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Shoes

Amelia Air heart, had three thousand pairs of shoes, don’t know where she carried them. Actually I think it was Fernando’s wife who had that many shoes. I know a fellow says he has 100 pairs of tennis shoes. Sense he told me that, I’ve been watching him, and every day it seems he does indeed have a different pair on.
I’ve not that many. Not by a long shot. Maybe three pair. I used to have up to ten pair of flip-flops at the same time when I was wearing them, but not any more. Besides I don’t think they count as real shoes anyway. Oh they will gain entry in those places with signs stating ‘No shoes, no shirt, no service’
Then there’s the favorite. It seems everybody has their favorites. Shoes that are so comfortable you swear they’ll never be thrown out. Or those boots that feel so good in the first days of fall, they haven’t been worn sense last winter. They invoke pleasant memories of walks in the woods or camping, old tennis shoes do much the same thing.
Then there’s special shoes that some how become the talk of the family. My brother cut the toes out of a pair of tennis shoes and wore them many years, not every day, but often enough where people would ask, “You still have those?” I don’t remember the reasons why in the first place they were altered so. Knowing him, not much of a reason is ever needed for some of the things he does.
My niece, more than likely inspired by her uncle, I’m sure she’d deny it. Her and a friend, both horse lovers and owners, decided to see who could get the most miles out of their cowboy boots. Well they, the boots, literally fell apart around her feet.
After a while socks were done away with I’m sure, what with the soles mostly gone, her spending money would had all gone just to buy socks. I never heard who won that contest.
Another brother, this happens to deal with Levi’s, started sewing patches on his Levi’s. After a year or maybe longer they were just a pair of patches. Somebody even offered my brother some money for them. I’ve got some family, I’ll tell ya.
Discount shoes, we’ve all bought them at some time in our lives, at least us blue collar folk. Discount shoes hurt like the dickens for the first month or so, then they become bearable, sort of.
When the money flowed, in by gone years, I did mail order. Kind of risky I know. But after the first pair, being talked into buying by the boss moonlighting as a shoe salesman, I was hooked. Mason I think they were called.
After wearing those discount shoes for several years, the mail orders seemed like they came right from heaven. Like I was walking in the clouds. Comfortable shoes sure make a difference.
Years and years ago I had got a pair from the thrift store, practically brand new. Apparently they were donated by the grandchildren of the long deceased owner. They were that out dated. I received comments about those shoes for as long as I had them.
I’ve never owned any of those coveted sports designer Air Jordan or their like. Even I have my limits on what I’ll wear, at both ends of the spectrum. Once, while in high school, I was given a pair from the neighbor, not so bad yet. The free part was good, that’s where it ended. The neighbor friend was in the marching band, the shoes were a part of the uniform. White bucks with a fold down tongue. No way! Not any self respecting high school surfer would be caught dead wearing such abominations. We cool surfer dudes wore Jack Purcell’s, the ones with a smile across the toe if any remember them. Converse were another, but I stuck to Jack’s.
My mother didn’t understand, “Dye them black!” She exclaimed! Still a no go as far as I was concerned. Early on in my last year of school I had a doctors note allowing me to wear sandals, sandals at the time weren’t allowed.
Well, growing in my rebellion of most every thing, sandals were the next best thing to flip flops. Nobody liked me wearing sandals, the staff that is. Coaches, teachers, counsellors, all in disbelief a simple high schooler could buck the system and win.
Living out side the box had begun a few years earlier,my wearing those sandals certainly helped with permanent residency out side of the box.

Michael j beebe

Fire ants

Fire ants.
I can’t figure out why they bite. I asked my Linda, “Why don’t they go pick on someone their own size.” And so it begins. The fire ant saga. Here in Texas we are blessed with the little buggers. Blessed because that’s the way it is here.
I’m coming to find out, however so slowly, the many facets of life on the coast. They have a yearly, June, small sailboat get together that runs from the boarder town of Port Isabel, which, although is not right on the boarder it’s close enough; the come one come all group leaves Port Isabel and heads north to Magnolia Beach. About five days of sunburn and sleepless nights. About January it becomes fun.
And just like the fire ants it’ll bite good. And leave its mark. A good number never make it to the other end. The Texas heat is another obstacle, that coupled with the high humidity, and relentless wind, blowing a mite hard at times.
There’s sharks in the bay’s, swimming Cottonmouth snakes, and a few alligators thrown in for good measure. Oh! Then there are the rays with stinging barbs on their tails that’ll send you to the hospital. Oysters there as well in the shallows, waiting to cut your feet when you get out of your boat to push off the groundings, without your shoes.
Welcome to Texas! Don’t forget your sunblock, as well your deet mosquito spray. The black flies, yeah, they’re here as well, and they bite. Also don’t forget a good repair kit for your sailboat. There are no Home Depots, Lowes, 7-11’s, nor ice. If you lose your sunglasses, hopefully you brought a couple extra pairs.
Your beginning to see why fire ants are really a blessing. Those pesky buggers in the backyard are easy to deal with. But why would anybody in their right mind want to sail a small boats along the coast of Texas with all the above mentioned available, waiting.
Don’t forget the jellyfish, they’re part of the mix as well.
But come on down any time, we’ll go sailing, it’ll be fun.

