Daisy

Daisy  1999 - 2013

Daisy was never an outside dog. She would only stay outside with us as long as it was cool and she could lay in shade, usually under the big live-oak tree next to the house. She would much rather lay on the living room couch in the air-conditioning. Even then she would pant.

She hated the Florida heat. With her thick, white coat, she was better suited for Norway or some other Scandinavian country that really was her heritage as she appeared to be a mixed Spitz/Samoyed type. She was a rescue dog, and even the veterinarians weren't sure of her main breed. Our daughter, Monica, found her on a highway in Georgia during a rainstorm in early 2000. Someone simply dumped one of the sweetest dogs ever alongside the road. Probably because she was pregnant.

Monica named her Daisy, and the name suited her perfectly. After taking her to a vet and getting her neutered, she became part of Monica's household, at least until we lost our dog, Sasha.

Having a pet euthanized is incredibly difficult. Watching a loved pet die in your arms is even worse, and that is what happened to our first dog, Tippy, a Beagle who died of kidney failure. Ilse and Monica did their best to comfort him and relieve his suffering, but it was incredibly difficult for both of them as they helplessly held him while he died an agonizing death.

We lost our second dog, Sasha after fifteen years. It was a difficult decision to make, and even a more difficult task to actually do. When Sasha, reached the point of being beyond help or recovery, we decided to have our veterinarian come to our house to end our fifteen year old mixed spaniel's difficulties. We didn't want to sit in any waiting room with our beloved pet, waiting for the inevitable nurse call and our veterinarian graciously complied.

It wasn't long after we lost Sasha that Monica called and said, “I have a dog for you!” We both said,

“No, it's too soon. We still miss Sasha and any new dog would just compete with our memory of her.”

“I'll send photos,” Monica said.

“Fine, but don't expect us to take her. We aren't ready.”

Daisy's first week at her new home was spent lying in the far corner of our lanai, simply staring at us. She ate without problem, and seemed to enjoy walking with us in the evening, but at night she slept in the living room with her muzzle on the low window sill. It took months before she began to show affection, but when she did, it was always on her terms. Nobody forced Daisy to do anything. Oh, she was well trained, she always followed commands, but as far as showing any kind of attachment, Daisy was a loner.

She rarely barked. She would announce anyone at the door, but that was it. We took her outside off leash after just several weeks, but we live on a waterway that runs into the Myakka River not far away, so we see alligators in the water behind the house regularly. We always checked the yard and banks before allowing her in our unfenced yard.

We found out she much preferred air conditioning to the fresh air of outdoors. She began sleeping closer to us, but only when she napped during the day. She was never aggressive. She could meet any dog at any time, and she would curiously say hello, then back away. Several years after we got her, she began to show signs of lethargy and lack of energy. She was diagnosed with a kidney problem that she lived with for years, and had a chronic thyroid problem that we gave her medicine twice a day to keep under control until the end. She also had the worst case of benign tumors of any dog our vet had ever seen. He took one off her side that required over twenty-five stitches.

Dad, I don't feel good...

One day while we were working in the yard, we noticed Daisy was laying under the Oak tree in a sphinx-like pose, looking down between her out-stretched paws. When we called her to come in, she looked at us, then looked down once again between her paws. Curious, we walked over to see what see was watching and were surprised to find she was protecting a baby squirrel. She would gently sniff it, then look at us as if to say “this baby needs help!” Daisy never barked in anger at anything, never once did we ever hear her growl.

None of her ailments stopped her from walking with us during the three months we camped across the eastern part of the country last year. She joined us on every trip, and walked hills and trails just like a young dog right to the very end.

Daisy on the Allegrippis Bicycle Trail, Pennsylvania, 2012

We ended up with a second dog, Taz, a Golden Retriever mix who was the opposite of Daisy in every way, but Daisy adored him and he became her pack leader. Taz is finally realizing something's wrong three days after Daisy's death, but we're not sure if he understands why. He hasn't gone looking for her that we know of, but he's a different dog. His fast, active demeanor is gone. He actually looks and acts depressed. He is finally realizing his sweetheart isn't here any more. 

 

Pithole Phyllis

Poor Pithole Phyllis can't even get her name in the paper. Her cousin, Punxsutawney Phil, grabs headlines every February 2nd down at Gobbler's Knob, but not poor Phyllis. No one calls to ask her anything. Great-great-grandpa Phineas made the mistake of picking the wrong town when he dropped off the back of the slow-moving buggy at the edge of Pithole, Pennsylvania, way back in the fall of 1865. He thought he had picked a town that had real potential. Oil wells were popping up everywhere since Colonel Drake drilled his first well over by Titusville, just a short buggy ride away. With fifty-four hotels, three churches, a railroad, the very first oil-pipeline, and even a red light district, Pithole had grown into a real city. Yep, ol' Pithole was on the map! Phineas decided to stake his claim and grow roots in this bustling metropolis.

“Whoa Nelly, is this gonna be fun!” Phineas thought to himself as he waddled across Holmden Street. “We even got us a theater and a newspaper,” he mused, then scurried as fast as his four short legs would go to get out from under the flailing hoofs of the horses being ridden wildly through town. He looked back from under the safety of first wooden porch he came to.

