I’ve taken to the pool. It was a reluctant embrace. I’m a runner, not a swimmer. But, an assortment of back and hamstring ills drove me to do whatever I could to fulfill my need for exercise in the morning. The problem is I am very slow. I imagine a visit by the folks from the Guinness Book of World Records informing me that I am the third slowest swimmer on the planet, faster only than a 96 year old woman in Brooklyn and an Argentine amputee. There are leaves floating in the pool that, shockingly, seem to keep up with my less than torrid pace.
The thing about swimming laps is that there may be almost no other human endeavor that forces you to be alone with your thoughts for so long. There is truly nothing to distract you unless you consider watching the black tile line on the bottom of the pool a “distraction.” Running is a solitary sport, but at least then your eyes can scan the scenery or, if on the treadmill, you can lose yourself in sports highlights, the news, or the latest culinary concoction from the Food Network. No, the closest things to this experience are those sleepless nights when you lay in bed in the dark and let your brain do somersaults making you crazy with irrational thoughts. So - I’m learning that to be a successful lap swimmer you need to be comfortable in your own skin and okay to be alone with your thoughts. So far, so good.
To keep track of where I am in this monotonous wet universe, I have strangely adopted a system of remembering my lap count by labeling them with a uniform number of a Yankee of ages gone by. Thus, lap 3 is Babe Ruth; lap 7, Mickey Mantle; lap 14, “Moose” Skowren; lap 25, Joe Pepitone, and so on. Yes, I know it’s a bit embarrassing, but it is effective, if juvenile.
I started out doing 10 laps (Tony Kubek). Then got to 19 (“Bullet” Bob Turley), and last week, the much sought after lap 33 (David Wells) which denotes 66 times up and back -- a full mile! Of course, it took me almost an hour and a half to do it. That’s enough time for some empires to rise and fall. But, I was stoked hitting that magical mark. Now, I’m thinking of going for two miles, but the folks here had better turn on the flood lights for that adventure.
It could take me that long.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Corkie and Frank
Corkie and Frank are sweet guys, really. They may seem like they’re 109, but they’re not. Retired military guys: a bit salty but, as they say, true as the day is long. These guys meet every morning at 7 a.m. sharp, and I mean every morning like since the Coolidge Adminstration where they proceed to stroll to the beach figuratively arm in arm (although they’d be embarrassed by that notion). not only can you set your watch by these guys, but they always wear the same thing: Corkie is in his khaki shorts, white polo and green cap while Frank is partial to his faded U.S. Open t-shirt and blue swim trunks. every day. Corkie and Frank are notable for a number of reasons, but in my world, they are noteworthy because of their love for Mojo. They take great delight in seeing my somewhat unruly pup, maybe because as former dog owners they miss their own companions, or maybe because they are just smitten with Mojo.
It has become a ritual, this daily early morning meeting. Mojo knows they’re lurking about because his sense of anticipation is acute. This may be because Mojo likes these guys as they like him, or (as is more likely) it is because Corkie and Frank bring dog treats every day which Mojo looks forward to the way you and I look forward to breathing. If the guys have reached the beach before us, I spend all my efforts in trying to keep my arm from being torn out of its socket as Mojo urges us forward to the beach in much the same way you and I would run if free $100 bills were being given away fifty feet in front of us. To avoid unnecessary surgery, I simply let Mojo off the leash and watch him tear off like the proverbial bat out of hell as he heads for the sand in search of what apparently is the world’s most heavenly and delicious tasty tidbits available to canines. I mean, how good can they be? When Mojo reaches the guys, he sits dutifully -- closer than a shadow -- and waits in frantic anticipation of what comes out of the old guys’ pockets. I hear their laughter as I slowly catch up to this truly comical and endearing scene, and then -- once his dog treat habit has been satisfied -- brace myself for Mojo’s totally predictable fixation on the tennis balls I bring that will exercise his virtually endless desire to chase moving objects.
Not a bad way to start the morning.
It has become a ritual, this daily early morning meeting. Mojo knows they’re lurking about because his sense of anticipation is acute. This may be because Mojo likes these guys as they like him, or (as is more likely) it is because Corkie and Frank bring dog treats every day which Mojo looks forward to the way you and I look forward to breathing. If the guys have reached the beach before us, I spend all my efforts in trying to keep my arm from being torn out of its socket as Mojo urges us forward to the beach in much the same way you and I would run if free $100 bills were being given away fifty feet in front of us. To avoid unnecessary surgery, I simply let Mojo off the leash and watch him tear off like the proverbial bat out of hell as he heads for the sand in search of what apparently is the world’s most heavenly and delicious tasty tidbits available to canines. I mean, how good can they be? When Mojo reaches the guys, he sits dutifully -- closer than a shadow -- and waits in frantic anticipation of what comes out of the old guys’ pockets. I hear their laughter as I slowly catch up to this truly comical and endearing scene, and then -- once his dog treat habit has been satisfied -- brace myself for Mojo’s totally predictable fixation on the tennis balls I bring that will exercise his virtually endless desire to chase moving objects.
