It's Memorial Day today and I'd rather be at work. If this doesn't sound like me, I can assure you it is, and this normally doesn't happen when I'm off the job. I like my days off and vacations as much as the next guy. But today is different and it began with the message from the captain.
Normally I hear the greetings from a captain while sitting in the right seat of my airplane. They talk about the weather, the arrival time, all the usual stuff you hear sitting on an airplane. But today I'm on a 964 foot boat in the Pacific Ocean. And today that message from the captain is heard through the vessel's public address system.
I'm writing this from an internet cafe on the fifth deck of this beautiful cruise ship. It's a 5 day voyage up the coast of California that began in San Diego, yesterday. Beautiful weather, a fine crew, and excellent service. We are having a great time.
At precisely 10 AM this morning, Captain Zisis Tarames provided us with greetings and excellent information regarding our voyage. He updated us on the exact latitude and longitude, outside air and sea temperature, and weather forecast for our first port of call tomorrow. Everything you would expect from the captain's daily informational address, and I was very impressed with his precise tone and tenor transmitted through the ship's speakers. I feel good knowing that my family and this ship are in very capable hands.
One thing I missed though: no mention at all of Memorial Day.
I know this is a foreign registered vessel. The captain and many of the crew and passengers are not American citizens and there is certainly no obvious reason to expect mention of a US Holiday. But this morning at breakfast I spoke to a passenger with a World War II Veteran cap. He was in a wheelchair, and as we talked, I did the math. Every vet from that conflict is over the age of 80 and we are quickly reaching a time when the living reminders of that important point in our history will be nearly gone.
After speaking to the man, I wanted nothing more than the ability to hack into that ship's public address system, and say thank you to every veteran on board. Doesn't matter their nationality, because there are still many out there from other countries who have also sacrificed.
So today I will enjoy myself aboard a beautiful cruise ship. I will stand outside on a bright blue day, a steady strong breeze from the southwest across the deck, and I'll look above for the flags. Flags that distinguish this cruise ship as a peaceful vessel of commerce, transporting free citizens to wonderful destinations across the sea.
But I can also picture flags that are not there: rising suns and swastikas that once filled our national nightmares and fluttered above steel and barbaric ideas. Flags that could be there on this morning, but are not because of men and women who demonstrated courage and sacrifice in a manner that the average citizen can today hardly imagine.
That's why I wouldn't mind being in an airplane right now, nearly ready to pushback, microphone in hand addressing my customers. I'm very proud knowing that on over three thousand flights today that my airline will operate, the crew will begin each journey with a thank you to some very very special people on board.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Cherokee People
There's an interesting race for a US Senate seat going on in Massachusetts.
Incumbent Scott Brown is in a close race against Elizabeth Warren and by most
accounts the campaign has been fairly civil. At least by today's standards. It's
taken an interesting twist, though.
A couple of weeks ago it was revealed that Ms. Warren has reported on some job applications that her race is American Indian, specifically Cherokee. Not every application she has ever filled out or even the ones after she found out that she has distant Indian relatives. Just some. Which means that on certain days, she considered herself American Indian, and on other days she did not.
This "minority status" apparently got her get hired onto the faculty of Harvard as a law professor. Years later, she seemed to have abandoned that claim to being a minority because there are records where she lists herself as Caucasian after being hired for this position. The University itself seems to have played along with this game, because for a while it pointed to Warren as an example of its "diverse" teaching staff.
I have more than a little interest to this side story in an important election. Let me say first, I am not an American Indian. I am not what anyone would consider a minority. I am, however a member of the Cherokee Nation, and I have been for many years. I've voted in every Oklahoma tribal election since 1994, but since I'm not a resident on a reservation in that state, I've never received any benefits to this membership. Whenever I fill out paperwork asking my race, it is and always has been: White or Caucasian.
When I was a teenager, I found out that my own grandmother was part Cherokee. She possessed a card issued by the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma that certified her to be 1/8 American Indian. This is an official and sanctioned tribal government document and it is referred to as a CDIB card: Certified Degree of Indian Blood.
As I learned about about my grandmother's heritage at a fairly young age, I thought it was kind of cool. Having always considered myself an average white kid, and born into an era when being caucasian was going out of out of style, the idea of Native American heritage was instantly appealing. Sure the white folks could be made fun of on 70's TV shows like "Good Times" and "Sanford & Son." But I didn't feel so white any more, and I was able to gin up a respectable amount of indignancy toward the oppressors of American Indians, past and present.
