Tuesday, July 3, 2012
18:45
I’ll be missing the Fourth of July with my family. For all of the time I’ve spent away from home
since meeting Kate, including when we were just dating, I’ve never missed a big
date like a birthday, anniversary, or major holiday. I don’t enjoy the thought of my little girl enjoying
one of those big holidays, with fireworks and maybe a parade, while I’m not
there. It would be better for us all to
be together.
I can’t think about being a United States citizen without
feeling a cramp in my gut about the small minority of powerful people seeking
right now to politically divide and economically conquer this great
country. I think about our hideously
unjust wars against Muslims, and when I compare them to our fight seventy years
ago against a genuine attempt at world conquest, I’m ashamed. I think about the purposeful idealism of the
people who helped found this country, and the modest maturity of George
Washington, the first President, who insisted on limits to his own power. I think those founders—outside of attempts to
capitalize politically on their names--would be dismissed as rubes and radicals
by people in Washington today. Imperial
Rome would not have accepted republican Rome, as republican Rome would not have
recognized imperial Rome.
I think about how technology, and how the complexity, scale
and speed of the world economy have grown beyond anything that group of 18th
century men (even the irreverent Ben Franklin) could possibly have imagined, or
designed their government for. About how
this country, initially a set of colonies, was founded as an experiment by
people who were consciously rootless here.
I think that experiment, that rootlessness, and of course the largely
unpopulated, spectacularly well-endowed continent, with large coastlines on two
oceans, led very directly to the world prominence we enjoy today. Our national ethic has always been one of seeking
and using opportunity with cheerful self-confidence.
Our results have been mixed.
We produced a federal Constitution, as a theory of government and as a
concept in itself—a national government which is explicitly a contract,
designed all at once as a unit—whose impact on world history is difficult to even
estimate. We have led the way to the
industrial and technological marvels we know today. We joined with England and Russia in
defending the world against a genocidal maniac and a would-be Pacific empire. However, our easy self-confidence has
overlooked the environmental and social costs of our desperate
profiteering. It has overlooked our
gradual change from defender of freedom to defender of our own privilege. It fails to understand that many around the
world now view us with hatred and fear far worse than our early fear of
England.
I think we need a new Constitution. One founded on recognizing the equality of
sexes, races, religions, sexuality—of all people. One founded on recognizing that we all humans
share the same planet, and that our actions ultimately affect everyone. One which allows people to continue seeking
and using their own opportunities, and allows people to become rich, but which separates
government from the power of money, the way our Constitution now separates
government from the active military. One
which recognizes that this country, however powerful, is one in a community of
sovereign peers. We need a new
Constitution which speaks to the hopes and realities of the growing
generations. That would make me truly
proud on a Fourth of July.
Right now, it seems to me that national holidays like the
Fourth of July try to hearken back to the golden age of the United States, from
the mid-40’s to the mid-50’s. Brick
architecture, big cars, jazz, early rock & roll, even the rompous brass
band marches which had been around for a long time already—reminiscence of
these, even briefly, is to me an attempt to pull the covers over our eyes for a
few minutes. Fourth of July parades
always leave me sadder.
I’m not saying, Do away with holidays, or the Fourth of
July. But I think that a time of fear
and unrest like now requires a rededication of mind and will. Instead of a continent filled with trees,
wild animals, and sometimes antagonistic natives, we look out at a world to a
large extent made by us—with roads, industry, pollution, colliding races, and omnipotent
money—as a challenge. We see societies suffering
from the results of their own labor. We
need to accept the challenges of our own time.
(“What happened to the American Dream?” asked the darkly antiheroic
Comedian in Watchmen. “It came true. We’re in it.”) We need a new dream. The old one is over.
I have moments of wishful thinking of that golden age, and
more deeply, a great respect for those who came of age during it. They carry some of the gold with them still. Speaking to the first, one of Eva’s (and the
whole family’s) favorite movies is The
Polar Express. It’s a child’s tale made gorgeously into a grand
and complex tableau, about a young boy who discovers Christmas by going to
Santa’s capital city. The train itself
and the city’s architecture might have come from the late 1800’s or early 20th
century—a black, coal-fired steam engine thundering its way toward a brightly
lit city of brick and cobblestone. Frank
Sinatra’s carols came floating thinly through loudspeakers in the empty halls,
at one point the needle even skipping on the LP. While the outsides of buildings were largely plain
red brick with rows of windows, the insides were like train stations
themselves, sleek and monumental cathedrals of brass, steel and stone. I could easily imagine, in summertime,
Rhapsody in Blue wafting through those speakers. For that matter, I could easily imagine
Summertime, When the Living is Easy floating through them too.
