The Forty Thieves

Living vicariously, that's where it's at! Well, it give me ideas to try out one day.

I got an earful about what Bermuda is about and being a professional beach bum. All it takes is a plane ticket, a few months and a couple of grand. We're going to live cheaply, because beach bums won't afford Pompano Beach Club.

Your Room from Pompano, If you can afford it.

After teaching Navy brats in Happy Valley, Labrador on Goose Bay, my buddy decides to kill the summer in Bermuda. A year of living in the miserably cold Canadian climate, it was time for a change. He took $3,000 and hopped in a C-130 (military people get free flights!) cargo hold and touched down at Wade International in Bermuda.

“I had a duffle bag, a miltary ID and a pocket full of cash. I scored a part time teaching job at a high school once some in the gov't found out what I did for a living. Plus getting high all the time and drunk was in the cards. I let my Navy haircut grow to my shoulders and adopted sloth living with a vengeance.”

He bought a Vespa as Bermuda is just 20 miles long, a tent and headed off to St Georges Island to a place called Coots Pond.

“I set up a tent, lived in mostly shorts and tee shirts. I washed up in the sea water. I basically squatted right there on the beach, just down from that old Revolutionary Fort.” Apparently the cops in Bermuda then just didn't care. Island living is a bit different.

Talcum Powder Beach, Emerald waters. Not a bad camping site.

“There's an unwritten policy called Bermuda Time...don't expect to get anything done 'on time.'” The saying in Bermuda then was 'It'll be done...when it's done.' They aren't kidding, they don't move fast for anything! The speed limit on ALL Bermuda roads is 30mph. The main reason is that the roads are all made of crushed coral which gets slicker than ice when wet. Plus, why speed? There's no reason to be in a damn hurry for anything here.”

He tells me this is how his job interview went. “They didn't bother really to ask about my qualifications. I had tons of those being a Commander, teaching across Canada, the US and Heidelberg; what they were most happy about, was the fact that I traveled the world.”

The school's principal told him this: “Would you believe, there are kids here in Hamlinton (the capital) that in their entire 14-18 years of life, have never seen, 20 miles away, St Georges? These kids live on an asteroid and what you bring, what we need, is someone who can tell them about the world.”

B goes on to tell me: “Here's how a class in Medieval Europe went. At 8AM, when my class started, no one was there. By ten minutes past, the kids would trickle in, a few at time, by 8:30 they were all there. There was no point bitching about attendance or being on time, the entire island has this attitude. An hour later, if ran late, no one cared either.”

“There was a dress code that wasn't adhered to as well. Some kids were dressed like British Eton school students, all trim and proper, others were barefoot and in teeshirts. That's the how it goes.”

He tells me he eventually got that laid back island attitude in a couple of weeks. By the end of two months, he had turned into a Bermudian hippy.

“Either you adopt or it'll drive you crazy.” hey says. “You're entire outlook slows down. All that matters is what's going on on the island, as the rest of the world no longer matters. The island becomes the Planet Earth and anything that happens elsewhere, does not exist. We had TV, radio and such, and news came on from primarily the BBC channels, but it was like getting data from the Voyager space probe, out beyond Neptune.”

Being a Commander in the Navy, he had complete access to LF Wade airport, which doubles as a US Air Force base. He tells me he'd go to the officer's club there and carouse with the senior officers, the base XO being an old WW2 bomber pilot who managed to score this duty for years and years.

“One time, I was walking on the base, with my hair in a pony tail, shorts and ripped tee shirt. I had on John Lennon granny glasses and I was just slumming around when this junior officer, a first lieutenant, stops me. He says he wants me arrested and starts calling for the MP's. I then whip out my military ID and remind him that I'm a Commander, which equals your branch's Lieutenant Colonel and that I outranked him by a mile. No use, the guy arrests me.”

“I”m taken to my buddy's office, the XO, former WW2 bomber, and he starts laughing his ass off over my situation. He explains to the First Lieutenant who I am and that I have every right to walk the base and my clearance has 'special attributes.'”

“That's the thing with island living, you have to adopt it, even on military bases. You can't be so uptight as to cause problems because all the civilian contractors and eventually the military men, are infected with a, “Oh...Who give's a fuck?” attitude. My buddy tells me this particular officer was adjusting to Bermuda Time and attitude dreadfully.

