Hubris

Oftentimes when I’m wounded…or pissed off, I will turn to my writing.  Sometimes I write to purge the negative energy directed towards me by writing about that negative energy or entity.  This is therapeutic.  And better than abusing drink or substances or giving into anger, depression, or all the other things that humans give themselves into.  But the more writerly disciplined part of me will more often engage that energy towards a current writing project.  Especially perhaps, one I’ve been wrestling with.  And while I wouldn’t suggest that my best writing comes from such sessions, I do try to channel both my hurt and my aggression towards a positive infusion of vigor at the aim of creating my art. 

 

So after a recent wounding, herewith my blog: 

 

There’s a story I’ve been toiling at for over a decade now, a novel spawned from where I was at the time, shortly before the collapse of everything I thought I knew.  In a way, the first draft foreshadowed where I envisioned my life headed, and in the years subsequent, what my mind presaged, has in many ways come to pass.  The story involves a hermit surfer, a loner, incapable of abiding life according to the conventions of our modern society.  As a result, this character ends up alone, stubborn hubris putting him into a hole in the ground abode, on a small mountain near the coast.  Existing on poached sea life, whatever flora and fauna he can scrounge from the surrounding woods, and the little income he can salvage from redeemable bottles and cans, he tries to convince himself that only his surfing matters.  The biggest challenge of this project is getting non-surfer readers to understand what surfers already know, that surfing is far more than a casual pastime.  It seizes hold of you, and like the Mafia, there is no getting out once you’re in.  Every true surfer eventually has to grapple towards either reconciliation or compromise between their passion for surfing, and their devotion to loved ones.  And my protagonist, sadly discovers the truth that nobody gets through this life without impacting  the lives of others, and in the wake of his abdication from society, he must battle the guilt of having wrenched apart the lives of the two souls who love(d) him, his wife, and daughter. 

 

Unfortunately, my own life has paralleled this plot-line as I too have left behind the ruin of a family in my own personal wake.  You might think, how prescient of me to have seen this coming.  Then again, maybe I directed my course to make it happen.  Regardless, like my character, I am powerless to change my internal being; I am proud, I am independent, and I am stubborn.  But of course, like my character, I also feel guilt and pain.  There are things I regret, things I wish I’d done differently, but then again, there are other things I do not regret at all; in the end, all of us can only be true to ourselves and again in align with my protagonist, I am playing the cards dealt to me the best I can. 

 

So this novel, though not an autobiographical accounting of my life, contains elements of my soul that are inescapable, and thus, as much a part of me as any progeny.  A year ago, after more than a year of toil rewriting a manuscript that one prospective agent had earlier critiqued as: “…overwritten,” I pronounced it finished and began re-submitting to other agents.  I actually felt grateful for that agent’s criticism; I’d set out to create a work that not only had something to say, but one that was said in an artful manner.  After re-reading that draft though, I acquiesced to the realization that my own hubris had not only “bitten off more than I could chew,” but had also rendered a manuscript riddled with pretension, and in too many places, unreadable prose.  In the rewrite, I set out to make a more reader friendly manuscript; “just tell the damn story,” became my mantra. 

 

But I’m a slow learner.  I often repeat my mistakes until they’ve settled fully into my core.  Every writer knows, is taught, that the beginning of a story is when you must hook the reader if you hope to retain their eyes on your words and their heart on your intent.  The first chapter, the first paragraph, the first line must be as polished and ready to go as can be.  Editors and agents often advise that this is where most prospective authors fail, sending an unfinished  manuscript out for review.  I knew this.  But hubris did me in, once again.  I fell so in love with my main character, so in love with his point of view, that I knew, I just knew my story must begin with him.  In fact, the first chapter, the first scene, was the inception of my idea for this novel, oh those so many years ago.  I had the vision in my skull that was immutable; I wanted the reader to see and understand if not the entirety of this character, at least where he was and who he’d become.  All that followed was to include how he’d arrived at his position in life, and then gradually weave in the hope of his redemption, which after all was the general theme of the story.  Though I set out to tell the story from multiple points of view, through the eyes of all my major characters, I was adamant that it had to start with him. 

 

Despite rejection after rejection, I held fast to this.  It had all begun with this scene, this vision.  I refused to entertain the notion of “fixing” this first chapter.  Though in the back of my mind, there was the inkling of doubt, that because it employed a fair bit of surfer jargon, which might be difficult for a non-surfing reader to follow (or want to follow) my  stubbornness refused to budge.  Screw the reader.  They just have to stick with it and discover the brilliance that comes later, was my mindset.  Hubris. 

 

Another aspect of all this was the other niggling of doubt in the back of my mind, that of the three main characters, my protagonist, and his abandoned daughter (the reconciliation of their broken relationship being the main plot-line), the mother, his abandoned wife, was given short-shrift.  Her character’s point of view is not even explored until halfway through the novel.  And in fact, she’d even become in some ways, almost the antagonist to the story, as she hunts down both her ex-husband and daughter, the looming force that breathes urgency upon the mend of the father and daughter relationship.  In short, she was not a very sympathetic figure.

 

But a short time ago, after (once again) reading an article on the crucial importance of the first chapter, I finally conceded to those two doubts and began re-examining my manuscript.  I came to this conclusion: I. Am. A. Dope!  My stubbornness, my hubris, has stunted my efforts at producing a complete manuscript, yet again.  How stupid could I be?  Of COURSE the mother had to be more of a voice, a sympathetic entity in this triumvirate.  My god, what had she done to deserve status as the “black hat” in my story.  It was the husband who’d abandoned her, and now she was only trying to protect her daughter like any mother would.  She was an equal victim in this tragedy of circumstance between three people of a broken family.  And she needed her side more fully told.

 

The lightbulb switched on and it all fell into place from there.  Not only have I finally realized the importance of the mother’s point of view, but through the process of weaving her voice more fully into the story-line, I discovered that she is where my story must begin.  I conceived a new first scene with her alone, staring at the stars in the Southern Hemisphere, alongside a river in New Zealand, so away from the daughter she’d cared for since he’d abandoned them both.  And I’ve rough drafted a new, more “user friendly” first chapter.  Though he remains my protagonist, and the story still primarily concerns his redemption, my hope is that I can now create a more full and rounded story that contains the growth of all three of these characters as they move towards healing the wounds of their broken family. 

