Central American beach camping for beginners

I was admittedly a novice at Central American surf beach camping.

Anyone fortunate enough to travel through Latin America has observed careless tourists hemorraging money as they go, drinking too much, and taking little notice of their possessions. As far as this goes, if you can't take the care to safeguard your stuff, you don't deserve to have it. Master this fact, and you are on your way to an understanding.

Just the other day here in the 'tucket, I saw some dude out out walking a dog. Kinda. This guy was was typical NY tourist, collar up, pink shorts, parading his Bichon Frise around Quaker street. I could have kicked the thing a good 30 yards (35 if it hadn't been wearing some kind of jacket).

In El Zonte, I had to step over a dead dog in one of the streets. Meanwhile, this douchebag probably dropped more on his dog in a year than an El Salvadorean family sees in a year.

The thing to understand, is that here in the states we mostly safeguard our dogs. Down there, a dog is a tool with which to safeguard one's possessions.

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How to safeguard one's possessions when beach camping in Latin America.

1) Find a good dog.

It seems a matter of fact that there will be a dozen or so dogs around whatever beach you are camping. They will size you up. These are survivors, but will likely die in a week without you feeding them. The goal is to start a terrible dogfight near your camp. Wait until you have gotten the pack's interest. Throw a couple of tortillas (10 for a quarter) onto the beach. The strongest couple of dogs will win out. Remember what they look like. If one has a louder bark than the other - winner!

This little fella was waiting for Keith to pass out so he

could eat his wounded leg.

Often times there will be a family around from you you are renting beach space, hammocks, or living space. In this case, you will inevitably be courting their dogs.

2) Feed the dog a big pile of food.

When you have found a good dog (dominant, good bark), lure it into camp with a tortilla (or day old cookie (a nickel at the bakery). Then leave it 3 more tortillas under your hammocks.

3) Go a short way away.

Take a short walk or surf. 30 minutes to an hour. See if the dog is still there when you get back. TIP: Tie or hang your stuff off the ground or the dog will piss on it.

4) Feed the dog more food.

If the dog is still there, he obviously sees you as a sucker. He will hang out all day for the prospect of a meal. His bark will at least draw attention to a potential camp thief. This is the best you can hope for. Before you leave for dinner toss another few tortillas under your hammock.

5) Sleep with food in your pocket.

On your return, drop the last tortilla, cookie, chicken bone or whatever under your hammock. Go to bed with a tortilla in your pocket, or rub some chicken grease on your shirt during dinner.

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How to safeguard yourself from dogs in Latin America

To be fair, much of what I have to say here can be gleaned from the good read "The Sex Lives of Cannibals" by J Maarten Troost. But I can vouch for it.

Dogs are the first line of defense there. Shotguns are next. If a dog barks at someone, fine. Bites them, fine. Pulls a limb from a bandito - that might actually earn it dinner. These dogs are tough, and aggression is rewarded. Don't feel that you have any recourse with the owner. The only association that exists between most locals and their dogs is the sporadic feeding of chicken bones.

So, don't be a pansy. Expect packs of dogs. Fortunately, rocks are plentiful.

In El Salvador, rocks came in two sizes: distractors and yelpers. Distractors are quarter sized, and go in your left hip pocket (assuming right hand dominance). Yelpers are ping pong ball to racquetball sized, and go in your right hand pocket. You might need them quickly.

When you first get rushed, often times you can keep on walking and toss a few distractors over their heads. Aim isn't important. That's why you can fling with your left hand. Just get them interested in some noise opposite the direction you are traveling. Works best for dogs around houses.

Sometimes though, ya gotta make em yelp. Wing a yelper rock with feeling at the closest dog to you. Odds are he is the dominant one, and the others will follow his lead. Even if you miss, Latin American dogs understand what a good rock throw is all about, and will back off a bit. If it is too dark to see clearly, skip a yelper in front of a dog. This will buy you some space, and opportunity to throw a few empty handed fakes to conserve your supply.

You eat like El Salvadorans

Alternate title: But how much ceviche can you really eat?

I could eat a lot of ceviche.

A surfer's diet in paradise is set by routine. You get up at 5. This is 15 minutes after Sam has been up checking the surf and discreetly making noise to wrest his friends from their hammocks. At 5am the surf is perfect: offshore wind, glassy, and no other assholes are out yet. Breakfast is a plantano or manzana that you grabbed last night from a fruit vendor in town, at the cost of a nickel. You eat it before putting on sunscreen and hitting the surf.

At about 10am Noah and Keith hit the beer stand (Sam surfs on for another hour or three). First comes a full litre aqua. Then a plate of huevos rancheros. Two dropped eggs covered in picante sauce, over a bed of frijoles negras. Tortillas on the side, smaller and thicker than their Mexican counterparts, are great covered in hot sauce. The eggs doubtless came from one of the chickens running underfoot. By now the wind has changed, and we eat under a tin or cement roof looking out at the point break, watching a now crowded field of surfers jockey for position and wipe out on mushy waves.

Then come the cervezas. Icy cold Pilseners keep rolling in for the rest of the day. Sam shows up and is eager for vendor food. We pack up the camino naranja, and cruise the CA-2 looking for vendor food. It's the heat of the day now, though we alternate windows down and AC. The landscape is too beautiful to cut yourself off from it for too long. Either way, reggae and Dropkick Murphy's are pumping.

Sometimes we seek out the most modest streetside grill we can find. "Se comida vende?" we ask. "Si, Si", and a plump El Salvadorena eagerly points us toward a bench and table. Her husband sits in the shade and nods. Their daughter is sent to take our drink order, and the son bikes to a bigger stand to get more Pilseners. Watermelon trucks rumble a couple of yards past, flying through the cliffs and curves on the way to Honduras or Guatemala. The bottles shake on the table.

"Hice la tabla." The old man wandered over. You made the table? We look at the joints and slats appreciatively, dropping a couple buenos and muy amables. We invite him to sit and buy him a beer. Little is said. He knows no English, and our Spanish is limits us to few pleasantries and queries. He excuses himself when the food arrives.

"Tengo pollo o pescado." Chicken or fish, the woman told us. The fish was always a pescado frito, fried whole in oil. The chicken was seasoned and grilled. Everything was cooked over a simple fire grate. The quality and simplicity were amazing. Each meal came with a fried plantain. The tally? 15 beers, 3 meals; 17 dollars.

Other days we would opt highbrow. At the tops of overlooks, 2-story concrete structures dominated the vistas. The kitchen was below and seating above, always overlooking a pocket beach and point break 500 feet down. Here was more cosmopolitan. Ceviche brisas del mar came in a soup bowl with saltines. Fresh octopus was identified by suckers still strong enough to stick to the plate. The shrimp were 8" long. And each plate came with decorative, yet tasty, whole crabs. The tally? $50.

