My son Sean Michael is a fan of Clifford the Big Red Dog. He enjoys both the classic book and the TV show it inspired. I liked the book the first hundred times or so, but now that I have it memorized I tend to take some creative license. Thus it’s now Clifford the Big Ass Dog on occasion. I also note that, as depicted, Clifford is massive, probably 25 feet tall and 40 feet long. “He’s the Trojan Horse of dogs, Sean Michael, a veritable dinosaur!” I’ll say. “And a dog that large would take epic poops, probably the size of Hummers. Can you imagine what the neighbors would say when Clifford dropped a steaming, putrid Hummer on their front lawn? We’re talking lawsuits, Sean Michael.” My wife Jules heard me ad-libbing recently and reprimanded me from the top of the stairs, noting that Sean Michael could get into trouble at show-and-tell in a few years if he recounts my version. Gotta admit she has a point.

I’ve read that Leonardo DiCaprio might play Travis McGee in a film of the same title directed by Oliver Stone, based on John D. MacDonald’s The Deep Blue Goodbye. While Stone is a good choice as director, I can’t see Leo playing the most iconic character in mystery fiction. Don’t get me wrong — I think he’s an excellent actor. But McGee? Please, no. He’s too short, not athletic enough, doesn’t look anything like the descriptions of McGee and lacks the charismatic presence necessary to carry the role. Tom Selleck was the best McGee — I can’t decide if his Magnum P.I. character was a ripoff of the MacDonald creation or if he was paying homage. Anyway, if the film gets made, I hope Stone casts an actor more suited to the role…The prolific MacDonald wrote 21 Travis McGee mysteries (and something like 70 novels in all); the first I read was Free Fall in Crimson, which I just re-read. And I remain impressed. MacDonald’s dialogue, settings, characterizations and plot are all first rate, and if you get all that right, you have a helluva fine novel. I found the McGee novels addictive and read all 21 books. Ironically, I thought The Green Ripper, which won the National Book Award, was one of the weakest books in the series; maybe it was a career award, which MacDonald certainly deserved…He was an environmentalist before anyone knew what that was, and wrote so many brilliant passages and insightful lines he belongs in the same league as Mark Twain…Meyer’s monologue on senseless violence in The Dreadful Lemon Sky should be read by every teen in America, and the opening line of Darker than Amber should be studied by every writer looking to compose compelling hooks: “We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody dropped the girl off the bridge.”

My son Sean Michael is a joy — most of the time. Lately he’s been giving himself a clap of encouragement each time he tries to hoist himself onto the couch, and another for good measure when he doesn’t quite make it. He’s also standing with his hands clasped behind his back, like a little scholar, when deciding what to do next. And he loves books. I never thought I’d say he loves books too much, but to be honest, after he brings me the 10th book in an hour, I sometimes wish he’d entertain himself in another manner. I think he senses this, and that’s his cue to become what my wife Jules aptly calls the “devil in a diaper.” She coined the phrase after Sean Michael ran from her as she was trying to put his pajamas on. He ran to a standing lamp and started shaking it back and forth, nearly toppling it, and she said, “You little devil in a diaper!” In such moods he’ll also pull our hair, bite our arms, run into the litter box, try to hurl himself off the sofa and throw his sippy cup across the room while laughing madly. Whatever he’s doing, I feel very lucky to be his father, even if I’m regularly mistaken for his grandfather. Such is life.

This is a blog from my brother, Mike, who is currently sailing the Caribbean.

4/23/10 Depart Bahia Del Sol, El Salvador
5/12/10 Arrive Colon, Panama
Distance: 1020 Miles
Weed Man
My brother John, a published author and English teacher, is my “go-to” guy when I need to buy a new stack of excellent literature. After hearing that I was suffering through Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” he gave me a list of books that would be a bit lighter and certainly more enjoyable. One of the books was about a Bahamian kid who discovers a bale of weed while jogging on the beach. I found the subsequent adventure with its colorful Bahamian characters to be highly entertaining. While waiting in the endless customs/immigration line in El Salvador, I had the thought to take out my book. As I was reading, I started having this uneasy feeling that I was garnering the attention of people around me. In fact, it seemed like people in line were moving away from me. Hmmm? How odd.

