I always said that if the place I lived caught fire, the first thing I would grab would be my Underwater Kinetics HID Light Cannon. Something about the concept of hyper electrified gasses juiced until they radiate appeals to the same testosterone rejoicing pleasure center in the base of my brain as muscle cars, big guns, and any piece of gear that comes nestled in its own water and shockproof Pelican case. The pure white beam blasting out of the thing makes me feel like I am driving a German sedan underwater. I have used it on hundreds of dives and have been in love with it, coveted it, for five years now. It is my baby.
I’ll loan you my car, you can borrow some money, here’s my ex-girlfriend’s phone number, but please don’t ask to take my HID diving. If, in a moment of weakness or friendship I say yes and give it to you, I’ll be anxious as a freshman daughter’s parent with his kid at the senior prom. When you get back I’ll be fighting the urge to rip it out of your hand and inspect it. Heaven help us both if it is damaged. I’d rather just not let you borrow it and save us both the heartache. That’s how much I love my HID.
You can tell where this is going. The other night I was leading a dive on a wreck known for its particularly beautiful and lush soft coral formations. The ship was hauling depth charges when it was sunk, and in the 1970’s a group of engineers removed them, all 278 of them, to make the wreck safe for diving. Many of the charges were cracked and leaking picric acid, a commonly used explosive of the time. The acid leaked all over the wreck during the removal project, killing most of the hard coral growth and leaving the door open for the more rapidly growing soft corals to gain a foothold and surge to dominance, thus enveloping the wreck in their beauty. So there I was, enjoying the way the brilliant HID light made the indescribably rich purples and reds and yellows encrusting the mast of the ship pop brilliantly against the inky nighttime backdrop.
It’s painful to even type this. My light flickered, and then the beam started to dim. As I looked closer, I could see what looked like waves forming in the ray of light. Then, blackness and despair. HID was dead. The paltry yellow glow of my backup light seemed sickly in comparison. Though it got me back home, there was no joy in the journey.
A close inspection of the dead light showed a misting of water inside the housing, source undetectable. Waterproof things eventually leak. It had to happen some time. Parts are replaceable. I can get a new one. I know these things, rationally. But this is about emotion and sentimentality, about covetousness, about testosterone fueled gear fetishism.
I’d like to wrap this up with a moral about how attachment to material things is futile and misguided, leading to inevitable disappointment. But I won’t. I’m pissed and forlorn at the loss of the HID. Goodbye, my bright and faithful friend.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Much Obliged
Obligation. One of those words that, through trite usage, has lost its intended impact. Common appearance of the word in legal context is partially responsible for this dulling of what is historically a monumental concept. To be obliged to someone or something, bound by morality, by honor, by a sense of duty, commitment, or plain necessity; that’s serious. Recently I have been contemplating the gravity of the word in the context of decompression obligation.
The pressure exerted by the weight of water pushes nitrogen from inspired air into solution in the bloodstream, more nitrogen than the body would normally have at sea level. Increase in the depth and time spent underwater loads more nitrogen into the body’s tissues. Eventually the diver must return to the surface, preferably slowly, so that as the pressure lessens, excess nitrogen has a chance to come out of solution, return to its gaseous state, and be harmlessly transferred to the lungs and respired. Rapid depressurization during quick ascent causes the nitrogen to, instead of leaving through the lungs, form bubbles in the bloodstream. If those bubbles collect and join together, then move into vital pinch points such as joints, heart, and nervous system; bad things happen. Think of opening a soda bottle after you shake it up. Open the lid (ascend) slowly and the bubbles hiss away harmlessly. Rip the cap off in a single motion and the pressurized gas in the bottle comes out of solution and fizzes out all over the place, not dissimilar to what can happen in the body.
Extended time spent at depth causes enough nitrogen accumulation, or loading, in the body that the diver cannot proceed directly to the surface, but must make a series of planned stops on the way up to allow the nitrogen a chance to slowly and harmlessly come out of solution. These stops are called decompression stops. Basically, it means you twiddle your thumbs in shallow water holding on to a bar affixed to the boat or you hover or play paper rock scissors with your buddy or count jellyfish or watch the minutes tick by on your watch, as long as you don’t come to the surface until your decompression stops are completed.
Required decompression stops are also known as decompression obligation. The diver is obliged by nothing less than the laws of physics, gasses, and biomechanics to not proceed directly to the surface. Obligation. Serious stuff.