Early the next morning Phineas waddled to the top of the highest hill to see what he could see, but all he could see were oil wells! The forests were gone. Even the cow pastures had been torn up to build big, ugly structures that looked like they would blow down in a storm. By the time Pithole had 20,000 residents just a few months later, poor Phineas and his new family were stuck deep in the woods, terrified to venture anywhere near the farmers on the outskirts of town who would shoot at them on sight, or anywhere near the smelly oil fields where they would get covered in the dark, sticky goo that just wouldn't come off. Phineas was in despair, how could he have been so wrong?

His brother, Percy, had warned him not to be so impetuous. Percy stayed in Punxsutawney, some seventy miles further south. “There are only a couple of thousand people here in our little town, and that's all we'll ever have,” Percy told Phineas. “There's no reason on earth for anybody to ever move here! We'll never be bothered with traffic and noise. Stay with us and we'll all grow old and fat together, my brother.” But Phineas would have none of it and jumped up on a passing buggy axle the first chance he had. Percy never saw Phineas again.

Percy became something of a local celebrity in Punxsutawney. He always seemed to be where ever there was a fresh crop of sweet corn, and never missed a ripe garden that was within five miles of town. Life was good in little Punxsutawney. Percy was in the process of living to a ripe old age when he was caught off-guard by a freak blizzard one day in early February while trying to make his way slowly up to Gobbler's Knob. He saw his shadow that morning and decided sunshine meant good weather. He loved lying in the sunshine, and decided the top of the Knob would be a great place to soak up the warm rays of the sun. Unfortunately, like most groundhogs, Percy just wasn't very fast, and his old age made him even slower. He was too far from his burrow when the cold sleet of a late winter storm snuck in and caught him in the middle of an open field. Percy struggled desperately, but finally exhausted, he fell still in the winter snow and froze to death. Percy's oldest son, Phil, swore they would never again get caught off guard by the weather. Every year since, on the exact anniversary of Percy's fatal journey, Phil cautiously sticks his head out of his relocated home near Gobbler's Knob and decides for all groundhogs everywhere if they get to sleep in for six more weeks.

Phineas always kept abreast of his prudent, rational brother through the fuel of all envy, gossip. The polecat family that lived down by the hollow always seemed to know everything. Phineas heard about poor Percy, but he didn't make the trip for the funeral. He was too proud to admit his brother had been right, his dreams had been just too grandiose. Phineas's family eventually suffered just like the ill-fated town. Twenty years after moving to Pithole, the town was gone, only a blur in the memory of a few. Phineas never went back to the hill.

His family endured for generations after he passed away, but just barely. Most of his offspring departed for places unknown. Only a handful of grandkids stayed in the empty, cold family burrows, devoid of laughter and mirth. Every year on the day poor Percy froze to death, the current Punxsutawney Phil gets his photo on the front page of every paper in the country. Even Brian Williams raises his eyebrows to new levels to show Phil the 6th, or 7th, maybe it's now the 8th, being held aloft for all to see. Poor Pithole Phyllis waddles back to her den and pulls the covers up. The farmers still shoot at them, and if they aren't careful, they'll get run over by one of the few cars that travel down the usually empty roads. Groundhog Day just isn't very special in Pithole.

 

Mirror, Mirror

I look in the mirror and I see an old man's face staring at me. I wonder if he is as upset as I am about these things a doctor had to cut out of my chin. Those little stinkers weren't there last time I saw the dermatologist, just six short months ago. Or, at least they weren't visible then. They were masked by my beard, right at the chin line. The gray and dark intermixed beard colors masked a blemish that belied the unwanted presence of cancer cells. Once found, they had to to be evicted as soon as possible, sent immediately on their way to a lab for analysis. I don't want those microscopic aliens chewing on me any longer than possible. Thirty damn stitches across my side of my face. I look like I fought with Zorro and lost.

Ironically, I posted a quote by Alice Walker, 1997 Humanist of the Year, just before I had to have the surgery. She wrote, “What the mind doesn't understand, it will worship or fear.” Here's this microscopic creature that eats me alive from the inside out when its good and ready, and I can't do a thing about it. Apparently, we carry them around, incubating these adaptive little one-cell eating creatures until they have our body-map figured out, then they pop up and multiply rapidly in one of several different variations. But I'm fortunate, the ones that decided to pop up under my skin aren't the terrors they used to be. Not at least if I take them out now. Their nastier pack-brothers are still out there roaming around though, as are so many, many more of their unsavory relatives.

I don't understand them, and I don't worship them. I don't fear them, either. I don't like them, and if I knew how to stop them, I would. Wide brimmed hats are now the order of the day. I know I have to keep my head and especially my ears covered when I go out to play, along with a liberal application of chemical sun-screen. Why ask for trouble?

Anybody who still smokes is an idiot. Sucking those flesh-eaters through your lungs every chance you get might invite a few of them to pick a soft crevasse of your lungs and incubate for a few years. Try and get them out! Freedom? Freedom has nothing to do with it. Smokers are victims of good ol' American advertising. If you think cigarettes are expensive, wait until you get hit with your first prescription for chemo. You ain't seen nothin' yet!

