Ornoth

Eighteen years ago, in one of my more sentimental moments, I blogged this:

This is what it's like to grow old.

I've lived my life thinking: while I'm young, I'll live it up. That way I'll have a huge collection of wonderful memories to relive when I get old, and can't do all those fun things anymore.

I guess I'm over the crest of that proverbial hill, because when I look back, I'm filled with hundreds upon hundreds of memories of my life.

I see now why old people feel isolated. It's not because they're alone; it's because they've lived an amazing, deeply touching novel that no one else will ever read.

So many people and places and events have touched my life, but no person will ever share the things I remember, the things that even today bring up deep feelings that toss me around like a toy boat toy boat toy boat.

Nearly two decades of life experience later, that image – of one’s life being a rich and meaningful story that no one else can ever fully appreciate – remains a powerful truth. That’s doubly so because most of our lives only persist within our own memories, locked within a single mind with no effective way to share them.

But all is not entirely lost. For many of us there are, in fact, a few precious, long-buried and boxed-up artifacts from those distant times. Fragments of the past that can be seen and touched, perhaps even photographed and shared.

So partly to share them with those of you who care, and partly just to honor the sacred memories of my life, today I begin what will probably be a long and ongoing new project: digging up and posting about some of the more interesting memorabilia that I’ve collected over six decades of living, laughing, loving, and adventuring.

I hope you’ll join me on this journey back through the times of my life. Maybe some of you will even see an item you recognize from our shared past. That would be delightful!

My plan is to share one item at a time, posting regularly, maybe once or twice a week. Photos will be accompanied by a brief writeup. Everything will be tagged “memorabilia”, and I’ve added a link to that growing collection of posts in my blog’s sidebar.

But the journey has already begun, in some sense. There are a handful of artifacts that I’ve already highlighted in past blogposts. So along with this introduction, I’ll begin by linking to those.

In vaguely descending order of their age, here are:

• Most of my professional business cards
• Several of my ID and driver’s license photos
• That time I ported my insult-generating computer program onto my cell phone, with speech synthesis
• My photo appearing on the cover of my art school’s brochure
• A friend’s painting that used to hang over the Sapient Corp. reception desk
• A newspaper article about a dumptruck tipping over backward on Liscomb Street in Worcester MA, which I found while interviewing at MediQual, my first post-college employer
• My collegiate mainframe assembler language textbook
• A fake Neal Peart $20 bill dumped on the crowd during Rush’s appearance in Portland, ME on their “Power Windows” tour
• PDF copies of the two-issue literary journal I edited for the Tolkien fandom group I founded as a high schooler
• A cassette of a song someone wrote for the same Tolkien fandom group
• Some odd items my mother left after her passing, including the surgical forceps she used as cooking tongs and one of the cutest family photos we have
• A poem typed on a recipe card by my mother, anticipating her death
• One of my typically offbeat childhood creative projects saved by my family

I’ll leave you with those for now, but you can look forward to lots more, as I begin this new series of postings. I’m certain I’ll enjoy it, and I hope you do, as well.

Renewing another connection with my past lives, a couple weeks ago I made an appearance at one of the annual DargonZine Summits.

DargonZine is the amateur writing zine I founded and ran from 1984-1989 (then called FSFnet) and 1994-2006. In continuous publication for thirty-two years, it’s by far the longest-running electronic magazine on the internet. Since 1995, our writers have gotten together once a year at the DZ Summit to write, talk shop, socialize, and sight-see.

Although the location changes each year, the 2017 Summit took place in Cleveland OH. Since that’s only two hours’ drive from Pittsburgh, I drove up for an overnight visit. Even though my participation in the project ended a decade ago, I’m still good friends with my old crew (Liam, Jon, Daf, and Jim) who are running the show. Cleveland was doubly convenient, because Inna and I had just been there a month before, so I knew some of the sights and was comfortable getting around.

Overall, it was great spending time with my old friends, although 30 hours was just about the right amount of time. I didn’t want to interfere with the business side of the Summit, and the guys… they are all radically diverse people with longstanding differences. But I was glad to see that there wasn’t a lot of tension or annoyance amongst the group.

The frenetic pace of the Summit hasn’t changed since my time as Editor. Although I was only in town for a bit more than 24 hours, we packed a ridiculous amount of activity into that time: a glass sand-casting demo at the Glass Bubble, the Cleveland Museum of Art, snacks at the West Side Market, ice cream at Mitchell’s, Indian food at Cafe Tandoor, and Ethiopian food at Empress Taytu. And we found time to play games Sagrada (too left-brain, even for me), Lanterns (okay), Sushi Go (eh), and old favorite Carcass One (thoroughly fun). The busy pace reminded me of so many Summits past.

Although I’m usually a very quiet in most normal social situations, I was surprised to rediscover that as (former) leader and (former) center of the social circle, my social style with the writers is quite different. With them I’m energetic (perhaps even gregarious), more impulsive, and prone to mischief, such as playfully trying to challenge people’s digestive resilience by suggesting Indian food, ice cream, and Mexican food. And I’ve always pushed people’s physical activity levels, because I get restless and grumpy without an adequate outlet for physical energy.

We have all aged a lot since my last involvement ten years ago, but I was surprised by the health issues amongst the group. It gave me a new appreciation for my own physical state, even if I, too, am less sprightly than I once was.

Also thanks to my friends (and their families), I left with a renewed appreciation for how respectful, responsible, and self-sufficient my partner is. No more need be said!

Of course, with my buddies growing older, this brief re-engagement with DargonZine a decade after my departure brings up the inevitable questions about the magazine’s future: how long it will continue, who will keep it going, and whether it will die in obscurity despite its longevity. With over thirty years of background material to learn, there’s a high barrier to entry for new writers, and it would be hard to nurture a strong sense of ownership among younger members.

So in due time DZ, which was once the most important thing in my life, will probably disappear. But it’s already had an incomprehensibly long run and truly fulfilled my aspirations to create an online community for developing writers, while providing them with a creative outlet and feedback from an appreciative audience. It remains one of my most noteworthy creations, and I’m very deeply proud of our writers and pleased with the friendships that have been forged between them.

