Freedom

I will not attempt to formally “review” Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom as it justifiably has been thoroughly reviewed and highly praised since publication. But having recently read it, here is my opinion. It is a tour de force of our times covering the entire canvas of American culture, politics, and the forces that now shape our personal relationships and our society. It is stunningly and ingeniously written, with a fresh originality, a postmodern view of who we are and how we got here. In so doing, Franzen excoriates the worst aspects of American culture.

It is a story about the enmeshment of relationships, the extent to which we create our own hell (or heaven) having been dealt the hand of the families we are born into. Do we assume the roles of our parents or rebel against them? To what extent do we really have free will or become victims of abuse and misbehavior inflicted by prior generations? It is about competition and power, survival of the fittest, fathers vs. sons, almost echoing the Darwinian themes of Dreiser. It is about the conflict of personal freedoms and the need to protect the environment and control population growth. Will “the American bourgeoisie…voluntarily accept increasing restrictions on its personal freedoms”?

It is also a novel about a unique development in American life, new generations not having it better than previous ones, perhaps the consequence of having too many choices. As Franzen writes about the main character, Patty, “she was struck…by how much better off and more successful her parents were than any of their children, herself included.” Her mother cursed her husband’s genes “for her kids’ weirdness and ineffectuality.” At times the characters are “bludgeoned by depression,” another leitmotif of the novel and certainly characteristic of our Prozac plagued times.

I couldn’t help but think of Updike’s Rabbit novels, written about every ten years, capturing the Zeitgeist of each decade, and Franzen, now, encapsulating the state of the first decade of the millennium. There is also the eerie coincidence of Patty being a basketball star in her youth, like Rabbit Angstrom. In many respects, there is a decidedly Updikian feel to the novel.

The novel is a shot across the bow of a society that values the culture of American Idol and the worst aspects of capitalism more than the environment and intelligent political choices. At one point Patty’s son, Joey, wishes “there were some different world he could belong to, some simpler world in which a good life could be had at nobody else’s expense,” summing up the modern conundrum.

While it is a novel of social commentary, it is also a page-turner with memorable characters, ranking with the best in American literature. The writer who shared similar concerns in the early 20th century, Sinclair Lewis, said America is “the most contradictory, the most depressing, the most stirring, of any land in the world today.” I think Franzen would agree.
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The More Things Change....

Welcome to the twilight zone. When I read stories such as Microsoft possibly borrowing to increase its dividend and stock buybacks, I see it as just another sign of the American economic system gone wild. There was once a day when companies borrowed money to finance expansion for the production of goods. Now we borrow to pay shareholders or make titanic bonuses to executives. Or we finance our deficit by borrowing from China to keep the American consumer, AKA Hamster on a Wheel, buying at the local official distributor of goods made in China (and other emerging countries), Wal-Mart. But even with interest rates at all time lows, we cannot create borrowing demand in housing, or small business so unemployment remains intolerably high.

In the past I’ve written about many of the pieces of the economic conundrum we’ve created for ourselves, the problem of job creation, the local government crisis, the underfunded pension guarantees, entitlements, banking bailouts, the inflation/deflation tug of war, and in general our consumption oriented society. In fact, while everyone feels a little better as we have thrown so much $$ at the economy to keep it afloat, repair some damage to everyone’s 401Ks, the really major challenges lie ahead, and in one of the more divisive political environments as the midterm elections loom. The more things change, the more they stay the same…. Alphonse Karr
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Slouching Towards Nostalgia

When I first began this blog, I really did not know where it would take me. I should have maintained an index as entries have floated like a dandelion in the winds of our time. They are idiosyncratic reactions to the macro and micro moments of my life, but true to my “mission statement” it has been focused on my primary interests, publishing, music, reading and writing, economics and business, photography, and boating. The presidential election occupied a fair amount of angst, not to mention the ongoing Great Recession, the disaster in the Gulf, and “circus occasions” such as the Madoff affair which led to a number of entries.

John Updike’s death was a great sadness to me, the passing of America’s greatest contemporary writer, but luckily, it appears that the baton has now been placed in the capable hands of Jonathan Franzen who has followed up his promising Corrections with Freedom, which has even been acclaimed as the latest “Great American novel.” I got my hands on one of the first copies from my friends at Amazon (a printed copy that is not a Kindle, which I continue to resist). I am so looking forward to reading it, that I am delaying the pleasure until we take a trip in a couple of weeks. Interestingly, taking a page from Updike’s Rabbit series, Franzen has neatly spaced his two novels a decade apart, giving us an opportunity to kaleidoscopically view the differences in our times. So Franzen, I am hoping, will be a worthy successor to a writer I have loved to read for the past fifty years, although he will never be as prolific as Updike, who could move gracefully in many genres, from the novel, to the essay, to the short story, to poetry.

While writing this blog over the past few years, I also “discovered” Raymond Carver, not that I had not read him before, but I immersed myself in his short stories with the publication of the Library of America’s complete collection and Carol Sklenicka's excellent biography, Raymond Carver: A Writer's Life. Many of his stories, such as Gazebo, continue to resonate in my consciousness, so perfectly constructed and moving. Carver always wanted to write a novel, but he was the master of the short story and was wise never to leave that field, including writing some very good poetry. Perhaps Franzen will follow suit, recognizing his territory as the novel, and one absolutely brilliant novel each decade would be more than enough by any standards.

I also renewed my passion for the theatre during this time, especially the productions of Dramaworks in West Palm Beach, and am looking forward to my preview seats for the forthcoming season so I can comment on the productions before traditional media intrudes.

But I started this blog with several entries of a personal nature, about my family and childhood, the good, the bad and the ugly and I see that several of my last entries hark back to more nostalgic feelings than was my original intent. This is a far cry from providing a ‘first hand” account of “our” times, and although family and reflecting on my life will always be a part of what makes me write, I’m taking a vacation from that for a while.

However, I can’t resist the temptation to recount one very recent personal experience, occurring on the night of Labor Day. We had taken our boat to our mooring off Crow Island which we have visited now for some thirty years. There we met friends, thinking we would stay for the day and return to our marina before sunset. Instead, we were easily persuaded to stay the night, enjoy a pot luck supper, including fresh dug steamed clams, and although my instincts told me that an exceptionally high tide might make it uncomfortable, I relied on the NOAA forecast of “relatively light winds” for assurance that we would not excessively rock at high tide as we slept. By dark the winds increased to some 20 knots pushing the water of the Long Island Sound over the bar that protects the anchorage. The End Result: all night we rocked, rolled, banged, bow and spring lines loudly snapping and tugging, things thrown off counters, to the point of virtually no sleep. By morning, with the tide subsiding and the wind backing down, we were greeted by this sunrise, a small consolation to a night from hell.
And a few minutes later…..
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Batter Up!

It is a moment one almost likens to tales of the unbelievable, news about one's 50th high school reunion. When I graduated from Richmond Hill High School in 1960, it would have been the class of 1910’s turn; it would never happen to us. Now in 2010, it is our turn, my generation no longer on deck, but in the batter’s box, approaching a full count. Baseball metaphors were in my thoughts as I held the invitation to my 50th HS reunion from one of my old classmates.

I had attended the 20th reunion and generally was not recognized or probably more aptly, not remembered. The surreal aspect of that gathering was it took place at the school itself, its hallways, classrooms, and the cafeteria where the reunion was celebrated, all seeming to be diminutive, as if we had either grown into giants or the rooms had shrunk. Recognizable was the old route to the high school, partially along Jamaica Avenue which connected my two childhood homes.

Richmond Hill was a working class community of mostly families of German, Italian and Irish heritage. A recent Wall Street Journal article described the evolutionary changes to what used to be called 'Berlin' in the 1800s. Although still a working class community of immigrants, it is now primarily populated by families from India and Guyana. So the baton of opportunity in the New World has been passed on to a new generation of immigrants.

Gone are the landmarks of my youth, in particular, Jahn’s where we spent our teenage after school time or the next door RKO Keith’s where as kids we were drawn to the Saturday matinees and the Triangle Hofbrau diagonally across the street, the restaurant where our family sometimes celebrated special occasions. My father, mother, uncle and aunts had all attended the same high school. Now they are all gone and most of the people I went to school with have migrated east to Long Island or west to New Jersey. Probably no one remains in the old neighborhood.

Our 8th grade graduation photo (I’m second from the right in the first row) shows us on the cusp of entering that high school, with our future selves lying before us. Now we look back and wonder how that deceptively eternal future suddenly became the past, the world of today not even imaginable then.

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Low Tide

I mean this literally and figuratively, an astronomical low as evidenced by the photo below of the Norwalk River.

And a walk down Westport’s Main Street, my first in many years, revealing that most of the local shops are gone, the Remarkable Bookstore and Klein’s now a figment of my memory and, in their place, trendy shops one would encounter in an upscale mall. In fact, think of downtown Westport, CT as now being mostly an outdoor mall with only Acorn Pharmacy, Westport Pizzeria, the Liquor Locker, and Oscar's the vestiges of the New England town I once knew.

Inflation or Deflation?

I remember watching Wall Street Week with the late Louis Rukeyser in the late 1970s and early 1980s during another alarming economic period, with talk of South American style inflation reaching the U.S. and the mindset that goes along with that fear, people buying gold, eschewing long term US Treasuries which were yielding around 15%. It seemed each and every week investors were waiting for reports on the “money supply” with any large increase reinforcing the then prevailing view. In retrospect, how much simpler and more benign economic matters seemed then.

Now money supply measurements are not even discussed. Instead, we wait with baited breath for the Fed’s latest interest rate decision, endeavoring to parse the Federal Open Market Committee’s statements, comparing them with prior statements for clues as to what the future holds.

Today seems to be the inverse of those days with US Treasuries yielding nearly nothing, and the fear of deflation driving investor psychology, leaving few alternatives to us average folk not of CNBC’s fast money crowd. By the Fed’s decision to reinvest its portfolio of maturing mortgages in U.S. Treasury debt, rather than shrinking its balance sheet, it has embarked on a method of monetizing debt. Normally this would ring the inflation bells but not in this economic environment where spending is a higher priority than reducing debt or saving. Deflation is a state of mind that once it takes hold becomes a self fulfilling prophecy, particularly in the wake of the economic turmoil and bailouts of the financial sector of the last few years, with high unemployment and state and local government fiscal problems, leaving the Fed with few remaining options. And, unlike inflation, we have little experience with it other than the 1930s and Japan’s ongoing battle with it since the early 1990’s.

As reflected by CD rates of nearly zero, it is an investment environment where one has two choices, take risk (which is being encouraged by the government’s actions) or put your savings under a mattress (which, in a deflationary environment produces a positive return without risk). Inflation or deflation? One has to wonder what the Fed knows that we don’t. It is a conundrum for the saver. Bring back the good old days of Wall Street Week!

