Category: random

In recent years, school district’s everywhere have gone into the politically correct zone by applying disciplinary measures to everybody involved. There seems to be few opportunities for both parents and students to appeal the rules which are written on paper — but set in stone.

And sometimes, you have to wonder, who the real bully is in these cases.

For example, Elko County school trustees have turned down a father’s appeal to lift a disciplinary sanction and let his class president daughter speak at her senior class graduation at Spring Creek High School. The board’s decision upholds Superintendent Jeff Zander’s original decision.
   
Savannah Amberson’s father, Ward Amberson, argues his daughter didn’t start the lunchroom fight in April at the high school. He maintains she’s being punished for being a victim.

“I’m not saying my daughter is perfect,” he says, “but she was defending herself after another student threw a punch at her face.”

I agree with him completely — there is a difference between fighting and defending yourself.

Amberson says his daughter is an honor student who has been involved in leadership for four years. Savannah will attend Boise State University in the fall on an academic scholarship.

I had the same problem when it came to Kyle defending himself, but the outcome was much different from Mr. Amberson’s results.

He was in second grade when a sixth grader started picking on him — knocking him to the ground and pushing him around. I told Kyle that he had my permission to defend himself and that’s exactly what he did.

Kyle had been enrolled in Karate class at the time and he used it only after being trapped against a fence on the school ground. He not only slugged the bully in the gut and face, he flipped the kid over his back and threatened to stomp on him if he got up.

Unfortunately, that’s all the teacher on duty saw and he wa immediately sent to the principal’s office and sent home. From there the principal decided he should have a few days off from school for his actions.

I disagreed.

The following Monday, I went to the principal’s office to discuss the situation with her. She told me over and over that the school had a none-violence policy that Kyle had violated.

I asked her to suspend, or whatever she called it, the other kid too then — but she refused.

Then I asked her if I might demonstrate for her the difference between fighting and defending one’s self. Much to my surprise she agreed.

The second her said yes though , I jumped on her desk and started kicking everything off of it and onto her. She eventually reached out and grabbed my leg to stop me.

I stopped at that moment and hopped down from her desk.

She was visibly shaking and cowered in the corner in her big leather chair. I calmly started picking stuff up off the floor and neatly placing it back on her now-bare desk.

“I think using your definition of violence, you need to be expelled,” I said to her, “after all you reached out and grabbed my leg to stop me from doing what I was doing.”

“No,” she replied, “I was defending myself!”

“My point exactly,” I returned.

Yeah, I could have been arrested for doing what I had done — but I did ask for her permission before I demonstrated my point. Kyle was allowed to return to school and she restored his clean record.

Former California state senator and Del Norte County Superior Court Judge Frank Petersen died May 23, 2011, in Fort Bragg from complications of a stroke. Petersen represented the 4th Senate District from 1962 to 1966 as a Democrat before being appointed by Gov. Edmund G. Brown as a judge for Del Norte.

Frank was born June 20, 1922, in a logging camp at the head waters of Alder Creek, Elk, Mendocino County, California. He attended Fort Bragg Elementary, Junior High, and High School, graduating in 1940. 

He served in the South Pacific for three years during World War II with the U.S. Navy Seabees. Following his honorable discharge in 1945, Frank returned to Fort Bragg and worked in the woods on the Crispin Ranch.

In the early 1950s, Frank practiced law, became the deputy district attorney and eventually the district attorney of Mendocino County.  In 1962, he was elected as state senator of the 4th District, which then included Lake and Mendocino counties, leaving office in 1966 when California’s Senate districts were redrawn.

Initially residents believed, that as a former Mendocino resident, he should have not been appointed to a judgeship in Del Norte county. Frank held the position for 22-years and went unopposed in every election following his appointment.

Twice I had to come before Judge Petersen for having done something wrong.  The first time in 1981, after throwing away $1200 from a restaurant I was working at as a bus-boy and dishwasher, the second in 1982 following the time Adam was knifed during a street brawl.

I can honestly say — Frank was fair in both situations and I always appreciated that.

Frank retired from Del Norte County’s Superior Court in 1988 and went into private practice in Crescent City. He also presided in courts all over Northern California as part of the Assigned Judges Program until 2009. 

He is survived by his wife, Marianne Petersen; children Gregory Petersen, Christine Petersen-Nave, Marcia Sanderson, Wanda Petersen-Alfven, Sandy Petersen-Miller, and Mary Petersen-Pool; brothers Kenneth Petersen, Robert Petersen, Allen Petersen and Richard Petersen; twenty grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren. Frank was 88.

