The Northward Contrail

A little too close

I'd been advised to be up bright and early Sunday morning.  There was an expedition planned.  My friend's wife was to meet us at April Bowl near Summit Lake, and she'd have one of her friends with her.  My friend and I were starting out early because we were going to take a very interesting back road there, through the wilderness.  It was a neat journey.

Now, all this would have worked if nature didn't have such a sense of humor.  For one, it was gray that morning, with a lot of low-lying cloud.  There were times we were about on instruments.  But, we overcame that much.

We got to the designated point about half an hour ahead of schedule, and we got out and started to hike up to April Bowl.  It was steep and a little treacherous at points, and there was very little visibility, but nothing I couldn't handle.  And some of the views were still nice. Besides, it was Alaska.  How was I going to pass this up?

My friend and I had hoofed it up most of the way and had paused for a little bit.  I was admiring the scenery and the clouds, taking it all in.

My friend then asked if I saw that black spot over by a white area about a couple hundred yards away.

I told him I did.

"Does it look like it's moving?" he asked.

I replied in the affirmative.   It also appeared to have a second smaller dark spot next to it.

"That's it.  We're done."

Yep, it was the Ursine Menace.  Perhaps we could have pressed on with no ill effect, but we were unarmed and alone, and no match for a sow defending her cub.  Best to get the hell out.  So we did.  (If you don't understand why, read the "Ted" chapter of Peter Jenkins' Looking for Alaska.  I'll leave it at that.)

So our little meet-up didn't happen there.  Instead, when the other half of our party arrived, we had a quick discussion and went back to Summit Lake.  That's where we had a wonderful breakfast, using a big flat boulder as a picnic table.  Homemade muffins, fresh fruit, little Babybel cheeses...it was a blissful way to start a morning.

Then it was off for more adventure, as we came back down and parked at the Gold Mint Trailhead.  We piled out and started to hike.  My friend's wife and her friend took on off, which meant my friend and I were left behind.  But we made the most of it, walking along the trail at our own pace, talking about life, and taking pictures with hearty abandon.  I was glad I'd bought the additional SD card.

 

A couple hours later, while my friend and I were back at the truck, we saw the other half of our foursome emerge from the wild.  They brought with them a craving for pancakes.  So we drove back into Palmer for a late lunch at a favorite little cafe, and sat around the table for a couple hours telling stories.  It was all fun.

You'll recall we'd picked some salmon up at the store on Wednesday. Well, I was to leave the next day, and the fish needed to be cooked or frozen.  So that night, my friend hauled out the salmon, gave it a good seasoning, and broiled it up.  A wonderful spicy orzo dish accompanied it.  And, yes, fresh Alaska salmon was everything I hoped it would be.

That night, I went to bed very happy.  The only bad spot?  Tomorrow, it would be time to come home.

Welcome to Alaska

The new day dawned.  Actually, the new day had dawned very early; it's that time of year in Alaska.  The room I was in had very good drapes on it that kept out most of the light, so sleeping was easy enough.

Most of this day was spent out exploring nature up around Hatcher Pass and Summit Lake.  My host and his wife do a lot of hiking and exploring around the huge natural paradise in which they live, and part of why he had me up this time of year was to see the difference from my usual mid-May visits.  Believe me, it was different, very lush and green.  We had gorgeous weather that day, too, which made it seem even more otherworldly.  I didn't feel like I was in Alaska; it felt like New Zealand or Ireland.

There were many people out taking advantage of the nice weather (including a lady whose two dogs splashed around Summit Lake, one of them coming over to try to take my water bottle).  But do some careful hiking and you can find a place to sit and think all by yourself.  That's what I did, taking a seat on a rocky ledge, looking out at this paradise you see below, and thinking about how lucky I really am.  Yep, this place is my other home.

The rest of the day was spent on more humdrum tasks.  We went into town for lunch, stopped by a bookstore and looked around, and then hit the grocery store for supplies.  Rainier cherries were on sale, dirt-cheap, and we loaded up on those.  And among the provisions were a couple pounds of fresh salmon fillets.  Although I normally avoid meat, I'd been wanting to try some Alaska salmon for a long time, and my host was going to oblige this visit.

