Irrational Fears

As I am discussing with a friend the inevitable beach excursion that will occur at some point this weekend, the subject of sharks arises. Some people are so afraid of sharks that they won't even venture into the ocean. Others go in, but are too apprehensive and fearful to really enjoy themselves.

I think about sharks when I am in the ocean - which is often. I am in no way inclined to be reckless or oblivious, but, ultimately, the dread of shark attacks is one of those irrational fears that we need to put aside to really enjoy our time in the water.

I thought of this not long ago when, while on one of my many long strolls down the beach, I was stopped by a New Jersey man who looked truly miserable. He had deep red streaks on his shoulders, outlining what would have been the edge of the wifebeater he had apparently worn the day before - evidence that he was not a dilligent sunscreener - and he was engaged in some serious hand-wringing. Why he chose me, of all people, I have no idea. But I was the lucky one.

He looked around as if he wanted to be sure others could not hear. I was suddenly afraid I was about to be burdened with some great secret he had resisted sharing for years - the nuclear launch codes for an isolated missile silo in North Dakota where he had been stationed in the 70's - or some such thing.

But, after finally ascertaining that no passers-by were in range, he tipped his head to indicate the surf rolling toward us as the subject of his concern, and asked, "Are there... are there sharks in there?"

Now, for those of you who don't know me, I am not one who takes great pleasure in making people feel stupid, at least not without provocation, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.

My reply was as logical and serious as I could make it, given the circumstances.  "Umm... it's the ocean.  There are sharks everywhere."

His reaction told me that my answer was probably the one he had expected, but not the one he had hoped for, as if I were a doctor giving him test results that confirmed a tragic preliminary diagnosis.

Sensing blood, I moved in for the kill.

"Every time you go in the ocean, there is at least one but probably several sharks that know you are there.  They have a truly remarkable sense of smell, and can detect movement hundreds of yards away."

He looked at me and then at the ocean. Then he looked at me and back at the ocean again. And I seriously thought I was going to have to find him some tissues. Here was a man who was sizzling hot and uncomfortably sunburned, and who wanted nothing more than reassurance that he could swim without being maimed, and it was just his luck that he decided to ask me.

At this point, I realized I had passed beyond the world of sadistic playfulness and into the realm of downright cruelty. What I said was, of course, true, but I decided to add some calming details to the discussion.

"Think how many times people have been in the ocean and sharks were there. Some of those people may have known there were sharks around, but probably most of them didn't. Either way, nothing at all happens almost all the time."

I could tell he was trying to digest this logic, but those irrational fears gnawed at him like a school of starving sharks.

Finally, I said, "Look at it this way, statistically-speaking, your drive to the beach was far more dangerous than swimming in the ocean. And you probably weren't too worried in your car."

To this, he nodded in acknowledgment.

Looking for one last morsel of rationality, he asked, "Do you swim here?"

I have to admit, there is some small, twisted, diabolical part of me that wanted to say, "No. Are you kidding? This place is loaded with sharks."

But I looked at the strips of his otherwise pale skin that were now crimson, and saw the perspiration gathering on his forehead and pouring down his face. If ever there was a man badly in need of a refreshing dip in the ocean, this was him.

With a sincere smile on my face, and with the most pleasant, Mister Rogers tone of voice I could manage, I replied, "All the time."

We chatted a bit longer, and, despite his irrational fears, he turned out to be quite pleasant and interesting. Finally, I walked on. And he waded into the waves. As far as I know, he emerged a short while later, considerably cooler, and with all his limbs intact.

When the topic of shark attacks came up this morning, I decided to check it out. I found one source, on a website called vagabondish.com, in which the writer decided to compare what he called "rather bizarre ways to die" in an attempt to confirm that the idea of any given person becoming shark food was really not something with which we should be overly concerned. While the shark attack numbers are global, he found some figures for the United States in 2003 that showed the following:

Cause of Death                                           Total #       
Shark Attack                                                4  (57 total attacks)
Contact with Hot Tap Water                         26
Lightning                                                     47
Contact with hornets, wasps, bees               66

Assuming this information is correct, a human is much more likely to die from contact with hot tap water or an encounter with a stinging insect than from a shark attack. And I found some other figures from 2003 that told me my New Jersey man was better off taking a swim than suffering in the heat. As it turned out, 273 people died that year from excessive exposure to the sun or high temperatures. Also, I was right when I told him his trip to the beach was much more perilous - 44,757 people died in car accidents in 2003.

