Jet setting

Snow is falling in New Beirut while a large black man, football player fer sure, is being beat up in the street by a woman half his size dressed in a tank top and not much else. I suppose I'll have to call the cops to do my civic duty for the day, since I missed my the annual Fire Dept. Santa run this morning.

The day started off with palm trees, an extremely fast 100 mph run down I-95 in an underwhelming rental car at 4 a.m. and a lack of coffee in Florida, a fast flight up the coast back to New Jersey, followed by the AWESOME Cirque du Soleil Wintuk production at Madison Square Garden with the little birthday girl, dinner with same at the Skyline Diner on 34th Street and 9th Ave, and now the snow-driven altercation. More later, as the screams are increasing down on the street.

Cheese! I love cheese!

Someone is cooking cabbage, potato's, and used underwear. I know this due to my highly refined sense of smell - I sense Stink when it fills my nose, and this is definitely Stink with an undertone of food. At first I thought it was the garbage container, and next I guessed at a dead cat in the bin. But it's definitely warm and steamy, so someone is attempting to cook. But cooking smells usually don't contain such a high Foul top-note, so my curiosity is as peaked as my olfactory sense is offended. The cabbage/underwear aroma has permeated the entire five story building, from the overheated ground floor hallway to the third floor penthouse that is mine. It's worse in the hallway, but still discernable here at my desk.
The best defense is a good offense. I will now make my famous garlic curry and peanut butter pappadum sauce.

Turduckin

Thanksgiving is here again. Environmental Manager is making a thing called a Turducken. Apparently me and two other guys are the only people in the Western Hemisphere that have never heard of this beast. It's a boneless turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken....how cool is that?! I was sort of put off the turkey idea this year after I watched the Sarah Palin interview with turkeys being killed behind her as she extemporized on the need for kindness towards poultry. What a Zen moment....

Stinking Onion

OMG - this really cracked me up. Couple of German researchers spent the last few years tracking down the etymological origins of place names, across the entire globe. You can see a preview here: http://www.outstandingmd.co.uk/truenames/index.shtml. Turns out that Chicago means "Stinking Onion", New York is actually New Wild Boar Village, and New Brunswick is "New place to experience hell on earth". Am now trying to see if Dominica really means "Place for Chris to retire amid tropical paradise while selling snacks to tourists".
BTW - Hirst family: note that you live in a place called Saint Loud Fight. You can't make this stuff up!

$100 Hamburger - again

It was Election Day, and my enlightened employer gave us all the day off to go vote. I thought I was going to need to use the whole day for this task, given the TV reports of six hour lines. Reported to the polling station at 10 a.m. (took me a while to wake up), and we were out of there by 10:05. Maike helped me press the buttons to vote for change. I felt excited about the prospect of having cast my vote. Not sure why, but I think it's because it seemed to be a small part of a much larger historical event, one that might be the dawn of a new age. Thus civicly refreshed, we pointed the car towards the airport to celebrate with a $100 hamburger.

The weather was looking iffy, so a quick call to the weather station at Newark confirmed that it wasn't ideal for flying. Reluctant to give up again ( I scrapped the last flight just as we were leaving New Beirut because of gusty winds; didn't want Maike to feel afraid ever), I called Lockheed to get their take on it, and it was all rosy according to the briefer in sitting Phoenix, Arizona.
"Hmm - I don't like the looks of that" he says, after finding New Jersey and Pennsylvania on the map.
Seems like there was a low pressure system meandering up from the south, and it might impact the area by late afternoon. Oh well, we'll be done lunch way before any evil rain comes our way.
I let Maike measure the fuel and sump the tanks, finished a thorough pre-flight (no birds in the engine cowls or insects in the pitot tube), and we roared off into the mist. Maike took a cool video of the take-off; if she ever finds her cable to connect her phone to a USB port I'll post it. We levelled off at 2500 feet, as I was concerned about the haziness.
Ever since I got lost flying on a solo cross-country during flight training I am very, very cautious about flying in variable weather. That time I truly understood what it meant to have a lead weight in the pit of your stomache. I had made it about half-way from Hammonton in the Pine Barrens to Central Jersey at 3500 feet when suddenly all I could see was grey and rain on the windscreen. Since I was half-way home, and I knew that the weather had come from the west, and there were no airports to the east of my position, turning around was not a good option. Instinctively I pushed the nose down to lose altitude to get underneath the weather, and 800 feet later I could see the ground again. I was close to Princeton by now so options were starting to become apparent, but then rain filled my windscreen and I couldn't see very well, and I knew that I was not going to make it to 47N. I was so mad at myself, I remember, for letting this happen to me. Actually, I think I was absolutely furious, so angry that I no longer felt the fear. I thought I spotted the water tower at the end of Princeton's runway, but when I circled around I couldn't see the runway, so I pressed on a few more miles to see if I could locate Central Jersey. I was totally lost, and by now I was only at 800 feet above the ground to stay out of the clouds, and I was resigned to landing off-airport, if only I could see enough to spot a field without wires. Suddenly, in the midst of cursing, I spotted the Raritan River, and I thought I might have a chance of following it back to another landmark. Out of the mist I see the runway, and I felt like I had been born-again. Oh my god was I relieved. Didn't even bother flying the pattern, just banked steeply and set the plane down half-way down the runway. Did a nasty bounce, but there was no way I was going to go-around in that awful weather, so I fought the plane to a stop at the very end of the runway. Tied up the plane, got into my car, and as soon as I got home made myself a very tasty martini. My flight instructor called me later to see how I had made out; he had flown up to Block Island, and made a stop in Westchester and drove the rest of the way back. "I told you to watch the weather" he tells me. Thank you, very helpful.

