Bleak

Twilight comes later these days but is still gone before I arrive home from the office. The alley is the last stretch of road before I reach my garage. Some years ago the city installed new lights. They changed from the sickly warm salmon color of mercury vapor to the cool white of LEDs. So now when I turn into the alley it is brightly illuminated and I find I miss the warm — sickly or not — light of yesteryears. Even the illusion of warmth is welcomed in February.

Since mid November the alley has been paved with snow, snow that is slowly turning salt and pepper with pepper predominating. It presents a bleak landscape with weathered utility poles, disarrayed blue and black garbage receptacles and the vagaries of neglected structures.

2013 was my year — the year of the snake. I came full circle and so did many of my friends. One day we were gainfully employed and the next gainfully retired, that is except for me. They slowly wander south to Florida and west to Arizona, and I think of this each time I turn down my decrepit alley.

Chicago has many strong points but February is not one of them. In my teens and twenties I bitterly complained about Chicago’s weather to my mother. I dreamed of warmer, more exotic climes. In rebuttal she would cite a long list of calamities Chicago does not concern with: hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes, floods (for the most part), tsunamis, and her most dreaded nemesis, the ubiquitous crabgrass and alligators of Florida. I appreciate her point of view now that I am a property owner and a witness to many devastating natural disasters. But that said February is still a bit much.

Of course in a city chockfull of culture — if lethargy can be overcome — there are no end of distractions. Charlotte and I recently enjoyed the CSO with Maestro Muti and Yo-Yo Ma, celebrated Urasenke Chicago Association’s 54th tatezome, had a bowl of minestrone at Eataly, listened to an organ trio at The Green Mill, perused the Hiroshige Winter prints at the Art Institute and attended a friend’s cello recital followed up with a deep dish pizza.

I do not begrudge any of the above. I am privileged to live in a city that affords so many opportunities, but right about now I would trade any of them for green grass and an ice-free lakeshore.

In an odd dichotomy February’s harshness countermands the increasing light. I envy our Northern neighbors. As we (or at least me) sit here and snivel, they revel in the ice and snow. Friends in Door County bemoan the fact that in the recent past there was not enough snow, forcing them to curtail their winter pastimes. After all what would Wisconsin and Michigan be without cross-country and downhill skiing, snowmobiles, ice fishing and the artic like conditions at Lambeau Field.


Bleak could be a state of mind, an illusion. But try to tell yourself that when the cold seeps in despite thermal underwear, wool sweaters and down coats. I am a more introspective person because of February. Baking bread warms the house, books and magazines ignored all summer get read, the blues and classical music downloaded to the computer is listened to and I am writing this. So who’s to say that I will not emerge a better person for having lived through another 28.25 days of February.

Bleak February —
Lively sparrows and rabbits
Track in the snow.

February 2014

Isolated

Isolated by the extremes of snow and cold I adapted. The heavy coat saved for just such conditions gets dragged out of the front closet, as does my wool scarf and hat. The tall-insulated boots that spend most of their life in a basement corner are dusted off and treated with water proofing cream. Next I searched for my flannel lined blue jeans. And oh, did I forget to mention the new high tech Japanese heat retaining underwear.

The house also got the once over. Insulating shades were drawn. Clear plastic was taped around leaky windows and blow-dried taut. The snow blower’s fuel was topped off, and shovels strategically placed at the front, back and garage doors. The Subaru’s oil was checked and windshield washer fluid added. I made sure there were shovels and scrapers in each car.

The larder was inventoried. If deficient the staples were quickly acquired before the storms onset. After all this preparation my hands began to dry out, and fingertips and lips commenced to crack. Many different creams and emollients were used to prevent this painful consequence of a cold dry environment.

The onset of bitter cold began with snow as the high-pressure system from the north over powered the precipitating low. When two to three inches of snow accumulated, the snow blower catapulted it onto the frozen lawn or out into the street. This process was repeated eight to ten times before the storm ended. At first the snow was dry and crystalline. It offered no resistance to the puny machine. But the longer the snow fell the heavier it became until the snow blower’s few horsepower barely sufficed.

Then the sky cleared. Stars were visible for the first time in weeks. I sat in the kitchen and watched the external thermometer plummet degree by degree. It was a count down in reverse: 0, -1, -2, . . . -16 before stopping. The world was hushed. Everything outside, including the air, was on the verge of cracking.

I wondered about the creatures that inhabit the backyard. No birds’ chirped. No rabbits left their tracks in the snow. No skunks, possums or cats were seen. Everyone and everything hunkered down, and waited for the jet stream to push the artic vortex further east.

On the coldest morning the traffic was light. I drove to work thinking that smarter people than me had elected to stay home. Lake Michigan was phantasmagoric. Layers of steam and fog wafted unaffected by the near gale force winds. I wished for a camera. No matter, it would take more skill than I possessed to capture the lake’s image, but the image has stayed in my mind’s eye.

The clinic began slowly and gained momentum as the day drew on. At times like this the practice is transformed from primary to urgent care. It is a welcome change. Neuronal connections long unused get a workout. My brain struggles to perform. It can be exhilarating and tiring. My brain gobbled whatever glucose was available. I wished I had eaten a hardier breakfast.

This is happening in a cocoon. I was not alone, just isolated in full view of the world, or at least of Chicago. The first few days were acceptable. I worked, read, baked bread and made a dent in the pile of unpaid bills. But then cabin fever knocked on the door. “Come out and play.” it whispered, and I saw how our ancestors could have walked out of their cave and disappear into the snow.

I knew the worst of the weather would end soon. And sure enough, while still frigid, the next day was ten degrees warmer. A great weight was lifted from my shoulders even dressed in as many layers as the day before. Mother Earth had heard our pleas and relented. Isolated no more I rejoined the world but not without keeping one eye over my shoulder — watchfully waiting . . .

January 2014

Napping

I find myself nodding off these days. If I am sitting in any one place for too long it is bound to happen. Never one to relish sleep, I find I get about the same amount as I always have — 6 hours. It seems a waste of time, but now at the beginning of my seventh decade it is probably not enough. I try to adapt by sleeping longer but my body is not cooperating.

The earlier to sleep the sooner to wake; I lie in the dark and wait for the first glimmer of light to appear. Of course this works better in the summer. Now in December it can be a long wait and when it does come it is not the joyous light of summer but the subdued light of a sun hugging the horizon.

Once up the morning ritual begins: a shower, breakfast, email and weather checks, and then depending on the day a commute or not. I look forward to breakfast. I have always looked forward to breakfast and so do my caffeine receptors. It has been the same for years, a couple of pieces of whole grain bread with peanut butter and jelly, and if I really splurge some yogurt and a banana.

Certain things, trivial as they may be, have become ritualized. I am loath to change. I can’t deal with brunch — too much and too late. Like sleep it seems a colossal waste of time. Flexibility is harder to accommodate these days. I will if need be, but with loathing!

It may be time to consider napping. Several days ago in the middle of the afternoon I felt wasted, so with Charlotte’s urging I curled up on the couch under a down comforter and napped. Twenty or was it forty minutes later I awoke and shook off the drowsiness. The afternoon was more productive. It was better than nodding at the kitchen table and waking up with a stiff neck.

It is possibly time to adapt, even if in reverse. I watched my mother do this. In her seventies she methodically curtailed activities and responsibilities. We all chided her for it, but she paid us no mind. She was not sentimental about such things. Life moves on, has a certain rhythm. She’d taken care of enough ageing relatives to understand this.

And deep inside so did I. After all it is part of my calling as a family practitioner. Patients who were once engaging and independent sit napping in a chair as their son or daughter speak for them. It is the way of the world. Best not to fight just find a warm sunny spot, curl up and snooze.

Warm sunlight streams
Through the southern window,
A winter’s nap.

December 2013

Sunken

Winter to spring; spring to summer; summer to fall; fall to winter, and again and again the cycle repeats. From warmth to cold, furo to ro. Furo, the brazier, sits coolly upon a tatami mat between May and October. Ro, the sunken hearth, lies below the central tatami from November to April. In the chashitsu (tea hut) the source of heat is brought from the periphery to the middle. This is robiraki. It is what makes chanoyu (tea ceremony) eternal, relevant.

The ro’s heat is welcomed now not shunned. And along with heat it brings the introspection of winter. We are drawn to a deeper study. The frivolity of summer is gone, just in time before the warm breezes that rustle the greenery are taken for granted. We relaxed in its caress but knew it was foolish too. Nature reminds us, gently at first and then with strong northwest winds that bring the first hard frost.

Hats and gloves are dug out of their summer hiding places. Wool and down become intimate acquaintances once again. Walk out of work into snow and ice, and wonder why the snowbrush was ever taken out of the trunk. The ice encrusted windshield seemed so remote only a few days before. For whatever reason this naivety recurs yearly.

