Snowy Woods

Every once in awhile one looks around and wonders where he is and how he got there. Of course, he knows where he resides and if he is lucky, even his place in the world. But it is a rare moment that he notices he is in too deep and thus snaps away the façade that he is in control of his situation. It is akin to walking through the forest and enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and the excitement of a rushing river through the rocks only to wake up and realize that it is getting dark, he is naked and he is without shelter. When life strips away these vestments of control and leaves him stark to the world he tries to remember what this was all about and how long he has been wandering in this forest. He therefore not only wonders how he arrived in this forest but starts to entertain the possibility that he has always been there. Why is he there? What is he trying to accomplish? Which way is up? Which way is down? In this vertiginous environment he has no way of focusing his motivations and decrypting his bearing. He is lost in the forest now and not enjoying the scenery at all. The trees scrape at his skin and the sharp rocks and cold river are threats that could be his undoing. Where is the control? Where is the preparation? How does he live one life at the top of the motivational and moral ladder while living his other in the dark alley of turpitude? Does he know what is right? Of course. His choice to adhere to part of the social pattern of accepted behavior and eschew the rest of it leaves his soul limping. He maintains one strong limb for walking but the other is a shriveled vestige that inhibits him from taking long vigorous strides toward his goals. His weak shortened limb isolates him and ensures that he will never walk in a straight line but is destined to drag himself in circles. He knows that he does this to himself and still perpetuates the behavior of his self-fulfilling prophecy without understanding or even asking; why. The auto destructive choices he makes should send a signal to his brain saying “get out of the forest and you will be ok”. He is chooses not to hear the creaking and groaning of the impending cave in over the raucous laughter and fickle impetuous shouts of his temptations. More than a warning, this klaxon of common sense falls on deaf ears that are determined to mask his eventual undoing.
-my friend-

an ocean venture

A simple question in the middle of a simple conversation reminded me of the ocean and the idea of different perspectives. I was explaining a trip I had taken, where I sailed solo from Masonborrow for 18 hours straight into the ocean. Nearly seventy miles later I was forced to turn around so that I would make it home in time to return to work on Monday. Why? Who does that? Those are the standard questions asked when talking about this weekend. Well I had an answer; I needed a new perspective, and let me tell you the ocean did not fail.

At first you can see the land and you are comfortable, many days and nights have been spent cruising up and down the Carolina beaches filling you with the illusion of control. The weather is calm the seas are low and the water is relatively flat. The wind is from the south east giving you an easy beat straight out into the ocean. Setting the auto helm and adjusting the sails you look around to ensure no others are on your line and you are free to move around. A little plastic cup with some scotch burns your mouth as you stare backwards at the shore. Already the rocks of the inlet are lost to the small swells and chop. The landfall has turned into a shaded edging to the ocean and only barely discernable. This is still close enough that your mind does not race from one weak point of the boat to another, close enough that the sounds of the seas have not overtaken your senses. Soon though, you have past across the horizon and land is gone. So too are the other boats, there is almost nothing now except the occasional bird. The wind has held steady. Hours pass and you go below to get some more to drink and to bring topside a book and some pillows, it is time to relax and sleep before the boat takes you out to the blue water. At some point loneliness will wash over you, it will be instant and intense. Knowing that the trip is for only so many hours helps calm this inescapable feeling. Now that you have been on the water for five or so hours headed due east into the middle of the Atlantic, all of your senses have built and you can hear every creak and strain of the rigging, you can feel the ocean breath as the seas rise and fall around you. You life shrinks to insignificance under the awesome weight of the seas. You can almost feel Poseidon reach up and grab your ship and push her forward. The recognition of your place in the world is the ultimate change in perspective and a clear constant reminder of the power of nature. You have come to grips with the inevitable, that you have no control and that your fate is intimately entwined with that of the world around you. Eight more hours and the decks are awash in blue water. The stars above you are bright and clear, the Milky Way is a visible path stretched across the sky. The trepidation that you had felt melts away with the wonders of the ocean night. The breeze has picked up and you can hear its whispering. Speaking to you of adventures and dangers that dreams and story books are made of, it is this voice that you have fallen in love with; it is why you adventure out. It is this voice that reminds you that you do have some control, that you can reach out with both hands on the wheel and change course. You can push harder into the wind, or bare off, you can turn and run with the wind or just go home. In the end it was your choice that had taken you to the edge of the continental shelf and it will be your choice that will bring you back. It is at this point you have finally shaken hands with the seas and made your pact with Poseidon. So you turn around refreshed and happy. With a renewed sense of self awareness, you have seen the world from another vantage point, and have regained perspective on life. The work is hard and brining the boat into port, but you are filled with the steadfast will of a new man.

Dreams

The deep blue water rises up and out of the ocean reaching for the sky in white foam only to be smashed back to earth by one of the few constants in the world, gravity. This rolling thunder crashes through the barrier and into the shore in a deafening roar. The sandy beaches smooth and soft from the pounding, poke-a-doted with footprints, some two by two, others in some random dance of the playful. Broad-leafed trees pushed back from the water leaning towards the ocean and sky as if bowing in acknowledgement of their weakness in the face of such awesome power. It is no wonder that when your mind sprints from where it is at, in hopes of redemption, most people find it on some beach in a tropical paradise. Those that work and suffer at the hands of others, the feeling of no control, the constant response to the whims of others or the necessities of life, long for the imaginary freedom that must exist in some base tropic existence. The fallacy is plain to see if you are willing to look, but most aren't.