 

So what is the point of all this in my blog?  Maybe only that life contains a never-ending succession of lessons to be learned.  Some we learn at first notion, others must beat us over the head repeatedly until they embed into our psyche.  Like the concept of reincarnation, living multiple lives until all the lessons stick, maybe I simply needed to learn to trust my writerly intuition, to listen to those niggling doubts, and to not let my pride and hubris inhibit the realization of creating a complete and whole work.  If I still hear those little voices, then my project isn’t finished. It ain’t ready for general consumption.  And though these lessons are often humbling, like my character, I hold on to that hope that every rejection, every writing lesson I learn, or relearn, gets me that much closer to success, to publication.  And through it all, I keep paddling…

 

Gun

What do you when the thing you love most tries to kill you?

 

You’d think I’d be over it by now; it’s been over 25 years.  But I’m not.  It haunts me.  The place.  The wave.  The day I nearly died.

 

I’ve written here and elsewhere of that cold February day at Fox Hill Pt. in New Hampshire when I went over the falls on a monster and got ragdolled and held under to the very limit of my breath, to the point where I gave up and reconciled myself to death.  By some miracle I survived.  I came up. I breathed again. And I lived.  But it haunts me still…

 

In a sense, I suppose that wave still has its grip on me, it still ragdolls my conscience.  You might think it would be easy to let it go; I’m not a big-wave surfer by any stretch of the imagination.  And the wave that nearly finished me was not big at all when compared to the Brobdingnagian proportioned leviathans that today’s big wave chargers are towing and paddling into.  But when you’re being ragdolled and held under to the very limit of your breath, and you start reconciling the reality of your impending death in your mind, what difference does it make how big the wave is?

 

I’ve surfed Fox Hill a few times in the ensuing years, most recently about ten years ago.  It was always on smaller days than THAT DAY, but it still gave me the willies.  Just thinking about surfing it again gives me the willies.  But I know I have to…

 

I don’t know why.  I’m not really out to prove anything, at least I don’t think I am.  And in a very real way, I’m nowhere near the young fit surfer I was then.  It really would be kind of foolhardy for me to paddle out there now at my older, less fit stage of my life.  It’s way more crowded these days and a lot of young rippers compete with each other for set waves; I’m way beyond the days of having the ability, or desire to compete with young rippers…

 

But you see, I made this gun…

 

The board is an 8’ round-pin, single fin.  About as basic as basic goes.  It’s thick and forward foiled for paddling ease and getting me into large waves early…safely.  I don’t have the quickness or reflexes for critical takeoffs anymore and I just want to be able to catch, drop, bottom turn, and then race the wall…survival style surfing.  Though I made the board about 8 years ago, I’ve only surfed it twice.  Once in small waves and another time in slightly overhead waves.  The board is a stable solid platform…a safe platform for catching larger surf.  I almost took it out during Hurricane Bill a few years ago.  Cops and firefighters were cordoning off parts of the bluff that overlooked my local spot, not allowing anyone to get close to the water and the surging surf that was smashing and surging up over the rocks.  But as I stood there, watching, and even though it was the wrong tide for this place…it was coming over hard and heavy at the main peak.  I knew my gun would handle it perfectly, and as I stood there and watched, and listened to the authorities yelling at people to “stay back,” authorities who had very little clue of how the ocean works, yet who years before had suffered the trauma of losing three people on the same day in two locations off those same rocks and bluffs,  two kids and an adult swept out to sea...I understood their panic.  Yet I kept timing the sets, and I saw a window, a possibility of jumping into the cauldron during a lull, and paddling out to that peak.  I knew I could do it, at least paddle out that is.  And the worst case scenario, if I blew a wave or got caught inside, I would only have to allow the sets to sweep me into the safety of the beach…Yet on this day, I was still dealing with a lingering injury, not enough to prevent me from surfing, but enough to instill doubt into my confidence…I watched about two hours…then finally walked away…

 

That day I probably made the right decision.  But it killed me inside.  I knew I could’ve done it, but I didn’t have the will…It made me mad though, and I knew that someday, when I got my confidence back, I would paddle out…

 

On the nose of my board I glassed in a decal: “EWG.”  It stands for: “Eddie Would Go!” Ask any surfer who Eddie was, and what that phrase means, and they could tell you Eddie was a legendary Hawaiian waterman who never balked at big surf; Eddie always went!  And he became known, even after his death, trying to rescue himself and the crew of a capsized catamaran, by that phrase…Eddie Would Go.  I put the decal there to inspire me over the ledge, into the next truly big wave I paddle for…

 

For now, I wait.  I struggle with my fitness, my confidence.  And for now the board gathers dust…

 

My plan though, is during the long flat summer, I will endeavor to get myself into better surfing shape.  I will paddle that board on flat days.  I will get my mojo, my confidence back.  And when I’m ready, I’ll face my demons, I’ll paddle out again at big Fox Hill, and hopefully other big point waves I’ve always dreamed about…California’s Rincon…my dream wave of J-Bay in South Africa.

 

Someday, they’ll say: Mo Went.

Short Word On Love

It is said it's better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all...


It may sound tragic and sad but I would have to concur with the above adage, for I...have never loved at all.  To be sure, there have been romances in my past, where I made myself believe I was in love, but I know now in retrospect that I have never loved, or been loved...and it sucks...


You see, when you are born a mistake, and you live a life that is untrue, never allowed, never allowing yourself to be your true self...well, it makes it impossible to be true to anyone else around you...


This is not to say that my heart has not been broken, for it has, three times to be exact; the first time as a late teen, with my first romance which was really no more than a summer romance, but it was my first, and it hurt when it dawned on me sometime in the winter that followed, that I was no more than a passing fancy to the other party.  Following the breakup of my marriage (in which there was only a strong affection at the beginning and...nothing at the end) there were two other transitory relationships.  The last, ironically enough, was just another summer fling but because the feelings were so intense at the outset, the effects were brutalizing when it all imploded into a black hole, then subsequently exploded outward in a bang bigger than the inception of the universe, at least my universe.  In-between, there was another star-crossed romance that felt so right and comfortable and destined...until that too revealed itself as an ill-fated misfit that left me crying on the island of misfits while the other party sailed off to another destiny...