It’s not just that the wrecks here are deep. It’s that they’re deep and, for the most part, horizontal. So, unlike reef diving, where a dive plan might be to go deep, look at something, and then spend the rest of the dive slowly ascending while cruising the reef, eventually ending up in shallow water, the dive plan in Truk often involves going deep, staying deep, then coming up. This practice leads to decompression diving and also a different perception of depth than I have before experienced.
I rarely get in the water now without hitting 100’. Once you get used to descending into the engine room of a ship at 130’ and staying there up to or beyond the point of creating a decompression obligation, exiting the structure or moving up a few levels in the wreck to, say, 80’ starts to seem like a relief. I haven’t in my diving history found myself saying, “Thank goodness I am only at 80’ now. I’m home free.” 80’ seems reasonable, 60’ is downright shallow, just a depth through which I pass to get back to the boat, and at 40’ I’ve started to depend on my body to begin efficient offgassing. The depths which I used to consider deep are now shallower stops along the way up from depths at which I have spent considerable time.
Lest you think me glib or careless, let me assure you that the seriousness with which I consider this issue is what brought me to reevaluate the term obligation as it relates to decompression. Ignoring an obligation underwater can have the same dire consequences as blowing off a moral, legal, or personal obligation, but in a much more immediate arena. Sure, you may sometimes be able to cheat the laws of theoretical physics in the same way that you can try to sidestep a financial or legal obligation, but if you fail or you get caught, you can be in serious trouble. Moral obligations may be overlooked, but the guilty aftermath experienced by an essentially moral person are not unlike those experienced by a prudent diver overlooking decompression obligation. To be obliged to do something is a heavy responsibility.
The pressure exerted by the weight of water pushes nitrogen from inspired air into solution in the bloodstream, more nitrogen than the body would normally have at sea level. Increase in the depth and time spent underwater loads more nitrogen into the body’s tissues. Eventually the diver must return to the surface, preferably slowly, so that as the pressure lessens, excess nitrogen has a chance to come out of solution, return to its gaseous state, and be harmlessly transferred to the lungs and respired. Rapid depressurization during quick ascent causes the nitrogen to, instead of leaving through the lungs, form bubbles in the bloodstream. If those bubbles collect and join together, then move into vital pinch points such as joints, heart, and nervous system; bad things happen. Think of opening a soda bottle after you shake it up. Open the lid (ascend) slowly and the bubbles hiss away harmlessly. Rip the cap off in a single motion and the pressurized gas in the bottle comes out of solution and fizzes out all over the place, not dissimilar to what can happen in the body.
Extended time spent at depth causes enough nitrogen accumulation, or loading, in the body that the diver cannot proceed directly to the surface, but must make a series of planned stops on the way up to allow the nitrogen a chance to slowly and harmlessly come out of solution. These stops are called decompression stops. Basically, it means you twiddle your thumbs in shallow water holding on to a bar affixed to the boat or you hover or play paper rock scissors with your buddy or count jellyfish or watch the minutes tick by on your watch, as long as you don’t come to the surface until your decompression stops are completed.
Required decompression stops are also known as decompression obligation. The diver is obliged by nothing less than the laws of physics, gasses, and biomechanics to not proceed directly to the surface. Obligation. Serious stuff.
It’s not just that the wrecks here are deep. It’s that they’re deep and, for the most part, horizontal. So, unlike reef diving, where a dive plan might be to go deep, look at something, and then spend the rest of the dive slowly ascending while cruising the reef, eventually ending up in shallow water, the dive plan in Truk often involves going deep, staying deep, then coming up. This practice leads to decompression diving and also a different perception of depth than I have before experienced.
I rarely get in the water now without hitting 100’. Once you get used to descending into the engine room of a ship at 130’ and staying there up to or beyond the point of creating a decompression obligation, exiting the structure or moving up a few levels in the wreck to, say, 80’ starts to seem like a relief. I haven’t in my diving history found myself saying, “Thank goodness I am only at 80’ now. I’m home free.” 80’ seems reasonable, 60’ is downright shallow, just a depth through which I pass to get back to the boat, and at 40’ I’ve started to depend on my body to begin efficient offgassing. The depths which I used to consider deep are now shallower stops along the way up from depths at which I have spent considerable time.
