I suppose it is the sign of a good vacation. To lose track of time.
For the most part, Cathy and I have tuned out from the world for ten days. These last two days, while at sea, and in Victoria, have been especially carefree.
Relaxing on a deck chair.
Shuffleboard on deck in the final hours of a storm when no one else braved going outside.
I think the score was Cathy 105, Rob -24.
A bit of the ol’ sticky wicket.
My golf game returned and I read the green as a fast one before Cathy could mount a charge.
Almost missing the Masquerade Ball after mistakenly thinking it was on Wednesday not Tuesday, and realizing our mistake only when seeing everyone all gussied up after we came inside from shuffleboard and croquet.
Arriving in Canada, strolling through Butchart Gardens.
And the harbor of Victoria.
Where Cathy offers, as she has throughout the trip, to return a favor
But last night, as we set sail from Victoria to Seattle for the final leg of this wonderful voyage, and learned the news of the FCC cancellation of our beloved Jimmy Kimmel, we couldn’t help but feel like Maria and Baron Von Trapp returning home from their honeymoon to find that the Nazis have hung a flag on their home.
These are dark times my friends. I fear I will one day look back at this silly travel blog and smile that there was once a time so innocent and carefree.
Look after your children and their children my friends. Canada won’t take us (we tried) and there are no Alps through which to escape.
The young lady in charge of our whale watching excursion boat didn’t quite know what to make of the woman in the stylish new ski cap and purple vest. We had just shoved off and she was shutting the door to the cabin.
“Not yet, ma’am,” she said patiently. “We need to get out to the feeding grounds first.”
Apparently, she had dealt with the your over eager type before.
So, we sat in the back row, on the isle, and prepared to throw elbows and check into the bulkhead any one of these sassy Aussies who dared to go topside in front of us.
Note to you boys downunder who have not met my wife. A couple things to keep in mind for your personal safety. First, should you be walking down the street toward us, and should you have made the unfortunate mistake to walk two abreast on a single file path…god help you if you’re three abreast…keep in mind that Cathy does not care which side of the road you drive on in Perth. If one or more of your party is on our side, the right side, she will not yield the right of way and will, instead, lower a shoulder and take you out.
Situational awareness my friend. She extends it toward others and demands it in return.
Second thing to know. Cathy is a firm believer in “better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.” If for example, a stairway on the cruise ship appears to be for the crew only, but someone has neglected to hang the chain reading “CREW ONLY” now dangling on one railing, she will proceed until told “proceed no further.”
This stands in stark contrast to my own firm “Maybe We Shouldn’t?” policy and can sometimes lead to a wee bit of consternation.
Take, for example, the matter of blankies.
You’ve probably been on a cruise yourself or seen in the movies where the ship provides wool plaid blankets for those passengers enjoying a brisk day on deck in a groovy teak deck chair. In our case, the good folks at Q Nard stacked loads of blankets rolled into handy bed rolls outside, next to the chairs.
Cathy thought a couple of these might be handy on our personal balcony outside Cabin 6074. I suggested…respectfully I might add…that they were probably for use where stacked and, as they think of everything here at Q Nard, and none were issued inside our cabin, and as we hadn’t seen anyone with a rolled blankie under their arm returning to their own stateroom, we “probably shouldn’t” take two back to 6074.
Now, lest you think I was pure of thought, I was not. I suggested that we pilfer the blankies, but at night, under cover of darkness, when there might be less chance of detection and apprehension. I even offered to fetch two that night. I thought this approach rather galant as, should something go wrong, only I would be sent to the brig.
Cathy gave this some thought and concluded that I was thinking too much. And so…
Anyway…where was I? …Oh yeah…being first to score the best spot up top on the HMS Whale Watching Guppy.
We had three objectives: (1) to track down the elusive Orca, (2) to catch a glimpse of a humpback whale, and (3) to spot a brown bear emerge from the forest at a sufficient distance so as not to tempt him to swim out and have us for dinner.
A choice spot on the second deck was vital to all three prongs of our mission.
A tall order, I’ll grant you. Especially since the good folks at Huna Totem HQ do not equip their boats with fish finders and rely entirely on the 19th century whaling technique of “Hay, there goes one!”
Still, we were hopeful as we had seen dorsal fins cruising in the waters in front of the cannery about an hour before as we snacked on chicken tenders and a diet Pepsi for lunch. (Don’t judge.)
Admittedly, that sighting was suspect as I was still in shock after my brush with death at the bottom of the Zip Line. But I have photographic evidence.
“We ask that this photograph taken from shore be marked as Exhibit H your Honor, and admitted into evidence.”
So off we sped and, no sooner than the Skipper cut the engine, did we scamper up the stairs and to take the best positions before the rest of the gang cleared their seats.
We looked.
And we looked.
And we looked.
And then, they appeared. We actually heard them before we saw them. The sound of an orca spouting is distinctive and oddly familiar.
I know what you’re thinking. Right about now you’re thinking, “Wait a minute, Jackson! Just how did you get this photo if that’s you in the boat shadowing the Orca?
That’s because that boat isn’t us. That’s our sister boat which joined us on the 2:00 search. We were in a contest with her on who would “drift” the closest to the them (This is apparently illegal as statute prohibits one from boating within 100′ of the shy fellas) .
“Shy” might not be the right word. Fun fact you may have read about yourself in the papers recently:
“Interactions between orcas and boats have increased significantly in recent years with hundreds of incidents reported and several boats sunk since 2020. While the number of encounters may be declining from its 2022 peak, the behavior is still a significant and unusual problem for mariners.“
This news was on my mind as our onboard junior naturalist explained that the Orcas, while appearing smaller, were almost the same length and almost the same weight as our whale watching boat.
Gulp.
Thankfully, this new fun behavior was limited to an Iberian Orca Chapter off the coast of Spain, and was further limited to sailboats. Still, it occurred to me, as we diligently scanned the waters, that the whale word was likely spreading and marching orders might have already reached the Alaskan Orca Chapter.
By now, it was getting late. The Captain at the mother ship had told us all that he would set sail for open water no later than 5:30, and it was now 4:30. But our young whale watching crew desperately wanted us to see some humpbacks and a radio call came in from other whale watchers that a pod of humpbacks was spotted out in the Icy Strait.
Punch it, skipper. Off to the Icy Strait we raced.
Our time was short. The folks on deck began to mumble worries about missing the mother ship’s departure. Did these kids know our deadline? How long would it take to get back? Maybe it would be best not to push it and leave it for another day.
