became very clear to me immediately. NO ONE in this whole restaurant knew CPR, or what to do, because aside from his hysterical (and buzzed) friends, everyone just sat there. I crouched on my knees behind his head and gently held it in place. I could see his chest rise and fall so I knew that he was in fact breathing. But I knew he had hit his head hard. And the floor was cement, so I expected to see some bleeding starting to seep out from under his head. I explained to his friends that you simply don't want to move someone around who may have broken their neck, or worse. You could end up making their injury far worse. If someone has a head and/or neck injury, and you have to to perform CPR, when you do the "Airway and Breathing" part of CPR, do not tilt the head back or move the head or neck. Instead, pull the lower jaw (chin) forward to open the airway. Plus, a head injury victim can sometimes seem fine at first, but then the brain starts to swell, and you have a life or death situation on your hands. I stayed at his head and he started to regain consciousness and get really agitated. He tried to sit up and said he was fine. I calmly put my hands on his shoulders, brought him back to a lying position, and nicely said, "I know you are probably fine, but you hit your head really hard, so just do me a favor and lay here for a bit. Then the paramedics arrived (see pic above) and I backed away and let them do their thing. Net net, they thought they had him stabilized, and they sat him up and he blacked out again. It turns out he had just been diagnosed that DAY with type II diabetes. So what he had was a diabetic blackout, which is very serious. I looked over at his table and saw that he had downed a pint of beer. which is not such a great idea for someone with Type II diabetes.
Anyways, I bring all this up because there isn't always a doctor in the house... and all of us should learn some basic first aid principals if we can. I once saved a guy's life by performing a Heimlich when he had choked on a piece of steak. I was never taught how to do this, I just knew the principal and there was no one else to help him. My dad (an MD) once told me that if someone can say 'I'm choking', then they're not actually choking. But if they cannot talk, they ARE CHOKING. If you ever find yourself really choking, and there is no one jumping to your aid, you can throw yourself over the back of a chair... aiming so that the edge of the chair hits you in your gut, just under your ribs. You may save your own life this way. Here's a good site with some quick tips. http://www.healthy.net/scr/MainLinks.asp?Id=170

Why didn't I see it coming?

The Dramamine Diaries: Part Deux, The Poseidon Adventure

Ok, so for all of you experienced Hobie sailors out there (which would be everyone in the Fleet except me), from the title, you know where this story is going. Turtle.

But let’s back up a bit and start at the beginning. Back when I was right-side up. Before the tears. Before the screams. Before the small craft advisory.

And speaking of titles that give away the outcome, this latest installment of the Dramamine Diaries takes place at the ‘Wet and Wild’ Regatta. I have to admit, I thought that name was just a marketing ploy. Some cool catch phrase designed to drum up attendance. I never really thought it should be taken literally. I know differently now. (Which is why I wasn’t at the Shark Feed, thank you very much.) If the race committee is ever looking to refresh the name of this Regatta, here are some suggestions. ‘Bye Bye Boat’,‘Pitch Pole Parade’, and ‘Mast-be-Gone’.

Back before the Motion Picture Academy really had that whole ratings thing down, my dad took me to see ‘The Poseidon Adventure’. Today, it would be rated ‘DeTotyk’ for ‘Don’t even THINK of taking your kids’. I remember 2 things about the movie. The first is the unique sight of a full-figured Shelley Winters in an evening gown. Underwater. Swimming for her life. The second is running straight to the bathroom after the movie, flying into one of the stalls, locking the door, and grabbing on to the toilet paper dispenser for dear life because I thought the movie theater was going to capsize. I sat like that, frozen with fear, for a half hour. My poor dad had to ask a strange woman to go into the bathroom and pry my fingers off of the dispenser.

So, when Don said, “Honey, the WORST thing that can happen is the Hobie tips over. But it’s no big deal. We just flip it back over.”… I wasn’t comforted. Then he added, “Now, it CAN go all the way over, you know, upsidedown, but still, we can right it again.”

“We could capsize?” I shrieked. Don again tried to allay my fear, “WE won’t capsize. The BOAT will. It’s called ‘going turtle’.”