On other days, when we would need to stop for hielo, we would go into town for pupusas. The pupusa lady worked a piping hot griddle under a hot tin roof in the middle of the day. She would slap two circles of dough around a thin layer of chicken, cheese, or beans and pat them together. They were good, but they were hot. We took a bag home one day for dinner. Four hours later, I swear they were still too hot to eat. The tally? $8.

On the way back to the beach, we would stop for a bottle of anejo or a few packs of Pilsener. We would lounge back into the hammocks with a cocktail and cigar and pass the heat of the day. The fishermen would come in and unload their catch, and sometimes stop by for a chat and a smoke. The evening surf session would begin after 4, and conclude after sunset (530).

Then it was dinner time.

I enjoyed stepping out at dinner time. It was a time for formality, so we would wear flip flops and shirts. With the sun down, people would emerge and congregate in front of shops. It was no longer blistering hot. Kids played soccer in the street. Everyone would stop and give us the eyeball. In El Coco, the nearest doctor was a 3 hour bus ride away. Not too many gringoes came out this way; those that did never left the gated security of the lone resort. We were a spectacle indeed.

Teenage girls would cluster, point and giggle. The old men would nod. After we sat and our round of Pilseners arrived, a gang of boys would hang out in front of us and give us sidelong glances. Apparently they heard that Americans get drunk and go crazy. They were disappointed when we didn't, and soon returned to their games.

Dinner fare was more of the same. I was tempted several times by the Huevos tortugas, but couldn't bear the environmental burden. One night we found a whole fried red snapper stuffed with shrimp for $12. It was easily the best meal I ever ate. As the woman came to gather our plates, she looked at them with surprise and smiled. "You eat like El Salvadorans" (Ustedes come como Salvadornenos!) she said, picking up a bare snapper skeleton that had been nibbled to the cheeks. It was obviously a complement, and we were as pleased as she.

After dinner, the shopping would begin. There were some necessities, the morrows breakfast fruit and some more cold Pilseners. Occasionally we would buy a soccer ball for the kids, or a melon for a neighbor back at camp. We brought her a watermelon. We got cake.

Sometimes we stood around with the old men, who wanted to talk about cars. They were especially interested in what we drove (Senor, que coche usted conduce?). These are very practical people. They were happy with my Land Cruiser, and thrilled with Sam's dually dump truck. Keith's Camry though, failed to impress.

Naturally, by this time you may be wondering how we retained our stuff, especially in a region where becoming separated from one's possessions is a common occurrence...

Next: Perros playeros!

Christ!

Sorry to have tuned out. I've been busy (see facebook photos of awesome summer fishing)!

I know my one follower and mother's friend (That's you, Jane) have been anxious to see what I am up to. And I hate to disappoint my fans. And yes, 2 fans deserves the plural.

Every morning I read the the headlines on cnn.com, the NYT, local Nantucket news, and the Houghton MI Daily Mining Gazette. The DMG is the last bastion of xenophobia driven news and opinion written by a troop of semi literate baboons.

Enter the 9/12 Letter to the editor:

Bible clear on Earth's age

Once again, Robert Kohtala, you are mistaken in your view that the Bible does not tell us how old the earth is. It seems that for someone who loves to talk about the Bible so much that maybe you would actually read it instead of just believing everything you hear. Please allow me to educate you.

The Bible is very clear on the age of the earth. The first sentence of the Bible states that in the beginning, God made the heavens and the earth. This means there is no prior life or aliens or events which happened before this time. God is relying on the fact that we know what the word "beginning" means. Then God made light and called the light "day" and the dark "night." "And evening passed and morning came, marking the first day." How much more clearer can you get? Our seven-day work week is based on the Bible's seven-day work week of creation. Do we have a seven billion-year work week?

So now we have the six-day creation, which includes mankind, starting with Noah. Genesis 5 gives Adam's genealogy to Noah. Chapter 11 gives the genealogy from Noah to Abraham, and on and on it goes until Jesus Christ. The Bible describes each and every generation from Adam, so there is no lapse of time, no billions of years went by, just generations. There is no gap between Adam and Jesus Christ, from which we now base our dates (i.e., 2,009 years from Christ).

From Adam to Abraham are 2,000 years, from Abraham to Christ are 2,000 years, from Christ to the present is 2,009 years. The earth is about 6,000 years old. Scientists are now proving that the Grand Canyon and the Niagara Falls could have formed in that time period. However, imagine this: The day God created the earth, scientists would have said the earth was billions of years old. Why? Because God has the power and ability to form the earth so well that the appearance of it seems to have taken billions of years. It was fully formed on day one.

True Christians believe on every word written in the Holy Scriptures, which were breathed by God, in the same power He used to create the world and all mankind. Read up before you start preaching false information. God is watching.

Rachel Laurn

Hancock

Now, one letter is just a sign of a kook. In my head I started to outline a satirical letter in response, praising Ms. Laurn's stolidity. But arguing with fanatics is like kicking yourself in the balls, so I let it go.

Enter the 9/25 response. Now one is a kook, 2 is an epidemic. Remember, at 2 people we can start using the plurals, which means more of these folks are probably lurking.

Bible has God's infallible words

Rachel Laurn's letter of Sept. 12 was good. She is correct when she stated that true believers in Christ Jesus our Lord believe the Bible is the inerrant, infallible Word of God.

Genesis 1:1 declares, "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth." And after this statement the details are given in day 1 through 7.

God created the earth first and the sun, moon and stars were not created until the fourth day, (Genesis 1:14-19). Genesis 7 depicts the flood (about 4,000 years ago) that covered the earth, was by the judgment of God because of the wickedness of man, (Genesis 6:5-7).

Genesis 7:22-23 "All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died. And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark."

According to Henry M. Morris, "It is reasonable that Adam and his descendants all knew how to write and kept records of their own times. Genesis records the eyewitness accounts of these histories as written by Adam, Noah, Shem, Isaac, Jacob and other patriarchs. The respective divisions can be recognized by a recurring phrase: "These are the generations of Adam..." (Genesis 5:1) for example.

Moses compiled the writings of these God-fearing patriarchs into the book of Genesis. Genesis is cited at least 200 times in the New Testament and Moses is never noted as the author of any of the citations, according to The Institute for Creation Research( icr.org).

John E Saari

Mohawk native

Calumet High School Class of 1951

Jackson, Tenn.

At least this one graduated from high school.

OK. Not only do I have nothing better to do, but I'm kinda an asshole too. I'm going to see if I can bait these folks. Here is my response. Will post link if the DMG publishes.

Bible laws no modest proposal

I was quite pleased to read Ms. Laurn’s (9/12) and Mr. Sari’s (9/27) Letters to the Editor in the Daily Mining Gazette. It seems that we too often settle for the general sentiment of passages rather than their literal truth. In the book of Genesis, as noted by Ms. Laurn, lifespans were clearly detailed: Noah lives for 959 years (9:29), and Methusaleh 969 (5:27).

