Endless Summer: no one wants to read about endings...

Who Writes about Winter:

My Thoughts on the Close of Summer

Endings are hard. They’re even harder to write about. Discussing writing with my young journalist daughter this week, I told her that the hardest thing about writing for her paper is you have to write something that the reader will stay with, that’s why the lead is so important. But you can’t know what interests the reader; you have to write about what’s interesting.

That’s why endings are frequently the topic of discussion, but rarely enough to hold the reader’s attention in this fast-paced media environment. The writer only gets a few seconds nowadays, either grab them or lose them. Closing a chapter, or the end of an era usually holds significance to those whom were there. For me thinking about a high-school buddy who died too early, or the end of a season is interesting, but not to one who believes the rest of their life is like a long stretch of road melting into an orange horizon.

Often the road takes a sudden turn, or the tires go flat. Until you’ve been caught by circumstance without a Plan B, a startling conclusion to best laid plans is not a realistic alternative. When you’re young, it always happens to the other dude. I graduated from college almost thirty years ago, but at the time it seemed the fun would last forever.

And so here we are at the end of another summer. Summer always offers mystery and adventure, warm weather, warmer memories, time to explore and go through the schedule on a relaxed pace. All the years of summer vacation affect the nostalgic way we view the balmy months of June, July, and August. The unique bookend holidays at each side of summer accent its special place in the cultural calendar, and of course I previously wrote about the special holiday in the middle (see July 4, 2016—e pluribus unum).

Looking back today, on Labor Day, my regrets about this summer do exist on a personal level: I now know that there is no “endless summer” and at the end of the road I often regret that I didn’t pack more into the opportunity. I’m happy that the rest of the family enjoyed some adventures and vacation, but my summer involved mostly work and some back pain. OK, no one wants to read about that, but a path without obstacles has no destination.

So the universal thoughts of this season turn to the weather, food, books, travels, smells, and the long evenings with friends and companions bleeding the last bit of light out of a long, wonderful day. You remember those days? We look back on summer for its freedom, the whimsy of celebrations, the adventure of the journey, but most of all for the warmth and fullness of being alive. 

Spring is glorious for how we wait for its colorful eruption, the resurrection from the dead. Spring is the morning of the year. Fall is self-absorbed, organized, and determined to achieve what we've planned. Fall is less about fun, and more about keeping score. Winter is the dull hibernation, the killing of one year and the re-birth of another. Winter is the end. Not much creative writing about winter. ##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Finally, let me recommend some brilliant writing about this summer which inspired this blog post:

Thank you, Bob Greene for saying it with such class, may my thoughts merely echo yours…

He said so eloquently that the real gift of summer is that there will be another one next year!

http://www.wsj.com/articles/summers-greatest-gift-is-that-next-year-there-will-be-another-1472769683

Scuba diving Part 1: Dive Like You Train, Train Like You Dive

Unencumbered, young, daring, athletic, honeymooning, just plain stupid. What adjective do you use to describe a SCUBA diver? [SCUBA is the acronym for Self-contained, underwater, breathing, adventurer!]

90% of earth’s surface is covered with water, but humans were not designed to be aquatic.  Without packaged air living underwater is impossible for over a couple of minutes. Conversely, fish do not live well on dry land. Is this too complicated?

Diver certification is like learning to be an astronaut; strangely, what becomes second-nature your body, it is not designed to do. Wearing layers of protective equipment, strapping on a weight belt so you will actually sink, and continuously breathing underwater is a very presumptuous act, but it is as freeing an experience one can feel, an audacious activity completely legal.

Training begins in learning the basic standards of the atmosphere underwater and the proper use of all the equipment. After that, teamwork in a pool separates the swimming-Sams from the panicky-Pauls. Surprises and accidents that happen 100 feet below the surface turn into risky, often dangerous circumstances that must be identified, simulated, and practiced. “Best-practices” replaces thrill-seeking, and timid careful routines are learned and repeated so they become rote.

Exploratory diving’s purpose is to get safely to depth and let the ocean wonders float by, then safely ascending so that the diver lives to tell of the exciting sights he/she witnessed. There are no surprises in the procedures, only in the viewing. SCUBA diving is touring God’s oceans as a visitor, or alien; always looking at the clock to see when you have over-stayed your welcome in the fish’s living room.

Life at these depths requires balance. Buoyancy’s balance is achieved slowly and with proper weighting. Once the diver is comfortably gliding through the water breathing calmly; the weightless flight often transports the inner-consciousness to another universe. The unearthly quiet of a deep dive, peering into the abyss is transformative, but it is not without cost.

Early training must instill this search for inner calm and the quiet peace of marine exploration. Anything that encumbers that mission must be rooted out and conquered or the certification delayed. Diving is a grown-up sport one cannot undertake half-heartedly, or casually. Achieving other-worldly joys, floating through the ocean forests, a qualified diver must be disciplined, teachable, and resilient.