Maike and I are now flying at 2500 feet in 5 miles visibility to a place called Butter Valley, in Bally, PA. I have a plan in case the weather degrades, I know exactly where the front is located, so we press on on, and I feel totally comfortable. Twenty minutes later I call on the radio for a traffic advisory, and get advised to land uphill on runway 31. We overfly the filed to take a look, and Maike settles in for an exciting landing. Butter Valley is a so-called Golfport, with a little landing strip laid out in the center of a fairway. It's just a narrow strip of asphalt for a portion of the runway, the rest is impeccable golf course fairway grass, but it's got a pretty significant slope to it. It's safest, wind allowing, to land uphill, so this is what the friendly voice on the radio advises. On short final a golfer strolls across the approach end of the fairway, and Maike is wondering who has the right of way. I continue the descent, confident that eventually the idiot will hear the 180 hp Lycoming and hurry it up, which he does. Very, very quickly too. The runway ends before we have completed out flight; it's amazing how short 2000 feet is when you are doing 70 knots at 5 feet off the ground. We bounce twice on landing , but I figure there is a lot of nice smooth grass when the asphalt runs out, so I am not concerned at all. The slope stops us amazingly fast. I look back, and we actually only used 500 feet from the touchdown point. Park the plane, shut her down, and go in to get a BLT and a birch beer. Mmmm!
Taking off brings a new set of concerns. If I back-taxi to go downhill, I have a hill right at the end of the airport. If I take-off uphill, I have a clear horizon, but not a lot of runway to work with. We opt for the former, and soon we are positioned at the end of the runway, engine cranking out full power, held back only by me standing on the brakes. Ten degrees of flaps for maximum climb angle, and I release the brakes while keeping right rudder mashed in to counteract the torque and P-factor. As we rise up at a 45 degree angle to the ground, skimming about the hillside, Maike touches my arm and says "Great take-off, Papa". That meant so much to me. We chat for the next half-hour, are both silent while flying the pattern for landing, and are both ever so proud as we fuel the plane up before heading off to go play the Wii for a while.

Laugenstange

It's football weekend! Going to the Jets game on Sunday, and I have been assigned food duty. It's getting to be real autumn weather here, so of course there is only one thing to make! Laugenstange! This is a German way of destroying your kitchen, hence the many vowels. Lauge means caustic, stange means loaf ==> yep, we are making pretzels! The old recipes have you making a 3% sodium hydroxide solution and boiling it to dunk the pretzels prior to baking, so that you fix the surface and get a chewier, less bready texture. It's almost like making bagels, only more dangerous. It really makes a difference. German folklore says the the shape of the pretzels comes from a representation of a child praying. The three loops represent the holy Trinity, and little kids who memorized their prayers would get a pretzel as a reward. There might be something to this tale: when Maike was a little infant in Germany she would often get a Laugenstange to gnaw on at the grocery store, as we prayed that she wouldn't start screaming while shopping. Worked every time!
So let me get my mixer, baking sheet, goggles and rubber gloves! Mmmm!
Here's the recipe. Good luck, and wear a lab coat.