My marriage, though long, was more of convenience and some sense of comfort, and of course when it involved the upbringing of children...well, we weren't the first couple to lose ourselves in the task of raising of kids...but it was largely a sham from the outset, and ultimately destined to fail...the one saving grace, besides the time I had with my three boys (which I will never ever regret,) is that the slow un-layering of that sham, which left me standing naked and utterly alone with only a mirror to stare into, at least allowed me to initiate the process of becoming the inner person I am that was always cloistered by the outer person that others saw, and whom I'd convinced myself I was... 


You see, it is the underpinning of this treatise that one can't love another, cannot truly and fully love another person in their life, until they have first come to terms with themselves...


So it is my contention (and reality) that because I have only recently confronted who I am, and have always been, those other romances and "faux" loves, were never truly real.  In short: I have never loved at all...


Sad on the surface to be sure.  And more deeply hurtful because I so yearn to find love, true love, and feel that I have a lifetime of pent love to give to another soul...


If one believes in the "After-life" (and I do!) and one also believes that there is one true "soul-mate" for each of us on this planet, and that when we pass into that after-life we will be eternally linked with that soul...well, I can only lament that I might never discover who my soul-mate is, and that I may live that eternity as alone as I've always been in this living life...and that makes me sad sometimes.  For you see, the above adage posits that even "lost" love can be recovered in the nether...but if you never find love...well, what does that mean?


insert sad smiley here :(

Leavings

Saying good-bye is easy.  That’s one thing you learn growing up a military brat.  Easy to leave, say sayonara to new friends you’ve made…and move on.  Mostly because in that life, you come to understand that nothing is permanent.  You know going in to a new place that you will not stay, that there will be a beginning, middle, and an ultimate end.  In one sense, maybe that makes you seem less true, that you never fully let people or places into your heart.  Because to do so means that you’d only be ripping your heart apart too often, each and every time you have to say good-bye.  So you befriend the people you meet, you share laughs and good times, as well as some hard times…you do your best to be a good friend, you help, you give, you listen, you share, you show the best parts of yourself…you do your best…but a part of your heart always remains guarded; you don’t allow yourself to feel too close to anyone.  Because it just hurts too damn much when you have to leave…and you’re always leaving…

 

I’m leaving another place in a few more days.  You might say it’s just a job, big deal.  But in my work, it’s so much more than the work, because in my work it’s all about people.  Ironic that I would toil in a profession that is all about caring and compassion, with caring and compassionate co-workers, taking care of so many people who need our caring compassion.  Like the old Barbara Streisand song: People who need people…  

 

I know how to say good-bye, I’ve said it so often in my life.  But one thing I’ve learned as I grow older, is that though I know how to say good-bye, how to leave…rather than get easier with all this damn practice, it gets only harder.  Harder and harder…

 

The last few weeks and days as a new “good-bye” gets closer and closer to that time that I must actually leave, my co-workers and friends, my comrades in this war of caring for the sick, the demented, and the dying, have all expressed their dismay and sadness that I’m moving on.  Sometimes when I see the sadness in their eyes, hear their words of dismay, feel the vehemence of their embrace, I’m shocked to realize that I matter that much in their eyes…Because I’m so used to moving on, being transient, I sometimes forget that I make an impression at all.  Maybe it’s because I’m so guarded, against my own hurt, that I fail to register how others view me sometimes.  I’ve always had this vague sense of invisibility, that because I never stay too long, people don’t notice me, that I ghost through their lives as only a vague specter…that once I’ve wisped away in a vaporous memory, they might question if I was ever truly there before them…that I’m easily forgotten…

 

It seems odd to realize that people do see me!  That I’m not invisible and I do make an impression.  So it hurts to look them in the eyes and say good-bye.  Because, much as I like to pretend it doesn’t matter, that I don’t matter…it’s obvious I do.  So many of my residents have had that crushed and despairing look in their eyes these past few days when I confirm the rumors they’ve heard, that I’m leaving.  It hurts because I do care.  I care about all of them, even the ones who are a pain in my ass.  You see, that guard around my heart is only a façade, an invisible force field, a hologram, a mirage…And much as I like to pretend that I know how to say good-bye, it only gets harder.  Because the further I get on in this life, the more I yearn for that place, those people, where I can stay and they can stay with me.  A place of permanence where I belong and they belong with me.  A few good people who will ride the rest of this out…with me.  People who I won’t have to say good-bye to, at least not until that time when either I, or they, ghost away into the afterlife…

 

I’m moving on in the next few days, on to another new job, with new people whom I already know won’t be permanent in my life.  This is just another temporary duty station.  I’ll be moving on from there as well, eventually, as my plans and aspirations do not include being a nurse’s aide for the rest of my time.  The work is too hard on me physically; I do not want to be so crippled that I can’t do things I’ve always dreamed of doing.  It’s too hard emotionally as well; I think maybe I’m too empathetic sometimes.  I cry too much when my people die.  I cry when I have to say good-bye.  Sometimes outwardly, but always, always inwardly.  I can’t keep doing this much longer.  It’s time for a real change and this is only an interim one…I know going in to this new job, this new place, these new people, that there will come that time when I have to say good-bye to them as well… 

 

I’m tired of good-byes.  I’m tired of good-bye tears.  I yearn for my long-time, life-long relationships.  I yearn for lasting friendships, and perhaps, maybe, someday (if fate would be so kind)…even a real romantic relationship; a single soul with whom to share my journey…I’m tired of saying good-bye…saying good-bye is actually not very easy at all…

Perspective

I wanted to write something clever.  Work has been increasingly stressful lately, and I had an idea to illustrate my frustrations by juxtaposing what I’ve been going through with a scene from a war movie that resonates within me.  But after reviewing that particular scene, a scene I’ve watched so many times…after witnessing the horror, the terror, and inhumanity of what happened on that beach in Normandy, the hell that those men went through…well, let’s just say that my stresses paled with the comparison, and I found my perspective…

 

