Walking on Water

Venice is an assault on the senses, but in the best possible way.  Yes, yes, tourists crowd the streets and piazzas as ants cover a pool of honey.  And, yes, there are more eateries and shops per square inch than anywhere else in the civilized world.  But, if your mindset is right, and you've had just the right balance of wine and gelato, you can look past the mobs and merchandise and see the beauty and uniqueness of that Gothic and Byzantine architecture that has moved millions for centuries. 

It is often written that Venice was created out of fear that the crumbling of the Roman Empire would leave the mainlanders easy prey to those nasty Huns and Visigoths. Establishing an offshore, less approachable, community would be a good idea, or so they said. What the history books too seldom recount, however, is that there was another scheme afoot, one more subtle and devious in its design. In fact, Venice was created to instill a sense of humility in what was apparently way too many narcissistic and arrogant navigators of the time. Oh sure, these fellows could navigate the Mediterranean with ease; they could do that blindfolded. But, just let them try to navigate on foot from the Piazza San Marco to the Campo della Madonna dell' Orte. Very humbling. Just when you think you've nailed the perfect route, there's a canal keeping you from getting from here to there and, as GPS devices around the world will tell you, you need to constantly “recalculate.” There are no straight lines of passage in this bewildering city. One must be nimble and flexible in one's approach if one is to avoid a healthy dose of exasperation. Specifically, the phrase, “as the crow flies,” really has very little meaning in this water-filled kingdom.



And so the legacy remains. Today, Venice is a city that among its many wonderful qualities is home to the tourist, head arching upward, eyes dazed, camera lens cap dangling, map unfolded, with an expression of puzzlement and slack jawed resignation wondering, “where the hell are we?” We see all too many shopkeepers being asked for the 14,000th time that same question by these lost souls seeking no more than another Murano glass shop or perhaps the comforts of their hotel rooms. You can tell the shopkeepers immediately; they're the ones wearing the world weary, bored expressions seemingly on the verge of screaming something they might later regret. It is a tableau that M.C. Escher could only dream about. It is all because the city was designed by charter members of the Satanic School of Navigation.



But, I digress. Venice is sinking, we are told. In fact, one recent study concluded that it is sinking five times faster than previously thought. In certain parts of the city, depending on the tides, water overflows walkways and, in some areas, slightly raised wooden walkways have been created to keep everyone’s tootsies dry. In autumn and winter, even the Piazza San Marco -- the geographic heart and soul of this city -- is underwater at high tide. To complicate matters, Venice is moving slowly eastward toward the open spaces of the Adriatic in what perhaps may be its own feeble attempt to escape the millions of tourists that possess it daily. When these overflows occur to the ancient walkways of this city, you can reasonably argue you are walking on water, or something akin to that. 

 

And, so, you ask, if the water poses the problem, then make it your friend, right? Inspired by Lily’s sister, Ann, we decided to see Venice by kayak. After all, who needs vaporettos or gondoliers? Ann, at least, had credentials for this adventure. The rest of us? Not so much. It was not the city’s canals that gave some of us pause; rather, it was (or, at least in our minds it was) the seemingly vast expanse of water we had to cross to get from Certosa, an island across the lagoon from Venice, and also home of Venice Kayak, to the city proper. And, the knowledge that our adventure would have us paddling for three hours. Timing our sprints to dodge the constant onslaught of the high powered vaporettos, we made it to the city, and breathed deeply. From here, the magic began. Wending our way up the residential, non-touristed, areas where the locals live, you could almost hear a pin drop. The only sounds we heard were those of giggling school children and occasionally the sounds of workers unloading goods from their boats. The canal water was not just calm, it was perfectly still allowing clear reflections of the ancient buildings lining the route. Our guide, Loretta, would approach each “intersection” and yell out our approach to potential unseen traffic around the corner lest we be steamrolled. We passed under bridges, some so low I had to duck my head to avoid scraping my nose against the bridge’s underside.



As we proceeded through more touristed areas, people looking down on us from the bridges and walkways would gaze at us with amusement in their eyes, or delight, and some with looks of bewilderment as if to say, “you’re doing what?” Often we would be met with a chorus of “ciaos” from those ashore. Apparently, this is still somewhat a novelty here. No folks, it’s not a gondola, it’s not a vaporetto, it’s a kayak! And, so it went as we made our way down the Grand Canal, under the Rialto Bridge and down toward Piazza San Marco. We even had to hold up to let a monstrous cruise ship, at least ten decks high and the size of Wyoming, pass by us before we could begin our trip back to base. Did we bump into walls and other boats along the way? Sure. Was it not until we were through at least a third of our journey that I was advised I was using my paddle backwards? Yes. Did my back ache and my hands get scraped by a totally unorthodox paddling style? Sadly, yes, this is true.



