Thursday, January 12, 2012
Thoughts on being a parent
Today was the last day I drive my son to school. He is sixteen and decided to live with his mother, in the face of my new bride having a baby within weeks. With the chaos associated with a new baby and the rigors of life at one of the top high schools in the country, my beloved baby boy made the huge leap to face up to me and ask to shift to his mother's, after years of asking to live with me alone. My heart feels wounded, but I know its a step in his development that I can't fight - he is growing out of my shadow. I honestly feel like I have lost my best friend. For the first six years of his life, I had 100% custody of him, morning noon and night. My wife at the time helped about 10% of the time. After I filed for divorce, it went down to 60%. As of today, six years later, it goes down to 1%, by his choice. I am devastated. The impending birth of my second son is joyous in its on right, but there is a momentary hurt tinge due to knowing my firstborn has chosen not to be involved in the bonding time with his own little brother. As a child, all I craved was a father, and now my son has decided to live somewhere else, to finish his childhood. Deeply saddened and wounded. But I have a beautiful wife that I love and a baby that is due in days, so I will hide my broken soul and limit my random loss of emotional control to times when they are not around. I feel like such an utter failure as a parent. I guess its time to dust myself off and get ready to play Easter Bunny, Santa, Tooth Fairy and all of it, all over again. Once more, into the breach...
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Muse out there
I have to constantly jerk myself back to the here and now, where I am a parent, a father with responsibilities and mundane duties. Making peanut butter & jelly sandwiches using a large glass to cut the crust off in a circle. Three loads of laundry every third day. Beef stroganoff. A thirty mile commute twice each schoolday. Cutting out 650 outlines of hands for kindergarteners... sorting the mail at one school, picking up a bag full of discarded trash at another. Still more laundry. Bandaids on knees, pulling teeth that are barely attached, endless trips to the bookstore. Good things too - riding waves with my son, playing Polly Pockets with my daughter. Having my ASS handed to me at poker by a >6< year old; thank god I pulled "Yokel" triple word score out of the Scrabble bag the other night or she'd have beaten me at that as well. I love my kids. They have buoyed me up through the worst of it all.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
More blog posts no one else will read...
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Crossing the two year line, or "Green Flash"
I was going to write a blog about my feelings regarding going over 2 years since I filed for divorce. After typing and re-typing a few lines about the non-event, I backspaced over the whole thing. Who cares? Divorce sucks. Someday mine will be over.
Instead, how about if I tell you about something *cool*? Have you ever heard of the "Green Flash"?
Sunlight is not the bright white of noon overhead - its also not the golden hue of a late summer sunset. In actuality, its all the colors of the rainbow, but at various times of the day, depending on the angle that the light reaches the earth's surface, one color or another overwhelms the others and you only see one color. Gold, white, yellow, orange, red - usually hot colors.
Grab the prism you undoubtedly have in your pocket and go test the theory - as sunlight passes through it (regardless of time of day or angle of the sun), the prism breaks up the light wave into
the color spectrum. We can't see ultraviolet, but you'll see color bands running from blue to green, yellow, gold, to red. Literally all the colors of the rainbow. We can't see the infrared band, but its there too.
This sets the stage for the "Green Flash".
As the sun sets, it .... well... it doesn't. The day/night demarcation line advances across the surface of the earth as she shyly rolls away from the unblinking sun. As that line advances, it represents the sunlight striking that area of the earth at an ever increasing angle - quite a bit like a prism. One side effect of this angling is the traditional gorgeous sunsets that we all enjoy. Orange is not uncommon. Sometimes gold, or even a blood red. They represent different combinations of sun angle, moisture in the air, particles such as sand, etc. These are the normally seen parts of the color spectrum.
On rare occasions, those factors add up to a momentary glimpse of a part of the spectrum normally not visible - the green part. As the last rays (waves actually) pass through the millions of prisms caused by suspended ice in the upper atmosphere, the bands separate into a brief but very noticeable green sunset. It lasts about the count of "a thousand one", then you are left wondering, "Did I really just see that??"
Aviators see it more often than anyone - they know a trick. We can suspend sunset for as long as we want, by flying toward the sunset and slowly climbing at a constant rate, matching the rate that the sun is setting. Time 'stops', for as long as you can hold that creeping climb. That means we can hunt for "the Green Flash" - it takes patience, but it can be done.
Other people, typically sailors out at sea or folks on a beach on a clear day can also see it. Its rare, but it happens. A Google search on "Green Flash" will bring you photos taken around the world that show the effect.
Last night, my kids and I were on the 4th floor balcony at sunset, waiting for a chance to see Comet McNaught, a new and very bright celestial object that has been seen for the last two weeks at sunrise and sunset. We waited just a few minutes for the sunlight to pass beyond the horizon. I noticed we had really good visibility and started a discussion with my 6 year old daughter and 11 year old son about what it takes to see a "Green Flash". I barely got the explanation out (far shorter than the one I typed above) when the sun made its final dive toward the Pacific horizon. The three of us stopped talking and watched carefully.
In stages, the sun turned from a burnished gold to an orange, then in the last moment, it shifted color into an easily discernible flourescent green! Both kids reacted in the same moment - "WOAH!!"
That's the kind of moment I live for - and I have to cherish these and not dwell on these incessant delays to end a marriage that was broken from Day One. What's more important? I know the answer. Just keep reminding me when I get blue.
Or green...
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Monday, January 08, 2007
The Porn Star on my friends list
In 1987, I won a big 'contest' in the Navy, sort of a popularity contest called Sailor of the Year. Each month, every squadron and every department on each ship selects a Sailor of the Month - the winner is rated as #1 out of 10-300 sailors. Each quarter of the year, the three Sailors of the Month are rated and the top gets Sailor of the Quarter. If you add up all the numbers, thats thousands of awards each year across the Navy, and in all of the other services. Dirtbags aren't selected, but if you keep your nose clean and do your best, its not unreasonable for an above-average squid to win at least a couple of these contests during their enlistments.
While I was in squadrons, I never won. Screw it. I just wasn't that into it. Then, in 1986, I did something that should have gotten me into a huge amount of trouble, but luckily, the Admiral
that it affected read what I wrote and saw merit so instead of getting boiled in oil, he sent a couple Master Chiefs to interview me when I returned from sea. In very short order, I was assigned to the staff of a fine gent named Admiral Rich. For a coarse and undignified person more used to chasing Soviet submarines and jumping out of helicopters, the starched white uniforms and immaculately presentable men and women of the Wing Staff seemed as foreign as life could get. I went from being a "knuckle-dragging rescue swimmer" to a poster child for the USN overnight. Although I was not that high in rank, I was somewhat well known in the fleet, so people didn't smirk or roll their eyes when I came to inspect detachments or squadrons on the eve of their overseas deployments. I helped airmen prepare for the rigors of combat and long sea voyages. I was good at it.
From 1986 to 1988, I was awarded "Sailor of the Month" for the Admiral's staff seven times (out of a staff of 140) and was "Sailor of the Quarter" four times. Long story short, I was awarded "Sailor of the Year" in 1988, ranked #1 sailor out of over 7,000 people assigned to all of the squadrons and units working under that Admiral.
The ceremony was really a trip. 450 sailors in their best uniforms stood at attention while a Captain reeled off my accomplishments and service over a loudspeaker. In the background, helicopters and Navy jets came and went, flags flapped in the breeze, and I found my mind wandering - thinking about my friends that had died over the years. I was getting a Navy Commendation Medal pinned on, while I was thinking of various little mistakes I'd made over the years. It was a surreal moment.
San Diego is a Navy town, and business owners are happy to show their support for squids, in particular, successful ones. As the Captain read his speech, the Admiral began passing donated gifts to me - things given to me by the local business owners. The following is a partial list of the loot they gave me that day - 1) a trip to Vegas 2) color TV 3) stereo system 4) dinner for two at several top San Diego restaurants 5) $250 cash 6) gold pen & pencil set. And it went on and on. Free this and that from all over town - it quickly got ludicrous, to the point that when the Captain opened one envelope, some yahoo in the back of the formation yelled out, "And a NEW CAR!" to a chorus of laughs. The limo ride back to my work was literally packed with gifts. I felt _stupid_ by all the attention.
Later, a Chief I worked for told me there was another gift. I was adamant that I didn't want it. I got somewhat angry, but Gary was a Level One Dick, and outranked me, so I was forced to get over it. His idea of a "gift" was to take me across town to meet a young woman that I considered was the most beautiful thing I would ever see -- an adult film star named Keisha.
When Gary introduced me to her, I doubt if I said a single intelligent word during our first meeting. She was, and is, absolutely stunning. That day, she ... well.. blew me away. She posed for photos with me, was quite kind and genuine, and spending a little while with her was a fantasy come true.
A legend grew up around that meeting and for years afterward, my friends would shake their heads at me and simply say, "Keisha!" I'd smile and look at the floor, but I never told them what we did.
When the Chief left me alone with her, she asked me what I wanted to do. Well, I could think of about 20 things off the top of my head, and many times I have thought back on that moment and re-thought my decision! But I'm glad we did what we did...
Ready?
In the half hour we were together, she asked me all about flying and being overseas. She signed a photo for me and I told her about my friends that were still overseas, and we decided it would be a cool thing if she'd sign a risque photo, like the old-fashioned pin-ups from WWII. So, Keisha asked me where my friends were and I'd give her the name of a ship or isolated island, and she signed photos in a personalized way for each of them. By the time she was done, she had signed dozens of her photographs. Over the next year, every time I sent a package out to a ship on the other side of the planet, or sent an envelope to some guys stuck on a rock for a year, I slid in a lovely photo of Keisha, with her note imploring them to "get home safe" or "come rescue" her.
