A "joysey goyle"
Refueling the Phantoms
The "Eight-a" Euro Gondola Ride
Thrilled at being in Europe
left side - Julie, Molly (my eldest) and Justin (Brigids boyfriend); right side - Me, Brigid (#2 daughter) and Keelyn (granddaughter)
we're in love ...
American Cemetery Collevelle-sur-Mer, France (Normandy)
Julie on a wild Jackalope in WyomingMay - Mazatlan - We finished buttoning up the boat, which consisted of dismantling nearly everything inside and outside and stowing it in plastic bags and boxes. I failed to put our books in plastic bags though and a couple of books got moldy. Lesson learned; everything goes in plastic.
June - New Jersey - In Matawan NJ for a friends wedding. It was a beautiful wedding with a handsome groom and beautiful bride. While there, I was introduced to Jersey girls or “Joysy Goyles.” These women are animated in their conversation and speak their minds. They say, "fuck you" ... a lot. Except they say "foock you ... FOOOOCK YOU," twice (in case you didn’t hear it the first time). All conversations are highlighted with this declaration. They're a very genuine bunch and very sweet unless of course you cross them. They’re real alpha females. One girl, a nurse, was discussing her hospital day. She described how the physician had asked her for something. Without missing a beat or pausing in her work she replied (in her inimitable style), “Sure, as soon as I grow a third arm OUT OF MY FOOOKIN ASS.” Yet another story involved the florist, a girl both Julie and Maureen (the bride) had worked for. A client called concerned about the price of the sizeable floral arrangements for her daughters wedding. The florist demurely responded that they could certainly reduce the number of arrangements and adjust the price accordingly. The misunderstood client said, “No, no that’s not what I meant. I want the same arrangements, I would like a reduction in the price”. Oh my … the florist (cute, sweet, demure little thing that she was) said, “HOLD IT! I’M NOT GONNA BE THE ONE GETTIN’ FOCKED HERE. IF YOU NEED TO FOCK SOMEONE, GO TALK TO YOUR HUSBAND, FOCK HIM, ‘CAUSE I’M NOT GONNA BE THE ONE THAT GETS FOCKED HERE!” I find that sort of straight talk refreshing as well as entertaining.
McGuire Air Force Base (AFB), NJ - After a half dozen bumped flights, a night in a hotel and a night at the terminal (you gotta be there if you’re going to catch the flights), we caught a Space-A flight (a military transport system in which active and retired military personal ar allowed to fly is space is available, to Brigid, who lives just north of London. The Air Force personnel couldn’t have been more courteous or professional (a completely different and much more positive experience than any commercial flight). We caught a KC-10 tanker (DC-10) and refueled some German Phantoms on the way over as part of a NATO exercise. Julie got to sit up in the cockpit right behind the pilot, for a short spell and the crew took pictures for her of the refueling operation. She might as well have been in Woody Allen’s orgasmatron by the time we landed at Mildenhall/Lakenhealth AFB, England.
England – Brigid picked us up on base and we spent the next two months with her. Things in England (less so in Europe) are dramatically more expensive (our dollar is only worth about sixty cents to the British pound and seventy cents to the Euro). We babysat Brigids dog for the first week while as she went on vacation, with her shipmates, to the Atlas Mountains in Morocco (listed in the book, A Thousand Places to See Before You Die. We traveled around to Julie’s old haunts, some historic sites, looked up her old girlfriends and stayed with some cruising friends we had met Zihuatenjo, who are from England.
While with Alan and Rosie (our cruising friends off SERENDIPITY whom we met in Zihautenjo) I learned about pubs and British beer. A ‘local’ pub is selected with great care and patronized as loyally as one does their church or hairdresser. The Pubs are selected for the quality of their beer, which is about five pounds/pint. The British drink their beer warm and while it’s still brewing. My Dad brewed beer … a lot of beer … and I remember having to wait a specified amount of time before we bottled it. One time, we bottled it too early. I think my Dad called it “green beer.” My mother was doing the siphoning (as us boys were too young) to get the flow started into the bottles. Apparently, she tasted a little too much of this green beer and got sick (I think the next batch of beer it was decided, we were old enough to help). I point this out because apparently, and I still don’t understand it fully, in the short period of time, when the beer has brewed enough (so it’s not green beer) but has not completely finished brewing, is when the British drink it. The beer is brewed in the Pubs and the cask is moved very carefully to the pump the night before, allowed to settle and then dispensed, via hand pumps. The Cask/Keg is only good for a few days, before it acquires a vinegar taste. If it’s not consumed, then the remainder is thrown away. In England they take their beer so serious, the British government has a “wastage tax” for the beer thrown out the Pub owners claim as lost revenue against their income.. The beer is not “fizzy” (carbonated as preservative) and not cold. The British take their beer very seriously and have little use for carbonated beer the rest of the world drinks. Interestingly, Coors light is the largest selling single brand of beer in England. One last thing about ol’ blighty, and for that matter Europe, shops close up about 1700. There are a few pubs and restaurants open, movie theaters, but essentially business for the day is over.