Say, maybe we're going about this the wrong way! We should hire the advertising agencies to lure cancer cells out in the open. Given the right incentive, Madison Avenue would develop a marketing program to lure the little stinkers out into broad daylight! We might not be able to afford the advertising charges up front, but I bet given enough time, the marketing industry would figure out a way fake those nasty little guys right out of everybody's body. The cancer cells would march right out in the open to die and be happy about it. They'd think it was their right to do so. 

Facebook

As a writer, I'm usually prepared to take heat for what I write. The six years I wrote a business Op-Ed column for the Charlotte Sun Herald thickened my skin considerably. I have been blistered for just about everything under the sun. Having a friend toss one of the barbs, however, is a new one. It is so frustrating when a good friend inadvertently sticks you in the butt, especially in public. My first reaction is to ask my friend, "WTF?" The smarter move, however, is to find why the failure to communicate happened in the first place. 

I know no one reads my material exactly as I write it. No one else in here with me as I type and review the thoughts that tumble out, usually faster than my fingers can find the right keys. I do my best to write exactly what I want to write, that doesn't mean whoever reads it, reads what I wrote. Not exactly, anyway. Like listeners who hear only what they want to hear, readers only read what they want to read. I often cloak my dogma in humor, and I am disappointed when the point of what I write is misunderstood. What really surprises me is when the reader responds with what they feel is an honest rebuttal to an argument I didn't make. Well, not intentionally, anyway.

I set myself up for this new problem by using Facebook. You can post photos of your friends and relatives as you wander around the globe for everyone to see. You can express your political views, as well. When you do, be prepared for rebuttal. People you once thought were friends will dump on you if they disagree with you as if you were having a conversation in the local sports bar. I've found there are “friends” on Facebook who are just plain rude. They can't resist telling you, and your family and friends, and everyone around the world, the error of your faulty thinking, and they will do so vociferously. They should stay on their own pages where they can freely post their own viewpoints, but they don't. They want to rain on your parade and they will if you let them. I don't want anyone dumping on me on my own web page, nor using my page to promote their beliefs. That's what the “unfriend” button is for, and I have used it liberally ever since the last two Presidential elections. But this posting on my Facebook page wasn't meant as an insult; it was merely an honest response to one of my blog postings I referenced on Facebook.

I'm tempted to remove the comment, but that would be at the expense of our long-time friendship. A rebuttal to the comment will have to be diplomatically crafted to prevent essentially the same reaction. On the other hand, I can't leave it as it stands as it is completely misleading to anyone who comes across it. I'll see if I can manipulate this article in some way as to convey my thoughts. Oil on the water, so to speak. But, then my friend will probably say he doesn't swim in that stuff and we'll be off yet once again..

The predicament does tend to take the fun out of writing. Well, for a while anyway. I'll be back. I just won't post anymore on Facebook. As Paul Simon famously sang in The Boxer, "A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest..."

My Daughter, Monica, and I at the American Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg, in front of the grave of Gen George S. Patton

My Memorial Service

I want my memorial service to be a book sale. I want my wife, or heirs who inherit the duty of executor, to put copies of my autobiography discretely around the memorial display, preferably close to an American flag, and my old U.S. Air Force uniform, which I want hanging on a wooden hangar on the left side of the display. My book, Confessions of an Old Liberal, in a tasteful white book jacket, will have to be unsigned, unfortunately, as it hasn't been published yet. My eulogy can be the forward to the almost factual book; short, concise and in the current marketing scheme of selling books, inflated as possible. Maybe they can just read from the jacket liner.

It may be difficult to convince whichever funeral home ends up with me to fend off the clergy who will try to claim authority over my soul. Funeral homes seem to have a divine link with local religious powers, giving them an inside track to grieving family members who are then led to believe without some kind of formal religious guidance, my soul may just wander around North Port looking for a way out.

I often wondered about the overwhelming number of Christians buried in the oversea American War Cemeteries. I visit the American War Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg, where General George S. Patton is buried, every time my wife and I go to Germany to see family. The cemetery is located not far from the Luxembourg airport.  An occasional Star of David breaks up the symmetry of the row upon row of crosses in the somber reminder of the incredible price America paid to free Europe. The cemetery in Bastogne, Belgium, is the same way, and so is the memorial cemetery just outside Liege. Where are the atheists and the agnostics? What kind of marker did they get? Or did they just get drafted a second time?

The religious powers added “Under God” to the pledge of allegiance when I was in fourth or fifth grade, and changed the law about headstones in all the U.S. Military cemeteries about the same time. Before the early fifties, fallen U.S. service men and women were buried with round headstones with inscriptions. After the religious pressure successfully lobbied Congress, the markers were changed to Christian crosses, the Star of David, and the Crescent Star. The Wiccan Pentacle was added only after a lawsuit by Americans United for the Separation of Church and State in 2007. If you are a veteran, your survivors can choose from among different symbols offered for your old style round headstone by the Veterans Administration, now including the option for “none.” But they don't have a marker for me. My marker would be a question mark.

Even though the club obviously isn't as exclusive as it used to be, apparently there are no agnostics buried in any American military cemeteries. So up in smoke I go.