Michael j beebe. S

Box’s

Six sided box’s, that would include the lid and the bottom. We’ve all heard the expression of living out side the box. Some denote it a badge worn proudly, others a scorn to society.
After much consideration, say the time it took driving home from the office; cross town Rockport is maybe 10, 12 minutes at that time of morning.
So this subject of residency, where we live. Not the actual four walls where within we sleep, eat, and watch movies. Not even so much the location, although that probably reflects more on our state of mind than we realize.
When it’s noted someone lives outside the box, it’s generally given he away from the norm. Away from how most of society lives, eats, feels, and, the poor sap dos not even have a TV; what’s he do at night?
My contention is: everybody lives in some sort of box or another. Most people live in a one size fits all. And that suits teachers, bureaucrats, military, and others with a herding instinct.
Boarder collies don’t like wondering sheep anymore than the shepherd does.
But dad-gum-it! We’re not sheeps, we won’t take it anymore! But we do. We do because there are box’s into which all humanity falls. We all just need to get along. A few years ago we were given a list of rules to live by. And if we lived accordingly everybody got along pretty good.
The rule giver only stepped in to enforce the rules on a wide bases only once. All the other time he left it up to us. Go for it boys. Well we did! That’s where all these different boxes came in. We started building boxes. And we got pretty good at building boxes. Big ones, strong ones, colorful ones. The really good box builders sold their’s, and built some more, and everybody needed a box, and most people didn’t really care to build their own box, that’s where one size fits all came in.
Building boxes became a big business, there was plenty of money to be made in building and selling boxes. Competition became fierce, it turned into a cut throat business. Other builders would show up for work only to find someone in the night had set their boxes afire, ashes were all that was left.
Others were driven out of town, some even had to leave the country. Some put up with the small guy , figuring there was enough room for others, to a point. After a while, the big box stores decided the little guys had to go. Everybody has got to get in the same box. Death to those trying to get out. There were books warning of this, the rule giver himself said as much.
I think we’re born deaf and blind, even though we’re not, we certainly act like it. Must be the genes. We pick up right where the last failed box maker left off. Thinking we can build a better box. We make, living within, optional at first, then compulsory, ‘get in here’ we scream!
Then it’s ‘get in there or else’. Uh! Oh!

Michael j beebe.

waiting

here we go again, waiting

Buterfly’s

Butterfly’s

Had some butterfly’s yesterday, a whole slew of them. Took the Paradox out. My little 13’10” Matt Layden designed sailboat. The fore cast was for 25, we got a bit more and then some.
My Linda dropped me off at Cove Harbor, where I mostly launch from. The wind was light and straight on the nose getting out into the bay. Took an hour and a half before I could set a course and go for it with out the short tacking and paddle assist from me.
The clouds were thick and ominous, showers off in the distance soon to be my way. I had a thought of, ‘here I am, waiting for it to start’. Start it did, right on schedule. My thought at first was ducking into somewhere along San Jose island, if it got too rough. It soon had me thinking this was the most wind I’d had before. Dark, dark clouds, wind whipping the bay into a frenzy. Never thought I’d see four or five foot waves out there, I did. Getting sail down to the least I ever had to before, two feet up, I think about an 80% sail reduction. My roll back summer top was letting the spray in when caught by a breaking sea. It was getting a bit dicey.
Getting turned around I find for me, on the Paradox, is still to be learned. With San Jose downwind, I had some room, to run off and jibe. With just 20% up, I thought it’d be doable. It was, and then the Paradox worked her magic : the proverbial clawing off a lee shore. She put her shoulder in and started doing her thing. Not fast, mind you, but steady and sure. I had thoughts of running off downwind, tucking in somewhere, waiting it out. The more I saw of her capableness the less I thought of running off.
Getting back to Cove just may be doable. Three oil heads stood in my way. Thinking to go up wind of them, one by one, I was forced downwind of them. The side slip was just too much.
Once past them the wind seemed to be shooting out of a funnel. The clouds had been breaking up and with the sun now out the view changed dramatically. With the side slipping lee way I was losing my option of Cove Harbor, so figuring I could get into one of the cuts between the small islands up ahead I tried for, what I call, first house cut.
I missed it and ended up on the beach, once again the Paradox shined. Setting the anchor as I went in, was to help in getting me off the beach. Thought I’d eat a sandwich and figure this out. After 30 minutes or so I notice the wind is dying. Another thought tells me I can now sail off this beach. But the anchor needs to out further. Off pants and into the water. A bit nippy.
I made it, sailed off. Only to have problems with the boom furler. Dad-gum hair pin come out, jury rig in motion. Took another hour plus getting back in. Incredible day.
What had been forecast to be 25, actually came in at 34 sustained with gusts to 45.

