Octopus vs Crab

Thanks to Brad Golstein for sharing this:

Walk to the Beach February 16, 2015

Sunday afternoon as the blizzard blew by, my daughters and I stood at the edge of the newly created 6' cliff at Pochet, trying to keep from being blown off of it in the 50mph+ gusts. The sea was heaving like a herd of running buffalo and waves were breaking 1 mile offshore. It was awesome in the full 19th century sense of the word.

President's day was calmer and warmer. We walked down the road to the Pochet washover. The destruction of the dunes had left blocks of peat and ice scattered across the beach:

The Worst Kind of Writing to Help the Environment

Who the H E Double Hockey Sticks Was Heraclitus?

When I take those online tests on which party fits me best in an upcoming election I end up left of the Democrats and somewhere in the middle of the Green Party. It surprises me because I'm fairly conservative relative to my friends. But then again, I grew up in West Los Angeles, went to school at UC Berkeley, became an adult in Manhattan and now live in the bluest of blue states.

Surrounded by tofu and Volvos, I nonetheless developed an antipathy toward certain types of liberals and a sort of kinship with the likes of Rush Limbaugh and dare I say it, even Sarah Palin. It is this: I hate weepy, cry in your green tea, hectoring of woe are us, the world is ending, we must save the planet. There's a voice on NPR's Living on Earth that embodies that feeling and makes me sick to my stomach; even when I want to hear what the guy's talking about I feel so nauseated by his syrupy overly sincere tones of concern that I turn off the radio.

This morning I read an Op-Ed in the NYTimes that gave me that same feeling of indigestion. It's a short piece by Ariel Dorfman titled "Heraclitus Hikes the Andes" with the subtitle, "Global Warming Changes Everything."

It was immediately annoying to have to google "Heraclitus". "Hikes the Andes" got my back up too. What? We don't have good hikes in America? Dorfman goes on to write about revisiting a beautiful place he'd been to forty years before, a magnificent spot that's being ruined by a combination of global warming and development. His observations, like those of many other writers in this time, foreshadow looming environmental catastrophe. The intent is to awaken people to take action before it's too late. The intent is good. But his method fails because only the choir will listen to his preaching. Those who need to hear his message, the true fans of Limbaugh, Palin et al., don't read the New York Times and would never get past the title of his piece if they did.

If environmentalists want action against destructive development in general and Global Warming in particular, they need to engage people outside of liberal enclaves. They need stories and anecdotes that connect with hunters in Wyoming and farmers in Nebraska. They need more blogs like Andrew Revkin's Dot Earth and more books like Elizabeth Kolbert's, The Sixth Extinction. Revkin and Kolbert won't be read by many GW deniers, but those who do will find unemotional and engaging discussion of environmental problems that most everyone agrees need solving.

Yo, environmentalists! Stop whining, crying and lecturing and start connecting.

So anyway, who was Heraclitus of Ephesus? He was a Greek guy who wrote that we can never step in the same river twice (nice!) and was known as the, "...Weeping Philosopher", because he apparently would sob uncontrollably as he meditated on the state of the world. The italics are Dorfman's words.
I rest my case.

- Mike Marks

Ghost Wave - Story of Cortes Bank

Ghost Wave at Cortes BankGhost Wave by Chris Dixon is a story about the massive wave that breaks 100 miles off Southern California at Cortes Bank. There may be a handful of surfers in New England qualified to ride that wave but the story is one that everyone can enjoy. Dixon does a great job of describing the experience of big wave surfing and explaining why guys risk their lives doing it - even when they have wives and young kids. As he circles the story of the wave at Cortes Bank he diverts to Jaws, Mavericks, Todos Santos, Teahupoo and other spots. He offers up vignettes of guys like Greg Noll, Greg Long, Mike Parsons, Peter Mel and Laird Hamilton along with surf writers, photographers, editors and men who might as well be called pirates.

The book isn't entirely surf-centric. Dixon details the interesting and absurd history of the place. Did you know that the nuclear aircraft carrier USS Enterprise ran aground there (the Captain was fired) or that the USS Constitution sailed by it in 1846 during the Mexican American War? The most interesting bit of trivia is that a ship was intentionally scuttled on top the bank in 1966 by guys intending to found a new country they planned to call "Abalonia".

The descriptions of riding massive waves are gripping. But equally hair raising are the descriptions of boat (and jet ski) rides out to the bank, anchoring there and how spooky it is to see a 100' wave breaking in the middle of the ocean, beyond the edge of the continental shelf.

Worth reading. Available at Amazon.


