WARNING: the following narrative contains some material that may be deemed offensive to certain individuals, specifically rednecks. In fact, if you are a redneck you might want to stop reading right here. Don't feel bad. I used a lot of big words so you wouldn't have understood the story anyway.
Although I hear it's possible to go to the Bahamas and not do a shark dive, I find it improbable that anyone would turn down the opportunity. That is how Grant and I ended up doing a dive with approximately 20 gray reef sharks. We went with a great dive shop, Xanadu Underwater Adventures, http://www.xanadudive.com/, which I highly recommend.
It was our second dive of the afternoon. As we pulled up to the dive site, apparently a fin cut the surface of the water. I can't say this for sure because I couldn't see around or over the approximately 17 redneck divers who were on the boat with Grant and I. While most men would have chivalrously stepped aside for me so I could see, these guys instead crowded every square inch of the boat side and started throwing sandwiches into the water (the price for the dive trip included a boxed lunch for every diver). This incident highlighted their first mistaken belief about sharks - sharks, in fact, don't like peanut butter and wonder bread has never been discovered in a shark stomach.
Under normal circumstances I would have shoved my way to the front of the redneck mass to see the shark. As I am still recuperating from my knee surgery this was not an option. The dive master overheard me whining to Grant that the only way I was going to see a shark was to jump in and said that I could get into the water if I wanted. So I grabbed my snorkeling gear and carefully slid off the side of the boat into the water. As I got in I saw one dark shark shadow swimming beneath me. Suddenly there were five, and then about fifteen of them swimming below me. A few swam up towards my feet, sniffed them and then swam away (note to self - add odor eaters to dive booties).
As I was adjusting my mask I looked back towards the boat. Seventeen redneck faces were looking at me with disbelief. In a show of male pride at being out done by a sissy girl they immediately began putting on their snorkeling gear. It was amazing how many equipment "complications" started occurring on the boat. One guy suddenly couldn't find his snorkel. Another "accidentally" broke the strap off his mask. I heard one guy stating that he wouldn't get in the water because I was wearing a gold necklace and sharks are attracted to shiny objects. In fact, it's barracudas that are attracted to shiny objects, not sharks. I remember once having a severe concussion from getting kicked in the head, and I will admit at that time I could have confused a barracuda with a shark. However, that was only temporary retardation. This poor individual had no noticeable head trauma and yet was unable to distinguish between a foot long skinny silver fish that swims around with an expression that screams gee I'd like to bite you in the ass when you aren't looking with a fish that only weighs about 1000 pounds more and that's only 5 - 7 feet longer than an average barracuda. Duh!
After a few minutes, when they realized I hadn't been eaten or attacked, they decided it was safe and almost everyone on the boat got in the water.
One idiot did a cannonball, momentarily scaring the sharks off. Another attempted to (I'm not making this up) swim down and grab a shark by the tail. Gray reef sharks are between 6 to 8 feet long, so they aren't "small". In addition, last year, gray reef sharks had the highest attack rate on humans of any shark, including great whites and tiger sharks. I believe this individual was momentarily overcome with shock at the number of teeth in the shark's mouth. Judging from his origins (north Florida) I imagine one gray reef has more teeth (360 of them) than the entire human population of his town.
It should also be noted here that sharks have a soft palate. This means they can sense the fat content of an object. It is also believed they can get a sense of an object's fat content by smell. So while I, composed of lean muscle, would not be a particularly tasty treat and would be safe, some of the other people on the boat, specifically one guy whose beer gut could have been mistaken for one of the smaller Bahamian Islands, should not have felt so at ease. In addition, sharks can sense fear in the same way a dog can. I was not afraid because I have read a lot on sharks and shark behavior; some of the other guys on the boat, whose main education into shark behavior stemmed from such shows as Fox's "When Animals Attack", were probably secretly shitting bricks.
After a few minutes of snorkeling we got our dive gear on and dropped to the ocean floor. We were at approximately 55 feet. The sharks were swimming around us in a curious, but non-threatening, manner. They reminded me of cats, in both behavior and physical appearance. The gray reef is a very graceful swimmer. The eyes have a slit black pupil, similar to a cat's eye. The sharks would usually swim pretty close to the divers, veering off at the last second. Air bubbles usually frighten sharks so a shark would usually swim within a foot or so of my face and then when I exhaled turn away (note to self: bring tic tacs on next shark dive).
We swam around with the sharks for a while and then went off to look at a wreck. The sharks followed us over to the wreck and swam along the periphery of the group while we explored a sunken fishing boat. During our safety stop I also saw a brown shark, approximately 8 feet long.
I think that if most people did a shark dive or a shark snorkel trip, they would realize that most of their shark fears are unfounded. Also, this type of dive is much better than a "shark rodeo", where sharks are fed from a barrel shaped mass of dead fish while divers stay 20 or so feet away. In fact, shark rodeos are changing shark behavior, making them more likely to approach divers which, for obvious reasons, is not a good thing. Seeing sharks in their normal habitat goes a long way in erasing negative images like that of great whites ripping a seal carcass to shreds. Not to say sharks are not dangerous, but respect, not fear, should be the rule.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
the worst sushi experience
My sushi experience with my boss, Barry Lewis...we have a little sushi club that goes out every Tuesday for sushi.
You might ask yourself the following question: why would a person with at least an average IQ eat a raw egg? That is the same question I found myself asking when the sushi roll with a raw quail egg showed up on the tray last night.
"Try it," said Barry, "It's a delicacy." (I should know not to trust his judgment after he also encouraged me to go to a very boring 6 hour meeting because I would "learn something").
I didn't really want to eat the raw egg, but I had promised Barry I would try it. Plus, it costs an extra $.50 to get a raw egg on a sushi roll. But somehow the IDEA of a raw egg is less unpleasant than the ACTUAL raw egg, sitting like a slimy eyeball on an otherwise palatable roll. I studied the gelatinous goo of a yolk, which also gave off a funky odor similar to some of the more easily identifiable foot fungi, and wondered why I hadn't studied sleight of hand tricks more rigorously when I was a child.
"Stop looking at it and put it in your mouth!" Barry commanded.
I picked up the sushi roll and the egg quivered. I contemplated an accidental drop on the floor, but since there was no room to scoot my chair out away from the table it would have been hard to pull off. Well, I told myself, you can't DIE from eating a raw egg. I pictured the raw egg gone but couldn't quite visualize the disposal.
I finally did work up enough nerve to eat the egg. It slithered into my mouth much like the blob overtaking a small country, coating everything in an unspeakable slime. Death would surely follow. I fought back a choke and vowed not to throw up although Barry was such a close and convenient target.
I managed to swallow the stupid thing by drinking massive amounts of Sapporo while chewing and repeating the mantra: "This isn't really happening. You didn't really just eat a raw egg. It's just a really bad nightmare about sushi."
The egg eventually glided down my throat and into my stomach, where a short discussion ensued with my brain over whether or not the egg was going to get to stay. Due to cultural pressure the egg remained, but I have to say that I personally will never be the same.
You might ask yourself the following question: why would a person with at least an average IQ eat a raw egg? That is the same question I found myself asking when the sushi roll with a raw quail egg showed up on the tray last night.
"Try it," said Barry, "It's a delicacy." (I should know not to trust his judgment after he also encouraged me to go to a very boring 6 hour meeting because I would "learn something").
I didn't really want to eat the raw egg, but I had promised Barry I would try it. Plus, it costs an extra $.50 to get a raw egg on a sushi roll. But somehow the IDEA of a raw egg is less unpleasant than the ACTUAL raw egg, sitting like a slimy eyeball on an otherwise palatable roll. I studied the gelatinous goo of a yolk, which also gave off a funky odor similar to some of the more easily identifiable foot fungi, and wondered why I hadn't studied sleight of hand tricks more rigorously when I was a child.
"Stop looking at it and put it in your mouth!" Barry commanded.
I picked up the sushi roll and the egg quivered. I contemplated an accidental drop on the floor, but since there was no room to scoot my chair out away from the table it would have been hard to pull off. Well, I told myself, you can't DIE from eating a raw egg. I pictured the raw egg gone but couldn't quite visualize the disposal.
I finally did work up enough nerve to eat the egg. It slithered into my mouth much like the blob overtaking a small country, coating everything in an unspeakable slime. Death would surely follow. I fought back a choke and vowed not to throw up although Barry was such a close and convenient target.
I managed to swallow the stupid thing by drinking massive amounts of Sapporo while chewing and repeating the mantra: "This isn't really happening. You didn't really just eat a raw egg. It's just a really bad nightmare about sushi."
The egg eventually glided down my throat and into my stomach, where a short discussion ensued with my brain over whether or not the egg was going to get to stay. Due to cultural pressure the egg remained, but I have to say that I personally will never be the same.
Diving with a SEAL
NOTE: The following is not an exaggeration and REALLY did happen exactly as depicted in the story. You can ask Bach if you don’t believe me.
My friend and forensic consultant Dr. Bachrach called me up this past Tuesday and inquired if I would be interested in jumping out of a plane on Saturday (October 9). Surprisingly enough, I get calls like this a lot. Of course I said yes, since it’s very rare that I get to have an adventure that I don’t have to plan, and it’s something I’ve wanted to try.
So Saturday morning I got up at the ungodly hour of 5 am, after only a couple hours of sleep. I’d been working on my midterms Friday night and then watched Key Largo, which wasn’t over until 3 am. I ended up watching the whole movie solely because I was hoping at some point Lauren Bacall would change out of those horrible espadrilles and put on a normal looking pair of shoes. It’s hard to explain the pain I suffered every time they showed her feet. But I digress.
The company we jumped with is called Sky Dive Orange[1], near Culpepper, VA. We were told to arrive at 9 am to undergo training before our jump, scheduled for 10 am. We arrived at the hangar at 830 am[2] and tried to check in for our jump. The woman working behind the counter told us (this is a direct quote, please note that capitalized words were screamed): “You guys need to HANG TIGHT for a couple of minutes and COME BACK LATER when I get done with these guys because it’s REALLY BUSY[3] and they need to get on a PLANE NOW and I’m TIRED because all my skydiving friends are asleep on the floor of my 600 SQUARE FOOT EFFIENCY and I HAVE A SINUS INFECTION but I HAVE TO BE AT WORK while THEY get to SLEEP ON MY FLOOR. I LOVE SKYDIVING!!!!!!!”
To which we responded, “Okay, we’ll be back.” We wandered around the inside of the hangar checking out all the bizarre people. One girl had the dirtiest feet I’ve ever seen and she was running around the hangar singing Elvis songs, complete with renditions of Elvis dances. She also rolled on the floor like a dog. Another guy seemed to have some version of Turret’s Syndrome, and on top of that another problem of itchy balls. Bach felt the need to inform me every time the guy was scratching himself, which was often and in between outbursts of swear words and Nirvana lyrics[4]. I kept looking at the clock wondering when we could get on the plane.
Finally, at 9:45, sinus infection girl came up to us and screamed “I’VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU!!!” Note that the hangar is an open room approximately 30 feet by 30 feet filled with a bunch of hippy looking freaks. Bach and I stood out pretty easily in our clean clothes and normal haircuts. She dragged us to a room and handed us 20 pages of waivers to sign. We did this while we watched a 15 minute “training” movie. Example dialogue, delivered by a guy who looked like a cross between the guitar player for ZZ Top and an elf, included such gems as: “You are attempting a dangerous activity”, “No parachute can ever be made 100% safe”, “There is no guarantee you won’t die during the course of a jump”, “Your jump instructor is not a lawyer and can not give you legal advice. If you are wondering if skydiving is right for you we suggest you go see a lawyer”. At the very end they did show someone jumping out of a plane. I didn’t feel particularly enlightened as to what our experience was going to be.
We had signed up for a tandem jump. That means you jump with an instructor to whom you are tethered. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of having some strange man strapped up against my ass, especially after seeing the riff raff in the hangar. But I figured if Bach could do it, I could too. And the only other option for a beginner jump was a static line jump, which would have meant no free fall, which is what we really wanted to experience.
Our jump time of 10 am came and went, as did 11 am. Finally at noon, sinus girl screamed into the microphone “Frank Schullaferkekerterk, please meet your jump instructor in the front of the hangar”. I assumed she meant me and went to the front of the hangar where a couch that even the Salvation Army wouldn’t touch sat next to a foosball table. My instructor was named Paul, as he reported to me from his seat on the sofa. For our entire relationship (all 20 minutes of it) he never once removed his wrap around shades. He told me he was a retired Navy SEAL, which surprised me since he was only a little taller than me and probably weighed only 30 pounds more. He had been jumping with Sky Dive Orange for 5 years, and had over 2,000 jumps. Just to bust his balls a little, I said “Oh is that a lot?” Paul’s mouth formed a thin red line. Without acknowledging my comment he grabbed me suddenly by the shoulder and said in a rather sinister voice “Now you’re going to stand there and I’m going to put your jump suit on.” I asked if he dressed all his clients or just the blonds. He muttered something under his breath that I’m glad I didn’t hear.
The jump suit was a rather depressing black thing with more zips on it than a John Galliano dress (pre-Dior era). Trying to loosen Paul up a bit as he zipped me into to this funereal one piece, I said “I was thinking more along the lines of a light blue ensemble with maybe a dark blue parachute, more red blue than navy blue, and perhaps some yellow highlights, that makes the statement “Hey, look at me”, while at the same time saying “I’m part of the sky”. What color choices in canopies do we have?” Had I been a man, he probably would have punched me, but instead he said, “My chute is black and purple. You don’t get a choice in color. That’s my jump suit.” I realized that the lilac and black atrocity lying on the floor next to me, that I had been making fun of moments earlier, was his suit. Oops. He strapped me into a black harness.
After spending what seemed like hours buckling and unbuckling me into things (helmet, ugly glasses, harness, clothing, gloves, altimeter) I was finally fully loaded in all my horrible rental gear. Luckily I have a small head, and got to wear a kid’s helmet. Bach got stuck in a helmet that looked like a cross between something from World War II and a phallus. But his jump suit had little wings on it and mine didn’t. Bach was rather selfish about his winged jump suit and wouldn’t even let me touch it. He stood with his instructor, a guy named Sean, joking and laughing and learning how to pull the rip cord and steer. My instructor had taken off to somewhere in the dark recesses behind the hangar. Before he left, he had growled at me “You stand RIGHT HERE and DON’T MOVE until I come back. You WILL NOT walk past THIS LINE without me[5].”
When they announced that our jump group, Otter 6, had 5 minutes until take off Paul reappeared and grabbed me by the leg harness. “Come on!” he said, dragging me along like a dog by the choke collar. Bach’s instructor Sean was dancing around like a five year old at a birthday party, punching him in the arm and saying “Dude! Are you ready to JUMP??? Are you PSYCHED????” Bach kept turning around to look at me and grin as I was hauled across the runway by my leg straps. Fuck you, I thought to myself.
The plane was a small twin engine thing with a door at the back through which we were supposed to board. There was a set of five metal steps leading up to the plane floor. I got to get in first because I was the only female. Before I headed up the stairs, Paul grabbed my shoulders and put his face right next to mine. “Don’t! Walk! Into! The! Propellers!” he shouted, enunciating every word as if speaking to a moron. Since we were at the back of the plane and no where near the propellers I said “NO PROBLEM!” Then he said, “When you go! Up the stairs[6]! Duck your head!” He patted his head for extra emphasis, maybe worried I wouldn’t understand the word. Then he yelled “Because the ceiling! IS VERY! Low!” He made a chopping motion with his hand towards my head to simulate walking into the door frame or perhaps to gauge where he would sever my skull if given the chance.
I started up the stairs, and, just to be a smart ass, leaned WAY over to show Paul I was ducking under the door. He unceremoniously shoved me in the ass, sending me tumbling into a wooden bench. I started to sit down but he screamed “WAIT A MINUTE! YOU DON’T SIT DOWN UNTIL I DO!” Then he sat behind me and yanked me backwards between his legs[7].
Bach and Sean boarded next, in a much more convivial fashion. They sat on a bench across from us. Then three other jumpers got on. One, it turns out, is a weapons inspector and had been on C-SPAN the previous day talking about Iraq. We joked around about weapons of mass destruction, waiting for the pilot to complete his takeoff checks. When I leaned forward to get the C-SPAN guy’s name Paul yanked me back into his lap by my shoulder harness strap. I sighed, leaned against him, and looked over at Bach and Sean. Sean had clipped Bach’s harness into a series of hooks hanging off the plane’s walls. It was their version of a seat belt I guessed. I wondered why Paul, safety man, hadn’t seat belted me in yet. So I grabbed a hook and turned around to Paul and said “Should I hook my harness into this?” He exploded. “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!” He grabbed my head and turned it so I was facing forward again and then put his arms around me so I couldn’t move at all.
Having nothing better to do, since I was more or less immobilized, I started playing with my altimeter. Sean was talking to Bach about the jump as Paul stared sullenly out the window. I decided to try to initiate conversation with him again.
“Hey Paul? I did want to mention one thing about the landing. I have this knee problem…”
“We will discuss the landing 5 minutes before the landing occurs.”
