JACK'S BLOG
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2/18/2012 1 Comment The Land of Pleasant EatingSea ScoutsI TOOK MY FAMILY and fled Los Angeles when the Summer Olympics came to town in 1984. I took them to Maryland to introduce them to my birthplace and the Chesapeake Bay where I grew up as a Sea Scout. I shared with them one of the Bay's special treats: Boarding house meals. Wherever we cruised the Bay, up every river and backwater creek, we were bound to find a widow woman and her daughters serving amazing home cooked meals at prices that Sea Scouts could afford. There was the added benefit that every meal that we ate on someone's screened-in porch was one that I didn't have to cook on a two burner propane stove in the confined spaces of the galley, and that someone else was going to wash up afterwards. Every meal began with the “tease.” You were expected to arrive early and sit outside the dining area, on the lawn if the weather was favorable. There was a dog – there was always a dog, usually a Chesapeake Bay Retriever – happy to play with you. You tossed the sticks, it retrieved. Two by fours, it retrieved. Logs, it retrieved. You couldn't tire the damn thing out. He probably would have retrieved a nearby dock if we could have figured out a way of tossing it for him. All the while, one of the daughters would rush to refill the pitcher with iced tea and bring a waft of the kitchen with her, where fresh bread was just out of the oven, cooling. It was tormenting. I remember lunch one Sunday afternoon on the porch of Hilda Crockett's Chesapeake House on Tangiers Island. The “island” is actually comprised of many small ones adjacent to the Bay's eastern shore, just south of the Maryland/Virginia line. It was a summer retreat for the Pocomoke Indians, but occupied by the British since pre-Colonial days. It is so isolated that its inhabitants still speak the same dialect that their forebearers brought with them. We arrived at Hilda's wearing our dress white uniforms and gob hats. Our shoes were shined and our hands washed. Hilda insisted that we clean up after playing with the dog. There was an awkward pause after we sat at the long table on the screened-in porch as Hilda and her daughters hovered over us with their hands folded over their aprons. Our boatswain, Terry Feelemyer, deserved his rank. He was the first to figure out the problem and led us in grace. Hilda and her daughters disappeared as soon as we uttered “Amen.” They returned with steaming plates of fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, and corn on the cob. There were potatoes: mashed and roasted as well as boiled with butter and parsley. There were countless vegetables. I seem to remember garden fresh peas, snap beans, and okra. The rolls were fresh from the oven and smelled of yeast. We watched all this pile up in the center of the table as we whetted our appetites on crab soup and crab cakes. Should I mention dessert? Can you bear it? Apple and peach cobblers with (I swear) home made ice cream. You may wonder how a crew of Sea Scouts could have afforded this banquet. You needn't fear. It was only $2.75 per person. Granted, that was worth more than today, but we gladly forked it over. Visit the website for Hilda Crockett's Chesapeake House. You may be surprised. Adjusting for inflation, the price is just about the same today. I can't remember the name of the establishment, but a similar boarding house on Onancock Creek, farther down the Eastern Shore from Tangiers Island, boasted a selection of fifty-seven dishes served buffet style when boaters visited. Dunaway Walker – the yacht club's resident storyteller and frequent guest of the Sea Scouts on cruises – was a man of great appetites, as well as the possessor of a glorious baritone voice. I remember watching him circle that buffet table with a plate in each hand and a third balanced in the crook of one arm. I have never experienced anguish as deep as the emotion that played on his face when he had filled all three and realized that he had only sampled a quarter of the delights on display there. He returned after emptying all three and took a stance like a bare knuckle pugilist, determined to conquer the whole feast.
During our vacation on the Chesapeake, I rented a home on Smith Island, midway between Tangiers Island and the mouth of the Potomac River. Our first meal there was at Mrs. Kitchings Boarding House. My wife was concerned that the experience could never match my memories of it. She had nothing to fear. After twenty minutes, she looked up from her plate with a grin that split her face and announced, “I didn't know that food could taste this good.” I had to buy a copy of Mrs. Kitchings cookbook so I could keep her happily fed in succeeding years.