And I’m also deeply thankful that they’ve willingly devoted the time and energy to keep it going for so long. Between a five-year stint in the early 90s and the eleven years since 2006, they’ve run DargonZine for nearly as long as I did, which is quite an accomplishment. Well done, team!

It’s been a long time since I had a normal men’s haircut.

I first grew my hair out long in 1991, soon after my wife left, and wore it long—sometimes down to my hips—for the next ten years. I was buying Pantene in two-liter jugs, but it was worth it. All the girls loved it, and the inevitable offers to brush it out or braid it were welcome at a time when I really needed some affirming attention. It was like discovering I had a hidden super-power!

The years passed, and my first grey hairs began to appear. They came in much coarser and wiry, and it didn’t make any sense to keep it long that way. I wasn’t even getting the girls anymore! So I figured it was time to get rid of it.

But before I did, I had one trick left that I wanted to try: I went and bleached the whole mane blond. It was ridiculously expensive and looked pretty terrible, but it was something I’d never be able to do again, so I went for it. To my friends’ consternation, it lasted about six months before I finally cut it down.

Naturally, I went from one extreme to the other, opting to keep my head close-shaved for the ten years that followed. Fortunately, my skull seems to be pretty reasonably shaped, so that look worked well for a long time, and it did a good job hiding the advancing grey.

Last summer, I decided to finally let my hair grow back out to a normal men’s length, so that I could get through the awkward intermediate-length stage while I was between jobs. I was finally beyond the point of trying to convince anyone of my youth, and I figured the grey would look “distinguished”, as my family have told me since childhood.

I grew up with the story that my father’s hair had gone grey by the time he graduated high school, and I’ve never known any adult on my father’s side of the family whose hair was anything but completely white. To me, it’s more surprising that my brother and I haven’t followed suit, staying salt-and-pepper the whole way. So although it wasn’t the greatest thing in the world, my going grey wasn’t any big, emotional trauma.

But growing it out last summer still presented a problem: it had been over twenty years since I’d had a normal men’s hair style. I had no idea what to do with normal hair, nor what my hair would do once it grew out!

So I kicked around ideas and experimented a little. I don’t want to have it long, because long grey hair looks horrible and ratty and sad, rather than distinguished. Think Riff Raff from Rocky Horror: not the image I want to cultivate! But I don’t want it too short either, because where’s the fun in that? Maybe I’d keep it short, except let it get a little longer in back, like a mullet? I dunno…

It was during one of those internal debates that I decided to look at the back of my head for the first time since I stopped shaving it. And that’s when I saw the great big thin patch on the top. Even after my hair has grown out very fully, I could still see my scalp! While I’m not bald (at this point!), there’s no arguing with the evidence that my hair has thinned. A lot!

If there’s one thing that doesn’t run in my family, it’s baldness. Although I did have two bald uncles, both of them married into the family and thus were not blood relations at all. The only cueball anywhere in my family tree was my maternal grandfather, Albert, whose name I inherited after he died a few months before my birth. I never even met the guy, yet I may have inherited his barren skull! Now that *would* be grounds for big, emotional trauma!

Is thinning hair that big an issue? Plenty of men wind up balding or with thinning hair, after all. And it’s not even a practical concern, because I just finished ten happy years with a shaved head, and I’d have no problem going back to that look.

Part of why it shocked me was that it was a sudden discovery, rather than a gradual one; I really hadn’t looked at my own artful dome since I stopped shaving it, so it was pretty disturbing to see it poking through the hair I’ve spent a year growing out.

And, of course, it’s another big chunk of undeniable (and sadly irreversible) evidence that I’m aging. Is aging such a bad thing? Well, I’ve spent most of my adult life taking pride in looking and acting as young as—if not younger than—my coworkers and friends. It’s been a big part of my self-image. But going bald really does put the lie to the saying that “You’re only as old as you feel”.

And writing about it doesn’t really help, either. This isn’t the kind of topic that you’d expect to read about if you visited a young man’s blog! And it’s not something I’d ever expected to write about, either…

I find that pretty ironic, because for me, aging feels a lot more like puberty than my teenage years ever did. As a teen, I was given several mysterious books full of frustratingly vague warnings of the confusing changes ahead for “our bodies”. I never did learn what all the fuss was about. Somehow, getting through adolescence never seemed like that big a deal, while the changes I’m going through now—dry skin, deteriorating eyesight, thinning hair, failing organs, ear and nose hair, skin tags, and other delights—are much more disconcerting than puberty ever was!

There’s one last little needling bit of irony, too. Years before the divorce and my accompanying decision to grow my hair long, my college friends got together and bought me my first CD player as a wedding gift.

Weeks earlier, in anticipation of that present, I’d gone into a CD store and bought my very first compact disc. Although CDs are old technology now, they were the big, exotic new audiophile thing back then. The store had the same bleeding-edge cachet as a 3-D printer “maker” shop might elicit today.

The album that had my attention at that time was an oldie even back then, but newly remastered and released on CD: Rush’s 1975 album, “Caress of Steel”. The memory of buying my first CD was burned into my mind during the two weeks I spent just staring at it while I waited to receive the gift I could use to actually play it!

One of my favorite tracks on the album… Well, Geddy Lee begins and ends it something like this:

I looked in the mirror today;
My eyes just didn’t seem so bright.
I’ve lost a few more hairs.
I think I’m… I’m going bald.
I think I’m going bald!
…
My life is slipping away.
I’m aging every day!
But even when I am grey.
I’ll still be grey my way, yeah!

Prologue

There are times in life when you get the lightest taste of something, and you know it's important. You see a person and you know your fates are intertwined. You see a place from afar and you know that someday you'll be there.

This particular story begins nearly six years ago. In January of 2008, my employer sent a handful of us to the Caribbean to work for a client in St. Thomas. On our first flight down, my coworker Eric and I flew to San Juan and took a tiny Cessna for the 60-mile hop to St. Thomas.

