The Annals of Gawpo

Oahu Scuba: Sea Cave, Wall Drift, and Corsair Dive

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Thu, 21 May 2009 20:39:00 +0000

A couple days ago I went on three dives which began in two locations.

The Corsair Dive took me to a WWII relic which, from what I've read on the web, wound up on the bottom because of the number one cause for engine failure in airplanes to this very day: Fuel starvation. Or, in layperson's terms, "Ran out of gas."

After converting air into lenticular cloud-shaped bubbles, we ascended properly and safely and were dropped off at Oahu's Sea Cave. Jumping off for the ten minutes or so into the cave, we then began our third and final portion of the dive: The wall drift; the current took us along the sheer lava face until we surfaced and were picked up by our magnificent boat owner and captain, Joey Zbin.

When we were over the airplane, Joey pointed out that the clarity was so good that we could actually see from the surface the Corsair sitting on the bottom in over a hundred feet of water. Yikes!

The Corsair dive is (depending on the tide) 115 feet deep, and is considered an advanced dive. But it is also as simple as following the anchored line down to the object which, at least on this day, you could see from the moment you giant-step jumped into the water.

The ascent from the airplane to the surface is a very slow, hand-over-hand stroll along the rope until you reach a depth of 15 feet. The three minute safety stop is a perfect pause in the parvis prior to parting from the pocket of sand holding the shadow you can still see beneath you (Man, can I alliterate? Or, can I alliterate? w00t!).

The Sea Cave dive is surreal. There's your diving and seeing fish and structure (like the Corsair), and then there's your Oahu's Sea Cave dive which places you in a dive situation you cannot prepare for unless you've done it before. It's Disneyland's Pirates of the Caribbean when you were nine years old; it's the dream-come-true for which you prepared every time you stared off into the corner of the next cubicle at work, unable to recall drinking that last cup of Kona.

Located just "this side" of Hanauma Bay referencing from Hawaii Kai, the Sea Cave (click on the link for a second video) is a boat-entry event that places you right at the entrance of this capacious aperture in the otherwise solid wall of cooled lava. A lucky bubble? A subsequent crack coaxed along by some good erosion? Dunno, don't care. It's a mind-blower, though. It's a Carlos Castaneda exercise in swimming into the wall where the wall isn't.

As you are dumping the air from your BCD and beginning the descent to something like 40 feet, you can peer into the cave through the unparalleled visibility of a calm Hawaiian ocean day. There are huge boulders which are walls unto themselves, life-encrusted megaliths you can easily scale like Spider Man, thanks to your body being weightless (neutrally buoyant) and whose facets of frozen bubbles and cracks teem with drive-by colors accented with their edges of fins and gills. A giant green sea turtle slolomed our party of seven as we entered. There was so much sea life, I didn't even try to count species of fish and urchins.

Remember that dog that held the keys outside the jail cell in the Disneyland Pirates of the Caribbean ride when you were nine? Yeah well, this cave dive grabbed as much joyful amusement as that dog's mouth grabbed attention. Freedom is sweet.

As you enter the cave, there is no need for any autonomic claustrophobia to kick in because you truly begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel: Instead of a dark terminus, there are diffuse photo announcements that all shall be well should you decide to continue to enter. And you do. And it is.

Click on the picture and you can see the the top hemisphere of the cave's opening.

This is Joey. I can't say enough about his friendly and courteous professionalism. We met at the boat at 9:00 a.m. and he explained through casual chat while we were underway what the dives would be like when we got there.

If you dive, or if you know anyone who does and you hear they are coming to Oahu, have them give Joey a call. The number on the back of Joey's shirt is no longer current. He can be reached at: 808-330-0083.
I lugged my regulator, fins, mask, snorkel, full-body lycra suit and boots in a carry-on for the 5 1/2 hour hop from Portland to Oahu. All I needed from Joey were my tanks and BCD (for those in need of some explanation, please check out these two BCD links for your deepened---sorry---knowledge base). That second BCD link takes you to the one I just bought, but I got a screamin' deal on Craigslist for $275. Yeah. Ain't no way I was gonna lug it on the plane, though. Rental is cheap when all you need is a BCD. Wet suit? We don't need no stinkin' WET SUITS. Not here, you don't. The lycra saved me from the sun and jellyfish exposure, but the water was so warm that I wasn't anywhere near cold.
This is a closer shot of the opening of the Sea Cave after a very short boat ride from the Corsair. The wavy marbling of the lava makes it all appear much as it did when it was a cooling fluid. Uh-May-Freekin'-ZING.

Diamond Head from the Sea Cave
Koko Head from just outside the Hawaii Kai marina
The three on the right are Japanese divers. After all four non-Japanese divers had surfaced, I turned to Joey and said, "We're missing some people, Joey. Where are the Japanese divers?" He just looked at me with 10% chagrin on his face and said, "Japanese don't breath, man. They probably have all their air left and they'll just come up when they're bored." Oh, to have such lungs.

Joey pointed out that it is unusual to be able to see Maui (the highest point is Haleakala), Molokai and Lanai from Oahu. But there they are...

Sandy Beach

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Tue, 19 May 2009 02:21:00 +0000

I am currently in a house where there is good internet. In my own house, not so much. Coming to visit Nelson and Marti means it just so happens I also go to Hawaii; they live in Honolulu, a bit south of town, and only 6 minutes away from Sandy Beach.

After I started getting some interesting captures of boards and bellies in the surf, one of the guys who'd just surfed up to where I was standing pointed out to the closest surf break and said, "Did you see the turtles?" After that, I did...

We saw this guy arrive at about the time a white limo drove into the parking lot. We just figured there'd be a wedding party. Or not. Everybody wants to get into the act...

They say that if you are a photographer and you take a picture of a photographer taking pictures of something else, then you win.

I win.

Here they are. Marti and Nelson. Marti is my friend, Jeremy's sister. Jeremy checked in via Skype this morning from his room at Sant'Anselmo in Rome. Nelson is wearing one of Cindra's husband's creations, a "Critter Tee."

Happy Anniversary of Mount Saint Helens eruption day.

Have Wheel, Will Throw

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 04:53:00 +0000

My friend, George told me I could put some of my pots in his brand, new Minnesota Flat Top kiln, a Nils Lou design. So I said, "Ok."

This is the very first time George would be firing his new kiln. What an honor.