I ask him how did he manage to live, on such little money.

He tells me that he made it on $20 a day abouts. He lived on the beach, gasoline for his Vespa was cheap and he refilled it every two weeks. As for food, he told me that it's cheaper than hell if you eat the local grub. Grouper fish stew with biscuits. That's the poor man's fare and it's delicious. Also there was inexpensive shrimp in abundance to the point you got sick of it. But don't order a steak, that'll cost you dearly as they had to ship beef in from the States. Anything by boat was ridiculously high.

“You don't drink imported beer or anything, you drink the local ginger beer and Bermuda Black Rum, which they make there and never export. It's great, black as tar and probably nearly as thick. Once the bars and people begin to trust you, they'll let you in on a secret, there's another liquor they keep under the bar and you have to ask for it like this: “I need a pick-me-up.”

“What's that?” I ask.

“It's a local cassis liquor, made from berries and infused with cocaine. One shot of that and in 90 seconds, you're ready to paint your house. No joke.”

He goes on to tell me about the 40 Thieves. The 40 Thieves were 40 rich families that pretty much owned all the best property in Bermuda, passed it down from generation to generation. They lived on the smaller islands north of Hamlinton and they soaked up most of the tourist dollars there. Though, so much money came through Bermuda, from tourist dollars and the fact Bermuda was an offshore banking jurisdiction (read that as, tax evasion banks) that everyone pretty much enjoyed a high standard of living.

I ask why didn't he stay? Why come home if you're living a tropical ex-patriot life?

“Riding home on my Vespa, I wiped out just before Coots Pond, I was drunker than a monkey. You think road rash is bad? Try road rash on a road made from crushed coral. It takes double the time to heal as some of that coral is fire coral. You have a reaction to it for weeks and weeks. I figured that if I'm crashing my bike due to being drunk, I've gone too far. Time to head back. And I wanted to finish my PhD at Vanderbilt.”

“I don't regret it at all...it was a great time. But becoming an alcoholic wasn't my chosen career path. A few weeks later I land at Logan, down 20lbs with a great tan. The island mentality manged to last another three months in me. Back here in the States, I was regarded as lazy for a while.”

A Man's Gotta Know His Limitations (Cool Hand Luke!)

I fire up the internet and this greeted me. It made me think about how, when young, you think you are nearly invincible. Perhaps this old gal had some hubris or was screwed by the weather. I'm inclined to think it was the weather. Someone who writes about hiking the Cascades probably has a bit of experience in them and knows of the dangers.

I'm no experienced technical climber. In fact, I'm a couple of steps above “climbing the stairs” in difficulty. They use the Yosemite Decimal System to grade climbs. Here is a list and I qualified for position #3 at thirty years old. The only reason I managed this was that I was in decent health when I told them Windy Ridge wasn't fun enough for me, I wanted to go into the crater.

Here's the Classes:

Class 1: Walking with a low chance of injury.

Class 2: Simple scrambling, with the possibility of occasional use of the hands. Little potential danger is encountered.

Class 3: Scrambling with increased exposure. Handholds are necessary. A rope can be carried but is usually not required. Weather changes increase hypothermia risk. Falls are not always fatal. (I like this...not always fatal)

Class 4: Simple climbing, with exposure. A rope is often used. Natural protection can be easily found. Falls may include lifetime crippling injuries or be fatal. Hypothermia now becomes a greater threat.

Class 5: Technical free climbing involving rope, belaying, and other protection hardware for safety. Equipment to protect from weather is mandatory. Handheld or backpack telecomm (no cell phones) is mandatory. Un-roped falls will result in death. Hypothermia will result in death and can happen within hours. Hypoxia can occur and will result in death.

So basically, Class 5 is: “will result in death” if you fuck up in the slightest way.

Mount Rainier is a Class 5. I told you before how I ignorantly thought about climbing Mt Hood. It's another Class 5. It's only 11,000 feet up you know! The officials at the checking station of Timberline Lodge hotel forbid me from even thinking about it.

Here's a cool pic of Timberline with Hood in the back. If it looks familiar, it should. This is where Jack Nicholson's The Shining was shot.

Anyways.