It is time to substitute polenta for angel hair pasta, a rich marinara sauce for pesto. A fragrant Barolo supplants a cool crisp Riesling. Chestnuts are roasted and tomato plants pulled out of the garden. The hope for one more ripe tomato is futile. They gave what they could given the circumstances. Grass is sheared one last time. Lawn furniture is tightly packed into the crawl space. The snow blower’s fuel is topped off and it is tested in the hope that it will start when the blizzards come.

In chanoyu the chawan (tea bowl) become thicker, its side’s steeper the better to hold in the heat. Chabana (flowers for tea) go from brightly colored blossoms and wild grasses to leaves ablaze with yellow and reds.

Haiku change from Bashô’s The melons look cool/flecked with mud/from the morning dew to Buson’s Blowing from the west/fallen leaves gather/in the east (Haiku Volumes 3 and 4, R.H. Blyth).

Panes of glass replace screens. Air conditioners are covered. Boiler pumps are oiled and radiators are purged of air. And in Chicago we are waylaid by bridges forced to rise for boats coursing down the Chicago River to their winter homes.

It is both a glorious and frustrating time of year. Thoughts wander to warmer climes. Will it be Florida, the Caribbean, or further south to geography with no chance of an encroaching frigid Canadian high.

The wind becomes a bully. Pushing us around until intimidated, we give up and stay indoors. Of course this is not universal. For the coordinated, skating and skiing are relished pastimes. Children rejoice in the snow, sliding down any hill that presents itself. Fireplaces are lite and huddled around. Hot toddies are drunk. Trees are decorated. Gifts are purchased. Christmas is anticipated and flys by leaving January and February to be dealt with.

The night is dense. Sounds are as crisp as the air. Snow muffles the city’s din. It is the time of the ro, the sunken hearth. A respite from a cold world that resides just inches away.

November 2013

Claustrophobia

Japanese Ukiyo-e (floating world) prints have begun to make me feel claustrophobic. The more I see and study, the more rational this view seems to me. It was a time and place where the Tokugawa shogunate formulated strict controls over society and instituted seclusion from the rest of the world.

Tokugawa Iemitsu, shogun of Japan, issued the Sakoku-rei in 1635. It formalized Japan isolation spelling disaster for the Japanese Catholic community, preventing Japanese from leaving and Europeans from coming under penalty of death, and imposing severe trade restrictions.

It was a time (17th to 20th century) and a place (Edo), and many of the prints depict the Yoshiwara (the pleasure quarter) district’s inhabitants and the environs surrounding Mt. Fuji. It was also a time of despondent samurai and of a newly minted merchant class, of peace and at least for the samurai, boredom. And it was a time of royal hostages in Edo and distant Daimyo with their armies in the home provinces shaking down the peasantry to fund their forced dual lifestyle.

Many prints are of courtesans and actors, both of such low stature that the shogun edicts bypass them. At least in the prints, many of the faces are known by name. They are the cultural icons of their day and their images were collected like baseball cards by their fan clubs. It is an interesting mix of voyeurism and mass culture. A courtesan is most likely unattainable, whereas an actor can be seen for the price of a ticket at the local kabuki theatre.

Other prints are more geographical, like postcards with a theme. These are populated with common folk: carpenters, fishermen, merchants, porters, children, dogs, and fellow highway travellers. And to my point of isolation, multiple environs are depicted but all whirl around Mt. Fuji. It is as if nothing exists beyond its reach. It would be as if our lives vanished once the Wilson (Sears) Tower is no longer visible on the horizon.

I trust you understand that I am ignoring the whole and concentrating on my prejudices while gazing deep into the prints and in that way I am being selfish, but so be it. If you strongly disagree with me then I am elated. Elated that you care enough about these overused images — to the point where they have almost become invisible — to fight for your opinion.

As I look into and between the lines so carefully carved by unknown craftsmen, I see both a sequestered and an absolute world unto itself. It is hard to co-mingle the restricted with the expansive. That is one of the charms of these prints. This dichotomy keeps me coming back again and again. The uncertainty lends an air of universality, of mischievousness, of depth and of frivolity.

America is beautiful because of a lack of boundaries. For the price of gas I can get in my car and drive thousands of unhindered miles from shore to shore both east and west, and north and south. Japan is beautiful because of its confines: a central spine of mountains and an archipelago of islands. Both our geographies make us unique.

So, I will continue to gaze into Japan’s claustrophobic floating world with hesitancy and with longing. Ah, to be a fly on a shoji screen. To be able to linger and depart at will.

Narrows

Georgian Bay in Lake Huron has peculiar charts called strip charts. These are used to navigate its Small Craft Route. Actually not just Georgian Bay but the Trent Severn and Rideau waterways also have them. And I probably shouldn’t say peculiar. The U.S. Army Corp of Engineers has similar charts of our river systems. These charts are in a ring leaf binder and the pages are flipped as you travel.

Of course depicting the river is simple compared to Canada’s Small Craft Route. It winds itself through 10,000 Islands, which is also the name for this area of granite islands and pine forests. I have had quite a time familiarizing myself the geography. Somewhat disconcertingly it has taken being in the midst of it to finally grasps its intricacies.

Strip charts come in separate packets with varying numbers of sheets in each packet. For example I am at presently using sheet 3 of 5 of the Port Severn to Parry Sound packet #2202. Each sheet covers about 10 statue miles.

This brings up another peculiarity. When on the big water of the Great Lakes we navigate in knots and nautical miles. In more confined regions the units change to statue miles and the Small Craft Route is numbered thus. But here is the kicker; the speed limit (not that anyone follows it) is posted kilometers per hour. So I have one GPS set for kilometers, the computer is in nautical miles and the paper charts are statue miles!

But back to the sheet charts and as I said one chart follows the next. This sounds simple enough until you try to match them together. A thick red line traverses the chart when it is time to move on to the next. This red line shows the number of the next sheet and a letter (upper or lower case) in a white square box to further define where on the next chart to look. It could be anywhere. Let’s just say it is not a linear process and neither are the Narrows.

Tuesday we left Parry Sound heading east to Echo Bay and a rendezvous with the famous fish restaurant called Henry’s on Frying Pan Island. To get there we needed to negotiate several tight passages. They all were within the first few miles south of Parry Sound. The first was not really a passage but a very narrow canal under the bridge that connects Parry Island with the mainland. No problem here once I stopped aiming for the beach just to the right of it.

Canada does a good job of marking the path with many different types of navigational aids, the most common being the buoy. One of the rules of the road is Red, Right, Returning. This means that when heading into port from the sea the red is always on the right. In this labyrinth we find ourselves in it is a very fluid (pardon the pun) concept. So to add to the confusion, since we are heading for Georgian Bay the green buoys are on the right. To help me stay in the channel I made a wooden replica of a green can and a red nun that can be easily reversed. I have looked to it for guidance many times this year.

When the Narrows started in earnest we were fast approaching Two Mile Narrows. I had been lead to believe that the worst of the Narrows was to be further down but here was an impossibly skinny passage blasted out of pure granite. It also happens to be the first of many a blind curve. Suddenly multiple speedboats materialize coming full speed straight at us without the slightest effort to slow. I understand that I am the interloper. They have seen many like us pass through their territory, so I keep my course and hope for their better judgment.

Next is a no name pinch between Isabella Island and Channel Island. This leads to Three Mile Gap and then to the mercifully wide Five Mile Bay. Three miles into the trip I am finally getting orientated to my environment.

Ahead we picked out the gap between Gell Pt. and Leisur Lee Pt. While slowly cruising down Five Mile Bay both Sir Tugley Blue and a small boat towing a big inflatable dinghy pass us. One piece of advice veteran Canadian cruisers gave us was to stop or slow down if not sure of your location or are uncomfortable with the situation, so we did.

In my beloved Chicago there would be bravado of horn blowing and finger pointing. But this is Canada and even though it seems like they are trying to run us on the rocks everyone smiles and waves as they speed by. Only one rather large boat purposely plays chicken until I turn slightly away. He went by too fast to see if any gesture was directed towards us.

Hawkins Point comes in view and the uneventful Five Miles Narrows, but the worst is yet to come. We have been told to announce our approach to the next narrows. In boating radio lingo this is called “securite”. On channel 16 you say, “Securite, securite, securite, this is the southbound 32 foot motor vehicle Carrie Rose transiting Seven Mile Narrows in 3 minutes.” Of course we also listen for traffic coming the other way. Instead Sir Tugely Blue call on channel 16 that it is a zoo in the narrows with 4, 5, no 6 speeding boats coming our way.

The entrance to Seven Mile Narrows is truly narrow and to add to the excitement has a blind curve to the right. Anticipating a melee I slowed and then stopped dead as six hurtling speedboats pop out the entrance like the corks from so many champagne bottles. I was thinking if I do not make my move I will never get through, so like merging left onto the Dan Ryan expressway I start to move forward. The last boat coming out sees me, decides it will lose in a confrontation and waves me through.

A half-mile, and thirteen buoys and day markers later it is past history. I take a deep abdominal breath and smile. Right about then with buoy 201 ahead marking another blind curve Sir Tugley Blue calls to inform us that he has just passed a 100 foot tug and barge coming our way. Not hearing a securite from the barge I keep moving and we exchange greetings in a spot that passes for wide in this part of the world.

