NOTE TO BARBARA

I rarely do this but I must speak up. On a recent episode of The View, Barbara Walters voiced her opinion about a male politician showing his emotions on an episode of 60 Minutes. It was not the first time for this particular gentleman and apparently Barbara felt the need to opine that such displays of emotion by a man were signs of weakness and indicative of instability. Barbara, Barbara, Barbara.

Since that show I have watched a soldier haltingly talking about the brave acts he had witnessed of a Medal of Honor recipient. I watched an interview Larry King did with Barbara and George H. W. Bush where the senior Bush became emotional during a video of his son Neil thanking him for being the father he was.

Over the years I can remember watching many, many men face to face as well as through the up close and personal lens of a television camera show emotion ranging from misty eyes, to having to pause, to being unable to continue. Not all were grieving. Some were retiring from distinguished careers, some were being recognized for extraordinary achievements and some were particularly thankful for twists of good fortune bestowed upon loved ones.

One of the more recent displays of emotion I particularly remember occurred during the press conference at the conclusion of the Ryder Cup. The Ryder Cup is a competition between the best men golfers of the United States and those of Europe and is the very pinnacle of golf. In a down-to-the-wire finish the US lost. Under enormous pressure a critical shot was missed by American Hunter Mahan that, at the end of 3 days of competition, was the shot that gave the victory to the Europeans. At the conclusion, each team was seated at a long table facing reporters from around the world, answering questions while a worldwide television audience watched. Most reporters avoided the question but finally someone asked Hunter about the shot. He got out a few words, paused, a few more words and then could not continue. His eyes were filled with tears. It was almost as painful for those watching as it was for Hunter.

Phil Mickelson, sitting to his left, seeing his teammate in distress, took the microphone and gave a gracious answer in a manner you would expect from Phil. Was Hunter Mahan weak or unstable? Were President Bush, the soldier or any of the other men?

You don’t know me Barbara but believe me when I say some of the bravest, most courageous, toughest men I know can get misty eyed at a baptism or the playing of the national anthem, my Dad among them. It would be most un-just to consider them un-stable.

CHARLIE BROWN

 

    I’ve been watching some of the Charlie Brown Christmas shows.  I was thinking, wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if everyone fell into the categories of characters developed by  Charles Schultz?  When you think about it most everyone is represented, except bad people.   There is no room in Charlie’s world for bad people.  There are some that are rascals or envious of Charlie’s see-no-evil nature but underneath, they love Charlie. 

     I am hooked the second I hear the tinkling piano sounds of Schroeder.  No matter what is going on in your life how can you not mellow out at these smooth, flowing classic songs that conjure up all that is good with people.  I just turn to mush.  I am instantly transported to a world of good people doing good, simple things.  Sure there are your little confrontations between the characters and some making fun of the gullible Chuck, bruising of ego’s and even heartbreak but in the end everyone loves Charlie. 

     Imagine if Charlie was the president of the United States.  He would be the epitome of the can’t-we-all-get-along way of governing.  While maybe lacking in some of the worldly qualities required of a president, that’s what his cabinet is for.  Lucy would be Secretary of State.  None of the leaders of the world would want to be on her bad side.  Snoopy, with his assistant Woodstock, would be Secretary of Homeland Security.  The Red Baron’s stellar military career would make him a perfect fit.  Linus would be Vice President.  He would be the perfect confidant for Charlie and maybe Housing and Urban Development for Pig Pen or Department of the Interior for Peppermint Patty.  The possibilities are endless.

     The press conferences would be in the no nonsense, straight forward manner of the Peanuts gang.  No posturing here, just tell it like it is.  Voices from both sides would be heard, guaranteeing bi-partisan decisions.  When a tough choice need be made Charlie, with the sage advice of Linus, would not waver.

     Maybe Charlie Browns world is over simplified and unrealistic, but is it really?  If enough people put their shoulder to the wheel we can certainly move in that direction.  It would begin in the hearts of each one of us.  It is a goal worth striving for.  All I know is, when a Charlie Brown show is over, I feel better.

     This is one of my favorite quotes from Chuck. 

         “This is my depressed stance. When you're depressed, it makes a lot of difference how you stand. The worst thing you can do is straighten up and hold your head high because then you'll start to feel better. If you're going to get any joy out of being depressed, you've got to stand like this.”

     Let’s all straighten up and hold our heads high.

THINGS THAT BOTHER ME #4

     So I’m watching a news show on TV.  It could just as easily happen during a sporting event but this time it happened to be a news show.  There are several expert commentators sitting at a table with a moderator directing questions to each.  What happened when they came back from a commercial break and began their session annoyed me so much I can’t even remember what the hell it was they were talking about. 

    It started with an innocuous crawl (I believe that is what the media calls a narrow band at the bottom of the TV screen with a moving message going from right to left) going across the bottom of my screen.  Naturally, my eyes are drawn to it as it has some kind of flashing lights indicating it is an alert of some type.  I try to catch a few words to get the drift of what the alert is and then quickly glance back to the main part of my screen to follow the commentators riveting answer to a question from the moderator.  I find during my mental absence I have missed a few key words and thus have no clue as to the context of the discussion. 

