WhereBJimmyB

Kiteworld Mag Issue 46--Calin Lisenbee

2010-08-03T23:37:00.000-07:00

If there was ever a poster girl for the subtle pull of a travel destination or, for that matter, travel in general, it'd have to be Calin Lisenbee. The ex city slicker can pull together a tasty menu in a part of the world where a simple 7-11 can take on the aire of the gourmet deli section of your favorite supermarket. The next time you're in Cabarete, you'd do well to tuck in to the Kite Club Cafe. Bon Appetit and Happy Kiting.

Kiteworld Mag Issue 46--Litewave Dave Turner

2010-08-01T02:52:00.000-07:00

The first time I'd cross paths with Dave Turner would be a few years back at the Jupiter Kite Invasion in South Florida. He was patrolling the water's edge while a local rider was demoing some gear Dave had lugged over from California. With his eyes peeled on the action before him, he was simultaneously doing a pretty good impersonation of a small child who's just learned they're getting a new puppy. The guy's enthusiasm and passion was immediately obvious. It'd be there that I'd make a first attempt at an interview. Now, three plus years later, I'd finally get a chance to follow up. I'm glad I did and even more glad Dave was kind enough to give me the benefit of the doubt for round two. Eleventh place world ranking...Damn!

Role Model

2010-06-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

Robby Naish. Forty something and going strong. Very, very strong if this vid is anything to go on. Proof positive there's hope for us older types and that the stoke is still there in abundant supply. There for those willing to get off the couch to tap into it.

La Vida Simplistica

2010-06-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

A "lifestyle flick" with a bit of kiting. And some excellent kiting at that.

The Best Odyssey Yacht Share - Captain's Logs - Blowing our minds in the Maldives

2010-05-29T01:45:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, just around the next corner, a place and an adventure like this awaits.

The Best Odyssey Yacht Share - Captain's Logs - Blowing our minds in the Maldives

Great Walks Article

2010-02-15T19:52:00.000-08:00

Kiteworld Mag #43--Gabe Webber

2010-02-11T18:54:00.000-08:00

The best part of the traveling lifestyle? That's a no brainer: the people you meet along the way. There have been too many to count but only a few that have so effortlessly prompted me to put pen to paper. Gabe Webber is definitely one of those people and I wish him continued good fortune as his gallavanting tour progresses. Sometimes we all need that little vicarious push to re-instill the notion that it's all still out there...waiting. Thank you, Gabe, for the reminder.

Tongan Lemon Aid

2010-01-31T14:13:00.000-08:00

If yachting has taught me anything over the past ten years, it is that job security is as about as ephemeral as the notion of public opinion. When it’s bad, it’s atrocious and when it’s good I can’t help but start looking over my shoulder. So, as we pulled into the Kingdom of Tonga’s main hub of Nuku Alofa with two crew desperate to escape the floating gulag created care of the boss’s wife, the writing was, not so much on the wall, as emblazoned across the sky in day glo lettering.

A few days later, our disgruntled chef and chief stew were on a plane bound for home with the boss and his live aboard family—still somehow oblivious—soon to proceed ahead on to Australia via a flight of their own. The plan was for us to take on a cool 8,000 gallons of fuel and follow suit the long, slow route. To exactly what, no one could really say for sure. All that was certain, however, this being sleepy Tonga where bureaucratic red tape and weekend religious obligations slow things to an ice age like crawl, some down time was forthcoming in the interlude. It couldn’t have come at a better place and with the previous South Pacific hospitality of the Cook Islands and Niue still so fresh and an 8 to 10 day crossing back to Brisbane awaiting, we were primed. Anxious for snorkeling excursions to the area’s various shallow reefs and exploring various local watering holes on tiny neighboring islands with names such as Fafa and Pangaimotu and even one or two whose names we never got. In the end, with our Kiwi expat and local shipping agent, Dave, cueing us up, the personalized island tours, the teeming forests of live hard corals, the cold Maka beers and local introductions all around would follow and prove the perfect remedy to most everything that ailed us.

“I’m going to entitle this photo, ‘Why We Yacht’”, I called out over my shoulder to two fellow crew members (Kira and Garrett) as we began to make our way back from our snorkeling outing in our 18 ft. tender with yet one more anonymous island in the background. “That’s what I’m talking about,” came the reply from Garrett at the helm as Kira just stared more or less straight ahead with a grin of her own beaming a sense of mutual acknowledgement. It was a smile that spoke volumes. One that said despite everything—the uncertain, tedious, mind numbing BS of the entire shebang--or, maybe because of it, in this industry the days off were never to be taken lightly. Sometimes, with Nuku Alofa and the immediate vicinity being the case this particular occasion, they were quite simply to die for. We had this and nothing and no one was taking it from us.

As for the yachting job security? Definitely overrated.

Niue

2010-01-19T15:16:00.000-08:00

The microscopic island nation of Niue emerged from the morning darkness off our starboard bow two days after having had to bid farewell to the Cook Islands. I peered intently through my binoculars as we rounded the island’s southern point, trying desperately to get some sort of perspective on this place that, only three days before, I’d never even heard mention of. As such, our slow 10 knot cruise into the island’s main harbor of Alofi, took on an energy that I was hardly used to. This was uncharted territory as far as I was concerned. Even the island name’s pronunciation (New-way) remained open for debate amongst the crew, even as we prepared to drop the anchor.

Described as the world’s largest raised coral island, the “Rock of Polynesia” or, more simply “the Rock” as it’s known by the locals, seems a fairly apt description upon first glance of the island’s seemingly endless, fortress like coastline. Located 1,500 miles northeast of New Zealand, the island which exists in “Free Association” (read not completely sovereign) with New Zealand is all of 100 square miles large and with a population in the vicinity of 1,800 souls. Nearly ten times more Niuens reside in New Zealand than on the island itself. Walking down the main street of the island’s largest town of Alofi is about as action packed as walking through a small strip mall, only after a bomb scare. The island’s only sand beach, ironically enough, isn’t really a beach at all. Togo Chasm is on the opposite side of the island within the Huvalu Conservation Area with the “beach” being a small patch of white sand set at the bottom of coral pinnacles reached via a climb down a steep wooden ladder.

Yet, it was while spending a mere two hours running errands ashore that it became clear Niue was special for what it still possessed, rather than what it was lacking. And what it seemed to have lots of was that special something, an unspoiled Polynesian warmth that in Hawaii goes by the name of the Aloha Spirit. The island was full of smiling, happy people willing to talk and share a moment of their day with you. Isolated and not overrun with Hawaii and Caribbean style tourism, the visitor to Niue gets an experience of a different sort and the novel, mesmerizing nature of the place only increases exponentially for anyone donning scuba gear or, as I’d do, a mere mask and snorkel.

The one or two local dive operators boldly proclaim visibility of up to 70 meters (or a whopping 200 feet). With 100 feet visibility considered pristine and worldclass, I could hardly wait for the guests to go ashore so I could take a peak below the surface along the shoreline reef just off our bow. I wasn’t disappointed as there, just offshore of the island’s main town, I floated in gin clear waters harboring more healthy hard corals in a single 100 yard circuit than I’d seen in a lifetime of diving. Even more impressive was in knowing that this particular stretch of reef was still in a recovery phase from the pummeling it took back in January 2004. It was then when Cyclone Heta decimated the shoreline and 90 percent of the island itself with 130 mph winds and 30 and 40 foot plus waves damaging shoreline reef and dwellings situated atop the cliffs overlooking the bay.

Today, five years on, only a repaired giant crack in the town’s main concrete pier remains as testimony to that time and for two days we’d remain anchored offshore in as tranquil a setting as any I’ve known in my yachting career. Just long enough to begin to realize, such time was hardly enough. The Cooks, now tiny Niue, both full of sincere smiles and easy banter were proving infectious and the South Pacific in general, after so many books and photos, was no longer a distant pipe dream. Tonga was next on the itinerary and, truth be told, I didn’t care if it took forever to get there.

First Impressions--Cook Islands

2010-01-04T13:00:00.000-08:00

The arrival terminal at the Cook Island’s Rarotonga is a simple, non-descript set up. Barely the size of a playground sized, full-lengthed basketball court, its four walls encase four or five small booths behind which immigration officials dole out stamps, a duty free counter, a baggage carousel and not much else. Even beneath bright sunny skies, one look told me the area wasn’t destined to win any interior design awards. Arriving, as my flight was, in the vicinity of midnight, the drab, olive green walls bathed in the soft hue of insufficient florescent lighting only served to give the place the feel of tired hospital ward whose staff had fled in the face of a fast approaching enemy. Even so, despite everything, including a busted baggage carousel that would initiate the more industrious in our group to form an impromptu human conveyor belt, it hardly mattered. I had arrived. The music confirmed it.

