Lunch Money
10/26/2025
The days spent sailing
In my youth, in the late 1950's, I spent many hours leafing
through all the sailing and yachting magazines I could get a hold of, soaking
up the images and stories of boats large and small, learning nautical terms and
theory and dreaming of one day owning my own sailboat and sailing the seas.
Probably not an unusual dream for a small town boy from Santa Paula, CA a town
with a billboard as you entered the city limits with the banner, "Welcome
to Santa Paula the lemon capital of the world". When I was old enough, I
joined Sea Scouts, learned how to tie a bowline along with many other nautical
skills and terminology. Being an inland town, our troop did not have a boat of
any kind so the practical part of actually handling a vessel never really happened.
I grew up, the dream faded but not completely.
Fast forward to my 20's, having dropped out of college,
where I was majoring in drinking beer and chasing coeds, I found myself back in
my old home town, working in an auto parts store and still pretty much just
drinking beer and trying to get laid. It was 1965 and Uncle Sam got wind of my
predicament and decided that I needed to be in the Army and spend some time in
Vietnam. Towards the end of boot camp where I was scheduled to go to Combat
Infantry School next, I got called into the First Sergeant's office where I was
informed that because I tested high for mechanical aptitude, I was not going to
Infantry School but instead was going to Ft Eustis VA to become a Marine
Engineer. Hell, I didn't even know the Army had boats, but yup, they do. All
kinds of support vessels, landing craft and amphibians. So off I went and was
duly trained, certified and shipped off to Cam Rahn Bay Vietnam to be part of
MMAV (Marine Maintenance Activity Vietnam) where I did a variety of different
jobs around various watercraft.
Upon return to the States, the experience and training, Army
and Sea Scouts, helped me get a job working as a Harbor Patrolman in Channel
Islands Harbor. I honed my operator skills and learned marine rescue boat
operation. I spent almost 12 yrs working as a Harbor Patrolman in three
different Harbors on the water, every workday, and surrounded by yachts,
working boats, fishing boats along with being immersed in marine
culture.
This led to my being able to own my first real boat a 26’
Columbia sloop named Nicole. She was a good starter boat. Roomy, handled well
and seaworthy. The perfect introduction for me to the world of coastal sailing.
I feared when my daughter Andrea was born that we would have to sell Nicole and
spend time at home raising a child. But my wife insisted we keep Nicole and
sail her along with having a home and raising Andrea. And so we did, then sold
Nicole and bought a 31 Grampian ketch, Nightfall. We became a sailing family.
One thing led to another and eventually we took the leap.
Sold the house and after much research ordered a brand new Downeast 38 cutter. It
was truly a dream come true. She was unique in many ways in that I traveled to
factory when she was being built and had them do things not found on other
Downeast 38’s like converting the nav station to a quarter cabin to give Andrea
her own room. We named her Katherine. Yup, we sold it all and moved aboard. We
spent 5 ½ years sailing the California coast and offshore islands. Still
working but weekends vacations were at sea. It was magical, wonderful, hard
work and some of the best years of my life. Katherine was magnificent and very
forgiving. There were times of terror, absolute joy, family bonding and pride. I
often say now that you could not pay me enough money to give up all the
memories I had with Katherine and you couldn’t pay me enough money to do it
again.
A few months ago, a friend suggested I go to the local
independent theater and see a particular movie. It was a Japanese movie called
After Life. It takes place in a small, mid-20th century social-service-style
structure which is a way station between life and death. Every Monday, a group
of recently deceased people check-in: the social workers in the lodge ask them
to go back over their life and choose one single memory to take into the
afterlife. They are given just a couple of days to identify their happiest
memory, after which the workers design, stage and film them. In this way, the
souls will be able to re-experience this moment for eternity, forgetting the
rest of their life. They will spend eternity within their happiest memory. Guides recreate the memories chosen by filming
on sets with basic stage props (cotton balls serve as clouds for the pilot; an
audio recording of street noise is played while the old man stands in a trolley
and social workers jostle the trolley to replicate movement). The hosted souls
watch the films of their recreated memories in a screening room, and as soon as
each person sees their own, they vanish. The film left me wondering what memory
I would choose. The birth of my children, falling in love, one of my amazing
travel journeys. I pondered the question only briefly and settled, without any doubt,
on this memory:
We had sailed Katherine to San Migual Island the western
most of the islands in Channel Islands Nation Park. No small feat in that it is
approximately 70 miles offshore and noted for windy, crappy weather and rough
seas. We sailed up the leeward side of the four island chain that make up the
park spending one night on anchor at Santa Cruz Island.