     Returning my eyes to the crawl line I come in just in time catch a few critical words that must have been preceded by some very important words, which I missed.   I do a quick rewind to backpedal to those words and pick up from there.  I invariably go too far, have to forward to where I want to be, go too far again but eventually get to the right place.  Now I can follow through on the crawl line train of thought but have lost all mental contact with the panel discussion.  I think I need to get a piece of black tape that covers the bottom part of my screen so the crawl line is not visible or a big piece of cardboard I can tape across the big portion of my screen so all I can see is the crawl line. 

     I’m not saying I have trouble walking and chewing gum at the same time but it is hard enough digesting a verbal or a written statement of any importance all by itself without trying to digest both at the same time. 

     To make matters worse, this particular show then began streaming some kind of charts and graphs or something on one side and then later some video of someone talking on the other side and pretty soon all I could see in the middle was the face of one of the commentators.  God knows what they were saying because there were 2 voices talking at the same time and all the other stuff and the crawl line, I just changed channels.

     Do you feel me?

ARCHIVES

  

                                                          

   I have a file in my mind, known only to me, called Archives.  It is a place I store vivid memories and images that are etched there forever.  All are pleasant and all bring a smile to my face.  Last Sunday a new image was added to the file.

     I was down in the dumps after my favorite team had lost the night before, I know it’s just a game, but what can I say?  I was preparing to spend the day watching football on TV which is how I deal with putting a tough loss behind me.  Kind of like my way of treating a sort of hangover.  Out of the blue, my daughter Romy calls.  She had her favorite Starbuck’s coffee in hand and was preparing for a walk along the beach.  It was one of those spectacular mornings and did I want to join her.

     As I drove down to Crystal Cove I could see why she called.  It was one of those see-forever days, not a cloud in the sky, you could seemingly reach out and touch Catalina Island and a stiff breeze pushed ashore the smell of sea weed and salt water.  All things I love, which Romy knows, hence the phone call. 

     We walked through the tunnel that goes underneath Pacific Coast Highway to the beach.  It was cold by California standards, about 50 degrees with a stout 25 knot wind making it hood-up sweatshirt, hands stuffed in the pockets weather.  We contemplated a walk along the beach but decided we needed some nourishment first. 

     High up on a bluff overlooking this beautiful stretch of shoreline is a Ruby’s.  Those that have driven this stretch of highway between Newport Beach and Laguna Beach know this as the Date Shack.  A must stop for many years, the Date Shack ceased operations but Ruby’s stepped in, kept the quaint shack as close to original as possible and most importantly, kept the date shakes.

     Romy and I climbed the stairs up the hill, ordered our traditional date shakes and split a turkey sandwich on squaw bread.  As we ate our lunch we looked down on the beach and saw a flock of sea gulls sitting on the sand, taking a break from the relentless wind.  Romy decided to keep a half a slice of the bread to feed the sea gulls when we went on our walk. 

     Returning to the beach we walked up the coast toward the sea gulls.  When we got close Romy broke off a small piece of the bread and threw it toward them.  The entire flock of about 15 birds rose in unison and began hovering just downwind from us.  The wind was strong enough that they could almost remain motionless with their wings outstretched, poised in the air waiting for Romy to throw them a piece of bread. 

     As she heaved the pieces of bread skyward the sea gulls would swoop and dive to be the lucky bird.  Romy, facing her birds a scant few feet above her, blond hair blowing in the wind,  had the biggest smile on her face and was giggling like the little girl fathers always remember their daughters being. 

     We ran out of bread, the sea gulls slowly dispersed and we continued our walk.  Not many words were said and I’m not sure Romy realized I had a new entry for my Archives file.  We walked until we were too cold to continue, returned to our cars and said good bye.           

TRUCK STOPS

     I have always been fascinated by truck stops.  Not the neighborhood type stops with a handful of pumps but major stops with dozens of fuel pumps, acres of land, greasy spoon coffee shops, a general store and other road related services.  Some even have movie theaters and showers.  Almost all are on the major interstate highways that crisscross our land and are on the open road, or were before sprawling cities consumed them.

     As you motor across our country all the major truck stops have signs counting down the miles to the next stop.  They give you miles to and the mile marker for their off ramp.  As you get closer they amp up their signage to entice you to stop.  Most often whether you stop or not is a choice but often it is a necessity due to a near empty fuel tank or severe hunger.  The next off ramp may be forever.  Many times I have fallen into a trance on the road and blown right by my off ramp only to drive miles on fumes, prayer and an empty stomach. 

     My favorite stop is Petro.  They have been around awhile and some are rather long of tooth compared to the newer, modern stops but I like them because of their coffee shop, the Iron Skillet.  Everything is good there but you haven’t lived until you've had their breakfast.  They have grits, biscuits and gravy and all those truck driver staples but their hash browns, bacon and eggs served on a piping hot iron skillet, with toast and coffee is to die for.  Having left your motel hours ago and bypassing the fast food options, this is worth the wait. 

     After breakfast and in no hurry to get back on the road, you can wander through their everything-under-the-sun store.  There are tee shirts and hats with every red-neck saying imaginable, all the clothing necessary to make you look like a genuine 18 wheeler, truckers atlases, tools, additives, if it is related to the road, they have it. 

