time's almost up

The last 12 hours before leaving for sea totally suck. There are moments, even hours, that are wonderful, and all the sweeter for the awareness that they're 'last' moments for a little while.

But mostly, it's pretty rotten. Maybe, in this type of instance, I'm a 'glass half empty' sort of guy. Saying goodbye to my parents, brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, and then, ultimately, to my own family, is, strangely not the worst part. The most difficult thing is the lag between when thoughts are colored by the unhappy realization of the high cost of doing what I do, and the time when thoughts are influenced in a happier fashion by images of new horizons, of seeing friends from work, and of practicing the only thing in this world that I am actually professionally competent at doing... and of the sea, of course. Being there.
In the meanwhile, life goes on. My wife is at work, my boy at school, and I am running errands like crazy, last minute stuff to keep things simple, I pray, in the month ahead. Eventually we'll come together for dinner, homework, and bedtime, and my wife and I will talk all night, and not talk, as we always do. Eventually we doze off, and shortly after, maybe an hour, my alarm will go off, and I'll jump in the shower, dress and reheat leftovers. After that, it's a matter of one last kiss, a couple of sad sighs, and I'll be in my truck to race south, praying that the roads are clear so that I can get through New York traffic before the commute starts. A few hours later, and the drive is done, and either a van or a boat ride follows to bring me back to work.
Somewhere between planting my ass behind the wheel of my truck and hitting the Rhode Island border, I'll perk up. I won't be all that thrilled, but I won't be looking at the world through shit-colored glasses as I did the night before. Thoughts of the days ahead won't have a bitter tinge, and neither will the memories of the night before. The sting comes out with time. When I am past New York, I begin to whistle, even. The hard part is behind me. The next part is hard in its' own right, but doesn't taste like ashes in the mouth, and the feeling of dread passes. I liken it to being hit on the head repeatedly with a hammer; it just feels so GOOD when it stops.
But, in the meanwhile, I am getting ahead of myself. I need to get through one more long watch first.

inder the unffluence

My wife surprised me with a caipirinha tonight. For those of you not in the know, a caipirinha (pronounced kai-per-een-ya) is a powerful brazilian cocktail made up of muddled (squished) limes, sugar, and cachaca (pronounced "KA-sha-sa"), Brazilian cane sugar liquor). It is so choice. It is very, very nice. It is teh strong. Muito forte, as the Mrs. says. I am reeling after one, but then again, one caipirinha is served in a pint glass. Honestly, it's good. I'm a scotch snob, and I say that scotch isn't even capable of holding a good caipirinha's bag.

Anyhow, the alcohol is taking the sting off of my need to pack a bag for my journey starting about 30 minutes into Wednesday, whereupon I travel back to the urban desert of Philadelphia, an entire city which, to be fair, looks like God took a shit on a parking garage.
But I digress, or perhaps regress. I'm heading back to work, and I'm bummed. I'm excited to earn a paycheck, of course, but beyond that, I'm again leaving all I hold dear.

that's nice...

Big day today. I finally took a handgun safety course, which is the first step in getting the Massachusetts Class A, (Concealed Carry) handgun permit. The class was great, but the range time was excellent. Nice low-key range, where I shot a nice .22 semiauto and a classic .38 revolver w/4-inch barrel, pretty much the Mark-1 handgun for police up until the last few years.

Now, I'll say this: I have limited handgun experience. I'm a damn good shot with a rifle, and almost as proficient with a shotgun, but handguns have always been difficult for me. Today, however, I actually received some training and a critique with the handguns that made a big difference- I outshot everyone but the instructor, and that was certainly a surprise. The .38 felt like it was part of my hand. Excellent.
Next step is to get in touch with my local police department and yet again subject myself to another background check. Seems like everything in my life requires those things.

it tolls for thee...um, but not me.

Tim Colton, a longtime voice of the maritime industry, updated some already-ugly news about my former employer. You can read it here.

My only reason for mentioning this here is that I really really hope that Mr. Colton soon reports a change in progress. My former employer did what no other company has been able to do, and got ahead in an industry which has, thanks to the greed of the US congress, been largely offshored in the past 20 years. I hope very much that a Hail Mary is in the future for my friends who're sticking it out in the offshore oil industry.

In the meanwhile, I am tearing through my vacation like a cheesecake slice through the innards of a lactose intolerant individual. Lots of fun being had, and I've got another week to go.

BTB, is anyone else shocked and horrified at the cost of Legos? I just bought 2 sets for my boy the other day. $130. No shit. I used to have 2 6-gallon buckets full of lego blocks, and I am 100% certain that both of those, and the buckets themselves, didn't cost HALF of what I paid the other day.
In what I swear is an unrelated addendum, if you are reading this, and we are related by blood, I want to focus more on the Joy of the holiday season this year, so expect crap presents.
I still have to fill his damn stocking.

Why must thou torment me so, grandma?

Somehow, she's there. The stone-faced old lady at the grocery store.

Whether it's a shop n' save in the ruins of Philadelphia, or here on Boston's South Shore, where everyone talks wicked good, there's an old lady who is apparently assigned to shadow me and make my grocery-shopping experience a little more difficult. Whether it's staring benignly and waiting politely while I'm in the particular part of the frozen cooler (with her cart just close enough that I have to physically pick mine up at the back so that I can open the cooler door without hitting my cart, 'cus God forbid she gives me enough room to roll 6 inches forward), or silently staring holes in my head while I am seeking my particular bagel package of choice, somehow, she's there. And then, when I'm at the checkout, one of, say 10 that is open, the woman is there, right behind me, staring. Again. Always just 1/2 inch outside my personal bubble, with her cart too close to me ass, or my leg, or whatever, she's there, waiting, pushing. She never speaks, even if I do, but she's there, poker face on.

As always, I escape to my truck, and, hands shaking from something indefinable (rage, fear, ennui?) I vow to bring a bag of ball bearings and drop 'em behind me next time, so that I can buy some time and shop in peace. Sensible shoes or not, it ought to work.

home again.

Once again, dear friends, I'm home. Got some serious bidness to handle, and, I pray, some not-so-serious too. If this vacation is as dreary as the last one was, I will light myself on fire.

whoops...

Plane passenger accidentally activates ejection seat - and survives

SOUTH AFRICA- A civilian passenger in an air force display plane accidentally activated the ejector seat while reaching for something to steady himself during a mid-air manoeuvre.

You can read the rest here.

That's fantastic. The US needs to take the lead and put ejection seats like this in our transport helicopters. Preferably the ones that are used to carry journalists.