Back at the house, we adjourned to his workshop.  My friend and I share the hobby of these little plastic airplanes, and he also has a fine stock of rare woods and woodworking equipment.  We've known each other coming up on a dozen years, and we share the craftsperson's mindset, so we understand each other on that level.  But it's more than that.  There's a saying about how friends are the family you choose for yourself, and that's why I tell people part of why I'm in Alaska so much is because I have family there.  Yeah, my friend and I share the same interests, have the same sick sense of humor, and all that, but we can have long conversations about life and the universe and all that.  I have a brother and I love him, but my friend's like another brother I should have had (though he's no doubt thankful not to be related to me, but I digress).  That's much of the fun of getting together.  We had a few bottles of locally-brewed product and talked for a few while, and life was great.

After a little while we came back inside.  His wife had come home from work, and I hadn't seen her since my last visit, so we spent some time talking in the den, catching up on things and comparing stories about our cats while my friend made dinner.  It was during this lull that the house suddenly went "whump!" and swayed a little.  The nearest thing I can compare it to is being aboard an airliner that's made a hard landing, that same sort of quick thump that dampens out.  After a second or two, everything was fine.  Just like that, I'd experienced my first Alaskan earthquake, another component of my indoctrination.  It's a fact of life up there, just one of those things that happens, and it's much better to have a bunch of little earthquakes than have 1964 happen all over again. 

After that, the rest of the evening was quiet and uneventful.  Dinner was good.  The day's adventures had tired us out, so we didn't linger too long after dinner.  The next day would bring more adventures, and some memorable photographic opportunities.

The one thing you can't fool

We live in a world where the truth is often seen as what you construct it to be.  Every day, I have somebody trying to lay something on me -- be it at work, or online, or on my television.  I can't get away from somebody trying to tell me that X is Y, or Y is Z, or you name it.  And often I feel inadequate to respond to these things, because sometimes the partisans will really be wrapped around the axle about it. 

I think the fact I feel so ill-equipped in these circumstances is directly related to the comfort I have in dealing with more scientific and mechanical things.  People can interpret something a hundred different ways, but there's a comfort I take in knowing that if I take apart one of my typewriters and do something, I know what it's going to do and how to fix it.  I like that if I'm at my workbench working on a model, I know how the putty is going to react with the plastic, or how the paint's going to lay down. 

I've never had much mathematical or scientific ability.  To some extent, I regret that because there are so many things in those realms that fascinate me.  (Were I a little more telegenic and a little more powerful in the scientific/analytical part of my brain, I'd love to be a science journalist, sort of a latter day Jules Bergman.  But, when the scientific parts of brains were being handed out, I must have been out getting doughnuts instead.)  I completely bombed everything past Pre-Algebra, but, man, I love how math works.  I couldn't understand a lick of college Chemistry, but I loved working in the lab, finding out in experiments how Part A would react with Part B.  The bookwork of physics makes my brain fold up like a cheap card table, but I love the experiments and the theories, that if this happens then that will follow. 

There's a comforting predictability to it.  It's certainty in a world full of uncertainty.  It all reminds us that, no matter what we humans may think we can do, Mother Nature (whom, of course, it's not nice to fool) will have the last word.

In the beginning

In lieu of new content today, I'd rather you revisit a great moment from 41 years ago tonight.  Time will not diminish its situational eloquence.

Tomorrowland

A few weeks ago I treated myself to the "Tomorrowland" DVD set.  I'm slowly working my way through it, and am I enjoying it.

 If you're interested in the history of space flight, especially the American efforts, you really can't discount the influence of the "Tomorrowland" series on space flight, or the Collier's Magazine series that preceded it.  Both were big, beautiful expressions of a future in space.  The "Tomorrowland" programs aren't exactly like the Collier's pieces -- there were changes for technical and legal reasons, among others -- but you see the concepts brought to life on the screen, through animation and live-action footage.  There's also expert testimony on rocket science, space medicine and spacecraft design from Willy Ley, Heinz Haber and Wernher von Braun. 

