Essays and other Ramblings

Paperwork

2012-01-31T09:49:00.000-08:00

Paperwork has never been my forte. So it proved on that particular Thursday.

At the start of the hitch the company flew me out by El Al; not and experience I particularly want to repeat. The airline itself is no better than average; it was the questioning that I can live without. The kind of questions that one gets with no other airline departing Heathrow. When leaving Israel I put up with the questioning with good humour. “Where have you been?” “Who have you been meeting?” “Do you have any friends in the Middle East?” “Have you been given anything to carry with you today?” “We are asking you these questions because we are afraid that you might have been given something which could be a bomb.” In Israel I don’t mind for it is their country, they make the rules and frankly that is the reality of it. But at Heathrow, I surprised myself at my own reaction. This is my own country and there I stood, the same questions from the same dark-eyed kids; the same scans, the same swabbing of my luggage. At least I was treated with smiles which I imagine is different to the treatment is given to Israel’s nearer neighbours. I better understand now the frustration of others.

My time in Israel itself was remarkable in being a matter of routine. Not so much happened and for once I did not go offshore for the four weeks I was there. Instead I was down the port most days, cleaning and preparing the equipment for the next job which came up in the week I was due to leave. Usually that would mean I would be staying on but not this time. This time I had it all arranged and for once people had listened: I had given them over two months’ notice that during the October half-term I was to be taking the family to Cuba. The holiday was booked and paid for. Passenger details had been supplied; names, address and passport details. Visas had been issued and I had to be home by Friday the 14^th at the latest. No ifs or buts.

Since my equipment when offshore on Tuesday the 11^th of October, my work here was done. So I contacted my office in Italy and asked them to rebook my ticket for the Tuesday or Wednesday. My colleague Richard was already in country so everything was covered. It was the Jewish New Year (I think, there are many bank holidays in Israel) but the point was that the flights were full. Damn. I asked the office to look out for cancellations and try to get me out on Thursday. My original ticket was for early Friday morning so at least that was the last resort. Except life is seldom that predictable.

There was no luck for me that Thursday. No flights and what was worse, I had run out of clean clothing. I just gathered it all together and threw it in one of the washing machines at the staff house. I came down at four o’clock and looked in the machine. Damn, I thought. I had left some tissue in one of my pockets. I looked closer. That was no tissue; that was a Saudi visa. Where was my passport?

It was with wide-eyed horror that I retrieved the tattered remains from my shorts pocket. The cover and details section had survived reasonably well but the pages had been turned to papier-mâché. I briefly toyed with the idea of turning up for the flight at the usual time and presenting this sorry ex-document. Common sense kicked in after five minutes. I started with a Google search for the British consulate and called the number. Naturally, being a holiday it was closed. The call was diverted to London.

“Hello, can you tell me please whether the consulate in Tel Aviv is open tomorrow?”

“Are you in Israel?”

“Yes, my passport has been accidently destroyed and I have to fly out tomorrow. I urgently need consulate help.”

“Well the consulate is in Jerusalem.”

This would have been an extremely major problem, especially when travelling from Haifa. One would have to travel past the airport by several hours.

“Er, are you sure? I am pretty certain it is in Tel Aviv.”

“Let me check.”

The Foreign Office lady came back several minutes later.

“You are right,” she said in a rather sheepish voice. I got the address and directions from her. If I appeared first thing in the morning I could have an emergency passport in only four hours. Great, but it meant that that after all the trying to get on those El Al flights earlier in week, I was to miss the one I was actually booked on. That meant that the next call was to my manager Nikos. I had some explaining to do.

“Nikos, I’m in trouble.” I explained the situation and realised that I was asking the company to bail me out. They would have been quite within there rights to book me on a later flight departing over or even after the weekend at no extra charge. “I guess I’ll have to pay for the ticket since I have to be home tomorrow. It was my own stupid fault.”

“You’ll pay for it yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, send through your card details and we’ll do our best.”

Next was setting up the taxi another round of explanation to the local engineer-in-charge. Then I realised I would have to contact the tour company: after all the vacation was booked with the now trashed passport. Oh if the Cuban authorities kicked up, it could be a very short vacation.

There were plenty of other calls I had to make but one of them was not to Mrs V. I could imagine how that conversation would go. Darling, I wrecked my passport so you just go to Cuba without me. No, that would be a call too far. Besides, I had an ace up my sleeve; a second passport at home. Once the tour company had its details I had a fighting chance. Better then to keep the stress levels to myself rather than share the misery.

Next morning I made it to the Tel Aviv consulate but not before the taxi had dropped me at the wrong location. Cursing, I walked the mile or so with luggage to the right office block but still made it in time before the consulate opened. It transpired afterwards the taxi driver wasn’t a sadistic idiot: the UK embassy was having a refit and the consulate department had taken up temporary accommodation. The staff though were very understanding, sympathetic and, more to the point efficient. I had an emergency passport in less than three hours.

Now an emergency passport is a strange beast. It looks just like a normal passport but the cover is white and not the usual burgundy colour. It is issued for a limited time and this piece of paperwork is good only until one reaches the UK, upon which it is to be surrendered to the immigration official. It proved to be a source of some puzzlement and entertainment to the kids questioning me at Ben Gurion Airport.

“Why is your passport white?”

“It is an emergency passport.”

“Why do you have an emergency passport?”

“Because this is my original passport.” I present the small plastic bag containing the earthly remains of what used to be my valid travel document.

Some of them were quicker on the uptake and said “Ah, laundry” but others were not so astute and demanded a full explanation of yesterday’s events. My voice began to get rather tired but finally I was allowed to board after more than the usual questions, scans and swabs. It was a blessed relief to board a British Airways flight.

Sure enough, at Heathrow the official at Immigration, with some ceremony, declared that the brief life of my white passport had come to its end. Like a mayfly it lived for just a day and was now spent. Which would have left me in another world of trouble if that was the only identification I had with me. The onward flight to Edinburgh awaited and I still had to prove myself there. Sure enough, ID was demanded so I am glad that for internal flights, a driver’s licence will still suffice.

It was Friday midnight before I got home but it was only on Sunday afternoon, after I successfully passed through Cuban immigration that I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

I never did get around to telling Mrs V. Unless she reads this of course…..

A Non Incident off the Italian Coast

2012-01-17T10:50:00.000-08:00

I’ve just finished reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5. A truly great book but I’m not going to review it here. Rather its episodic nature put me in mind of a small incident that occurred in the northern Adriatic some years back.

Italian rigs don’t operate on the same level of safety as their counterpart in the North Sea. I don’t know how it is today but around five or more years back, one could forget about safety reporting, meetings or reviews. The job I do has the potential to be highly dangerous with the worst-case scenario of multiple deaths if I get it wrong. That doesn’t really seem to matter though. It was always a struggle to get people to appreciate safety.

The time was 19.35, winter and a dark night. One of the advantages of lax safety is that one could use a mobile phone, with the helideck being the best place for reception. I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Was that a red flare? It was just a glimpse; I couldn’t be sure. Five minutes later there was no doubt. Another flare appeared from the same quarter. Somebody needed help.

I took a bearing and rushed down to the radio operator to report what I had seen. The rig’s crew were Croatian, so while one guy went up on deck to check my story, the radio operator raised the Croatian coastguard. Since the rig was in Italian waters however, we were referred to Rome, headquarters of the Italian coastguard.

Contact was swiftly established. Meanwhile the guy had returned from the helideck and confirmed there was another flare at 19:45. Rome advised they had no units in the area but since the rig had a supply boat on standby, they advised us to send it to investigate. It was time to see the Italian company representative.

The Company Man’s first approach was to ascribe the sightings to fireworks from a nearby town. The rig was out of sight of the coast and the supporting account from the Croatian crewman ruled this out. We had a request from Rome to investigate the flares. The arguments went back and forth but finally the Company Man refused to release the standby vessel to go. What would happen if something happened to the rig while it was away? The weather was good and it was the first time I had ever heard safety being cited for any reason on that rig. In this case however, it was a reason for inaction.

In the grip of anger, I returned defeated to the radio operator and we both sighed and shook our heads. I was on deck to witness a flurry of six flares at 20:00hrs. Then there was no more.

Next day, the weather was beautiful. Last night was just a dream. What could happen on such a glittering calm sea? Certainly no one could be in trouble, no one could die.

So it goes.

Nice Joke Henry. Well done

2010-12-06T09:52:00.000-08:00

I knew that I was due to set out once more to the Holy Land. The last few months had been spent gathering equipment together, egging on those who needed to fix things to bloody well get on with it and finish fixing them and generally whining, cajoling and if necessary, downright begging colleagues to spare some of their vital time helping me (and therefore the company) to scrape everything together. Finally though, the system had been assembled, tested, installed, retested and packed up and shipped. I just had to wait for the word that it had arrived in Haifa and that would be me off to tidy up those last little loose ends that inevitably are left flapping before the start of any job.
The confirmation email that my equipment had arrived in Haifa came on the Sunday, just as the snow first shut down Edinburgh Airport and much of the road and rail system with it. Still, there was time. The forecast showed that the snow would abate into the week and cold sunshine was expected for Wednesday. The logging of the prospective gas well wasn’t due to start until about the 6th or 7th of December. If I got out there on Wednesday, Thursday latest, it would be okay. Just.

With Monday came the further snow as expected. On the Met Office look-ahead Tuesday would be fine. It wasn’t, at least where I am living. Being right on the edge of the Firth of Forth, where I am in Leith is usually the last place around Edinburgh that gets snow. As so was the case this time. But by the time we had a few more inches, my friend Dave was reporting eighteen inches (45cm) on the south side of the city. The airport is further to the west, general transport had shut down and Tuesday saw heavy snow. So I called the office and advised postponement of the flight until Thursday. There was also talk of another friend, Richard, being brought up on standby “just in case”. Fair enough.

