We just got back from the island. Tomorrow we have a tour to Guerrero Viejo with a load of viejitos, and our friends Don and Linda are going with us. Ought to be fun.
We decided to meet them at Fishbones, a normally innocuous bar / grill on the bay. It also has one of the only fishing piers around, so it’s always fun watching people waste money on generally unproductive waters. Mikey, our old friend from the Brewery now bartends there, and we go there sometimes on Wednesday nights while the kids are at church activities. Besides cold Shiner Bock beer (the national beer of Texas), they make one of the best burgers around.
I should’ve known something was up tonight when Mikey turned on the PA system that's normally reserved for the evening crooner who plays there. He plays about a thousand different songs, a la John Denver a real folksinger-wannabe, but he wasn’t there tonight. “What’s up with this?”, I thought to myself.
It wasn’t long till we began to find out, as a buttload of winter Texans began to stream in….this couldn’t be good.
And it wasn’t.
Turns out it was “Joke night” at Fishbones, a night when chingos of touristas get together and tell jokes to try and win a freebe dinner. Ah, the mention of anything free to a bunch of winter Texans brings out a feeding frenzy.
So we sit there trying to hold down our normally otherwise tasty food while a bunch of lutefisk eating retirees from Illinois, Missouri and Wisconsin told jokes. Terrible jokes. Where did these people learn this type of crap? We listened to jokes about transgenders, anuses’, Viagra, various bodily functions and other assorted sophomoric mouth-squirt. All the while we were snickering, not at their jokes, but at their apparent lack of shame. We began the comparison game too…..
After we hurriedly ate and paid the bill, my friend Don told us to go ahead, and we exited in somewhat, disgust. Once outside Don came up behind us, having left from the back exit, walking to the parking lot along the pier. He was snickering as he told us the following story:
“ I grabbed the Microphone and looked out at the crowd, and they all had big grins on their faces. I told them that I was from Texas, from the Island, and during the summer time, when they’re gone…..we tell jokes too".....
..... I asked ‘em “ Do you wanna hear one?” Of course, they all anxiously nodded, grinning from ear to ear".
"I said, OK, here goes":
“What’s the difference between a winter Texan and a canoe?”….
"Nobody made a guess, so I told ‘em”:
“Sometimes a canoe tips!”
Don chuckled and said; “The smiles instantly melted from there faces, and you could hear the ceiling fan, and the ice in their drinks”. “That’s when I took the exit, stage left, and went out the back, along the pier, out here”.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Krulls Research
I was an undergraduate at UTPA back in the early ‘90’s. I had over forty credit hours in geology, when the bottom fell out of the program, and I had to transfer to the Biology department to pursue a major in critter counting. During that time, I worked as a diver on an NSF grant, monitoring seagrasses in the lower Laguna Madre.
Joe and Krull were two graduates working on the same grant during that time. Both were public school teachers, working on their masters degrees. Since I was the only certified SCUBA diver, I did most of the sub aquatic work, taking core samples and setting quadrats, spending long hours on the bottom of the bay in the verdant seagrass meadows. Joe and Krull would occasionally do their own underwater work as well, holding their breaths, which is a hard way to do things. Part of their plan was to evaluate seagrass growth and population statistics by coring random areas with a homemade 6” PVC core tool, sharpened on one end, and driven by a small sledge hammer into the substrate. They’d then pull the plug out, and bag the seagrass and mud core, to be counted and chemically analyzed back at the lab. The 6” PVC tool was a bitch to pull out, especially in hard substrate, like shell and sand.
Joe and Krull were opposite personalities. Joe was a dedicated scientist, sometimes almost too much so, but certainly balanced and affable. Prone to seasickness, even in the placid bay, once he and I were out on a collecting trip during a norther, when the swell was running about two or three feet, collecting his samples. Joe would normally insist on doing much of his own work; legitimacy and integrity throughout his project held a great importance to him. Later, he gained a certification in SCUBA which made things a lot easier for him, but on this particular trip he was free diving, coming up again and again for air, swallowing great amounts of seawater in the process. After he finished his work, he crawled aboard, and while marking his samples suddenly remarked “I’M GONNA LOSE IT!” leaning over the side to bilge great amounts of seawater and breakfast at Teds in a chum slick that stretched far aft of the little Dargel scooter in the chocolate turbulent bay waters. After we got to shore and loaded the boat, we went to lunch at Blackbeards as if nothing had happened out there. My admiration for Joe that day was manifold.