I had lots of bisque ware in my old studio. Eighteen years old. There are people who weren't born when I threw some of these pots and some of those people, after they got borned and stayed alive for eighteen years, voted in the latest presidential election. I found a bowl that I helped the daughter of my then girlfriend make. I didn't realize this until I turned it over, and there it was: "Kymber 7/24/91."

I took each bisqued piece and washed it thoroughly to cleanse it of all those years of dust and mice poop. We let the pots dry before applying wax resist to the feet and then glazing them. My wheel sits in my kitchen. I threw 14 mugs and then knocked out another dozen bowls to make sure I'd have enough to contribute toward the 14 cubic foot load. Turns out there so many pots, that George could have loaded the entire space with just my ware, with pots left over. After we tore down the door, George was wishing he'd let me fill it.

Funny how reduction works. What you have to do is starve the firing atmosphere of oxygen so that carbon (in this case from propane, but it could be natural gas, wood, etc.) does its little chemical reaction trick in the glazes to make them all nice and pretty. Well, not having fired the kiln before, it was all guess work. Add to that the fact that George had previously only been firing in smaller updraft kilns and this baby was all down draft. Yeah. So his glazes didn't get enough reduction and they sort of sucked, while mine didn't get enough reduction and turned out just fine. Reason for that is this: George wanted to use different glazes from the ones I chose. Luck of the draft. Uh, draw. Whatev.

It's good to be back.

Now I'm on my way to give Kymber her pot.

Merry Christmas, Peeps. I love you.

He Turned 78 Today---Happy Birthday, Pa

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 19:17:00 +0000

Ain't no way he'd make it past the Senate hearings. But there are good and honorable reasons for that. Here's my father at work at a recent pro tem gig in Manteca. I'm puff-chestedly proud of my dear 'ol dad. We still do some good Auggie Doggie and Doggie Daddy schtick. He's especially good with the "My son, my son" line.

Please join me in wishing my father a very happy 78th. He doesn't look a day past 77.

Journey To The Center Of The Island

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 01:17:00 +0000

Lined up on the center line, ready for departure, runway one-three. I am on my way to see my favorite two people on the earth who, by the way, celebrated their 57th wedding anniversary on the 12th. I have already pointed out to them that this represents one hundred and fourteen years of marriage experience between them. And there's been a lot between them in that time.

Gee, I don't know. There's just something about being nearly two miles above the ground and all that view that goes with it, and maybe just a little bit, it's the being able to go over 150 miles an hour (legally), in a straight line, with no traffic. Just maybe.

Level cruise at 9,500 feet, the Columbia River looking toward Astoria in the fog.

Orcas is the largest of the San Juans. There it is in the way far away with the two humps.

If you biggen this one, you will see the cut in the trees that is the runway.

On the approach to the small airstrip on the island, Mt. Baker. God's tooth...

The runway is listed as 1,600 ft on the AirNav website (identifier: 78WA). 1,600 feet. Rrrrrrriiiiiggghhhht.....

My sister Karen, my Mom and friend Mary waiting for me to disembark.

Three minutes past midnight. I love my picturer.

Mr. Gawpo, Sr and I put each of our shadows on a tree off the back deck and took time exposures. This was near midnight. FREEZE!

This is what I woke up to this morning. Actually, it was the pileated woodpecker that woke me, but I couldn't get the picturer out in time. There was plenty 'o time for this, though.

Mr. Gawpo, Sr. upon returning from the crabbing and shrimping venture.

Fresh Dungies...

Dinner:

Yes, it is true...

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 20:01:00 +0000

...that normally a purist, I do on occasion take cream in my coffee.

And I did do so last year. This simply goes to show that Gawpo is unpredictable.

Lightning Strikes Twice

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 15:59:00 +0000

I can't believe my LUCK! Seems like just about every other day on my logging road ventures to or from my house, I either see an owl, or in this case, an Al....

Uh-oh. The Al sees me. Yet remains, cautiously transfixed on the creature with that strange contraption pressed to his face, making clicking sounds. What could it be?, he thinks to himself. Will it hurt me? Should I stay? Or should I go? Phight, Phlight, or Phone Phor help?

You're up, Joe. Which Al is this? Genus and Species, please. The white crown and dayglow orange breast should give it away. But I'm.......(sorry).....STUMPED.

This explains it all. Nesting. The female of the species must be out looking for food. The DQ is 10 minutes away.

As you can clearly see, the Al is still looking at the spot I so stealthily (how else could I get these incredible shots?) vacated. Little does he know that his awkward fledglings are completely safe. And that there are plenty of cones for them to eat. In fact, this is the very picture of.......(sorry again)........chipper.

Hoo You Lookin' At?

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 19:03:00 +0000

Three days ago, just as I was about to turn up from the logging road onto the driveway proper, this caught my eye. Leaping out of a red alder, and with a smaller, darkly plumed unidentified flying object in hot pursuit (smaller than a robin), the stealthy and normally nocturnal B-1 Bomber of the forest made its way across the logging road, left to right, and lighted in another alder, giving me time to furiously fumble for the 300VR and get it swapped out with the 28-55 before the next leg of the flight. Just as I stepped from the car, the bird flew from right to left, over the logging road/driveway junction and lighted in one of my doug firs. Perfect. We spent some time there, eyeball to eyeball, while the lens sucked in the beauty of this very rare opportunity, yet just one of many that remind me why I live where I do.

Time To Cut The Cheese

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 19:02:00 +0000

Pecorino Romano, many say, smells like baby's barf. My father buys a 55 pound wheel every couple years. He buys one. My Uncle Charlie buys one. We drove over to Redwood City from Turlock yesterday to claim our wheel. Can you say, "I'd like to buy a vowel, Alex"? The fortune comes in the knowing that a 55 pound wheel of Pecorino Romano, at 8 bucks a pound, and after adding the sales tax, rings up at $479.16. My cousin Denise said she only brought nine hundred and fifty dollars with her to the deal that went down in San Francisco. Hey, did you know that San Francisco is both a city AND a county? Yeah. Cool, huh? For this reason, it can never expand geographically. Where was I? Oh yeah. Not enough money. She was ten bucks short. But the guy at the counter said, "Fuh-GET-uh-BOUT-it" and sent her on her way with her 110 pounds of cheese. Yeah, I'm in California again. I'm home. And once home, it's time to cut the cheese. So what, you might ask, does one use to cut the cheese? We're Sicilian, remember. What else? Piano wire...