But it is not enough to merely accept the Bible at face value. Besides providing a rich genealogical history, it also clearly dictates how we can avoid a sinful life - and maybe live past 900 too.

Personally, I am trying to be a good emissary, though I find it hard to lead by example. I know I should stone anyone who has left Our Lord to worship other gods, but that seems impractical (Deuteronomy 17:2-7). I live on an island, and we only have very small pebbles.

I try to avoid eating pork, as it is an unclean animal. I also avoid hare (though I will eat rabbit), and since I don’t know what a rock badger is, I avoid both badgers and rocks, as I previously noted (Leviticus 11).

I also am trying to grow a beard and keep from cutting my hair as outlined in Leviticus 19:27. But I just can’t fill out a beard very well. I get jealous every time I see a lumberjack, knowing that he is a better Christian than me!

I have since read about others who are taking a literal approach to their own Holy books. Apparently, there is a small sect of people across the ocean somewhere who think like me (and apparently, like my Copper Country friends!). I forget what they call themselves, but they have no problems growing beards, avoiding pork, and killing those who disagree with their literal fundamentalist interpretations.

It’s not our right to try to contemporize the Bible, to weigh competing messages, or to examine the role of metaphor. Jesus never questioned (Matt 27:46), so neither should we. God may be love (1 John 4:8), but that is just not enough. Love alone will not help you live a thousand years, smite your enemies, or gain your entrance to heaven.

Noah Karberg

Nantucket, MA

Too far? Not far enough?

Don't start thinking that I have gone all religious on you. The bible is many things, among them a collection of parables, folksy wisdom, a guide for healthy living in ancient Mesopotamia, and a quasi-history of some historical figures. I tried to walk a line between satirist and fundamentalist, meanwhile hedging my bets lest I get struck by a thunderbolt.

BTW - Mad props if you can find the Thomas Swift allusion.

Darwinistic kinesiology

I've always admired the plasticity of the human body.

Even now as the western diet oozes its way across the globe, populations still maintain amazing physical distinctions. It reminds me of Darwin's finches, but with people: Pacific Islanders are robust, Mayans short, and the Dutch are freakishly tall. Instead of a local food source dictating the shape of a beak, social and environmental factors have affected the physical manifestations of race.

Where entire cultures have taken thousands of years to evolve, individuals can demonstrate remarkable plasticity over the course of several months. But it's not just as simple as Jared; all that fat fuck had to do was walk to the store and eat a sandwich.

Think of yourself as a library book. Fiction or non. You were written to convey a story, recount history, or to aid in repairing Volkswagens. Call it genetic typing, will of the Creator, whatever. Based on your fundamental premise, you are going to be placed in a predetermined location. Though you may be a trashy romance novel with aspirations of a sex manual, it doesn't change the fact that you are never landing in the Dewey decimal 600's.

If you were born as the Volkswagen repair guide, you are probably stuck on a narrow shelf of car repair manuals, bookending with Audi down at the other end. Sorry, but there just isn't anywhere for you to go. However, if you were born as a text on Eastern Orthodox expressions of cuisine and culture in the inner-Moldavian belt, you have leeway in your lateral expression. You may be placed in the 200's and bear the outward resemblance of a religious text, but also be able to resemble social sciences (300) or even history and geography (900).

Let's push the numbers analogy a bit, and find out which are really the most meaningful. I weigh in at a solid 210. I have weighed just around 210 since college. I bookended 195 after a camping trip and 225 after a protein-filled powerlifting kick. But for the most part, a solid 210. The number stayed the same, the difference was the particular goal.

Fine, that would put me little better that a Volkswagen manual.

But wait. I have moonlighted for that same period as musclehead, distance runner, fat stinkin' drunk, and triathlete. My weight rarely changed, but my abilities did. I recently turned a 21 minute 5k. This was just a few months away from finally benching my body weight. After my kayak camping trip I looked wicked ripped awesome, less so after training in the pool to swim a mile straight, though I was probably healthier.

The obvious parallel. At various times of my past couple years, I could be mistaken for a couple different kinds of athlete. A couch potato too. My bookends reflected much more than simply my body mass.

Within that though, there are limits. It would require an extreme effort and some shady supplements for to put up 300 pounds on the bench. A sub 20 minute 5k is also likely unobtainable. We're running into the physical limits of my frame and inherent athleticism.

So is it a blessing, or a curse, to be only marginally talented at a variety of athletic skills? I count beer pong, surfing, running, swimming, biking, looking awesome with my shirt off, and throwing stuff at other stuff as things I am Ok at, but could be better. The problem is that I've reached the endgame at each one, and don't think there is room for improvement.

I credit motivation for what I have been able to achieve. But we are no longer exactly like Darwin's finches. Pacific Islanders traveled hundreds to thousands of miles in open canoes to establish new colonies throughout micronesia. Large girth, and the accompanying fat reserves and low metabolism allowed them to survive the ordeal. So much so, that ingrained into their culture is an acceptance of robustness as a sign of good health. Combined with a lack of significant emigration or immigration, such physical traits are still intact.

The same mostly holds true for the other examples. The Dutch tend to be so freakin' tall because of biological relationships between body mass and cold weather, augmented by good diet. Mayans, those that we have records of, are thought to have been shorter as a result of famine and persecution by the Spanish conquistadors (modern Mayans immigrating to the US have grown 4" taller on average than their 'native' ancestors, based on better nutrition).

I can't help but wonder if the reverse is true today. For example, I am a hodgepodge of German, Czech, and Slovak interbreeding that found a home in America. I would really like to think that in the great melting pot, the most plastic of the offspring had the greatest chance of success, and in Darwinistic fashion went on to produce offspring with the best chance at a brighter future. Only, instead of success tied to the ability to weather famine or spear a fish, success was based on the ability to do at least marginally well at all of what was required.

Whether this was tied to the new world, or a modernizing Eurpope is inconsequential. I can't help but wonder if an immigrant farmer from an isolated Slovakian village (Eastern Europe, for the geographically crippled) marrying an industrialized and efficeint German could produce a 'supercrop' of offspring better suited to a myriad of tasks in a changing world?

Even though it is becoming less and less politically correct to tie a singualr country to a physical style, I believe the evidence is there. While a nature vs. nurture argument is not called for, genetic evidence exists for emotional and psychological traits. Why cannot these be mostly tied to a culture? The best example I can think of is soccer, with its long history and worldwide appeal. Until recently, where players have been bought, sold, and shifted internationally, there have been distinct styles based on regionism, if not nationalism.