But, we were walking on water and it felt wonderful.

Going Home

Deep in the last century, Thomas Wolfe wrote “You Can't Go Home Again,” and, of course, he was right. The thousands of pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that was our lives have long since been scattered to the winds never to be reclaimed, at least not in a way that we remember them. Too much has changed, too many people from those days have moved on, too much has been forgotten. But sometimes, if we're lucky, we can catch a glimpse of what was, and sometimes it can seem incredibly real and incredibly immediate. Such was my good fortune recently when I visited my boyhood home in White Plains, New York. What I hoped would be a glimmer of my past turned out to be as close to time travel as anything I am likely to experience in my lifetime.  

It has been on my bucket list for some time to return to my old home. I'm not sure why, really. Likely a nice blending of sentimentality and curiosity. As it is for so many, the home in which we spent our childhood has a special place in our hearts. The memories are sweet; there's a certain serenity and warmth associated with it. We were young and felt protected. And, with those thoughts in mind, I wrote a letter to the occupants not knowing who they were. After all, my family left the house a half century ago. In the letter, I introduced myself, explained my interest and included copies of some old photos showing me as a child in front of the house to prove my bona fides. I was delighted with the response which was both prompt and enthusiastic. What I had not bargained for, or remotely considered, was that the folks to whom my parents sold the house a half century ago still lived there. I was stunned. And, that fact added to my urgency in making the visit that I had long hoped for. Lily and I had a long planned visit to the New York area to visit close friends and the opportunity to re-visit the past now beckoned.  

We headed up to White Plains with our friends, Tom and Ellen. Our path took us up the Bronx River Parkway, a scenic, bending and generally lush path through Westchester County that I recalled with such great fondness from my youth. We passed through Mt. Vernon, Bronxville, Tuckahoe, and Crestwood each mile seeming more and more familiar to me. When we ducked in to White Plains, there was so much I did not recognize. The city has exploded from what was once a nice suburban outlier to now a thriving metropolis with soaring towers, wide boulevards, and a host of gleaming new buildings. Ah, but the street names were the same, and as we worked our way from downtown to my old neighborhood, I ticked off all those very familiar, but long lost, guideposts: Main Street, South Lexington Avenue, Martine Avenue, Post Road, Bryant Avenue, and then Ogden Avenue. As we approached my old block of Ogden Avenue, I was caught up in a euphoria we don't often get to enjoy. And, when we reached the block on which my old house stands, I realized I was holding my breath. How do you explain to someone what it's like to have memories come to life? To take form and move and not just be imprints that you have held inside for decades.  

I got out of the car and was met by Amy, the daughter of Irving and Rita – the home owners. I must tell you that when I entered the house it took my breath away. I touched the walls as if they were life forms, not just wood and plaster. It was all the same as when we left it. Yes, the walls were different colors, but the structure was the same. It was an emotional moment for me. Irving and Rita spoke of Sam (my father) and Susan (my sister) as if they had seen them just a week ago, like time had never passed. They invited me to take the tour, and, as I did, I noticed certain things. There was a wall sconce in the living room that was there when we lived there. I used to remove the light bulbs when my parents weren't home, use the sconce as a basket, and would crumple up a wad of paper as a basketball and play games that were feverishly real to me. I pointed to the old cabinets in the living room which were still there and laughingly said that one of them was my folks' liquor cabinet. They advised me it was theirs as well. In the back, behind the living room, was what we called the TV room, and it was still called that so many years later. They asked me if I remembered the dining room wall paper, and I did. It was coral with images of a white leopard. That paper was gone from there, but they opened the hall closet and there it was – the same wallpaper – lining the closet. Upstairs, my bedroom was exactly the same as when I left it, except for the furniture. The wood paneled walls, the cabinets, the shelves – all the same, never altered. I sat on the bed and looked out over Ogden Avenue and a thousand micro-memories flashed through my head like so many life-filled electrons jabbing at my memory bank.  

Even the bathroom, now one of the most changed rooms in the house, brought back a memory long lost to me. When I was a boy, I was plagued by a bronchial condition that often would compromise my breathing. It provided me with the scariest of moments I can recall from my youth when I was not sure where my next breath was coming from. In those dark moments, my parents would usher me into that bathroom where they had turned on the shower to create a steam room atmosphere in the hopes it would ease my breathing. In one such episode, I recall being there with my father and I told him I couldn't breathe. He gave me a long kiss which I realized years later was because he thought, in that moment, he was losing me; that I was dying. I hadn't brought back that memory in decades, but there it was.  