Halfway through that flight, we passed over a tiny island dominated by a large crescent cove and the most breathtaking beach I've ever seen, backed by a large lagoon. Three more huge stretches of empty sand revealed themselves as we continued to fly eastward. Instantly intrigued, I whipped out my camera and got a quick shot of it as we flew past.

Even while working in tropical St. Thomas, I did the research to learn that the island was called Culebra and the beach was Flamenco Beach: consistently rated as one of the best and most exotic beaches in the entire world. It was ranked number one in Travel & Leisure magazine's World's Best Islands 2013, and at the top of Travelust's Little Known Dream Islands.

In addition to St. Thomas, during my six months in the US Virgin Islands we visited St. John, plus the British Virgin Islands of Tortola, Jost Van Dyke, and Virgin Gorda. However, despite being only 20 miles away, we never stopped at Culebra, which like Vieques is formally part of Puerto Rico. But that image of a huge sandy crescent remained with me. I knew I'd go back; I just had no idea when.

Fast forward a half dozen years, as I sat with an impending milestone birthday. I wanted to do something special to commemorate my 50th year. Something really memorable and meaningful that I would treasure for the rest of my life.

The answer was obvious: I was going to Culebra!

The island is just seven miles long and three miles wide. That's about the same size as three of Boston's Logan airports. The entire population is 1800 people. Although the island does a good tourist business, it's too remote to support any big hotels or tourist industry; the entire inventory of guest rooms is "a few hundred", and many visitors simply camp out on Flamenco Beach.

Part of the reason the tourist trade is so modest is because it's really hard to get to. If you don't have your own boat, you have to take an on-again off-again ferry from a far corner of Puerto Rico, or you can take a commuter flight from San Juan and navigate an approach through an off-camber mountain pass before making a hard left and landing on a tiny 2600-foot runway that can't accept anything larger than a 10-person prop-driven aircraft. Just getting there is an adventure!

Unfortunately, it might have been a little more of an adventure than I bargained for. Two weeks before my trip, one of those commuter aircraft from tiny nine-plane Air Flamenco—the "airline" I was flying with—took off from Culebra and crashed into the sea nearby, killing the pilot, who fortunately was the sole occupant. And—thanks to the right-wing extremists holding the US government hostage at the time—the FAA and NTSB did not investigate the crash. Having that happen just before my vacation certainly prompted additional thoughts about my own mortality!

On the other hand, the challenge of getting there has kept the island relatively pristine and unspoiled by the rapacious development that has largely destroyed St. Thomas and many other Caribbean jewels. There are no chain restaurants, none of the large mainstream businesses, and only one bank. But with a dozen beaches and a casual, friendly vibe, Culebra is still the island paradise that other islands can only market themselves as.

It's something of a dangerous paradise though, and as the date of my trip approached, a number of events prompted thoughts for my health, safety, and mortality. Aside from my entrance into my sixth decade and the Air Flamenco crash and the US government being shut down by partisan politics, I was also arriving during hurricane season. In the days before my flight, there were three earthquakes just north of the island, and a lunar eclipse, which would be followed by a solar eclipse while I was down there. The island also ran short of both milk and gasoline due to astronomical tides that stopped the ferry from running. And I could expect the usual vicious acacia thorns and numerous manchineel trees, which are one of the most deadly poisonous plants in existence. And did I mention that Culebra was used for US military gunnery and bombing practice for 36 years? So if you venture off the normal paths, you might well have an unpleasant encounter with some long-forgotten UE (unexploded ordnance). Danger Island, indeed!

Nonetheless, I was looking forward to getting away from it all, and the timing couldn't have been better. I was under a lot of stress from multiple sources: a water leak from my upstairs neighbor, my mother developing a mysterious illness, loss of my job and uncertainty about my next position, negotiating a legal release with my former employer, issues filing for unemployment and finding new health insurance, getting my former health insurer to cover expenses for my ER visit after my bike crash, and my suspicion that my brand new bike had a cracked frame that might not be covered by the manufacturer's warranty.

Ironically, with all this other stuff going on, I really didn't have time to give any thought to turning fifty!

So despite my trepidation about the upcoming commuter flight, I was pretty glad to get away from my normal life for a couple weeks!

Thursday, 24 October 2013

After staying up late to watch the Red Sox romp to victory in the first game of the World Series, I got up early to say goodbye to Grady the cat and make my way to Logan airport. My cabbie complained about an encounter he'd had with the cops for the entire ride.

Once I acclimated to the toxic level of perfume and cologne on the Puerto Ricans in the cabin, my four-hour flight to San Juan was fine, aside from some mid-flight turbulence.

I had about three hours in San Juan, but I also had to get from the big international airport to the tiny general aviation one. Knowing I probably wouldn't have time to find dinner at a restaurant in Culebra, I inhaled some snacks before grabbing a cab and leaving SJU.

My cabbie was Johnathan (sic), a hyper, 30-ish stoner who immediately offered me any kind of candy I wanted from the bags and boxes filling the front passenger seat. He also (while driving, of course) piled me high with two maps of Puerto Rico, a map of San Juan, another of Culebra, a ferry schedule, and his business card!

The cab ride wasn't long, and I stepped out and into the Isla Grande airport lobby. If you've been to the airport in Augusta Maine, it's about the same size: maybe 20 plastic chairs in a 20- by 30-foot room, and that's it.

I had plenty of time, and watched as one customer haggled with the pilot of the next flight to Culebra about leaving early… but not until his family of five returned from having lunch at a nearby restaurant. I identified myself to the attendant as a passenger on the 4:30pm flight. They weighed my bag and I sat back down and started reading.

After about half an hour, the guy's family showed up, and the pilot took them and their copious luggage out to the plane. It took me a moment to realize that although it was only 3:30, that might well be the last I see of my 4:30 flight: the last of the day. So I ran up to an attendant and made noises that I was supposed to be on that plane, and joined the rest of the passengers. Apparently the airline that just lost a plane had no compunctions about mislaying one of their passengers, either!