Lest you think me glib or careless, let me assure you that the seriousness with which I consider this issue is what brought me to reevaluate the term obligation as it relates to decompression. Ignoring an obligation underwater can have the same dire consequences as blowing off a moral, legal, or personal obligation, but in a much more immediate arena. Sure, you may sometimes be able to cheat the laws of theoretical physics in the same way that you can try to sidestep a financial or legal obligation, but if you fail or you get caught, you can be in serious trouble. Moral obligations may be overlooked, but the guilty aftermath experienced by an essentially moral person are not unlike those experienced by a prudent diver overlooking decompression obligation. To be obliged to do something is a heavy responsibility.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Back to Truk
So I’m back in Truk. Have been for a while, misleading as my last few posts may have been. Just cleaning out over the last few weeks reflections on the Philippines and the return journey. Wanted to thank you for reading, assure you that I am ‘home’, and let you know that further entries will follow, dealing with the wrecks, the job, the people, the boat, and the day to day. The diving is outstanding, and the boat runs impossibly well for being in a remote location with limited access to, well, everything, a tribute to the organization, infrastructure, and relationships the owners have created over the last almost decade. The maintenance, supply procurement, amenities, and crew are all superlative, and I am stoked to be here. Don’t let my blogs about working hard and getting dirty at drydock fool you. I am having the time of my life. Thanks again for tuning in and I hope to see you back soon.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
What I did on 9/21/8
Motored past Yap again today. A lot has transpired since we passed on 8/8/8 going the other direction, but Yap looks the same. They are supposed to have big mantas in Yap Despite their legendary size, I was unable to see them from here.
Pacific Window
Some people can see the Pacific from their window. The Pacific is my window. The porthole in the room where I stay is about two feet above the waterline. As we cut through the waves on our journey home, they wash over the porthole and all I can see is blue water. The noise the ocean makes as it slips over the window is an eerie, sloshing reminder that I am living underwater, a layer of steel between me and the ocean. With a window in it, even.
PacShower
I like a bathroom with a view. I spend a reasonable portion of my life in the bathroom, and it is nice to have something at which to look besides walls. Some of the places I have lived and visited, some of my friends and family, have it set up so they can see the ocean from the bathroom. Nice to stand in the water and look out at the water. My pop can see the S.F. bay. I got to look at the waves breaking on the reef while showering in Fiji. Matt, Krista, and Danny have great Pacific views from their bathrooms and even take it a step further with outdoor showers.
I’ve found a new twist. The Odyssey has a high flow warm water shower rigged with a pull chain on the dive deck. Handy for a post dive rinse. As no one is using the dive deck on the crossing, I can have complete privacy there after nightfall. I eat dinner, grab a towel, sneak off to the dive deck, and shower away the day’s filth under the stars, the Pacific Ocean roiling past at eight to ten knots, three steps down and two steps out. The air is warm and even if it is raining I can warm up under the fresh water. The decking consists of non-skid aluminum diamond plate with wet divers in mind, taking away the risk of slipping and falling.
Sometimes I am down there when we switch generators, a process that kills all the lights on the boat for about eight seconds. Eight seconds with only stars and moonlight, naked, alone, wet, warm, clean, traveling on the ocean; some of my favorite things in life. Blissful. Lest you think that it’s all vacation city out here, I assure you that I earn each and every shower with filthy menial tasks, but a back deck Pacific shower is a fine way to wash all that away.
I’ve found a new twist. The Odyssey has a high flow warm water shower rigged with a pull chain on the dive deck. Handy for a post dive rinse. As no one is using the dive deck on the crossing, I can have complete privacy there after nightfall. I eat dinner, grab a towel, sneak off to the dive deck, and shower away the day’s filth under the stars, the Pacific Ocean roiling past at eight to ten knots, three steps down and two steps out. The air is warm and even if it is raining I can warm up under the fresh water. The decking consists of non-skid aluminum diamond plate with wet divers in mind, taking away the risk of slipping and falling.
Sometimes I am down there when we switch generators, a process that kills all the lights on the boat for about eight seconds. Eight seconds with only stars and moonlight, naked, alone, wet, warm, clean, traveling on the ocean; some of my favorite things in life. Blissful. Lest you think that it’s all vacation city out here, I assure you that I earn each and every shower with filthy menial tasks, but a back deck Pacific shower is a fine way to wash all that away.
8 to 12 on the 10 to 2
Standing night watch during a storm is like riding a bull blindfolded. Wedge yourself in somewhere and hang on. For four hours. With no visible moon, stars, or horizon, the unchanging view out of the pilot house is a big ball of black, an odd sensation, as my eyes tell me that I am not moving, but my inner ear assures me that I am. Over the last two days, the seas have been high but predictable, allowing a certain surety of rhythm. As anyone who lived through the nineties and was exposed to all the boy bands knows, however, just because something has rhythm doesn’t make it tolerable.