What amazed me on Mt St Helens, in late July, was how fast the weather can change on you. At 5,000 feet, the air is thinner and you'd expect it to be cooler, and it was when I started my hike at Windy Ridge. Late July up that high, it was about 50 degrees and sunny. As I made it into the blast crater, you're increasing in altitude but at a rate that you really don't notice, as the grade is easy enough to manage. The tough part is that your walking on the moon. The gravel, rocks and fine volcanic dust moves under your feet. Two steps forward, three back.

Then I see clouds coming over the top, blotting out the sun. I thought it was just momentary, as it seemed to be moving quick and they're just clouds, right? They're just simple clouds you encounter at sea level.

Within a minute it envelopes me. I was being pelted with horizontal sleet, ice pellets and baby hail stones. The temperature dropped fast and the wind was howling. I kept going, but with the idea that being dressed for downtown Portland summer weather might not have been the best idea.

Five minutes later, the sun comes out, the temperature soars within minutes and the sleet around me is melting fast. This wasn't Diamond Hill in Cumberland. I learned quickly that this is REAL and you had better watch your ass. I guess there was a reason why the Park Service demands that you sign in when you tell them your going into the crater, so they can drag your silly ass out later when you muff it up, all the while mumbling, “fuckin' tourist wannabe” as they carry you down.

That old gal was doing a Class 5 on Rainier...Jesus...what guts. The spooky thing is that just prior to her, six others met their Maker trying to achieve Rainier a week earlier. They turned into Popsicles. As much as I enjoy exploring curious places, I don't want to freeze to death in them, or fall and land on a boulder the size of my own house and go splat.  

South Rim of Mt St Helens. The red X is where I started my little hike, by that lake. 

There Are Children Starving in Korea!

I was a picky eater as a kid, which meant I hated pretty much everything. Vegetables? They reminded me of freshly cut grass. Gristle in beef had to be surgically sliced out before I chewed a piece. Mushrooms grew on dead things and that made them evil in my eyes. Fresh mash potatoes with any lumps in them would make me gag. So dinner time around a table was real fun at nights. Part of it was my natural stubbornness as a child, the other part was the fact my Mom was Irish and could not cook as most Irish can't.

As a kid, I swear your senses are far more attuned than an adults. You can pick up on differences far better than they can.

One night, while we were eating hamburgers, I started to slow down as I was eating mine, something was off but I couldn't place my finger on it just yet. I would nibble smaller and smaller pieces, to avoid whatever toxin it was I ingesting and kept having a nagging memory of this sensation. I swore I have had it before, but what was it? I started to mention it but my Dad, who believed that Might makes Right, shot my concerns down.

“Whadaya talking about? It's GOOD...now eat it!”

All four of us were at the table, Dad, Mom, my brother and I. It then hit me, I figured out what I was tasting. I abruptly get up, march to the refrigerator and open it. I find the crisper and I reach in and yank out a bag of green, fuzzy oranges.

“I KNEW it! I KNEW it! I knew there was something wrong with the burgers! They taste like MOLD!”

I was holding the bag oranges up like an enemy's severed head, victorious in that I was RIGHT.

The oranges had gone bad, real bad, ready to join the enemy lines and they were slightly perfuming all the other foods in the fridge with that mildew scent.

My Mom and Dad, never looked up. My brother, who never believed half of what I said then shot a sneering look to the both of them. I sat down in triumph...and disgust. I was about ten then and when I did sit down, I burned a look at my Dad like a laser. He never returned it.

As for my pickiness now? It's gone. I am a goat now. I'll eat pretty much anything.

But these...

****

Vallee's Steak House. There used to be on Airport Road in Warwick, perhaps another south of Boston on Route 3 heading north from Plymouth. Anyways, my Dad had become enthralled with it and we ended up eating there more than a few times.

It was OK. I liked steak at times and their food overall was decent. But once again, my parents telling me what I should eat would grate me.

After the end of one dinner, my Dad chimes in with, “Hey, They got that blueberry pie again! Let's get that!” I said I just wanted ice cream. At the time I thought blueberries sucked. Don't forget, I hated everything then.

My Dad says: “This is the best blueberry pie you can get anywhere and you can have ice cream any time you want. Get the blueberry!”