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Literary Concord

Several years ago Ann cut out an article in the Palm Beach Post about Concord, Ma. and its rich literary and revolutionary war history. As we were visiting our son, Chris, in nearby Worcester, it was an ideal opportunity to push on to Concord for a couple of days, stay at a B&B (North Bridge Inn, highly recommended) and see for ourselves. We decided to concentrate on Concord’s literary history, and its place at the crossroads of Transcendentalism with Emerson as the center of that universe. To walk where Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott, and Hawthorne walked is awe-inspiring. They were all contemporaries, living near each other. This is indeed a sort of holy ground of American literary and intellectual history.

There is no better way to start such a trip than to visit the Concord Public Library, dedicated by Ralph Waldo Emerson when it opened in 1873. In this day of the Kindle and the iPad, it was refreshing to be in a traditional library, befitting the literary community which it is at the center. Inside one can find Daniel Chester French’s sculpture of Ralph Waldo Emerson. French’s tools were given to him by Louisa May Alcott.

In the Concord Museum Emerson’s study is perfectly preserved, moved there after there was a fire in the Emerson home.

The Old Manse was home at one time or another to both Hawthorne and Emerson. Here Nathaniel Hawthorne and his bride Sophia rented for three years beginning in 1842. While on tour, we were able to see the following etching in one of the window panes using Sophia’s diamond wedding ring:

Man's accidents are God's purposes. Sophia A. Hawthorne 1843
Nath Hawthorne This is his study
The smallest twig leans clear against the sky
Composed by my wife and written with her diamond
Inscribed by my husband at sunset, April 3, 1843. In the Gold light.

One can still see the smallest twig leaning “clear against the sky.” It would have been interesting to eavesdrop on conversations between Emerson and Hawthorne as Hawthorne was not a Transcendentalist. Henry David Thoreau (pronounced “Thorough” by the natives) is said to have planted the garden at the Old Manse as a wedding gift to the Hawthornes. The garden still blooms there. From the Old Manse Emerson’s grandfather witnessed the “shot heard around the world,” the opening volley of the American Revolution on the Old North Bridge.

The Old Manse also houses a 1864 Steinway piano and I was surprised when the docent invited anyone on the tour to try it. Most items on these house tours are of the “look-but-do-not-touch” nature. As no one volunteered I stepped forward to play a few bars of Memories by Andrew Lloyd Webber, my apologies to 19th century sensibilities. It was out of tune, but all keys functioned, more than 150 years after this piano was built.

This is how life was before the “conveniences” of modern life. Parlor games and music, plays written and performed by the residents, writing and philosophical discussions, and books read to the family by candlelight. (Hawthorne read the entire works of Sir Walter Scott to his children while living in Concord.)

The nearby Wayside is now a National Park property and tours of the home and the nearby North Bridge are conducted by Park Rangers. We were lucky enough to have had a private tour of this home. Louisa May Alcott spent her childhood there and many of the scenes from Little Women were set in her memory from that home. It is also the only home ever actually owned by Nathaniel Hawthorne who gave it the name, Wayside.

The tour of the Orchard House, where Louisa May Alcott actually wrote Little Women was inspired. The docent enacted several quotes from the novel, leaving one motivated not only to buy the book (once again) but others as well in the gift shop.

Alcott’s father, an educator who struggled to make ends meet, was an enlightened man, encouraging his daughters to learn, building a small desk for Louisa May (unheard of at the time), and having the pleasure of watching his daughter become one of the best selling author’s of her time, certainly making the family wealthy. That small, plain desk has been perfectly preserved. Father Alcott was devoted to Louisa May and she was devoted to him. Eerily, as the New York Times reported at the time in 1888, it is a noteworthy fact in connection with her life and death that Miss Alcott and her father were born on the same day of the month, and that they died within 24 hours of one another.

A couple years ago we had the pleasure of touring Emily Dickinson’s home in Amherst. She is probably my favorite poet. I wonder whether her relative isolation in Amherst, while the literary hotbed of New England was not far away in Concord, but far enough to remove her from that scene, might have contributed to the quiet loneliness of her poetry. I am not aware of Dickinson ever meeting the Concord group.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is now the resting place of the Alcotts, Thoreau, Hawthorne and Emerson, Thoreau’s grave just simply inscribed, “Henry.” I cannot visit such a graveyard without thinking of Emily Dickinson’s poem I Died For Beauty which I never forgot since reading it in college and in fact recited those words at Dickinson’s gravesite in Amherst:

I died for beauty but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth, the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our name

Our wonderful tour of Concord was concluded by having dinner at the Walden Grill with my best friend from college, Bruce, and his wife, Bonnie, residents of nearby Sudbury, and both dedicated teachers of literature. Perhaps learning, teaching and literature are in the water of Concord, Ma. and its environs!

I Had a Session With Freud

Thursday night we boarded a time machine which began on the ancient New Haven Railroad, the same cars I rode on decades before, still shuffling their way to Grand Central Station, laboring in the heavy July humidity and heat. The seats are worn thin with the years and most riders seem to be as well, with the exception of a sprinkling of younger people, their ears dangling with all the attendant cords from their iPods.

We were on our way to a New York premiere of a play that had been highly acclaimed when it was first performed at the Barrington Stage Company where it became the longest running play in the company’s history, Freud’s Last Session by Mark St. Germain. Our unlikely attendance at the NY opening was prompted by our “new old friends,” Bill Hayes and his wife Sue Ellen Beryl, the Producing Artistic Director and Managing Director of Dramaworks, our favorite theatre in West Palm Beach. They will be producing the Florida premiere of the same play in December and had planned to see the NY production. It was over a recent dinner in Florida that they offered to secure tickets for us as well.

Here is the time machine portion of the story: The NY premiere was at The Marjorie S. Deane Little Theater at the West Side YMCA which is right next door to where we lived at 33 West 63rd Street. Since we lived there forty years ago, the West Side has dramatically changed, losing much of its original character. Our little apartment house is surprisingly still standing, dwarfed by behemoth high-rises on all sides, making it stick out like a sore thumb in its old fashioned hardiness.

As we were to meet Bill and Sue Ellen at the theatre and later, by invitation, at a gathering after the performance, we booked a table at a nearby restaurant, Gabriel’s, to have a pre theatre dinner with a long-time friend from my high school days, Ed. This provided our “once a year” opportunity to look back over the last 50 years and as we always do, laugh at ourselves, and then fill in the news from the last year. While at the restaurant, Bill, Sue Ellen and their theatre party arrived and given there are scores of good restaurants in the Lincoln Center neighborhood, one had to wonder happenstance or serendipity?

It is always exciting to see an opening, to form one’s opinion before reviews can influence it. I suppose that is why we have subscription tickets to the preview productions at Dramaworks. We were lucky enough to see Happy Days at the Westport Country Playhouse before the reviews as well.

Freud’s Last Session has all the ingredients that make for an evening of great theatre, some eighty minutes without an intermission that seemed to pass in eight minutes. The play is set in Freud’s study in London, as WW II is breaking out, only weeks before his death, and portrays a fictitious meeting between Freud and C.S. Lewis, the renowned author and Christian apologist, where they discuss their polarized positions concerning the existence of God and the nature of man. It is a weighty discussion but much of the genius of the play is in the many moments of humor. Comedy brings out the best in serious drama.

Furthermore, the staging was brilliant. The audience felt it was indeed in Freud’s study, and that WW II was just underway. Brian Prather is the scenic designer and Mark Mariani the costume designer. Martin Rayner IS Freud and Mark H. Dold a credible C.S. Lewis. Tyler Marchant’s direction paces the production perfectly.

I could go into greater detail, but I confess, I have peeked at the New York Times review which appeared as I was writing this. It covers most of the facts, although the review is inexplicably lukewarm, criticizing the play for having a “lack of tension” or lack of “suspense.” There is plenty of tension, perhaps not in the traditional dramatic sense, but certainly of a cerebral nature. It is so well written, requiring thought and careful listening as well as an appreciation of the myriad subtleties, something the Times refers to as “clever talk.” It is more than that.

I love the quiet ending, Freud left alone in his study to contemplate his discussion with his now departed guest, his own mortality, and the carnage that is about to begin, wondering how one reconciles WW II with religion, listening to the very music C.S. Lewis had admonished him for turning off after the news broadcasts. To me this was a logical resolution to the play, a sign that these opposites had indeed struck a chord in one another, even though their respective positions, Freud’s atheism, and C.S. Lewis’ theism, were left uncompromised.

It will be fascinating to see how this production migrates to the stage in West Palm Beach.

Top Kill Redeux

As much as I would prefer to write just about anything else, I seem to be helplessly drawn into the vortex of what has become part of a national Zeitgeist of failure, our (industry and government) inept attempts, first, on a macro scale – not having the proper guidelines and oversight for off shore drilling – and then the resulting disaster at hand, BP’s poisoning of the Gulf of Mexico. Three months into this catastrophe and we are now playing a dangerous game again, pondering a new “top kill” AKA “static kill” which, who knows (no confidence they do), might carry the danger of erupting the sea bed, the final straw in finishing off the Gulf of Mexico. If, on the other hand it is successful, or if at least the latest BP cap on its errant well holds without such an attempt, it proves only one thing: there are technical solutions that could have been part of a non fabricated contingency plan, one that would have cost BP (as well as other oil companies) a bunch of money to have standing by, but would have spared the Gulf of Mexico a fate that is still unknown in its gravity. The lack of oversight that accepted the BP’s original plan as the only shield for the ecosystem of the Gulf and the livelihood of its inhabitants is appalling. Future deep water drilling without a credible contingency plan, which should also include the concurrent drilling of a potential relief well, is unthinkable.

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Happy Days

What a cynical title for Samuel Beckett’s brilliant play, courageously presented by the Westport Country Playhouse to celebrate its 80th anniversary. It is not the kind of light fare one might expect on a languid summer’s night at a country theatre far off Broadway, and it was a brave choice by the Theatre’s Artistic Director, Mark Lamos. But this is Westport, Ct - a bedroom community of NYC where we lived for so many years. In fact, we were there during the celebration of the Playhouse’s 40th anniversary – half of its lifetime ago -- so although we are now only summertime visitors, its byways are subliminally imprinted on us.

Edward Albee, one of the many playwrights indebted to Beckett’s trailblazing works, has said “I am not interested in living in a city where there isn’t a production by Samuel Beckett running.” So we’ve been lucky enough to live first in New York City, and then Westport and now the West Palm Beach, Fl area as well, the latter with its Dramaworks Theatre, which produces “theatre to think about.”