Panic kills. Panic is the enemy. It can cause the delay and mayhem that lead to bold mistakes. Panic takes away the enjoyment of the adventure, replacing it with fear, dread, fatigue, and stress. Obeying the standards of certified diving is like an insurance policy against panic. Dive trainers experiment with everything they know in practice to fluster, frighten, and rattle the diver so that in real time under salt water, an unexpected glitch doesn’t cause the diver to freak out. Pre-planning and training for each dive destination is essential; the buddy-system seeks survival because if one diver goes to pieces, the buddy calms her down and assists in recovery of whatever control was lost (like oxygen).

Fortunate to have the wise old divemaster Bill "Sandy" Hardy train me in 1998, I learned the basics for weeks in a pool before I was allowed to do a check-out dive and apply for SSI® certification. That September, he threw us into the harshest of environments on a cold spring day in dark Lake Whitney, Texas, with no underwater visibility. The conditions starkly contrasted the warm water Caribbean diving which dominates the rest of my log book. I am going to dig that thing out and swim through my underwater experiences over the next few installments, without having to travel anywhere, or make a safety stop. Let’s go diving! (Part I)

writing ©Mark H. Pillsbury
pictures are for personal use

See Part II of the Diving Series:
https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3449292245013585645#editor/target=post;postID=2272327813620171355;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=42;src=postname

Part one: Fire and Rain (fiction ripped from the headlines)

Part one: Fire and Rain (fiction ripped from the headlines)

Storm chasers at work:  https://youtu.be/8jWOq3lWvz0

©Mark H. Pillsbury (2011)
[Some material may be deemed inappropriate for less mature audiences]

They were storm chasers, but the spring tornado season was so active with over 100 tornadoes in June, they were looking for a change. After dating a year and working together almost two, Rick and Jessica often finished each other’s sentences. They were Sooners, trained in meteorology in one of the finest departments for weather in the country, schooled in the heart of tornado alley, Norman Oklahoma.

image: Tegtmeier, NSSL

“Jess, why are you so quiet? Aren't you happy to take this cruise?”

Jessica was tall, thin and sweet. She liked the rainbows better than the thunderstorms,and on weekends at FOX25 she “did the weather,” indeed, she was proud during the broadcast when underneath her name sat the big word: Meteorologist. She wasn’t big like that girl in Dallas so many years ago who could block out most of East Texas by turning sideways, however when they split a big royalty check from the Discovery channel for video of the big twister in Millbury Ohio, she did sneak away that summer and get some work done on the second floor, so to speak. Rick loved it, and all her small-screen associates assured her good looks were the way to rise through the ranks, as long as you had talent to team with the girls.

Rick, the hard-charger of the group, founded Tarleton & Associates (or TNA like he loved to snicker when he used initials to name his company) right out of OU. He minored in business, but wanted to chase the biggest storms each spring, film them up-close and hi-def, sell the footage to networks and Cable shows that specialize in high tension reality-TV.

“I only see my cousin one weekend every couple of years, babe; can you try to be nice to me? This is an expensive date we are going on next week.” Jessica had no idea where Liberty County was; maybe she would feel better once they cut through the blue water of the Caribbean Sea.

Even though they had only a Chevy Tahoe and a satellite link to their laptops, Rick usually rode the waves of instability first, and that is where he earned his money. He arrived early at the boundary separating hot, dry air to the west from warm, moist air to the east, known as a “dryline,” and like a wildcat driller, he molded an opinion how the next cloud would play; he then drilled down into the data on the laptop (for which he paid a fortune in subscription fees) in order to back up his gambler hunch. Rick seemed to know instinctively which way to run. Jessica lingered on the idea that despite her love of weather, indeed because she understood them both, her man would have to retreat from the dangerous mistress twisters had become.

His training at OU quickly focused on what produces “meso-cyclones;” an area founded by Ted Fujita more than a decade before Rick was born. Fujita, a Japanese-American scientist, invented the recycling hypothesis of “tornadogenesis” including the spotting of RFD (rear-flank downdrafts) which showed-up clearly on radar as “hook echoes.” Rick read radar as an oil man reads 3D seismic imaging from the Gulf of Mexico; watching the bright hues of his laptop change as the data crunched through his Pentium processor. He used the cell phone to chat with other storm-chasers only when he felt behind in the race, but Rick was usually a front-runner.

Rick’s "Christmas shopping season” was between April and June, and usually the hours of operation were between 4 and 9PM, when big storms heated up. Classic stormchasing occurred in Tornado Alley, an area in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and South Dakota where the proper atmospheric conditions existed in abundance during that time of year. At 10 he watched the movie Twisters, and he was 13 when Doppler radar recorded the fastest wind speed ever measured, 318 miles per hour, in a tornado that hit the suburbs of Oklahoma City, OK, on May 3, 1999. He remembered that storm like a kid remembers how many trophies Michael Jordan collected with the Bulls.