Today it has been decided to stay snug in Echo Bay as our path east will be exposed to Georgian Bay’s 25 knot SW winds and waves. At anchor we sway between 240° and 310°. It is another day in the life of Carrie Rose.

September 2013

Bugs

I went to clean up in the Big Sound Marina’s showers on the morning of July 8, 2013. The door had been open all night with the light on and there to greet me were multiple types of moths. They were mainly ensconced around the light fixture but there was a fair representation of them scattered around the small concrete block room.

Other bugs had also been attracted to the light. There were those big mosquitos like non-mosquitos hovering about (I can never bring myself to squash them, they look so helpless). There were a few of the real thing. There were the ubiquitous gnats, some biting, others not. A few well-fed spiders lurked in the corners and several flies of varying sizes flew in but did not stick around.

Some of the moths fluttered but most had their wings held out flat against the wall. They were small: the biggest being less than an inch wide. I wished I had my camera. These wings of brown and black were symmetrical as far as I could tell. One was a mirror image of the other. They reminded me of the perfectly reflected shorelines I have seen in the silent coves of the North Channel.

But I was there to take a shower before the trip to Echo Bay that morning. As I lathered up I tried not to disturb the moths, imagining that none of these beautiful diverse creatures had long to live.

There is another side to bugs. One that is not so benevolent. These are the flying creatures that inhabit the isolated anchorages we frequent when not tied to a slip in a marina. The days belong to the midges or flies. Here too there is much diversity but not much other than that to commend them. The two most troublesome are the bee-sized horseflies, and the smaller and more ferocious spotted delta winged fiends.

Your average horsefly is so large and cumbersome that they are easy to avoid. Not so the delta wings. They are stealthy, lurching in corners before the attack. If I get a good bead on one they are usually easy to dispatch but often they beat me to the punch. A nickel size red swelling quickly appears at the bite and lingers for days.

None of these hold a candle to the North Country mosquito. This is obviously an understatement. I think the dread of mosquitos is part of the collective consciousness that Dr. Jung wrote so eloquently about. Charlotte and I have developed a strategy to keep them out of Carrie Rose. Each year we have to be reminded of its importance by a sleepless night of dive-bombing buzzing-in-the-ear mosquito assaults. They are relentless and more than ready to sacrifice themselves for one tank full of blood.

It starts before the light is doused. Some announce themselves with that characteristic buzz and other by the bite they leave. We start to kill them one by one. It is a war of attrition like the Russians and the Germans had in WWII.

If we have followed our mosquito abatement policies the few that get in are dealt with. If not it is a long night. Restless sleep eventually wins out even if we lose that nights battle. When nature calls requiring a trip to the head the process begins again. I lie in bed and hope for the first light of dawn to lift the curse. It is then that I try to regain the sleep that is forever lost.

August 2013

Mañana

We woke up to the pitter-patter of rainfall on Carrie Rose’s front hatch. It is directly above us. When there is nowhere to travel due to rain and thunder at the beginning of the cruise it is concerning. Later in the cruise, when more relaxed the sound of thunder will be comforting, but today it is annoying. A decision will have to be made, go or not.

I reach for my phone and summon up the radar app. Telecommunications is slow in the Upper Peninsula, MI, so the wisp of red, yellow and green reflections off of rain and clouds appears in a pixelated mass at first and then more defined. A narrow band of red dots is making its way across our location. One after another appear. As I write this we sit in a lull between red radar dots.

Red, as you can imagine, denotes the worst clouds that are dense with moisture and reach high into the sky. Red is to be avoided if possible and that is one of the rules I try to live by. Conditions can deteriorate quickly on the lake. Within minutes it can go from a calm to a Turner painting.

Then there is a knock on the door and Bill from Dolly appears. We are leaving correct and I know more than to question his fifty years of experience. Quickly the boat is readied to leave. It is important not to rush. To rush is usually to slow down. Twenty minutes and we are at the dock pumping the head. I ask the young kid if this is a great summer job and he affirms that it is.

Then we are out cruising. It has taken a long time to get out on the water this year, but as this day on the water goes by — 7 hours and 37 minutes to be exact — it all comes together. Carrie Rose has passed through these waters before and it makes all the difference. As they say I can relax a bit and smell the roses.

My other cruising partner Dave on Sir Tugley Blue is ripe with technology. He radios to inform me that a 700-foot bulk carrier will be passing in front of me in twenty minutes. I turn to look and sure enough there it is. I had my radar set to only a 2-mile range and so I missed him. After some discussion with the John L. Block I slowed down and do a 360-degree turn. He thanks me and I wished him a great trip.

Now I have to catch up with Dolly and Sir Tugley Blue, and manage too right before Detour Passage. A thousand footer to my right, a seven hundred footer ahead and to the right two other behemoths in line to transit the passage like the airplanes in the sky over our house following each other to O’Hare airport. My compatriots make it across the passage but I decide to let the tug-barge combo pass in front of me. Another couple of 360’s and then I am behind him in his prop wash.

We head north into the calm beautifully wooded island territory of the North Channel and I have to pinch myself. Once across the North Channel and docked at Thessalon, Ontario with the sun high in the sky, the crystal clean air and the light, oh the light! Then I realize that there is no manana, there is only today . . . and today we saw a single loon off St. Martin’s lighthouse and what could be better than that.

July 2013

Spheres

It is important to know your place. I know mine; it is the north side of Chicago on a street lined with bungalows. Its recently trimmed trees give it the look of a cathedral. The neighborhood is diversity personified. A Saturday in the neighborhood out running errands makes me curious if any one speaks English. Of course they do. I am the one deficient in languages.

I am also curious who will be the next group of immigrants to grace my hood. Today, after spending a cold day on the lake delivering a friends boat to Montrose harbor, I saw a group of cheerful children and their parents exit the Church of East Africa based in a storefront on Western Avenue.

But this speculation is not my purpose here. I wish to speak of the night before, a cold one for this time of year. A high-pressure system from Canada brought in cold crisp clear air that extended out into space. No warm weather convection currents disturbed this air. Through it a full moon rose above Lincoln Ave. There it stood, hovering in the sky unmolested by clouds.

The moon lite up as if by some inner light; even my aging eyes could make out many smaller details. I clearly saw the hare pounding mochie and the man in the moon. The white was brilliant and the greys were like the grays in an Ansel Adams photograph.

Chicago is a hard place to see the horizon that is unless you venture to the lakeside or ride up to the 95th floor of the Hancock Building. Whenever I fly into O’Hare I break with convention and take as many photographs as I can of the skyline. It sits bunched up against the lake with the earth’s curvature beyond. It gives me a palpable feel that I live on a sphere. Whether we understand it or not our lives are spent on an iteration of the infinitely long number Pi, 3.14….

The moon coursing above the lights on Lincoln and California got me thinking. How could I have forgotten the physical limits, vast as the earth may be, of where I live? At that moment, while waiting for the traffic arrow to let me turn left onto California Ave. I realized, if only for a second, that everything in front of me, except the moon, was — is — an illusion.

It’s taken me 60 years to appreciate this. The fact that it occurred while driving home from Home Depot, on a Thursday night, in a place where I have spent most of my life is bizarre. I was brought up to think this kind of thing only happens in some exotic realm high in the solitary mountains, and not in a Subaru Outback with Charlotte sitting next to me. Go figure.

So now that I can feel the earth rotating under me what do I do; nothing of course. I will do what I do. It got me to this point. I will keep this little secret in the back of my mind and hope that I do not get vertigo.

July 2013

Continuum

Half of my life was spent in school (27 out of 60 years) much of it in the pursuit of various healthcare degrees. To this end many were the species I dissected. Worms, frogs, salamanders, fetal pigs, cats and dogs were but a few. It was a progression leading to the piece de resistance, the human cadaver.

Anatomy, usually paired with physiology in undergraduate education, is one of the more stringent classes. Along with chemistry it is an infamous flunk out class. Combined, these weed out many an aspiring physician. To excel I spent an inordinate amount of time in the lab. There by careful study the secrets buried within the various creatures were revealed to me. This pattern repeated itself many times as I progressed through my training.

In the early 80's and 90's I spent two years at different institution's human anatomy labs. I doubt there are many people that have lived amongst the dead for so long. And though I do not recommend this as a reasonable use of your time, I am eternally grateful to those that donated their persons so that I might have a better understanding of what makes us tick.

Add to this, years of practicing and teaching musculoskeletal medicine and I bring people watching to a new level. I have a cartoon-like x-ray vision! It is something I have grown use to. I can discern much about a person by the way they carry themselves, but I had never thought about doing this with dinosaurs.

On a recent visit to Chicago's Field Museum to see the Lascaux cave drawings I sat amidst the hullabaloo in the Great Hall. I looked up and suddenly was transfixed by Sue, the menacing Tyrannosaurus Rex. Methodically I surveyed the skeleton. Never having picked apart a bird put me at a disadvantage when trying to decipher dinosaur bones, but there are enough cross-specie similarities to make it a useful lesson.