• 1 c warm water (110 degrees)


• 1 package (or 2 1/4 tsp) dry active yeast


• 1 tbsp brown sugar


• 3 c flour


• 2 tbsp melted butter


• 1/2 tsp salt


• Soda Bath: 6 c water3 tbsp baking soda


• Topping: 1 egg, beaten with 1 tbsp water


• 2 tbs coarse sea salt
  1. Dissolve the yeast in the warm water and let stand for 10 minutes to bloom. Add the water/yeast along with the melted butter, brown sugar, salt and 2 3/4 cups of the flour to your heavy-duty mixer and knead dough for about 8 minutes, adding the last 1/4 cup of flour if necessary. You can also do this by hand. The dough should be soft and slightly sticky, but very uniform and smooth. Place dough in a large oiled bowl, and let rise for 1 hour, until doubled.
  2. Punch down, and divide the dough into 12 equal shapes and form them into small balls. Cover with plastic wrap and let them rest for 15 minutes. Roll them into 20″ lengths and form them into pretzel shapes. If you notice them getting hard to roll (springing back), cover with plastic wrap and allow to rest for 5 minutes and then continue rolling out. Cover with a clean kitchen towel and allow the pretzels to rise for 1/2 hour. Preheat oven to 475 degrees.
  3. In a large pot, bring the baking soda and water to a boil. Add the pretzels one at a time to the boiling water for 1 minute. Press down into the boiling water with a spatula. Remove and place on a cooling rack. When cooled, transfer to a parchment lined sheet pan. Brush with egg wash, sprinkle generously with coarse sea salt and bake for 12-15 minutes, until dark brown.
  Note: To ensure the dough is thoroughly kneaded, take a small piece and roll it into a ball. With your thumbs, stretch the dough until either it tears or becomes transparent in the center, also known as a window. If you cannot stretch the dough to form a window, knead a little longer.
  Note #2: If you have a kitchen scale, use that to weigh out the 12 balls of dough. They should be right around 2 oz each.
  Makes 12 Pretzels

Hello Ween

It's Halloween today. Hope to be posting pix of Maike and her friends' costumes later tonight. Allegedly they have made their own zombie costumes, and there is a lot make-up involved in this effort. I can't wait to see this....

It's been a quiet week. Two fire drills, one really bad day at work, and one short flight.

The Captain invited me to the drill on Thursday, our dept. was going to practice working with the other South Brunswick fire companies. It was a fire in a self-storage unit along the Highway-from-Hell. Very mellow and relaxed evening, since I had gotten the adrenaline rush over with for the week after we spent a morning over at the Academy with my Work Fire Dept. in the new simulator. Two guys injured at that training, it was a great day. One of the firefighters was burned on his hand, went right through his fire-gloves while he was crawling around on the floor in the flashover simulator looking for mannequins. The instructor sprained his ankle jumping off a rescue truck. Me, I just got a teensy-weensy bit scared because I got lost on the second floor, in the smoke and 375 degree heat. (Yes, former-Chief, it was scarier than the time I had my ass on fire over on Pheasant Run at the structure fire.....) The rest of us all just needed about three showers each to get most of the smoke smell out of our hair.

The self storage unit was a novelty; I am 45 years old and I don't think I have ever been inside one. Need to get out more I guess. Great setting for a horror movie: the lights were out and the third floor filled with smoke, which made it even more surreal. The lines of closed, blank, uniform doors extended out 200 feet in every direction from the top of the stairwell. Hard to see to the end of each hallway, hard to get a sense of direction once you were in it. The setting made me think of that Pixar movie Monsters, Inc, and that storehouse filled with millions of doors.

We were on FAS team, so we we assembled our gear for downed firefighter rescue in a Stokes basket and waited on the D-side of the building for an assignment. The Lt. did a great job making sure a pre-survey was done, and that we had all the tools we needed and knew our assignments, and were on the right radio channel. Trust me, it is ten times harder than it looks. Ten minutes later , the call came through as a firefighter Mayday, lost somewhere on the third floor. Air bottles on, masks fogging quickly, we picked up the Stokes, the saw, and the box lights, and trudged up the three flights. Rescue line got attached to the hand-rail, and we proceeded into the gloom. It was too easy to find him, since he had his PASS device sounding. Next evolution we had to find a civilian, and we split into two groups and fanned out. Even with the primary search group attached to the assignment we never did find the victim. Still not sure if there ever was one to begin with......

Pix to follow once the Capt. downloads them.

First REAL swim meet!

Who knew how exciting a swim meet could be?!!

Fuelled her up on an Amish cinnamon bagel with butter and a gallon of milk and we set off for the Witherspoon pool in Princeton. Not the Princeton Y pool where I accidentally drove us on Friday night (I'd rather just forget about that navigational snafu...). Once again Maike ended up with a secret code written up and down on her arm, the code that tells her when she's up to swim in an event. The 100 meter free-style event was totally cool, just like watching the Olympics but without commercials. 100 meters is 4 lengths of the pool. (This is exactly 3 lengths longer than I can swim.) The start is picture perfect technique, but the 14-year-old boy has her beat for the lead. The fact that he has a better beard than I have, has nothing to do with it I am sure. By the third lap Maike is just barely in third place, and then at the turn cranks it up, pulls ahead half-way down the pool, and finishes just in second place. This scores a point for her team as well! The best part was that she gave it her all, and shaved eight and a half seconds off her last time!

