Checking in with the Millennial Generation

What is up with the Millennial Generation?

50 million Millennials span the ages of 18-30 (they were born after 1982). They are more tech-savvy than any other group and they voted for Barak Obama at a 2-to-1 ratio of other generations. 


They are self-confident but unlike baby-boomers, not morally superior. They may be better educated because of the stiff headwinds they faced during the Great Recession. Many Millennial youngsters are still in school.

Millennials diminished sense of economic opportunity remains focused almost entirely on the job market. About two-thirds of Millennials are employed but only slightly half of those are working full-time. Almost two-thirds of Millennials without a job are looking for work.

For those in the workplace these responses* were given about:

When recruiting Millennial generation:

·  93% of Millennials want a job that works with their lifestyle.

·  93% of Millennials want a job where they can be themselves.

·  88% of Millennials want their coworkers to be their friends.

·  89% of Millennials want their workplace to be social and fun.

·  79% of Millennials think they should be allowed to wear jeans to work at least sometimes.

·  81% of Millennials think they should be allowed to make their own hours at work.

·  92% of Millennials think their company is lucky to have them as an employee.

·  Half of Millennials would rather have no job than have a job they hate

When managing Millennial generation:

·  The three most critical aspects of their work are work/life balance, loving what they do, and having good benefits. Having a good salary and vacation time are important, but not their key drivers.

·  76% of Millennials think their boss could learn a lot from them.

·  8 out of 10 Millennials want regular feedback from their boss.

·  8 out of 10 Millennials think they deserve to be recognized more for their work.

·  Over half of Millennials want feedback at least once a week or more.

·  Three-fourths of Millennials want to work for themselves one day.

·  Three-fourths of Millennials would like to have a mentor.

·  61% of Millennials say they need specific directions from their boss to do their best work.
(research released by Nick Shore, Sr. Vice president, strategic insights and research at MTV network)

How to appreciate a Millennial:

Leaders, listen up. Instead of giving your team members the usual kudos for their good work, try something more personal and meaningful:  walk them into their office, close the door, and tell them how important their contribution is to the organization. Hand-written notes are back. Get out your pen and start writing!

How this new trend in the workforce is a back to basics, humane approach:

The results seem to show a smoothing out of the workforce into a comfortable environment and a perpetual feedback loop. Dress can be casual, and management hierarchy is flatter. Despite the grim economic environment Millennials are still confident about their future and actually want to be treated as individuals, not cogs in a machine. They have the self-respect to be bold enough to ask for humane treatment; Millennials are realistic about their situation and their future.

These are often 30-something emerging managers who will be the talent and bedrock of many corporate teams. Will they care about ethics and reasonableness enough to not lie, cheat, and steal from shareholders and the stock markets? Are they cocky and petulant, or principled and wise? Only time will tell.

Millennial employees want to be treated as we always should have treated co-workers, with respect, with the desire to have their input and foster their creativity. They will inevitably bring to our workplaces a more progressive and civil authority now, and as they grow into the next generation of leaders. They have seen the turn of a millennium (thus the generation's name), 9/11 attacks, the worst economic downturn in decades, and a long overseas war for which many volunteered.

This is a force to be reckoned with. The other generations should pay attention. ##


(*information based on a survey of Millennials by MTV, otherwise, opinions are solely my own)

There Goes my Hero: Code Yellow (Part II)

Foo Fighters - My Hero (Live on Letterman) - YouTube:

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There Goes my Hero: Code Yellow (Part II)

“Are you ready for the dance tonight, dude?” Lieutenant Harrington casually asked me as we climbed up on the Rhino, outside of the hearing of enlisted men, or “blackshoes” who checked all the tags and ordinance hanging off of the Hornet they prepared to catapult off into the ink-blue night.

As we both settled into the routine of pre-flight checks in the cockpit of the highly complex, computer driven F/A-18 Hornet aircraft, it stretched comprehension to think that this flying machine descended from the heavier than air model that the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk in 1903.

In just a little over a century, aviation went from analog to digital; the awareness of this complexity lost on the aviators, but not in history. The Hornet was so complicated, the pilots did not know what they did-not-know about this evolution from clothe and pulleys on the dunes of North Carolina to gigahertz and nanoseconds cruising on the Persian Gulf. Could aviation’s complexity eventually take human beings out of the cockpit? That question was not on the agenda tonight.

Idling on the deck of the USS John C. Stennis, they both knew in the far reaches of their “leadership grey-matter,” that possibly they could be one of the last crews back on the carrier. The chaperone waits by the door until everyone makes it home safely from the party. That is just the gentlemanly thing to do.

“Hope the Texaco jocks are warmed up and sharp tonight,” I said partly to myself. If this was a long ordeal, many of the jets would probably re-fuel while in the heavens.

The Lt. replied, “This could turn into a Turkey shoot before that,” the landing process, although a dangerous part of the evening, was more of the business side of this mission; Lt. Harrington’s fangs were out, clearly focused on engaging bandits before the serious landing maneuvers started.

“Can’t you see the guys in the con-tower placing their side-bets on Bubba Bolter,” the slang name for the pilot who makes multiple attempts at the tail-hook. My bombardier-navigator focuses also sharp, still picturing the SNAFU routine of the pitching deck at landing time.

Carrier landings are actually controlled crashes. The fighter jet rams into a lurching runway, hoping the large titanium hook jutting out of his tail slaps across the thick steel cord tightly wired across the deck, known as the crossdeck pendant.

Once the plane hits the ship’s surface, hopefully lined up straight down the runway; the pilot throws the throttles forward full. This full speed tactic instantly allows a hookless Hornet the opportunity to get back off the carrier and try again; otherwise jets skid off the runway and into the ocean in front of the ship, adding insult to injury.