     The parking lot has a life of its own.  It is a pretty safe bet to say that almost every product we use in our day to day life was delivered by truck.  It may have come through one of our ports and then transferred by rail car but at some point a truck was involved.  Rows and rows of trucks miraculously parked inches apart, their front bumpers forming a neat line, bearing license plates from everywhere, fill the lot. There are livestock and grain haulers, flat beds, reefers, tankers and others in every color imaginable.  Some reflect the budget of the owner while others are billboards on wheels with extra chrome and running lights galore.  If you went through the lot and jotted down the companies represented it would pretty much cover the Fortune 500. 

     A stroll through the lot gives you a feel for its pulse.  Some stop for fuel and a meal then return to the road.  Others sit as they catch up on their log book.  Most idle their engines as they run their heating or air conditioning while catching up on badly needed sleep.  It is not unusual to see a man and woman with their young child, living out of their cab and sleeper, a sure sign of a tough economy.  The romantic notion of life on the road, takes a hit as you see drivers bleary eyed from too many hours at the wheel, alone on a Sunday night.  In another tip-of-the-hat to the economy there are many men and women drivers who clearly did not envision being at this truck stop at this time when they charted their careers. 

     As I return to the road I can’t help but think about the millions of people that have traversed our country, particularly from east to west that may have paused at this same truck stop.  Years ago it may have been Route 66; today it is a modern Interstate.  It may have been to relocate a family and begin anew or it could be a trucker piling up the miles to support his family.  Long live the truck stop.                       

LESSON LEARNED

The head man of our local little league called.  He knew my son was in the league and wanted to know if I would like to coach one of the teams.  Before I could say “Thanks for thinking of me but no thanks”, he said they needed one more coach to fill all the positions.  The old guilt trip worked.  I was told I would be mailed the rules, a schedule and a list of my players and then I was on my own. 

     I studied up on the rules specific to our little league organization, such as a limit on the number of pitches a pitcher can throw and a requirement that all players get to play at least 3 innings and others designed to protect the health of the 12 year olds and ensure everyone’s participation.  Next I called all my players, talked with them about the upcoming season and then their parents to assure them their kids were in good hands.  Not that I was any whiz at baseball but I wanted the experience to be an enjoyable one for their kids.

     We gathered one spring Saturday morning at the local park where, I got my first look at our troops.  They were a mixture of kids, some were there because their parents told them to be there, some because they thought they could play but were not sure and a few who had obviously been playing catch with their Dad since they were 2.   Over the course of that day and several other preseason practices we assessed each player.  They were evaluated for their level of ability and their best position.  We put our best players at short stop, pitcher and catcher and spread the others around from there.

     Tom was one of the boys we knew was a “project”.  He had zero athletic ability, zilch, none.  He was at least a head taller than all the others and was about 5 years from growing into his body.  To say he was a tall, gangly drink of water would be too kind.  Because of the aforementioned rule requiring every player be allowed to play at least 3 innings, we had to find a spot for him.  Anyone who knows baseball knows there are less hits to right field than anywhere else.  So Tom played in right field and we prayed no one would hit the ball to him.  We were not only concerned about him fielding the ball but, if he did, where it would end up after he threw it. 

     Personally, unlike many of the other this-is-more-important-than-life coaches, I was thankful for the 3 inning rule.  Kids this age are way too young to be told how great they are as well as they are not good enough.  Any kid with the grit to come out and compete, be it sports, ballet or the debate team, deserves a shot.  Especially one like Tom, who was subject to no end of ridicule from other kids and yet faithfully showed up to play.  Like all the kids we worked with him on fundamentals, encouraged him and talked with him about the importance of his school work.  He did not progress much athletically through our season but he was always there, on time and ready to play.    

     Several years later I read an article about Tom in our local paper.  A sports writer had done a feature story on him.  It seems as though Tom had indeed caught up with his early growth spurt.  He played football in high school, earning all league by his senior year as an offensive lineman.  He also excelled in the class room, earning a scholarship to the Air Force Academy.  There, in his senior year, he made 3^rd team All American as a football player. 

     The lesson I learned from my experience with Tom was never to discourage kids who are willing to face a challenge and make the effort it takes to be successful despite those who scoff at their efforts.  Who knows, with your encouragement and support there is no telling what they might achieve.       

TONY

Did any of you catch Tony Bennett singing God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch of the recent World Series game in San Francisco between the San Francisco Giants and the Texas Rangers?  Now that’s what I’m talking about.  That’s how God Bless America is supposed to be sung. 

As they have for each of the play-off games a guest is introduced to sing God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch.  An assortment of very talented celebrities, military personnel and others are chosen, usually with ties to the local team, each adding their own unique style to their rendition of the song.  Each stands all alone on the field with millions watching, microphone in hand, with no accompanying music to masks their nerves, and sings their hearts out.  The words bring forth emotions of pride, love, respect, humility and a unique feeling of oneness.  I get misty eyed no matter who is singing. 