5:10.
5:15
5:20.
And then, as if on cue, at the last possible moment…Not in the distance, but right next to…I mean RIGHT next to us, it appeared.
A humpback.
And who had her smart phone’s video camera on?
Cathy.
These stills are taken from her video. Imagine seeing these unfold immediately after hearing the sound of her spouting.
Me? I was so excited I couldn’t get my damn phone to work. I did manage to shoot one still photo as it slipped back beneath and never reemerged.
We have been lucky on this trip. Extraordinarily lucky. The weather. Our room. Avoiding arrest. (It was only later that night that we learned, because a storm was approaching, that our luck would soon change and we would be forced to skip the granddaddy glacier of them all, Endicott.)
But at that moment, the moment a humpback whale surfaced and blew air from his spout not twenty yards away from us, the moment I looked over to see a tear running down the cheek of my wife, the woman who loves all animals, it was at that moment I knew just what a charmed life I live.
About 80 miles due south of Glacier Bay is Chichagof Island where, at the opening to a large bay called Port Frederick, you will find the tiny village of Hoonah. Hoonah has a population of about 800 people which, as annual headcounts confirm, are outnumbered by grizzly bears on the island by two to one.
For every man, woman and child on the island there are two large brown bears. Word is the dog and cat population is quite small. Exactly why remains a mystery.
In 2004 a group of 1350 shareholders with ancestral ties to Hoonah formed the Huna Totem Corporation or HTC. These enterprising tribal elders conceived and developed a cruise ship destination near the site of an old Salmon Cannery. We’re talking some big coin. They built two floating docks to accommodate cruise ships, covered gangways, two sets of gondolas, nature trails, gift shops, and restaurants and called it Icy Strait Point.
The whole operation has the look and feel of a very high-end ski resort without skiing or a Native Alaskan Disneyland in its infancy. Everything about this HTC biz is first rate.
The employees, for example, are pleasant and polite. Most appear Native Alaskan, African American or from some other Ethnic minority. They work seasonally. We spoke with one young man from Brazil who has lived in 5 countries, including Italy, France, Ukraine and Germany and traveled to more than 35. A brother and sister from Michigan, guides on a whale watching boat, seemed to know as much about humpback whales and Orcas as seasoned marine biologists.
So many adventurous young people.
When you arrive on the island, you are cautioned that it is not uncommon to encounter bears. We’re not talking little California black bears; we’re talking large Alaskan brown bears, aka Grizzlies. Should you do so, you are told to yell as loud as you can and to “get large.”
You might think that with so many bears, those big boys would be the scariest thing on the island. Understandable assumption and a good guess, but not so.
No, the scariest thing on the island is the Icy Strait Point Zip Ride. This is “the launch platform where Cathy and I are standing. See the boat? That’s about where it ends.
Look at us. So naive. So innocent. So carefree. Seems so long ago.
You see, the Icy Strait Zip Line is the world’s largest zip ride. It is 5,495 long, falls 1,330 feet and is higher than the Empire State Building. Six test subjects, I mean tourists, on parallel wires reach speeds of 65 mph on a 25% grade.
Follow along. I’ll explain how it works.
First ,you arrive at the Adventure Center. There you board the green Transporter Gondola which does a low-level flyover of an elevated kids’ obstacle course and then winds its way through a dense forest.
My guess is that bears, standing in the shadows, view the gondolas as not so much as transportation, but an automated snack vending machine. “That fat nervous one with white hair in car 255 looks good.”
The Tranporter Gondolas take you to Wilderness Landing where you report to the Departure Area, sign several disclaimers and waivers of liability, get weighed, and receive the wrist band by which they can later identify your remains. As I will explain in a moment, the weighing part is critical. Once weighed and tagged, you board the red Sky Rider Gondola to Sky Peak.
I’ve been at some premier ski resorts and never seen a chairlift or gondola suspended so high on a cable so steep as this one. Remember, though the weather when we visited was warm without a breath of wind, normally at this latitude and altitude you can expect winds in excess of 35 mph, gusting to 50. That these gondolas withstand an Alaskan winter is a testament to incredible engineering.
Upon arrival at Sky Peak, you descend down a steep trail to the Launch Platform. The guide, who interestingly does not accompany you, repeats the speech about “yelling and getting large” should you encounter a Grizzly bear on your walk to the launch site. I trailed our team, but Cathy kindly kept back with me. It was a little unsettling to hear a shout from somewhere behind us.
Upon arrival at the launch platform, the friendly guide explains the procedure and issues to those who wish to record their final moments a nifty Go Pro attached to a stick with a wrist band. He tells you to push the black button just before launch and look for the red light which will tell you your Go Pro is activated.
Curiously, I was the only one in our team that opted for the Go Pro. The launch assistants seemed impressed by my decision. I get that a lot.
Once outfitted with the nifty Go Pro, you are invited to make use of the tactically deployed port-a-potties. I opted to forego this which later proved to be a mistake.
Arriving at the platform, you are assigned a launch chute between 1 and 6. Cathy was placed in the inside pole position No. 1 which struck me as an undue advantage. I was assigned Chute No. 2.
“Out of chute number two on a bull named Mariah”
We then made our first mistake. We watched as the folks in front of us…hmmm…deployed. They shot out of the launch platform like a bat out of hell.
This proved my last use of my smartphone camera. The launch assistants told us that it would not be possible to return to the bear infested woods to retrieve it should we drop it and that most folks found it impossible to reliably hold onto the little sucker, let alone take a selfie, in 65 mph winds.
Sound advice I thougtht, so I carefully zipped mine into my jacket pocket.
Cathy is not a fan of the cold and took the precaution of buying a stylish ski cap at the gift shop in the Adventure Center This was unfortunate as the launch crew instructed her to remove the cap as it would be ripped off her head by the wind. They did allow her to keep her sunglasses, provided she tighten the grip on the croakies she bought, also in the gift shop, for the occasion.
WHAM!
The team before us disappeared into the forest below and the crew quietly pushed a button to recall our…I guess you would call them slings. Cathy said they more resembled diapers. It was a bit unsettling to see six empty slings race back toward us flapping in the breeze. It seemed much too fast for them to have reached the bottom so I made a mental note to carefully watch that my handler properly cinched me in.
Once the slings returned, we were told to “hop” up into them and sit back. Cathy, the former gymnast, and the other members of our team, had no problem with this hopping assignment. Me? Well…let’s just say it’s likely that my Standing High Jump record of 4” on the President’s Physical Fitness Test at Rincon Valley Junior High has probably held up, despite the years, as the worst ever.