On the way out of the house, I stopped to acknowledge the Japanese maple tree in the front yard. We had planted that tree so many years ago, and, as a child, I watched it grow as I did and marveled when it surpassed my height on its way to a glory I could only imagine. Now, it is fully mature. It towers over the yard with a massive trunk and boughs reaching upwards, far away. In what I can only characterize as an impromptu moment of perfect blending between sentimentality and anthropomorphism, I found myself giving the tree a hug and giving the bark a kiss. Clearly, I was lost in the moment.  

I said good-bye to the wonderfully gracious Irving, Rita and Amy and returned to the real world.

But, what a memory.

Jake Shimabukuro

Tell me something. When was the last time you listened to someone perform music and you were genuinely excited by what you were hearing? I’m not talking about just loving the music or being nicely entertained -- that's common enough -- but being riveted by what you were experiencing. Enraptured, not merely attentive. Where you would stare unblinkingly and listen without the slightest distraction at what was unfolding before you, allowing yourself an occasional “wow” or “whoa” in a barely audible soft whisper. This is what we experienced the other night listening to Jake Shimabukuro.

And, if I were to tell you that Jake’s instrument is the ukulele, you would scoff just a bit, wouldn’t you? I know I would were I not familiar with his wizardry. In my life, the ukulele is one of those instruments I have always associated with cutesy island folk tunes, and, for those as old as dirt as I am, the insincere pawings of an old Arthur Godfrey in television’s early days. An instrument, fairly or unfairly, dismissed as not worthy in a conversation about serious music or serious musicians.

The setting for this musical magic was this year’s Spoleto festival here in Charleston. Jake was slated to appear at the cistern at the College of Charleston, as wonderful a venue as you are apt to find. The cistern is the college’s quadrangle, the outdoor space that is draped in the overhanging boughs of live oaks and that holds an ancient building at its head whose façade on performance nights is lit from below in colors arching skyward. On other days, the cistern hosts graduation ceremonies, on others it is a favorite gathering place for students who loll in the shade with friends or books. On this night, however, all this was in doubt as Lily and I took cover from a downpour that we were certain would lead to a cancellation, or, at a minimum, the relocation of this event to somewhere indoors. We wandered over to the cistern under a borrowed umbrella and were surprised to hear that expectations were that the show would go on with the storm front sliding to the east. Towels were handed out by event staff to dry the seats, and, as the rain subsided even further, the crew came out to sweep collected water off the stage, and to set up the lighting and sound equipment. The crowds drifted in, looking skyward, as amazed and delighted as we were to know that the show would, indeed, go on. The event’s master of ceremonies pointed to the emerging stars and the moon.

What followed for the next hour was a kind of brilliance that most of us are not often fortunate enough to witness. Jake Shimabukuro, alone on the stage, showed us that this reputedly modest and lighthearted instrument had some secrets of its own lurking behind those strings. Ambitions of greatness. The ukulele (or, as Jake pronounced it, the “ookelele”) looked tiny in his hands, just enhancing the image of this instrument as one not to be taken seriously. It appeared as a toy, perhaps a starter instrument for a 7 year old. But, then he began to play.

Whether he was performing Adele‘s “Set Fire to the Rain,” or Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” or George Harrison’s “As My Guitar Gently Weeps” or the Japanese “Sakura, Sakura,” or bluegrass, Jake coaxed sounds out of this little instrument that defied not only expectation but logic. Alternatively, we heard beautifully rounded tones ridiculously deep in character, and soaring riffs that made you feel as if you were taking flight just as the music was. Jake’s fingers were a blur as they slid among, and up and down, the strings, sometimes sliding down inches from his right hand to produce impossibly high notes that surely would have cocked Mojo’s ears. In his rendition of “Sakura, Sakura,” the ukulele was once again transformed, this time into the Japanese koto, the traditional instrument used to play this song. Close your eyes and you just knew that was not the ukulele producing these notes. No way. In those numbers where the intensity of the music grew, Jake would slap at the instrument rhythmically while never losing the song, creating a percussive backdrop that -- once again, if your eyes were closed -- you’d swear was the product of more than one instrument. Amazing. Electric.

At the end, the crowd flew to its feet. Polite applause would simply not do. The crowd’s whistles, wild cheers, and unrestrained smiles said it all.