The scene takes place in the midst of the opening sequence of “Saving Private Ryan.”  Soldiers…brave and terrified young men are being slaughtered on the sand, in the water, and even before they have a chance to get off the landing craft.  Carnage, explosions, bullets pinging off the metal beach obstacles like hail on a tin roof.  For we, the viewers, that opening sequence is the most uber intense twenty or so minutes in film history.  When I originally viewed it, when I see it again, each and every time, my body tenses with the terror and horror of it all; I have to remind myself to breathe at times, unaware that I’ve been holding it.  I cannot even imagine how it must have been for the real soldiers on those beaches, slogging through the blood and the mix of broken bodies and equipment…

 

The scene I was remembering is, in the midst of all this chaos, a young medic works feverishly to save the life of a wounded soldier, kneeling in the sand over him, even pulling the body of another soldier close, to shield the dying one, only to see his efforts ultimately fail when a bullet strikes the wounded soldier in the head, killing him instantly.  The medic cries out his frustration to the German guns mowing down the men around him, as he fulminates a foaming mouthed string of obscenities directed at the German soldiers behind those guns: "Just give us a fucking chance you son of a bitch, you son of a fucking cocksucker!"  That was the scene that resonated with me, the utter frustration of being laden with more burden than it was possible to carry, that’s what I wanted to convey...

 

At first, I figured I would offer the caveat, homage to those soldiers, to all combat veterans, that in no way would I mean to compare what they go through, with the threat of imminent and horrific death all around them...to my experience rendering care to elderly folk in a nursing home...but after reviewing that scene, I felt chagrined at even conceiving a parallel... 

 

Yes, I am more familiar with death than I ever wanted to be; I’ve held dying people in my arms, watched them suffer, sometimes for only a short time, other times, for far, far too long.  I’ve hugged and tried to comfort the scared ones, the abandoned ones, held their hands, stroked their foreheads, hugged and kissed them and tried to assuage their fears, and tears.  I’ve hugged the loved ones who come to witness their dying moments, tried to offer words of profundity to soothe their loss, knowing that there are no such words.  I’ve watched the slow decline, the withering, the loss of color to flesh, the dimming light in eyes.  I’ve been surprised how some linger, unable to achieve their death, suffering all the while.  I’ve been surprised as well at the unexpected, sudden deaths.  Those we send out to the hospital for a seemingly minor illness, only to never come back to us.  The “younger” ones who suddenly “arrest.”  The man who aspirated on his own vomit. The woman who was breathing as I rolled her one way in bed, but who’d ceased breathing when I rolled her back.  The ones where you go into their room, only to discover that they’re “gone.”  Just gone.  Then there are the countless souls who never recover after suffering a fall.  I’ve watched them sent out with a broken hip, to have some surgeon “practice” their technique, fixing the broken joint with rods and screws, before shipping them back to us to “recover,” only to witness their rapid decline until they die a few months or weeks later.  People on the outside don’t realize how critical a simple fall can be to the elderly; people on the inside know this all too well.

 

It’s not only the death though.  There are the poor “jumpers” who climb repeatedly out of bed and wheelchairs, setting off beeping alarms to alert us so we can safely guide them back down before they fall, and maybe break a hip.  There are the “wanderers” who shuffle their feet along the floor, propelling their wheelchairs all over the building, sometimes intruding into the rooms of other residents who are not too happy to have them visit.  Wandering the halls, wailing out their dementia, crying out the names of their loved ones, the only connection their addled minds have to any semblance of reality.  There are of course also, the sufferers.  Half blind, half deaf people, sitting in their rooms with only dark silence until maybe one of us aides or nurses takes the time to lean in close and offer our muffled voice into their ears, touch their shoulders, hold their hands, hug them.  There are the “behaviorals” too, those who are not as physically bad off as the others but who through loneliness and depression and childlike “neediness,” are compelled to incessantly ring their call bells, or seek us out, or follow us around to the rooms of other residents, or scream our names from the other end of our unit, demanding attention for all manner of silly assistance.  “Can you fix my TV?” they might ask, and for the umpteenth time you push the same single button on their remote to affect that “fix.”  “Can you open that window?  Just a crack, no, that’s not enough, no, that’s too much, no...” Then five minutes later you’re answering their light again: “Can you pull that curtain a little? No, that’s too much, no that’s not enough, no a little more, no...” 

 

And all the while, you’re juggling similar requests from three other residents, (this one wants water, that one wants the head of her bed raised, the other wants...well, he just wants...) along with the man who’s a fall risk sitting forever on the toilet whom you’re not supposed to leave but the bitchy nurse you have to work with that shift just demanded you go get that other resident up for supper so you gamble and leave the toilet sitting one to go make the nurse happy and meanwhile one of the more sentient residents is screaming at a “wanderer” to “get the hell outta my room or I’ll break your nose with my fist!”

 

What compelled me to ruminate, and then write about all this is because more and more it seems, the long-term care unit where I work is being laden with an endless stream of “hard cases.”  I’m reminded of that inscription at the base of the Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore...”  We seem to take in the ones that no other facilities want to handle.  Our own rehab unit purges their beds of the difficult cases and ships them down to our end of the facility, the long-term care unit, last stop on the train ride to nowhere... 

 

So more and more my nights, my shifts seem to be overrun with chaos and insanity; screaming, crying, angry, combative residents who require far more care than we can provide with our limited staff.  Everything happens at once on these nights.  Residents falling, residents trying to beat on each other, or us, residents demanding our attention, despite the emergency situation happening down the hallway...all at the same damn time!  I sometimes want to fulminate my own foamy mouthed frustration and scream, “Give us a fucking chance!”

 

But then I remember, there are no bullets flying overhead.  I am not witnessing limbs blown off with explosions.  I’m not awash in blood and viscera and my people, and myself,  are not in peril of imminent death...

 

I watched that opening sequence of “Saving Private Ryan” again before I sat down to write this blog...and I found my perspective.  I realized that my debt to such men is so enormous that I can never repay it.  And that my burden is not so great that I cannot carry on.  Like the elder Private Ryan at the close of the movie, standing over the gravesite of Captain Miller, tears in his eyes, asking his wife if he’s been a “good man,” I realize that what matters, what truly matters, is that I do my best and try to earn and live the life that has been given to me, and at least pay down the debt owed.  And if that means I have to endure the suffering and death around me, and the helpless feeling I sometimes get, the feeling that none of what I do really makes a difference, then I too can soldier on.  And maybe someday, when my “tour of duty” has come to an end, I will know that I have done my part, that I have served...that I have been a good person...