We Jacksons have no hop.
Noting this, my launch assistant tried, but failed, to discretely fit me with a more low slung diaper. This proved problematic later when we were instructed it was critical at both launch and splash down that we raise our legs.
Here’s Cathy awaiting launch.
I should note this and all further photographs are derived from the Go Pro video. The fisheye lens on the Go Pro distorts and can be misleading. This will prove critical later.
Note, Cathy’s careful preparation. The proper form. Legs lifted. Knees flexed. Solid core. Both hands gripping the support straps.
Here’s another look a moment before launch.
Note the hands raised higher on the straps for proper control. You can feel the anticipation, the focus, the concentration, can’t you.
Meanwhile, back in Chair 2, preparation was perhaps a bit too casual. I had activated the Go Pro prematurely and was experimenting with what might be the most flattering camera angles. This might have been a mistake. I don’t know.
It is important to note several things at this point. One, you can see in the lower left corner of each still photo the exact time in the flight sequence it was taken. The photo above was taken at 11:33:18
This one was taken at 11:33:19.
This one at 11:34:00
Look at Cathy. Steely eyed determination. Grim. On task. Pointing to where she intended to land.
Me? Not so much.
At 11:34:01 Cathy was tightening the grip on her croakies so as not to lose her sunglasses. I was…well…. let’s be honest…maybe not as focused as I should have been.
Here is the moment of launch.
Now, in fairness, remember how I said the Go Pro fisheye lens can be distorting. It’s important to keep this in mind.
A couple of other things bear noting.
First, I had assumed that Cathy and I, being launched simultaneously, would descend simultaneously so that by aiming my handy Go Pro to my left I could capture her excitement at my side. What I neglected to take into consideration was…well…gravity.
While Newton was correct in postulating that two objects dropped simultaneously in a vacuum, where resistance is not a factor, will both fall, regardless of their weight, at the same rate of descent, that is not true outside a vacuum where resistance, in this case, the cradle on the wire, is different. In those circumstances, the heavier object will accelerate faster. And if the heavier object is…oh, I don’t know…let’s say 100 lbs heavier than the other… it will accelerate much faster.
This might explain this photograph taken at 11:35:32, just 3 seconds after launch.
Three things bear noting. First, Cathy’s expression. Second, how well her croakies are holding her sunglasses in place. And three, how just three seconds into the flight I am pulling away from her so fast that I cannot keep her in the frame of the camera.
Here is a shot taken at 11:35:35
And here is a shot taken at 11:35:38.
At this point, it might be good to mention the other thing that I neglected to note in the pre-flight briefing. Your cradle is not, like at the launch platform, fixed in place pointing downhill. It can spin in place so that, let’s say …an unskilled pilot…can, like Maverick in Top Gun, find himself in a flat spin.
Picture this…five people shoot out of their chutes together. Four are in line, each facing downhill. One, the fat guy in Lane No. 2, is sixty yards in front of the rest, spinning wildly out of control.
Look at this Go Pro glimpse. See me? See the ship? I’m going down the damn ride backwards.
Luckily, it occurred to me that I could slow, maybe even bring to a halt, my counterclockwise spin if I whipped my legs in the opposite direction. Kinda like a left handed golf swing.
Release your hips, Rob. Release your hips.
It worked.
I was able to arrest my spin and fly straight just as the landing zone came into view.
Mind you, at this moment I was still going 60 mph. I thought the guy in black in the lower right hand corner was, like those guys on an aircraft carrier, waving me off for a fly-by and another come around.
The people below the sign looked concerned. They kept frantically pointing up at the sign.
‘LEAN BACK?”
“FEET UP?”
In this low sling?
No way. My ass is never going to clear the flight deck.
Kip, Rob. Kip up, god damn it.
That’s when the brakes took hold. From 65 to zero in 2 seconds.I screeched to a halt, my ass two butt saving inches above the floor.
I made it. My ass intact.
Seconds passed. It seemed like minutes. I checked my watch.
Then Cathy eased onto the tarmac in perfect form laughing her well suspended ass off.
She took her new hat from her pocket, put it on, took the Go Pro stick from me, still laughing.
It is 4:00 in the morning. Our cabin is dark except for the soft glow of my laptop with the display set to “nighttime” mode so that Cathy, snoozing a few feet away, may continue to do so for a few more hours.
The room is rocking. I can hear the sounds of the hangers in the closet as they clatter against one another with the motion of the ship. The walls of Ol’ Lizzy creak and groan. The wind and rain beat against her glass.
Looking out, I see only two shades of dark blue separated by a vague horizontal line. Above, slightly grayer than below, is the sky. Below, a deep dark blue, is the sea where bright white bursts of spray and foam flash and recede like fireworks.
“What the hell,” I think as I don my REI issued waterproof jacket, intending to step out onto the deck to experience a storm at sea. But as I turn the handle on the door, and press out against the glass, it won’t budge. I try again. Maybe an inch and then it pushes me back, like some cosmic pressure lock has been triggered. For the life of me, I can only get it to move an inch or two before the force of the wind slams it shut.
The captain warned us.
An atmospheric low is overtaking us from the west. Because of it, he has made the unfortunate judgment call to bypass the Endicott Arm where we had hoped to see glaciers calve and, instead, head out to open sea.
The captain warned the roughest going would arrive near 6:00.
I stagger back to my desk in my raincoat and flannel jammy pants. Between my Parky’s, chronic insomnia, and the rough water of the Hecate Strait, I see my silhouette in the mirror, smile, and begin to hum the old sea shanty, “What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?”
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Hey, hey and up she rises.
Hey, hey and up she rises.
Hey, hey and up she rises,
Early in thy morning.
I sit down to write. Dawn is approaching, Cathy is stirring, and I am behind on this, my own sea shanty. I must find a way to describe what can’t be captured in words. I have tried now for hours and can’t find a way to do justice to the quiet grandeur of Glacier Bay.
In this era when we all, regardless of your political persuasion, might agree that our government has become dysfunctional, it is good to visit a National Park. They are the only things we seem to do right.
As we pass by Lemesurier Island on our starboard side, then pivot north around Point Carolus, through the Sitakahday Narrows, a young woman’s voice comes over the intercom. She is a U.S. Park Service Ranger born and raised in Michigan who has come aboard to explain what we are seeing.