Wednesday’s forecast was for fairer skies and a decline in the stiff easterly wind which was the cause of the drifting. Except nobody actually told the weather that. The pellet-like snow continued to hammer down like grey curtains of gravel, each new storm being driven up into the mouth of the Firth of Forth by a persistently intransigent east wind. The Kingdom of Fife was blurred out of existence and in one remarkably heavy sharp shower, the massive hulk of the Platinum Point apartment complex that dominates the view from my house to the north disappeared. Unkind correspondents on facebook called this an improvement and as a reporter of fact, it is my sad duty to note their opinion here.

In truth I was getting nervous. After barely being able to negotiate the horribly snowed roads within the city while driving Mrs Veart to her place of work, I called my boss Nikos again and told him that Thursday wasn’t looking probable either, as the route chosen for me meant departing early-morning (06:05) via Paris. No agreement came forth for another postponement however. I packed and was ready to go.

04:00 Thursday. Checked the BAA website again. Edinburgh Airport still shut. Not surprised. I dropped an email to interested parties and went back to my warm bed.
At least when morning proper did come, things were not looking so bad. The wind had decreased. My daughter’s school, closed throughout the week was now open again. The work/school run was easier today and after the check on the Scotrail website, the trains were running again. The worst was over. But still Edinburgh Airport was shut. I had a brain-wave. I advised Nikos not to risk Edinburgh again for Friday but instead I would travel across to Glasgow. The West coast had not been so badly hit by the storms and with the rail running, there was every chance of a successful departure.
Nikos advised setting out for the west immediately. I have to confess that I didn’t do this. The lines were open, the forecast was fair but cold and the situation was normalising. So it wasn’t until later in the day that I arrived in Waverly station to pick up my pre-ordered ticket. Just in time to see the rail timetable be suspended again. Oops.
Trains were still departing but now on a ad-hoc basis, with rail management deciding which destinations were to be attempted. They did well to get anything moving but still fair to say there was a goodly amount of confusion and chaos. When I finally made it through to Queen’s Street station, it was clear to me how lucky I had been. Snowfall in central Scotland had been in the order of two feet (60-70cm) or more. Goodness that was tight and needless to say that the journey had taken many hours. But still, made it to Glasgow. A taxi took me along the near-empty roads of Scotland’s largest city and by evening I had made it to the Holiday Inn, Glasgow Airport. I wouldn’t recommend the food though. My flight via Amsterdam was not until late Friday afternoon. My friend Richard could stand down. After an indifferent (and poor value) meal I turned in.

The book I had been reading so far on the journey was Mark Kermode’s autobiography It's Only a Movie http://www.onlyamovie.co.uk/. Now safe to say that Dr. Kermode, by his own account, isn’t one of life’s more adventurous travellers, at least by temperament. And while the account of his life as a film critic is often hilarious it is not in the least soothing. Frankly, the guy is nuts. His style of writing is exactly how he talks so reading the book was just like having him whining on about his experiences travelling across Russia and the Ukraine while being in the room standing next to you. It is so easy to hear the guy’s voice because he (with Simon Mayo) has a two-hour radio show on a Friday afternoon to which I am a devoted listener. Having undertaken several similar trips (and in worse conditions Mark) I sympathise but with my stress levels already quite high, it was not the best choice of book for such a trip. But I did laugh, when I could bear to return to reading it.
I had a real lie-in Friday morning and went to breakfast about 09:30. Ate far too much and behind me the eldest toddler of a very young Chinese family alleviated his boredom by drumming his metal spoon upon the plastic of his high-chair; very, very loudly and with a degree of persistence that will surely stand him in good stead later in life. I beat my own retreat back to the room, which I had the hotel’s agreement to quit at 14:00hrs. Which is roughly the time I crossed the road to Airport Departures. On the boards there was no check-in deck listed for Amsterdam but I put that down to just being early. I noticed a bloke talking to a Serviceair person who deals with KLM matters in Glasgow and since the same idea had already occurred to me, I asked him if he was enquiring about the check-in desk number. He had but the lady there only referred him back to the board. As I went to wonder off, I looked back to see him talking to another woman at an actual desk. The man saw my gaze and waved me across has he lifted his bag onto the scales. We were in!
Now divested of the heavy hold luggage, I decided to go through security early and amuse myself as best I could in departures. A flow of wellbeing was now upon me, unabated by the “necessity” of removing my boots for x-ray or not being able to find Israeli shekels in any of the exchange counters. The gate number of the Amsterdam flight appeared on the departures’ board. Excellent. I called Nikos with the news who informed me that “I was the Man.” I indeed felt that way and cleared off to the bar for a celebratory pint of cider. It’s called “Thatcher”? No, not even that can put me off.

I ripped my head up and attention away from Kermode’s latest misadventure. What was that announcement saying? Amsterdam? Cancelled? No. This was not right. He couldn’t be saying that those who had already checked in should go to the domestic arrivals to retrieve their bags from Belt One. How can this flight be cancelled? Was anything else cancelled? Was the airport shut? Sure there were delays but…. Check the board. The board knows all, tells all.
Cancelled. I make the phone call “Bad news Nikos.”
“Fuck fuck Fuck FUCK!”
I retrieved my offshore kit and went back to the Serviceair counter. There was already a large queue. Instead of joining it, I headed straight back to the Holiday Inn, reserved a room and dumped off the bags in their holding room. Earlier that day I had hinted to the reception staff I might see them later in the day. Must be more careful with my predictive humour.

Rejoining the queue, I noticed the guy whom I had spoken to earlier and waved him across. After talking for a wee while, we found that we had links to Donegal, which led to great chat taking place. Usually it only takes one Irish person to start an epic chinwag but when two get together the gab is non-stop. Telephone calls allowing. Must of bored the poor ladies who were Bali-bound to distraction. Sorry. Stephen, if you ever read this, I’m on facebook.
As we neared the head of the queue, one of the ladies mentioned above said to me “When you said it would take two hours to be seen, I thought you were joking. But you were right.” Sadly I was but I was not so surprised when I was booked on a BA flight for London. Bidding farewell to Stephen at the Holiday Inn (one cancellation, one new booking) a returned to check-in, this time with British Airways.
“I’ve booked you on an earlier flight sir and you should go straight through to gate now.”
Cool! This might work after all.

Indeed there was a throng around Gate 22 but gradually the queue was going through. I handed over my boarding card. There was a disagreeable beeping noise and a red light flashed.
“Sorry sir, this is the wrong flight. You are on the next one.” I looked at the clock, the boarding time was right. There was one difference in to flight numbers, my card ended in a 5 and the flight was a 3.
Where now? Bar. Before I made it there though I fell into another conversation with the young guy who was manning the Best-of-the-Best lottery stand. Apparently the company is winding down their operations and within six months he will be out of a job. Sometimes there are good reasons to talk to a person and after finding out a little more of his background, I advised him to go to university. I was thirty when I graduated and my degree gave me a fighting chance.
Back to the boards. Since leaving the gate, BA1495 had slipped another half-an-hour. Grrrreeeaat. The chances of making that last connecting flight to Tel Aviv was evaporating quicker than a snowflake in a blast furnace.
Heathrow wasn’t reached until after 22:30, the departure time of my connection. We were directed through to the baggage hall, where a queue had formed in front of the help desk. No bags were coming through and there was on other staff except for the two workers behind the counter. It took an hour to reach the front of the queue, only to be told that my bag was still in the system and I should instead just go up to Zone G for an accommodation voucher.

That hour seemed to be a massive waste of time but as it turned out, it wasn’t.

Up at G Zone in Terminal Five, Heathrow airport, approaching midnight, it was chaos. The omens were not good when waking past sleeping figures stretched out on the hard cold floor. Which queue to join? Any one of them I guess.

After a while though I thought “What the hell am I doing? Let’s just phone around the local hotels and check in. Better than standing here for the next goodness-knows how many hours.” So I did, but to no effect. Either the hotels were all booked solid or just not answering. Back to the queue.
“Excuse me,” asked an feminine Irish voice behind me. “Do you think that it is worth standing here in line?” The voice belonged to a tall, beautiful girl in her twenties. Now her name isn’t Alma but I’ll call her that to spare any blushes. Not that anything untoward happened but the lady did fall silent, at least for a little while when, during a long conversation, I mentioned my wife and family. Perhaps I imagined it and I speak with the fading vanity of a middle-aged guy. However, taking with Alma made the next few hours speed by, at least from my perspective.
During this time in the queue I noticed an interaction between one of the BA ground staff and a customer who was trying to get some information.
“Excuse me”
The young lady obviously heard the request but blanked him.
“Excuse me,” this time said just a little louder as obviously the first attempt had not being heard.
“Don’t yell at me!” the BA ground person yelled at the customer. That guaranteed that everybody turned to listen to the interaction to follow. The guy persisted and refused to be fobbed off. He asked her for information and received the reply “I told you to ask my colleagues.” She waived her left arm vaguely. His gaze followed the direction of her gesture. There was no BA staff there.
“Which colleague?”
“Any of those colleagues!” Still there was nobody in the direction she was pointing.
“Can you point to the person you want me to speak to?”
She couldn’t.
“You can’t help me, you’ve got no information and you won’t tell me who to speak to. You are a fucking joke woman.”

The customer stormed off and within moments the young woman found real (and not imaginary) colleagues for her own comfort.