The British style plays long clears and headers, as soggy English weather makes a short passing game untenable. The Germans are meticulous strategizers. The Brazilians use quick moves and individual 'samba on grass" to out-athlete opponents. Etc.

It may be hard for our egalitarian society to imagine, but there existed a time when cultures did mostly specific tasks, and were subject to definitive environmental factors. Selection led to different cultural groups (which often evolved into their own countries, principalities, or semi-autonomous tribal regions) taking on different physical expressions. If not for the artificiality of political boundaries enforced by happenstance superiority of a given European army, it might hold more obvious truth.

Regardless, our common Eurpean ancestors mixed (for Caucasions, anyway). Specific traits may have been softened, but offspring were better suited to face the challenges of a new world. Sure, I can't win first at any individual event, but I can camoflage to a number of necessary things. I would like to think that my failure and achievement at such sporting events owes itself to a different mix of Darwinsim, when being able to blend into the needs of a new culture ensured future success. Not just the ability to procreate, but to feed and house progeny after the fact. Such properly reared children wouldn't be bookended merely as day laborer, mason, or farmer. Instead they would have the ability to compete for any number of positions in the new world.

Plasticity, it would seem, might be an environmentally influenced response. It was first a result of circumstance, due to the result of modernization and a shrinking world. Cultures interbred on scales not really seen before. The best adept at specialization within their former niche roles lost ground to those who were able to adapt to a variety of opportunistic labor. The successful might need to draw on a variety of physical attributes, from more than a unique singular ability.

Darwin's finches evolved into specialization, driven by differing beak shapes in response the availability of foodstuffs at each isolated island in the archipelago.  Success in our modern human society has driven us instead towards generalization: the ability to gather, hunt or otherwise produce food is no longer central to advancement.  And it is here that plasticity can reap the greatest rewards.

The Connecticut Civil War

I live in an odd place.  It's an island, about 12 x 5 miles off the coast of Cape Cod.  It's called Nantucket by most, though "The People's Republic of Nantucket" might be more accurate.  

I am thinking of a better description.  I call it "New Connecticut".  Though I know at least 2 reasonable people from there, the name is not a complement.

I feel that I have a short time in which to be objective.  I am in a unique position here.  I wasn't born here so I will never be a local townie, and haven't developed a hatred of all outsiders.  I live here year-round and hang out with other locals, so I don't think they are all brain dead hicks.  And when I work, it is for all sorts of people.  After nearly a year, I think that I can identify the problem with Nantucket.

The problem is squarely with the people of Connecticut.

We all have a natural instinct to reproduce our surroundings wherever we go.  I have hung the same pictures in the same sorts of places in the last 5 places I lived.  My wife arranges each kitchen to resemble her mother's (which in turn resembles her grandmother's).

I was working a job the other day among a grouping of cottages on the East side of the island in a community called Sconset.  We were pruning a giant Norway/Sycamore maple for a client, a mostly reasonable young grandmother type from Connecticut.  She had just shown up for the season, and wanted more sun to fall on her patio without opening up a view to the municipal water tower.  Her name was Diane.

While Diane sat on the porch and called out instructions on which limbs to remove, her neighbor, Emma, pulled up in a loaded down SUV.  The tree in question straddled the property line between Emma and Diane, in the middle of a giant privet hedge.

Diane: "Welcome back, Emma."

Emma: "Good to see you, Diane."

(The women, of course, could not see each other through the giant privet hedge.  Only from our vantage point in the giant maple could Sam and I see both.  They stood, not facing each other through the hedge, but looking west along the property line at the tree, and presumably the skyline behind.  In fact, they never saw each other throughout the whole of the conversation.)  

Diane: "How was the Steamship?"

Emma: "Calm.  It was a very nice ride over.  So, are you having work done on this tree?"

(The pleasantries were quickly dispensed of, and the tone changed.  Sam sighed audibly, roped off his saw, and leaned back in his saddle with a resigned look.  I followed suit.  We obviously weren't dropping branches on anyone today, not yet anyway.)

Diane: "I'm having some of the branches on MY SIDE pruned off.  I want more light on my patio."

Emma: "You could just cut the whole thing to the ground instead..."

(Sam covered his face with his gloved hands.  I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.  As a veteran of the Nantucket service sector, he was obviously preparing for what came next.)

  

Diane: "I am not letting you cut the tree down!"

Emma: "It would be better for your neighbors.  You're being selfish!"

(Ah!  The plot thickens.  Or, er, clarifies.)

Diane: "No one wants to look at the water tower!"

Emma: "I think the water tower is pretty..."

(Let's be fair.  I have heard that the coatings on the steel tower change colors with the angle of the sun, and they are really cool at sunset.  It isn't as stupid as it sounds.)

Diane: "You also thought you spoke for everyone in Fairfield."

Emma: "That was different."   "How much to cut off everything on my side?"

(As usual, when faced with responsibility and decision making, I fake a Russian accent and say "Talk to boss.  Boss him." and point toward Sam.  Sam, realizing that he has a client already under contract sees an opportunity to pad his estimate.  He takes sides, saying that he can't prune any more off the tree this summer, seeing as how it would be bad for the tree and unfair to the current customer, etc.)

Diane: "You know I won't allow you to cut the tree down.  It's common property.  We've been through this, here and back home.  It always ends with..."

(As you recall, they can't see each other.  While Diane speaks this last sentence, Emma storms toward her house.  Diane stays, looking West, speaking until she hears the slam of her neighbor's door.  Diane harrumphs, disappears inside, and returns with a glass of white wine.  It is 1030.)

Diane: "OK, where were we?"

Diane and Emma live in the same community in Connecticut, possibly even abutting property owners like they are here in Nantucket.  And like the loaded down SUV, they have brought too much with them.  Psychological baggage, so to speak.

People usually vacation for a new experience, a chance to hang out somewhere cool with amenities dissimilar from those at home.  But if you are from Connecticut, you apparently are unhappy unless you can bicker with your neighbors over the visual aesthetics of your yard. 

  

Big Momma Roca (Part II)

I didn't really want to paddle back out right away.  I was inside the break and had about 15 seconds to decide: fight the surf and paddle out, or paddle around the break and back to shore.  I was tired from being panicked and underwater.  A beer would have been nice, but it was still 730 in the am and the ice probably hadn't been delivered yet.

It was surprisingly difficult to paddle out through the surf.  I took 7 waves on the chin before I got back outside the break.  Sam and Keith could turtle their boards and use momentum to pop up, still paddling.  They made it in 3 or 4.  Assholes.  I labored with odd never-used muscles in my shoulders burning.  There aren't very many gym quality exercises that mimic laying on your back and paddling.

Once back outside, I slid off my board, and used a swim kick to keep in place for the next couple sets.  Then I started missing waves.  Lots of waves.  Overcautious, I would stay out of position until I was sure not to get swallowed too deep in the maw of another NoahKiller.  When I was in the right place, I would drop back.  Eventually though, I found my balls, and started going for it again.

