The way I do the math, 2½ out of 4 ain’t all bad.
I established this here blog many a fortnight ago to showcase my global adventure humor writer chops, and clearly, I have left the habitué wanting. (Take that Maureen Dowd..you’re not the only one with a thesaurus.)
Yes, wanting; wanting something more than my half-ass humor.
And, I guess going two weeks without a measly missive of a post does not really fit the definition of being a writer.
(As if the quality of my writing skills could be based solely on the frequency of my pontifications.)
At least I seem to be making a mild attempt at the global adventure aspects; to wit, scuba diving in Honduras, skiing in Utah, and yacht sailing in the San Francisco bay, all in just the last few weeks.
A couple of days ago, I excitedly waxed my sticks after hearing the forecast for a foot of fresh pow in the Lake Tahoe area. What started out in December with promises of fathoms deep of the frozen fluffy-soft white stuff has morphed into rock, dirt, and brush covered ski slopes with recent proclamations of “western states desperate for snow.”
Lake Tahoe is only a couple of hours away and offers some of the best winter recreational opportunities imaginable.
After spending the day on the slopes proving I don’t have half the skiing skills that I imagine, I can then go lose oodles of cash on the blackjack table, when I imagine that given enough time and money, surely I will win all that money back.
But, as it happened, I got a better offer when I had the chance to drive a couple of hours in the opposite direction to spend the day on what is one of the most cherished and challenging sailing venues, anywhere.
We cherished the spectacular views of sailing off the San Francisco city front, just downwind of the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, while the America’s Cup mega-multihull sailing speedster practiced nearby, with their appurtenant helicopter and rigid inflatable boats (RIB’s) in full pursuit.
The challenge was not getting run over by a mammoth Matson container ship that seemed to come out of nowhere.
Apparently, these behemoths move deceptively faster than they appear to, at upwards of 25 knots, as in, “I did NOT see that guy coming directly at us!”
Our skipper was not entirely sure we would clear the shipping channel under sail power alone, especially given the infamously strong tidal currents in the bay.
I honestly did not know it was physically possible to get a sailboat’s engine started and shifted forward into flank speed in mere seconds, all before the containership’s captain could even blow his warning horn for the fourth time, as he was picking up the radio to call the Coast Guard on us.
We were able to scoot out of path of the leviathan with furlongs to spare—and, I’m sure the skipper only looked as concerned as he does in this picture.
As you can tell, the locals, who witnessed the whole event, barely raised their heads in concern.