She invites us to consider the concept of remoteness and reminds us that we are entering the most remote park in the National Park System. A park that can be reached only by boat or plane. A place the American people, in a rare departure from self-centered myopia, have set aside, the only satisfaction from which will be knowing it exists.
She reminds us that all things change. That both the good and the bad will one day pass, and one day return. Like glaciers, time moves slowly, but it moves. The glaciers we see today will not appear the same tomorrow. They will have calved in 24 houra and appear much different to the two cruise ships per day scheduled to follow us
She speaks simply but eloquently of her little sister back in Michigan who she hopes to one day bring to the Park. She asks each of stop and think of who in our lives might inspire us to look to the future and on whose behalf we might join in efforts to preserve our parks.
Throughout the day, Cathy and I found ourselves speaking in hushed tones or not speaking at all. It seems disrespectful to raise your voice in a place so majestic.
Those who know me know I think of the Yosemite Valley as a holy place, if in fact such places exist. I don’t say it lightly when I say that Glacier Bay has surpassed Yosemite as the most beautiful place I have ever been.
As we left Glacier Bay today, the Park Ranger bid us all a safe trip home and climbed aboard a Park Service Boat to take her back to the Ranger Station. A young lady out in the middle of nowhere, working for a pittance, as eloquent as any politician or CEO might hope to be, fighting for what she believes with all her heart is worth fighting for.
If you zoom in, you can see her waiving and acknowledging the applause and shouted “thank you’s” from many, many passengers along the starboard side.
Before we press on with this saga, I thought I would make a couple of public service announcements for the benefit of you men who might have the good fortune to follow in my footsteps. Just a couple of random thoughts. Cheerful encouragement.
I should note that Cathy is concerned about me. She fears the crass commercialization of this historic place might have.me in a bad mood. But neither she nor you need worry; I will keep my sentiments short and, as always, positive.
PSA No. 1
Men?
Man up, you pansies.
I’ve about had it with your behavior. You’re embarrassing our gender.
Three quick examples:
Example No. 1
We’ll call him Wimpy. We encountered this grown-out-not-up blow hard two minutes after we boarded in Seattle. Two minutes! While waiting for the elevator to take them to their cabin, he barked at his wife, “I’ve been walking all day; I’m exhausted.” And, with that, he refused to budge. The poor woman was mortified. His family or friends, apparently familiar with such tantrums, bolted for the stairway rather than get in a closed container with Baby Huey.
Example No. 2
We’ll call him Jack Spratt. Jack apparently failed to pack any vertebrae for the trip. We discovered this when, sitting next to us at the buffet breakfast, his heavy set bigger-not-better-half Frau Spratt dressed him down…we’re talking down to his skivvies…by asking him in a snidely, condescending way, “Are you quite through foraging, Jack?” He meekly answered, “Yes dear.”
We suspect Jack has either met with foul play, or possibly jumped ship, as we did not see him at breakfast the next day and Inga, seemed even more edgy than ever.
Example No. 3
We’ll call him Arlan because…well… that’s what his wife called him. Let’s listen in on their conversation in the buffet line, shall we?
W: What sounds good to you, Arlan?
A: Nuthin.
W: No really, honey, what would you like?
A: I said, nuthin.
W: Must be something?
A: (Looking around disgusted) I just want a god damn hot dog.
Moments later…
W: How was it?
A: How was what?
W: Your dog?
A: My what?
W: Your dog, honey.
A: My dog?
It was at this point that, had Cathy not restrained me, I almost broke in with, “Your damn hot dog, Arlan.”
Men, the day may come when, after retirement, or maybe a special anniversary, your wife pleads to do something special, maybe something not in the budget, but something she has always dreamed of. Maybe a cruise? Maybe to Alaska.
Should you be so lucky, but reluctant to go, do this: either go and make her believe you are having the time of your life, or don’t go and allow her to have the time of her life she has always dreamed of without you. But don’t do the passive aggressive two step on the poor woman whose only mistake in life was to choose your sorry ass as her mate for life.
It’s simple. Be nice to her.
PSA No. 2
Men, be prepared.
Whether it’s Ketchikan, Juneau or Skagway…even little Skagway that boasts a population of 1400 and where last year’s graduating class was three girls and one very lucky boy…in every port you will find, within the first two hundred yards of the gangplank, a gauntlet not of tee shirt stores or kitschy refrigerator magnet souvenir shops but, oddly enough, high-end jewelry stores.
They are everywhere.
We’re not talking quaint locally owned shops on hand hewn wood floors tended by a Native Alaskan named Roy in a flannel shirt selling handmade whalebone scrimshaw. No, we’re talking Bulgarian mafia types with Russian accents, in fitted Armani sportscoats, a starched shirt with one undone button too many, inside fluorescent glass doors, inviting you to dicker on the price of the Rolex just shipped from his cousin Misha back in Bucharest.
Who the hell buys their wife a diamond tennis bracelet in Skagway?
I can see a gold ingot panned from the Klondike, but not bling from The Jewelry Exchange in Redwood City hawked by Tom Shane, “your friend in the diamond business.”
Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programing.
Skagway.
What can I say?
It’s a bi-polar little town with split personalities. Which pole depends on whether or not you’re on the train.
Stay in town, and it’s a sad salute to commercialism. A downtown made of false fronts teaming with businesses which claim to be locally owned but clearly are not and cruise passengers who don’t really care. A sad historic footnote of a greed filled era where the greed now is, like the gold which first brought men here, almost panned out.
But, step onto the platform between two White Pass Railroad train cars on your way to the White Pass summit and Skagway…and you…are transformed.
Take these two photographs. In this first photograph, my wife is happy. Content. Enjoying herself.
Now look at the second photo. Same location. Taken just moments apart. What changed?
Wanna know?
That is the look on Cathy’s face when she hears the sound of a steam train whistle.
It is her inner child. A nine-year-old again. Not worn down by this weary world, not cynical like her husband sometimes becomes. But, shamelessly happy to revisit the old and rediscover the new.
Almost fifty years ago, when I was a first-year student in law school, a career counselor encouraged me to interview for an internship with the Alaska Supreme Court. The Alaskan Supremes, like other courts and big shot law firms, would come to Davis and other Northern California law schools on a recruiting frenzy. Classmates who you never saw clean shaven or wearing anything other than Levis and a sweatshirt, would scurry about, nervous bundles of ambition in new three-piece suits.
My plan was always to return to Santa Rosa to practice law and my grades were such that I didn’t have a chance at a clerkship for such a high fallutin’ court, but the counselor suggested it would be good “interview experience.” So I did.