As Willie Nelson says:

“You won't see no sad and teary eyes

When I get my wings and it's time to fly

Just call my friends and tell them

There's a party, come on by

So just roll me up and smoke me when I die”¹
 

By the way, there will be no discounts on the book. I may be a liberal, but I'm still basically a Capitalist. Now's the time to yank on the heart strings. If the churches can do it, so can I.

George Mindling © 2013

1 "So just roll me up and smoke me when I die"  Copyright © 2012 Willie Nelson

The Tree Joyce Kilmer Never Met

“Out, Damn Stump!” I swung again, aiming the mattock at the only visible remnant of the Brazilian pepper tree I had cut down over thirteen years ago. I sweltered for hours back then, digging out the base of the huge, invasive pepper tree that dominated the walking path through my planned garden. The invasive Brazilian Peppertree is of the few trees the government wants you to take out, no permit needed! I was more than happy to oblige.

I dug to where I could stand in the trench around the tree stump up to my knees, but, try as I might, I could not budge the huge stump. I had used a chain saw to cut the pesky, unwanted tree down to size. It took me hours just to cut and drag away the limbs that spread over the path. The depth of the root system mocked me, no matter how deeply I dug around it. I dug, cut roots, and pried constantly, but to no avail. There was always an unseen root I couldn't sever to free the burdensome stump from its commanding location in the middle of my planned walkway.

After three days of digging, I stood in the trench around the firmly rooted stump, my shoulders even with the top of the visible remnant of the formidable tree. I could not break through the incredible root system that buried itself into Mother Earth as if to say, “We are one: you will not win!” Digging was simply not the answer.

I went to my garage and rummaged through my cans of chemicals, intent on killing this thing I could not defeat with an ax or a saw. But I would win, come hell or high water. I returned with a battery powered drill and a huge auger bit that allowed me to open the stump as a magician might open a window to another world. Mother nature never counted on Makita drills and human ingenuity. Or the ounce of pure weed killer I poured directly into the the circular wound I inflicted on my now defenseless adversary. One tap wouldn't do, I thought, boring five more deep holes into the trunk. Using an old kitchen funnel, each new avenue into the heart of the tree got a full load of weed killer. Now, I thought, we'll see who wins!

Every visitor's trip through our garden was prefaced with a warning not to trip over the stump that protruded defiantly in the middle of the path, receding ever so slowly each passing year. Rot finally weakened the stump. It actually moved when I kicked it. It took a half-hour of solid work to bust out all the old rotted roots, looking like a huge molar that needed a gigantic root canal. I filled my wheel barrow with dried, rotted roots, some as large as my thigh. I was left with a hole that belied the stubbornness and tenacity of the Peppertree that once stood there. No sign of the valiant struggle. I feel like I should commemorate the battle the tree put up in its fight to survive. Perhaps a marker of some sort, just not another tree. Especially not a Peppertree.

The S/S Norway and Us

Our first visit to St. Thomas, aboard the S/S Norway in May of 1992 was an exciting, romantic adventure, far more than than the second time we stopped by this popular Caribbean port of call in the U.S. Virgin Islands twelve years later. 

The S/S Norway at anchor, St Thomas, US VI, May, 1992

The tenders on board the S/S Norway

Charlotte Amalie, the bustling little island city capital of the U.S. Virgin Islands hadn't changed between our two visits, the difference was simply our perception of the popular tourist port-of-call because of the ship we first arrived on, the romantic S/S Norway, and how we went ashore. 

At over 1000 feet long, designed for trans-Atlantic crossings, the S/S Norway drew thirty-five feet of water. Many of her Caribbean ports of call couldn't handle her deep draft, including the harbor at Charlotte Amalie. The harbor was far too shallow for the ocean-going SS Norway. She anchored off-shore at St. Maarten as well as St. Thomas, and used self-contained tenders to ferry passengers ashore. The tenders were smaller motor vessels carried on the forecastle on the Viking deck that acted as water taxis to ferry passengers from the ship to the docks.

Our first visit there was far more exciting than twelve years later on the M/S Star Princess when we woke up one morning and found we had docked quietly and quite undramatically just a few feet from the Havensight Mall.

The memory of watching the Norway outside the harbor, waiting for our return is still vivid. The Norway's distinctive, beautiful line and the ocean-blue hull were her trademarks. She stood out in every port of call.

Ilse on the bow of the tender returning to the S/S Norway, St. Thomas

The S/S Norway wasn't designed for basin cruising, so when Norwegian Cruise Lines acquired her in 1979, they removed two of her four engines.  She no longer needed to maintain the 35 knots she displayed on her sea trials and on her trans-Atlantic crossings as the S/S France. Toodling around the Caribbean at 11 to 15 knots would be more in line with the new requirements. Besides, the newly mandated incinerators would fit nicely where the two, no longer needed engines were located. The Norway continually received upgrades and modifications to keep her abreast of the expanding cruising market. Time however, was her biggest enemy. As money squeezing became more of a science than an art form in the cruising industry, the Norway became an anachronism. The new ships carried more passengers and did so more cheaply.  Plus, they could visit ports the Norway couldn't without the expensive tenders.