At the time I put this down to overtiredness of all concerned. When my turn came I found out why the hour spent earlier had not been in vain. In G sector they were making no attempt to arrange onward flights; their concern was just with accommodation. I on the other hand had already been booked on the 08:25 to Tel Aviv. Appreciated.
By the time me and Alma reached the Copthorne Hotel in Slough (very nice too) it was after two o’oclock. I set an alarm for 05:45. The room was excellent but I was overtired. Woke up several times in the night but the oddest occasion was at 04:35. O4:36 there was a knock on the door.

“Hello? Is there a problem?
“Sorry,” answered a male voice. “Wrong room.”
Certainly was.

Check-in about 07:00. Went to the machines that treat people like themselves. Fed in my booking reference. “Please seek assistance.” Try again with the same result. Join another queue. Finally get to the front. A new guy has just taken over.
“Hello,” I say. “I need to check-in for the Tel Aviv flight.

“Why didn’t you go to the machines? You should go there.”
“I went there and they referred me to assistance. Last night I queued over five hours.”
“Well I’ve been working 15 hour days for the past couple and if you argue with me I will go home.”
Various options went through my head. He had instantly lost my respect. True, the last few days had been tough on everybody. But this new strategy of “defensive stroppy” isn’t impressive. ‘If you don’t play by my rules I’m going to take the ball away.’ Let’s think this through. So this guy goes home, citing stress and abuse. I am referred to his colleagues who either a) turn me away and refuse to fly me or b) accept that their colleague over-reacted and fly me. Either way “defensive stroppy” merely is a dereliction of duty, creating an angry client that then has to be handled by other staff members and if case a) occurs, future loss of business for British Airways. It really is a no-win strategy.
I do not accept a friend’s alternative explanation that the T5 ground staff are really aliens who feed off human misery.
Back to the assistance desk.
“I am not arguing with you. I merely want you to check me in to the Tel Aviv flight please.”
Which he did.

The rest of the journey when pretty smoothly, despite the hour-and-a-half delay on the tarmac owing to Spanish air-traffic control strike. Okay, I was in the middle seat, flying cattle class but my fellow passengers were civilised and seem to have similar reading habits. I got into Tel Aviv and cleared immigration, giving the officer behind the desk a “Spasibo” (Russian for “thank you”) and winning a knowing smile in return. I even found the taxi without much stress, despite being known as “Martin Ward.”
Just south of Haifa the smell of burn pine strongly entered the car. Just in the past days forty one Israelis had died in the recent forest fires.
The hotel was rubbish and I headed out to a restaurant since the only thing I had eaten was the foil-wrapped item served on the flight.
During the consumption of my warm salad I received the following message.
“Hey Martin, hate to give you the news after your endeavour to reach Israel but logging has been postponed for a month.....”
“Nice joke Henry. Well done”

Except it was not a joke.

Finding your Cat in the Dustbin?

2010-08-27T10:32:00.000-07:00

Set up a close-circuit television to monitor your car? Finding your pets in the dustbin? Chances are your don’t live in a tough area nor is it environmentalists and animal haters. What you might have is a problem with your neighbours.

Now I’m not saying that this is the case with Darryl and Stephanie Andrews-Mann, owner of both cat and CCTV that have become famous this week. I simply don’t know. But being of a Catholic and Irish background and growing up in East Anglia during the 70s, my family had its share of such nonsense. From being ignored, having music left blaring next door while the neighbours went out on a nice day, plants trampled in the front garden and the neighbours on the other side wedging the guttering so that the water ran in our direction then sending a letter threatening legal action, I’ve pretty much seen it all. It is not for nothing that my mother invested in a Doberman pinscher when I was three years old. Lovely dog it turned out to be but I still remember it swinging me around the back garden by the back of my trousers despite my terrified and doubtless pitiful cries.

As for the trampled plants, my mother buried some wooden planking studded with two-inch nails. Strictly illegal of course and she was advised not to do it again by Gordon, a sympathetic local copper.

It worked though; after that the daffodils were left in peace.

http://www.youtube.com/verify_age?next_url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DOtuqQb_6cNk

Desert Tales

2010-06-05T16:07:00.000-07:00

I’m not a fan of deserts. I guess I was a teenager when I saw my first one, flying over the Grand Canyon but that hardly counts as we were otherwise air-conditioned, spending only a few hours outside in the cool air at the rim. Magnificent, but it was not a desert journey.

The first desert I have actually stood in and broke sweat was in West Texas. Not that I broke very much sweat mind you. Autumn soon turned to winter and a cold-front, a Blue Northerner, moved over. Night-time temperatures dropped to -10 C and the morning desert was rimed with frost or even a sugar-dusting of snow. In the final phase of training I was on the early shift, stopping off to buy breakfast for the guys on the well. One morning and being British, I fancied a cup of tea and noticed it on the fast-food menu board. Seven coffees and a tea. Great. But my joy turned sour when I grabbed my cup. Of course, the tea was iced. Perverts.

Later that same winter I found myself on the Kuwait-Saudi border. It was a war desert; seven years before the allied coalition had swept through the zone, carrying away everything before them. As I think back, I can still see the village with no walls. Nearly every room of every house was open to the elements. The image of a lime-green bathroom is still with me. Goodness knows what weapons were used against the town but the outer walls were stripped bare, leaving most structures standing. Outside the town a burnt-out T60 tank, Soviet-made and as dead as it’s former owner, Saddam Husain is now. Road signs warned of the dangers of unspent ordinance.
At least the Texan desert was scrub-filled and full of life. This desert was flat and strewn with small boulders. Being winter, it wasn’t hot. It did not encourage me to volunteer for further desert work. I moved to Norway soon after.

The Kazak steppe was unexpected. It was June and I had just spent nine long hours in an ancient Land Cruiser, complete with de rigueur cracked window screen. We had driven north from the head of the Caspian Sea, up the main highway, zigzagging our way through the massive pot-holes and the thin strips of asphalt that connected them. To either side the land was green and shrubby. Finally we turned off left onto a dust track and ironically the drive got easier. We were soon at the rig site and the door was opened. The smell! The strong smell of sage brush was amazing and so refreshing. But there was no soil; below the bushes was only sand. It was the same kind of terrain in central Kazakhstan, uncompromisingly flat but in the Spring the sagebrush smell was replaced with small clumps of wild tulip and the occasional sighting of a large tortoise as it lumbered across the (better maintained) highway. I was worried for their safety but the Kazak drivers never failed to slow down and go around them. I think the Steppe remains my favourite desert because it isn’t quite one.

I had a drive through the Judean desert last year. It is a bit of a shock really, starting as it does at the east gates of Jerusalem. The terrain is of ranges of low naked hills, the ground level gradually dipping down under the tectonic stresses until the finally one comes to the lowest place of the face of the Earth: The Dead Sea. On the other side, the rising vertical cliffs define the land of Jordan. What nonsense we humans make for ourselves; drawing out our petty lines and killing each other for their sake. This magnificent rift valley will continue to crack slowly open; pulled by the planet's internal stresses, regardless of how much blood is spilt upon them.

Now we come to the grandest desert of all. I first saw the Sahara in Egypt. I can’t say I was impressed. The coast road between Alexandria and Mersa Matruh is another war desert, passing as it does through El Alamein. There can be found a museum, or rather a parking lot for a bunch of old tanks, all painted the same colour. More affecting are the war graves of German, Italian, British and Commonwealth troops. The British graves are maintained within a walled garden and lack the grand, towering monuments that overlook the other two.

The aftermath of war is hard to escape, even sixty years on. Here too the road has signs warning of the dangers of mines. I was disappointed with Mersa Matruh though. I thought an early evening walk along the beach would be nice; after all the place is supposed to be a holiday resort for the locals. Soon I found myself unnervingly on the wrong side of barbed-wire and black-painted sign with white Arabic script. I retraced my steps and next day a colleague confirmed that I had indeed wondered into an old minefield. A local girl had been killed there the previous autumn.

It was late winter and Egypt was cold. Along the southern coast of the Mediterranean, I have endured some of my most chilly jobs. I guess further north, one is prepared for it and dress accordingly. But even the apartments in Egypt are not really warm, being dress in tiling and designed more to keep the heat at bay.

Heat is something that the Sahara in Mauritania has given me. I have worked here before offshore. In the capital Nouakchott it is sometimes hard to tell when the street ends and desert begins. Years ago, I was doing heavy work down the port. It was +49 Celsius, with high humidity. The week before, temperatures had hit +55 C. The air density had decreased to such a degree that the helicopters could no longer generate enough lift to take off.

On this latest occasion however I am not restricted to the coastline. A couple of hours of flying on a fixed-wing aircraft took us to the deep desert. Of course, one is living in a rather Spartan oil camp but even there is air-conditioning and water at hand. When outside however, one is only too aware of the grand austerity of the surrounding land. I haven’t been to the Great Erg with it’s towering dunes. In fact, compared to some parts, the desert here isn’t overburdened with sand. But it is the heat and dryness that has to be experienced. Sweat isn’t a problem: the body is desiccated as the hot wind steadily blows from the North East. Temperatures hit 57 C, making touching anything metal with bare hands an uncomfortable and short experience. It is not beautiful to my eye but there is indeed majesty to this land.

I was asked by my friend Lindi whether I preferred working in hot or cold environments. I am a creature of my own environment so of course my body is adapted for living in Northern Europe. But if I had to choose to work in a very hot or very cold environment, I would choose the very hot. In The Worst Journey in the World Apsley Cherry-Garrard writes that Antarctic exploration is the cleanest way of having the most miserable time possible. Now I am no explorer and barely a traveler but when I was in Canada this winter, I found that warmth was only to be found indoors. Out working, my feet were cold most of the time and once inside, the problem of moisture occurred as snow turns to water. In a hot desert, there is at least a chance of being comfortable sometime during the day.