The famous commercial of the 1970's where Iron Eyes Cody sheds a tear over an American landscape riddled with garbage seemed a little more personal to me. Paul Revere and the Raiders song "Cherokee People" spun endlessly on my turntable. I revealed this trivia about my bloodline to a few friends and being smart friends, they were not very impressed. Typical back and forths between us eighth graders would go like this: You don't look Indian. Well it doesn't matter, because I am, sort of. Is this why you have no facial hair? Are you going to end up dead drunk on the reservation?
Undeterred, I acquired the same CDIB card as my grandmother. It was a simple matter of paperwork with the Cherokee Nation. Factoring in two generations, and with no other part Indian relatives to add to the soup, my Cherokee purity ended up 1/32 on the card. Really - right around 3 percent which coincidentally is what Elizabeth Warren claims to be, also. A fraction like this should be plenty reason to laugh at anyone who claims minority status or significant Indian "heritage." But there is more. One big difference between myself and Ms. Warren is that she apparently is an undocumented Indian. That is, she does not have a CDIB card. She says she found out about all this through relatives. If you really want a chuckle, search for her comments about having "high cheek bones" as further proof of being Cherokee.
Another major difference exists between myself and US Senate Candidate Elizabeth Warren. I never once, claimed to be an American Indian on any official application. Not for college, the military, employment, anything, ever. Can't say why, and it's not because I'm not that cynical - because I certainly can be. I just never did the same thing as Elizabeth Warren, and I feel pretty comfortable knowing that the job I have now came about simply through good qualifications and a good interview.
Ms. Warren almost became head of the new agency designed to protect all US consumers. She wants to be a US Senator. I wonder how comfortable she is with the choice she made to treat heritage and the label of "minority" like a garment. To be worn like an attractive interview suit as part of the process of advancing a career. Then closeted away until next time.
Finally, I wonder if she thinks of the other applicants who did not claim to be a minority, but maybe were just as or even more qualified. The ones who thought they were playing fair. The ones who didn't con anybody. You know, the ones who got rejection letters.
A couple of weeks ago it was revealed that Ms. Warren has reported on some job applications that her race is American Indian, specifically Cherokee. Not every application she has ever filled out or even the ones after she found out that she has distant Indian relatives. Just some. Which means that on certain days, she considered herself American Indian, and on other days she did not.
This "minority status" apparently got her get hired onto the faculty of Harvard as a law professor. Years later, she seemed to have abandoned that claim to being a minority because there are records where she lists herself as Caucasian after being hired for this position. The University itself seems to have played along with this game, because for a while it pointed to Warren as an example of its "diverse" teaching staff.
I have more than a little interest to this side story in an important election. Let me say first, I am not an American Indian. I am not what anyone would consider a minority. I am, however a member of the Cherokee Nation, and I have been for many years. I've voted in every Oklahoma tribal election since 1994, but since I'm not a resident on a reservation in that state, I've never received any benefits to this membership. Whenever I fill out paperwork asking my race, it is and always has been: White or Caucasian.
When I was a teenager, I found out that my own grandmother was part Cherokee. She possessed a card issued by the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma that certified her to be 1/8 American Indian. This is an official and sanctioned tribal government document and it is referred to as a CDIB card: Certified Degree of Indian Blood.
As I learned about about my grandmother's heritage at a fairly young age, I thought it was kind of cool. Having always considered myself an average white kid, and born into an era when being caucasian was going out of out of style, the idea of Native American heritage was instantly appealing. Sure the white folks could be made fun of on 70's TV shows like "Good Times" and "Sanford & Son." But I didn't feel so white any more, and I was able to gin up a respectable amount of indignancy toward the oppressors of American Indians, past and present.
The famous commercial of the 1970's where Iron Eyes Cody sheds a tear over an American landscape riddled with garbage seemed a little more personal to me. Paul Revere and the Raiders song "Cherokee People" spun endlessly on my turntable. I revealed this trivia about my bloodline to a few friends and being smart friends, they were not very impressed. Typical back and forths between us eighth graders would go like this: You don't look Indian. Well it doesn't matter, because I am, sort of. Is this why you have no facial hair? Are you going to end up dead drunk on the reservation?
Undeterred, I acquired the same CDIB card as my grandmother. It was a simple matter of paperwork with the Cherokee Nation. Factoring in two generations, and with no other part Indian relatives to add to the soup, my Cherokee purity ended up 1/32 on the card. Really - right around 3 percent which coincidentally is what Elizabeth Warren claims to be, also. A fraction like this should be plenty reason to laugh at anyone who claims minority status or significant Indian "heritage." But there is more. One big difference between myself and Ms. Warren is that she apparently is an undocumented Indian. That is, she does not have a CDIB card. She says she found out about all this through relatives. If you really want a chuckle, search for her comments about having "high cheek bones" as further proof of being Cherokee.