That I seemed to enjoy this detailed study surprised me. Anatomy is rigorous. It requires stamina, brute brainpower and imagination. Not skills usually called upon for a lazy afternoon out wandering in the city.

I familiarized myself with the skeleton, naming most of the bones and appendages. Once that was done my mind began to add in ligaments, tendons and muscles. The internal organs were just beginning to appear when the shape of the skin imposed itself. At first it was an overlying veil and then it solidified. I suppose this is how a forensic artist works.

The thought entered my mind that this gigantic beast from tens of millions of years ago has the same basic structure as the Homo sapiens looking up at it in amazement. My sense is that its now long decomposed tissues are not separate structures but a continuum of sorts, with one type morphing into the next and not separate entities. This seems obvious but of course that is not how I was taught.

Histology is the study of different tissue types and it is part of the core curriculum during the first two years of medical school. We stared for hours into the eyepieces of microscopes at slides of every conceivable cell structure: muscle, bone and sinew. Only their differences mattered for the practical. How they relate to the whole was never addressed. But sitting there looking at Sue pulled it together for me.

I have read that we are made of aggregates of stardust that developed structure, function and consciousness over billions of years. It is how the universe organizes itself. Inorganic elements transition into organic constructs of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, and suddenly we appeared to try and make sense of it.

The universe continues to evolve but now we have skin in the game. Our future once depended on the whims of nature—no longer. Chemical engines churn out DNA and RNA. Viruses are packed with it and sent into cells to alter their expression, and therefore the proteins we are made up of.

The future will be interesting. I figure I have at least twenty more years to observe the outcome of this fiddling with nature. Knock on wood!

May 2013

Flow

I never appreciated the flowing lines of the earliest ukiyo-e prints until I saw them in person. I admit to being seduced by the later multicolor ones. It is rare to see the early prints exhibited and most reproductions tend to highlight their flaws. So, after a lifetime of admiring Japanese prints it is as if I am seeing them for the first time.

In the earlier prints the figures move off the page. I only just grasp their fleeting image. My eyes follow each loving curve, never resting in one place, never taking in the whole. This is the magic: the image constantly reinvents itself, always fresh, always awaiting a new interpretation, a new appreciation.

The lines begin at the top, and flow downward and outward as silken curtains blow in a mid summer breeze. The simple entangling folds of Moronobu’s lovers, Torii Kiyonobu’s gesturing actors and Kaigetsudō Doshin’s determined courtesans move across the page. They reveal the truth of their circumstances despite their naive expressions.

For me, as the prints became more detailed the fluid line diminished. This is not meant as a criticism, the later prints are gorgeous. In One Hundred Views of Famous Places in Edo, Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji and Fifty-stations on the Tōkaidō rain pours down in torrents, massive waves threaten to engulf ships, mountain villages are buried in snow, and diminutive figures hunker down and are allowed to pass through the landscape by the grace of nature. They are technologically superior to the earlier prints and remarkable in their own right, but sometimes a bit like postcards. I suppose in some respects this is what they were meant to be.

My renewed interest in Japanese prints came after an unforeseen acquisition of a modern print. I noticed it from across the room at a friend’s home. It was obscured by a collection of hibernating bonsai. Interested, I asked about it and the next thing I knew it was hanging on my bedroom wall.

The poster size print is an odd combination of embossed gears and printed wood grain. It is surrounded by loosely woven burlap and set into a dark wood frame outlined with gold. The artist Gen Yamaguchi titled it Encounter. It is the 31st impression in a series of fifty. Its colors are earth tones of ash and pale dried earth with a smudge of black grease around the interlocking gears. This print has no flowing lines; it is without movement, it is a statement rather than a poem.

I searched for information about the artist on Google without much success, so I went to the library. There on 8th floor of the Chicago Public Library’s main branch I found a shelf and a half of books on Japanese prints. As I looked through their tattered pages the chronology of the Japanese print was revealed.

I had thought these prints were timeless but it turns out they began in the mid to late 17th century. Their lineage stems from the Buddhist prints of the Heian (794-1185) period. As with most things in the East the earliest images are from India, then into China and Korea, and finally Japan. Many of the artists were trained in the Kano and Tosa schools of painting. Their art rose to a crescendo through the entire Edo Art Period (1615-1868).

It was a time of peace and consolidation ruled by the Tokugawa shoguns. Daimyo and their samurai were held at bay, while a merchant class, though of lower rank, flourished. There were restrictions in place for most members of society and this was true of the merchants. Their outward lives needed to be subdued, but their inner lives were flamboyant. This extravagance played out behind the closed doors of the floating-world quarter inhabited by courtesans and kabuki actors, and the ukiyo-e artists documented it.

The technology moved on from the single color prints (sumizuri-e) of Masanobu to the full colors prints (nishiki-e) of Hiroshige. The first images are presented on a flat plane. Perspective is only added later.

The portraits are intimate. It feels impolite to stare, but we are distant enough that the characters are not aware of our presence. They do not beckon us into their world. We share in it as outsiders. But if we empty the mind and allow our eyes to flow through the 17th, 18th and 19th century we may just be able to capture their essence.

April 2013

insignificant

Astronomy Picture of the Day: 1/18/2013 (http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/astropix.html)

Most mornings I awake to the Astronomy Picture of the Day (APOD). It is a constructive way to greet the world. My morning ritual, before I jump in the shower, is to put the kettle on the stove so I am ready to make tea as soon as I dress. Breakfast consist of tea and two pieces of toast with peanut butter and jam. Once seated, I raise the lid of my elegant little computer and instantly the screen brightens.

What initially occupies its desktop is NOAA’S 7-Day Forecast for Latitude 41.84°N and Longitude 87.68°W. Depending on the weather and my plans for the day I may or may not explore deeper into NOAA’s maze of web pages. There is radar, both regional and national. There are the GOES satellite images from 25,000 miles out in space—I favor the infrared. Next, it is the National Forecast Charts and if I will be on the water, there are a plethora of marine sites to explore.

Once satisfied that I have a understanding of the weather I move to APOD. Well, not so fast. I admit to the occasional glance at WOOT while I sip my tea, and of course by now the email program has beeped to inform me of a few contacts since last night. Now, through with these distractions I click on my APOD bookmark (PIC) to see what wonder will present itself this morning.

I am not sure when I first stumbled upon APOD but I have frequented it for years. It rarely fails to start my day with a WOW! I use it as the foundation for the day to come. This said, I suppose you are wondering why I titled this commentary “insignificant”. In my way of thinking we are not that significant. What would it matter to another inhabited planet light years away if we ceased to exist?

Humans have gone from the pre-15th century earth centric view to Copernicus’s heretical heliocentric and now to Hubble’s Extreme Deep Field. It shows thousands of galaxies dating back 13 billion years. We can almost see the beginning of time. These distant images are garnered from a tiny sliver of dark sky in the constellation of Ursa Major. There are spiral, elliptical and irregular galaxies. As you pan the image galaxies crash into one another. It is so spectacular that the universe seems without a center, without definition. Looking at it I mystify at Earth’s place in the firmament.

But there are more local concerns. There are the “little” rocky bits whizzing past us at tens of thousands of mph. While we had our eyes 17,000 miles away on asteroid DA14 another rock crashed into Russia. NASA is searching for them. There are to date 9714 NEA’s (Near Earth Asteroids). Of which 861 are considered PHA’s (Potentially Hazardous Asteroids). And I do not think that there has been much effort to search the southern hemisphere’s sky for possible intruders.

Prating on about this makes me think of the oft-quoted tea phrase: ichigo, ichie (one time, one meeting). One meeting with any of these objects could ruin our comfortable lives. It is remarkable what thoughts can come from looking through a telescope, no matter the wavelength. An archaic Japanese aphorism is brought to life by the most advanced technology.

Having said this—understanding our insignificance in the time and distance scale of the universe—I come back to the importance of what has been given us: the opportunity for self-consciousness.

So I do not despair. Each day I search for something significant even if in the long, long run it turns out to be insignificant!

March 2013

Drama

Once while walking down a narrow street in Florence, hemmed in by the ubiquitous 5 and 6 story buildings, I glanced down a dusky cross street and there highlighted by a dim light a beautifully dressed—as they can only be in Florence—young woman stood engrossed in a conversation on her phone.

It was a fleeting moment but in that moment I sensed a complex interaction being played out. I sensed drama. Back then cell phones were still a novelty in Chicago. We had neither the habit nor the connectivity for such a scene. I thought how do the Italians do it; how do they live with such intensity.

Of course, I grew up in an Italian household. My father’s family came from a small town in central Italy called Collodi; a hamlet that climbs up a crevice carved in a steep hill by a fast flowing river. And even though he had a nervous stomach he was calm and gregarious.