Blue-water ops in the dark, an opportunity to excel as Lt. Harrington liked to remind us. “You look like a lost nugget tonight, J.O.?” “What’s wrong?” “I’ll take you out partying tonight, little brother, promise.”

“It’s gonna be a long night, Lieutenant,” trying not to complain. “At least we don’t have to plow through the Goo,” meaning bad weather that makes it impossible to see.

“We’re in the Navy to have fun, remember?” I was looking at the back of his helmet by now; we were conversing on the intercom. “Don’t forget the Code:Yellow gouge we got in the readyroom?”

“Copy, Rocket One.” I was done with small talk and wanted to light the two fires on the Hornet’s tail and get up in the sky, where even though I was not flying the aircraft, I had the best seat in the house.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

(aviator fiction series #2)

Dave's blu Gibson in case you watched the YouTube video "My Hero" on Letterman

Love After Love, by Derek Walcott

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life. 

Derek Walcott

Code Yellow

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Code: Yellow

The evening hours passed quietly aboard the USS John C. Stennis, sort of like a middle-school slumber party, but not really. Instead of nail-polish and text-messages, men wrote hand-written letters on thick-cotton stationery and studied the Naval intelligence maps of Iranian air bases and nuclear facilities. The young pilots were part of a powerful, strike-force flotilla cruising the claustrophobic waters of the Strait of Hormuz, on the southern coast of Iran, the world’s busiest oil-shipping lane. The boys of the Persian Gulf: fighter jocks taking it easy in a rec room on a lazy Friday night in April.

Squadron commander, Lieutenant Harrington was almost oversized for the cockpit. The big Texan carried himself casually, even sauntering when there was room above deck. His sad eyes and perfectly cropped Naval hair gleamed against the perpetually tan face and neck of a professional pilot. His correspondence home always on bone-colored, embossed Crane stationery, a habit leftover from his traditional southern mother in Dallas. The lieutenant’s natural leadership centered upon a social intelligence based on close relationships not only with his WSOs but all the flying teams in his unit. He treated every pilot like his brother; frequently he could be found holed-up next to a colleague discussing business in the close quarters of a aircraft carrier, but with the tenderness and quiet of a counselor. Knowing every teammate intimately, including talents and weaknesses in flying ability and personality allowed him the kind of access and respect few commanders garnered in today’s Navy.

I am merely a NFO, Lt. Junior Grade. The NFO is the back-seat partner to the pilot, formerly known as the Naval Flight Officer. The modern Navy NFO position has naturally become more complicated. Back seat of a fully equipped and upgraded F-18 Super Hornet, the NFO is now called the WSO (“weapons system operator”) because of the stunning array of assault options it carries. More than a navigator, I am the lieutenant’s little brother who brings all the booze to the party. He gets me to the target and I equip him with more firepower than the most of the small armies of the world combined. As we internalize through years of training, nothing I do is unimportant or routine. Without a talented WSO, the pilot is a gifted aviator flying on gilded wings, but with no talons. Weapons after all, are what we do. The Hornet has half a dozen Raytheon® missile systems which allow precision strike capability in enough configurations to make your mind numb. Each plane is an air-to-ground and air-to-air aggressor; like a flying army of guns and bombs.

A calm Friday evening of “watch-duty” with quiet activity, soft music, and standard recreation in the briefing room, turned in just ten minutes into a beehive of preparation, determination, and steely readiness for battle? The simple phrases of a love-letter and a song transform into the rote instructions of a wing commander quickly organizing his squadron for deadly serious work.

The squadron commander made an unusual decision during what were called publicly “training exercises,” a move they called, “All-in.” Every fighter jet on the carrier would be up and active tonight, prowling the skies. At least once during a long cruise, protocol required that this exercise take place because someday during a real shootout, the battle group might just have to use all assets to win. This was the most dangerous night of their deployment, but it was also the most realistic.

All assets on the ship were scrambled; every crew activated and every pilot manned a stick. The launch process was grueling and dangerous in any scenario, but a night launch was always a little more stressful. Tonight’s “All-in” gambit assured the ship that until all the planes were safely back on deck, every crew member would sweat out the once placid evening. The lieutenant was no Jimmy Doolittle, but this was a major-league decision given the circumstances in the Persian Gulf, even the fuel tankers would circle the landing pattern until all fighter jets returned. Tankers too would have to “call the ball” of the landing system used on the USS John C. Stennis.

The squadron’s enemies were not so much Iran’s aging fleet of F-14 Tomcats based out of Isfahan, but the lack of fuel and light which hampered the performance of these aviators more than the paltry resistance of the Iranian military. Most naval aviators learned the carrier game on high-end Tomcats, or their instructors taught them about Tomcats early in their career. Not like the movie Top Gun anymore; an improved Super-Hornet skins a Tomcat every time, but a cloudy approach was the wickedest fight of all.

With a diplomatic meeting during the coming weekend in Istanbul, the United States and Iran are supposedly going to peacefully negotiate over Iran’s fledgling nuclear program; however, at the same time U.S. Naval presence in the Gulf reinforces the physical strength our diplomats wish to portray while they talk. Unfortunately, such “ancillary” transactional communications usually don’t create much traction, because they are impersonal and shallow; they may not drive someone away, but they don’t draw the other party closer either.