In the 100 meter back stroke she swam strongly as well, and cut five and a half seconds of her previous time!!!

Yeah, okay, I was very proud of her!!!!

The official times:

1:27.71Y F 100 Free 10/11/2008 Princeton Mock Meet
1:19.43Y F (-8.28) 100 Free 10/25/2008 Meadowlands

1:43.75Y F 100 Back 10/11/2008 Princeton Mock Meet
1:38.21Y F (-5.54) 100 Back 10/25/2008 Meadowlands

Deer me

The Delaware and Raritan Canal runs for over 30 miles across the State, ending at the Raritan River in New Brunswick, after running past Kingston/Princeton. It's a State Park now, with the last barge travelling it's waters back in 1932. There is all sorts of nature to be enjoyed along it's banks, even close to the City of New Beirut (as I sometimes refer to New Brunswick, ever since I saw all the shell casings littering the ground from shooting around the corner, and helping the cops track down a fugitive in the parking lot). Sometimes I bike this way to work, since the place I work is also along the banks of the Raritan (albeit in a smaller format 12 miles west of New Beirut). You gotta check out Maike's bike - it was custom painted in Hawaii.



We made it up to the old colonial Dutch house, maybe 5 miles up the canal, goofed around on the bridge and floating dock, and were heading back at a pretty good clip. Colors are pretty spectacular this time of year, and the wild-life too. "Papa, whoa!!" she says. "What whoa?!" I am not grasping what she is looking at. Three-point buck drinking from the canal jumps across the trail right in front of us. For the next mile we biked quietly, trying to get a good shot (with the camera, I mean), but it's hard to take pictures through the dense undergrowth. Then we realized that we are in New Jersey, where deer are just a more edible version of squirrel and probably more plentiful, so I pocketed the camera and we headed back .

A sunny Saturday with Ashes

I used to be allergic to bee stings. I have gotten stung once or twice in recent years, and I seem to be able to now avoid the attendant elephant-sized swelling that I enjoyed so much as a kid. But the fear of getting stung has not passed, at all.

The Chief issued his orders: "Detail, ten-hut!"

The wasps circled ominously as I stood at attention next to the Cuban, in front of the box of ashes at the side of a hole in the ground. Our flags waved in the freshening morning wind, the sun shone in our eyes. We could barely make out the gold colored cardboard box sitting all lonely next to the freshly dug hole in the cemetery. Overhead the trees were waving for attention, dropping a strange fruit to the ground as they danced. It looked like a cross between a giant cherry and miniature plum. Whatever it was, it was not a pleasant smell from the rotting fruit. I thought at first that Junior Firefighter had stepped in dog crap, and we made him examine his shoes carefully with his white dress gloves on. Negative findings, so we wrinkled our noses and resumed standing at ease trying to steel ourselves for the thirty minutes of standing-at-attention which was to follow. The funeral was for a past Chief of the Department, the father actually of the guy who keeps my car running.

I had the State flag with its yellow fields, the Cuban was trying to hold together the shreds of the Fire Company flag, and Junior managed to snag the U.S. flag again. Flanking us were two more firefighters with the 450 pound ceremonial silver axes. (Okay, I may be exaggerating a bit on the axes, but that's what they feel like after an hour.) All I could focus on was the wasp that was walking around the folds of yellow silk, coming ever closer. It wasn't fair of him, as I was constrained in my mobility at the moment. I wasn't supposed to move at all until we were ordered at-ease again, and the wasp somehow seemed to know this. When the wind picked up he'd hover near my gloves, and then randomly walk back to the yellow silk and hang out for a bit to see if I was paying attention.

Reverend John said his words of consolation, the Chief performed his part with conviction, and then we were done. So were the wasps; as if on cue, they flew off to hover around some piece of dog-poo smelling fruit. The box went into the ground, the crowd melted away, and I got to drive the engine through the cemetery back to the station. I kept having this image of wandering a couple of inches from the narrow asphalt pathway, across some one's grave, and having the wheel of the fire engine suddenly sink into the hole, atop a coffin. Thankfully the mental image remained unfulfilled.

Maike and Papa are pirates

Maike and Papa are pirates
Originally uploaded by ymaike

I've decided that I want to become a pirate now. Does anyone know of good pirating school?

Takin’ It Back With Barack, Jack!

This posting was shamelessly copied from another blog that Captain Dave sent me earlier today. It was so darn good I just had to make it my own...enjoy!