Travel Expectations

2010-02-01T00:50:00.000-08:00

Free airport WiFi is usually too much to hope for so I’m not disappointed. Why should this day get any better?

Yesterday started off okay. I bid farewell to the Canadian crew that had become my companions and friends over the past month. Nice bunch of lads. Josh drove me up to Quebec City airport. A bit early as it turned out but no matter: Mike and Josh had an initial two-day drive ahead of them which would become a week if the equipment had to be delivered immediately to Alberta.

I have to admit that it was with a slightly sinking heart that I viewed the large group of high-school teenagers that proceeded before me onto the aircraft but my fears were unfounded. They were well behaved. Unlike the flight steward stationed at the back of the aircraft who was flirting with me almost from the start. It is said that the one who is asking the questions is the one in pursuit and was this boy inquisitive. It was perfectly clear that he was off duty after this flight and had a place in Toronto. Nice to the fancied, I suppose. Anyway, at the end of the flight he gave me a knowing smile and told me that after resting this afternoon, he was sure to get into all kinds of trouble that night. I would say it was a certainty.

Fortunately I had other arrangements that afternoon which was in the form of meeting one of my wife’s oldest childhood friends. Marina, husband Ted and their youngest daughter were at the airport to meet me and it was a real pleasure from the start. I had spoken to Marina many times over the years, usually even if it was just to say that Masha wasn’t in. It was a surreal experience to finally meet all the same. And surreal that childhood friends from St.Petersburg should end up so far from home. When the city was called Leningrad, it was impossible to even imagine such eventualities.

Marina’s oldest daughter, Dasha, had recommended an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. Her account of the place was that waiters would be hovering to ensure one’s plate was never empty. What none of us realised that was the level of service commanded by pretty eighteen-year -old girls. The rest of us did not attract such attention. Service was slow, the waiters offered no advice on portions and still could not count when Marina and Ted were getting the numbers right. Portions were systematically smaller than requested. So I can recommend Maki Japanese Sushi restaurant if one is on a diet. Which, in all honesty, after a month of hotel food, I need to be. That had to wait however as we stopped off on the way back for cream cakes. The first portion, a small building of an affair, wiped me out completely and I had to finally draw the line when Ted offered slices of cheesecake as a follow up.

All too quickly it was time to get back to the airport. A shame because it felt like I had known them both for years. I certainly hope they can make it to Scotland.

With perfect timing I was swiftly through security (despite meriting special attention from the guards. Was it my aftershave?) and through to the gate. The flight was pretty full. After takeoff the lady I was sitting next to spotted a couple of empty seat and was off. Fair enough. Since my light didn’t work, I thought I could use her vacated place to read. And it would have been a fine scheme if the two men in the row ahead of me had not both decided to recline their seats back to the maximum. I could already feel the feet of the young woman sitting behind me through my chair. Beside her was a large lady of a certain age. It would not have been possible in all good conscience to recline the seat down on her. I was trapped. I turned sideways to read but when the cabin-lights went down, that was no possible either. The one available light to me meant that the book would have been six inches from my nose. I called the steward.

“Are you able to fix this light?”
He smiled pityingly at me. “No sir. We don’t carry any repair materials. It would be very dangerous to attempt to fix the plane while in flight.”
“Of course. I understand. It’s not like changing a light bulb I’m sure. Are you able to find me another seat?”
“No sir, the flight is very full.”

And that was that. For that time at least. I was not happy but tried to sleep. I turned full sideways, curling up on both chairs with the heavy central armrest raised but pressing on my torso. Just as I was dozing off, I was tapped on the back. It was the big toe of the girl behind, whose foot had slipped around the side of the chair. I was fucking awake now.

In a cold anger, I rose none-too-gently and had a walk around the aircraft. There were empty chairs but these had already been spread into by other passengers. Too angry to sleep and not possible to read. Then I remembered the l.e.d. flashlight that was in my coat pocket. I went to the overhead locker, unfortunately right above the two gentlemen ahead of me, and I got the torch. Its blue-white light is actually very good to read by. Eventually though I just needed more space. Another walk and then the toilet. Hmmm. Plenty of space here. Nobody waiting. I’ll just take a piss for now.

“Attention please. We are experiencing turbulence. Please return to your seat and put your seat belt on.”

I’ll have my piss first, if you don’t mind.

Bang bang bang. “Sir, you need to return to your seat.” It was a stewardess.

After adjusting my dress and washing my hands I came out. “I would, if I had a seat that was fit for a human being to sit in.”

I resumed my coiled position, buckled up and started to read again. As she passed, I saw surprise register on the face of the stewardess as she spotted the torch.

“Sir, is there a problem with the light?”

“Yes there is. I can’t sit in the other chair to read because the gentleman ahead has the seat fully reclined and it forces the book into my face. I cannot recline my own seat although I tried because the legs of the girl behind are already sticking in my back and as you can see, I cannot recline the other seat either.”

“Would you like me to look for another seat for you?”

“That,” I replied. “Would be delightful.”

The stewardess returned within five minutes. In an apologetic tone, I told her I would not have been so upset except I had raised the matter with her colleague several hours before.

The seat was with the babies at the front of the bulkhead. Asking whether the light would disturb the baby and being reassured it would not, I settled down. Even with the occasional waft of an overfull nappy, it was still more conformable that the rabbit-hutch that had been created for me by my fellow passengers. I even managed an hour’s sleep.

I returned to my original seat for landing. After the plane had come to a final halt I rose. I had to say something.

“Please, you two gentlemen had both your seats fully reclined last night. It made sitting behind you impossible. I had to ask for a new seat.”

“Why didn’t you just recline your seat?”

“So everybody behind you have to recline their seats to the maximum? Where does it end?”

“So I am responsible for last night?”

“Partly, yes.”

“What, you don’t want me to sleep? Am I to stay awake?”

I could see where this was going, it was clear that nothing matter to him except his own needs and either it was the full half hour telling the whole story or:

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

“It is better that you have nothing more to say.”

Since I was already up, I joined the queue to exist ahead of them both. I also took my time letting the people ahead out of their chairs.

Passive aggression on my part? Probably. Like any situation, it is a culmination of small events that can lead to a large incidence. I didn’t have to go there. Point made.

And to put it all into perspective, the title of the book I am reading is “The Worst Journey in The World.”

A Kind Word from A Stranger

2009-12-22T05:41:00.000-08:00

Many many people, some of them who will even be reading these very words, have shown me kindness over the years. In all truthfulness, on most of these occasions, I am not as appreciative as I should be and for that I am sorry. This note however isn’t really about such cases. It’s more the random word from the unknown person that strengthens and inspires.

I had such a case in the Pyrenees a few years back. I wasn’t intending to climb any mountains but was talked into it by my younger and much fitter friend. I told him not to wait for me but I would meet him up the top. Soon he disappeared through the trees above. The path was hard and at first I was glad to break through the tree line into the clear air and views. But then the Sun started to shine. It was hot, I was fat and being fair-skinned, I am susceptible to sun-stroke .

It must have been quite a sight that greeted that young mountaineer, descending from his morning climb. I had taken off my tee shirt and wrapped it into a turban which also covered the back of my neck. My large white belly must have been shining in the bright sunshine.

As we passed, he looked at me and said quietly “Courage, mon amie.”

* * *

At this time of year, when we are told that we should be happy, often that is not the case. Looking back today at that small episode has made me aware that even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference. And what a wonderful thing to wish for another!
These words are my Christmas gift to you. It isn’t much. A thousand dollars would have been more practical but I haven’t got that to give.
I wish you a happy, peaceful Christmas. May others show you their kindness.
And I wish you courage, my friends.

Vase of Cornflowers and Poppies 1886-87. Vincent van Gogh

2009-11-13T11:03:00.000-08:00

A pretty painting, a bunch of flowers.

Most are beautiful, doing well

Some at the top even shed their petals

Fertile and bearing seed.

But look down, see those who wilt

Pressed to the edge of society

Heads hang down, outcast

Soon to drop and die.

Their vase, the world

Is a vain arena of struggle

For all those within

Whether thriving or failing

Are without roots

All are doomed to die.

First jog of Autumn

2009-11-04T08:40:00.000-08:00

The new trainers are hard,
Slapping against granite.
I look up to the tall towers
And the stars above them
The glow of lighting,
Flickering televisions,
Turning night
Into individual days.

The Number Ten
Is waiting at route’s end
No more passengers this night.
It bobs by and darkness
Is left to my right.
Now it is my turn
Left,
Through apartment towers
Left again
And along the cod night sea.

The wind fillets my cheeks
Blows my hood back
Cinder crunches under foot.
Above is a hunter’s moon
A bombers’ moon
But the night planes are
Now indifferent
To these docklands
No Viking raiders of
Yesteryear.

I leave the dark waters
I leave the idle dreams
Turn for welcoming home
Breathing has been good
The ankle held up
On this,
My first jog of autumn.

Causality

2009-09-26T19:17:00.000-07:00

“You have to lie!” The captain was a large man and he was sweating. The words were coming quickly, heavily accented in Russian. “If you don’t, I am in all kinds of trouble. Paperwork! You have to say you slipped on the wet deck.”
“Okay.” God I was in pain. “But listen. This happened when I jumped between the two ships.”
“No no no! You slipped on the deck!”
“Yes, I’ll lie. Listen though. I tell you the truth now so this doesn’t happen to others, okay?”

I wasn’t taking the injury with good grace. Between expletives, I made it clear that I stumbled as I made the jump.