Not a bad way to start the morning.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Lost and Found
All in all, it lasted only about an hour, but I swear in my heart it lasted much, much longer. I left Mojo on the deck, walled in (or so I thought) eliminating the possibility of escape. Lily was inside no more than 15 feet away. I ran off to hit some golf balls content that Mojo would be pleased to stay on the deck with a full bowl of water and lots of sunshine. Life is good, right? I returned to find the deck empty and then, to my horror, discovered he was not in the house either. Lily and I went to red alert (more frequently known as panic mode) as we frantically decided to scan the neighborhood and beach, she on foot, me in the car. And, here’s where the stress really ramps up. Is he safe? Has he been taken? Has he left the area? Will he walk into oncoming traffic? Is he suffering in this heat without water? Has an alligator gotten to him -- not an idle worry in these parts. Then the thoughts turn to: Will we ever see him again? He’s such a great dog. How can we lose him so quickly, just as he’s hitting his stride as a member of our family and as part of the larger community here. Can he just disappear into thin air?
After driving the neighborhoods and asking every living soul if they’ve seen a wayward black lab, I head back to the house certain he must be there. It has to be a mistake. There’s no logical explanation for his escape. Nothing but empty, quiet space. He is truly gone. I head to the Community Association which alerts the area security and the local police. I am aware that my mind is working much faster than my consciousness can keep up with it. I am reacting, not really thinking, at least not analytically.
Then the break comes. Lily picks up a phone message from a voice belonging to a young girl who asks that we pick up Mojo as quickly as possible. The problem is the call is from a cell phone and is so garbled we really can’t decipher the words to make out an address or phone number. Infuriating! So frustrating! As I head back to the Community Association for a look at the Directory, Lily calls me and thinks she has figured out the name and address of our rescuers. I call them and a young girl tells me her sister is working her way on foot toward our house. I don’t wait. I get in the car and head in their direction only to spot the rogue Mojo and his ever so young rescuer. She apologizes for allowing him to follow her dogs (an Irish setter and a golden retriever) and for allowing Mojo to roll in the mud. She has cleaned him up the best she can. I spend the next minute falling all over myself to assure her there’s nothing for her to apologize about; that we are very, very grateful for her efforts. I ask her for her name and in an instant forget it. Maybe we will see her again, maybe not. Mojo jumps into the car. I believe he looks guilty, but I might have been reading a bit too much into it.
And Mojo? He’s in the dog house. Big time.
After driving the neighborhoods and asking every living soul if they’ve seen a wayward black lab, I head back to the house certain he must be there. It has to be a mistake. There’s no logical explanation for his escape. Nothing but empty, quiet space. He is truly gone. I head to the Community Association which alerts the area security and the local police. I am aware that my mind is working much faster than my consciousness can keep up with it. I am reacting, not really thinking, at least not analytically.
Then the break comes. Lily picks up a phone message from a voice belonging to a young girl who asks that we pick up Mojo as quickly as possible. The problem is the call is from a cell phone and is so garbled we really can’t decipher the words to make out an address or phone number. Infuriating! So frustrating! As I head back to the Community Association for a look at the Directory, Lily calls me and thinks she has figured out the name and address of our rescuers. I call them and a young girl tells me her sister is working her way on foot toward our house. I don’t wait. I get in the car and head in their direction only to spot the rogue Mojo and his ever so young rescuer. She apologizes for allowing him to follow her dogs (an Irish setter and a golden retriever) and for allowing Mojo to roll in the mud. She has cleaned him up the best she can. I spend the next minute falling all over myself to assure her there’s nothing for her to apologize about; that we are very, very grateful for her efforts. I ask her for her name and in an instant forget it. Maybe we will see her again, maybe not. Mojo jumps into the car. I believe he looks guilty, but I might have been reading a bit too much into it.
And Mojo? He’s in the dog house. Big time.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Mojitos R Us
People are funny when it comes to describing what their vision of heaven is. For some, it’s the proverbial pearly gates, angels cooing, trumpets blaring. For others, it’s whatever their personal vision of what peace and tranquility might be -- maybe a seductive, secluded beach or perhaps an inspiring and cooling mountain lake. My sense is a bit different. For me, it’s an eternal Mojito Challenge of the type just served up here in Charleston, just as it is every year when one’s thoughts turn to tropical drinks.