I caught a few.  At first I was just body-boarding them in, getting a feel for accelerating, turning, and ditching.  Then I did a couple pushups, extending my arms and lifting my shoulders and chest off the board.  I even got one one knee for a little bit.  I wiped out a few more times too, and after one short lived ride where I managed to plant both feet for a brief instant, I even got a little cocky.  I paddled downcurrent to brag to my buddies about how I was a natural.  I was outside the break paddling parallel to shore and staring straight ahead, watching the distance shorten between me and Keith.

The first time I realized I should have been looking to my right was after some emphatic pointing and a 2-word shout I couldn't make out.  I turned my head and saw what Sam had been warning me of: outside wave.

The wave wasn't a killer.  It had a nice shape, and was set up for a beautiful peel.  But it was going to fuck me up if I didn't move quickly.  The wave was stacking up and getting vertical real quick.  I paddled hard to my left and into it, trying to get around the lip.  I was double hauling now, watching the face jack up in front of me.  It was going to crest, and I wouldn't be able to get around it.  

In hindsight, I should have gone right at full paddle, and duck dived or turtled.  The first wave of an outside set is usually a little smaller than the next.  The 2nd, 3rd and 4th seem to be biggest, before dropping off again.  I would have been set up get outside and maybe even catch one.  

I duck dove.  In plenty of time.  My angle was bad though.  I had tried to get around the wave, and didn't take it straight on.  I gave the wave too much surface area of my board and body, and it spun me, ripped the board from my hands, and I was sent tumbling.  Instead of the singular Hoganesque body slam, this wave gave me the prizefighter's three-punch combo.  The initial jab stunned me briefly and rolled me off the board.  Sure, I was tumbling, but it was familiar and I had gotten into a protective ball.  Then he hit again, a left hook backed by several tons of rolling water that sent me down to the mat.  Thinking I had weathered the storm, I was caught by surprise with the final body shot, that felt like it came from below.  Panic rose again: I forced it down, wait, wait, wait, swim to the surface, breathe.

The next two waves were 6 feet of whitewash by the time they met me.  I paddled right into the teeth of wave number 2 and tried to duck dive.  Physics of buoyancy just don't add up for that much whitewater, and it sent my on another ride.  I tried turtling into wave number 3, and fared no better.  

By now I had been pushed nearly 200 yards inshore.  I was caught on the inside of the break. Waves were no longer crashing over me, but I still faced down a pile of whitewash.  I paddled hard, and turtled into wave number 4.  

My introduction and farewell to Big Momma Roca lasted all of 1.5 seconds.  It was clear that we just weren't right for each other.  As I paddled into #4, I rolled off to the left of my board.  Her first embrace was warm, and even a little tingly.  The tingle turned to burning, and I knew that this was no jellyfish.  Then, as the wave caught my board and dragged my leg over her the other direction, that bitch Momma Roca really dug in.  

In the lull before the next set, I paddled downcurrent and found an exit among the boulders.  Sam and Keith soon followed.  

I was never worried about sutures, since the cuts really weren't that deep.  Salt water and UV is a great infection fighter, and OTC antibiotics were easy to get.  I was however amazed at the shear number of cuts and that they all ran in the same direction.

This was the only picture I thought to take.  Note that I am still bleeding 5 hours after the event.

We walked over to the beer shack under a tin roof.  I took a lot of stares, but felt really tough.  I had paid some dues, and traded skin with Big Momma Roca (I would later pull some barnacle fragments out of one of the deeper cuts).

My favorite comment came later that night, from a landscaper at our hotel, "Senor, por que lucho usted el leon?" (Mister, why did you fight that lion?"

Coming up next: "Ustedes come como El Salvadoreno!"  (You eat like El Salvadorans!)

Alternate title: 

But how much ceviche can you really eat? 

Noah channels some liberal guilt

(A note to readers: A black friend of mine told me that it was Ok for me to use the term "Black". I also use some unsavory epithets in recounting anecdotes.)

Bear with my analogy for a moment. I always defended my love of sports as being 'a metaphor for the human experience.' Live athletic competition could distill life lessons about the value of competition, perseverance, and hard luck. And apparently, it can also relate to an over-educated sports fan lessons from the ongoing civil rights struggle.

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=vicksatlanta

How was it, in my 30 years of life, did it take an espn.com article that used the Michael Vick plea bargain to clearly explain the roots of judicial mistrust in the black community?

I was hardly sheltered. I grew up with liberal parents in a mixed race community. I went to private school where we read Native Son, The Color Purple, and How to Kill a Mockingbird. One of my best friends in middle school was black, as was my doctor. I was hardly underexposed to the broader community.

However, I had obviously never picked up on some key pieces of information. Through my 12 years of Catholic school education, no nun, priest, or brother would tell us how the leading civil rights leaders of the 1960's were routinely harrassed and wiretapped by government agencies. Instead, during my senior year in high school, the administration brought in the choir from and all-black inner city school. We sat in the gym, white students from a private school, and watched blacks sing and dance for us. Even at the time I felt there was something wrong with this.

Grade school was equally disheartening. We learned about the African-American civic pioneers of our city. Apparently Garret Morgan invented the traffic light. George Washington Carver invented peanut butter, but he wasn't from Cleveland. We definitely didn't learn how Christians had used specific old testament passages to reconcile racism.

In Kintergarden, we had safety day. We were too young to learn about black history I guess. That day, we took a trip the muncipal fire and police stations. We got to tour the fire house and sit in a police car and turn on the siren. Later the policeman would tell us to wave when we saw a cop, and to stop when the police said stop. "We only want to stop and talk to you." He said. As an impressionable 6-year old, those lessons would stick.

Had I grown up black, I probably wouldn't stop.

The Dallas Innocence project has freed nearly a dozen black inmates who were wrongly convicted and imprisoned in the 1980's to early 90's. The project is revealing a troubling tend of wrongful convictions over a narrow period. It is quickly becoming clear to all, save for the Dallas County Prosecutor's office, that the DA was willing to railroad the most convenient black suspect the police provided. DNA evidence is exonerating suspects with similar stories nationwide.

As the espn.com article pointed out, the trial was not about Vick's alleged offenses. It was about the outpouring of vitriol and death threats against Vick himself. It was about the polarization in public response and subsequent assumption of guilt on racial lines. Once again, black community leaders must have thought, a man is facing a lynch mob without his due process. Lost in the public spectacle was the symbolic picture: that once again in the deep South, in a city where leading black figures had been targeted and systematically undercut, a black man had been judged. The black community wasn't supporting dogfighting; they simply didn't trust the system that had already robbed their civil rights so many times before.