This is my Uncle Charlie, eldest of the five Sicilian brothers, all born in New York prior to coming to California in 1940. My father says they stopped at a dairy on the way over and bought ice cold milk for 10 cents a gallon. Many dinners came about thanks to road-killed pheasants, rabbits, "whatever we came across, we barbecued it."

Uncle Charlie took me fishing in the ocean when I was very young. He smoked Cuban cigars. Turned me on to exotic foods (like those caterpillars in a can that came from Mexico) and he made GREAT red wine. He is 85.

We got a tour of the huge garden. That is my Aunt Amada. She is from Quito, Ecuador.

This is a tomato tree. Yes, a tomato TREE. They grow in Ecuador and they produce tomatoes just like the vine. I laughed and called my father right after seeing a sign in the produce section of the local market in Newport that read, "Vine Ripened Grapefruit." Don't be so quick to laugh when you start seeing signs reading, "Tree Ripened Tomatoes," because as Judy Tenuta would say, "It could happen."

The next day, ask Mr. Gawpo, Sr. and I were going through the photos from his brother's place, we looked at each other and said, "Dang. We shoulda brought some artichokes back." There were plenty that were in perfect shape. We did snag about four pounds of cherries, though. My father makes the best cherry brandy this side of Camporeale.

"I knew I shoulda taken that left"

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Thu, 15 May 2008 15:25:00 +0000

There aren't many people who don't remember Bugs Bunny's famous line when I tell them I am going to Albuquerque. Or, "Albuhkoikee," as Bugs would pronounce it.

So yesterday I flew to Albuquerque. The lovely Amber was waiting for me at the foot of the escalator and not much later, we were on our way to the bag claim. Yes, I said bag claim. In New Mexico---or Albuquerque, anyway---that's what all the signs say: Bag claim. Now I can't help but wonder what people are going to be saying to each other about getting into a new relationship when THIS way of talking takes hold across America: "Gee, I liked the guy, but he came with a lot of bag." Or, "Yeah, she was HAWGHT, Dude. But between her kids and her mother, I just couldn't handle the bag."

Back to Amber. Had it not been for her kindness, I'd have had to get on some shuttle and dropped of at some disclosed location in Santa Fe where I would THEN have had to be picked up. But this woman has a huge heart and I am deeply in her debt. Or in her brain. Probably more the latter. We talked like girlfriends who had all their lives to get caught up on. We TAWKED. We broke up into small groups and discussed.

This is Amber. What a face. Very, very smart. Very, very funny.

The reason I came to New Mexico was to attend friends. George and Janet live where I do in Oregon, but they have a daughter (Melissa) whose daughter, Sadie, is graduating from High School. That's all I had to hear. I bought a ticket the day I was invited.

As Amber and I were tawking at mad paces, I was snapping pics along the way. I like to photograph road signs. Moments after Amber and I arrived at the house, Janet pulled in. Said she had car trouble. Overheated. Was stuck on the side of the road. Amber and I looked at each other: We saw a car pulled over with a cop about half a mile behind, also parked on the side of the road. Was that you, Janet? For the heck of it, I checked my photo gallery.

Yep. That was Janet with the Prestone can at her feet. Did we stop to help? Heck no! We
were tawking!

Recognize the clothing on that hottie blonde on the left? Sadie, the graduate,
was not home yet. But her two sisters enjoyed the story. Lucia far right. Mexika
(mah-SHEE-kuh) to Lucia's right.

My flight out of PDX (Portland) was at 10 a.m. So I got there early. I entered the building at about 7:40, walked up to the kiosk, punched in my confirmation number, presented my one BAG to later claim, brought it over to the nice man attendant at the huge X-Ray place, then presented my passport and boarding pass at the security checkpoint, listened to the "this is a security announcement" recording for only maybe a dozen times, and I had my shoes back on by 8:02. Had some time to kill. Or, as I like to think of it----give life to. I entered the Starbucks line. When it was my turn, I said to the pretty young lady, "I'd like a B double F C with no RFC." With a half second gaze into my eyes, she reached for a clear plastic cup and as she began lifting it from the stack I said, "Nope." She replaced the cup and started whispering the letters to herself. Then she asked me to repeat the letters. "I'll have a B double FF C with no RFC." She gave up. I leaned in and whispered, "A big, fat fuckin' coffee with no room for cream." She took it well. She smiled. Then she said that it might have been interesting if I'd just let her make something that matched the letters. Dang. Why didn't I think of that?

With my B double F C in tow, I walked over to a small table and fired up my new black MacBook for the very first time in a public setting to take it for a Wi-Fi ride. Not long after beginning this very post, I heard a woman say to her female companion, "And they said they kept calling my name, but I didn't come." I pivoted in my chair to the woman speaking. When she looked at me, I pointed at her and said, "YOU missed a flight." Big smile. I told her my story from two blog posts ago and even showed her on my laptop. While we were talking, the very airplane that I missed was taxiing past the windows. I confirmed this by matching the tail number to picture of the plane I missed two posts ago. Amazing.

Asha and Lili and I spent some wonderfully friendly time. Asha's flight was a bit earlier than Lili's and mine, so she had to leave us. But we all hugged before parting. I love becoming human.

Lili on the left, Asha on the right.

Founders of the Missed Flights (West Coast Chapter), Asha and Gawpo.

While Lili and I waited, these guys happened. Be sure to biggen by clicking and check the dude's massive sunglass visor and oxygen hose.

I'll take Things That Fly, Alex. Okay, and the answer is: THE DAILY DOUBLE! All of it, Alex. All of it...

We're headed into Santa Fe to an art show. Ciao4niao, Peeps!

Columba fasciata: Bandtail Pigeons Revisited

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sun, 04 May 2008 03:35:00 +0000

A post such as this is surely to return annually, but only as long as its inspiration continues to return. I've been feeding these birds since the latter part of the last century. The first bird is usually in the tops of my red alder in early March of every year. This year was no exception. I saw the first one on the 12th. Okay. So that's late early March. Maybe even early mid March. You get the point. This year is different, though. Cuz I have the new picturer to freeze them. Thanks to Somewhere Joe, I have been able to slow the wings down a bit. The first captures were blurs. Thanks, Giusepp, for some good sharpening tips.

These work for me. My favorite pose is when the wings beat forward, nearly enveloping the body in a hollow hug. Next favorite is the bird whose elbows touch on the wild, slapping upbeat. I hope you enjoy their beauty as much as I do. What you can't "enjoy," however, is being woken up as hundreds of these birds explode off the tables in their ritual survival maneuver that is based upon the instinctive axiom, "Don't stay in any one place too long." As quickly as they jump up, they begin fluttering back down to the boards in drizzling layers of participation until once again getting "that uneasy feeling" and thundering off into the lower branches of the alder and Cascara sagrada.