This year’s affair was set at the Charleston Aquarium, a brilliant choice for a venue when you think about it: a fabulous array of all things aquatic from sharks to snakes to seahorses to jellyfish and all things in between. Plus, the totally pleasurable option of the outside verandas where one can seek refuge from the teeming and wonderfully boisterous crowds who have come to share in the exact pursuit that brought you here -- the perfect mojito. What was once a simple and pleasing concoction of rum, simple syrup and some muddled mint now becomes a feverish (and highly entertaining) smack down among the city’s best bartenders to catch that special edge that will earn them the much sought after bragging rights of the best mojito maker in town.
And, make no mistake about it, these combatants will go to considerable lengths to get your attention. No fruit is left unexplored. You have your strawberry, kiwi, peach, watermelon, passion fruit, and banana, naturally. But, have you wondered what your mojito might taste like with a shot of elderberry, rosemary, cucumber, agave, dragonfruit, or --perhaps most exotic of all -- the yuzu? the yuzu? You know -- a Japanese fruit somewhat resembling the grapefruit. Somewhat. Introduce into this sublime ocean of vitamin C some ginger, a tannic lime meringue, or a poblano infused simple syrup or a simple splash of vanilla and you begin to see how demonic the pursuit of a prize winner can be. No stone is left unturned; no essence is left unexplored.
I concede my judgment may have become a bit clouded after sampling 14 different concoctions. My recollection is that they were all good. Some too sweet. Some too obviously gimmicky. Some bearing absolutely no resemblance to the mojito that inspired this event. But, what a fabulous evening.
Oh. The winner? A zesty concoction from “Coast,” a restaurant that has experienced more than its share of success at this event in the past. This year’s entry: a potion of strawberry, rhubarb and rosemary and -- the clincher -- a shot of strawberry pop rocks thrown in at the last moment that effervesce up your nose for a most memorable and sensory mojito experience. Ta da!
This year’s affair was set at the Charleston Aquarium, a brilliant choice for a venue when you think about it: a fabulous array of all things aquatic from sharks to snakes to seahorses to jellyfish and all things in between. Plus, the totally pleasurable option of the outside verandas where one can seek refuge from the teeming and wonderfully boisterous crowds who have come to share in the exact pursuit that brought you here -- the perfect mojito. What was once a simple and pleasing concoction of rum, simple syrup and some muddled mint now becomes a feverish (and highly entertaining) smack down among the city’s best bartenders to catch that special edge that will earn them the much sought after bragging rights of the best mojito maker in town.
And, make no mistake about it, these combatants will go to considerable lengths to get your attention. No fruit is left unexplored. You have your strawberry, kiwi, peach, watermelon, passion fruit, and banana, naturally. But, have you wondered what your mojito might taste like with a shot of elderberry, rosemary, cucumber, agave, dragonfruit, or --perhaps most exotic of all -- the yuzu? the yuzu? You know -- a Japanese fruit somewhat resembling the grapefruit. Somewhat. Introduce into this sublime ocean of vitamin C some ginger, a tannic lime meringue, or a poblano infused simple syrup or a simple splash of vanilla and you begin to see how demonic the pursuit of a prize winner can be. No stone is left unturned; no essence is left unexplored.
I concede my judgment may have become a bit clouded after sampling 14 different concoctions. My recollection is that they were all good. Some too sweet. Some too obviously gimmicky. Some bearing absolutely no resemblance to the mojito that inspired this event. But, what a fabulous evening.
Oh. The winner? A zesty concoction from “Coast,” a restaurant that has experienced more than its share of success at this event in the past. This year’s entry: a potion of strawberry, rhubarb and rosemary and -- the clincher -- a shot of strawberry pop rocks thrown in at the last moment that effervesce up your nose for a most memorable and sensory mojito experience. Ta da!
Monday, June 15, 2009
Enter Mojo
It was a difficult start. I mean, just imagine: you are separated from your family and friends; you are put to sleep and then awaken only to find that your balls have been cut off; you are in considerable pain; people come to greet you who are total strangers, but who act like they know you; you are whisked off to a strange place; you poop on the floor. Is this not the bottom, or what? And, so it was with Mojo the newest member of our family. Hello!
We should have seen it coming, but the next morning we saw a new dog: tail wagging, plainly happy to see us, eager to get outside to relieve himself there rather than re-enact his performance of the evening before. And, brandishing a furious appetite like any self-respecting lab puppy. We take him to the beach where he freaks out (although not really in a bad way) at the wave action at the shoreline, leaping straight up in the air as if the waves were electrically charged. Forty-eight hours later he is leaping into the waves, again, like any self-respecting lab. He is as black as night, his coat as shiny as a penguin’s. we are told he was thrown out of a car in the back roads of south carolina only to be rescued by a near-by hunter who sees this and who swoops him up and takes him to the local vet. He is fostered by a family and named Miller after the vet who saved him from a bout with parvo, deadly to most puppies.