As I kept reading, I couldn’t quite shake the uneasy feeling that something was out of place. As beads of sweat began to stream down my face, it occurred to me that I was reading a book titled, “Weed Man” while surrounded by well-armed and humorless, El Salvadorian border patrol officials and their pet German Shepherds. With a deep gulp, I closed my neon green book with pictures of leaves on the cover and placed it gently back into my bag. After a five minute eternity, I cleared the check point without any questions about my unfortunate choice of literature.

Rainy Season???
After being away from Shannon for three weeks, it was a pleasure to be back on board with my crew: Ron, Greg and Sarah. We departed El Salvador for Costa Rica under partly cloudy skies. Our fellow cruisers warned us that “Rainy Season” had come early and we may encounter a little weather. The “Rainy Season” sounds so benign that it would lead one to believe that an afternoon shower might be possible from time to time…wrong! The first night out was uneventful, but ominous just the same. With every mile south, the humidity seemed to be building. Something had to break.

The following two nights were nothing short of terrifying. As captain, I drew on my logic to explain to the crew that boats are rarely hit by lightning and that it’s almost unheard of that anyone has ever been injured as a result. Unfortunately, as I was explaining this fact, the highly charged sky behind me was betraying my words with constant flashes and crackling sounds.

At first, we tried to evade the huge black blobs that appeared on the radar, but to no avail. These squalls move at upwards of 50 mph while we putt along at 6 mph. By our second night of lightning, my crew had become somewhat hardened and we began to notice a pattern: stifling humidity and thunderhead plumes build during day, electricity in the air by dusk, followed by almost constant lightning, a torrential downpour, and finally, peace a few hours before daybreak.

It was on the night before we made landfall in Costa Rica that I will never forget. Around 3AM, Greg and I were on watch and feeling optimistic that we had made it through the worst of the lightning while enjoying the cool rain when we were momentarily blinded by a strike half a mile off our starboard beam. What I will remember most is the ear-shattering sizzle, “kkkkkkkkkkkkrrrrrraaaacccckkkkkBOOOOM!” Afterwards, we sat in silence for a time – there’s just not that much to say. As we sat there in the darkness with buckets of water falling on our heads, it occurred to me that what was terror the first night was now familiar and awesome. I’m still trying to understand why I felt like laughing in that moment. Was it the ions in the atmosphere? The fact that I was still alive? The self-evident fact that I am an inconsequential speck relative to the creation? The fact that I was sitting comfortably in a torrential downpour sixty miles from shore? All of the above? I don’t know. I just know I felt happy and grateful.

After an endless night of lightning, the hearty crew (Ron, Sarah, and Greg) celebrate daybreak over coffee!

After three days at sea, we arrived in a Jaco, Costa Rica at Los Suenos, a five star resort and marina. Going from the third world poverty of El Salvador to a place that has all the trappings of American wealth 2500 miles from San Diego was truly a shock to us all. Of course, it didn’t take long for us to make the adjustment and take advantage of all the amenities – what a treat!

So I must admit that I did not vote for Barack Obama. I intended to, and my wife and I drove to downtown Vancouver, where we live, but she was over eight months pregnant, was not feeling good, and when we saw the long lines at the polls, we decided against it. Her water broke prematurely, and our son, Sean Michael, was born on Nov. 10, 2008. I was very pleased when Obama won, and I’ve admired the way he’s conducted himself as President. He inherited a mess, he knew it, and he’s never backed away from the challenge. I could get into policy, and his health care triumph, but I think I’m most impressed by the President’s subtle gestures — giving his Nobel Peace Prize money to charity, not reacting angrily to blatantly racist attacks, appointing a bitter political rival (Hillary Clinton) to one of the highest offices in the land…The man has class. He reminds me of JFK in that sense. Kennedy has received much criticism over the years, and like Bill Clinton his personal affairs have somewhat overshadowed his accomplishments, but really, I think he was one of our greatest presidents. In a mere three years, he managed to solve arguably the greatest threat to the U.S. security with his handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis, initiated the space program and took a stand for civil rights that was brave, beautiful and lasting…I remember reading about a White House dinner at which Kennedy invited Nobel Prize recipients, and when he gave a speech at the occasion he said the room contained the greatest collection of talent ever assembled there — with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone. That’s class. Obama has it. And he has a helluva lefty jumper to boot. I hope he succeeds brilliantly.