Military personnel worry about Iran’s capability to wage “asymmetrical warfare” by mining the narrow passageway called the Strait of Hormuz or by swarming U.S. vessels with small boats armed with a single missile. This type of guerrilla fighting accentuates the standard threats of Iran’s three Kilo-class submarines, or the mini-subs they bought from North Korea. Iran can launch short-range and long-range missiles, both from the ground, and from an aging fleet of aircraft. The only thing certain in the Persian Gulf is that the Iranian military threat is unusual and unpredictable.

“Saddle-up, Mark,” the commander squawked as he grabbed his parachute pack and Velcroed® his flight log book to his thigh. Tonight, I was Lt. Harrington’s WSO, which meant I was the lucky sap who would play night watchman for the entire staff during this squirmy “All-in” game that the Lt. had just called out.

“Everyone up tonight, boys,” he said gleefully as he strode up to the front of the briefing room, the back entrance of the conference area already crowded with the entire squadron. “C’mon, let’s get quiet,” he added, “I want the last plane up by twenty-two hundred, so listen up, I only have five minutes to talk to you guys.” 

Lt. Harrington smiled out with wattage that outstripped the dull fluorescent bulbs in the meeting room, beaming with the dangerous look of "we are all in on this one together!"

“I realize this is just an exercise, you guys know that we have to do one ‘all-in’ per cruise; but tonight a little birdie told me that the big bad Eye-Rainian air-force may be up there ‘practicing’ as well.”

You guys ready fo dat? He held in his hand a small, letter-sized Manila file folder with a bright yellow tab clearly visible even from the back of the room. They all knew what Code Yellow meant.

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Fear

Our Constant Companion

Jesus repeatedly told his disciples and other people not to be afraid, yet humans deal with fear so often everyday that fear is almost our closest companion. As natural as breathing, apprehension can be a protective mechanism or a friendly motivator; but like food, too much makes us bulky and slow.

Like darkness invading nighttime, fear creeps into the day, ultimately blinding us from the reality of time. At the heart of each dawn is the possibility of a new day; however fear saps our joy and paralyzes our creativity. Can we be comfortable with distress like we are in our own skin, or will fear eat away at the soul, gradually corroding the mind from the inside out?

Constant Questions

We are constantly asking ourselves:

How do I look?

Do they like me?

Is she telling me the truth?

Am I late?

Did I forget about something?

Did I study enough?

Did I save enough?

How will I know what to do?

What’s going to happen to us?

Fear is even more basic than that; fear is connected to mortality, and the core question of our existence. We are afraid of other men, what will they think of us? We are afraid to die. We wonder after a certain age how much longer we have?

At the same time, fear gives us wisdom, discernment, perseverance, even intuition; in many ways it is our protective older brother but fear also takes charge and causes even the most rational to second guess.

Coping with Fear

Coping with fear is one of life’s greatest challenges. We sojourn to so many places in search for the miracle antidote. Fear is a toxic poison with deadly side-effects; it squeezes stress out of uncertainty instead of faith. Interpreting what John O’Donohue said, “stress is a perverted relationship to time,” I would add that stress is a perverted relationship to fear. Time and fear have overcome our daily routines, so that rather than being a subject of your own time, we become fear’s target and victim, lacking the control to stand up to these twin villains.

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God… for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power, love, and self-control.”
2 Timothy 1:6-7

Our Response by God's Grace

Instead of dismay, may I tremble at the Lord’s power to control the universe and his good intentions with my life and family? Rather than being overcome with anxiety, may I run to the biblical comfort of the Word made flesh, and rest in the admonitions of Jesus Christ? Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, but it is only the starting point. As we fall in love with the supremacy of God and the sovereignty of God, our peace grows to the point of resting in God and fearing no more the changes in our lives.

Without faith there is no meaning to life and no reason to conduct ourselves with courage in the face of fear. If death is merely a threshold onto another platform, and our hope is in a better place as we are promised in Christ, then we can dig deep into our well of faith and believe enough to push out the fear. This is done through the power of the spirit, with love and self-control.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Scuba diving Part IV: The Scientific Method and Infrasonic Warning: "Hey, Mitch is on His Way!"

The Scientific Method and Warnings of Hurricane Mitch


The Webster's® Dictionary defines infrasonic, or infrasound, 
as "1: having or relating to a frequency below the audibility range of the human ear; and 2: utilizing or produced by infrasonic waves or vibrations."

Infrasound emitted by earthquakes, pounding surf, waterfalls, calving of glacial ice, tidal waves, aurora borealis (0.1 - 0.01 Hz), solar flares, solar winds, hurricanes, thunderstorms, the jet stream (30-40Hz), and winds in caverns (20-30 Hz.), effects non-human wildlife and causes natural, instinctive reactions to the acoustics produced by these environmental events. Low-frequency noise (LFN) typically causes animals to flee, hide, or take other protective measures.

The otolithic organs in fish react to a broad range of frequencies, especially infrasonic warnings occurring from a category 5 hurricane (Saffir–Simpson Hurricane Scale) approaching a day away. Although I am neither a meteorologist or ichthyologist, nor an ichthyologist who would hypothecate about the meteorological effect of a hurricane on fish, I know for sure that this phenomenon exists, and I witnessed it on the barrier reef bordering Belize on October 25, 1998.

Fancy science often gets in the way of common sense. The scientific method is a simple step-by-step process that can be followed naturally, even by non-scientists. If you can remember back to high school it starts with the problem. For my dive partner and me it began on the morning of October 25, 1998 as we walked out to the dive shop on a rustic dock on Ambergris Caye in Belize. Carrie looked at a color weather map printed off an inkjet printer pinned to the back door of the little shack. “What’s that map showing there?” she asked innocently. “Oh, that?” one of the hearty, tanned employees replied sheepishly. “Just a little old picture of the forecast path of Hurricane Mitch, which is category 5 (Saffir–Simpson Hurricane Scale) btw, and headed this direction in a couple of days!” [not really, the answer was vague]. The first part of the scientific method is to find out exactly what it is you want to learn? We were curious about a map but the bigger questions should have been about the track and effect of Hurricane Mitch. Strike one and strike two.