Krull, on the other hand was an ill tempered prima-donna, given to temper tantrums and fits of derision to those he considered “inferior”. Krull had a penchant for fabricating things, especially the statistics and results from his own “research”. Krull decided that the 6” core tool was insufficient for his “research”, and instead fabricated one out of 24” PVC. I snickered when he brought the goddamn thing onboard, determined to use it in his “research”. So one day we were out there just west of the island in a thick Thalassia bed and Krull goes down with that big-ass core tool, with a big-ass sledge hammer and proceeds to drive the bastard about a foot into the mud. He huffs, and he puffs and strains like shit to try and get it to come loose, with no luck. After about 45 minutes with still no luck, I decided to attach the bow line to it and drag the fucker loose. A bit of reverse throttle from the big 90 horse, and the thing popped out of the substrate with a massive swirl of mud, and Krull hauled it aboard. Now he had to get that huge plug of mud out and into a waiting garbage sack so that he could haul it back to the main campus for his “research”. No dice. Even though he had engineered a plug into the top of the core tool to release any vacuum that might be trapped, the plug wouldn’t come out. I sat on the stern of the scooter, trying not to laugh as he got frustrated, taking a big flat screwdriver and attempting to dig the core out of that big-ass core tool. It came loose allright, falling apart in small shit chunks all over the deck, chunks of Thalassia and gooey mud making the core totally useless. By this time Krull was gnashing his teeth, moaning and shaking in anguish. In a fit of rage, he picked up the tool and heaved it aft, where it whizzed by my ear striking a red metal fuel can on deck, putting a sizable dent in it before spinning to rest near the rail. We sat there in stunned silence, not speaking, even on the return trip, embarrassed and wordless after Krulls infantile outburst.
After that, Krull went back to using a 6” core tool, collecting samples to take back to the main campus to sit in the refrigerator for weeks on end until he had time to do his “research”. I was doing TA work in the biology department at the time, and that refrigerator was in my office. My friend, littleman, who had the displeasure of being abused by Krull, would in retribution, periodically take out the sample bags and urinate in them.
Joe got his masters degree, and has since contributed greatly to the aquatic understanding of the Lower Laguna Madre. I often see him both professionally, and as a friend. He continues his serious, but childlike fascination of this area.
Krull eventually completed his research, after handling many core bags, laboriously analyzing the chemistry, which were never over standard seawater parameters. Krull never completed his masters degree requirements. Occasionally, when I’m in need a laugh, I’ll go into TCA’s old office at the CSL and look up over the cabinets at the big-ass core tool and remember Krulls “research”.
Joe and Krull were two graduates working on the same grant during that time. Both were public school teachers, working on their masters degrees. Since I was the only certified SCUBA diver, I did most of the sub aquatic work, taking core samples and setting quadrats, spending long hours on the bottom of the bay in the verdant seagrass meadows. Joe and Krull would occasionally do their own underwater work as well, holding their breaths, which is a hard way to do things. Part of their plan was to evaluate seagrass growth and population statistics by coring random areas with a homemade 6” PVC core tool, sharpened on one end, and driven by a small sledge hammer into the substrate. They’d then pull the plug out, and bag the seagrass and mud core, to be counted and chemically analyzed back at the lab. The 6” PVC tool was a bitch to pull out, especially in hard substrate, like shell and sand.
Joe and Krull were opposite personalities. Joe was a dedicated scientist, sometimes almost too much so, but certainly balanced and affable. Prone to seasickness, even in the placid bay, once he and I were out on a collecting trip during a norther, when the swell was running about two or three feet, collecting his samples. Joe would normally insist on doing much of his own work; legitimacy and integrity throughout his project held a great importance to him. Later, he gained a certification in SCUBA which made things a lot easier for him, but on this particular trip he was free diving, coming up again and again for air, swallowing great amounts of seawater in the process. After he finished his work, he crawled aboard, and while marking his samples suddenly remarked “I’M GONNA LOSE IT!” leaning over the side to bilge great amounts of seawater and breakfast at Teds in a chum slick that stretched far aft of the little Dargel scooter in the chocolate turbulent bay waters. After we got to shore and loaded the boat, we went to lunch at Blackbeards as if nothing had happened out there. My admiration for Joe that day was manifold.