But on this night Tony set the bar way up there.  Watching on television we learned, by way of a brief clip, that he had softened the crowd up before the game with “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”.  If you can’t hum along to that song you are not old enough.  Tony is from the Bronx but he owns San Francisco.  Then came the seventh inning.  I don’t know who wrote God Bless America but I am sure if the writer had been asked, “Who would you want to sing your song and how?” what happened next would have been his answer.  The man Frank Sinatra called “the greatest singer of them all”, did what he does best.

He sang each word with the utmost respect in his calm, simple, unforced way of presenting a song.  By placing his hand over his heart you felt his passion for this great country of ours.  It was as if he was indeed speaking with God and asking him to bless America.  With all due respect to the many other talented, well intentioned people who are asked to sing songs such as America the Beautiful, the Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America at various events, get a copy of the tape of that game in San Francisco and see how they are supposed to be sung.  Next time you are given the honor of performing one of these songs, set aside your desire to showcase your voice and your range and let the song speak for itself, as Tony did.   

    

KEEP ON TRUCKIN: JOURNEY'S END

We drove all night to reach Chicago around one o’clock in the morning.  There is something spooky about driving through a major metropolitan area in the middle of the night.  Cruising along at 55 mph on freeways normally packed with bumper to bumper traffic in the yellowish overhead lights doesn’t seem right. 

I pulled up to the gate at the Sears yard in a rundown industrial part of town not conducive to an evening walk.  The guardhouse was not manned so I had to push a button to talk with someone, somewhere to gain admittance.  Because of my hearing loss I was unable to communicate with the person on the other end.  I was forced to wake up Mike to help me.  He was not thrilled about that. 

We entered the huge yard that warehouses goods for Sears store all over the mid-west.  After locating our drop-off spot, we backed up to the door into the warehouse, unhitched our trailer and drove off, never having seen what was inside.  Around on the other side of the warehouse we located our pick-up trailer, hitched up to it and took off, our destination, Dubuque, Iowa. 

We left the yard around 3 in the morning.  Mike knew I would be driving most of the next day so he said he would drive and for me to hit the sack.  “Don’t wake up no matter what”, he said.  Sometime between then and daylight we got a flat tire.  I took Mike at his word and did not get out of the sleeper as I listened to him swearing a blue streak, banging and kicking the tire and anything else he could find until we drove off.  The next morning, after climbing out of the sleeper, I listened with great concern as he described what had happened. 

By early afternoon we had crossed the Illinois state line and the Mississippi River into Dubuque.  As I backed the truck up into the loading dock, Mike gave me the bad news.  I would have to unload it by myself.  I guess it was part of the rookie orientation.  Do you have any idea how hot it can get inside of a metal trailer on a 100+ degree Iowa day with humidity to match?  By the time I finished I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was nothing that the city of Dubuque and the surrounding area would need for the next century.  If they were cut off from the rest of the world they would get by just fine.  I unloaded toasters, micro-waves, lawn mowers, hair dryers, chain saws, diapers, you name it I unloaded it.  I was finished and sitting in the back of the trailer, weighing 20 pounds less than a couple of hours ago, when Mike strolled up with a dried up cheese burger and a coke with no ice.  Thanks, big guy.

Our next stop would be Green Bay, Wisconsin, headquarters of Schneider National.   After crossing over into Wisconsin we stopped for the night in La Crosse.  Mike felt big hearted so we spent the night in a motel. 

The next day we started off across the state toward Green Bay.  I saw more beautiful trees and gorgeous lakes of all sizes than I had ever seen.  As much as I love southern California I had never seen anything like this.  Parts of the journey took us through small towns.  Pulling up to a signal in one such town we came to a stop behind an suv with several 7 to 8 year old kids in the back seat.  They stared up with awe at the grill of our huge truck looming over them.  They made a motion to me indicating they wanted me to blow the horn.  I gladly pulled the cord, letting out a long blast from our air horn.  Their eyes lit as their faces broke into huge smiles.  That made my day. 

Late in the day I received a call on my cell phone from my brother.  He told me that our mother, who was undergoing chemotherapy treatments, was having a rough time and it might be a good idea if I returned home.  I informed Mike of this and, knowing the area well, he headed toward Appleton, the nearest airport.  Missing the last flight out, I had to stay the night there and catch the first flight in the morning to Chicago and then home.  With my duffel bag slung over my shoulder I watched as Mike drove off to complete the trip without me. 

In the motel room that night I thought about my trip.  The problem I had in Chicago because of my hearing could be a serious drawback when I began driving on my own.  In addition, and no surprise to me, being away from home for any amount of money is just not for me.  As much as I love the driving, truck stops and the open road, I want to be home in my own bed at night. 

My Mom weathered the storm and shortly thereafter I drove up to the Schneider office in LA, thanked them for giving me the training and the opportunity for a career but informed them I would not be coming back.  The training and the experience has led to several long hauls but short term gigs that have proven very enjoyable without the need to be gone from home very long.           

Scratch one off the bucket list. 

KEEP ON TRUCKIN: LIFE ON THE ROAD

     We angled north on Interstate 76 until we picked up Interstate 80 in Nebraska.  I was driving as we crossed what has to be one of the flattest stretches of land on the planet.  Here or there a small pond, a rare tree now and then and miles of farmland.  Mike’s chin would fall to his chest every few miles as he dozed off while reading a book.  Ever the trainer though he did not drop his guard. 