Watching these programs, you think about how they'd never get on the air today.  A good bit of the introductory portions of the programs is hosted by producer/director Ward Kimball, who looks like an older Scott Adsit and speaks in plain, patient, almost teacher-like tones.  The three experts all have accents of varying thicknesses and speak haltingly at points.  Nowadays, they'd be relegated to sound bites, with their main points made by a narrator.  In these programs, they're allowed to speak at length. 

(Of course, there's also the issue of von Braun, our space program's own Faustian tale.  In the "Man in Space" feature, there's brief coverage of the German rocket program and how it culminated in the V-2.  No real mention is made, of course, on the V-2's wartime implications.  But, I digress.)

For the space historian, it's great to see these people come to life on the screen.  They're no longer names in a history book; there's Willy Ley talking about rockets, and Uncle Wernher talking about how a flight to the moon would unfold and sharing a vision of a space plane that's roughly like what became the Space Shuttle.  And from a viewing standpoint, it's a treat.  The production values are so good that it's easy to forget these were films made for television.  Yeah, you can tell they're done with models, but I prefer models anyway.  CGI bores me to tears.  Models have the virtue of being real.  There's also some gorgeous animation done with a lot of wit and style, too.
 
Then there's the dream, compared to what happened.  These films show the dreams of 1955 and 1956, and talk of space flight as something that could be achieved within the next decade.  But we know what happened in 1957 and 1958, and how people first flew in space in 1961.  Indeed, while von Braun talks of a voyage to the Moon in 1955, within a few years he'd be overseeing the development of the Saturn rockets that would propel Americans to the first real-life lunar voyages, following a flight plan that didn't differ that dramatically from those he outlined on the Disney series.

Within 15 years, Americans would have flown around the moon and landed multiple times.  The dream that electrified the viewing audience of 1955 would, by 1970, become commonplace, and by the time of Apollo 17, the television networks would devote little, if any, time to the last flight to the Moon.  The real flights to the Moon were, for the most part (and with the obvious exception of Apollo 13), mostly devoid of the tension and drama you see in the Disney versions.  It looked so dramatic and glamorous in the Disney telling; in real life, it was up to 12 days in tiny spacecraft for a group of guys, eating from tubes, pooping in plastic bags, and after splashdown, frogmen reeling when they opened the hatch and the smell from inside hit them in the face.   

I'm glad we went to the Moon, and I can't wait for our return.  The ways we actually got there worked fantastically.  But when you see the vision of tomorrow that existed yesterday, you really wish that today didn't end up being so much like yesterday.  I love that we have iPods and digital cameras and Trivection ovens and cars with built-in hard drives to hold MP3s, and it's a great time for gadgets in general.  But, man, I'd trade a lot of that in a second if the vision of 1955 could have become the reality of 2010.

The big shot

Some Tuesday viewing: assorted clips from the coverage of Apollo 4, the first launch of the Saturn V, in November 1967.  Included are some real treasures, including Uncle Walter's excited commentary about the studio window vibrating.  And some vintage Bergman, too.  Enjoy.

Video hypnosis

For Friday's video fun, I'll share something from my travels.  When I'm traveling through central Florida and have to spend the night, it's inevitable I'll come across a commercial like these as I'm flipping through the channels.  Good ol' Sam pops up on the cable system, and I can't tear myself away.  With his enthusiasm for appliances, his unusual demonstrations, and the mesmerizing green-and-yellow suit worn by his assistant, I can't change the channel. 

But the one I'll always remember is this one.  It happened to be playing the weekend last year that I went down for the launch of STS-124.  I remember spending that morning in my motel room waiting for the call from the guy who was providing my transportation.  The cable channel that carried NASA TV ran these ads during lulls in the coverage.  So for the rest of the day, while I was there to see this great moment I'd waited my whole life to experience firsthand...in the back of my mind, all I could think about was Sam loading red velvet cake into dishwashers.  What a moment.