The musical source was a wiry looking 60 something gentleman decked out in a floral patterned shirt and a straw hat. From a carpeted perch which straddled two sides of the decrepit baggage carousel, he serenaded the small island nation’s most recent arrivals with his ukulele in a language I immediately recognized as being quite similar to Hawaiian. From two women standing behind me in line I’d learn the gentleman was a bit of an institution unto himself having been playing under such circumstances for as long as either could remember. For a good twenty minutes he’d stir the still, early morning air with the melodious “whikka whikka” of his instrument and voice that painted pictures of swaying palms and untouched white sandy beaches. And just like that, the Cook Islands and the South Pacific would emerge from the fuzzy haze of nearly 18,000 miles to become a reality. Courtesy of yet one more yacht job. This one, bound for my new front door of Brisbane, Australia and possibly beyond. But this being yachting, I knew not to look too far down the track.

My more immediate concern, once my bag had been eventually located, was in getting to my hotel which a very rushed Google search had led me to believe was walking distance away from the airport. In the end, the hotel would prove at the opposite, south side of the island. After fifteen minutes of investigation, such would be the final verdict handed down from a large, gardenia lei, adorned taxi attendant who’d point me in the right direction for my ride while reassuring me with a smile, it would be a short one as,“it only takes 20 minutes to drive around the entire island.” Such is but one of the perks of arriving in an island nation whose entire 15 islands comprise a total land mass just barely 93 square miles.

Amazingly, the ride would prove short as promised with no skewed island distances seemingly in effect, at least, not at the empty island darkness of 1 a.m. In the end it would be just long enough to get quick intro to the island and to compare Hawaiian stories with my driver who’d, likewise, spent plenty of time there. But more importantly, with the arrival terminal music still resonating and the sweet island smells of the sleeping island enveloping me, long enough to know morning’s daylight couldn’t come soon enough. Long enough to have a deep sinking suspicion that I was in for a treat. Even if another boat job was involved.

Close to Home

2009-12-22T17:06:00.000-08:00

It had already been a good month back stateside long before a Friday night in Wilmington, North Carolina and the non-descript Dubliner Irish Pub crashed an otherwise predictable stroll down memory lane. From LA’s iconic El Cholo Mexican Restaurant with good friends straight off the plane from Australia to a good ol’ fashioned throw down of a wedding in Virginia Beach to a big 40th birthday bash on Topsail Island to a three day, 1600 mile round trip jaunt to Ft. Lauderdale to visit friends and empty out a storage locker, the miles, as usual, had ticked off in a bit of a blur. But it would be there on the doorsteps of the old, often forgotten landmark of Greenfield Lake, that my very own hometown served up a powerful memory of its own.

I’d get a first glimpse of things to come only a week earlier, on a school night no less, by lucking into JJ Grey and Mofro playing at the local amphitheatre on the Spanish moss shrouded banks of Greenfield Lake. It was a venue that not only didn’t exist when I was coming up, but also, one that didn’t hardly even seem plausible. My recollection of the lake section of town was that of an area that, at best, was a transitional stretch of town separating uptown from downtown. The lake was to Wilmington what offensive lineman are to football: any attention paid to it in the press was rarely, if ever, good press. As a result, then, the opportunity to listen to the Jacksonville, Florida based group’s soulful, funk infused lyrics lamenting the “Stripmallification” of the Sunshine State in such an intimate setting suddenly became one of those How-Cool-Is-This-Moments that quite frankly blindsided me. Mofro and company had helped to part the clouds before, a week later, the area would again take center stage, this time in the wake of a cross town, high school football rivalry.

“Take a right on Carolina Beach Road and when you get to Greenfield Lake, look left,” said a friend and local watering hole aficionado. Such would be the extent of the directions and ones that I remembered from many years earlier as being little more than those for an awkwardly configured intersection housing a besieged and battered looking convenient store and little else. As we pulled into the parking lot that evening, one look around seemed to support the idea little had changed since then. Inside, however, amidst a gauzy haze of cigarette smoke and the din of boisterous banter and juke box tunes, the local’s prospects immediately showed promise.

Not much larger than a lavish two car garage, the Dubliner housed a single pool table, a substantial bar running nearly the full length of the room’s back wall and, most noticeably, just inside the front door, a well lit compact stage with two guitars and mic set ups. The crowd meanwhile comprised 20-30 souls of various ages, shapes and sizes. We were a motley, blue collar crew for sure and it seemed fair to say, one for which the area’s downtown college scene just down the road or the higher rent district of Wrightsville Beach across town did not hold much interest. “This is the sort of place,” my guide bellowed into my ear while passing out the first round, “that the Irish passing through via the port use their 6th sense to smell out and find.” A few sips later, once the music started, it became clear why.

The music poured forth care of Irish born and bred, 60 something owner, Thomas Williams and his equally gifted accomplice and, within moments of starting back up, I was captivated and transported elsewhere. Back to a land of rolling, emerald green countryside and heavy, tummy tickling stout. Guitars and the owner’s thick Irish brogue conspired to produce foot tapping tales and equally somber ballads with everything being peppered with sporadic doses of flute work via a petite aspiring musician floating amidst the stage front crowd. “How’s this?” my long time companion, Tate, called out as the trio played on into the evening. “All this and not a single television in sight.” Indeed, it was but one more observation that we really weren’t in Kansas anymore and that perhaps I needed to get home more often.

With this sentiment hanging heavy in the air, the rest of the evening played out with more beers and even a sneak preview from the following night’s entertainment, Wayne, during a rare break from the night’s main act. It’d be Wayne, full of handshakes and invitations to return for his show the following evening that we’d eventually end up saying our final goodbyes to while offering our sincere regrets for not being able to return the next evening. Maybe next time, we said, and we meant it but, with an early a.m. departure for North Carolina’s Outer Banks looming on the horizon, we headed for home and, for me, with plenty to ponder as the irony of the evening was not lost on me, even then.

For just over 20 years the tantalizing allure of the road had called me away but now, two times in less than a week, Wilmington had caught me blissfully unaware. The countless miles and experiences had provided plenty of perspective in that time and, yet, the Dubliner would prove to be the final resounding slap to the face. The smack to remind me that sometimes even one’s own backyard can prove exotic in its own right providing one is really willing to search beyond the familiar. But that said, with Australia a definite and somewhere in the South Pacific destined to follow, I am still happy to be able to say, a little more perspective never hurt anyone.

Baby Steps

2009-10-07T20:26:00.000-07:00

I remember him well.

Dale was in his mid 20s, from Georgia and sitting to my left over a pint of beer in a pub near Christchurch, New Zealand back in 2000. Once he realized we were relative neighbors, he began lamenting the fact he only had ten more days of his two week vacation. He’d fallen in love with the country (who doesn’t?) and wasn’t anxious to go home.

“Why don’t you stay longer?” I asked him non-chalantly, somehow oblivious to the proverbial can of worms I was opening. His bloodshot eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him my friend and I had been in the country for nearly two months, a period which was only a fraction of the seven months we planned to be away from the States.

“How?” was all he could muster before I began asking him questions, the answers to which I somehow knew were coming. As expected he’d booked his vacation through a travel agent. This being a person who sits behind a desk for endless weeks out of a year doling out information to strangers on how best to utilize precious two week periods of time. He was paying over 100 US dollars a night for his hotel and had even been suckered into having his itinerary set thanks to the service of those lumbering hearses commonly referred to as tour busses.

“Do you realize in two weeks you’re spending more than I’ll spend in over three or four months?” I carefully pointed out, before answering “camping” and “hostels” to his question of “Where do you stay?”

“How do you spell hostel?” he asked, beginning to write down bits of what I was saying.

I was beginning to lose my patience but chose to stick with it, finally suggesting he write down the name of a series of guide books I knew would answer most, if not all of his questions. “It’s called ‘Lonely Planet Guidebooks’, that’ll get you pointed in the right direction,” I told him, figuring I’d done my good deed for the evening, before getting back to my own beer and, not long after, an even more trying political discussion.

Eventually, we left Dale there, with his scrawled list of new vocabulary words on a napkin beside him and still clinging desperately to his belief that, in terms of homicides, the most dangerous country in the world wasn’t, in fact, the United States, but rather, “somewhere in South America.” “Poor Dale,” I remember thinking then and, since that time, I’ve crossed paths with more “Dales” than I can count.

However, over the years I’ve come to see, considering how poorly set up the US is for budget travel, Dale’s perspective was to be expected. But then, he was a lucky one; at least, he was willing to listen. Seasoned international jetsetter or traveling neophyte, the lessons of the road are forever ongoing and, in the end, I felt a slight intrinsic lump welling up inside me in having helped to pull the curtain back ever so slightly on the opening act of Dale’s possible fledgling career as a backpacker. As for those statistics, however, it was clear the guy still had a long way to go.

Aussie Pies

2009-10-03T22:05:00.000-07:00

They’re to Australians what peanuts and Kracker Jacks are to the American pastime of baseball and about as ubiquitous as hamburgers and hotdogs are on a Fourth of July celebration. If your guess is blooming onions you’ve been watching too much television since, along with Outback Steakhouse, the deep fried, artery clogger is non-existent in the true Land Down Under. No, I’m talking about Australian pies. Puff pastry filled savory pies with fillings ranging from the traditional mince meat to chunky steak and the gourmet varieties such as various curries, steak and mushroom and countless others that keep Aussies lining up each morning at their local bakeries. And the lines can get long since it’s reported Australians eat upwards of 250 million a year or an average of 13 per capita, a number I find preposterously low since, all joking aside, I had nearly half that many last week alone. According to various sources, the humble Australian pie has an even less auspicious history dating back to the mid 16th-17th century England. Then, lacking refrigeration, a much thicker crust (up to 7 inches thick according to Brisbane food historian, Dr. Janet Clarkson) was used not for consumption but, merely as a vessel in which to preserve cooked meats and their juices for periods of up to a year. If the crust was eaten at all, it was as a thickener for soups or by members of England’s lower classes who couldn’t afford stoves necessary for cooking the, then, haute cuisine.