My mother’s clan was from another small town, Aragona, which overlooks the Mediterranean from its southern roost in Sicily. She was the antonym of my father. Suspicious, superstitious and quick to anger, she was a loner who dealt with the world on her terms. She brought a dramatic flair to our household. I loved my mother, but I learned early to be wary around her. One false step—and I made many—and there would be hell to pay.

She had what I like to call situational memory. A slight, whether real or perceived, would be remembered for decades. Things gone wrong did not have to be acted on quickly. They could be left to ripen. As a rich red Brunello di Montalcino wine becomes better with age, the wrong became more complex, something to cherish. I cannot tell you how many times I was blindsided by a long forgotten misstep. Once confronted, I would respond with bafflement. This only added fuel to the fire.

How could I have been so callous to forget, or worse yet not even realized the issue existed? For mom there was a balance to the universe. If it tilted one way or the other it was unbearable and needed to be righted. I know now that not every wrong can be addressed. Time and energy run out, people die, circumstances change. I think this is why, like the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s, battles become generational. If grand parents and parents fail to reek vengeance then it falls to the next generation.

This is a long introduction to my way of thinking. After a tumultuous teenager-hood I determined to keep my drama quotient to a minimum. I have had a measure of success in this, though on occasion when in the middle of one of the rowdy Great Lakes I wonder if I need to rethink my approach to recreation.

And now that I think of it, my career in medicine has lead to many dramatic moments. In the last few years I have minimize my exposure to stress by extricating myself from hospital work. The office has just enough pizazz to keep things interesting. But I am afraid that even this is becoming less tolerable.

I often think of the young woman I glanced in the shadows of that ancient city and wonder who she was talking to. I believe if I found out I would be disappointed, so I am glad not to know. It is a novel I will never finish.

For all my calm and collectiveness, deep down I know my mother was onto something. It is the spark of life: indefinable and unknowable. It is the sound of one hand clapping or of a tree falling in an empty wood. It is the ripple in the ancient pond that Basho’s frog made, it is drama!

January 2013

Cheers!

Cheers!

I think it is time to cheer. Time to revel in the season. Time to plan a rebirth. It is just time. The earth has been unraveling while we squabble over what, I am not sure. So, this year let us have a pre New Year’s resolution: let’s stop fighting and get on with the process of living.

To start with let us have a decent diet: fresh fruits and vegetables, lean meat and fish, low fat dairy and whole grains. A little exercise will not hurt either; a good walk three times a week to get our hearts pumping for thirty minutes or so. It will clear the mind. We will sleep better. Food will taste better.

And how about a glass of wine—or sake—with dinner, it stimulates conversation and lowers blood pressure. Another thing I am fond of is a shot of espresso—or matcha— around 2:30 in the afternoon. It is a great motivator.

Since we are on the topic of living, let’s have some fun. Get together with friends and family. Go see some art or create it. Watch a movie. I recently enjoy the new James Bond film. Try something different. We live in a metropolis that is known throughout the world for its culture. Blues, jazz, classical music, opera, architecture, theatre and to sum it up, we are known for our soul.

And what displays our spirit more than the Cubs, Bears, White Sox, Blackhawks and the Bulls. My father lived and die by the Cubs and Bears. Shouts of joy and pain would emanate from the TV room where he sat. I only wish I had his zeal.

Sailing and boating in general has been my outlet since I was eleven. Lake Michigan and the Chicago River take me out of the city while in the center of it. For some it is running, biking, bird watching, fishing, softball and/or golf. The point is, go do something and then tell the world about it.

Maybe you will not have to tell a soul. They will see it in your face and in the spring of your step. So let’s cheer up and take each moment for what it is—irreplaceable!

December 2012

Robiraki

In the change of seasons I am lucky to have chanoyu, the tea ceremony in my life. Chanoyu is remarkable and lovely in the transition from spring-summer to fall-winter. Of course there are the flowers, flowers arranged as they are in the fields. There is the change from making tea at 90 degrees to your guest, to an obtuse angle drawing you closer to them. There is the use of chawan, tea bowls with shear sides that preserve the heat as opposed to the wide-open basins that cool the tea in the summer.

Chanoyu migrates to the heart of the chashitsu (tearoom) in the fall. It is a geometric transition anticipating the change from airy and light to dark and hearty. The driving force in this is robiraki, the opening of the sunken hearth (ro) located in the center of the tearoom. The brazier that is proudly displayed all summer on its cast iron perch now resides and simmers in a subterranean nest. Warmth and steam emanate from it and cling to the walls.

We do tea in a Chicago bungalow’s retrofitted bedroom. There is no way—save for cutting a hole in the floor—to bury the ro, so it inhabits a wooden box called okiro. The okiro literally means “in the place of the ro”. It rises out of the flat landscape of tatami mats like a Native American or Norwegian Viking King’s burial mounds. It draws attention to itself.

This is a compromise of doing tea in the real world. As timeless as tea appears it accommodates itself to changing times. Gengensai Seichū, the eleventh-generation grand tea master of the Urasenke tradition of tea, created a tabletop tea service knows as ryūrei. This was done in response to Westernization of Japan during the Meiji era (1868-1912). In the 1950’s Tantansai, the fourteenth generation tea master, constructed the Yūshin, New Again, tearoom specifically designed for ryūrei using a black lacquered table called misonodana.

I have been twice a guest at Konnichian, the Urasenke estate of tearooms nestled in its garden. It is truly a study in contrasts to come from the somber traditional tearoom Totsutotsusai built by Gengensai in 1839 into Yushin with its golden hue woods and well lite interior. It is only now that I begin to understand the significance of the journey and wish to return one day to better appreciate the glorious details.

But enough of history, I want to share my robiraki experience this year. My first inclination was to walk through the event and describe it in detail. I think not. I think if I can express the feeling in the following three examples my purpose will be better served. Many tea things have poetic names associated with them and one of the joys of tea is to share this provenance with your guest. It is what the talk is made up of in the chashitsu.

When you slide into the tearoom the first place one approaches is the alcove known as the tokonoma. In here reside several objects. One is the flower arrangement (chabana). Another, the one I am interested in now, is the scroll.

This robiraki’s scroll was most auspicious having been written by the 15th generation grand tea master, Sōshitsu Sen XV. It read Sho Kiku Man Nen Yorokobi. It translates into Pine-Crysantimum-10, 000 years-Joy. I wondered what this meant and asked the hostess. My linear western mind could not fathom the imagery. The pine speaks of long life. It is evergreen after all. The chrysanthemum the same and of course 10,000 years need no explanation as does joy. So, forever and forever and forever joy! How splendid a wish to bestow on anyone.

These three poetic symbols add up to eternity. This esthetic sense was lost on me. I could not comprehend the incongruousness of the words until it was explained. This is what comes from living with a language where words are also pictures. How jealous I am.

My next encounter was with the chawan (teabowl). In tea, after drinking, it is polite to admire the bowl. To take the time to stop and gaze at its shape and color; to turn it over in your hands and appreciate the potter’s deft fingers as they worked the bowl into its present form. This bowl, not made by but fired in the famous Raku kiln, is named Hatsu Warai—First Laughter. Completed in December it is meant to commemorate New Years and all the first that it entails.

And third, the diminutive chashaku (tea scoop), a mere wisp of bamboo that is easily overlooked but often holds the most esteemed place of all the utensils. And so it was that day. The chashaku’s poetic name is Kanza—Sitting Quietly. Again it was made by the then Sōshitsu Sen XV.

So, these three objects viewed in a Chicago bungalow embody the essence of Japanese culture: the appreciation of nature’s rhythm, the vivid imagery of the hand written scroll, the appreciation of traditional crafts and the importance placed on everyday things . . . sitting quietly poetic.

November 2012

O-Tsukimi

One night while anchored in the Narrows of Baie Finn a waxing gibbous moon displayed itself above a line of silhouetted conifers. The Sinus Iridium in the upper left corner of the Mare Imbrium cracked with detail in Canada’s clean stable air. Montes Jura, the mountain range that defines the sinus, is tall—some 12,000 feet. To see just what I am writing about go to: http://the-moon.wikispaces.com/Sinus+Iridum.

It is remarkable that we have been to the moon. I recall watching the first steps on the moon on my Aunt Sarah’s tiny black and white TV. The square screen bulged out of the large ornate wooden cabinet it occupied. It was 1969 and since then I have never tired of observing the moon, especially the harvest moon

Months get confused when we talk about the harvest moon (tsuki). It is defined as the closest full moon to the autumnal equinox. In the Gregorian calendar it can be in September or October, but in the lunar calendar it occurs on the fifteen day of the eight-month, August the month of leaves. Japan keeps the construct of the lunar year alive.

Chanoyu, the tea ceremony, has a long history of marking the harvest moon with a tsuki no cha, a harvest moon tea. I have been blessed to attend several of these. One in an ornate apartment looking out over Lincoln Park and the lake: another in a miniature Japanese garden recreated in a bungalow’s backyard not 100 feet from the North Branch of the Chicago River. Tsuki no cha is difficult to coordinate. In Chicago doing the tea ceremony outside is always fraught with peril as is trying to synchronize the serving of tea with moonrise.