Once again, here they are...

This was taken on April 19th at 0730 hours. It felt more like 7:30 in the morning, though.

They will stay in the higher branches of the alder for several hours. Then they move down to the lower branches of the Cascara.

The first thing I do every morning is take look through the skylight of the guest bathroom to see who might be lighting in the tree tops. This is what I get to see.

Here is a lucky shot---four birds in the forward wing beat, two in tandem and nearly perfectly synchronous.

This is what makes the thunder in the morning. Birds bumping into each other. Birds stepping on each other, adhering to the rubrics of panic. There could be a hawk. Or a bobcat. You can't be too careful. Every year I come home to some fresh blood on the table and tufts of feathers gathered on the ground in whatever areas of the lawn the prevailing breezes pushed them along until they came to their final resting place, never again to fly.

Then it's right back down for more of the glut.

The scare tactic worked. The bandtail kicks up a dusting of oiled sunflower in its wing vortices.

While the mature sport this beautiful green metallic plumage on their necks, this guy to the left clearly has pin feathers. Young bird? Repairing bird? Dunno. An anomaly I cannot explain. I found a pin feather on the board the other day and wondered where it came from.

We do not have blue jays here. There are scrub jays over in the Willamette Valley. We have steller's jays here, tufted heads and all. Voracious cleaner-uppers are they. Raspy songed opportunists whose beautiful appearance attempts to excuse them from their rudenesses.

And when the crows and the jays aren't around, these folks get a crack at some chow. I'll see your four pair. And raise you.

Round, Round, Get Around, I Can't Get Around

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 05:49:00 +0000

Really. It's hard. I want to pay more attention to my peeps, see what you are all doing on your blogs. The work marathon persists, however, and it's all I can do to eek out a quick jaunt to a few slices of paradise's pie when I get home at 8:30 every night. It's as though I have not been home for several months. Well, since about October. This will all be over come flying weather. We get a good week of blue skies in July. Can't wait.

Every once in a while, though, I can lay some eggs and let whomever has the notion to help incubate, do so. So.....plop.

(Oh---and, tink...)

Be sure to click on the pics to get them into some good CSI'ing position. Especially for Ray. You'll see....

When these flowers open, they are stunning. We eat the fruit in the fall.

This is Ray Eggman. Long time family friend who lives down the road a piece. Ray Eggman is a bee man. See? Bee.

That's my Dad...

My father sometimes cures a prosciutto. The process is easy. Waiting 9 months to eat it is difficult. Prompted by Joe, I had to CSI this sucker real close to find out what exactly it is Mrs. Gawpo, Sr. is eating back there. It's a bag of mixed fruits and nuts with M&Ms that she'd just purchased at Costco. BAM! Case closed, Joe. This was not easy. But I did it in the first 48 and that's all that matters. That's my sister, Karen helping with the hoist.

Judging by size, it is more important to go slow than the cats themselves. Odd sentence. But I'm leaving it like that. You can see my shadow to the right.

A tree in my sister's yard. This little guy had somewhere better to be.

So after giving up my seat, I got to chatting with a very nice couple who were waiting for their children to arrive on a flight from Seattle. We got to talking about cameras. I pulled out the 300mm and happened to see something I hadn't seen in over 30 years: a jackrabbit. Out on the taxiway. I was enthralled. I ignored everything else.

See in the upper left hand corner of the frame? Yeah. That's the tip of the elevator. That means tail wing in non-airplane-dude talk. That elevator is about to begin pulling away from the terminal dock. I still don't realize that I am supposed to be ON that plane, contributing something to the weight and balance. The time was 2:18:55. The plane was scheduled to depart at 2:20.

Here it is. My plane. Nose wheel off. Me still on. Dang.

I had some time to kill. This woman was talking to a soldier in desert camo. She listened intently and I snapped a few as the exchange went along. All of a sudden the soldier must have said something terrible, something so graphic that she vomited with her skin. I had no idea there were muscles in our faces that could make us do this.

I took this picture of the lady getting off the bus and didn't realize until I zoomed in to see what I had that she was really stepping off the river and those two guys were cheering wildly her transition to land. They are looking right at her. Nice, huh?

Finally, ain't no doubt about it---this is one of Ray's. Flower people, please tell me what this blossom is.

Never Again

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 20:37:00 +0000

Last December I passed up a free ticket to any Alaska Airline destination. They called and called and called for a volunteer to give up their seat. But I did not want to inconvenience Mr. and Mrs. Gawpo who would have had to drive through darkness at a late hour to pick me up here at Sacramento International. Yes, I said here. Typing is not easy from the iTouch. But I have some time because when they called for that volunteer to give up a seat, I was all over it, having sworn back in December NEVER AGAIN to pass up such an opportunity. I called my friend, Amy and adjusted the pickup time. Got 16 bucks in meal money. Now I have to decide where to go. They do fly to Mexico. Hmmm...

Please feel free: Where would YOU go?

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

THIS JUST IN!

Ok.

So.

Cindy at the counter thanked me for giving up my seat. She extended her hand to indicate the girl whose life I had saved. (some inconvenience.) The young lady smiled her appreciation. Her father shook my hand. I felt great. Got a free ticket, after all. Helped a young teen. So there I was with time to kill. And kill I did. Got talking with a very nice couple about picturers because guess what I was doing the whole time ? Got some great shots of a jackrabbit out on the taxiway, even. Yeah. Cool, huh? Even got some great shots of my jet taking off. Yes. MY jet. Without me ON it. So here I sit. The first flight was at 1:15. The flight I missed, 2:40. The next flight ( the LAST) is at 7:28. And it is overbooked....

Stand by for some stand by.

Sigh........

Piazza del Duomo Florence, Italy

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 04:42:00 +0000

My first attempt at uploading directly to Blogger:

HAPPY EASTER!

A Color Kiss

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 02:37:00 +0000

Somewhere Joe says that he's all about the color. And that once in a while an angel hands him a good one.

The Ken Trueman Center is an alcohol and recovery treatment center. Now that right there makes this right here an angel swoop if ever there was one.

When I saw the red pickup coming, I got nervous; I pooched it, sacrificing some focus for the bird in the hand. Oh well. It's still a kiss. Just a bit of a sloppy one. And that ain't bad.