“Yes, my men are like monkeys,” smiled the captain. “They do it all the time. But for you, the first time.”
“Exactly!” He had got the point. I didn’t want any other poor bastard to be going through this. “If people have to jump, it should have been at the stern where it is flat.”

It wasn’t far between the two vessels but that had to be the case. Falling between ships is a recipe for certain death. The ships were sisters so exactly the same height. But we were jumping from the flat deck of one on to and over the low wall of the other onto its deck. My new friend, Pom, had already made it across. The target for me was to jump onto the wall and step down but I had misjudged badly. From a standing leap I had cleared it totally and had landed in a heap. The pain was immediate and searing. I couldn’t get up. Behind me, one of my friends was being physically dragged across by member of the crew.
“You want doctor?”
I hoped it was just a sprain and would walk off. “No, no doctor. I’m okay, just help me up.” Already the pain was blinding. Automatically I reached for my bags.
“We’ll take your luggage Martin. You just get yourself in.”

I can’t remember now if I was helped into the crew quarters or whether I made it by myself. But I remember looking at the stairs and thinking ‘no way’. Big Vincent read my mind and grabbing my torso, steered me right, towards the crew lounge.
“You just sit down here Martin.”
I sat, first on a dining chair and the pain exploded in my ankle. It was worse than standing up. I felt sick with it.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled. “Better get a doctor.”

For the most of the week, it had been quite pleasant. Under the supervision of Big Vinny, the boat side navigation, compressors and guns were set up. This job was seen as a good opportunity for me to check out the new technology that has been introduced since my last job boat-side in 1997. Normally I get sick as a dog on supply vessels. The Caspian isn’t the North Sea however and despite being rough by local standards, I barely noticed the rocking of the vessel this week.. But not all was well in this new Acadia. It was clear from the state of the equipment that it had not been tested prior to have been packed. Vital components were missing. Fortunately the cables were of a common type and the vessel was able to help out. With my colleagues on the rig however, it was evident that things were not going so well.

Thursday was a day of waiting. On standby since early afternoon, I had been manning the mike, awaiting instructions from the rig crew. Soon after five in the evening, they ceased answering all update enquiries and even the telemetry link was turned off by them. No distractions were needed. It was becoming increasingly clear that there was trouble and I felt I would be doing more good over there. So when communications were finally re-established, I made the offer.
“Andrew, do you need me across there?”
“D’you know Martin, I was just about to suggest that. I’ll have to speak to the Company Man, see if there is enough bed space.”

It wasn’t until nine o’clock that finally I made it across to the rig. I had a room allocated upon arrival but didn’t get to see that, leaving my luggage in the heliport lounge. Andrew and Olzhas had pretty much managed to get everything finally working. I helped out with the last hour or so of trouble-shooting. Finally we were rewarded with a working system at about eleven pm. Still I could not let Andrew go to bed until he had explained some of the finer points of the survey to me but in the main, the night pasted was a successful acquisition of seismic data. Up to a point. Owing to hole conditions, we couldn’t get the tools all the way down the well. The plan was to get as much data as we could on the upper section, reconfigure the tool string and try again.

It was ten o’clock in the morning when I finally saw the room. It wasn’t impressive. Four man cabin made noisy from the sound of generators outside. I fell into my upper bunk and was asleep immediately.

Eleven o’clock. Voices chatting in Russian. Oh God, the helicopter must have arrived. Two guys were talking loudly as they were dumping off their bags in the room.
“Ja spit [I sleep].” My curtain twitches aside and the voices continue, albeit it at a lesser volume.

One pm. A loud voice, talking to himself, swearing in Russian. The sound of a door being banged open. A second door. More swearing monologue. Water. What the fuck is going one? I pull back the curtain to see water flooding the room. The toilet has backed up. Charming. At least all my kit is up high and there is no way I’ll paddling through that stuff. It isn’t until about half three until the problem solved, the room cleaned and I can get down from my perch. In the meantime, thank you Lord for the company of a good book.

Four o’clock sees me back out on deck. We are just about ready to run in again with a reconfigured tool, hopefully able to get past the small imperfection in the borehole that has prevented us previously. By nine thirty however, it is clear that the caused is lost. The order is given to rig down. I get conformation and speak to the boat. I’m told that they have to complete post-job checks that can only be done in daylight. Fair enough. I advise them to do it first thing then get packed up as there are rumours of a chopper for us tomorrow lunchtime. Olzhas and myself pack up the rig equipment. I get to bed about five in the morning.

Six a.m. There is a deep pit in Hell reserved for people who leave alarm clocks in the room and are not there to turn them off.
Six twenty. A new companion. The generators are almost loud enough to drown out the sound of his snoring. But not quite.

Seven a.m. “Martin? You are being transferred back to the boat. Please be ready in half and hour.” At the time, it sounds almost like a relief.

I arrive back on board at about quarter to eight. There is even some hot breakfast left over. Great, I’m hungry too. With a cup of tea I go up to the bridge and see the last of the navigation checks being performed, while having a banter and a moan with Pom and Vince. I regretfully inform them both that I’m too shagged out to help with the rest of the packing up. “Fine Martin. Go to bed.. The bedding still the same. We can handle this.”

Even that morning’s brief sleep isn’t to be the longed-for peace. The sound of heavy engines wake me. Sleep again. Ten past ten. The door opens. It’s Vince.
“Martin, they want us to transfer onto another boat.”
“When?”
“Now. Three minutes.”

So at quarter past ten, I’m on deck. Pom has already made the jump and it’s my turn.

I leap.

The God-Shaped Hole, Birmingham and Marcus Brigstocke

2009-08-24T17:17:00.000-07:00

My wife is not a fan of stand-up comedy. In the (very long) queue to see Marcus Brigstocke new show God Collar, she told me that she was only there for my sake. In true Edinburgh Fringe tradition, everything was running almost an hour late so it was a pretty chilled spouse that finally settled into her seat beside me to see the opening night. Fortunately, both of us were well rewarded. Marcus’ show is personal, funny, touching and raises some interesting questions on religion and religious experiences.

The basic premise of God Collar is that Marcus does not believe in God but if God did exist, he would very much like to ask him a few questions. He has harsh words for all the Abrahamic religions, rightly questions the moral examples laid out in the Old Testament and has strong words on Judaism and the Muslim religions too. Atheists however are not immune. One of my favourite lines is “before I read The God Delusion, I was an atheist. By the time I finished it I was an agnostic.”

I have read quite a bit of Richard Dawkins writings while a student but mainly his stuff on evolutionary biology so I haven’t read The God Delusion. Apparently though there is a whole chapter in it dedicated to “the god-shaped hole.” Brigstocke probably didn’t do it much justice when he summarised it as Dawkins saying “some people have silly thoughts and they mustn’t have” but I think I understand where he is coming from. My own experience of “the god-shaped hole” certainly isn’t silly to me.

Personally, I don’t like the phrase “god-shaped hole”. It is a void and I discovered it within myself when I was in my late twenties. I had taken up meditation and while visualising the journey deeper into my own mind I came to the point where I could travel no further. And there it was, like a hole in a floor which contained utter blackness. It is not a comfortable image. If I close my eyes now, I can still see it.

The next question was “what next?” To be honest, I was scared. With every session of meditation the void seem to grow larger in my mind. It felt like I was losing my sense of self, that I desperately had to cling on to my feeling of self because if I fell into that void, I would cease to exist. But cling on was becoming more and more difficult. One evening, literally at my wits end, I prayed and let go. My conscious self fell into the blackness.

Perhaps I had faith before but if I did, it wasn’t based on experience but dogma. For once in the void it is not black at all. Rather I feel a connectivity with all things. A peace and tranquillity that I had not known before. It is a strange but calming sensation. To be honest, I don’t consciously go there much nowadays. Perhaps I don’t have to but it is reassuring to know that it is there if I every need it.

So how does this all link to organised religion? I’m not sure that it does. In God Collar, Marcus says that he can’t imagine God, so he starts with something smaller. Birmingham for instance. Then he imagines the routes into Birmingham and where one is born will dictate the road that one will take towards Birmingham.

For me, it was the A47 via Leicester.

Silence

2009-07-30T16:14:00.000-07:00

When I was young
My father would return
From the ships'
Engine rooms.

He would tell
Me to turn off
The music.
He would close
His eyes
And sit
In silence.

I resented this
Until my turn
Came, working
On oil rigs.
Now, I too
Love the silence
That no industy
Can make.

Acid - Dipped

2009-05-28T01:36:00.000-07:00

When you think
About him
I know.
When you care
For him
It shows.
It’s been going on
Such a time
But you say you
Still wanna
Be mine.
Well I don’t know
If I can bear
This pain
Just to have it
Happen again.

You’re just
Corroding my soul
So sorry babe
You’ll have to go
I’m just feeling so
Acid – dipped.

If you can’t help it
That’s fine
But that means you
Can’t be mine
So you’ve got
To choose
Because one of us
Is gonna loose.
And I think
He don’t care
For the love
You want to share.

You’re just
Corroding my soul
So sorry babe
You’ll have to go
I’m just feeling so
Acid – dipped.

So please excuse
My jaded love
But I’ve just about
Had enough.

You’re just
Corroding my soul
So sorry babe
You’ll have to go
I’m just feeling so
Acid – dipped.