Brigid has a couple of roommates from Germany who are doing a hotel internship in London and work a tremendous amount of hours (that’s another profession, besides cooking and the priesthood that I think requires a calling). The hours they work and crap they put up with is just massive). I was talking with Tristan (one of the roommates who quite an affable fellow, soft spoken, engaging demeanor and a ready smile) about our upcoming jaunt to Europe. I asked him about places to go in Germany and I pointed on the map, to Hamburg. His face lit up like a Christmas tree and in his German accented whisper he said, “my English is not so good, how do I say” and he held up one hand shoulder high as if holding something and then started making spanking motions with the other. “What is the word,” he continued. Quizzically, I looked at him thinking what is he doing? Still going through the motions he said, “YA, YA, how you say … hooker? I said, “You mean prostitutes?” His grin broaden and his whole face glowed, as he responded, “YA, YA … Hamburg, very good prostitutes!” OK Tristan, thanks for the info. I’ll run that by Julie, right away.
We caught a Space-A flight to Ramstein AFB in Germany, where I thought we’d start touring Germany. It was little cargo plane, maybe a C-135 (Boeing 727) and we sat cots that folded down from the bulkhead and ran the length of the plane on either side of the cargo. It was only an hour, but by the time we arrived in the terminal in Ramstein, Julie was wound up like a top; she just loves these flights. Immediately after clearing customs, Julie hustled up to the flight counter and asked, “Do you have anything going anywhere?” The clerk checked her list and said, “Yes Maam, we have a flight to Aviano, Italy in two hours. Would you like to sign up?” “Yes please … Thank You.” I think she would have flown around the world if she could have.
Our flight to Aviano was a 747, operated as a charter, taking all types of active duty military personnel to Iraq. It was a true privilege to sit amongst these honorable, young men and women. The flight crew could not have been more gracious, complimentary and supportive of these “warriors” as they are known inside the service. Their behavior was really quite touching. We landed at Aviano (an hour flight) at dusk. Aviano AFB is located in the foothills of the northern Italian Alps. The terrain and weather are much like Seattle, except the mountains are closer akin to the Front Range in Colorado. The bases fighter aircraft are operating all the time and it’s a rush to see the F-22 Raptors race down the runway and as soon as their wheels are up, hit the afterburners and go ballistic, perpendicular to the ground, followed by the deafening roar of their engines. Venice is about one-and-a-half hours south and Salzburg, Austria is about four hours north. Traveling in Europe is like traveling in a single western State in the U.S.
Aviano is not a 24- hour terminal, so whatever you’re going to do has to be done by 2000 or you’re out in the cold. We caught a transport bus (that travels at 10 mph) from the terminal clear across the base to the lodging facilities. They had no rooms, but they did hook us up with a local hotel ($75 Euro/$100.00 US) about 1.5 miles down the road. The hotels in Europe are OK, but really not even as nice as Super 8 or Budget Inn in the States. Our 1.5-mile cab ride the hotel was $28 Euro ($40.00 US); what did we know. We walked back to the base the next morning and secured on-base lodging for $40.00 US and a little diesel Fiat rental car. While renting our Fiat, we chatted with an Air Force Sergeant, who had been stationed at Aviano for a couple of years and knew the area. He told us we could go west toward France and the nude beaches; south, deeper into Italy and the U.S. camping installation; north, into Germany and Switzerland, or east toward the old Soviet block nations. Julie had been to Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia (now Croatia) when she was in high school and she wanted to go back, so east we went.
The vistas were sweeping and the harbor towns were just like the pictures; old stone buildings and brightly colored boats: pleasure, fishing and larger craft crowded into marinas or swayed gently at anchor. Tolls, tolls, road tolls everywhere; ten cents, 50 cents, 70 cents, $1,10, $4.70 and they all took credit cards. We got to Trieste about dusk and on our way out of town crossed a bridge that curved out way over the edge of the cliff, with no supporting structure. I can’t find any pictures of it, but it was the most impressive bridge I’ve ever seen. Imagine driving along a cliff. The cliff takes a sharp left and instead of digging a road out of the cliff face and following the terrain, a bridge is built that sweeps out and around the edge to rejoin the cliff back in the gorge where it disappeared; just a big looping bridge with no visible support. It was impressive! Tunnels too, lots of tunnels. It almost seemed they preferred building tunnels to roads. We had very little trouble with border crossings as the guards just mostly waved us through; no visa’s required and no passport stamps (bummer).