     We had been trained in Schneider’s driving school in something called the Smith System of driving.  It consisted of several key points that were considered critical to the safe operation of an 18 wheeler.  We repeated each point over and over until they became second nature.  One of them was that we were to check the mirrors, the one on the left side of the truck and the one on the right side, every 4 to 6 seconds.  The theory being that if we knew what was going on around the truck at all times we could act instinctively without having to look in the mirror before taking action.

     In the boredom of driving in a straight line over endless miles of flat road I would get lazy.  Thinking Mike was half asleep I would fudge a little and check the mirrors maybe every 8 to 10 seconds.  He may have been half asleep but the other half was wide awake.  In no uncertain terms I was lectured that these rules were for our own good and could very well save our life and others.  Understood.

     We motored through Omaha in the dark, my wife’s birthplace and home of many of her relatives, and on into Iowa where we stopped at one of the company yards.  Schneider is one of those companies that are big enough to have their own truck stops.  Here you can refuel at favorable rates, shower, take a nap, stretch your legs or watch a movie.  With their emphasis on safety you can have repairs and service done 24/7.  Just pull your rig into a bay, tell them what you need, and it is fixed instantly.

     Feeling refreshed, we hit the road.  Somewhere in Iowa during the night we encountered a construction zone.  In the states that have severe winter weather, they do their highway construction work in the summer.  It is not unusual to have up to 25 miles of one lane driving because the other lane is closed.  That is normally not a big deal but when you are driving a Schneider truck, it is.  You see, the company has a policy of every truck being restricted, by governor, to a maximum of 55 miles per hour.  This can be rather problematic when setting out on a stretch of 25 miles of one lane road.

     As you enter that stretch the cars and trucks in front of you are soon long gone.  Behind you is another matter.  Since it is the middle of the night those behind you are primarily truckers.  As the miles go by their numbers are increasing.  As we ambled along at 55 mph I envisioned countless disgruntled truckers trailing along in our wake.  All of them have CB’s of course and the grumbling starts.  Mind you these are guys and gals that would normally be barreling along at 70 plus miles per hour. 

     In the darkness of our cab a voice comes over the CB “Another Schneider student driver”.  I don’t believe I mentioned it but Mike has a very, very short fuse.  He is also about 6 feet 4 inches and 240 pounds of ex-Ohio State linebacker.  Mike takes great pride in his company and their safety record and is protective of his trainees.    Mike responds “Hey *** hole, you got a problem”.  A very heated discussion ensues culminating with Mike letting the other trucker know that we would be pulling off at the first off ramp and we would wait for him and upon his arrival he would beat the living **** out of him.  The response came back “I’ll be there”. 

     Right at the end of the construction zone there was an off ramp with a gas station on the corner.  We pulled into the lot.  Mike got out, walked around to the back of the truck and waited.   We watched as truck after truck passed by.  Seemingly every truck within 5 states passed, but none stopped.  Mike cooled down, and then laughed.  We got back in the truck and took off. 

     On to Chicago.

 

         

    

  

KEEP ON TRUCKIN: GOING LONG HAUL

NOT ME, BUT I COULD NOT FIND A GOOD LOOKING DRIVER

     My trainer Mike and I pulled out of the yard at 5 am onto the streets of Los Angeles on a hot summer morning.  Early, yes, but not by LA freeway time.  We began the slow crawl through the downtown interchange and up the 101 toward Oxnard, where we were to pick up a trailer for delivery to a Sears warehouse in Chicago.  Rush hour turned the 45 minute drive into a 2 hour ordeal.  Upon arrival I zipped in to and out of a tight spot that had given me fits early in my training.  I was starting to get the hang of it.  With a fully loaded trailer we began the trek east.

     Fortunately, we did not have to back track through LA.  We worked our way across the Mojave Desert to pick up Interstate 15 and were on our way.  With the air conditioning inside the cab we were oblivious to the 105+ degree heat outside as we cruised through Las Vegas just before sunset.  We decided to stop in Mesquite, Nevada, just shy of the Utah border. 

     Being a veteran of the road Mike knew all the spots he liked and those he did not like.  He loved Mesquite because there was a casino there.  We parked on the back of the lot with numerous other trucks lined up in a neat row.  I always loved seeing this, now I was one of them.  We went inside, had dinner, then Mike vanished into a crowd of gamblers.  I went back to the rig, climbed in the sleeper and fell asleep. 

     Early the next morning I went inside the casino for breakfast and saw Mike at a black jack table.  It’s possible he had come back to the truck during the night but I doubt it.  I ate breakfast, wandered around for a bit then returned just as Mike was deciding he was not going to earn his fortune just now.  He grabbed breakfast and we were back on the road.

     Traveling north toward Salt Lake City and then veering east on Interstate 70 through eastern Utah I saw some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen.  Scenery that is unique to this part of the country.  The hills and rock formations were illuminated by brilliant sun shine at times and brooding, dark clouds leading to spectacular flashes of lightning and torrential rain at other times.  We crossed into Colorado, passed through Grand Junction and into the Rockies just as darkness fell. 