“Why do you squeal like a school-girl when we hit the gas heading up one of those dirt roads? [toward a storm]” Jessica was ribbing Rick, because she knew he loved tornadoes more than she.

“I do not?!” Rick said.

They were headed to a cousin’s ranch in Liberty County to do a little four-wheelin, cat-fishin, and hanging out in the country as they travelled toward Houston’s new cruise ship terminal to jump on a boat. This would be a great opportunity to relax with Jessica and talk about their future. Not surprisingly, he had some very specific plans.

“Maybe it is the adrenalin rush, but when I look across the prairie and see one of those huge grey elephant trunks reaching down out of a supercell,” Rick was excited even in this retelling, “I’m not trying to joke, it pulls me closer!”

“Remember when we dove last year off the wall of Cozumel?” Rick asked Jessica, “The deep blue of the abyss was calling in a way, wasn’t it?”

“Like hell,” Jessica snapped.

“You didn’t see it?” Rick responded. “No,” said Jessica, “I mean it reminded me of the depths of hell and I wanted to go up; I didn’t like it at all.” She continued warily, “if we do this storm thing much longer Rick, it is going to be the end of us.” Jessica went silent, knowing somehow what she said had multiple facets.

Rick was lost in thought. He remembered filming at Millbury and feeling like the trap had ensnared him once, only to thrust through the howling winds back to the truck as Jessica peeled out at a 90 degree angle away from the storm path, fleeing down an anonymous country road.

They pulled up to the ranch house in mid-afternoon, and the mercury was flirting with the century mark. Both of them knew innately that the dewpoint and the air temperature were sticking too close for comfort. Rick piled out their bags and went inside to drink in cold air and maybe an adult beverage, his throat was dry from a long day in the saddle.

His cousin Clay was very different than Rick. He was older, taller, more direct, fearless, graduated as a Texas Longhorn, a Christian, and he usually made a quick shot across the bow to put you off-guard, nevertheless, Rick thought of him as a brother, and was delighted to see him.

After big back-slappin hugs, and Clay popping the tops on chilled Coronas, they settled down on the couch and turned on the satellite television. Rick hoped that Clay would ask him about what was playing on Discovery Channel, but instead he got right to the point, “How long ya’ll been dating?”

Rick and Jessica sort of grinned as they looked at each other like doubles partners in tennis, sending silent messages to each other: "You take-it!"

“Coupla years, Clay, why do you ask?” from Rick. Jessica just chuckled and sipped the cold beer.

“Trip like this almost seems like a honeymoon?” he said sardonically.

“Nope. Just getting away after a busy spring chasing dollars.” Rick was not defensive, but he did not want to get into any of this with anyone but Jessica.

“Do you think what you do together is as dangerous as bullfighting?” Clay continued, unabated.

“What do you mean ‘what we do together?’ Clay?” Rick replied cleverly, still parrying with his cousin.

“Getting right up close to a tornado, is that like snake-charming or Russian roulette?”

photo credit: Reed (1909)

"Many entertainers, pilots, sports stars, explorers, journalists, cops, Marines, nurses, drivers, have to go in harm’s way to make a living, but the natural disaster that is most accessible, shocking, loud, and violent, is the tornado. It does more in 5 minutes than any army. People want to look at it up close, just like they go to the zoo. They pay to stay at a distance," said Rick, continuing, "Aren’t we meeting market demand? There are hundreds of storm-chasers in Tornado Alley?!"

“Does the number go down every year?” Clay sipped as he grinned. “Will you guys, put a car seat in the Tahoe when Junior rides along after the twister?” Jess lit up.

That one went a foot slightly outside the boundary line, but Rick was used to this kind of joking. Most of the time he dished it out more than took it.

Most biting humor is equal parts truth and jocularity.

Eventually they changed into cooler clothing and went down to the little pond at sunset, fishing (casting), talking and drinking; nothing much happened until the sun went down.

Fortunately, Clay brought frozen pizzas from CPK, and plenty of cold-longnecks. There was no more talk of relationships, storms, cruises, business, or Houston. It was time for youthful socializing, talking sports, family gossip; and Clay getting to know Jessica.

Considering all their rustic reminiscing, back to nature fun, listening to music, and staying up late into the night, they were remarkably “unplugged” for their generation. They did not know that burn warnings were up in all the counties around Liberty, and the NWS was under high alert for wildfire. They had no idea that bearing down upon their little chunk of the woods, was a ten-mile wide wall of flame.

This menace did not rain, hail, or spin. Considering how few roads went away from the ranch, even in their wildest nightmares, neither of these kids would be ready for this inferno. It was as if all the devils in hell showed up in southeast Texas, and they were flying in high and hot…

(To be continued… in Part 2)

photo credit: Red Cross