Once we got into Croatia the landscape reminded me of the high plains in the western U.S. Dry, with little vegetation on one side and, in parts, the clear blue, calm water of the Adriatic on the other. Deep gorges with snug harbors and only the occasional pleasure craft to be seen. The roads were beautiful, four lanes divided, relatively empty and with frequent rest stops and gas station/hotels (like Little America’s). It took us two, absolutely delightful, driving days to get to Dubrovnik.
We stayed an afternoon and a morning in Dubrovnik exploring the walled city and touring the war museum of the last war Croatia had with Serbia when the Soviet Union broke up. Dubrovnik (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dubrovnik) is an old (early A.D, maybe even B.C) port city built within tremendously thick walls. The hills behind climb to a few thousand feet and the 1990’s, the Serbian army sat on the hill and lobbed shells into the city. Many people were killed and ancient sites were destroyed. Dubrovnik is rebuilding, but you can still see damage from the war and it takes no effort at all to imagine what it was like trying to defend the city from a rain of artillery fire.
We took the coast road back, which is similar to US 1 on the east coast in New England; craggy terrain with small, friendly towns and little shops. We spent then night in a local bed and breakfast (of sorts). The mom and pop proprietors (and homeowners) had a couple of room upstairs from their living quarters an acre out back that they converted to camping spots for a tent or trailer. They had separate shower and bathroom facilities for the campers. Our room was a very reasonable $30 Euro. It required I have a shot of schnapps with the proprietor, without his wife knowing, before we could check into the room, though. We saw a lot of car camping in Europe; little cars pulling little trailers.
After our return to Aviano, we took side trips to Venice and Salzburg. I won’t describe either here as any picture book can do far better job than I can. I will say though that the Europeans are church crazy. Big Cathedrals and small local churches; all are hundreds even a thousand of years old and all are ornately decorated with multiple - four, six eight or more alters, frescoed ceilings, sculpted walls and status’s galore. It is truly overwhelming. Nothing … nothing like we have here in the new world. In Salzburg we stumbled into a fair, with gypsies in their costumes and locals in their lederhosen. We stood in the rain and had one the best sausage sandwiches ever, from a street cart. In Venice, I took Julie on a gondola ride. The gondolier propositioned me and when I asked, “How much?” he said "Eight-a Euro," about $12.00 US. The Italians always end their words with a vowel, right; so I said "Sure," thinking "eight-euro" was a good deal for a 35-minute gondola ride. Just into the Grand Canal the gondolier offered a longer ride for 120 Euro (about $170.00 US. It was then I realized he had quoted me "eighty" Euro, not eight(a) euro. I declined the offer and slunk in the seat next to Julie muttering, "that was a phenomenally stupid of me." We wandered around Venice the rests of day poor as church mice with only enough money for a beer (for me) and split of champagne with Gatorade (for Julie). We got quite a buzz off it and took about three hours to walk it off.
We were unable to get a Space-A fight out of Aviano, so we purchased commercial tickets from Venice to Gatwick (UK) We took the train from Gatwick to Brigids flat (about 3 blocks from Brigids) but on the way Julie and I got separated in one of the train stations. Julie can get around England and navigate the train system just fine; I’m the one with the problem. After Lots of asking and double checking, we both wound up back at Brigids within about 15 minutes of each other.
July - Europe - Molly and Keelyn arrived from Colorado and Justin (Brigids boyfriend) arrived from California. Tim was supposed to come over but he and his girlfriend couldn’t get away. We rented a VW van, stopped at Stonehenge and boarded the Chunnel train to cross beneath the English Channel to enter Europe.
The English drive on the left hand side of the car and on the right hand side of the road; just opposite of most of the world. This works OK in England, but Americans and Europeans get a little confused when entering traffic or making turns, as invariably we (or least I did much to Julies chagrin) wind up in the wrong lane. In Europe they drive on the sensible side of the narrow roads, but I was just opposite of everyone else (go figure). We had a lot of help navigating from Brigids “Thom-Thom.” In fact, Julie, having spent a good deal of time in Europe, would often argue with Thom-Thom. So actually I guess we had two navigation systems; Thom-Thom and Julie-Julie. We spent most of our time in Germany and France but touched Belgium, Luxemburg and Holland.