S/S Norway at anchor, St Maarten, 1992, with a tender alongside.

The Norway docked at the Port of Miami's Dodge Island every Saturday. She came in with the first light of day, and sailed again by 4:30pm or so, on yet another seven day cruise of the Caribbean. She discharged and took on just under 2000 passengers in that short time. By today's standards, that is not even worthy of mention, but in those pioneering days, it was quite a feat. 

She was the biggest cruise ship in the world when we cruised on her, and one of the finest.  She didn't have the balconies of today's massive cruisers, but she had full width windows on the ocean-view staterooms that had been added by the early '90's.  The hall carpets had a subtle pattern that pointed toward the bow in case you got confused in the interior of the ship. The two dining rooms, the Windward and the Leeward, were exceptional, I have not seen any on the ships we have cruised on since to rival them.

The Promenade on the S/S Norway

We watched the Norway for many years before we finally sailed on her. We saw the beautiful, blue-hulled epitome of leisure cruising every Saturday during the 1980's as my daughter, Monica, sailed at the Miami Yacht Club, just the other side of the thin ribbon of asphalt known as MacArthur Causeway from Dodge Island terminal where the Norway was moored. We were there from 12:30pm to dusk every Saturday as Monica practiced sailing her Clearwater Optimist Pram, and eventually, her Laser Radial sailboat.

Monica practices in her COPCA pram at the Miami Yacht Club, 1984, with the S/S Norway at anchor at Dodge Island

Every Saturday evening we watched the magnificent SS Norway sail out Government Cut, headed for unknown exotic ports of call.  It was Monica's first major Laser regatta on a blustery, windy day in early December, 1985, that made an indelible impression with us about the Norway.

I was assigned to drive a chase boat for the Miami Yacht Club along with Joe Zibelli, whose son, Tony, was also sailing a Laser Radial in the annual Mid-Winter Youth Regatta.   Fourteen Laser Radials started the first race of the regatta, a special round-the-islands race that had become a tradition for the young Laser sailors at the MYC regattas.  The race was not only extraordinarily long, but included a long section down busy Government Cut, all the way from the Coast Guard Station at one end to the turning basin at the other end where the huge cruise ships turn around for their departures from Miami. Our young teen-aged sailors not only shared the Cut with commercial vessels of all sorts, but also Chalk's seaplanes and private powerboats.  Not to mention the cruise ships!   Because of its special length and conditions, the race counted as two races in the regatta schedule. Whoever scored highly here had an outstanding lead for the remaining four races.

Monica practices in her Laser Radial with her trademark “Flamingo” sail, MYC, 1986

The start of the race had one windward mark, then led off east past Hibiscus Island toward Monument Island, where the fleet headed right around Star Island toward the Coast Guard Station on Government Cut.  This leg is about two and a half miles by itself, and is a true test of sailing skills. Joe and I were assigned to trail the fleet and assist those in distress.

As the fleet took the starting gun, it became clear there were eight or nine sailors who had the situation under control and were racing their hearts out. Some of the younger sailors, those who not ventured beyond the realm of recreational Saturday sailing, soon needed encouragement.  One young girl gave up completely by Monument Island and needed a tow.  We counted the sails in front of us as they headed toward the first turn and the reach through Meloy Channel.  

Busy Government Cut, Miami, from the deck of the Norway on a typical Saturday morning.

Thirteen sails! We had one in tow so all was well.  As soon as they hit Government Cut, the Laser sails went full out as they had a dead run down the Cut, headed directly toward the huge cruise ships that lined the entire south bank of the cut.  As Joe and I slowly followed the two or three stragglers who had not yet made the downwind turn, we lost sight of the leaders streaming away from us.  As we slowly made the turn into choppy Government cut with our fledgling racers some five minutes later, dodging the ferries carrying cars and trucks to Fisher Island, Joe, who had the binoculars, said, "George, we have a problem! There are only twelve sails!”

A quick count verified that indeed, we were missing a boat! We immediately did a quick sail-number check and my heart stopped, it was up in my throat: The missing boat was my daughter.

We didn't have radios to ask for help, so the only recourse was to verify the tail-enders were in no trouble. We told them to stick together, hug the starboard side of the cut and head for the basin as planned, they would have to help each other, at least for the time being. Joe and I powered off in search of Monica who was nowhere to be seen. As we raced down Government Cut in the 18 foot Boston Whaler, frantically searching for any sign of an overturned boat, or at worst a life jacket in the water, Joe yelled, “Over there, by the Norway! There's a red suit on the water, waving!” 

By this time we were two thirds of the way down the cut and had already passed one or two cruise ships on the terminal side. There at the water line, just a few feet away from the massive blue hull of the Norway, was an overturned Laser with its red suited skipper standing on the bobbing hull, waving her arms overhead to get our attention.

The Norway at anchor, St. Thomas, USVI. A required ship lifeboat lowering drill is in progress.

My fourteen year old daughter was as mad as I have ever seen her! As we finally drew near the huge blue wall of steel, she yelled, “The stupid mast broke! 
I couldn't help it” 

I'm sure she couldn't see the relief in my eyes as we maneuvered the chase boat to pick her up and grab her painter, the line tied to the bow of her upside down, half submerged sailboat. 