As eager divers with one last dive left on our schedule that Sunday morning, we went below the surface to observe the beautiful undersea world we spent the week exploring. The second important step in the scientific method is observation. What we saw or did not see as the case may be, was the total absence of wildlife. Like the lonely sheriff, walking deserted streets before the Hole-in-the-Wall gang hits town, all the usual suspects were gone; no shark, snapper, reef fish, trigger-fish, nobody.

The dive plan was to hunt up some lobster and bake them on the beach but we decided to come back to the surface because all the lobster had left town. My distinct, scientific recollection was that all wildlife was absent in a world teaming with them just days before; and upon arriving back at the dock, our observation of this phenomenon produced a lively discussion at the dive shack. Now the radar tracking map from the WeatherChannel© seemed strikingly relevant! We observed the story as eyewitnesses.

Nature’s suggestion for the next step in our scientific road to discovery was that “something was up!” Divers are used to the dearth of sound from the environment under water; however the absence of life was insurmountably strange. The supposition that we missed an important warning made me feel like a banana that was past ripeness and starting to stink. Threatening infrasonic warnings issued to the fish and even to the divers were heeded or not, but it did not change the facts: one of the largest hurricanes in history was headed for our island paradise on a collision course with death.

Predictions of what came next flew around the island that evening as we packed to leave the next day. We helped the bartenders pack their hut and in the morning nailed plywood to the windows of the hotel; meanwhile the tracking map showed Hurricane Mitch poised to strike Belize in a couple of days. The turning point in the storm was the next day October 26, 1998, when it reached its strongest peak in pressure, speed, and force; as we waited helplessly at the small airport, along with everyone else on the island trying to leave Ambergris Caye. This category of hurricane is doubtless deadly and by Monday we were terrified.

The hypothesis that the undersea world was properly informed of the danger of Hurricane Mitch by LFN played out before our eyes that ominous day in 1998. We observed something in nature totally unusual, and concluded that there was an important reason the fish were gone. The prediction of impending disaster became critically serious once we studied the weather map and listened to the discussion about Hurricane Mitch later that day.

Hurricane Mitch (Satellite view 1998)

Fortunately we escaped the hurricane’s wrath, not having to test our scientific hypothesis; it made a precipitous turn south, narrowly avoiding the chain of islands. But for as long as I am a diver, I will never forget the day the fish were completely absent when they heard Mitch was coming. What happened to Honduras is testament to the power of this storm: unofficial reports totaled the rainfall in Honduras during this storm at 75 inches, and it was the deadliest Atlantic hurricane since 1780 (218 years).

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Scuba diving Part III: It feels like the First Time

My first diving buddy, George Hansen, could attest that when there is no visibility in a slimy green Texas dive park, it is hard to stay close to your partner. During an unusual September cold snap in Hill County, 14 years ago, together we descended the depths of Lake Whitney in 78° water while the dark skies drizzled rain above us. Taking only a couple 3 Lbs. weights on my belt and all the pool training of a neophyte with me, I set out to earn the SSI® Level 1 diver classification from the great Wm. Sandy Hardy, my dive master.

How does fresh-water certification diving compare to the real thing? Not as deep, not as clear, not as warm, not as much color, not as free, less enjoyable! Like watching 1970s-vintage public television on the tiny black and white Sony® TV in my parents’ study growing up, compared to watching modern cable-TV on today’s HD flat-screen behemoths. In just six weeks, back in 1998, I went from Lake Whitney in Texas to the underwater canyons outside San Pedro, near Ambergris Caye Belize, in Central America. Hello HBO®

Lumbering out of the skies onto the dirt airstrip of Ambergris Caye Belize, the heavy single-engine turboprop Cessna® Caravan dropped down to earth carrying a weighty load of divers and gear. Largely undiscovered fourteen years ago, this tiny Caribbean hamlet operated at a unhurried pace along the second largest barrier reef in the world. No one wore shoes on this tiny diver’s paradise; it seemed that we all had webbed feet.

image: Alberto Bradley

The Bradley family business services the active tourists flocking to the outer atolls on the Caribbean side of Central America. With a team of boys rotating through as fishing guides, jungle canopy leaders, and dive masters, the Bradleys showcase the wonders of this small country above and below sea level. Alberto Bradley took us to three major canyons along the coast: San Pedro, Victoria, and Tackle Box canyons.

Once outside the protective barrier reef, the waves slowly roll, punctuated by the occasional splash of frothy water, briny and blue in the mid-morning sun. The water temperature at ten degrees warmer than the freshwater in Texas made it quite comfortable. Visibility in the Caribbean Sea reached easily 100 feet; at the bottom of the canyon (110 feet) we looked up to see the boat waiting to pick us up. Seemingly scuba diving in a Godly aquarium, our dive group observed some of the finest excursions the ocean could offer.