Michael J Beebe

I don’t remember

I don’t remember just how I had heard of a lecture to be given at a marine store over a hundred miles south of where we lived, but I do remember going. It was given by a veteran cruiser who had spent over forty years cruising the Sea of Cortez as often as he and his wife could get away from regular work north of the boarder. They loved it.
And we of course had to go see why.
We trailed a 22′ trailer-tri behind our oversize van. First stop south at my brothers house he fixed us a nice dinner, second stop San Diego to get lights repaired on the trailer. We were on our way.
Coming over the hill above Santa Rosalia the Sea of Cortez was every bit as beautiful as Jerry had described. Then further south to Mulaje then to Santispac to launch, Linda was so amazed at the clarity of the water she took a glass to the water’s edge and brought it back so I could see as well. On the road one turnbuckle had come loose and decided to end its life on the side of the road somewhere in the Sonoran desert.
The next problem was the Honda outboard, really it was a wheel bearing repair along the side of the highway, the Honda was the third. It wasn’t pumping water. The mechanics I found, came highly recommended, were loaded with old Evenrude parts, and Johnstons, but not Japanese out boards.
My daughter was flying down to sail with us, she would be bringing a turnbuckle, so my Linda and I sailed down the coast a few miles with the back stay lashed, jury rigged. I kept it light, no jib with option to reef further if necessary.
We spent the night at anchor watching the lightning far off to the south of us. Ready to leave if need be. With the arrival of my daughter and the replacement turnbuckle, things were looking up but then down at the same time not being able to get the Honda fixed.
We did see Baja though. South some more to Lorato, where the city was having a party for the missions 150 year birthday. The festivities, music, the colorful dress and to top it all off, we didn’t see another Norte Americano anywhere. Very very nice. Friendly people everywhere.
In Lorato we had a nice hotel room just across from the water, air conditioning, clean, good food. After a month I called it short though. I was being eaten alive by mosquitos, counted close to hundred bites, it’s time.
Leaving Mulaje we picked up a local hitchhiker. “Where you going?” I ask.
“Ensenada!”he replied. He was with us the whole trip back up the peninsula. Christian guy it turned out, earned his keep. Somewhere out there in the Mexican desert the muffler bracket decides to let go with a horrendous noise. We stop right there on the highway, no shoulders. Our buddy walks over to the barb wire fence and unravels a short piece, and together we get the muffler back where it belongs.
His next shinning moment was at a road side check point, the army searched high n low. Somebody found the flare gun and the commotion started. My Spanish was not ready for the ensuing war of words going on with all the army guys. Our friend gets in the middle of the whole thing and gets it ironed out for us and we drive away.
In Ensenada I dropped the guy off at the front door and gave him forty bucks. The muffler made it all the back, the mechanic asked about the barb wire, don’t ask I said.

A friend

A friend stopped by this afternoon that we hadn’t seen for a few months. He had with him another friend we see more often. In the visiting we are told of his upcoming trip, around the world. Yep! Around the world without a single airline needed.
Roy is who we consider our hippie friend, I’ve told him so several times. He lives on his 36′ catamaran sailboat, in fact he is the fellow we met five years ago here when at that time he invited us over to his boat for dinner. “Be there at six”, he said.
We showed up, unbeknownst to us, his cat was at the time in House of Boats dry dock, on the hard, as they say. Up the ladder we go to enjoy getting to know new friends better, having dinner while watching the sun set across the yard of shrimpers up on blocks, sport fishers, a few trimarans. Memorable evening.
So now Roy is off on another adventure. A Greyhound to Denver, Amtrak to Seattle, ship to Tokyo, trains through China and Russia, 90 days. Hostels in China he said are $8 to $12 a night. Got it all planned out. Amazing.
His van, as seen in the picture with him, isn’t so decorated as is usually the case. Most often it’s covered in gawd-awful plastic flowers. That’s where the hippie part comes in, along with boat living and style of travel. Nice guy, very nice guy.
He said upon his arrival this afternoon we have a Mother Earth News garden and when he left he said we reminded him of those two on the old tv show, Green Acres.
Funny, funny. He leaves this Friday, should be interesting.