The seven of us (the family, myself, and the pilot) all wedged ourselves into the cabin of an aircraft that was smaller than many SUVs I've ridden in. Unfortunately, I was in the back, between the fixed landing gear struts, so I wasn't going to get any scenic views as we landed in Culebra. On the other hand, given my past experiences with small planes and Air Flamenco's recent history, I was willing to give that up in exchange for a safe landing.

I white-knuckled the entire flight, but despite a few ups and downs the flight went well. I didn't get much of a view of Flamenco Beach, but I clearly saw how close we were to the treetops as we passed between the two hills just in front of the runway. After a left-hand slide, we managed a painless touchdown, given a 15 mph crosswind, and taxied to the terminal. I was safe, and I was finally on the island!

I checked my cell phone and discovered that I had unexpectedly good reception. But I also learned that due to my early arrival, the woman who runs the guesthouse I was staying at wouldn't able to pick me up. That was fine, because the guesthouse is only across the street, and it was silly that she'd drive over to pick me up.

On the other hand, I made the mistake of relying on memory rather than GPS, and was initially off by one street. The unfortunate penalty for this oversight was a sweaty, unnecessary climb up one of those ridiculously steep island roads. Eventually I came to my senses and found my way back to the guesthouse, where the proprietress showed me my room and answered my questions. The wifi was good, the A/C was great, and the bed sure felt like a good place to be!

Unpacking was a bit of work; in addition to the backpack I'd taken as a carryon, I also went through three boxes of stuff that I'd mailed down a week earlier, to conform with the 25-pound baggage weight limit on Air Flamenco's tiny plane.

I was still headachey from the perfume-filled flight to San Juan, so I instead of exploring the island by foot in the dark in search for an open restaurant, I decided to stock up at the convenience store two blocks away and recover from a tiring day of travel. The wifi was fast enough to stream coverage of the World Series, and I sat up to watch the Red Sox lose a heart-breaking Game 2 before turning in.

However, for most of my visit, rest didn't come easy. The guesthouse is in a typical Puerto Rican neighborhood, which meant blaring music, people driving by yelling announcements in Spanish from truck-mounted loudspeakers, and yells and whistles from the basketball gym across the street. Late at night, these were eclipsed by ridiculously loud and persistent peepers. Then, by 3am the horrible cacophony of wild roosters crowing started up. Even earplugs (which I used every night; thank god I had them!) were of no use for the latter.

Friday, 25 October 2013

I felt a lot better after a shower the next morning. At 8am I walked down the street to Carlos Jeep Rental and picked up a maroon two-door. Jeeps are totally the right vehicle for the islands, and I really enjoy them. The only issue was that they stiffed me by giving me a vehicle with less than half a tank of gas. I contemplated making a fuss, but it wasn't worth the hassle of being forced into playing the role of complaining gringo; I'd rather they thought I was just another clueless tourist instead.

Now that I had my wheels, I could put Day One's plan into effect. I wanted to go into town and exchange some large bills at the bank, then I'd drive around the island, both to get familiar navigating the roads as well as to scout out several of the more convenient beaches, so that I could formulate a plan for my time.

I came back to the guesthouse and chatted with Susan before setting off. I parked just before reaching town, and it was very lucky that I did! As I walked down the single main street, the way was jammed with emergency vehicles and people in pink tee shirts. Apparently I'd stumbled right into the middle of a cancer charity parade through town! As I walked along, I saw a kids' marching band, followed by a pack of Caribbean-styled majorettes, a Carnival-style truck "sound system", and a couple ladies decked out in huge Carnival-style costumes. Quite an unexpected sight!

While this was going on, I ducked into the only bank on the island. Happily, the cashier didn't bat an eye when I asked her to turn six $100 bills into 60 fives and 300 ones. Mission complete! Yay!

After following the parade down the street and taking a few photos, I found myself in front of the tiny post office, so I picked up two boxes to replace the ones I'd mailed things down in, since they were beat up and might not have survived a second mailing back home. By then, the parade had passed my parking spot, so I was able to drive through town and out another road to hit the first beach of my visit: Playa Melones.

Melones is just outside of town and right on the road, but it's not much of a beach. It's tiny and rocky; its only redeeming features are that it's easy to get to, and it has decent snorkeling. At that time, there was no one there.

Since I wasn't going into the water, I immediately broke out my camera and started taking photos. I started clambering over a rock and shouldered some branches aside when I realized I was touching what looked like a manchineel tree: a tree so deadly that merely sheltering under it in a rainstorm can send you to the hospital!

I immediately rinsed my face in the ocean and toweled it off, and fretted. Wouldn't it be awesome if I managed to get my face blistered within my first hour at the beach? Since the guesthouse was on the way to the next beach, I stopped by washed my face with soap and water. Fortunately, the fretting all went for naught, but I didn't know that at the time.

Having done as much as I could about the manchineel, I resumed my scouting mission. My next target was Playa Tamarindo, which is near Flamenco Beach, but over a steep hill and down a rutted side road. Like Melones, the road goes right up to the beach, which makes it a favorite of locals, and there were probably a couple dozen people there, including families and kids as well as a kayak rental operation. It was much larger than Melones, but still narrow and mostly rocky. Nothing I'd be interested in, except perhaps for snorkeling.

Since I was already nearly there, my next stop was Flamenco Beach: the sight of which on a flight to St. Thomas had been the thing that piqued my interest in Culebra in the first place.

It was clearly a major commercial beach, with a small parking lot, several permanent food stands, and hawkers renting beach umbrellas. However, once you got to the beach, all that was forgotten. The arc of soft, pure white powder is really breathtaking, and it's so immense that despite there being a few people there on a Friday afternoon, you could easily find plenty of room far away from everyone else. I walked the beach to the left, getting photos of two rusting tanks left over from the naval bombardment days.

Basically, Flamenco is pretty much everything they say it is: arguably the best beach in the Caribbean. But I wanted to save more exploration for a weekday when it would be even less populated.