Night watch during high seas is not nearly as fun as when it is calm. There’s no chatting with Mike the Mechanic. No working out or stretching. No bowl of ice cream and iPod under the stars. No ocean breeze gently moving through the open doors of the pilothouse. No watching the clouds shift or the moon rise. There is only wedging myself into a half sitting, half standing, all braced position in a corner, trying vainly to anticipate the next jarring crash as the boat wallows through crests and troughs like a sketchy carnival ride. There is the sultry heat of an un-airconditioned room heated by a dash full of electronic equipment and the tangy nervous sweat of two grown men cowering from the elements behind doors closed to keep the ocean, twenty five feet below on a good day, out as it rears up and knocks insistently. There is a radar screen that shows nothing but a mass of patchy green, the microwaves sent out and bounced back dutifully reporting the stormy impenetrable soup ahead and behind. There are cabinets duct taped shut to keep their contents from flying all over the confined space. There is the disconcerting black nothingness of zero visibility out the front windshield.
The Odyssey was built as a small cruise ship to ply the somewhat protected waters of Fiji, offering luxury and a smooth ride to its passengers. Part of that smooth ride was obtained by giving the boat a well rounded bottom that lacked a sharp or deep keel. The effect is a gentle ride in gentle waters, without a lot of snap or roll.
Well, add big open ocean swells and she wallows like a pig. It is crazy to sit in the wheelhouse and feel the waves lift and tilt the boat at the same time, the hull not really biting deeply into the water. I can hear one prop cavitate as it moves close to the water’s surface, then the other as the boat slides down the other face of the wave, an unnerving change of pitch in what is supposed to be the monotonous thrum of power transferred from engines to water.
Rain squalls come and go, forcing us to lock down the wheelhouse and stifle inside, listening to the rain shellacking the boat. The radar screen and assorted electronics cast a ghostly glow throughout the wheelhouse that are comforting when the doors are open but seem sickly when we are shut up inside. The squalls pass and we can open the doors and peer over the side, watching in the dim reflection of the mess hall lights as the boat jacks up on the waves and seems ten feet taller than it usually is, making the fall down to the water thirty feet. I hold on when I do this.
Doing space checks during a storm is interesting if for no other reason than moving from area to area on the boat is like riding an amusement park ride without a seatbelt. As I move from room to room, peering in holds and hatches, I find one question going through my mind again and again: “Where the hell is this water coming from?”
I make it sound like this is all miserable, but it isn’t. The Odyssey is a fine, seaworthy vessel who does her job well, and the tragically misnomered Pacific Ocean has been nothing but good to me. An occasional reminder of nature’s power keeps me humble and cautious. Too long at the top of the food chain, master’s of our environment, makes us soft and complacent, and some comparatively small waves are a pretty painless way to shake things up a bit, put me in my place.
Night watch during high seas is not nearly as fun as when it is calm. There’s no chatting with Mike the Mechanic. No working out or stretching. No bowl of ice cream and iPod under the stars. No ocean breeze gently moving through the open doors of the pilothouse. No watching the clouds shift or the moon rise. There is only wedging myself into a half sitting, half standing, all braced position in a corner, trying vainly to anticipate the next jarring crash as the boat wallows through crests and troughs like a sketchy carnival ride. There is the sultry heat of an un-airconditioned room heated by a dash full of electronic equipment and the tangy nervous sweat of two grown men cowering from the elements behind doors closed to keep the ocean, twenty five feet below on a good day, out as it rears up and knocks insistently. There is a radar screen that shows nothing but a mass of patchy green, the microwaves sent out and bounced back dutifully reporting the stormy impenetrable soup ahead and behind. There are cabinets duct taped shut to keep their contents from flying all over the confined space. There is the disconcerting black nothingness of zero visibility out the front windshield.
The Odyssey was built as a small cruise ship to ply the somewhat protected waters of Fiji, offering luxury and a smooth ride to its passengers. Part of that smooth ride was obtained by giving the boat a well rounded bottom that lacked a sharp or deep keel. The effect is a gentle ride in gentle waters, without a lot of snap or roll.
Well, add big open ocean swells and she wallows like a pig. It is crazy to sit in the wheelhouse and feel the waves lift and tilt the boat at the same time, the hull not really biting deeply into the water. I can hear one prop cavitate as it moves close to the water’s surface, then the other as the boat slides down the other face of the wave, an unnerving change of pitch in what is supposed to be the monotonous thrum of power transferred from engines to water.