Krull, on the other hand was an ill tempered prima-donna, given to temper tantrums and fits of derision to those he considered “inferior”. Krull had a penchant for fabricating things, especially the statistics and results from his own “research”. Krull decided that the 6” core tool was insufficient for his “research”, and instead fabricated one out of 24” PVC. I snickered when he brought the goddamn thing onboard, determined to use it in his “research”. So one day we were out there just west of the island in a thick Thalassia bed and Krull goes down with that big-ass core tool, with a big-ass sledge hammer and proceeds to drive the bastard about a foot into the mud. He huffs, and he puffs and strains like shit to try and get it to come loose, with no luck. After about 45 minutes with still no luck, I decided to attach the bow line to it and drag the fucker loose. A bit of reverse throttle from the big 90 horse, and the thing popped out of the substrate with a massive swirl of mud, and Krull hauled it aboard. Now he had to get that huge plug of mud out and into a waiting garbage sack so that he could haul it back to the main campus for his “research”. No dice. Even though he had engineered a plug into the top of the core tool to release any vacuum that might be trapped, the plug wouldn’t come out. I sat on the stern of the scooter, trying not to laugh as he got frustrated, taking a big flat screwdriver and attempting to dig the core out of that big-ass core tool. It came loose allright, falling apart in small shit chunks all over the deck, chunks of Thalassia and gooey mud making the core totally useless. By this time Krull was gnashing his teeth, moaning and shaking in anguish. In a fit of rage, he picked up the tool and heaved it aft, where it whizzed by my ear striking a red metal fuel can on deck, putting a sizable dent in it before spinning to rest near the rail. We sat there in stunned silence, not speaking, even on the return trip, embarrassed and wordless after Krulls infantile outburst.
After that, Krull went back to using a 6” core tool, collecting samples to take back to the main campus to sit in the refrigerator for weeks on end until he had time to do his “research”. I was doing TA work in the biology department at the time, and that refrigerator was in my office. My friend, littleman, who had the displeasure of being abused by Krull, would in retribution, periodically take out the sample bags and urinate in them.
Joe got his masters degree, and has since contributed greatly to the aquatic understanding of the Lower Laguna Madre. I often see him both professionally, and as a friend. He continues his serious, but childlike fascination of this area.
Krull eventually completed his research, after handling many core bags, laboriously analyzing the chemistry, which were never over standard seawater parameters. Krull never completed his masters degree requirements. Occasionally, when I’m in need a laugh, I’ll go into TCA’s old office at the CSL and look up over the cabinets at the big-ass core tool and remember Krulls “research”.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Sirens Song
Each wave spends its energy after traveling from some distant point, to die on our shoreline leaving us with memories only.
Bowling for Fuselages: Invasion of the Saudimizers
“Life’s a dance you learn as you go
Sometimes you lead…sometimes you follow
Don’t worry about what you don’t know
‘Cause life’s a dance you learn as you go”
-John Michael Montgomery
It was 1981 and I was going to school in Waco, at Texas State Technical Institute (TSTI) getting certified as a gen-u-wine Aviation Mechanic. I moved there in August. Waco is a weird place, in the buckle of the Texas Bible belt. Its much bigger brother is Baylor University, a Southern Baptist college. On the cusp of the Texas hill country, Waco remains something of a holdout. It is much closer in nature to a town of the old pre civil war South, and in fact even had its share of slaves prior to the great war of Northern aggression.
The Campus of TSTI Waco is northeast of the town (which barely has any sort of recognizable nucleus in itself), and is near to the infamous David Koresch Branch Davidian compound. Religion plays a big part in these folks lives, no matter how cultish.
I was going to school with a lot of rather intelligent individuals, including my flying instructor, a 23 year old hotshot who had already amassed well over 3000 hours in the air, a lot of them as a flying hearse, shuttling bodies all over Texas and Oklahoma. Some of the other guys were college grads with degrees in fields like engineering, who for one reason or another decided that working on aircraft might be a lucrative means of earning an income. We were given to smoking giant Sherlock Holmes Meerschaum pipes and acting like avant-garde intellectuals instead of wrench turning grease monkeys.
The hanger where we all worked was filled with vintage, donated aircraft. There was an old DeHavilland Beaver, with an ancient Pratt and Whitney R-985 radial engine, a MASH era Bell 56 helicopter and various other salvaged pieces and parts. The hanger was a dirty collection of bird shit covered antiques, splattered with much excrement by the pigeons who had taken up residence in the rafters of the yawning cavernous old structure.