“Okay, but I just wanted to point out that…”
“We will not discuss the landing now. We will discuss it five minutes before it occurs.”
The jump was starting to remind me more and more of one of my really bad dates, except that I wasn’t on a date with Paul, I was just in the process of getting strapped so closely to him I could feel his appendectomy scar. As the plane took off and began ascending I looked around to take my mind off the strapping activities. I noticed one of the jumpers didn’t have any shoes[8] on.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I never jump with shoes.”
I looked at his pasty fat feet, assessing their down-pillow like qualities.
“You’re going to jump and land on those soft little things?”
He started railing about the fact that he has never jumped with shoes and has even landed on lava rocks while jumping in Hawaii in bare feet. Obviously this guy had the toughest feet north and south of the Mason Dixon. I was sorry I had asked.
When we reached 14,000 feet Mr. No Shoes opened the door and everyone got ready to jump. Paul and I went last, the best position because you get to see everyone else fall. He double checked my harness again, cinching the strap across my chest so tight I was sure my breasts would explode upon impact with the ground.
One by one people tumbled out of the plane. Then we were up. I tried to walk as elegantly as possible, which was not that elegant considering I couldn’t stand up straight in the plane and I had a Navy SEAL strapped to my ass. When we got to the door I felt the first rush of the wind, which was cold. Above the door was a metal bar that looked like the handicap bars you see in bathtubs. Paul hung onto the bar as we stood in the door.
According to the video we had seen, and a short instruction session given by Sean, I was supposed to line my feet up with the plane floor so my toes dangled out into the wind, locking my hands around the shoulder straps running down my chest. Then I was supposed to arch my back and neck as far back as possible. Once we were airborne I would put my legs up so my knees were at a 90 degree angle, and release my hands from the harness. My hands would then go to the sides of my body to help stabilize us as we tumbled 8,000 feet, which would take approximately one minute. Paul would open the chute between 6,000 and 5,000 feet and it would take another 4 to 5 minutes to hit the ground.
But as I began lining my feet up with the floor I felt Paul’s pelvis banging into me like Buick with bad brakes. The next thing I knew I was on my back staring up at the sky. I couldn’t breathe. We rotated around and suddenly I was facing the ground, still unable to take a breath. It felt like someone had turned on a fire hose and aimed it up into my sinuses[9].
Free fall doesn’t feel the way I expected. The air is cold and so dense it’s almost impossible to breathe, but the force of the wind is nowhere near the force of gravity. Stabilizing my body was not a problem, and my limbs didn’t feel like they were being blown around too much, but the feeling of dropping with a tremendous amount of speed was somewhat disconcerting. Air doesn’t feel like air, it feels like water. The sensation felt like someone had just tied a two ton anchor around my hips and then thrown me into an ocean crevasse off the coast of Monterey.
Paul turned us a few more times. Bach and Sean were way below us. They weighed more than Paul and I so they fell faster, and Bach had been allowed to pull his ripcord, which he had trouble locating, so their chute opened later than ours[10]. Paul pulled the canopy at about 6,000 feet without warning me first. One second we were spiraling around and down and the next second I heard a tremendous ripping noise. Before I had time to get nervous my harness jarred against my torso and I felt myself flying upward like a spring. The chute made a cracking noise as Paul luffed it, and then we came down hard again. I felt like a bug that had just been stepped on, wedged on the bottom of someone’s shoe, and stepped on again.
The tearing wind sound was gone and things were suddenly quiet. Too quiet, apparently, for Paul. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Yes.” I responded, glad that I could breathe again. I was surprised that we could speak in normal tones and hear each other. It was quieter than the hangar.
“How’s your stomach?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Now we’re going to do some tricks. Look, there’s the airport!”
I looked down. The airport landing strips were an obvious landmark, especially since they are in the middle of a huge field with nothing around it. The roof of Sky Dive Orange’s hangar was painted a bright orange, so that was obvious too. I could see Bach and Sean far below us. The altimeter said 5,000 feet.
“Now I’m going to loosen your buckles. You’re still strapped in so DON’T FREAK OUT!” He loosened the strap going over my chest and suddenly breathing became easier.
“Now I’m going to take off your helmet. You will remove your glasses and slide them around your neck. YOU WILL NOT DROP YOUR GLASSES. Then I will put your helmet back on and YOU WILL BUCKLE IT IMMEDIATELY. You will NOT FREAK OUT.” Without the glasses my eyes started tearing in the wind but it was better than having them pressing against my face. Everything seemed tremendously pressurized. The force of the fall was also pushing me into Paul.
Paul began to turn us in tight spirals. “WHEEEEE! Isn’t this fun!” he said. Fun like being shackled to Barney the Purple Dinosaur I thought. “Look at the chute!” he exclaimed. I looked at the canopy, not particularly enthralled. My curiosities about skydiving lay elsewhere. For example, I wanted to know if Paul had ever had his canopy attacked by a flock of birds with West Nile virus, but decided not to ask.
Paul said “WHEEE!” a couple more times as we executed turns. With each go around we turned on our sides and I would feel the pressure of gravity increase, pulling me down with a strange flattening sensation. He luffed the canopy a couple of times, stopping us in midair for a moment; we would start to plummet down until the canopy caught air. This caused my stomach to feel like it was being rocketed from the basement to the fifth floor of my body at light speed. It was kind of fun in the way I imagine doing crack cocaine is fun.
“Look, there’s the airport!” he said again. So I decided to spend the rest of our ride down constantly asking where the airport was, because I knew Paul would love that. After six or seven queries from me about the airport’s location Paul caught on and we both decided it was best to drift along in silence for a while. The feeling was not weightless and smooth the way I imagined it would be. It felt more like being a puppet attached to strings, dragged along by an uncoordinated child running down a flight of stairs with no thought for the safety of the poor puppet. As we got closer to the ground Paul wanted to know every five seconds how my stomach was doing. I promised him that if I was going to throw up I would let him know.
The last couple thousand feet he said I seemed to be a natural in the air because I was so comfortable, but I don’t imagine he gets many clients who spend a lot of time at heights. Most of the people in the hangar appeared to be having their one adventure of a lifetime. Some of the clients screamed from the moment they left the plane until they landed on the ground. I knew from the moment the free fall stopped that I would not be sharing their sense of exhilaration from the jump. I had hoped to get to steer or do something but Paul was afraid to let me touch anything. He told me that he’d had a number of clients freak out without warning. The two worst ones were Marine Corps officers, both of whom tried to kill Paul during the free fall.
Finally we approached the drop zone, swinging in tighter and tighter circles until we coasted softly onto the grass. My final request, which was to land on an ugly old blue school bus that I’d had my eye on for some time, was ignored. It was a beautiful and gentle landing. As we came in I leaned back as far as possible, riding Paul like a human toboggan through the grass and dirt. We came to a stop near Bach and Sean who were already canopy-less and standing. I decided to continue to lie on top of Paul for a moment, smiling because my elbow was digging into his abdomen.
“Oof. Come on. You need to get up.” With a shove I was sitting upright and he unbuckled me with light speed so he could more easily throw me out of his lap. I waited until he had gathered his chute and then we walked inside. As I piled up my jump suit, glasses, helmet, altimeter, and harness, Paul quickly shoved some tchotchkies into a manila envelope and then signed a tacky looking certificate for me that said I had performed a skydive in accordance with the Basic Safety Requirements of the United States Parachute Association at Sky Dive Orange.
“Here you go. You have to fill in the name. I can’t remember your name. I have a lot of clients. Good luck to you.” He shook my hand abruptly and left. We waited for Bach’s instructor so he could get his certificate but the guy was off doing who knows what. After about 5 minutes Paul came back.
“Are you STILL HERE?”
Bach explained. “Yes, we were waiting for my instructor. Can you go find him?” Bach’s request went unheeded; no one bossed Paul around. He grabbed the same stuff he had given to me for Bach and handed it to him. “Okay, that should be everything. Goodbye.”
We both managed to get out of the hangar before we cracked up laughing. On the drive home with both decided that the jump had been fun, but not the kind of fun either of us wanted to repeat. The best part had been the free fall. Maybe the jump would have been more fun without an instructor, because, as the saying goes, no skill no thrill, but it takes a couple of jumps to go instructorless. And unfortunately, the next step in skydiving after a tandem jump is a static line jump, which doesn’t involve any free fall at all. So I’m afraid our skydiving days have come to an end.
Anyway, what’s the point of diving with SEALS if there are no sharks involved?
[1] www.skydiveorange.com
[2] Since Bach is perpetually late for everything I allow extra time in the schedule to make sure he is on time. I blame his South American roots and his electrical engineering degree. Electrical engineers can explain everything to you, but don’t understand practical application of anything, to include “time”.
[3] There were two people standing at the counter, and they were still half asleep
[4] Nirvana is a poser band. Case in point.
[5] “this line” being the exit of the hangar
[6] to get onto the plane
[7] “He didn’t even bother to buy you a drink first,” Bach snickered later. And that’s the real reason why I drove his sports car all the way home without taking it out of fourth gear.
[8] The fact that I notice people aren’t wearing shoes IN NO WAY implies I have an obsession with shoes. Anyway, who wouldn’t be curious about what footwear was available for a skydiving inclined girl who could always use another pair of “sports related” shoes. Sports related shoes can’t be counted when assessing the total number of shoes a person owns, in case someone wants to make an issue of the fact that some people own over 300 pairs of shoes, which isn’t a lot really, but in fact just SOUNDS like a lot. Anyway, don’t you think YOUR obsession with my shoes is kind of strange?
[9] Sean told me on the ground afterwards that he tells his clients to take a breath before jumping out of the plane because this is normal during the free fall. Sean told me a lot of other things after the fact that would have been nice to know before the jump actually. But he was too busy strapping himself to Bach to help me out I guess.
[10] I found it unfair that Bach was seen as being more capable and coordinated than I. After all, have I ever gotten drunk and walked through a screen door at someone’s party? Have I ever gotten run over by my girlfriend when trying to take pictures of her sand boarding down a hill, thus crushing my hopes of competing in the NYC marathon this year? Have I ever dropped a 16 ounce glass full of beer on my date’s new shoes?
My friend and forensic consultant Dr. Bachrach called me up this past Tuesday and inquired if I would be interested in jumping out of a plane on Saturday (October 9). Surprisingly enough, I get calls like this a lot. Of course I said yes, since it’s very rare that I get to have an adventure that I don’t have to plan, and it’s something I’ve wanted to try.
So Saturday morning I got up at the ungodly hour of 5 am, after only a couple hours of sleep. I’d been working on my midterms Friday night and then watched Key Largo, which wasn’t over until 3 am. I ended up watching the whole movie solely because I was hoping at some point Lauren Bacall would change out of those horrible espadrilles and put on a normal looking pair of shoes. It’s hard to explain the pain I suffered every time they showed her feet. But I digress.
The company we jumped with is called Sky Dive Orange[1], near Culpepper, VA. We were told to arrive at 9 am to undergo training before our jump, scheduled for 10 am. We arrived at the hangar at 830 am[2] and tried to check in for our jump. The woman working behind the counter told us (this is a direct quote, please note that capitalized words were screamed): “You guys need to HANG TIGHT for a couple of minutes and COME BACK LATER when I get done with these guys because it’s REALLY BUSY[3] and they need to get on a PLANE NOW and I’m TIRED because all my skydiving friends are asleep on the floor of my 600 SQUARE FOOT EFFIENCY and I HAVE A SINUS INFECTION but I HAVE TO BE AT WORK while THEY get to SLEEP ON MY FLOOR. I LOVE SKYDIVING!!!!!!!”
To which we responded, “Okay, we’ll be back.” We wandered around the inside of the hangar checking out all the bizarre people. One girl had the dirtiest feet I’ve ever seen and she was running around the hangar singing Elvis songs, complete with renditions of Elvis dances. She also rolled on the floor like a dog. Another guy seemed to have some version of Turret’s Syndrome, and on top of that another problem of itchy balls. Bach felt the need to inform me every time the guy was scratching himself, which was often and in between outbursts of swear words and Nirvana lyrics[4]. I kept looking at the clock wondering when we could get on the plane.
Finally, at 9:45, sinus infection girl came up to us and screamed “I’VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU!!!” Note that the hangar is an open room approximately 30 feet by 30 feet filled with a bunch of hippy looking freaks. Bach and I stood out pretty easily in our clean clothes and normal haircuts. She dragged us to a room and handed us 20 pages of waivers to sign. We did this while we watched a 15 minute “training” movie. Example dialogue, delivered by a guy who looked like a cross between the guitar player for ZZ Top and an elf, included such gems as: “You are attempting a dangerous activity”, “No parachute can ever be made 100% safe”, “There is no guarantee you won’t die during the course of a jump”, “Your jump instructor is not a lawyer and can not give you legal advice. If you are wondering if skydiving is right for you we suggest you go see a lawyer”. At the very end they did show someone jumping out of a plane. I didn’t feel particularly enlightened as to what our experience was going to be.
We had signed up for a tandem jump. That means you jump with an instructor to whom you are tethered. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of having some strange man strapped up against my ass, especially after seeing the riff raff in the hangar. But I figured if Bach could do it, I could too. And the only other option for a beginner jump was a static line jump, which would have meant no free fall, which is what we really wanted to experience.
Our jump time of 10 am came and went, as did 11 am. Finally at noon, sinus girl screamed into the microphone “Frank Schullaferkekerterk, please meet your jump instructor in the front of the hangar”. I assumed she meant me and went to the front of the hangar where a couch that even the Salvation Army wouldn’t touch sat next to a foosball table. My instructor was named Paul, as he reported to me from his seat on the sofa. For our entire relationship (all 20 minutes of it) he never once removed his wrap around shades. He told me he was a retired Navy SEAL, which surprised me since he was only a little taller than me and probably weighed only 30 pounds more. He had been jumping with Sky Dive Orange for 5 years, and had over 2,000 jumps. Just to bust his balls a little, I said “Oh is that a lot?” Paul’s mouth formed a thin red line. Without acknowledging my comment he grabbed me suddenly by the shoulder and said in a rather sinister voice “Now you’re going to stand there and I’m going to put your jump suit on.” I asked if he dressed all his clients or just the blonds. He muttered something under his breath that I’m glad I didn’t hear.
The jump suit was a rather depressing black thing with more zips on it than a John Galliano dress (pre-Dior era). Trying to loosen Paul up a bit as he zipped me into to this funereal one piece, I said “I was thinking more along the lines of a light blue ensemble with maybe a dark blue parachute, more red blue than navy blue, and perhaps some yellow highlights, that makes the statement “Hey, look at me”, while at the same time saying “I’m part of the sky”. What color choices in canopies do we have?” Had I been a man, he probably would have punched me, but instead he said, “My chute is black and purple. You don’t get a choice in color. That’s my jump suit.” I realized that the lilac and black atrocity lying on the floor next to me, that I had been making fun of moments earlier, was his suit. Oops. He strapped me into a black harness.
After spending what seemed like hours buckling and unbuckling me into things (helmet, ugly glasses, harness, clothing, gloves, altimeter) I was finally fully loaded in all my horrible rental gear. Luckily I have a small head, and got to wear a kid’s helmet. Bach got stuck in a helmet that looked like a cross between something from World War II and a phallus. But his jump suit had little wings on it and mine didn’t. Bach was rather selfish about his winged jump suit and wouldn’t even let me touch it. He stood with his instructor, a guy named Sean, joking and laughing and learning how to pull the rip cord and steer. My instructor had taken off to somewhere in the dark recesses behind the hangar. Before he left, he had growled at me “You stand RIGHT HERE and DON’T MOVE until I come back. You WILL NOT walk past THIS LINE without me[5].”
When they announced that our jump group, Otter 6, had 5 minutes until take off Paul reappeared and grabbed me by the leg harness. “Come on!” he said, dragging me along like a dog by the choke collar. Bach’s instructor Sean was dancing around like a five year old at a birthday party, punching him in the arm and saying “Dude! Are you ready to JUMP??? Are you PSYCHED????” Bach kept turning around to look at me and grin as I was hauled across the runway by my leg straps. Fuck you, I thought to myself.
The plane was a small twin engine thing with a door at the back through which we were supposed to board. There was a set of five metal steps leading up to the plane floor. I got to get in first because I was the only female. Before I headed up the stairs, Paul grabbed my shoulders and put his face right next to mine. “Don’t! Walk! Into! The! Propellers!” he shouted, enunciating every word as if speaking to a moron. Since we were at the back of the plane and no where near the propellers I said “NO PROBLEM!” Then he said, “When you go! Up the stairs[6]! Duck your head!” He patted his head for extra emphasis, maybe worried I wouldn’t understand the word. Then he yelled “Because the ceiling! IS VERY! Low!” He made a chopping motion with his hand towards my head to simulate walking into the door frame or perhaps to gauge where he would sever my skull if given the chance.