Rain squalls come and go, forcing us to lock down the wheelhouse and stifle inside, listening to the rain shellacking the boat. The radar screen and assorted electronics cast a ghostly glow throughout the wheelhouse that are comforting when the doors are open but seem sickly when we are shut up inside. The squalls pass and we can open the doors and peer over the side, watching in the dim reflection of the mess hall lights as the boat jacks up on the waves and seems ten feet taller than it usually is, making the fall down to the water thirty feet. I hold on when I do this.
Doing space checks during a storm is interesting if for no other reason than moving from area to area on the boat is like riding an amusement park ride without a seatbelt. As I move from room to room, peering in holds and hatches, I find one question going through my mind again and again: “Where the hell is this water coming from?”
I make it sound like this is all miserable, but it isn’t. The Odyssey is a fine, seaworthy vessel who does her job well, and the tragically misnomered Pacific Ocean has been nothing but good to me. An occasional reminder of nature’s power keeps me humble and cautious. Too long at the top of the food chain, master’s of our environment, makes us soft and complacent, and some comparatively small waves are a pretty painless way to shake things up a bit, put me in my place.
For Sale: Used Shop Vac
If you ever have the opportunity to buy a second hand Shop-Vac that has been used on a boat, don’t. You don’t want to know what kind of stuff that thing has been vacuuming. Trust me.
Shakedown Street
Two days out of the Philippines we brushed past the tip of tropical storm going the other way, back towards the PI. We’d been watching it picking up steam for a few days, upgrading from storm to tropical storm. As we crossed paths a couple hundred miles south of it, the thing graduated to cyclone status, careening into PI. We left at a good time, but got a taste of the disturbance in the form of heavy rains and eight to twelve foot swells.
Not much productive work to be done on such an occasion. As the captain put it, “Your job today is to stay on the boat.” Good advice and not overly challenging as long as one hand is kept free at all times for holding on to some portion of the boat. Moving around on a ship slogging through swells like that is like doing lay-up drills in a gym someone has installed on top of a wave pool, and every once in a while, the whole gym, instead of just the basketball, takes an evil, unexpected bounce. One minute I’m moving down a hallway thinking I’ve got it all together and the next minute the ship slogs sideways and falls down the face of a wave at the same time. Then I slog sideways and fall down on my face at the same time. Navigating stairs is entertaining, too; as the boat leans one way it feels like I’m in heavy gravity on another planet, but I hit a landing as the boat leans the other way and I get going so fast that I’m afraid I’ll go right through the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
There is no shame amongst the crew as we lurch around like drunks and stumble into one another. No matter how ridiculous your friend looks hugging a pole for dear life or taking a tumble while trying to navigate a hallway, it isn’t really amusing because, apologies in advance here, we’re all in the same boat. We nibble what sustenance we can choke down that does not require uncontained liquids, cooking, or preparation beyond opening a package and moving food to mouth. We sympathetically meet each other’s queasy green grimaces and try to keep it together. I was about to say that we give each other a wide berth, plenty of leeway, and then I realized just how penetrated the English language is with seagoing terms and thought you guys might think I was pushing it if I used either of those descriptions.
Anyone who hasn’t experienced an extended period on rough seas, think about your worst case of motion sickness ever. Now imagine you’re shop vacuuming a mixture of diesel and bilge water out of a cramped tunnel space in an enclosed environment with no fresh air or view of anything outside to orient the inner ear. Now imagine eating a lukewarm pork fat sandwich garnished with cigarette butts and rotten mayonnaise. Well, maybe not that last part, but all the rest, which makes the stomach feel like the last part is a reality.
It is unnerving to feel what is basically your home and your lifeline roiling around, listing heavily in the swells, and shuddering as it impacts troughs, sending rumbling shockwaves all the way through the steel of the boat. Doors and cupboards pop open and slam, things fall off shelves and slide across floors, furniture tumbles, refrigerator and freezer contents obey the laws of gravity and entropy, moving towards lowest level and maximum disorganization. Three hundred gallons plastic fuel tanks on the dive deck, each weighing in at not much under a ton, break free and start sliding around, tearing up big strips of the non-skid rubber deck coating, making me feel like I just entered the bumper car arena at the fair and I’m the only one without a car. Basically anything not bolted down breaks loose and goes flying; you can stand still and listen to objects crashing and tumbling all over the boat, and you are getting tossed around enough that you just don’t care as long as none of it is crashing and tumbling onto you.