Another major difference exists between myself and US Senate Candidate Elizabeth Warren. I never once, claimed to be an American Indian on any official application. Not for college, the military, employment, anything, ever. Can't say why, and it's not because I'm not that cynical - because I certainly can be. I just never did the same thing as Elizabeth Warren, and I feel pretty comfortable knowing that the job I have now came about simply through good qualifications and a good interview.
Ms. Warren almost became head of the new agency designed to protect all US consumers. She wants to be a US Senator. I wonder how comfortable she is with the choice she made to treat heritage and the label of "minority" like a garment. To be worn like an attractive interview suit as part of the process of advancing a career. Then closeted away until next time.
Finally, I wonder if she thinks of the other applicants who did not claim to be a minority, but maybe were just as or even more qualified. The ones who thought they were playing fair. The ones who didn't con anybody. You know, the ones who got rejection letters.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
The Talented Mr. Waze
Last year I received a letter from the US Postal Service to confirm a change of
address order. The type we normally fill out when we move and want our mail
forwarded to a new address. Trouble is, I haven't moved for several years and
don't plan to.
The name on the change order had my address on it but the last name was spelled Waze. Close - but not quite my last name.
I called the post office immediately and had the forward order stopped. Since the name was a little off, I did not lose any mail (that I know of) and I had nearly forgotten about it - until a couple of weeks ago.
The name Waze re-appeared on a piece of mail in my box the other day. This time it was on a letter from Capital One Credit Card - regarding my account! I like their commercials, but have never been a customer and my wallet does not have a Capital One Credit Card.
After an hour on the phone with their fraud department, the situation is now somewhat resolved. They did have an account under the name Tim Waze, with my address, my social security # and my date of birth. However, in one year, nothing had ever been charged on it. The account is now officially closed. Next step, of course is the big 3 credit reporting companies.
Experian 1st: Yes, the fraud account was on my credit record, thankfully with no adverse information. As reported by Capital One, no balance had ever appeared on the account. Also, Tim Waze was listed on the credit report under personal information (versions of my name, an alias?).
Using the formal dispute process, the record has now been cleared up. No more Capital One. No more Waze, at least on Experian. Now I just have to clear things up with Trans Union and Equifax.
I've also filed a report with Scottsdale Police Department and the US Postal Service mail crimes unit. Although, this has turned into a minor hassle, I have lost no money, and my credit is undamaged by the appearance of Mr. Waze.
While talking to Capital One, I asked them how in the world could you do a credit approval on someone and not catch this? The very polite service representative from Cap One mumbled something about a typo and couldn't explain any further. She did offer to refer me to a credit monitoring company who would be happy to have me as a customer. For a monthly fee, I bet they would.
This got me to thinking that the CC companies and Credit Reporting Agencies do have an interest in this type of fraud. Not only by preventing it, though. Credit monitoring is a growth industry, these days.
Like it or not, we all have an ID# and it is on our social security card. If a government or private entity stores false information under that number, at some point you will be harmed. We live in a world of easy credit, easy access to data on computers, and a government, with each passing day, that seems less interested in our privacy.
Our best defense is to look through all the mail that shows up in the box. Get a copy of your three credit reports. Once a year, they are free and can be accessed easily (maybe too easily) on the Internet.
The name on the change order had my address on it but the last name was spelled Waze. Close - but not quite my last name.
I called the post office immediately and had the forward order stopped. Since the name was a little off, I did not lose any mail (that I know of) and I had nearly forgotten about it - until a couple of weeks ago.
The name Waze re-appeared on a piece of mail in my box the other day. This time it was on a letter from Capital One Credit Card - regarding my account! I like their commercials, but have never been a customer and my wallet does not have a Capital One Credit Card.
After an hour on the phone with their fraud department, the situation is now somewhat resolved. They did have an account under the name Tim Waze, with my address, my social security # and my date of birth. However, in one year, nothing had ever been charged on it. The account is now officially closed. Next step, of course is the big 3 credit reporting companies.
Experian 1st: Yes, the fraud account was on my credit record, thankfully with no adverse information. As reported by Capital One, no balance had ever appeared on the account. Also, Tim Waze was listed on the credit report under personal information (versions of my name, an alias?).
Using the formal dispute process, the record has now been cleared up. No more Capital One. No more Waze, at least on Experian. Now I just have to clear things up with Trans Union and Equifax.
I've also filed a report with Scottsdale Police Department and the US Postal Service mail crimes unit. Although, this has turned into a minor hassle, I have lost no money, and my credit is undamaged by the appearance of Mr. Waze.