We were in Europe seven days and I can’t remember all the places we went, but we spent our first night in Wiesbaden, Germany at the American Military Hotel. The next day we drove along the Rhine River and stopped for a wine tasting in Bacharach, Germany. As it was early in the day and we hadn’t eaten very much, we all got pretty toasted at the tasting. We went through Furtwagen and rode bobsleds on rails down a mountain and spent our second night in Treburg, Germany, home of the world’s largest cuckoo clock. For dinner we had venison and boar and beer to drink. Then we drove onto Paris via Schaltag (billed as the prettiest little town in Germany) in the Black Forest where we had Black Forest Cake, ta da!!!.
I only drove into and out of Paris, but it was enough for me in this backwards van, as Parisians view driving as a contact sport. We stayed a couple nights in the Latin Quarter and with Julie as our tour guide we visited Notre Dame Cathedral, the Trocadero, the artists’ quarter at Sacre C’oeur, and the Eiffel Tower (although we didn’t go up as the wait was two hours). We went around the L’ Arc de Triomphe in a bicycle cart. The L’Arc de Triomphe is the largest and busiest roundabout in the world with 8 major highways entering the circle. We went all the way around the roundabout, just taking our leisure, with our bicycle driver pedaling his heart out, toting three of us (in each cart). No special lanes or right-of way, we were right in the thick of the automobiles, lories and buses, making our way around. We finished up the day with a boat ride on the Seine. Parched and hungry we made the mistake (again) of drinking on an empty stomach. Throughout the early evening, over multiple beers and intense conversation, we all managed to get really drunk (except Keelyn and Julie). About 2200, we went out to dinner. On the way we got caught in a cloudburst. No warning, no thunder or lightning. The sky just opened up and a river pored forth. Molly and Brigid, well beyond conscious civility lost nothing in a making a wet situation enjoyable. Brigid was make-believe paddling in the flooded bus lane of the avenue we were walking along and Molly was tilting her head back enjoying the gutter water as it ran off the roof (a stellar moment for a father, if ever there was one). We were trashed and soaked and loud and looked like wet rats. We found a café open that was willing to serve us and we ate. Paris is filled with its share of street vendors trying to make a buck selling flowers or souvenirs. They had pestered us all day and even at 10pm, whilst eating dinner, they were still pretty thick. Finally Brigid gave them a dose of their own medicine and started selling them the silverware on the table. The waiters looked on amused as she almost sold a butter knife and a fork. We made it into a pastry shop for dessert and gorged ourselves on sweets and then stumbled back to our hotel as we had the Louvre the next morning.
Morning arrived and we all hopped out of bed feeling pretty chipper, except Molly. She so badly wants to drink like a grown up, but the next day is just hell on her. We stopped at McDonalds for breakfast and Molly was not doing well. Her condition went from bad to worse and by the time we parked by the Louvre in an underground garage, she was pretty green around the gills. Julie went ahead to get the tickets and Brigid, Keelyn and Justin waited as Molly and I looked for a place for her to vomit. The garage we parked in was seedy and looked as if it had seen its fair share of evening, or morning after … events. I encouraged her to go for it right there in the stairwell, but lady that she is, she insisted on finding a bathroom. We found one and she disappeared into it and began her convulsive heaving. I mean the rumbling started at the bottom of her feet and just pulled her inside out. The heave was long and arduous from her toes to her nose and could be heard blocks away. After about five minutes of this violent workout, she emerged from the head a fully recovered woman. It turns out she was correct in insisting on finding a bathroom, because even though she could not have added to the inimitable charm of the stairwell, by the time we returned that afternoon, one could see it was a major thoroughfare. Wouldn’t that have been special, had she followed Dad’s advice!
We escaped Paris as anonymously as we had entered it. We made our way to Colville-sur- Mar, the American Military cemetery at Omaha Beach. We got there just at closing. It was cold and drizzly adding to the solemnity of the occasion. We were able to see only a small portion of the cemetery/monument but it was an earnest and portentous experience. From the bluff on which the cemetery sits, one could look out over Omaha Beach and visualize the largest armada ever assembled for the invasion of Europe. The grounds are immaculate, but perhaps most arresting were the graves marked. “HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY A COMRADE IN ARMS, KNOWN BUT TO GOD.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normandy_American_Cemetery_and_Memorial
As monumental as The Normandy Invasion (D-Day) was, did you know that the number of American casualties at Iwo Jima was greater than the total number of Allied casualties on D-day. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Iwo_Jima
The remainder of the evening was spent making our way back to the Chunnel at Calais. We crossed the Pont de Normandie, the second longest cable stayed bridge in the world. It is 705 feet tall and as we were in the middle of a storm, the wind gusts tossed the van about. It made Julie so nervous she closed her eyes and crawled under the dashboard. In Calais, as in England, boarding the Chunnel train is a very informal experience. Remaining in the car you drive onto, essentially, cattle cars and remain in the vehicle for the 45-minute trip under the Channel. Arriving at your destination, you drive off the cattle car and you’re on your way.