Monica climbed aboard the chase boat and after a quick, wet hug, helped pull in the remaining lines trailing in the water.  We hauled the broken mast with the sail still attached into the boat. We struggled to right the overturned laser so we could tow it behind our chase boat. Three or four stories above us a door magically opened in the hull of the Norway and two white-uniformed ship's officers looked down at us in wonder. We were so close to the Norway we prepared to fend off to keep from bumping into her. 

Monica sat dejectedly in the back of the chase boat as we got under way, quietly looking back at the Norway and her disabled laser being towed behind us. I knew she was thinking she would not be able to overcome a double DNF, Did Not Finish.

Every time I saw the Norway after that, I thought of the broken mast and the tiny, red-suited sailor waving her arms over her head, standing on a half-submerged sailboat just a few yards away from the largest cruise ship in the world. An image I'll always remember. 

Monica at the pre-race Skipper's meeting,
 MYC, December 1985

Her competitors had sailed on, leaving her alone to rely on her wits and her training in the middle of the busy, turbulent Miami Government Cut. Not only was I relieved as we towed her boat slowly back around the island, I was also very proud of her. 

I was fortunate enough to work on the Norway upgrading on-board computer systems and communication wiring several years later.  Every time I boarded the Norway, I thought of my daughter standing on her upside-down laser sailboat up against the giant cruise ship.  I once walked to the lowest deck of the ship where I could look over the port side of the bow to look down at the water where she had been stranded.  It was a long, long way to the water!   

The Norway is history now, cut up in 2008 on the beaches in Alang, India, where the salvagers found all the magnificent original art work and even the grand piano from the ballroom still on board. Only a small section of the famous blue bow was returned to France to commemorate her original christening as the SS France in 1960.  Poor maintenance and upkeep were blamed for an explosion in the ship's boiler room that killed eight crewmen and finally forced the ship out of service in 2003.

The Norway was, and remains our very favorite cruise ship.   I still have one of the rolled-up blueprints of the Norway we used for re-wiring the ship.  I'll have it framed someday, if I can find a shop that can handle the length. 
                        
                                                 *******************

[Author's note: 4/7/2018 - I added a recent VHS to digital transfer from a trip returning from Bimini to Miami via Chalks seaplane. We landed alongside the SS Norway as she was departing Government Cut. The video is mine, taken from a passenger seat in the seaplane. A departing view of our favorite cruise ship
https://youtu.be/m4QwNJVJ1jw ]

George Mindling  © 2012, 2016
All photos by George Mindling © 2012, 2017 All Rights Reserved 

Our latest, and quite possibly last, cruise, 

[Thanks to http://www.captainsvoyage.com/norwegian-cruise-line/ss-norway/ss-norway---little-norway.html hosted by Jan-Olav Storli, for the corrected location onboard the S/S Norway]

The Cruise to Aruba - Home Again

Thursday is a great day at sea. The faint, white smoke from the funnels drifts slowly upward as it dissipates in the amazingly clear blue sky, staying almost directly over the ship. We are making 11 knots with a trailing wind and a following sea, the sun is shining and Mother Nature is at peace with the marketing arm of Princess Cruises. Everything is as advertised.

 A really nice way to wrap up a cruise. We do all the touristy things we think will interest us, from touring the galley (at least the tour is still free, but they are hawking a $29 Chef's cook book. Yes, I bought one) and attending free health maintenance seminars. We tour the ship to see if we've missed any decks or crannies that are unique, and we head back to the library to check out one last book. Or was that Friday? No, it had to be Thursday because we turned the books back in on Friday. That's what's great about cruising when all goes well: you lose track of time and that is the whole idea. 

Thursday is the Captain's Cocktail Party, followed by the last of the two formal dinners. Lobster tonight! Must be Thursday! We take in the show in the ship's theater, “What a Swell Party,” a tribute to Cole Porter, but the strain of constantly being on is showing on the the dancers and performers. The show is a canned, prerecorded production but it is still a pleasure to watch the entertainers do their best, even when the cruise is about to wrap up. They do two shows a night so it isn't a cakewalk by any means. 

Friday is another laid-back, enjoy-the-cruise day. Weather is perfect and we head for the theater at 10:30 am for a Chef's culinary demonstration, followed by the Galley tour. OK, so the galley tour was on Friday! Award winning Executive Chef Giuseppe de Gennaro and his comedic side kick, Maitre d' Nicola Furlan, put on a memorable demonstration of cooking pasta, including the over-the-shoulder pasta fling to see if it sticks on the wall. If it does, it is ready! It did, to the delight of the audience. 

Some last minute shopping from the ship's stores, and spending an hour or so standing on deck seven forward watching the flying fish as they skip away from the ships' bow wave and one last lunch in the buffet. Tonight the luggage is picked up from outside your stateroom for transfer to the dock as soon as we land. Everything you have left goes in your carry-one luggage or bags. The last call for placing your luggage in the hall way is 11:00 pm, so we have plenty of time to change after we eat and lay out the clothes for the trip home.

We eat dinner one last time, and once again we get to hear Buster Poindexter.