Turtle? Now THAT is a marketing ploy. A turtle is hardly something to fear. Aw, how cute. Look at the sweet little turtle. May as well call it ‘Going Puppy’ or ‘Going Bunny’ or ‘Going Fluffy Kitten’.

But then I thought, heck, so we capsize. If Shelly Winters can survive it, so can I. Wait. I think she actually died in the movie. Oh well. So, I packed my Dramamine, and headed east.

After donating one chunk of our paycheck to Arco, and another chunk to Raley’s, Don and I headed to Woodward Reservoir.

Don made sure we arrived early so we could get in some practice. In truth, it was so I could get in some practice. Don is an awesome sailor. This was only my second time on the Hobie, but I was feeling very confident after our first-place win at Lake Comanche. Me? Need practice? Practice shmactrice. Pffft. I’m nationally ranked. (Ahem.) Don really wanted me to learn how to trap out. I was reticent. For the past few months, Don had been telling me over and over again that trapping out is THE way to go. “It’s way more comfortable.”

As I zipped up my wetsuit, I said, “Just so I’m clear... You’re trying to convince me that hanging my ass 10 feet above open water, while going 20 mph, supported by nothing but a single wire, is more comfortable than staying ON the boat? Ha! Don, I really don’t want to donate my body to one of your swift water rescue drills. Really. I’m flattered you thought of me, but no thanks.”

“Ok, we’ll practice on dry land first” he said. “And the boat will be level.”

My blood sugar must have been low because this sounded like a good idea. And you know, it was a good idea. Until I tried it. I hooked in, and Don said, “Now, honey, hang your tush off the edge. No, more than that. More. Ok, good. Now, lean back and feel how you’re supported by the wire.”

I let go off my death grip on the trap handle, let my arms dangle at my sides, and to my amazement, the line didn’t snap in half and decapitate me. This was encouraging!

Don continued patiently coaching me, “Ok, now put your feet on the side of the hull, and get ready to push yourself into a standing position.”

I did everything right. I focused my chi. Visualized success. Aligned my shakras. And then I straightened my legs. I must have forgotten a shakra or something, because I promptly flew back behind the boat like a marionette in a wind tunnel. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I screamed, feeling all too much like a neoprene covered yo-yo.

“That could’ve gone better” Don said. This was his day off. If he wanted to spend time with hysterical civilians attached to a rope, he’d be at work right now.

So, the bad news was that I wouldn’t be trapping out anytime soon. I wasn’t too heartbroken, though. That harness feels like an iron diaper. C’mon, you know I’m right! But the good news is that I no longer have any lingering doubts about whether or not I should have tried out for Cirque Du Soleil.

Race day.

Right off the bat, this felt very different than that first morning at Lake Comanche. For one thing, the wind was blowing. As we sailed toward the starting point, Don shared his strategy with me. I love listening to how he preps and plans. About what course he’ll take at the start, how he’ll approach each mark, avoid the dead spots, find the secret spots, head towards this point or that point. He is so at home on the water. I envy that.

As soon as the first race started, we shot across the water like an errant bottle rocket. I should have known something was up when Don screamed, “Honey, I have to trap out, OK?” Have to? I can understand “want to”, but “have to”? Hmmm. As Don lifted one hull out of the water, I suddenly realized that this is how Hobies are SUPPOSED to sail. It was wild to feel the one hull come up out of the water. I held on to anything I could find. I wasn’t scared. Yet. Our tacks and gybs were smooth, and it seemed we were doing pretty well. Up ahead, we saw a boat go over as it rounded one of the marks. We soon passed the wreckage, and headed toward the upwind mark. As we approached, we witnessed two boats colliding as they vied for position rounding the mark. It was brutal.

I was relieved when we rounded the same mark without incident, and the next mark. I was crouched down on the upper right corner of the boat, when suddenly I felt it tip toward the left. I turned around to see where Don was, thinking, “That’s weird. I didn’t hear him say ‘prepare to tack’.” Don wasn’t anywhere to be seen. And then the boat continued to tip until I actually did see Don. In the water. That’s when the cold reality hit me that we were going over. I scrambled backwards like a crab toward the very tip of the right hull. The boat continued to pitch. “NO! NO! NO! NO!” I screamed. Don could see I was scared, and he said, “It’s OK honey. Just jump into the water. You’ll be fine. It’s OK.”