Hate to see the nation being run by a hackDig the situation that he dug in IraqHalf the population wants to give him the sackAnd now he’s lookin’ round for somebody else to attackWe need somebody great to get us back on the track
So we’re takin’ it back with Barack, Jack!
Choo Choo, Change to believe inWoo woo, we can achieve itChoo Choo, Change to believe inTakin’ it back with Barack, Jack!
Now that global warming is a matter of factThe only real question is just how to reactThe new administration needs the guts to enactDrastic legislation, leave the planet intactWe can’t be foolin’ round with some Republican Mac
So we’re takin’ it back with Barack, Jack!
Choo Choo….
He only gets his money from your regular macsDoesn’t take a penny from some whackity PAC’sFor bringin’ folk together he’s the man with the knackAnd he’ll supply the hope and inspiration we lackCause he’s the best we got and did I ….mention he’s black?
So we’re takin’ it back with Barack, Jack!

First swim meet

I was so proud of Maike! So many kids in the pool, and she finished in the top half of the field in almost every competition. She even beat some of the boys in her group! Toward the final races I could tell she was getting tired, but she never gave up.

So glad she doesn't take after me (at least in this field); I saw myself in the kid in the back finishing up a pool length later...:-). Here are some pictures:

Smokestacks

Something warm slithered down my back as my fillings seemed to shake loose from my mouth. The nuclear power plant below was breathing fire at us, reminding that the only thing between our butts and the ground 6000 feet below was a thin sheet of Kansas-crafted aluminum.

I was still feeling rather rather poorly after a day-long bout with some bug that completely knocked me back to bed. In addition to regular prayer sessions at the porcelain temple, I seemed to have pulled a muscle in my neck from laying funny in bed. I got a self-stick heat pad to applied it to my neck so I could at least drive again without looking so much like a retarded zombie. Ahhhh! Remind me to nominate the inventors of the heat pad for the Nobel Prize; I really don't think I would have gotten out of bed without it. He-who-is-much-smarter-than your-average-bear called when Maike was done her swim meet to see if I wanted to go out to Amish country to look at a GPS. I had my pilot bag in the car, the heat pad on my neck and two barf bags in the glovebox, so of course I agreed. Went to the Shoprite to buy a sandwich, and called my Dad to wish him a happy birthday while I sat on a bench at the runway waiting for my ride. Here he comes in for a landing at Princeton:

A moment later we extended our upwind leg to fly over Maike's house, made a tight 180 and set course for Lancaster, PA. Now, one of the coolest landmarks in the Northeast is a set of cooling towers over in Pottstown, PA. You can see them, on a clear day, from as far south as Maryland. My first solo cross-country flight was out here; my instructor suggested it would be a good destination because if you can't see it from central New Jersey, you probably don't deserve to be flying. As luck would have it, the towers were right along our route. I am really into navigating the old-fashioned way, ever since sailing without a GPS in shoal-filled waters of the Chesapeake, so I settled into the right seat and busied myself with looking up the radio frequencies to talk to ATC for VFR flight following and setting the VOR radios to practice cutting-edge 1940's pilotage and radio navigation. The fourth waypoint were the towers at Pottstown, which we were able to see shortly after take-off from Princeton. I was soooo proud that the whole navigation plan was going so well; we had nailed every waypoint to within mere feet it seemed, including the cooling towers of the power plant. I was busy getting a fix on the next waypoint when we saw steam at 10 o'clock at our altitude. Strange, there wasn't a cloud in the sky a moment earlier. And at 5500 feet altitude that couldn't be possibly be coming from the ground? The airplane shook as if we had been hit by a deer. We made a quick turn to the left, and bounced up and down like a frog in a blender. My heat pack's adhesive failed and the warm, now sweaty pad slid down my back to lodge in the small of my back as I tried to figure out if we were getting out of the way of the steam. A quick look down, and I expected to see the nuclear fires beckoning to us from the power plant below. We were clear of the updraft seconds later, but the moment seemed to last much, much longer. We had gotten so close to our nav-fix that we had actually flown over the thermal column exapnding upwards from the 3000 foot column of steam.

"That's going to end up in your damned blog, isn't it?"

"I guarantee it!"

So here it is.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. I would like to publicly acknowledge the good humor of the control tower at Lancaster, for being so accomodating in switching our landing clearance from 31 right to 31 left after someone (that would be me) had some last minute distance estimating issues. We'll leave it at that.

Group shot from the Chesapeake.