Of course, none of those other causes of death have rows of ridiculously sharp teeth or a reputation as a relentless predator that can chew you up and then swim away with a belch and a smile. Ok, I don't really know if sharks can belch. Or smile. But you know what I mean.

When you Google shark images, you have to go pages and pages before you find anything besides pictures of gigantic, menacing sharks terrorizing every creature that comes within reach. But sharks are really just amazing, efficient survivors who are probably in need of a good public relations firm.

According to the fossil record, sharks have been around for about 420 million years, which means they pre-date the dinosaurs. And, needless to say, they are still around long after dinosaurs went... well... the way of the dinosaur. Despite what we think, they are not gluttonous carnivores. They eat only about 5% of their body weight every 40 to 80 hours. According to the website sharks.org, if humans ate like sharks, you would only have one meal every two or three days.

The New Jersey man was probably right in one regard, shark attacks are more likely to happen in Florida than in any other place on the globe. For the sake of consistency, let's look at 2003.  According to the International Shark Attack File maintained by the Museum of Natural History at the University of Florida, there were 57 shark attacks worldwide (only four of them fatal), but 30 of them were in Florida.

While this might seem alarming, there is an obvious relationship between the location and the number of human encounters with sharks. Here is where I would like to point out the difference between those in academia and people like me. The official, scientific explanation is a "high rate of aquatic recreational utilization." Whereas I would call it "a lot of freakin' people in the water." Sharks and humans are in the same place at the same time in Florida more than just about anywhere else.

I would like to note that, during my internet research, I frequently ran across numbers of shark attacks listed as "unprovoked." Although I saw no statistics on "provoked" shark attacks, there is certainly the implication that at least some of the victims deserved it. But I'll leave that story for another time.

For now, as I return to the conversation with my friend about our plans for the weekend, I think we may scrap the idea of going to the beach. I'd love to catch some waves, but, after reading this, I am afraid to drive.

Fragments

After a long evening of exploring downtown D.C. on foot, I stopped to get a cold beer at an old place called Harry’s. I stood at the bar next to a girl who introduced herself as Cheryl, and who seemed a little too loud and a tad too intoxicated. I thought it might be time for the bartender to cut her off or for her friends to take her home.

Then I began hearing fragments of their conversation, and, when I appeared interested, she turned to me. There were a few moments of the usual small talk, and then the bartender placed a fresh cocktail in front of her, courtesy of one of her companions. She was unsteady on her feet, and, as she pulled the drink toward her, a bit splashed on the bar.

Looking at me, she grinned, lifted her glass in a familiar gesture and chirped, "It’s my twenty-fifth birthday!"

Now it all made sense. Chuckling, I tapped my glass against hers and, feigning concern, said, "I hope you make it to twenty-six."

She sipped and put the glass down in front of her. I could tell, at that moment, a thought had entered her mind, one that was familiar but nonetheless unpleasant. I watched as the expression on her face changed, and a haze descended over her eyes, giving the impression that she was looking at something far away, but seeing nothing.

Without facing me, she leaned and whispered, "My mom died on my birthday."

I don't think her hard-drinking friends had any idea. I guess she just wanted to tell… someone. I was the lucky one. I wondered how long ago it had been, and thought how awful that must be. Before I could say anything, her eyes brightened again. The silence hadn’t been long enough to be awkward.

"Aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday?" Loud, drunk Cheryl had returned just as suddenly as she had departed.

"Happy birthday," I said as I smiled and nodded at her, and took a big swig from my mug.

One of her friends grabbed her and pulled her away down the bar. Someone had bought a round of shots.