Outside resided an ancient DC-7 complete with engines and flight controls, where we’d disappear on breaks and smoke giant spliffs of bad ganja, pretending to be flying the ancient hulk, smoke billowing out of the hatches, windows and doors like there was an on board fire going on. I once saw a group of mechanic wannabes trying to hammer easy-outs into stripped screw heads on the wing panels, and it was at that time, like a revelation, that I made a conscious decision not to fly on commercial aircraft, unless under the direst emergency, knowing the quality of mechanics who happened to be headed for that field, a promise that I’ve kept for myself to this day…
Another aircraft sitting forlornly chained, like some sort of metal convict was the forward section of an old DC-3 sans wings and aft fuselage. This bird had killed a student just prior to my arrival in Waco when he leaned against the landing gear (which folds forward) while working in the wheel well, extruding his head though the nacelle firewall.
Around the back of the hanger were nine fuselages from old Cessna 150 trainers that the flight school operated, brightly colored little aircraft fuselages only, no interiors, engines, wings, or tail sections. The 150 is a tiny bird to begin with, and these sections were about 14 feet long, and 48” in diameter at the widest point, the engine firewall. They weighed less than a hundred pounds each.
One day we got the bright notion to set them up on end, on the firewall and arrange them like giant bowling pins. We’d take turns using an old tail wheel tire for a bowling ball, situating ourselves about fifty feet away. When the fuselages would fall, they made the most satisfying whack on the concrete, writhing and rocking in great metal anguish till they finally lay still on the hot August tramac, only to be picked up, re-set and bowled for by the next man up. Bowling for fuselages became a favorite pasttime along with hackey sack and copious ganja consumption which we did to alleviate some of the boredom of day to day life at TSTI, which could often resemble some sort of military training without the discipline.
Bowling for fuselages ended almost as soon as it began, when one day I launched a perfect strike ball, which, unfortunately took a hard hook after hitting an errant piece of two by four lying on the deck, bounced up and hit my friend John, who was the pin attendant, square in the nuts, causing him to immediately fall over in the classic Beavis and Butthead kicked-in-the-nads fetal position. The instructors decided to shut down our game then, before another lawsuit befell TSTI.
During that time, there were a number of Saudi Arabian guys going to school, taking aviation mechanics and flying. It was always a challenge being in the pattern with these guys. I was flying a lot too, and my flight instructor and I would often imbibe in a bit of ganja and then go out in the 150 aerobat to punch holes in the sky, doing screaming stalls, wing-overs and other fun maneuvers high above McLennan Community College, swooping down under the power wires that spanned the Bosque River, hoping that the pretty girls who went there would notice our valiant efforts. This all came to a halt one day too, when some shitstick decided to remove about six inches off of the top of the vertical stabilizer by flying too high under the wire…..fortunately he made it back, but the airspace around MCC was deemed off-limits for TSTI pilots. For our safety though, on the big flight board, whenever the Saudis were flying, there would appear in the Notice to Aviation Mariners (NOTAMS); “caution, Saudis in pattern!”…..
We renamed ‘em “Saudimizers” after the energizer battery, which just keeps going an going….Like the battery these fuckers would keep going and going allright, screwing up everything in their paths. You can’t polish a turd.
One day one of the Saudis walked in all covered with bandages, all black and blue bruises. Turns out that he’d crashed his new custom van (the old shag-vans from the ‘70’s and early 80’s) when he turned on the cruise control, and went to the back to mix a drink. Seems like one of the American students had told him that cruise control is just like having an autopilot.....
Because we’ve been in bed with the Saudis as a nation for a number of years, and due to the fact that they are a rich bunch of bastards from all of their oil and gas revenues, they were never failed in any aviation classes. I remember when we were all rebuilding engine magnetos, a complex job at best and damn near impossible without some sort of higher intelligence, the Saudi students couldn’t follow the directions, and got frustrated. Instead of reassembling the thing correctly, they just lobbed the parts inside and screwed the case halves back together. One of the instructors held up a Suadimized mag, and shook it like a fucking maraca before signing him off to go on to the next section of aircraft repair.
I enjoyed my tenure at TSTI Waco, and spent a good deal of hours flying, smoking ganja and in general having a good time. I finally graduated and passed my FAA exams. Later, I worked in San Antonio for Dee Howard Aircraft, modifying a giant 747 into a flying palace for the king of Saudi Arabia. I wonder if they allow Saudimizer mechanics to service it?