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2/17/2012 2 Comments Rescuing the ButtercupSea ScoutsWE WERE MOORED at Solomon's Island midway through our nine day cruise with the Baltimore Yacht Club Fleet in 1956. It's located on the western shore of the Chesapeake, just across the river from the Naval Air Station at the mouth of the Patuxent River. We were supposed to cruise across the Bay and up the Choptank River to the Cambridge Yacht Club the next day. However, the Coast Guard advised us to stay put. Hurricane Betsy was passing offshore and they didn't want us going out onto the open waters until it was past. They called late that night to assure us we would be safe crossing the next day. Half way to Cambridge we received a panicked radio message from them asking where we were. The middle of the Bay we replied. Their advice, “Get the hell out of there. The hurricane has turned west and is headed right for you.” We arrived at Cambridge well ahead of the hurricane, but the fleet captain was waiting for us on the dock when we moored. “The Buttercup is missing,” he informed us. The Buttercup was a twenty-four foot Chris Craft Express Cruiser with a young couple and their infant daughter on board. Our Skipper, Emerson Patton, didn't hesitate. We headed out to backtrack along our route looking for them. A Coast Guard Cutter was dispatched from Cambridge to search along the course towards us. We didn't worry. We were too young to have the good sense to worry. Fortunately, this was the type of weather that our forty-three foot Crash Boat had been designed for. We found the Buttercup first, almost midway between Solomon's Island and Cambridge. A hose that carried cooling water from a fitting in the bottom to the engine had broken, and they didn't discover it until their batteries were covered and shorted out. They had no engine, radio, or pumps. Our Skipper's first inclination was to transfer the family to our boat but the seas were already to rough to get them safely aboard. Two of the older Sea Scouts leaped aboard with hand pumps. They took over and made sure the seacock was closed to prevent the boat from shipping any more water, and then began pumping it out. We rigged a towline and began the long haul back to Cambridge. The only danger was the prospect that we might foul our propellers on crab pots that were planted thick at the mouth of the Choptank River. Long lines ran from the pots on the bottom to cork floats bobbing on the surface. Each float had a color coded stick that identified the owner. I volunteered to crawl onto the bow and watch for them. Fortunately, I was dressed in a bathing suit and the water was warm. The bow dug into each giant wave and swept over me in a giant sheet. As the bow rose on the other side, I had a dandy view like a preacher in his pulpit raised high above the water. I quickly pointed to every float I could see ahead of us and then took a giant gulp of air as the bow plunged into the next wave. It took us about an hour to clear the field of crab pots. We arrived in Cambridge just as the eye of the hurricane passed overhead, and we were able to moor ourselves and the Buttercup without any trouble. I remember later standing on the lawn in front of the yacht clubhouse. I was wearing a raincoat and spread my arms. I felt like a flying squirrel as the wind at the other side of the hurricane's eye filled the coat and held me up. I could not fall on my face no matter how far forward I leaned.
2/16/2012 0 Comments Friends of the Sea ScoutsSea ScoutsTHE VAST MAJORITY of members at the Baltimore Yacht Club in the 1950s were oblivious to the presence of the Sea Scouts. They saw us but didn't pay that much attention. However, there was a significant minority whose sympathies lay with us and a small number who resented our intrusion among their select number. I'll save the later group for another time. Our friends probably would have supported us regardless of our contributions to the club. But it certainly never hurt that we were useful. We dressed up their ceremonies providing color guards and uniformed escorts for their daughters as they were paraded in competitions to select a Princess who would later vie for Queen of the Chesapeake, maybe even Miss Maryland. We did chores that their own sons wouldn't stoop to doing. We helped crew their yachts when they were short of friends. We ran the committee and safety boats for their regattas. Most importantly, we tagged along on their cruises and towed them to safety whenever they were in trouble. Our best friends at the yacht club were Dr. Karl Ebling and his family. His yacht, the Emma S, was moored at the other end of the dock where the scout boats were moored. We occupied the least desirable slips close to shore and he would always stopped to say hello as he went to his mooring at the far end. One of us would jump to push his cart and help him unload it if he was transferring supplies or equipment from his car to the boat. Dr. Ebling was a retired pediatrician with a sense of humor. Practical jokes were his forte. I could