One of the few traditions that seems to be carried on every Caribbean cruise regardless of ship or cruise line is the dessert on the night of the final dinner, and how it is served. Our German friends were somewhat startled when the lights in the glamorous dining went down after dinner and “Hot, Hot, Hot” began to play on the dining room speakers. The conga line of servers and waiters still wind their way around the darkened dining room carrying Baked Alaska on their heads, singing and generally having a good time as they have done on every cruise we have sailed on. The lights finally came back up and everyone took photos of their by-now-famous desert. I have never seen so many different sizes and types of digital cameras! They came out of nowhere. I think were pulled out of thin air. Everybody seemed to have at least one!  

 As our waitress held out the Baked Alaska we were to be served so we could photograph it, I realized the rum flambe on top has been replaced with an LED candle. Ahh, progress! Actually, safety is the reason for the change and it doesn't affect most the people who could care less anyway. Just another point of nostalgia for us old cruisers who still remember the good old days.

As we finally say goodnight and turn in, we reflect on what has been a pretty good cruise, especially considering the rough weather of the second and third days. Tomorrow we will be back in Port Everglades to disembark.

Will we be back? Oh, I'm sure we will, we just don't know when or which cruise ports we want to visit. Only one thing is absolutely certain: It won't be on the Oasis of the Seas. Having two thousand passengers on a ship is more than enough for me.

George

Reflections: The S/S Norway, our favorite ship

The Cruise to Aruba - The Duel

A quick thrust met by a beautifully timed, under-the-arm deflection, the encounter was heating up! The old woman pulled her hand back, her gaze fierce. The young, immaculately dressed server, a Filipino girl in her early twenties, waited a moment, then once again graciously stooped before her seated guest to once again offer a canape. The determined adversary paused, then shot her wrinkled hand out yet again to grab the delectable morsel she wanted directly off the serving tray. She had no need for decorum or manners, she only wanted that little sandwich. And once again, youthful reflexes and intense training prevailed as the young server swiftly bolted upright, lifting the heavy tray out of reach while using the tongs in her other hand to deftly deflect the old woman's outreached hand before it could touch any of the Hors d'oeuvres on the serving tray.

This was more than a test of skill versus determination, this was right versus wrong, good versus evil, professional against amateur. This was training and etiquette defiantly defending protocol against ignorance and bad manners.  Even worse, this was a battle between two women.

The young server's eyes were now half shut in contempt as she held the treasure-filled tray far out of the woman's reach. She waited for several moments, gauged the old woman's next move and shifted her weight in anticipation of the woman's next attempt to snatch one of the offered canapes with her bare hands. This would be the fourth attempt. 

The server had already asked for the woman's plate to place her selected canape on, but the woman obviously had never been served before and simply expected to stick her hand in and grab whatever she wanted. The young hostess was determined to serve her guest whichever item she selected, but only properly with the serving tongs. The seated woman was an attendee of the Captains Cocktail Party. That made her a Captain's Circle member, a gold card member, a passenger who had sailed previously on Princes Cruises, and should know better manners. However, she still had not acquired any command of basic courtesy. She sat with her empty serving plate across a low cocktail table from her husband who simply sat quietly and watched. All she wanted was that little sandwich!

She withdrew her arms all the way to her side, appearing to hold her hands in her lap. She waited until her husband offhandedly distracted the server with an inane question, and with lightning speed, shot her arm toward the silver serving tray. With the deftness of a matador fighting a charging bull, the server spun and once again lifted the tray out of the reach of the seated aggressor as if they were an avant-garde play.

Finally, after what seemed like an embarrassingly long, glaring put-down, from a distance well beyond the reach of her seated antagonist, the server rather dramatically pointed with the tongs at the assumed target. The gray-haired woman started to point, then tried once again to pick up the treat she wanted, but this time the serving tongs firmly grabbed the canape and thrust it toward her. She had no choice but withdraw meekly, looking at her prize waiting in mid-air. When the old woman took it with her bare hand instead of allowing the morsel to be placed on her plate, the expression on the server's face first showed contempt, then finally the smirk of victory over a far-lesser foe. Youth and training had prevailed over age and determination, not to mention a complete lack of grace and social training.

As the server turned and moved to the next table, the old woman once again glared at her. I think she wanted seconds.

Next: Home again - Sailing to Ft Lauderdale

The Cruise to Aruba - Headed Back

Aruba looks like a place we'd like to come back to visit.  Even if we took as many excursion tours as possible from the ship, eight hours wouldn't be sufficient time to see the highlights of the city or the island. We look at maps and books before we arrive in any city for the first time, and then usually strike off on our own. Wandering around in Willemstad and Oranjestad was just fine for what we wanted. We have done excursions in Grand Cayman, Ocho Rios, Jamaica and in Tulum, Mexico, and the only one that I couldn't have done on my own was the tour of the Mayan ruins at Tulum. There are advantages and disadvantages to every excursion, and we felt we would do better in both Curaçao and Aruba on our own. Now we know better what to expect when we come back, and whether we want to come back at all. We aren't into gambling and partying like there's no tomorrow, so most of the “active” resorts aren't what we're looking for.  Still, the weather is great and the water is just about perfect. Right now, however, we are back on board. Time to just kick back and relax.