I entered one of my unpublished novels in the Amazon.com “Breakthrough Novel Awards,” and out of several thousand entries, “Death In The Wild” has made the top 50. Very cool, and Publisher’s Weekly gave me a nice review:
When Baird, the resourceful hero of this solid adventure tale, is dumped by his girlfriend, he seeks refuge in his passion, mountain-climbing. He decides to summit a few peaks in the Arrigetch range in Alaska with his old ski-patrol boss, then take a solo backpacking trip through the mountain range to clear his head. The climbing goes well and seems to be just what Baird needs, but when his boss departs, things swiftly deteriorate as Baird runs afoul of a group of juvenile delinquents who’d been on a wilderness retreat and have just killed their instructors. To get out of the mountains alive and save the younger and more innocent kids, Baird must outwit the psychopathic Spooner and Alex and put all of his wilderness survival skills to the test. Baird’s voice is a very engaging one, and the author does an excellent job of creating real and subtle characters and conveying a wealth of technical knowledge in a natural way. The book is fast-paced and satisfying, and the dialogue and protagonist are very believable.–PW

We just met a key deadline in my yearbook class. Failing to meet that deadline would have been a big deal — graduating seniors would not have received their yearbooks before they walked. I became concerned a couple of weeks ago, when I asked if we’d make the deadline and received an unnerving “I hope so” instead of the “absolutely!” I craved. But the editors came through in the clutch, putting in long hours during the school day and remaining in the class until after midnight recently to get the job done — and done with panache. I walked in the following morning to see junk food wrappers around the computers and a note on the board announcing their triumph…That’s real life stuff, meeting deadlines, and it feels terrific when you do so…I miss deadlines myself. As a newspaper reporter, I had a deadline just about every day, and I came to enjoy the pressure. Some people respond well to such pressure, some do not. I remember, in my early days, an editor standing over another reporter and yelling, “I need the story now! I need it right #$%&@ now!” as the rookie frantically typed — and then threw up his hands, started crying and quit the business. I’ve also seen the flipside of that scene, an editor yelling and a reporter yelling right back, saying she’d be done in a minute, and being true to her word. Nobody held grudges over such sniping; it went with the territory of deadlines — those terrible, glorious, crisis-filled crucibles.

(Note: My brother Mike has sailed south from San Diego, and plans to head through the Panama canal and across the Gulf of Mexico on legs to come. This is his most recent blog)

Greetings from Bahia Del Sol, El Salvador! After six weeks in the great white north, it’s been quite a shock to be back in 95 degrees with high humidity. I’m happy to say that Shannon and her crew are well and resting at a marina one mile up a river that’s surrounded by dense jungle.

Good-byes are hard…so just bring ‘em with ya!
We started this leg of the voyage from Ixtapa/Zihuatenejo on March 19th with four great crew: Sarah, Adam, Reuben and Ron. Several of the crew spent six weeks here and made lots of friends while exploring the area. I could tell they were a bit torn saying good-bye to their friends. To ease the pain, I told them we could take a few of them with us for an overnight cruise to Acapulco. Well, one friend became two and before we knew it we had five castaways: Daniela, Mason, Checko, Matt and Laura. We had a beautiful run down to Acapulco under clear skies. One of the more memorable moments was the impromptu concert that Checko, a professional guitarist, and Reuben provided for the crew. While scudding along with dusk settling upon the ocean, Checko serenaded the crew with Mexican and Cuban songs while Reuben accompanied on mandolin – not bad!

MTV Spring Break Acapulco Mutiny
As we made our way toward Acapulco, one of the young crew mentioned that the MTV Spring Break was taking place in Acapulco. As a result, the primping began twenty miles out and by the time we entered the Acapulco harbor at 2:30am, I had a mutiny on my hands. Seven of my ten crew were ready to swim ashore to join the party. Fortunately, I found a marina with a sympathetic security guard who allowed us to do a “touch and go” to allow the revelers a chance to jump onto a dock without getting wet. As for me and the remaining crew, we went and found a mooring ball for the night. As we tied off in perfectly flat water (great sleeping conditions), it occurred to me that I was looking forward to a solid night’s sleep about as much as my young crew was looking forward to their party ashore – funny how things change with age! About mid-morning the next day, my bedraggled beach bashers made their way back to Shannon by water taxi. We bid adieu to Acapulco and waved to our five wonderful castaways on shore and by noon we were off to our date with destiny – the dreaded Tehuantepec Bay.