Once eventually brought to Australia, an abundant supply of wheat and mutton helped bring pies to the masses. Soon pies were being distributed via the industrious efforts of small pie trolleys whose proprietors pedaled their wares along city streets and outside sporting event venues.

Today the pie carts have faded to the history books. These days you can find freshly made pies at bakeries which are practically more prevalent than pubs across the country with one local Queensland bakery, Yatala Pies, producing upwards of 2000 or more per day. Down in Victoria, home of the ever popular Four N Twenty brand, the factory there pumps out an incredible 50,000 pies per hour. It sounds like a ridiculous amount until you come to realize at a single Aussie Rules final in Melbourne fans have been known to polish off a cool 90,000 in an afternoon.

Yes, Aussies love their pies but, even so, they come with a bit of controversy served on the side in terms of nutritional value with some massed produced pies registering a staggering 25 plus grams of fat. Health concerns became so great that in 2002, then New South Wales premier, Bob Carr, would go on record during a Child Obesity Conference stating that feeding a steady diet of pies and sausage rolls to young children was paramount to “child cruelty”. However, only one year later, in front of reporters at a press conference, he’d have a slight change of heart. There he’d hold up a pie and, as the flash bulbs clicked, proclaim it Australia’s “National Dish”.

A convenient reprioritizing, compliments of a healthy infusion of cash from campaign donors? Perhaps. Or maybe, just a simple, old fashioned flip flop. Whatever your take, my guess is he’d tried the blooming onion.

Going Back-Part I

2009-10-01T03:15:00.000-07:00

After nine years and a memorable four and a half hour crossing of the Southern Alps from Christchurch to Greymouth finished only moments before, I knew I was close. The anticipation was palpable. A single one hour ride down the verdant, wide open west coast of New Zealand to what I remembered as being the sleepy, ex gold mining town of Hokitika, was all that remained. All that separated me from a friendly acquaintance and a long overdue task. It’d had been nine years, I reminded myself one more time as I took my seat and waited anxiously to depart. One more hour, I had to believe, was not going to kill me.
We’d met in December of 1999 while my travel companion Tate and I sussed out a pebble strewn riverbank for a campsite on the outskirts of another anonymous South Island coastal town during a blissful two month tour of the country. As we deliberated the appropriateness of our prospective site (we had no idea whether there existed local ordinances against roadside camping; the sort of which are seemingly ubiquitous at home), Robert Warman and his teenage son pulled up with fishing poles in hand. “A few final weekend casts before heading south for home,” Robert lamented after we exchanged greetings.
“What do you think,” Tate would soon inquire after a quick synopsis of our present decision making process. “Do you reckon’ it’d be a good idea to set up camp here for the night?”
“Hell mate,” Robert immediately responded while glancing around him for added emphasis. “This is New Zealand. Plenty of space and not a whole lotta people. I reckon’ it’d be a fuckin’ great idea.” And just like that, a new friendship was forged. We’d talk for all of thirty minutes before our most recent friend and his son would head off for home. Not a lot of time but enough to cover the basics: where we were from, where we’d been and details of our flexible itinerary. Enough time for easy banter and laughs and, eventually, for Robert to extend an invite to stop in for a home cooked meal and a place to stay once we finished our upcoming weeklong trek. It was a no brainer. We’d been in New Zealand long enough to determine Robert’s offer was genuine and, that decided, we gave him our word we’d show.
And we did and, in doing so, we’d end up spending a solid week as Robert’s guests. He’d make room for us in a loft overlooking various wood working machinery and lumber in his work shed, invite us into the family house for numerous dinners and drinks and, the cu de gras, even deck us out in snazzy mask and costumes for the Hokitika Christmas parade, earning us first prize honors in the process. In all, it was the sort of week that not only restores your faith in humanity, but one that drives home with perfect clarity why travelers set out in the first place. The next day, with the parade’s foul weather lifted, we’d finally continue on our way south, leaving profuse thank yous in our wake and with Robert’s business card stashed away for safe keeping and the promise to write.
But apparently not stashed away safe enough and in a cruel ironic twist of fate, Robert’s would be the only thank you card that would go unwritten upon our return home at the end of our seven month jaunt. And over the years no amount of Google searches and numerous phone calls to random Hokitika business owners found their mark and the frustration mounted. Like the images of our enchanted two months in New Zealand, Robert Warman had begun to fade into the foggy haze of memory.
Now, so many years later as the kilometers ticked off, questions bombarded me. Did Robert still live in Hokitika? From the shadows would I be able to recollect enough of our time there to be able to locate his antique shop and work shed? If I did find him, would he even remember me? Such were but a few of my thoughts as we rolled into downtown “Hoki” along a street I began to vaguely remember as being one we danced along during our soggy Christmas parade stroll. Then, not even seconds after retrieving my bag from the back of the bus, I answered one of the primary questions I’d been asking since first arriving into the country. “No,” I told myself while walking in the direction of the main highway, “regardless of whether I found Robert or not, this was no waste of time.” Something was already telling me, this was worth the effort.

Kiteworld Magazine #41

2009-09-23T15:54:00.001-07:00

At your newstand now. Minus the photo album, of course.

TranzAlpine--NZ

2009-09-16T14:53:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/TranzAlpineNZ

From two previous, lengthy visits, experience had shown that New Zealand begs to be visited and explored. For bicyclists, the country’s roads are scenic, empty and inviting. Hitchhikers are not only easily picked up, they’re often treated like long lost family. Backpacker busses are abundant and inexpensive and, for those staying longer, the procedure of buying a car and transferring paperwork is relatively effortless thanks to a blissful absence of red tape. With all this in mind, I reasoned then, a train trip across the country’s south island was as viable an idea as any for my present five day Kiwi getaway.
Though I felt I’d seen my fair share of the country’s interior from various summer hiking excursions, as I settled into the seat of my designated TranzAlpine train carriage just before an 8:30 am departure, I was anxious, nonetheless, to see how such landscapes transformed with a liberal sprinkling of southern hemisphere, spring snow. I didn’t have to wait long as only twenty minutes into the four and a half hour journey between Christchurch and the west coast town of Greymouth, New Zealand’s countryside first revealed what lay in store. With Christchurch’s miniscule version of industrial blight behind us, my fellow passengers and I soon found ourselves zipping across the vast, jade green carpet of the Canterbury Plains as the sugar coated Southern Alps loomed tantalizingly ahead adamantly declaring that, yes, you’re on your way.
Originally used to transport cargos of various natural resources, not until 1987 would the 231 kilometer (140 miles) long rail line be used for tourism purposes and since then its popularity has steadily increased and today the little rail line that knew it could handles upwards of 200,000 passengers a year. Passengers that, it should be noted, are quick to annually vote the line as one of the top ten railway lines in the world. It is a journey that comes compliments of 19 tunnels and four viaducts, the highest aptly called the Staircase at 73 meters (240 ft.). One need only spend ten minutes in any of the trains’ open air viewing carriages to realize the engineering ingenuity to be well worth it and the global recognition is legitimate. It is here that countless video and digital camera owners and I roam in a hyperactive-like fervor jockeying for prime vantage points on both sides of the track. While camera disc and chip storages are pushed to their limits, I can’t help but think how, before the arrival of digital cameras, such vast expanses of snowcapped peaks must have surely been a cash cow for Kodak and after close to an hour and a half I am practically numb. Numb from the frigid mountain temperatures, but also, to an even greater extent, from a serious case of NSO (Natural Splendor Overload). This, despite the somewhat overcast skies.
Judging from the fact I eventually find myself the last man standing in the viewing carriage, I know mine is not the only case and inside I go to contemplate the world outside my window and, more importantly, warm up. Not long after, the track reaches its highest point at 737 meters (2,418 ft.) in the sleepy enclave of Arthur’s Pass where one of a handful of five minute stops allows passengers to disembark. Back onboard the westward push ensues with a rapid, 280 meter (918 ft.) descent via a 15 minute darkened traversing of the Otira Tunnel. Completed in 1923 after fifteen years of construction, the tunnel is yet one more engineering marvel of the rail line, unique in that it has a gradient of 1 in 33, meaning that for every 33 meter traveled forward the track descends one meter. Considered quite steep for a tunnel, at the time of its completion the tunnel was the seventh longest tunnel in the world (the longest in the Southern Hemisphere) and the longest in the British Empire.
Today’s more recently constructed tunnels have knocked the Otira down a few pegs. However, considering where it is located, the service it provides and the scenery it makes accessible, it seems most certain the Otira Tunnel’s legacy is secure. Close to a quarter million impressed passengers a year and the majestic backdrops of the Southern Alps guarantee it.
Once again, it simply just doesn’t get any easier than New Zealand.