NO! NO! NO! NO!” I screamed again, and to my astonishment, this did not stop the boat from tipping all the way over. I was still screaming “NO!” as I jumped into the water, and somewhere in mid-air, I thought I heard Don say, “No, stay where you are.” Too late. I hit the water and went completely under. HELLO! I was awake now! I started to frantically tread water to keep myself afloat. “Wait a minute” I thought. “I don’t actually have to frantically tread water to keep myself afloat. I’m wearing a life jacket!” Duh. Sail much? But, by the time this all sank in (no pun intended), I had tired myself out. Don sprung into action, and started to command the recovery operation. Luckily, he is an expert at this. I tried to help him right the boat, but it felt like trying to pull a huge Marlin out of the sea. (I haven’t actually tried doing this, but I imagine it’s tough) Now Jeremy was alongside us in the safety boat. “You guys OK? You need help?”

Just as he asked that, the boat went turtle. I bobbed up and down in the water thinking, “Well, Don was right. I didn’t capsize. The boat did.” I really could not imagine how we were going to right it again. As it turns out, WE weren’t. Don and Jeremy righted it. I paddled over to the side thinking I’d just hoist myself back on board. Easy breezy. Piece of cake. Ugh. NOT. Suddenly, the hull seemed 20 feet high. I tried and tried, but would just grunt and slip back down into the water. How embarrassing. My transformation into Harbor Seal was now complete. For a few seconds, I thought we were going to have to tip the boat over again, strap me to the trampoline, and right it again. I really couldn’t think of any other way that I was going to get my big butt on boa….”BOOF!” Suddenly, Jeremy grabbed the back of my life jacket and plucked me out of the sea like the God Poseidon himself. “SPLAT!” I was back on the trampoline. Don steered us straight across the lake to the far bank where everyone had landed to take a break after the first heat. I have to say, marshy grassland has never felt so great under my feet. “Sqloosh, sqloosh, sqloosh” I walked up on to the bank, grabbed a bottle of water, and sat under the lone tree. My legs were shaking. Don traded stories with the rest of the fleet. I stayed under the tree.

As we got underway for the second heat, I was surprised by how scared I now was. I kept thinking, “Cynthia. The worst happened, and you’re fine.” But for whatever reason, I was now more scared than ever. I cried all the way through the second and third races. The boat was moving very fast (I found out later that we were doing something like 24mph), and every time a hull left the water, I was sure we were going over again. Anything but true level had me whimpering. I didn’t tell Don I was crying. I wanted him to have a shot at winning, and I knew if I said anything, he’d head straight back. I wanted to hang in there and gain experience.

We found out later that this was no ordinary day. We had just sailed through a small craft advisory. To say it was windy was an understatement. By the end of the day, 2 boats would never sail again, one mast was gone, one main sail now had a hole in it in the exact shape of the guy who flew straight through it as his boat flipped over, and at least one person needed stitches.

At dinner, several people who knew how little experience I had, told me I should feel proud that I made it through the day, that many sailors never experience winds that strong. I just laughed nervously and nibbled my BBQ’d tri-tip.

Later that night, I confessed to Don about my crying episode. He really wanted me to sail the next day, but not be scared. So he promised that he wouldn’t try to win. He’d just aim to finish. He wouldn’t trap out, either. I was quite touched by this. I’m lucky to have someone so patient in my corner. (Clearly I am in dire need of it.) Don kept his promise, and the next day was really fun. The water was still pretty fast, but there were no small craft advisories. Only one “big chicken girlfriend advisory”. ;-) I think kindness is its own reward, but I was still thrilled to death when we won 2^nd. Just for keeping me sane, Don deserved a medal that weekend. I’m glad it ended up being in the form of a sailing trophy!

Things I learned from my second regatta:

Sometimes, men lose their mast. It happens. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Screaming “No! No! No!” will not actually keep the boat from going over.