An Old Salt
A few years ago I met an old timer, Harold, who told me how he sold everything and sailed around the world for ten years starting at age 60. I sat mesmerized by his tales of storms, interesting characters and exotic ports. Over the years, I’ve noticed that there are two types of cruisers: those who do (Salts) and those who tinker in the marina, read all the books, and can quote verbatim the USCG rules of the road (Marina Sailors). The Marina Sailors can compare and contrast storm strategies, hull to deck joint methods, and displacement ratios like a crazed professor. On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the Salts have all of that expertise plus a quality that is quite ineffable. It’s a look in their eye and tone in their voice that reveals that they have indeed faced their greatest fears and inner demons and lived to tell about it.

At the time that I knew Harold, I would have categorized myself as a Marina Sailor. At one point during our conversation, I asked Harold about his storm strategies. Having just read quite a few books on the subject, I was looking forward to good discussion on the matter. Harold looked me in the eye and said, “Do you want to know the difference between a fairy tale and sea story?” I nodded and he continued, “A fairy tale starts off with, ‘Once upon a time’ and a sea story starts with, “This is no bullshit.” He gave a snort as he laughed heartily.

Not willing to let it go, I asked him once again how he handled rough weather. He snapped, “To hell with the storms, I’d just put up the trisail, pour myself a double scotch, put the young crew behind the wheel and retire to my cabin. If I awoke, I figured we made it through.” I mentioned that I had just read of that strategy in one of my books. Harold paused for a second and let out another loud snort that shook his frail frame

Sea Story #1
Let me preface this by saying, this is no bs: Late in the day as we were roughly half way between Acapulco to Huatulco, we passed what looked like an oil slick about 80 yards off our port beam. Having seen quite a few whales in my time, I’ve noticed that when they are just below the surface, the water takes on an oily appearance. I mentioned to the crew that they might want to keep an eye on that spot. Within seconds out of the corner of my eye I saw a huge splash and heard the crew squeal in amazement.

A very large humpback whale had just breached – something I’ve never seen before. As we continued to move away from the spot where the whale breached, we noticed that it was actually two whales, a mother and calve. Within seconds, the mother breached again and then again, but this time a bit closer to us. Hmmm?? By the time she breached for a third time she had reduced the distance down to 50 yards – she was clearly agitated and trying to chase us away from her offspring.

My first thought was to push the boat full throttle to get away from this 40 ton sea monster that seemed bent on doing me and my crew harm. My second thought was denial, “This just can’t happen, whales are docile creatures.” My third thought was irrational righteous indignation, “Hey, I contribute to Greenpeace and National Geographic. I even recycle, what gives ya stupid fish?”

In the end, it made for a lot of discussion that evening and will go down as one of the most awesome displays of beauty and power that I have ever seen in nature. Lastly, note to self: don’t mess with mommas.

Sea Story #2
You know that dream where you wake up in a cold sweat because you’ve had a nightmare that a snake, rodent or some other slimy creepy crawler has gotten into your bed or sleeping bag? It’s worse in real life. I have the forward cabin on Shannon. It’s a wonderful birth at anchor or in a marina. However, underway, the cabin goes up and down with the swell more so than the rest of the boat. This cabin also has forward opening hatches which means waves and spray will make it in if the hatches are open. In 90 plus degrees, I don’t mind the occasional soaking, so I leave the hatches open. After all, what could go wrong?

On this particular night, after many nights of minimal sleep, I was finally dozing soundly. Around 2am I felt a few drops of spray make it through the hatch onto my shoulder. I thought nothing of it and dozed off again. A few minutes later the droplets on my shoulder felt like they were moving so I reached over to feel what was going on and touched something very slimy that was indeed moving – aagghh! Springing out of bed, I flicked on the light and, to my astonishment, a squid about three inches in length was staring back at me and still alive!

I immediately grabbed my slimy guest and dashed through the cabin to toss him out the hatchway. The next morning we found six more squid on the deck. We weren’t taking waves over the bow, so I have no idea how they could have landed that far up on the deck. We theorized that they were either attracted to our steaming lights or were be chased by something. After recounting my horror of finding one in my bed. My crew took this as an opportunity to share their horror of seeing me run through the cabin in my tighty whities at 2am murmuring something about a damn fish in my bed. I don’t get a break!