One of the beguiling sensations of diving is swimming in the solitude and silence of deep water. Combined with the velvety abyss just over the blue horizon, a diver feels like an astronaut exploring a distant planetary seascape. Unlike the solar system, this world is teaming with life. Witnessing an undersea population explosion made fishing seem a lot easier looking up toward the surface, with millions of yellowtail snapper ready to take the hook. Small angelfish with their shimmering purple & gold skin caught my eye; and in a surprising example of cooperative living, I saw a spider crab inhabit the same apartment space as a 6-foot green Moray eel. Even in cramped quarters, they seemed to live together peaceably as neighbors.

just drop in a hook

During the first few dives in open water amidst the swirling Caribbean Sea, I learned that I am very small in relation to the rest of the world, especially one covered by salt water. My survivability existed within limited risk-management parameters compared to the danger of such a colossal ocean. Although we were trained for this adventure, inserting ourselves into vast, seemingly invisible currents limited our ability to maintain control over direction and speed of movement. Understanding human limits underwater fosters attitudes of patient, realistic, openness—anticipatory, actionless action* which requires a hopeful, situational awareness that this monstrous ocean will unfold in front of you at its own torpid pace. I wrote of this in a previous post (Part II) and will tell of a perfect example in a later post, as I describe a particular dive occurring on Sunday, October 25, 1998.

No offense to buddy George but in addition to the great visibility, my dive partner in Belize was so much easier to look at than he was. There were times she was so beautiful I thought it was a mermaid.

Diving taught me, that as in life, knowingly inserting yourself into a larger stream of consciousness and action, can carry you off to places to which you had not planned to go. Knowing the environment, watching the flow of circumstances, seeking experienced guides, observing forces, destinations and conclusions, often allow the diver or businessman to “plan the process” with some sort of foreknowledge or strategy. Otherwise, you go where the ocean current takes you.

writing ©Mark H. Pillsbury

(pictures are for personal use)
*note: again I am using an original application of these concepts to Scuba diving, learned reading Sue Monk Kidd's When the Heart Waits (HarperCollins 1990) see Ch. 2

Scuba diving Part II: The Diver Drop

Jumping In, Ready to Be Still

"Keep the line moving, miss," said the drudging government agent. The TSA may not seem like the quickest crew around, but they have to keep the line moving this spring break. 

There’s In-n-Out, Jiffy Lube, Quick Books, and Slim Fast. Moderns live by their calendars; and time seemingly accelerates at an ever increasing speed. Faster is better, right? Quick and easy are seductive words in this culture; slow and methodical just kills the buzz. Who wants to be still?

Underwater exploration is a life lesson in waiting, patience, and methodical skill. Scuba divers learn, train, practice, drill, equip, deliberate, plan, slowly descend, and patiently wait for the lifetime burning in every moment below the ocean surface. The ocean floor is God’s amusement park, but you cannot move through the snarled line and get to the ride any faster.

Diversity, color, and quiet. Those three things resonate in my “diving memory.”  The dark ocean I saw in Cozumel irradiated the deepest blue I had ever seen, even alluring in its pull. With colors as abundant as salt in the reefs of Belize, God designed vivid hues bursting forth like the strip in Las Vegas, but with natural beauty. Sometimes divers wish their faceplate contained a magnifying glass, for there are as many infinitesimal animals crawling around the reef as big fish swimming by. Diversity multiplied by one-thousand!

Once the diver assumes balance between his buoyancy and the weight belt, and breathing is slow; he is able to open himself to the wide vision of an explorer. This leveling is easier to describe than achieve. Slow breathing conserves the supply of air, and smooth swimming calms the body. The Chinese call this wu wei—expectant beingness*, below the water. Actionless action is opposite of conquest or conscious striving; instead the diver allows the ocean world to unfold before him, as a gracious sojourner in a foreign land.

Dive plans typically set out safety parameters, length and depth of diving, but should only propose basic goals for the dive. This does not get to the heart of expectations. Struggling against the ocean as an alien is fruitless, wasteful, and even foolish; each dive takes so much preparation and cost, divers often feel rushed. The few minutes of exploration rarely turn out as expected; indeed Scuba divers experience the wonder of marine exploration only when they move with the rhythm of the current and join in the gradual unfolding of undersea life as a respectful guest.

As I sit next to a busy Houston boulevard reading and writing about my diving experiences, automobiles routinely pass by in the background. The rhythmic surging of sound on the pavement reminds me of the crashing waves at surf’s edge. Not exactly observing the Caribbean Sea, yet my log book takes me back to these dives as if I hold my mask and regulator and flip backwards into the ocean. Here we go!

writing ©Mark H. Pillsbury
*note: concept discussed by Sue Monk Kidd in When the Heart Waits (HarperCollins 1990); my application to Scuba diving is original.

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:
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Poll Shows Popularity Of Pro Football Continues Growing While Baseball Slides - SportsBusiness Daily | SportsBusiness Journal

Poll Shows Popularity Of Pro Football Continues Growing While Baseball Slides - SportsBusiness Daily | SportsBusiness Journal:

'via Blog this'

Much has been written about baseball, the national pastime, although it almost defies description. Resembling chess with finely shaded details and subtle strategies; it is as common as many things in our history, each player standing around in familiar positions. Its languid pace, long season, saturation of coverage through the large network of minor leagues, huge field of play, and history dating back to the late 1800s make it a unique part of American culture.

Some like baseball for its cleanliness, the stark white home uniforms and exact chalk baselines. It is a game in which numbers tell a story: baseball fans recall vital statistics better than football fans. Author George F. Will believes overall its fans are smarter than their gridiron counterparts. Nevertheless, as Sports Business Daily reported (see link above) Jan. 26, 2011, Harris-interactive poll shows those adults surveyed favored professional football over baseball by a wide margin. As an example, television ratings for any big NFL game amount to a 20 share compared to a 10 share for baseball. Football involves careful pacing, repetition, and the short attention span of the male observer; men huddle, agree to a plan, line up, hit each other, run around like crazy, call time, rest, regroup, and then try again. Over and over this goes up and down like the returns on a stock. It is violent, yet stylized warfare, where combatants can get a bonus for damaging another man's body. Baseball is intricate, comfortable, and convivial, like a picnic game only with occasional crowd noise.