Frag

At my place of employ I work for a Nazi with a Napoleon complex.  I call him Frag. 

 

In the military, there’s a long tradition of handling superior officers or members of one’s unit who are ineffective leaders to the point where they endanger the unit as a whole.  Wikipedia defines it thusly: “Fragging,” assassination of an unpopular member of one's own fighting unit, occasionally using a fragmentation grenade.  While it might sound a bit harsh and extreme to have to resort to killing one’s own leader, sometimes it’s necessary to preserve the fighting integrity, and especially the safety of the unit. 

 

The object of the fragging is often an imperious, officious, prick who believes leadership is all about rules and regs, and especially domination of one’s subordinates, at the expense of respect and dignity, and especially attention to the real nuts and bolts of what makes up a fighting unit.  They try to rule by intimidation and waste too much time and energy on spit and polish, at the expense of both learning, and teaching the craft of warfare.

 

There’s a TV mini-series that I have on DVD, and watch at least once a year, that I think illustrates this perfectly.  I think it should be mandatory viewing in every organization as a training tool for both effective…and especially, ineffective leadership.  “Band of Brothers” is a multi-part series about a company of paratroopers in the 101^st Airborne during WWII.  In it, we see two officers exhibiting each of these leadership styles. 

 

Captain Sobel, played with exquisite foppishness by David Schwimmer, is a prime example of ineffective leadership.  He is a also a prime example of just the sort of officer who would have been “fragged” at first opportunity by his men, before he had the chance to “lead” them to slaughter in battle.  Captain Sobel rants and bellows, belittles his men, embarrasses his junior officers and non-coms in front of the men, punishes them all by cancelling leave for minor infractions of buttons on uniforms and scuffed boots, and relentlessly forces them on marches up Mt. Currahee.  In one scene, he deviously “rewards” the men with a nice dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, before interrupting the meal and demanding the now pasta engorged men run up that mountain yet again, hoping that the ensuing agony and mass vomiting will bend them to his will.  To the men’s credit, they rally together against their common foe, and instead the hapless Captain Sobel is only made to feel foolish before them. 

 

In England, while preparing for the D-Day invasion, where the paratroopers are to make a  drop behind enemy lines the night before, Sobel further exposes himself as a feckless military commander, getting lost and confused while trying to lead his company to rendezvous points.  The troops are so horrified by his ineptitude that they actually risk court-martial to mutiny against him in order to not be lead to inevitable slaughter when the real battle begins.

 

A subordinate officer, Lieutenant Winters, is ordered to take command of the company on short notice and what we witness through the remainder of the movie is how he evolves as a true leader, gaining and building on the respect of his men to the point where they will follow him into and through the most hellish battles imaginable. 

 

The difference between Winters and Sobel is that Winters leads by example.  He is only forceful when he needs to be, but he is always fair.  He does not ask his men to do what he could or would not do himself.  He never treats them as inferior beings and is always instructing and drilling on the aspects of soldiering that have real practical application.  And always, always, he looks out for his men and tries to keep them as safe and cohesive as possible.  By the end of the campaign, he has risen to the rank of Major and battalion commander.

 

I’ve worked for too many Captain Sobel’s, especially it seems, in this business of health-care and nursing where I’m at today.  My current Sobel is without question the worst Sobel I’ve ever encountered.  Sometimes I call him the Wizard, because like the phony “man behind the curtain” in Oz, he rarely comes out of his office or from his position behind the computer screen on his desk.  He’s been in his position as Director of Nursing Services at our facility for 3 months and yet not once has he taken it upon himself to circulate amongst the staff and get to “know his people.”  Despite being utterly clueless, or caring, of what happens on the long-term unit I work on, he delegates reprimands and discipline to his underlings to execute on us based on what the personnel files show on his computer screen.  Worse, he seems to actually enjoy pulling people into his office to belittle and demean and even threaten them.  People have been told: “you’re worthless,” or, “you should look for another profession.”  He told one aide, a 62yr old Filipino woman, not even five feet tall, who shows up every day, never calls out and does her job to the best of her ability, that he had to cut her overtime hours because apparently she was too “tired” to do her job properly.  Then in the next breath he inquired as to her financial situation, asking her if she had money troubles, insinuating that as the reason for her picking up so many OT hours.  Seriously, never mind the inappropriateness, and grossly unprofessional tone of such a remark, or the fact that her financial situation is none of his damn business, is he aware that she still has family in the Philippines, and that they’re still reeling from the devastation of the typhoon?!

 

So what has Frag wrought with his campaign of bullying intimidation of nurses and aides?  What does he think his open contempt of LPN’s (he’s stated that he considers them inferior to RN’s) and his obvious disdain for the frontline grunt LNA’s who do the bulk of actual care for our residents, what does this he think his “leadership” style will cultivate?  The answer is obvious; the answer is the same for those men on Currahee.  And I can tell you it is not one of reverence or respect.  Intimidation, in any situation, breeds only resentment.  Those oppressed will only do what they need to do to make the whippings stop.  Only escape, and/or mutiny are the true byproducts of this methodology of managing people.  It is so blatantly counterproductive to actually urging the best from your charges.  Yet so many, so damn many people in “leadership” positions, resort to this style.  It is lazy.  It is ignorant.  And it is utterly ineffective. 

 

The problem here is that positions of management, of leadership, of “power over people” too often attract only those Sobels who are least suited or qualified to perform the task.  Real leaders, almost always have leadership thrust upon them.  And the best ones often come from a background of remembering what it’s like to be a subordinate, an underling, a frontline grunt.  And those who don’t, at least have a sense of compassion and respect for those who do the heavy lifting.  They remember that we are all humans, first and foremost. And that respect and credibility are two things you must first earn from the people you are charged with leading, lest you turn around mid-way up that hill of Currahee, or worse yet, in a fox-hole in battle, surrounded by the enemy, and find yourself alone with no one to either lead...or save your ass!