These days, what we did would be about as non-politically correct as it could be, but in those waning days of the cold war, when deployments were long and soul-crushingly boring, the excitement of recieving one of those packages was really welcome. For years afterwards, Keisha's photos graced hangar walls, ready rooms, and interior cabin walls on Navy patrol bombers. I didn't see Keisha for years after that, but it was common for one of my friends to meet me and simply grin, "Keisha".
That's the mundane and simple reason why I have a Porn Star on my friends list.
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Friday, December 29, 2006
Improvement on all fronts
Ever get slapped around and then realize it was for the best? That's what happened to me last week in divorce court. It was like the pain of getting a biopsy - it hurts like @$#% but in the end its worth the pain. Last week, I got biopsied in court. The pain is going to be short-lived and in the very near future, this 2-year long nightmare of a divorce is going to be over. WOO HOOOOOOO
We have a hearing on January 16th (methinks) - or within a day or two of that date - and with our judge retiring at the end of January, everyone is motivated to get it over with ASAP. The kids and I are more than ready and hopefully, so is the ex. So with that on the horizon, I feel like I am moving forward at last.
2007 is going to be GREAT - for the first time in years, I can see a bright future ahead.
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Friday, November 24, 2006
Ancestors
My kids and I go to lots of museums - its a routine thing. Today, we went to a place I normally pass on, the Mingei Museum at Balboa Park, next to the famous San Diego Zoo. Usually, the Mingei is rather boring - I call it the Japanese Fancy Pottery Museum, which is usually what you find there. Recently, I found out that it was hosting a new exhibit of incredible wealth, the looted treasures of ancient royal burials from a group of people called the Scythians.
The recent "Borat" movie puts a (dim) light on the people of Kazakhstan. Nothing was mentioned on the subject of the ancient horse peoples from that region. My family comes from the Caucasus Mountains which run across the southern part of Russia into the Ukraine, sort of the next door neighbors to the Kazakhs. Folks there are white, white enough that the word Caucasian comes from them; the Kazakhs are more swarthy. Not saying one is better or worse, just pointing out how a Kazakh would know we are from across the fence.
Long ago, those neighbors of ours used to routinely cross the fence to kick our butts and send us packing.
In ancient times, the Cimmerians (like "Conan the Barbarian" in the movies) were peaceful nomad shephards that helped to first domesticate the horse. They lived north of the Black Sea and were not war-like, as a lot of prehistoric people were. The modern day Crimean Peninsula is named after these folks. They tamed bronze and iron but built no cities, wrote no books. They were simple people. They lived in relative peace with their neighbors from 1,100 to 600 BC, then basically melted into other cultures, after a short period of kicking ass across the Levant and Southwest Asia, from Egypt to Iran. I guess the lesson there was "don't piss off the peaceful shephards, that have tamed bronze, and iron..."
One of the main reasons they faded into history was the rise of a group called the Indo-Scyths, or Saka - a group of horse archers that were the prototypes for the far later Mongol hordes. The Saka were pre-Iranians, but supposedly not as nice. They lived in the saddle, moving from region to region and displacing anyone in their way. They became known as the Scythians by Greek times, mercenaries, and their reputation was for being the most feared bowmen in history. They literally learned to ride and walk at the same time. Without stirrups, they perfected a way of shooting arrows from horseback that was used for the next 1,500 years.
Their women became known to history as the Amazons (literally, "One Breast"), because they burned their right breast off their chests as young women so that their bosoms wouldn't interfere with the shooting of their bows. Part of this tradition lives on today - women who have sacrificed a breast in the battle against cancer have a membership society that proudly takes the Amazon name. When you see an image of the 'Grim Reaper' wielding a giant scythe, you are seeing the last vestige of the Scythian culture's warrior women - they used a bow like the men of their tribes when in the saddle, but took up the scythe when fighting on foot. It was a terrifying image 2,000 years ago - a pissed off Scythian chick with a bad disposition and a 5' cutting blade. Its easy to see why the image left a lasting impression.
The Ancient Scythian women warriors wore the same clothes as their men, made up over 30% of the Scythian armies, typically covered themselves with tattoos, and just like the men, they smoked pot like hippies. That last part is interesting as they apparently had no religious ceremonies that we have discovered, but included in every grave, archeologists have found marijuana and small braziers for smoking it. I don't know about you, but I found that a bit amazing - the ancient world is somewhat famous for its drinking binges, but until recently, I didn't know that there were 'stoners in the stone age'.
The Scythians in their turn were overwhelmed by the Sarmations, who lost out to the Medes, Greeks, and later civilizations. But for a while, the Scythians ruled from the Altai (near Mongolia) to the Danube River in Europe. Then, they left their graves, their fantastic war horses, and their oddly curved bows behind for us to find, and for my kids to gaze at in a far away museum.
It beats another hour on the Gamecube...
At bedtime tonight, my son piped up out of no-where to ask if I wouldn't mind taking him back to see the museum again, just the two of us, so we could talk about the "swords and the war horse and stuff". I got a big smile out of that.
v/r Gordon
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Monday, November 20, 2006
Names, swords, and family traditions
Why did I collect swords?
Swords originated in simpler times, much harder than ours, and the world where they were created was a wild place filled with mystery and danger. Still, our ancestors lived out their lives as best they could and brought us one step at a time closer to this world of luxury that we live in. A high-school graduate from our times would have all the knowledge of Merlin or the other great sages alive back then. I wonder about living in those former times.
I have collected swords and daggers for years and I have added several to Lex's treasure. Two are special, I think. Beside the Falcata that lies in his chest, I have a small relic, wrapped in velvet. It is a Luristan bronze dagger, from Northern Iran at about 1,000 BC.
At the time of its manufacture, there were fewer than 500 known sites on Earth that produced bronze knives; metal weapons like it were objects of power and focus, and were held only by clan chieftains and warriors of the highest grade. I wonder how many hands held my ancient blade, who used it, and what kind of adventures it took part it, before it lay forgotten in the dust for dozens of centuries waiting for me to be born.
Alexander the Great's armies thundered through Luristan, leaving a trail of coins and traditions on their way to India and eternal glory, along with thousands of broken spears and arrowheads to mark their passage. I have a couple of these in the chest of Lex's Treasure.
My family came to America in 1890 from the region of Odessa in Ukraine. Their roots were scattered and hazy, like all of the horse-peoples of Southern Russia. It is impossible to trace lineages for Nomads like them. DNA would probably show a kinship to the Sarmations, probably leading back to the Scythians and the earlier people of the wide open steppes and high desert plateaus around the Black Sea. Further back, Herodotus noted the region was home to the historically blurry barbarians known as Cimmerians.
Conflict passed in waves through the region, and about a dozen ethnic groups called the region home at one time or another. Soldiers of Alexander (Al-Iskandor - Al = Great in Arabic and dozens of ancient languages; Iskandor or Aksandr was a simple name in Greek and Persian prior to the ascent of Alexander II of Macedon) made the journey through my homeland, leaving the obligatory traces of arrowheads, signet seals, and DNA.
I named my son after a king for the obvious reason – because a father should look at his baby boy and dream great things for him. His mother will always believe we named him after 'Uncle Sandy', but every time he lifts the lid on that 200 pound box of treasure, he knows the truth…
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Meetings with Sharks
I have swum with sharks a couple of times. I know some people get a thrill out of it, but the thought of meeting creatures higher on the food chain than myself is just NOT appealing...
I close my eyes and picture a shadow in the distance as Charlie Hood and I swam in the harbor of Diego Garcia. Months on a tiny island south of India duty plus several identical seasons with little to do beside drink beer, fish, and fly, gave "Rabbit" and I the idea to swim out to the USS Gompers when it moored far out in the bay. Hint: Diego Garcia, 15 women, 3,200 men; USS Gompers, lots of women, who cares how many men, IT HAD LOTS OF WOMEN.
It looked like at least a half-mile swim, but we had many swims beyond that distance without any problems. Out there, we could encounter and get towed by large sea turtles or see any of thousands of reef fish, including 400 pound Jewfish and other giants in the emerald waters, above miles of coral diversity. Sharks? We probably did see a few, but until this stupid ass stunt, nothing memorable.
Rabbit and I made it to the Gompers without eff and quickly shouted up a conversation with the predominately female members of the crew gathered above us at the deck railing. We talked with them for a few minutes and Rabbit asked if he could come aboard - with a lot of smirks and smiles, the Gompers' gals told us the boarding ladder was on the other side of the ship. That was either a 250 yard swim around the waterline, or a brief free dive under the hull of the deep-bellied repair ship. Being young, dumb, and, well, you know, Rabbit and I immediately went under, as the young uniformed lasses above us departed to see if we made it to the other side of their boat.
"Hector" was the bogieman on Diego Garcia, used to scare children into their beds. Newcomers to the base signed in at a duty office - above the desk was an 8x10 in a simple Navy-issue frame, depicting a view over the side of a warship, of its motor whaleboat alongside it in Diego Garcia's harbor. Clearly visible beside the whaleboat is a hammerhead every inch as long as the 20' boat.
At about the keel line of the Gompers, the pressure of our free dive was giving me some good sparks in the corners of my eyes. Rabbit was off to my right and ahead of me, which certainly didn't feel right - I should have been a mile ahead of that little bastard. Below us, the shadows of coralheads rose up, safely deep beneath the massive ship blocking our passage.
I ran into Rabbit. Swimming up, expecting air shortly, bam - Rabbit, in my way, and not swimming, but pointing.
It was just beyond "rational" view. In the area of disbelief at the edge of vision, Rabbit was pointing at something I just didn't want to comprehend. It was moving - a fish, its just a big fish. My lungs started screaming, but my heart died in my chest. Its a big... hammerheaded... thing. Grotesquely large - the lagoon was home to many sharks in the 6-10 foot range, and even a few up to the 14' range and this ... thing.. was built to EAT them.
I think time slowed down to a crawl for the moments it took for that... thing.. to pass out of view, around the bow of the ship. I watched it go until the bulk of the ship blocked us, then swam with all my might to get out of that ocean and as far away from that... thing... as I could possibly get.