My father in law and I once had a conversation about racism. He is friends with a famous black author who gives speeches around the country about owning your own racism. "Everyone," Terry said, "is a little racist. It doesn't mean that you are necessarilly a bad person. You just have to own your own racism before it owns you."

I didn't really buy it at the time. I did more than just say the right things, I acted on them, for the most part. But I never really took the time for empathy. What got me started? The King of Pop.

Fine, he was likely a child molestor. The jokes existed for years. But he was a black celebrity who was convicted long before by the court of public opinon. Same with OJ. And Vick. Public support for the acquittal (of the previous two) suddenly seemed less like an exercise in justice, but a rare victory. For once, a leading black figure beat a bum rap. I remember the divisions over the OJ verdict. At the time I thought of it only as tribalism and the retreat of people to identify with their own groups. I didn't see it as a referendum, however belated, on a the criminal justice system.

My racism? I need to own up to failing to empathize. I remember driving on M-203 after a trip to the city beach. The same redneck is always there in his lawn chair, expounding on gems, like "niggers don't like the cold, that's why you don't see them here" (I am pretty sure that he is the same guy who has never been south of the Portage Lake lift bridge, is 66, has a paper route, and lives with his parents - seriously). On the ride home, I was explaining to my wife that although he was a bigot in every sense of the word, it was easy to understand how living a sheltered life in the Upper Peninsula could lead someone to those same conclusions.

I wasn't accepting his language or racism by any means. I just stepped inside the world he grew up in, looked around at place (100% white), time (segregation era), and environment (racist backwater), and realized that those factors could turn anyone into a misinformed bigot.

Never had I applied the same courtesy to understanding why blacks I knew were defending OJ, MJ, and Vick.

None of this is particularly earth shattering - walk a mile in another man's shoes kind of stuff. But I don't understand why it would take someone as smart as me so long to realize. Obviously, I am still maturing. Even my Grandma got it right before I did. Nana, may she rest in peace, was the youngest daughter of a bootlegger who grew up in the West Virginie hills. She still used the more colorful term, as in, "Noah, who is that colored friend of yours?" She wasn't that bad, hardly even a low-level racist, until the last year of her stay in the nursing home. The nursing home was run by the Cleveland Catholic Diocese, and had just obtained a rental priest from Nigeria to cover its domestic shortage. He was the first black man my Grandma had ever personally met. For her it was simple: if God and the Church is OK with a black priest, then everyone else needs to be too.

For my Grandma, the conversation had to be in terms of religous enlightenment. For me, it was sports. Her empathy derived from sharing a common faith with her priest, the first black man she knew. Mine involved following the public spectacle surrounding an electrifying former Hokie, whose singular athleticism put Virginia Tech on the map. Both may seem equally weird to the respective nonbelievers, but they framed the debate in a context we were each familiar with.

Never underestimate the healing power of sports.

Big Momma Roca (Part I)

I am fascinated by dichotomy. The division of a concept into two seemingly contradictory groups. Nothing can better describe the first couple days of a novice surfer. Dichotomy is also a perfect context for relating the culture of El Salvador.

On our first day we surfed one of the coolest places in the world. El Zonte is one of many right-handed point breaks off the CA-2 in the Western Coast.

(From the perspective of someone standing on the beach, a wave at a right-handed point break will peel from right to left. Most people are right dominant, they naturally surf left foot forward on their board. This enables someone to watch the wave as it breaks, as well as other surfers.)

We got there early. Sunrise was 5:30 local time. We talked to a couple of locals who advised of the best way for gringos to surf - sunrise and sunset, since they weren't usually good enough to surf mushy waves in the middle of the day.

(At night, land cools off quickly while water remains warm. In the morning cold dense air moves offshore over the ocean, helping to stand up the waves and keep everything clean. By 10am, the southwesterlies would dominate, roughing up the surf. By the same forces, land will cool off quickly at sunset.)

Paddling out here was easy. I knew enough from sea kayaking to pick a lull in the bigger sets, and paddle like hell to get out of the break zone. My board was a 7'6" Al Merrick. Sam picked it out. He said that although it was a little squirrelly and hard to ride, it would be easy for me to get out of the break, since I could both duck dive and turtle it. This board turned out a royal pain in the ass, but made me a better surfer.

(As a wave is about to break over you, there are two ways to keep from getting smoked. If your board is small enough, you duck-dive. As you lie prone on your board, you paddle straight into the break. Before getting smacked by a couple tons of water, you quickly pick up the nose of your board and shift your balance forward, taking a deep breath. Then you push your board down, hug it tight, and let the force of the wave drive you down at 45 degrees. After the wave passes you push yourself off your board, locking your elbows and shifting balance to your feet, and pop out behind the wave. If your board is too large to duck-dive, you need to turtle. Turtling is simple, but hard to do well. Longboards are 8' and longer, and have too much forward mass to duck dive. Instead, the rider will roll off the board and hold it in a kung-foo grip. A good surfer will let themselves get whipped around 360 degrees by the wave, and end up back on top of their board, still paddling. It's simple to explain, but hard to do well.)

We bobbed around outside the break. The sun was just getting up, and a hazy sky was casting a weak pinkish orange glow across the water. Birds were calling from the almond trees on the beach. Behind them, steam rose from a deep ravine, blurring the distinction between backlit mountain and lightening sky. The wind was offshore, and blew a fine mist off the wave as it stacked and steepened. As the wave peeled, the crest would fall forward, slowly. The sound was more like a breeze than a crash. Sitting there on my board it was calm. Tranquil.

This morning I would be introduced to my first sets of waves and dichotomies. A wave is at once both beautiful and terrifying, calm and violent, constant and ever-evolving. A surfboard is both a best friend and worst enemy. And this tranquil scene would quickly turn frantic.

Within ten minutes, the first set rolled in. Sam and Keith caught the 2nd and 3rd waves, respectively. I paddled around, watching to see what wave shape they paddled for and how they positioned themselves. Sets came and went, usually 3-5 waves every 5-10 minutes. Between sets, waves were small and unorganized. After 30 minutes of paddling around and away from waves, I decided that it was time to go for it.

(Waves usually break right around the same point. This is where a surfer will position himself. Occasionally a bigger wave will roll in and start breaking further out - this is known as an outside wave. )

I had drifted East with the others, several hundred yards from where we entered. The drop off was sharper, tide was starting to go out, or the sets had just started getting bigger. Regardless, I was now paddling up or around 6' of water.

(Breaking waves are no mystery. Water depth controls wave shape; waves will pile up when water depth is about 1.5x wave height. Wind, tide, and seafloor shape will all dictate when the wave actually breaks, and to crest begins crashing down. So while a wave will always follow a wave 20 seconds later, small differences in wind, height, or tide will make it react completley differently than its predecessor.)