While talking to Capital One, I asked them how in the world could you do a credit approval on someone and not catch this? The very polite service representative from Cap One mumbled something about a typo and couldn't explain any further. She did offer to refer me to a credit monitoring company who would be happy to have me as a customer. For a monthly fee, I bet they would.
This got me to thinking that the CC companies and Credit Reporting Agencies do have an interest in this type of fraud. Not only by preventing it, though. Credit monitoring is a growth industry, these days.
Like it or not, we all have an ID# and it is on our social security card. If a government or private entity stores false information under that number, at some point you will be harmed. We live in a world of easy credit, easy access to data on computers, and a government, with each passing day, that seems less interested in our privacy.
Our best defense is to look through all the mail that shows up in the box. Get a copy of your three credit reports. Once a year, they are free and can be accessed easily (maybe too easily) on the Internet.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
"Dispatches" by Michael Herr
Michael Herr published "Dispatches" in 1977 and it remains one of the most
significant books about the Vietnam War. Herr was a correspondent for Esquire
magazine and compiled his stories from several months of close contact with US
Marines beginning in 1968. An 'embedded journalist" in today's terms. If you
are a fan of the movies Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket, this book is a must
read. The author contributed to the scripts of both of these films.
An early line from the book that features many vivid descriptions of men at war. The "Lurp" was a Long Range Recon Patrol Marine. He is nameless. Like many characters within the book, his story is told in brief, controlled bursts of blunt and gripping combat prose. I've talked to other readers of this book over the years and the story of the Lurp, even though told in only three sentences, remains vivid with them, too.
Herr's experiences are jarring, bloody and described in a new, raw combat journalist style for a new kind of war. Leveraged by a modern electronic media, fueled by drugs - the references come early and often - and bound by a Hemingway-like fascination with combat and near-death experiences, the author speaks directly to those of us wondering just what the hell went on in Vietnam. His language is blunt. He tells the stories of "kids who got wiped out by 17 years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."
The book is not as much anti-war as it is anti - people making stupid decisions in war. The best parts (the middle two sections) describe the Tet Offensive -"the week we lost the war"- and the siege of Khe Sanh -"the Western Anchor of our Defense one month and a worthless piece of ground the next..."
There are passages in the section on Khe Sanh that jarred me as an 18 year old reader and still do, today. Herr and other journalists lived among the Marines on that base for weeks, then ask the right questions of military leaders who put young men there to be mortared and rocketed from the surrounding hills. Casualties on the base slowly mount as artillery rains in from Laos (only 7 miles away) and everyone is expecting the big attack. Are we dug in enough? What if they come in huge numbers and overrun the camp? Will this be our Dien Bien Phu? Westmoreland and division commanders seemed to simply think we were smarter than the French. But nobody who spent a lot of time at that combat base ever seriously believed this to be true. Looking back now, decades after the war, using words like arrogant only begins to describe our mistakes in Vietnam.
The last third of the book trails off to a uncertain conclusion. Then again, could it end any other way? One section - "Illumination Rounds" begins with Herr's first experience being under fire. He is in a helicopter attacked at 1000 feet. Someone is banging on the side of the chopper and men are beginning to bleed around him. His description reads like some vague nightmare: "It's just some 'thing' they are going through that isn't real..." From there, the stories keep coming, a paragraph to a few pages long. Brief periods of light on a very dark battlefield.
Herr's tribute to fellow correspondents is also in the last section of the book. He talks about fellow reporters such as Sean Flynn (the handsome son of actor Erroll) and others like him. Many were looking for an adventure, answers to why we were at war there, or simply earning a living through writing and photography. Some colleagues were killed, others wounded. Flynn disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 and has never been seen since.
To get through this book, a reader needs reference to nuts and bolts descriptions of the Vietnam conflict. Military abbreviations and nicknames of hardware, for example, are everywhere. If you dont know NVA from ARVN from Vietcong or what a deuce and a half is, the book will become muddled. Read the wiki references on Tet Offensive, the battle of Hue, and the siege of Khe Sanh before attempting to get through Dispatches.
A last word on the drug use in Dispatches. Herr casually relates using marijuana with the people he is reporting on and being stoned every night in Vietnam. He was under the influence of opium on the plane ride home. He blends in references to music from the 60's from artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. One reviewer from the New York Times called Vietnam our first "rock and roll war." True I guess, but you could almost add the words "on drugs." That might not blurb as well, but it would really nail it.
There seemed to be a certain revolutionary style to drug use by musicians and authors during the 60's and 70's. Earlier in the century, Hemingway, London, Fitzgerald and others all loved their drink and were exceptional writers. Is Herr updating or remaking the stereotype of brilliant writer / heavy substance abuser? It didnt seem like it when I read the book 30 years ago. Now I think maybe. Still, it's an amazing collection of war stories even if experienced or recounted through chemically altered states.