This year’s tea was impromptu. My wife Charlotte and I were invited to partake the night before. The world famous Magic Hedge at Montrose Harbor was to be the venue. My contribution was to discern the time the moon would rise out of Lake Michigan. I found the answer on the U.S. Naval Observatory’s website: 6:07 PM.

It was decided to meet at the lakefront at 5:30 and we were not alone. Many folks preceded us. They carried satchels containing everything from wine to babies. But I am sure we were the only ones carrying matcha (powered green tea), chawan (tea bowls), chashaku (tea scoop), all in a venerated old wooden chabako (box) that belonged to my second sensei, Minnie Kubose.

The temperature fell as we settled onto the newly constructed terrace next to the lake. There is a splendid view of the central city when looking south. Navy Pier’s Ferris wheel and the Hancock Building define it. The thin haze on the horizon changed from off-white, to grey, to purple with a touch of green as the sun set in the west. 6:07 came and went but the moon failed to appear. Though its presence eluded us we started. Omogashi (tea sweets) was served, and then as one bowl of tea and then another was drunk the moon appeared a hands breath above and to the south of the Wilson Avenue crib. Shrouded behind a thin silk curtain it seemed to hover.

A few sailboats putt-putted by as the wind died with the coming of twilight. Downtown twinkle like so many stars and the now quiet seagulls were reduced to silhouettes. We gazed at the orbs transformation from silky white to silver. Some of us saw the man-in-the-moon and others a hare pounding mochi. What did it matter.

Chado—The Way of Tea by Sasaki Sanmi suggest this poem for the scroll to hang in the chashitsu (tea room) for a moon viewing tea:

Tsuki mizu ni inshi Mizu tsuki o insu/The moon is reflected in the water and the water reflects the moon.

I could not agree more . . .

October 2012

Places

One of the places we explored on Carrie Rose this summer is called McGregor Bay. The area was not much cruised until the Canadian Hydrologic Service published a chart of the region and it still has only a few boats that visit each year. Replete with hidden rocks and narrow channels that branch off the main stem like a well-trained grape vine, it offers challenges and rewards. Below are two of my impressions. The first was written while in Crooked Arch Cove, the second is self-explanatory.

Quiet

N46° 04.03’, W081° 33.69’—For a moment it was quiet, completely quiet. Not even a bird. Not a ripple in the water. Not a rustle in the trees. The quiet was overwhelming. My senses want to fill in the void. But there is nothing to work with. The space between my ears intensifies. I tell myself not to panic. Soon there will be noise, but there isn’t, so I calm down and watch the silence. In the distance an otter is diving and surfacing. His head is the only thing out of the water and I can see his whiskers move as he munchies on whatever otters munch on. I have to backtrack and say that diving is too active of a word for how the otter arches its back and slides into the water. But that is not correct either. It is already in the water and is going from a nose to a face and then a glistening back and then all that is left to disappear is the tail. A large raptor flies over but there is no noise associated with its transit. Nothing breaks the silence until dinner. And now that that is over I hear the clock tick off the seconds of my life and a white-throated sparrow calls, but now he has even stopped—well almost. Carrie Rose silently sways at anchor maybe 20 to 30 degrees. Occasionally Charlotte turns a page and I feel that my mind needs a sound even as it hopes for silence. No Mozart, no Bach and certainly no Bruckner or Mahler. Sibelius may be acceptable; somehow he captures silence in sound. Then I hear a grunt from the shoreline. An odd bird circles above, a bit like the nighthawks I never see anymore in Chicago. A flutter of wings, and then a short glide and intermittent call; a distinctive call but a call I cannot now describe. Twilight comes and still it is quiet. I have a friend that sailed around the world and recently brought his boat to a marina in Brooklyn of all places. I asked him what is it like and he says, “The noise is deafening.” After today I understand.

East in East-West Channel in McGregor Bay, Ontario

A surprise reveals itself on further inspection. Of course it was interesting from the start, but then we ventured with the dinghy—this time without the motor—into the back bay; an ancient Chinese landscape appears. Packs of lilies float: some just opening, some majestically white with yellow stamens, and below in the tannin-tinted water their siblings start to unfurl and head for the surface.

A loon’s plaintive call breaks the silence, but plaintive makes it sound trivial. It is not. The call is from the main channel where our unpopulated boats swing at anchor. Where is he, oh there he is. He’s just come around a large bare round light brown rock, islet really. Another cry and then he submerges and is lost. Later in the day he will surface outside my pilothouse door larger than life for loons are big birds. This one is at least a yard long, black and stealthy, white priestly collar but with the red beady eyes of a vampire.

The wind gusts from the NNE. We are protected here and barely feel it, but the dinghy does. It pushes us down into a small bay, though not before I misjudge the bottom and put another ding into my Chippendale-like dinghy. I resign myself to this for it verges on stupidity to bring a varnished wood boat into a land of rocks.

This is not a Japanese garden. It is definitely Chinese. The rocks jut out over the water and are made up of vertical striations. Moss and lichens populate every groove and in the low spots the remnants of spring’s iris cluster together. These rocks have grottos and caves in miniature. And though it is peaceful here I can feel the violence of their birth. The molten lava may have cooled billions of years ago but I can still feel the heat. I can see it flowing. Hear it hiss as it hits the water.

It feels violent, an odd reaction to have in such a peaceful place. I feel the earth move without it moving. I feel the lava flow without it flowing. In a few places I see glaciers scrap the surface of the volcanic rock smooth. This is a godly place. It is a place to feel the earth’s origins.

September 2012

Passage II

Today we head southeast between Government Island and Coryell Island into an area called Scammons Harbor. There are compelling stories associated with these names but that is for another time, another place. I think a primer on navigation is in order here. It will be short in case your eyes are beginning to glaze over.

The rule on the water is Red-Right-Returning. So when you are entering from the “sea” the red markers are on the right or starboard, and that is the side of the boat you keep them on. The green markers are on the left or port. Port and starboard are easily differentiated if you remember that port has four letters and so does left. Of course this would be way too simple a concept not to mess with, so sometimes there are black markers and sometimes the green is on the starboard. Eternal vigilance, or in a secular turn of phrase, situational awareness are the words to live by when on the water.

We make our way into the channel and pass red buoy “4” on our port and green can “3” on our starboard as we head out to the sea. Once in the lake we round Boot Island and point the bow east. Out in front of us are Surveyors Reef, Tobin Reef, Pomeroy Reef, and furthest south, the daddy of them all, Martin Reef. Martin Reef makes its presence felt with a 65-foot lighthouse. Do not think of these reefs in the contexts of the South Seas. Great Lakes reefs consist of rock not coral.

Our path is between Surveyors Reef and Tobin Reef. Tobin Reef is marked with green can “1”. For anyone who has done wilderness backpacking the buoy system, made up of green cans and red nuns, is similar to the cairns and tree marks you follow in clearings or in the forest. From one the next should be visible. This is not the case for the open lake but in any confining waters this is how it works. They are described on the chart but like any other system changes are made.

Before the Internet revisions were published in Notice To Mariners, in the Great Lake’s Pilot and of course on new charts. It was a cumbersome process to procure the data and transfer it to your charts. And as Murphy’s Law dictates the one buoy pivotal to the cruise is the one that had its number or location changed. With the advent of the web much of this hassle has been circumvented. If I could figure out how to use the computer the information would be updated automatically.

I forgot to tell you that the electronics are on, displaying our location on the small black and white chart plotter’s screen and in full color on the computer. The radar is making its customary whine as it spins above me. It has different settings depending on the distance, the wave conditions and the detail needed. Usually only one radio is on and it is on scan mode. It toggles through pertinent channels and stops when someone speaks on one of them. There are no private calls; we listen to what everyone is chatting about. Sometimes it is pure voyeurism but mostly it is instructive.

The autopilot keeps me on course within reason. I correct for the influence of the wind and waves. I could automate this function but I like keeping us on track. It reminds me of the constant futzing involved with sailing.

As I have been talking we have passed Martin Reef and are now headed towards St. Vital Point. Once around it we are only a few miles from the DeTour Lighthouse that marks the entrance to DeTour Passage. We have come up on a friend in a sailboat that left much earlier in the morning. While our boats are not fast with a cruising speed of around 7 to 8 knots we best most sailboats. We have the luxury of leaving later and arriving earlier, but then we also have to spend the day listening to the drone of the diesel rather than the wind in the sails.

While I have been whiling away the time the waves have built. This is brought to my attention as a particularly large one picks up the aft end of Carrie Rose and sends her surfing along the top of it. It passes under us with a hiss and I decide to pay closer attention. There are whitecaps behind us, so the predicted 15 knots of wind has arrived. The autopilot works well but as we close on the DeTour Passage Lighthouse I decide to take over the helm. I do a better job of anticipating the waves and keep us on a truer course.