Left alone, I drank a silent toast. Birthdays are sometimes bittersweet, Cheryl. Yours will always be so.

Cheers.

Orlando - The Manhole Capitol of the World

I live in Orlando, Florida. It's an okay place. I mean, it's not Paris, but then again, it's not Ft. Stockton, Texas either. It's pretty centrally located. But Florida is a big state, so that doesn't necessarily mean it's convenient. Key West is 425 miles south. And if you want to meander up to the Panhandle, Pensacola is 451 miles to the north, and then west. Key West is cool in a funky sort of way. And Pensacola sounds like something you could mix with rum. So I guess that's good.

Many of the tourists who visit Florida come to, or at least through, Orlando. It's a busy place. Ongoing efforts in certain parts of the city have made it somewhat more visually appealing, but I recently noticed something that is now driving me nuts, and makes me believe the city should consider changing its official motto from "The City Beautiful" to "The Manhole Capitol of the World."

I took a picture at the intersection of Orange Ave and Washington Street in downtown Orlando. Although they are not all clearly visible in the photo, from where I was standing on the corner, there were eleven manhole covers visible. That only counts the regular man-sized manholes, not the smaller utility covers, water meter covers and whatever-the-hell-other covers that are all over the place in the Manhole Capitol of the World.

Manholes - and their covers - in principle and theory, are not objectionable. And, since civil engineering and urban planning are not my forte, I can only assume that many of them are truly and genuinely necessary to accomodate the energy, transportation, communication and sewage needs of a big city. But this is the part that really gets me; despite the achievements of modern technology and the ingenuity of the American worker, not one of the manhole covers is flush with the surface of the road.

Twice every weekday, on the way to and from work, I drive down the Federal highways numbered 17 and 92 - running concurrently - through Maitland and Winter Park, and into downtown Orlando. This portion of the road is not covered with asphalt. It is one of those old-school concrete roads with expansion joints (i.e. planned cracks) every fifteen feet or so. That, in itself, is bad enough. But, when you add in all the troughs, dips, splits, faults and crevices that occur through normal wear and tear, and combine those with the hundreds of manhole covers you encounter all along the route, driving down this stretch of road is about as comfortable as riding in a landing barge heading into Omaha Beach. Minus the bullets and artillery, of course. At least in most areas.

I'm willing to admit that the bulk of the manhole covers are only minor inconveniences, but some of them are bona fide hazards. It wouldn't surprise me to find out some day that those in charge of Orlando's roadways and their associated manhole covers spent years collecting generous bribes from the makers of automotive tires and shock absorbers.

If there is any benefit in having so many manhole covers, it's that it sometimes helps me forget about the thousands of ill-timed traffic lights that must be navigated if you hope to get anywhere in the Manhole Capitol of the World.

But I don't want to sound too bitter. It could be worse. I could live in Ft. Stockton.

The Form Letter

Recently, I was working with members of a professional organization to which I belong. As part of the "membership" committee, I was helping to compose a form letter to use as a way of "personally" contacting brand new members who have just paid their dues.

Even the friendliest of form letters can still sound like a form letter, so, if I am the sender, I like to spruce it up to fit my personality. While we were fiddling around with the proper wording, I concocted this:


Dear ____________

Thank you for joining the (city name here) chapter of the (organization name here). My name is B____________ W____________, and I have included my personal contact information in case you have any questions about the organization. Bear in mind that I often leave my phone uncharged and I rarely check my e-mail. So, you're pretty much on your own, but I thought I should at least pretend to extend this courtesy to you.

Now that we have your money, we're kind of hoping that we won't see you again until this time next year. Even then, if you'd prefer to just mail in a check, that would be great.

If you actually plan to get involved with the club and its events, congratulations! There's a good chance that you'll never see me at any of these functions because I mostly prefer to hide in the back and drink beer. I don't even emerge to get napkins when I'm sloppy with the appetizers. Good God, man, that's what sleeves are for.

At some point in this century, we'll have a brand new website that will tell you everything you need to know about the (city name here) chapter. In the meantime, I recommend BabesAtTheBeach.com. I mean, seriously, would you rather see information on our next guest speaker or would you rather see thongs?