Sometimes you lead…sometimes you follow
Don’t worry about what you don’t know
‘Cause life’s a dance you learn as you go”
-John Michael Montgomery
It was 1981 and I was going to school in Waco, at Texas State Technical Institute (TSTI) getting certified as a gen-u-wine Aviation Mechanic. I moved there in August. Waco is a weird place, in the buckle of the Texas Bible belt. Its much bigger brother is Baylor University, a Southern Baptist college. On the cusp of the Texas hill country, Waco remains something of a holdout. It is much closer in nature to a town of the old pre civil war South, and in fact even had its share of slaves prior to the great war of Northern aggression.
The Campus of TSTI Waco is northeast of the town (which barely has any sort of recognizable nucleus in itself), and is near to the infamous David Koresch Branch Davidian compound. Religion plays a big part in these folks lives, no matter how cultish.
I was going to school with a lot of rather intelligent individuals, including my flying instructor, a 23 year old hotshot who had already amassed well over 3000 hours in the air, a lot of them as a flying hearse, shuttling bodies all over Texas and Oklahoma. Some of the other guys were college grads with degrees in fields like engineering, who for one reason or another decided that working on aircraft might be a lucrative means of earning an income. We were given to smoking giant Sherlock Holmes Meerschaum pipes and acting like avant-garde intellectuals instead of wrench turning grease monkeys.
The hanger where we all worked was filled with vintage, donated aircraft. There was an old DeHavilland Beaver, with an ancient Pratt and Whitney R-985 radial engine, a MASH era Bell 56 helicopter and various other salvaged pieces and parts. The hanger was a dirty collection of bird shit covered antiques, splattered with much excrement by the pigeons who had taken up residence in the rafters of the yawning cavernous old structure.
Outside resided an ancient DC-7 complete with engines and flight controls, where we’d disappear on breaks and smoke giant spliffs of bad ganja, pretending to be flying the ancient hulk, smoke billowing out of the hatches, windows and doors like there was an on board fire going on. I once saw a group of mechanic wannabes trying to hammer easy-outs into stripped screw heads on the wing panels, and it was at that time, like a revelation, that I made a conscious decision not to fly on commercial aircraft, unless under the direst emergency, knowing the quality of mechanics who happened to be headed for that field, a promise that I’ve kept for myself to this day…
Another aircraft sitting forlornly chained, like some sort of metal convict was the forward section of an old DC-3 sans wings and aft fuselage. This bird had killed a student just prior to my arrival in Waco when he leaned against the landing gear (which folds forward) while working in the wheel well, extruding his head though the nacelle firewall.
Around the back of the hanger were nine fuselages from old Cessna 150 trainers that the flight school operated, brightly colored little aircraft fuselages only, no interiors, engines, wings, or tail sections. The 150 is a tiny bird to begin with, and these sections were about 14 feet long, and 48” in diameter at the widest point, the engine firewall. They weighed less than a hundred pounds each.
One day we got the bright notion to set them up on end, on the firewall and arrange them like giant bowling pins. We’d take turns using an old tail wheel tire for a bowling ball, situating ourselves about fifty feet away. When the fuselages would fall, they made the most satisfying whack on the concrete, writhing and rocking in great metal anguish till they finally lay still on the hot August tramac, only to be picked up, re-set and bowled for by the next man up. Bowling for fuselages became a favorite pasttime along with hackey sack and copious ganja consumption which we did to alleviate some of the boredom of day to day life at TSTI, which could often resemble some sort of military training without the discipline.
Bowling for fuselages ended almost as soon as it began, when one day I launched a perfect strike ball, which, unfortunately took a hard hook after hitting an errant piece of two by four lying on the deck, bounced up and hit my friend John, who was the pin attendant, square in the nuts, causing him to immediately fall over in the classic Beavis and Butthead kicked-in-the-nads fetal position. The instructors decided to shut down our game then, before another lawsuit befell TSTI.
During that time, there were a number of Saudi Arabian guys going to school, taking aviation mechanics and flying. It was always a challenge being in the pattern with these guys. I was flying a lot too, and my flight instructor and I would often imbibe in a bit of ganja and then go out in the 150 aerobat to punch holes in the sky, doing screaming stalls, wing-overs and other fun maneuvers high above McLennan Community College, swooping down under the power wires that spanned the Bosque River, hoping that the pretty girls who went there would notice our valiant efforts. This all came to a halt one day too, when some shitstick decided to remove about six inches off of the top of the vertical stabilizer by flying too high under the wire…..fortunately he made it back, but the airspace around MCC was deemed off-limits for TSTI pilots. For our safety though, on the big flight board, whenever the Saudis were flying, there would appear in the Notice to Aviation Mariners (NOTAMS); “caution, Saudis in pattern!”…..