“We’re still twelve nautical miles out,” said the pilot, adding, “Besides with all that cloud cover, your probably couldn’t see a thing.”

The pilot was looking out the left side of the plane as spoke. So I looked too, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mountain turned volcano that hat been in the news for the past 30 days.

“Its ashame,” told myself.

The day had started early. I was up long before the sun, finishing the packing of my B-4 bag.

I hardly slept that night as I was getting ready to go on emergency leave.

Remembering back, I thought about the telephone call – the one where Dad said he had cancer and that he and Mom were separated and getting a divorce. It still left me sick to my stomach to think about these two things.

“Yeah, I’ve been sleeping in your old room,” Dad had told me.

“How long had that been going on?” I recalled thinking.

After driving through the base gates, I met Deanna at her home. She had a single bag to load jus’ like I did.

“Are you excited to be going home?” I asked.

“You bet,” she answered, “I hardly slept a wink last night.”

“Me either,” I returned.

We both laughed as I lifted her B-4 bag into the back of my Datsun station wagon. After climbing in behind the steering wheel, I started to pull away for the curb.

“Hold on!” Deanna suddenly said.

Stepping on the brakes, she jumped out of the car and disappeared through the front door of her home. In less than a minute, she was back in the car.

She smiled at me and said, “I thought I forgot to turn the stove off.”

“Oh,” was all I replied.

Within minutes we were at the airport, jus’ outside of Cheyenne. We quickly parked and grabbed our respective bags and rushed to report to the flight office. From there we were escorted to an awaiting C-130 Hercules.

“Ever been in one of these things?” I asked Deanna.

“No,” she answered.

“Good morning,” a voice from inside the aircraft said. It was the flight engineer, a Master Sergeant.

He point to the area where we would be sitting as he secured our luggage. I knew all to well that the red cargo net seating would not be all that comfortable during the long flight ahead.

“We won’t be getting into McChord until late,” the Master Sergeant said. Then he added, “We have to go to Luke first to drop off a Red Horse team then Mountain Home.”

At that moment the members of the U.S. Army’s crack engineering unit appeared. Each arrived with a green backpack and in formation. Again the flight engineer played host, welcoming them aboard the plane and securing their gear.

The last to be loaded was a mini-bulldozer. It was obvious at that point to me that the flight engineer was also a payload master as he carefully and precisely directed then secured the heavy machine in the planes hold.

After we had taken off and the nose of the aircraft was pointed in a southerly direction, I decided to get up and go into the cockpit. I told Deanna what I was doing and invited her along, as I got up and walked the few steps to the small ladder leading to the flight deck.

“No, thanks,” she replied.

“Howdy, Doc!” came a friendly voice.

It was a Major, who had jus’ been to my office and who had jus’ completed a flight physical. He offered me a hand and we shook.

Soon we landed at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona. That’s where the Red Horse team was off loaded onto a tarmac that was already unbearably hot.

Next we winged our way in a northerly direction, heading towards, Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho. The weather was much cooler there and the wait was much longer.

The passenger list also increased by one as an Airman boarded the Washington bound plane. He introduced himself to me and then Deanna. The pair immediately hit it off as they started talking right away.

“I feel lucky getting this hop,” he told Deanna, “I jus’ spent the last 24-hours stuck in the terminal.”

Minutes later we were airborne.

“Hey, Doc, come forward, the Major wants to talk to you,” the Master Sergeant directed.

I climbed up the ladder leading to the flight deck.

“You were asking about seeing Mount Saint Helens, earlier,” the Major said.

“Yes, sir,” I responded.

“Unfortunately,” the Major commented, “The weather report says its overcast.”

“Damn,” I said aloud.

I sat there for a couple of minutes before deciding to return to my cargo-net seat. I was hoping that the weather report was wrong – but knew they very, rarely ever were.

Getting up, I leaned down and poked my head through the doorway. I was surprised to see Deanna kissing the Airman we had jus’ picked up from Mountain Home.

Having seen them kissing – I returned to the jump-seat and stared out the window at the mountains sliding by underneath us. I felt that terrible pang of jealousy thrust through my chest.

Time seemed to drag to a stand still as I sat there trying to think of anything but what I had jus’ witnessed. I did my best to console myself with the fact that Deanna and I weren’t an exclusive couple – so I had no reason to feel hurt.