If you'd like to become a member of one of our committees, let me know which one interests you, and I'll turf you off to the chairperson of that committee. That makes it even more likely that you will leave me alone at future events, and let me enjoy my beer and gobble appetizers in peace.

If you do happen to enter our next function during the few minutes that I am near the door, please say hello quickly and then be on your merry way. If I'm at the front of the room, it's only because I haven't yet located the bar. If you expect to exchange anything more than the briefest pleasantries, you'd better be buying.

Sincerely,



B____________ W____________




What do you think?

Stupidly Drunk

Note: I read this on stage at the Storytelling Practice Session at Sleeping Moon Cafe - an event presented in conjunction with Diverse Word Spoken Word Community and Storytellers of Central Florida.


During a visit to Gainesville in early December, I was standing behind the end of the bar at the Beer Pit. My friend Ryan owns it, and his buddies often stand behind the end of the bar. It's a short bar, and, by waiting at the end of it, we can see what's going on in the rest of the place, help out in whatever meager way we are able, when necessary, and still chat with Ryan while also staying out of everybody's way. It works well.

It was a busy Friday night, and people were coming up one after the other to order. A guy worked his way through the bodies to the bar. He was relatively young, mid-twenties probably, wearing a light brown jacket and a camouflage baseball hat. Ryan raised his eyebrows and pointed - the signal that he was ready for the guy to place his order.

The new patron tried to speak, but managed only to make some noises that weren't readily recognizable as English. I grinned at Ryan, and we prepared to have some fun at this guy's expense. That's what we normally do with people who are stupidly drunk; we make them feel stupider. And this guy was almost too drunk to speak.

After a few attempts in the midst of the chaos of the crowd, he was able to tell me that he wanted a Coors Light. I relayed this to Ryan, and I could tell that Ryan was contemplating whether he should even serve this guy. In that brief pause, it became obvious that the guy wanted to tell me something else.

I turned to face him directly. He leaned toward me, gathered himself as well as he could, and said, "I just found out I'm being deployed to Afghanistan on December 23."

For a second, maybe two, he looked at me. Right at me. What I saw in his eyes has stayed with me ever since.

It was clearly fear. Not fear of bodily harm. As far as I could tell, he was no more or less courageous or cowardly than the next guy. But he was smart enough to know that, no matter what happened over there, his life would never be the same. Whatever he had, he was about to lose. And he was terrified.

Especially in your twenties, things happen quickly. Circumstances change. People change. Relationships change. Babies learn to talk. Relatives get sick. Job openings are filled. Girlfriends or boyfriends get lonely.

Beginning on Christmas Eve, life as he currently knew it was over.

When we, as a nation, make the decision to put men and women in harm's way, we should be sure to do everything necessary to help them succeed with the least possible risk. But we should also be sure that what we are asking them to do is so absolutely vital that the risk is worth the reward. Because, even if they return, we have taken from them a portion of their lives that they can never get back.

For those who are injured, physically or psychologically, the story is even worse. And then there are those who don't come back at all...

I thought of all this in the second or two that Ryan spent trying to decide if this guy should have another beer. I turned to Ryan and said, "He just told me he's going to Afghanistan on December 23."

Ryan grabbed a cup, went to the tap, came back, and handed the guy his beer. No charge. The guy took a sip, looked at both of us, turned and squirmed away. Ryan didn't say anything, but I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was; if I were going to Afghanistan in two weeks, I would be stupidly drunk too.

On the Dunes and Ocean Blue

I like the beach. Not in an ordinary, casual way. I really like the beach. And the strange thing about it is I can't really explain why, or at least there is no explanation that holds true all the time. Hundreds of books, poems and songs have addressed the subject. Part of the reason it's indefinable is because it not only means different things to different people, it also means different things to the same people at different times.

For me, sometimes it means solitude.  If you can find it. But it can also mean sharing the time and space with people enjoying the sun, surfers challenging the waves, fisherman casting and reeling, and kids building sand castles. And that's not even mentioning the animal life, both in the water and on the beach.