Are We in Heaven?

It was one of those special moments you know you'll always remember even as the moment is barely unfolding. Sitting on a beach gazing out on what most of us would normally associate with a travel magazine cover. You know – the silky white strand of beach arching in a graceful curve around a bay with an array of pearl white boats floating atop a pale turquoise sea. In my case, I was still smiling from the beach bocci game Jesse, Brian, and I had played improvising with coconuts as our Caribbean sporting equipment. Jesse and Laura had strolled down the beach and perched themselves side by side on top of a large volcanic rock in the shallows taking it all in; Lily was out there blissfully snorkeling; Alex and Brian were on the boat seemingly almost within earshot of where I sat making last minute preparations to swim ashore and join us. There was a slight breeze, just enough to take the edge off a hot sun. In a dream world, there would be some really cool music playing, but the visuals were more than ample to create a longlasting impression. The thing of it is, there would be many such moments that week.

It was Lily's idea, really. What we had been looking for was a Caribbean version of the “Blue Cruise,” an informal small boat cruise popular in Turkey that hugs the coast line and lets you spend a week in barely more than your swimsuit. We wanted to include Jesse, Laura and Alex and re-create what we found two years ago and almost 6 thousand miles east. Failing to find that, Lily thought why not rent our own boat and sail it around the British Virgin Islands (the BVI)? A great idea, right? Except for the fact that we know as much about sailing as we do about training camels. Yeah, yeah, we know there's a port side, a starboard, a fore and aft. But, it pretty much falls apart after that. And, then came the stroke of brilliance. Let's hire Jesse's good college buddy (and wedding groomsman), Brian to be our skipper. Brian agreed in less time than you can say Cruzan Rum and we had a deal. Brian, among other things, a sailing instructor at the College of Charleston, had no doubts about his sailing skills, but there were these lingering issues of being trusted to skipper a boat he had never sailed in strange waters and with a crew that would never be mistaken as – how you say – knowlegeable.

Arriving in Tortola, we got briefed on the do's and don'ts of boat operation by the folks at Conch Charters who, amazingly, trusted us with their vessel. We learned about battery power issues, motor maintenance, communications requirements, trash collection, and the all-important toilet operation rules. And, then, as if handing over the keys to the family car to a 16 year old, they cut us loose to do our worst in exploring the BVI. I was thinking these guys must have fantastic insurance coverage. Our boat was the 43 foot catamaran, the “Hazelnut,” a sadly inadequate name, we thought. Four cabins below, each with its own bathroom. The cabins were tightly structured; some might reasonably call them crypt-like. The bathrooms were about the size of a medium sized phone booth, but complete with sink, toilet and hand-held shower. The deck, however, was perfect. An interior salon with table and wrap around seating, an outdoor seating area of similar design, and a forward lounging area of trampoline-like netting that was strung between the boat's twin hulls. The boat's galley had a propane stove, neatly stored shelving for plates and glassware, and a refrigerator that would prove adequate if not exemplary. There was a nice recessed storage area for what seemed the 900 bottles of rum, gin, tequila and wine that we felt were essential to this journey. And, the food! When our provisions arrived, we surely believed we had enough food to nourish Luxembourg for at least a day. Fresh fish, hamburger, cold cuts, cheese, pate, game hens, an array of fruit, carrots, potatoes, canned goods, celery, coffee, eggs, bread, juices, mustards and mayo, crackers, chips, chocolate, nuts, and so much more. We were literally awash in food that was now spilling over and out of every possible storage square inch. We would not go hungry.

My concerns stemming from our ignorance of all things nautical were vastly overwrought. Brian, with his anxieties seemingly well under control, proved not only to be an able skipper, but the perfect one. Calm and trusting, skilled and incredibly conscientious, Brian had us learning sailing's basic skills quickly. Laura became a first-rate knot maker on the lines. Jesse and Alex did their duty as sail raisers, and Jesse became an ace on retrieving mooring buoys. Each of us would take turns at the helm with Brian diplomatically hinting that maybe we might take it a bit more “left” or “right” as the need arose rather than trying to lure us into his more proper sailing lexicon. Alex and I manned the kitchen with Alex spilling out first-rate breakfasts, and the two of us crafting lunches and dinners that would not disappoint. Jesse learned the idiosyncrasies of the grill in no time. And, naturally, Jesse declared himself “Captain of the Dinghy,” a title even less lofty than it sounds.