.5 seconds after I broke out of the water, like a trout going up a river, I was sprinting to the top of the boarding ladder, in front of a very surprised OOD (Officer of the Deck, the person on duty at the "front door" of a Navy ship), and Rabbit, the little bastard, who had somehow beaten me again. We stood with water sheeting off of us, momentarily at a loss for words.
"Bb-b-bb-ig.... ssh--shh--... I mean, request permission to come aboard, sir?"
I don't know what the hell we'd have done if he said no. My heart took about an hour to get settled down and by then, liberty launches (little motorboats that shuttled sailors to and from shore) were running and Rabbit and I were spared the embarrassment of pleading for a ride home on humanitarian grounds. The prospect of swimming ashore from the Gompers was less appealing than you might imagine.
To this day, I hate freakin' sharks.
Gordon
<====(A+C====>
USN SAR Aircrew
"Got anything on your radar?""Nothing but my forehead, sir."
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Sunday, October 29, 2006
A weekend without my kids
Even though I have primary custody, every other weekend, my children are gone. Its 'dead time' to me, a period when my heart only beats enough to get me through till Monday; I don't typically accomplish anything, or for that matter, want to. The hours crawl by. There aren't any colors to the landscape, music seems muted and food, tasteless.
My son tries to help - he suggests that I "go get drunk" (!) because he thinks that's what adults do when they don't have kids. Instead, I am trying to get used to the custody arrangement and find a way to use the 'dead time' instead of just moping around. We have a work out room in our apartment, so I have started working out again on days the kiddos are with their mum.
Also, my daughter and I have been working on a sequel to the fabulous kids book, "Mr. Poppers Penguins". The original was written in the 1930s and the author passed away before the book was finished, but year after year, that old book sells really well. We really got into the book and she likes the idea of doing a follow-on. She did her own version, 30 pages! Not bad for a 6 year old. I am using her version as a rough outline to work from, and each night that I am alone, I add to the chapters. We should have something done by Christmas or so. Since I was a kid, I tried to use bad things in good ways -- when I am angry, I use the energy to clean the house, etc. This is my way of making use of the time that I would normally waste in negative ways.
Its what my kids would want, anyway.
Want to know something odd? A hummingbird just flew into my house, flew around, then went back out! A livid green and blue visitor, just in to say hello... I can't wait to tell the kids.
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Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Fire phobia Current mood: exhausted
At 9:05 this morning, I was laying on my couch watching the sun burn through the overcast through the window above the tv. I was barely awake as my kids were already at school and I had already decided to take the day off. The fire alarm chirped. I glanced up at it, then out the window. It was really hazy outside. Maybe that caused it?
A few minutes alter, I heard the fire alarm sound on the walkway of our apartment building. In seconds, all the fire alarms in the building chimed in, a chorus of klaxons to wake the dead. I went to my balcony and looked down - the 'haze' was thicker than before and I could smell something burning. There is a restaurant nearby - could they be burning something? I kept looking over the balcony, down toward the forest of bamboo that provides privacy for the condo owners beside us. It looked like there was smoke filtering up toward me. The lights came on - my building was on fire!
I jumped into my jeans and went out the front door, running into Steve, an old Navy buddy. I told him that I thought we were on fire either in the space between the buildings or in the basement parking lot. We went into his apartment on the 3rd floor to get a better look off the balcony. When we still couldn't see a fire, just increasingly thick smoke, it seemed obvious that the fire was somewhere under the apartments. I told Steve to call 911 and let them know the fire was in the basement.
I jogged to the elevator and was surprised it worked. I took it down to the basement, wondering what I would find. When the elevator door opened, I was facing the automatically closed steel fire door. I put my hand on it to see if it was hot, then thought about what might be waiting on the other side.
I pushed on the steel door's emergency release and it popped open, into a swirling blast of smoke. Between the alarms, smoke, and the sprinklers, I had a really good flashback going. It was practically identical to shipboard firefighting school, which we had to attend before every cruise we went on in the Navy. I went around the corner toward the fire and found dense black smoke blowing out in all directions from the enclosed dumpster area of the underground parking garage. The fire, sprinklers, and smoke made it hard to see, so I went over to the exit gate to get air and think for a second. There was an extinguisher on the wall, so I kicked in the glass and pulled it out, about the same time realizing that if the ceiling sprinklers weren't putting it out, the little cylinder in my hand certainly wouldn't. I did what I could but nothing really helped. I couldn't tell if the fire was spreading to the structure or not, but the fire was definitely more than the suppression system could handle. More people showed up but quickly left.
At 9:28, the fire department showed. up. I showed the first engineer where the fire was, and after they got hoses on it, I decided to get out of the smoke and went outside. We have a couple elderly folks in the building and the smoke was pretty bad, so I went up to tell Daniel everything was ok. On the way, I found the Old Woman No One Knows and gave her an update. Without a word, she nodded and returned to her apartment.
Long story short - some complete ASSHOLE decided the way you dispose of a charcoal grill, still filled with smoldering charcoal, is to place it in the recycling dumpster on top of 500 pounds of cardboard. The next person came along and put a few flattened boxes on top of the dumped-out charcoal, and the fun began. Luckily, the fire was contained in the recycling area, so only a dumpster and a few trash cans burned.
I told my kids what happened on the way home from school and my son looked at me like I was pulling his leg. I acted hurt, as if it was devastating that my kid would think I was making it up. On the landing heading up to our apartment, a neighbor I don't know stopped us and thanked me - which I think impressed my son more than anything I could have ever said.
I go to counseling once a week for nightmares. Usually shark dreams, but then there is always Hood's dream - the one about being crushed and pinned in a burning helicopter. That one usually happens at night... Tonight, I am just not very eager to cross over into the realm of sleep. I've got a feeling its going to be a bumpy night :.. ---Gordon
Crossing the two year line, or "Green Flash"
I was going to write a blog about my feelings regarding going over 2 years since I filed for divorce. After typing and re-typing a few lines about the non-event, I backspaced over the whole thing. Who cares? Divorce sucks. Someday mine will be over.
Instead, how about if I tell you about something *cool*? Have you ever heard of the "Green Flash"?
Sunlight is not the bright white of noon overhead - its also not the golden hue of a late summer sunset. In actuality, its all the colors of the rainbow, but at various times of the day, depending on the angle that the light reaches the earth's surface, one color or another overwhelms the others and you only see one color. Gold, white, yellow, orange, red - usually hot colors.
Grab the prism you undoubtedly have in your pocket and go test the theory - as sunlight passes through it (regardless of time of day or angle of the sun), the prism breaks up the light wave into
the color spectrum. We can't see ultraviolet, but you'll see color bands running from blue to green, yellow, gold, to red. Literally all the colors of the rainbow. We can't see the infrared band, but its there too.
This sets the stage for the "Green Flash".
As the sun sets, it .... well... it doesn't. The day/night demarcation line advances across the surface of the earth as she shyly rolls away from the unblinking sun. As that line advances, it represents the sunlight striking that area of the earth at an ever increasing angle - quite a bit like a prism. One side effect of this angling is the traditional gorgeous sunsets that we all enjoy. Orange is not uncommon. Sometimes gold, or even a blood red. They represent different combinations of sun angle, moisture in the air, particles such as sand, etc. These are the normally seen parts of the color spectrum.
On rare occasions, those factors add up to a momentary glimpse of a part of the spectrum normally not visible - the green part. As the last rays (waves actually) pass through the millions of prisms caused by suspended ice in the upper atmosphere, the bands separate into a brief but very noticeable green sunset. It lasts about the count of "a thousand one", then you are left wondering, "Did I really just see that??"
Aviators see it more often than anyone - they know a trick. We can suspend sunset for as long as we want, by flying toward the sunset and slowly climbing at a constant rate, matching the rate that the sun is setting. Time 'stops', for as long as you can hold that creeping climb. That means we can hunt for "the Green Flash" - it takes patience, but it can be done.
Other people, typically sailors out at sea or folks on a beach on a clear day can also see it. Its rare, but it happens. A Google search on "Green Flash" will bring you photos taken around the world that show the effect.
Last night, my kids and I were on the 4th floor balcony at sunset, waiting for a chance to see Comet McNaught, a new and very bright celestial object that has been seen for the last two weeks at sunrise and sunset. We waited just a few minutes for the sunlight to pass beyond the horizon. I noticed we had really good visibility and started a discussion with my 6 year old daughter and 11 year old son about what it takes to see a "Green Flash". I barely got the explanation out (far shorter than the one I typed above) when the sun made its final dive toward the Pacific horizon. The three of us stopped talking and watched carefully.
In stages, the sun turned from a burnished gold to an orange, then in the last moment, it shifted color into an easily discernible flourescent green! Both kids reacted in the same moment - "WOAH!!"
That's the kind of moment I live for - and I have to cherish these and not dwell on these incessant delays to end a marriage that was broken from Day One. What's more important? I know the answer. Just keep reminding me when I get blue.
Or green...
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Monday, January 08, 2007
The Porn Star on my friends list
In 1987, I won a big 'contest' in the Navy, sort of a popularity contest called Sailor of the Year. Each month, every squadron and every department on each ship selects a Sailor of the Month - the winner is rated as #1 out of 10-300 sailors. Each quarter of the year, the three Sailors of the Month are rated and the top gets Sailor of the Quarter. If you add up all the numbers, thats thousands of awards each year across the Navy, and in all of the other services. Dirtbags aren't selected, but if you keep your nose clean and do your best, its not unreasonable for an above-average squid to win at least a couple of these contests during their enlistments.