And indeed Happy Days is the kind of theatre that one thinks about as much in retrospect as when one experiences it. In fact, I would have been happy to have had a Samuel French edition in my lap with a tiny flashlight to follow what is mostly an uninterrupted monologue. It is so rich in meaning and innuendo. Such a performance requires an exceptional actress and the Playhouse engaged the veteran actor Dana Ivey for the task.

My wife, Ann, had a personal connection with Ivey as they were two of the lead females in their senior high school play in Atlanta, Ga. something Dana Ivey either failed to remember or would like to forget. Ann saw Dana Ivey perform on Broadway with Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy and after the performance went backstage to say hello and praise Dana for an unforgettable performance. Ann was with two friends. Morgan Freeman first greeted them, said Dana was busy, but would be with them shortly. When she came out, she completely failed to recognize or remember Ann (an unforgettable person), and only vaguely remembered the extraordinary play they performed in or anything else relating to their high school experience. It was a shocking moment for Ann who minutes later laughed it off. I guess when one becomes a Broadway star you can afford to remember the past in any way you choose.

But credit is due Dana Ivy for successfully bringing the audience into Beckett’s abstract world where days begin and end with a school bell and where we are all earth bound in an earth mound. Winnie in the first act sits waist up, at the top of her earth mound, carrying on mostly a conversation with herself, trying to read what is inscribed on her tooth brush and, finally reading the smallest print with the help of a magnifying glass, proclaiming it is another “happy day” as she has learned something new. Talking validates her existence as does the large black handbag at her side filled with her possessions. These are symbolic of our own possessions we tote around during our lifetimes, things that really own us than we them. She reminds us that these things “have a life of their own.” She arranges and rearranges the contents of her bag during the play which prophetically includes a pistol, carefully declaring a new place for the pistol which will no longer reside in her bag but by her side.

At one point, the earthbound Winnie ebulliently declares that she feels it is such a “happy day” that she should be able to ethereally rise into the sky, holding her parasol above her, one that mysteriously burns up and is tossed aside by her. Also, interestingly, except for Willie, her husband, the only other character who “makes an appearance” in the play is an ant, one that Winnie spies with her magnifying glass and carefully follows until it disappears under a rock. We are but ants in Beckett’s universe, but with the ability to talk and, unfortunately, be aware of our own brief, inexplicable existence on this mound called earth.

Meanwhile she directs questions, demands, and criticism of her husband Willy played mostly off stage by Jack Wetherall. Unlike Winnie who is at the top of the mound, Willy mostly lives in a cave and has to be reminded by Winnie, as if he is a child, that if he enters the cave head first he might have difficulty backing out. There is humor in all of this, very dark humor, which takes a darker turn in the briefer second act when the bell rings and Winnie is now buried up to her neck in her earth mound, unable to move anything at all, including her head. (In fact, Beckett in his correspondence with the play’s American director, Alan Schneider, when the play premiered at NYC’s Cherry Lane Theatre in 1961, said of Winnie: “She simply can’t move, that’s all. Times when she can’t speak, times where she can’t move. Her problem is how to eke out, each ‘day’ and organize economy of these two orders of resources, body and speech.”)

It is at this point that Willie finally makes an on stage appearance, a disheveled and shaking old man, formally dressed in spats and tie who grunts and claws his way up towards Winnie, something that pleases her at first, falling back, being egged on by Winnie to try again. Is Willie reaching for Winnie or is it the gun, as the play and their marriage and perhaps their lives devolve to their abrupt end? Lights out. Curtain.

It was a night of powerful theatre. We exited to the parking lot. It had just rained and the humidity hung in the air, also rising off the steaming macadam and fogging our glasses. So we drove the back roads of Westport, returning to our boat, passing landmarks indelibly imprinted and always remembered such as the location of the old Westport National Bank (gone) turning left onto the only road that runs west and parallel to Riverside Avenue, along the southern side of the Saugatuck River, passing homes where we had partied in our youth (including one Christmas eve where guests in an alcoholic induced stupor set a couch on fire and it had to be dragged out to the snow to extinguish the flames), the building our first Internist once occupied (who later died in the same nursing home as Ann’s mother), the Westport Women’s Club where my publishing company held our annual Xmas party for so many years, my old office itself across the river where I worked for the first ten years in Westport, now the Westport Arts Center, past the street where Ann and I went for Lamaze classes when she was pregnant, over the old bridge crossing the Saugatuck, turning left then right under the Turnpike past the structure which used to be The Arrow Restaurant (long gone) where Ann reminded me they made her favorite dinner, crispy fried chicken, and then further west to Norwalk, all fragments of our own earth mound, being earth bound, trying to understand. Theatre to think about. Oh, happy days.

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Out of the Frying Pan

The last entry fondly described our summer home, a boat. One of the motivations for having this “home” is to leave Florida during the hot, hurricane prone season, and be in Connecticut where there are normally cool evenings, especially on the water. So, we drove 1,250 miles to our boat and to the worst heat wave in almost ten years, reaching 100 F during the peak of the afternoon. Florida was 15 degrees cooler!

I remember several years ago when we were at our mooring overnight, astonished to watch the lights slowly dim and disappear on the shore, the last widespread blackout in the Northeast. Anticipating a repeat in this heat wave, I began to prep the boat for departure to our mooring if there was a similar loss of power.

First thing was to check our fresh water pump to access the 100 gallons of water we carry. Air was trapped in the system and the pump would not self prime, so that will need rebuilding or replacement. As a work around I cleaned out an ice container to hold fresh water for an overnight.

The generator, which is needed for systems on the boat, started up but slowly died as it overheated – probably the impeller needs replacement. Consequently the prospect of leaving the dock for an overnight faded as well. We got through the worst of the afternoon with no power problems, but as the sun set so did the power on the dock. There were lights on across the river, but not on our side. We heard everything would be back on in about four hours. OK, we can run our refrigeration off our batteries, and luckily, we had just cooked dinner so we had something to eat and we hunkered down. But in four hours we heard it would be at least several more. For the first time since our early boating years, when we were much younger and adventuresome, we tried to sleep in the 90 degree heat, the windows open, inviting a breeze that failed to visit. It was not only a hot night, it was silently still. One tiny DC fan circulated the stale air and until 4.00 am we revisited our boating past. I will have to reread my last entry to remind myself why we still do this!

Meanwhile, on more important matters, the AP just reported New cap, ships could contain Gulf leak by Monday. If this is feasible, it might be the first good news on this disaster, although I fear the damage to the Gulf will linger for generations. Lessons to be learned? Perhaps the same ones from the financial crisis: regulations are necessary as well oversight. And, the final lesson: drilling our way to energy independence is a myth. For decades we have talked about making the development of alternative energy sources a priority. The time is now.

Home Sweet (Summer) Home

On our 13th anniversary Ann gave me a book, How to Live Aboard a Boat inscribing it, “Here’s to a ‘dream-come-true’ one day! Happy Anniversary!” Little did we know that one day we would, well sort of -- at least for the summers. And we’ve been doing it, now, for more than ten years. There is a long history that led to this, involving more adventurous cruising, but as our interest in traveling greater distances by boat seemed to diminish with age, we have settled on the port where it all began, Norwalk, CT, and our favorite destination, one of the small Norwalk Islands.

Having had several boats, some larger and pricier, we ultimately scaled down to a classic 38’ Chris Craft Convertible. In 1984 Chris Craft had bought a well-known Pacific coast boat builder, Uniflite. During the Vietnam years Uniflite built river patrol boats for the Navy. In the pleasure boat market they were known for building heavy, rugged cruising boats. Chris Craft continued the Uniflite line under the CC brand name until 1989. By then the boating industry was being badly hurt by the beginning of a recession. This also coincided with a decline in market share for Chris Craft. Consequently, CC phased out the Uniflite hull, and closed the factory in Bellingham, WA where our boat was made.

Although we are not the original owners of the boat, we’ve known her since she was first launched in 1987. The original owner was a friend with whom we used to cruise, and our boats had run side by side many times to such ports as Nantucket and Block Island. So the ‘Swept Away’ as she is now named, had been part of our boating consciousness and it seemed like fate when she came on the market at about the time we had decided to downsize.

As is often said, “they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.” Today’s powerboats are lighter, faster, mostly “Euro-styled” which makes them look like (to me) a gaudy sneaker. I am a traditionalist, and would choose the quality of the fiberglass, construction, and style of this boat to most new ones off the production line of comparable size (not to mention the astonishing monetary differences between those new boats and our old classic). The interior walls and doors of the Swept Away are teak with other touches of traditional boating from another era. Her 13' 11" beam, 28,000# displacement makes for seaworthiness while her salon, fully equipped galley, dinette (which doubles as my desk), head and shower, and separate stateroom make it our little condo on the water. It has a huge cockpit for a boat this size, the perfect “back porch” for reading on languid summer afternoons. Thanks to the help of friends such as John and Ray, and our son Jonathan, not to mention the services of the “Soundkeeper,” we continue to be able to take pleasure in this unique lifestyle.

So, it is time to go back to our summer home, do some local cruising, and to see old friends.

Market Report

The S&P was down 3.1% today as the market reacted to slowing growth in China, continuing high unemployment, and signs that deflation, not inflation, is the problem de jour. The 10-year Treasury Note now yields less than 3% reflecting that belief. New York Times’ Paul Krugman characterizes this as The Third Depression. John Hussman, the economist turned mutual fund manager, more mildly states that this is a resumption of the recession. Pain management stocks were up 2.4% in today’s down market.

Lack of Contingency Planning Redeux

It is a sickening feeling, helplessly watching the slow motion catastrophe in the Gulf of Mexico, which is rapidly becoming a dead sea. Now we are told that the pipe that was sending warm water to eliminate the formation of hydrates was damaged by one of the remote subs and it had to be withdrawn for inspection and perhaps repair, sending tens of thousands more barrels of oil into the Gulf daily. Given the incredibly high stakes, how could there not be another such pipe ready for immediate deployment? Or an entire lower marine riser package cap? Where is the contingency planning and who is responsible, the government, BP, or is it Larry, Curley and Moe?

A Reflection Beyond His Telling

My friend, Martin Tucker, is retiring, again. I’ll let him explain this redundancy and the occasion itself in the essay he wrote, How Difficult It Is To Say Goodbye (see below), from the 107th issue of Confrontation, a literary magazine he helped to found more than 40 years ago and has edited since. How many literary magazines can boast such longevity? Martin got things done through the force of his unique personality, a scholar/poet with an easygoing persona and playful sense of humor. Simply put, he is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, compassionate and understanding. I count him among my few, but dear, life-long friends.

He was my teacher in college and I was his enthusiastic student in the courses he taught on contemporary literature. When I graduated and began working for a publishing company in New York I asked him whether he would edit a reprint series on English Literature, selecting the titles, commissioning the introductions and soon we were no longer student/teacher, but colleagues, trying to resurrect some of the best, forgotten literature.