Being at Flamenco also gave me access to two more remote beaches. In the forgotten back corner of the parking lot, behind a locked cyclone fence and a warning sign, is an overgrown path that leads over a ridge and down to two beaches that cannot be reached by road. It was a sweaty 20-minute hike through thorny underbrush, but the destination was well worth it.

The trail ends at a rocky point with crescent beaches on each side. The first is on the left: Tamarindo Grande. It's a nice long, narrow beach that's more sand than rock, and there's a small outcropping and rocks to the far left. It was a little windy and there was some surf, but nothing unmanageable. The tides had definitely thrown up some trash on the beach, but there was also not a single other person there. While it might not be the perfect idyll, it looked like a place I'd want to return to.

Cutting back across the point to the other beach, I came out on Playa Carlos Rosario, which was quite similar: mixed rock and sand, long and narrow. I think I saw one or two people in the far distance, but otherwise I was alone. I found a shady spot to sit and do my daily meditation, although it was more a contemplation of life and ageing than the prescribed form for sitting meditation.

The hike back to Flamenco was punctuated by one of those quick-hitting three-minute tropical showers, which felt pretty nice during the sweaty climb over the ridge. When I got back to the parking lot, I went straight to the concessions and picked up a water and cola, which I promptly downed, knowing I was very dehydrated.

With the day still young, I decided to drive the entire length of the island (six or seven miles) to one of the furthest beaches: Playa Zoni. The drive passed right along the edge of the water, then looped up and down more of those ridiculous island hills, which reminding me a lot of St. John. There were moving views of the surrounding smaller islands, including familiar St. Thomas rising in the distance.

Zoni is another beach where you can drive up and park right next to the shore. It's very long and beautifully sandy, but very narrow in places. There were maybe a dozen people lounging in the shade or wading in the ocean. I walked around to the right and clambered around on the rocks that inevitably terminate the beach, then headed back home. Six beaches in one day was quite a satisfactory expedition!

Although it was only 4pm, I was hungry and thirsty. Between the crush of weekend tourists, "island time" service, and the closure of several places (Mamacita's, the Spot, Susie's, and Dingy Dock) due to it being low season, I figured I'd try to get a bite before the crowds showed up.

I wound up trying Zaco's Tacos, a tiny little bar/restaurant in town. I had a pretty good carnitas quesadilla, and downed both a limeade and a lime soda, all for just $10.

After eating, I walked to the other nearby colmado to scout it out and see if there were any groceries there that I wanted. My route took me across Culebra's one bridge, which spans a narrow canal between the protected harbor and the open bay, which saves small craft a lengthy trip around the headland that forms the southwestern portion of the island.

After finding nothing of interest at the tiny grocery store, I drove back to the guesthouse to write up my notes, download my photos, and form a strategy for the next day. Fortunately, there was no World Series game, so I turned in at a normal time and got a little bit more sleep than I'd gotten on my first night on the island.

Saturday, 26 October 2013

After breakfast, I decided to spend Saturday avoiding the weekend tourist crowd by visiting the two most isolated beaches on the island: Resaca and Brava, which both required lengthy hikes.

I decided to tackle Playa Resaca first, because it was presumably the more difficult hike. I was very glad for the surefooted Jeep, because the "road" up to the trailhead was implausibly steep and very broken up. When I got to the top, I had a hard time even finding the trail! Although it was right in front of me, it looked like a small patch of razor grass that had been matted down.

Although the hike was all downhill, it was a solid half mile and horribly overgrown and nearly impossible to follow. If you had asked me, I would have guessed that no one had used the path in a year or two! It mostly followed a rocky storm runoff channel, which made the walking difficult, painful, and hazardous. In addition to treacherous rocks and thickets of razor grass, one was constantly squatting and stooping and contorting to avoid branches full of acacia thorns and, toward the end, tangles of mangroves. A machete would have made a ton of sense. And did I mention the insects? Yeah, it was a long, hard, wearying, sweaty slog.

Of course, the end justified the hike, as I emerged from a patch of sea grape onto an immense mile-long field of sand which I had completely to myself. I walked the whole length of the beach. Passing clouds sporadically hid the sun, and a very light sprinkle cooled me off, as I gauged whether the surf was swimmable.

There was a fair amount of trash (some of it interesting) in the margin, but I also came across the fresh scalloped pattern in the sand of a huge sea turtle that had come up onto the beach, nested, and returned to the sea, probably the night before.

After a long trudge up and down the beach, I faced the terrible return hike, which would be all uphill this time. It was pretty brutal, but at least now I could rely on my GPS to keep me on the same path I'd taken down. But the less said about that hike the better!

From there, I drove a few miles to the trailhead to Playa Brava, which turned out to be more readily accessible for both the car (fewer back roads and crazy hills) and for people. Although the footpath was 50 percent longer than the Resaca hike, it was more of an actual path than a jungle thicket. While it did degrade to a washed-out gully toward the end, it was still easier to follow, less rocky, and less overgrown with acacia thorns.

I finally emerged onto a beach that was a lot like Resaca: absolutely immense, and populated solely by one couple, who disappeared shortly after I arrived. The surf here was very high, and treacherous enough that one didn't even wade very much. Definitely not swimmable. The wind was very strong, blowing sand, and there was virtually no shade.

I again decided to trudge the entire length of the beach, which ended in a rocky point with a small, rocky cay (Cayo Matojo) just offshore. Just around the point was an immense ramp of stone that begged to be climbed. At the top, one looked forty feet down into a rocky cove, with Resaca visible in the far distance: a dramatic view well worth savoring.

I trudged back to the trail and was maybe half a klick from the beach when a couple approached me from the other direction. They wanted to know how much further it was, and whether it was a nice beach. Surprisingly, after having hiked nearly the entire way, they decided to turn around and go back without making it to the beach; to each his own, I guess.