Once back in England we did a little more touring around to Winchester Cathedral; Southampton and Pear Tree Church, the oldest Anglican church in the world and the church where Julie was Christened and sang as a choir girl; Cambridge - where we went ‘punting’ (pushing yourself around on boat with a stick); Camden Locks and Covent Garden; we had lunch at the ‘Crypt Café’ which is the crypt of St Michaels of the Field Church and saw the changing of the guard Buckingham Palace. They have television program in England called “Come Dine With Me.” In the program four non-food professionals and strangers to each other, who fancy themselves gourmet chefs take turn hosting each other for dinner. The host’s dinner is graded on taste, complexity, style and overall presentation. We (Julie, Molly, Brigid and I) decided to do that. It’s not important who won, but I lost. I was severely marked down (25 points lower than the next highest) because of my style. They said I hurried them through the soup (too damn bad - they should be thankful to have soup)! Our time in Ol’ Blighty was drawing nigh.
August – We caught a flight from Mildenhall/Lakenheath AFB to Dover AFB (DE) on a C5 Galaxy. It’s one of the largest airplanes in the world, although after reading about it in Wikipedia it may not be the most reliable. We landed safely in Dover and hoofed it across the base to the hotel. The next morning we rented a car and started the search for our own vehicle to buy. After looking on Craigslist in five States (DE, PA, NJ, MD and VA) we secured a 1999 Dodge Dakota pickup with a camper, in Pennsylvania.
We drove back thru Delaware (dropping off the rental car), over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and spent the night at Langley AFB. The next morning we made our way over to Portsmouth Naval Hospital, Portsmouth, VA. It was my first permanent duty station in the Navy and while the old (not the original) hospital building (over 2000 beds) is still there, it looked like it only operated in an very limited administrative capacity; a huge ghost of a building. I worked on the pediatric surgical unit and went to Operating Room (OR) Technician school there. I believe that hospital was built in 1960.
Capt. John Smith first explored Portsmouth in 1608 (that’s a long time ago), and the original (and still standing) Portsmouth Naval Hospital was built in 1827. It is oldest continuously running hospital in the Navy. I worked in the original hospital, as well, on the psychiatric ward (I was 18 years old) and as we drove by, it still appeared to be operating in some form of patient care capacity. I remember stories of it being haunted. We drove around the hospital grounds, but it was hard to recognize anything from my day. The first and second hospitals are still there, but now they’ve added a new (third) hospital. We drove past the Admirals house and the small Civil War graveyard that, when I was stationed there, I would visit from time to time. Maybe it’s more significant now because I’m a little bit closer to one of those little plots. The running track is still there, but not the Enlisted Men’s Club or any of the barracks. I was only stationed there 17 months, but vivid memories that could fill a lifetime came flooding in from all directions and I so wanted the grounds to be the same; I really felt like I was 18 again. I didn’t know this, but in World War I, Portsmouth Naval Hospital (PTSNAVHSP) was a major treatment center for the Influenza Pandemic. The US Navy and Marine Corps lost more than 5300 sailors and marines from Influenza in 1918; nearly double the amount of the total Navy and Marine Corps casualties during the entire war. Nostalgically, we left Portsmouth for Julies property in south-central Virginia.
We arrived at Julies 66 acres in Dillwyn,VA, a couple hours before dark. We provisioned up a little because we planned to camp out. Once on the land we built a campfire and the neighbors came over to discuss the local doings well into the night. We spent the weekend there exploring the land, but it was like a jungle, so thick was the underbrush. Our neighbors treated us to dinner and introduced us to squash pie. On Monday, we headed west to the Blue Ridge Parkway and took that north until it joined with Skyline Drive in the Shenandoah National Park. We dropped down the back side and motored thru the Virginia countryside into Maryland where we stayed at Bethesda Naval Hospital; the National Naval Medical Center, my second permanent duty station. Again, the hospital grounds have changed so much it is unrecognizable. Gone again were the Enlisted Men’s Club and my old barracks. We were going to go into D.C and visit the Marine Corps Memorial and the Tomb of the Unknown Solider, as we had visited the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. My intent was to show Julie how it’s supposed to be done. We didn’t make it and I’m sorry for that. I’ll take her another time.