Jeremy can deadlift an impressive amount of weight. With one hand.

My life jacket is most effective if I actually remember I have it on.

If you forget to bring wood, it will be very tough to build a fire.

If you remember to bring charcoal, you can barter for some wood.

“Going turtle” is a term that can also be used to describe the speed at which some Hobie owners get their boat back on their trailer.

To date, there are no known incidents of a movie theater capsizing.

Does this wetsuit make me look fat?

I haven’t thrown up since I was 5. Seriously. I can recall vividly standing in the center of our kitchen, slightly to the left of the mess I had just deposited near the oven, and through my tears, dramatically declaring to the world that I would NEVER, and I mean NEVER, throw up again. Of course, I believe this was the same year that I also declared to the world that I would be a famous ballerina. Oh well. So, when Don invited me to go sailing, something I had never done before, it’s not that I was opposed to the idea, it’s just that sailing represented a threat to my perfect puke-free record. But heck, love makes us do crazy things.

Now, just FYI, water and I do not have the best of histories. It has tried to drown me, twice. Once in a neighbor’s swimming pool, and once at the North Shore of Oahu. But still, I didn’t want to knock sailing until I tried it. Plus, if I were going to have another near-death experience, I’d rather have it near Don.

I don’t really remember how “learn to sail with Don” became “learn to race with Don”. Perhaps it was when he started using the words “winning”. I figure, in the larger scheme of things, it’s not really important. Unless in the larger scheme of things, I drown. Don registered us for the Viento Fiesta Regatta, and he made a point of telling me that this wasn’t about winning, it was about having fun. We planned several outings so that I could put some sailing time in before the race, but apparently this whole sailing thing is dependent upon the wind showing up. And apparently, the wind is one flaky friend.

Plan B. Show Cynthia videos of Hobie races. As he put in the video, he reminded me that, for us, this wasn’t about winning. As the action started, all I saw were people screaming at each other and being flung into the ocean, or onto the sails. Boats falling over. More screaming. I swear I saw blood. And a huge dorsal fin. Their outfits were cool, though.

Plan C. Draw sketches on cocktail napkins of basic sailing techniques and racing theory. Throw in some tidbits about clouds. And reiterate that this is not about winning. No pressure. We’re just going to have fun. Now, I speak 3 languages, but Hobie isn’t one of them. Don starts rattling off terminology that makes him sound like he’s giving a Pentagon briefing. Downhaul, tack, jib, jibe, backing the jib, main sheet, cleat, heave to, broad reach, cleating, lufting, lauching, tramp, trapping out, ACA, ABCAC, ABCA, windward leeward port starboard, aft, fore, nip tuck, stop drop and roll. knickknack paddy whack….( I think I fainted at this point)

Huh?

Plan D. Get to Lake Comanche early Friday to try and get some practice in. (Ha! Practice? How about a first sail?) We did finally get on the water at about 6:30 pm. As we pushed off from shore, Don kissed me and said, “Now sweetheart, remember, this is not about winning. No pressure. Just fun. OK?” “OK”, I smiled. Almost immediately, the boat took off like a rocket (or whatever analogous object flies across a lake). There seemed to be a lot of wind, and as my face was getting power washed, Don screams from out on the wire, “Does it feel like we’re hauling ass?” I screamed back “YES!”. To which Don replied with an almost maniacal cackle “That’s because we ARE hauling ass!” Just as I was feeling like I could relax my grip on the foot straps, Don’s trap handle breaks and he nearly falls into the lake. “Aaack!” I scream. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! No more hauling ass! Ass hauling bad!” Most women worry about their man leaving them. Not me. I have to worry about my man getting forcibly ejected from my side by weak and possibly vengeful sailing apparatus.

He smiles at me, and I see that his mouth is bleeding from trap handle shrapnel.
“Your mouth is bleeding!” I shriek.
“It ith?” he says, lisping through the blood. “Ith nothing.”
“Don, we need to have a plan for what I do if you fall off the boat.”
“Oh, ith thimple,” he replies. “Juthst crawl to the other thide of the boat, grab the righting line, jump into the water, and pull the boat over, but make thure you don’t pull it on top of yourthelf.”
“WHAT? That’s not a plan, that’s a friggin’ Fear Factor episode! And what’s a righting line?”