Sailing on the Chesapeake

l. Sister ship Nimbus bound for St. Michael on the Chesapeake
r.Darwin Too is very blue. We learned it's importtant to stow all lines to prevent the spaghetti syndrome.


l.Underway from Oyster Creek to the Miles River
r.This was after we fuelled and pumped out the (yech) holding tank, on Oyster Creek

A fine day of sailing with mishaps and crab for dessert

Darwin Too groaned to an abrupt stop, causing all aboard to collectively express something that is often abbreviated "WTF?" these days. The alarm on the depth meter had made its presence known a split second earlier; a quick glance confirmed the worst. We were stuck in the mud in water that was but 5 feet deep, and it would appear that we were at least 100 yards from the channel we were supposed to be following. Engine went to full reverse as per our training, and the yacht slowly extricated herself from her folly. As we were unsure of the path we had taken to reach this peaceful corner of hell, we made our best guess, and motored slowly for all of 100 feet before being slammed to a stop on another shoal. The crew was getting unhappy after a fine day of sailing. The helpful voice on the radio told us to go back and pass to the port side of the red nun on the other bank. 10 feet of water - hurray! And then the alarm beeped yet again, less than 7 feet now. With a mounting headache we slowly chugged over to Nimbus, and followed her lead in dropping anchor and rafting up. The anchor bit on the second try; I now understand why it worth spending more on an electric windlass to retrieve the anchor chain; pulling up 120 feet of rode by hand is a bit strenous and not very dry, although it is sort of fun to be pulling a 12,000 pound boat through the water by sheer muscle power.

(Check out the beautiful spot where we anchored, on Hunting Creek)

And then it was time for a drink and to haul out the crab lines while DELICIOUS lasagna was heated in the oven. The cliches were only too accurate: fine food, great company, a remote part of Maryland accesible only by boat: does it get any better than this?

Got crabs?

Gawd that was a big crab! And tasty too!

I pulled him out of Hunting Creek, where the flotilla had rafted up in maybe 13 feet of water. A nice piece of prime rib was the bait. I set up the lines as I had been counseled by those with Crab Experience, and stood on the transom of our boat watching the sun set over the Chesapeake, enjoying a nice glass of Cabernet, while the smell of that killer spinach lasagna arose from the galley of the Darwin Too. I gave the line a little tug, and it felt heavier than when I dropped the (graciously donated leftovers) meat overboard. Slowly slowly slowly I pulled it up, while my crabbing net magically appeared on my left, at the ready. As he became visible near the surface I gently positioned the net underneath him, and pulled him free of the tea-colored waters. A cheer broke out from the stern of all four boats. Aw shucks! Someone got the big tongs, and we put him on ice to admire. I don't know anything about crabs; the blue coloring was amazingly brilliant, I had no idea! With the help of an expert from another vessel, the crab was iced for a while while unsuccessfully attempted to add a few more crabs to the haul. The ice seemed to stun him ( and we knew it was not a "she" from the graphic anatomy lessons offered up by the Expert!), so I doused him with Old Bay, and tossed him into a borrowed large pot, and dinner was ready! Dinner doesn't get any fresher!

Engine trouble

It started as a bit of mist on the roadway. A few moments later the skies opened and the fat drops exploded against the windshield as we drove down to Princeton. Maike was amused by the changed roadway; what was once a shiny stretch of asphalt rapidly turned to a river with curbs, red brake lights and nervous drivers.

We had to bolt into the garage to get out of the car without getting soaked. In just a few steps we were both drenched, like the time we arrived at Newark airport from St. Louis and discovered that the BMW did not like to run its A/C when it was hot and humid. (I think I fixed that problem with a new relay. I hope.). It started to rain harder, now with great flashes of lightning to add to Nature's spectacle. I ran to the car and pointed North, along the road a bit less travelled, in the hopes of avoiding the tentative drivers.

Wipers on full, lights and foglights not piercing the wall of water. I could hear the puddles reaching for the underside of the BMW, and I was glad that I had thought to bring an umbrella for the inevitable wet arrival. Road was clear in front of me, and the speed limit was about 15 mph under my current velocity. This car knows no fear!

The vehicle in the headlights suddenly swerved left, too late though. The wall of water streamed right and left as he hydroplaned across the overflowing roadway. Too late, I hit the same little puddle, and felt the Green Rocket shudder sideways up to the drier shoulder of the road, and the tires had enough purchase once more to muscle through. I accelerated to get out of the low point, but she didn't have the power any more. The engine was mis-firing, and when I let up on the gas to have her recover, that idle rpm dropped to the stalling point. I floored it and popped the clutch, and the engine wheezed us out of the water.

The next ten miles were a series of miniature lakes and little panics at each stop-light. I would go as slow as I dared on approaching the intersection, to keep the engine in gear, braking and giving gas to keep the rpm over 1100, sometime simultaneously. The check engine light came on after 3 miles, and refused to stop it's amber glow despite my numerous sincere and profane entreaties.

She shuddered to a stop in the parking space and I went upstairs to dry off and cool off.