     Normally I consider it a waste to drive through beautiful country like this in the dark but tonight was an exception.  It happened to be a full moon this crystal clear night, which lit up the Colorado River as it meanders alongside much of I-70 in this area.  Mike was driving at this point so I was free to gaze at this magnificent scene.  Huge, old trees descended down steep hill sides to the water’s edge where the free flowing river often turned to turbulent rapids as it worked its way down the mountain.  The ribbon of water was a magnet for the moon light.

     The next morning, after pulling off the road for a few hours sleep in Eagle, we set out for Denver.  This was my first experience driving the long descent out of the Rockies into the Denver area.  Truckers do not like long descents and a runaway truck is their biggest nightmare.  This one is famous.  Trucks stop at the top to check their brakes then use a combination of brakes, jake brakes, caution and patience as they slowly work their way down.  A fully loaded truck weighs close to 80,000 pounds so the smell of burning brakes is common as you creep down the steep hill single file in the far right lane.  Mike lectured me at the top about what to expect and then coached me down smoothly.  I was relieved my first trip down was not in a winter snow storm. 

We pulled into a truck stop on the outskirts of Denver for lunch, a shower and fuel.  Mike made a few phone calls, corresponded with the office via computer and updated our log book.  By law, a log book of time spent behind the wheel by the driver’s, must be kept.  In an effort to ensure safety there are limits as to how much time a truck driver may spend behind the wheel in any 24 hour period.  Law enforcement officials may request to see the book at a weigh station or a routine stop.  Conformance is critical.  After stretching our legs for a bit we were back on the road again.  More to come.

           

 

  

   

KEEP ON TRUCKIN

     I always wanted to drive an 18 wheeler.  Eighteen wheels and a dozen roses, that kind of thing.   The thought of cruising down the Interstate, smoke trailing from two chrome stacks, a good country station on the radio and the CB crackling with the chatter of truckers speaking the language of the road, always appealed to me.  I had the opportunity to do just that recently.

     It began with attending truck driving school in order to obtain the Class A Commercial Drivers License required to legally drive an 18 wheeler.  Along with about 10 other students I spent about 2 months learning how to go through 10 gears, fill out a log book, hook up to a trailer, drive safely, back into a spot with inches on each side and how air brakes work.  The entire course was designed to help you pass the test for your license while also learning how to drive a tractor with a 54 foot trailer attached.  Fascinating stuff. 

     Nearing graduation most of us were approached by trucking companies recruiting us to drive for them.  I was not looking to make a career of trucking but it was the next step in shortening my bucket list.  Upon passing my physical, written exam, driving test and drug test, I was granted my license and I committed to Schneider.  Those all orange rigs you see tooling our highways are Schneider trucks.  They are one of the largest trucking companies with some 12,000 trucks.  What appealed to me is that they are famous for their driver training and their safety record.  I went through the famous Schneider training and was ready to hit the pavement.

     Before you can venture forth across the country you must “drive the coast” as they say.  That means since I was based in the Los Angeles office I would be driving up and down the Pacific coast as my final training, all with a veteran driver acting as my trainer. 

     My first trip was to pick up a load of Heinz steak sauce in LA and deliver to a warehouse in Oxnard.  Normally a short drive but in the LA area nothing is a short drive.  Maybe in miles, not in time.  I learned quickly I better strengthen my left leg for the rigors of riding the clutch in the endless stop and go traffic.  I had my first experience with backing a truck up to a loading dock with barely enough room for the mirrors to clear on each side and several grizzled veterans observing while giggling to themselves.  What would have been a one shot deal for them required several passes for me.  Returning to LA I managed to stall the truck on a steep hill during rush hour traffic.  Not a great start.

     The rest of the coastal training included a trip to the San Joaquin valley for Wal-Mart, a delivery of Yokohama tires to Fullerton and various other rather short trips.  None of them putting me on the open road I envisioned.  I waited patiently, trusting there was a reason for all of this.  One night, as we pulled into the yard, I was informed that I had to be there at 4 the next morning for a trip to Chicago.  More to come.

        

   

FREIGHTERS

All things about the ocean fascinate me but freighters hold a special place in my heart. When cruising off shore in southern California almost all freighter traffic you see is either headed for or from the Port of Los Angeles. Being one of the busiest ports in the world there are ships that arrive and depart all day and night, 12 months a year.

For the sake of this blog I use the term freighter generically to include all manner of cargo carrying ships. They can be oil tankers, grain haulers, container ships or banana boats. To me they are all beautiful.

If we are going off shore in search of fish we usually leave in the middle of the night. What times depends on where you want to be at day light. You are always on the lookout for freighter traffic but particularly as you approach the “steamer lane”, a zone the freighters are supposed to stay in as they steam into and out of Los Angeles harbor. You first pick them up on your radar which tells you where they are and gives you an idea of the direction they are traveling. Then you watch for their lights where you know they are supposed to be. Like all marine vessels they have a red light on the port (left) side, a green light on the starboard (right) side and a white light on the mast and stern.

You first see their lights as they come over the horizon. Through your binoculars you distinguish red or green to tell which direction they are going. You try to estimate their speed to make damn sure you are clear of their path. They are a lot bigger than you are. From a distance they look like any other boat. As they approach you see the lights are way above the water line. As the huge, steel giant passes in front of you, the distance between lights tips off its size. In a full moon you can see an outline of the ship but most dark nights your imagination must draw a picture. I always love it when we pass just astern of them as they go by. Looking up at this behemoth as it passes you brace for the wake and the waves created by this mass moving through the water. Seemingly moments later the lights disappear into the night.