My Mom defended me with, “Oh Richard...let him have the ice cream.” My Dad relented and when he got his slice, he had to rub it in. “Maureen, this is the BEST blueberry pie on Earth. I swear there's none better, Mmmm Mmmm!” I knew he was doing this for my benefit, as he was a lousy actor at times and his little performance was awful. My Mom didn't get a slice, preferring to drink coffee instead, but she had one bite of my Dad's pie.

Around 11pm that night, I heard my Dad vomiting violently into the toilet. My Mom who was at the bathroom door said loud enough, so I managed to hear it cleanly:

“Richard! It was the pie! I could tell there was something wrong with it when I tasted yours!

Trying to talk through the chunks and coughing, my Dad says: “Why the HELL didn't you tell me?”

Good ol' Mom. She gives a great answer. “Richard! I thought you'd jump down my throat if I criticized your choice like Ronnie did!”'

More puking ensues. I'm lying in my bed with a smile ear to ear.

I'm on her side!

Cameroon vs The Seychelles

I'm holding my phone two feet away from my head, pointing out the window. On the other end a Cranston rugby nut I know is going on and on about the soccer match between Ghana and America. I have pointed the phone towards the window ten times so far, so the robins can hear this.

At first, out of kindness, I pretend to listen about red cards, box to box midfielder and loud criticism of why the USA “can't maintain control of the ball?”

“Uh-huh, Sure, I guess so, Mmmm, Yep” are the one word responses I give while I get this scrutiny of the game's play. I can only do this for so long. My good nature is wearing thin. Lastly, inside my head I'm saying this very loud:

“Shut UP! I DON'T Care! I HATE soccer! Stop asking me QUESTIONS about soccer! Can't you SEE how LITTLE I'm engaged in this!?”

Of course, he never picks up on my complete lack of spirit about the game, or one word responses.

I try to turn the conversation towards something else, like the damn weather for the next few days. I triumph for about thirty seconds when he yells: “Goddammit! That guy's faking he's injured! Why can't the referee see that!” Jesus...we're back to the game again.

At length I pull the LIAR'S card. I say someone's pulled up in front and I have to talk to them now.

I don't hate soccer with a passion, I really don't. I just don't understand it fully. Nor do I have any desire to learn it. It's for the same reason I don't learn how to knit. I don't have any interest in it. The same holds true for cricket, curling, roller derby or hot air balloon races. I don't even like basketball. I also don't like drinking water from the tap (but that's due to growing up on super-chlorinated Pawtucket water).

Anyways...I hit “end” on my phone after I lied my way out of that anguish. And as you can see, it's still bugging me as I write about this four hours later! Ugh...I can see why some people's awful social skills really grate on others and cause them to take flight.

Soccer Hooligans

The World Cup kicks off today, I think? You see how intimately I follow the sport.

I didn't start an argument over it, but perhaps tapped the subject while watching a commercial about it from Brazil.

As I gaze at the TV I remark to myself, within earshot of an Irish national I know: “Soccer is so s.l.o.w.”

Colin overhears this and then says to me, “Well, hockey's score is always 10-15, 15-10, 12-15....it's always the same range.”

Now another American has to get involved. He says, “How great of a sport is it? All you need is a ball, there's no equipment or real training involved.”

Colin reads into this as: “Soccer is for poor countries...pathetic people who can barely afford the ball and a dirt lot.” I can see where this mental image comes from because I've seen it to. Some weedy black kids from Cameroon playing soccer with a Peace Corps volunteer on a dirt lot strewn with broken glass, empty shell casings from the last war and the goal is improvised by using a stained sheet.

Colin goes off. “Yoo fookin' Yanks! Every sport yoo invented, yoo dominate! Any other world sport yoo soock at! If yih didn't invent it, it never existed to yoo!”

American now says, trying to cool Colin's quick temper, “Hey, I didn't say it was just for the poor...I meant it takes nothing to set up a game anywhere..you need nothing.”

That...only fires Colin's wrath.

“YOU FOOKIN' WANKER! It's a world game any kid can play! You don't need hundreds of dollars in equipment to have fun! It's great for kids who had just each other and that was where all the great times came from! Never mind the fookin' ball! It was US, the comradery, the fun!”

The people surrounding these two start backing off, thinking fists will soon fly. They don't but I swear it was coming close.

I know soccer is adored in Europe but I didn't know how well loved it is. I saw the devotion to it last night. My God...the devotion!

Moral of the story: Be cautious, to who and where, if you knock the game of football.  