We arrived at Cutler Harbor, San Miguel Island, the next
day, a large well protected but open roadstead, dropped anchor and settled in.
Not another soul in sight. After some
lunch, we rowed ashore in our dingy, Cuyler has no docks or facilities of any
kind, where we met up with the only other soul on the Island a newly hired NPS
Ranger. Off we all went to spend hours touring the Island and it’s rugged
beauty. We came back to Cuyler via a long, beautiful, protected beach on the
leeward side of the Island. It was a glorious sunny day, sparkling ocean on our
right and island wilderness on our left. Before long, I spied Katherine peacefully
riding anchor in the harbor and saw the only foot prints in the white pristine
sand were those of Andrea, running ahead of us. The footprints lead to a sock
and sandals in the sand, the shirt, then pants all leading to my beautiful 3 year old
daughter, running butt naked along the beach chasing sea gulls, Cuyler and
Katherine on one side, Island on the other, beautifully clear sky above filled
with white fluffy clouds and squawking gulls above.
Arriving back at our dingy on the beach, we thanked the
Ranger, rowed back to Katherine and settled in for the rest of the afternoon and
night. I had heard of the legendary wind and fog that frequents San Miguel but
never had I experienced anything like that night on anchor. The water in the
anchorage was flat, and our anchor well set, but the wind blew 25-30 kts all
night and the fog so thick you couldn’t see more than 100ft. Just plain weird.
Sunrise brought the halt of the strong winds and after breakfast, the fog began
to lift, and we lifted anchor and set sail back to Santa Cruz Island.
The channel between Santa Cruz and San Miguel can be
extremely rough but on this day the sailing Gods gave us beautiful weather.
Clear blue skies with fluffy clouds scattered around, warm temperature, flat seas and a pleasant 15kt wind off the
starboard beam. Katherine’s sails were well set, and our self-steering wind
vane was keeping her on a true course for Santa Cruz. Andrea was sitting near the
companion way reading as was her Mom. I had turned on the stereo with Christopher
Cross’s “sailing” filling the air. I was
standing near the helm soaking all this in when I was hit with a strong, clear,
deep, undeniable feeling. Everything, absolutely everything about this moment
was perfect and exactly as it should have been. And each of us were exactly
where we were meant to be and as much a part of it all as anything else. I had
never felt so centered, so grounded so peaceful in my life. For a brief moment,
I glimpsed what I believe is the perfection of the universe. It was the perfect
day.
No long after having Katherine I had mounted a plaque I had
found with these words from ancient Phoenicia
“The Gods do not account against man’s allotted time on
earth the days spent sailing”
I think they were onto something.
2/17/2025
The most righteous
I read idea this somewhere and really like the premise.
All religions are really transactional. In almost every religion there is a sort of contract between the believer and the deity. So, I pose this question to my religious friends. If a Christian is living a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he is promised a wonderful after life in heaven by doing so. Or a Muslim is living a good a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he is promised a wonderful after life in paradise by doing so. Or a Buddhist is living a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he is promised to be born repeatedly and eventually attain Nirvana by doing so. Or an atheist is living a good a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he just feels better living that way.
Who is the most righteous?
I believe none are more righteous because it is not what you believe but what you do that matters.
11/11/2005
Veterens Day
Another Veterens day has come. Another chance to take a moment to measure the terrible cost of this war and all wars. I have to wonder---what has all the suffering really accomplished?I am compelled to re-post my blog entry for last Veterens Day:
In 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, the world rejoiced and celebrated. After four years of bitter war, an armistice was signed. The "war to end all wars" was over.