The days flew by as we made the rounds up the protected channel between Tortola roughly to the north and Norman, Cooper and Peter Islands to the south along with Virgin Gorda. Taking the turn around Tortola , we made our return via Marina Cay and, lastly, Jost Van Dyke, home to the regionally epic night spots, “The Soggy Dollar” and “Foxy's.” During the day, it was snorkeling along the reefs, swimming off the boat, reading, the occasional onshore jaunt to visit beach bars or just walk the shoreline. As we worked into the late afternoon, the call went out for cocktails. A word here about what appears to be the national drink of the islands: “the painkiller.” A seductive mix of crème of coconut, pineapple juice, a dark rum or two and fresh nutmeg grated on top. It is hard to say how many of these beauties we slurped down in one week, but I think I spotted a palm leaf this morning trying to emerge from my scalp. They are delicious; they are ubiquitous; and, once you start there are easier things than this to stop. We were introduced briefly to the painkiller upon our arrival, but our first real submerging into them was at a curious place called “Willy T's.” Willy T's is a bar that is also a boat. You can only get there by water which means you either tie up there or swim there. Let's call its atmosphere.... festive. Folks are there to have a good time and, at least that evening, there seemed to be several ways to achieve that, enough so that parents who happened upon the place with their young kids pretty much ushered them to “safety” off the boat as things got a bit louder and a bit raunchier. I am told by Jesse and Alex that I overtly declared my intentions to mingle and get to know the crowd better. I have no particular recollection of this. What I do recall is a couple of oaths taken by Alex before we boarded Willy T's that may have set the tone for that evening, if not the rest of the trip. In his best island lilt, Alex announced his plan to go “HAM” for the trip which translates to “go hard as a motherf**ker,” and his proclamation that, “I want to be banned on this island by the end of the night.” I recall his saying these things as he rolled out his eyepatches, pirate earrings, temporary tatoos, and the always indispensible inflatable pirate sword that he brought with him in preparation for this adventure.

When we were not out for the evening, it was game time: scategories, charades, hearts games. Scategories, in particular, got the juices flowing as we energetically immersed ourselves in such metaphysical debates as whether among the things you see at a circus that start with the letter H could be hippies. Alex strenuously argued in the affirmative; the rest of us said no. Gypsies, maybe, but not hippies. Alex argued that gypsies were only a more contemporary form of hippie, that they were really the same phenomenon; we said no, gypsies are gypsies and they begin with the letter G, not H. And, so it went. I'm sure the painkillers added nothing to the enthusiasm and laughter that accompanied these activities. And, Jesse was always there to pose imponderable hypotheticals. Like, “what would you rather do, spend a year alone on one of these small, unpopulated isolated islands, or spend the rest of the vacation this week in Alex's bathroom onboard?” Hmmm, let me think about that one a bit.

We have been on so many great trips around the globe with Jesse, Laura, and Alex that it is hard to single out one that surpasses them all. But, we seemed to come to a consensus that this one may have been the best. I thought about this a lot afterwards and have a theory as to why this trip was so memorable, so thoroughly enjoyable. With other trips we have done, the focus has always been on where we are whether that might be the Tuscan countryside, the Portuguese coastline, or the exotic offerings of Indonesia. Here, though, while we were in a fabulous environment offered up to us by the BVI, the location was incidental. Rather than being wonderfully distracted by the sights and sounds of these places, we were focused instead on each other. We lived on a boat that created, when you think about it, a very intimate experience where we were never more than a few feet from one another. As a result, far more time was spent in conversation whether it was about jobs, travel, books, movies, common friends or past adventures or misadventures. It was far more personal this way. Second, when on the boat, there is really very little to do. If you're not reading or swimming, you're interacting with someone, and so the focus once again is on who you're with, not where you are. I think we all loved that about this trip whether or not we were conscious of the reasons that enabled it.

On our last night on the boat before returning to Tortola, we all found ourselves laying out on the netting at the prow of the boat that connected the two hulls. There was a full moon, lots of stars. There was a slight breeze, the air temperature perfect. The rum and gin, and a week's worth of incredibly satisfying vacation, had us tired and mellow. In my head I recalled something I had said earlier in the week after a glorious day when I posed to everyone and no one, are we in heaven? I closed my eyes, not to nap, but to take it all in one last time.

Yeah, we were in heaven.