I started up the stairs, and, just to be a smart ass, leaned WAY over to show Paul I was ducking under the door. He unceremoniously shoved me in the ass, sending me tumbling into a wooden bench. I started to sit down but he screamed “WAIT A MINUTE! YOU DON’T SIT DOWN UNTIL I DO!” Then he sat behind me and yanked me backwards between his legs[7].
Bach and Sean boarded next, in a much more convivial fashion. They sat on a bench across from us. Then three other jumpers got on. One, it turns out, is a weapons inspector and had been on C-SPAN the previous day talking about Iraq. We joked around about weapons of mass destruction, waiting for the pilot to complete his takeoff checks. When I leaned forward to get the C-SPAN guy’s name Paul yanked me back into his lap by my shoulder harness strap. I sighed, leaned against him, and looked over at Bach and Sean. Sean had clipped Bach’s harness into a series of hooks hanging off the plane’s walls. It was their version of a seat belt I guessed. I wondered why Paul, safety man, hadn’t seat belted me in yet. So I grabbed a hook and turned around to Paul and said “Should I hook my harness into this?” He exploded. “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!” He grabbed my head and turned it so I was facing forward again and then put his arms around me so I couldn’t move at all.
Having nothing better to do, since I was more or less immobilized, I started playing with my altimeter. Sean was talking to Bach about the jump as Paul stared sullenly out the window. I decided to try to initiate conversation with him again.
“Hey Paul? I did want to mention one thing about the landing. I have this knee problem…”
“We will discuss the landing 5 minutes before the landing occurs.”
“Okay, but I just wanted to point out that…”
“We will not discuss the landing now. We will discuss it five minutes before it occurs.”
The jump was starting to remind me more and more of one of my really bad dates, except that I wasn’t on a date with Paul, I was just in the process of getting strapped so closely to him I could feel his appendectomy scar. As the plane took off and began ascending I looked around to take my mind off the strapping activities. I noticed one of the jumpers didn’t have any shoes[8] on.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I never jump with shoes.”
I looked at his pasty fat feet, assessing their down-pillow like qualities.
“You’re going to jump and land on those soft little things?”
He started railing about the fact that he has never jumped with shoes and has even landed on lava rocks while jumping in Hawaii in bare feet. Obviously this guy had the toughest feet north and south of the Mason Dixon. I was sorry I had asked.
When we reached 14,000 feet Mr. No Shoes opened the door and everyone got ready to jump. Paul and I went last, the best position because you get to see everyone else fall. He double checked my harness again, cinching the strap across my chest so tight I was sure my breasts would explode upon impact with the ground.
One by one people tumbled out of the plane. Then we were up. I tried to walk as elegantly as possible, which was not that elegant considering I couldn’t stand up straight in the plane and I had a Navy SEAL strapped to my ass. When we got to the door I felt the first rush of the wind, which was cold. Above the door was a metal bar that looked like the handicap bars you see in bathtubs. Paul hung onto the bar as we stood in the door.
According to the video we had seen, and a short instruction session given by Sean, I was supposed to line my feet up with the plane floor so my toes dangled out into the wind, locking my hands around the shoulder straps running down my chest. Then I was supposed to arch my back and neck as far back as possible. Once we were airborne I would put my legs up so my knees were at a 90 degree angle, and release my hands from the harness. My hands would then go to the sides of my body to help stabilize us as we tumbled 8,000 feet, which would take approximately one minute. Paul would open the chute between 6,000 and 5,000 feet and it would take another 4 to 5 minutes to hit the ground.
But as I began lining my feet up with the floor I felt Paul’s pelvis banging into me like Buick with bad brakes. The next thing I knew I was on my back staring up at the sky. I couldn’t breathe. We rotated around and suddenly I was facing the ground, still unable to take a breath. It felt like someone had turned on a fire hose and aimed it up into my sinuses[9].
Free fall doesn’t feel the way I expected. The air is cold and so dense it’s almost impossible to breathe, but the force of the wind is nowhere near the force of gravity. Stabilizing my body was not a problem, and my limbs didn’t feel like they were being blown around too much, but the feeling of dropping with a tremendous amount of speed was somewhat disconcerting. Air doesn’t feel like air, it feels like water. The sensation felt like someone had just tied a two ton anchor around my hips and then thrown me into an ocean crevasse off the coast of Monterey.
Paul turned us a few more times. Bach and Sean were way below us. They weighed more than Paul and I so they fell faster, and Bach had been allowed to pull his ripcord, which he had trouble locating, so their chute opened later than ours[10]. Paul pulled the canopy at about 6,000 feet without warning me first. One second we were spiraling around and down and the next second I heard a tremendous ripping noise. Before I had time to get nervous my harness jarred against my torso and I felt myself flying upward like a spring. The chute made a cracking noise as Paul luffed it, and then we came down hard again. I felt like a bug that had just been stepped on, wedged on the bottom of someone’s shoe, and stepped on again.
The tearing wind sound was gone and things were suddenly quiet. Too quiet, apparently, for Paul. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Yes.” I responded, glad that I could breathe again. I was surprised that we could speak in normal tones and hear each other. It was quieter than the hangar.
“How’s your stomach?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Now we’re going to do some tricks. Look, there’s the airport!”
I looked down. The airport landing strips were an obvious landmark, especially since they are in the middle of a huge field with nothing around it. The roof of Sky Dive Orange’s hangar was painted a bright orange, so that was obvious too. I could see Bach and Sean far below us. The altimeter said 5,000 feet.
“Now I’m going to loosen your buckles. You’re still strapped in so DON’T FREAK OUT!” He loosened the strap going over my chest and suddenly breathing became easier.
“Now I’m going to take off your helmet. You will remove your glasses and slide them around your neck. YOU WILL NOT DROP YOUR GLASSES. Then I will put your helmet back on and YOU WILL BUCKLE IT IMMEDIATELY. You will NOT FREAK OUT.” Without the glasses my eyes started tearing in the wind but it was better than having them pressing against my face. Everything seemed tremendously pressurized. The force of the fall was also pushing me into Paul.
Paul began to turn us in tight spirals. “WHEEEEE! Isn’t this fun!” he said. Fun like being shackled to Barney the Purple Dinosaur I thought. “Look at the chute!” he exclaimed. I looked at the canopy, not particularly enthralled. My curiosities about skydiving lay elsewhere. For example, I wanted to know if Paul had ever had his canopy attacked by a flock of birds with West Nile virus, but decided not to ask.
Paul said “WHEEE!” a couple more times as we executed turns. With each go around we turned on our sides and I would feel the pressure of gravity increase, pulling me down with a strange flattening sensation. He luffed the canopy a couple of times, stopping us in midair for a moment; we would start to plummet down until the canopy caught air. This caused my stomach to feel like it was being rocketed from the basement to the fifth floor of my body at light speed. It was kind of fun in the way I imagine doing crack cocaine is fun.
“Look, there’s the airport!” he said again. So I decided to spend the rest of our ride down constantly asking where the airport was, because I knew Paul would love that. After six or seven queries from me about the airport’s location Paul caught on and we both decided it was best to drift along in silence for a while. The feeling was not weightless and smooth the way I imagined it would be. It felt more like being a puppet attached to strings, dragged along by an uncoordinated child running down a flight of stairs with no thought for the safety of the poor puppet. As we got closer to the ground Paul wanted to know every five seconds how my stomach was doing. I promised him that if I was going to throw up I would let him know.
The last couple thousand feet he said I seemed to be a natural in the air because I was so comfortable, but I don’t imagine he gets many clients who spend a lot of time at heights. Most of the people in the hangar appeared to be having their one adventure of a lifetime. Some of the clients screamed from the moment they left the plane until they landed on the ground. I knew from the moment the free fall stopped that I would not be sharing their sense of exhilaration from the jump. I had hoped to get to steer or do something but Paul was afraid to let me touch anything. He told me that he’d had a number of clients freak out without warning. The two worst ones were Marine Corps officers, both of whom tried to kill Paul during the free fall.
Finally we approached the drop zone, swinging in tighter and tighter circles until we coasted softly onto the grass. My final request, which was to land on an ugly old blue school bus that I’d had my eye on for some time, was ignored. It was a beautiful and gentle landing. As we came in I leaned back as far as possible, riding Paul like a human toboggan through the grass and dirt. We came to a stop near Bach and Sean who were already canopy-less and standing. I decided to continue to lie on top of Paul for a moment, smiling because my elbow was digging into his abdomen.
“Oof. Come on. You need to get up.” With a shove I was sitting upright and he unbuckled me with light speed so he could more easily throw me out of his lap. I waited until he had gathered his chute and then we walked inside. As I piled up my jump suit, glasses, helmet, altimeter, and harness, Paul quickly shoved some tchotchkies into a manila envelope and then signed a tacky looking certificate for me that said I had performed a skydive in accordance with the Basic Safety Requirements of the United States Parachute Association at Sky Dive Orange.
“Here you go. You have to fill in the name. I can’t remember your name. I have a lot of clients. Good luck to you.” He shook my hand abruptly and left. We waited for Bach’s instructor so he could get his certificate but the guy was off doing who knows what. After about 5 minutes Paul came back.
“Are you STILL HERE?”
Bach explained. “Yes, we were waiting for my instructor. Can you go find him?” Bach’s request went unheeded; no one bossed Paul around. He grabbed the same stuff he had given to me for Bach and handed it to him. “Okay, that should be everything. Goodbye.”
We both managed to get out of the hangar before we cracked up laughing. On the drive home with both decided that the jump had been fun, but not the kind of fun either of us wanted to repeat. The best part had been the free fall. Maybe the jump would have been more fun without an instructor, because, as the saying goes, no skill no thrill, but it takes a couple of jumps to go instructorless. And unfortunately, the next step in skydiving after a tandem jump is a static line jump, which doesn’t involve any free fall at all. So I’m afraid our skydiving days have come to an end.
Anyway, what’s the point of diving with SEALS if there are no sharks involved?
[1] www.skydiveorange.com
[2] Since Bach is perpetually late for everything I allow extra time in the schedule to make sure he is on time. I blame his South American roots and his electrical engineering degree. Electrical engineers can explain everything to you, but don’t understand practical application of anything, to include “time”.
[3] There were two people standing at the counter, and they were still half asleep
[4] Nirvana is a poser band. Case in point.
[5] “this line” being the exit of the hangar
[6] to get onto the plane
[7] “He didn’t even bother to buy you a drink first,” Bach snickered later. And that’s the real reason why I drove his sports car all the way home without taking it out of fourth gear.
[8] The fact that I notice people aren’t wearing shoes IN NO WAY implies I have an obsession with shoes. Anyway, who wouldn’t be curious about what footwear was available for a skydiving inclined girl who could always use another pair of “sports related” shoes. Sports related shoes can’t be counted when assessing the total number of shoes a person owns, in case someone wants to make an issue of the fact that some people own over 300 pairs of shoes, which isn’t a lot really, but in fact just SOUNDS like a lot. Anyway, don’t you think YOUR obsession with my shoes is kind of strange?
[9] Sean told me on the ground afterwards that he tells his clients to take a breath before jumping out of the plane because this is normal during the free fall. Sean told me a lot of other things after the fact that would have been nice to know before the jump actually. But he was too busy strapping himself to Bach to help me out I guess.
[10] I found it unfair that Bach was seen as being more capable and coordinated than I. After all, have I ever gotten drunk and walked through a screen door at someone’s party? Have I ever gotten run over by my girlfriend when trying to take pictures of her sand boarding down a hill, thus crushing my hopes of competing in the NYC marathon this year? Have I ever dropped a 16 ounce glass full of beer on my date’s new shoes?
things to do in Denver when you're dead
This is an absolutely true story. I have delayed writing about it for a week because I was so freaked out by the whole thing. Everything else in this blog is going to be about a dead body and I don't want to get the usual "you ruined my lunch" emails. If dead bodies freak you out, stopreading here. I'm serious.
Still reading? Okay then.
Last Tuesday I was heading to work, as usual, rolling out of my alley around 830 am to avoid traffic on I-25. I will pause here to mention this is your final warning. I pulled to the end of my alley, which backs up to a tall wooden fence that runs along the alley and turns perpendicularly down 28th street, which is the street where the alley empties. As I pulled up to 28th street, right past where the fence turns at a 90 degree angle, I looked both left and right as I always do before I pull out onto the street. Then I looked left again because there was a man laying propped up against a shopping cart that was full of one large black grocery bag, two smaller silver bags, some Target shopping bags,and a jacket. The shopping cart was blue and was from the local Safeway.His head was at a weird angle against the fence, with his back propped up against the bottom metal part of the cart, and at first I thought he was staring at me. Then I realized he was dead. As I was processing that two people walked by this guy and didn't even notice him.
I backed my car up, pulled into my garage, and tried to think of what to do. I decided to walk to the end of the alley and look at him a little closer. After looking at him from about 10 feet away it was pretty easy to confirm that he was dead. I went into my garage and called 911. I was told to call a number for the local cop shop (apparently in Denver dead bodies don't rate as an emergency worthy of the 911 operator). I called the cop shop (located, I would like to point out, about 8 blocks from my house). The woman who answered the phone didn't even take a report at first, and then she kept asking me if I was sure he was dead, as if a very sick or passed out guy on the sidewalk was okay. When I started pushing back that it was (at this point) 9 in the morning and there was a dead body laying on the sidewalk 3 blocks from an elementary school the woman I talked to agreed to dispatch a cop.
The strange thing about dead bodies is that you can't help but look at them. I sat in my house for 10 minutes waiting for a cop. Then I started worrying he might be at the body so I went out to the fence again. The guy was covered in vomit (later I was told he probably died of a drug overdose). He was a Hispanic guy, obviously homeless (thus the shopping cart), but I couldn't figure out why he died where he did. There are so many other good areas of the city to pass into oblivion, or where ever you think your religious choice is going to direct you. And it kind of freaked me out that his eyes were open, as well as his mouth, and he looked like he was about to say something stupid, like "nice ass senorita".
For 45 minutes I did a circuit between the body and my living room because I had a compulsive need to keep looking at the guy, I guess the same way people look at dead animals on the side of the road. Finally my doorbell rang, and I opened the door to find a cop. On a bicycle. As I was processing his poor choice of vehicles he said "Okay, so where's the body?" I thought it was quite obvious where the body was, and further had told the dispatcher where it was. But I walked the cop over to the guy, listening to the annoying clicking of his gears.
The cop stood there looking at the body for what seemed like five minutes. "So" I asked the cop, hoping to nudge him into activity. "Are you going to dispatch an ambulance or something?" I figured he would not be able to prop the guy up on his bike rack in order to get him to a morgue but for some reason the image of the cop riding around on his bike with the body seemed very funny. I looked down at the sidewalk and tried not to giggle or do anything that would make me seem crazy.
"Wellllll, we're REALLY busy right now." The cop looked bored. It was a bit hard to believe that on a beautiful Tuesday morning (at this point almost 930) Denver's finest had so many things going on that they couldn't cruise by and pick up this poor dead person.
"So how long is he going to, um, stay here?" I asked, as if he had a hotel reservation that had been over extended. The cop turned his back to me and started talking into this little radio thing he had on his shoulder. He walked down the sidewalk away from us, as if worried we might overhear something important, even though one of us was dead and wouldn't be hearing anything, at least in the traditional sense, ever again. It was dawning on me that there might be a reason why no one else had called the cops.
In the end I went to work, Mr. Law Enforcement gone, the body still laying against the fence. The cop hadn't even covered him up with anything. When I got home that afternoon, the body was gone but the cart and bags were still there against the fence. I called the police back again and asked them to come get the guy's things. Then I went climbing and by the time I got home from that the bags were gone but the cart was still there. The cart was finally gone by the next morning. It's possible the guy's things were removed by some other homeless person, I don't know. It seems strange that they would take the guy's body but leave potential evidence as to why he died laying around the neighborhood, but this is also the same police force that almost shot me one night when I was walking down my street.
This morning, almost a week later, I got a call from a cop asking if I had anything more to add about the dead guy. I said I didn't and asked if he had anything to add. He told me he couldn't discuss the case, as if it were the Jon Benet murder case or something. Frankly, I'm shocked I got a call at all.
In any case, the lesson learned is don't die in the city...
Still reading? Okay then.
Last Tuesday I was heading to work, as usual, rolling out of my alley around 830 am to avoid traffic on I-25. I will pause here to mention this is your final warning. I pulled to the end of my alley, which backs up to a tall wooden fence that runs along the alley and turns perpendicularly down 28th street, which is the street where the alley empties. As I pulled up to 28th street, right past where the fence turns at a 90 degree angle, I looked both left and right as I always do before I pull out onto the street. Then I looked left again because there was a man laying propped up against a shopping cart that was full of one large black grocery bag, two smaller silver bags, some Target shopping bags,and a jacket. The shopping cart was blue and was from the local Safeway.His head was at a weird angle against the fence, with his back propped up against the bottom metal part of the cart, and at first I thought he was staring at me. Then I realized he was dead. As I was processing that two people walked by this guy and didn't even notice him.