Michael j beebe

Books

There are good books, and not so good books. The good ones grab hold and take you places. Sets the imagination free and the next thing you know the charts come out, the calendar is studied, plans are made.
Books will do that. But we have to be careful, they can be costly as well. I’ve been reading a book for the third time now, and each time it’s been a different book. Same story, same author, third book. Usually I pass along certain ones and keep others for long time reference. This particular one by the Pardey’s, ‘Cruising in Seraffyn’, they’re in the Sea of Cortez in 1969. Where was I? Well the year before I had hitchhiked to the East Coast from California, with a surfboard no less. The new short boards had been out for a while and the one I took was 6’8″. Made it easier; though not by much.
Leaving Florida going north sitting on a bus stop bench a young kid came by and struck up a conversation, telling me how he’d like to start surfing but didn’t have any money and such. Here kid, take my board, I’m tired of lugging it around anyway. That was one happy kid. A little while later his mom and him came down wanting to know if I really gave him the surfboard, had me sign a paper saying so. Good mom, happy son. Well I went north, got to Virginia Beach and wished I still had that board.
Back west I stopped in Salt Lake at my uncles, he got me a job, flew home with my grandmother after working a bit, who had been there visiting as well. With that money I kept going and ended up in Hawaii, in 1969. Interesting. I sailed a bit while there, inter-island on a Piver trimaran. Hooked again. I sent away for plans of a Jim Brown, Searunner Trimaran. And now many years later I sit in coastal Texas reading a good book again and the memories flow. Good books will do that.
The ‘Black Tuesday’ of 1989, if memory serves me at all, I was working on a remodeling job for a Northrop CEO. The panic was evident, the tension could be cut with a knife. Later while reading another good book, I find on that very day Tania Albie was sailing into New York Harbor from just finishing a circumnavigation, alone. The boys in the office didn’t have nothing on her.
Good books, even not so good books will take us places and enrich our lives in ways we can’t even begin to imagine. Logs are books as well, to reread and experience again the places we’ve been. I’ve been given a few logs as gifts, sadly I’ve never been one to keep faithful at it, and not I can’t hardly even hold a pencil without trembling so. Makes writing difficult , especially aboard at the end of the day.
I can’t say I didn’t keep logs, just not the normal type. Any bit of paper or note book would do. Interesting things I would keep track of. Like the times I saw hundreds of porpoise off Anacapa Island, high or low tide didn’t seem to matter. Another memorable time when a school of rays was traveling north and me in my 12′ sailboat in the shallows surrounded by so many rays even bouncing on the bottom of the boat. Then there was the time I saw the Herons dancing, courting one another. Truly amazing.
Logs turn into books, memories as well do the same, sometimes even good books.

Michael j beebe S

Walter

There’s some of you out there, perhaps a good portion actually, who know Walter.
Related in some form or fashion, if not distance kin then at least good friends of the fellow.
I first read about Walter way back in school. Read a book about him,”The Life and times of Walter Mitty”. Although our names spell different, we’re blood bound through and through.
He commuted to work as many of us do, he’d miss his get off point, bus stop, or train station, whatever the case may be. All because his mind was elsewhere. I think we can relate. In grade school one of my teachers early on told my mom I was forever gazing out the windows. Yes, Walter and I go back many years.
That’s where voyages begin actually. Even if they be of a few days duration, the imagination is sparked or set afire and go we must. Some even go so far as building a specific sailboat for a specific event. There’s plenty of the Mitty folk who’s done the Texas two hundred in craft especially built for the event, another is the Everglades Challenge, there are more as well.
Of the Mitty clan, I suspect they’re one of the few family’s that can cross all boundaries of every nation on earth and people group ever to exist. This Mitty clan I also suspect may very well be the only clan that allows others entry irregardless of place of birth. It shouldn’t outta be but that’s the way it is.
Walter’s done some microcruising as well. A friend of his, years ago, lived aboard a 12 footer for a spell, another older gent I read about with one leg gone lived aboard his twelve as well, under a bridge, sold bait after having rowed out to obtain it.
These dreams we hold don’t have us yearning to live under bridges, safe to say, but those bridge type certainly had dreams we could relate to at one time or another. The voyages of the dreams , truth be known, are just the thing that spurs many on to accomplish the unaccomplishable, or so their told. You can’t do that! How are you going to eat? Where you going to live?
I met a fellow sailor who took his many years of experience backpacking, along with another friend of similar knowledge, and were dropped of in the wilderness as if they were whisked off the street. Only the clothes on their backs and the knowledge in their heads to see them through for a month.
Where did it start, this dream to do such a thing? To sail the tip of South America, to Kayak the west coast of the America’s, to sail across the bay to the next harbour? Uncle Walt, the inspiration of so many known, and the unknown of many more.
To all the relatives of Walter Mitty, arise and offer a toast in his name. May his name ever be an inspiration.

Michael j beebe

First blog post

This is the post excerpt.

Walter

Michael j beebe