That city and its train and its music hearken straight back
to our national golden age, and the decades which led to it, when this nation
was still building itself up from the ground.
It gives me a wistful sense of irony to watch this movie—and I adore it
along with Eva and Kate. (Something
tells me Eliot will too. The way you
know he’s going to like sugar, pizza and music.)
Speaking to the second, deeper sense of respect I have for
others, I think of a two particular people.
First, when Kate and I were still living in Rhode Island, after we had
sold the condo and moved to a small house near the water on Coolidge Street,
the neighbor across the street from us was a fat old man named Frank. I slowly
warmed up to him, especially when I saw how much he enjoyed Eva. I initially had a father’s typical suspicion
of someone I didn’t know near my child, but I quickly realized that any such fears
of Frank were silly and misguided. Frank
is one of the sweetest and most teddybearish men I have ever known. If Kate or I were out with our little
girl—she was still somewhat new to walking at that point, and frequently across
the street was as far as she got (and she loved Frank’s flowers)—and Frank was
home, he would be sure to come out, say hello and chat. Being old and home with his wife much of the
time, without his own children and grandchildren visiting often, made him
naturally glad for company.
Frank was also a veteran Marine. I never asked him about it, but since World
War II veterans are now in their 90’s, and Frank seemed more in his late 60’s
or early 70’s, I assume he served in Korea.
He flew a United States flag on flagpole in his front yard, surrounded
by roses. And he was one of the very few
people I have ever known who followed flag protocol. It is to be flown only during daylight, be
raised after dawn and be taken in before sunset, unless you shine a light on it
while it is dark. Frank kept a light on
that flag every night—he even had it on a timer when he was on vacation.
The light bugged me a little bit, since it kept all of his
hedges lit up and kept our whole yard a lot brighter than it would have been
otherwise. But I had nothing but respect
for Frank’s respect for the flag.
Nowadays, that flags have become lapel pins and ornaments for car
antennas and have generally been commercialized in all kinds of ways, I notice
when veterans become upset with disrespect for the national ensign. Frank showed such respect for it that I
sometimes felt like saluting him when he was in his front yard tending the
roses.
I never learned the
name of the second person. I doubt I
ever will. But shortly after Kate and I
had moved from Rhode Island up to Rumford Point in Maine, we were settling into
our little rented farmhouse and cleaning things out. (Well, I was cleaning things out, and she was
preparing to give birth to Eliot.) There
was a big barn behind the house, mostly empty except for a few pickup trucks’
worth of garbage (and one large barrel with five dead squirrels who couldn’t
escape once they entered—apparently curiosity is even more deadly to them than
it is to cats). So I had borrowed Dave’s
truck and was bringing loads of garbage to the dump. One of the pieces of garbage was a tattered
old U.S. flag, ripped, faded and brown.
I simply tossed it in the back of the truck with the rest of the load
and headed to the landfill transfer station.
Once there, I was tossing various pieces of junk into the
container box. A group of three older
men was standing about 20 feet away and talking amongst themselves as I threw
the garbage into the disposal. I picked
up the flag, I walked over to the container and was about to throw it in. One of the men came briskly up.
“Excuse me, I’ll take that,” he said to me, holding out his
hand.
“I beg your pardon?” I responded, a bit startled.
“You were going to throw away that flag, yes?” he asked.
“Yes, I was.”
“I thought so. I
would’ve had to do something to you if you had.
I’ll dispose of it properly.”
“Um…okay, here you go.” I half-stammered, giving him the
flag, but I was now curious. “What’s the
proper way to dispose of a flag?”
“By burning.”
“Oh…I had no idea.”
“I didn’t think you did.
It’s all right.”
I thanked him and was somewhat in awe as he walked away
holding the flag. Part of me envies his
devotion.
Wednesday, July 04, 2012
08:15
As a small continuation to my post of last night: I’d been
thinking of putting a maritime US flag—one of those with thirteen stars in a
circle surrounding an anchor on the blue field instead of 50 stars—but I don’t
think I will, in light of the flag protocol I was writing about. I see myself making too many mistakes. But something else, maybe…the Dartmouth lone
pine, white on green, would be fun. Or
the red-on-yellow Scottish lion. I’ll
keep thinking about it.
It’s a fine morning here on the Gulf, fluffy cumulus clouds
moving west as we head toward our next location at slightly over 4 kts. Our ETA is 16:30, sooner if the tugs speed up
and the rig doesn’t start bouncing too much.