 

Frag will get his in the end.  They all do eventually.  It is only distressing that so many good people will go down before him; like Custer’s men, scalped and defiled, all in the name of his own vanity, this Sobel will only lead his “troops” to inevitable slaughter.  And worse yet, in a business that’s supposed to be about caring and compassion, the most vulnerable in this whole scenario, the elderly and infirm people that we are supposed to be providing care, will suffer the most...

 

 

The Yin The Yang of Life

(A few things I’ve learned in this life…in no particular order)

 

Life is hard sometimes.  Sometimes it will beat you up, keep you down.  Sometimes it will scare the bejeepers out of you.  But life is also yin and yang.  For all the bad, there are equal measures good.  The trick is to find the balance.  For bad will find you, seek you out, hunt you down.  It is up to you to seek, find, create the good.  Happiness.  Peace.  They’re both there for you in this life, but you have to work to achieve them…

Remember:

In this life you will be hurt.  Sometimes by those who don’t mean you harm, sometimes by those who do.  Forgive the former, forget the latter.

In this life you will be betrayed.  You will be abandoned, cast out, shunned, and rejected.  But you will also be comforted, befriended, admired, uplifted, loved.

You will be inspired by some. Others will be inspired by you. 

You will laugh. You will cry.  You will win. You will lose.  You will feel pain.  Pain of emotional, physical, and mental sorts.  Yet you will also sometimes feel warm and fuzzy.  Comfortable, relaxed, safe.  You will experience elation, merriment, good cheer, and fellowship with your mates. You’ll know the soothe of warm winds, soft touches, the snuggle of a purring kitten in your lap, the whisper of love in your ear.  

Sometimes you will feel strong and vibrant and powerful, on top of your world… indomitable.  Enjoy those times, but remain humble.  Remember humility.  For there will be times to come when you feel weak and wounded, lonely and depressed, feeble, worthless, unloved and anonymous.  Do not give in to the lower moments of your life, but remember the times when you were strong, the mountains you’ve climbed, and tribulations you’ve overcome; draw on that memory to lift yourself up again for you know that strength is always within you.  Allow it to erupt again from dormancy in a renewed volcano of strength.  But do not let that strength overrun and burn and char everything and everyone in its path.  Remember humility.  Always.

You will witness ugliness and inhumanity, war and death.  But beauty and great humanity never abandon us.  When towers burn and people flee, there are always those who rush to, rather than away, who seek to help, to rescue, to save, rather than destroy and hurt.  Humanity never abandons us, even when inhumanity surrounds us. 

You will experience joy, and wonder, and ecstasy.  Sometimes, even fleeting peace and contentment.  But you will also fall prey to humankind’s baser emotions of jealousy, envy, spitefulness, prejudice and yes, even hatred.  Do not hate for it is a waste of your energy. Only your own heart, chakra, or Qi will be affected by this hatred, while the object of this emotion will always roll on their merry way leaving you to suffer and smolder inside.  Give it up; life is too short and nobody deserves to suck such a powerful force from you; reserve that energy for positive applications.

You will do things that you make you proud.  You will also regret moments that do not make you proud.  Don’t waste time on regret.  Learn instead.  And do not beat yourself up for you are human and imperfect, but also perfectly human.

You will make mistakes. You will fail and experience defeat.  You will fall…  And yet, you will also triumph and overcome. You will get up. You will move on.  You will learn and grow.   

Speaking of learning and growing, you will continue to do so over the course of your life. But so will the people who come into your life.  Sometimes this learning and growing will occur together.  And sometimes this growth will widen your differences until you eventually fade from each other’s lives.  This is not the end of either “The” World, or your world.  Wounds will heal and hearts can only hurt, not break. 

You will encounter those who believe their “Faith” is the “Answer” and that you should follow their lead to a purpose that they alone are privy to.  You will also encounter those who do not believe there is anything greater than what they see around them, or that “Science” has “Proven.”  They will both be right.  And they will also both be wrong.  For there is no answer or purpose that fits us all like a magic slipper.  There is only Life.  Each life is to be lived by the individual proprietor of that life.  And each truth is to be discovered and embraced by that individual.

In a sense, we all come from the same place.  And whether one believes that to be a garden of Utopian bliss, or a primordial mud of replicating cells, does not matter.  For we also all come from different places, values, and experiences.  And no matter where we believe our lineage lies, whatever happens after this life is ultimately a mystery to both those who Believe, or Dis-believe.  So do not concern yourself so much with the “Afterlife.”  Live in the here, the now.  Because now is all you got.  Do not plan so much for tomorrow that you neglect today.  The future, your future, will sort itself out in the end.   

Life is full of wonder.  Take the time to feel the cold sea water rush over your toes…and squeal.  Lay down on your belly and watch the bustle of ants about their colony, their lives not so different from ours, each ant an individual, yet working together to make life more comfortable for each other.  Cradle a baby in your arms and smell its new life and listen to its little breaths as it sleeps…trusting you to keep it safe and warm and loved.  

Love someone with all your heart, abandoning your guard for all the times your heart has been wounded.  For love is always a gamble, a leap of faith and trust; do not let those who’ve hurt you in your past continue to hurt you in your present; do not make a new love pay for the lost trust and hurt of those broken loves.  Do not be afraid to love.

Cherish your friends.  Some will move into, then out of your life, for all sorts of reasons.  Cherish them while they are there for you.  For they will need you sometimes…and you in turn, shall sometimes need to lean on them.  Do not mourn or regret those who discard your friendship, they are simply on another path that converged for a time with yours, then diverged again as you both moved on.  I once knew a friend, a wise philosopher, who explained why he did not lament that some of his friends chose to walk out of his life, usually over petty disagreements, misunderstandings, or change of hearts: “There are 350 million people in this country,” he said, “if I need a friend, I’ll go out and make one!”  What a concept.  So simple.  So true. 

Of course, some friends, those closest in your heart, will remain for a lifetime.  You might not see them often, they might even live on the opposite side of a continent.  But as long as they are in your mind, your heart, they are your truest friends.  And they are priceless.  Cherish them.  Smile and laugh with them.  Hold their hands.  Hug and most of all, love them.  Tell them you love them.  That you appreciate and are grateful you have them in your life.  For you will help them get through all this, and they will do the same for you.