Then comes the bad news. Remember all that mechanical, plumbing, and welding work done at the yard? Well, now we’re on Shakedown Street, that part of town where any and all problems, issues, discrepancies, and errors make themselves apparent. Piping that is supposed to move water starts moving diesel infused bilge. Piping that is supposed to move diesel moves air. Piping that is supposed to stay dry carries all three liquids at once. Places that are supposed to stay dry get wet. Places that are supposed to stay wet run dry. You get the idea. Cats and dogs living together in harmony. Congress in accord. Balanced budgets. Respectful, attentive teens. General chaos. Shakedown Street.
Not much productive work to be done on such an occasion. As the captain put it, “Your job today is to stay on the boat.” Good advice and not overly challenging as long as one hand is kept free at all times for holding on to some portion of the boat. Moving around on a ship slogging through swells like that is like doing lay-up drills in a gym someone has installed on top of a wave pool, and every once in a while, the whole gym, instead of just the basketball, takes an evil, unexpected bounce. One minute I’m moving down a hallway thinking I’ve got it all together and the next minute the ship slogs sideways and falls down the face of a wave at the same time. Then I slog sideways and fall down on my face at the same time. Navigating stairs is entertaining, too; as the boat leans one way it feels like I’m in heavy gravity on another planet, but I hit a landing as the boat leans the other way and I get going so fast that I’m afraid I’ll go right through the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
There is no shame amongst the crew as we lurch around like drunks and stumble into one another. No matter how ridiculous your friend looks hugging a pole for dear life or taking a tumble while trying to navigate a hallway, it isn’t really amusing because, apologies in advance here, we’re all in the same boat. We nibble what sustenance we can choke down that does not require uncontained liquids, cooking, or preparation beyond opening a package and moving food to mouth. We sympathetically meet each other’s queasy green grimaces and try to keep it together. I was about to say that we give each other a wide berth, plenty of leeway, and then I realized just how penetrated the English language is with seagoing terms and thought you guys might think I was pushing it if I used either of those descriptions.
Anyone who hasn’t experienced an extended period on rough seas, think about your worst case of motion sickness ever. Now imagine you’re shop vacuuming a mixture of diesel and bilge water out of a cramped tunnel space in an enclosed environment with no fresh air or view of anything outside to orient the inner ear. Now imagine eating a lukewarm pork fat sandwich garnished with cigarette butts and rotten mayonnaise. Well, maybe not that last part, but all the rest, which makes the stomach feel like the last part is a reality.
It is unnerving to feel what is basically your home and your lifeline roiling around, listing heavily in the swells, and shuddering as it impacts troughs, sending rumbling shockwaves all the way through the steel of the boat. Doors and cupboards pop open and slam, things fall off shelves and slide across floors, furniture tumbles, refrigerator and freezer contents obey the laws of gravity and entropy, moving towards lowest level and maximum disorganization. Three hundred gallons plastic fuel tanks on the dive deck, each weighing in at not much under a ton, break free and start sliding around, tearing up big strips of the non-skid rubber deck coating, making me feel like I just entered the bumper car arena at the fair and I’m the only one without a car. Basically anything not bolted down breaks loose and goes flying; you can stand still and listen to objects crashing and tumbling all over the boat, and you are getting tossed around enough that you just don’t care as long as none of it is crashing and tumbling onto you.
Then comes the bad news. Remember all that mechanical, plumbing, and welding work done at the yard? Well, now we’re on Shakedown Street, that part of town where any and all problems, issues, discrepancies, and errors make themselves apparent. Piping that is supposed to move water starts moving diesel infused bilge. Piping that is supposed to move diesel moves air. Piping that is supposed to stay dry carries all three liquids at once. Places that are supposed to stay dry get wet. Places that are supposed to stay wet run dry. You get the idea. Cats and dogs living together in harmony. Congress in accord. Balanced budgets. Respectful, attentive teens. General chaos. Shakedown Street.
Props
Pretty much as clean as the boat bottom and props will ever be. Everything under the boat absolutely gleams, and the propellors have an almost mirror finish. One of the prop blades was bent when we arrived. They used the biggest propane torch you could possibly imagine to heat it until it glowed, then some brave soul beat it with a hammer wrapped in wet newspaper. Amazing to watch. Almost as amazing as watching them remove the rudders, props, and shafts. Now that everything is reinstalled, you could eat off the bottom of the boat. If you could make the food stick.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
What makes a country third world? Some places I have been pretty much scream third world. Chuuk is third world, no question. Drive around for five minutes and it is apparent. Other countries, though, can be hard to pigeon-hole. The Philippines Islands, or at least the portion I saw, are a difficult place about which to make broad, sweeping generalizations. So what are the ingredients of the third world recipe, and how do the Philippines fit?