Decisions

2009-09-09T01:41:00.001-07:00

The plan seemed straight forward enough. It was to be merely a quick five day jaunt down to Christchurch, New Zealand for a visa run. Yet, judging from the look of concern on the face of the Kiwi immigration official, my plans (or lack, thereof) were a tad too simplistic. I had the vaguest of vague answers as to a hostel to stay, a general itinerary or any sort of contact name or telephone number while in the country. In the end, the truth of my reason for being here and proof of an onward ticket back to Australia would get me stamped in. From there, I was on my own and, this being New Zealand, I mean truly alone in a sea of options to consider.
To begin with there are no less than eight backpacker hostel in Christchurch alone. This being a city with a population only slightly more than the numbers you'd expect to see in a typical US mall on the day after Thanksgiving. Once a place to lay one's head is decided upon, the information overload continues with endless advertisements for activities such as bungy jumping, tandem sky diving, jet boat river rides, parasailing, white water rafting, caving, unparalleled backcountry hiking, and skiing and snowboarding to name but just a few of the more popular diversions. And they're all practically next door to each other making it possible to do three or four of these activities in a single day. As I stared at the wall of options before me in the arrival area, memories of my own previous experiences in 1992 and during the Millennium celebrations sent my pulse racing and my imagination suddenly swamped with the best possible scenarios for my upcoming five days here. At the same time, I felt almost sorry for the poor, time constrained first time backpackers forced to make the same decisions without any of their own experiences to draw on. However, I suppose I faired alright my first time here back in 1992 which is more a testament to the country itself rather than any savvy decision making on my part. Still, either way, good luck.
Since my first visit here I'd been singing the praises of New Zealand. Now, back for less than two hours--and not even out of the airport-the message was being driven home with unmistakable clarity once again. Never has such an amazing country worked so hard to make exploring its natural wonders so easy.
In the meantime, the ski season is winding down with abundant specials begging for takers and one of the world's most scenic train trips is on my doorstep. I could suddenly feel a plan taking shape as, once again, this being New Zealand, sitting on one's ass is not an option. How silly of me to have thought that riding five days out in a Christchurch hostel (Charlie Bs Backpacker fittingly enough) was going to come to pass.
I think it safe to say it's going to be an amazing five days.

Extremely Underrated

2009-08-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

In the late 70s The Who boldly proclaimed “The Kids are alright”. Less than 20 years later, 24 hour sport networks, energy drink and marketing conglomerates united and added a sugar rush fueled caveat of their own; “And they’re bored”. Welcome then, the “Extreme Games” of 1995, the carnival-like festival offering Olympic medal style competition for, among other things, BMX, bungee jumping and rollerblading. One year later, the more marketable moniker of the X Game was unveiled and it’s been a profitable succession of Roman numeral suffixes ever since. By 1997 the marketing phenomenon had grown popular enough to ensure that year’s inaugural Winter X Games were broadcast to 198 countries in 21 different countries across the globe. Suddenly, in less time than it took a Belarusian 15 year old to utter, “Gnarly double tailwhip 540, dude,“ names such as Shaun White, Travis Pastrana and Tony Hawk were the poster boys for making the insanely dangerous appear not only innocuous, but stylish as well. Today, White’s snowboarding antics have helped make him the most famous red head since Ronald McDonald, Pastrana is the god of the Moto X’s double back flip and Hawke is a still competitive, nearly 40 year old gazillionaire skateboarder with, among everything else, even his own line of video games to sign and pass out like business cards. It’s all quite heady stuff and, even though the X Games are only a seasonal, twice a year extravaganza, the mindset has spread like a dose of Red Bull to the bloodstream across the psyche of a generation. From ESPN to Fuel TV, the airwaves are awash in testosterone fueled, athletic individuals risking paralysis, death and even shame, all in the name of fun, prize money and self promotion.
Though it’s all quite rad, for sure, at the risk of offending devout, X Cult followers, I have to say it: The marketing is definitely da bomb. Not to dismiss what is definitely a mad display of athletic prowess, how else does one explain the relative obscurity of another recreational hobby called ski racing that took hold back in the early 70’s, is practiced around the world in close to ten countries and involves pulling multiple waterskiers behind boats at Mach 1 like speeds? While I realize not everyone can afford a 1600 horse powered, turbo charged toy on which to play, at the same time, could it really get any more extreme than this?
Such were my thoughts the first time I stood in the garage of Michael Hardie’s Brisbane home taking in the sleek lines of the 23 foot motor boat stabled there. It’d be there I’d first get a glimpse into a sport I’d never heard mention of and one which, for Michael, whose father served as president of Queensland Ski Racing Association in the mid 80s, was in his blood. “Yeah, we line up, take off and pull a couple skiers behind us while racing other boats on a river,” he’d tell me with all the gusto of someone channel surfing. He explained a team comprises four members; a driver, an aft facing observer and two skiers who are towed in slalom like fashion compliments of 220 foot long ski ropes, three times longer than recreational ropes. On river and inland waterways courses ranging anywhere from 12 to 85 miles, the boats burn nearly one gallon per minute in engines that are remarkably similar to those used in Indy Formula One Racing.
It was all a lot to take in. Formula One engines and aviation fuel sounded serious. And then there was the serious issue of speed, the sort of which has killed and injured its fair share of participants, and which Michael’s been lucky to twice survive. Upwards of 125 miles per hour said Michael with typical blasé Australian flare. The number buckled my knees momentarily as I studied him, searching for the faintest hint of a leg pulling grin before realizing none was forthcoming. “Holy deathwish, Batman,” I heard myself utter before thinking, “Who the hell actually volunteers to get towed behind a boat at speeds like that?” Apparently, there’s an extensive list from which to choose. On the Hawksbury River near Sydney, the Bridge to Bridge Race is the largest ski racing event in the world. There 400 boat teams set out with a single “all start”, which involves two teams simultaneously making the jump into hyperspace at three second intervals.
I tried to envision the nerve tingling thrill of it all. The stir of the crowd lining the river bank as 1600 competitors set to compete amidst the smell of aviation fuel and the guttural, base like thumping of idling engines. Then, with all players in place, a starting gun and the almost simultaneous deafening roar which goes up as the first teams blast off, hell bent for glory. Primed for speed and banishing thoughts of catastrophe, like everything else except for the stretch of water straight ahead, to a distant blur. All this and hardly a prime time television camera (and decent clip of video footage, for that matter) anywhere in sight and that, I’m sorry to say, is the extreme shame of it all.

Tasmania

2009-08-24T00:11:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/Tasmania#

Tucked away on the southeast corner of Tasmania, in the bosom of the Tasman Peninsula and Tasman National Park, sits the remains of the island’s first penal colony of Port Arthur. Put into use beginning in 1803, today’s sleepy tourist attraction, which tragically made front page news in 1996 in the country’s worst shooting massacre, was literally the end of the road for many a petty thief and felon alike. Deemed unfit even for the prisons of Britain’s colony in New South Wales they’d come, banished to the geographical equivalent of a black hole. Even today, with the technological wonders of Google Earth and other satellite communication, this corner of the universe often falls far below the radar. Walking the grounds of the tidy, well maintained property today, one ponders at their own risk, the depths of crushing depression and forced solitude which must’ve permeated this forlorn cul-de-sac just 200 years ago. Today the convicts are forever gone, yet, in an almost fitting homage to their lives of silent exile and toil, the solitude lingers. Even in the relative bustling city center of Hobart, 50 miles away, there resonates a serene tranquility generally associated with small towns as opposed to the city of 250,000 souls that it is. With a grand total population of only a half million, this leaves the other hearty half sporadically scattered throughout an area roughly half the size of the state of Maine. And as the fact that 37 percent of the island is listed as either reserves, national parks or heritage sites suggests, there’s more than zoo trips and the ill tempered, puppy sized Tasmanian Devil to occupy one’s time with here. As such, our three day getaway, after two weeks spent packing house in Hobart, would prove woefully insufficient and it should go without saying the weather hardly helped. Regardless, it was time to explore and, with the services of the little Toyata Hilux that knew it could, we’d put a good 350 miles in the rear view mirror with the next bend in the road and any glimmer of blue sky lifting our spirits as we went. In the end, clouds made the weekend’s goal of a glimpse at the iconic Cradle Mountain an effort in futility and the beckoning siren call of the island’s premier hiking trail, the Overland Trek, would be squashed with arctic temperatures and a Don’t-Even-Think-About-It Glare from Bec. Even so, neither of us was complaining about the meteorological hand we’d been dealt since we both knew that, unlike so many who’d come before us, we were, at least free to leave anytime we liked.