One of our mates radios to inform us that a freighter is heading out of the passage into the lake and that there are two more following behind that one. The first is long gone by the time we reach the lighthouse and we do not see the others until we are well into DeTour Passage. DeTour Passage runs north and south, and is a favored course for large, often 1000 foot, freighters and bulk transports. They ferry coal, limestone, taconite and who knows what else up and down St. Mary’s River to the locks at Sault Ste. Marie and into Lake Superior or the reverse into Lake Huron.

If you remember I discussed riding the waves when they are behind us, well now we need to change course from easterly to the north and thus the waves are on our beam. This is uncomfortable and anything we failed to secure earlier in the day lets us know. We round the 74 foot lighthouse and head for red buoy “4” to steer clear of the oncoming ships which materialize before us. They are enormous. The first one, the James R. Barker, is one of the largest on the Great Lakes coming in at 1004 feet long, 105 feet wide and 50 feet deep with the Hon. James L. Oberstar, a diminutive 8oo feet, close behind. To make matters more interesting the DeTour Passage Ferry decides to cross in front of us. As my mother use to say, “Never a dull moment.”

At times like this I follow the rules of the road and stay out of the way. We pass Cab Island and Barbed Point, Frying Pan Island and DeTour Village, Black Rock Point and Pipe Island Shoal. Once through DeTour Passage we veer right to red nun “2” off of Sims Point.

Now we see the beginnings of the thousands of islands that we will encounter this summer spent in the archipelago known as The North Channel. I look out and see rocks and conifers. It is hard to tell where one island ends and the others begin until we are close upon them. Electronics while helpful can overload the senses. I take a deep breath and go back to the paper chart. We pick our way through the islands, checking them off as we pass until we reach the outer harbor of Harbor Island. To reach our anchorage for the night we took a sharp right through Bow and Surveyors Islands, passed above Gull Island and avoided the Harbor Island Reef.

Now a transition takes place. At one moment we are cruising and then suddenly we need to anchor. We try to anticipate this but it always comes as a surprise. Most anchorages are small spaces that may or may not be inhabited by boats that came before us. I slow and peruse the scene. Where to place the anchor presents us with a series of complicated equations. The major one is that the wind’s direction may change, so what could be an easy decision with the wind blowing in one direction gets dicey when you start to think about 360 degrees. We also need keep clear of the other boats and make sure we are in the proper depth of water.

I try not to hurry the process but I also do not want to over think it. I know if I get it wrong I can always lift the anchor and move to a safer location. Charlotte takes the helm once we have decided and I walk to the bow to prepare to drop the anchor. Carrie Rose is stopped and I, of course making sure I am clear of the chain and other rotating machinery, give the anchor some slack and a gentle nudge over the side.

The anchor and chain are oversized on Carrie Rose so I let out 4 feet of chain for every foot of depth. Most of the other boats let out more. The chain is painted red every ten feet for the first thirty feet and then changes to yellow until it reaches seventy feet. The rest of the connection is made up of several hundred feet of triple twisted nylon line or rode as it is known in the business. I use predetermined hand signals to have Charlotte reverse the boat to make sure the anchor is firmly set and will not break loose should the wind increase.

The passage is complete when the engine is turned off. Thanks for joining us. I left out few things, like the strong west wind and the confused seas that greeted us at Black Rock Point. No sense in getting queasy only a few miles from our destination. I log the time, distance and engine hours. Turn the electronics off and switch the boat’s batteries to the house setting. This is to prevent discharging the starter battery overnight and not being able to start the boat on another glorious cruise!

Passage

For the reader who has never piloted a small vessel from one point to another I thought you might want to spend the day with Charlotte and I as we make a passage from Governor Bay, MI to Harbor Island, MI on northern Lake Huron. Come along with us on Carrie Rose, our 32-foot Nordic Tug and two other tugs. I will say nothing of the years it took to obtain and prepare the boat (and crew) for this trip but only of the process itself. My first thought was to simply sketch the transit, but I am convinced that the fun is in the details, so here goes.

The process starts the day before the voyage. Once we are tucked away for the night—anchor set or tied to a dock—we begin to consider options for the next day’s cruise. Many factors influence this: weather, distance, safety, stores, fuel, our fellow boaters and location, location, location. Charts (paper and electronic), cruising guides, past log notes, recollections and scuttlebutt (a sailor’s word for gossip) are reviewed.

The first consideration is should we even go. If we are in a beautiful spot, why leave. If the weather is iffy, why leave. If we are tired, why leave. The prejudice is to keep moving. It is hard to ignore and on the Great Lakes it is often justified. We motored day after day, twenty-two in all, on our way to Lake Huron from Chicago. At first because the weather cooperated and then because we needed to stay ahead of ill weather that was to bring high winds and waves. In more hospitable climes we might have lingered a little longer in each port but this was not to be. When there is a window of opportunity dive, or rather drive, through it.

Government Bay, MI is a lovely anchorage in the Les Cheneaux Islands or as they are locally known, the Snows. Carrie Rose was anchored in the northwest corner of the bay to cushion herself from blustery NNW winds. Her big Bruce anchor was securely set into mud eighteen feet below the keel and with 70 feet of chain attached to the bow she wasn’t going anywhere.

Since the weather was fair we decided to head east towards De Tour Passage in the morning. The wind was forecast to be light and build to 10 to 15 knots from the west as the day progressed. This meant we would be traveling in a following sea. With the wind behind us we glide. It is definitely preferable to pounding into heavy seas as we did last year. So as far as the weather was concerned it was a go.

The first destination considered was a small cove in Whitney Bay on Drummond Island, MI. To get there we have to avoid several reefs, points of land and one very large lighthouse. As we were not traveling alone the consensus was to skip Whitney Bay in favor of Harbor Island, MI. This lengthened the trip by about 8 miles (for the purpose of our discussion distances stated are nautical miles). To reach Harbor Island we need to round the before mentioned lighthouse and travel north through De Tour Passage. But I get ahead of myself.

I have a night-before-cruising-ritual. I study the charts, and on the chart plotter and/or the MacBook Air’s navigational program create a route for the next day’s journey. It is how I familiarize myself with the path ahead. The route, while not automatic, keeps me engaged and though not cast in stone often takes me precisely where I am going. To do this I need to create waypoints. Waypoints are specific locations defined by their latitude and longitude. I follow them across the seascape. They are identified on the charts and represent turns, hazards, navigational aids, harbors, etc., etc. I have navigated this way since GPS became available. It has its good and bad points but overall I doubt many cruisers would go back to the not so distant pre-GPS times, so let’s keep those satellites flying!

In the morning I wake a little edgy. It is hard to enjoy breakfast. I have some tea or coffee, the usual toast with peanut butter and jelly but I am more focused on the day ahead. The first task, that is after I rid the boat of the overnight spider carnage, is to go into the engine room. This is a familiar space. It is not big but it is efficiently laid out. I look in the bilge to make sure no new fluids have appeared overnight. I scan the engine’s coolant level; check the oil and the fuel filter. Then I chill out and just look at the valves, hoses, pumps, and all the components that make us a viable boat. Once I am satisfied that the engine room is in order I move to the pilothouse.

Departure is usually 8 or 9 AM. Today we have 28 nautical miles to travel, so 9 o’clock is a reasonable time to leave. The boat is made ready. This means securing every object that might fly through the air or slide across the floor. Even on calm days experience has taught us that we never know what awaits us on the water. The fewer surprises the better.

Now in the pilothouse I take the covers off the instruments. The Furuno radar and the EchoPilot forward-sounding depth sounder occupy the space to my upper left. Directly in front of the wheel are the engine instruments, another depth sounder, the rudder angle indicator and various switches for windshield wipers, heat, anchor and running lights, and the bilge pump. To the right is the single handle topped with a maroon knob that controls the throttle along with forward and reverse. The next level forward has a portable VHF radio, two ancient Garmin GPS’s, a fan, and a small chawan (tea bowl) in which I store pens, pencils, a knife and the family band radio along with whatever insects that have manage to crawl in and die.

In front of this is an empty space where the computer resides and beyond that the regal Ritchie compass reigns over all the electronics. Directly above and a little to the right are two VHF radios and a defunct Loran-C. Despite the above there is still space for charts to the right and the left. There is more below. The bow thruster control, the generator’s gauges and start switch, DC and AC electrical panels, and an inverter to keep the computer charged. It is a lot of equipment to deal with and we have a simple boat compared to most.

But this must be getting boring. Let’s see if we can get Carrie Rose moving. To leave the anchor has to be raised. I go to the back of the boat and fetch the hose that attaches to the wash down pump. I use this to wash the mud and debris that collects on the chain and the anchor. They live down the little hole into the bowels of the boat. It is best to clean them to keep the boat from reeking. As 9 o’clock approaches I remember that I am not travelling alone and the other two boats are following a similar process. It is time to start the engine and energize the bow thruster. The gauges are scanned for any abnormalities and once the oil pressure alarm turns off we are ready to go.