We renamed ‘em “Saudimizers” after the energizer battery, which just keeps going an going….Like the battery these fuckers would keep going and going allright, screwing up everything in their paths. You can’t polish a turd.
One day one of the Saudis walked in all covered with bandages, all black and blue bruises. Turns out that he’d crashed his new custom van (the old shag-vans from the ‘70’s and early 80’s) when he turned on the cruise control, and went to the back to mix a drink. Seems like one of the American students had told him that cruise control is just like having an autopilot.....
Because we’ve been in bed with the Saudis as a nation for a number of years, and due to the fact that they are a rich bunch of bastards from all of their oil and gas revenues, they were never failed in any aviation classes. I remember when we were all rebuilding engine magnetos, a complex job at best and damn near impossible without some sort of higher intelligence, the Saudi students couldn’t follow the directions, and got frustrated. Instead of reassembling the thing correctly, they just lobbed the parts inside and screwed the case halves back together. One of the instructors held up a Suadimized mag, and shook it like a fucking maraca before signing him off to go on to the next section of aircraft repair.
I enjoyed my tenure at TSTI Waco, and spent a good deal of hours flying, smoking ganja and in general having a good time. I finally graduated and passed my FAA exams. Later, I worked in San Antonio for Dee Howard Aircraft, modifying a giant 747 into a flying palace for the king of Saudi Arabia. I wonder if they allow Saudimizer mechanics to service it?
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Remembering Gabe
Winter on the island and the wind kicks up, the beach gets narrow, cold front born combers march in from the distant north-northeast, dying on the chilly wet sand, spending their energy without telling their tales.
Even the winter sun isn’t all that warm. It mimics its summer twin, shining limited sickly yellow light on the dunes forming damp, salty shadows where the beach plants, railroad vine and sea purslane struggle to survive the all too short South Texas winter.
Sea oats nod in the wind on the tidal flats, nodding in agreement that natures season will be replaced soon by the parched and sandblasted winds of summer. Days are short, and the water is cold.
The island hibernates for a little while, and the beach resorts and palapa bars only open on nice weekend days, hoping to snag a stray off season tourist or two for a cutesy rum drink and maybe a greasy burger. The madness of spring break is still months away, and the ugly island infrastructure that caters to that time of year is still dormant and buried under last years plywood and rusty nails, now sandblasted gray and weathered.
I’ve always loved winter on the beach. It is one of the few times when I’ve found some sort of solace. While my mother died back in ‘95, I came to the beach, sometimes neglecting responsibility in order to recharge and escape the horrors of the cancer that consumed her being piece by piece. I spent a great deal of time in the water, surfing, sometimes just sitting out there beyond the cold lumpy breakers, clearing my mind in the zen rise and fall of the swell. On certain occasions, ladies would accompany me to the winter island and we'd hole up at my favorite port-o'-call, the Yacht Club. Angelic, they'd mother and smother me with exotic perfumes and gentle embraces, another sort of wave, energy spent on an internal beach, on the coastline of the soul, leaving me filled with life.
On Tuesday the police recovered the body of Scarlets oldest son, Gabe from the dunes between highway access five and six. In one final and absolute act of utter desparation, he parked his car along the side of the road, walked west out onto the wind tidal flat and committed suicide, choosing to take his own life, for reasons only he could comprehend.
I knew him well. During that same horrendous period of my life, after my Mom died and at the same time, my marriage fell apart, I moved to the Island and met Scarlet, her then husband Tom and their kids. Scarlet home schooled the kids and they were far advanced, well beyond the average in terms of education and understanding. Scarlet and the boys volunteered at the lab, keeping the aquaria spotless and gloriously stocked with a wide assortment of local sea critters that they collected during that warm and magic summer.
I was taking care of lots of things at the Lab, including keeping the computer network running. Back in ’95 it wasn’t an easy task, and lots of the equipment was crude by today’s standards. It was the heyday of the 486…. I had just enough computer savvy to get me in trouble. Gabe taught me to write web pages (a difficult task in those days, pre- Front Page), troubleshoot the system, teaching me the finer points of computer maintenance. He was 14, I was 40.