And, indeed, in Martin’s usual modest way explaining his own success, he gives full attribution to his contributors, the writers: “without the writer, there is no book, no theater to open its door, no newspaper to appear at a doorstep and even in an impersonal age of communication like the web of the Internet, no summary to spread wireless reverberation.” So our friendship was founded on a love of literature and over the years, we worked on a multitude of projects, including the publication of his unique reference work on expatriate writers, Literary Exile in the Twentieth Century: An Analysis and Biographical Dictionary.

I like stories of serendipity and I can tell you one involving Martin. When my first marriage was ending, I was staying with my friend Jim in his East Village pad. To put it in temporal perspective, Janis Joplin was playing at the Fillmore East. Jim had a motorcycle and we decided to go to Fire Island for an early summer weekend, hoping to find a place to stay, but prepared to deploy our sleeping bags, someplace, anyplace. I knew a young woman in my office who had a house-share there and asked whether she might be there that weekend, hoping to crash at her place. She said it was not her weekend, although she was planning to arrive on Sunday as she was staying the following week for vacation.

As it turned out, Jim and I slept on the beach on Saturday night. Before we left the next day, I walked the beach looking for that young woman, Ann, who would later become my wife. I could not find her, but I found Martin on the beach with the woman who would later become his wife! After I was remarried, we saw them frequently until, sadly, they too were divorced. But over the years Martin and I always found the time to get together, in NY, Westport, or on our boat, and finally, we both found ourselves living in Florida, he on the west coast and we on the east, with still the opportunity for occasional visits.

The tables turned when I retired, as I became a consultant for Confrontation’s book publication program. Now I worked for him! But while our relationship will no longer be one of colleagues, I look forward to years and years of continuing friendship.

Martin once wrote a poem about a student offering him a New York street pretzel while crossing the campus to a class. I’ve forgotten the words, but never the feeling of the poignant relationship between eager student and admired teacher. Poetry has its way of capturing such truths and Martin has more to write in the future. His most recent poem in Confrontation, selected by him for this, his last issue as Editor, says it all:

A Chip off a Block, by Martin Tucker

A piece of stone
I chip at
and find a face
that is my own
yet distant like an object
held in hand
at arm’s length
telling me
to look.
but I cannot see
till the shape
overtakes me
my hand
my arm
my face
and the thing becomes
not me
but a reflection
beyond my telling.
A stone
The meaning of
within the stone
and I the onlooker
like anyone else.

Copyright © 2010 by Long Island University

***

How Difficult It Is to Say Goodbye by Martin Tucker

FORTY-TWO YEARS IS a long time to say goodbye to. It's probably the reason I've put off writing my "farewell" till the last minute, or the last minute before the printing press gulps down my words. Of course it hasn't been forty-two years that I've been saying goodbye, maybe two at the most. Forty years at a helm is a signal to pull into port. That's what I thought two years ago.

It takes time to slow down. Even the machines in a fitness room have a "cool-down" warning. Perhaps then it is a fitness-occasion now to say farewell.

Confrontation began, as many of its readers know, in 1968, the year of several confrontations that rocked the country. The editorial board of this magazine chose the name because it wanted to be a part of the country's spirit - the word was zeitgeist then -and to be inside the whirl of activities illustrating it. Our mission was less to choose sides, announce a winner of a contest, than to show the pluralities of life's arguments. There are always plenty of life's arguments to take issue with (which we did in assigning whole issues of the magazine to one blazing issue of the moment). Perhaps there were more confrontations in that momentous year than in the present moment. Such arguments with time and about the times can rarely be settled by figures, even of personal and mammoth size, but such figures are the stuff around which time takes its shape. And so we took up this banner called Confrontation.

Yet from the beginning - from its founding editors' approach to its most recent stance-we were more concerned with a two-faced look, a presentation of at least two ways at looking at a blackbird (or Hartford or poetry or even life insurance, for that matter). I suggested the name Confrontation after wanting to call the magazine Prism –initially. I thought our magazine, though it had firebrands on the staff, should be prismatic rather than confrontational. Fortunately or unfortunately, there was already a magazine called Prism, and so we opted for a second-choice title.

The history of a magazine is determined by its editors, for they select the good (or bad) writing that will distinguish it. When the magazine started, it had editors from the then-three campuses of Long Island University -the Brooklyn Center, C.W. Post, and Southampton College. Robert Donald Spector and I were chosen from the Brooklyn campus (I came to L.I.U. as adjunct instructor in 1956 in the English Department at the Brooklyn Center and rose to Professor and Chair of the English Department before moving to the C.W. Post campus 23 years later). Eugene Arden and Dan Levin were the editors from the Post campus, and Robert Umphreys and Steve Levinson represented the Southampton campus. Leading all of us with her vision was the founding patron of the magazine, Winthrop Palmer. Winthrop, who made the magazine possible through her generous financial contributions, and later endowment, possessed vast enthusiasm for all the arts, but particularly literature. Often meetings were held in her elegant apartment in Manhattan or her grand mansion in Center Island on Long Island's North Shore, where she fed us with substantial dinners and talk about the power of culture. Sometimes we engaged as well in discussion of the culture of power, and the discussions led to one of the thematic issues of the magazine - the morality of prize giving.

Like Mr. Chips, I watched as the editors of the founding moved on. Winthrop died in 1988 at age 88; her death-day is a quartet of eights, a rare date for a rare person. Robert Donald Spector, an important force in the history of Long Island University, as an educator, a representative of faculty interest, a writer, and as Chairman of the George Polk Journalism Awards, died last year. Eugene Arden, Steve Levinson, Bob Umphreys all moved away. The only remaining member of the original board, Dan Levin, remains teaching at the Post campus; he is now in his ninth decade.

Winthrop endowed the magazine and made possible its continuation without concern for financial exigency. A generous patron, a published writer of several poetry books and one volume of dance criticism as well as journalism and dramatic work, and a dedicated educator, she became for me a guiding light and a close friend. In one way, I said goodbye to Winthrop in her Center Island home the day before she died; in another way, I am saying goodbye to her now with this recounting, for her spirit has animated the magazine and guided me in my role as editor.

***

IT IS DIFFICULT TO say goodbye to all the other editors, assistants, consultants, student interns, and the administrators of the university who have contributed to Confrontation along the years. The history of the magazine should recognize the aid of Mary Lai, Cathy Seringer, Peggy Riggs, Virginia De Francesco, and others who steered the wheel of bureaucratic reports no less lively than the editorial matter of the magazine. I would like to say goodbye to two late good friends, Jeanne Welcher Kleinfield and Edythe Cecil; they were ladies of distinction whose efforts for the magazine need to be heralded, as well as the continuing support of Winthrop's daughter, Rosalind Palmer Walter.

***

IF A MAGAZINE CANNOT survive without an editor and Editorial Board and a Business Staff (or harried volunteer individuals trying to master the subscription list and sales data and Receipts Accountable), it can only survive on the base of its writers. It is, I admit, a tautological error to talk of quantitative survival. No one survives partway; we are all equal in survival, unless we don't survive, no matter how different we are after survival. Still, there is meaning in talking about qualitative differences of survival. Without the writer, there is no book, no theater to open its door, no newspaper to appear at a doorstep and even in an impersonal age of communication like the web of the Internet, no summary to spread wireless reverberation. Confrontation has been fortunate in having the support of writers, many of them famous and prize-winning, many of them unknown at the time of their publication in our pages, and all of them willing to accept our modest fees. We paid our contributors for their work from our first issue; the recompense was moderate, it has remained moderate, and it appears it will be doing so for the foreseeable future (of course the future is not so seeable, so such statements of measure should be taken with a measure of uncertainty). Some of the writers who have appeared in our pages since 1968 include eight Nobel laureates, among them LB. Singer, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, W.H. Auden, and Derek Walcott; some have been Pulitzer Prize and other Award winners, among them Arthur Miller, Cynthia Ozick, Joyce Carol Oates, Jerzy Kosinski, Iris Murdoch, James Jones, William Styron, and Jean Stafford; and some have been aspiring high school and college students. All of them graciously accepted our fees and some of them either refused to be paid or returned the fees as gifts to the magazine.

It is hard to say goodbye to that kind of giving.

We did say a kind of goodbye a few years ago to a policy that downsized big names and capitalized on lesser-known ones. We decided to try to discover new or unknown talent and emphasize such work unfolding from their pens and computers. The well-known did not need us; it was a gamble to see how much we need them on our covers. The gamble has worked well enough- attention is still paid to the magazine as it has paid attention to lesser-known writers. Certainly, any magazine is graced with the likes of an Isaac Bashevis Singer and Joyce Carol Oates fiction or a Cynthia Ozick essay, and occasionally we still publish a work by a talent of that size and recognition, but it is equally gratifying to know we have played a part in the burgeoning of a career.

Like many magazines that have become old –and 40-plus is old age in the literary journal field - we sometimes indulge in the memory of our youthful forays. I've said "goodbye" to the “scoop” method. We have had our share of them - we were the first literary journal to suggest, if not fully weigh, claims against the mistreatment of his wife by T.S. Eliot. I knew Eliot's secretary long after she resigned from her job at Faber & Faber, where Eliot was a senior editor. She still harbored affection for the great poet. Nevertheless, she revealed (after much argument from me) that Eliot’s behavior toward his first wife might be construed as unkind, if not hurtful. Such knowledge, while peripheral, was important, I urged on her, for gaining the fullest picture of the dominant poet of the modern age in the English-speaking world. Her memoir printed in our pages ignited both anger and applause, exactly the kind of prismatic – and confrontational -- look we were bent on achieving.

***

IT WILL BE SOMEWHAT hard to say goodbye to those familiar faces over the years who have stared at me in wonder as I passed through faculty halls and the university cafeteria. "But you retired fourteen years ago," they have said. "We gave you a big party. Everybody came." They do not say, "What are you doing here?" but I hear the words in my inner ear. It is hard to explain that I've been here these past 14 years after my retirement as a professor; that I've been working with a loyal and active staff - a skeleton staff if measured by the enormous body of work it performs. Sometimes these wondering souls have recognized me by the shopping bags I carry in one or both hands, the bags containing manuscripts to be read or letters to be answered. Sometimes, we smile at each other and sometimes the quizzical look does not leave their bemused faces.

I will miss those looks - they are a sign of good regards in my way of thinking - but I will not miss the weight of the shopping bags.