Remember that none of us are islands in this life.  For though roiling seas may separate us on the surface, all islands are connected beneath the ocean as part of the mantle crust over the bubbling, magma nucleus of Earth.  Even Jesus and Darwin would agree on that.  We are a communal species, who like that ant colony, need each other to survive, live, and thrive.  So do not seek to demean or diminish or injure one another.  For the strengths and weaknesses we all possess can be employed either to help…or exploit.  And those who currently enjoy success and wealth and prosperity, might someday find the polarity of their world reversed and be dependent on the charity and compassion of those whom they once oppressed, disdained, or ignored. 

Be kind.  Be charitable.  Smile more than you sneer.  Better yet, abandon sneering altogether; it does not become you.  Of course, sneer too often and it does become you…

Wag more, bark less.  Learn and live this simple truth of the dog for he is Humanity’s best friend.  Oh do we have so much to learn from the dog.  Eons ago, we welcomed him into our caves and huts, to sit by our fire, eat our scraps, and extend him our companionship.  And to this day, he remains eternally grateful; he repays our kindness so many, many times over.  If only we could embrace more the best attributes of the dog in ourselves; if only we could heed his enduring lesson of loyalty, faithfulness, and unconditional love.

Control is an illusion.  None of us are in control of our fates.  We can only equip ourselves to deal with whatever fate decides to deal out to us.  And it’s not the cards you’re dealt so much, but how you play those cards.  Sometimes you hold ’em, other times you fold ’em; sometimes you bluff…

Never forget that in this life, we are all terminal cases.  And whether your end in this life comes suddenly and unexpectedly, or miserably and painfully after a long drawn out illness…what I’ve learned is that there are no merciful deaths.  Good people die young, before “their time.”  And old age is not an accomplishment, only the “luck” of the draw.  And yes, I mean to convey that with some sarcasm, as the many deaths I’ve witnessed in my time caring for the elderly population are not merciful at all.  More often than not, only suffering, abandonment, and neglect attends those at the “end stage of life.”  Sometimes it is a product of the life lived by that person.  More often, it’s because the young and vibrant do not allot time in their lives or hearts, they claim their own lives are too “busy” to repay the debt to those who gave and sacrificed so much of themselves.  They forget all those vulnerable years when they were so dependent on the wisdom, strong arms, and comfort of their elders.  I’m here to tell you, if you’re “lucky” enough to achieve your “golden” years, you most certainly will need the strength and comfort of younger arms and hearts.  For each of us is reduced to a diminished, weaker, and more dependent semblance of ourselves in the end.  So try not to forget.  Make the time in your busy life.  Repay the debt.  For what goes around, truly does come around. 

None of us are immune to the basic human need for each other, and none of us are getting out of this alive.  So be there for each other.  Help one another.  As we learned in kindergarten, when the class is on field trip, and we have to cross the street, we do it together…holding hands.  So hold on, stay together… 

Be gracious.  Be grateful.  Be great!

Dream.  Aspire.  Desire.  Yes, desire is okay too, but only if you don’t allow it to overcome or consume you. 

Take it as it comes.  Make the best of it.  Teach your children well.  Make lemonade out of lemons.  Above all, don’t worry, be happy.  For this too, shall pass.

Life is a miracle.  Each birth, each new life is reminder and testament to that truth.  A budding tree in the Spring, a crocus pushing up through still snow covered earth, a litter of yet blind kittens suckling at the warmth of their mother’s belly, a foal’s stumbling first steps on spindly legs…a baby emergent through the dark shelter of its mother’s womb to the bright light of the world…the preciousness, the wonder of it all will continue to astound…if you but open your mind and heart to that miracle. 

So what I’ve learned so far in this life is that:  Life is beauty.  Life is a gift.  Life is temporary.  While you’re here, while you’re alive, utilize this gift, this miracle to…LIVE, LEARN, but most of all…LOVE. 

 

 

Shed Shapes

 

I called them Shed Shapes because they were crafted in the true spirit of the backyard shaper and the longest run of my shaping and glassing days was all conducted in a 6x8 foot shed out in my back yard.   

 

Because of the limitations of this small space, and for the better part of 20 years, I wasn’t able to make a board any longer than eight foot. It didn’t matter so much because at the time, I held nothing but disdain for longboards and longboard surfers.  As my area was overrun with them in the 90’s, I considered them lame and only tools for kooks and old, out of shape has beens.  Of course, as I aged and devolved into a has been myself, I did eventually give in and build an eight foot mini-mal.  To get the blank, and then the finished board, into and out of my “shop” I had to lift the nose up into the elevated gambrel roof, and dip the tail down to the floor and pivot it through the door.  The tip of the nose and tail actually fit in between two studs and kissed the wood of the exterior siding and it was a bit of a challenge to glass the finished shape.  But like all the other boards I’d made over the years, I improvised, adapted, and overcame my limitations.

 

I started surfing in 1974 and shaped my first board in 1975 in the detached garage of the summer cottage my family rented each July & August.  There were no local shapers with whom to apprentice, nor was there any internet or Swaylocks or other mentors to show me the ropes back then.  Not in Maine for sure.  I learned the process, start to finish, all from what I could glean from a blue paperback entitled: Surfboard Design And Construction, authored by James Kinstle and published by: Natural High Express Publishing Company.  I’d found this early board building bible in an issue of Surfer magazine and mail ordered my copy and waited with eager anticipation for the 6-8 weeks delivery.  I still have it, complete with tattered pages and resin stains; it’s probably a collector’s item now.  And though I made many mistakes on that first board, a blue, 7 foot pintail, orange finned gun, including mistakenly laminating the board with gloss resin and glossing with laminating resin (went through about a ream of sandpaper trying to sand that gummy resined board!) I was pretty stoked with my first effort.  Mom was less stoked with the mess I made, especially the resin splatters on the wood floor of that old garage that I’m sure remain there 39 years later!

 

Over the ensuing years, in other garages, basements, outdoors under the shade of trees, and of course in that little shed, I continued to develop my “craft.”  For me it was mostly a matter of economics; I found then, and still today, that I could roughly build two boards for the price of one off the racks in a surf shop.  If I lived in an area where blanks were more readily accessible, I could have bettered that ratio but what always got me was the shipping of blanks from places like Florida, California, and Washington state, to my little corner of the surfing globe in Maine. 