While I was in squadrons, I never won. Screw it. I just wasn't that into it. Then, in 1986, I did something that should have gotten me into a huge amount of trouble, but luckily, the Admiral
that it affected read what I wrote and saw merit so instead of getting boiled in oil, he sent a couple Master Chiefs to interview me when I returned from sea. In very short order, I was assigned to the staff of a fine gent named Admiral Rich. For a coarse and undignified person more used to chasing Soviet submarines and jumping out of helicopters, the starched white uniforms and immaculately presentable men and women of the Wing Staff seemed as foreign as life could get. I went from being a "knuckle-dragging rescue swimmer" to a poster child for the USN overnight. Although I was not that high in rank, I was somewhat well known in the fleet, so people didn't smirk or roll their eyes when I came to inspect detachments or squadrons on the eve of their overseas deployments. I helped airmen prepare for the rigors of combat and long sea voyages. I was good at it.
From 1986 to 1988, I was awarded "Sailor of the Month" for the Admiral's staff seven times (out of a staff of 140) and was "Sailor of the Quarter" four times. Long story short, I was awarded "Sailor of the Year" in 1988, ranked #1 sailor out of over 7,000 people assigned to all of the squadrons and units working under that Admiral.
The ceremony was really a trip. 450 sailors in their best uniforms stood at attention while a Captain reeled off my accomplishments and service over a loudspeaker. In the background, helicopters and Navy jets came and went, flags flapped in the breeze, and I found my mind wandering - thinking about my friends that had died over the years. I was getting a Navy Commendation Medal pinned on, while I was thinking of various little mistakes I'd made over the years. It was a surreal moment.
San Diego is a Navy town, and business owners are happy to show their support for squids, in particular, successful ones. As the Captain read his speech, the Admiral began passing donated gifts to me - things given to me by the local business owners. The following is a partial list of the loot they gave me that day - 1) a trip to Vegas 2) color TV 3) stereo system 4) dinner for two at several top San Diego restaurants 5) $250 cash 6) gold pen & pencil set. And it went on and on. Free this and that from all over town - it quickly got ludicrous, to the point that when the Captain opened one envelope, some yahoo in the back of the formation yelled out, "And a NEW CAR!" to a chorus of laughs. The limo ride back to my work was literally packed with gifts. I felt _stupid_ by all the attention.
Later, a Chief I worked for told me there was another gift. I was adamant that I didn't want it. I got somewhat angry, but Gary was a Level One Dick, and outranked me, so I was forced to get over it. His idea of a "gift" was to take me across town to meet a young woman that I considered was the most beautiful thing I would ever see -- an adult film star named Keisha.
When Gary introduced me to her, I doubt if I said a single intelligent word during our first meeting. She was, and is, absolutely stunning. That day, she ... well.. blew me away. She posed for photos with me, was quite kind and genuine, and spending a little while with her was a fantasy come true.
A legend grew up around that meeting and for years afterward, my friends would shake their heads at me and simply say, "Keisha!" I'd smile and look at the floor, but I never told them what we did.
When the Chief left me alone with her, she asked me what I wanted to do. Well, I could think of about 20 things off the top of my head, and many times I have thought back on that moment and re-thought my decision! But I'm glad we did what we did...
Ready?
In the half hour we were together, she asked me all about flying and being overseas. She signed a photo for me and I told her about my friends that were still overseas, and we decided it would be a cool thing if she'd sign a risque photo, like the old-fashioned pin-ups from WWII. So, Keisha asked me where my friends were and I'd give her the name of a ship or isolated island, and she signed photos in a personalized way for each of them. By the time she was done, she had signed dozens of her photographs. Over the next year, every time I sent a package out to a ship on the other side of the planet, or sent an envelope to some guys stuck on a rock for a year, I slid in a lovely photo of Keisha, with her note imploring them to "get home safe" or "come rescue" her.
These days, what we did would be about as non-politically correct as it could be, but in those waning days of the cold war, when deployments were long and soul-crushingly boring, the excitement of recieving one of those packages was really welcome. For years afterwards, Keisha's photos graced hangar walls, ready rooms, and interior cabin walls on Navy patrol bombers. I didn't see Keisha for years after that, but it was common for one of my friends to meet me and simply grin, "Keisha".
That's the mundane and simple reason why I have a Porn Star on my friends list.
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Friday, December 29, 2006
Improvement on all fronts
Ever get slapped around and then realize it was for the best? That's what happened to me last week in divorce court. It was like the pain of getting a biopsy - it hurts like @$#% but in the end its worth the pain. Last week, I got biopsied in court. The pain is going to be short-lived and in the very near future, this 2-year long nightmare of a divorce is going to be over. WOO HOOOOOOO
We have a hearing on January 16th (methinks) - or within a day or two of that date - and with our judge retiring at the end of January, everyone is motivated to get it over with ASAP. The kids and I are more than ready and hopefully, so is the ex. So with that on the horizon, I feel like I am moving forward at last.
2007 is going to be GREAT - for the first time in years, I can see a bright future ahead.
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Friday, November 24, 2006
Ancestors
My kids and I go to lots of museums - its a routine thing. Today, we went to a place I normally pass on, the Mingei Museum at Balboa Park, next to the famous San Diego Zoo. Usually, the Mingei is rather boring - I call it the Japanese Fancy Pottery Museum, which is usually what you find there. Recently, I found out that it was hosting a new exhibit of incredible wealth, the looted treasures of ancient royal burials from a group of people called the Scythians.
The recent "Borat" movie puts a (dim) light on the people of Kazakhstan. Nothing was mentioned on the subject of the ancient horse peoples from that region. My family comes from the Caucasus Mountains which run across the southern part of Russia into the Ukraine, sort of the next door neighbors to the Kazakhs. Folks there are white, white enough that the word Caucasian comes from them; the Kazakhs are more swarthy. Not saying one is better or worse, just pointing out how a Kazakh would know we are from across the fence.
Long ago, those neighbors of ours used to routinely cross the fence to kick our butts and send us packing.
In ancient times, the Cimmerians (like "Conan the Barbarian" in the movies) were peaceful nomad shephards that helped to first domesticate the horse. They lived north of the Black Sea and were not war-like, as a lot of prehistoric people were. The modern day Crimean Peninsula is named after these folks. They tamed bronze and iron but built no cities, wrote no books. They were simple people. They lived in relative peace with their neighbors from 1,100 to 600 BC, then basically melted into other cultures, after a short period of kicking ass across the Levant and Southwest Asia, from Egypt to Iran. I guess the lesson there was "don't piss off the peaceful shephards, that have tamed bronze, and iron..."
One of the main reasons they faded into history was the rise of a group called the Indo-Scyths, or Saka - a group of horse archers that were the prototypes for the far later Mongol hordes. The Saka were pre-Iranians, but supposedly not as nice. They lived in the saddle, moving from region to region and displacing anyone in their way. They became known as the Scythians by Greek times, mercenaries, and their reputation was for being the most feared bowmen in history. They literally learned to ride and walk at the same time. Without stirrups, they perfected a way of shooting arrows from horseback that was used for the next 1,500 years.
Their women became known to history as the Amazons (literally, "One Breast"), because they burned their right breast off their chests as young women so that their bosoms wouldn't interfere with the shooting of their bows. Part of this tradition lives on today - women who have sacrificed a breast in the battle against cancer have a membership society that proudly takes the Amazon name. When you see an image of the 'Grim Reaper' wielding a giant scythe, you are seeing the last vestige of the Scythian culture's warrior women - they used a bow like the men of their tribes when in the saddle, but took up the scythe when fighting on foot. It was a terrifying image 2,000 years ago - a pissed off Scythian chick with a bad disposition and a 5' cutting blade. Its easy to see why the image left a lasting impression.
The Ancient Scythian women warriors wore the same clothes as their men, made up over 30% of the Scythian armies, typically covered themselves with tattoos, and just like the men, they smoked pot like hippies. That last part is interesting as they apparently had no religious ceremonies that we have discovered, but included in every grave, archeologists have found marijuana and small braziers for smoking it. I don't know about you, but I found that a bit amazing - the ancient world is somewhat famous for its drinking binges, but until recently, I didn't know that there were 'stoners in the stone age'.
The Scythians in their turn were overwhelmed by the Sarmations, who lost out to the Medes, Greeks, and later civilizations. But for a while, the Scythians ruled from the Altai (near Mongolia) to the Danube River in Europe. Then, they left their graves, their fantastic war horses, and their oddly curved bows behind for us to find, and for my kids to gaze at in a far away museum.
It beats another hour on the Gamecube...
At bedtime tonight, my son piped up out of no-where to ask if I wouldn't mind taking him back to see the museum again, just the two of us, so we could talk about the "swords and the war horse and stuff". I got a big smile out of that.
v/r Gordon
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Monday, November 20, 2006
Names, swords, and family traditions
Why did I collect swords?
Swords originated in simpler times, much harder than ours, and the world where they were created was a wild place filled with mystery and danger. Still, our ancestors lived out their lives as best they could and brought us one step at a time closer to this world of luxury that we live in. A high-school graduate from our times would have all the knowledge of Merlin or the other great sages alive back then. I wonder about living in those former times.
I have collected swords and daggers for years and I have added several to Lex's treasure. Two are special, I think. Beside the Falcata that lies in his chest, I have a small relic, wrapped in velvet. It is a Luristan bronze dagger, from Northern Iran at about 1,000 BC.
At the time of its manufacture, there were fewer than 500 known sites on Earth that produced bronze knives; metal weapons like it were objects of power and focus, and were held only by clan chieftains and warriors of the highest grade. I wonder how many hands held my ancient blade, who used it, and what kind of adventures it took part it, before it lay forgotten in the dust for dozens of centuries waiting for me to be born.
Alexander the Great's armies thundered through Luristan, leaving a trail of coins and traditions on their way to India and eternal glory, along with thousands of broken spears and arrowheads to mark their passage. I have a couple of these in the chest of Lex's Treasure.