A new set rolled in. The first wave started closing out, and I aimed for a spot between the crests, rolling up and over the face. The second wave was already taking shape. It looked good. I turned my board to a set of cheers from Sam and Keith, and paddled for it.

(Closing out - when a wave face breaks in two directions. Dangerous, because the two breaks can meet together with you in the middle, resulting in a Noah pancake)

I put myself in too deep. Instead of sliding gracefully down the face, I was suddenly pitching ever further forward down the wave. The wave started breaking over me, and the nose of my board buried itself at the base of the wave. The crest grabbed the tail of the board and pitched me forward, end over end. According to the lingo, I had gone over the falls.

I was surprised by how much damage I didn't do to myself with that first spill. With the first roll, I landed with my heel on the fin, splitting it open. With the second, the nose nailed me in the tricep. If I hadn't been protecting my skull, I'm convinced it would have lodged in my brain. Then after 5 or 6 underwater acrobatics, I was Tombstoning.

(Tombstoning is an ominous maneuver, and for good reason. The weight of the overhead water can force a surfer down, sometimes pinning him to the bottom. He is stuck until the wave passes over. Meanwhile, a buoyant surfboard is carried along, sticking straight out of the wave - like a tombstone. The leash stretches as the body weighs down the board, lipping the edge.)

I was stuck. The wave had forced me down. My tombstone (which a novice might think marked the burial site of a certain Al Merrick) was pulling me forward, keeping me stuck in the same part of the wave. After what seemed like 30-40 seconds (in actuality, no more than 5-10), I hit a sandbar and was flipped forward onto all fours, and pressed to the bottom. In an instant, the weight was off me, I planted a foot, and shot upward into the foam.

"How'd that treat you?" Sam had caught the next wave, and was now sitting on his board without the least expression of concern.

I wanted be tough. I wanted to be funny. But I was also pretty sure that I had peed a little. I could taste saltwater in my upper nasal cavity. I settled for understated truth.

"It didn't turn out like I had hoped.

"Yeah. You put yourself in too deep." With that, Sam turned and paddled back into the surf.

I had been shaken up, and was reconsidering if I should even be out here. But athletes adjust, and I could ponder dichotomy later that evening. There would be more surfing that morning. Besides, I still had my date with Big Momma Roca.

Coming Soon: Big Momma Roca (Part II)

Life on the CA-2

It happened exactly like this:

Noah and Sam are driving to a job site. It is mid-March, sleeting and blowing 40.

Sam: "Dude, you wanna go on a surf trip?"

Noah J: "OK. Sure. Where?"

Sam: "El Salvador."

Noah J: "Sounds expensive."

Sam: "It's dirt cheap."

Noah J: "Isn't it pretty sketchy?"

Sam: "I'm sure we'll be fine."

Noah J: "I don't surf."

Sam: "You'll learn."

Two weeks later we were on our way to the Pacific coast of Central America. As far as our conversation, we were both exactly right.

Look for periodic installments to come. A recap blog if you will.

Up Next: Big Mamma Roca

Our Colors Don't Mix (republished from earlier note)

One reason I wanted to avoid a headline like "Sparty sucks", or "Michigan State Eats Cock" is because crass is not a decent substitute for clever. Clever is a Michigan thing.

Michigan State exists because not everyone who can't get into Michigan wants to live for 5 years in Mt Pleasant or Big Rapids.

My friends who have been cheering for State should remember that they are not Spartans. They are Wolverines. Wolverines do not cheer for Spartans.

Mark Dantonio (State football coach) was actually quite clear on this point. He was quite adamant that no Spartan would root for Michigan to beat OSU last November, even though a Michigan upset would potentially send MSU to the Rose Bowl.

This is also that same coach who decided to ridicule Mike Hart's height after Hart concluded a 4-year, 711 yard career sweep of the Spartans. I know this because I immortalized it on the t-shirt I was wearing tonight while rooting against State.

This is the same school who responded to a season hockey sweep by goonery, and beating the hell out of Steve Kampfer while he lay face down and unconscious on the ice. The State News defended the incident by claiming a Michigan starter shouldn't have been playing in the final minutes of a game with a 2-goal lead.

Many warmy and fuzzy soft news pieces are gushing over the home-court favorite Spartans, and the meaning and identity of this team to the State of Michigan. Bullshit! Is Sparty what we really need to represent the State of Michigan and city of Detroit? Sparty is the goddamn problem!

In a city with a crumbling school system and violent crime, to we really need to idolize an athletic program ripe with early draft defectors (Taylor, Randolph, Brown, Peterson, Cleaves et al.) and trigger-happy holsterless pistoleers (See: Plaxico Burress)?

Should we expect the combination of expansive Detroit urban home abandonment and a student body with a history for arson to result in anything beneficial, win or lose?

While Michigan's auto rival states in the South gloat over Detroit's fall, should we emulate a program that gloats in this year's downturn of the Michigan football program? (http://blog.mlive.com/ganggreen/2008/10/dantonios_moment_of_silence_co.html)

I don't mean to be apocalyptic, and I am not particularly religious. But you reap what you sow, be careful what calf you put on a golden pedestal, etc. etc. Of my friends, Michigan alum aplenty, we should be mindful that Detroit (and the state of Michigan) can still succeed IN SPITE OF the values represented by Michigan State.

So let me remind you of the meaning of rivalry, loyalty, and thoroughness. 1) If I wanted to cheer for Michigan State, I would have applied there.2) I am a Wolverine, and I do not cheer for Spartans. 3) I do not want the Spartans to succeed, in either the name of the State or the Big Ten, because the Spartans lack class and values.

Pandemic Schmandemic (Reposted from an earlier note)

I first learned about the swine flu in the El Salvador International Airport. Easily 50% of the people there were wearing various mask-type implements over their face, from full on cartridge respirators to cheesecloth.

They looked silly.

I saw a security person checking passports without gloves. He probably handles 200 passports an hour. Same with the ticket-takers, cashiers, etc. Meanwhile there was no soap in the bathrooms (this was the 3rd world, after all).

At this point we decided everyone else was retarded, and what didn't kill us only made us stronger.

To date, Swine flu has killed less than 1000 people. In a normal year, flu can kill a half million. The last "Pandemic" in 1968 offed an even mil. The official record I guess, is held by the Spanish flu of 1918-1920, responsible for more than 75 million deaths (though it reasonable to assume that modern medical care could have greatly reduced that number).

To the numbers:
DEATH ANNUAL RATE (#/YR)
Spanish flu 1918 25,000,000
Hong Kong flu 1,000,000
Swine flu (ytd) 1,000
Flu (normal yr) 350,000
Heart disease 17,500,000
Cancer 7,600,000
Violence 1,600,000

The point of course, is that the same flu-panic retards rushing to the ER for the sniffles would probably be better off spending their time in other activities: smoking cessation, walking on a treadmill, putting down the doughnut, and not worrying themselves frantic. Statistically, at least, those activities would be the safe bet. But these are probably the same morons who felt that a N-95 dust mask was their ticket to surviving the apocalypse.