A close second was the morning in Daytona Beach when I was flipping through the channels and found the Ronco Showtime Rotisserie infomercial...dubbed into Spanish.  Seeing Ron Popeil on the television, but with his voice dubbed over with this really suave voice speaking in another language, was on that border between "weird" and "awesome," with the balance tipping towards "awesome."

The best medicine

"Medicine's not a science."  -- Dr. Leo Spaceman

I went to the doctor on Friday.  It was my annual check-up; time to get everything done and get the meds re-upped and everything.  I made a day trip of it, and despite an unpleasant surprise, it ended up being a really good day out.

This clinic I use is two hours away, but is worth the trip.  I've been seeing these folks for more than a decade, after a really fortunate referral.  The doctor I was initially with moved on, and I was put in the care of a nurse practitioner.  This turned out to be a really lucky thing.  She's *very* good at what she does, and she's very wise to the ways of the human body and to the things that happen to ladies as we mature.  Imagine a really cool older aunt, one who's really wise to the ways of the world, one who's always quick with a wink and an encouraging word, and there you are.

I'm very loyal to her, and for good reason.  Many doctors I've had were interested only in whatever specialty I was there for, or whatever my chief complaint was.  This nurse practitioner, though, is interested in more than certain of my components; she's also interested in how I'm doing overall, both in terms of physical health and also how my life is going.  That kind of interest and caring is worth an awful lot to me.

I don't see doctors very often.  I try my best to stay away from situations where I have to see them, and that involves a lot of exercise, careful diet, good hygiene, avoiding germs when I can.  When I do see a doctor, though, whether it's for illness/injury or a routine exam, I want to know I can rest easy.  That's especially true if that doctor's going to be sawing on me while I'm out.  Twice I've been operated on by doctors who were really cool, who had the understated confidence of fighter pilots.  I knew I'd be just fine with those guys at work.  I'd say the same about the doctor who did my flight physical last October; she seems like not only a great doctor, but someone you'd love to have as your next-door neighbor, and if I didn't live so far away, I'd definitely have her as my general practitioner.

At the other end of the scale, I've had some doctors who acted like weenies.  Two in particular come to mind: one an ex-Navy doctor I got, by luck of the draw, when I ended up in the emergency room once (he didn't care for me too much, and, to be honest, I ended up not being exactly thrilled with him either), and the other a general practitioner in Florida who was a gruff bully with no bedside manner (and with whom I ended up having a rather nasty shouting match in his waiting room after my health insurance ran out).  Most doctors I've had just fade into the background, especially since they're interchangeable large-practice GPs that you pull by luck of the draw; just look at my infected sinuses, give me the prescriptions and go see the next patient.  You don't really get to know these folks.

With that in my history, there's a reason why I like finding good doctors and sticking with them.  And that's why I drive two hours to see this nurse practitioner.  I like knowing someone will take care of me who will talk to me gently (especially important given how much I don't like doctors' offices, and given certain unpleasant portions of the physical exams ladies have to undergo), listen to me, provide me with the information I need, give me advice on how to head off potential problems, and do it all with a wonderful sagacity.

That's part of why today went well; I came out of it all feeling I'd been cared for, and that gave me a good feeling.  Of course, with it came a surprise; seems in the last little bit, I'd picked up a little minor ailment that required some medication.  (I imagine stress, travel and so forth the last few weeks aided the development of this little problem.)  No problem, though; in fact, I didn't know anything was wrong until she pointed it out.  Then it all started making sense, given a few very minor, scattered symptoms I've had the last few weeks.  The lightbulb in my head is like an old radio tube sometimes; you have to turn it on and let it warm up for a while.  But she was on it, told me what I needed to do, and although it startled me a little at first, I knew I'd be okay.  (Among other things, I'd need to take Cipro.  Remember a few years ago, during the anthrax scare, when everybody was wanting to hoard that stuff in case there was a big anthrax attack?)