My family came to America in 1890 from the region of Odessa in Ukraine. Their roots were scattered and hazy, like all of the horse-peoples of Southern Russia. It is impossible to trace lineages for Nomads like them. DNA would probably show a kinship to the Sarmations, probably leading back to the Scythians and the earlier people of the wide open steppes and high desert plateaus around the Black Sea. Further back, Herodotus noted the region was home to the historically blurry barbarians known as Cimmerians.
Conflict passed in waves through the region, and about a dozen ethnic groups called the region home at one time or another. Soldiers of Alexander (Al-Iskandor - Al = Great in Arabic and dozens of ancient languages; Iskandor or Aksandr was a simple name in Greek and Persian prior to the ascent of Alexander II of Macedon) made the journey through my homeland, leaving the obligatory traces of arrowheads, signet seals, and DNA.
I named my son after a king for the obvious reason – because a father should look at his baby boy and dream great things for him. His mother will always believe we named him after 'Uncle Sandy', but every time he lifts the lid on that 200 pound box of treasure, he knows the truth…
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Meetings with Sharks
I have swum with sharks a couple of times. I know some people get a thrill out of it, but the thought of meeting creatures higher on the food chain than myself is just NOT appealing...
I close my eyes and picture a shadow in the distance as Charlie Hood and I swam in the harbor of Diego Garcia. Months on a tiny island south of India duty plus several identical seasons with little to do beside drink beer, fish, and fly, gave "Rabbit" and I the idea to swim out to the USS Gompers when it moored far out in the bay. Hint: Diego Garcia, 15 women, 3,200 men; USS Gompers, lots of women, who cares how many men, IT HAD LOTS OF WOMEN.
It looked like at least a half-mile swim, but we had many swims beyond that distance without any problems. Out there, we could encounter and get towed by large sea turtles or see any of thousands of reef fish, including 400 pound Jewfish and other giants in the emerald waters, above miles of coral diversity. Sharks? We probably did see a few, but until this stupid ass stunt, nothing memorable.
Rabbit and I made it to the Gompers without eff and quickly shouted up a conversation with the predominately female members of the crew gathered above us at the deck railing. We talked with them for a few minutes and Rabbit asked if he could come aboard - with a lot of smirks and smiles, the Gompers' gals told us the boarding ladder was on the other side of the ship. That was either a 250 yard swim around the waterline, or a brief free dive under the hull of the deep-bellied repair ship. Being young, dumb, and, well, you know, Rabbit and I immediately went under, as the young uniformed lasses above us departed to see if we made it to the other side of their boat.
"Hector" was the bogieman on Diego Garcia, used to scare children into their beds. Newcomers to the base signed in at a duty office - above the desk was an 8x10 in a simple Navy-issue frame, depicting a view over the side of a warship, of its motor whaleboat alongside it in Diego Garcia's harbor. Clearly visible beside the whaleboat is a hammerhead every inch as long as the 20' boat.
At about the keel line of the Gompers, the pressure of our free dive was giving me some good sparks in the corners of my eyes. Rabbit was off to my right and ahead of me, which certainly didn't feel right - I should have been a mile ahead of that little bastard. Below us, the shadows of coralheads rose up, safely deep beneath the massive ship blocking our passage.
I ran into Rabbit. Swimming up, expecting air shortly, bam - Rabbit, in my way, and not swimming, but pointing.
It was just beyond "rational" view. In the area of disbelief at the edge of vision, Rabbit was pointing at something I just didn't want to comprehend. It was moving - a fish, its just a big fish. My lungs started screaming, but my heart died in my chest. Its a big... hammerheaded... thing. Grotesquely large - the lagoon was home to many sharks in the 6-10 foot range, and even a few up to the 14' range and this ... thing.. was built to EAT them.
I think time slowed down to a crawl for the moments it took for that... thing.. to pass out of view, around the bow of the ship. I watched it go until the bulk of the ship blocked us, then swam with all my might to get out of that ocean and as far away from that... thing... as I could possibly get.
.5 seconds after I broke out of the water, like a trout going up a river, I was sprinting to the top of the boarding ladder, in front of a very surprised OOD (Officer of the Deck, the person on duty at the "front door" of a Navy ship), and Rabbit, the little bastard, who had somehow beaten me again. We stood with water sheeting off of us, momentarily at a loss for words.
"Bb-b-bb-ig.... ssh--shh--... I mean, request permission to come aboard, sir?"
I don't know what the hell we'd have done if he said no. My heart took about an hour to get settled down and by then, liberty launches (little motorboats that shuttled sailors to and from shore) were running and Rabbit and I were spared the embarrassment of pleading for a ride home on humanitarian grounds. The prospect of swimming ashore from the Gompers was less appealing than you might imagine.
To this day, I hate freakin' sharks.
Gordon
<====(A+C====>
USN SAR Aircrew
"Got anything on your radar?""Nothing but my forehead, sir."
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Sunday, October 29, 2006
A weekend without my kids
Even though I have primary custody, every other weekend, my children are gone. Its 'dead time' to me, a period when my heart only beats enough to get me through till Monday; I don't typically accomplish anything, or for that matter, want to. The hours crawl by. There aren't any colors to the landscape, music seems muted and food, tasteless.
My son tries to help - he suggests that I "go get drunk" (!) because he thinks that's what adults do when they don't have kids. Instead, I am trying to get used to the custody arrangement and find a way to use the 'dead time' instead of just moping around. We have a work out room in our apartment, so I have started working out again on days the kiddos are with their mum.
Also, my daughter and I have been working on a sequel to the fabulous kids book, "Mr. Poppers Penguins". The original was written in the 1930s and the author passed away before the book was finished, but year after year, that old book sells really well. We really got into the book and she likes the idea of doing a follow-on. She did her own version, 30 pages! Not bad for a 6 year old. I am using her version as a rough outline to work from, and each night that I am alone, I add to the chapters. We should have something done by Christmas or so. Since I was a kid, I tried to use bad things in good ways -- when I am angry, I use the energy to clean the house, etc. This is my way of making use of the time that I would normally waste in negative ways.
Its what my kids would want, anyway.
Want to know something odd? A hummingbird just flew into my house, flew around, then went back out! A livid green and blue visitor, just in to say hello... I can't wait to tell the kids.
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Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Fire phobia Current mood: exhausted
At 9:05 this morning, I was laying on my couch watching the sun burn through the overcast through the window above the tv. I was barely awake as my kids were already at school and I had already decided to take the day off. The fire alarm chirped. I glanced up at it, then out the window. It was really hazy outside. Maybe that caused it?
A few minutes alter, I heard the fire alarm sound on the walkway of our apartment building. In seconds, all the fire alarms in the building chimed in, a chorus of klaxons to wake the dead. I went to my balcony and looked down - the 'haze' was thicker than before and I could smell something burning. There is a restaurant nearby - could they be burning something? I kept looking over the balcony, down toward the forest of bamboo that provides privacy for the condo owners beside us. It looked like there was smoke filtering up toward me. The lights came on - my building was on fire!
I jumped into my jeans and went out the front door, running into Steve, an old Navy buddy. I told him that I thought we were on fire either in the space between the buildings or in the basement parking lot. We went into his apartment on the 3rd floor to get a better look off the balcony. When we still couldn't see a fire, just increasingly thick smoke, it seemed obvious that the fire was somewhere under the apartments. I told Steve to call 911 and let them know the fire was in the basement.
I jogged to the elevator and was surprised it worked. I took it down to the basement, wondering what I would find. When the elevator door opened, I was facing the automatically closed steel fire door. I put my hand on it to see if it was hot, then thought about what might be waiting on the other side.
I pushed on the steel door's emergency release and it popped open, into a swirling blast of smoke. Between the alarms, smoke, and the sprinklers, I had a really good flashback going. It was practically identical to shipboard firefighting school, which we had to attend before every cruise we went on in the Navy. I went around the corner toward the fire and found dense black smoke blowing out in all directions from the enclosed dumpster area of the underground parking garage. The fire, sprinklers, and smoke made it hard to see, so I went over to the exit gate to get air and think for a second. There was an extinguisher on the wall, so I kicked in the glass and pulled it out, about the same time realizing that if the ceiling sprinklers weren't putting it out, the little cylinder in my hand certainly wouldn't. I did what I could but nothing really helped. I couldn't tell if the fire was spreading to the structure or not, but the fire was definitely more than the suppression system could handle. More people showed up but quickly left.
At 9:28, the fire department showed. up. I showed the first engineer where the fire was, and after they got hoses on it, I decided to get out of the smoke and went outside. We have a couple elderly folks in the building and the smoke was pretty bad, so I went up to tell Daniel everything was ok. On the way, I found the Old Woman No One Knows and gave her an update. Without a word, she nodded and returned to her apartment.
Long story short - some complete ASSHOLE decided the way you dispose of a charcoal grill, still filled with smoldering charcoal, is to place it in the recycling dumpster on top of 500 pounds of cardboard. The next person came along and put a few flattened boxes on top of the dumped-out charcoal, and the fun began. Luckily, the fire was contained in the recycling area, so only a dumpster and a few trash cans burned.
I told my kids what happened on the way home from school and my son looked at me like I was pulling his leg. I acted hurt, as if it was devastating that my kid would think I was making it up. On the landing heading up to our apartment, a neighbor I don't know stopped us and thanked me - which I think impressed my son more than anything I could have ever said.
I go to counseling once a week for nightmares. Usually shark dreams, but then there is always Hood's dream - the one about being crushed and pinned in a burning helicopter. That one usually happens at night... Tonight, I am just not very eager to cross over into the realm of sleep. I've got a feeling its going to be a bumpy night :.. ---Gordon
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Eclipse has passed
The custody arrangement is horrible - for two days every other weekend, I go without seeing my children. The bittersweet swirl of days includes the colorless and painful moments of goodbye and the sudden rush of glorious spring in their eyes when the weekend has past, and its my time to share with them again. It's like a solar eclipse - the moon passes before my sun, casting my into darkness. I hold my breath for two days, begging the sun to return. I crave moments with my kids - we get along like peas and carrots and life together is a happy mixture of games, learning, homework, bike-rides, parks, museums, laughing in the surf, sandcastles, and unexpected hugs. How anyone could not cherish being a parent is completely beyond me - its the most fulfilling thing in human experience. I've watched them grow from "wigglers" to tottering gigglers, to budding students, and now into happy and enthusiastic young people. At no time in my life have I felt more blessed.