Conversation slowly increased in the cabin with the main topic being the landing. I knew we were getting close to McChord Air Force Base, even thought I couldn’t see a thing.

“Hey, Major, I lost ground,” said the co-pilot.

“What?” responded the pilot.

He reached over and pulled his headphones from the hook that held them. Then he pulled them over his ears.

Meanwhile, the co-pilot continued to call out to ground control. It was obvious to me that no one was answering.

Since I was sitting in the jump-seat, I decided to put a pair of headphones on so I could listen in on what was happening. They had been setting on the flight engineers desk, unused.

I heard nothing but the continued hiss of static.

Suddenly the Major shouted, “What in the hell is that?!

I looked straight ahead to see what it was the pilot was so excited about. Ahead of us was the flat, feathery surface of the clouds as we skimmed over top of them.

At first that was all I could see. To me the clouds appeared featureless.

Then something caught my eyes. It was a dark cloud that seemed to boil up from the otherwise white surface.

I felt my pulse start to race as it pushed up higher and higher through the clouds.

“Put your visor on,” the Major directed the co-pilot.

“Do you think it’s a nuclear blast?” the co-pilot asked.

“I don’t know,” was the Major’s answer.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I continued to look at the dark gray cloud as it mushroomed skyward above the cloudy ceiling.

For the next few of minutes, the pilot and co-pilot flew head long towards the dark mass. They spoke to each other only now, and only about the aircraft, flying and the gray mushroom-like cloud.

By this time the Master Sergeant has returned to the flight deck and had taken his seat. That left me standing on the flight deck jus’ in front of the doorway.

I didn’t want to return to my seat as I was afraid of what I might see.

Meanwhile the air was beginning to grow more turbulent with each passing minute. Suddenly the aircraft pitched hard to the left and then upward.

The movement slammed me into the wall then tossed me backwards. I struck my head on the door frame as I literally fell off the flight deck and down the ladder.

“Man, are you okay?” called out the Master Sergeant.

“Yeah,” I answered, “I think I’ll go get buckled in.”

“Are you sure you’re okay,” he asked me again.

I answered, “I’ll survive.”

By that time, I was busy strapping myself into one of the red cargo net seats. The aircraft bounced and shuttered violently in every direction.

Air sickness over took the Airman from Idaho. He vomited hard several times to his left.

Soon Deanna followed suit. She heaved between her legs.

Meanwhile I swallowed hard and gulped a large breath of air to keep from joining the pair. Over and over again I gagged and nearly threw up.

“I’ve had rough rides before,” I thought, “but never like this.”

Looking out the window, I could see nothing but gray clouds as they rushed over the aircraft. I was sick to my stomach from the turbulence and my head ached from where I had smashed it into the door frame.

I tried to concentrate on the sound of the aircraft’s engines as they seemed to be coughing repeatedly.

Then I grew vaguely aware of a new noise. It sounded more frightening than the coughing engines.

It was a loud scraping noise, followed by two huge thumping sounds. My fear ebbed as I recognized what they were.

“Hang on,” I shouted, “We’re landing!”

The three of us gripped the netting and held tightly as the Hercules made contact with the runway. The engines screamed and aircraft groaned as the brakes were applied. Within minutes the plane was taxiing to a stop.

The Master Sergeant climbed down the ladder and threw back the latch, opening the side door, then calmly announced, “Mount Saint Helens jus’ blew her top. Welcome to Washington.”

The three of us looked at one another in shock as Deanna asked, “Did we fly over it or something?”

“Jus’ about,” was his answer as we stepped out into the ash-filled air.

The Israeli government is not happy with President Barack Obama after he suggested Israel return to pre-1967 borders. Meanwhile, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu says the original border when Israel was only about eight miles wide, is indefensible considering today’s technologies.

Then while at the American-Israel Public Affairs Committee meeting in Washington, D.C., Netanyahu was joined by Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid of Nevada.

“The place where negotiating will happen must be at the negotiating table — and nowhere else,” Reid declared in his speech to AIPAC,  “Those negotiations will not happen — and their terms will not be set — through speeches, or in the streets, or in the media.”

Reid made clear he viewed it as unfair to ask Israel to return to its contours before the Six-Day War, when Israel conquered territory from Jordan, Egypt and Syria.