In daylight these freighters first appear as a dot on the horizon. I must confess if we are trolling for fish I steer our boat to intercept its path. I want to be as close as possible when it passes. As it gets closer it begins to take shape. A container ship is stacked high with up to several thousand containers. Tankers have very little superstructure. Freighters have booms for loading and unloading cargo. Each one has its own look.

As it heads our way the bow wave comes into view. The bulbous bow of the more modern ships is designed to allow the vessel to slip through the water effortlessly. It creates a wall of pushed water that is a sight to see. Because of their size they appear to be moving slowly. Wrong. Their speed exceeds all but the swiftest of the fishing boats. Most have the names of their shipping line painted in large letter on the side of the hull, a floating bill board of some the world’s great shipping companies.

If you are close enough you may see a single individual on the flying bridge but you almost never see a soul. It is as if they are ghost ships, remotely controlled by someone in a foreign port. It can be rather spooky. As they go by you see the flag of the country where the boat is registered flying from the stern railing and the name of the vessel and its home port, always some romantic place such as Amsterdam, Singapore or Hong Kong. My imagination runs wild.

If they are empty or have a light load the water line is well above the water and the propeller is often slightly exposed. Churning slowly it is inconceivable that the chunk, chunk of the propeller is driving this beast through the water. Crossing the wake you witness the enormous turbulence created by what just passed. Often, miles astern the water is still churning.

I think of many things. What are they carrying? Since a large part of the world depends on inputs and exports to and from other countries it is a good bet there are tv’s, clothing, cars, dolls, engine parts, fertilizer, petroleum and bananas heading to God knows where. What nationality are the crews? What is it like where they come from? What have they seen as they traverse the globe? Did they encounter pirates off the horn of African? I’ll bet they passed through some brutal weather with monstrous seas to get here. There is a story to be told by each of them.

ONE SUNDAY

Unlike our usual summer weekend routine we slept in this particular Sunday. Mid-morning, wanderlust set in and we decided we could not waste this gorgeous summer day and it behooved us to cruise outside the harbor for a while and see what was going on. I called my Dad and asked him to join me and my two oldest kids.




While cruising through the harbor at the mandatory 5 knots, I called a good friend on the marine radio (this is before cell phones) and asked him if he had any bait. He lives on the bay front and keeps a bait receiver in front of his house stocked with live mackerel. Mackerel are great marlin bait and also for the rarely sighted swordfish. We also had aboard a couple of squid we always kept in the freezer for swordfish as well. We transferred a half dozen mackerel to our bait tank and headed out the jetty.



Boat traffic can be quite dense around Newport Beach on a summer Sunday and this day was no exception. I decided to go south to Laguna Beach and then out from there to some of the underwater seamounts that often attract baitfish which in turn attract marlin. There are a couple of deepwater canyons that come in close to shore in this area and it is not unusual for billfish to follow these canyons in quite close to the beach. It is not common but it does happen.



About 4 miles down the beautiful coastline is a rocky point that juts out into the ocean called Abalone Point, aptly named, because the point has a hump to it in the shape of an abalone. We were about 3 miles off shore here when I saw the tail and dorsal fin of a swordfish dip below the surface a few hundred yards ahead of us. I slowed the boat down, idled up to the spot, cut the engine and waited. About 10 minutes later he surfaced close by. You’ve seen babies with a wide open mouth trying to scream but nothing is coming out. That was me. This fish was in the 450 to 500 pound range and loaded with attitude. He laid on the surface with his sword pointed at us in that regal manner they have.



We baited our heaviest, 80 pound test line, outfit with a live mackerel, dropped it back about 50 yards and began to circle the fish with the hopes of getting the bait directly in front of him. At that point we would cut the engine, hope and hang on. We did this for close to an hour. During this time we do not make any noise that might spook the fish. We changed bait from the mackerel to the squid and even tried a brightly colored marlin jig. Mr. Fish just kept turning with us, never allowing us to get our bait right in front of him. We made one last pass with the squid, he turned towards it, then dropped below the surface. We watched our squid descend from view. Sometimes they strike like a freight train. This one took the squid and began a slow deliberate run. My Dad set the hook and the fight was on.



Fighting big fish standup style, which is the norm on the west coast, requires a belt and a harness. The belt to stick the butt end of the rod into and a harness that goes around your shoulders and is attached to the reel in order to allow your arms to rest while your shoulders, back and legs absorb the enormous force exerted on the rod and angler by a fish of this size. The bad news for us and particularly for my Dad was that we did not have a harness with us on this day.



My Dad gets it when it comes to fishing. He gets that it is only partially about the fishing. Teaching your kids how to bait a hook and the hours spent in their company were priceless excerpts in an all too brief period of our lives. I was fortunate enough to have spent countless days on the ocean with my Dad and on this day two of my kids were sharing in one of the more memorable days of all of those.