I will miss too the support of the administration, which for 40 years has not interfered with the editorial content of the magazine. I want to thank the present administration, and particularly David Steinberg, for its firm support. Other administrators over the years come to mind: Jeffrey Kane, Mary Lai, Edward Cook, Gail Stevens, Katherine Hill-Miller. And I will miss the friendship and aid of our Executive Director of the Books Program, Robert Hagelstein, whose advice was essential for our modest Press operations. In addition to being a colleague, Bob was once my student at the Brooklyn Center of L.I. U. Later he became President of Greenwood Press, which he helped to make the largest scholarly reprint publishing company in the U.S. I will miss too the close working association with our compositor/ designer John Beck, and our printing company, Thomson-Shore, each demanding deadlines of me as I demanded deadlines of them.

***

I AM SAYING GOODBYE to an ordered life which of course is disordered some of the time, but has recognizable time tables and furniture of many designs to remind one of his obligations. What awaits may be a less ordered life, one where the touchstones are seen more in the desire to find them and in the knowledge that they are to be constructed by self-discipline. Or what may await may be just as tempting - a landscape against which memory moves its moods into a basket for plucking all the things it has been hard to say goodbye to.

***

AND NOW I WOULD like to say hello to the new editor, Jonna Semeiks, who will take the reins with the next issue. Jonna has served on the magazine for close to a decade and comes with a background of magazine experience and a rich knowledge of modern and contemporary literature. She will be assisted by the new Poetry Editor, Belinda Kremer, and a new resource for our Internet age, Terry Kattleman, who will serve as Director of Publicity and Technical Information. It is a wonderful team, one I don't have to say goodbye to, at least for a year. I'll be staying on as consultant for the coming year.
- Martin Tucker

P.S. In writing this, I realize - suddenly - this is the last time I will have the last word on something I write. I will have to say goodbye to that, too.

Copyright © 2010 by Long Island University

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It's from an old familiar score

When I watched President Obama’s speech from the Oval Office Tuesday night, my expectations where heightened for a President finally laying out concrete steps and a timetable for the promised land of energy independence through a phasing in of natural gas, nuclear, and alternative energy sources. When he turned to the topic, my hopes which I’ve expressed frequently here were dashed. Just more presidential rhetoric. As Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne expressed so eloquently…

It seems to me I've heard that song before
It's from an old familiar score
I know it well, that melody…..
I know each word because I've heard that song before

But it took the genius of Jon Stewart to put this into perspective, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush II all mincing the same words. No wonder I had the sickening sense that I heard this song before. Why do we lack the national will to put these words into action?

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
An Energy-Independent Future
http://www.thedailyshow.com/
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Tea Party

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“Legitimate” Claims

By now we’ve all seen the $50 million media blitz by BP in which Tony Hayward articulates that all “legitimate” claims will be honored, as well the recent news story that it will pay these claims for "as long as it takes." There is a world of meaning in the word “legitimate” and in a first step to define it before BP’s legal army begins to mobilize, BP announced it would appoint an “Independent Mediator to review and assist in the claims process,” that person apparently yet to be appointed (again, by BP, not an independent authority). This “Independent Mediator” will make advisory decisions” on claims, with those decisions subject to the following:

* If the claimant feels the advisory decision is unreasonable, he or she retains all rights under OPA either to seek reimbursement from the Oil Spill Liability Trust Fund or to file a claim in court.
* If BP feels the advisory decision is unreasonable, the company may choose not to accept it, but the claimant then may use the Independent Mediator's decision in claiming against the Oil Spill Liability Trust Fund or in a subsequent court action.

Note the reference to the Oil Spill Liability Trust Fund as the first line of defense for BP. Congress created this Fund in 1986 to pay the claims of “any person or organization that has incurred removal costs or suffered damages due to an oil spill may submit a claim.” Supposedly it is funded at $2.7 billion. However, the Fund site says: “British Petroleum is now accepting claims for the Gulf Coast oil spill. Please call them at 1-800-440-0858.” So, back to you BP!

According to BP, “90 percent of the damages or income loss claims paid out so far had gone to individuals -- primarily fishermen, shrimpers, oyster fishermen and crabbers. The rest had gone to smaller businesses, and the company was also moving to respond to claims by medium- and large-sized businesses.”

No mention is made of the elephant in the room: state and local governments along the Gulf that depend on their revenue from property tax and sales tax. These are under stress to begin with and, now, with tourism disappearing, and properties along the Gulf going unsold (anyone want to buy a home near a beach with tar balls for an unknown period of time?), home valuations are plummeting, along with the associated property tax. Florida, which has no state income tax, is dependent sales tax revenue, a large portion of which comes from tourism with its beaches and water being the major attraction. And, with the Gulf Stream, no part of Florida is immune to the threat of oil contamination.

The ripple effects of lost revenue to small to large businesses, increased unemployment, plummeting home values and increased foreclosures, and finally to tax revenue, are large and long lasting. So, BP, what about the “legitimacy” of claims of state and local governments for the lost tax revenue, this year and perhaps years to come? Thus far BP’s track record, on promptly paying claims, truthfully reporting the scope of the spillage, going all out to save the precious wildlife and shorelines of the Gulf, is poor. This does not bode well for how BP’s legal team will finally attempt to define “legitimate.”

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Vicious Cycle

While budget infernos sweep state and local budgets, government bureaucrats fiddle away at deficits by making minor cuts and taking the easy road of tax increases. I’ve used the microcosm of the local Palm Beach County budget activity to make this point before, as it probably reflects what is going on in some municipal and state finances throughout the United States. PBC’s “recommended” 13.4% increase in property tax rate is designed to “make up” lost revenue” from falling property values. A future stream of required higher tax payments just devalues property further, begetting yet more future increases.

On the other side of the ledger, the “tough” spending cuts include cremating indigents when they die, rather than burying them, “saving” $100,000 (this, mind you, in a budget of some four billion dollars). Other cuts, of course, are aimed at the people who need help the most. Meanwhile, more than $1 billion is earmarked for “general government, interfund transfers, other, and internal services.” Make systemic changes to the way the County operates? Not a chance.

Long-Term Thinking

This entry is a redirect to the site of the John Hussman, an academic economist turned mutual fund manager, who takes a long-term perspective and invests accordingly. He has been a frequent critic of the overall bailout strategy arguing that until we clear out bad loans, requiring those who made them to take losses, we are doing nothing more than applying band-aids to wounds that need major suturing.

It is amazing to watch the markets since late 2007 as governments around the world have gone into hock, writing blank checks to the financial sector. This has reengaged investors, driving up markets, and leaving risk-adverse investors with the option of getting no return or being forced into riskier investments. It is as if governments are introducing the same problem as a solution. We all get a sense that there will be serious long-term consequences and perhaps recent developments in Europe are indicative. In the U.S. we have time bombs of Fannie, Freddie, deteriorating state and municipal government finances, Medicare and, now, the economic consequences of an ecological disaster in the Gulf, which will linger for generations. How much longer can difficult, lasting solutions be deferred?

Meanwhile, investors can always follow Dilbert’s Scott Adams’ investment “advice” bearing in mind that in humor there is much truth, although he does carry the disclaimer “not to make investment decisions based on the wisdom of cartoonists.”

Here are some key points Hussman makes in his latest piece:

* The fundamental problem is that we have not, as a global economy, accepted the word "restructuring" into our dialogue. Instead, we have allowed our policy makers to borrow and print extraordinarily large band-aids to temporarily cover an open wound that will not heal until we close the gap. That gap is the difference between the face value of debt securities and the actual cash flows available to service them. The way to close the gap is to restructure the debt. This will require those who made the bad loans to accept the associated losses. By failing to do that, we have failed to address the essential problem faced by the world, which is that we have created more debt than we are able to service.

* When our policy makers insist on defending reckless lenders with public resources, we have to recognize that this is not free money. When the government issues a paper liability for real value, that real value gets directed to the recipient at the expense of countless other activities. Even seemingly costless interventions can be redistributions of wealth. For example, the strategy of dropping short-term interest rates to nearly zero as a way of increasing the interest spread earned by banks has the direct effect of impoverishing savers, very often elderly people who rely on lower risk investments for capital preservation.

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Spill, Baby, Kill

The first heartbreaking images of oil-soaked, dying wildlife are now reaching the media, a reminder of the Exxon Alaska disaster. When will we ever learn that technology is not a failsafe solution and we have no business drilling in 5,000 feet of water without ironclad contingency plans? And, now, this is in our own backyard. Indeed, we might as well have set off a nuclear bomb in the Gulf of Mexico, as the long-term effects will be similar. Barring a quick capping of the “spill” a wasteland waits, destroying the delicate ecosystem along our very borders, and inevitably to the promised economic recovery as well.

New supercomputer studies suggest it is "very likely" ocean currents will carry oil from the Deepwater Horizon spill in the Gulf of Mexico around the tip of Florida and thousands of miles up the U.S. East Coast this summer. Perhaps Washington will finally get the message when the Gulf Stream delivers some of this oil to the Potomac River.

Perfect Storm

It is Memorial Day weekend, one of profound sadness, for the service men and women who gave their lives for our country, and now what seems like a deathwatch for the fragile ecology of the Gulf of Mexico.

The latest failure on the part of BP to stop the oil leak in the Gulf via a “top kill,” one that was said to have a 60-70% probability of succeeding, now seems like just another attempt to string along an anxious nation until the “permanent fix” of drilling an intercept relief well is supposed to be concluded in August.

Now there is a new stop gap “plan,” which involves cutting off the damaged riser and capping it with a containment valve. Per BP: "We're confident the job will work but obviously we can't guarantee success," pretty much what was said of the top kill method. So we can all hope that this is not just more media hype and cutting the damaged riser does not just release more oil. One cynically gets the sense, watching all of these improvised attempts, that we’ve seen this movie before, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland (the Government and BP) saying “Hey kids, let’s put on a show!”

Here’s the “perfect storm” scenario: NOAA’s forecast that the impending hurricane season being nearly as active as the one in 2005 and the possible impact on the rescue and cleanup activity by the armada of ships and platforms and miles and miles of containment booms in the Gulf.

It is speculation as to how a Katrina might further spread oil inland or even suck up and deposit surface oil in its torrential rain-making machine, but one thing is clear: clean up efforts and relief well drilling would be profoundly effected. The combination of the spill and an active hurricane season is an environmental catastrophe of even more untold proportions. And it bears noting that early season named storms are more likely to form nearby, particularly in the Gulf and the Caribbean.

The only potential “good” to come from this might be our country’s willingness to make the sacrifices we made in fighting wars, pulling together as a nation and declaring energy independence via alternative energy. I am not some Pollyanna thinking that we can suddenly drive our energy needs via alternative means. We need better technology, an improved infrastructure, and be willing to pay a steep tax on fossil fuels to support such efforts.