We departed for NJ to see the newlyweds. I think I have a soft spot in my heart for the east coast, maybe because I spent some very formative years there, but the days were magical. After seeing Maureen and Neil and departed for New England. We stopped just this side of New York City and had lunch with and old Navy buddy of mine. I wanted to see Tom and it was good to see him. We went to OR School together in Portsmouth and we were roommates while stationed in Bethesda. Between duty stations, we made a cross-country road trip, taking his Indian motorcycle out to California to be rebuilt.
Tom is the reason I’m sailing. I decided to go sailing down at the Naval Academy one Saturday. On my way out the door, Tom asked me where I was going. I told him I was going sailing and as an after thought asked him if he knew anything about sailing. He tilted his head, and in his inimitable fashion, got a quizzical look on his face like he was going through a Rolodex in his brain and started to nod saying, “Yea … Yea … I know how to sail … I know a lot about sailing. Rag Baggers … that’s what they call sailors.”
It was a cold fall day and we had on our Pea Coats when we arrived at the Sevrin River, just off the Chesapeake Bay and right across from the U.S. Naval Academy. We rented a 24’ Rainbow sailboat, with a tiny cabin and no motor. What did I know about tides, or currents, or wind, or … sailing (except how to tip over a sunfish on Boulder Reservoir). To this day, I have not seen a boat more expertly handled. It was an obstacle course to get off the dock, out of the river and into the Bay; I would compare it to that course to the one we recently sailed into at Fort Bragg, California. The channel was clearly marked but it was narrow and had several turns in it. He sailed away from the dock, port tack, starboard tack, port tack, starboard tack, just like he was driving a car. We slid into the Chesapeake and joined all the bigger boats romping through the waves, heeled over, tacking, jibbing, slicing back and forth across the water and hoisting their colorful spinnakers for downwind runs. We took turns at the helm and ducking into the little cabin to get out of the cold autumn wind. What a marvelous, marvelous day. That was it! The second great revelation in my life, from that point on I wanted to sail. I wanted to own a sailboat. I wanted to live on a sailboat. I wanted to work on a sailboat and sail anywhere, anytime … I just wanted to sail! Thanks Tom …
For cohesions sake, my first great revelation was when I arrived at boot camp. Ten minutes into our indoctrination, a Navy Chief (who, until that point, I thought would surely be wearing a war bonnet, as all Chiefs wore), in splendidly colorful language told my bunch of fresh recruits that if we “stayed in this man’s Navy for 20 years you’ll collect half your base pay for the rest of your lives.” That was it! My first great revelation; I hadn’t been in the Navy ten minutes and I was career oriented (a lifer).
But I digress … we left Tom and went through New York City during rush hour. We went as far as Niantic, Connecticut, where we stayed a couple of days. During our time in England, Tim wrote us an email announcing his engagement to his girl. She is a Marine also and her family lives in Hartford, Connecticut not far from Niantic. We called Tim and Amy to arrange a meeting with her family. Tim and Amy had failed to tell her family of their impending nuptials. We were willing to pass by anonymously, but Amy scrambled about and notified her family at midnight that she was engaged and her future in-laws were coming to see them … surprise. We met Amy’s family the next night, all of Amy’s family was present and we had a pleasant evening chatting about the kids.
From Niantic we stayed on the coast road and drove through all the New England coastal towns. We stopped for a night and camped out on the beach just south of Boston, walked the boardwalks of the beach towns in New Hampshire, and bought fresh lobster for $3.25/pound from a “lobster pound.” We arrived in Kittery Maine, which is actually the location of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard and Portsmouth Naval Prison (closed in 1974). I have two shipmates that I worked with at Portsmouth (VA) Naval Hospital and I was lucky to get in contact with them as the address information I had was fifteen years old and I couldn’t find a current phone number.