The next day, she started up just fine, despite the "Check Engine" warning still blinking, so off we went to that activity I call The Job. I was waiting to merge into the Hell-that-they-call-Route 18 when a cloud overtook me. A glance in the side mirror confirmed the worst: that cloud of steam was roaring from my tailpipe.

Rick at Kingston Garage is still trying to decipher the codes that the OBD2 is whispering to the analyzer. Something about a really dumb owner going where he never should have been. There may be some dollar signs involved in the discussion; how many is unclear at this point. I am in mourning.

Maike going up to the jungle

IM000419.jpg
Originally uploaded by ymaike

She wasn't real happy about her horse's name (Hitler). But Kareem assured her that he was a good-natured animal, and the horse seemed to be very friendly. So through the sugar cane fields we went, climbing ever higher into the steamy jungle. Maike rode very well, and wasn't scared even when the horse slipped a bit on the descent down to the village.

Got crabs?

I've decided to catch crabs. Some of tools are pictured above.

The blue claw variety.

I have a little net, three hand lines, and some wisdom from the MasterMachinist. Something about taking tongs unless I want a bloody, fractured finger. And that I have to throw back the females, and anything under 5 inches across. Yes, that was a chuckle to figure out if it's a he-crab or a she-crab: the female apparently has a large apron in the shape of an inverted "V". Or, as MasterMachisist delicately put it: "The women are the big V's." Gotcha.

I thnk the catching part I have figured out. You put some bait like a chickenneck into the clamp, drop it overboard (after tying it off to something) in less than 15 feet of water, and wait. Within a few minutes I should be able to ever-so-gently pull in the line, and then use my net with stealth. You gotta come from underneath them and not too fast, 'cause they do have some intelligence, and it they see it coming, they'll drop the yummy raw chicken and scurry off to find some other filth to eat. Why do I think crabs are so tasty, anyway? Yech!.

Anyway, the cleaning part is more complex bit. Everyone knows how to do it, but no one can explain it. Even the website with pictures weren't much help. My current plan is to steam them for 8 minutes in beer and Old Bay, take them out with tongs, and then start the dissection with an expert at the ready for on the spot coaching and biology insights.

Can't wait!

Jet flies across English Channel

Okay, this is just CRAZY!!
http://natgeochannel.co.uk/video/default.aspx

and he actually did it!
http://abcnews.go.com/International/story?id=5891831&page=1

Isn't this just what every kid dreams of doing some day? I bet it was a lot cheaper than getting a real pilot's license!

Ambushed

We decided to go for a short flight yesterday evening. The air was clear, the wind was moderate, and we both had some time available. George Bush almost wrecked our plans: since he was in New York addressing the UN, the FAA had put a Temporary Flight Restriction (TFR) around the entire Newark Class B space.
I called the briefer at the FAA to find out if the TFR was still in effect, and if so, whether or not our airport was in the zone (47N).
"Well, sir, where exactly is Central Jersey Airport?" said the lazy drawl on the other end of the 800 number.
"Uhm, it's in the middle part of New Jersey. Near the center", I offered hopefully
"Sir, I am not finding it" came the slow answer.
"15 miles southwest of Newark airport", was my testy riposte.
""Looks like it is outside the zone. Can't really make it out fer sure, but it seems like you'll be okay if you head west after take-off from 07." came the answer.

Now, as I am sure you realize, after 9/11 they have these helicopters and jet fighters that enforce these TFR's. This is not a mistake you want to make, ever. I even got a card from the Air Safety Foundation to keep in my flight bag called "Intercept Procedures". I was really hoping for a better answer from the FAA ( the agency who implements TFR's) that our airport was or was not outside the zone.

I called The Very Wise Man on Y!messenger. He thought it wasn't real clear either, and counseled that it would prudent to fly another day, which was eminently sensible, as usual.

I called He-Who-is-much-smarter-than-your-average-person. He had talked to the FBO and got an all-clear. I saw a couple of other planes take off, and veer to the northwest. Decision made: we are going!

He-Who-is-much-smarter-than-your-average-person had the controls for Leg 1 to Alexandria. We decided to climb at maximum angle, and then head west as soon as we were at 500 feet above the ground, since we only had 1.8 nm between the end of runway 07 and the start of the TFR. For good measure I kept my intercept procedures card handy, next to the charts.

Flight is just perfect. Sun is setting over the gently rolling hills of Hunterdon County, it's cooler by a few degrees up at our altitude, the country side is beautiful. All is well. Until He-Who-is-much-smarter-than-your-average-person spots what appears to be another aircraft on our flight path. It's not getting smaller either, which means we are drawing closer. Uh-oh. It's starting to look an awful lot like a Blackhawk helicopter coming towards us. Hmmm. We switch on the second radio to monitor the emergency frequency, and He-Who-is-much-smarter-than-your-average-person decides to execute a 360 south of the lake to see what happens. Now the shape is closer, and I can just make out the unmistakable lines of ......a hot air balloon. Doh!