Its hard to remember that on those Fridays, as the moon approaches.
Its hard to remember that on those Fridays, as the moon approaches.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
I used to really fly
I flew for the US Navy from 1979-1989 at the height of the cold war. I deployed to the Indian Ocean, the Atlantic, East Africa, the North Arabian Sea, all over the Pacific, the Bering Sea, Japan, the PI and many other places off the beaten track. I rode ships - from tiny Frigates up to nuclear Aircraft Carriers - by my last flight, I had over 1,100 flight hours in SH-2F helicopters plus another 60 in SH-3s, 200 in P-3 Orion patrol bombers, and a few in other types as well.
I began my career as an S-3 "Viking" Plane Captain, inspecting and keeping S-3A BuNo 159747 ready to fly at all times. I spent a year working on the flight deck at night while we sailed the Indian Ocean aboard USS Eisenhower. During that year, we visited Singapore, the Bahamas, the Virgin Islands, and not much else - we were at sea for 251 days that year, with at-sea periods of 93 days and 155 days without a port call. I learned to fly in SH-3 "Sea King" helicopters in my off duty hours.
The Navy sent me to AW (aviation submarine hunter) school in 1981, to learn how to hunt submarines and fly in various types of aircraft. I was the first student to challenge the course, completing the 14 week school in 4 weeks with a 90.22 average. The school command advanced me to the rank of AW-3 and recommended me for the next promotion cycle. I went from E-3 to E-5 in a year.
I volunteered for isolated duty and was assigned to the staff of Patrol Wing One on Diego Garcia in the center of the Indian Ocean. We flew missions against the Soviets all around the IO and into Africa and Ceylon. On my first mission in a P-3, we watched as the Soviets de-orbited a BOR-4 miniature spaceplane which landed in the southern part of the Indian Ocean. Seeing this small craft come down into the ocean was like science fiction; I knew I was seeing something that no one back home would ever see. To picture it, think of a Space Shuttle, only 15 feet long. Google it - it was really cool!
I visited Mogadishu & Berbera Somalia, Djibouti, Oman, and a few other places no one ever heard of back then. Part of my job on "Dodge" was to brief and debrief flight crews going out to locate Soviet Naval units (warships, subs and the occasional Communist cruise ship), including their rare aircraft carriers and "Papa 046", a Charlie II-class guided-missile nuclear submarine that sank after we chased it around for half a year. I spent quite a bit of time chasing Soviet submarines but my favorite thing was to engage their aircraft carriers and helicopters. My job allowed me to do that on several occasions.
In 1983, on the ground in Mogadishu, I found an unattended Soviet helicopter and comprehensibly robbed it. I brought back every part that wasn’t bolted down and quite a few that were. We bolted back to our island home - home free. Everyone treated me differently after that.
I returned to San Diego and learned how to crew the aging SH-2F "Sea Sprite", a wonderful helicopter that became my favorite toy. It was built by an odd man whose factory turned out electric guitars, cymbals, and Navy helicopters. The 1950s-era helo was used for rescue, anti-submarine, and radar picket duties. I excelled at these missions and won quite a few awards. For the next couple years, I was assigned to HSL-33 at NAS North Island (San Diego) and ran its intelligence library. I taught Soviet tactics and threat recognition to pilots and aircrews. “Next slide. This is a Kynda-class guided missile cruiser. See the two masts, two missile launchers, two guidance radars? Two of everything. That’s a Kynda.” We had a rhyme for every enemy ship, a trick to remember their names in the heat of a mission.
Our squadron sent small groups of sailors and aircrews out on Frigates and Destroyers, even the battleship USS New Jersey, on cruises all over the world. I was eager to deploy and made several short cruises during 1984 aboard USS Hepburn. Due to heavy drug use on that ship, most of the fleet called her the “Hash-burn.” Every ship in the Navy had a similar derogatory nickname, a habit probably dating back to pre-history.
During 1985, I was assigned to the USS Kirk as senior crewman on two SH-2F detachments, Det 3J and 3K (one relieved the other; I was left onboard as a replacement for a flyer that quit his job in fear of our aging helicopter and its propensity for crashing).
Detachments from HSL 33 "Seasnakes", HSL 35 "Magicians", and HSL 37 "Lamplighters" spent the 1980s cycling through forward deployments to Atsugi Japan. When not assigned to escorting the USS Midway, these frigate-embarked SH-2F detachments occasionally were sent into the northern Pacific, Sea of Japan. On rarer occasions, into the Sea of Ohkotsk, a bathtub to the north of Japan that was bordered on all sides by Soviet Russia and formerly Japanese islands (the Kurilski Ostrovka) that it took as reparations for WWII. The Soviets met us at the door in all three of those places, but they looked at the Sea of O as “their” lake and any time a US vessel went in there, we were harassed vigorously.
Outside the Kurile Island chain, the Soviets sortied a wide variety of aircraft to investigate encroaching US Navy units such as ours. The usual Tu-95 Bears thundering overhead were familiar to everyone, but we also met Tu-16 Badgers, Be-12 Mail amphibious seaplanes, and during one exciting afternoon, a force of forty eight Tu-22 Blinders and Backfires coming out of Central Asia. These were supersonic bombers that carried tactical and nuclear missiles and were intended to strike the US in time of war.
Once inside the Sea of O, just about everything in the Soviet aerial arsenal came out to harass and investigate us, including the very rare Mi-14 "Haze" (only time I saw them). Fighters took turns trying to intimidate and scare off our 30 year old helicopter. On the same day, we'd get gravity-laced messages from "Sky King" announcing that "Suhkois are off the deck inbound from Ostrov Iterup." and "MiGs are active. Heads up." The MiGs were modern swing wing MiG-23 interceptors – the Sukhois were Su-15 “Flagons” from the same unit that shot down the Korean KAL 007 airliner, two years earlier.
One call always got our attention - "Rotary wing aircraft are inbound from the mainland." That meant Mi-24D “Hind” gunships were coming out to intercept us. Our encounters with Hinds were limited to when we were in the Sea of O. Always a pair; one high and 1/2 mile behind us, and one co-sharing our airspace. They came close enough we could hear them over the sound of our own helicopter. We could feel the vibration of their rotors through our own airframe. As an intimidation tool, they brought their Hinds right up next to us, closer than we flew to wingmen; on two occasions, they forced us to break away to avoid a collision as they just kept on coming at us.
We flew with either a "spook" (intelligence specialist) or a dedicated photographer; the onboard spook was there to monitor radio traffic between the Soviet aircrews and ground control, to tell us when we had gone too far (either geographically or metiphorically). Often it was a white faced plea - "We need to get out of here!" Every time we flew a mission, the spooks were waiting, at the edge of the flight deck for us to shut down so they could take away our video tapes and film. After a while, they accepted my work enough that we didn’t have to take a photographer with us.
We flew two five-hour cycles using whatever daylight was available. Due to the risk of collision and the absence of any SAR (rescue) effort if we went down, there were no night flights. That meant we were really hopping during the day. Once we launched, the Soviets sent someone out to intercept.
It became apparent that they were sending one airman out frequently - whichever Hind was assigned "close escort" to us, almost every day, the forward / gunner's cockpit was crewed by a pleasant man we (for obvious reasons) called Ivan. Ivan had a broad black mustache and a ready smile. He was like the neighbor that waved at us from over the hedge each day. The hedge was open space between two combat helicopters flying along less than 100 feet apart.
Judging by things they did, it was clear we were not seen as any sort of threat and after the initial period of aggression, the Hind crews played with us. Our landing gear malfunctioned routinely due to the cold temps (-10 to -40F) so we left them down and pinned when it was at its coldest. OAT (Outside Air Temperature) simply didn't register and we joked that we needed an OAT gauge that measured in Kelvin. When the Commie Rat Bastards realized that the Yankee Air Pirates couldn't raise and lower their gear, they flew alongside of us with big smiles, cycling their gear up and down. Russians were used to cold, and made sure their equipment was unfazed by it.
Other times, the crewmen in the cargo stations put signs up in the windows with our call numbers on them. In this balmy period of the Cold War, they came right out and played games with us, like a well-armed cat slapping around an unarmed mouse. We frequently raced them, either starting from a hover or from a 'flying start'. The only contest we ever won was hovering - often, the Hinds could only manage to hold a slow creep and it was clear they were too heavily loaded to actually hover in place. They loved giving high speed displays, blasting past us with a 50 mph speed advantage over our tired Sea Sprite.
After weeks of watching us end our flights by flying approaches to our ship with recognizable 'gates' (at a certain distance from the ship, we would fly a particular altitude – as we got closer, the altitude was stepped down in stages which we called ‘gates’), our "high escort" broke away from following us one day and made several _perfect_ approaches to our ship, as if it intended to land. After the first, the flight deck crew realized we might have a "Red October" situation on our hands, so they hurriedly made a sign in Russian saying, "Go ahead and land!" (This is why you need Spooks on your ship - to make posters.) We made a video tape of the event - sadly, CDR Fondren now has the only copy. The plan was to allow the Hind to land, quickly cut off its blades and tail pylon, then shut the hangar over the top of it. That wouldn't leave any room for our trusty old POS “Sea Sprite”, so we were told that if push came to shove, we were to ditch alongside the ship. Seriously. I wasn't looking forward to a dunking in the 29-degree Sea of O.