But that is what it is all about: the national willpower to achieve this objective and to save our environment as well. President Kennedy declared that we would put a man on the moon in ten years at the beginning of the 1960’s; we can do the same for alternative energy today. Since we seemed doomed to forever plan using a rear view mirror, this might be the only good that can come from this disaster.

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Rediscovered BVI Log

Before the WWW there was The Source and then CompuServe. In the 1980’s I thought it a miracle, being able to “connect” via telephone dial-up at 300 baud on my Apple II and send messages to other users and to join moderated Forums. One such forum was devoted to boating and after my family, with friends, chartered a boat in the British Virgin Islands, I posted a log of our journey and it became one of the most downloaded files on the forum. It seems, now, so techno-archaic, but I will never forget being in awe of the possibilities of such technology and the pleasure of sharing one of my favorite boating adventures with what constituted the beginnings of the WWW.

As that “upload” has long been lost with the disappearance of CompuServe, I post it below having rediscovered it in the depths of my old files and with the help of a scanner. While the boat charter company and some of the references may be gone, the BVIs remain the ideal territory for bare boat and crewed charters. We navigated those waters before there were GPS’s, using only compass readings and printed charts. Today, it must be even less demanding.
We chartered a Grand Banks trawler in Feb. 1989 with our best friends, Ray and Sue, and the nice part of the story, is we still remain close friends to this day although we have geographically moved on in our retirement years. We now live in Florida and they live year round on a boat, visiting us on their way to their annual trip to the Bahamas.

The BVI cruise was one that had so many wonderful memories but in digitizing photographs from the past, I was dismayed to discover most of the good pictures I had taken were lost. Those that remain fail to capture the unique nature of the trip, but there is always the log…..


February 1989
BVI Cruise

So, here we are, actually on our way to the Virgin Islands to pick up a bareboat charter. We discussed this-dream for years and, finally, this past fall we decided to do it. Although we have boated together for years, Ann and I on our 37' boat, 'Swept Away', and Ray and Sue on their 38' 'Rascel', both powerboats, with some apprehension we planned this trip. It is one thing to boat together and another to do it on the same boat, especially with two 12-year old boys --their son, Ray, and ours, Jonathan --and their 16-year old daughter, Liz. However, we carefully planned the trip, choosing a highly recommended bareboat organization, La Vida in St. Thomas, and a slow, but roomy trawler, a 42' Grand Banks. Perhaps a log will reveal the outcome

Day 1 --Friday, February 10
We arrive at La Vida Marina, located at the north end of Jersey Bay on the eastern end of St. Thomas at about 11:00 am. There we pick up the yacht that will serve as our home for the next week, the 'Soft Shoalders', a 42' Grand Banks, which was commissioned in 1985. 2000 hours are on her well-maintained twin 120 Ford Lehman diesels and nearly 5000 hours on the 8 kW Westerbeke generator. At 22 tons, she can carry 600 gallons of fuel and 350 gallons of fresh water in 4 tanks. Her homeport is Boston, Ma. Given the year she was built, and the number of hours on her, we guess she may be retired from chartering at the end of the year.

Although we are scheduled to depart at 12:00 noon, a delay is necessary as the provisioning is inadequate (seven small pieces of chicken for a dinner, indeed). La Vida agrees to shop for additional food and furnish it within an hour. In the meantime, we stow our gear; Ray and Sue take the generous-size vee berth, Liz the side cabin, the boys the salon, and we the commodious aft cabin. We are impressed by the storage facilities --more than adequate for the seven of us plus provisions for the week. The 42' Grand Banks carries a top-loading freezer and refrigerator. The inconvenience of access is more than offset by their roominess and operating efficiencies.

Finally, at about 1:30 PM, we cast-off our lines and make our way to what we have decided will be our first destination, Christmas Cove. This cove is a favorite first night stop for charters out of St. Thomas as it is the first anchorage to the east, and it affords excellent protection from the prevailing easterly trade winds, accompanied by the omnipresent winter ground swells.

Due to the limited maneuvering space at the marina, one La Vida employee brings the yacht into the channel while another trails us in a dingy (to pick up our guide and to give us our dingy an 11' Zodiac with a 8 hp Mariner engine).

Once out of the marina and into the channel, we take over. The day is typical for this time of the year –partly cloudy, but with more sun than clouds. Although the sun is intense, the 15- 20-knot easterly breeze quickly cools the skin.

The channel is narrow, and coral shoals complicate the entrance into Jersey Bay. However, as bottom can be seen even at 30', and the color of the water is a fairly clear indication of depth, there is no danger. Soon we encounter Grassy Cay, keeping it to our port. Beautiful white Egrets populate this small island, watching our departure. After passing Grassy Cay, Rotto Cay appears on our port and, after leaving this behind us and passing between Cas Cay and Coculus Rocks, we set an easterly course for St. James Island, only about a mile from Jersey Bay. Christmas Cove awaits us in the lee of Great St. James Island; at about 2:15 we arrive at our destination. Great St. James is the northern most island in a small chain lying east south east of St. Thomas. Below it are the smaller Little St James Island and Dog Island. These are mostly uninhabited.

There are two anchorages in Christmas Cove, one north of Fish Cay, a tiny island some 100 yards from shore, and the other one south. As the breeze is coming off the island, and there is no reason to expect the direction to change, we will drop our hooks close to the island. The boat 1s equipped with two types of anchors –a Danforth and a Bruce. Each has about 15' of chain, and there is a windless to handle both rope and chain. As many of the anchorages in the BVIs are coral, this redundancy is advisable. We first drop the Bruce and then the boys dinghy out the Danforth at about a 45-degree angle from the Bruce. These settle in about 25' of water (only some 100' from shore) and about 4:1 scope is let out. The boat gently settles back midway between Great St. James and Fish Cay, but slightly north of the latter.

After a fast lunch, we are ready to do our first snorkeling. Soon, we are exploring the northwestern portion of the shore, marveling at the varied fish life and the interesting coral/rock formations. Before long, we return to the boat for cocktails and, soon, dinner. The sunset is beautiful, but not as spectacular as the ones we have witnessed at our usual cruising grounds, the Long Island Sound. We speculate that as the air is devoid of pollutants here, the sun is not reflected by foreign particles. The wind gradually drops, and everyone has a restful night.

Day 2 --Saturday, February 11
After breakfast and a morning swim, Ray and I determine our itinerary for the day, a lunch stop at the famed Caneel Bay and then on to Francis Bay for the afternoon and the night. Both destinations lie on the northern coast of St. John, the last American Virgin Island in the chain of St. Croix (to the South) and St. Thomas (to the West). While Caneel Bay is a good day anchorage, the northern ground swells and the traffic in the Windward Passage can make it untenable for an overnight; thus our decision to proceed to Francis Bay for the night.

Caneel Bay is about 4 miles northeast of Christmas Cove. Leaving the cove we enter Current Cut where we have a choice of passing either east or west of Current Island sitting in the middle of the Cut. This is a heavily traveled passage, including larger pleasure vessels and high speed ferries passing between St. Thomas, St. John and Tortola. A fairly strong current swirls around the islands here. Once through the Cut we enter Pillsbury Sound that runs Southeast/Northwest between St. Thomas and St. John. Beyond islands at the northern portion of the Sound, Lovango Cay, Grass Cay, and Congo Cay, we can see the 1000' peaks of Jost Van Dyke, some 9-10 miles in the distance. Again, the prevailing easterly trade winds have picked up to 15-20 knots, with higher gusts at times. The sun, when not partially obliterated by the passing clouds, creates a constant white heat.

Although in the lee of Hawksnest Pt., which borders Caneel Bay to the East, the seas become choppier as we pass between Two Brothers and the entrance to Cruz Bay. However, while our displacement hull bobs, it easily handles these seas. As we approach Caneel Bay, two anchorages are evident. One is at the entrance to the resort at Caneel Bay where there is a ferry dock. It seems to-be more prudent to anchor around Durloe Pt., a small protrusion midway at Hawksnest Pt. where there is still protection from the easterly breeze but where we are away from the traffic. After anchoring, we pile into our dinghy to explore the magnificent Rockefeller resort at Caneel Bay. This was built where an l8th century sugar mill once had been active. It now serves as a restaurant open to yachtsmen and resort guests alike. We tie up opposite the ferry where a guide who asks us to register to enter the resort greets us. We begin to tour the grounds, and, as one of our children strays onto a lawn, we are admonished by another guide to stay on the trails. As she explains, visiting yachtsmen do not enjoy the best reputations. It turns out this guide had lived in Connecticut, maintaining a boat on the Five Mile River in Rowayton --a small world indeed!

The plantings here are spectacular. Unlike what we have seen thus far, it looks more like Hawaii than the BVIs. A complimentary tram takes us to the nooks and crannies of the resort; we soon see why this is a stop not to be missed.

Returning to our boat, we have lunch and then snorkel at the tip of Hawksnest Point. This is somewhat difficult because we are not allowed to anchor our dinghy off the beach or bring it ashore. Thus, we leave it at the rocks where the water is somewhat rough, making getting in and out of and aboard the dinghy difficult. Nevertheless, the rocks provide excellent snorkeling. In the early afternoon we begin the next leg of the trip to Francis Bay, an easy 3 mile run from Caneel Bay.

Francis Bay is the better overnight anchorage as it is protected from the north as well as the east. It is a large bay with several possible anchorages. After leaving Caneel Bay we have the choice of entering Windward Passage or hugging the shore of St. John. The latter has to be done with some care as coral reefs abound. We decide to stay near shore and have little difficulty navigating along this route.

Approaching Francis Bay we at first try the innermost anchorage, which seems to be the least crowded and, seemingly, the most desirable. Here we have our most unsettling experience of the entire trip and learn why this choice anchorage is shunned. There is a native home with lush tropical plantings near the shore. As we drop anchor, a woman runs to the beach, wildly screaming.

At first we think we have committed something horrendous, such as dropping our anchor on what-is understood to be an underwater national park (there are several off of St. John). Finally, the wild screams become decipherable, "Get away from this woman's island." No doubt visiting yachtsman had subjected this person to some less than considerate treatment in the past. Rather than listening to her ranting --even though we are entitled to anchor where we chose --we decide to move on to another part of the bay.

As it turns out, our final destination is a fairly good choice as the Park’s service maintains garbage collection facilities. After more than 24 hours on the boat, the accumulated garbage from seven people make the northern part of the anchorage the right place and this the right time to take care of business. Also, slightly to the south is a primitive resort (with canvas over wood-framed huts), which has --as one guest put it --"a seven eleven" type general store. Although we are fully provisioned, a few extras come to mind, and we climb some 200 to 300 feet to reach the store.

In the late afternoon sun, we swim and Ray windsurfs in the gradually dying breeze, settling down to dinner and, then, sleep with, again, the security of the two anchors holding us fast.