That was the first of many…I mean MANY…unsuccessful interviews, so I’m not sure the experience was one on which I needed to get a head start . Still, I’ve occasionally wondered how different my life might have been had I stumbled into a job in Juneau on my first try.
Turns out…I learned today…very different.
Juneau is a very small town for a state capitol. There were 19,000 people then. There are scarcely 30,000 people now. That’s 6% the size of Sonoma County. There are no roads to Juneau. You can only get there by air or water.
Cathy thinks I would have liked that. The distance. The pace. And the quiet. Her vision is challenged, but she sees things others don’t and knows me better than I do myself
So, fellow traveler, today’s theme is vision and the clarity that comes only with time, distance and a little bit of magic called image stabilization. Don’t worry, I’ll explain.
To get a bird’s eye view of just how small a town Juneau is, Cathy and I decided to go where the birds go.
The clouds.
We hopped aboard the Goldbelt Tram, just across the street from the Queen Liz, and climbed 1800’.
It was a spectacular morning with sun piercing the low flying mist above Gastineau Channel.
Cathy has had a couple of scary low blood sugar episodes on the trip, so we stopped at the visitor center to pick up some emergency medical supples. I have a gift for such things and found a bag of caramel corn with drizzled huckleberry icing and a fully leaded Pepsi. Strictly for the patient, of course.
While there, Cathy saw a photo op opportunity for her grandkids Avery, Olive and Bowie. The first one is a bear; we’re not entirely certain what the second animal is.
Part of our goal in climbing above Juneau, was to see a bald eagle. Neither of us had ever seen one in the wild. To better understand our elusive adversary, we stopped to measure for our own wingspan. Cathy clocked in at the size of a red-tailed hawk at 52”.
Me? I’m a Canadian Goose…well fed, apparently…, no surprise there, clocking in at a honking’ 72” regular.
Neither of us came close to a Bald Eagle at 90”.
Speaking of arm’s length transactions, Cathy had me draw up a quick contract to cover our bet. It provides,
“The Party of the First Part agrees with Party of the Second Part that whosoever shall first observe a Bald Eagle shall receive from the other party a foot massage at a time and place of his or her choosing.”
It was shortly after thisphotograph was taken that I saw in the distance, probably 600 yards…I know my yardage; I used to play golf… a glimpse of bright white against the gray background, appearing and then disappearing.
“Winner, winner; Chicken dinner” I announced. Probably not the best thing to say amongst bird watchers, but I was excited. Cathy of course challenged my sighting and since it was beyond her field of vision would not accept my claim.
Returning to Earth, we stopped for lunch at the famous Red Dog Saloon where she has fond memories of once taking her son Nick when he was maybe four. I made a mental note of a cocktail I must order some day. One part Kahlua, one part Bailey’s Irish Cream, one part Crown Royal Canadian Whiskey. It’s called an Alaskan Duck Fart.
So many things to learn; so little time.
After splitting a pulled pork sandwich, we set out in search of the good folks at Unplugged Adventures who had promised us the use of a new Earl Gray 2 door Jeep Wrangler equipped with a self-guiding tour iPad mounted on the dash to continue our search for clarity and the Wile E. Bald Eagle.
Cathy took the wheel. I was navigator. First stop, Mendenhall Glacier.
Do you remember when you were a kid how fun it was to suit up and walk in the rain. Well, it still is.
Second stop, a two-mile hike to Nugget Falls and back.
It was on our walk back to the Wrangler from the Falls that my farsighted vision paid off.
Cathy checked her glucose monitor and discovered that her blood sugar had dropped south of 55. That’s not good.
So, I sprung into action, whipped off my backpack …okay, Cathy had to help with that one as I couldn’t get my arm out of the strap…and fetched the pepsi and caramel corn. Taking a handful for myself and then one for her…it’s like oxygen masks on an airliner; I can’t help her if I don’t help myself first…I probably saved her life.
You can see the look of appreciation on her face.
It was nothing actually.
Next stop Eagle Beach. This was a beautiful drive on the Glacier Highway north of Mendenhall out beyond Auk Lake, Tee Harbor, overlooking the Favorite Channel. A beautiful and serene place. Good choice, good folks at Unplugged.
Quick story. A funny one, actually.
See this photograph.
Study it.
See anything?
No?
That’s because you don’t have an eagle eye like me.
Here’s the same photo magnified.
Look at the top of the tree in the center with the heavy light green moss. See anything.?
That, my friend, is a Bald Eagle.
And this is my wife confirming the sighting.
I’m sixty-nine years old. My hands shake so seeing anything through binoculars is tough. Birds. Stars. Forgetaboutit.
For my birthday, my thoughtful wife Cathy gave me a pair of whizzy- whig binocs with “image stabilization.” Not sure how, but the wizards at Canon found a way that, with the push of a button, the shakes are stilled and I can see things I might not have seen before.
Magic
A Bald Eagle is truly a regal creature.
I know. I’ve seen one. In fact, on the ride back, Cathy spotted four more. I suspect our count will rise. There’s so much more to see.
But tonight, I’m going to rest these weary feet of mine and think about the clarity that comes with distance, altitude, and a bit of image stabilized reflection.
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get a foot massage. We did walk six miles today.
When Mark, the pilot on our bush plane excursion out of Ketchikan, asked for a volunteer to man the co-pilot seat next to him in his 1956 DHC-2 Otter and I was the only one to raise my hand, he looked like the captain of a kids’ pick-up basketball team when, picking players, is saddled with the dweeb who can’t dribble.
Cathy thinks it was the fact we were from California. I think it was my hat.
Cathy’s theory is based on Mark’s expression when, during the obligatory “Where you all from?” session on the dock, we cheerfully said “California” and he gave us a decidedly uncheerful “Yeah, that figures” look.
My theory is Mark, and most folks we meet, do not care for the sentiment on my hat regarding our Doofus in Chief’s “Gulf of America.” My hat says, “THE GULF OF MEXICO; STAY SALTY AND RESIST.”
There is the possibility that our pilot Mark’s less than enthusiastic response to my offer to assist might have been caused by my own giddy enthusiasm.
Maybe it was when I reassured him that he needn’t worry because I’ve spent hours at home on Microsoft’s Flight Simulator 24 and was ready to take the stick should he be incapacitated. That didn’t get the laugh I was after.