I backed my car up, pulled into my garage, and tried to think of what to do. I decided to walk to the end of the alley and look at him a little closer. After looking at him from about 10 feet away it was pretty easy to confirm that he was dead. I went into my garage and called 911. I was told to call a number for the local cop shop (apparently in Denver dead bodies don't rate as an emergency worthy of the 911 operator). I called the cop shop (located, I would like to point out, about 8 blocks from my house). The woman who answered the phone didn't even take a report at first, and then she kept asking me if I was sure he was dead, as if a very sick or passed out guy on the sidewalk was okay. When I started pushing back that it was (at this point) 9 in the morning and there was a dead body laying on the sidewalk 3 blocks from an elementary school the woman I talked to agreed to dispatch a cop.
The strange thing about dead bodies is that you can't help but look at them. I sat in my house for 10 minutes waiting for a cop. Then I started worrying he might be at the body so I went out to the fence again. The guy was covered in vomit (later I was told he probably died of a drug overdose). He was a Hispanic guy, obviously homeless (thus the shopping cart), but I couldn't figure out why he died where he did. There are so many other good areas of the city to pass into oblivion, or where ever you think your religious choice is going to direct you. And it kind of freaked me out that his eyes were open, as well as his mouth, and he looked like he was about to say something stupid, like "nice ass senorita".
For 45 minutes I did a circuit between the body and my living room because I had a compulsive need to keep looking at the guy, I guess the same way people look at dead animals on the side of the road. Finally my doorbell rang, and I opened the door to find a cop. On a bicycle. As I was processing his poor choice of vehicles he said "Okay, so where's the body?" I thought it was quite obvious where the body was, and further had told the dispatcher where it was. But I walked the cop over to the guy, listening to the annoying clicking of his gears.
The cop stood there looking at the body for what seemed like five minutes. "So" I asked the cop, hoping to nudge him into activity. "Are you going to dispatch an ambulance or something?" I figured he would not be able to prop the guy up on his bike rack in order to get him to a morgue but for some reason the image of the cop riding around on his bike with the body seemed very funny. I looked down at the sidewalk and tried not to giggle or do anything that would make me seem crazy.
"Wellllll, we're REALLY busy right now." The cop looked bored. It was a bit hard to believe that on a beautiful Tuesday morning (at this point almost 930) Denver's finest had so many things going on that they couldn't cruise by and pick up this poor dead person.
"So how long is he going to, um, stay here?" I asked, as if he had a hotel reservation that had been over extended. The cop turned his back to me and started talking into this little radio thing he had on his shoulder. He walked down the sidewalk away from us, as if worried we might overhear something important, even though one of us was dead and wouldn't be hearing anything, at least in the traditional sense, ever again. It was dawning on me that there might be a reason why no one else had called the cops.
In the end I went to work, Mr. Law Enforcement gone, the body still laying against the fence. The cop hadn't even covered him up with anything. When I got home that afternoon, the body was gone but the cart and bags were still there against the fence. I called the police back again and asked them to come get the guy's things. Then I went climbing and by the time I got home from that the bags were gone but the cart was still there. The cart was finally gone by the next morning. It's possible the guy's things were removed by some other homeless person, I don't know. It seems strange that they would take the guy's body but leave potential evidence as to why he died laying around the neighborhood, but this is also the same police force that almost shot me one night when I was walking down my street.
This morning, almost a week later, I got a call from a cop asking if I had anything more to add about the dead guy. I said I didn't and asked if he had anything to add. He told me he couldn't discuss the case, as if it were the Jon Benet murder case or something. Frankly, I'm shocked I got a call at all.
In any case, the lesson learned is don't die in the city...
shoe calculations, or why broccoli sucks
So there I was getting ready to go to the grocery and buy broccoli yet again. I'm trying to eat more broccoli because of its anti-oxidant properties, although it's hard to imagine that anything that smells like farts when you cook it could be good for you.
As I walked out my door I was suddenly propelled over to my car by a little voice that said Why don’t you go buy some shoes instead because shoes are good for you. But I’ve stopped buying shoes I told myself sternly. Then I tried to remember how many pairs I had left, since I cleaned out even more shoes this past week. Was I down to 100? Er, 150? Okay, I was under 200, right? And I hadn’t bought any shoes since August. Except for some shoes I had to buy at the end of August for climbing. And my thanksgiving Nikes which I needed for the drive to my parents’ house because my other shoes weren’t the right color and caused me to push the gas pedal too hard resulting in a speeding ticket, my first ever. And there were the shoes I had to buy in December to keep my mom company because she was buying shoes for Christmas, but sympathy shoes don’t count. And then there was that one tiny little pair I bought in January, which really don’t count because I promised myself I would return them except that I accidentally wore them instead.
While my mind struggled to work complex equations to calculate my total shoe value (really, it's more complicated than taxes – I’ve included a form at the end of this story for your edification) I suddenly found myself at shoe nirvana – Nordstrom (5,000 pairs on line – www.nordstromshoes.com – go ahead and look, I’ll wait). I’m just going to browse for a few minutes because the produce guy probably hasn’t shown up with the latest shipment of broccoli anyway, I told myself. The next thing I new, a pair of Charles Jourdan stilettos jumped out and impaled themselves on my arm. Gosh, I better carry these around with me so they don’t hurt anyone else, I thought. Then I realized they were available in 2 other colors so I grabbed those too. After all, there were children in strollers lingering in the shoe department and I didn’t want anyone to be injured or to perhaps lose an eye. And I had recently read an article that pointy toed shoes, while stylish, are bad for the feet. I’m sure I saved three women undue pain and agony. So it seemed like it was time for a little reward for myself.
Then a pair of Merrells popped into view and the little voice said those are going to be necessary if you are really going to move to Colorado and they would make a perfect reward. This is very true I thought to myself. The Merrells came in two colors, so I bought both for luck. Then there were the orange trail running shoes. Orange is the color of the third chakra, the core muscles, and I had been having problems with that chakra lately. But once I picked up the shoes I felt the problem dissipate and I could sense that I was a step closer to inner peace.
The rest of the hour is unaccounted for. When I came to, a guy was carrying bags behind me and we were at my car. I’m not sure how I got there. He said “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” as he loaded the bags in my car. I mumbled a reply and fumbled my car keys. Quick, drive away before someone sees you! the little voice commanded.
I got home and folded all my shoe boxes into tiny little squares because I prefer the compact look. I plan on putting them in the dumpster after dark, when the prying eyes of the neighbors will be busy watching TV or cooking dinner (I really hate having to lie, like when I was walking up to my apartment with a couple of the bags of shoes and one of my neighbors saw me and said “Oh my!” forcing me to respond in a somewhat untruthful manner “These aren’t for me. I bought them for the sniper I’m sponsoring in Iraq”).
And for your information, I plan on spending the rest of MY evening working on my thesis and NOT communing with my new shoes. Seriously. Right after I eat my broccoli.
Adjusted Gross Shoes Total
Total Number of Shoes You Bought This Year
1.______
Total Number of Shoes You Admit You Bought This Year
2.______
Subtract Line 2 from Line 1. This is your adjusted gross shoes total.
3.______
Deductions
Athletic shoes
The athletic shoes deduction is calculated as the total number of sports you are participating in multiplied by 5 potential pairs of shoes per sport unless the shoes come in really kicky colors in which case the deduction is the total number of colors of the shoe minus 2 (you really shouldn't own every color of a pair of shoes - isn't that a bit excessive????)
Weather related shoes
5.______
The weather related shoes deduction is calculated by the total number of seasons experienced in any area where you travel or live multiplied by an allotted 2 pairs of shoes per season per territory unless the season involves 6 inches or more of water or snow in which case you are allowed 2 other pairs of "back-up" shoes
Sympathy shoes
6.______
There is a standard deduction of 4 pairs of shoes that were purchased in sympathy of a friend or relative purchasing shoes, unless there was a recent breakup or bad date experience by your friend or relative, in which case you can take a deduction of 6 shoes, not to exceed 10 shoes for the year.
Hot Guy Shoes
There is a one time deduction for one pair of shoes that were purchased while attempting to attain a hot guy.
7._______
Future Use Shoes
8.______
There is a one time deduction for up to 10 pairs of shoes purchased for an event that will occur in the future (e.g. greater than one year).
Stolen Shoes
9.______
There is a deduction for any shoes borrowed or stolen during the course of the year. If they were borrowed or stolen by someone you really dislike you can take a double deduction.
Medical Shoes
10.______
There is a deduction for any shoes that you wear that the doctor might actually approve of. Inserting an insole into a stiletto makes them eligible for this deduction.
Pain and Suffering Shoe
11.______
Any shoe purchased due to pain and suffering (including emotional) or any shoe that causes pain and suffering should be deducted on principle
Total Shoe Deductions:
Total number of shoes that must be declared:
As I walked out my door I was suddenly propelled over to my car by a little voice that said Why don’t you go buy some shoes instead because shoes are good for you. But I’ve stopped buying shoes I told myself sternly. Then I tried to remember how many pairs I had left, since I cleaned out even more shoes this past week. Was I down to 100? Er, 150? Okay, I was under 200, right? And I hadn’t bought any shoes since August. Except for some shoes I had to buy at the end of August for climbing. And my thanksgiving Nikes which I needed for the drive to my parents’ house because my other shoes weren’t the right color and caused me to push the gas pedal too hard resulting in a speeding ticket, my first ever. And there were the shoes I had to buy in December to keep my mom company because she was buying shoes for Christmas, but sympathy shoes don’t count. And then there was that one tiny little pair I bought in January, which really don’t count because I promised myself I would return them except that I accidentally wore them instead.
While my mind struggled to work complex equations to calculate my total shoe value (really, it's more complicated than taxes – I’ve included a form at the end of this story for your edification) I suddenly found myself at shoe nirvana – Nordstrom (5,000 pairs on line – www.nordstromshoes.com – go ahead and look, I’ll wait). I’m just going to browse for a few minutes because the produce guy probably hasn’t shown up with the latest shipment of broccoli anyway, I told myself. The next thing I new, a pair of Charles Jourdan stilettos jumped out and impaled themselves on my arm. Gosh, I better carry these around with me so they don’t hurt anyone else, I thought. Then I realized they were available in 2 other colors so I grabbed those too. After all, there were children in strollers lingering in the shoe department and I didn’t want anyone to be injured or to perhaps lose an eye. And I had recently read an article that pointy toed shoes, while stylish, are bad for the feet. I’m sure I saved three women undue pain and agony. So it seemed like it was time for a little reward for myself.
Then a pair of Merrells popped into view and the little voice said those are going to be necessary if you are really going to move to Colorado and they would make a perfect reward. This is very true I thought to myself. The Merrells came in two colors, so I bought both for luck. Then there were the orange trail running shoes. Orange is the color of the third chakra, the core muscles, and I had been having problems with that chakra lately. But once I picked up the shoes I felt the problem dissipate and I could sense that I was a step closer to inner peace.
The rest of the hour is unaccounted for. When I came to, a guy was carrying bags behind me and we were at my car. I’m not sure how I got there. He said “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” as he loaded the bags in my car. I mumbled a reply and fumbled my car keys. Quick, drive away before someone sees you! the little voice commanded.
I got home and folded all my shoe boxes into tiny little squares because I prefer the compact look. I plan on putting them in the dumpster after dark, when the prying eyes of the neighbors will be busy watching TV or cooking dinner (I really hate having to lie, like when I was walking up to my apartment with a couple of the bags of shoes and one of my neighbors saw me and said “Oh my!” forcing me to respond in a somewhat untruthful manner “These aren’t for me. I bought them for the sniper I’m sponsoring in Iraq”).
And for your information, I plan on spending the rest of MY evening working on my thesis and NOT communing with my new shoes. Seriously. Right after I eat my broccoli.
Adjusted Gross Shoes Total
Total Number of Shoes You Bought This Year
1.______
Total Number of Shoes You Admit You Bought This Year
2.______
Subtract Line 2 from Line 1. This is your adjusted gross shoes total.
3.______
Deductions
Athletic shoes
The athletic shoes deduction is calculated as the total number of sports you are participating in multiplied by 5 potential pairs of shoes per sport unless the shoes come in really kicky colors in which case the deduction is the total number of colors of the shoe minus 2 (you really shouldn't own every color of a pair of shoes - isn't that a bit excessive????)
Weather related shoes
5.______
The weather related shoes deduction is calculated by the total number of seasons experienced in any area where you travel or live multiplied by an allotted 2 pairs of shoes per season per territory unless the season involves 6 inches or more of water or snow in which case you are allowed 2 other pairs of "back-up" shoes
Sympathy shoes
6.______
There is a standard deduction of 4 pairs of shoes that were purchased in sympathy of a friend or relative purchasing shoes, unless there was a recent breakup or bad date experience by your friend or relative, in which case you can take a deduction of 6 shoes, not to exceed 10 shoes for the year.
Hot Guy Shoes
There is a one time deduction for one pair of shoes that were purchased while attempting to attain a hot guy.
7._______
Future Use Shoes
8.______
There is a one time deduction for up to 10 pairs of shoes purchased for an event that will occur in the future (e.g. greater than one year).
Stolen Shoes
9.______
There is a deduction for any shoes borrowed or stolen during the course of the year. If they were borrowed or stolen by someone you really dislike you can take a double deduction.
Medical Shoes
10.______
There is a deduction for any shoes that you wear that the doctor might actually approve of. Inserting an insole into a stiletto makes them eligible for this deduction.
Pain and Suffering Shoe
11.______
Any shoe purchased due to pain and suffering (including emotional) or any shoe that causes pain and suffering should be deducted on principle
Total Shoe Deductions:
Total number of shoes that must be declared:
Salt, Seaweed, Sewage: Sharkfest 2001
The Challenge
The month of January 2001 appeared bleakly on my horizon. It wasn't just the cold rainy weather. I had undergone reconstructive knee surgery in November and my events calendar stretched into the future barren and empty. Where climbs, hikes, rafting trips, 10Ks and triathlons should have been there were instead numerous physical therapy appointments.
Never one to let moroseness get the best of me, I scoured the 2001 City Sports Keeper in search of an event to add to my calendar. The City Sports Keeper is a magazine that lists for the year all major sporting events on the West Coast. Also included are local 10ks, adventure racing clinics, bike-a-thons, and other miscellaneous outdoor adventures. Assessing my current situation with my doctor I had come up with a list of activities that I would be able to participate in over the next year while I recovered from surgery. The list was rather meager. I had to protect my knee against pounding, jumping, falling, running, and excessive weight bearing. As far as competitive sports goes, that left stationary biking, for which no event has ever been, or will ever be scheduled (note to readers: spin class with Madonna only counts as an event for non-athletes).
My doctor reminded me that I could also go swimming. As he is the sports doctor for the Olympic synchronized swimming team this was probably the obvious sport of choice for him. I had not considered it for numerous reasons, the most important being that I don't really know how to swim. However, there were a number of swimming events listed in City Sports. I decided to take a look at them to see if one piqued my interest.
As a life long runner I have a pretty good sense about major running events. For example, I know that the NYC marathon has one of the toughest courses so it isn't a good choice for a virgin marathoner. Unfortunately, I did not have that type of information regarding swimming events. But as I looked over the possibilities, most were easy to eliminate. For example, there was no way in hell I was going to do the Golden Gate 10k swim. Way too far. There was also a few lake swims. I eliminated those based on my dislike of pond muck and the possibility that a water moccasin would be hiding under a lily pad waiting to chew my face off as I swam by. Reservoir swimming conjured up images from those rescue shows on t.v. where some hapless idiot is pulled closer and closer to the dam waterfall where his or her skin will be ripped off as he or she falls 100 feet through a torrential downpour because someone accidentally opened a lock right after the race started. No thanks!
Then my eye happened upon the word "shark". Immediately I wanted to know more. The event was called "the Sharkfest", and it involved swimming from Alcatraz Island to San Francisco (www.sharkfest.com). I briefly thought back to the many trips I had taken to Alcatraz. It didn't seem that far away from San Francisco. Additionally, I was attracted by the name of the event due to my interest (though some might call it an "obsession") with sharks. Deciding fate was presenting me with the opportunity I had hoped for I compulsively signed up for the event on the web.
Did I mention that I don't know how to swim?
I reasoned with myself that the swim was in July, and it was only January, giving me more than enough time to learn to swim. Under the influence of a manic high I also sent out numerous e-mails to my athletic friends requesting that they participate in the event with me. When I did not get the desired responses of participation I then sent out some rather inflammatory e-mails calling people unflattering names, questioning their manhood, and rambling on for paragraphs about their cowardice. Looking back now, I believe that's where the origin of the bets concerning my ability to survive the swim originated.
I did manage to talk three people into doing the swim with me. I should mention that they are all accomplished swimmers, unlike me. And as March was drawing to a close, I still hadn't gotten in to the pool once. I wasn't worried about the upcoming event. None of my other friends who were participating seemed to be at all concerned and they weren't training too hard.