I was standing at the checkout stand today while the lady ahead of me struggle to fill out a check to pay for her purchase. After what seemed a lifetime she handed the check the cashier who reviewed it and then handed it back saying "you need to change the date to the eleventh" . Oh, said the lady as she looked back at me apologetically. I smiled and said "no problem, today is Veterans day you know, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. That’s the way I remember it". Both the lady and the cashier looked at me dumbfounded and the cashier asked " what’s that, I’ve never heard that before !". I actually felt a tear well up in me. At that moment I heard the collective sigh of thousands of young souls. Young soldiers buried throughout the world, lost to the various wars (maddness) that has come to almost every generation . Had their loss, their sacrifice, their blood, their bravery and gut retching agonizing fear been lost from the collective memory of those they died for, the next generations ? I am a Veteran. I do not say that often or do I often talk about my experience in Viet Nam from 1966 to 1967. I am like thousands of others who went to war and did the not so glorious part of war called support. I did not participate in any battles, sieges, campaigns or actions. I was not physically wounded. I lived in a tent with twenty other guys and did a job ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week for three hundred and fifty five days (I circled every one on a calendar). As so aptly put in a scene from what I believe is a great antiwar movie Mr Roberts, I "sailed from boredom to tedium to apathy and back again". It was a backward , foreign country and a war zone, and I never was not scared and lonely , except when I was drinking to much beer which was all the time that I was not working or sleeping. There was a skinny young guy from Los Angeles in the tent next to mine. His parents would occasionally send him copies of the L.A. Times and he would share them with me. A taste of Southern California, of home. I remember how great it was to read about familiar names and places. I cannot say we were close friends but friends we were. Comrades in the struggle to stay sane in a crazy world. Coming from a small mostly white and Hispanic Southern California town, Cleve became the first black American I had ever known let alone befriended. And I felt privilaged that he would let me in his small circle of friends. Even in my training companies there had been few blacks and everyone seemed to self segregate themselves. Black and white alike. Many of my racial prejudices based from ignorance were erased by Cleve and his friends.About halfway through our tour of duty in the Nam, Cleve, became quite ill. He would go on sick call and the medics would send with back with a handful of aspirin to try to reduce his fever, and orders for "bed rest" which meant that he got to lay in his bunk in 110 degree heat all day. On the third day of being sent back from the hospital with aspirins and bed rest, Cleve collapsed in the middle of the company area while trying to walk to his tent. One of the few decent Officers in our outfit saw Cleve, found out what was going on from us and immediately drove Cleve back to the Hospital. We were with him when he literally ordered the intake Medics to admit Cleve or heads would roll. Two days later while laying in one of the largest Field Hospitals in Viet Nam, Cleve Jackson of Los Angeles California died of an infected bowel.
In 1985 I visited Washington DC and one of the first things I did when I arrived there was to visit the Wall (The Viet Nam Memorial). I searched the list of names for Cleveland Jackson and found nothing. I went to the information booth and asked for help. Why wasn’t Cleves name in the book? How could I find his name on the Wall ? The guy at the booth was a Veteran himself and I think understood my sense of urgency. He told me in matter of fact but understanding way that because Cleve did not die of wounds received in hostile action or in combat, his name is not on the Wall. I was dumb struck and still am. So to Blogging world, on the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, I offer in memory of a fallen soldier the name:
Cleveland Jackson
10/31/2005
What Happened???
I have been following with interest and distrust the undeniable connection between the current U.S. Administration, aka Dubya, and the "Christian Conservative Right". If memory serves me the Church and the Presidency issue has reared its' head many times in the past. More recently in the 1960's when it was feared JFK would be controlled by the Pope since as a Catholic, he was beholden to the "Church" in all things. He answered the critics in a speech given September 12, 1960 to the Houston Ministerial Association. Perhaps the current wanna be Texan should consider JFK's words. Perhaps Americans should take again heed to JFK's wisdom:"I believe in an America where the separation of church and state is absolute--where no Catholic prelate would tell the President (should he be Catholic) how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishioners for whom to vote--where no church or church school is granted any public funds or political preference--and where no man is denied public office merely because his religion differs from the President who might appoint him or the people who might elect him.
I believe in an America that is officially neither Catholic, Protestant nor Jewish--where no public official either requests or accepts instructions on public policy from the Pope, the National Council of Churches or any other ecclesiastical source--where no religious body seeks to impose its will directly or indirectly upon the general populace or the public acts of its officials--and where religious liberty is so indivisible that an act against one church is treated as an act against all."
"For while this year it may be a Catholic against whom the finger of suspicion is pointed, in other years it has been, and may someday be again, a Jew--or a Quaker--or a Unitarian--or a Baptist. It was Virginia's harassment of Baptist preachers, for example, that helped lead to Jefferson's statute of religious freedom. Today I may be the victim--but tomorrow it may be you--until the whole fabric of our harmonious society is ripped at a time of great national peril.