An Afternoon Drama

2009-03-21T01:46:00.000-07:00

“Daddy, where is the lobster? I want to see it!”
“He must of put it back.”
“No, I haven’t,” I replied. I walked over to the tote bag which I use to carry my fishing tackle and pull out a cloth sack. I unpeel it to reveal the dark brown crustacean, claws bound with elastic bands, who was struggling in a vain attempt to escape. It was just as I picked it up to show to the girl that we heard the young man shouting and gesticulating, pointing to something at the base of the harbour wall. All three of us turned to look. I heard the word “man” being shouted and the pattern of black-blue-and pink that the youth was pointing to at the base of the sea wall resolved itself into the shape of a suit-clad person, sprawled out with his feet in the water.
“My God!” I say to the father of the girl. “There’s a man fallen.” Stuffing the lobster back into the tote bag, all three of us start running along the rough stone breakwater. Granton pier is long and it takes us almost a minute to reach the site. I assess the situation. A man, dressed for business in jacket and tie, has fallen off the side of the pier. Beside him is a burst carrier bag, with a ready-made salad scattered from it. Thankfully the fall is not high: the top of the pier is only about ten feet above the level of the water. It is near low tide, otherwise the man would have been in the water completely. As it is, he looks like he has slide down the forty five degree slope of the inner wall with only his feet in the water. A large gash which is steadily oozing blood is visible on the back of his balding head. He attempts to raise himself but slips on the bladderwrack that coats the harbour wall and crashes back down heavily.
“Stay still!” I shout. The man looks disorientated; his movements slow and clumsy. “Stay down and we will come to get you.”
Both I and the girl’s father jump down the initial vertical three feet and start making our way gingerly down the slope. Meanwhile the youth whose calls had attracted out attention is on the phone; he is earnestly entreating the emergency operator to send an ambulance. “Aye, he fallen off the wall…. Granton Pier. He’s cut his head open.”
I spot an old bit of rope that had got lodged in the cracks of the harbour wall and start pulling it out. It is long enough to be useful.
“Here, get the end of it and hold on,” I say to the father. The heavy white rope steadies me as I make my way down the sea wall. I am soon at the side of the fallen man, who is now sitting up.
“Hi, I’m here to help,” I tell him. He looks at me in a glazed way. I give him a quick check-over. Apart from the cut to the head, there is also blood on his left hand. The source is a minor cut. The impact also sprang open the metal wrist band of his watch. The wrist looked swollen. “What is your name?”
The man mutters something I can’t catch.
“What’s that?”
He speaks again. “Joseph.”
“Okay Joseph. How are you feeling? Reckon you can move up the wall?”
Joseph nods.
“Good man,” I smile. “Hold on to this rope and we’ll help you up.”
The girl’s father tightens his grip and Joseph and I start creeping up the side of the breakwater. The seaweed coating the wall is extremely slippery and it is an effort to support Joseph and make progress. But soon the girl’s father has hold of Joseph’s hand and they made it onto the top of the breakwater. I follow after. Joseph, still wobbly, is attempting to stand up.
“Joseph, can you sit down please?” I ask. “We don’t want you falling over again.”
More hands help Joseph to a kneeing position. A small crowd has now gathered. Along with several younger teenagers, a lady with a black Labrador is also looking on.
I give Joseph another check-over. Focus has now returned to his eyes but he still looks a bit dazed. He can move the fingers on his left hand so the wrist is not broken.
“Joseph, I’m taking the watch off your wrist. Can you put it in your pocket?” He does so. Time to attend to the cut. It looks nasty: a five centimetre crescent from which blood is oozing slowly with a lump the size of a duck’s egg already rising under it. I take off my pullover, intending to use it as a pressure pad but it isn’t really suitable, being large and heavy. I eye the scarf worn by the dog-walking lady.
“I’m really sorry to have to ask, but can I have your scarf?” The lady complies cheerfully.
“Joseph, you have a cut on the back of your head. I’m going to have to apply pressure to it.” Joseph nods and I apply the scar to the back of his head, with my left hand on Joseph’s broad forehead in order to keep things steady.
The next fifteen or so minutes pass quite cheerfully, considering the circumstances. Joseph tells us that he has had these blackouts since childhood. The lady remarks that first aid is one of those things that she knew she ought to know but never got around to it. The girl is shushed by her father on several occasions when she starts to chatter on but in reality she wasn’t doing any harm. I compliment the youth on his reactions.
“You were wondering what I was shouting about weren’t ya?” he grins. “Thought I’d caught a big fish or somethin’!”
We hear the sirens but can’t see the ambulance.
“I don’t want to go to hospital,” says Joseph. “I’ve had enough of those places.”
“Well they can’t make you if you don’t want to,” opines the lady.
“Joseph, I think you ought to,” I tell him. “You are going to need stitches in this cut.”
“Oh really,” says the lady. “I haven’t seen it.”
“It’s about two inches long,” the girl’s father tells her. He continues. “Joseph, what was in your bag?”
“A salad and some chocolate,” Joseph replies.
“Shall we get it for you?”
I veto the plan. “Don’t. It’s very slippery down there and it’s not worth the risk. If it was Joseph’s wallet or something important, maybe.”
“We don’t want you to be the next one Daddy,” pipes up the girl. We all laugh.
“Well, at least the ambulance is on it’s way.”
“There it is,” shouts the youth. “It’s gone to the wrong pier!” Along with the other boys, he starts waving frantically. The fast response 4x4 reverses from it position on the other side of the harbour, about four hundred metres away and drives back onto the road.
Even so, it is another good five minutes before the paramedic is with us.
“He’s taking his time,” says the lady. “You would thing he would jog or something.”
“He’s doing his health and safety,” I reply. “All he knows is that somebody has slipped off the pier. He doesn’t want to be next.”
Another minute goes by.
“That’s a stroll!” exclaims the lady, outraged.
She has a point. The paramedic does not seem to be in a hurry. Eventually he reaches us. I give him my handover and assessment of the situation and he speaks to Joseph for a wee while, in a rather slow and loud voice.
The scarf is returned to the lady. I’m gratified to see a large clot has formed over the wound.
“That’s brilliant,” says the paramedic. “I’ll take over from here.”
And that’s it. We are dismissed. We give Joseph our farewells and best wishes and return to our lives.

Photo credit: Bob Jones

The Monster

2009-02-09T03:10:00.000-08:00

The monster is coming
People are running
His claws are flashing
In the sky.

The monster is coming
His belly is rumbling
Dark shadows are filling
The sky.

The monster is coming
His breath is blowing
Leaves are flying
In the sky.

The monster is coming
His mouth is drooling
Heavy drops are falling
From the sky.

Silly girl!
There is no monster
It's just the storm
Passing by.

Perfect Day

2008-12-25T10:46:00.000-08:00

It had been a bloody good night! Jeez, head is still a bit wobbly after those Gin Fizzes. Wow, those guys could play jazz; the beach-front bar had been fantastic. Never known such joy and energy. Italians really know how to party. But what a day today! Warm December sunshine was streaming into the house and I called the oil base to set up a flight to Aberdeen for later that day. All was well in the world.

The mobile rings. It’s my wife. “Better phone Ireland, your father is ill.” Damn. Hope he’s okay, but the tone in Maria’s voice was not good. No answer from my parents’ number. Okay, phone Tony, see if he knows about it. “No mate, first thing I’ve heard.” “Well, can you try to find out and give us a call back?” “I’m in Ravenna so if we need to go to Ireland, I’ll divert from here.” “Okay”.

Ten minutes, fifteen. Spent pacing up and down the living room; the bright sunshine having lost its appeal. The phone goes. “Hello, what’s the news? Is Dad still alive?” “No, he’s dead. Looks like a heart attack.” “Okay, I’ll go straight there. Can you make it across? “Yes, I’ll look up flights from Amsterdam. See you there.”

I hang up. Ireland. Need to go. Need to talk to Mum first. “Oh hello Martin. Yes he’s gone. I knew when he was taken by the ambulance that I wouldn’t be seeing him alive again.” She sounded calm, collected. “Now don’t you start crying Martin, you’ll get me going.” “Sorry Mum.”

Flights. The room is starting to sway. “Hello, yes. I need to change my flight. Have to go to Ireland, my father just died…” I break down, become incoherent. The lady at the base can no longer understand me. I feel sick. My cries are like howls. God knows what the neighbours must be thinking.

Within ten minutes (or was it ten hours?) my friends Dante and Martin arrive. I regain some control at the sight of their faces. Dante gets on the phone to make the arrangements. Martin finishes my packing for me. The taxi quickly arrives.

The driver doesn’t speak English. It’s okay, not much in the mood for conversation. But embarrassment starts to grip me. I feel I must explain these silent tears that I can’t stop flowing down my face. He must think them odd! The Italian for Pope is Papa? Father? “Mon Papi, e morta”. He understands. He radios back to the controller. I hear the words “papi” and “morto”. He asks by word and sign whether I would like the radio turned off. “Non, musica e buono”. It’s almost a two hour trip to Bologna. I reckon the poor guy needs a break from the sound of my sniffing.

I don’t fucking believe it! The brand new Mercedes in which I was travelling just broke down! What are the chances of that? We glide to a silent stop on the hard shoulder. The driver makes a gesture of apology and opens the bonnet. I don’t help. I can’t help. I can’t think, except to acknowledge that I’ve missed that flight.

Half and hour later and we are moving again. I thought a new vehicle would be needed but somehow he fixed the car. Still don’t know what happened. We get to the airport and I thank the driver. He wishes me luck.

A look at the board and sure enough the Amsterdam flight is gone. I go to the desk and explain the situation. I am composed now but a funny sensation is creeping over me. It is like being in a cocoon. The world becomes distant. The sound of Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” starts to drift into what consciousness that is left to me. I see the scene from Trainspotting in which Ewan McGregor overdoses and sinks into the carpet. I too have sunk, sunk into my own carpet of grief.

The flight to Paris is almost empty. I have the seats to myself. A young man sitting across the aisle looks with concern at a new attack of silent tears. I try to smile but I know I can’t. He looks away.