Day 3 --Sunday, February 12
This day is intended to be a traveling and customs day, as we have decided to leave the American Virgins and enter the British Virgin Islands. Before the trip we heard that Jost Van Dyke was the best place to clear Immigration and Customs but shortly before departing it was decided to go to Sopers Hole on the western-most portion of Tortola. La Vida, however, advised us to clear at the newly established Customs port of Nanny Cay, on the southern shore of Tortola, right before Road Town, the main harbor in the BVIs. We did not intend to do this on a Sunday, as there are overtime fees involved, but the guidebook with which we were provided was equivocal on this, distinguishing "normal" hours from "extended" hours (we would clear during this category) and "overtime" hours. So we got an early start from Francis Bay to reach Nanny Cay so we could press on to our ultimate destination for the night, Marina Cay, which lies between Beef Island and Great Camanoe Island off the eastern tip of Tortola.

Leaving Francis Bay we pass between the northern most part of St. John and Whistling Cay on which stands the ruins of an old customs house. There we enter the Narrows, turning east into the wind, which seems to be somewhat stronger than in recent days. We pass Sopers Hole on the port, which we can see, between Little Thatch Island and Frenchman's Cay. Some of these islands are difficult to distinguish from one another, as their volcanic elevations tend to make them appear to merge. Once past Frenchman's Cay on our port, we enter Sir Francis Drake Channel, the main body of water, which is surrounded by the British Virgin Islands. The entire run to Nanny Cay is only some seven miles, but in an eight-knot boat, with a head wind, we inch our way there.

The approach to Nanny Cay is straightforward and once inside the marina the first dock is open, making it easy to tie up. We gather our passports and birth certificates and make our way to Customs. Only one attendant is on duty, and since no one else is there to be processed, we are confident we will be expedited --confident, however, until we are presented with the forms (the ship's Manifest, the Passenger list, etc.). Once completing these formalities, however, we learn that --for the day at least --we can only complete Immigration proceedings at Nanny Cay. We will still have to go through Customs at Road Town. Thus, an unexpected stop is put on our itinerary, one we had originally wanted to avoid (as this is the main harbor in Tortola). Nevertheless, before the trip we had charted our entrance into the harbor as the Village Cay Marina there gave us the option of taking on fuel or water if necessary.

So we are now off to Road Town, an easy two mile run to the northeast. The harbor is well marked and, fortunately, there is dockage space at the customs house. Here we are told that one person can act as Captain and complete the necessary paperwork without everyone having to appear. One customs agent is on duty; again, no other travelers are present. This friendly government official inquires whether I like basketball and what university I attended. While the endless paperwork is being completed, we talk basketball.

Had it been Monday, he tells me that there could have been several hours' wait. In spite of additional expenses, again our timing is right. Some $150 poorer --fees to cover four days for seven people, the boat fee, taxes, and, yes the "overtime" fee {even though we were there during "extended" hours) -–we decide to proceed to Village Cay Marina, only a few hundred yards north, to top off our water tanks and obtain some provisions.

This is a fortunate decision. No sooner after arriving, a vicious squall hits, packing winds of up to 35 knots, with a driving rain. This, however, blows by after some 15 minutes, and the blazing sun once again fills the sky. While the gals go to the shops, we top off our water tanks (98 gallons @10 cents per gallon) and sit on the bridge admiring a new 110' yacht 'Thunderball' abeam our starboard. Luckily, a deck hand is at work so we are able to find out she carries two 3500 hp turbo charged, water-jet engines which propels her to a top speed of 46 knots!

Having completed our chores and eaten lunch, we leave Road Town and make our way to Marina Cay, some 9-10 additional miles to the northeast. It is still the early afternoon so we are confident we will reach our destination in time for snorkeling, which is considered to be excellent in this area.

The Marina Cay anchorage is in the lee of the island and is bordered by Scrub Island to the North, Great Camanoe to the West, and Beef Island to the South. Here we pick up a mooring maintained by the Moor-Secure organization which has moorings at various points in the BVls. Unlike prior afternoons, this day seems more unsettled, with more clouds and winds unlikely to abate. Given the limited amount of space at this anchorage, a mooring ($10) seems to be a good idea.

We immediately make preparations for a long dingy ride (almost a mile) to explore a reef off of the northeast portion of Great Camanoe. Here the weather begins to gradually turn, with even more clouds and wind. We anchor the dingy in the lee of the reef, and while some explore the inner area, which is calmer, the more adventurous go to the rougher outer reef. While the entire snorkeling area is among the best we have encountered thus far, the outer reef, with its severe drop into more open water, reveals the largest fish hiding in spectacular rock formations.

We make our way back to the boat satisfied by our findings, even though the sky has now clouded over. Tonight we barbecue on the back rail and watch the occasional local flights into the Beef Island airport that services Tortola. In the distance we can see masts in Trellis Bay, another popular anchorage. Marina Cay houses a small resort with a popular bar, but we are happy on the boat and settle down for sleep while the easterly trade winds, unlike our other nights, continue unabated.

Day 4 --Monday, February 13
Today we intend reaching the farthest point in the trip, the Virgin Gorda Sound, some 9-10 miles to the northeast. Our journey begins in the morning; after dropping our mooring line we pass north of Marina Cay and past Scrub Island, back into the Sir Francis Drake Channel. The breeze is fresh out of the east and skies are clear. Once in the Channel, we are still in the lee of the Dog Islands, West Dog, Great Dog, and George Dog, and the seas are relatively flat. A boat is off in the distance, anchored off a small island west of George Dog, Cockroach Island. We hope, for his sake, the island is not aptly named.

Beyond our bow lies Virgin Gorda, Columbus' "fat virgin." A discussion ensues: can we decipher her lying on her back? The guys can but the gals can't. Once beyond Great Dog the seas become choppier, but while the Grand Banks bobs, it is a dry boat. We guide our vessel between the farthest "Dog" --Seal Dogs and Mountain Point, the northwestern tip of Virgin Gorda. While we observe vessels passing north of Virgin Gorda and south of Mosquito Island --the island North of Virgin Gorda and northwest of the Virgin Gorda Sound --we heed the advice of La Vida and proceed to the entrance to the Sound which is north of Mosquito Island. This passage is obviously more heavily traveled and the better entrance for the uninitiated.

As we round Mosquito Rock and enter Virgin Gorda Sound, we decide to plant our hook at Drake's Anchorage, the first anchorage in the Sound, just behind the reef which runs southeast from Mosquito Rock. Judging by the reef and the color of the water, this must be a particularly good area to snorkel. According to our guidebook, there is a path to the top of Mosquito Island, a hike of 290' --an opportunity to collect photographs and stretch our sea legs.

Right behind the reef a Moor-Secure mooring awaits us and as the wind continues to be brisk we chance the $10 mooring. While Ray and Sue decide to snorkel the reef, we choose to lunch at the resort at Drake's Anchorage.

Afterwards, we debate which decision was best. The snorkeling was great! But the delicious fresh fish lunch was preceded by the infamous "pain killer," a Virgin Islands rum drink, the contents of which is a bit different from one establishment to another.

After lunch we climb into the dingy and make our way to the narrow passageway between Mosquito Island and Virgin Gorda, where we have been cautioned not to enter the Sound. We hear the snorkeling is excellent as there are several shoal areas, one on the southern tip of Mosquito Island and the other at Anquilla Point on Virgin Gorda. While this snorkeling area is similar to the others we have seen, as we have now so often encountered in our snorkeling exploits it is also distinctly different. Here the beauty consists more of unusual rock and coral formations than of fish. As I look up from my snorkeling activities, a 42' Bertram sportfish-is barreling through this shallow spot, passing from the Sound into the Sir Francis Drake Channel. I make a mental note of his route for our return trip.

After about an hour of snorkeling and sunning ourselves on the sandy beach adjacent to the reef on Mosquito Island, we return to the boat to ready ourselves to climb Mosquito Island. Everyone dons sneakers or topsiders. Apparently there are two main attractions on the hiking trail: the top and Honeymoon Beach. When we reach the fork in the road leading to each, we resolve to retrace our steps to the beach after reaching the top. The climb to the top is circular; the brush is heavy but the trail is well marked. With the kids and Ray leading the way and the rest of us huffing and puffing, top is finally reached.

The hike is certainly well worthwhile. From this point we can see some 20 miles in the distance --beyond Prickly Pear Island to Necker Island, which seems to have a solitary mansion on it, and then to the east, the famous "Bitter End" at the end of the Sound (where we hope to go tomorrow), and to the southeast Leverick Bay. The different colors of the water show the reefs. The day is partly cloudy but somewhat threatening.

We make our way down the mountain to the turn in the path that leads to Honeymoon Beach. The path to the beach becomes rockier and finally the beach can be seen some l00 yards away. We settle on a huge rock, some l00 feet above the pounding surf to admire the beauty. Making their way down among the rocks, Ray and Sue decide to swim at the beach while we return to the boat. Only some 200 yards from the Drake's Anchorage Resort, the heavens open up and a torrential downpour engulfs the island. Luckily for us, a little hut with a palm treetop is on the beach and this affords adequate protection.

Ann and I return to the Grand Banks to shower and get ready for dinner. Soon Ray and Sue appear on the beach and the boys run in on the dingy to pick them up at the Drake's Anchorage dock. Once everyone boards the dingy, the engine quits. Ray is quite handy with an engine, but after unsuccessfully working on the problem for about 15 minutes, rows back for tools. Apparently the problem has to do with one of the two off switches on the 8 Mariner; perhaps some of the wiring became wet. Clearly this is a problem for which we are not equipped, and therefore we decide to call La Vida in the morning.

That night, with everyone returned to the boat, we barbecue and settle down for the night by listening to a country music station which we picked up on FM. The wind continues out of the east, northeast. While we have no protection from the wind, the reef breaks the surf.

Day 5 --Tuesday, February 14
The first order of duty on this crystal blue Valentine's morning is to try to start the engine; several pulls at the cord, priming and pumping are to no avail. La Vida maintains a chase boat, but here we are at the farthest point from St. Thomas, and we had even hoped today to go to the Bitter End at the innermost point of the Sound. In any case, there is nothing to lose by calling, and we try to raise Virgin Islands Radio to patch through a collect call to La Vida. While VI Radio did not respond, a "freelance" service managed to put the call through.

La Vida advises that we are, indeed, too far for their chase boat, particularly in the 25 plus knot steady trade winds now blowing; however, they have an arrangement with Speedy's --a repair service --which is located near the Virgin Gorda Yacht Harbour and after some discussion we decide to go there rather than the Bitter End. Actually, we agree this is somewhat fortuitous as there are several benefits if we go into the marina. We suspect our water tanks need topping off, and we are now low on some supplies. Also, reaching the famous "Baths" is a short cab ride from the marina (rather than anchoring outside the Baths and risking a dingy landing at the tumultuous surf).