Finally, I believe in an America where religious intolerance will someday end--where all men and all churches are treated as equal--where every man has the same right to attend or not attend the church of his choice--where there is no Catholic vote, no anti-Catholic vote, no bloc voting of any kind--and where Catholics, Protestants and Jews, at both the lay and pastoral level, will refrain from those attitudes of disdain and division which have so often marred their works in the past, and promote instead the American ideal of brotherhood.
That is the kind of America in which I believe. And it represents the kind of Presidency in which I believe--a great office that must neither be humbled by making it the instrument of any one religious group nor tarnished by arbitrarily withholding its occupancy from the members of any one religious group. I believe in a President whose religious views are his own private affair, neither imposed by him upon the nation or imposed by the nation upon him as a condition to holding that office. "
WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT VISION????
4/03/2005
He's Back
Some years ago I learned about a Vulture that lives on my headboard. The sick little voice that talks to me late at night when I can’t fall asleep or whispers in my ear, early in the morning, just before I really gain consciousness. The voice that whispers things to me for which there is no factual basis and talks directly to my inner most fears and doubts. And because it seems to know how to talk to those parts of me that I seem to have little defense for, those things that scare me to the core, I tend to listen and believe if only just a little. Here is how some of those early morning exchanges went:Hi there, glad to see you awake ‘cause I’ve been wanting to talk to you. You know, you really don’t want to get up. So why bother, you just have to go to work. And, after all that really is a crappy job. They never truly appreciate all you do. The boss just doesn’t like you no matter how hard you try. In fact, they are just looking for a way to get rid of you so why bother. The hell with them, you can do better----screw it, stay in bed, your in a dead end career there.
Of course there is no mention that I have 20 years at this job and have always received a good job evaluation and regular salary increases. So now after approximately 10 seconds into the new day, the Vulture has me convinced that I am under appreciated, in a go no where job from which I am about to be fired. It is at that point that I become aware enough to realize that there is that someone lying next to me. And the Vulture continues:
Oh yeah her. You know she is really not good enough for you, you could do better. Hell over the past few years she has really let herself go. Of course that is because she really doesn’t love you. You don’t really think she is hanging around just waiting for you to come home do you? You know she is cheating on you, has to be, only makes sense. Give her just a little more time and she is going to dump you dead ass.
No mention of the long and intimate nature of the relationship or the many ways she shows her love for me. Now I am about 20 seconds into this and not only am I going to be fired from a dead end job, and my cheating partner is about to dump me. At this point I might be just stir a little. And of course since I am not quite the youngster I used to be, I feel just a slight ache, somewhere. So the Vulture continues:
Yeah sure, try to convince yourself that is just a sore muscle. You know the truth. Cancer. You’ve seen and heard it before. Oh sure miracle drug, modern treatment, blah. They just cut you up a little at a time over the next few months, fill you full of weird chemicals that make you sick, then blam, you’re dead. Why bother with anything, you’re just a dead man walking.
Never mind the recent physical that show me in good shape. So there ya go. 30 seconds into the new day and the Vulture has me convinced that I am about to be fired from a dead end job, dumped by my partner and dead from cancer in the next few months. And all that really happened was------ I woke up.
There are times when the Vulture has some factual basis for his bile. When Diane was alive we spent a lot of time comforting and holding one another after the Vulture had backed us into the corner of fear over her cancer. The Vulture knows how to exploit real fear with a factual basis. But, it was during those times that we discovered that just holding each other and getting in the here and now would usually quiet the filthy beast. The fear was, of course, not based on any imaginary monster. But the Vulture was exploiting fear of the future to gain his evil control of today. With mutual reassurance we were able to get grounded in today, to understand that even though the worst may happen we would loose the best of today if we get overwhelmed with that fear. The mantra of "just for today, I’ll be OK" got us through a lot of tough times.
Factual based fear is not what has been going on with me lately. With the new paradigm I find myself living in, my old nemesis has been trying real hard to work his way back into my life. All the rational understanding of how this filthy beast is just taking advantage of my mourning and exploiting old fears of abandonment are sometimes a weak defense against the insistent Vulture. But lately I have been hearing another soft strong voice comforting me with the learned wisdom, " just for today, you’’ll be OK".