Slocum Around the World - Chapter XXI

by Joshua Slocum


Clearing for home—In the calm belt—A sea covered with sargasso—The jibstay parts in a gale—Welcomed by a tornado off Fire Island—A change of plan—Arrival at Newport—End of a cruise of over forty-six thousand miles—The Spray again at Fairhaven.

On the 4th of June, 1898, the Spray cleared from the United States consulate, and her license to sail single-handed, even round the world, was returned to her for the last time. The United States consul, Mr. Hunt, before handing the paper to me, wrote on it, as General Roberts had done at Cape Town, a short commentary on the voyage. The document, by regular course, is now lodged in the Treasury Department at Washington, D. C.

On June 5, 1898, the Spray sailed for a home port, heading first direct for Cape Hatteras. On the 8th of June she passed under the sun from south to north; the sun's declination on that day was 22 degrees 54', and the latitude of the Spray was the same just before noon. Many think it is excessively hot right under the sun. It is not necessarily so. As a matter of fact the thermometer stands at a bearable point whenever there is a breeze and a ripple on the sea, even exactly under the sun. It is often hotter in cities and on sandy shores in higher latitudes.

The Spray was booming joyously along for home now, making her usual good time, when of a sudden she struck the horse latitudes, and her sail flapped limp in a calm. I had almost forgotten this calm belt, or had come to regard it as a myth. I now found it real, however, and difficult to cross. This was as it should have been, for, after all of the dangers of the sea, the dust-storm on the coast of Africa, the "rain of blood" in Australia, and the war risk when nearing home, a natural experience would have been missing had the calm of the horse latitudes been left out. Anyhow, a philosophical turn of thought now was not amiss, else one's patience would have given out almost at the harbor entrance. The term of her probation was eight days. Evening after evening during this time I read by the light of a candle on deck. There was no wind at all, and the sea became smooth and monotonous. For three days I saw a full-rigged ship on the horizon, also becalmed.

Sargasso, scattered over the sea in bunches, or trailed curiously along down the wind in narrow lanes, now gathered together in great fields, strange sea-animals, little and big, swimming in and out, the most curious among them being a tiny seahorse which I captured and brought home preserved in a bottle. But on the 18th of June a gale began to blow from the southwest, and the sargasso was dispersed again in windrows and lanes.

On this day there was soon wind enough and to spare. The same might have been said of the sea The Spray was in the midst of the turbulent Gulf Stream itself. She was jumping like a porpoise over the uneasy waves. As if to make up for lost time, she seemed to touch only the high places. Under a sudden shock and strain her rigging began to give out. First the main-sheet strap was carried away, and then the peak halyard-block broke from the gaff. It was time to reef and refit, and so when "all hands" came on deck I went about doing that.

The 19th of June was fine, but on the morning of the 20th another gale was blowing, accompanied by cross-seas that tumbled about and shook things up with great confusion. Just as I was thinking about taking in sail the jibstay broke at the masthead, and fell, jib and all, into the sea. It gave me the strangest sensation to see the bellying sail fall, and where it had been suddenly to see only space. However, I was at the bows, with presence of mind to gather it in on the first wave that rolled up, before it was torn or trailed under the sloop's bottom. I found by the amount of work done in three minutes' or less time that I had by no means grown stiff-jointed on the voyage; anyhow, scurvy had not set in, and being now within a few degrees of home, I might complete the voyage, I thought, without the aid of a doctor. Yes, my health was still good, and I could skip about the decks in a lively manner, but could I climb? The great King Neptune tested me severely at this time, for the stay being gone, the mast itself switched about like a reed, and was not easy to climb; but a gun-tackle purchase was got up, and the stay set taut from the masthead, for I had spare blocks and rope on board with which to rig it, and the jib, with a reef in it, was soon pulling again like a "sodger" for home. Had the Spray's mast not been well stepped, however, it would have been "John Walker" when the stay broke. Good work in the building of my vessel stood me always in good stead.