not mention him, even in passing, without sharing a few. We ran out of food during the first summer cruise that I sailed on with the Sea Scouts. Our ship's cook had convinced himself that he could feed us for nine days for just five dollars each. Dr. Ebling stepped up and offered to feed us out of his own pocket after we ran out of provisions on the third day. For the remaining six, he and his wife fed us peanut butter sandwiches breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Surprisingly, it had no effect on me. I have never lost my love of peanut butter. Incidentally, I volunteered and was appointed ship's cook thereafter. But, that's another story. Dr. Ebling could improvise a practical joke on the spur of the moment. During a visit to Chrisfield, Maryland, the entire yacht club fleet moored alongside a long dock used by local fishermen to offload their catch of the day into a warehouse nearby. Three of us had become trapped in the ship's dingy under the dock by other members of the crew wielding buckets of ice water. When we refused to come out, three of their number borrowed a dingy with a small outboard motor from one of the yacht club members and came after us. However, we had given them the slip and stationed ourselves on the dock and gave them a good dowsing of ice water when they appears. Half swamped and drenched, they rowed to the center of the harbor to escape us. One of them leaped overboard to swim back causing the dingy to swamp. Although filled with water, the airtanks fastened under the seats kept it afloat with two boys still sitting inside. Everyone was concerned that the outboard motor would not flood with sea water and began yelling instructions. One voice rose above the rest. It was Dr. Ebling instructing the boys to unclamp the motor and carry it over their heads to the dock. Everyone fell silent and looked at him. We all knew that the water was at least twenty feet deep. When we looked back towards the dingy, we saw one of the boys holding the motor over his head and about to step over the side. We dove for the motor. It took us about a half hour to locate it in the murky waters, and another two hours to disassemble, clean, and reassemble it. Dr. Edling stood by all the while, sipping on a can of Eslinger's beer (he loved the trivia questions they printed on the cans) offering advice that everyone politely ignored. On another trip to Cambridge, I contracted tonsillitis and Dr. Ebling sent me off to the pharmacy with a script. It was a mile and a half walk there. The pharmacist looked at me strangely when I presented the script to him. He handed it back saying, “I think someone is pulling your leg, son.” The prescription instructed him to “dunk this reporbate's head in a jar of castor oil.” I read the replacement script carefully before making the trek back to the pharmacy. I could continue but will permit myself just one more recollection. I was sitting at the clubhouse bar atop the terraces at Sue Island with Dr. Ebling one Saturday afternoon. We were eating crab cake sandwiches with chips. He had a beer and I had a Coke. When a new yacht club member joined us. The new member became curious about a large brandy snifter filled with currency in large denominations sitting on the back bar. It was placed there by one of the wives for a charity she was promoting. However, Dr. Ebling's explanation was something different. “See that island out there,” he said pointing in the direction of Miller Island. “Yeah,” the new member responded. “It's a desolate place,” Dr. Ebling continued. “Just a sand spit barely above the high water mark and swamp.” “So.” “So,” Dr. Ebling explained, “anyone who can spend the night there wins all that money.” The new member seemed interested. “What's the catch?” “Mosquitoes,” Dr. Ebling answered.
“So what's the bet?” “Just put a hundred in the snifter and spend the night there.” “That's all there is to it?” “Yep.” I was familiar with the good doctor's impromptu jokes and knew enough to keep my attention on my sandwich if I wanted to see how it played out. The bartender was similarly inclined. After mulling over Dr. Ebling's story, the new member seemed to suspect that something wasn't quite right. “It can't be that hard,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Nope,” Dr. Ebling agreed. “Why haven't you done it?” “Too old,” Dr. Ebling replied softly, examining his sandwich as though one bite might be better than another. “Don't need the money.” “All a fella needs is some repellant,” the new member speculated. “Maybe a mosquito net. They can't be that bad,” he added, “can they?” Dr. Ebling shook his head. “They ran this same thing a few years back,” Dr. Ebling told him. “I'm surprised nobody remembers it.” The new member perked up. “Somebody won it?” “Yep,” Dr. Ebling replied without missing a beat. “How'd he do it?” “Well, the rules say you have to beach your boat on the island,” Dr. Ebling explained. “No problem there. The bottom is sand and the water's deep enough for a cruiser to nudge right up to it.” The new member nodded his