Sorry so sloppy......Joe. (Good gawd, I'm funny.)

Journey To The Center Of A Dying Star

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 05:16:00 +0000

I had to get off the gripe. I like a good gripe. Especially when it is founded in fact. I have this saying, though. And it has served me with a tolerance of injustice (my biggest complaint in life). It goes like this:

"It's not so much that they are unkind; it's that they are just kind of un."

There is so much more beauty than injustice in this world. In beauty there is honesty. Death begets life. And so it goes.

So I give you this:

Taking Care Of Business: My Rant

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 06:38:00 +0000

811.425 Failure of slower driver to yield to overtaking vehicle; penalty. (1) A person commits the offense of failure of a slower driver to yield to overtaking vehicle if the person is driving a vehicle and the person fails to move the person’s vehicle off the main traveled portion of the highway into an area sufficient for safe turnout when:

(a) The driver of the overtaken vehicle is proceeding at a speed less than a speed established in ORS 811.105 as prima facie evidence of violation of the basic speed rule;

(b) The driver of the overtaking vehicle is proceeding at a speed in conformity with ORS 811.105;

(c) The highway is a two directional, two-lane highway; and

(d) There is no clear lane for passing available to the driver of the overtaking vehicle.

(2) This section does not apply to the driver of a vehicle in a funeral procession.

(3) The offense described in this section, failure of a slower driver to yield to overtaking vehicle, is a Class B traffic violation. [1983 c.338 §640; 1991 c.482 §16; 1995 c.383 §68; 2001 c.104 §307; 2003 c.819 §15]

What I am about to disclose is quite embarrassing. It's a character flaw. No doubt part genetic predispositon, part Neanderthal. But it is truly the case. So here it is, plain and simple: I detest slow drivers.

I'm a nut case in the driving world. Not only that, but I believe that slow drivers are responsible for more crashes than most speeders. Let me qualify. What I am saying is, if someone is exceeding the speed limit by 15 mph, there's a very good chance that, if detected, they will receive a citation. That's one form of speeding. Then there's the ridiculous speeding which, for some unknown reason, does not result in a crash. Those people need to be removed from the show completely. With regard to the former, I don't worry. And here's why.

You figure that, at 60 miles per hour, a car travels at 88 feet per second. That's a nice chunk of geography exchange. But it is reasonable. And in this state, we have a thing called "The Basic Speed Rule." What that boils down to is this: If I can explain to the judge that, given the conditions, my going 84 mph to overtake and pass that car in front of me was not unreasonable, I can be found not guilty. And guess what. That actually happened. Not by me, but by a smart attorney who got popped out on Highway 18, going through the Van Duzer Corridor. But this is not about speed. It is about the lack thereof. And it's about doing the right thing. It's about justice.

In this state, you will notice that there is no rule about having a minimum of three or four or five of six cars stacked up behind you. If you are driving less than the posted (or presumed) speed and you have even a single vehicle behind you, you are required by 811.425 to, as I like to put it: P.T.F.O. If you do not P.T.F.O., then you are not only in violation of the law, you are probably pissing off as many people as are occupying as many cars as are behind you. And when tempers rise, this cannot be anything but bad for driving. Sad to say, people are more likely to take chances, pass in less-than-ideal stretches of the road, and that's when "mierda pasa."

Here is why I believe that slow drivers cause more crashes than speeders:

811.425 is a B violation. The highest is A, the lowest is D. Not stopping at a stop sign or running a red light---B violation. Not wearing your seatbelt, a D violation. Not taking it upon yourself to P.T.F.O. is considered rather serious. Yet this law is rarely enforced. By the time the line of 18 cars and trucks go by, it's a bit difficult to work your way up to the front of the line in the patrol car to overtake (i.e., catch up to) the offender. In this language, the word "overtake" means that you were going the speed limit and you would be continuing on your journey except for the person who had decided that they are the only person in the world who matters. YOU don't matter. You weren't there, then you were there. But you don't matter. And that is just wrong.

Here's how I used to explain it to the slower driver after I did work my way up through the line of cars they were forcing to go 42 in a 55: "Look, here's how the law works. You have the right to drive any speed you want. But you don't have the right to make me drive any speed you want. If you don't feel comfortable driving 55, then all you have to do is pull over and let me drive the speed limit. Then you can pull back onto the travel portion of the roadway and do your 42 miles per hour for as long as you like until the next person appears in your rearview mirror. Kuh-PEESH?" Well, it didn't exactly go like that, but it was close.

When I teach the new reserves in their academy, I always point out that you can take any law in any state and trace it back to one thing: Love of others. All the laws are about love. They are not just about not hitting and not killing and not stealing. Those are easy. Those are Ten-Commandment-easy. But the Golden Rule kind of love requires more. It means waving someone through when it's safe to do so. It means being vigilant for pedestrians who are poised on the sidewalk at the crosswalk. It means stopping for the yellow light when you really can. It means putting your signal on to let someone know what your intentions are before they come to your intersection. It means pulling into the next lane to let someone onto the highway. It means pulling over so that those who caught up to you can continue at the posted speed. All you blogger peeps know what is nice. I don't have to tell you folks what nice is. Right here is where nice reigns.

But I do hate to drive. It's why I fly wherever I can. No cops. No speed limit. No slow fliers. It's also why, when in a car and when possible, I let someone else drive.

Here are a few tips to help you in a traffic stop situation. Hopefully, if you are stopped, it's not because you were holding people hostage to your slower-than-the-limit speed. Because if you are, then the next time you glance in your mirror, you may be seeing this. Next, you'll be looking at this. And if you get caught doing it again, then this. And if you lip off, then it's THIS.

Drive careful out there. And just please P.T.F.O.

The Winner Is: Number 7!!!

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 05:39:00 +0000

Thanks to Sheila, Mother Of Blue, I did not have to spend tons of time cutting up paper. The random generator is truly a modern marvel. After one quick click, there it was: Number 7. Lucky number, that!

The winner of my bracelet giveaway is none other than Deabusamor whose blog is "Overstimulated Undercaffeinated." I do not know this woman, but she's got "amor" in her name and because of that, I like her. I like her a LAWGHT.

This was Dea's comment:

Deabusamor said...

I think I'd frame it if I got the bag with teeth marks, along with a picture of the Somewhere Joe in action!

Please enter me in your giveaway!