Traffic Court

I woke up in a cold sweat. It wasn't yet 6 a.m., but in my nightmare-addled brain it was high noon, believe me. In the dream, I was at a function of some sort with nameless, faceless people, but I knew I would need to leave to permit enough time for me to get home, shower, and change into some decent clothes. I had a date in traffic court and needed to get ready. But, I noticed that way too suddenly I was almost out of time. No time to get out of my running gear, no time to shower. Just enough time to get in my car and drive to court. Feverishly racing around the multi-tiered parking lot, I could not find my car. It was not where I would have sworn I parked it earlier. Incredibly frustrating. Infuriating, actually. The seconds ticked away in my head as if they were gongs from a huge hammer. At some point, I knew I had to abandon the car – which had my wallet and speeding ticket inside – and make a run for the courthouse. As I got to the street, my moves were exactly what they would be if I were trying to run while at the bottom of a pool. Agonizing, slow motion, not nearly fast enough to keep up with the warp speed that my brain was moving. I woke up staring breathlessly at the clock.

Such was the effect my pending court date had on my psyche. It's not as if I was up for grand theft auto; no, just speeding. We've all been there, right? Maybe not in traffic court, but on the high end of the dial, so to speak. I had been traversing the Island of Palms Connector this past January, the bridge that takes you from the mainland to the barrier island where we live, and there wasn't a car in sight in my lane. The radio was blasting its coverage of the South Carolina primary which was going to take place the next day. I was paying absolutely no attention to my speedometer, just stories of Newt and Mitt and Rick. When I noticed a car in the oncoming lane make a whiplash worthy u-turn, and pull up close behind me, I knew instantly I was in trouble. Let's just say I was heading over the bridge closer to warp 3 than to the posted 55 m.p.h. speed limit. When the officer pulled me over as I got over to the island, he strolled up to my car and asked, “Is there an emergency I need to know about?” I couldn't bring myself to conjure one up so I went to Plan B which, essentially, called for a generous amount of groveling. To no avail, of course. The officer advised me this was “an arrestable offense” seeing as how I was clearly trying to take flight without having first filed a flight plan. He wrote me a ticket for a king's ransom, but suggested I go to court to see if maybe the judge might uncharacteristically take pity on me and lower the ransom a trifle.

My court date arrived. I decided not to go in a suit – too presumptuous and, frankly, virtually unseen on this island. I went with a respectable dress shirt and a pair of khakis: Isle of Palms formal, you might say. I'm not sure what I expected, but I was stunned to see the hearing room filled to the rafters with other similarly nervous looking individuals. I roughly counted close to 60. Young, old, white, black, male, female – the gang was all there. My first thought after seeing this almost standing room only crowd was to wonder why I had been obsessing about what I should wear. I'd say a good handful of people looked like they had every intention of going surfing as soon as they could see daylight again. Others were just in shorts and t-shirts. Bluejeans abounded.  There was an occasional tie but I attributed that more to the fact these were working folks making what they hoped would be a short stopover on their way to work rather than folks dead set on trying to charm and impress a judge.

As I watched the slow procession of one after another plead guilty and make exactly the same arguments I had painstakingly thought through in my own mind the night before, I realized I needed to understand that: a) this would not be an opportunity for an oral argument as I had known in my legal career, and b) it probably wouldn't matter what I said whether I could have one minute or twenty to make my pitch. Brevity was the key. My nerves danced like a horde of gremlins inside my head and stomach. My heart pounded. When the judge suggested to one lady that she ask for a continuance to get a lawyer since she faced possible imprisonment, my stomach did a nice little jackknife and my heart skipped several beats. He wouldn't do that to me, would he? I did note that all the speeding cases that preceded mine were for violations far milder than what I would have to account for, allowing my head to make all the crazy assumptions of what would happen to me. By the time my name was called, I was fairly certain that I faced exile and that I would be branded a terrorist.

I approached the podium and listened as the officer I had unfortunately crossed paths with this past January recounted for the judge the charges against me. I had a notion that things might not go swimmingly when the first thing the judge said to me was – and this is a direct quote – “Let me get this straight. Were you driving or were you flying?” Thinking it better not to respond with a joke, I assured him I was driving. I whizzed through my story, and the judge just stared at me for too long a moment. He spoke and ruled. My fine would be reduced a tiny bit, but, as a gesture of goodwill, he would lower the number of points that would go on my record. He sort of obliquely mentioned my good attitude and politeness as grounds for his largesse.

Learning in advance from my neighbor, Brian, that payment of any fine in traffic court here would need to be made in cash, I had stuffed my wallet with all the 20s the ATM could spit out. I could not fold the wallet to get it in my pants pocket.

Now I can.