Returning to the car, I desperately needed liquid, so I picked some up at the neighborhood colmado and went home for a shower and siesta. Although I'd debated hitting one more beach that day, I decided to punt on that idea.

Fortunately, I had yet to sunburn, but after trudging through the sand for the length of eight beaches in two days, plus four lengthy jungle hikes, my legs and feet were used up. I was dehydrated and covered with cuts and scrapes and a couple blisters.

I delayed supper until 8pm, when I headed in town to Heather's Pizza, where I planned to watch Game 3 of the World Series. It was crowded and it took an hour just to get a seat at the bar. Unfortunately, their specials board was gutted when they ran out of chicken, so I settled for a gnocchi, which was tasty but light on the gnocchi and way too heavy on the onion. Heather's and Zaco's would be my go-to places for the rest of the trip.

I was joined by a young slacker dude Dan, another Bostonian who had showed up unannounced at the guesthouse that morning. We chatted during the game, but he left before me. Eventually I returned to the house to watch the last of the game, which the Red Sox lost on a controversial interference call. It started looking to me like the Sox were going to pull another of their infamous end-of-season flops that frustrated their fans for so many decades.

Sunday, 27 October 2013

After two full days of beachgoing without actually getting into the water, and with my feet very beat up from hiking and beach walking, Sunday I decided to change it up and spend the day snorkeling.

My first destination was Punta Soldado, an all-rock beach that is known for its snorkeling. It would require a bit more exploration, because it was at the far southwestern corner of the island, over the bridge and the canal and beyond. The drive was very scenic, and I quickly reached the point where the road surface turns to gravel. I should have continued on in the Jeep, but the rental place emphasized not to go off pavement, and that had been confirmed by reports I'd read online. So I parked the Jeep, although in the end I totally should have driven on.

As I left the Jeep in a turnaround at the end of the road, I glimpsed an abandoned wallet and phone in the grass at the side. I decided to leave it there, in case someone had left it intentionally while swimming. I grabbed my stuff and walked another half mile down to the beach.

Online reports said the coral began by a big boulder on the left side of the beach, so I trudged down there and put in. My first dive into the water—on my third day on the island!—was refreshing and delicious.

The snorking was interesting. I didn't see a ton of wildlife, and the water seemed to have some sand suspended in it, because it wasn't as clear as I'd expected. On the positive side, the coral structures were remarkable and diverse and extensive. This was also the first time I'd used my new GoPro video camera underwater, and that seemed to work well.

After a while, I hopped out and air-dried for a while before heading back to the Jeep. I might have explored the other end of the beach, but there were a couple line fishermen there, plus a rather obvious couple swimming further along, so I gave them their space.

Back at the Jeep, the wallet was still there, so I picked it up and looked for an address to mail it to. In addition to wallet and phone, there was a couple hundred dollars, a passport, and a dozen debit and credit cards, but no driver's license, so no address. After debating whether to leave it there (perhaps the owner would come back?), I decided to drive into town and find a local police station where I could turn it in.

I needed gas anyways, and the only gas station was on the same side of the bridge, so I headed back to town and put some gas in the tank. The kid manning the store showed me where the police station was (quite nearby, also south of the bridge), and I drove down there.

At the station, the cop I turned the stuff over to was very surprised, saying that I was the first person in two years who had turned something in, because of the difference in culture in Puerto Rico. Whatever. I just wanted to do the right thing and be done with it. After a bit more conversation than I wanted, I left satisfied that at least I'd done the right thing, and anything else was beyond my control.

From there, I crossed over the bridge and through town to Melones, the tiny, unimpressive beach I'd first visited. This time, I wanted to check out the snorkeling.

It wound up being similar to Soldado: a little murky, not much marine life, but amazing coral formations. There was an area of sea grass, but no turtles inhabiting it. Climbing out and air-drying, some locals came by and started a cookout which smelled delicious, and another group came by blaring music from speakers in the back of a golf cart (a regular form of transportation there), but they thankfully left. This reinforced my opinion that Melones really is what New Englanders would call a "townie" beach.

On my drive back to the house, I spotted that guy Dan and gave him a lift, and he mentioned he was moving to cheaper lodgings. I spent the remains of the afternoon snacking, showering, and having a bit of a siesta before returning to Zaco's for a burrito. I was kind of headachey, and went back to the house to climb in bed and watch the Red Sox win Game 4.

Monday, 28 October 2013

Monday was a rest day. I wanted to let my feet and legs heal, and take a break from so much sun exposure. I figured I'd go out late in the day for a bit of snorkeling and then photograph the sunset. So I hung around the house until a little after noon.

At that point I went into town to find lunch, which was a failure; everything was closed for a good rest after the weekend tourists had gone home. I stopped by the grocery store and stocked up and headed back to the guesthouse.

When 4pm rolled around, I headed out to Tamarindo, where the snorking was okay. There wasn't much reef, just a ton of sea grass, which usually means turtles, but none were in evidence. I did see a couple rays, which I've never seen before.

After a while I got out of the water and walked the beach. As I waited, I realized that it was the last day of my forties, and appreciated the symbolism of watching the sun set on another decade of my life. Then I got my cameras ready for the oncoming sunset, which turned out pretty nice. I got a number of good stills with my dSLR, and a time-lapse movie with the GoPro.

Watch on YouTube

However, as the sun disappeared, I got mauled by biting insects, mostly on the legs, which soon looked pretty bad, between dozens of bug bites and thorn scratches and abrasions from my sandals.

Since everything was closed, Monday was a good day to cook at home, and I made a fettucini marinara from ingredients I'd bought earlier, although I wasn't especially fond of the canned sauce. Then it was time for another World Series game, where the Red Sox advanced to a 3-2 series lead before returning to Boston for the final game(s).

Tuesday, 29 October 2013

So, my birthday. The biggest thing I want on my birthday—and one of the reasons I made the trip to Culebra—is to be left alone. So the first thing I did after getting up was to turn off Facebook and my IM client, so that those avenues of communication would be unavailable to people.