Other than that, things were fine, and with prescriptions and lab paperwork in hand, I was off to find more adventure.  I needed lunch, and panini is always good for what ails me, so I went and had some lunch.  Then I decided to get the two single-shot prescriptions filled before heading home, since I'd probably get back about the time the local drug store would be closing its pharmacy.  There's a Wal-Mart adjacent to a favorite hobby shop, so I went down there and dropped off the prescriptions.  I was advised to return in a half-hour, because they'd be closing the pharmacy for lunch.  I came back a half-hour later; the antibiotic prescription was ready, but they were awaiting a callback from the doc on the analgesic I'd been prescribed, and were about to close for lunch.  I foresaw this taking all day, so I just had them sell me the antibiotic, return the prescription for the analgesic, and make do with that.  While the analgesic would be handy, it's the Cipro that does the heavy lifting.  The once-coveted terrorism-fighting drug set me back all of four bucks.  Nice work.

So, with that settled up, it was time for hobby shop fun; something for me and a surprise for hubby (who's home doing yard work).  The folks at the shop want to know where he is, and send their regards.  And then, before hitting the road to go back home, a stop at Dunkin' Donuts.  We don't have many of those around these parts, and I'm taking advantage of this opportunity.  Eight bucks gets you a dozen, any assortment you want.  Only it ain't the Dunkin' Donuts guy from the old commercials; it's a kid, probably not yet out of his teens, who could still use a little instruction on how to properly use the little piece of wax paper.  Oh, well, you microwave these things when you get home, anyway.  (And while I prefer the lightness of a Krispy Kreme doughnut, I'm not about to knock Dunkin' Donuts at all.  Seldom in my life have I ever considered any doughnut to not be good.)

And then the winding road brought me back home.  It was a long day, but a good one, and it ended well.  I started in on my Cipro and slowly started to feel some improvement.  Hubby and I started laying waste to the box of doughnuts.  And things seemed right with the world.

Somewhere, Rube Goldberg was laughing

Saturday, two days in, and I'm still getting used to a different time zone.  My internal clock wants to get me up three hours early.  I go back to sleep and have a weird dream in which I am Liz Lemon.  (What, like I'm not in real life?)  Soon enough, the real get-up time comes.  I get cleaned up and hang out in the lobby for a little while, using the wi-fi and waiting for my friend.  There's a swarm of cruise traffic and flight crews checking in and checking out.  There's also an education convention here, too, and that gets interesting as well.

My friend and I have breakfast.  He opts for the buffet again, and I toy with the mega-waffle again but settle for a bowl of granola, fruit and yogurt.  I'm eating like crazy on this trip, and discretion should be the better part of valor at least some of the time. 

We're on the road for Bremerton today.  My friend had agonized over taking the ferry vs. taking the drive around vs. parking the car in Seattle and doing the walk-on deal, and finally settled on us driving around and taking the ferry back with the car.  So we set out.  I'd been on the phone with a friend who works with the Navy up here, and he was going to meet up with us over in Bremerton.  It's a beautiful drive.  Somewhere around Tacoma I get a phone call from my friend and we agree on a rendezvous point (a decommissioned destroyer now serving as a museum ship near the ferry dock) and time.  All is good. 

The drive is gorgeous.  We round Tacoma and cross the narrows over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, the 1950 bridge that replaced "Galloping Gertie."  This means a lot to me, because Gertie's been a fascination for more than 20 years or so.  Now here I am, crossing the bridge that replaced one of history's most famous engineering disasters. 

In a little while, we're coming up on Bremerton.  It's a visit I was fated to make, sooner or later.  About 20 years ago I thought I was moving up here to work on a museum project, but it never came to pass.  Now, though, here I am.  We come around a couple of curves, and, big as life, there's the naval shipyard.  Three decommissioned aircraft carriers sit stripped, awaiting their fates.  Three big ships -- Independence, Constellation, Ranger, their deeds well known to me, ships whose names were constantly in news stories when I was growing up.  There they are, faded, stripped, peeling, riding high in the water.  They remain majestic, even as powerless as they are.  You wish they didn't have to sit through this, waiting year after year for whatever fate is coming. 