Thanks for the giggles,
Dea

Listed as a student and from Hesperia, California, Ms. Deabusamor says in her profile:

"Art has always been important to me but only recently did I discover that tactile art -- specifically sculpture and sewing -- was a required daily dose for my sanity. I work primarily in Polymer Clay though I also dabble in wire-wrapping, sewing, digital painting and various other mediums. (Craft ADD!) Most of my designs are for sale at my Etsy Shop (http://deabusamor.etsy.com) and I welcome custom orders."

Please fellow bloggers, do yourselves a favor and go see what she can do. She can do beauty of the first order. Trust me. Go with me on this one.

Follow now three Presentation Poses. Poses both Valentinian and Gawpoean, all three of which are performed in my now famous red sweatshirt, fruitful boon of a dumpster dive. (The Russian judge only gave me a four, but I got straight 9s from the rest, so it's all good.)

Pose The First:
The teeth which indent for the purpose of creating a record. This, if you will, is my seal. A biting down to symbolize, Ms. Deabusamor, your own mastications of life's beauties, not the least of which was how we came to meet. One World. One Heart. One bite.

Pose The Second:
Holding out this little morsel of gift to you, as though a consecrated host, the which is so lovingly embodied in our own host, Ms. Lisaoceandreamer. I hold this gift in my hands and therein consecrate the friendship that relates us, the friendship that erases any strangeness that stood between us and the hundreds of touchings that all participants left in the way of comments on each others' pages.

Pose The Third:
You, Oh Deabusamor, were randomly generated. Face it. Fate is at times a luck. You were number seven. Lucky number seven out of a possible 211 entrants. (Okay, a few less than that because I had to rule out some duplicates as well as Somewhere Joe who disqualified himself due to his maniacal humility.) I bow down my head, therefore, and close my eyes. I pray you into favor with your life, with your own gifts from which flow wonderful creations of your own hands. No, I did not make the Giveaway bracelet. But Monica did. And I gladly bequeath to you as her ambassador this small token of my own One Heart on this Saint Valentine's Day. I pray love into the package. And the dried shrimp themselves rejoice, longing for your taking them onto your tongue as a communion. (But you don't have to if you don't want to.) Just send me your address, Dea, and you will surely score that picture of the Somewhere Joe Jocular Microwave Move to go along with the bracelet and shrimp and bean.

Finally, a word about the painting which I have chosen to back my ground. It is a creation of Rick Bartow. Rick is a longtime friend. A musician. A father. A husband. A Vietnam veteran. A Native American. A loving man. Last year I bought this painting. Rick had offered it as a way to help the family of other friends whose 12 year old son, Keegan was battling cancer. Rick donated the price of the painting to the family. Keegan and I shared birthdays. May we some day share the same day of passing. I would like that. I only this week got the painting framed. I love how it turned out, floated and simply bordered, as is your art, Dea; as also ought we strive to live our time here: Floated, and simply bordered.

***UPDATE 021508 @ Twenty-Zero-Seven Hours***
I was a bit too vague. And I do apologize. Keegan did not survive the cancer. And I am not certain he made it to his 13th, my 53rd birthday. Yes. Very, very sad.

Keegan flying my airplane:

Literally "out of the blue," after some minutes of flying the airplane and keeping the craft well along its path of straight and level flight, Keegan turned to me and spoke these words through the headsets: "Thank you."

So I turn now to you, Lisa. And I utter the same: THANK YOU.

And The Winner Is......

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 07:38:00 +0000

....going to have to wait until late tomorrow. It is not quite yet midnight. I have to work in the morning. A twelve hour shift. Yes. Half of an entire day.

When I get home tomorrow, I will include every entry up until midnight Pacific time. Hey, Lisa's rules. If it were up to me, I would count votes until ten past midnight. But she's a stickler. She is so STRICT!

Anyway, I will come home and use the random generator link that Sheila (MOB) sent me (Oh, thank you so much dear labor-saving Mother Of Blue.....mwuah!) and the winner shall be announced with a Fan for his or her Fare. As of 18 minutes until midnight, I have 210 comments. Some are duplicates and I will reduce the whole lot to a single entry per person. Per person. That was so fun to write that I had to do it twice.

Stay tuned.

Oh----and Happy Saint Valentine's Day!

Xs and Os to all!

G

One World One Heart Giveaway

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 19:48:00 +0000

***This just in 02/03/08 Super Bowl Sunday @ 1605 hours: Lisa says to add this:

That anyone wishing to should leave a comment between now and the 13th of the month. I will then draw a winner on the evening of the 13th and make the YOOOOOGE announcement on the 14th. That is Valentine's Day. Hey! I get it now! COOL! Valentines Day? Heart? World? (nods head knowingly and with a deep sense of satisfaction here..) Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, I am supposed to ask folks to leave me a link to their blog, an email address (I love those) or some way to contact the winner to get an address to send this AWESOME OWOH GIFT to.

Get it?

Got it?

Bueno.

(now back to our regularly scheduled post...)

***

This is Neropaco. It is a store. It is a store that sells creations uttered in glass by the owners. The owners are brother and sister. Neropaco is in Venice. More specifically, it is on the island most famous for its glaziers, Murano.

This is my sister, Karen. On her left (yes, to your right) is Monica. Monica assists her brother in the making of fine glass pieces. Specifically, Monica makes some of the smaller pieces.
Even more specifically, Monica made this.

And she included bags to go with each piece Karen and I walked away with. Yes, you get a BAG. A Venetian Bag! w00t!
But that's not all. When you win this One Heart piece, you win also an individually wrapped bag of Japanese Dried Shrimp With Green Bean. It is a bit spicy. And the shrimp are cute. (notice cheap plug for Jeremy's book all propped up nice next to the giant hooka.) No. You do NOT get my red sweatshirt salvaged from the dumpster in a rich residential area NOR my cap which I found on the ground at the beach all wet and dirty at the time. (So was the cap, by the way.)
And what would a giveaway such as this giveaway be without some showmanship. In honor of Somewherejoe's magnificent feet....uh.....yeah they are magnificent, but what I mean to say here is fete, you can receive with a smile the knowing that your Venetian bag with its contents of one Murano glass bracelet and its accompanying individually wrapped bag of Dried Shrimp With Green Bean has been clenched ever so lovingly in my teeth while performing what has come to be known as The Somewhere Joe Jocular Microwave Move. And yes, there will be teethmark indentations on the bag. (notice cheap plug for my ability to associate with blonde hotties---friend, Summer---as depicted in deliberately posed framed photo. nana g on fridge and cold water salt water aquarium on right.)