We ended up agreeing on MY plan: Don doesn’t ever fall off the boat. Thimple.

That night, as I sat with the Fleet around a roaring campfire, I pondered what tomorrow would bring. Would there be any wind? Would we have fun? Would I come to regret not having a living will? I looked up, and straight above our heads was the Big Dipper. I took this to be a great omen, since that is the one constellation that has guided sailors at night for thousands of years. Come sunrise, it would be all about A-C-A, but until then, Mr. Big Dipper would be my trusty azimuth for the T-P-T course. (Tent-Portapotty-Tent)

Race day.
As I emerged from our tent in full wetsuit/life jacket/trap harness regalia, I was psyched! I was ready! I had no idea what I was doing! Wooo hoooo! My getup was damn, cool, though. I felt like Jacquette Cousteau. I imagined I looked like a stone fox, even though I think I knew somewhere deep down inside that my look was a lot closer to harbor seal.

I waddled over to the skipper’s meeting, where I tried to blend in by crossing my arms and nodding a lot. Dave Atwater made his hundredth sales pitch for raffle tickets. Buy raffle tickets? At last, a sailing skill I could excel at!
As soon as the skipper’s meeting was over, Don and I got out on the water. Right away, I was frustrated by the fact that tacking and jibbing seemed to be the exact same thing. After about an hour of racing, I finally picked up on what I considered to be the difference between the two. I proudly pointed this out to Don. “When I tack, I always tighten the jib all the way, and when I jibe I leave it a bit looser.” Don said “That’s right.” He seemed encouraged by this. So I asked, “Then why not just call a jibe, a loose tack?” Don laughed. He no longer seemed encouraged. “And while we’re on the subject, why have a jib and a spinnaker when you could just have a jib and a big jib? Oh, and why on earth is the spool of rope called a sheet? You’re just making it harder on yourselves. I mean honestly. You’re looking down at this metal spool thing with rope wound around it, and the best word you can think of is SHEET? There isn’t anything about that apparatus that vaguely resembles a sheet!”
Don laughed again, as if to say, “Was it really my idea to bring her here?”.
I guess the sailing world is just not ready to jettison any of its jargon.

We did 3 races, I think. To be honest, I really couldn’t tell the starts from the finishes. To me, the regatta looked more like a beautiful school of Butterfly fish swimming to and fro through the coral beds. But I had a blast. I wasn’t the least bit seasick, and I especially enjoyed being able to share in something Don loves so much. My strategy was simple. I just made sure that the jib followed the little red flag thingie hanging from the “dolphin striker”. As it turns out, Sunday was a wash, literally. We awoke at about 5 am to pouring rain, and it never stopped. The race was called, and as the Fleet huddled together under a few makeshift tarps near Dave’s RV, an amazing thing happened. We got first place plaques! I have to admit, this was really really cool. Don took my hand as we ran through the rain back to the shelter of our tent, and he said to me, “You know that stuff I said about this not being about winning? I lied.”

Things I learned from my first Hobie Regatta:

A small water bottle makes perfect round bruises on your knee. A Powerbar makes linear bruises.

Urine can travel uphill inside a wetsuit.

Trap handles are not invincible.

If you hit your forehead on the mast, it hurts.

You can race and not break a nail. (But you can’t brag about this because intact fingernails hold absolutely no cache in the world of sailboat racing.)

Horns are optional.

If it feels like you’re hauling ass, then you are actually hauling ass.

When the Commodore says “tack now”, you tack.

To the folks at the Dramamine Corporation,“Non-Drowsy formula” is actually a relative term. They mean “compared to a wildebeest shot with a tranquilizer dart, you will seem really alert.”

Stringing a makeshift clothesline between two trees is a very effective way to dry your gear. Unless it rains.

No matter how small the holes are in your bug netting, there is ALWAYS a species of bug smaller.