Fraser Island

2009-08-17T21:49:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/FraserIsland09#

Ever since first having visited Australia back in 1992 I’ve been haunted. Not haunted in the sense of apparitions or ghosts that go bump in the night but, rather, by a simple incredulous utterance. It begins with “You N-E-V-E-R went to Fraser Island?” and is inevitably followed with dreamy eyed, backpacker tales of 4WD safaris and euphoric days with new faces and great friends along endless stretches of therapeutic white sand coastline. My line of defense was a weak one, at best. We’d hitchhiked the approximate 1800 kilometers/miles from Cairns to Brisbane, I’d begin, trying to insinuate that it was the fault of our various lifts that we’d never been deposited anywhere near Hervey Bay or Rainbow Beach, the jumping off points to the island via barge ferries. I’d then tick off a list of our own excursions: snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, Airlie Beach, a private, three day trimaran cruise of the Whitsunday Islands and Magnetic Island near Townsville. It was, I thought, a rather enviable itinerary; especially for two 22 year olds essentially using their upturned thumbs as a compass but, regardless, it often failed to register. I’d managed to do the unthinkable and somehow taken a pass on Fraser.
World Heritage listed in 1992, Fraser Island is the world’s largest sand island. It stretches 123 kilometers from north to south and is 22 kilometers at its widest, encompassing close to 170 square kilometers. In places its sand dunes can reach to a height of 240 meters and are home to 40 sand dune perched lakes which is exactly half of the number of such lakes in the world. It is the only place in the world where rainforest grow on sand dunes at an elevation of over 200 meters. All this and, more importantly, until last weekend, I hadn’t been there. The island claims less than 400 year round residents but plays host to more than a half a million visitors each year with not a paved road, traffic light or, most amazingly, a parking meter in sight. For fisherman it’s a Shangri-La, for birdwatcher and other nature lovers it’s an untapped treasure trove and for the “Walkabout Minded” camping aficionado Australians, well, it’s an epicenter for holiday getaways. And for some, like the Hardie family, after more than 30 years of one month long annual visits, it’d become all this and much more.
“I was only 10 months old for my first visit,” Bec would tell me as we raced northbound along the island’s low tide, sandy superhighway at a brisk 50 miles per hour. Various settlements and landmarks with names such as Eurong, Chard Rocks, Happy Valley, Waddy Point, Middle Point and Indian Head came and went in a steady succession of sights, tales and mostly memories. “When we first started coming here,” Bec’s father reminisced aloud as we approached the remnants of the 1935 Maheno wreck, “you could walk on the deck and all around the boat.” Today, three stories of the vessel are buried with its rusting upper sections off limits for obvious reasons. Of course, the oxidized shell of the Maheno was hardly the least of the changes that had come to Fraser, according to my commiserating hosts. All the wild Brumby horses are gone as are many of the dingoes which Bec remembers regularly roaming innocuously through the shady settlement of Happy Valley. Also, access to some of the more popular lakes and coastal attractions had been restricted. “We used to be able to drive right up to the edge of Champagne Pools and at Garawongara Lake we’d be able to park right beside the lake with six other cars and have a picnic and there still be room for other groups. Now you can’t even bring food to the lake,” lamented Bec’s father.
Yes, for those in the know, change had indeed come to Fraser. From the very first moment Europeans stumbled upon the island and its Aboriginal inhabitants in the late 18th century, change or progress (depending on your perspective) seemed inevitable. Regardless, today the sands continue to shift, game fish still run, the pristine, fresh water creeks spill forth and the elusive, five foot long sand worms still hide at the water’s edge. For three days, while the Hardies compared the old with the new, I tagged along taking it all in, creating my own memories. Three days, I’m happy to report, that finally put me out of my misery.

Football--Aussie Rules Style

2009-08-10T19:17:00.001-07:00

To the uninitiated, the scene appears as only slightly more than a controlled form of chaos. Two mobs composed of 18 per side, decked out in uniforms which, despite it being winter time in the Southern Hemisphere, are comprised of nothing more than Daisy Duke shorts and sleeveless jerseys. Liberally scattered across an oval, grassy field only slightly smaller than the state of Rhode Island, the two packs roam while tackling and smashing into each other at random intervals in the process of trying to secure possession of a ball which looks quite similar to those heaved downfield by quarterbacks in the USA’s National Football League. This ball, however, is more bounce friendly having less pointy and slightly more rounded ends and it’s never thrown. It’s kicked, passed underhand with a closed fist and bounced periodically off the ground, all in the course of attempting to proceed seemingly from one end of Australia to the other before kicking the ball between one of two sets of goal posts for either six points or one. This, all the while trying to avoid crushed ribs, compound fractures and other various blunt traumas that generally leave one eating out of straws for years. There’s no onside or offside and, as such, opponents flock from all angles. There are a mere four substitutes per side, the quarters last 20 minutes apiece, except for maybe an accidental dismemberment, there are no play stoppages, everyone plays “both ways” and there are few, if any, TV commercials except for at halftime which last only long enough to let the smelling salts do their job. The sport goes by various names: Footie, Football, Aussie Rules Football or by the acronym, AFL (Australian Football League), the professional league which is revered in almost cult-like fashion primarily in the southern Australian states of New South Wales, Victoria, Southern Australia and Tasmania. Whatever name it goes by just remember this: The next time you’re here and some scantily clad Aussie bloke says, “Oi, Yank! Reckon yer ready fer some football?” be smart and reply firm but politely, “Hell no”. Regardless of the name the sport goes by, it’s Australian for “Pain”. These are brave souls.

Pedal Power II

2009-08-09T01:17:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/UKIreland98?authkey=Gv1sRgCOTpm9rl7OrGdA#

My six weeks of pedaling had been anything but easy.
But then, I probably shouldn’t have expected anything less of September and October for a cycling tour of the UK and Ireland. Though I knew it wasn’t the ideal time, I was hoping to catch the tail end of summer and the hordes of peak summer visitors that come with the season. But as I sat nursing my third Guinness of the early evening, staring at the rain from the cozy confines of the Galway pub I’d chosen for my nightly refuge, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should’ve known better.
“Nice fall weather we’re having,” I’d sarcastically said weeks earlier to an older gentleman standing in a doorway with his umbrella in hand, waiting for a lessening of another torrential downpour. “Pretty good when you consider we haven’t had a summer here in two years,” he’d responded while staring out at the rain without a trace of reciprocated sarcasm showing.

Now, many miles further down the line, I fully understood why. The poor bastard was actually telling the truth.

In the meantime, my sunny salvation was a mere flight away and despite the prolonged adversity of stiff headwinds, plenty of rain and even a broken frame, it was clear the poor bloke needed the beer a lot more than me.

Pedal Power

2009-08-06T02:08:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/CoastToCoast96?authkey=Gv1sRgCNz37euHwvTVxAE#

Encapsulated 30,000 feet above the Bass Strait, the sight of Cameron Diaz caught my eye…as this month’s cover girl for Virgin Blue’s in flight magazine “Voyeur”. Yet it would be writer Shane Conroy’s piece, entitled “Spokes and The City”, that would hold my attention. In it, the four page spread chronicles the urban two wheeled revolution slowly gaining traction here in Brisbane and across the country in general. Don’t look now but, according to this article, bike sales in Australia are up 19 % from last year and there’s a good chance that the four figure mountain bike in your garage could very well be making room for its substantially pricier, long lost, Swedish cousin, the Skeppshult (pronounced Whepshoolt). Modeled after the bicycles which have long been common place across Europe, these steel constructed Scandinavian imports have crashed the party in the Land Down Under and are commanding prices in the vicinity of $A 4,000. A lofty sum indeed, but in a country where fuel prices hover around 1.25 per liter (3.78 liters to 1 US Gallon), perhaps a bicycle of any price still makes sense? Well, if not financially, then at least in a fashion sense according to Conroy’s article. If the five year waiting list in the US for one of Sacha White’s Vanilla Brand two wheelers is anything to go on, it seems that commuting via “urban oriented bicycles” has bypassed being merely practical and has leapfrogged quickly to en vogue status. Gregg Franze, the Melbourne bicycle shop owner responsible for bringing the Skeppshult to the Australian market agrees and states he envisions a day in the very near future where bicycle owners will own two and three “pushies” depending on the destination of choice. Ride a mere mountain bike to the pub? Perish the thought. And if you’re going to be investing such funds for your daily, non-motorized commute, it would stand to reason a bicycle friendly network would come in handy. Enter Brisbane’s Cycle2City, the eight-years-in-the-making-product of co-owners Andrew Onley and John Hack. Launched in conjunction with a commitment of four years and a cash infusion of $A100 million from the city council to bolster the city’s cycleways, the program is designed to provide a hub in which to safely secure those pricey bicycles, store work clothes and have a shower while also providing laundry and bicycle repair services. All this for the price of $4 a day with a six month contract.
I’m tempted to say that as I came to the end of the article I was misty eyed but that would be a stretching things a bit. But only a wee bit since I must admit to having a big soft spot in my heart for the bicycle as a viable means of travel. Maybe not to the tune of four grand, but a big weak spot right there behind my left pectoral muscle nonetheless. At the same time I also remember vividly how little respect my bicycle and I got as we plodded along the backroads of the southern US of A. Or maybe it was just me as, looking at these photos, I can see how I may have put one or two xenophobic “suthnas” on edge. Either way, the double d batteries, the pennies and other projectiles which flew by my head or off my back care of passing motorists (all with a chorus of, “Now don’t come back now, ya hear!) left an impression of sorts on me and not just that maybe I should’ve taken a more northerly route. Putting that article down as we made our final approach into Brisbane, I had a glimmer of hope, a wistful belief that perhaps the next time I set out on a long distance journey across Hillbilly Country, I’d have a better response than the exasperated and depressed sighs of old. No, the next time that copper widow maker went zooming by my head I could puff my chest out and proclaim proudly, “Watchyerself peckerhead . Dontcha scratch the paint, this one’s Swedish and she’s some kind of special.” That’ll learn’em.