NOW GOOD LUCK!

Two Days With A Friend

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 06:20:00 +0000

It snowed some more at my house. This is my view to the southwest.

I waited until the weather reports gave me permission to leave my hill. There was a good deal of snow along the route and roads didn't improve until reaching the Valley. Interstate 5 was clear though, and the rest of the journey was a breeze. Jeremy and I had planned this time together for some weeks and I really wasn't up to suffering a disappointment. The plan was for us to meet at the Abbey and then we would head up to the hills, to the Milk Ranch on the Abiqua. I am about to lay down some tracks in the freshly laid blanket.

In about 2 1/2 hours, I was at my destination. The first time I saw this sign was in July of 1972. My vocation director, Larry McGovern, was scoping out an alternative seminary to St. Patrick's in Mtn. View, CA. I returned in September to begin what would wind up being over a nine year relationship with students, staff and an introduction to a phenomenon I had never yet heard about: Monasticism.

I left the scorching heat of the San Joaquin Valley on that July day in 1972 and landed at the Portland International Airport where it was cool and misting. In July. Yes. Father Adrian, the assistant Dean of Studies and Father Anselm, the prior of the monastery at the time, were there to meet me. Anselm would become Abbot not long after our first meeting. The new bell tower is last year's addition and smacks of all the beautiful towers I saw in Italy. After a quick tour of the new digs, Jeremy and I headed for the hills.

This is St. Anselm's Hall. It housed a high school on the third floor and us undergrads on the second. The first floor was administration and classrooms. My Greek class was comprised of me, Steve Obersinner and Father Gregory. That's it. The larger classes were stuffed with upwards of a dozen students. I felt lost in those large classes.

Along the way to the Milk Ranch, I snapped this shot of one of the many hopyards that border the Abbey's edges.

This is the place. On the walls of the house are pictures of some of the monks who worked the farm around the early 1900s.

I cooked dinner and we supped well on pasta and sliced tomatoes and red onions in balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

I brought Big Night. Jeremy had not seen it. Here I am spying on Stanley Tucci and Isabella Rossallini after a sordid romp behind Mini Driver's back. Those Italians!

The last time I had been at the Milk Ranch was as a monk of Mt. Angel. They still had two of my pots. I was touched. Inside this one was a used dryer sheet. Not having remembered putting it in there, I removed it.

My signature at the time.

We rose none too early and I prepared a frittata, coffee and toast for breakfast. My mother and father and grandparents would slide the frittata out of the pan and onto a plate to be then inverted in the pan for finishing the top. One day I just said heck with it and tried an idea that I now see routinely demonstrated on Food Network: You slide the pan under the broiler to finish it off. Lots easier and the surface looks so beautiful. We prayed Divine Office at the table after eating and later celebrated Mass in the small downstairs bedroom converted into a chapel. It was easy to fall into the role of acolyte again. And it felt good. This day marked one month to the day that Jeremy's father, Dick Driscoll died. We celebrated Month's Mind with Dick very much in mind. I knew Dick well and loved his every wrinkle of being. A funny, funny man who would call out from the bathroom nearly every morning after waking, "Oh my God, it happened again! I got better looking while I slept." Me, he referred to as "The Little Devil" and Jeremy said that Dick often asked what his son had heard lately from The Little Devil.

Here's a shot of The Little Devil at table with Dick Driscoll's son.

I took this picture with my new picturer, and I love it.

We were sort of hoping we'd get snowed in.

We were somehow able to plow our way out and we returned to The Hill. This is the monastery's laundry building. Novices get to do the laundry for the entire house and it is in this room that I spent my first year as a monk after changing my affiliation from the Diocese of Stockton to the monastery of Mt. Angel Abbey. My bishop was not too happy. I really didn't understand that. Vocations aren't from whim, you know.

Jeremy and I then walked back to St. Joseph's Hall where Brother Claude Lane has his studio. As we approached, Claude was writing an icon.

In Claude's studio is this piece which we all three collectively named, "Jesu Sub Tavala" or "Jesus Under The Table." We decided that Jesu Sub Tavala would be the Patron Saint of all those who labored for cash without paying taxes. Hey, someone's gotta support those folks.

Speaking of working under the table, Claude proudly displays his new shipment of "Community Coffee" which comes from another Benedictine house which may or may not be reporting their income from bean sales. Being not so sure, I don't want to burn their name, but the fact that they put chickory in their blend, well.....you can narrow it down from there. Claude and I were trying to explain to Jeremy the importance of Scarlett Johannson to film. You can see the edge of her IMDB filmography on the computer screen. We kept trying to describe Lost In Translation, but trying to describe Scarlett Johannson to a brilliant theologian is like trying to describe chickory in coffee to a tea drinker. Or something like that. A rare serious pose from Claude, you can see just how firmly he feels about that coffee and chickory. So do I. And I am not smiling as I say so.

Here Claude is basically saying he has no idea why his icons are so unbelievably, utterly beautiful. Okay, he didn't really say that, but they are. So is he. Not to mention being one of the funniest persons I have ever met. Claude introduced me to Mississippi John Hurt and Bo Carter and the Mississippi Sheiks. No one has heard of the latter. When Jeremy and I arrived, the former was playing on the stereo. Okay, he knew we were coming, but it was fitting.

If Claude cared to leave a comment, he could explain all that's going on in this icon he wrote, "The Giving Of The Rule." It was done for a Carmelite house. That little flower growing there means something. Claude said what it meant. But I am old now and cannot remember.

Here we are.

And there's the former Brother Gawpo, front row center.

I'm Back And I'm Viewtiful

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 19:43:00 +0000

Hello.

Apart from working lots of overtime to pay off the extravagant avionics upgrade for the airplane, and the trip to Italy, I have been compromised on two fronts with internet issues. Those who care to are heartily invited to inquire via email. Oh, I'd be only too happy to make like an abandoned rock quarry and-----fill you in. Thanks for not giving up on me. I love my peeps. That said, let's get started.....

At the beach recently, I was trying out the new picturer on some seagulls. I was discovered by Juniper's eldest, Chellbelle on her lunch break from high school. The instant she showed up with what seagulls consider a delicacy (anything they can fit, or reduce to fitting, in their mouthes) the floodgates opened. You'd have thought Mr. Hitchcock was doing the sequel of The Birds. I will use The Belle as my assistant in future pictorial forays, to be sure.

Sheer terror on the young lady's face tells the story well...