That was probably it. Too chipper Rob. A true bush pilot must be focused and steely eyed. So, I eased up on my levity yolk and tried by my demeanor to let him know he wouldn’t regret his choice.
It was not warm and fuzzy on the flight deck. More like the view outside. Chilly.
But an hour later, by the time I helped ease the Otter onto the waters of the Tongas Narrows, Mark seemed to warm. Cathy says I have that effect on people.
I’m not so sure. Might be my imagination; it’s hard to read the signs. But I’m beginning to think your average Alaskan thinks we liberals are losers. Not sure why I say that. Might have been this friendly sign on a door we passed on the Creek Walk in Ketchikan.
Or this one worn by a hefty passenger at dinner the other night who said grace so loud tha it was not lost on anyone anywhere on the Lido deck that he was hard at work securing the good Lord’s blessing on our behalf.
The waitress at lunch might have added to my skepticism.
Cathy and I decided to “go local” and find a diner your true Ketchikanians frequent. And we did. The Pioneer Café.
We split a very nice club sandwich, but there was a frosty feel in the air. It reminded me of the time my son Sam visited a pub in Limerick where it seemed an IRA meeting was taking place and the barkeep told him, “Alright lad, one pint and you be on your way.”
When I went to make my obligatory pit stop and Cathy went to pay the check, the waitress was beyond rude to Cathy. Standing not a few feet away, looking down at the counter, knowing Cathy was waiting at the register to pay the check, not looking up for even a moment, forcing Cath to clear her throat to get her attention, then deliberately avoiding even a stab at even a token apology.
Maybe it was the fact a woman was paying the bill. Maybe it was a bit of cruise ship resentment. Maybe it was the way we dress. Hell, maybe she’s a Canadian and has every reason to be pissed at every American. But she was nastier than Ilie Nastase toward the line judge.
You must remember that Ketchikan is the “Salmon Capitol of the World.” It says so right on the sign.
And everyone encouraged us to walk along the beautiful stream where the salmon spawn. Sadly, we arrived at the Capitol at the end of spawning season and the stream was strewn with dead fish. My Parky’s is sometimes handy as, usually, I can’t smell a damn thing, but even I could smell dead fish. The stream bed was a soggy morgue.
Even more troubling were those poor salmon in the last desperate stage of trying to get home. You might say this is “nature” and we shouldn’t superimpose our own sentiments. You’re of course right. Still, for a tender hearted animal lover like Cathy, it was upsetting.
So, it was against this backdrop that we hoofed it back to the ship. It was 3:30 and we were setting sail for Juneau. We trudged up the gang plank, plopped down in our cabin, and remembered that High Tea began at 3:00. My feet were sore and our spirits were lagging but the thought of a scone or two was too much for me to resist.
So off to the Queens Room we raced. Little did we know that this wave of cranky curmudgeons was about to crest in the form a woman named Chitzel.
That’s her. The gal next to Cathy.
The smirk on Cathy’s face is because I asked her to pose so that I might sneak a surreptitious shot of the Roman Greco grump pot.
Maybe 5’1”. Probably packing a brawny 150. Built like a middle linebacker from the fifties with a flattop, a square jaw and rock hard calves. She had the look of a warden in a woman’s military penal colony or that Russian guy Sllvester Stalone fought in Rocky IV. I think his name was Ivan Drago.
She wore her naval uniform with a near toxic level of starch. She chose to individualize her look with big diamond stud earrings and all black leather high top sneakers. Her accent was difficult to pinpoint but it had a very eastern block sound. Maybe Austrian or Polish.
Faced, like Rocky, with a stone faced adversary I perused the High Tea menu to prep for her arrival. When she cooly presented the tray, Cathy demurely selected one tiny finger sandwich, the Ham with Grain Mustard Mayo on Wonderbread White, and politely declined anything further.
I went bold.
Chitzel, let’s start with the Coronation Chicken served open face on a white bloomer from the Savoury side, and from the Sweet side, let’s go with…oh I don’t know…the Salted Caramel Craquelin Choux looks good. How’s the Apricot Pistachio Verrine this year? And we’ll go with a scone chaser with strawberry jam and cream.
I think it was my Parisian accented proper pronunciation of Craquelin Choux that brought a hint of a smile to the East German swimmer. And when I asked her if it was poor form to have both my mini jar and Cathy’s mini jar of jam on my plate when they were taken away, she broke out into a delightful laugh.
Suddenly, she was our best friend. Smiling, laughing, encouraging me to have all the jam I wanted when next we came for tea. She was, by far, the friendliest crew member we have encountered.
Just look at Cathy’s face. She should have a thought bubble that says, “What am I going to do with you?”
People are funny, aren’t they? Sometimes, they’ll surprise you.
This morning, after what was advertised as an “American Breakfast” but tasted suspiciously like a British breakfast from which the British chef at the last minute cynically pulled the Blood Sausage, beans and tomato, Cathy and I heard the Irish lilt of our skipper Jonathan Ward come on the intercom.
The Captain calmly summoned the crew to their action stations and shared with us the sad news that a Canadian Coast Guard helicopter was racing west from Vancouver to lift to a hospital a fellow passenger who had suffered a “medical emergency.”
Cathy and I had planned to inaugurate our walking regiment…FYI: three laps around the Lido deck is one mile…but access to any outside decks, Lido or otherwise, was understandably barred for over an hour. (Note to you word association aficionados, for Cathy, the word “Lido” always makes her think of The Love Boat”, and oddly enough the Cruise Director Julie McCoy.
I know. Don’t ask.
Me? When I hear the word “Lido” I can’t help but think of Boz Skaggs’ Lido Shuffle. You know…
Lido missed the boat that day he left the shack
But that was all he missed
And he ain’t coming back.
I have my sister to thank for this. She was big on Boz before Boz was big.
Though we couldn’t actually see the landing on the stern deck, we did watch from our balcony as three times the chopper passed by on the port side. Twice with the door open; the last time with the door closed.
Very impressive, these search and rescue folks. They must have ice water in their veins.
No sooner had we heard the sounds of the rotors fade than Cathy received an alert on her phone of an offshore earthquake.
Epicenter, I asked?
On the south end of the Straights of Juan de Fuca.
Wait, where did you say?
We’re on the southern end of Juan de Fuca!
Great. So we decided to head up top and help the crew with the tsunami watch. (Hey, we saw Poseidon Adventure; we know how this works.)
So, up to the 10th deck we climbed. Actually, rode.