Sure, some of the roads were ridiculous in their lack of traffic flow, street signals, and upkeep, but they did get people where they were going pretty effectively, and with much less apparent driving stress and road rage than you see in a major American city.
I was not panhandled or accosted for money a single time while I was in Cebu. I saw very few homeless people and was not once approached for a hand-out. There is a certain sense of community and pride there that seems to preclude throwing oneself on the charity of strangers. In addition, I never felt threatened or in danger, even at night. When people stared at me it was more curiosity at the goofy white boy than sizing me up or staring me down. People were friendly, helpful, and all smiles, as well as tolerant of my ignorance. Except for that bitch at the hardware store. The same could be said for very few of the large metropolitan areas in which I have visited or lived.
The majority of children in Cebu attend school. During normal school hours, there are few truants roaming the streets. Any children who are on the streets are wearing neat parochial school uniforms that vary in color and style as one moves between neighborhoods and the Catholic schools that serve them. They form in gaggles before class starts, during lunch time, and after school. When I started seeing uniformed youngsters later in the evenings and on the weekends, I asked around and found out that there are not enough teachers and desk space to teach all the school aged children at one time, so classes are also held at night and on weekends. Try getting an American teen into a classroom on a Saturday morning, much less in a uniform. Then try to imagine getting the funding to keep a school open and full of teachers at such a time.
There are neighborhoods in and around Cebu, specifically in city slums and on the outskirts, that smack of the third world. Mangy dogs roam poor streets winding past ramshackle homes. Corrugated tin, concrete blocks, and poured cement sprouting twisted snakes of rusty rebar are the building materials at hand, reminiscent of the third world the world over. Vacant lots are home to Brahma cattle. Chickens hustle around yards, and there are more goats than John Deere products. Residents deter theft with pointy wrought iron, barbed wire, and, my favorite way to gently underscore the concept of private property, broken glass set into concrete. Graffiti is all pervasive and quite clever, ranging from basic name scrawling to witty respellings of common words and phrases to symbols from the Greek alphabet and other, more esoteric signs. Take a wrong turn down an alley and you will quickly find yourself on squalor street, and the art of loitering may have been invented in the Philippines. Yet even the poorest dirt yards sprout lush flowering vegetation, some planted with extravagant care and attention to beauty.
Pollution is rampant. The sources are power stations, heavy industry, the myriad vehicles on the road, and the constant byproduct generation of millions of people consuming and bumping shoulders every day. Lots of stuff winds up in the waterways between the islands, and watching people bathe, swim, play and splash made me cringe. Think Los Angeles in the 70’s before catalytic converters and heavy EPA regulation.
Folks are clean and neat here. Even in poor neighborhoods, tattered or hand me down clothes are clean and mended. In the business and school sectors, you can practically smell the soap and shampoo coming off the folks commuting to work in jeepneys. Uniforms are crisp and tailored. Whites are brilliant white and any shoes that aren’t sandals are shined. The restaurant staff is squeaky clean, eager, friendly, and, no matter how incompetent they are, they look good in their uniforms and have the kind of genuine smile you won’t find in an American McDonald’s.
There may be no glass in the windows or central AC, but every home has a television, and they are all on at night, reminiscent of every American neighborhood, regardless of class. The idiot box is a universal common denominator among people with ready access to electricity.
Speaking of, electricity and phone service are reliable. Though the above ground wiring is a nightmare tangled bird’s nest that seems impossibly complex and sub-code, I experienced no outages or rolling blackout periods. Can’t even say that about California.
There are nice neighborhoods, too. The college section of town has hip cafes, book stores, and a wealth of restaurants. The tourist section of town has a massive hotel/casino complex of the Tahoe/Reno caliber. Upscale residential areas in the foothills have palatial homes on gated grounds with sweeping views. Mind boggling, agoraphobia inducing malls with six stories, full sized grocery stores and movie theaters, department stores, the works are as nice as anything in America, with the added bonus of pat down and metal detector security at every entrance. If you plan on going West Side Story at the mall, you’re going to have to get creative by wielding a coat rack or hot pan of brownies.
If you were to white out the people and place names in the local newspaper, it could be the daily from any developed nation in the world, with the same doses of greed, corruption, misappropriation, scandal, tragedy, crime, Angelina and Brad, tasty recipes, fluff pieces, cultural calendar, sudoku, funnies, and crossword.
Bottom line, the Philippines I saw has more in common with America or Italy than Mexico or Chuuk. It may not be first world, but it is definitely not third. I’m thinking second world, and I’m thinking I like it.
