General Stowage

Redbud Day. A spring flourish. The color, after a brutal winter, is a treat for the eye. The Shad is in full-bloom. And the white petals from the Oriental Pear, blown off by high winds, look like snow. The drive to town was a very slow affair, with many stops. Early enough to town to grocery shop and there's a weird dude ahead of me in the check-out line. My guess is Tardive Dyskinesia, a twitching, especially of facial muscles, usually a late side-effect of prolonged treatment with anti-psychotic drugs. Maybe it's Targive. I read about it somewhere. Two red lights, one over the other, on a boat at night, is the signal for Not-Under-Control, which usually means the boat is single-handed and the skipper is below decks, probably sleeping. Statistics is not my cup of tea, but I was reading an interesting book recently "Statistics of a Stationary Random Process" (I was intrigued by the title) which is essentially a study of wave dynamics. A section considers Cape Horn, which is unusual in several ways. At the very bottom the Horn is at 56 degrees south, wind is deflected there by the Andes, we're talking the roaring forties AND the furious fifties, Force 9 gales one day in four in the spring. Really bad weather. And the current is swept through a sort of funnel between the South Shetlands and the body of South America, the water moving at 10 mph or more, and when the wind and water are moving in different directions, the chop is infamous. Statistically, in a 40 foot sea, one wave in a hundred thousand might be 120 feet. You might be able to just ride over that, in a small boat, a rubber raft might be best. My Dad tells a story, he was a Navy nurse in WWII, on a North Atlantic convoy. The North Atlantic is no light-weight when it comes to waves. He was on a hospital ship destined to moor permanently in the Thames. It was a really rough afternoon, the waves were huge, but a hospital ship is a barge, it doesn't ride waves, it just plows through them, and after mess, a bunch of them were gathered on deck, wondering if they were going to die. The sheep-dog in these convoys was the Destroyer Escort, a small ship, that steamed circles around their perimeter, looking for German submarines. The interval between the waves was such that one of these escorts was caught completely suspended, broke in the middle, and sank within seconds. All lives lost. Pegi and Tammy were working all day at coming up with a concept for the "Cream Of The Crop" opening. I didn't say anything, I had some business to attend, nothing really important, but I was busy enough that I couldn't focus my attention. Hours later I thought of something that might be funny, not as an actual idea, but as a kind of interlude in the process. Pegi was off the phone and I'd come upstairs for something, I caught her eye and said just "Homecoming" by which I meant it was a local show; and went on that we could have cheerleaders and maybe I could have some input on the costumes. Some of those Circus girls are really cute. Sex sells everything. Even a staid museum is sold on sex. Consider the miniature flowers of the median. I seem to be making a point, but I don't want to be held to that, mostly I just think about things. Spend a lot of time in the dark. Too much time in the fog, I never know exactly where I am. Everyone lies. Everyone. The world you assume. I tend to duck, and cover my face. I'm wanted in several states. Fuck a bunch of carrots.