They Start Early Over there in Europe

A Typical Soccer Game 

I Go Where My Curiosity Tugs Me

It's summer, which means warm nights with me up after-hours reading books once more. The windows, doors are open and a soft breeze now and again wafts the curtains. Pure peace and pure relaxation. I'm trying to crack James Mischener's Alaska. I loved his other one, Chesapeake, so we'll see if this one measures up. Mischener's writing is in of the manner of Dickens (sort of). He'll depict, to death, a tablecloth...then get on with the point of the story.

Since I'm a guy and cannot multi-task to save my life, so I have the stereo on low. That way I can focus everything on the words. In truth, I can focus like a laser but on ONE THING AT A TIME. Otherwise I right down lose it. Nonetheless, I kept glancing over to the music coming out and wondered what station I had on. The music tonight is peculiar.

UMass-Dartmouth, WUMD, 89.3 is playing. I had forgotten I had that on a preset. So I put off reading my latest stolen book and paid attention to this station. At times, college radio is more interesting than the usual revolving content you get on the major corporate ones. Sure, I'll forever savor the 60-80's music, I grew up with it, but I've heard Joel's “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant” 9,404 times. So, this fare from Dartmouth is fairly different.

I keep listening, which means I start paying attention to the lyrics. A young woman's singing voice is ordinarily difficult to beat. It is naturally beautiful to begin with. Most men sing like they're munching gravel. It happened that most of the young women's lyrics were about not being able to decide on anything. The young men's lyrics were about being crazily in love with a girl that doesn't know he exists and does little else but ache for her.

Yep, early 20-Somethings. I was one of them once. I know.

I knew nothing about UMass-Dartmouth, so I looked it up. What I came across was bit of a goof, a site where you can appraise colleges, Student Reviews.  Here's what some of the kids say about URI's  social life

Here's something I never had when I was 18, various criteria to judge schools at the tip of my fingers. All I had were what I knew to begin with and what was suggested by a high school guidance councilor.

Today, do councilors know what a DTF school is? It's a criteria on some of these college reviews. DTF means a “down to fuck” college. If you want your collegiate experience to be more towards the partying side, you can easily put in parameters to find just the right Pound 'Em Down U. for you.

If you don't care if your kid learns anything at school but to either become pregnant, get an STD or both, go here.  

Toe the Line? Screw That!

Every year I comment on this: “I could not care less about lawns.”

There used to be a Scott's commercial on TV showing some nice middle class guys, self congratulating one another on their golf course lawns. In conclusion one looks into the camera and makes a moralistic judgment about his neighbor.

“John's lawn is tidy and beautiful...and so he is too.”

My response? Fuck you.

There was another one exhibiting a pleasant street in middle America. All the homes have groomed lawns excluding one, which is covered with dandelions that is floating the infectious fluffy seed into the wind. The voice over describing this social menace had the tone of a WW2 Venereal Disease short film about Miss Frenchie Fifi's diseased goodies, giving pure American soldiers the clap.

“Dirty neighbor! Bad neighbor! Reprobate!”

My luck included a retired neighbor, long since gone now, who had the time and an unusual devotion to his lawn. Lucky for him too, he lived next to me so he could fume over my variety of weeds I tender.

Just out of kindness and an excuse to make conversation many years ago, I remarked on how decent his lawn was. He seemed genuinely proud of it. He then, to reciprocate, tries to offer me advice on how I can improve mine. But as his advice comes, so does a derision in his voice. He can't help it, the hate is coming out.

“If you spent more time on it, you'd have one like mine.” I swear there was a snarl in his delivery.

I say. “Sure, if I wasn't carrying a full load at school and working full time, I might...but that presumes I really care as well.”

I love sarcasm, it's worse than a punch to the gut.

**

Conformity...

One time, above the fields at McCoy, I was sitting, drinking and ready for the fireworks display to begin. The gathering at the parking lot meets every year. It's the same, but one year older, a bunch of old friends I grew up with. It's usually a group of families with youngsters running all about.