My father was an unhappy man. He died a few years ago, and while he found some peace his last years, he was definitely not happy. He thought he was a failure, felt disappointed by life and was looking forward – far too much, in my opinion – to the heaven that his faith assured him would be a better place than this “devil’s playground.”
I think many people end up like my father, trapped miserably in their life situations. Sometimes I’ve felt like that myself. But with my 50th birthday approaching, I don’t want to waste any time in misery.
Although I don’t think there is a formula for happiness, I’m convinced that it has far less to do with life circumstances than the way we handle those circumstances. And the best way to handle them, from what I’ve seen, is to slow down and count your blessings.
I’ve handled things badly and made mistakes when I reacted out of conditioning, responding automatically rather than to the reality of the moment. Looking back, I see how much better things would have turned out if I’d said, “Wait a minute! This could be a blessing!”
Yeah, I know: sometimes those blessings are damn well-disguised.
But it’s impossible to tell one way or another if there is a rush to judgment. A hasty decision. An unthinking act.
I referee basketball, and I’ve learned that good officials have what is called a slow whistle. They see a foul or other infraction, and pause a split second – perhaps because a partner has a better angle, perhaps to clarify the nature of the call. They take their time, and get it right.
Yet what happens when we get fouled, metaphorically speaking? I know I was trained to foul back, preferably harder. My worst offense of this nature was twenty years ago, when a fiancée broke off our engagement – and was cruel about it. I wish I’d taken the high road and left the scene with class.
Instead, I wrote her a vengeful letter that I still regret. Maybe she would’ve been more compassionate if she’d slowed down to really consider things. And I would’ve avoided horrible guilt if I’d done the same, and considered the blessings she unwittingly bestowed by freeing me.
Along those same lines, I think about a friend of mine who is in prison for an uncharacteristic, violent act. While many folks are in prison precisely because their violence is characteristic, I wonder how many relatively decent people are behind bars because they did something terrible in a bad moment…Drove home drunk. Hit a spouse. Picked up a weapon.
My efforts to slow down and count my blessings are aided by my son, who is a toddler. There is a tendency for my wife and I to put things on autopilot and rush through our daily schedule. Our son, however, has his own ideas about what we should do next, and his patterns are more relaxed and natural. He helps us consider the purpose of our schedule.
It’s an ongoing process, but I know I don’t rush to judgment the way I did in the past. This was put to the test recently, when a student at the school where I teach approached me with a sheepish expression. He’d hit a home run in a softball game, and his long shot shattered the passenger window of my car. The boy was expecting anger and shouting, and it was wonderful to see his relief when I paused for a second and then gave him a shrug and a smile.
And how was that a blessing? Hmm. Well, his homer could’ve taken out the windshield.
When we take our time, others around us tend to follow suit. Just as panic begets panic, calmness begets calmness. Though I’m not a man of faith in the traditional sense, there is a Biblical quotation I admire: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
I’m vacationing with my family on the Oregon Coast, and a rainbow just appeared over the ocean as I wrote the previous line. Now, was the rainbow created by God, or is God the rainbow? Guess that’s a topic for another blog.
I’ll end this one by noting that age 50 is certainly a fine time to slow down and savor the flavor. In the years to come I may find myself rushing to keep up with my son, but other than that, I plan to take the time to observe the wonders of this beautiful world, and be thankful.

I’m not a fan of Pope Benedict. While I disagreed with Pope John-Paul on most issues, and am no longer a Catholic, the man himself seemed warm, kind and big-hearted. I thought it was an especially amazing example when he forgave the man who shot him and refused to share the details of their conversation…Pope Benedict, on the other hand, is now involved in covering up sexual abuse by priests and ignoring the pleas of victims. Long before this, when he was Cardinal Ratzinger, he attacked Anthony de Mello, a Catholic priest, writer and teacher whose work combines Christian teachings with Eastern and mystical wisdom. Cardinal Ratzinger tried, successfully for a time, to ban de Mello’s works, and the church continues to warn that his books are “anti-Catholic.” I think de Mello was a genius, and he had the courage to stand up to the church he loved and say, “You’re missing the point.” As both a young priest and psychologist, de Mello said he gave people superficial Band-aids for their troubles, but he later found a way, through Awareness, to provide a deeper healing. I strongly recommend his works.