Maybe I should stop here and explain what a bow thruster is. Whoever the person was to think it a good idea to drill a hole sideways through the front of the boat is on par with the person who realized that airports could be made into shopping malls. A bow thruster does just what it says; thrust the bow to the port or starboard. For a barely maneuverable boat like mine it was a revelation. It is used at idle to control the boat while docking or turning in tight channels. It also helps when in reverse. Without it the boat goes where it wants but with it I can put it where I want it, within reason that is. I do not want to sound too cocky should the marine deities or gremlins hear me and choose to put me in my place.

So, now it is finally time to raise the anchor. It should be firmly dug into the bottom after spending the night holding us in place. It should not want to come out. I take the supplemental line off. This line stretches and acts as a shock absorber to take the strain off the chain’s attachment to the bow. Then I make sure I am clear of the chain and the windlass, and start to shorten the chain. It is done in spurts. A little chain and the boat moves forward, a little more and a little more until the anchor is out of the water and stored on deck. Now the boat is free of its earthly attachment. I tidy up and we are on our way.

To be continued next month . . .

Conveyance

We are in Wisconsin now. We got here in our Nordic Tug. It is our conveyance of choice, except that is when we are on terra firma. Then it is a Subaru Outback. The Subaru has a certain cache about it, but it is a boring station wagon. Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining especially when I am trying to get in or out of my garage in a blizzard. Then I think this is the best damn boring station wagon ever made.

What I am noticing here is the multiplicity of Harley Davidsons. Of course I know they are made in Milwaukee. I am not that dumb. But still there are a lot of them and everyone that I see is different. They are all customized to some extent. They are a labor of love, and I am sure that the gruff guys and gals that drive them dream of the low lumbering sound in the middle of the winter.

A friend just bought a hot rod VW. It is 4-wheel drive and for such a small car has a tremendous amount of horsepower. Of course this is not enough horsepower so it will be modified to have even more tremendous horsepower. It seems he thinks it is his last chance to have a muscle car and he is probably correct about this.

I have been thinking in a similar vein. After lusting over a suitable RV, that is if one can lust over an RV, and realizing that a VW camper van was not going to work, I changed tack completely. My new scheme consists of a used Corvette (I have wanted one since I toured the Corvette assembly plant in Tennessee) to travel from national park to national park. I figure I will lease it for the summer from CarMax and trade it in for something more practical in the fall. And for some strange reason my wife thinks this is not a bad idea. We will see . . .

This summer, as the last, we are spending three months on Carrie Rose. The only definitive date is to be in St. Ignace, MI by June 20. I think we can do this, weather permitting, but last year to get there a day late we had to motor through the Straits of Mackinac in the fog. My hope is not to repeat this again as I would like to grow old and cantankerous, and every hour spent in dense fog shortens a life equivalently.

Other conveyances I have dreamed of are vintage BMW motorcycles (I have an un-ridden one), a Mazda Miata, a two-seater Mercedes of a certain vintage, a BD-5 (look it up), a Thomas Morris Annie (another one to look up), a Nordhavn 46 (okay, I will quit telling you) and the new, not yet released, Honda Jet. This last one has made me rethink my life. If I had known it would exist I would have tried hard to make a fortune that I could then squander on a machine like this.

For the time being I am not doing too bad. For me it has always been essential to dream, actually daydream. All those idle thoughts that coalesce without knowing it, and then one day the stuff you thought you were wasting your time dreaming about comes true. It is amazing when it does. It is as if you need to be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.

I suppose this is what the conveyance is about. Not so much rubber on the road, water under the keel or wind over the wings. It is the realization of a dream.

June 2012

Inevitable

In my line of work I confront the inevitable daily. On more challenging days every 15 minutes can bring another life altering revelation. Enough water has passed under my bridge that prognosticating is less subjective then it use to be. Numbers tell the story of kidney, liver and pancreatic function, of blood sugar and fat and thyroids. The ultimate measure is blood pressure, only five (hopefully not six) digits and a /.

Across from me the numbers sit. I am amazed how many people will pay the co-pay for a sniffle but are unwilling to make the same commitment for diabetes, hypertension, elevated cholesterol and the various diseases that stem from them.
Contrary to the prevailing wisdom, each encounter is custom made. Even if you do not realize it you are being a fitted for haute couture or tailored for a suit from Saville Row. The doctor is someone who has devoted their life to their craft and so many hours that most are enigmas even to their families. It is not often you bump into such expertise and think so little of it.

With my time in practice now measured in decades I spend the visit watching for subtle signs of disease. Of course much of what I do has nothing to do with a patient’s well being but instead with placating legal, governmental and insurance bureaucracies. But today I am thinking about the patient—with their numbers—sitting across from me.

I watch and listen. I lay on hands and stethoscope. I gaze into various orifices, and look at slides of secretions and peruse the numbers on the screen in front of me. If we had a past visit I hope the specialist’s recommendation made it into the electronic medical record, as well as any tests results. And then I sit back (not too far as I am only on a stool) and in the few seconds allotted to me, put the above into context, offer a plan and wait for feedback.

In the past few years this process has been derailed. Now in many encounters the process is reversed. Patients have been empowered by Google. The plan comes first and the person waiting (or not) is the patient not me. I respond in various ways to this depending on first impressions, as I have not been able to follow my usual protocol.

If the patient is hale and hardy but convinced they have an exotic wasting disease I have been known to chuckle. It is not intentional. It just has to do with the shear improbability of the situation. I know I should not discount their concerns but I also know there is no reality to this encounter. Often their concerns lead to demands for specific tests. Many of which I have never heard of or have no idea of how to order.

Medicine is a scientific art. Ask any real scientist and they will tell you that most physicians practice a black art. I agree with them. Several things that set aside a MD/DO from a Ph.D. are the need to make time constrained decisions and the fact that biology is fickle, no double blind controlled studies here. This is best represented, in its most extreme form, by a Code. It is the situation that most unnerved me as an intern. And I am not just talking about the heart related codes. There are also Code Whites for violent behavior and Code Reds for fire. Each presents a different challenge.

This brings to mind the several months I worked as an intern at a particularly dysfunction, now defunct hospital. I would manage to drag myself to the call room for an hour’s fitful sleep after a night laboring on the floors. Without taking off my scrubs I’d fling myself onto the grubby bed inhabited by the ghosts of interns past. With eyes forced shut I tried to ignore the ever-present list of tasks that resided in my pocket. For a few minutes before the sun crept up onto the surface of Lake Michigan I hoped to sleep.

Each night that I was on call, just as I dosed off a heavily accented voice would announce a Code Red. The implausible certainty of this was maddening. To complicate matters further sirens could be heard far off in the distance. Why am I telling you this, because I had to make a decision: ignore what was in all likelihood a false alarm and catch twenty minutes of shut eye, or burn up in my sleazy little bed.

Ask your self, what would you do. Remember, put it the context of not having slept for several months, of being sticky and dirty from the 36 hours of work, of having gunky stuff in the corner of each eye and greasy hair. Context is every thing. What did I do—I got up, usually in time for the code to be called off. By then sleep was impossible. Like a zombie I wandered back into the hospital, pulled the list out of my pocket and pickup where I left off.

Another time at a more collegial institution I tucked myself in for what would be on most nights a more reasonable sleep. There were nights here where I even dreamed, that is when my fellow cellmate wasn’t fending off the occasional mouse. But one night, with the beginnings of REM fluttering in my eyes, a Code White was called on the psychiatric unit. This along with rehab and the telemetry units were my responsibility.

No hesitation this time, I got up and made my way to the sequestered corner of the hospital that housed the psych unit. Its design was fatally flawed. The nursing station was located in the rear and even though I pounded on the door no one responded. Worried now but with intimate knowledge of the layout I entered through a common door from the pediatric unit (another fatal design flaw).

Once there I joined forces with the security guard, and several large male and one petit female nurse. As most interns figure out, you have the ultimate responsibility with the least experience. The fact of being thrust into this position builds character and depending how you handled yourself, respect.

The Code White was due to a large ferocious male patient. He had threatened the staff and with some effort had been corralled into a small room. Now he was threatening to break out and create more havoc. Eyes turned towards me. I was so tired that any lack of confidence faded away and I made a quick decision. A syringe was loaded up with Haldol, given to the petit and agile nurse, and the rest of us stormed the patient and subdue him. He rapidly calmed down and I was left to salvage what I could of the few remaining hours before life returned to the hospital.

My training was full of decisions. It was inevitable. I draw upon them now as I sit across from my patient. I wait for a response to my entreaties. I know that inescapable results will follow. My mind’s eye sees the future playing out. If I get the wrong answer my heart pangs. I have not gotten through to them. I failed and I express it, often in the stark language of disease.

I think of the procedures, of wasted time and treasure, of shortened lives. I am not always right, but more often right then wrong. I have experience on my side. But life goes on, and I have had to become somewhat immune to pain and suffering. It is inevitable after all. Gautama Buddha taught us this thousands of years ago.

May 2012