My original plan was to spend the day snorkeling and hanging out at Tamarindo Grande and Carlos Rosario, the two beaches that are a 20-minute hike from the Playa Flamenco parking lot. I thought about checking out Flamenco along the way, but I wanted to limit my sun exposure.

But during the short drive out, it became clear that it was going to be a mostly cloudy day anyways. That meant I didn't need to worry about the sun, and that underwater visibility would be reduced for snorkeling. Combined with my antipathy toward another hike, by the time I got to the parking lot my plan had changed to spending the day at Flamenco. There would be fewer people there too, since it was a Tuesday.

That, of course, made perfect sense. After all, the inspiration for this entire trip had been seeing Flamenco from the air on the way to St. Thomas back in 2008. Why wouldn't I spend my 50th birthday on the most beautiful stretch of beach in the Caribbean?

So that's what I did. I arrived at about 10am and walked down the strand to find a broad stretch of sand all to myself. Aside from an hour of meditation, I spent nearly all of the next six hours in the water.

There was a nice surf providing great waves, which is one of the delights of swimming in the ocean. I parked myself right where the waves broke, which provided me with an optimal ride. While most were three or four feet, occasionally a big wave would lift me eight feet or more as it roared past.

It was basically everything I try to experience on Cape Cod after my Pan-Mass Challenge rides, only perfected: the water was warm and clear, there was no seaweed, there weren't any rocks, the sun was warm, and I had all the time in the world to enjoy it.

I'd brought my GoPro into the water with me, and took a lot of video footage as I played around in the waves. At one point, I thought it'd be cool to get a video of myself with an approaching wave cresting in the background. Unfortunately, the wave I got was much larger than I'd expected, and it crested and crashed right on top of me, violently throwing me around in the surf. Fortunately, I managed to hold onto the camera, which provided great video, but the wave had knocked my sunglasses off.

I searched for them, but after several minutes I had to admit defeat. Given how dynamic the wave action was, most likely they were either buried in the sand or had been carried away from the beach in the undertow. After half an hour of looking, I tried to estimate the odds of my finding them and concluded that it was a one in 5,000 shot.

It was inconvenient, but okay. I'd bought those glasses only a dozen miles from there, and if they were purchased in St. Thomas and then lost in Culebra, that somehow completed a cycle. They had served me very well in the intervening six years, and I was planning on replacing them in the spring anyways.

Of course, once I started thinking that my sunglasses were an appropriate tribute to leave at Flamenco, I saw something dark and round below me in five feet of water. Either it was my sunglasses, a rock, or a horseshoe crab. I reached out with my toes and grabbed… my sunglasses! Flamenco had decided to return them after all!

Watch on YouTube

Of course, all this splashing around was accompanied by ruminations about the big birthday. Spending six hours floating in the ocean prompted an odd comparison with amniotic fluid. Another thought occupying my mind was the idea that we spend half our life building our strength and power, and the other half learning how to let that strength and power all disappear from our grasp.

Toward late afternoon the sun came out, and I picked up a little more color, so I made my way back to the Jeep, where three stray cats presented me with a litany of demands. Then I drove back the house, where I showered before a trip into town to pick up two pepperoni and garlic slices of pizza at Heather's. I also posted to Facebook a great still photo that I'd extracted from the video of the wave that claimed my sunglasses crashing over me. With no World Series game, I was able to turn in before midnight, which was a pleasant change.

Obviously, the main reason for this trip was to make sure I had a memorable and enjoyable day, far away from anyone who might know it was my 50th birthday. Although I hadn't planned on spending the day at Flamenco, the weather conspired to ensure that it was the optimal thing to do. It was completely appropriate, and an absolute blast, and it will indeed be one of the most pleasant memories I carry with me.

Wednesday, 30 October 2013

When I first scouted Playa Zoni, I hadn't spent much time there or walked the full length of the beach. But I'd known I was going back, because of a little secret I'd learned just before my trip.

Like pretty much all of the beaches here, Zoni's arc of sand is terminated at either end by a rocky point. But if you go all the way to the left (a pretty long trek) and clamber over the rocks, you come around the point to a tiny little hidden jewel that few people seem to know about called (alternately) Playa Tortuga or Playa Tortolo.

The beach might be only 50 yards long, but it's an idyllic little crescent with great views of Cayo Norte, Culebrita, and even St. Thomas in the distance. There isn't a single sign of human habitation in sight except for the abandoned lighthouse atop a high hill on Culebrita.

Of course, on a Wednesday I had the entire beach to myself for the day, which included an awesome extra feature. Someone had taken an eight-foot driftwood log and suspended it on ropes between two sea grape trees, forming an excellent swing and a perfect shady refuge from the brutal Caribbean sun. As I hung out there, I saw several moderately-sized lizards wandering around the undergrowth, and one passed right by me.

Although the surf was pretty tame, I spent plenty of time swimming. At one point I even lost my sunglasses (yes, a second time), which had been stowed in a pocket in my bathing suit. Fortunately, they were more easily recovered this time!

Watch on YouTube

Eventually the sun went behind a cloud, and I moseyed back around the point to the other end of Zoni. The beach wasn't very wide and there were numerous rocks nestling in the surf zone. After a while more, I drove back to the house, showered, and grabbed a supper of chicken quesas at Zaco's.

Then back home to watch the Red Sox close out the first World Series victory in Fenway Park in 95 years… on the day after my 50th birthday! Not exactly the present I was hoping for, but it's certainly nice icing on the cake!

Thursday, 31 October 2013

After six beach days in a row, I woke up without much enthusiasm for hitting the sand, plus it was overcast with occasional rain. I spent most of the day hanging around the guesthouse, relaxing and recovering.

I did make one trip to the colmado, and another into town to fill up the Jeep. While there, I wandered around looking for interesting photos to take, but that was the limit of my activity until evening.

It was Halloween, and local bar Dinghy Dock (yes, it is on a dock, and people do arrive and tie up their little launches) was having a costume party for their re-opening after having been closed for the low season. Having known something would be up, I'd brought a costume of my own to wear: a Devo tee shirt, red plastic Energy Dome, and a toy whip. I changed up and headed down to the party.