If you sit long enough, terns will strut near you searching for food, tiny crabs come out of their holes and battle over territory, and, occasionally, a buzzard will roost nearby in the hope that your prolonged stillness is an indication of your imminent demise.

I recently had a staring contest with a seagull. He stood for quite some time about half way between me and the rest of his flock. I don't know if he was suspicious, curious, or just on routine sentry duty. I finally took his picture. Couldn't tell if he smiled. Eventually he wandered off. I'm probably more interesting than the average human, but not interesting enough to hold his attention for too long.

People just seem happier and healthier when they're near the ocean, or in it. Life seems to slow down. Attitudes seem to improve. It's something many people notice, but can't seem to explain. If you've often felt different when you're near the ocean, it's not your imagination or wishful thinking. There is actually some science behind it. The breaking waves produce negative ions that are good for you in many ways. One source I found explains it this way:

The force or energy of the falling or splashing water causes splitting of neutral particles of air, freeing electrons which attach to other molecules causing a negative charge.

Negative ions enhance our mood, stimulate our senses, improve appetite and sexual drive, provide relief from hay fever, sinusitis and bronchial asthma, allergies, migraines, even post-operative pain and burns.

And you thought it was just the babes in bikinis...

Negative ions also stimulate our brain, our immune system, and the ability of our red blood cells to absorb oxygen. If laughter is the best medicine, the ocean is clearly a close second.

For me, there are musical associations with the ocean. The combination of music and negative ions can be very powerful. Probably the band most obviously associated (at least in their early days) with the beach was the Beach Boys. I think reggae has an ocean association - or at least an "island" association, which is almost the same thing. You wouldn't normally think of jazz-pop or aging new wave rock as styles of music that make you yearn for the sea, but I have a couple of songs in those genres that I often like to hear when the beach is my destination.

One of them is actually quite melancholy. It's a break-up song, and the writer naturally connects the scene with the unfortunate circumstance, and yet he is drawn back again and again. It's from the 1983 album "Kamakiriad" by Donald Fagen who was part of the Steely Dan duo, and a master of the jazz-pop genre. It's called "On the Dunes."

 


My favorite lines:

As you spoke, you must have known
It was a kind of homicide
I stood and watched my happiness
Drift outwards with the tide
On the dunes
On the dunes

You can never go wrong with this song. It's called "Ocean Blue," from the 1998 album "Elemental" by the Fixx, a band that was part of the English new wave invasion in the 80's. Cy Curnin is one of my favorite singers - a great voice, powerful and soothing at the same time, very much like the ocean itself. This song has a simple but infectious bass line, and a relaxing melody. The message is exactly what you think it might be; the awesomeness of the ocean.

My favorite lines:

Mother of creation, temple of the womb
Take me in your waters darling, I am coming home
Ocean blue, senses and soul renew
Ocean blue, forgive all the wrong I do



 So, are you ready to hit the beach yet?

Stress Meets Sand

Every now and then, I treat myself to a getway in an area that has become my new favorite destination. My life may not seem all that stressful at the moment, but, as with everyone, I have issues that weigh on me heavily, and I have found Cape Canaveral and Port Canaveral to be a perfect periodic release. The beach is a place I always enjoy. The combination of sun, sand and waves warms me, and usually wears me out! If there is no good body-surfing, I'll walk for miles.

Normally, my beach trips from the east side of Orlando aim straight for Canaveral National Seashore. But, this past weekend, the main beach in the southern part of Canaveral - Playalinda Beach - was closed because of the upcoming shuttle mission from the Kenneday Space Center at Cape Canaveral.  For safety and security reasons, the part of the park that is adjacent to the launch pad closes when the shuttle is readied, and re-opens the day after a launch.

It had been many years since I'd been to Cocoa Beach, so I thought I would give it a try, but what I found is what I feared I would find. The beach road is bordered by convenience stores lined with gas pumps, tacky shops from which I would never buy anything, and restaurants that serve bland, fried seafood.  The beach itself is basically a carnival in the sand...