I was then approached by one of the wives. She is sort of the Queen Bee of all the spouses so it's her place to present a rather snarky comment to me. She is Queen Bee you know, so it IS her place to shepherd us all when we stray. I find the next thing funny. I see how marrieds and families that hang out together, spend a sizable effort on corralling one other. What schools to attend, what political parties to affiliate with, what fucking cereal from Shaws must be purchased. It's all to prove to one another they're “better at parenting” than the other. In doing so, they all ape one another's forever reaching for the most expensive or most popular ideas, or try to outdo one another entirely. What's even funnier, is when their own kids blow that perception when they fight one another or do something completely asinine in front of everyone. Kids are kids and they're honest as hell!

“Our little Paul was accepted to the Moses Brown Summer camp!”

You look over and witness little Pauly is eating his own boogers....and then you look back to the parents whose faces now look to the pavement.

Anyways, I'm getting off track. Queen Bee comes over and says:

“Why don't you drive an SUV?” she asks with some disbelief. The parking lot was stuffed with Goliath SUVs and one Chrysler Sebring convertible, mine.

“Why? I don't have a family...I don't need the cargo space to stuff a 50 inch LCD TV into...I don't want to shell out for one SUV tire that'll probably buy TWO on my Chrysler. The maintenance costs are waay higher on those things! Plus the MPG sucks.”

Wait for it..it'll come and it does. She then says: “But everyone else has one.”

I look at her and say, sort of curtly because of the three beers in me:

“So.What.”

I have to give her this. She had the tact of a Southern Belle who learned her etiquette on the Tidewater of Virginia. She got up, and barely hiding her repugnance to leave me to stew in my insubordination. I cannot be saved! I'm a terrible wrongdoer.

In my mind I respond to her: “Fuck you, too”  

A normal, happy, healthy, moral and pure middle class family.  Notice the use of the color white? There's no dirt or any foulness here!  Well, just dig a little deeper into it and you'll find all sorts of problems. Maybe the wife chortles white wine immodestly. Maybe he wears her panties when she's not looking! 

A Conversation...

I've never been to Vegas. Not only that, I've never been to Foxwoods either. Why? I never did like gambling. The first and last time I ever did it was at the dog track in Lincoln. My friend Mike and I went there out of curiosity and after looking at the sheet and not understanding the odds boards, I selected a dog. I lost. I picked another dog in the forthcoming race and lost that too.

I thought to myself, “Where's the fun in this?”

Since I never have been to Vegas I have to be told about it and a friend, Dave, tells me. One feature that made me think were the escorts you can employ.

I asked how much it costs and was told that it “depends.” Normally, it's the “quality” of the girl, what you want and for how long.

“You can pick up a street skank for $100 or you can blow $2,000 on a nice one for the whole weekend.” Dave tells me. He seemed a bit too knowledgeable in this subject and I didn't bother to ask if he ever did it.

He goes on, “If you get a decent reputation with the escort service by paying on time and you seem sane enough, they'll open up some and invite you into other things. Some have a catalog they'll send over to your hotel room. You can flip the pages and pick out the girl you want, hopefully she'll be available for the time you want.”

I then, after mentally calculating the costs and knowing how his particular marriage is going, ask him which one is superior, a wife or an escort?

He takes a a couple of seconds to think this over and with rapidity, he says: “Escorts.”

I say, “You're shitting me?”

“Nope...think about it..think about me. I just blew a shitload on South Kingston summer home my wife has forever wanted. Plus all the other cash I spent over the years. And it's not just the cash either, think about the other things. Age, appearance, the fact you can drop the escort off on a Sunday afternoon and never see her again and...God, there's a ton of stuff, I could go on and on. Hell, if you want a stunning 20 year old with perky tits, you can get one. My wife's titties, at 40, are all silicone! I bought those too!"

I ask, “What about love?” (Bad question to ask!)

“Love?” What love? You've never been married and you know what happens to that happy/intoxicating love? After a decade it's like a glass of milk left out, on top of a TV, warming up.”

“Love” He says...trailing off as he said the word.

“Look, take my advice...NEVER get married! You'll be wealthier for it and there's less inconvenience. You had a dog right? You had a live in friend that thought you were GOD himself...now try and get a wife to think that about you after ten years!”

I tell him, “Yeah, but I couldn't boff my dog.”

“I've seen your shepherd. He would've torn your nuts and dick off had you attempted. And guess what? A wife can to that mentally, no need for teeth either.”

“You're a eunuch now?”

“Son...there were several times in my married life I was castrated! NO Vegas girl would do that to you, unless you ask for it!”