Sure, some of the roads were ridiculous in their lack of traffic flow, street signals, and upkeep, but they did get people where they were going pretty effectively, and with much less apparent driving stress and road rage than you see in a major American city.
I was not panhandled or accosted for money a single time while I was in Cebu. I saw very few homeless people and was not once approached for a hand-out. There is a certain sense of community and pride there that seems to preclude throwing oneself on the charity of strangers. In addition, I never felt threatened or in danger, even at night. When people stared at me it was more curiosity at the goofy white boy than sizing me up or staring me down. People were friendly, helpful, and all smiles, as well as tolerant of my ignorance. Except for that bitch at the hardware store. The same could be said for very few of the large metropolitan areas in which I have visited or lived.
The majority of children in Cebu attend school. During normal school hours, there are few truants roaming the streets. Any children who are on the streets are wearing neat parochial school uniforms that vary in color and style as one moves between neighborhoods and the Catholic schools that serve them. They form in gaggles before class starts, during lunch time, and after school. When I started seeing uniformed youngsters later in the evenings and on the weekends, I asked around and found out that there are not enough teachers and desk space to teach all the school aged children at one time, so classes are also held at night and on weekends. Try getting an American teen into a classroom on a Saturday morning, much less in a uniform. Then try to imagine getting the funding to keep a school open and full of teachers at such a time.
There are neighborhoods in and around Cebu, specifically in city slums and on the outskirts, that smack of the third world. Mangy dogs roam poor streets winding past ramshackle homes. Corrugated tin, concrete blocks, and poured cement sprouting twisted snakes of rusty rebar are the building materials at hand, reminiscent of the third world the world over. Vacant lots are home to Brahma cattle. Chickens hustle around yards, and there are more goats than John Deere products. Residents deter theft with pointy wrought iron, barbed wire, and, my favorite way to gently underscore the concept of private property, broken glass set into concrete. Graffiti is all pervasive and quite clever, ranging from basic name scrawling to witty respellings of common words and phrases to symbols from the Greek alphabet and other, more esoteric signs. Take a wrong turn down an alley and you will quickly find yourself on squalor street, and the art of loitering may have been invented in the Philippines. Yet even the poorest dirt yards sprout lush flowering vegetation, some planted with extravagant care and attention to beauty.
Pollution is rampant. The sources are power stations, heavy industry, the myriad vehicles on the road, and the constant byproduct generation of millions of people consuming and bumping shoulders every day. Lots of stuff winds up in the waterways between the islands, and watching people bathe, swim, play and splash made me cringe. Think Los Angeles in the 70’s before catalytic converters and heavy EPA regulation.
Folks are clean and neat here. Even in poor neighborhoods, tattered or hand me down clothes are clean and mended. In the business and school sectors, you can practically smell the soap and shampoo coming off the folks commuting to work in jeepneys. Uniforms are crisp and tailored. Whites are brilliant white and any shoes that aren’t sandals are shined. The restaurant staff is squeaky clean, eager, friendly, and, no matter how incompetent they are, they look good in their uniforms and have the kind of genuine smile you won’t find in an American McDonald’s.
There may be no glass in the windows or central AC, but every home has a television, and they are all on at night, reminiscent of every American neighborhood, regardless of class. The idiot box is a universal common denominator among people with ready access to electricity.
Speaking of, electricity and phone service are reliable. Though the above ground wiring is a nightmare tangled bird’s nest that seems impossibly complex and sub-code, I experienced no outages or rolling blackout periods. Can’t even say that about California.
There are nice neighborhoods, too. The college section of town has hip cafes, book stores, and a wealth of restaurants. The tourist section of town has a massive hotel/casino complex of the Tahoe/Reno caliber. Upscale residential areas in the foothills have palatial homes on gated grounds with sweeping views. Mind boggling, agoraphobia inducing malls with six stories, full sized grocery stores and movie theaters, department stores, the works are as nice as anything in America, with the added bonus of pat down and metal detector security at every entrance. If you plan on going West Side Story at the mall, you’re going to have to get creative by wielding a coat rack or hot pan of brownies.
If you were to white out the people and place names in the local newspaper, it could be the daily from any developed nation in the world, with the same doses of greed, corruption, misappropriation, scandal, tragedy, crime, Angelina and Brad, tasty recipes, fluff pieces, cultural calendar, sudoku, funnies, and crossword.
Bottom line, the Philippines I saw has more in common with America or Italy than Mexico or Chuuk. It may not be first world, but it is definitely not third. I’m thinking second world, and I’m thinking I like it.
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