At Paris Maria calls. She’s worried. “What are you’re plans darling?” “Well, get to Ireland. It will be late by the time I get to Dublin. Not until after ten now.” “Then you can’t drive tonight, you are in no state.” “No, I’m fine” “No, you are not! Promise me you’ll get a hotel tonight.” “Okay, I promise. Will you be able to make it out?” I know the answer already. Maria was immensely fond of my father but travelling at short notice with a seven-month-old baby is no joke. “No, I don’t think I can.” “I understand.” “Hotel tonight?” “Yes.”
On the flight to Dublin, I sit next to Michael. He’s a little older than myself. In order to explain my leaky face, I tell him about my father and gradually the story expands to take up the day so far. It helps. Goodness knows what he must of thought but his kindness helped this stranger. Thank you Michael.

So, hotel or car? What use is a hotel to me? I head for the Avis deck.

Even through my cocoon, the car is still rubbish. But so is my navigation. I head out on the road to Limerick instead of Cork. It takes me an hour to rectify my mistake. Maybe a hotel was the sensible option after all? Late night music radio is my current companion. “Perfect day” comes on. “You're gonna reap just what you sow.”

I smile. I know now I’m going to make it home.

A Political Child

2008-12-25T09:53:00.000-08:00

One winter, the lights went out. Not just our lights but all the lights. Even the street lights no longer shone orange through the window. My mother, who used to live without electricity when she was little, had an oil lamp. While all the other windows of all the other houses showed a few flickering candles, our living-room window glowed with a warm, rich cream light. Above, in the cold sky, the stars were so bright, so beautiful. Inside, the newly-fitted oil fire kept our house warm. When the power was on, there were always a lot of men on the television news. They had placards and would be shouting, shoving and being shoved by policemen in their high, domed helmets. A white-haired man, Mr Heath, was often on the television making speeches. The news would speak about strikes and miners. There was another man, Mr. Wilson, who would also be on the news, telling the public (whoever they were – I didn’t understand that word) why Mr. Heath was wrong. I didn’t like Mr. Wilson. He didn't look like a good man , with his funny-looking nose, his pipe and the long mac he always wore. Mr Heath looked nice, smiling broadly and laughing when the news wasn’t bad. Besides, he was supposed to be a friend of Mr. Chadd, the man who owned the department store where Mum shopped and that was good. Mum and Dad always voted for Mr. Heath’s friend, Mr. Prior. He was another man with white hair and a kind face. At voting times he used to wear a big blue, round kind of badge.

Usually there were just the three of us but, sometimes, Dad would come home. He would bring presents. Dad always wrote to Mum and my big brother when he was away at sea but I was too little to get my own. But Mum would read her letters to me and I would collect the stamps. I had loads from Japan, Hong Kong, Brazil, places in Africa, even Vietnam and China. Anyway, Dad would be at home for a few months then back to sea. At least for a year, maybe more. I always cried when we saw Dad off on the train.

When Dad was at home, he used to do many nice things with us. Play in the garden, take us to places. It was real fun. We sometimes used to play cricket in the back garden but, when I was very little, I used to get scared by the big helicopter that would thunder over the house. It was blue and gray and black. It was carrying men out to sea. I asked Dad if he ever went by helicopter but he said no, he didn’t.

Dad had a friend, Mr. Mitchell. Sometimes at night Mr. Mitchell would come around and drink Dad’s whisky and talk. Mr. Mitchell didn’t look nice and Mrs Mitchell seemed to be a very old lady, much older than Mum, Dad or even Mr. Mitchell. One night, there was something else on the news. Soldiers with long guns. There were crowds, people being carried and a man waving a white handkerchief. They said people had been shot. The words “Bloody Sunday” started to be used. Mr. Mitchell didn’t come around. The neighbours stopped speaking and while Dad was away, Mum bought a little black dog and called him Rex. Rex was very fierce to strangers and wouldn’t let anybody except us in the house unless Mum told him to be good and held his collar. When Dad came home again, he told my brother and me to say we were English, because Irishmen were planting bombs in pubs and killing people.

So, we grew up English, except for Mum who was always Irish. She couldn’t help it. Rex grew up to be very big and fast and a Doberman pinscher. The neighbours didn’t like him but they also stopped coming around in the night and rattling the door handles and stuff like that, so we all liked Rex. On the news there was a war and the good guys wore a blue star with six points. My Mum bought me a toy aeroplane with the blue star on its wide wings. I took it to school and showed my teacher because it was the Star of David, the same David in the Bible, from which we would hear stories from every morning for the first lesson of the day. Miss Denny didn’t like the ‘plane though. I didn’t understand why.

One day there was a picture of a dog on the front of a newspaper. The dog, a beagle, was stood in some kind of frame and it was forced to smoke cigarettes. Loads of them, every day. The newspaper was called The Sun and had a red top to its front page. The pictures were all in black-and-white though. With this poor dog standing there. The Sun was asking its readers to gather signatures and send them in. This would help stop the beagles being forced to smoke. I asked my teachers, Miss Denny and Mrs Wendon whether I could collect signatures at school. They said yes and signed the top of the paper. I asked everybody at school to sign. Most people did but some didn’t. After that I joined the World Wildlife Fund. All their letters had a panda on the front of them.

There always seemed to be lots of wars on the news. Israel against the Arabs. Americans fighting Communists in Vietnam. Soldiers being killed in Ireland. And the Russian threatening to invade Germany. Dad used to sometimes tell us about the bombing he had seen when he was in Vietnam, or the bodies that floated down the river into the harbour when the ship was in Nigeria. War was normal and interesting. The television was always full of war stories. Some were obviously just films – Americans shooting Germans, but others were true. Sometimes I would get to stay up late and see the World At War. I felt sorry for the Germans. They fought the Russians bravely and nearly won. Weren’t the Russians our enemies now and the West Germans our friends? Why did Britain fight the Germans in the Battle of Britain? Why did the Germans bomb us? There was a German lady who lived very close to us and she was always very nice, Annie and her Scottish husband Gordon who was also nice but I couldn’t understand. Also I didn’t understand why the Germans did that to the Jewish people. Weren’t the Jews in Israel our friends, a small country fighting all the Arabs by themselves? It was all very strange and very exciting.Mr. Heath was on the television again. Britain was to join The Common Market. Mr. Wilson said it was a bad idea. So did another man call Enoch Powell. Mr Powell seems very serious and could talk very well but he seems to be liked by a lot of people who called black people “niggers”. I asked Dad about black people. He said that he had met a lot in Africa and that people were people the same all over. It didn’t matter about the colour of their skin. Then he said that South Africa was a nice place because of what the white people there had done. The country had improved, got richer and that made it better for all the people there. Then the lights went out again. Mr. Heath asked people to vote for him but it seems they voted for Mr. Wilson instead. But Mr Prior stayed as our M.P. and Mum was pleased about that. She had a long chat with him outside our front garden. Mr Prior was supposed to be visiting a neighbour’s house, Mrs Stuckey, for a coffee morning. He seemed to prefer to talk to Mum though and Mrs Stuckey had to come outside to look for him. Mum called Mr. Prior “Jim” after that.

Mr.Wilson didn’t like the Common Market so he asked everybody to have another vote about it. Another neighbour, Jon-Jon’s dad, stuck up a poster in his window supporting the Common Market. This poster was a bit odd, for it was neither red nor blue. It said “The Liberal Party”. Their leader was Jeremy Thorpe, a thin man with long black hair and a very high forehead. A few years later, I saw his picture on the front of a magazine called Private Eye. They were making fun of him. Mr. Thorpe was in court accused of trying to murder another man. They said this other man was his lover. They got that wrong didn’t they? How can two men be in love?

Mr. Wilson retired and there was a leadership race. In the Daily Express they had a cut-out game. There was a little cartoon of each of the people in the race. I liked the look of Mr. Benn but my brother told me he was a lefty and probably a communist. Another Jim, Jim Callaghan became Prime Minister instead. Mr. Heath had gone too; to be replaced by a blonde lady called Mrs. Thatcher. Mr Heath didn’t like Mrs. Thatcher after that so I too had my doubts.

Mr Callaghan and his friend Dennis Healey, Chancellor of the Exchequer, were in charge of the country. When parliament first came on the radio I used to listen, enthralled and appalled. What a noise! I couldn’t believe it! “Hear hears!” from the supporters; the braying of their opponents. The shouting, “Order! Order” from the Speaker. Incredible! How can a country be run like that? And it was clear, even to me that things were not going well for the government. During the Budget speech, Dennis Healey sounded like a man under siege, being attacked from all flanks. Why did Britain have to go to a foreign bank for money? Then the strikes returned. The news reported rubbish left on the streets, the dead left unburied, and still the soldiers in Ireland getting killed. The Conservatives led by Mrs Thatcher promised to sort it all out and leave people more of their own money in their own pockets. Dad said the unions were out of control and that tax was far too high. So come 1979, out went Mr Callaghan and in came Mrs Thatcher.

Mr. Heath was right about her. Things didn’t get better, they got worse. Unemployment went sky-high. Four million? The Specials had a song “Ghost Town.” “This place ..aaahaaa.. comin’ like a ghost town.” Sung in rich dark accents. There was inner-city riots in Liverpool and Brixton. Things were bad for the country and bad for Thatcher. It looked like Labour was going to get back in. But Michael Foot as Prime Minister? The old man who wore the donkey jacket to the Cenotaph? Oh well… and then the Argentineans invaded the Falklands. The country felt good again when victory had been won. The Archbishop of Canterbury was even criticised for remembering the Argentinean war dead during the service of thanksgiving and remembrance. My brother, now in the military, firmly kept his arms by his sides when volunteers were asked for, so we didn’t even have to worry about the campaign.