 

I’m the first to admit I am no craftsperson.  My “technique,” based mostly on a lot of trial and error, would make professional board builders cringe I’m sure.  It wasn’t until Swaylocks came along in recent times that I “discovered” how to perform most of the little “tricks of the trade.”  But I’ve developed my own process and while slow and crude, I’m able to produce boards that work.  Shaping has always come a bit easier to me, not because I’m masterful with tools, which I am most certainly not, but because I have a pretty good eye, and I’m not afraid of sweat and blood.  And after 40 years of surfing almost every shape (many of them dogs that I made!) I’d like to believe I know which designs are valid.  Actually, I have an almost curmudgeonly, “Parmenteresque,” (Dave Parmenter, my board design hero) type cynicism and am quite bored with most of modern equipment (and contest driven surfing for that matter!)  I find a lot of what is out there today is either gimmicky, or at the other end of the spectrum, refinement of the same old stale “tri-fin” design to the point of fetid stagnation.  I grew up on single fins and to me, that’s the foundation every surfer should build on, learning to surf the wave rather than the board, which single fins force you to do.  That is not to say that other designs aren’t, or can’t be valid, only that like most everything else these days, kids want to learn how to dunk before they can dribble, juggle before they can execute a basic inside of the foot pass, or boost air before they can put a board on rail off the bottom. 

 

Glassing has always been my nemesis when it comes to board building.  There are so many technical aspects to the process that only years and hundreds of boards glassed can master.  And as I’m often strapped for finances, and only make a handful of boards each year, for either myself or a few friends, it’s taken me decades to reach even a base level of proficiency.  But there’s something to be said for learning things the hard way.  You haven’t lived until you’ve watched a batch go off in the bucket when you’ve still only saturated half the glass on the board with resin.  Or tried to sand a board mistakenly hot coated with lam resin…

 

Many of my early boards were “stripped down” shapes.  These are either old boards, or boards that just didn’t work, that I stripped off the glass and re-shaped into something new, sometimes even using cheaper, boat yard resin, in all its brownish, root beer tinted ugliness.  I still do this today sometimes and call the reconstituted shapes my: “Frankenboards” (I even have a logo of a frankensteinian monster riding a taped and stitched board!)  Sometimes I get ideas for prototypes and test it out this way; one of my current boards is an asymmetrical board that originally started as a high performance longboard; morphed to a “cut a foot off the nose” fun shape; to strip the glass and reshape a 7’6” flat rockered, bevel railed mush buster; to cut six more inches off and reshape to swallow tail; to cut off one swallow and reshape more kick in the tail on the backside rail, along with moving the sidebite (2+1 finset) on that side up for a more forward pivot point, flex finned, flat rockered, flyer!  This board looks weird and every bit as cobbled together parts as did Frankenstein’s monster, but it goes really, really fast on the forehand, and is a bit looser on the backhand and works…for me!  I call it the Platypus model cuz its flat blunt nose looks like the bill of a platypus and platypuses (platypusi?) look like a collection of used animal parts as well. 

 

After all these years, and meagerly improved technique, I’ve reached a point with my board building that I’m pretty confident of turning out good boards that work, though I’m still working on the cosmetic end of glassing.  Trying my hand at tints and resin pinlines, like they used to do in the 70’s, makes me appreciate that much more the level of craftsmanship of the old masters. 

I made two personal boards this boards this summer: an old school log, with a glassed on fin and noooo leash plug (riding a longboard with a leash, to me, is like boosting air at a long pointbreak…and blowing the wave; fugly!) and a 7’6” hybrid shape that was designed to work in nearly all conditions.  The log performed exactly as I designed it and I was able to ride it just how I wanted.  Very first wave, I pivoted off the bottom and cross-stepped right up to the nose, before backpedaling into a drop-knee cutback, some high line trim, and then finishing the wave with an actual kick-out (remember when surfers ended their rides in this elegant fashion?)  The hybrid on the other hand, is a, “jury-still-out” affair.  Not a fan of “high-performance” longboarding (to me, shortboard maneuvers on longboards, with two feet of superfluous nose are not aesthetically pleasing) my intention was to make a wide, stable board that could still execute high performance moves while more readily catching and trimming along the mushier breaks I often have to surf in my area.  But like any compromise design, it doesn’t seem to work so well at either end of the spectrum and in the end is exactly that, a compromise.  Of course, compromise is sometimes the best solution to certain situations so this board remains in my quiver for now. 

 

I’ve not purchased a board off the racks or ridden any other shape that I didn’t build myself since 1982.  I’ve lost track of how many boards I’ve built but every one of them was crafted with the stoke and anticipation of riding something that germinated inside my own head.  I’ve made a fair number of boards for others in all that time as well, but I do it only on the side and more to fund my own projects rather than any kind of income producing endeavor.  I am proud that most of the feedback I’ve received from my “customers” is positive; I attribute this mostly to knowing what works in the conditions of my region, and considering the skill level and experience of the people I’ve shaped for.  I’ve certainly not made a name for myself in all these years, though this past summer I did get photographed and interviewed for Eastern Surf magazine.  Sadly, I didn’t make the cut for the feature on east coast shapers, pros and backyarders like myself, but then, that was never my motivation for building my own equipment anyway. 

 

These days I’ve changed my label to “mo-FLOW surfboards,” in order to reflect my philosophy on a more flowing approach of surfing with the wave rather than merely using it as a launch ramp; I know, kinda old school, hippy drippy but those are my roots.  I also no longer build out of a shed, but have a detached workshop on my property where there is plenty of space to shape and glass and conduct my mad experiments!  It’s been a humbling, yet often exhilarating experience crafting my own designs.  They say that every surfer should try their hand at building their own board and I fully concur.  If nothing else, you gain an appreciation of the true craftsmanship and toil that the professional board builders put into that slab of foam and glass under your feet.  And when you take off on and connect with a wave with something you built with your own hands and experience that magic that only a very small percentage of boards, professionally built or otherwise, can achieve…well, there’s no better feeling in surfing I think.