"Another seagull?," she cried? "No," I shouted----"DUCK!"

My friend Don buzzed my house today in his Piper Tri Pacer. Again, this is the picturer's debut picturing such an event. In the past the HP Photosmart R707 point-and-shoot took way too long to refresh. These images are so clear that I can see Don in the cockpit in some of the frames I snapped. Here you can see the ribbing under the wings and fuselage poking through the fabric covered airplane. Yes, fabric folks. Not metal. In the second shot you can find the plane about to emerge from between a couple branches of a Doug Fir in the front of my house. In the third frame, you can see what happened last night, and what took most of the day to mostly melt away. I still have a goodly amount in the yard. But the branches are brown again.

For a second there, I thought I actually saw two that were exactly alike. But then I noticed a subtle difference and am once again a subscriber to the axiom that no two ARE alike. I'm still looking though...

Yes, it is true. You've heard it all your lives but wondered if in fact it was a fact. Well here is proof: U.S. Highway 20 DOES begin in Newport, Oregon and DOES end in Boston, Mass.

These girls were in my yard one morning. I had heard three rifle reports nearby in the woods and learned later that it was the closing weekend of the Roosevelt Elk Coast Range Rifle Season. Spike or better, these cows and their yearlings were safe. You can see their apprehension. You can also see sunlight in the diaphanous nostril of one elk. That was a gift I hadn't realized was there until I enlarged the photo.

The elk filed up the front side of my hilltop and emerged to cross the driveway for the big huddle in the yard, planning on what to do and where to go next. Say hello to Cow #8 (see right ear adornment).

And say hello to Cow #9...

A few days ago I swung by the beach near the Sand Bar (yes, Cheesy...your favorite steamer clam joint) to get this one....

Merry Christmas From The San Joaquin Valley

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 20:18:00 +0000

This may take a bit of CSI'ing: There's an English Sparrow in there...

Our father's large cactus plants bear abuntdantly. My sister and I shared one of these while we were in Sicily: Fichidini (prickly pear)...

Shadows lengthen near the setting of the sun...

A member of the thistle family...

This variety is the Fuyu. Sliced and dried in the Ronco Food Dehydrator, they are unbelievable...

Merry Christmas to all!

Looking Across The Estuary

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 20:09:00 +0000

About a week ago, I drove across the bridge on a mission: Get fresh saltwater. That always sounds just a bit confusing. Fresh water and salt water with water and fresh and then salt in the same sentence. I was after saltwater to replenish the old saltwater in the cold saltwater water aquarium. Ah, forget it. You know what I mean. Anyway, I drove over to South Beach to get some fresh saltwater. When I got there, I saw things in a way completely different from my many previous visits. What changed the way I see, you ask. The new picturer did it. I no longer see through eyes. I see through the viewfinder implant that I received with the Nikon D40. A great way to see, if you ask me.

The picture fest began at last light. The exposures were mostly a little over 30 seconds. The orange glow off in the distance is from the sodium vapor lights on commercial fishing vessels coming back with their loads of dungeness crab. Keep in mind that, except for the bridge, just about everything in this shot is moving on liquid cold fresh saltwater water.

It's all about color. And color at night in a picture is like stealing. I feel naughty.

The United States Coast Guard helicopter paints a faint smile over our fair city.

That streak of light bars on the left is actually a fishing boat traveling left to right. It has illuminated the F/V Seeker quite nicely.

Here you can see the tail end of the fishing boat entering the Port Docks, protected by a rock jetty.

Parting shot: Sunrise as viewed from the logging road between my little hill and the world of paved roads.

A Storm Is Brewing (and we're all gonna die!)

jaybob44@yahoo.com (Gawpo) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 20:26:00 +0000

For some reason, the news media are hyping storms with a kind of storm of their own. They didn't used get all worked up. Maybe it's a liability thing. When a big storm was coming, we just settled in and waited for it to come and then to pass. The lights would go out for a couple days and we'd call it good. Not now, though. It's all over the news and everyone is buzzing with "the big storm" talk. I may be proved wrong, but when I had had enough as the umteenth person came up to me and asked if I was ready for "the big storm," I turned to them so that I could see their eyes. I removed my glasses and sent my chin on a one inch dive so that the rest of my face could make a serious comment. I said, "Yeah. I'm ready. And do you know what's going to happen?" "No. What?," came the reply. "Nothing," I said before putting my glasses back on.

I hope I don't have to eat those words along with a half cord worth of splinters from the rotted top of that red alder in the front yard after it comes crashing through my living room windows.

The first of two big storms came through today. To my surprise--and delight--I didn't feel much of it. I went to the local airport weather report on Weather Underground and saw that it was blowing 48 mph with a peak gust of 78 mph. Nice. Top wind gust for the state took place on Cape Mears in Tillamook County---105 mph. I was vindicated on the first go-round.

The "big one" is scheduled to reach landfall sometime after midnight. We are expecting winds in the 80s. Just in case, I have filled 7 of those 5 gallon plastic buckets with toilet flushes, topped off all the plastic water bottles I could dig out of the recycle, and I did the laundry. So far, the power has only gone off twice, and very briefly both times.

The first two pictures were taken last week. This is Depoe Bay, "Smallest Harbor In The World," the sign says as you come into town before blinking and then realizing you have passed on through. They have a restaurant there called, "The Spouting Horn." It is named after what you are seeing in the pictures. A good high tide is all you need to send saltwater skyward when it all gets rammed into the narrowed channels that create the phenomenon.

I went out on my front deck to record what could be the last photographs of Gawpo. I went out there to say good bye because, according to the news, we are all going to die:

The mug was acquired in Cefalu, Sicily. Come to think of it, so was the Gawpo. But in Camporeale:

The Gawpo leaning back in smug repose, waiting for "the big one." In French, "the big one" is spelled G-A-D-O-T. See that red sweatshirt? That is Gawpo's favorite sweatshirt. He found it in a dumpster. True story. Once washed, it retained all its glorious stains thus consigning itself to the category of favorite. See that knit cap? Gawpo found that, too. Found it, in fact, the same day the pictures of the Spouting Horn were taken. The hat was wet. Once washed, it was good as new, thus consigning itself to Gawpo's newest favorite cap. True story.

As I sit here this evening and type, I can't help feeling a bit apprehensive. It was blowing pretty hard today. It was noisy outside. Right now though, it is eerily quiet. It is....well, how shall I put this: It is "eye" quiet.

Gulp.