Like our country’s history, baseball’s place in my own story is significant. I played the game every year from grade school on, although not well; attending games through high school, college, and law school. I’ve been to Wrigley, Fenway, Comiskey, and Yankee Stadium; Fulton County for a World Series and Omaha for a College World Series. My first summer of college, UT won the NCAA national championship, and at the old Arlington Stadium I saw Nolan Ryan’s seventh no-hitter. It weaves in and out of my life like a tapestry, its timelessness sealed within memories. I courted my wife at the Ballpark and watched the strangest World Series (game 6) ever last October with my parents. Many of baseball’s great moments are “mano-a-mano” showdowns similar to a duel in the streets, lived out in slow motion; one punch at a time. It seems more like art than sport, a reflection of culture, as well as an integral part of it.

Maybe because of its history, baseball is a frequent canvass on which is depicted modern culture: George Will’s Men at Work, Movie: The Natural, Jim Bouton’s Ball Four, John Feinstein’s Play Ball, Movie: A League of Their Own, Roger Kahn’s The Boys of Summer, Movies: Moneyball, Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, the road trip saga by David Lamb, called A Stolen Season, Don DeLillo’s Underworld about the shot heard round the world, or Chad Harbach's debut novel, The Art of Fielding, is as much about literary fiction as it is about baseball. These few examples come to mind, but it is a sport which for decades has been discussed voluminously in all kinds of media. Authors love to write about this sport.

During the 2009 season, despite the nation’s worst economic downturn in 80 years, 30 Major League Baseball clubs drew 73,418,479 fans during the season, producing the fifth largest total attendance in MLB history. New stadiums, often financed by public funds, have been built in place of almost all the monolithic old concrete wonders of the 1970s. Youth leagues produce local product woven into the fabric of small-town America, culminating each year with the Little League World Series, a spectacle not unlike the World Cup in its international coverage. Baseball is still popular even though the research shows that football is the preferred national sport in the new century.

Popularity over Preference

Football is more technological, with slow-motion TV replay an integral part of officiating. It is like the modern mechanized corporate world in which we live, often called the ultimate team sport. When cultures change so do their games; baseball harkens back to more serene, agricultural economy which works with no deadlines, only outcomes. Until you get 27 outs the game is uncertain. Football has a time clock, used almost like a factory laborer punches out, ending the work day.

Quoting George Carlin, “football the object is for the quarterback, also known as the field general, to be on target with his aerial assault, riddling the defense by hitting his receivers with deadly accuracy in spite of the blitz, even if he has to use shotgun. With short bullet passes and long bombs, he marches his troops into enemy territory, balancing this aerial assault with a sustained ground attack that punches holes in the forward wall of the enemy's defensive line.” Carlin concludes, “Baseball’s object is to go home! And to be safe! - I hope I'll be safe at home!”

Demographics is Destiny

Another relevant question is whether baseball has been eclipsed by other sports within the growing minority cultures of African-Americans and Hispanic-Americans?

In traditional Hispanic markets the World Cup draws much higher interest than baseball and in poor African-American high schools, the chances of earning college scholarships are much better in football than baseball. "A Division 1 football program can give out 85 scholarships, and baseball teams only 11.7," said Jimmie Lee Solomon, and EVP of MLB. "If you're an African American kid and you need help to go to school, do the math."

A regular fan of the sporting life enjoys many different games, the balls and rules representing all the facets of the athletic pop-culture. Baseball will have to live with a smaller market share and aging fan base, as it plays with a smaller ball; like the paradigm shift brought on my Billy Beane in Moneyball, focusing on base-runners getting across home plate. Baseball continues to drive fans to big stadiums, reaching mostly the 40+ age group with family friendly daytime experiences in beautiful pastoral settings. Conversely, live professional football and basketball venues resemble a gentlemen’s club, or worse a strip joint. Super Bowl halftime shows don't fit within the confines of the modern ballpark.

Baseball is still an innocent game, despite the recent PED scandals, and congressional hearings. Since the Black Sox threw the World Series in 1919, scandal revisits periodically and baseball proves resilient. Symmetrical stitches endlessly wrap around the baseball, just as hope renews with training camp every year in warm destinations as the first bright days of spring burst into blue skies. The season ends in the cold chill of approaching winter. Cyclical like the laces of the ball itself, there is never a greater hope for fans as there is in spring training, the whole season in the future. As fans do every year in the dry Arizona heat, or looking at prospects in the Florida sun, let us join in the wonder: could this be their season?

©Mark H. Pillsbury
(composed 03/07/2012, pictures for personal use and historical reference)

OTBN--Open That Bottle Night 2012

Faithful reader, did you see my blogger profile before you started to consume my writing? I list there oenology and viticulture as (amateur) passions. You will find out more from experts like Mark Lewis, Emile Peynaud, Denman Moody, Kyle Kelley, Hal Rose, George Schalles, David Maggard, Lowell Lebermann, Dorothy J. Gaiter, John Brecher, Charles Gordon, J.D. Hasenbank, Norma Hunt, and George Basu; but I know what I like. After learning nuances from the aforementioned wine mentors, in the end, exploration and enjoyment come from increasing knowledge, and sensory education comes best through personal experimentation. That is a gulp-full... Bottom line: it's only grape juice, friends.

So what wine do you like? Full-bodied, reds from an appropriate vintage and grape; earthy, fruity, spicy, woody; I am open to any region as long as it has good oomph to it! The dark purple color of a black currant, chocolaty oak Cabernet probably grabs my attention the most, but I realize two other factors play heavily into your wine experience: the price of what you paid for the wine and the people with whom you drink it. They don't list those on the UC Davis wine wheel!