There are still lazy 2-4 foot waves going by, enough for us to feel
them. But apparently, like in New
England when we get a moist wind out of the east, there’s a low pressure system
building in the Caribbean which is heading our way and will make things rough.
I don’t relish the thought of spending another 4-5 days down here to do two or
at most three more sonar scans—that will mean I’ve averaged one single scan per
week—but this is my assignment. I wonder
how severe the storm has to be for us to evacuate the platform outright, as
opposed to simply riding it out.
16:45
We’re approaching our pin location—about a mile away—and the
predicted storminess is nowhere to be seen.
Or actually, it’s already far to the west of us, in the form of a
dramatic storm front which crossed our path shortly after sunset last night
(while I was composing yesterday’s entry).
The front looked like a serrated line of clouds which dipped from about
1000 down to about 100 feet from the sea surface, with clear golden evening
skies to the west and gloom to the east.
Behind it came the lightning and the rain, and soon the waves. It was a pretty thrilling thunderstorm, all
in all. If I were to rank the ones I’ve
seen and remember, it would be in the top 5.
In fact, why don’t I try to list the top 5 right now:
(1)
When I
was maybe 7 or 8, one August up at Moosehead Lake, Maine. Two thunderstorms collided and fought over
the lake. Lightning struck a tree near
the cabins and blew our our lights, causing sparks to hit my dinner plate and
burn my peas.
(2)
When I was maybe 3 or 4, one summer night in
Moultonboro, NH. The lightning was many
different colors, including blue, red and green.
(3)
One summer at Hawk’s Nest Beach, Connecticut
(there was usually one good thunderboomer every two weeks there). Our family, as usual, had gathered on the
porch to watch the show. Some fool was
out in the storm, trying to motor back to port in his sailboat, while lightning
was striking the Long Island Sound all around him.
(4)
October 1989, in Paestum, on the west coast of
Italy. A squall blew in from the
Mediterranean, and the storm clouds passed overhead and suddenly nose-dived into the hills to the east
as the sky exploded in thunder and rain.
(5)
Last night.
The furrowed rows of clouds reminded me of the storm in Paestum.
(6)
One summer in Moultonboro again, while I was at work
in the boat house at the condominium. A
squall blew over so we went to the boathouse to sweep out the bat turds. I was right at the big doors on the end when
a bolt of lightning passed right in front of my face. All the air turned pink and the bolt was
bright white.
 |
| Not my storm--just an inernet image. But a very similar view. |
I was given an official-looking, flame-retardant coverall as
my onboard work outfit. Kate’s mother
whipped up a homemade version for me with a red Dickies coverall and the
reflective patches cannibalized from a reflective vest (thanks, Ma), but the
rig manager was making fun of me about it so it was actually a bit of a relief
to get the company-supplied version. And
I broke it in for real today, since I’m now covered in grime after wrestling
with the sonar cable for an hour.
At some point this afternoon I’ll be making another scan,
and the water is roughly 180 feet deep.
To be on the safe side I unspooled about 270 feet and then had to coil
it neatly down on deck so it wouldn’t kink and snarl as we hand-lower the unit
into the water. I was trying to do it
alone, unsuccessfully. One of the Mexicans
heard me dropping F-bombs on the forward deck and came up to help. I plan to learn Spanish but of course I
already know “muchos gracias”.
Since the water is so calm, it’s possible we’ll achieve our
final position tonight. I’m hopeful
again that I’ll be able to head back to shore tomorrow, but as is usual out
here, I’ll find out when I find
out. On my first hitch, with the Tom
Jobe, we learned that the crew boat was on its way to pick us up when we saw it
one mile off the stern and headed our way.
This time, however, we’re not pinned a few miles offshore of
Dos Bocas. We’re in the oil field off of
Del Carmen, roughly 90 nm from shore, a 6-8 hour boat ride. And we’ll be going back to the Pemex
facility, where I’ve heard the officials are ready to confiscate any personal
electronics. I knew it was likely I was
coming through this place on this trip, but I decided that I’d take the chance,
and see how difficult it is to bring my own PC back onshore. (I’m relying partly on the fact that I’ll be
off the rig before they do any drilling, so I won’t have had the chance to
steal any well data, which I assume is the main thing they’re worried
about.) Even so, if I lose the computer,
phooey on me. I didn’t bring all my
external drives and IPod this time around, at least. So I was only about 60% dumb, not 100%.
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