Over the years we had several encounters with the gladiator of all fish. He had never caught a swordfish and here we were with a chance to fulfill a lifetime dream for him. He had great strength, tremendous will and was tough as nails. Knowing where we were at this moment, he was ready.



One hour went by. The fish would descend hundreds of yards below the surface then rise again. It was as if he was toying with us, annoyed. Boats were standing off to the side of us, watching the battle. He would cavort on the surface, as if showing off to those watching, then spool of 400 yards of line straight down into the depths. All of my Dad’s hard work to get him to the surface for naught.



In the second hour the wind came up and it was hard to stay upright. My Dad, standing braced against the rail with his arms hanging on to a rod bent double. The effect of fighting this brute without a harness was beginning to take its toll. His arms became like noodles. I asked him if he wanted me to take over for a while. I knew the answer but I had to ask.



In the third hour it was all he could do to keep from dropping the rod altogether. Brief spurts of hope kept him going as we now had the mighty fish close to the boat on several occasions. As the fish got close we could clearly see his enormous size in the crystal clear blue water. Each time I felt he was close enough to gaff, I would come down the ladder from the wheelhouse, grab the leader and try to pull the fish close enough to gaff. Each time, with the leader in hand and the fish so close, a wave would knock us away and the fish would take off on another run.



Each time my Dad was that much closer to complete exhaustion. You cannot imagine the stress on the entire body, particularly the back, of a standup fight with a fish this size. Fifteen minutes in to the fourth hour, we had the fish up to the boat again. My kids, 8 and 10 years old at the time, stood off to the side and watched. I did not want them anywhere near when we sunk the gaff into this fish that was nowhere near being subdued. In fishing circles they call this a “hot” fish. This dude was the hottest of all hot fish.



I put the boat in reverse one last time hoping to surge close enough to allow me time to get down the ladder, grab the leader and take a couple of pulls to get within range. I shifted the boat from reverse to neutral and headed down the ladder. I got a couple of good turns on the leader, reached for the gaff and “pow”. There was a loud noise like a rifle shot as the line broke. We watched as the fish slowly swam deeper and deeper, out of sight. My Dad and I were speechless. We sat on the rail for a long time without moving.



Not a word was said as I climbed the ladder, put the boat in gear and headed to port. My Dad’s resolve to prevail was such that his back was never the same. He fought back problems for the rest of his life because he would not give in to that fish. In no hurry, we cruised slowly back to Newport Beach. I will forever have etched in my mind the image of my Dad. As I looked down from the wheelhouse he was sitting on the stern, shoulders slumped over, staring nowhere, still in disbelief.

SWORDFISH

There is no argument that the lion reigns as the king of the animal kingdom. There may be animals that can run faster or jump higher, but in a face-off with a lion they know they are toast. When you leave land and venture beneath the surface of the world’s oceans, the broadbill swordfish is afforded the same title and respect within the salt water world of fish.

Their bravery is unquestioned as they have been known to attack boats, great white sharks and even killer whales when provoked. Tales of their strength, power and endurance have mesmerized fishermen for generations. Their long, broad bill, hence the name broadbill swordfish, is their weapon of choice and when wielded by a creature reeking of muscle from that bill to its powerful tail it makes for one ferocious fish when poked in the chest.

From an ocean anglers standpoint they are the ultimate prize. There are those who have pursued them their entire lives and not succeeded. Sightings are rare to begin with, getting the fish to take a bait even rarer and then the real battle begins. They are generally seen on the surface, with their tail and dorsal fin above water basking in the sun, resting between sojourns up to several hundred fathoms deep in search of food. The distance between the tail and dorsal fin is a tease as to how big the fish is. Smallish would be 150 pounds while the larger ones are 400 pounds plus.

In southern California, where I live, the usual strategy is to approach the fish as slow as your boat will go, so as not to spook him with loud noise or the wake of the boat. Some will cast a live mackerel off the bow, others will let a mackerel or 2-3 foot long squid (imported from New Zealand) out from the stern and circle the fish in an effort to stop and drop the bait directly in front of the swordfish. No easy task when the fish continues to turn with the boat. It is not unusual to circle a swordfish for up to an hour only to have them descend out of sight as if to say, thanks but no thanks.

If the fishing gods are smiling on you a strike can occur at the first pass or as you are about to pull your hair out in frustration. As you stop and your bait sinks in front of them, they drop below the surface. If the fish is not interested you will wait until you realize you have been stiffed. If he is interested he will circle the bait, out of view, waiting to strike. If he does, there will be no doubt as to what just happened. He will either grab the bait and begin his run or whack it with his bill with tremendous force, then pick it up and begin his run. In either case your adrenalin rush has just gone off the charts.

If you contain yourself and remain patient during this moment of all moments, you let the fish swim with the bait for a distance to ensure a solid hookup. At the same time the reel is put in gear the skipper guns the boat forward to straighten out the line and set the hook. It is at this time you realize you are in the big leagues. Stung by your hook the broadbill takes off on a run of such force and speed your loaded-for-bear tackle you were so proud of seems woefully inadequate for the task at hand. In an instant your arms turn to spaghetti and you’re in the top half of the first inning.

I’ve got to relax for a moment and take a deep breath. I will save for another blog my tales of triumph and despair in dealing with the gladiator of all fish.