On the 23d of June I was at last tired, tired, tired of baffling squalls and fretful cobble-seas. I had not seen a vessel for days and days, where I had expected the company of at least a schooner now and then. As to the whistling of the wind through the rigging, and the slopping of the sea against the sloop's sides, that was well enough in its way, and we could not have got on without it, the Spray and I; but there was so much of it now, and it lasted so long! At noon of that day a winterish storm was upon us from the nor'west. In the Gulf Stream, thus late in June, hailstones were pelting the Spray, and lightning was pouring down from the clouds, not in flashes alone, but in almost continuous streams. By slants, however, day and night I worked the sloop in toward the coast, where, on the 25th of June, off Fire Island, she fell into the tornado which, an hour earlier, had swept over New York city with lightning that wrecked buildings and sent trees flying about in splinters; even ships at docks had parted their moorings and smashed into other ships, doing great damage. It was the climax storm of the voyage, but I saw the unmistakable character of it in time to have all snug aboard and receive it under bare poles. Even so, the sloop shivered when it struck her, and she heeled over unwillingly on her beam ends; but rounding to, with a sea-anchor ahead, she righted and faced out the storm. In the midst of the gale I could do no more than look on, for what is a man in a storm like this? I had seen one electric storm on the voyage, off the coast of Madagascar, but it was unlike this one. Here the lightning kept on longer, and thunderbolts fell in the sea all about. Up to this time I was bound for New York; but when all was over I rose, made sail, and hove the sloop round from starboard to port tack, to make for a quiet harbor to think the matter over; and so, under short sail, she reached in for the coast of Long Island, while I sat thinking and watching the lights of coasting-vessels which now began to appear in sight. Reflections of the voyage so nearly finished stole in upon me now; many tunes I had hummed again and again came back once more. I found myself repeating fragments of a hymn often sung by a dear Christian woman of Fairhaven when I was rebuilding the Spray. I was to hear once more and only once, in profound solemnity, the metaphorical hymn

After this storm I saw the pilot of the Pinta no more.

The experiences of the voyage of the Spray, reaching over three years, had been to me like reading a book, and one that was more and more interesting as I turned the pages, till I had come now to the last page of all, and the one more interesting than any of the rest.

When daylight came I saw that the sea had changed color from dark green to light. I threw the lead and got soundings in thirteen fathoms. I made the land soon after, some miles east of Fire Island, and sailing thence before a pleasant breeze along the coast, made for Newport. The weather after the furious gale was remarkably fine. The Spray rounded Montauk Point early in the afternoon; Point Judith was abeam at dark; she fetched in at Beavertail next. Sailing on, she had one more danger to pass—Newport harbor was mined. The Spray hugged the rocks along where neither friend nor foe could come if drawing much water, and where she would not disturb the guard-ship in the channel. It was close work, but it was safe enough so long as she hugged the rocks close, and not the mines. Flitting by a low point abreast of the guard-ship, the dear old Dexter, which I knew well, some one on board of her sang out, "There goes a craft!" I threw up a light at once and heard the hail, "Spray, ahoy!" It was the voice of a friend, and I knew that a friend would not fire on the Spray. I eased off the main-sheet now, and the Spray swung off for the beacon-lights of the inner harbor. At last she reached port in safety, and there at 1 a.m. on June 27, 1898, cast anchor, after the cruise of more than forty-six thousand miles round the world, during an absence of three years and two months, with two days over for coming up.

Was the crew well? Was I not? I had profited in many ways by the voyage. I had even gained flesh, and actually weighed a pound more than when I sailed from Boston. As for aging, why, the dial of my life was turned back till my friends all said, "Slocum is young again." And so I was, at least ten years younger than the day I felled the first tree for the construction of the Spray.

My ship was also in better condition than when she sailed from Boston on her long voyage. She was still as sound as a nut, and as tight as the best ship afloat. She did not leak a drop—not one drop! The pump, which had been little used before reaching Australia, had not been rigged since that at all.

The first name on the Spray's visitors' book in the home port was written by the one who always said, "The Spray will come back." The Spray was not quite satisfied till I sailed her around to her birthplace, Fairhaven, Massachusetts, farther along. I had myself a desire to return to the place of the very beginning whence I had, as I have said, renewed my age. So on July 3, with a fair wind, she waltzed beautifully round the coast and up the Acushnet River to Fairhaven, where I secured her to the cedar spile driven in the bank to hold her when she was launched. I could bring her no nearer home.

If the Spray discovered no continents on her voyage, it may be that there were no more continents to be discovered; she did not seek new worlds, or sail to powwow about the dangers of the seas. The sea has been much maligned. To find one's way to lands already discovered is a good thing, and the Spray made the discovery that even the worst sea is not so terrible to a well-appointed ship. No king, no country, no treasury at all, was taxed for the voyage of the Spray, and she accomplished all that she undertook to do.

To succeed, however, in anything at all, one should go understandingly about his work and be prepared for every emergency. I see, as I look back over my own small achievement, a kit of not too elaborate carpenters' tools, a tin clock, and some carpet-tacks, not a great many, to facilitate the enterprise as already mentioned in the story. But above all to be taken into account were some years of schooling, where I studied with diligence Neptune's laws, and these laws I tried to obey when I sailed overseas; it was worth the while.

And now, without having wearied my friends, I hope, with detailed scientific accounts, theories, or deductions, I will only say that I have endeavored to tell just the story of the adventure itself. This, in my own poor way, having been done, I now moor ship, weather-bitt cables, and leave the sloop Spray, for the present, safe in port.