Best in Show.....Almost

We all know what pandemonium means. It's a commonly heard term often used to describe scenes of chaos or mayhem. To those with a literary bent, Pandemonium was the capitol of Milton's hell in Paradise Lost. For most of us, though, the term conjures up images of things run amok, a place of wild confusion often accompanied by loud noise. But, these are all merely calm reflections of book learning, not grounded in personal experience. Well, for us, all that changed this morning when we followed through on my plan to enter Mojo into this year's annual Isle of Palms Dog Show. While we had once attended this event before we had Mojo, that was as observers – neutrals, you might say. This time we were in the trenches, combatants you might say. We now are quite sure we know what pandemonium is.

The lead up to this day was innocent enough. I shampooed Mojo yesterday after returning from the beach, trying with greater zeal than normal to squeeze out whatever sand still lurked in those pesky undercoats of his. I never shampoo Mojo; it just seems like wasted energy since I know he'll be back in the ocean in literally a matter of hours. But, yesterday he got the royal spa treatment: the massage, a fluffier towel than normal, a careful wiping of the face to remove drool and errant sand particles, a good brushing. He was ready. Or, so I thought.

We arrived at the Isle of Palms Recreation Center to be met by an avalanche of canines. They were everywhere: there were puppies, german shepherds, labs, goldens, poodles, dachshunds, pomeranians, ridgebacks, greyhounds, danes, hybrids of all shapes and sizes, and a vast array of undecipherables. All were excited. You simply cannot imagine how many leashes became fabulously intertwined in mere seconds. Some dogs took this all in quite evenly; others less so. There were plenty of growls, but the growls were far outnumbered by the number of wagging tails, including Mojo's. I would guess there were in excess of 100 dogs there. Some were dressed in costumes for the all-important “best costume” category. (A word on the competition's categories. No, this was not Westminster. This was the people's dog show. This is why there were categories such as “most ear resistible ears,” “cutest puppy,” “best eyes,” cutest name,” “biggest breed,” “smallest breed,” “cutest unidentifiable breed,” and best male and female rescue dogs, where Mojo would do battle. Trust me, Westminster is safe as a pinnacle in the pantheons of dog showdom.)

Just getting through the registration process was hair raising. Because Mojo was intent on smelling everyone's butt as if it were a time trial to do this, I must have turned four or five lurching pirouettes as I neared the table to sign in and receive my instructions for what was to follow. It was as if the dogs had all simultaneously gotten their get out of jail card and were hellbent on partying like there was no tomorrow. Sniffing, growling, licking, barking, yipping, humping, jumping, rolling were everywhere. I was a bit out of my element.

Somehow the master of ceremonies got folks' attention (less so the dogs') and the competition was underway. Our group – best male rescue – was up second. Ten in the group. The MC came along with a mike and asked each of us the story of how our dog had come to be rescued. I told them all the story of Mojo getting tossed from a truck as a small pup and getting rescued by a hunter who saw it all happen and how Mojo was now the happiest dog on planet earth. A pretty compelling story, but as the MC went down the line, each owner in turn had an incredible story of saving his or her dog from euthanasia in the nick of time or snatching them from an abusive environment. All great stories, all heartening. In fact, when the crowd was asked how many owned rescued dogs, I'd say about 80% of everyone there raised their hands. But, now it was in the judges' hands, the three ladies sitting with clipboards assessing who knows what. They announced the third place finisher, then the second. And, then the winner of the group.....Mojo! Blue ribbon, an inscribed dog bowl, a gift certificate, dog treats – the whole enchilada. I was immediately filled with excitement, and in an odd way, pride. Really, not at all unlike seeing one of your children winning a spelling bee or prevailing in a big soccer game. All Mojo wanted in that moment was another piece of Puppy Crack, the wonderful dog treats sold by our neighbors, Brian and Jan. As far as I could tell, Mojo's zone of interest consisted solely of dogs and treats, and who can blame him?

Because we won in our class we had to stick around for the awarding of the best in show prize where, once again, Mojo and ten others went on display for the judges. By now, most of the dogs were actually quite calm, their bodies now completely drained of adrenalin. They announced the winner, a beautiful German Shepherd from a group I simply do not remember. It was a blur. One of the judges came up to me afterward and said softly, “I was outvoted” as if to furtively suggest that Mojo got one of the three votes for best in show. That would have been great, of course, but after two hours of pandemonium what we wanted most was our exit visa.

Back to the beach tomorrow, big guy. Hopefully, that blue ribbon is waterproof.