Snowcapped Memories

2009-08-05T16:25:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/NepalSAnnapurnaCurcuit

Our last full day here in Hobart with our flights scheduled back to Brisbane mid day tomorrow. To commemorate the auspicious date, it seems Mother Nature is pulling out the all the stops in the form of substantial snow accumulations atop Mt. Wellington. In a way it only seems fitting. The snow, the proverbial icing on the cake with the cake being this enchanted island state that, taken with a pinch of optimism and a substantial amount of good luck, can provide its visitor with an endless barrage of scenic splendor and outdoor activities. That said, today, except for retrieving more firewood, outdoor activity is off the day’s agenda. Today will include last minute packing and tidying up around the house. Domestic chores and, as the snow line slowly encroaches upon the upper levels of Hobart’s meager attempts at urban sprawl, daydreams of another snowcapped region; this one going by the name of the Nepal’s Annapurna Circuit. Nearly 500 miles long, the trail bobs and weaves along the mountainous spine of the Himalayas, eventually peaking out atop Thorung La, one of the world’s highest commercially run passes at 17,769 ft. Back in early 2000 Tate and I would relish a good three weeks hiking its entire length. Today, nine years further down the trail, staring out the window at Hobart’s blanketed neighbor, I can vouch that it takes substantially longer to forget.

Soggy Days

2009-08-02T00:38:00.001-07:00

Considering many parts of Tasmania average 22 days of rain a month, even in the summer, it should come as no surprise that our recent three day, two night, mid-winter jaunt around the island experienced a substantial amount of lead grey skies and slanting rain. It was the sort of rain which, with hot tea in hand and staring out the window of the warm confines of our toasty B&B overlooking the west coast town of Strahan (pronounced Strawn), had me seriously considering simply climbing back beneath the covers. “It’s a good day,” as my long time compadre and traveling companion, Tate Tucker, would say, “if you were a duck.” The guy has a line for every occasion and over the years he’s come to attribute my relative good fortune with the weather (especially my two months pedaling across the States with only one day of rain) to a certain horseshoe which he swears is lodged firmly up my backside. To this I can only say, how soon one forgets. So yesterday, as I watched the rain cascade down and felt the wind battered walls shutter against one more relentless gust, I was transported back to a certain soggy walk in Alaska’s Denali State Park in 1996. It had been scheduled to be a three day hike after our successful season of salmon fishing but after only two days of pushing through thick Alder underbrush and following rain swollen streams and creeks (in the backcountry of Alaska there are few, well established trails) we’d end up throwing in the towel. No amount of Goretex rain gear could help the fact that nothing on us was even remotely dry. The prematurely aborted hike apparently left a lasting impression on the guy and even today any formidable amount of precipitation elicits the same quote from him. Huddling in the relative warmth of our Toyata Hilux waiting for the defroster to kick in, I remembered it fondly and had to smile. “Well Bec, remember it could be a lot worse. At least we’re not camping,” I repeated the time tested adage. Then, as another buckshot like blast of rain pelted our windscreen, Bec put it in first and accelerated into the maelstrom of the new day.

They Said It

2009-07-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

“If you meet a person from Tasmania, ask to see the scar on their neck. “ The tongue in cheek reasoning for this, I was told prior to my first visit here, is because many Australians like to insinuate the minute number of inhabitants of this small, backwater, island state have been forced to intermingle too close to home. You know, inbreed. As a result, the joke goes, at birth all Tasmanians are born with two heads, one of which is immediately removed. The head goes but the scar remains. If this all seems a bit harsh, well, it’s a tough country. Australians play hard, they work hard and they joke hard. Rarely do they do they mince words. That said, you should hear the Kiwi—sheep jokes. When all is said and done, the Tasmanians have it easy by comparison.
Before this visit I’d only used the scar on the neck joke to one Tasmanian and I’d been put up to it, though I admit I didn’t need much prompting. The unsuspecting victim was Bec’s sister in law, Tania, and we were far from the shores of Van Diemen’s Land in Brisbane. She was outnumbered and safety in numbers seemed assured despite the fact it was practically my first time meeting her. “Cheeky bugger,” came the lone retort as, in the rest of the room, giggles and snickering spilled forth. I’ve been a card carrying fan of the joke ever since.
This time it is different as I find myself in the Lion’s Den on the doorsteps of the state capital of Hobart. Here, despite bluffing to do so (buy me another beer Bec or I’m asking) I’ve managed to see the wisdom in refraining from asking “the question”. Yet, as I helped two days ago with removing various pieces of furniture to the truck of two local gentlemen, an opportunity began to seem unavoidable.

The first two smaller pieces went smoothly but moving the large, top heavy wardrobe was somehow threatening to take on the complexity of trying to split atoms in a shoe box. My original suggestion of tilting the beast on its side and simply carrying it had been put on the back burner in favor of a spider web of strategically placed ropes and esoteric instructions. Thirty minutes later, a measuring tape holstered and lines recoiled, I’d put my plan forward again with what I hoped would be sufficient tact.
Tact or no tact (I’m betting the latter), five minutes later, the wardrobe was securely in place on the truck and I was kicking myself for having not asserted my plan sooner. With a laugh and a pat on the back I tried to convince myself the scar request might come off but it wasn’t to be and I chose the safer alternative. “Congratulations men,” I finally offered in an attempt to end our relationship on as positive note as possible. “If we did that any better, someone would have to pay us.”
“Well, you know what they say,” the taller of the two began in an attempt at a subtle conciliatory gesture of his own. “Sometimes two heads are better than one.”
He said it. Not me.

Packing with Purpose

2009-07-25T17:12:00.000-07:00

July is winding down with winter in full swing in Oz and nowhere is it felt more emphatically than here in Hobart, Tasmania.“Winter in July”. No matter how many times I repeat that one to myself, I simply can’t get my head around it and winter it is, nonetheless. From 95 degrees F and humid in the shade on July 1 to 5 degrees C ( x by 1.8 + 32 = Fahrenheit) and crisp in the sun on July 3. And all in the time it took to go from Myrtle Beach to Atlanta to NYC to LA to Sydney and finally Brisbane. July 2nd didn’t exist this year as it would pass in a blur of airport security, layovers, 24 plus hours of actual flight time, in flight movies and something resembling food. In all, too many miles to easily compute and all with a total of 15 hours notice.
For so many years I prided myself on my speed and ability at packing and relocating. This time, however, I was doing it for someone other than myself. For a woman I’d been around for far too short and who unexpectedly left her friends and family far too soon; Joyce Hardie. Together she and her husband Johnny epitomized, for 48 years, what living happily ever after entailed. In this day and age it boggles the mind and even more so in how effortless they made it look, even as they both approached 70, “grey nomads” for the past five years roaming this vast country in their Landcruiser and caravan.
Yes, July is winding down and for the Hardie clan, summer may very well be longer in arriving but together they will manage. Together the next chapter will be written and as sure as today’s snow atop Mt. Wellington overlooking Hobart will melt, summer will eventually make its presence felt. In the meantime, in addition to placating Johnny with proper cutlery etiquette and dress attire, I have my own role to play. And as I do so, it’ll be with the comfort of knowing that there are, in fact, some people for which the distance between two points will never be too great.

WhatB WhereBJimmyB

2009-07-23T16:50:00.000-07:00

WhereBJimmyB.blogspot.com is a travel blog that attempts to prove there’s hope for us all. It is the story of a young man who, like many before and since, lived life with the blinders on. So much so, in fact, the younger version of the person he today sees in his bathroom mirror would be so naïve as to say…and I quote, “I’ll never go to Europe; there’s no surf in Europe.” To borrow from an old Quicksilver add, to him “Surfing was life and the rest was details.” Luckily for him a National Student Exchange Program to the University of Hawaii at Manoa in 1988 and a family of adoptive guardian angels (that took him beneath their wings) helped to part some of the clouds. The rest, as they say, is history. Twenty years of history, and counting. History which has involved various adventures ranging from long distance hikes and bicycle tours to jobs ranging from deck positions on multi-million dollar yachts to shitake mushroom farming in Japan. WhereBJimmyB.blogspot.com draws from some of these and many other memorable experiences (and, hopefully, one or two new ones as well). Journeys that have taken him around the globe numerous times and to close to 60 countries. WhereBJimmyB.blogspot.com is written to encourage others to take that first step; regardless of whatever form their Shangri-la may take. Above all, WhereBJimmyB.blogspot.com is a testament to this: The Road Is Your Friend. That and the fact there is definitely surf in Europe.

The Water's Edge

2009-07-22T15:46:00.000-07:00

Hell, it's a tad long for a blog but, what the hell. Give'r a read and then tell me why I wouldn't want to post this one for the first of hopefully many installments of the WhereBJimmyB blog/saga. It was a long time ago but, as they say, some things'll never change. Hope you enjoy.