“A fair beginning to good-faith talks means that Israel cannot be asked to agree to confines that would compromise its own security,” Reid stated, “The parties that should lead these negotiations should be the parties at the center of this conflict – and no one else.”

The idea of Reid disagreeing openly with Obama is refreshing from witnessing his usual ass-kissing — but truth be told — we’ve seen this dog and donkey show before. Reid was trotted out there by the administration to contradict Obama so American Jews wouldn’t abandon the Democrat party.

As children we battle with our parents when they want us to take a nap. As adults we tend to relish the moments when we can lay down and take a short siesta.

Finally, as we grow older — approaching the elderly years — we discover a real need to get an extra half hour of sleep during the middle of our day when possible. But then there are nights and mornings anymore that no matter how hard we try — sleep simply evades us.

Aging and insomnia — its a real ugly bitch.

Sincerely, and I mean this with all my heart, for those looking forward to the Rapture, a new body and a clean soul, I’m sorry it didn’t happen for you. However, end-of-the-world prognostication is neither an art nor a science.

The First Commandment reads:  “And God spake all these words, saying, I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” (Exodus 20:1-3)

Thus one is prohibited from “worshipping” money, sex, success, beauty, status, or another human, etc. This is where Harold Camping falls on the God-O-Meter of faith.

Because he is “religious” leader, some people assume he has a direct line to the Almighty. He has no more a direct line than you or me.

He claims to have “found a code hidden” in the Holy Bible that showed him a specific date. And now it can be said that hidden code was a falsehood.

As a believer in Jesus Christ — I’m willing to go on record as saying  the hidden code, and it’s revelation, to Camping is nothing more than the trickery of Satan. Period.

This led Camping to spend millions of dollars on billboards across the nation, trumpeting his message. The sad thing is — not one hungry mouth was directly fed and not one homeless person was directly sheltered by that cash spent on advertising.

At least five people I know truly believed that they were about to find themselves in Heaven having been Raptured. One of those five people tell me they gave over all their worldly assets to the preachers radio network.

That smacks of a scam. Furthermore, MinistryWatch.com, which grades Christians organizations on financial transparency, Family Stations, Inc., which does business as Family Radio, which Camping founded, has a transparency grade of “C.”

I’d like to add — Camping’s actions have painted all Christian with the same brush — so look for your faith to be lampooned by the media, comedians and such.

There must be something that can be learned from this over-publicized, much laughed at and joked about event that each person can take home. I think that lesson will be different for each of us.

For me, I’m considering it a dry-rehearsal for events much ballyhooed by those infatuated with the Mayan calendar. For those believers, the world either ends December 21, 2012 or we shift into a new plane of existence within the universe. 

Sigh…

I can only deal with one belief system per life-time.

Peter Adair died in 1996, five years after releasing his independent documentary, “Absolutely Positive.” It is a film about the lives of eleven people and their experiences living with AIDS.

For some reason I was watching the local PBS station when it came on. As I sat on the couch of our little apartment living room, watching this documentary, I saw a face I knew all too well.

My reaction was to jump up and scream, “No f–king way!”

Sitting at our dining table, my bride asked me what was the matter. I told her: “I jus’ saw Mom and Del on T.V.”

“What?” she asked as if not believing me.

She then sat down next to me to watch. By this time I was shaking from fear, grief and a lot of anger.

My mind raced — how could she not say anything to me? Why didn’t she warn me about this movie? How did she get it? How long would she live?

“Holy shit! What a way to find out,” I recall thinking.

I tried calling her and Del, but there was no answer.

Later, I found out they were at a premier party for the film. That, to me, was like rubbing salt in a fresh wound.

Being head strong — I decided to not speak to Mom for a long while afterwords. I refused to make myself available to talk if she called and I failed to answer her letters.

I made it ALL about me — rather than who and what it was really all about.

It wouldn’t be until after Kyle was born in mid-1992 that I decided it was time to let “bygones-be-bygones.” After all she had a deadly disease and what time I would have with her and Del would be precious.

Del passed away in 1997, while Mom lived until 2002. Neither one of their death certificates indicate their deaths were caused by the virus.

(Ed. note — My step-dad, Del is in the upper left corner of the poster, while Mom’s picture in the lower right corner. As for the film, it can be purchased through Amazon. com or your favorite online movie retailer.)

It started out as a project for our scouting den in order to earn a merit badge. But by the time it was over — it was so much more — that it got my ass kicked.