A word on his name. No, he is not named as a cutsey salute to Austin Powers. Mojo is a throwback to old slave jargon meaning “black magic.” knowing what this little guy has been through, who can argue with that?
We should have seen it coming, but the next morning we saw a new dog: tail wagging, plainly happy to see us, eager to get outside to relieve himself there rather than re-enact his performance of the evening before. And, brandishing a furious appetite like any self-respecting lab puppy. We take him to the beach where he freaks out (although not really in a bad way) at the wave action at the shoreline, leaping straight up in the air as if the waves were electrically charged. Forty-eight hours later he is leaping into the waves, again, like any self-respecting lab. He is as black as night, his coat as shiny as a penguin’s. we are told he was thrown out of a car in the back roads of south carolina only to be rescued by a near-by hunter who sees this and who swoops him up and takes him to the local vet. He is fostered by a family and named Miller after the vet who saved him from a bout with parvo, deadly to most puppies.
A word on his name. No, he is not named as a cutsey salute to Austin Powers. Mojo is a throwback to old slave jargon meaning “black magic.” knowing what this little guy has been through, who can argue with that?
Friday, May 1, 2009
Meeting up with the king
I was about 8 or 9 feet from two 400 pound lions today. they were sound asleep. at first. but, when one of them raised his head, turned, and looked me straight in the eye, my fight or flight impulses raged out of control. it was exhilirating and unnerving all at the same time. I don't recall an event that so focused my senses. while I took the lion's stare with all the gravity owing in such encounters, I must say that the king of beasts was at best bored, and at worst absolutely oblivious. as much as I cared about where I found myself, he could not have cared less. total insouciance! shaun, our guide, was as calm and unconcerned as "big boy," as they called him. he assured us that as long as we didn't approach them head on (which they perceive as a threat), and as long as we didn't stand up or make sudden movements we would be fine. by staying seated, shaun said, the lions would not distinguish us from the land rover, which I guess is not threatening to them. standing up, however, would be a game changer. then, we would be perceived as humans and the rules would change instantly. I must have asked shaun several times about how these "rules of engagement" were agreed to. was there some memo that set all this out that the lions confirmed in some regal signing ceremony? how could he be absolutely certain it would work like this in all cases? in any event, as I sat in the very open and exposed land rover, I tried to become physically and psychically merged with my seat.
shaun stopped the rover and we watched these huge lions for about 20 minutes. I prayed the car would start when it was time to go.
shaun stopped the rover and we watched these huge lions for about 20 minutes. I prayed the car would start when it was time to go.
How to have fun and be nervous at the same time
we experience today what they call a "walking" safari. sounds simple enough. but, then again, maybe not. we are met by our guide, samson, a local tribesman who doubles as our tracker on our morning and evening safaris. I cannot help but notice the large weapon he is shouldering. I begin to appreciate the earnestness of the threat out there when he shows us his bullets which are larger than most toes. we are about to walk out into the bush and samson is our first and last line of defense. on today's walk, it's just samson, lily, alex and me.
samson tells us to walk single file behind him. when I ask why, he calmly tells me it's so he has a better field of vision should he need to shoot an attacking animal. my breathing becomes a bit shallower. alex and I jostle for position to see who can adhere as closely as possible to the back of samson's shirt. lily, however, thinking she's out for a walk on the beach -- head down, looking for the perfect seashell -- lags behind apparently content to become an amuse bouche for a lurking predator.
samson is delightful as he introduces us to his wide ranging knowledge of all things flora and fauna in the bush. under any other circumstance, this would be a joyful experience, but I get a stiff neck craning it in every possible direction checking to see if there might be a 4 legged beast tagging along, stalking. we are told that under no circumstances are we to run if we see one of the big guys: lion, cheetah, leopard, buffalo. apparently, that act rings their dinner bell. thanks for the heads up, samson.
samson tells us to walk single file behind him. when I ask why, he calmly tells me it's so he has a better field of vision should he need to shoot an attacking animal. my breathing becomes a bit shallower. alex and I jostle for position to see who can adhere as closely as possible to the back of samson's shirt. lily, however, thinking she's out for a walk on the beach -- head down, looking for the perfect seashell -- lags behind apparently content to become an amuse bouche for a lurking predator.
samson is delightful as he introduces us to his wide ranging knowledge of all things flora and fauna in the bush. under any other circumstance, this would be a joyful experience, but I get a stiff neck craning it in every possible direction checking to see if there might be a 4 legged beast tagging along, stalking. we are told that under no circumstances are we to run if we see one of the big guys: lion, cheetah, leopard, buffalo. apparently, that act rings their dinner bell. thanks for the heads up, samson.
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