Cellaring is what can get you in the OTBN dilema because you think you have to hold onto that particular bottle until the time is exactly right; or you are a slave to synergy of pairing the right wine with that dish you have been meaning to prepare. In an effort to worry less about the perfect moment to open the wine, and more about what was a good moment for us, we whipped out the corkscrew last night and took a chance! 

So much is discussed about wine today: terrior is not a dog, it's pronounced ter-Wah and it means the land from which the wine came. However, like the French wine I know nothing about, I don't know terrior (French) other than we all love their dear old vines. I think blending of wine and people is probably a good idea, but I'll never know the percentages. Blending is something left to the experts, and I wouldn't know how to compare vinography versus pornography; but I hear they are both popular on cable right now (I don't subscribe to cable TV).

Last night, after saving a luscious, 2006 Caymus® (Cabernet Sauvignon) from the Napa Valley [produced and bottled in Rutherford, California], we decided it was the right night to OTB. This was a perfect gift from dear friends who can afford this kind of artisan wine, and we opened it last night to celebrate a wonderful occasion at the end of a long week. It did not disappoint, although it was still a little "hot" even after de-canting and being "cellared" in our wine fridge for months. (14.8% alcohol by volume (ABV)). This was a memorable bottle and you would expect nothing less from a pro like Chuck Wagner and a vineyard that was founded 40 years ago in the middle of Napa Valley.

This wine was so hearty it was like eating meat. We could taste the oaky barrels and gravelly soil from which it came, as well as various berries and even some chemicals in the aroma. I don't know if it was the Srihachi  red pepper paste on my Pei-Wei® Thai chicken, or the Cabernet, but my dreams were haunted by all the villains I face in today's world. I tossed and turned all night, but it was worth it. [Maybe I should have paired the food with an innocent Sauvignon Blanc?]

My fortune cookie was appropriate: "A bird does not sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song!" A wine does not sit on the shelf as the "perfect" response to your evening; it is poured out as a drink offering to the love of the people surrounding it. All the expertise in the world will not add to the friendship of the gathering, nor does it improve the taste of the wine on the best of occasions. Once again OTBN celebrates people over wine, love over viticulture, taste over cost, and communion over expertise. We were blessed with the gift of 2006 Caymus and it came to our party like a song, over-flowing with love, beauty, and melody, as did my betrothed. It was a great night. Cheers!

Part IV: The Dreamer

No one has fully grasped what the dreaming mind is doing.

It doesn’t turn off during sleep: brain cells fire, the mind spins; current or past circumstances play out like a movie. Gerri never dreamed, usually knocked out by drugs and vodka; however, since the funeral, images, motifs, and drama haunted his sleeping hours.

Surely these apparitions inform Gerri in some way about his grief. He hoped to understand this condition, then healing could begin and balance restored to his waking life. But his latest dream, unlike any other, drove him deeper into depression.

In the dream Shelby walked up to Gerri in a crowded place, as if they happened upon each other by chance, along the boardwalk in Venice Beach. Stunning, alluring, and radiant in her youth; she seemed just as he remembered her twenty years ago when they fell in love.

As she stood there, the morning light beaming from behind, Gerri could almost see through her; but the colors weren’t faded, on the contrary, everything about this dream popped.

Gerri believed God allowed him to interact with Shelby to lighten the immense guilt burdening his daily life since her death. The relationship between the significant and the fortuitous existed in God’s realm; he did not question the dreams, they were in a reality over which he had no control, indeed he was grateful for the Shelby’s appearance.

“Baby, do you realize how much I miss you?” Gerri asked her. “If I could go back to 1992 and marry you again, I’d do it, but I’d act differently this time!” Unlike Gerri who was plaintive and serious in these conversations, Shelby acted ethereal and joyous.

“Stop, that G.” Shelby said with a wry smile. “We can’t be going back there anyway.” “Let’s talk about right now,” she insisted. Shelby looked around, with her head on a swivel, making sure no one bumped into her on the busy boulevard.

“My love, I can’t stay long!” Shelby urged Gerri when he got distracted. Shelby held a Bible in her hand which looked like the old one from her childhood that sat on their home bookshelf, untouched. No white robes or halos over Shelby Austin, just comfortable jeans and flats with a colorful top, her hair pulled back in a girlish ponytail. Desultory, he was self-conscious for being heavier and much older than Shelby in this dream.

“What do you see of us down here?” Gerri questioned. She grinned, knowing his curiosity, adding seriously, “I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you very much at all.”

As the conversation wound down, a strong breeze blew across the boardwalk and on the horizon a storm gathered with dark, foreboding clouds. The crowd thinned out, flags swirled and snapped in the breeze, and big fat raindrops smacked the pavement, reminding Gerri of tears he shed during the day. [Never did a drop hit Shelby, which appeared very strange to the dreamer].

“My expectations were wrong when we got married, sugar.”

“Marriage was on my checklist. I did not take it seriously; I should have tried to understand what you were going through, instead of helping you with your self-image issues, we medicated our pain away,” Gerri continued, “once we got on that stuff, you never really came back to reality.” So filled with regret, the tears literally oozed from his eyes as he spoke, spilling down his cheeks in streams.

Shelby reached out to him, just beyond their touch. She searched his eyes and lovingly assured him through her tone and pitch, once again using her angelic voice, “Gerri, listen to me baby; none of us do what’s right, most of the time we only think of ourselves, even in marriage.”