No sooner did the elevator doors part than we heard the Captain over the loudspeaker cautioning those passengers foolish enough to venture outside on the upper decks to brace for inclement weather. Apparently it was a bit breezy as (1) the wind was blowing from the North at 35 knots, and (2) he had ordered his fellow Irishmen in the boiler room to punch Ol’ Lizzie to 20 knots to make up for time lost in the helicopter exchange.
What’s a little wind, hey? We prepped for this. Let’s do it.
You know how some refer to wind and cold as “bracing.” Now I know why. Note how I am holding onto the railing to stay upright. Note how Cathy needed no hands.
I asked my AI buddy Claude did the captain’s math mean what I thought it meant. He said, “Yep, Rob; something about “apparent” wind. The combination not only totals 55mph but, for reasons I didn’t ask Clause, feels like 63 mph.
That’s almost the equivalent of gale force conditions.
Go inside? Hell no. We headed to the highest point we could find, a telescope on the 12th deck.
Cathy’s approach was a bit different from mine. She again went with no hands. I looked for tsunamis and pirates.
A salad for lunch and it was time to visit the spa. This too did not go as expected.
First, our written instructions told us to arrive nakey in our nifty Cunard robes. Okaaay.
We Jacksons tend toward your modest side and I was a bit nervous about traipsing through the casino nakey beneath a terrycloth karate gi that was two sizes too small. Seemed fraught with peril. It was windy out there. What if I caught a draft from an open door?
Think Rob, think. You were a Boy Scout. At least a Tenderfoot. How do you tie a square knot. Right over left and up; left over right? Does it matter? This is no time for a granny knot.
And make sure you fly in with the flaps on that robe secured in place. Not so much for you, but the safety of the other passengers.
After tying and retying the white belt on my kimono, slipping into my nifty tai chi shoes, and plotting an approach to the spa with the least chance of encountering others, we slipped into what we thought was an empty elevator.
It wasn’t.
You know that awkward feeling when you are standing facing the door in an elevator, your back to the others, wondering what they might be thinking about you. Yeah? Well, try it in an undersized Hugh Hefner robe.
Thanks to Cathy, we made it. But then we were handed a three page disclaimer form that the crack crew in the spa had printed in small feint print with an inkjet low on ink. Without our glasses, which we didn’t think to include in our matching jammies, neither of us could make out what the damn thing said.
Ever the resourceful one, Cathy took out her iPhone, took a photo of the form, and using her fingers expanded and enhanced the contrast of the image so we could read the fine print. She then walked me through it. Things like rate your level of stress by circling the number on this list from zero to ten. Cathy circled a “2”. I put down a 6, then changed my mind and opted to circle the entire number line. This might not have been helpful.
Next question? Locate and mark with an “x” on this diagram the parts of your body where you are experiencing discomfort or would like extra attention.
Extra attention? I don’t want any attention. I can’t even see the damn diagram. Is that a head, Cath? And that? What’s that?
But wait. There’s more.
The two young ladies brief Cathy and me. I’m directed toward the far table; Cathy the near. They excuse themselves and we are to shed our robes, lie face down with our face in this hole. I keep asking Cathy if my sheet makes me look fat and is she’s sure I’ve pulled it up properly to cover my butt.
Our middle eastern variations on Helga and Inga returned and Cathy asked if they might play some soothing spa music. This is apparently customary. The two, whose English is not altogether reliable and appear new to the job, maybe new to the profession, at first seem bewildered and then, understanding Cathy’s request, punched up on the playlist a series of Spotify channels that were anything but soothing. Finally, they settle on what sounded like a Turkish Ricky Martin belting out Livin’ La Vida Voca.
Let’s just say this did not have the desired effect Cathy planned. It was all she could do to politely communicate, in a voice only I know not to be as pleasant as it sounded, “let’s just turn it off.”
I can’t speak for Cathy as my head was buried in the hole the whole time, but speaking for myself it was an unfortunate time for my restless leg syndrome to kick in. Literally. I mean kick in. My left leg spasmed throughout the 75 minutes like it was hooked up to electrodes and, rather than drift off into blissful slumber, as I could tell Cathy had by the sound of her breathing, I spent the whole time trying to keep my embarrassing left leg from throwing off my blank.
I’m not sure, but I don’t think the mindset a massage is intended to achieve is, “Whew…I survived.”
But I did. And the next stop for we survival-of-the-not-so-fit was prom night at the White Gala.
Probably best to skip over the preliminaries. Let’s just say that my Parky fingers are not the best at working the microscopic clasp on a lady’s necklace or poking the studs through button holes on a rented tuxedo shirt.
But we made it, fashionably late and all eyes were understandably and thankfully on Cathy.
Me? I just enjoyed the view and thought what a lucky man I am.
It’s 10:15 on Monday night. The lights of Port Angeles shimmer in the distance. A full moon drifts into view at the stern and then disappears beneath a buttermilk cloud sky. I tentatively reach with my phone out over the rail to snap a photo, but quickly pull it back for fear of dropping it into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Disappointed that I captured only half the moon, I consider trying again but am spared the dilemma when the moon disappears altogether.
Glimpses of the first 36 hours of this trip are bright but passing, not unlike that shy moon:
Sitting in the Sonoma County Airport waiting for our Alaska Airline flight to depart for Seattle, Cathy and I watch as the flight crew passes by. They are all young, but the captain looks to be about 14. When the flight attendant announces that the First Officer is named Dakota, we look at each other, but say nothing.
When we arrive in Seattle, an Afghani Uber driver named Nemat approaches, invites us to bypass the line and formal Uber protocols, and proposes to take us for cash to our hotel. Our scam-sensitive spidey sense says, “Danger, danger Will Robinson…you two patsies have been targeted for the taking.” But Nemat, a former army interpreter who despises the Taliban and whose family can not yet join him because of Trump’s asshole new immigration policies proves to be as honest as this arctic day is long. We give him a generous tip and he insists on taking our heavy bags inside the hotel. The valet, seeing this, says he has never seen this before.
The Lotte Hotel is a dramatic blend of new and old, a faceted glass skyscraper attached to a historic landmark “The Sanctuary”, a 1908 Beaux-Arts stone building.
We step from the elevator where Cathy compliments an almost distraught woman on her Seahawk themed outfit and, learning we are from the Bay Area, she begrudgingly but graciously says her Seahawks will get the Niners next time.
The elevator doors close and we shake our heads.
Our corner room in the Lotte Hotel in downtown Seattle offers a spectacular view of downtown, the Seattle Great Wheel, and Elliot Bay beyond.