understanding. The doctor looked around conspiratorially and leaned close to the new member. He looked around, too, and leaned towards the doctor. “Then he hung a lantern on the stern. Drew all the mosquitoes to it while he slept peacefully on the bow,” Dr. Ebling concluded with a nod and turned back to his lunch. The new member thanked him with a smile and left after giving the bartender five twenties to put into the snifter. I hung around that evening after the other scouts went home. Dr. Ebling offered to drop me on his way so that I could stay for the show. We watched the new member motor to the island that evening, and saw him beach his cruiser on the island. “He's going to be stuck there in about an hour when the tide goes out,” I observed. Dr. Ebling nodded and opened another Esslinger's. We saw the lantern burning brightly at his stern until the mosquitoes arrived. It then disappeared in a dark haze, and we went home. The bartender told me the next weekend, that the man got his boat off the island at about two the next morning when the tide returned. Dr. Ebling died when I was still a young adult leader of that Sea Scout Ship, while I was still in Law School. His funeral was well attended by friends and family as well as many Sea Scouts. 2/15/2012 1 Comment Children in JailSea ScoutsIT DIDN'T TAKE LONG before all the boys in the detention facility wanted to be part of the Sea Scout program that I was offering them. Not that the program was all that spectacular, but it offered them a relief from the routine and regimentation of incarceration. We went to Dana Point all day every Saturday to play with boats. Even the classes on Wednesday evenings got them out of the barracks to do something different. And, the classes I taught were nothing like the regular schoolwork that they sat through every weekday. I hid lessons in science, math, and history deep inside practical courses of piloting, seamanship, and navigation. It didn't take long for me to see that these hardened criminals were still boys at heart. No, I'm not some bleeding heart liberal. Indeed, I ran into a contradiction early on when I referred to them as criminals while they were being taught that they were “boys who had made mistakes.” Sorry, I retorted, “Did you commit a crime and were convicted of it?” “Yes.” “Then you are a criminal.” Of course, their records would be expunged and they would lose the label as being criminals until the next time. Unfortunately, for most of them, there would be a next time and they would move on to another facility where they would serve more time. After that, their records would not be expunged and the label would stick for life. However, in the time I met them, there was a chance, just a chance. Like every other boy I ever met, they tested limits. They tried to see what they could get away with. They looked for “buttons to push.” Fortunately, I had some experience commanding boys, and I had cop eyes. I was used to saying things once and having people obey. That experience served me well. I never yelled at them. Just about every week that I visited the detention facility, I would find a new Deputy Probation Officer in training. It was easy to tell which ones would make it and which would not. Yelling was a dead giveaway. You say something once and take action if someone doesn't listen. The boys were smart. They got the message pretty quickly. I learned very quickly to keep an eye on the clever ones. There's a big difference between “smart” and “clever.” All career criminals are clever. The smart ones quit. The clever ones were guileless. They didn't even realize when they were doing something wrong. I remember one evening when the Officer on duty sent two of the boys to retrieve the supplies I kept at the facility in a storage cabinet. They soon returned without them, and one of the boys asked for the keys. He said the cabinet was locked. The Officer merely looked at him, and the kid's buddy laughed. “He isn't going to give you the keys.” “Why?” “We're criminals!” Times being what they are, my willingness to work with the boys raised some suspicions. I was frequently asked by the boys, “How much are you being paid to do this?” “Nothing.” That raised some eyebrows among them and it took a while to earn their trust. No, I wasn't a pedophile. Hell, one of them probably would have slit my throat had I tried anything. The most important thing they taught me was the duty of a parent. Remember when your mother used to ask, “What would you do if your friends [jump off a cliff/stick their fingers in an electrical socket/eat rat poison]? Whatever? What would you do?” Honestly? You would have done it, too. That's what kids do. Every one of the boys at that detention facility was a member of a gang. They were caught doing exactly the same thing all of their peers were doing. The remarkable thing about them is that they were caught. Remember this, if you are a parent of a preteen or a teenager: You most important job is to be aware of your child's friends. Whatever they're doing, your child's doing. It's that simple.