I understand the hubabaloo over a particularly virulent strain of H1N1. It underlies what I see as the most awesome health irony ever. Swine flu initiates a massive immune response in healthy individuals, leading to lymphatic fluid overload in the lungs, then suffocation. This is why it (and the Spanish flu) tend to kill the young and healthy instead of culling the old and sick. Those of us who choose to eat well, exercise, and not get hysterical over media hype on imminent death have healthy immune systems. The idiots on the other hand, whose poor choices can saddle them with any variety of system-weakening ailments, likely get a free pass.

Fuck. It's like I'm being stalked by the smart and sexy virus.

I have never been a fan of chronic disease, or seeing family members and friends succumb to the random incidences of cancer or the bad luck of poor genes. Outside of these personal connections, I always liked to think that disease still functioned with basic Darwinistic purpose, leaving more resources for the rest of us - that a calm and rational portion of the populace making healthy living choices might live to stave off Idiocracy.

But apparently, if you think that wearing a mask on a crowded plane will keep you safe, you might just be OK after all.
_____________________________________________

Though your humble narrator works out daily, he is keeping twinkies and a pack of smokes at the ready, just in case.

Bedeviled Guilt (republished from earlier facebook note)

I've always enjoyed Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal". As an aspiring writer, I can appreciate the difficulty in striking the right note with satire. But it also reminds me that behind every pack of feral street children one or more parents are likely MIA in some fashion.

I hate feral children, mostly because nothing can be done about them. You can't hit a kid, and can't find their parents. Direct action is fruitless, as the little bastards are unparalleled in destructive tenacity, and you only wake up with garbage on your lawn or your car keyed up.

Maybe we could just eat the little shits.

I always thought the name 'BIg Brothers and Big Sisters' was a compromise. Naturally, fewer people would seek help from a more judgmental organization named 'Because you fail as a parent' or 'Let me show you how it's done'. Regardless, the Nantucket chapter seems to do a decent job. There are far fewer punks running around here than in Hancock, Cleveland, or Ann Arbor, or even across the Sound on the Cape.

So why does your heartless narrator suddenly care? Selfish motivations of course.
1) I currently enjoy feral-free living, and would like it to stay that way
2) I am registered for a race, benefitting Nantucket Big Brothers Big Sisters, and
3) I am encouraged to solicit donations for said organization, since the race was unable to land a corporate sponsor this year. I have spent 16 weeks training for it, and am going to be really pissed if it folds.

I just registered at Active.com, and they set me up with a nice donation page. But I think they take a cut of all donations as a service fee, so fuck 'em. I am not thrilled with my involvement on Active.com. Regardless, if anyone feels so inclined, donate directly online to Nantucket BBBS. It won't count toward my total (so long, dreams of purple embroidered fleece vest made from recycled soda bottles), but I don't really care.

http://www.bbbsnantucket.org/events/index.html

I have mentioned the race in passing to a few of you. The full name is the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay, which is misleading, as it has an individual category also. It is like a rhoided-up triathlon that traverses the island, and consists of 6 legs in the following order: a 3 mile road run through town, a 1 mile surfboard paddle across the harbor, a 3.5 mile soft sand run, a 1/2 mile swim back across the harbor, a 19 mile bike, and a 6.5 mile road run back to town. I believe there should be a 7th leg drinking contest where each beer consumed lowers your time by 5 minutes.

I'll spare the training montages, except for a good conclusion - My dog, Sierra, as an analogue for feral children. She was a shelter dog, and can be a real pain when she isn't exercised, which is the fault of her owners. After our training runs though, she is sweet as a peach. Now Sierra is at least as intelligent as some of these street urchins, (definitely more productive) and had a hard beginning to her life too. But with the right handlers, she has become a productive member in human society with a little discipline and exercise. Morale of the story? Leash and walk your bitches.

High Time We Got to the Point (republished from earlier facebook note)

http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/swimming/news/story?id=3901721

Am I alone in defending Michael Phelps?

(See my upcoming youtube clip, featuring Noah screaming "Leave Michael alone! Leave him alone!" while pulling out his hair.)

I don't even really like the guy. He was rude to Mark Spitz, is a poor speaker, and as a Michigan alumnus, I feel he does not represent the University well. But if you happen to be one of the sanctimonious 5% of former college students who did not get high, ever, good for you. Go back to your respective unicorn poster-hanging, quad preaching, or teddy-bear snuggling cliques. The cool kids are talking now.

We are easily forgetting our place and our own juvenile antics. Our past 2 presidents have openly admitted to past drug use. No one saw fit to open old leads in those cold cases. Seriously, does South Carolina, the last bastion of that old rebel flag, not have any more serious problems for police to investigate? Does someone getting high at a frat party 5 years ago really take precedence over the dozen or so odd sexual assaults and robberies bound to occur on campus this weekend?

Our government has missed the point for years on drug policy. Every action has had an unintended consequence. Stricter border enforcement led to more home grown growing and violence. Enhanced detection equipment moved growers indoors, creating more potent weed. Large scale operations became small closet jobs. Pot is more widespread and available now than I ever remember it being in my own adolescence.

Having failed on the supply side of the equation, we turn to controlling demand. Get high and you will lose your friends, grades, scholarship, and financial aid. You'll never be able to accomplish anything. A series off Drug Control Policy adds never failed to impart on me their message of guilt and fear.

With this we come to the real reason for the Michael Phelps backlash. He got high, and accomplished more than any one human being could ever hope to achieve. One leaked photo did more to subvert our government's position than any movie - from Up in Smoke to Pineapple Express - ever could. In their anger and impotence, law enforcement is being overzealous in their desire to punish Phelps for undercutting their last foothold in the war on drugs.

Instead of punishing Phelps, and going through the standard process of publicist-mediated apologies and suspensions, why not try taking a more realistic approach? Have Michael (in his haltingly terrible public speaking manner) talk about how he obviously couldn't accomplish his Olympic feat if he was high all the time. How there is a time and place for relaxing, as well as for focus and dedication.

I can imagine the format now. He could talk about how he would get up at 5 to start his workout, and would burn 2500 calories before the rest of us were up. He would mention the discipline to his diet, and his continued push to improve technique. Eventually he would get to the point and talk about sportsmanship, and win or lose, giving it your all so you can walk away and be happy with your results, and move on to the rest of your life. He could sum up by saying that if you are indeed beaten, you can move on without looking back, celebrate, and relax, and prepare to start over again.

And though I gather Michael lacks the sense of comedic timing of your humble narrator, he could turn to the South Carolina police officer left of the podium and say, "I think it's high time you moved on..."