Then, one day at physical therapy, I was overheard bragging to my physical therapist Chris Kuhn about doing Sharkfest by another of his patient. She informed me that her son, a rescue swimmer, volunteered the previous year for the Sharkfest. She then went on to explain how in the last Sharkfest, 300 of the 600 swimmers had been assisted by the rescue kayaks, most being pulled out of the water for hypothermia. Her son's girlfriend, an accomplished high school swimmer, had been pulled out of the water 15 minutes into the race because she got caught in a current that had quickly dragged toward the open ocean. As I was contemplating this new information about "currents" in the bay the patient wished me luck.
The Training Plan
The next day I decided to embark on an information gathering mission to learn everything I could about the Alcatraz swim and workouts for open water events. By 11a.m I had not done any research so my friend Kerreck, who realizes I am a bit of a procrastinator, sent me a bunch of articles on both topics. What I found out both surprised and alarmed me.
The Alcatraz swim is actually very hard. There are strong currents, especially around the island. Guide boats lead the swimmers around the island to the open water between Alcatraz and S.F. If you don't follow the boats you get caught in a current that could pull you out to sea. The water is around 55° F. In a normal person, hypothermia will set in after 20 minutes in water that temperature. In addition, there are sea lions, which are apparently pretty aggressive. Most people in the water are concerned with sharks and tend to ignore things like sea lions because they are so cute and look like stuffed animals. But they are very capable of plowing their 2000-pound body into your side and chewing your arm off because you accidentally wandered onto their territory. The bay also contains such delightful surprises as floating diesel slicks from leaky boats and raw human sewage.
I decided to start training immediately. But soon it was the end of April and I realized time was slipping away. I had to take action. The first thing I did was go to a swim shop with Kerreck. There I was able to purchase a matching swim cap and goggles ensemble in hot pink. Though Kerreck kept trying to give me advice such as "You really shouldn't pick the type of goggles you buy based on their color" I decided that looking good for this race was going to be just as important as swimming well. I also purchased a horrific blue bathing suit that seemed to have been designed in the pre-bikini era of the 1940s by nuns. Although unattractive I was hoping the extra fabric would help keep me warm.
Finally, after 2 more months of listening to Grant describe the 100 different ways I could drown, I decided in the middle of June to take my new equipment into the ocean to test it. Capitola Beach, below our apartment, is a half-mile long. For my first swim I decided to swim the length of the beach. Although I didn't drown I'm sure people would have tried to rescue me had I not been a foot away from shore.
A few weeks after thrashing through the ocean water, which was becoming more and more polluted with overflow from the storm drain that empties onto our beach, I decided to go to the (poo-less) pool to work on my technique, which I was teaching myself based on some articles I downloaded from the internet. I made a few discoveries about swimming in public pools, including:
1. the pool at the Santa Cruz 24 hour fitness club is actually a gay bathhouse and those guys get really upset if you try to work out in their pool (picture 10 guys in a hot tub screaming and giggling as they pile foam on each other's heads and then jump into the pool to cool off and wash away the foam while I'm trying to swim laps)
2. I am allergic to chlorine which is why I swell up and turn red after swimming
3. old people (in their 80s) can swim a lot faster than me
I also discovered that ocean swimming in my wetsuit was not the problem with my stroke. The problem was lack of coordination on the part of the swimmer. In an attempt to be supportive in my time of stress and sudden realization that I was a horrible swimmer, Grant offered to take pictures of my swim stroke so I could compare it to my Internet pictures. Of course he e-mailed them to me with captions such as "Help me!". In addition I discovered how unattractive I look swimming, especially when lifting my head up and gasping for air.
At the end of June a letter arrived from the coordinators of Sharkfest informing me that I had been "selected" to participate (selected because my credit card went through the first time?). It also advised, in glaring capital letters, that this was NOT a swim for novices and that if I couldn't swim a mile in 40 minutes I should not attempt the swim. Since I had just started training I had not even had occasion to swim a full mile and had no idea how long it would take me.
The next day I went to the pool. I calculated that a mile would be 72 laps (a lap being a swim to the other side of the pool and back). I calculated this based on the estimate of the pool being about 22 meters. NOTE: When, in an attempt to add scientific accuracy to my calculation I inquired of the club staff what the distance of the pool was I got the response "20 liters". After pondering that for a moment I stated that I had actually been wondering what the length of the pool was. The guy responded "2 kilometers". I guess I shouldn't make fun of them, as I am still puzzled over the ratio of yards per meter. Damn those metric conversions!
Needless to say, after about 5 minutes of laps I had completely lost count. I finally stopped at 40 minutes and figured I had swum at least a mile. I hoped.
The Great 4th of July Brighton Beach to Capitola Swim
After months of preparation (and three solid weeks of swimming) it was time to attempt my first long open water swim. The swim occurred on July 4. I slyly talked Kerreck and Patty, two of my fellow race participants, into doing it with me. We swam from Brighton Beach to Capitola Beach, which is 1.5 miles as the crow flies. Grant and Patty's husband Matt manned the safety kayak.
The first hundred yards of the swim sucked for me. Kerreck and Patty were a lot faster so they were soon out of sight. I was bobbing up and down in the waves, starting to feel the onset of the cold water. I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing. The shore was too far away to return to, and yet the dock at the 1.5 mile mark in Capitola seemed unattainable.
Then from the shore, I heard cheering. Looking at the very end of Brighton beach I saw a bunch of people jumping up and down yelling. Although I was too far away to hear them it occurred to me that they must have realized that we were doing the Brighton to Capitola beach swim. Encouraged by these spectators, I began swimming again. It later turned out that they were in fact yelling at a dog that was running in the water to fetch a stick. Grant informed me of this after the swim when I was telling Kerreck and Patty about our impromptu fan club.
As I slogged along Grant and Matt pulled up along side me in the rescue kayak. It took me a while to notice them as I was so fixated on my crappy form to notice my surroundings.
Swimming in that part of the bay is a bizarre experience, especially for those used to East Coast swimming. The water is so cold that when you put your face in it, it causes a slight feeling of shock and disorientedness. Then before your eyes all you can see is green sludge with brown bits floating in it. The brown bits are either duck poop or kelp bits; I have never really examined them in detail to find out specifically what they are. If visibility is 6 inches it's a good day. On parts of the swim I literally could not see any of my hands or arms even though they were just inches from my goggles.
There's also the fun of swimming in kelp bushes, the non-scientific name I just made up for the big mass of kelp plants that grow from the ocean floor. Kelp grows 3 feet a day and usually consists of the main stalk with the tendrils floating on the surface of the water. The sensation of swimming through this mess is similar to swimming into a fishing net. The tendrils wrap around all extremities and pull you down or back as you try to thrash your way out of the mess. Some of the kelp has sharp points that sting. Flailing along in the ocean you ride up a two foot wave and as you crash down you suddenly find yourself flying towards a huge black object underwater and then your face is in the middle of a bunch of leaves and kelp crap. That's when, for some unknown reason, I would open my mouth and swallow salt water. I might have even swallowed a few kelp pods. I took in so much water on the swim that afterwards I threw up enough salt to remake Lot's wife.
I finally made it to the surfers in the Punch Bowl, located a few hundred yards from my final destination, the Capitola dock. Patty and Kerreck were a quarter of a mile ahead of me and out of the water long before I was. To keep my spirits up for the remainder of the swim I began planning a dramatic exit strategy. I would run out of the water like Ursula Andress in Dr. No and then do a little end zone dance on the sand. Instead I threw up salt water and my dramatic exit was ruined by the fact that I had seaweed wrapped around my face and some drunken guys on the wharf were throwing empty Snapple bottles at me. But I completed the swim in 53 minutes and felt well on my way to being a contender (okay, realistically, a completer) of the Sharkfest.
The Breakthrough
In the middle of July I had a breakthrough in my swimming technique. I learned how to swim freestyle. I was at the Mountain View 24 hour fitness club pool. I was swimming in the middle lane with a guy who had more hair on his back than I have on my head. The best lane, which is the last lane, was occupied by the only really good swimmers I had seen at the club. One of the swimmers was a guy about 5 years younger than me. He had a very professional looking swim cap and the few times he was stuck swimming in a lane with me he made his distaste of sharing space with such a sucky swimmer known by smacking the bottoms of my feet every time he passed me. The other swimmer was an 11 year old girl that I was really growing to hate. I constantly found myself embroiled races with her, but since she could swim freestyle she would toy with me for one or two laps before leaving me in her chlorinated wake.
That day I had had a particularly bad time at the office and I found myself channeling all my negative feelings towards this skinny little punk. I glared at her as she smugly put her little goggles on and then we were off racing. She didn't even wait one lap before trying to pull ahead of me. Something snapped inside. My sole focus became beating this stupid kid. Realizing my lame rendition of the breast stroke wasn't going to cut it I began my usual flailing attempt at freestyle.
The next thing I was aware of was my face smashing into the side of the pool. Then I realized I had swum the entire length of the pool freestyle. Being so focused on beating the 11 year old allowed me to swim without getting worried that my form was so awful and somehow not paying attention to my swimming form made it possible for me to have good swimming form (don't ask me - it must be blonde logic). From that point forward I found freestyle very easy to do, except for the breathing aspect, where I was still managing to ingest an inordinate amount of water. But even with my breathing and water swallowing issues I still managed to beat her in every race afterwards. She took it like the sore loser I had assumed she would be. After one or two laps of me kicking her ass she would go get a paddle board and spend the rest of her pool time sulking. Eleven year olds can be so immature.
Unfortunately, the sense of triumph I had from teaching myself freestyle began to fade immediately. The last week before the race I found myself hating the idea of swimming. The water in Capitola had dropped a noticeable 10 degrees and the current had picked up considerably. I was getting thrashed around in huge piles of kelp and after one fairly traumatic swim, at the conclusion of which I threw up a kelp pod on the beach in front of 50 kids who were taking life guard school, I decided I would never swim again after the Sharkfest.
The pool was an even more unappealing situation than the beach. The stink of chlorine invaded my car and any clothes that were within 5 feet of my bathing suit (which I refused to wash from the time I bought it until after the Sharkfest, which probably explains why the fabric had started to rot). I was starting to feel like Elton John with my pink goggles and cap. My poor hair was becoming a mess of dried up colorless strands that I couldn't get a comb through.
On 27 July, my last day of work before Sharkfest, I briefly contemplated deleting my personal files off my machine just in case. My stomach was a knot of tension and stress. I was looking forward to the end of this little endeavor. My boss Nick Salvador showed me a web site for looking up the tides, and explained to me how to interpret the information. Although I didn't quite follow what he was talking about, I did focus on one comment which was "Oh, it looks like the tide is going towards the city so I guess you won't be swept out to sea". Was that disappointment I detected in his voice?
The Sharkfest
The day before the race we went to Luke's house for dinner and then we drove to the Aquatic Park, where the race finished, to check out the course. Standing on the shore of San Francisco, Alcatraz did not seem that far away. Also, the last quarter mile of the race would be through Aquatic Park. Aquatic Park is a small circular marina, with curved concrete piers surrounding either side.
Aquatic Park has no waves and the water is usually at least 5 degrees warmer than the Bay. I somehow convinced myself that this would make the race easier. I told everyone that all they had to do was make it to Aquatic Park and the race would be effortless.
I should point out that to get a true feeling of the distance between Alcatraz and S.F. you need to go to the island. Because of Alcatraz's size it looks a lot closer than it really is.
Sunday I found myself climbing out of bed at 5:20 a.m. after a completely sleepless night. We arrived at Aquatic Park for check-in for the race at about 6 a.m. The race would officially begin at 9 a.m. so we had a lot of sitting around time before things got started. My stomach was in such a tight knot that I could barely finish my can of Coke, the breakfast of champions for race day.
The weather was overcast and about 60 degrees. I attempted to do some exercises to warm up for the race, since it didn't seem feasible to go for a swim. I didn't want to get wet and then have to stand around in the cold for two hours waiting for the race to start.
Being my usual obnoxious, bossy, cranky self I kept lecturing Kerreck, Patty, and Luke to do some kind of warm up before the race. Egged on by a group of female swimmers, Kerreck, who is an ex-Chippendale's dancer (he had to quit when the intelligence agency he works for threatened to pull his clearance), decided to do a little strip tease on the beach. I won't go into much detail about the incident except to say that it certainly warmed up things for the female fans and Kerreck was threatened with disqualification from a race official if he didn't put his swimming suit back on. He was showered with adulation and dollar bills from his female fans although he claims that he usually brings in more money than he made from the Sharkfest crowd.
At 8:00 a.m. we had a race "briefing". We assumed they would tell us what the race strategy was, how the currents were, and all the other useful information we needed to know. Instead the guy doing to briefing asked the crowd the age of the oldest (77) and youngest (12) people doing the swim and then asked where everyone was from. The only advice he gave us was to "aim for the ship with the three masts at the edge of Aquatic Park". As I looked around at the crowd I noticed that I was the only one who seemed a little worried about the lack of information. In fact a number of people were so busy smearing deodorant all over their bodies that they didn't seem to be paying attention to anything going on. I'm not sure WHY they were putting deodorant all over their bodies, but I will never again smell Brut without thinking of Sharkfest.
At 8:30 we walked a short distance to Pier 39. We took two Blue and Gold ships over to Alcatraz (these are the ships that normally take tourists to Alcatraz for those of you who have been). Most of the swimmers on the boat were trying to out talk each other with their swimming achievements. Machismo was in the air. We circled around the far (North) side of the island and then the boat pulled up about 5 feet from the Eastern side of the island. For those of you who have been there before, we were parallel to the place where the canon is as you walk up the hill towards the prison. We were then told to jump off the boat and swim to the start line, which is where the boat dock on the island is.
They opened up the gates on the side of the boat and told us to jump in. Patty went first, followed by Kerreck. Then it was my turn. It was a three foot plunge from the boat deck into the water and I really didn't want to go. I held my goggles on my face and jumped. I dropped down into the icy water and immediately breathed in, taking in a huge mouthful of water. I popped to the surface and began choking. All my mental preparation was out the window as I started to slip into full fledged panic. I couldn't even remember how to swim.
Kerreck swam over to me and started talking to me in a very calm voice. Then he started guiding me towards the start line. His reassurances helped me regain my swimming ability and as I started moving through the water I relaxed. Then the air horn went off and the race started.
We were supposed to follow guide kayaks around the island. I never saw them, although I'm sure they were there. I was busy trying not to get killed in what was slowly becoming an aquatic stampede. People were swimming over me, kicking me in the face, and hitting my arms and legs. I randomly punched a few people myself (in the hopes of improving my race standings of course - just kidding!). The current didn't seem that bad going around the island so I started freestyling like crazy to keep up with everyone else and to get the race over with.
When next I looked up I realized that I had somehow managed to swim towards the Bay Bridge and that I was swimming virtually by myself. The current had picked up and the chop was about three feet. A wave would pop me up for a few seconds at which point I could barely make out the shore through my fogged up goggles. Then I would drop down into a little water trough where I couldn't see anything but walls of waves. I then managed to spot a kayak and so I swam towards it. As it appeared to be moving in the direction of the shore I decided to follow it. It was only after about 20 minutes of swimming, when I noticed I was even closer to the Bay bridge, that the kayaker told me she wasn't part of the race and that she was just there to take pictures. I spent the next half hour trying to get back on course through a bad chop and strong current.
The open ocean was a lot harder to swim in than I had imagined. Waves would pull me up out of the water and turn me over almost completely on my back. Then I would get flipped forward and my face would smash into the water. Sometimes the force of the wave breaking on my back would knock me a few feet down into the murky green of the Bay. I soon reached a point where I began to seriously worry for my safety as there were no swimmers or kayaks in sight and the waves were so bad that I couldn't see the shore line at all. It's only 1.5 miles to the shore but it seemed like an unreachable distance from the place where I was.
I started looking back at the island to re-align myself with the course. Soon I happened on a young, very muscular guy in a farmer john wet suit. The guy was laying on his back staring at the sky. He had obviously had it. He was trying to signal a kayak so he could quit the race. I began to give him a little pep talk to get him moving. We swam together for about 5 minutes and then I picked up the pace. He didn't follow. About 5 minutes later a boat pulled up next to me. The captain asked if I was okay. He then warned me to pick up the pace as they were worried about the weather and the currents were changing. As he pulled away I noticed the farmer john guy in the back of the boat. He had quit as soon as I swam away from him. I suddenly became irrationally upset that he had given up. I suppose this line of thinking was caused by the onset of hypothermia, but the adrenaline helped me pick up the pace.
Soon I found myself in a pack of about 5 swimmers. Most of them were dead in the water. The kayaks kept circling around, pulling people out. I became worried that they would try to pull me so I worked extra hard at my form and tried to smile as they floated by me to indicate that I was having the time of my life, even with fogged goggles and a river of snot coming out of my nose. As the boat would go by with more people I admit to being a little envious of them but I decided to soldier on, mostly because so many of my friends were expecting me to fail and I refused to give them the satisfaction.
Eventually the shoreline became a close and obtainable object. Then disaster struck. Aquatic Park, as I have said before, is surrounded by two circular piers with an opening onto the bay. I found myself located somewhere along the cement pier with no idea which way the entrance to the park was. I completely stopped swimming and tried to think of something to do. My mind was blank. At that point I had been in sub-60 degree water for almost an hour. I couldn't feel my hands or my feet at all. My goggles were badly fogged but my hands were so frozen and I had become so uncoordinated that I couldn't clear them. As the waves bashed me into the cement pier I began crying into my goggles. I figured this was it for me. The race was over.