Screaming while racing only serves to give the water another orifice in which to blast.

Lots of Hobie racers own dogs. Big dogs. Sometimes more than one. And they bring them to the Regattas, which is probably why no one brought their cat.

An air mattress is a lot more effective when it’s filled with air.

Why do people argue whether or not we are similar to simians?

I learned a new term the other day. "Chimping". It refers to the action of someone who is looking down at their digital device, trying to figure out how to use it. The term came from the fact that, well, you look like a chimp would when doing the same thing. Here is a picture of my dad and me both simultaneously Chimping at a family dinner. So FYI, it appears to be hereditary!

Why do we drive through weather that has promoted cannabalism?

I've been skiing for about 35 years now. Yeah, I know. Impossible for someone who's only 30. Anyways, it never ceases to amaze me that anyone does this sport. This sport is not an easy muse.

By its very nature, it requires inclement weather just to build the playing field. It's not like most sports, such as football, basketball, or baseball-- whose arenas are there year-round. Although, for the record, I think the ski season is longer than the NFL season, so we've got that going for us. So, just to be able to "do" our sport, we've gotta wait for, even pray for, bad, bad weather. When the rest of you are whining and complaining about how the rain made your commute hellish, and your gutters clogged, and ruined your $49.95 Ducky's detail, us skiers are cackling with joy, impervious to your pain, 'cause we know what rain really means. Game on.

Of course, that means that us skiers can't drive around in Ferraris and Maseratis. No. We have to have an SUV. And not the poser, "I look like a big, tough SUV, but I'm really just a wimpy 2-WD without the sports package that includes enhanced traction control, mud and snow tires, and (of course) heated seats." No. The real thing. The mother of all differentials, the Taj Majal of transmissions. Which means our car insurance is more expensive. But we're happy to pay it. Just look at the pic above. You wanna try and pass through that in a Prius? Ha!

And, skiers must live with the inherent and often painful conflict of, at once, loving nature and harming it in order to get to it. So don't you non skiers give us that "look" when we pass you in our sexy, agile, gas-guzzling SUVs. Don't! We know what we're doing. And don't act like you're "greener than thou" just because you shop at Whole Foods, shun pasteurization, spout off about the virtues of hemp, incessantly quote Osho, and refuse to drink anything that's not in your Nalgene bottle. Back off. Go climb Mt. Tam.

Then there's the gear. New skis, boots, and bindings: $2,000. Gortex jacket and pants: $1,100. Carbon-fiber helmet and UVA, UVB, UVC rated Iridium lensed goggles, $500. Thinking that all makes perfect sense: Priceless.

So, then there's the parking issue. Take the shuttle? Pffft. Whatever. Anyways, unless you're willing to get to the hill when the cat drivers get off work, you're gonna have to park far away. Skiers are like piano movers. That the load is awkward and heavy is a given. The only issue ever is, how do we get it from here to there. But we do. We lug our crap a quarter mile across the lot, usually on an upslope, up flights of stairs, down flights of stairs, up and over the pile of snow that is always just beyond the ticket window, and finally to the chair. And still, we do it day after day, season after seaon, year after year. If you snowboard (I do both) you have slightly less crap to carry, but you have to worry about your baggy pants falling down as you cross the parking lot, and the image you have to uphold is far more taxing. ;-)

Then there's the perils of the activity itself. Falling sucks. Getting up sucks even more. Granted, I don't fall very often-- not because I don't push myself. I'm just that good-- But I've started to shy away from those runs where the odds are: You fall, you die. Just not willing to go there any more. This past year, btw, I did finally experience my first triple black diamond run. At Squaw. There were bears on the run. Yeah. Live bears. Not the beanie baby kind. I have never heard of a basketball player encountering a bear on the field. Yeah. Skiers know they are playing in the forest. And if we ever forget for a moment, the bears will bring us back to reality. And while the rest of the world has finally moved away from high-impact aerobics because of the propensity for injury, skiers still bareback down mogul runs at breakneck speed. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BOOF BAM BAM BOOF BOOF BAM. What's the crunching sound I hear? Oh! That's my cartilage being ejected from my knee joints! Cool!