Getting Laid Back, Mexican Style

Yelapa, Mexico isn't an island although it might as well be. Tucked in to a protected cove about an hour south of Puerto Vallarta, it is – for most normal folks – only reachable by water taxi. Technically, you can get there overland, but that would take the courage (or, more likely, insanity) of a dirt bike or the heartiness of an avid and intrepid hiker to traverse the steep and wildly verdant hills that surround it away from the water. But, as we shall see, Yelapa is more than just a boat ride away from Puerto Vallarta; it's decades away. As P.V. is awash in high rises, Starbucks, and a jumble of high octane traffic patterns, Yelapa is – how you say – as distant in character as Neptune is from New York.

We began our journey on the shores of Boca de Tomatlan, a sleepy village with steep cobblestoned streets. It was here that we intentionally awaited our water taxi long enough to enjoy a beachside treat of octopus (pulpo) empanadas and a nifty seafood salad of shrimp, octopus, and avocado that had a freshness that could only come from a concoction created a moment before we devoured it. The water taxi was not much more than an oversized rowboat, if you ask me, but one with a surprisingly hefty outboard that would throw up rooster tails that might be the envy of many a jetskier. Along the way, we pass jungle worthy terrain and the entertaining sight of pelicans perched on idle boats, a man-made respite from the rolling surf. Forty-five minutes later, we landed on the beach at Yelapa and jumped into ankle deep water. I really don't think I had ever had the experience before of dragging my rolling bag through the sand, but that was the only option to getting the bag to our hotel, the Lagunita.

At the hotel reception, a small and preposterously unpretentious outcropping, we meet Luke, the hotel's owner. Luke, like may here, is an ex-pat. He is from the Chelsea section of New York, and is as charming as he is laid back, and he is very laid back. Luke gives me the big picture of Yelapa and I have this sense that he is always just moments away from a yawn. In addition, I can't get out of my head how his hooded eyes remind me way too much of Javier Bardem's in “No Country for Old Men.” He gives us our room key, instructions on where to refill our water bottles, and an invitation to breathe slowly and deeply. Our room – our pelapa – is a bungalow about 7 feet from the beach with a thatched, and very high, vaulted ceiling and “windows” that have no glass, just some more thatching that serves as openings to the world, both in terms of climate and animal life, that can come and go as they wish. Our bathroom is tiled with rounded ceilings and an oddly attractive mottled paint job that might well have been done by Jimmy Hendrix in the days before he hit the big time. At night, all that separates you from the outside world is a simple hook to keep the door closed, not what you would normally find, say, in New York.

The bar and the restaurant are in the sand. What we find there is a fabulous assortment of seafood salads, ceviche, guacamole, burritos, enchiladas, fish tacos and a good bit more. And, of course, the Pacifico beer, margaritas, tequila shots and – my personal favorite – the Cuban rums. The sand is very tactile to the touch – a natural exfoliant.

It would be a shame not to share this grand escape with others, and we have done that. We are joined by Jesse and Laura on the lam from Denver and the daily dosing of stress and grind in their lives. They're ready. They meet us a few hours after we arrive, and the party begins.

As P.V. is of modern times, Yelapa is most defintely third world. No streets as such, just walkways. No cars, no banks, no ATMs. Our room at the Lagunita brandishes no TV or phone. Ah, but there is wi-fi, at least if you locate yourself within ten feet of the hotel office. As tourist meccas go, this one is one step above primal. When we walk through town, we are met by quaintness and unadorned local flavor: there is far more hanging laundry than souvenir shops, far more kids playing with homemade toys than glitzy boutiques. There are a few restaurants and a disco, but not the sort that would attract the Michelin Guide. Credit card usage is rare enough here that a few businesses advertise their openness to this form of mercantile behavior as if it's a novelty. As you venture away from the shoreline, you get a grip on how steep the environment is. The paths work their way upward, sharply. At the end of one is a waterfall high and scenic with a pool of clear and cold mountain water. Jesse dives in and gets the full treatment as the fall's pounding onslaught massages his head and shoulders.

There really isn't much to do here other than what Luke advertised: the opportunity for deep breathing and relaxation. A Canadian group from the Yukon we run across at the hotel is there for a week of yoga and, after a fashion, dancing. Amusingly, the signs for dogs to be on leashes is totally ignored as mongrels of a thousand sorts roam the beaches, often playing with each other in the ocean shallows. Horses appear on the beach. Paragliders sometimes appear. For mortals like us, we find contentment in our beach reading, our raucous hearts games, speed scrabble, and dips in the cenote-styled pool which hangs over the ocean like the best of infinity pools.

A person could get used to this, no?