So, casting off our mooring and remembering where the Bertram had negotiated the shallow waters south of Mosquito Island, we follow that path out to the Sir Francis Drake Channel for the short trip to the Virgin Gorda Yacht Harbour (some 3-4 miles). It is rough in the Channel as the wind has been blowing for days now and its velocity seems to be increasing.

The entrance into the Yacht Harbour is well marked but narrow. In the marina we are directed to a slip. The wind is now gusty; another boat maneuvering nearby loses control and it is broadsided against the bow pulpit of a boat in a slip. Even though the Grand Banks is a heavy boat, and its keel makes it less susceptible to the wind than a planing powerboat, the unrelenting wind --now gusting to 35 knots --will have its way unless the boat is handled with precision. Ray is at the controls, aggressively managing the throttles in order to back the Grand Banks into the slip. This he does with skill.

After tying our lines, our first order of business is to call Speedy and decide whether our stay in the marina should be overnight or for only a few hours. Earlier in the morning the VHF had suggested --when another vessel had radioed the marina to confirm a reservation –that the Virgin Gorda Yacht Harbour is fully booked. However, since the day is windy, we opt for staying if at all possible. I was prepared to plead our case to the marina office, but that is not necessary; we are more than welcome --reservations or not. Price: 70 cents per foot plus $10 for power and another $10 if we intend to use our reverse cycle air conditioning. Given the wind, we hardly think that necessary.

While I make the booking, Ray contacts Speedy's service, and they soon arrive. Speedy and his helper climb into the dingy, prime the engine and pull the cord, and voila --it immediately starts. We explain the intermittent nature of the problem (wet wires can finally dry out) but the "oh, sure" look on their faces shows their disbelief. However, we are now certain it was a wet wire problem and so I tape the loose off switch, hoping to mitigate the problem.

At the marina there are several crewed charter boats. Speaking to one of the skippers, I learn that this winter in the BVIs has been one of the windiest and coolest in recent memory, and the next two days are forecasted to be even more unsettled; we are near a low-pressure area.
That afternoon we hire a car to take us to the Baths. The Baths, large boulders juxtaposed to one another which are washed by the sea, creating unusual pools, are billed as a must stop in Virgin Gorda. Adjacent is a white, sandy beach that is more crowded than other beaches we have visited. Indeed, this is a landmark not to be missed.

Our driver promptly meets us one hour and forty-five minutes later as promised, and we return to the boat –to shower, dress, and then seek some ice cream at the marina. A pint of Haagen-Das is some $5 but well worth it to a group suffering from severe ice cream depravation!

As evening falls we are particularly grateful to be at the marina. The low-pressure area has spun a squall packing winds of up to 50 knots, with a horizontal rain we rarely see at home. That night, our fourth on the boat, we agree to switch accommodations, Ann and I taking the vee berth and Ray and Sue the aft cabin.

Day 6 --Wednesday, February 15
We resolve to have an early start this morning, as this will be one of the longest legs of the trip, unfortunately, one that will bring us closer to St. Thomas and the end of our voyage. We estimate the run will be some 14-15 miles, but we will have a following sea and, who knows, our Grand Banks might get up on plane going downhill!

Without having more days to spend, we have to pass islands we now resolve to visit on the next trip --Ginger, Cooper, Salt, and Peter Island. Our destination is Norman Island, the island thought to be the setting of Robert Louis Stevenson's TREASURE ISLAND. There we will anchor in The Bight, an extremely large protected anchorage, and then explore the caves by dinghy (if our outboard works). The wind and our following seas have churned the Sir Francis Drake Channel which forces 'Soft Shoalders' to wallow. I try not to overcorrect on the steering to keep our ship on course.

As we pass Peter Island, we can see, first, Flanagan Island off of the eastern tip of St. John, and then Pelican Island, northwest of Norman Island. Leaving Pelican to the starboard and Rinedove Rock on the tip of Norman Island to the port, we enter the Bight. There are two main anchorages here, one in the northeastern corner and the other in the south-southwestern portion. While the former seems to be the most desirable, the other visiting yachtsmen seem to be very possessive of not only their space but adjoining space as well. Perhaps this is because the winds tend to swirl. Boats are facing every which way. We decide to anchor, instead, in the southern sector.

This anchorage houses a permanently moored old Baltic trader that has been converted to a restaurant and bar. We anchor upwind of this vessel, near the shore, dropping our two anchors. We let out more scope than usual, not only because we have the room but also the weather continues to be threatening and the VHF has warned the winds may increase tonight.
After lunch we ready ourselves for snorkeling. Off the port bow a large tortoise swims playfully. The snorkeling reveals many fish, including a barracuda, which swims alongside Ray and a stingray with a penchant for hovering at the bottom below our boat.

After snorkeling we shower and don cameras for our dingy trip to the caves off Treasure Point. As we leave the Bight, we are no longer in the lee of the island and the water is rougher. There are four major caves around the Point, with two of them large enough to accommodate our dingy. However, with the seas running the way they are, it will be difficult, if not downright dangerous, to enter the caves. Ray, the most dauntless of our crew, is determined, however, to take on this challenge under power. The sea is surging into the caves, and we time our entrance. With everyone fending off the walls of the cave, we make it.

Ray's VCR camera is going non-stop and my cameras are flashing away. Perhaps the excitement of the caves is the danger under these conditions: what if our outboard gives out again and our dingy is slammed against the rocks7

Of course, we manage to experience the caves unscathed and we emerge into the light with a great deal of pleasure. As we return to our boat, the occupants of the sailboat some 100 yards off our port had taken the opportunity to go about their business in the buff. Our 12-year old boys think it is particularly hilarious and, since our neighbors are well along in their years, we are hopeful that our reappearance will encourage them to return to a more unnatural state, which, thankfully, they do.

We shower and dress. The adults are going to dink over to the William Thornton, the restaurant/bar moored in the Bight --some 200 yards astern of us --for painkillers. Of course, as we dink, a brief squall erupts. We manage to stay mostly dry by making this a quick trip, our dinghy nearly getting up on plane despite carrying the four of us.

The bar certainly has ambiance: several yachtsmen are already soaking up the cheer. Ironically, the first couple we begin to talk with are also from New Canaan, CT., Ray and Sue’s hometown. After a few painkillers, we manage to return to our boat.

The weather forecast for this night is less than cheery: squalls with high winds. We eyeball our anchors. The Bruce is well buried and our Danforth is too. I let out addit1onal scope on the lines. By the time we begin our barbecue, a mini-squall is already beginning to move through so, in the dark, with rain pelting me, I do my best to grill our steaks.

That night the wind sounds like a freight train moving through the Bight. While everyone sleeps, I am up and down checking our position, making sure we are not dragging. Given the velocity, if we ever broke anchor there wouldn't be enough time to start our engines and gain control. Logic dictates I should go to sleep, as there is nothing I can do if such a disaster strikes. Who said boating is logical?

Day 7 --Thursday, February 16
Our last full day. Where to go? Our BVI cruising permit has expired so we decide to return to the American Virgins. We want to try a new anchorage in St. John, perhaps Hurricane Hole on the eastern end, which is just a short hop from Norman Island. However, Catch 22 is operative: we have heard along the way and La Vida has also cautioned us that as soon as we enter American waters we must go directly to Cruz Bay on the western end of St. John to go through American customs. Although, technically, this has always been the law, the continuing battle to eliminate drug traffic has dictated the enforcement of this requirement. Supposedly, if we try to anchor first, or to proceed directly to La Vida, ignoring clearance through Cruz Bay, the boat can be impounded, and we can be fined $2,500 and subject to imprisonment. We comply.

Thus, we will head first for Cruz Bay and then for the night return to our first stop, Christmas Cove, where we had enjoyed the snorkeling. We pass south of St. John and, once outside the lee of Norman Island we are open to the wind and a following sea. We thought the seas would build to a greater degree than they have; after all, the wind blew last night and even now is continuing at about 20 knots. However, the seas are no worse than the ones we encountered leaving the Virg1n Gorda Yacht Harbour.

Once back into the Pillsbury Sound, approaching from the southeast, we pick up Steven Cay outside Cruz Bay and, although it appears one can approach the harbor by passing between the Cay and St. John, the more prudent path is to go around the Cay, leaving it on the starboard. The current is running fairly strong here, and reefs and shoaling run from the Cay to St. John. Cruz Bay is a relatively small harbor, with little docking space and anchoring room. We understand that the Captain may present papers to American Customs, so Ray drops me off with the passports and birth certificates while he trolls around the harbor, waiting. Unfortunately, a ferry has just discharged its passengers and so I wait in line.

Finally reaching the desk, I am advised that ALL my crew MUST appear but since the ferry has now departed from the dock Ray can bring our Grand Banks to the customs dock. A not-too-pleasant, devoid-of-humor lady questions our documents, asking a "trick" question of one of the boys (Will he respond to his middle name?) Sue replies on his behalf and is castigated by the agent for answering the question.) I am then asked to fill out a form for our boat; lots of stamping ensues, and we are finally cleared. This all appears to be completely unnecessary, but we console ourselves with the knowledge that it did introduce us to another port and, the best part of all, no fees were involved.

Back into the Pillsbury Sound, leaving Current Rock to the starboard, we cut to the port and back into Christmas Cove, where our trip began. This afternoon we snorkel at Fish Cay off of Great St. James Island. The outside of the Cay is especially good for snorkeling. Tonight we do some preliminary packing, so we have as much time as possible in the morning for windsurfing, swimming and snorkeling. 'Soft Shoalders' must be back at La Vida by 12:00 noon, but, as we are only a half hour away, by attending to the packing now, we should have most of the morning free.

Day 8 --February 17
This is it. We are dejected. We have coffee in the early morning sun. Of course, it is one of the best mornings of the past several days. The wind is calmer, not a cloud in the sky. So we attend to our planned activities and, at 11:30 am we get underway. As requested by La Vida, we radio some 15 minutes from the dock. A chase boat meets us to pick up our dingy and to deposit a La Vida guide to help us back into a tight slip.

It is hot at the dock. La Vida goes over a checklist with us while we unload our things. They are turning the boat over for another charter that begins the following day. We now have to reimburse La Vida for the fuel. We used the engines, on the average, only a couple hours a day, but the generator was used more often than that. We guess it might be l00 gallons of fuel until we see the port tank topping off at a mere 30 gallons! Finally, only 61 total gallons were consumed in the entire trip. A trawler is indeed stingy with fuel.

A cab is called, and we begin our travail to Kennedy Airport. Next year, we resolve, we will do this again. Who said boaters can't remain best friends on one boat?

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