Around the naval shipyard we go, into town.  But we didn't count on what was going on that day.  We'd noticed flags at half-staff, and had wondered who died.  Well, much of Bremerton is blocked off.  We notice a parade going on.  Lots of full-dress ROTC types in chromed helmet liners and plated Garand drill rifles.  Downtown is a mess, and the detours snake us around a town we're already unfamiliar with.  Since we're early, though, it's no big deal. 

We're not due at the museum until noon, so we take some time to reconnoiter a route to the ferry pier.  A few twists and turns, and there's the ferry dock.  Only we don't see a turn-around.  Ah, crap.  Then, salvation.  There's a turn-around.  In the queue ahead of us is a large white passenger van.  We fall in behind it.  Problem is, the van is too long to make the turnaround in one move.  The driver hits reverse.  The next thing I know, I'm shouting the name of a preferred higher power, my friend is leaning on the horn, and there's a very slight nudge to our front end.  The van's driver pulls forward, hits the gas, and is gone.  Since it all happens in a hurry, and since we're not sure if there's any damage, neither of us has the presence of mind to get a tag number.  We make the turnaround, then my friend hops out to see if anything happened to the car.  As soon as he makes it around to the front end, I know something happened, and that it wasn't good. 

We worm our way around, trying to find a place that's safe to park and call the appropriate parties.  We end up finding a parking place across the river.  I hop outside with my phone and notify my friend we're meeting up with that we've had something happen and may be a little late.  Right then, I wasn't expecting it to take very long; by then, I'd had a look at the damage, and it wasn't much.  It almost looked like you'd taken a fist and punched the corner of the front bumper; the damage would probably pop right out, and any paint damage could be polished out with a little compound.  Still, better to let the rental firm know. 

To make a long story short, the next hour and a half was like a really sick series of bureaucratic jokes involving the rental agency, an insurer, and, eventually, the local cops.  We had to call them to file a report because the rental agency insisted on a police report and case number.  And getting hold of the Bremerton cops on a weekend was a real effort, especially for a car accident with no injuries.  All the while, I'm playing constant telephone tag with my friend, who's across the river aboard the very museum ship we were then supposed to be aboard, the very ship I am staring at as we wait and wait for this all to play out.

Finally, the cop finds us and does what he has to do.  He's pretty cool about it all, a little frustrated that the rental agencies make them do this kind of thing (it eats up time they could be spending on more serious things).  He's very professional, but also very pleasant to us, and after everything that's happened, that's as much a relief as anything. 

At long and blessed last, we're free to go.  We wind our way back across the river and finally make it to the museum, where my friend awaits.  He's already paid our admission and we can go aboard, but first, my friend and I are parched, and we shotgun a 24-ounce soft drink each before going aboard.  It's a welcome relief. 

Then it's time to go aboard USS Turner Joy.  Maybe that name sounds familiar?  Well, this ship was involved in the second round of the Gulf of Tonkin incident in 1964.  (The other destroyer involved in the incident, USS Maddox, went off to her fate long ago.)  Turner Joy served in the Pacific Fleet for more than two decades before being laid up at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.  While most of her sister ships were scrapped or expended as targets, Turner Joy instead was towed around the corner and opened as a museum ship along the redeveloped Bremerton waterfront.  The ship has been well cared for, and though there have been a few modifications made in the name of accessibility and tourism, Turner Joy still feels much like a working warship. 

My friend is a retired Navy officer who now works with the Navy as a civilian.  Before he retired, he was chief engineer on a destroyer.  He was assigned to ships similar to Turner Joy, and the first hour of our tour is spent below decks, getting a detailed crash course down in the engine and boiler rooms.  We learn a lot of stuff that you'll never find in the textbooks, and it's great. 

In all, we spend a couple hours aboard, and it's time well spent.  As we're climbing all around the ship, though, I take a glance over towards the shipyard.  Something caught my eye and made me do a double-take.  Sure enough, sitting over in the yard was a big ship with the number "63" painted on the island.  It was an old friend I hadn't seen in 18 years, the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk.  In 1991 we took a vacation to Virginia and dropped by during the open-house at Norfolk one Saturday.  Kitty Hawk was just back from a major overhaul and was open for visiting, and we went aboard.  Now Kitty Hawk's back from her final deployment, just decommissioned a few days before, awaiting whatever fate holds for her. 