Occasionally, I would meet a parent. These boys rarely had two or more than one who had the interest to visit them. Once in a great a parent would tell me that they had moved while their son was incarcerated. Their son had a chance. The others, the ones who returned to the same homes in the same neighborhoods were condemned. The gang was waiting for them. So I labored hoping against all hope that at least one would survive. 2/14/2012 4 Comments Let's DoodleOh Dark ThirtyThis was my first "Doodle". I've reclassified these blog postings as "Oh-Dark-Thirty" because that's when ideas like these usually occur to me - in the middle of the night. They wake me up and won't let me get back to sleep. - 5 Oct 2015 DO YOU DOODLE? I used to. A lot! Some of my doodles were extravagant and others were simple. But there never seems to be a pad and pencil around anymore. Does there? The computer has changed all that. Few people are sufficiently adept to doodle using MS Paint, and yet, for some, that's all they can do with it. Google has elevated doodling to a fine art. However, that really isn't doodling, is it? By the way, Yankee Doodle Dandy originally was an insult. British soldiers sang it derisively as they attempted to crush the rebellion in the colonies. The word “doodle” meant fool, and a “dandy” was a fop or a bully. I suppose that playing solitaire on the computer is what passes for doodling these days. It's a mindless activity that prevents us from daydreaming. I used to daydream a lot. It got me into a lot of trouble in school. However, it gave the teacher something to do. She seemed happier sneaking up behind me in class and whacking me up alongside the head with a ruler than in simply boring everyone to death with useless facts and information, like algebra. I learned early on that some doodles were socially acceptable and others weren't. No, not like that! (Where is your mind?) No, I mean that I could get away with simple doodles in class (as long as I wasn't doodling in my textbook or on the desktop) and in business meetings. But, as the doodles became more complex, people seemed to think that I wasn't paying attention to them. Actually, studies suggest that doodling does help us pay better attention. Like I said earlier, it keeps us from daydreaming, which takes all of our attention. Truth is that this blog posting is a sort of a doodle. I finished two chapters on my new novel yesterday (that's a pretty productive day) and I have eighty blog posts in reserve. Imagine that. Eighty blog posts all written and illustrated. All I have to do is click “Publish.” So, I'm just taking a break while I think about things. What sort of things am I thinking about? Doodling for one. There was a television show in the late 1950s about doodling. Contestants vied to explain arcane drawings. I think that it was hosted by Hans Canried, but I can't find a citation for it in his biography in Wikipedia. (Of course, that proves nothing.) However, I did learn that he was the voice of Snidely Whiplash in the Adventures of Dudley Dooright (Rocky & Bullwinkle Show), and that he was born in Baltimore (my birthplace). See. Wikipedia is good for something. Like I said, I'm doodling. I think that I'll make doodling a new category. It'll be a kind of miscellaneous bin for blog posts that don't really fit anywhere else.
Now, there must be a pad of paper around here somewhere.... --------------- ANSWERS Doodle #1: A soldier marching outside a window with a rifle and bayonet. Doodle #2: A bear climbing the far side of a tree. 2/13/2012 0 Comments America Loves To Hate CubaCubaTIMOTHY GATTO, former Chairman of the Liberal Party in America, opines that America loves to hate Cuba and that it was controlled "lock, stock, and barrel," by the US mafia prior to Castro's ascent to power in an oped piece posted on OpEdNews.com. Although I may agree in part with some of the conclusions in this article, I think that these two broad assertions do not necessarily support him. Although it is true that the US mafia controlled much of the travel and tourism industry, including gambling, in Havana prior to 1958, their influence did not reach very far outside of the city. Ordinary American businessmen controlled much of the rest of the island, including the vast sugar plantations, railroads, and public utilities.
Also, I do not see much evidence that Americans in general hate Cuba. Indeed, there is considerable evidence to the contrary. Most American tourists would love to see the island open to them once again, and American businessmen chaff at the bit to resume trade with the largest potential economy in the Caribbean. Even the Cuban-American community is softening its resistance as the older generation of Cuban refugees becomes a minority to their children who do not have the same imperative to return as they have grown up as Americans and this is their home. Although some diplomats believe that relations between the US and Cuba cannot be normalized until the post-Castro era begins, I believe that there is strong evidence that Americans would welcome normalization now, even with Castro still in power. In fact, it might even be better to open talks now before Castro dies so that his supporters in Cuba will be denied the opportunity to resist normalization as a monument to his memory. Of course, those who disagree will argue that we cannot have normal relations with a tyrannical dictator, but the strategy of waiting for political prisoners to be freed before talking has not worked too well so far, has it? No, once we sit across the table from Castro, we will be better able to remind him of the words of his own patron, Jose Marti who said that "Liberty is the right of every man to be honest, to think and to speak without hypocrisy." 