There was a particular family which lived in the Glen. Their home had no electricity, or phone service and what running water they had, was cold.

All their meals were cooked over an open flame from the fire pit built into their front room. It’s also the place that they slept as it was also the warmest place in the house, especially during the winter months.

To many people, they were poor — and at the time I thought the same. That’s why I was excited when it was decided we should help this family by providing them with boxes of food jus’ before the Thanksgiving holiday.

It was amazing to see that every boy in our den had filled two “banana boxes,” full of non-perishable foods to be delivered a week or so ahead of the holiday. The plan was simple — we’d load up Dad’s truck and with a caravan in tow — drop the food off at their home, shake hands and leave.

The plan went off without a hitch — until the following day at school. That’s when the oldest boy, who was a grade ahead of me, singled me out and beat the crap out of me, leaving me sitting in the corner of the restroom.

He was angry that I had embarrassed him by bringing the food to his home. He knew Dad was the area scout master and thus, concluded it was my fault that his family was humiliated by such a unneccessary gift.

Until that day, it never occurred to me to look at such a situation from the eyes of the person I thought I was helping. Turns out walking a mile in someone else’s moccasins — has two meanings.

It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten.

Working as an order-taker for a company has never been my idea of fun employment. However, this is exactly what I found myself doing shortly after the radio station I was working for sold to another company.

As a general rule, or at least every time I’ve been employed at a station that has sold, most everyone gets a pink slip. While I think it’s a piss-poor way to operate a business – that’s the way things go.

So in between radio jobs, I landed a position with the Regional Transportation Commission’s CitiLift. It is the Reno and Sparks area’s Para-transit system and at the time we were located on Hymer Avenue.

Originally, I was hired as a van washer, but because I had some radio skills, the yard manager went to the general manager and I was hired to answer phones and dispatch radio calls. It wasn’t a bad job – unless you were the only one working in the office at night.

While it didn’t often happen – it did occur to me at least once. The night it did, I was given a lesson in customer service and good manners.

While attempting to handle both the radio, responding to drivers as they completed their routes, manually insert trip-tickets for passengers, I also had to answer the telephones and make reservations for people needing a ride. Needless to say – by the time I was nearing the end of my shift – I was feeling angry at the system.

Now I don’t recall the elderly woman’s name – but I do remember what she said to me over the phone as I lost my temper at the situation: “Tommy, I am so ashamed of you.”

She didn’t yell or say it in a mean manner. No, she simply said it and let it hang there.

Immediately, I apologized and corrected my bad attitude. Her pointed statement taught me a lesson: I am dealing with a person, who has feelings too and not a statistic.

I still get an uneasy feeling in my gut every time I think about that night.

The small sailing boat’s bow raised high into the air, hanging silent against the gray sky, before dropping into the bottom of the swell. The fall caused the timber to give a loud crack as if the vessel were coming apart plank by plank.

Greg shouted at me, “Grab tight!”

As quick as he shouted, I gripped the metal cable along the side of the boat that made up part of the railing. Then for the uncounted time the sail boat rose high against the dark waves and crashed down the backside.

Time and again, I found myself coughing up the salt water that entered my nose and mouth, only to find myself taking in more as the waves roared over the deck. I turned my head away of from the rushing water but the cold liquid always managed to push its way into my nostrils and between my lips.

Greg, the Captain, was at the tiller fighting to keep the vessel into the waves. He knew that if he allowed the wooden craft to drift sideways we’d be swept from the deck and would soon die in the icy Pacific Ocean.

He shivered but held tight to the handle of the only thing keeping the boat on course. Not even our wet suits were keeping us warm or dry.

The older man was leaned his entire body against the stick as the boat rose upward yet again. I wanted to go help Greg with the steering but knew Greg had me in the bow of the craft for a reason.

Numbing cold and the constant spray slowly caused a feeling of exhaustion. It had been hours since I had slept and my mind wandered from the danger I was in, to a point before we left the safety of Crescent City’s harbor.

*******

Looking for extra work, as my reservist pay was not enough, I had been down to the docks. I needed the extra side job to fill that gap that threatened to leave me both homeless and hungry.

My most recent deployment had been a three-week jaunt half a world away and I had missed the sailing of the crab fleet by three days. I’d been promised a spot on board vessel but as it turned out, the Captain could not wait for my return as there was too much money at stake to wait even a few hours before putting out to sea.