Dispatches, Fields of Fire, Letters from Vietnam, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. All great books for anyone interested in this difficult American war experience. There are hundreds but these are a few of my favorites.
"Vietnam Vietnam Vietnam" is a phrase used twice in the book. A radio call? A prayer? A weary lament from a young reporter who aged very quickly along with the men he chose to write about? Its not very clear as you turn over the last few pages of Dispatches. Then again, it all wasn't very clear in 1973, when the last US troops left Vietnam. Nearly four decades later, it still isn't.
- "I knew one fifth division Lurp who took his pills by the fistful, downs from the left pocket of his tiger suit, and ups from the right, one to cut the trail for him and the other to send him down it. He told me that they cooled things out just right for him, that he could see that old jungle at night like he was looking at it through a starlight scope. 'They sure give you the range, he said."
An early line from the book that features many vivid descriptions of men at war. The "Lurp" was a Long Range Recon Patrol Marine. He is nameless. Like many characters within the book, his story is told in brief, controlled bursts of blunt and gripping combat prose. I've talked to other readers of this book over the years and the story of the Lurp, even though told in only three sentences, remains vivid with them, too.
Herr's experiences are jarring, bloody and described in a new, raw combat journalist style for a new kind of war. Leveraged by a modern electronic media, fueled by drugs - the references come early and often - and bound by a Hemingway-like fascination with combat and near-death experiences, the author speaks directly to those of us wondering just what the hell went on in Vietnam. His language is blunt. He tells the stories of "kids who got wiped out by 17 years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."
The book is not as much anti-war as it is anti - people making stupid decisions in war. The best parts (the middle two sections) describe the Tet Offensive -"the week we lost the war"- and the siege of Khe Sanh -"the Western Anchor of our Defense one month and a worthless piece of ground the next..."
There are passages in the section on Khe Sanh that jarred me as an 18 year old reader and still do, today. Herr and other journalists lived among the Marines on that base for weeks, then ask the right questions of military leaders who put young men there to be mortared and rocketed from the surrounding hills. Casualties on the base slowly mount as artillery rains in from Laos (only 7 miles away) and everyone is expecting the big attack. Are we dug in enough? What if they come in huge numbers and overrun the camp? Will this be our Dien Bien Phu? Westmoreland and division commanders seemed to simply think we were smarter than the French. But nobody who spent a lot of time at that combat base ever seriously believed this to be true. Looking back now, decades after the war, using words like arrogant only begins to describe our mistakes in Vietnam.
The last third of the book trails off to a uncertain conclusion. Then again, could it end any other way? One section - "Illumination Rounds" begins with Herr's first experience being under fire. He is in a helicopter attacked at 1000 feet. Someone is banging on the side of the chopper and men are beginning to bleed around him. His description reads like some vague nightmare: "It's just some 'thing' they are going through that isn't real..." From there, the stories keep coming, a paragraph to a few pages long. Brief periods of light on a very dark battlefield.
Herr's tribute to fellow correspondents is also in the last section of the book. He talks about fellow reporters such as Sean Flynn (the handsome son of actor Erroll) and others like him. Many were looking for an adventure, answers to why we were at war there, or simply earning a living through writing and photography. Some colleagues were killed, others wounded. Flynn disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 and has never been seen since.
To get through this book, a reader needs reference to nuts and bolts descriptions of the Vietnam conflict. Military abbreviations and nicknames of hardware, for example, are everywhere. If you dont know NVA from ARVN from Vietcong or what a deuce and a half is, the book will become muddled. Read the wiki references on Tet Offensive, the battle of Hue, and the siege of Khe Sanh before attempting to get through Dispatches.
A last word on the drug use in Dispatches. Herr casually relates using marijuana with the people he is reporting on and being stoned every night in Vietnam. He was under the influence of opium on the plane ride home. He blends in references to music from the 60's from artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. One reviewer from the New York Times called Vietnam our first "rock and roll war." True I guess, but you could almost add the words "on drugs." That might not blurb as well, but it would really nail it.
There seemed to be a certain revolutionary style to drug use by musicians and authors during the 60's and 70's. Earlier in the century, Hemingway, London, Fitzgerald and others all loved their drink and were exceptional writers. Is Herr updating or remaking the stereotype of brilliant writer / heavy substance abuser? It didnt seem like it when I read the book 30 years ago. Now I think maybe. Still, it's an amazing collection of war stories even if experienced or recounted through chemically altered states.