The Water’s Edge

My ex-girlfriend’s mother never thought much of me. Actually, when all was said and done, it was probably safer to say she despised me. But then, in her defense, I’d have to say, under the circumstances of our first meeting in Honolulu, few mothers would’ve have been enthralled with the notion of their daughter ditching plans of returning to school for jumping on a plane bound for Australia and points beyond with me. Her parents had arrived planning to surprise their 21-year-old daughter with house-warming gifts of a washer and dryer and were suddenly confronted with issues of traveler’s insurance (which we said we’d manage without) and departure dates. We’d just gotten off on the wrong foot.
I was the guy who, fresh from college, had admitted not once but twice, that I’d be willing to “shovel poop” if it meant making the money for the next leg of “the journey”. A guy who admittedly pushed the envelope of flying by the seat of his pants concerning his travel plans, a guy whose travel oriented goals could easily be misinterpreted by the less inclined as precariously bordering aimlessness. As far as Anne Marie was concerned, I was as far from ideal boyfriend quality as I was from usurping Jacque Coustou’s title of preeminent undersea explorer. Not only did I not scuba dive, I didn’t even think much of donning a mask and snorkel as it seemed entirely too docile compared to my first love of surfing. I even found fish to be slimy. It was, I’d learn some five years later, an unforgivable transgression. The last straw for a woman who’d been at her husband’s side every step of the way of his earning a marine biology doctorate. The last straw for a woman whose family was as comfortable with the water as mine was Italian food. To her I was just different but to Pele, luckily, different didn’t equate to hopeless.
“What’s that?” she’d asked early on in our relationship as we stood in the shadow of Waikiki’s Hilton Hawaiian Village.
“What, this?” I’d responded holding up the mask and snorkel kit I’d just purchased at a local budget department store just off of Kapiolani Blvd. “What does it look like? You’re the diver!”
She’d just laughed and, in the patient, thoughtful manner that she possessed, explained such “equipment” was not exactly what she had in mind when she’d suggested I buy a mask and snorkel so we could go for my first snorkeling excursion together. I’d bought kid’s toys not proper snorkeling gear, she explained, before having me don my ten dollar set up and telling me to dip my head beneath the water a few moments. She then offered her own mask and snorkel to me to use for the duration of my first snorkeling experience out to a section of reef I knew as the surf spot, Rockpiles.
It was a kind gesture on Pele’s part as I immediately noticed the difference in viewing quality and, more significantly, water leakage of our two masks but it hardly seemed to concern her. “This reef is pretty much dead anyway,” she explained to me, telling me to keep her mask since there wasn’t much to see anyway. She insisted she wanted me to just get a feel for snorkeling, which I did all the while thinking to myself, “Reef, dead or alive, what did it matter? It still hurt when I hit it.”
Not surprisingly, with the void of marine life there off of Waikiki, that snorkeling experience hardly proved life altering. If anything, Pele’s willingness to forgo the use of her own mask to ensure a positive first experience for me, made a much more lasting impression on me than anything I saw during that first aquatic outing.
As a result, I left the water relatively unimpressed with snorkeling, feeling certain I’d have had much more fun with a longboard since I’d seen more than one or two waves roll in that I felt had my name on them. But even so, Pele had managed to crack the door open, a door which at least made me vaguely aware of a world that, up to that time, I’d been oblivious of. A world that, equipped with a mind boggling $65 mask spontaneously purchased on Oahu’s North Shore, I slowly began to become better acquainted with in the process of watching Pele revel in her aquatic playground during our outings together over the next few years.
From the beginning she’d always told me she that in her next life she wanted to come back as a dolphin. I, of course, had found it all quite hokey at first. Hokey and even melodramatic. But as our time together increased, it became clear to me that Pele was well on her way to making the transformation, even in this life. From the comfort of the surface I’d float while, 30 ft below, Pele explored nooks and crannies in the reef seemingly unhindered by factors such as equalization and air limitations. She moved effortlessly, guided more by an insatiable curiosity than anything resembling physical exertion. The girl simply belonged in the water while I, three years later, remained content to more or less snorkel vicariously through her.
Our snorkeling haunts were far more exotic than our first Waikiki excursion but it hardly mattered to me. Surfing still reigned supreme and fish were still slimy. In the meantime, my goals were still seasonal in nature and, well, Anne Marie still insisted I was an irresponsible twit. I’d apparently worked hard to earn that title and, unfortunately, a $4000 emergency appendectomy hadn’t done much to bolster my image either.
Her parents had rushed her to the hospital all of one week after her return from “the edge” with me. The edge being five months in Australia, two in Indonesia, and two more spent between Malaysia and Thailand. Our first sign of trouble had been in Brisbane, Australia when an unbearable pain in Pele’s abdomen necessitated her being taken to a local emergency room in the middle of the night where, because of our insurance-less state, she was kept in a quartered off section of the ER for observation. The following morning, after a gamut of completed tests, the pain had subsided and we were sent on our way with a diagnosis of a burst ovarian cyst. We’d breathed easier, especially since, in this land of socialized medicine, the visit hadn’t cost us a cent. But Pele’s parents knew better. They knew you often get what you pay for. They feared the diagnosis was incorrect and they knew it was time to get us insurance, which Anne Marie immediately did.
But such insurance was of little help three months later as me and Pele rolled through the Javanese countryside aboard a discrepant train in the middle of the night. Once again Pele was clutching her side in teary eyed anguish while I was powerless to do anything more than scramble up and down the litter strewn aisles doing my best to convey to my non-English speaking audience I needed a doctor. It was nearly 2 a.m. and we were just about ready to jump off at the next anonymous stop in the desperate hope of rousing a doctor from his slumber when a good Samaritan bearing a small container of Tiger Balm arrived on the scene gesturing to Pele to apply the deep heating substance to her side. It was pure quackery in the middle of Third World Indonesia but we had no other option and, amazingly, not long after taking his advice, the pain magically subsided not to be heard from again for four more months.
Not until the night Pele found herself writhing in pain on her parents’ kitchen floor. Not until after the emergency operation when she and her family learned the insurance was only valid overseas. Pele however, despite the expensive price tag, had managed to dodge a bullet. She had managed to run out of travel money and had been forced to return home at a most fortuitous time and was lucky to be alive as a result. In the meantime, I was lucky as well. Lucky to be still gallivanting through distant corners of Asia and eventually Europe, far from the simmering cauldron of contempt Pele’s mother held for me. My perfectly executed, liaise faire travel plans had nearly cost their daughter her life and Anne Marie wasn’t about to forget or forgive me for it.
The groundwork had been laid and the setting for our long overdue showdown would prove to be the Hawaiian island of Molokai some four years later. Four years that had given the woman much to dwell on. Her blood boiled and her talons had been sharpened for a pending confrontation my 26-year-old naiveté made me blind to. In the best interest of all concerned parties I’d have done well to remain behind in Honolulu. But this was Molokai, a verdant oasis of seclusion, set amidst the relatively congested confines of paradise. I knew it was worth having to brave the wrath of Anne Marie and, besides, I told myself, it was only a simple three day, two night weekend. It would prove one night too many.
Molokai was as incredible as we could’ve hoped for and for two days we cruised along the island’s lone two lane, country road in a friend’s antiquated Range Rover taking in the sights of an island that seemed pleasantly oblivious to the perplexities of the 20th century. It was the sort of place where the site of our familiar red Bronco resulted in plenty of friendly waves from unsuspecting residents mistakenly assuming we were Dr. John, the owner of the truck. The island, 38 miles long and 10 miles wide, was essentially one large, small town. A town where everyone knew everyone and where people had time to stop and talk, whether in a local coffee shop or while stopping traffic anywhere along the island’s one main road. It was a place where the use of car horns was unheard of and sprawling, golf coursed resorts and Waikiki-like skylines nonexistent.
Bumper stickers, t-shirts and travel brochures in Hawaii proclaimed “Molokai mo bettah” and as we lounged in the open aired den of our host’s tranquil, hilltop cabin, our time there had made it easy to prescribe to such thinking. The silhouetted island of Lanai, basking in the evening glow of a stellar Hawaiian sunset was our view to the southwest, making our simple yet hearty spaghetti dinner a culinary masterpiece worthy of the finest Venetian, canal front restaurant. Even so, all was not perfect. At least not as far as Pele’s mother was concerned.
As could be expected, our interaction had been strained throughout the day with my decision to forgo a group snorkeling excursion earlier in the afternoon serving to provide the immediate ammunition for the evening’s pending fireworks. It had been the sort of setting that from any angle, with the island of Maui looming offshore only nine miles away, was impossible not to shoot photographs garnering envious, slack jawed stares back home. The sort of beach, as far as Anne Marie was concerned, I’d made the mistake of deciding to take a nap on. It was a breach of ethics that, heaped upon my already extensive list of shortcomings, led the woman to begin interrogating me.
“Fish are slimy,” was the phrase that had sent her into a frenzy there amidst our very own slice of paradise.
It had seemed like a simple enough observation, I thought. I’d done enough fishing along the coast of Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, caught enough fish to know the little bastards were slippery and made quite a mess when taking them off the hook. If that wasn’t slimy, I didn’t know what was and I told her as much. Even so, she quickly countered, it was just another example of how I had absolutely no interest in something, like Pele’s artwork, she knew was so integral to Pele and her happiness.