Standing by the dock offices, I watched the horizon, hoping to see a returning boat and possibly getting a chance to help off load some newly captured cargo. At the bottom of ramp, two slips to my right was a man laboring with a sanding block along the deck of a wooden sail boat named, “Anita.”

I watched as the man aboard the 40 foot vessel pressed the sanding block back and forth. It occurred to me that I should offer to help him for some cash and then I could say that at least I had been working.

“Need any day labor?” I asked.

The man continued to sand the area as he looked up. At first he didn’t say anything, he jus’ kept working. A minute or so later he stopped and looked at me standing on the dock.

“I could use a hand getting her ready,” the man finally answered.

Then he said, “I want to be underway by this Sunday.”

Then he tossed the piece of wood with the gritty sand paper wrapped around it to me. I clamored aboard the craft as the man, who called himself Greg, instructed me on what he needed done.

“It needs to be sanded down hard especially along the joints and seams,” Greg instructed, “As soon as that’s done and the dust is cleaned away, it has to be varnished.”

Greg told me that as the sanding was being done, he’d start behind me with the varnish. This would make the job go faster.

He offered me three hundred dollars if I’d stay and get the job done. I agreed to the terms.

The next four days we worked in tandem in order to get the deck sanded down and resealed in a thick coat of varnish. On Saturday the new sails were delivered and hosted into place.

This was work I wasn’t used to doing. It was both a learning situation and adventurous and we worked late that last day.

Finally the sanding and vanishing was completed and Greg, being true to his word handed me three one-hundred dollar bills. After shaking hands, I pushed the bills into my jean pocket.

I stepped off the Anita and started for the gang way that led to the dock office, feeling both a sense of pride and loss as I started on my walk home.

The gulls were crying even though it was dark and I also heard the pay phone which was bolted to the dock offices outside wall, ringing. I hurried to answer it, knowing many of the fishermen used it to get messages and talk to family members from time to time.

The voice on the other end of the phone was very serious as he asked for Greg by name calling him Captain. I shouted for the older man.

“Phone for you Greg,” I hollered.

Greg stopped what he was doing and hurried up the pay phone. I noticed that he had a worried look on his face, the wrinkles appearing deep in his forehead.

I handed the phone over and stepped back, but was slow to turn and walk away, being curious about the call and the conversation.

“Hey Tommy,” Greg shouted.

Turning around, I saw Greg walking towards me. I waited, not answering him.

“Are you interested in making a hundred bucks a day?” Greg asked.

“Sure,” I answered with some hesitation.

Then Greg explained that the boat’s owner had decided not to come up to Crescent City to help sail the vessel back to Newport Beach. Greg needed a deck hand and offered the job to me.

Both the idea of a voyage and the money appealed to me and I said yes to the offer. We agreed to meet at the boat by 4:30 the next morning.

*******

The forty foot vessel, which had felt large at one point, now seemed like a speck as it was knocked about by the waves. I felt both trapped and scared by the churning seas.

The craft lifted quickly as a swell passed beneath us, then dropped violently as we crested the huge wave. Still Greg kept his body pressed against the handle of the tiller.

Without warning the boat lifted nearly straight up, the bow pointing towards the cloudy skies. I was unprepared for the sudden vertical lift and my hands slipped from the railing.

Immediately, I found myself tumbling downward through the rigging, slamming into the main sail’s pole. I bounced off the mast as I attempted to grab a hold of it, but jus’ then the boat changed position and heaved to its right and dropping as sudden as it rose.

The unexpected movement caused me to twist around the mast and slip downward. I found myself airborne for less than a second, then crashing hard, head first through the top hatch to the cabin below deck.

The waves rushed in and over my body. I smashed into the table breaking it from its stand. Items like books and a pile of papers spread around the cabin creating an even further confusing mess as I struggled to figure out up from down.

Meanwhile Greg held tight to the tiller. He had managed to lash himself to the left side of the boats railing using a small piece of rope he had secured to the stern of the vessel for jus’ such an event.

Within seconds the vessel righted itself and I found my way to the stairs and climbed out of the galley. I tried to smile at Greg, as if to say I wasn’t worried, but it didn’t work.

The older man could see my fear and shouted, “While you were down there, did you make some coffee?”

The question caught me off guard and I found myself laughing along with Greg at the joke. It broke the tension for the moment and helped set aside the thought that I could have been swept over board and into the frigid ocean waters.