2/10/2012 3 Comments CompetitionSea ScoutsI HAD BEEN working with the Sea Scouts that I recruited from the juvenile detention facility for about three years when I had the bright idea to enter them in a competition. Sea Scouts, mostly from the West Coast competed twice each year. Some traveled from Canada and Mexico, and there was even one that occasionally showed up from England. They met at Coast Guard Island in San Francisco Bay for the Ancient Mariners Regatta each Memorial Day weekend, and at the U.S. Marine Corps Base at Camp Pendleton each Thanksgiving Day weekend for Rendezvous. Another Sea Scout Ship at Dana Point was preparing for the Ancient Mariners Regatta and my boys were practicing along side them when the idea occurred to me. I turned to the Deputy Probation Officer standing next to me and suggested it. He surprised me by saying that he too had been thinking of it. He told me about a field trip the boys had taken to tour a warship at Long Beach. One of the members of our Sea Scouts had been with them and began showing off what he had learned. Finally, while on the ship's bridge, the boy heard the ship's clock ring two bells. The boy turned to another and explained, "That's thirteen hundred hours, it's the Afternoon Watch." The ship's captain overheard him and was amazed. It was just one example of the knowledge he had demonstrated all day. Both Sea Scout competitions involved two days of grueling tests of individual skills in piloting, seamanship, and small boat handling as well as teamwork. Most of the ships competing at these events were comprised of groups of teenagers who had various levels of experience between one and four years. We knew that if we entered a team, we would not have any experienced members to carry them through the events. Generally, the boys were assigned to the facility where I volunteered for the final six months of their terms of incarceration. The best we could hope for was to assemble and train a team in that six months only. Even then, some might get early releases and we would end up with team members with only a couple of months to train. Oh, and let me point out that I only had a few hours to work with the boys each week. We knew that we would never get permission to transport the boys on an overnight trip to San Francisco, so we planned to attend Rendezvous at Long Beach where we could transport them back to the barracks each night following the day's competition. Besides teaching them the skills that they would need, I had to come up with uniforms for them. Inasmuch as we had no budget, I had to solicit donations. Fortunately, I was able to purchase second hand uniforms at the Navy Thrift shop, but had to order shoes, socks, ties, and hats as well as all regulation insignia new. A local dry cleaner volunteered to sew on the insignia and press and clean the uniforms for free. The Deputy Probation Officer was a retired U.S. Marine Sergeant. He taught the boys how to march and spit shine their shoes. They surprised me at one of our Wednesday night classroom sessions, bringing their shoes to show off their handiwork. They were as good as any I had ever seen. Despite the fact that the boys had very poor study skills, they applied themselves to learning a daunting array of academic knowledge: the 32 points of the compass, the 32 points of relative bearings, first aid, navigation, signaling, and more. They learned knots and marlinspike seamanship. Then they practiced the team events: rope climbing, boatswain’s chair lifts, rowing, swimming (many had never learned how). The most difficult event, the one that few ships could master, even with many years of training and practice, was scuttlebutt; assembling a tripod from three twelve foot spars, erecting it over a barrel filled to the brim with water, and raising the barrel with a rope and tackle, then lowering and disassembling the rig in an extremely short period of time - all without spilling a drop! Keep in mind that these kids were all members of gangs, often rival gangs. Many probation staffers predicted that they could never cooperate in a team event. I won't keep you wondering. They performed well. They not only won an overall award, they placed third in the scuttlebutt competition. They made me proud. The Deputy Probation Officer I worked with was beaming with pride when they accepted their award and returned to display it at the facility. I was also proud of the other Sea Scouts at the competition who took our boys to heart. They were genuinely distressed that our boys couldn't remain in the evening for the dance and celebrations. They cheered for our boys, especially at the scuttlebutt finals. Overall, we entered a team from the juvenile detention facility three years, with three different crews, and they won awards each time. Skippers of other ships approached me with wonder in their voices to congratulate them. One admitted that he had brought teams to competitions eight years before they ever won anything. I will be forever proud of their performance. I only regret that a physical disability forced me to retire and there was no one to keep the program going.
NOTE: Inasmuch as regulations preclude me from sharing any photographs of the boys, the pictures accompanying this article are of other Sea Scouts demonstrating the competition events. 2/9/2012 2 Comments BodegaWriting I CAN'T REMEMBER when I first heard the word “bodega” used. I'm sure it was on a television show – probably a mystery thriller set in New York – maybe Law & Order. It was a long time before I learned that it referred to a store – usually a neighborhood mom and pop shop. Here too I can't remember how I discovered this. It wasn't until I began writing Rebels on the Mountain that I took time to research it and discovered that the word is derived frombodega de carga – cargo compartment or ship's hold. I laughed at myself – I should have known this. I was a member of the volunteer crew on the Brig Pilgrim in the mid-1980s. It's a replica of the two masted sailing ship that Richard Henry Dana sailed on in the early 1830s, in the hide trade between Boston and California. The ship carried manufactured goods packed in barrels: china, boots, fabrics, saddles, etc. that they traded for cow hides. Thousands of cattle roamed freely in the virgin territory and there were few people needing the beef. So they slaughtered them by the thousands and traded the hides to the New Englanders. A ship like the Pilgrim could load thirty or forty thousand of them. The carcasses were left on the land to be consumed by carrion-eaters (which explains why so many crows and vultures soar above my house even thought the pickings here are slim these days). The crew anchored about a mile or two off shore and brought barrels of their trade goods ashore. They set up shop on the beach where the locals came to select their purchases. In the Spanish variation of this story, in places like Cuba, people referred to these trading places on shore as bodegas inasmuch as the cargo being sold was coming from the ship's hold – bodega de carga. Later, when the cargo was traded to merchants who sold it in the towns and villages, their shops also became known as bodegas.