“Wow,” I thought. “From the sliminess of fish to my inappropriateness as a boyfriend, all in two sentences.” This was serious I realized, suddenly sitting up, eager to hear her line of reasoning which seemed to attempt to explain the relationship between apples and oranges. Pele and her father, sensing the temperature in the room skyrocket, gallantly attempted to pull the vindictive pit bull off of me before they knew things would escalate. But it was useless, I knew. The night was ruined as either I’d bear the brunt of her fury or her family would for coming to my defense.
“Easy, Larry, I’ll take care of this,” I assured my girlfriend’s father, putting on a face that I knew belied the fact I was as eager for a throw down as his wife was. It was time to put up or shut up.
For thirty minutes a steady “dialogue” ensued. The woman tore into me with all the fervor that four years of pent up, righteous, infallible motherhood could muster. According to Anne Marie I had no interest in anything that mattered to Pele, her family included. My steady habit of reading was pure escapism, especially during her visits, an effort on my part to avoid having to do anything remotely resembling wanting to become better acquainted with her or Pele’s father. “You’re nothing but a…vagabond,” she went on to say, the word rolling off her lips in a venomous snarl. I was immature, hardly good enough for Pele, nothing good would come of my aimless, nomadic ways and, concerning our nine month long trip, five years earlier she said, Pele had been “miserable and scared to death”. But she was hardly finished, of course. I was 26 years old, she felt obligated to remind me, and still content to live off of the couches and floors of my friends in order to pad my travel funds. What was I going to do with my life?
Up to that point I’d merely enjoyed turning the tables on the woman at every opportunity, content to see her stumped by many of the same questions that she, a fifty year old woman, had no answers for but yet expected me to be able to provide. I’d enjoyed seeing her squirm when put under the same microscope she’d so easily put me under and when she did show signs of vulnerability I went for the jugular, deriving much pleasure at being able to turn the screws. I’d done it all without so much as raising my voice, I was proud to admit and, for all intents and purposes, her barrage had done little to dent my armor since it is hard to have your feelings hurt when you don’t respect the source of your persecutement. But suddenly she was crossing a new line, totally unaware by taking the gloves off, I would be obligated to do the same.
“That’s ridiculous,” she dismissed me and my short, travel related list of possibilities concerning my long term “plans”. “The travel writing market is flooded already,” she continued, singling out my least solid possibility for further commentary, before adding the decisive dismissal that made it personal, “You’ll never make it as a writer.”
“I’m sorry Anne Marie but my parents always told me I could do anything I set my mind to,” I began, feeling my pulse quicken and my nostrils beginning to flare. “I just don’t understand how you as a parent yourself can sit there and tell me what I will or won’t be able to do. How can you call yourself a parent with an attitude like that?”
“Well, I’m just being realistic,” she responded. “If you can’t see that you’re being a little unrealistic, then essentially you’re just being stupid.”
For the first time in our friendly chat I was too my feet. My right arm was extended and my finger jabbing the air in her direction, the words all bottlenecked in my throat, rushing to be the first to formulate an intelligent response. It was useless.
“No, no, Anne Marie…,” I stammered. “YOU’RE STUPID, YOU’RE STUPID, YOU ARE SOOOO STUPID,” I finally yelled, subconsciously pleased with the sense of release the It-takes-one-to-know-one-like response had provided. Better still, it had brought the evening’s entire hopeless, mood killing discussion to a screeching halt as Anne Marie’s sense of self-preservation told her it was time to vacate the premises, which she did with tears in her eyes while grumbling about my ill mannered disrespect.
“Realistic, my ass,” I fumed while trying to slow my breathing, standing in the midst of the empty room doing battle with the contrasting flood of emotions coursing through my veins. Respect for adults and maintaining harmonious family relations were not new concepts to me but, “Damn it, she freaking deserved it,” I tried to convince myself as my heaving chest subsided and Larry walked back into the room. No words would come as I forced my eyes to meet his.
“I thought you handled yourself admirably,” he told me, putting my fears to rest and thus assuring my respect and admiration for the man would never wane. And neither would the memory of that night and the literary dismissal that came with it.
Two years would tick by, two years which saw the relationship between myself and Pele slowly fade as my wanderings (commercial salmon fishing, the bike trip, the AT) continued. In doing so, I left Pele to her pursuit of a ceramics degree and, over time, the growing realization it was time to move on in the relationship department. It would prove a gradual break up and one that would finally and fittingly culminate back in Hawaii aboard the live aboard dive boat she’d wisely jumped at while I was fishing in Pilot Point.
Perhaps it was a last ditch effort on her part to see what remained romantically between us. Either way, I boarded a plane headed for the Big Island of Hawaii intending to be away for all of two weeks, one week visiting Pele and old friends on the island and another week aboard her place of employment to see what all the fuss was about.
“I still can’t believe she came after me like that,” I’d tell Pele months later as we both sat topside overlooking the lights and activity of the Kona pier. Somehow, my week’s position as “galley slave”, a position which entailed dicing, slicing and dishwashing in the galley and various other boat chores in exchange for a free week, had mutated into something different entirely. I was soon essentially working for free dives with open and advanced open water certification having come during my first week aboard, a week that unknown to me at the time would change my life.
Pele’s coworkers were great, the water clear, the food delicious and abundant, and the diving free. I’d never felt so lucky and, almost magically, days became weeks, and weeks, eventually months. Three months would eventually pass, months which saw me put 120 dives under my belt and, finally, after six years, a period which signaled the end of the romantic portion of our relationship.
“Yeah, she even surprised me a little that time, too, and I thought I’d seen it all,” she responded as we sat waiting for the weeks’ guests to return from their dinner out on the town, from the end of the town dock that her floating office was tied up to for the night. The boat would be headed back out in the morning, but for now, as had been the case since our “breakup”, it was a perfect time to catch up on the past week and to say hi to the girl, still my best friend; a weekly ritual that my new girlfriend never could understand or, for that matter, accept.
“Ol’ Anne Marie meant well, I know. I can only hope I handle myself half as well when my kid goes running off and doing his or her own thing when I feel for certain their best interest lies elsewhere,” I replied, echoing a conclusion that had taken much soul searching to come to, as another soothing, Pacific, evening breeze swept over us.
“Yeah, I don’t know how I’d managed the same situation myself,” she agreed before adding in a surprised afterthought, “So, you’re gonna have kids are you?”
I didn’t know the answer to that one then, just as now, many years later, I still don’t. But what I do now know is, as it usually does, time and maturity have managed to shed light and perspective on the process which had been our six-year relationship.
It had been a relationship marked by frequent, long term separations due to the nomadic tendencies I am a prisoner of and by more than our fair share of good times and one or two bad ones as well. But through it all she’d never given up on me, even at the end when she bestowed her final, almost parting contestant-like gift upon me. The gift of my open water certification. A gift that seemed to bring a fitting conclusion to our time together and one which assured, regardless of where I went, the water would always be considered home.
I’d come a long way from my first Waikiki snorkeling excursion, with my open water and advanced certification during that fateful week awakening me to a medium I’d rarely ever thought of in anything more than terms of surfing possibilities. It was a new realm that over the course of my time spent working in exchange for dives, I came to understand the soothing properties which made the activity so addicting. It would prove an addiction that I soon came to wonder how I’d ever lived without to that point and, even after getting off the boat, one I knew I had no attention of doing without.
Though my plane ticket said mine was supposed to be a two week trip, another nine months would pass from the time I’d leave the dive boat and when I’d finally bid farewell to the Big Island of Hawaii. Another nine months in which, I’d find myself working other land based, boat jobs. Jobs where providing snorkeling instruction and sharing my newfound love of the marine environment with apprehensive, wide-eyed tourists was my primary job description. Jobs in which dolphin and whale encounters often seemed as common as sunburned tourists. Jobs that had me pinching myself daily. Jobs that reminded me that my life was better because of snorkeling and diving and the world they permitted me to be a part of. Jobs that reminded me that I was a better person because of her.
As for Anne Marie, time and perspective have helped put our volatile relationship in a less vengeful light as well. Time has helped to heal old wounds by helping me see better what she as a parent had seen those many years earlier. It is a natural parental instinct to want only the best for your child and I can now understand what it was about me that had scared her so much. It had taken a long time but eventually I was able to see that, despite her heavy handed tactics, her heart had always been in the right place and that, over time, that same heart, probably long before even my own, had managed to bury the hatchet between us.
Time had been kind and I knew I had come a long way. Far enough to want to say, “I regret that night in Molokai and I’m sorry.” Far enough to say, “See, all that wander really are not lost.” Far enough to say, “Let’s go for a dive and let me show you how far I’ve come, let me show you what I’ve learned.”
And lastly, over four hundred dives later, far enough to be able to look her straight in the eyes and tell her exactly why I still think fish are slimy.