Dispatches, Fields of Fire, Letters from Vietnam, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. All great books for anyone interested in this difficult American war experience. There are hundreds but these are a few of my favorites.
"Vietnam Vietnam Vietnam" is a phrase used twice in the book. A radio call? A prayer? A weary lament from a young reporter who aged very quickly along with the men he chose to write about? Its not very clear as you turn over the last few pages of Dispatches. Then again, it all wasn't very clear in 1973, when the last US troops left Vietnam. Nearly four decades later, it still isn't.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Reno Air Races
From a recent article about the Reno Air Races in The Atlantic magazine:
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/01/the-need-for-speed/8842/
I did not attend last year's Reno Air Races but I was there a year previous. This is one of the most exciting race events held anywhere. Engines roar and the air vibrates with glorious doppler shift in the high desert sky. Piston-driven airplanes and newer jets scream across the ground at altitudes meant for kite flying. Cascading adrenaline surges from pilot to race-fan, and we watch, mouths agape, falling deeper in love with flight and awed by the boundaries pushed by the men who build and fly these machines.
What happened to Galloping Ghost and the victims of the mishap was an unspeakable tragedy. Bad luck on a diabolical scale, I've heard it described. Negligence too, maybe, but judges and juries will decide that, I suppose.
A hundred plus years ago, people went to arenas to attend gun shows. That is, guns firing real bullets by entertainers like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill. Over time, accidents happened and now it's all different. We can watch trick shooting from the safety and comfort of our computers through videos that appear effortlessly before us. Is this the fate of air racing? I hope not, but I don't think the organizers of these events will be able to assure the absolute safety of spectators when being close is the whole point of being there.
I rode a motorcycle 800 miles to Reno a year and a half ago to watch air racing. I knew the odds of being injured were much worse riding on the public roads than sitting in the bleachers at Stead field. Still, as someone who has always tried to resolve chance of disaster vs. outcome of exhilaration, I couldn't help but look at the planes rounding turn four and recognize the potential for a catastrophe.The machines are beautiful, thrilling, and dangerous. They will always attract spectators, in person or otherwise.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/01/the-need-for-speed/8842/
I did not attend last year's Reno Air Races but I was there a year previous. This is one of the most exciting race events held anywhere. Engines roar and the air vibrates with glorious doppler shift in the high desert sky. Piston-driven airplanes and newer jets scream across the ground at altitudes meant for kite flying. Cascading adrenaline surges from pilot to race-fan, and we watch, mouths agape, falling deeper in love with flight and awed by the boundaries pushed by the men who build and fly these machines.
What happened to Galloping Ghost and the victims of the mishap was an unspeakable tragedy. Bad luck on a diabolical scale, I've heard it described. Negligence too, maybe, but judges and juries will decide that, I suppose.
A hundred plus years ago, people went to arenas to attend gun shows. That is, guns firing real bullets by entertainers like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill. Over time, accidents happened and now it's all different. We can watch trick shooting from the safety and comfort of our computers through videos that appear effortlessly before us. Is this the fate of air racing? I hope not, but I don't think the organizers of these events will be able to assure the absolute safety of spectators when being close is the whole point of being there.
I rode a motorcycle 800 miles to Reno a year and a half ago to watch air racing. I knew the odds of being injured were much worse riding on the public roads than sitting in the bleachers at Stead field. Still, as someone who has always tried to resolve chance of disaster vs. outcome of exhilaration, I couldn't help but look at the planes rounding turn four and recognize the potential for a catastrophe.The machines are beautiful, thrilling, and dangerous. They will always attract spectators, in person or otherwise.
Hawaii 5-0
The stretch of road along Highway 360 from Kahului to Hana is only about 50
miles long, and yet takes hours to travel by car. It traces the northern coast
of Maui, a rugged and spectacular product of volcanoes, erosion, trade winds and
Pacific surf. "I Survived the Road to Hana" is a popular t-shirt in the local
shops and it's easy to see why. Dozens of hairpin curves, one-lane bridges and
plenty of tourist traffic keep the average speed to less than 20 mph. The road
is always slick from brief Hawaiian rain showers, and each visiting driver is
challenged to not focus too long on the ocean views or roadside
waterfalls.
I made the drive with my wife on a mid-December day last year. It was my 50th birthday and I had actually put some thought into where I would like to spend it. In the last year or so I had hiked the Grand Canyon, Yosemite's Half Dome and Macchu Picchuu. Each of them exhausting, unique and unforgettable. This time, I decided, it would be nice to finish off the fifth decade with something easy and beautiful. I chose Hawaii's Pipiwai Trail.