During the three years that I sailed on thePilgrim I also acted as as docent when visitors came aboard to tour the ship. I told them about the bartering that occurred on shore as the ship cruised the coastline and, really, I knew about bodegas, I just didn't know that's what it was called in Spanish. 2/7/2012 5 Comments False IdolsOpinion I DON'T GET IT. Che Guevara was by all accounts of those who knew him, a ideologue, totally intolerant of all who disagreed with him, and unfortunately, he used his power to punish them inhumanely. Yet, there are many who brandish his iconic image as a symbol of hope and change for the better. Consider the testimony of Humberto Fontova who describes Che's crimes against humanity in lurid detail, using Che's own words: “'We send (to these prison-camps) people who have committed crimes against revolutionary morals,' warned the KGB-tutored Che Guevara, whose definition of such 'offenses' proved pretty sweeping.” Apparently, Che's “revolutionary morals” prohibited drinking and gambling, and regulated sexual relations, as he demonstrated after his rebel column captured the town of Sancti Spiritus in Central Cuba. Fortunately for those citizens, Fidel made him rescind the orders. As I watched union activists carrying banners with Che's image recently in major cities across the United States, I imagined that he would approve of their behavior, but not the motivation behind it. I wondered if they would flaunt his image if they read in his diary, “I have no home, no woman, no parents, no brothers and no friends. My friends are friends only so long as they think as I do politically.” Would Che applaud their efforts or would he censure them, as he wrote, “We punish individuals who refuse to participate in collective effort and who lead an antisocial and parasitic life.” There are those who would argue that the wages and benefits of public service employees have grown so large that they threaten to destroy their hosts. Watching youth flaunting Che's image as they rebel against all those in authority, I wonder if they ever heard or read Che's denunciation of revolution, “Youth must refrain from ungrateful questioning of government mandates. Instead they must dedicate themselves to study, work, and military service.” And woe to those youth who ignored Che. His secret police (yes, Che headed up the Cuban Secret Police) rounded up thousands of youth for being “guilty” of the “rocker lifestyle” or being effeminate, and dumped them in prison camps proclaiming “Work will make men out of you!” I also would love an opportunity to speak with a famous actress, known as a caring and attentive mother, and reputed to have worn a tattoo of Che's iconic image, and ask her how she feels about her hero abandoning his wife in Mexico, and at least five known children in various countries without any signs of remorse. Even Castro grew tired of his “hero's” antics. A retired CIA officer reported how Fidel, via the Bolivian Communist party, constantly fed the CIA info on Che’s whereabouts in Bolivia. “Not even an aspirin,” instructed Cuba’s Maximum Leader to his Bolivian comrades, meaning that Bolivia’s Communists were not to assist Che in any way — 'not even with an aspirin,' if Che complained of a headache." A commentary on Che re-posted on Womanist-Musings from Broad Snark describes him with slightly more vitriol. "... as I watch some of the people who love Che, I am beginning to see that they probably like him for exactly the reasons that I don’t. Because I keep seeing people in our communities emulate all of Che’s most problematic characteristics." The author of this article goes on to describe how Che, "...a privileged, white kid from Argentina... joined Castro's revolutionary movement... the only thing Che was involved with that wasn’t a total failure." The author goes on to describe Che's many failures such as ruining the economy in Cuba, sending homosexuals and dissidents to forced labor camps, attempting to lead black soldiers in a failed revolution in Angola like an imitation Tarzan, and failing to incite a continent-wide revolution in South America, beginning in Bolivia where his own followers ratted him out to the authorities. I begin to suspect that those who worship Che are more focused on his image than the man behind it. The image of a handsome young man staring at some unseen horizon, prepared to meet the challenges of the journey, and reap the rewards of victory, is irresistibly appealing even though the man behind the image failed to deliver its promise. Indeed, a similar iconic image worked well for Obama in his campaign for the Presidency.