Mike is from Boulder and we’re the same age; we graduated from cross-town high schools the same year. Between us we knew most everybody in Boulder, but had not met each other. Mike was a corpsman also, and Nancy was a Navy Nurse, and our boss. Mike and Nancy got married just after I departed for Bethesda in ’72 and we have stayed in contact, sporadically, throughout the years. I don’t know if either one of them ever knew this, but I had a huge crush on Nancy when I stationed in Portsmouth. Nancy would loan us her car, a brand new, bright orange VW beetle, for the weekend. Mike and I (and/or Andy Tubbs) would take off for the Shenandoah Mountains and go camping. I was 18, thoughtlessly inconsiderate, and I ran the wheels off that poor little car. We drove it more like a dragster, than an economy car. One time when we brought it back, Nancy said (in her best New York City accent), “boy, the car really moves fast now.” Well, hell we were running it at 70 or 80 mph on the flat, and it was floored in the mountains, all the time. When I drove, I tended to stay in my lane and let the car drift around the corners, squealing the tires and taking inches off the tread at the same time. When Mike drove, he tended to use the whole road, both lanes around the corners and spared the tire tread (and brakes). I really wanted to see Mike and Nancy and I was prepared to move heaven and earth to find them. We only spent a short time together, but I sure have a strong bond and tremendous affection for them. The visit was short and sweet. Both are doing well and both look much the same as I last saw them 37 years ago. Nancy is as cute as a button and Mike is slim and trim and may be the only person who is as bow-legged as I am. They will do well, forever …
Julie was tremendously patient and supportive in my efforts to find Tom and Mike and Nancy (ah rah rou …).
Over the next several days we toured the jagged Maine coastline and visited the charming coastal towns. We even went as far north as Calais, ME (we can’t wait to take the boat up the Inter-Coastal Waterway and hike the Appalachian Trail). We headed inland and in fairly short order, drove down through Maine, across New Hampshire, up Mt. Washington’s narrow twisting road and down again (causing Julie to dive under the dashboard, yet again) and into Vermont. We took the ferry across Lake Champlain into upstate New York; down through the Adirondacks, into Buffalo, across Niagara Falls into Canada and then re-entered the US at Detroit. We visited a couple of my aunts and Uncles in central Michigan and then headed to Upper Peninsula (UP) where we visited a cousin I hadn’t seen in over 40 years. Julie and Joe (my cousin) talked hunting and taxidermy during our visit. Michigan is a beautiful State and if we ever settle down, it’s high on our list of places.
We motored out of the UP, across Wisconsin and into Minnesota, where we hooked up with my nephew for a short telephone conversation. From Minnesota we drove into South Dakota and onto the Great Plains (or prairie or steppe). I read on the plaque at the rest stop (and I think I have this correct) our Great Plains (in the U.S.) is one of only three in the world that is so vast yet able to sustain a large crop production. We visited Mt. Rushmore and then entered Wyoming through the back roads, either side of which was just littered with herds of Antelope. I once read “Wyoming should be paved and turned into a trailer lot.” No offence to the good people of Wyoming, but with the exception of Jackson (Hole) and Yellowstone, I see no reason to contradict that statement. Julie was able to ride her first Jackalope while in Wyoming.. We went through Jackson and spent a night in Yellowstone before heading up into Montana. I don’t consider myself a world traveler, but the United States really is stunningly beautiful and so tremendously varied. It just has everything!
We made it from Yellowstone to Spokane, WA in just a little over 12 hours. We were delayed existing Yellowstone by a couple of buffalo that took their sweet time crossing the road. Did you know more people are hurt in Yellowstone by buffalo than by bears We spent the night in Spokane and in the morning headed for Ellensburg to pick up Julie’s taxidermy from her old boss’ house. Once loaded in the truck we continued onto Seattle.
September - We arrived in Seattle Labor Day weekend and stayed with Dik and Kathy (in our old neighborhood), had dinner with Chuck and Shirley, visited Steve and Glenn (the shipwrights), got some work done on the truck and did some boat shopping. We left in fairly short order heading south to San Diego with stops along the way to hook with Julie’s ex-workmates from Alaska and cruising buddies we’ve met sailing. We missed COK CABUK in Portland but did get to talk to Gary on the phone. North of San Francisco we met up with BEYOND REASON (Bill and Lisa). We went to a play on Alcatraz Island that another cruiser (Ava) we met was producing and acting in, in conjunction with the National Park Service. After the play BEYOND REASON and ITCHEN went out and did a little bit of the San Francisco nightlife. What a gas! We had dinner and did a little dancing at the infamous Tonga room. It was a long, hot day of driving and a cold night at the now closed Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary (where the play was), but it was fun and I don’t think at all unique to the cruising community. You meet someone half-a-world away, form a bond based on the common cruising experiences and then hook up at some later point without skipping a beat. We missed PEPE in Lake Tahoe, but hooked up with Julie’s friends from Alaska in Reno. From Reno we went down the backside of California on US 395 and cut through Yosemite. During our travels in these National Parks, we came across quite a few couples who act as Campground Hosts. They get their campsite for free in return for monitoring the campsite in which they are camped, or for doing any number of odd jobs in the park … one more thing to add to the bucket list. We stayed in Lemoore, CA in the middle of the vast farming country of the San Joaquin Valley. For all you global warming fans, Wikipedia says “that if all the worlds glaciers melted then the San Joaquin Valley would once again be subject to oceanic flooding.” The San Joaquin Valley produces 13% of US agriculture (in dollar value); has the largest single cotton farm in the world; grows the majority of asparagus consumed in the US; and, it’s the birthplace of the raisin. Dairy cattle produce so much manure, that farmhands have actually drowned in the manure pits. How do you explain that to St. Peter when you arrive at the pearly gates; the obvious, St. Peter – “you smell like crap.” You – “DUH!” or, honesty, St. Peter – “Whew, what is that stench?” You (raising your hand at the back of the line) – “It’s me, I just drowned in a pool of shit:” or the clever, St. Peter – “that’s a … that’s a bit strong isn’t it?” You – It’s a my new cologne Ode to manure … do you like it?”