Relieved and amused we fly on to N85, land (nicely) on 08, and switch seats. He-Who-is-much-smarter-than-your-average-person lets me use his birthday gift from his wife, a Very Nice Headset with a noise cancelling feature. I put it on, start taxiing, and immediately stop the plane. I had to turn off the ANR because I could no longer hear the engine! What if we lost a cylinder on climb-out? He-Who-is-much-smarter-than-your-average-person gave an indulgent smile as I explained my Luddite predicament and showed me the switch. Hey, I have to warm up to this new-fangled technology, you know?

I switched it on once we were at cruising altitude. It was very, very quiet and comfortable. Now I am jealous.

Off to sea

I am going sailing again! October 3rd is C Day, where "C" stands for Charter. This will be the first time sailing without a captain aboard! I have a little logbook from the American Sailing Association that says that I am qualified to bareboat charter, but you know how it goes with certifications and actually being able to do things...I remember when I first got my driver's license, my parents still wouldn't let me borrow the car because they said I didn't really know how to drive. No idea what they were talking about, I mean, I passed the driving test on the road with flying colors! My instructor sat in the back seat, and every time I would start to do something wrong, he would push his foot under my seat before I got myself failed. I figured that if the Commonwealth of Massachusetts deemed me skilled enough to let me drive, then so should my parents.
My parents may have been right; the first time I got the chance to drive in snow, I wondered what would would happen if I took a sharp right turn at 30 mph on a snow-covered road out in Dover. Luckily the snowdrift stopped my path into the trees and just left a minor dent in the driver-side B-pillar.
Five is the magic number for this boat, meaning she drafts a little under 5 feet. This is important becuase the Chesapeake Bay can be rather shallow in many area's, and we'll need to watch the depthsounder and plan our course carefully to avoid a repeat of the two other groundings on the Metedeconk River. Got paying customers on this trip, and I think that they want to sail rather than wait for the next high tide!

The scooter that got away

I sold my old scooter today. It was getting rather frail and elderly, spewing a faint trail of blue smoke down the road as I rode it. At first it was pretty cool, made me feel like I was piloting a fighter plane at an air show. I stared into the mirror as I rode, watching the haze mark my progress down the street and around the corner. I didn't slow down, for fear of creating a cloud that the local police (or EPA) might find offensive enough to investigate more closely. Slowly it dawned on me that the contrail was actually the oil burning on the cylinders, shortening the engine lifespan with every mile. The exhaust is rusted out, and needs replacing soon, and the tires! Oh the tires are a textbook example of that thing called "dry rot", I believe. Let's just say that I would not be the least bit surprised if the tires decided to crack like eggs at the most inconvenient moment, like rounding a curve at 69 km/hr (my top speed).

"sold" might be a premature concept. The lady gave me $60 as a deposit, and disappeared to consult with her husband on how best to retrieve the machine without getting arrested (I mentioned to her that the title was in Italian, there was no U.S. state title to be had, and technically it was not supposed to be on a public road). I wrote down my phone number on her proffered scrap of paper as a receipt. She promised to return with a larger vehicle and some muscle power, as well as the balance of the agreed purchase price of $275; at first she was thinking that we could just shove into the back of her mid-sized SUV, all 500 pounds of fine Japanese/Italian scooter. Yep, it was a little weird. No test drive, no questions about how to operate, just a perfunctory twist of the throttle and a brief glance at the speedometer. Some people seem to buy things based on the concept they represent, rather than the reality of what they are spending their pennies on, I guess.

Anyway, a small part of me is hoping that her buyer's remorse kicks in so I can keep the scooter (and maybe the deposit as well). I mean, the scooter cost me three and a half million lira back in 1993, and I drove it over 5000 km to my jobs in Germany, Italy and Holland, as well as countless laps up and down the driveway with Maike on the back at our former house in New Jersey. It's got an "aura". Or maybe it's just a pack rat thing.

Update 9/23/08

Still no word from Confused Scooter Buyer. Guess I am $60 richer, and I still have to figure out what to do with the elderly scooter!

Update 9/24/08

Argh! She called me while I was in the cockpit preparing to fly to Alexandria - apparently a truck has been located. Looks like Thursday the scooter and I wll part ways.

Update 9/26

She's gone. I am saving the money in an envelope to buy a Kruggerand. Maike can use it to buy a 150cc Vespa when she starts college.