A man in a kayak pulled up next to me. He asked if I was okay. I tried to say "yes" but was so hypothermic I was no longer able to even talk. He pointed towards the right and said "that way to the entrance". I tried to thank him but I couldn't form the words. He coasted next to me as I began the laborious task of swimming against the current to the entrance of the park. He told me that if I didn't make some good progress he was going to pull me out of the water. To induce some high powered adrenaline to prevent that I tried to picture a great white shark swimming beneath me, ready to chew my legs off. I actually found that scene to be a relief. At least I would be able to quit and the force of the shark attacking me would surely propel me closer to the park entrance. Lucky for me, I have some serious anger management issues and I was able to reach deep inside for some suppressed hate and channel that rage towards the race. Pushing myself along on fury energy, I managed to reach the entrance to the park.
As my kayak guide swam away I found myself floating just inside Aquatic Park, completely lifeless and drained. I could see the finish line but it was still a quarter mile away. Aerobically I wasn't tired but the cold water had completely exhausted me and I had become so hypothermic that I was taking a long time to rationalize my next move even though it was completely obvious what it should be (swim to the finish - duh!).
Then I noticed a pink buoy floating in the middle of the water that was the same color as my goggles. For some irrational reason I decided that all I had to do was swim to this buoy and I would be okay. In my hypothermic state it seemed to make sense that I should swim towards objects the same color as my goggles. It was a lot closer than the finish line so I managed to start swimming again. When I got to that buoy I noticed a second one and swam to that. Then there was a white buoy. And suddenly, in front of me, about 20 feet away, the finish line.
About three feet off the beach I noticed people standing up and walking out of the water. I tried to stand up but couldn't. Then my hand touched sand. That was when I realized that my feet were so numb that I had been touching the sandy bottom of the park without realizing it.
I ripped my swim caps off and stumbled onto the beach with huge trails of drool and snot hanging off my face. I heard someone call my name and turned to see Kerreck with a camera, capturing me at my finest hour. A guy at the finish line reached out his arm to help me walk as I still hadn't managed to pull myself up beyond a slouchy half crawl, but I couldn't figure out how to get my arm to move towards him so I just ignored him.
Grant ran up to me and wrapped a towel around me. By that time I was shaking uncontrollably and breathing in short gasps. I started crying so he led me over to a bench. I'm not sure why I was crying but I couldn't stop. He ran off to find everyone else as I was the last swimmer in our group out of the water. He left me sitting with some drunken homeless guy who started telling me about surfing in Alaska.
I felt faint so I stood up and then I decided that I needed to start moving around. We eventually made it back to the car and I warmed up once the heater was on full blast. It took about three hours for my normal body temperature to come back. To add to my post-hypothermic experience, I had a moment of panic when Patty's husband Matt mistakenly informed me that I hadn't crossed the right finish line and that my time hadn't been recorded. Grant ran back to the finish line and confirmed that I had crossed.
We ended our Sharkfest adventure by having brunch at Top of the Mark, a great restaurant on top of the Intercontinental Hotel on Nob Hill. Grant got champagne to celebrate my feat. I was happy to have finished the race especially given my gross inexperience and complete lack of talent in swimming freestyle.
I have had many adventures that I will look back on fondly. The Sharkfest is not one of them. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. I hate the cold and swallowing gallons of salt water is not my idea of fun. Swimmers don't seem to have the same camaraderie that runners have. No one offered me a single word of encouragement during the entire race, and those that I tried to cheer on either quit or left me in their wake. You can't really see where you're going and by the time you get to the finish line you are so frozen that you don't care about the people screaming for you on the beach.
Of course, I didn't really have the proper resources for training. And I bet that if I had stayed on course I could have improved my time tremendously. A year can wash away a lot of memories, especially those involving pain and suffering. Sharkfest 2002? No way. Absolutely not.
Well, maybe I will do it again next year to try for a better exit photo. But this time, I'm taking swimming lessons from somewhere besides the Internet.
To view the results go to http://www.pmevents.com/sharkoa01.htm. I am #187 under women with wetsuits, with an overall time of 1:12.
The month of January 2001 appeared bleakly on my horizon. It wasn't just the cold rainy weather. I had undergone reconstructive knee surgery in November and my events calendar stretched into the future barren and empty. Where climbs, hikes, rafting trips, 10Ks and triathlons should have been there were instead numerous physical therapy appointments.
Never one to let moroseness get the best of me, I scoured the 2001 City Sports Keeper in search of an event to add to my calendar. The City Sports Keeper is a magazine that lists for the year all major sporting events on the West Coast. Also included are local 10ks, adventure racing clinics, bike-a-thons, and other miscellaneous outdoor adventures. Assessing my current situation with my doctor I had come up with a list of activities that I would be able to participate in over the next year while I recovered from surgery. The list was rather meager. I had to protect my knee against pounding, jumping, falling, running, and excessive weight bearing. As far as competitive sports goes, that left stationary biking, for which no event has ever been, or will ever be scheduled (note to readers: spin class with Madonna only counts as an event for non-athletes).
My doctor reminded me that I could also go swimming. As he is the sports doctor for the Olympic synchronized swimming team this was probably the obvious sport of choice for him. I had not considered it for numerous reasons, the most important being that I don't really know how to swim. However, there were a number of swimming events listed in City Sports. I decided to take a look at them to see if one piqued my interest.
As a life long runner I have a pretty good sense about major running events. For example, I know that the NYC marathon has one of the toughest courses so it isn't a good choice for a virgin marathoner. Unfortunately, I did not have that type of information regarding swimming events. But as I looked over the possibilities, most were easy to eliminate. For example, there was no way in hell I was going to do the Golden Gate 10k swim. Way too far. There was also a few lake swims. I eliminated those based on my dislike of pond muck and the possibility that a water moccasin would be hiding under a lily pad waiting to chew my face off as I swam by. Reservoir swimming conjured up images from those rescue shows on t.v. where some hapless idiot is pulled closer and closer to the dam waterfall where his or her skin will be ripped off as he or she falls 100 feet through a torrential downpour because someone accidentally opened a lock right after the race started. No thanks!
Then my eye happened upon the word "shark". Immediately I wanted to know more. The event was called "the Sharkfest", and it involved swimming from Alcatraz Island to San Francisco (www.sharkfest.com). I briefly thought back to the many trips I had taken to Alcatraz. It didn't seem that far away from San Francisco. Additionally, I was attracted by the name of the event due to my interest (though some might call it an "obsession") with sharks. Deciding fate was presenting me with the opportunity I had hoped for I compulsively signed up for the event on the web.
Did I mention that I don't know how to swim?
I reasoned with myself that the swim was in July, and it was only January, giving me more than enough time to learn to swim. Under the influence of a manic high I also sent out numerous e-mails to my athletic friends requesting that they participate in the event with me. When I did not get the desired responses of participation I then sent out some rather inflammatory e-mails calling people unflattering names, questioning their manhood, and rambling on for paragraphs about their cowardice. Looking back now, I believe that's where the origin of the bets concerning my ability to survive the swim originated.
I did manage to talk three people into doing the swim with me. I should mention that they are all accomplished swimmers, unlike me. And as March was drawing to a close, I still hadn't gotten in to the pool once. I wasn't worried about the upcoming event. None of my other friends who were participating seemed to be at all concerned and they weren't training too hard.
Then, one day at physical therapy, I was overheard bragging to my physical therapist Chris Kuhn about doing Sharkfest by another of his patient. She informed me that her son, a rescue swimmer, volunteered the previous year for the Sharkfest. She then went on to explain how in the last Sharkfest, 300 of the 600 swimmers had been assisted by the rescue kayaks, most being pulled out of the water for hypothermia. Her son's girlfriend, an accomplished high school swimmer, had been pulled out of the water 15 minutes into the race because she got caught in a current that had quickly dragged toward the open ocean. As I was contemplating this new information about "currents" in the bay the patient wished me luck.
The Training Plan
The next day I decided to embark on an information gathering mission to learn everything I could about the Alcatraz swim and workouts for open water events. By 11a.m I had not done any research so my friend Kerreck, who realizes I am a bit of a procrastinator, sent me a bunch of articles on both topics. What I found out both surprised and alarmed me.
The Alcatraz swim is actually very hard. There are strong currents, especially around the island. Guide boats lead the swimmers around the island to the open water between Alcatraz and S.F. If you don't follow the boats you get caught in a current that could pull you out to sea. The water is around 55° F. In a normal person, hypothermia will set in after 20 minutes in water that temperature. In addition, there are sea lions, which are apparently pretty aggressive. Most people in the water are concerned with sharks and tend to ignore things like sea lions because they are so cute and look like stuffed animals. But they are very capable of plowing their 2000-pound body into your side and chewing your arm off because you accidentally wandered onto their territory. The bay also contains such delightful surprises as floating diesel slicks from leaky boats and raw human sewage.
I decided to start training immediately. But soon it was the end of April and I realized time was slipping away. I had to take action. The first thing I did was go to a swim shop with Kerreck. There I was able to purchase a matching swim cap and goggles ensemble in hot pink. Though Kerreck kept trying to give me advice such as "You really shouldn't pick the type of goggles you buy based on their color" I decided that looking good for this race was going to be just as important as swimming well. I also purchased a horrific blue bathing suit that seemed to have been designed in the pre-bikini era of the 1940s by nuns. Although unattractive I was hoping the extra fabric would help keep me warm.
Finally, after 2 more months of listening to Grant describe the 100 different ways I could drown, I decided in the middle of June to take my new equipment into the ocean to test it. Capitola Beach, below our apartment, is a half-mile long. For my first swim I decided to swim the length of the beach. Although I didn't drown I'm sure people would have tried to rescue me had I not been a foot away from shore.
A few weeks after thrashing through the ocean water, which was becoming more and more polluted with overflow from the storm drain that empties onto our beach, I decided to go to the (poo-less) pool to work on my technique, which I was teaching myself based on some articles I downloaded from the internet. I made a few discoveries about swimming in public pools, including:
1. the pool at the Santa Cruz 24 hour fitness club is actually a gay bathhouse and those guys get really upset if you try to work out in their pool (picture 10 guys in a hot tub screaming and giggling as they pile foam on each other's heads and then jump into the pool to cool off and wash away the foam while I'm trying to swim laps)
2. I am allergic to chlorine which is why I swell up and turn red after swimming
3. old people (in their 80s) can swim a lot faster than me
I also discovered that ocean swimming in my wetsuit was not the problem with my stroke. The problem was lack of coordination on the part of the swimmer. In an attempt to be supportive in my time of stress and sudden realization that I was a horrible swimmer, Grant offered to take pictures of my swim stroke so I could compare it to my Internet pictures. Of course he e-mailed them to me with captions such as "Help me!". In addition I discovered how unattractive I look swimming, especially when lifting my head up and gasping for air.
At the end of June a letter arrived from the coordinators of Sharkfest informing me that I had been "selected" to participate (selected because my credit card went through the first time?). It also advised, in glaring capital letters, that this was NOT a swim for novices and that if I couldn't swim a mile in 40 minutes I should not attempt the swim. Since I had just started training I had not even had occasion to swim a full mile and had no idea how long it would take me.
The next day I went to the pool. I calculated that a mile would be 72 laps (a lap being a swim to the other side of the pool and back). I calculated this based on the estimate of the pool being about 22 meters. NOTE: When, in an attempt to add scientific accuracy to my calculation I inquired of the club staff what the distance of the pool was I got the response "20 liters". After pondering that for a moment I stated that I had actually been wondering what the length of the pool was. The guy responded "2 kilometers". I guess I shouldn't make fun of them, as I am still puzzled over the ratio of yards per meter. Damn those metric conversions!
Needless to say, after about 5 minutes of laps I had completely lost count. I finally stopped at 40 minutes and figured I had swum at least a mile. I hoped.
The Great 4th of July Brighton Beach to Capitola Swim
After months of preparation (and three solid weeks of swimming) it was time to attempt my first long open water swim. The swim occurred on July 4. I slyly talked Kerreck and Patty, two of my fellow race participants, into doing it with me. We swam from Brighton Beach to Capitola Beach, which is 1.5 miles as the crow flies. Grant and Patty's husband Matt manned the safety kayak.
The first hundred yards of the swim sucked for me. Kerreck and Patty were a lot faster so they were soon out of sight. I was bobbing up and down in the waves, starting to feel the onset of the cold water. I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing. The shore was too far away to return to, and yet the dock at the 1.5 mile mark in Capitola seemed unattainable.
Then from the shore, I heard cheering. Looking at the very end of Brighton beach I saw a bunch of people jumping up and down yelling. Although I was too far away to hear them it occurred to me that they must have realized that we were doing the Brighton to Capitola beach swim. Encouraged by these spectators, I began swimming again. It later turned out that they were in fact yelling at a dog that was running in the water to fetch a stick. Grant informed me of this after the swim when I was telling Kerreck and Patty about our impromptu fan club.
As I slogged along Grant and Matt pulled up along side me in the rescue kayak. It took me a while to notice them as I was so fixated on my crappy form to notice my surroundings.
Swimming in that part of the bay is a bizarre experience, especially for those used to East Coast swimming. The water is so cold that when you put your face in it, it causes a slight feeling of shock and disorientedness. Then before your eyes all you can see is green sludge with brown bits floating in it. The brown bits are either duck poop or kelp bits; I have never really examined them in detail to find out specifically what they are. If visibility is 6 inches it's a good day. On parts of the swim I literally could not see any of my hands or arms even though they were just inches from my goggles.
There's also the fun of swimming in kelp bushes, the non-scientific name I just made up for the big mass of kelp plants that grow from the ocean floor. Kelp grows 3 feet a day and usually consists of the main stalk with the tendrils floating on the surface of the water. The sensation of swimming through this mess is similar to swimming into a fishing net. The tendrils wrap around all extremities and pull you down or back as you try to thrash your way out of the mess. Some of the kelp has sharp points that sting. Flailing along in the ocean you ride up a two foot wave and as you crash down you suddenly find yourself flying towards a huge black object underwater and then your face is in the middle of a bunch of leaves and kelp crap. That's when, for some unknown reason, I would open my mouth and swallow salt water. I might have even swallowed a few kelp pods. I took in so much water on the swim that afterwards I threw up enough salt to remake Lot's wife.
I finally made it to the surfers in the Punch Bowl, located a few hundred yards from my final destination, the Capitola dock. Patty and Kerreck were a quarter of a mile ahead of me and out of the water long before I was. To keep my spirits up for the remainder of the swim I began planning a dramatic exit strategy. I would run out of the water like Ursula Andress in Dr. No and then do a little end zone dance on the sand. Instead I threw up salt water and my dramatic exit was ruined by the fact that I had seaweed wrapped around my face and some drunken guys on the wharf were throwing empty Snapple bottles at me. But I completed the swim in 53 minutes and felt well on my way to being a contender (okay, realistically, a completer) of the Sharkfest.
The Breakthrough
In the middle of July I had a breakthrough in my swimming technique. I learned how to swim freestyle. I was at the Mountain View 24 hour fitness club pool. I was swimming in the middle lane with a guy who had more hair on his back than I have on my head. The best lane, which is the last lane, was occupied by the only really good swimmers I had seen at the club. One of the swimmers was a guy about 5 years younger than me. He had a very professional looking swim cap and the few times he was stuck swimming in a lane with me he made his distaste of sharing space with such a sucky swimmer known by smacking the bottoms of my feet every time he passed me. The other swimmer was an 11 year old girl that I was really growing to hate. I constantly found myself embroiled races with her, but since she could swim freestyle she would toy with me for one or two laps before leaving me in her chlorinated wake.
That day I had had a particularly bad time at the office and I found myself channeling all my negative feelings towards this skinny little punk. I glared at her as she smugly put her little goggles on and then we were off racing. She didn't even wait one lap before trying to pull ahead of me. Something snapped inside. My sole focus became beating this stupid kid. Realizing my lame rendition of the breast stroke wasn't going to cut it I began my usual flailing attempt at freestyle.
The next thing I was aware of was my face smashing into the side of the pool. Then I realized I had swum the entire length of the pool freestyle. Being so focused on beating the 11 year old allowed me to swim without getting worried that my form was so awful and somehow not paying attention to my swimming form made it possible for me to have good swimming form (don't ask me - it must be blonde logic). From that point forward I found freestyle very easy to do, except for the breathing aspect, where I was still managing to ingest an inordinate amount of water. But even with my breathing and water swallowing issues I still managed to beat her in every race afterwards. She took it like the sore loser I had assumed she would be. After one or two laps of me kicking her ass she would go get a paddle board and spend the rest of her pool time sulking. Eleven year olds can be so immature.