I left school and went to work part-time in a supermarket. I also went to the local college part time. I didn’t have any friends at the shop. But the college was better. I liked studying history: I had a great deal of unlearning to do. My new friends there seemed to like me but didn’t care for my politics at all, especially the views on South Africa. They said I was right-wing. I was, but I wasn’t proud of it. If you weren’t a socialist, what else could you be? I voted Tory in my first election in 1983 but I didn’t feel happy about it. What other choice was there though?

Things got interesting with the splitting of Labour into the SDP. Thatcher’s treatment of normal people had appalled me. She obviously didn’t care about anybody. The miners’ strike finished any loyalty I had for the Conservatives. I could understand the reasons for wishing to avoid the fate of the Heath government, but to bring such hardship and violence to ordinary British people? One-nation Tories like Jim Prior and Edward Heath would never have done that. Maybe it was about this time I started to think for myself. I still thought the anti-nuclear protesters at Greenham Common were a bunch of nutters though.

During the next election I voted SDP. One night, maybe 1990, there was a knock on the door. It was a canvasser from the Liberal Democrats. I invited him in and joined the party.It was my trip to Russia though in 1992 that really opened my eyes. God! These were the people that we had been told were the enemy? These were the people whom our government were willing to annihilate with nuclear weapons? We were told that the men all looked like Brezhnev and the women were shot-putters? That there lives were worthless? Such lies! The extent of Cold War propaganda lay open before me. 1992 saw my parents move back to Ireland. There too I had a lot to unlearn.

* * *

So when I’m asked the question “Why are you involved in politics?” the short answer is “because I cannot stop caring.” The long answer is that I have never been out of it.

December Skies

2008-12-17T03:19:00.000-08:00

Some complain of darkness
But I love the tie-dyed dawn
Of December days,
Orange pinks and blues
Blend into to satin greys.

Midday’s steel skies
Are oppressive to my friends,
To my hardened eyes
The twilight of noon
Is as welcome
As soft kisses.

Dusk comes soon,
The brush-strokes
Of pink sweep the clouds
The mackerel skies return:
Metallic greens fading
To violets and
Indigo blues.

Oh how can one not love
Winter’s north?
The light of day
Made more precious
By it’s lack.
Open your heart
And let the beauty
Of December’s skies
Purge the darkness,
Turn your eyes
Upwards
And see.

2008-12-08T14:32:00.000-08:00

At the time
I didn't mourn John.
It was the shock of a Beatle being killed.
At the time I didn't share John's views.
He wouldn't of liked me:
One of those crew-cut SOBs
That he so despised.

Now I am older
In the passing of the years
I have changed.
As I look back through recent history
I have come to realise
Who John was.

He was a man
From the outside who had worked
And gained everything
He thought he wanted:
Money, fame,
Women and acceptance.
He then realised
That most of it
Didn't matter.

It was shallow
And hypocritical.
John decided to live
Life on his own terms.
Speak with his own voice.
A hard voice for peace.
He meant it:
It wasn't lip service
To gain more wealth.

From an early age
John knew himself
To be a genius.
He decided to use it
To speak the truth.

He was in the position
To see society
From all angles:
From bottom to top.
He had the experience,
The intelligence
The passion
To use his voice
On behalf of humanity.
That is why I now
Mourn John

For years
I didn't miss him.
I miss him now.

Democracy Russian Style

2008-01-04T06:02:00.000-08:00

Over Christmas we dined with several Russian friends. After one such dinner the talk turned to politics (for a change it wasn’t me who raised the subject). Our hosts are Putin supporters and the reason is that Putin delivers a better standard of living. Fair enough I suppose but what I didn’t expect was to have to defend the liberal democracy. The question was asked “surely you still don’t believe in voting?” As if I had just confessed to lingering doubts about the non-existence of Father Christmas.

In light of recent events in Pakistan and Kenya, who can blame them? Democracy as understood by the vast majority of the world is for the few. The recent thirty eight page dossier produced by the Pakistan People’s Party (formerly led by the recently assassinated Benazir Bhutto) apparently gives details the ruling party’s subversion of the democratic process. (I have tried to find a copy of this document, it would make interesting reading). It seems that Mwai Kibaki in Kenya has been less sophisticated, relying on simply delaying the count while using the time to stuff the ballot boxes. Putin on the other hand has been the most successful. He has been allowed to do this because he has genuinely sort to be popular. And in the main that popularity has been achieved by returning order to Russian society.

After the fall of the Soviet Union the rule of law broke down in every level of society: the democracy that was brought in with Yeltsin was in fact the rule of robber barons. As long as the President’s family was in on the deal, gangster-capitalism ruled. I could go to the endless media examples to illustrate this point but instead I turn closer to home.

A friend of mine in St.Petersberg is an excellent chemist and food technologist. He was the head food technologist in a small business. In the evenings he worked on new technology processing sunflower oil. After two years the new method was perfected and the patent was drawn up. Celebrations all around! Or it would have been if my friend hadn’t received an unexpected visit from two men he did not know.
“We like your patent. Sign it over to us or we will kill you.”

Putin hasn’t put a total stop to this kind of theft but for many, life is a lot more stable since 2000. After the criminal excesses of the Yeltsin years, that is good enough. Also Putin has restored pride to the country; going from 80’s superpower to 90’s beggar was a bitter pill for most but in recently the trend is being turned around. High oil prices and flexing of military muscle means that the feel good factor is back for the average Russian.

There is always a price though and in Russia’s case it is freedom of speech. Journalists (except in the tiny English language press) have returned to Soviet-style self-censorship, encouraged to do so by state persecution and even murder of colleagues. Oligarchs who have refused to bend the knee to Putin have either been imprisoned or fled into exile. They are not mourned by most Russians as the fortunes of the oligarchs were created during the corruption of the Yeltsin years. These times also saw Russia making many deals with western companies which with hindsight were seen as bad deals. Hence Russian moves to repossess assets such as Shell’s fields off Sakhalin Island and similar moves against BP in Siberia. It is this pressure against foreign corporations (especially British) that has led to degradation of Anglo-Russian relations, perhaps even more that the Litvinenko poisoning. I digress but all this conflict with foreign companies plays well at home for Putin.

Now we must look forward to the Presidential elections in March. I’ll leave the last word for now to the father of another of one of my Russian-born friends. When asked by his daughter who he intends to vote for, his reply was thus:

“I don’t know. Putin hasn’t told us yet.”

Winter

2007-12-09T08:03:00.000-08:00

Shunner of sunlight
Long darkness
Is thy pleasure,
Smoking clouds
Thy cloak;
Thy breath
Wet, cold and heavy.

Winter's gift
Is sleep and death
You winnow out
The frail,
The sick
And the hungry:
Cold hearted
Is thy rule.

Force 10

2007-11-24T23:26:00.000-08:00

Low sound rumbling
No engine
But machine like
Under the groaning
Gale

Storm verses steel
Pitch black sea
Against trembling rig
With violence is violence
Repaid.

Sand Hoppers

2007-10-30T06:03:00.000-07:00

Last night I ran
Out into the countryside
Along a brown-grey road
That glowed underfoot.

Behind me a gibbous Moon
Shone from behind
Scad-flanked clouds.
Flooding the fields
With sharp shadow.

My mind was taken back
To youthful days
Fishing on night beaches
Carved from moonlight.
Sand hoppers would gather
Around the oil lamp
Ignoring the Moon above.

I wish I could have ran
All night
On
Upwards
To distant mountains.

I could not.
The town reeled me back
To its glow
And like the sand hoppers
I chose the light
That hides the night
From us all.

Reading History

2007-10-04T00:22:00.000-07:00

As I read the history
Of the last century
I am aware
That the pages
Are no longer
Made from paper
But are of white
Bone.

Ink
Black at first
Turns brown
Dried as rust
Words written
In the blood
Of those killed.

The dead cry out
To us
Not to write
Our history
In burnt flesh
And broken faces.

Tananger Habour

2007-09-26T04:19:00.000-07:00

The old men sit
Chatting in the autumn
Sun, discussing life
And times as old men
have always done.

The boats of Tananger
Habour are too at rest,
For beyond the walls the
Sea is green, angry and
Spittle-topped.

Just as their ancestors
Must have waited,
Both man and craft
Now wait for fairer
Seas and kinder breezes.

All hope for another day.

Hail Autumn!

2007-09-26T04:16:00.000-07:00

Hail red-haired Autumn!
You have cast off
The clammy blankets of
Summer from us and
Now the blue of your eyes
Look kindly down from
On high.

Your womb is full
Bursting ripe as plums
Your breath is cool
Carrying the scent
Of roses.

Just as rose petals
Must fall, you too shall
Turn to the earth;
But not yet. Do not go.
Stay and let us below
Enjoy your company for
A while.

Summer is sick

2007-09-26T04:13:00.000-07:00

Summer stayed in her
Bed this year.
She is sick
And will not rise.
Her dirty blue-grey sheets
Lay over our heads
Her cold-fevered sweat
Flooded our homes
And Summer’s pestilent breath
Leave blisters on the
Tongues of our cattle.
Summer is sick but
The gulls’ new Pirot faces
Show that her time with us
Is soon to be over.
This year few will
Mourn her passing.

A Poem for Children - There's a Bear in my Hair

2007-09-26T04:05:00.000-07:00

There’s a bear in my hair
He’s got tangled there
It’s not fair
I don’t know what to do.
How did he get there?
I don’t know
But I think he sniffed out
The honey shampoo.
So now I have
A bear in my hair
And you better take care
In case you get one too.

.

Inspired by my daughter Sophia.