So I too have trapped myself into the belief that the carefree existence is freedom; from the past and future, from needs and wants, and from loneliness. The irony is that the dream comes in single servings. So in response to a childhood dream of adventure still yet to be tamed I have set out in the first phase of some great sailing voyage yet to be. I have pushed a Sabre 28 through the shallow surf of the Chesapeake bay, starting to learn the skills necessary for bigger and grander adventure. With hope and patience I set out on the bay with the fall of the night clouds, and all the light of a moon and stars, I will my future on the sky and the winds.

The currents pull me in every direction; with limited patience it is amazing I have had any success at all. The great adventures to be had, the stories to be written, the academics to be studied, and the painting to be created all lie gathering dust on the shelves as my life stretches onward in a not so healthy mix of procrastination and military service. It is amazing to think that all men before they are soldiers dream of the battlefield, the comradeship, and hardships that will give them the title of Soldier. Yet; the irony is complete that from day one of basic to the cold nights on the Falluja peninsula we lie awake at night dreaming of all the other things in life we would rather be doing. In those cold nights, wiping the dust from our eyes and equipment, in whispers we talk about buying sailboats and cruising across oceans, or climbing mountains with a few friends.

These stories are the real dreams so fragile that they can only be told in whispers while lying still. They are as different for each soldier as possible and are all accepted, these are the stories told after the loud posturing and machismo subsides. The older among us talk about family and make futures for their children that are explained in detail. A younger man will talk of his new bride at home in infinite detail that would make him a poet if he was able. Some, the true loners with no solid grasp of the world describe the mountain range that they will conquer, where as I chose the sea to be my great glory. Maybe that is what it is, the attempt to find some glory in the dream of our youth, as we realize that war will not bring the glory that we had anticipated forcing us to find something else. Or maybe that reality of the situation requires such an escape that we create battles that are less real and more serene. In the end I do not know, but what I fail to understand as of yet, is the overwhelming feeling of not having accomplished anything, though I have meet more and more of my goals, I still feel as if the time is slipping away and I have almost nothing to show for it. I am not alone in these feeling, more and more professional soldiers with experience feel this way as well, that heir trade is so far removed from normalcy that they have nothing to show for their time.

Others around us try and remind us that it is just not so, that our stories are their favorite to hear, that they are envious of us, yet it is a hard fact to believe. How many times have I wished to have had the travels and successes of my friends? How many times have they looked back at me as if I had insulted their existence by wanting to shed mine to assume theirs. Their faces only remind me that as much as I have felt inadequate I would not change the life I have lived, the places I have been, or the people that I have known.

Boat Buying

What do I say to a world that has meant me no harm, or has it? The question still remains, what do I say? My own being cast before your judgment, and laid bare before your standards of perfection. Who are you? Whom do I refer when I say you? For some days it has been my own judgment and self-evaluation that has hurt the worst and then I remember my values are based off of You. What am I to do, thank god that I fall with in the acceptable norms that define the reality of life within the United States. So far from the mean of the world we live in a self-destructive paradise that makes us soft. Well I have taken the first step, I have done what I have demanded of myself for years and have bought a boat. Maybe now I can prepare for what is the eventuality that I have shared with anyone that would listen. I will go out to sea; I will let the ocean breath fresh life into my tired body and hope into my soul. Then in the not to distant future I will give myself to the ocean and let her claim me as her prize.

Sunset (July 2005)

What the hell is a BLOG, and who the hell am I writing it for. I have no one that actually reads this crap and in all honesty that is what this is going to be, crap. I am writing for my own amusement, on to a computer web page done out of complete boredom. Hey who knows, as my friend commented, it might get me laid. Hahah, anyways so, this is my first BLOG and I want to talk about the ocean because it is the farthest thing from life here in Iraq. I would give anything to see the ocean rise and fall with the crash of the tide. Feel the rhythmic power of the surf and feel the wind sweep across the waves, leaving behind the tell tail sparkles of a gust gone by. Feel the surge of the boat under you as the wind fills the sails with a sharp crack, lifting the hull from the water, and plaining across the bright blue liquid glass. The sharp taste of sea spray slapping you in the face, as you hike out on the rail trying to maintain control of the wind and the boat, steering toward some predetermined point in front of you. Feeling the sudden shift in the winds, making the corrections to the sails with the skill and efficiency of a professional, almost feeling the whims of the water and the wind driving your boat faster and faster along the line. Oh what I would give to be there now! Barefoot walking the beach, with a drink in hand, with friends, waiting for the steel drums to start playing for the nightly Sunset Festival, the party that is special every night. Oh to see the stars dance above the ocean again, putting your self to bed with the warmth of Rum. Waking in the arms of a beautiful girl, with the brightest smile that will wake you with warmth that no amount of coffee could compete with. So maybe it is a fantasy, well its my fantasy and when I get back from this desolate place that has taken friends from me with out reason, I will forget an entire year, in a bottle of rum on the beach starring out at the moon and stars.