I worried over Gabe that summer. His dad was working out of town a lot of the time, and so I took him under wing, shuffling him outside, away from the nether-world of silicon and data transfer, to the real world of surf, sand and sea.
I tried to teach him how to surf, pushing him into endless waves, only to have him get pounded in the shorebreak, skinny legs flailing one direction, board whipping the other. He returned time and again to the take off spot, determined to slide down the wave. Other times we’d go out collecting sea creatures for the displays, and sometimes we’d just hang out on the beach. I tried to visualize what sort of person Gabe would become. After I left in the fall, I frequently worried over Gabe. He was an enigmatic child, fragile and different from the rest. Hyper intelligent, I knew that he’d never find a way to totally fit in with the mundane masses. There was an ineffable yearning in him to be accepted and loved, vulnerable and gossamer. The world doesn’t provide for that sort of need.
I returned to the western side of the valley for awhile, and moved out here about six yeas ago. During that time, Gabe had left. He lived with his dad for awhile, and I heard that he’d moved up to Austin after a time. I had also heard that he’d found a bit of trouble, and knew that it was his rudderless nature, his intelligence and youth, and I prayed that he’d find his way.
He returned to the island a while back, and one day appeared at the lab, sitting back in one of the big rooms like the old days, working on a defunct laptop, trying to repair some sort of esoteric mechanical problem. He hadn’t changed a bit. Just gotten older. I’d see him periodically, and was proud and content. It seemed he’d finally found his niche, he had learned the locksmithing trade, and in his brilliance invented all sorts of gadgets and methods to get locks unlocked. I’d see him around town, and we’d always talk, with the connection of time between us.
Yesterday, we all remembered Gabe at the Island Traders bookstore, one of his favorite spots on this earth. It was a bittersweet moment, and Gabe was the cement holding us all together. The gathering, like Gabe himself was a collection of eclectic people, from the remember Che Guevara crowd, to the middle aged like us, family and friend holding hands - sometimes crying sometimes laughing. The day was as brilliant as Gabe too, bluebird sky and light warm wind, soothing us all in our grief. Afterward, we boarded a boat, spreading a bit of his physical being in the cool waters of the Brazos Santiago Pass, along with Dr. Pepper, cigarettes and flowers- all things that he loved.
Then we remembered him in the past tense.
I crossed the causeway after it was all over, brooding about life and death, youth and age. I headed over to Le Menagerie along with CB and two of his friends who had known Gabes father, and attended the memorial. Firing up the 9.9, we untied the boat and motored slowly out past 17, where we raised the main, set the full genny, sailing quietly, lost to ourselves.
I looked up past the top of the mast, to the heavens and gave thanks for finally having found my place after more than 50 years of living.
A dolphin rolled to our starboard, and I gave thanks for the community that I've adopted, the community that's adopted me.
As the big sails fluttered lightly in the gentle breeze I silently gave thanks for knowing Gabe.
As the water slipped laughingly past the hull, gurgling and speaking of things long ago, I prayed for Scarlet, George and Tom, Seth and Heather and everyone who were touched by this tragedy.
I thought about all of my friends and family and gave thanks for them, they are the cement that holds this crazy life all together.
Even the winter sun isn’t all that warm. It mimics its summer twin, shining limited sickly yellow light on the dunes forming damp, salty shadows where the beach plants, railroad vine and sea purslane struggle to survive the all too short South Texas winter.
Sea oats nod in the wind on the tidal flats, nodding in agreement that natures season will be replaced soon by the parched and sandblasted winds of summer. Days are short, and the water is cold.
The island hibernates for a little while, and the beach resorts and palapa bars only open on nice weekend days, hoping to snag a stray off season tourist or two for a cutesy rum drink and maybe a greasy burger. The madness of spring break is still months away, and the ugly island infrastructure that caters to that time of year is still dormant and buried under last years plywood and rusty nails, now sandblasted gray and weathered.
I’ve always loved winter on the beach. It is one of the few times when I’ve found some sort of solace. While my mother died back in ‘95, I came to the beach, sometimes neglecting responsibility in order to recharge and escape the horrors of the cancer that consumed her being piece by piece. I spent a great deal of time in the water, surfing, sometimes just sitting out there beyond the cold lumpy breakers, clearing my mind in the zen rise and fall of the swell. On certain occasions, ladies would accompany me to the winter island and we'd hole up at my favorite port-o'-call, the Yacht Club. Angelic, they'd mother and smother me with exotic perfumes and gentle embraces, another sort of wave, energy spent on an internal beach, on the coastline of the soul, leaving me filled with life.