Soon we're back on the pier, and we talk a while with my friend before it's time to go.  While my friends talk engineering, we notice an eagle perching atop Turner Joy's mast.  Another one comes along, and I try my best with the point-and-shoot digital camera I'm using on the trip.

It's getting late, and we need to catch the ferry back to Seattle.  We drive over, buy our ticket, and park the car in line.  There's a lot of shops around the ferry terminal, and my friend and I go to a nearby ice cream parlor for something to tide us over.  We come back to the car and eat ice cream and listen to music.  Soon the ferry arrives and we drive aboard, leave the car and head topside.  As we pull away, I take some farewell pictures of Kitty Hawk.  (I've deliberately not Photoshopped these.  In their original state, they capture what I was feeling.)

I also notice something else: what's left of the nuclear-powered cruiser Long Beach.

I hadn't known what to expect on this ferry trip.  It ended up being one of the most memorable parts of the whole journey.  My friend and I spent the trip at the railings, taking pictures and talking about life and everything else.  To describe it would be to take away from the moment, but it was one of those moments that you want to file away in the back of your mind for when life gets really bad; you can always remember this moment, on the ferry headed back for Seattle, surrounded by all this gorgeous scenery, the mist splashing over the bow, Rainier looming in the background, the seagulls flying formation with you, the wind meeting you head-on...and all you can think about is, holy cow, how lucky is your life that you get to do stuff like this? 

Soon the Emerald City is dead ahead:

A couple of Coast Guard icebreakers in for maintenance, one in a floating drydock alongside another ship in another floating drydock:

And too soon the Walla Walla pulls in alongside a sister ferry.

All too soon, it's time to claim the car and drive off.  Seattle's a mess to drive in as it is, but the ferry traffic lets out right near Safeco Field.  And there's a game.  Not just any game, mind you, but the Red Sox are in town.  And it's a Saturday night.  What a mess.  After a bit, though, we're out of the snarl.  A quick stop at a store for some supplies, and then it's back to the Doubletree.  We get something to eat, kill a bottle of really good sherry, and then call it an evening.  It's been a too-long day. 

Back in my room, I give myself some time to enjoy one more night's worth of cool breeze through my open door before bedtime.  I won't get this again anytime soon, so best enjoy it while I can.

How fast do you want to spend?

I'm slowly going through the pictures and everything from this weekend.  We shoot a lot of pictures when we go to the Rolex 24.  If you're lucky, sometimes you get a real keeper or two of a shot.  When I have the camera, I do a lot of bracketing, hoping that if I take ten pictures, one will turn out pretty good.  On the other hand, hubby has the golden touch.  The picture up above, of the #01 Lexus Riley fighting the ultimately victorious #58 Porsche Riley, was taken by him.

Sometimes hubby and I have daydreams about various fun, money-losing enterprises we'd get into if we could.  One such fantasy is fielding a team in one of the sports car series, and while we were killing time in the stands before the race Saturday we talked about it again.  We've come up with a name for our team and identified a sponsor or two we'd love to snag.  Between the two of us, we know enough people who have been involved in motorsports at various levels that we have a start on a pit crew and a driver team.  We're in pretty good shape.  Now all we need is one of those ones with a bunch of zeroes behind it and one of those funny "S" symbols that has a couple lines through it.  That's all we really need, just a little money.  To give you an idea of what we'd have to do, here's an article.  (Though some folks in the know say those estimates are low by at least 30%.  Emphasis on "at least" there.)

:: Ad astra per aspera  Those who know the history of American space exploration know that the last week of January and the first day of February bring three grim anniversaries: the Apollo 1 fire in 1967, the Challenger accident in 1986, and the Columbia accident of six years ago.  NASA's Day of Remembrance website has a Flash presentation that pays tribute to the 17 explorers who lost their lives in these accidents.  (From the archives: You can see a picture of Pad 34's ruins in this post, and a quiet little floral tribute here.)