Fascinating... Sea ScoutsBOY SCOUTS LEARNED a little about a lot of different things. Sea Scouts learned a lot about piloting, seamanship, and small boat handling. As a result, they were valued over the years when they grew up and joined seafaring organizations such as the Navy, the Coast Guard, and the Merchant Marine. Most were appointed leaders as soon as they arrived at boot camp. I wish I could have used this history to show the boys who I recruited from Juvenile Detention that the skills I was teaching them could offer an escape from the gang life in which they were trapped. Unfortunately, as the years passed, Sea Scouting lost its cache with the naval services. From its inception in 1912 until the end of World War II, Sea Scouts who joined the Navy, Coast Guard, or Merchant Marine and made a career of it, rose through the ranks. Many earned high honors and some even became admirals. Thus, when I was a Sea Scout in the 1950s we never wanted for support. If we needed a vessel, one could always be found lying around some Navy yard unused and signed over to us. If we needed help servicing the engines, a Navy chief would show up. Inasmuch as most of our equipment predated World War II, the type of engines that many of the older engineers had cut their teeth on as new recruits, it was like a bit of nostalgia for them to come and help us, and we learned a lot working with them. All of our boats had 24 volt electrical systems, each carrying four heavy duty six volt batteries connected in serial. Every year, a Navy supply truck would arrive at our skipper's home to pick up the old batteries and provide us with newly re-cored ones. When we acquired the Crash Boat, it was driven by twin Hercules V8 gas engines. These were not like the V8s in automobiles. They were much larger and could drive all 17 tons of that boat at high speed. We loved the speed but flinched when we saw the gas bill. Each engine drank about eight gallons of gas per hour. Our skipper called the Navy for a solution and a tractor dragging a flat bed trailer soon arrived with eight brand new, supercharged Hercules six cylinder diesels with transmissions attached. The Navy had acquired them to test a new clutch system that didn't meet their specifications. They were good enough for us though and we inherited them. The Navy truck driver was happy to drive to a warehouse owned by one of the Scout's fathers to drop off six of them, and take the remaining two to a marina. The next week, a team of Navy engineers showed up to help us rig out the Hudson Invaders and install the diesels. Though not as powerful or fast thereafter, we found that we could afford the diesel fuel. We were always welcome at Naval facilities. We often took our vessels to the Naval Academy where they were lifted out of the water and cradled in dry dock so we could clean and paint their bottoms. We also took advantage of numerous trips on Navy ships. On one occasion, we were at sea on a diesel submarine when the call came that one of our adult leaders was needed back in Baltimore. His wife was having a baby before expected. The Navy sent a helicopter from Norfolk to pick him up and then flew him to Baltimore on a Navy transport. You are right to wonder how I ended up in the Army. I was not an ordinary Sea Scout. I also had my Coast Guard license as an operator of commercial vessels. I was a college and a law school graduate. I applied for Officer Candidate School in the Navy and seemed a shoo in. However, the North Vietnamese didn't have much of a naval force and the U.S. Navy was slow to find a slot for me. I waited until the last hour before my draft notice required me to report and swore in at 5 p.m. Four hours later, the Naval Recruiter called to tell me that they had an opening but it was too late. Unfortunately, things changed during the 1960s. The Boy Scouts of America distanced themselves from the uniformed services to avoid the public's disapproval over the war in Vietnam. By the end of the war, Sea Scouts were no longer enjoying their special relationship with the Naval Services. During the 1970s and 1980s, Sea Scouts dropped the Navy uniform and adopted more casual wear. Their program de-emphasized naval tradition. The Navy responded by establishing their own program to attract teenagers who wanted to prepare for a career in the naval services. During this same time, there was a major shift in world economies. Americans discovered that their dollars could buy more goods and services in foreign lands. The Merchant Marine service began to shrink as ship owners re-registered their vessels under foreign flags and hired foreign nationals to man them. Thus, I could offer my Sea Scouts little promise of a naval career to inspire them to learn the skills that I was able to teach them. Ultimately, I think that America has suffered for their shortsightedness. Ships, no longer held to the higher standards of U.S. Registry, are more likely to be involved in accidents. Crews are more likely to abandon their passengers. Goods sold here are shipped in foreign bottoms and, in the event of crisis, we are dependent on the whim of other nations to transport men and material to trouble spots around the world.
Meanwhile, young men and women seeking good paying jobs won't find them at American ports. Certainly, there are some few openings to maintain and operate yard boats, service barges, and tugs, but nothing like the rich opportunities that used to exist. So, I taught my boys the skills and hoped that they would serve them in other careers that hopefully saved them from a life of crime. |
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