As I look sleepily at the hazy horizon from our balcony, I realize there are huge oil tankers everywhere. They seem to be motionless, but all headed south toward nearby Venezuela. I count ten scattered across the ocean in front of me, most near the horizon or at least several miles offshore. They all appear to be motionless. Oddly, none are headed in the other direction. By the time I head up top for departure, I count sixteen tankers, all patiently waiting.  The huge tankers just fade away over the horizon only to be continually replaced by new arrivals.  It doesn't take a genius to figure out the oil business is not going to go away anytime soon.

As I head toward the bow, the pointy end of the ship, an airliner passes in front of us about a half-mile away, headed toward the airport in Oranjestad. He may be well away from us, but I don't have to look up to watch him on his landing approach. Passengers on the airliner must be surprised to come in off the ocean and pass by a cruise ship at almost eye level. 

The 950 foot long Crown Princess made the channel turn with ease.

 

I watch as the mooring lines are hauled aboard and the ship's thrusters gently move us away from the dock. If you aren't watching, you can't tell the giant ship is moving. Slowly, the ship begins to move forward toward the port channel marker. The starboard channel marker is so close I might lose sight of it as the we proceed out the incredibly narrow channel. Without fanfare or attention, the Crown Princess gently pushes her bow to starboard as we move forward and we neatly turn between the last two markers headed for the open sea. The pilot boat picks up the pilot a little after 5:15pm and we swing around to head northwest toward Port Everglades, some two days away.

My wife and I and our German friends head to the Botticelli Dining room for our 6:00pm seating and another great meal. There are 533 crew members in the food service and dining staff alone, and we are thrilled with our waiter, Antonio, and the assistant maitre d' Alphonse. Antonio and Alphonse have served together for eighteen years, and their relationship is unique. They are the pinnacle of dining professionalism in the cruise industry, and certainly make dining one of the highlights of this cruise.

Our cabin is on the same deck as the pools, just in the forward part of the ship, so walking through the pool area is something we do every chance we get. When we are being serious about walking through the ship, we take one of the four elevators in the stateroom area and bypass the pools., but tonight we are leisurely enjoying the music and the great, warm evening on deck after a great dinner.

A typical Caribbean 5-piece band plays standard cruising party music, like Dexter Poindexter's classic “Hot Hot Hot,” which you get to hear at least once on every cruise, from the mini-deck above the pool deck. At least this time we're not suffering from 30 different choruses of “Red, Red Wine,” or “Yellow Bird,” which I now often hear in my sleep. During a moment of crowd revitalization, the lead singer screams out for responses to the different nationalities he calls out. He starts, of course, with U.S.A. The response is loud and boisterous, yelling, whistling and clapping from all over the pool deck. Next he calls out United Kingdom! There are enough responses to make a polite, almost subdued noise that soon fades away. He then called out Canada! The response is thunderous! No doubt the Canadians make up the majority of the revelers on the pool deck! They are one of the few nationalities that get even less vacation time than Americans, so they must pack a great time in a shorter schedule. They do love to have a great time.

We take in a late show in the ship's theater and are treated to an unexpected performance by one of the ship's regular crew. The Crown Princess does a “Crew Show,” where talented members of the crew who aren't members of the regular show cast get to display their talents in the ship's theater. Some were interesting, a few were obviously amateurish, but one young Indonesian steward gave an outstanding drum performance, including a nine minute solo, that brought the house down. The party on the pool deck had subsided by the time we walked back up, so we watched the stars for a while, enjoying the cruise with the wind and waves at our backs for a change.  Makes for more fun that way.

When we enter our stateroom, not only do we not find the bed turned down as usual with the accompanying mints, but also a White and Blue, formal looking envelope lying perfectly aligned on the bed. We have been invited to the Captain's cocktail party at 5:15pm on Thursday, formal attire required. The invitations to the Captain's Cocktail Party are reserved for those who have sailed before with Princess Cruises and are a way of recognizing and appreciating your past business. We immediately have a problem. We both have reservations about going because neither of us brought real “formal” wear on this cruise, although my wife is far better prepared than I. I didn't even bring a suit, just a blue blazer and one long sleeved shirt that I can get away with in the dining room. I did stuff a couple of ties into the jacket pocket, old habits die slowly, but to consider this “formal” attire for the Captain's Party was a stretch. We decided, “What difference does it make now, what are they going to do, ask us to leave?” 

So, on Thursday, at the appointed time and place, we got in line with 1700 other passengers who have also sailed previously with Princess Cruises. So much for the dress code. They actually had to have three separate Captain's Parties to accommodate everyone! The Captain was a busy man that afternoon, and I'm sure he didn't care how I was dressed. He did give an award to a British lady who had the most time at sea with Princess, a record 727 days. That's over two years at sea! I know Navy men who don't have that much sea time!

There were over 1,200 who were on their second Princess cruise, over 400 who were on their third or fourth cruise, and 84 people who were on their fifth or higher cruise! The official passenger count for this cruise was 3,224, so over half of the passengers were veterans of Princess Cruises. Quite a remarkable feat.

Next: Duel!