Pipiwai is accessed through the Kipahulu Park along the eastern slope of Maui. It is popular and very well maintained. Stone steps and engineered lumber boardwalks have been installed over the years, and this is really less of a hike than a leisurely stroll through the woods. That is, if your idea of leisure involves signs that warn of fatal results from getting too close to cliffs or jumping from bridges.
Just beyond the town of Hana, at mile marker 49 we passed through Kipahulu's entrance and found the parking lot at the trail head. It was about half full. The usual hopes for a secluded walk through paradise gave way to the reality of the place: Maui is beautiful but easily accessible to many tourists and we were visiting at a busy time of year. We followed a few other hikers to the trail head signs and started up just before noon.
After only about 30 minutes of easy climbing along the muddy path, a huge Banyan tree provided a great photo spot. From there, nearly a mile of bamboo forest towered above us, blocking out the sky as we climbed to the west. When the wind sped up overhead, those trees seemed to clap together, another one of nature's random and disjointed musical solos.
The turnaround point was Waimoku Falls - 200 feet high and better than anything that we had seen from our car. A cathedral of water fell from the jungle above - past shining black walls of gently stratified basalt, draped in emerald green moss. It crashed into the canyon before us, creating a beaded rainbow and veil of mist on dark boulders of volcanic rock.
After only a brief rest and a few pictures, we headed back down the trail to the visitors center and the cool breezes of the Pacific Ocean.
Charles Lindbergh spent his last years living along this isolated coastline. His life was heroic and at times controversial, but in the last years of his life, he was a man that outwardly expressed his love for the wild and natural places of this earth. He spoke out passionately in defense of living things both above and beneath the sea.
Lindbergh is buried near his old home on Maui, less than a mile from Kipahulu Park. With a few hours of daylight left, I decided to visit his final resting place, just down the road.
I found the small cemetery and his plot behind the Palapala Ho'omau Church- close enough to hear the soft rumble of Pacific surf on the ragged cliffs below. Rains and salt breezes off the sea are slowly eroding everything around here, I thought. Someday, his grave marker will become difficult to read. Aviators not even born yet will surely commit to its restoration, and renew the same inscription from Psalms that he chose in his last years: "...If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea..."
No one else was behind the church with me that afternoon. I stood for a while watching the Pacific, shades of deep and brilliant blue, churning, full of life. A perfect spot to be on this day, I decided.
I returned to the car and headed back to Lahaina, along that beautiful winding road to the west.
I made the drive with my wife on a mid-December day last year. It was my 50th birthday and I had actually put some thought into where I would like to spend it. In the last year or so I had hiked the Grand Canyon, Yosemite's Half Dome and Macchu Picchuu. Each of them exhausting, unique and unforgettable. This time, I decided, it would be nice to finish off the fifth decade with something easy and beautiful. I chose Hawaii's Pipiwai Trail.
Pipiwai is accessed through the Kipahulu Park along the eastern slope of Maui. It is popular and very well maintained. Stone steps and engineered lumber boardwalks have been installed over the years, and this is really less of a hike than a leisurely stroll through the woods. That is, if your idea of leisure involves signs that warn of fatal results from getting too close to cliffs or jumping from bridges.
Just beyond the town of Hana, at mile marker 49 we passed through Kipahulu's entrance and found the parking lot at the trail head. It was about half full. The usual hopes for a secluded walk through paradise gave way to the reality of the place: Maui is beautiful but easily accessible to many tourists and we were visiting at a busy time of year. We followed a few other hikers to the trail head signs and started up just before noon.
After only about 30 minutes of easy climbing along the muddy path, a huge Banyan tree provided a great photo spot. From there, nearly a mile of bamboo forest towered above us, blocking out the sky as we climbed to the west. When the wind sped up overhead, those trees seemed to clap together, another one of nature's random and disjointed musical solos.
The turnaround point was Waimoku Falls - 200 feet high and better than anything that we had seen from our car. A cathedral of water fell from the jungle above - past shining black walls of gently stratified basalt, draped in emerald green moss. It crashed into the canyon before us, creating a beaded rainbow and veil of mist on dark boulders of volcanic rock.
After only a brief rest and a few pictures, we headed back down the trail to the visitors center and the cool breezes of the Pacific Ocean.
Charles Lindbergh spent his last years living along this isolated coastline. His life was heroic and at times controversial, but in the last years of his life, he was a man that outwardly expressed his love for the wild and natural places of this earth. He spoke out passionately in defense of living things both above and beneath the sea.
Lindbergh is buried near his old home on Maui, less than a mile from Kipahulu Park. With a few hours of daylight left, I decided to visit his final resting place, just down the road.