From Lemoore it was over the pass in the Angeles National Forest, through Los Angeles, along the coast road, past Camp Pendleton and into San Diego. We had a good visit with Tim and Brigid (who had flown over from England to see her boyfriend and unbeknownced to her, get engaged). Justin (the fiancée) wrote me when he returned to San Diego, after spending a week with us in Europe. He explained his feelings for Brigid and his intentions. He asked me not to tell anyone, as he wanted it to be a surprise for Brigid. I did not; not even Julie, much to her chagrin. Brigid called us over Labor Day to announce her news. Justin took Brigid to the beach in San Diego and a photographer friend was there to capture the moment … stunning pictures. We finished up our boat shopping, packed up our stored household goods into a U-Haul and headed for Phoenix.
In Phoenix we spent a couple days with my mother and then headed up to Denver. From Phoenix to Flagstaff is a long, hard climb. You rise in elevation about 6000 feet in 117 miles (51 feet/mile). During the drive a truck passed us that was swerving all over, nearly clipping the guardrail and then us. That is not a highway one wants to lose control of a vehicle on. We called the police, but they already had several reports about him. Sure enough, five miles up the road an Arizona Ranger had him pulled over and as we passed the Ranger was reaching inside the vehicle removing the keys from his ignition; Bad Day at Black Rock for that guy. I picked up solar panels in Flagstaff, stuffed them into the U-Haul and we arrived at Carole and Bob’s (in-laws) in Pueblo, CO about 11pm. We had a nice chat with them and breakfast the next morning before departing for Molly, Denver and the end of our summer trip.
While in Denver I saw my Godmother and cousin. Julie and I took one last excursion over Trail Ridge Road. We went up through Estes Park, a town with it’s own Elk herd that partially resides on the golf course located at the east end of town. There were several bulls, but the dominant one made himself known to the others by bugling and declaring his territory, as well as his women; the other boys kept their distance. He probably had 25 cows and every once in a while a straggler would wander in. One of the estranged bulls would try to head her off, but the dominant male would come charging out and the cow would scramble past the pretend suitor until she joined the rest of the heard. We (hikers, tourists and photographers) were often only several feet from the herd. We were told there are about 3000 head of Elk in that herd, but the area can only sustain 2100. They plan to thin the herd by 10% over the next ten years (that’s a hundred plus Elk per year). Professional hunters (State licensed hunters that can hunt almost anytime, that take special tests, attend special courses and spend a couple weeks per year doing community service work) do the killing and the meat is given to local food banks. It was beautiful day as we drove over the pass and down into Grand Lake, over to Frazier, past Winter Park, over the top of Berthoud pass, through Idaho Springs and back into Denver. On our last evening in Denver, we had dinner with my brother-in-laws family (Rick, Kelly, Weston and Erica). It was fun and the two teenagers entertained us all night.
While up in Ellensburg retrieving Julie’s animals, her employer from last year offered her the same job this year, with a little bump in pay. Since we’re not heading south on the boat until January, why not? Remember the begats; Julie going north and me going south begat a rendezvous. I will go up to Ellensburg to see Julie around Thanksgiving. The termination of Julies contract begat another rendezvous; we decided to meet in Denver and do some skiing. The skiing begat new skis for me, as I gave mine away last year and the new skis begat lift tickets as you can’t go down the hill unless first you go up it. We got out of that money pit just before we drowned. On Tuesday Julie left for Ellensburg to work and hunt for 3 months (a good woman ‘il do that) and the following Saturday I headed for Mazatlan. This was the most fun summer of any I’ve ever had.