I could also do a bit about the price of food on the mountain. But in all honesty, it pales in comparison to shopping at Whole Foods and Draegers, so I've removed it from my list of hardships.

So yeah. I am constantly amazed that anyone does this sport. And yet, I totally get why people do. The reasons are manifold, and defy description. But if you ski, you get it.

What now?

This is my wonderful Killer. He's almost 18, and since he's getting up in years, I've started taking alot more pics of him. Alot. With my camera, my Treo, my cellphone... whatever. I think he's starting to feel like he's being harrassed by the paparazzi. I love this pic because he is clearly so like, "Seriously, I am not in the mood for your Annie Leibowitzing right now. Back off."

Killer has been with me since I left home. We've lived in 19 different homes together. I have tried his patience quite a bit, and he's the ultimate trooper. So this pic really warmed my heart. It's so "him".

Could I possibly feel any cooler?

I tried snowmobiling for the first time last year. That's me, driving. The only reason I know it's me is because of my iridium blue lenses on my ski goggles. Yeah, it was as cold as it looks. Oh, and I paid to be there. Narnia on $300 a day. But despite the Donner Party atmosphere, it was a ton of fun. There were some kinda weird moments, like when we were told that you had to do a sort of knee drag/weight transfer when you needed to make a sharp turn, but if you started to tip over, you shouldn't stick your leg out to brace your fall, or the snowmobile will snap it in two. Ummm... run that by me again?

And then there was the time I came around a bend (there were alot of bends) and saw that one of the guides had wiped out and buried their "sled". (They all insist on calling this thing a sled, which is ridiculous because that's like saying that "Rosebud" weighed 700 pounds)

There was also the moment when I realized that the throttle lever was so hot, it was nearly burning a hole in my leather gloves. I thought it must be some mechanical problem that was making it heat up so much. I couldn't even bear to touch it for very long. Which, of course, makes the "mobile" part of 'snowmobile" kinda tough to manifest. I kept trying to press it with different parts of my hand, seeing if I could get comfortable. No go. Finally, I got a chance to point this out to one of the guides. She said, "Oh, yeah, your handlebar heater is turned up too high".

Handlebar heater???

Yeah, no sh** Sherlock. I looked down at the toggle switch she was now clicking down a notch. Sure enough, there were 5 settings:

"Barely noticable"

"Lukewarm"

"Nice and Toasty"

"Frostbite Fighter"

and the setting I had it on, "Glove Melter"

That's my 14-year old nephew on the back. He wasn't having nearly as much fun as I was. He and his brother had, despite my repeated warnings, engaged in a spiritied snowball fight earlier. So now, he was wet and cold. Very cold. He had the iridium blue lips by the time we were done.

So I highly recommend this as a fun thing to do. It's like riding a motorcycle. Only without the oncoming traffic.

Does anyone actually ever USE the hood?

Every now and then, I buy clothes. And I've noticed something really odd. Everything has a hood on it now. I can totally understand why a jacket would have a hood. This is not about heavy outerwear for cold weather, so don't even go there. And I understand why Rocky Balboa had to jog with his on. But I am flummoxed as to why 90% of t-shirts, sweatshirts, zip-ups, warm-ups, even TANK TOPS have hoods on them now. Oh, and I swear to G-d, I saw a hoodie pajama set the other day. What the hell? As if the Unabomber police sketch didn't put enough stigma on the whole idea, I just have to ask, Does anyone out there actually WEAR the hood on the shirts they own with hoods? We're wasting a lot of fabric, people. We're wasting a lot of cotton and stitching time that could be used to give factory workers a break now and then. Now, the pocket I can respect. The pocket needs to be on things we wear. That's an add-on the benefits of which just can't be disputed. The belt loop is another appendage that justifies itself. And what's with the need to nickname things with hoods, "Hoodies"? Do fashion merchandisers think we wouldn't notice the hood unless the thing it's attached to is called a hoodie? What, are we idiots? No one had to call Levi 501's "Pocketies". Of course we're not idiots. But a hood on a t-shirt is idiotic. It just is.