I began my career as an S-3 "Viking" Plane Captain, inspecting and keeping S-3A BuNo 159747 ready to fly at all times. I spent a year working on the flight deck at night while we sailed the Indian Ocean aboard USS Eisenhower. During that year, we visited Singapore, the Bahamas, the Virgin Islands, and not much else - we were at sea for 251 days that year, with at-sea periods of 93 days and 155 days without a port call. I learned to fly in SH-3 "Sea King" helicopters in my off duty hours.
The Navy sent me to AW (aviation submarine hunter) school in 1981, to learn how to hunt submarines and fly in various types of aircraft. I was the first student to challenge the course, completing the 14 week school in 4 weeks with a 90.22 average. The school command advanced me to the rank of AW-3 and recommended me for the next promotion cycle. I went from E-3 to E-5 in a year.
I volunteered for isolated duty and was assigned to the staff of Patrol Wing One on Diego Garcia in the center of the Indian Ocean. We flew missions against the Soviets all around the IO and into Africa and Ceylon. On my first mission in a P-3, we watched as the Soviets de-orbited a BOR-4 miniature spaceplane which landed in the southern part of the Indian Ocean. Seeing this small craft come down into the ocean was like science fiction; I knew I was seeing something that no one back home would ever see. To picture it, think of a Space Shuttle, only 15 feet long. Google it - it was really cool!
I visited Mogadishu & Berbera Somalia, Djibouti, Oman, and a few other places no one ever heard of back then. Part of my job on "Dodge" was to brief and debrief flight crews going out to locate Soviet Naval units (warships, subs and the occasional Communist cruise ship), including their rare aircraft carriers and "Papa 046", a Charlie II-class guided-missile nuclear submarine that sank after we chased it around for half a year. I spent quite a bit of time chasing Soviet submarines but my favorite thing was to engage their aircraft carriers and helicopters. My job allowed me to do that on several occasions.
In 1983, on the ground in Mogadishu, I found an unattended Soviet helicopter and comprehensibly robbed it. I brought back every part that wasn’t bolted down and quite a few that were. We bolted back to our island home - home free. Everyone treated me differently after that.
I returned to San Diego and learned how to crew the aging SH-2F "Sea Sprite", a wonderful helicopter that became my favorite toy. It was built by an odd man whose factory turned out electric guitars, cymbals, and Navy helicopters. The 1950s-era helo was used for rescue, anti-submarine, and radar picket duties. I excelled at these missions and won quite a few awards. For the next couple years, I was assigned to HSL-33 at NAS North Island (San Diego) and ran its intelligence library. I taught Soviet tactics and threat recognition to pilots and aircrews. “Next slide. This is a Kynda-class guided missile cruiser. See the two masts, two missile launchers, two guidance radars? Two of everything. That’s a Kynda.” We had a rhyme for every enemy ship, a trick to remember their names in the heat of a mission.
Our squadron sent small groups of sailors and aircrews out on Frigates and Destroyers, even the battleship USS New Jersey, on cruises all over the world. I was eager to deploy and made several short cruises during 1984 aboard USS Hepburn. Due to heavy drug use on that ship, most of the fleet called her the “Hash-burn.” Every ship in the Navy had a similar derogatory nickname, a habit probably dating back to pre-history.
During 1985, I was assigned to the USS Kirk as senior crewman on two SH-2F detachments, Det 3J and 3K (one relieved the other; I was left onboard as a replacement for a flyer that quit his job in fear of our aging helicopter and its propensity for crashing).
Detachments from HSL 33 "Seasnakes", HSL 35 "Magicians", and HSL 37 "Lamplighters" spent the 1980s cycling through forward deployments to Atsugi Japan. When not assigned to escorting the USS Midway, these frigate-embarked SH-2F detachments occasionally were sent into the northern Pacific, Sea of Japan. On rarer occasions, into the Sea of Ohkotsk, a bathtub to the north of Japan that was bordered on all sides by Soviet Russia and formerly Japanese islands (the Kurilski Ostrovka) that it took as reparations for WWII. The Soviets met us at the door in all three of those places, but they looked at the Sea of O as “their” lake and any time a US vessel went in there, we were harassed vigorously.
Outside the Kurile Island chain, the Soviets sortied a wide variety of aircraft to investigate encroaching US Navy units such as ours. The usual Tu-95 Bears thundering overhead were familiar to everyone, but we also met Tu-16 Badgers, Be-12 Mail amphibious seaplanes, and during one exciting afternoon, a force of forty eight Tu-22 Blinders and Backfires coming out of Central Asia. These were supersonic bombers that carried tactical and nuclear missiles and were intended to strike the US in time of war.
Once inside the Sea of O, just about everything in the Soviet aerial arsenal came out to harass and investigate us, including the very rare Mi-14 "Haze" (only time I saw them). Fighters took turns trying to intimidate and scare off our 30 year old helicopter. On the same day, we'd get gravity-laced messages from "Sky King" announcing that "Suhkois are off the deck inbound from Ostrov Iterup." and "MiGs are active. Heads up." The MiGs were modern swing wing MiG-23 interceptors – the Sukhois were Su-15 “Flagons” from the same unit that shot down the Korean KAL 007 airliner, two years earlier.
One call always got our attention - "Rotary wing aircraft are inbound from the mainland." That meant Mi-24D “Hind” gunships were coming out to intercept us. Our encounters with Hinds were limited to when we were in the Sea of O. Always a pair; one high and 1/2 mile behind us, and one co-sharing our airspace. They came close enough we could hear them over the sound of our own helicopter. We could feel the vibration of their rotors through our own airframe. As an intimidation tool, they brought their Hinds right up next to us, closer than we flew to wingmen; on two occasions, they forced us to break away to avoid a collision as they just kept on coming at us.
We flew with either a "spook" (intelligence specialist) or a dedicated photographer; the onboard spook was there to monitor radio traffic between the Soviet aircrews and ground control, to tell us when we had gone too far (either geographically or metiphorically). Often it was a white faced plea - "We need to get out of here!" Every time we flew a mission, the spooks were waiting, at the edge of the flight deck for us to shut down so they could take away our video tapes and film. After a while, they accepted my work enough that we didn’t have to take a photographer with us.
We flew two five-hour cycles using whatever daylight was available. Due to the risk of collision and the absence of any SAR (rescue) effort if we went down, there were no night flights. That meant we were really hopping during the day. Once we launched, the Soviets sent someone out to intercept.
It became apparent that they were sending one airman out frequently - whichever Hind was assigned "close escort" to us, almost every day, the forward / gunner's cockpit was crewed by a pleasant man we (for obvious reasons) called Ivan. Ivan had a broad black mustache and a ready smile. He was like the neighbor that waved at us from over the hedge each day. The hedge was open space between two combat helicopters flying along less than 100 feet apart.
Judging by things they did, it was clear we were not seen as any sort of threat and after the initial period of aggression, the Hind crews played with us. Our landing gear malfunctioned routinely due to the cold temps (-10 to -40F) so we left them down and pinned when it was at its coldest. OAT (Outside Air Temperature) simply didn't register and we joked that we needed an OAT gauge that measured in Kelvin. When the Commie Rat Bastards realized that the Yankee Air Pirates couldn't raise and lower their gear, they flew alongside of us with big smiles, cycling their gear up and down. Russians were used to cold, and made sure their equipment was unfazed by it.
Other times, the crewmen in the cargo stations put signs up in the windows with our call numbers on them. In this balmy period of the Cold War, they came right out and played games with us, like a well-armed cat slapping around an unarmed mouse. We frequently raced them, either starting from a hover or from a 'flying start'. The only contest we ever won was hovering - often, the Hinds could only manage to hold a slow creep and it was clear they were too heavily loaded to actually hover in place. They loved giving high speed displays, blasting past us with a 50 mph speed advantage over our tired Sea Sprite.
After weeks of watching us end our flights by flying approaches to our ship with recognizable 'gates' (at a certain distance from the ship, we would fly a particular altitude – as we got closer, the altitude was stepped down in stages which we called ‘gates’), our "high escort" broke away from following us one day and made several _perfect_ approaches to our ship, as if it intended to land. After the first, the flight deck crew realized we might have a "Red October" situation on our hands, so they hurriedly made a sign in Russian saying, "Go ahead and land!" (This is why you need Spooks on your ship - to make posters.) We made a video tape of the event - sadly, CDR Fondren now has the only copy. The plan was to allow the Hind to land, quickly cut off its blades and tail pylon, then shut the hangar over the top of it. That wouldn't leave any room for our trusty old POS “Sea Sprite”, so we were told that if push came to shove, we were to ditch alongside the ship. Seriously. I wasn't looking forward to a dunking in the 29-degree Sea of O.
That ended that sea tour and I left the beautiful solitude of life underway; I was selected to work for Admiral Rich at COMASWWINGPAC, a command staff in charge of 22 squadrons, back at North Island in San Diego. I served as the aircrew representative for all West Coast "Sea Sprite" squadrons. My best success was pushing through fleet introduction of the HEEDS or Helicopter Emergency Escape Device. With this little air bottle, victims of a crashed helicopter that find themselves underwater in a sinking helicopter have the precious gift of an extra five minutes of life to use while escaping the wreck. If I had been able to do it years earlier, at least some of the 31 friends I lost in Naval Aviation mishaps might have survived. I succeeded too late to help my own friends, but in later years, dozens of airmen got that extra chance.
My swan song was a twilight tour as an instructor at SWATS, a Navy war college for ship-sinking airmen. "Sea-based Weapons and Advanced Tactics School" was one of the first to fully incorporate computers into training aircrews. We taught folks the tactics for using Harpoon anti-ship missiles, Mk 46 torpedoes, and bombs. I was one of three enlisted instructors (among 25 officers) and I had a blast, developing my own classes, teaching up to 60 officers and enlisted aircrewmen at a time.