On Tuesday the police recovered the body of Scarlets oldest son, Gabe from the dunes between highway access five and six. In one final and absolute act of utter desparation, he parked his car along the side of the road, walked west out onto the wind tidal flat and committed suicide, choosing to take his own life, for reasons only he could comprehend.
I knew him well. During that same horrendous period of my life, after my Mom died and at the same time, my marriage fell apart, I moved to the Island and met Scarlet, her then husband Tom and their kids. Scarlet home schooled the kids and they were far advanced, well beyond the average in terms of education and understanding. Scarlet and the boys volunteered at the lab, keeping the aquaria spotless and gloriously stocked with a wide assortment of local sea critters that they collected during that warm and magic summer.
I was taking care of lots of things at the Lab, including keeping the computer network running. Back in ’95 it wasn’t an easy task, and lots of the equipment was crude by today’s standards. It was the heyday of the 486…. I had just enough computer savvy to get me in trouble. Gabe taught me to write web pages (a difficult task in those days, pre- Front Page), troubleshoot the system, teaching me the finer points of computer maintenance. He was 14, I was 40.
I worried over Gabe that summer. His dad was working out of town a lot of the time, and so I took him under wing, shuffling him outside, away from the nether-world of silicon and data transfer, to the real world of surf, sand and sea.
I tried to teach him how to surf, pushing him into endless waves, only to have him get pounded in the shorebreak, skinny legs flailing one direction, board whipping the other. He returned time and again to the take off spot, determined to slide down the wave. Other times we’d go out collecting sea creatures for the displays, and sometimes we’d just hang out on the beach. I tried to visualize what sort of person Gabe would become. After I left in the fall, I frequently worried over Gabe. He was an enigmatic child, fragile and different from the rest. Hyper intelligent, I knew that he’d never find a way to totally fit in with the mundane masses. There was an ineffable yearning in him to be accepted and loved, vulnerable and gossamer. The world doesn’t provide for that sort of need.
I returned to the western side of the valley for awhile, and moved out here about six yeas ago. During that time, Gabe had left. He lived with his dad for awhile, and I heard that he’d moved up to Austin after a time. I had also heard that he’d found a bit of trouble, and knew that it was his rudderless nature, his intelligence and youth, and I prayed that he’d find his way.
He returned to the island a while back, and one day appeared at the lab, sitting back in one of the big rooms like the old days, working on a defunct laptop, trying to repair some sort of esoteric mechanical problem. He hadn’t changed a bit. Just gotten older. I’d see him periodically, and was proud and content. It seemed he’d finally found his niche, he had learned the locksmithing trade, and in his brilliance invented all sorts of gadgets and methods to get locks unlocked. I’d see him around town, and we’d always talk, with the connection of time between us.
Yesterday, we all remembered Gabe at the Island Traders bookstore, one of his favorite spots on this earth. It was a bittersweet moment, and Gabe was the cement holding us all together. The gathering, like Gabe himself was a collection of eclectic people, from the remember Che Guevara crowd, to the middle aged like us, family and friend holding hands - sometimes crying sometimes laughing. The day was as brilliant as Gabe too, bluebird sky and light warm wind, soothing us all in our grief. Afterward, we boarded a boat, spreading a bit of his physical being in the cool waters of the Brazos Santiago Pass, along with Dr. Pepper, cigarettes and flowers- all things that he loved.
Then we remembered him in the past tense.
I crossed the causeway after it was all over, brooding about life and death, youth and age. I headed over to Le Menagerie along with CB and two of his friends who had known Gabes father, and attended the memorial. Firing up the 9.9, we untied the boat and motored slowly out past 17, where we raised the main, set the full genny, sailing quietly, lost to ourselves.
I looked up past the top of the mast, to the heavens and gave thanks for finally having found my place after more than 50 years of living.
A dolphin rolled to our starboard, and I gave thanks for the community that I've adopted, the community that's adopted me.
As the big sails fluttered lightly in the gentle breeze I silently gave thanks for knowing Gabe.
As the water slipped laughingly past the hull, gurgling and speaking of things long ago, I prayed for Scarlet, George and Tom, Seth and Heather and everyone who were touched by this tragedy.
I thought about all of my friends and family and gave thanks for them, they are the cement that holds this crazy life all together.
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