Unfortunately, the sense of triumph I had from teaching myself freestyle began to fade immediately. The last week before the race I found myself hating the idea of swimming. The water in Capitola had dropped a noticeable 10 degrees and the current had picked up considerably. I was getting thrashed around in huge piles of kelp and after one fairly traumatic swim, at the conclusion of which I threw up a kelp pod on the beach in front of 50 kids who were taking life guard school, I decided I would never swim again after the Sharkfest.
The pool was an even more unappealing situation than the beach. The stink of chlorine invaded my car and any clothes that were within 5 feet of my bathing suit (which I refused to wash from the time I bought it until after the Sharkfest, which probably explains why the fabric had started to rot). I was starting to feel like Elton John with my pink goggles and cap. My poor hair was becoming a mess of dried up colorless strands that I couldn't get a comb through.
On 27 July, my last day of work before Sharkfest, I briefly contemplated deleting my personal files off my machine just in case. My stomach was a knot of tension and stress. I was looking forward to the end of this little endeavor. My boss Nick Salvador showed me a web site for looking up the tides, and explained to me how to interpret the information. Although I didn't quite follow what he was talking about, I did focus on one comment which was "Oh, it looks like the tide is going towards the city so I guess you won't be swept out to sea". Was that disappointment I detected in his voice?
The Sharkfest
The day before the race we went to Luke's house for dinner and then we drove to the Aquatic Park, where the race finished, to check out the course. Standing on the shore of San Francisco, Alcatraz did not seem that far away. Also, the last quarter mile of the race would be through Aquatic Park. Aquatic Park is a small circular marina, with curved concrete piers surrounding either side.
Aquatic Park has no waves and the water is usually at least 5 degrees warmer than the Bay. I somehow convinced myself that this would make the race easier. I told everyone that all they had to do was make it to Aquatic Park and the race would be effortless.
I should point out that to get a true feeling of the distance between Alcatraz and S.F. you need to go to the island. Because of Alcatraz's size it looks a lot closer than it really is.
Sunday I found myself climbing out of bed at 5:20 a.m. after a completely sleepless night. We arrived at Aquatic Park for check-in for the race at about 6 a.m. The race would officially begin at 9 a.m. so we had a lot of sitting around time before things got started. My stomach was in such a tight knot that I could barely finish my can of Coke, the breakfast of champions for race day.
The weather was overcast and about 60 degrees. I attempted to do some exercises to warm up for the race, since it didn't seem feasible to go for a swim. I didn't want to get wet and then have to stand around in the cold for two hours waiting for the race to start.
Being my usual obnoxious, bossy, cranky self I kept lecturing Kerreck, Patty, and Luke to do some kind of warm up before the race. Egged on by a group of female swimmers, Kerreck, who is an ex-Chippendale's dancer (he had to quit when the intelligence agency he works for threatened to pull his clearance), decided to do a little strip tease on the beach. I won't go into much detail about the incident except to say that it certainly warmed up things for the female fans and Kerreck was threatened with disqualification from a race official if he didn't put his swimming suit back on. He was showered with adulation and dollar bills from his female fans although he claims that he usually brings in more money than he made from the Sharkfest crowd.
At 8:00 a.m. we had a race "briefing". We assumed they would tell us what the race strategy was, how the currents were, and all the other useful information we needed to know. Instead the guy doing to briefing asked the crowd the age of the oldest (77) and youngest (12) people doing the swim and then asked where everyone was from. The only advice he gave us was to "aim for the ship with the three masts at the edge of Aquatic Park". As I looked around at the crowd I noticed that I was the only one who seemed a little worried about the lack of information. In fact a number of people were so busy smearing deodorant all over their bodies that they didn't seem to be paying attention to anything going on. I'm not sure WHY they were putting deodorant all over their bodies, but I will never again smell Brut without thinking of Sharkfest.
At 8:30 we walked a short distance to Pier 39. We took two Blue and Gold ships over to Alcatraz (these are the ships that normally take tourists to Alcatraz for those of you who have been). Most of the swimmers on the boat were trying to out talk each other with their swimming achievements. Machismo was in the air. We circled around the far (North) side of the island and then the boat pulled up about 5 feet from the Eastern side of the island. For those of you who have been there before, we were parallel to the place where the canon is as you walk up the hill towards the prison. We were then told to jump off the boat and swim to the start line, which is where the boat dock on the island is.
They opened up the gates on the side of the boat and told us to jump in. Patty went first, followed by Kerreck. Then it was my turn. It was a three foot plunge from the boat deck into the water and I really didn't want to go. I held my goggles on my face and jumped. I dropped down into the icy water and immediately breathed in, taking in a huge mouthful of water. I popped to the surface and began choking. All my mental preparation was out the window as I started to slip into full fledged panic. I couldn't even remember how to swim.
Kerreck swam over to me and started talking to me in a very calm voice. Then he started guiding me towards the start line. His reassurances helped me regain my swimming ability and as I started moving through the water I relaxed. Then the air horn went off and the race started.
We were supposed to follow guide kayaks around the island. I never saw them, although I'm sure they were there. I was busy trying not to get killed in what was slowly becoming an aquatic stampede. People were swimming over me, kicking me in the face, and hitting my arms and legs. I randomly punched a few people myself (in the hopes of improving my race standings of course - just kidding!). The current didn't seem that bad going around the island so I started freestyling like crazy to keep up with everyone else and to get the race over with.
When next I looked up I realized that I had somehow managed to swim towards the Bay Bridge and that I was swimming virtually by myself. The current had picked up and the chop was about three feet. A wave would pop me up for a few seconds at which point I could barely make out the shore through my fogged up goggles. Then I would drop down into a little water trough where I couldn't see anything but walls of waves. I then managed to spot a kayak and so I swam towards it. As it appeared to be moving in the direction of the shore I decided to follow it. It was only after about 20 minutes of swimming, when I noticed I was even closer to the Bay bridge, that the kayaker told me she wasn't part of the race and that she was just there to take pictures. I spent the next half hour trying to get back on course through a bad chop and strong current.
The open ocean was a lot harder to swim in than I had imagined. Waves would pull me up out of the water and turn me over almost completely on my back. Then I would get flipped forward and my face would smash into the water. Sometimes the force of the wave breaking on my back would knock me a few feet down into the murky green of the Bay. I soon reached a point where I began to seriously worry for my safety as there were no swimmers or kayaks in sight and the waves were so bad that I couldn't see the shore line at all. It's only 1.5 miles to the shore but it seemed like an unreachable distance from the place where I was.
I started looking back at the island to re-align myself with the course. Soon I happened on a young, very muscular guy in a farmer john wet suit. The guy was laying on his back staring at the sky. He had obviously had it. He was trying to signal a kayak so he could quit the race. I began to give him a little pep talk to get him moving. We swam together for about 5 minutes and then I picked up the pace. He didn't follow. About 5 minutes later a boat pulled up next to me. The captain asked if I was okay. He then warned me to pick up the pace as they were worried about the weather and the currents were changing. As he pulled away I noticed the farmer john guy in the back of the boat. He had quit as soon as I swam away from him. I suddenly became irrationally upset that he had given up. I suppose this line of thinking was caused by the onset of hypothermia, but the adrenaline helped me pick up the pace.
Soon I found myself in a pack of about 5 swimmers. Most of them were dead in the water. The kayaks kept circling around, pulling people out. I became worried that they would try to pull me so I worked extra hard at my form and tried to smile as they floated by me to indicate that I was having the time of my life, even with fogged goggles and a river of snot coming out of my nose. As the boat would go by with more people I admit to being a little envious of them but I decided to soldier on, mostly because so many of my friends were expecting me to fail and I refused to give them the satisfaction.
Eventually the shoreline became a close and obtainable object. Then disaster struck. Aquatic Park, as I have said before, is surrounded by two circular piers with an opening onto the bay. I found myself located somewhere along the cement pier with no idea which way the entrance to the park was. I completely stopped swimming and tried to think of something to do. My mind was blank. At that point I had been in sub-60 degree water for almost an hour. I couldn't feel my hands or my feet at all. My goggles were badly fogged but my hands were so frozen and I had become so uncoordinated that I couldn't clear them. As the waves bashed me into the cement pier I began crying into my goggles. I figured this was it for me. The race was over.
A man in a kayak pulled up next to me. He asked if I was okay. I tried to say "yes" but was so hypothermic I was no longer able to even talk. He pointed towards the right and said "that way to the entrance". I tried to thank him but I couldn't form the words. He coasted next to me as I began the laborious task of swimming against the current to the entrance of the park. He told me that if I didn't make some good progress he was going to pull me out of the water. To induce some high powered adrenaline to prevent that I tried to picture a great white shark swimming beneath me, ready to chew my legs off. I actually found that scene to be a relief. At least I would be able to quit and the force of the shark attacking me would surely propel me closer to the park entrance. Lucky for me, I have some serious anger management issues and I was able to reach deep inside for some suppressed hate and channel that rage towards the race. Pushing myself along on fury energy, I managed to reach the entrance to the park.
As my kayak guide swam away I found myself floating just inside Aquatic Park, completely lifeless and drained. I could see the finish line but it was still a quarter mile away. Aerobically I wasn't tired but the cold water had completely exhausted me and I had become so hypothermic that I was taking a long time to rationalize my next move even though it was completely obvious what it should be (swim to the finish - duh!).
Then I noticed a pink buoy floating in the middle of the water that was the same color as my goggles. For some irrational reason I decided that all I had to do was swim to this buoy and I would be okay. In my hypothermic state it seemed to make sense that I should swim towards objects the same color as my goggles. It was a lot closer than the finish line so I managed to start swimming again. When I got to that buoy I noticed a second one and swam to that. Then there was a white buoy. And suddenly, in front of me, about 20 feet away, the finish line.
About three feet off the beach I noticed people standing up and walking out of the water. I tried to stand up but couldn't. Then my hand touched sand. That was when I realized that my feet were so numb that I had been touching the sandy bottom of the park without realizing it.
I ripped my swim caps off and stumbled onto the beach with huge trails of drool and snot hanging off my face. I heard someone call my name and turned to see Kerreck with a camera, capturing me at my finest hour. A guy at the finish line reached out his arm to help me walk as I still hadn't managed to pull myself up beyond a slouchy half crawl, but I couldn't figure out how to get my arm to move towards him so I just ignored him.
Grant ran up to me and wrapped a towel around me. By that time I was shaking uncontrollably and breathing in short gasps. I started crying so he led me over to a bench. I'm not sure why I was crying but I couldn't stop. He ran off to find everyone else as I was the last swimmer in our group out of the water. He left me sitting with some drunken homeless guy who started telling me about surfing in Alaska.
I felt faint so I stood up and then I decided that I needed to start moving around. We eventually made it back to the car and I warmed up once the heater was on full blast. It took about three hours for my normal body temperature to come back. To add to my post-hypothermic experience, I had a moment of panic when Patty's husband Matt mistakenly informed me that I hadn't crossed the right finish line and that my time hadn't been recorded. Grant ran back to the finish line and confirmed that I had crossed.
We ended our Sharkfest adventure by having brunch at Top of the Mark, a great restaurant on top of the Intercontinental Hotel on Nob Hill. Grant got champagne to celebrate my feat. I was happy to have finished the race especially given my gross inexperience and complete lack of talent in swimming freestyle.
I have had many adventures that I will look back on fondly. The Sharkfest is not one of them. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. I hate the cold and swallowing gallons of salt water is not my idea of fun. Swimmers don't seem to have the same camaraderie that runners have. No one offered me a single word of encouragement during the entire race, and those that I tried to cheer on either quit or left me in their wake. You can't really see where you're going and by the time you get to the finish line you are so frozen that you don't care about the people screaming for you on the beach.
Of course, I didn't really have the proper resources for training. And I bet that if I had stayed on course I could have improved my time tremendously. A year can wash away a lot of memories, especially those involving pain and suffering. Sharkfest 2002? No way. Absolutely not.
Well, maybe I will do it again next year to try for a better exit photo. But this time, I'm taking swimming lessons from somewhere besides the Internet.
To view the results go to http://www.pmevents.com/sharkoa01.htm. I am #187 under women with wetsuits, with an overall time of 1:12.
San Jose Sharks Hockey Game (playoffs 2001)
Last night was the third game in the playoff series for the San Jose Sharks. They were playing the St. Louis Blues. I attended the game with Grant. My boss Julianne was kind enough to give me the tickets.
This playoff game was important for two reasons. The first is that if the Sharks lost they would be out of the playoffs. More importantly, though, it was my first professional hockey game. Professional hockey differs from the college hockey games I've been to in a number of ways, the most obvious being: 1. there is only one puck in play during a professional game 2. the players don't vomit when they get hit 3. there were no cheerleaders serving beer to the players who were sitting in their little resting box .
When we arrived at the game I realized immediately that this was a much different crowd than the people who go to ballet. A lot of people were painted green. This is because the team color of the sharks is teal and most men are color blind and think teal is the same thing as green. We forked over our life savings for two beers (am I really old or does anyone else remember a time that you could buy a whole six pack of Budweiser for $6 instead of just getting one 12 ounce bottle for that price?) and entered the stadium.
You can tell the game is starting because a smoking shark head lowers from the ceiling. It has flashing red eyes. Although an incorrect depiction of a shark I immediately realized that a hockey game is no place for a lesson in marine biology and I didn't say a word as the players skated out of the shark mouth.
As the game got underway I made a startling discovery. Contrary to my assumptions, you don't have to be a good skater to play hockey. If you want to stop you run into the rink wall. If you want to turn you run into the wall. Sometimes, if there's no wall, you just run into other players. Also, you can smash people into the wall if you want. People get smashed into the wall for being on the other team. If you score a goal your own team smashes you into the wall. And you can hit other players with your stick as long as you are standing behind the referee. Occasionally, while your team mate is waiting for the ref to drop the puck you poke him (the team mate) in the butt with your stick (this is for good luck?).
There were a number of unintelligent people sitting around me at the game. These are actual quotes: wife: This is a great game. No penalties. They are playing very clean hockey. husband: Shut up. (yells to the rink) Smash him into the wall!!!! drunk guy behind me: "Win one for the kipper!" drunk guy behind and to the right of me: "Hey screwy, go back to St. Louie!"
Grant attempted to explain what was going on. Hockey is a very fast, complicated game. Here are some of his better explanations: "What just happened was really bad." "I don't think they are supposed to do that because it's bad." "The ref is making him leave the game because he's a bad man." "If the other team is trying to score on your team that's bad."
Unfortunately, the last 8 seconds of the first period, St. Louis scored a goal. There was a near riot in the stadium. Some kind of argument ensued over whether or not the puck actually went in. I didn't really follow what was going on but I figured it was bad for the Sharks.
After the first period was over (leave it to a guy's wishful thinking that a period only lasts 20 minutes) there was a 20 minute rest time. During this time a guy came out and played an organ with bouncing balls. The guy next to Grant got very excited. He told us the Sharks always play better after the bouncing ball organ playing guy. Then this Shark man started launching t-shirts into the crowd. I had considered myself safe from flying pucks as our seats were not on the rink. I didn't realize they would be throwing vacuum sealed shirt grenades. I cowered down in my seat until the shirts stopped flying around.
The second period moved slower than the first, although the Sharks scored two goals, which was good. Every few seconds the ref was picking up the puck and moving it around on the ice. Sometimes a guy would get all smashed up and nothing would happen. Other times the smasher had to go sit down for a while. When that happens it's called a power play. The way you know a power play is going on is that everyone is chopping their hands up and down like a shark biting the air.
Nothing much happened during the rest time after the second period, except that there were some guys driving around on zambonis and the crowd was singing the "I Love Hockey" song that's about this guy from Canada who loves hockey. The third period everyone looked kind of tired. Some of the hockey players were even falling down on the ice. The Sharks scored another goal, which was the coolest goal because it was a line drive right at the goalie. The goalie seems to be the best position. You get to wear these huge gloves and a bunch of other complicated padding. Normally you stand in front of the net looking very laid back. If someone shoots the puck to you, you can pick it up and throw it. The goalie is the only one wearing gloves so he's the only one who can pick up the puck. Also, if the puck gets close to him he can lay down on it so no one can hit it. When this happens all the players make a big pile near the net. That's when it's probably bad to be the goalie because they land on him or hit him with their sticks.
Three minutes into the third period something really strange happened. Everyone started screaming "Barry Bonds!" As it turns out, Barry Bonds is not a hockey player and he wasn't even playing in the game. You can tell a hockey player by the last name, which usually has 14 letters, only two of which are vowels. The best players have names that end in "vek" or have names that aren't pronounced the way they are spelled (e.g. Ricci, which looks like "Ricky" is actually pronounced "Rishy" or "Reeshee").
Then, with 5 minutes left in the game, the St. Louis goalie decided to leave. This happens when you decide to sacrifice your goalie to get another player. This is different from a power play, but I'm not sure how unless it's the addition of one player instead of the subtraction of a player from the other team. But a power play can still occur so the extra guy that you have in place of the goalie has to go sit down. Then you're right back where you started before, except now you don't have a goalie, which is bad. Personally, I think they should always keep the goalie in because he has the best costume.