It didn't take long for me to decide to hit the highway, and head for the northern end of Canaveral National Seashore - the part called Apollo Beach - by way of New Smyrna Beach. It meant a forty minute drive, but I can't stand a beach like Cocoa Beach. Even though I like the southern end of Canaveral much better, the difference when I arrived at the north end was immediately obvious...

I caught a handful of good waves, and walked a few miles, and, by then, it was time to go to Port Canaveral and meet a friend.

Jesus Loves Me

On the sand at Cocoa Beach, I had noticed a tent full of people passing out religious literature of some sort. They were mixed in with the people passing out samples of energy drinks, headache powder and a variety of other things. It's nice to know that people care...

During the drive back from Apollo Beach, I was relieved to see that Jesus not only loves me, but his disciples are leaving me messages in the most unlikely places, like this one painted on an old tire in the middle of nowhere...

Grills and The Cove

The drive from Apollo Beach back to Port Canaveral takes almost an hour. It would be quicker except you have to negotiate the portion of US 1 that runs through Titusville to Cocoa. On this stretch of highway, the traffic signals are so remarkably well synchronized that a person traveling at or near the speed limit will hit every red light. I wish I were kidding.

Eventually, you arrive at Cocoa, turn left on the 528 causeway, go over the bridge to Port Canaveral, and turn left into the Cove and Grills Seafood Deck and Tiki Bar.

Grills is fabulous. It is essentially a restaurant with a huge tiki bar built on top of a marina. The food is good. The service is excellent. The ambience is terrific. And the sources of stimulation are varied and abundant.

The tiki bar area is sheltered by several tall palms.  There is a large wood deck in the back, right on the waterway, that provides a perfect viewing platform as enormous cruise ships and other commercial vessels come and go. The ocean breeze is constant and cool. And, even though it is in the center of a working area, as you enjoy the view you tend to overlook the piers, cranes, derricks, storage tanks and pumping stations. It's not exactly Cracker P's on Lubbers Quarters Cay in the Abacos (then again, what is?) but it delivers the same effect. There is always an interesting story somewhere nearby.

On the west side is a long utility table with eight stations where the charter boat hands and their customers clean the day's catch. You can't help your curiosity when the boats tie up and unload. Who caught what? How big? How many?

It is a feast for the sea gulls and pelicans, and for the eyes of the tourists and first-time visitors, although maybe not for the squeamish.

The cleaning tables are just a short stroll down the boardwalk past the row of outdoor dining tables behind Grills.

On the other side, to the east, are the Port Canaveral boat ramps which provide their own unique entertainment.

Boat Ramp Follies

When properly executed, the process of loading a boat on to its trailer and towing it away seems to be a simple one. But, wind, weather, currents and tides, and other factors come into play. And, while I hesitate to pass judgment on the matter, let's just say that it's quite possible some of the fishermen and pleasure boaters may have consumed a few adult beverages while out on the high seas all day.

The plastic cups that Grills uses to serve drinks out on their tiki deck have an unusual graphic on the flip side.  At first, I didn't understand it, but, after a few times standing on the observation deck watching the sometimes comical escapades of late afternoon boaters on the ramp, it all made sense.

Grills patrons have been known to stand on the deck above the boat ramp and heckle boat-owners engaged in Boat Ramp Follies, and the name apparently stuck.

Now, the Grills drinking cups proudly invite one and all to the Boat Ramp Follies.

I knew I would learn to enjoy it when, on one occasion, as a flustered boat-owner finally trailered his boat and climbed in to put his truck into gear, an amused spectator yelled out, "Hey, you might want to untie your boat from the dock first!"

On a number of occasions since then, I've seen the peanut gallery on the deck applaud sarcastically when someone finally gets it right after multiple failed attempts. It's all in good fun, of course.

So, this is where I go to wind down. It is a great place to relax in the sun or the shade, in the breeze or behind shelter, out on the deck or beneath the thatched roof of the tiki bar.

You should try it. Anyone want to go?