“God showed me mercy, taking me from this world,” she looked around the scene, “I was a bad influence on Bobbi Kristina!” Now Shelby seemed remorseful, “Can you believe that I exposed my only daughter to the things that took me down?” “What role model is that?”

“I behaved badly; there were natural consequences for that down here, although it was all forgiven when I got home,” Shelby looked off toward the roiling surf. “It was like the prodigal’s feast.”

“And I can sing clearly again where I am Gerri,” she beamed, looking him directly in the eyes, unashamed; “Heaven is a good place. Your job is to take care of her now, your second chance is with your daughter; I will know how grown-up you are by what you do with her, Gerri.” That was all for now, then she turned and walked north back up the avenue.

 Stunned, Gerri just stood there fixed to the concrete. In just a moment looking down, Shelby blended in with the crowds and disappeared. He jogged toward where she had walked but she vanished as if a ghost.

Would Gerri say this correctly describes the dream: A ghost story? Or a love story?

©Mark H. Pillsbury

[fiction composed Feb. 19, 2012]

Part III: The Funeral of Shelby Austin

(Photo: AP Photo/Jason DeCrow)

“What the f*<k you mean I ain’t invited?!” Gerri shouted at the large man outfitted entirely in black, holding a walkie-talkie. “She was my wife, for Chr^st sake!”

Just inside the narthex of the huge New Hope Baptist church in Atlanta, Georgia, the scene played out with crowds surging inside the sanctuary.

The dark clouds over a noontime Atlanta sky heightened the somber mood of the congregants, even though Gerri Green’s passion was crackling like lightening inside the foyer of the church.

He leaned into the security guard but pointed toward the front of the building, where displayed upon a raised bier was a platinum casket with silver handles, adorned with hundreds of red roses, and covered by black velvet; appropriate for the saddest pop icon the world knew, Shelby Austin, otherwise known as the “Voice.”

Pleading and arguing at the same time, Gerri said, “This is not right, my man; Shelby was my life. I have to sit up front, I was her husband?!” The guard, unmoved, retorted dryly, “You were her husband, Gerri,” “You’re not family anymore, and only family are sitting upfront. Period.”

The big security guard was doing the pointing now, “no one gets up there without me escorting them.” 

But Gerri was gone...

He moved like a cat, avoiding the nine-lives bestowed upon a feline, swiftly pushing open the two swinging oak doors and walking right up to the center aisle of the church under the watchful eyes of mourners. Just like Gerri to demand the attention of the moment, he stopped right in front of the pewter colored box and dropped to one knee, doffing his black fedora. You could have heard a pin drop to the old slate floor.

All week Shelby struggled with her addictions and the impending 4^th trip to a very private rehab clinic near Sedona, Arizona. Jittery at rehearsals for the Grammys® and avoiding accountability from her handlers, Shelby was going to have one last “good” weekend in L.A. before trying to kick pills and booze once again, helped by professionals. Her mentor Clive Davis’ party at the Beverly Hills Hilton was the warm-up for Sunday’s awards ceremony at which she was scheduled to sing. The practice sessions were dreadful, but she kept assuring Clive that she was quitting cigarettes, getting healthy.

Gerri Green did not force the Voice to lace her marijuana cigarettes with base cocaine, but by the end of their tumultuous 15-year marriage they were buying kilos of the drug to blow together. The weight of his guilt and the reality of her passing drew him here today, even though he was not welcomed.

“I am so sorry for what I have done, God.” Gerri prayed at her coffin. “Keep her and protect her,” he was tearful yet defiant, he could feel the daggers in his back as thousands stared, seeing him as to blame somehow for her death. “She was your angel, Lord, take her back now; thank you for my time, for her love.” Gerri got up slowly, kissed the index and middle fingers of his right hand, and touched the sealed coffin, dropping his head and turning just as the security team reached him. “Good-bye, sugar,” he said, looking back toward Shelby.

He could barely walk down the aisle, the retinue almost carried him by the elbows. All agility and power were gone, seemingly left at the foot of the coffin with his prayers. Gerri Green was a broken, forlorn man retreating toward the rear of the chapel. The squawking walkie-talkies chirped over the silent stares of each row as he was escorted out ignominiously, like a criminal on a perp-walk, destination: an Atlanta police car.

She could not beat this devil, nor the others that haunted her; Gerri Green was the personification of the wrong turns her life took in the 1990s, from which Shelby Austin never recovered. Now she was free. Even though her body was tightly enclosed in front of the throngs of friends and admirers assembled here today, later to be laid to rest; her soul was in heaven. Shelby was singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among the angels, and making music to the Lord with a joyful heart.

Life is lived either moving toward God or away from Him. Shelby’s commitment to her Lord wavered over the journey through fame, which turned out to be a cortege. All our most lovely moments perhaps are timeless, and so it was as Gerri made his way out of the church and into a waiting cab; he heard the song playing on the Atlanta FM station, surely commemorating the somber ceremony about to start behind him. It was the song that always reminded him of her love, and he hated to share the damn thing with millions of fans. The warmth he felt of the “good old days” of which the song reminded him, was surely the illusion of timelessness, and yet he was sure Shelby would have wanted to say good-bye before he left.

As the song played on the car radio, he spoke to her again, ripping apart inside, but with a proud exterior, “dear Shelby, I will miss you so much, you were the best thing that ever happened to me and I screwed it all up!” “Please forgive me and watch over Bobbi Kristina. I will always love you.”

“Now drive!” he screamed to the cab-driver, and it was over; he could look toward the church no longer.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
[this is a fictional account partly based on real life characters, not meant to be factual; it is a dramatization of Whitney Houston's funeral, any other similarities are coincidental]