I later found out Barry is a baseball player and he hit 500 home runs. Why they decided to bring that up during the hockey game, I'm not sure. But one thing I am sure about is hockey is a confusing and complicated game. I don't think anyone really understands the rules. The best thing to do is just drink a lot of beer and have a good time.
Thanks again Julianne!!!!!!!!!!
This playoff game was important for two reasons. The first is that if the Sharks lost they would be out of the playoffs. More importantly, though, it was my first professional hockey game. Professional hockey differs from the college hockey games I've been to in a number of ways, the most obvious being: 1. there is only one puck in play during a professional game 2. the players don't vomit when they get hit 3. there were no cheerleaders serving beer to the players who were sitting in their little resting box .
When we arrived at the game I realized immediately that this was a much different crowd than the people who go to ballet. A lot of people were painted green. This is because the team color of the sharks is teal and most men are color blind and think teal is the same thing as green. We forked over our life savings for two beers (am I really old or does anyone else remember a time that you could buy a whole six pack of Budweiser for $6 instead of just getting one 12 ounce bottle for that price?) and entered the stadium.
You can tell the game is starting because a smoking shark head lowers from the ceiling. It has flashing red eyes. Although an incorrect depiction of a shark I immediately realized that a hockey game is no place for a lesson in marine biology and I didn't say a word as the players skated out of the shark mouth.
As the game got underway I made a startling discovery. Contrary to my assumptions, you don't have to be a good skater to play hockey. If you want to stop you run into the rink wall. If you want to turn you run into the wall. Sometimes, if there's no wall, you just run into other players. Also, you can smash people into the wall if you want. People get smashed into the wall for being on the other team. If you score a goal your own team smashes you into the wall. And you can hit other players with your stick as long as you are standing behind the referee. Occasionally, while your team mate is waiting for the ref to drop the puck you poke him (the team mate) in the butt with your stick (this is for good luck?).
There were a number of unintelligent people sitting around me at the game. These are actual quotes: wife: This is a great game. No penalties. They are playing very clean hockey. husband: Shut up. (yells to the rink) Smash him into the wall!!!! drunk guy behind me: "Win one for the kipper!" drunk guy behind and to the right of me: "Hey screwy, go back to St. Louie!"
Grant attempted to explain what was going on. Hockey is a very fast, complicated game. Here are some of his better explanations: "What just happened was really bad." "I don't think they are supposed to do that because it's bad." "The ref is making him leave the game because he's a bad man." "If the other team is trying to score on your team that's bad."
Unfortunately, the last 8 seconds of the first period, St. Louis scored a goal. There was a near riot in the stadium. Some kind of argument ensued over whether or not the puck actually went in. I didn't really follow what was going on but I figured it was bad for the Sharks.
After the first period was over (leave it to a guy's wishful thinking that a period only lasts 20 minutes) there was a 20 minute rest time. During this time a guy came out and played an organ with bouncing balls. The guy next to Grant got very excited. He told us the Sharks always play better after the bouncing ball organ playing guy. Then this Shark man started launching t-shirts into the crowd. I had considered myself safe from flying pucks as our seats were not on the rink. I didn't realize they would be throwing vacuum sealed shirt grenades. I cowered down in my seat until the shirts stopped flying around.
The second period moved slower than the first, although the Sharks scored two goals, which was good. Every few seconds the ref was picking up the puck and moving it around on the ice. Sometimes a guy would get all smashed up and nothing would happen. Other times the smasher had to go sit down for a while. When that happens it's called a power play. The way you know a power play is going on is that everyone is chopping their hands up and down like a shark biting the air.
Nothing much happened during the rest time after the second period, except that there were some guys driving around on zambonis and the crowd was singing the "I Love Hockey" song that's about this guy from Canada who loves hockey. The third period everyone looked kind of tired. Some of the hockey players were even falling down on the ice. The Sharks scored another goal, which was the coolest goal because it was a line drive right at the goalie. The goalie seems to be the best position. You get to wear these huge gloves and a bunch of other complicated padding. Normally you stand in front of the net looking very laid back. If someone shoots the puck to you, you can pick it up and throw it. The goalie is the only one wearing gloves so he's the only one who can pick up the puck. Also, if the puck gets close to him he can lay down on it so no one can hit it. When this happens all the players make a big pile near the net. That's when it's probably bad to be the goalie because they land on him or hit him with their sticks.
Three minutes into the third period something really strange happened. Everyone started screaming "Barry Bonds!" As it turns out, Barry Bonds is not a hockey player and he wasn't even playing in the game. You can tell a hockey player by the last name, which usually has 14 letters, only two of which are vowels. The best players have names that end in "vek" or have names that aren't pronounced the way they are spelled (e.g. Ricci, which looks like "Ricky" is actually pronounced "Rishy" or "Reeshee").
Then, with 5 minutes left in the game, the St. Louis goalie decided to leave. This happens when you decide to sacrifice your goalie to get another player. This is different from a power play, but I'm not sure how unless it's the addition of one player instead of the subtraction of a player from the other team. But a power play can still occur so the extra guy that you have in place of the goalie has to go sit down. Then you're right back where you started before, except now you don't have a goalie, which is bad. Personally, I think they should always keep the goalie in because he has the best costume.
I later found out Barry is a baseball player and he hit 500 home runs. Why they decided to bring that up during the hockey game, I'm not sure. But one thing I am sure about is hockey is a confusing and complicated game. I don't think anyone really understands the rules. The best thing to do is just drink a lot of beer and have a good time.
Thanks again Julianne!!!!!!!!!!
Pikes Peak Epic
WARNING: this story contains two mentions of vomit - I know, shock and surprise, a Franki story involving vomit
Just to confirm that irrationality does run in my family, my dad flew into Denver late yesterday and decided today would be the perfect day to get acclimated by climbing Pike's Peak by the hard route (24.6 miles, but very scenic and wonderful).
The day started out by me getting lost finding my dad's hotel. Then we hiked for about 30 minutes and HP decided he wanted to go up ahead of us (I somewhat suspect he was chasing after some scantily clad high school girls who would have been hard to pick up with my dad and I there to make fun of him or that he really wanted to play with a walkie talkie but that's just my opinion). HP got a little lost as he still hasn't mastered that important mountaineering skill that involves reading signs that tell you which way to go. That's how he ended up climbing what he later describe as the "stairway to heaven". My dad and I eventually got to Barr Camp (about 6 miles up) and decided that the weather was looking decidedly unpleasant and that we should turn around before we got stuck in a hail storm. I radioed HP and he started running down the hill to meet us. My dad and I had a nice snack of grapes that I accidentally put in my backpack instead of giving them back to him and I'm eating them as I write this. But seriously, it was an oversight and I didn't mean to steal the grapes.
Disaster struck after we had been hiking down for about a half mile. Unlike most people, I hate going down the mountain. It's a fairly painful experience because of my knee, even with a brace. I'm wondering if I might have twisted it or something (like when we were almost run over by two guys on mountain bikes) but nothing specific comes to mind. In any case, we were walking along talking about solar panels (normal people do this all the time) when suddenly my knee began to hurt as it has only hurt immediately after my surgery.
That's weird, I thought to myself, as I was also remembering that I had forgotten to bring any Tylenol with me. Then the pain got worse. It was as if someone had decided to open up a carnival in my knee. The scrambler machine was bashing into my knee cap and scraping against all the nerves in the back of my leg. The Ferris wheel seemed to be gouging my femur and then jostling against my tib/fib before ascending to do it all again. Then it seemed someone cranked up a barbecue to sell hot dogs to all the tourists who were trampling my meniscus and the heat was radiating up into my hip. My knee was starting to puff up like a big top tent being inflated.
We were 5.5 miles away from the parking lot. This is NOT good, I thought to myself. Maybe I should say a little mantra to take focus away from the pain. I started chanting my mantra in my head ("lalala my knee doesn't hurt") but it wasn't working. Then HP caught up to us. I couldn't even talk at that point because tears were running down my face and I was afraid I would start crying and never stop.
Finally I asked my dad for his walking stick. Much like a placebo, it helped for about 20 seconds. Then the pain got worse, on top of now being stuck carrying a stick that I was afraid to give back to my dad because a collapse was inevitable and I didn't want to get trail dust up my nose when I passed out. My subconscious was having an argument that any philosopher would have been proud of with my brain:
Brain: ow
S.C: it doesn't hurt
Brain: ow
The brain then decided to take drastic measures. Since no one was listening to her she shut down all systems. My vision went white and I managed to, in my usual graceful way, collapse on a rock. I looked longingly at the pine needles scattered on the ground near my feet and wished for Martha Stewart so that she could make me a pillow. But no. She's still in NY on house arrest. Bastard Manhattan attorney's office.
My dad was looking very concerned. He asked how much I weighed. I took that as a bad sign of what kind of state I must have been in. I got up, took 5 steps, and then vomited up all the Gatorade I had been drinking for the past three hours. As I put four times the recommended servings of Gatorade powder in my water it's less a liquid than a syrup and it was kind of gooey and gross, clinging to my face like an evil slime.
I managed to get down the mountain because of my dad's encouragement and HP's sarcastic remarks (e.g. "you aren't even drunk and you threw up"). Both were worried as it is usually bad when someone is in so much pain that they vomit. At one point when I didn't think I would make it my dad said "Oh look, there's a tennis court right there". No one dies in the mountains in view of a tennis court so I knew I would survive.
We finally got to the car and I figured the worst was over. We decided to get lunch, I popped 5 advils (my dad commenting to me "well, if you take those you won't be able to have a beer" at which point my brain decided that would be fine as long as someone who could have a beer hit me over the head with the empty bottle and put me out of my misery).
I drove to a parking lot and we were going to get lunch but as I stepped out of the car my knee was screaming with pain that was flooding into my foot and hip. My dad was standing at the parking pay machine getting ready to put some money in when I managed to limp over and say "wait! stop!" in my most dramatic death throes voice. He looked at me and said "It's okay. I'll pay for the parking. It's only $2." By then my brain was letting more vocabulary get through the pain waves and I told my dad that I needed to lay down immediately. We drove back to his hotel and I staggered into the room and climbed onto the bed. I thought I might pass out again from the pain. My dad ran down to the vending machine and got me a coke. He explained to HP (and this is an exact quote): "Franki has a pretty bad Coke habit." The boys went off to have a sandwich and I laid in the room sure that I was going to die.
Miraculously, after about twenty minutes of having my knee elevated, the pain carnival packed its trunks and went back to where ever it is that it had come from. I managed to join the boys for a glass of water and potato chips at the restaurant (after walking two blocks - a major accomplishment). My dad was so worried that he met me half way to the restaurant, probably to make sure I wasn't collapsing or vomiting on any strangers (if you've ever been to Manitou I think you would agree with me that the people there would not notice - they would probably put me in an art gallery, still covered in Gatorade bile).
So all is well that ends well. The best part of this story, besides my dad talking me down the mountain, is that I went to get the keys to my new place when I got back from Pike's Peak and it was clean! With two new screwdrivers as presents! And toilet paper!
So now I am going to drink some wine. I think my liver is safe now. Anyway, you only need 1/5 of it, so I have liver to spare.
In October of 2006 I did the Barr trail, walking through almost 3 feet of snow the last 2 miles. As I did it alone my dad felt the need to text me every hour to make sure I was still alive. And the honest truth is that if I had had any money I would have taken the train down rather than walking...
Just to confirm that irrationality does run in my family, my dad flew into Denver late yesterday and decided today would be the perfect day to get acclimated by climbing Pike's Peak by the hard route (24.6 miles, but very scenic and wonderful).
The day started out by me getting lost finding my dad's hotel. Then we hiked for about 30 minutes and HP decided he wanted to go up ahead of us (I somewhat suspect he was chasing after some scantily clad high school girls who would have been hard to pick up with my dad and I there to make fun of him or that he really wanted to play with a walkie talkie but that's just my opinion). HP got a little lost as he still hasn't mastered that important mountaineering skill that involves reading signs that tell you which way to go. That's how he ended up climbing what he later describe as the "stairway to heaven". My dad and I eventually got to Barr Camp (about 6 miles up) and decided that the weather was looking decidedly unpleasant and that we should turn around before we got stuck in a hail storm. I radioed HP and he started running down the hill to meet us. My dad and I had a nice snack of grapes that I accidentally put in my backpack instead of giving them back to him and I'm eating them as I write this. But seriously, it was an oversight and I didn't mean to steal the grapes.
Disaster struck after we had been hiking down for about a half mile. Unlike most people, I hate going down the mountain. It's a fairly painful experience because of my knee, even with a brace. I'm wondering if I might have twisted it or something (like when we were almost run over by two guys on mountain bikes) but nothing specific comes to mind. In any case, we were walking along talking about solar panels (normal people do this all the time) when suddenly my knee began to hurt as it has only hurt immediately after my surgery.
That's weird, I thought to myself, as I was also remembering that I had forgotten to bring any Tylenol with me. Then the pain got worse. It was as if someone had decided to open up a carnival in my knee. The scrambler machine was bashing into my knee cap and scraping against all the nerves in the back of my leg. The Ferris wheel seemed to be gouging my femur and then jostling against my tib/fib before ascending to do it all again. Then it seemed someone cranked up a barbecue to sell hot dogs to all the tourists who were trampling my meniscus and the heat was radiating up into my hip. My knee was starting to puff up like a big top tent being inflated.
We were 5.5 miles away from the parking lot. This is NOT good, I thought to myself. Maybe I should say a little mantra to take focus away from the pain. I started chanting my mantra in my head ("lalala my knee doesn't hurt") but it wasn't working. Then HP caught up to us. I couldn't even talk at that point because tears were running down my face and I was afraid I would start crying and never stop.
Finally I asked my dad for his walking stick. Much like a placebo, it helped for about 20 seconds. Then the pain got worse, on top of now being stuck carrying a stick that I was afraid to give back to my dad because a collapse was inevitable and I didn't want to get trail dust up my nose when I passed out. My subconscious was having an argument that any philosopher would have been proud of with my brain:
Brain: ow
S.C: it doesn't hurt
Brain: ow
The brain then decided to take drastic measures. Since no one was listening to her she shut down all systems. My vision went white and I managed to, in my usual graceful way, collapse on a rock. I looked longingly at the pine needles scattered on the ground near my feet and wished for Martha Stewart so that she could make me a pillow. But no. She's still in NY on house arrest. Bastard Manhattan attorney's office.
My dad was looking very concerned. He asked how much I weighed. I took that as a bad sign of what kind of state I must have been in. I got up, took 5 steps, and then vomited up all the Gatorade I had been drinking for the past three hours. As I put four times the recommended servings of Gatorade powder in my water it's less a liquid than a syrup and it was kind of gooey and gross, clinging to my face like an evil slime.
I managed to get down the mountain because of my dad's encouragement and HP's sarcastic remarks (e.g. "you aren't even drunk and you threw up"). Both were worried as it is usually bad when someone is in so much pain that they vomit. At one point when I didn't think I would make it my dad said "Oh look, there's a tennis court right there". No one dies in the mountains in view of a tennis court so I knew I would survive.
We finally got to the car and I figured the worst was over. We decided to get lunch, I popped 5 advils (my dad commenting to me "well, if you take those you won't be able to have a beer" at which point my brain decided that would be fine as long as someone who could have a beer hit me over the head with the empty bottle and put me out of my misery).
I drove to a parking lot and we were going to get lunch but as I stepped out of the car my knee was screaming with pain that was flooding into my foot and hip. My dad was standing at the parking pay machine getting ready to put some money in when I managed to limp over and say "wait! stop!" in my most dramatic death throes voice. He looked at me and said "It's okay. I'll pay for the parking. It's only $2." By then my brain was letting more vocabulary get through the pain waves and I told my dad that I needed to lay down immediately. We drove back to his hotel and I staggered into the room and climbed onto the bed. I thought I might pass out again from the pain. My dad ran down to the vending machine and got me a coke. He explained to HP (and this is an exact quote): "Franki has a pretty bad Coke habit." The boys went off to have a sandwich and I laid in the room sure that I was going to die.
Miraculously, after about twenty minutes of having my knee elevated, the pain carnival packed its trunks and went back to where ever it is that it had come from. I managed to join the boys for a glass of water and potato chips at the restaurant (after walking two blocks - a major accomplishment). My dad was so worried that he met me half way to the restaurant, probably to make sure I wasn't collapsing or vomiting on any strangers (if you've ever been to Manitou I think you would agree with me that the people there would not notice - they would probably put me in an art gallery, still covered in Gatorade bile).
So all is well that ends well. The best part of this story, besides my dad talking me down the mountain, is that I went to get the keys to my new place when I got back from Pike's Peak and it was clean! With two new screwdrivers as presents! And toilet paper!
So now I am going to drink some wine. I think my liver is safe now. Anyway, you only need 1/5 of it, so I have liver to spare.
In October of 2006 I did the Barr trail, walking through almost 3 feet of snow the last 2 miles. As I did it alone my dad felt the need to text me every hour to make sure I was still alive. And the honest truth is that if I had had any money I would have taken the train down rather than walking...
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