With each wave, water poured into the below deck. It was now up to me to repair the hard plastic hatch I had fallen through in order to protect the “Anita”, from taking on too much water.

Quickly as possible, I scrambled back down into the cabin and found the tool box which remained in place because it had been bolted down. I grabbed the hammer and a box of nails and hurried back up topside.

While Greg steered into the waves and bow pitched upward then fell down the mountainous swells, I went to work making emergency repairs.

First, I pulled open the back-up sail hold and yanked on the off-white canvas. It unfurled easier than I thought it would which caused me to stumble and fall back onto my butt.

However, I didn’t slow down, instead I rolled over and laid my body on the large piece of cloth and pulling my knife from my pocket, began cutting a large square from the now useless sail. I didn’t have time to measure the piece; instead I cut out an area larger than I thought I’d need.

*******

Rolling over, I turned off my alarm. I laid there for a moment and thought about the sail boat and the voyage that was jus’ ahead of me, realizing I had done a number of things before but this was one thing I had no idea about.

Getting out of bed, I quickly dressed, jeans, tee-shirt, sweat shirt and a pair of tennis shoes. Then I went out and made a cup of instant coffee and stood by the kitchen sink drinking it.

Within half an hour I was walking down the street towards the docks. My path took me by the Catholic Church and the St. Joe’s parochial school, which I had attended at one time.

Knowing that I had long since fallen away from the church, I paused and dropped to my knees anyway. I bowed my head.

“God I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into here, but please keep me safe and let me come home alive,” I said in a little prayer.

I got back to my feet and continued on my way to the boat dock and the “Anita.”

Greg was already there and he looked at his wrist watch, “I was afraid you had bailed on me.”

“So where do we start?” I asked feeling a little pained by Greg’s remark.

There were a couple of boxes and a large bag on the dock. Greg pointed at the boxes and told me to take them down below and stow the items inside the boxes in the cupboards.

Meanwhile Greg hauled the large bag onto the deck and unzipped it. It was filled with sailing canvass and he started placing it in a three-by-two box behind the hatch cover which I was going in and out of with food from the boxes.

As soon as the little boat was loaded, Greg called for me to untie lines that held the vessel in the slip. As I undid the ropes, the small engine coughed to life and the boat pulled smartly from between the docks and started for the harbor mouth.

It would be about three days before either of us would set foot on dry land.

The weather service reported a low pressure area was moving in along the coast but it was farther south. Greg said it would be on shore before we reached it and it would cause little concern for us and the sail craft.

*******

The deck raised the fell beneath me as I began hammering the stubby nails into place. I wanted to cover the shattered opening with the heavy canvas and prevent water from filling the cabin as much as possible.

My hands were numb from the chill of the wind, and the sting of the rain and sea water. This made it hard to hold onto the hammer and furthermore, every time I struck the head of the hammer against the tack driving it into the outer edge of the hatch, it would sting.

Still I pushed myself to complete the job.

It had taken nearly three hours and I was feeling exhausted and every bone and muscle in my right hand ached from the bitter cold. I looked at Greg again and again seeing that he too was getting exhausted.

At last, I tucked the hammer into me belt and crawled over to Greg. I moved clumsily into the padded seat to the right of the tiller and placed my hands on the stick, helping to take some of the strain off of Greg.

The weight of the rudder pressed into my body as Greg gave in to the help. It had been more than 40 hours since the storm first braced us and the sail boat.

I looked at the expressionless face of Greg, “Thought you said this was going to be an easy job?”

Greg failed to see the humor in my comment, so I decided to remain quiet.

The waves continued to heave and drop beneath the craft. But the two of us remained side by side on the tiller waiting for the storm to let up.

Another twenty hours passed before the skies showed a decrease in clouds and rain. Even the wind died down making the swells less treacherous. We had literally weathered the worse of the storm and knew it when a patch of blue skies showed itself jus’ above the horizon.

*******

Shaking Captain Greg’s hand, I prepared to board the bus home. It would be a 10- hour ride back up the coast to Crescent City, but I was looking forward to the rest as my muscles were sore from the two-day storm we encountered aboard the “Anita.”

The boat’s owner paid me a bonus for the trouble, doubling my original fee. The extra cash would come in handy and help pay my rent for the coming month.

It was good to be back on solid land and I couldn’t wait to get home. I knew I’d soon have orders to head overseas again and I was certain that they would have very little to do with storms at sea, but it would involve a storm jus’ of a different sort.