3/08/2005
Go Down Death
To All,Thank you so much for the messages of support. I will be sure that Diane's Family receives them also.
Diane and I were members of an online support group, LMSarcoma hosted by Yahoo groups. We both received huge amounts of really good information about this leimyosarcoma curse and tons of support for what we were going through.
It was odd that when I went to the LMSarcoma site to post about Diane there was a lot of chat going on that day about fear. Diane had often talked about her not wanting people to talk of her "brave battle" or "strong struggle" with LMS. She said that because she believed that no one who was as fearful of this disease as she, should be labeled strong or brave. She said she experienced some fear almost every day. I disagreed with her then and continue to believe that she, like all those battling cancer, are some of the bravest and most caring people I have ever known. I believe that all of those Chemo Warriors know , like Diane did, what they are fighting and each of them know, like Diane expressed, what it is like to regularly have that pit in the bottom of the stomach called fear. Yet despite that, each day they get up, go forward, support each other and do what they need to do to continue the business of living. It is not the absence of fear that defines bravery but action regardless of the fear. From what I have seen, all of those Chemo Warriors and Care Givers, are very deserving of being labeled brave.
There comes a time a most of our lives when the body is just not able to continue. A major organ failure, medicine that no longer works or just plain old age can cause us to reach the point that it is time to let go of this mortal shell. I have seen it before and saw it again when Diane was just no longer able to fight. My mother went through it in her battle with cancer many years ago. After her death, a friend gave us a book called "Gods Trombones" by James Weldon Johnson, a collection of African American poetic sermons written in free verse that are so simple, in language yet so very profound. One of the sermons in the book is a funeral sermon for an old woman to whom death appears not as a fearsome specter but as "a welcome friend". I was so moved by its’ appropriateness for my Mother that we had it read at her funeral. And now, some 29 years later, I feel the exactly the same towards Diane’s struggle and final release. I have changed a few words to make it more specific for Diane.
Diane had requested no funeral services for her so it is here that I offer this sermon and it’s message of love.
In loving memory of Diane Marie Perry .
Go Down Death !
Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more.
Grief-stricken son-weep no more.
Left-lonesome daughter--weep no more.
She's only just gone home.
Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from His great high heaven,
Looking down on all his children,
And His eye fell on Sister Diane,
Tossing on her bed of pain.
And God's big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.
And God sat back on His throne,
And He commanded that tall bright angel standing at His right,
"Call me Death."
And that tall bright angel cried in a voice
That broke like a clap of thunder;
Call Death!--Call Death!
And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven
'Til it reached away back to that shadowy place,
Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.
And Death heard the summons,
And he leaped on his fastest horse,
Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
Up the golden street Death galloped,
And the hooves of his horse struck fire from the gold,
But they didn't make no sound.
Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
And waited for God's command.
And God said: "Go down, Death, go down,
Go down to, Washington State,
Down to Bellingham
And find Sister Diane.
She's borne the burden and heat of the day,
She's labored long in my vineyard,
And she's tired-
She's weary-
Go down, Death, and bring her to me.
And Death didn't say a word,
But he loosed the reins on his pale white horse
And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,
And out and down he rode,
Through heaven's pearly gates,
Past sun and moon and stars;
On Death rode
And the foam from his horse
Was like a comet in the sky,
On Death rode,
Leaving the lightning's flash behind,
Straight on down he came.
While we were watching round her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn't see;
She saw Old Death. She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn't frighten Sister Diane;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I'm going home.
And she smiled and closed her eyes.
And Death took her up like a baby,
And she lay in his icy arms,
But she didn't feel no chill.
And Death began to ride again-
Up beyond the evening star,
Out beyond the morning star,
Into the glittering light of glory,
On to the Great White Throne.
And there he laid Sister Diane
On the loving breast of Jesus.
And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a' saying, Take your rest,
Take your rest, Take your rest.
Weep not--weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
3/05/2005
Good bye my Daisy
This Tuesday evening, Miss Diane Marie Perry, my friend, my companion, my lover, my Daisy, died of Leiomyosarcoma a most awful disease. In memory of my Daisy and the joy she brought to my life, portions of a Poem #20 by Pablo Neruda:Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.
'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
====== break========
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