I found the small cemetery and his plot behind the Palapala Ho'omau Church- close enough to hear the soft rumble of Pacific surf on the ragged cliffs below. Rains and salt breezes off the sea are slowly eroding everything around here, I thought. Someday, his grave marker will become difficult to read. Aviators not even born yet will surely commit to its restoration, and renew the same inscription from Psalms that he chose in his last years: "...If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea..."
No one else was behind the church with me that afternoon. I stood for a while watching the Pacific, shades of deep and brilliant blue, churning, full of life. A perfect spot to be on this day, I decided.
I returned to the car and headed back to Lahaina, along that beautiful winding road to the west.
The Passenger in the White Robe
This happened to me several months ago. A post 9/11 airline story:
The flight was nearly ready to depart. The engines were not yet started as we sat in the cockpit waiting at the gate. Almost all passengers were seated. Our flight attendant stepped into the cockpit and told the Captain that everything was ready in the cabin, almost. One guy was holding things up. She called him "Mohammed." And I really didn’t get that at first. She then explained why we weren’t ready to go.
"Mohammed" (of course, not his real name) was a young man dressed in a long white Arabic-type robe who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. The clothing is referred to in some areas as a thawb, but to oversimplify, I have to call it a Bin Laden robe. The kind you often saw Osama wearing in his videos.
The passenger in the white robe had been seated in the very front row of the plane, but just as the cabin door closed and we were all ready to go, he did something odd. It got everyone’s attention on the airplane.
He got up to go to the bathroom. OK, this happens sometimes and only a few people pay attention. The flight attendants always notice, because this delays the flight. Usually no big deal. This time was different.
What "Mohammed" did was walk all the way to the back of the plane to use the bathroom. There is a lavatory in the front of this airplane, right by his seat. But he chose to use the one in the back. A completely full airplane, ready to go: 139 people watched as a young man, apparently of middle-eastern descent, wearing a Bin Laden robe, walk slowly though the cabin, spend a few minutes in the bathroom and then return to his seat in the front of the airplane.
As our flight attendant spoke to us in the cockpit, she looked over her shoulder, watching and waiting for the young man to return to the front. Finally, he was seated, the cockpit door was closed and we began our procedures to push back from the gate.
Before the plane could move, the interphone chime rang – a call from one of the flight attendants in back. They had a "situation" going on in back. Everything stopped, again. We asked the flight attendants what was going on.
There was absolutely no trouble from the man in the white robe. He was quietly sitting and reading in his seat. But there were other passengers who wanted off the plane. Right away. They had apparently been disturbed by the man in the robe’s behavior – that is, walking through the airplane at departure time.
One family in particular was very upset – a young teenage girl was in tears. They did not want to fly on the plane with the man in the robe. They insisted on being let off the airplane. Although it furthered the delay, we complied with their request. The cabin door was opened and the family got off the airplane. The father was visibly angry, but there was nothing we could say or do except to comply with their wishes.
From there, a normal flight. We arrived a few minutes late, but no problems with the bathroom or "Mohammed." As the passengers departed I stood outside the cockpit and said thank you and good-bye as I often do.
The young man in the white robe stood up and walked past. I expected some acknowledgement from him. A sneer, maybe. A look of shallow victory because he had created more fear among airline passengers. I'd spent the entire flight resenting what he did, especially making a young girl cry. I remember thinking how different we are than in the past when our country was at war. Can anyone imagine, in 1943, a person of Asian descent walking onto a passenger plane, or even being in public wearing anything that hinted of the "enemy's" culture? A kimono? A very different time, a very different war.
The young man with skin darker than mine and wearing a white garment looked at me and in an instant, my attitude changed. He smiled, said thank you, and walked out the door. Not a sneer, not a look of "I won." Just a thank you and that was it. To this day, I'm not sure if he knew of the trouble he caused. Or maybe he did, and he was grateful to the crew for not having him removed.
I don't know where he was from. Maybe the United States and he just chose to dress that way. Or maybe Pakistan, or Turkey, or Iran, or...it does not matter. Perhaps he chose to use the restroom in the back of the airplane as a sign of humility. Maybe he thought the front facility was for the crew. Nearly everyone on the plane probably thought he made a mistake and many considered it intentional. At one point, I certainly did.
But he lives among us in this country free to choose where to travel whenever he wants. Free to make mistakes like any human being. Free to be tolerant (or not) of others.
Everyone arrived safely, that day. I'm sure the family that left our flight found another one. Inconvenienced yes, but in the end accommodated and, I'm sure, happy with the choice they made.
I won't ignore the fact that there are monsters out there who will do us harm. And while there is nothing wrong with watching out for them, I realized how careful I need to be not to create them either.
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