As even her grandchildren know, Cathy’s favorite color is orange. Apparently, the interior designer of the Lotte Hotel knew she was coming.
With morning, we checked out and hoofed it to where we hoped to have breakfast, The Biscuit Bitch. So too did most of Seattle as the wait for a biscuit was a bitch.
On to the Space Needle where my fearless wife scared the bejesus out of me.
I myself was terrified to walk on the glass floor.
Cathy? Not so much.
I mean, really?
I don’t know the woman.
Show off.
Sometimes, she scares me.
A bite of lunch beneath a ceiling strewn with hanging accordions. Cathy’s uncle Charlie Garzoli would have loved this place.
We board the Queen Elizabeth at 3:00, dutifully reporting to our emergency staging station, organize our cabin, get acquainted with our cabin steward Chris and our waiter Mike.
My wife was more stunning than the sunset.
We close the day in the pub, joining with a bunch of Aussies in rousing renditions of classic Irish folk songs like Molly Malone, The Black Velvet Band, The Wild Rover and Whiskey in the Jar sung by the Blackthorn Irish Folk Duo, amazing musicians from Tipperary who were as witty as they were deft on the banjo and guitar.
I wish I could embed video in this blog to share with you.
That, and the taste of the Redbreast whiskey I sipped while tapping me toe.
Look at the tea I drink. Yes, it is English breakfast, but not Bigelows. Not Twinings. No, I drink “America’s Favorite Tea.” It says so right on the label.
Why, you ask?
Well two reasons actually. First, it was originated by Sir Thomas Lipton, a Scotsman of Irish parentage, who had the singular distinction of losing to America in five consecutive America’s Cup races. Second, and more importantly, it is generally reviled by the British as more suiting the less sophisticated palates of uncultured Yanks than British wanks, I mean swanks.
Kinda says it all, don’t you think?
To be honest, the love part of my love/hate relationship with the Brits probably started in 1964 when I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I gave it some thought and decided, based on all the empirical vocational data available, that a career as a chimneysweep would be the most rewarding.
I mean, think about it. Have you ever witnessed, in any movie, a man as content with his job as Bert in Mary Poppins?
Now as the ladder of life as been strung You may think a sweep’s on the bottommost rung Though I spends me time in the ashes and smoke In this ‘ole wide world there’s no ‘appier bloke
Given my circumstances at the time…I was an eight-year-old…it was particularly important to me that, if I were to job shadow some stranger, he be kind to children. I defy you to show me, in all of cinema, a man kinder to children than Dick Van Dyke’s Bert.
Okay, maybe Robert Donat in the 1939 original Goodbye, Mr. Chips.
Or possibly Peter O’Toole in the 1969 remake. They were both Brits. (Okay, O’Toole was an Irishman, but he was playing a Brit.)
The remake of course, serves as a nifty segue to the second reason I came, as a boy, to love the Brits.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the one, the only…Miss Petula Clark.
I mean, come on. Downtown? Don’t Sleep in the Subway?I Know a Place? My Love?
Nuff said.
Hell, by the time I was ten, I was so enamored of the British that I sported a mock dicky turtleneck and shoulder holster, and paraded around the house like I was Ilya Kuryakin on The Man from Uncle. (David McCallum was a Scotsman)
Toss in a little Emma Peel
And Julie Christie
and I was ready to sing God Save the Queen and call the family vacations “on holiday.”
So that was the start.
The dark side, you ask?
Well, there’s the obvious. We Jacksons (and Lears) being of Irish descent, possess a genetic disposition to detest the British. It’s hard wired into our DNA. We can’t help it. Not since Cromwell.
So, there’s that.
But I suppose if I had to pinpoint when my young Anglo infatuation began to unravel, it was as a young English major at U.C. Davis when I was required to read some, thankfully not all, of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
If you’ve never had the pleasure, let me try to explain.
Imagine reading Shakespeare. Think about your struggle with Romeo & Juliet in high school. What torture it was. How incomprehensible it seemed.
With me? Good.
Now, imagine you have to read Shakespeare in pig Latin. You remember your pig Latin rules. If a word ends in a consonant, move it to the end of the word and add “ay.” If a word begins with a vowel, add “way”, “yay” or “ay” to the end.
So, let’s practice. Take a sentence. Any sentence that comes to mind. Oh, I don’t know…how about:
King Chuck is a twit.
In pig Latin, it reads
Ingkay ukchay is a ittway.
Now, imagine that, in addition to pig Latin, you must adhere to the rules of The Name Game.
You remember The Name Game. It hit the charts in 1964, about the time Bert the Chimneysweep started popping out of chimneys, Petula Clark went Downtown and Julie Christie and Diana Rigg jump started your MGB.
Think Shakespeare, pig Latin and a few bonana-fanna-fo-filly-fee-fi-mo-millies and now you’re talkin.
In Middle English.
You see ol’ Chaucer’s wrote The Canterbury Tales from 1387 to 1400. They didn’t speak English in the 14th century. Not the English we know. Shakespeare wouldn’t arrive for another 200 years and think of all the “forsooths” he wrote.
Let me give you an example of Middle English. Here are the four opening lines of The Canterbury Tales.
When that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
I know. Right? Here is the translation.
When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower;
See what I mean. Even the translation is a mess.
I didn’t understand a word. I was so lost in the weeds I needed an inhaler. Blood oxygen levels in the class were plummeting toward unconsciousness. Boredom was morphing toward sedition.
Sensing rebellion, the professor assigned The Wives Tale which he promised was not only more “accessible”, but ” included some “naughty stuff.”
“Alrighty then,” I thought. “Why didn’t you say so?”
So, I read. And read. And read. I was so focused searching for the promised soft porn, I’m sure I looked like this guy.
“And every night and day was his custume,
Whan he had leyser and vacacioun
From other worldly occupacioun
To reden on this book of wikked wyves.”
But, that was it. No Julie Christie. No Diana Rigg. No Petula Clark. Not even a little Julie Andrews. Turns out the “wyve” was “wikked” because…(whispering)… she ran the house. Talk about a let down. If the “good stuff” was there, I never saw it.
So, we’ll see. You never know about the Brits.
All I know is I am at my “leyser” , on “vacacioun from worldly occupacioun” with a woman that would put Julie Andrews, Petula Clark, Julie Christie and Diana Rigg to shame, and we’re about to leave Sonoma County Airport “on holiday.”
Time to take this Brit show on the road and find out where life takes us.
"Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" 