I was getting Letters of Appreciation and Letters of Commendation from squadrons about every other week and was picked as “Sailor of the Month” and Quarter eight times in my last fourteen months in the service. In 1988, I was selected as “Sailor of the Year” for all of the squadrons and shore units assigned to Admiral Adams' command. I competed against 33 other “Sailors of the Year” (representing over 7,000 other sailors) to earn the honor. It was my high-water mark in life.
At the same time, I was self-destructing on a personal level. Thirty one of my comrades died in training accidents and operational flights during my career. Following the crash and deaths of two close friends and the loss of my girlfriend, Christine Cardenas, to a drunk driver, I couldn't focus on my job and made terrible choices. By the New Year 1990, the Navy and all of its opportunities and wonderful experiences were behind me.
These days, I raise my children in a world that rapidly forgot what we did during the Cold War. The rise of terrorism and the shooting wars that followed have made our sacrifices dim memories, even for those of us that lived them.
RIP Mike Ampong, Bill Martinie, Billy Quinn, Ron Lipshutz, Lt Miller, LT Cooper, LCDR Carlson, the crew of VP-1 Crew 8, Kevin Newbill, B-14 (his name was so long we just called him B-14, even after he hung himself), and the rest of you that I accidentally out-lived. I wish I could say you didn't all die in vain - I have a hard time convincing myself of it at times.
<=====(A+C)=====>
Gordon Permann
Icarus & Daedalus
I love history, primarily ancient history. I can sit and talk about the Assyrians, Scythians, or Egyptians for hours with my kids. I share myths and anecdotes from long-dead worlds for their enjoyment. My son is named after a Great King, so we've collected a box of ancient treasures for him; arrowheads, a bronze Luristan dagger, a cylinder seal from the dawn of history, and little coins and bits from a hundred old cultures. I can tell my kids a story about each one.
One thing I like about history is how it evolves over the centuries. In the time of Plato and Socrates, most stories were passed along by storytellers, not scribes. One tool they used to pass along information was to tell epic stories as poems. Even hundreds of years after they were first uttered, these poems passed down their messages across great distances. Some of these stories existed only as poems until the modern era.
My favorite story from ancient times has always been the tragedy of Icarus and Daedalus, a Greek father and son held hostage in Greece. It was common for merchants, healers, nobles and the like to be hostaged between communities on other islands - the accomplished architect Icarus was already famous for designing a maze known as the "Labyrinth of the Minotaur" on Crete when he was taken by King Minos as a court hostage. The resulting story is well known and commonly found even today, twenty five centuries after his escape. One thing that always bothered me is that the story of the escape is always presented as prose - in ancient times, it would undoubtedly be passed along in the form of a poem.
When my son was a year old, my ex-wife and I had a terrible fight that left me disheartened and certain that my marriage would end. I had no delusions about what kind of fight it would be to remain in my son's life. It deeply affected me. I looked at my toddler boy playing in the sprinklers in our back yard and wondered what it would be like without Lex in my life. A while later, with all that going around in my head, I realized I knew how the story of Icarus and Daedalus should be told.
beyond my reach.
Fathers, sons, please hear me;
let my grief not be yours.
Imprisoned together is still preferred
to alone on Freedom's shores.
One thing I like about history is how it evolves over the centuries. In the time of Plato and Socrates, most stories were passed along by storytellers, not scribes. One tool they used to pass along information was to tell epic stories as poems. Even hundreds of years after they were first uttered, these poems passed down their messages across great distances. Some of these stories existed only as poems until the modern era.
My favorite story from ancient times has always been the tragedy of Icarus and Daedalus, a Greek father and son held hostage in Greece. It was common for merchants, healers, nobles and the like to be hostaged between communities on other islands - the accomplished architect Icarus was already famous for designing a maze known as the "Labyrinth of the Minotaur" on Crete when he was taken by King Minos as a court hostage. The resulting story is well known and commonly found even today, twenty five centuries after his escape. One thing that always bothered me is that the story of the escape is always presented as prose - in ancient times, it would undoubtedly be passed along in the form of a poem.
When my son was a year old, my ex-wife and I had a terrible fight that left me disheartened and certain that my marriage would end. I had no delusions about what kind of fight it would be to remain in my son's life. It deeply affected me. I looked at my toddler boy playing in the sprinklers in our back yard and wondered what it would be like without Lex in my life. A while later, with all that going around in my head, I realized I knew how the story of Icarus and Daedalus should be told.
Icarus and Daedalus
I am the architect of schemes,
labyrinths and dreams.
Captured, hostaged, toyed with
by the maddest of all queens.
My island prison shared
as well, it holds my son.
Always the promise of freedom,
of course, it never comes.
My skills he learns in secret
one day they'll set him free.
Some things I cannot teach him
like why the Queen must own me.
We stand atop her palace
wearing wings of enchanted wax
the guards are sleeping deeply,
nightshade'd wine does that.
"Icarus, look above you-
and follow the albatross' rise.
We meet again on Freedom's shore,
but beware, don't fly too high."
"The island breeze that lifts us
and takes us from this place
may trick and tempt you upward
into the sun's embrace."
We hold each other moments
the Queen's men run to seize.
Their echo'd voices find us,
aloft upon the breeze.
I sit upon the stones
of Freedom's lonely beach.
The sun's embrace...no watery trace
my son -
I am the architect of schemes,
labyrinths and dreams.
Captured, hostaged, toyed with
by the maddest of all queens.
My island prison shared
as well, it holds my son.
Always the promise of freedom,
of course, it never comes.
My skills he learns in secret
one day they'll set him free.
Some things I cannot teach him
like why the Queen must own me.
We stand atop her palace
wearing wings of enchanted wax
the guards are sleeping deeply,
nightshade'd wine does that.
"Icarus, look above you-
and follow the albatross' rise.
We meet again on Freedom's shore,
but beware, don't fly too high."
"The island breeze that lifts us
and takes us from this place
may trick and tempt you upward
into the sun's embrace."
We hold each other moments
the Queen's men run to seize.
Their echo'd voices find us,
aloft upon the breeze.
I sit upon the stones
of Freedom's lonely beach.
The sun's embrace...no watery trace
my son -
beyond my reach.
Fathers, sons, please hear me;
let my grief not be yours.
Imprisoned together is still preferred
to alone on Freedom's shores.
----------------Gordon, (c) 1997------------
First blog on here...
Why am I here? To rant, to pass the hours when my kids are gone, to get through the evil part of the night that haunts me.
I am locked in a senselessly long divorce, trying to raise two kids the best way I know how. My daughter is 6 and represents the colors in my life - without her, my world is gray and sad. My son is the nicest person I have ever met. I fight the divorce for their sake.
I love to write. I intend to post a few of my travel stories here - I have visited 33 countries as a Navy aircrewman and Government courier. No cloak and dagger stuff, just a lot of fun traveling, primarily alone. Somalia, Bahamas, Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Australia, Fiji, Greece, Kenya, Germany, France, Spain, Israel, Djibouti, etc., etc. I lived on an island south of India and in Japan. I see travel as the spice of life, and when I can't be traveling, then I like to be writing about traveling.
I flew for over a decade in Navy helicopters, patrol bombers, and submarine-hunter jets. Primarily, I was supposed to hunt Soviet subs, but there were never a lot of them, so most of the time I was either flying rescue missions or taking photographs of a wide world most folks will never see. I've seen the Aurora Borealis, the Southern Cross, "....attack ships on fire, off the shoulder of Orion... I've seen things... you people... wouldn't believe. All these moments ... will be lost in time... like tears... in rain."
These days, I help old airmen write their memoirs and assist authors write history books. I pitch in at an Elementary and at a Middle School, helping in whatever way I can. As a youngster, I had three goals - to fly, to teach, and to write. Now, I have only one goal left in life, to raise and release two well adjusted, well prepared young people out into the world. I raise my kids with humor and attention, turning each bad situation into a life-lesson. We love each other and my greatest accomplishment with kids so far is that both of mine get along great. My deepest joy is to boogie-board at the beach where I learned 25 years ago, with my son laughing at my side, while my daughter watches us from the shore.
I love my life, rough spots and all.
Welcome to my blog.
v/r Gordon
San Diego
I am locked in a senselessly long divorce, trying to raise two kids the best way I know how. My daughter is 6 and represents the colors in my life - without her, my world is gray and sad. My son is the nicest person I have ever met. I fight the divorce for their sake.
I love to write. I intend to post a few of my travel stories here - I have visited 33 countries as a Navy aircrewman and Government courier. No cloak and dagger stuff, just a lot of fun traveling, primarily alone. Somalia, Bahamas, Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Australia, Fiji, Greece, Kenya, Germany, France, Spain, Israel, Djibouti, etc., etc. I lived on an island south of India and in Japan. I see travel as the spice of life, and when I can't be traveling, then I like to be writing about traveling.
I flew for over a decade in Navy helicopters, patrol bombers, and submarine-hunter jets. Primarily, I was supposed to hunt Soviet subs, but there were never a lot of them, so most of the time I was either flying rescue missions or taking photographs of a wide world most folks will never see. I've seen the Aurora Borealis, the Southern Cross, "....attack ships on fire, off the shoulder of Orion... I've seen things... you people... wouldn't believe. All these moments ... will be lost in time... like tears... in rain."
These days, I help old airmen write their memoirs and assist authors write history books. I pitch in at an Elementary and at a Middle School, helping in whatever way I can. As a youngster, I had three goals - to fly, to teach, and to write. Now, I have only one goal left in life, to raise and release two well adjusted, well prepared young people out into the world. I raise my kids with humor and attention, turning each bad situation into a life-lesson. We love each other and my greatest accomplishment with kids so far is that both of mine get along great. My deepest joy is to boogie-board at the beach where I learned 25 years ago, with my son laughing at my side, while my daughter watches us from the shore.
I love my life, rough spots and all.
Welcome to my blog.
v/r Gordon
San Diego
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