Given that I was a complete stranger in a crowd of people who knew one another, I tended to hang back from the conversations. I did talk to a few people, and took a few photos, but not many, since the two sets of Li-ion batteries I'd brought for my flash died surprisingly quickly. It seemed like an ever-changing crowd, as a lot of people came and went, and I eventually chose to do the same. It was interesting and I'm glad I checked it out, but parties where I'm the only person who doesn't know everyone else aren't very fun or easy.

Friday, 1 November 2013

The arrival of Friday November First meant that I'd had my rental Jeep for a full week, so the first thing I did in the morning was return it to the rental company. Then I sat around for a bit, waiting for my other rental to appear.

You could hear the Thing coming a few blocks away. And when I say "Thing", that's not a typo; I'd rented a Volkswagen Thing™ from a guy named Dick who maintains a collection of them on the island.

If you're not familiar with the Thing, you've got a treat in store. You probably already know that back in 1934, Adolph Hitler commissioned Ferdinand Porsche (yes, that Porsche) to design the Volkswagen Beetle, the longest-running and most produced car design ever.

Well, in 1938 Hitler tapped Porsche again to design a lightweight military vehicle: essentially the same idea as a Humvee, or the American Jeep that was its contemporary. Volkswagen eventually produced the Nazi staff car known as the Kübelwagen, which was largely built around the Beetle chassis.

In the late 1960s, the Kübelwagen was resurrected as a lightweight off-road vehicle for both military and civilian use. It was marketed in the US as a highly-customizable fun vehicle; you could remove the doors, the canvas top, even the windshield, then paint it in garish colors and have an instant Hippie pad in much the same vein as the VW Microbus. It was only sold in the US for two years because it couldn't pass increasingly more stringent safety regulations.

With that as background, how could I resist renting an authentic Nazi staff car, designed by Ferdinand Porsche, with all the retro chic of a real 1970s Hippie-mobile?

Of course, I knew better than to rely on a 40 year old antique for my sole transportation, so my plan had been to rent a modern Jeep for a week—to get the weekly rate—and then rent a Thing for the remaining four days of my trip.

As I waited, certified Hippie Dick, who rents VW Things to tourists, drove up to the guesthouse in his Smiley-face yellow Nazi staff car. He drove me back to his house, where I dropped him off, received instructions about the idiosyncrasies of driving a 75 year old car, and took the helm.

I'm not sure I can communicate the experience of driving a Thing. It's like driving a kid's go-kart that happens to have a manual 4-speed transmission. It's like driving a toy kit vehicle made in the 1930s and assembled by a particularly drunk parent late on Christmas eve. It has ineffective brakes and steering that is so loose that user input is a mere course suggestion, rather than direct mechanical control. It's flimsy like a paper airplane, finicky as a mule, and louder than the twin turboprop airplane I flew to the Culebra on.

On the other hand, it is the perfect vehicle for the island, where you see more golf carts on the roads than production automobiles. At $40 a day it was a cheap rental, a fun and unique experience that cannot be duplicated anywhere, and a stylish ride (in a very garish and retro sort of way).

After a stop at home to grab my gear, I was off to the Flamenco parking lot, where I realized I'd forgotten to bring Gatorade along, so I made a second trip back to the guesthouse. By the time I returned to Flamenco, my body memory of driving a stick had come back. Although driving the 40-horsepower Thing wasn't quite the same as my old 150-horsepower sport coupe, at least I could make the bugger move, even if it felt like it was going to shake apart in the street when I got it up to a hair-tousling 30 mph…

Having successfully mastered the art of Thinging, I set off on the hike over the ridge to Tamarindo Grande and Carlos Rosario. As I approached the padlocked gate leading to the path, an older couple came out. Apparently they, like the young couple I'd met on the Brava path, had done nearly the entire hike, then given up and turned around. I shook my head; I don't understand people who set out on moderate physical challenges, but then give up just before reaching the payoff. Do or do not; there is no "try"!

After passing Tam Grande, I emerged from the undergrowth at Carlos Rosario: reportedly the best snorkeling spot on the island. There was one other couple there, and a couple other groups arrived later, all snorkelers. I didn't waste any time stowing my stuff and getting into the water.

As I swam to the north side of the sandy beach area, I approached a tall wall of coral which rose from a depth of 30 feet or more. I followed that wall quite a ways before passages through it appeared, the reef having grown in a pattern similar to fingers jutting out into the ocean. The visibility was pretty good, despite a partly cloudy day.

The coral is indescribable. It's huge in extent and diversity, and well populated with aquatic life. After a while, I crossed back over the mostly lifeless sandy area to explore the south side of the beach, which also had some fascinating coral growth, if not as extensive as "the wall". I won't bore you with all the different types of coral and fish I saw, but I was amazed, particularly by the schools of blue tang.

One thing to bear in mind at Rosario is that it's not for beginners. There is wave action, and since the coral grows in places to within a foot of the surface, waves often break over it. It required some judgement and skill to swim the narrow channels between the walls of coral without getting thrown into them by the changing currents as waves and changing currents flow through the passages within the reef.

Watch on YouTube

After a couple lengthy snorking excursions, I headed back to Tamarindo Grande, which is on the opposite side of a rocky point of land. I walked down to the rocky outcrop I'd visited on my scouting trip a week before and carefully put in. There's no sandy beach area there, so I had to carefully navigate a shallow and narrow channel of coral before emerging into a sandy patch offshore that runs parallel to the beach.

The snorkeling here was interesting too, with lots of varieties of fans, and coral growing in piers with channels between them, much like at Rosario, but smaller. Further out, sea grass grew in deeper water, and might be a good location to find turtles.

Unfortunately, as I glided along I noticed several near-transparent jellyfish hovering near the surface, which instantly turned me off. Having experienced jellyfish stings in my time on St. Thomas, I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of a repeat, so I aborted my snorking at Tamarindo Grande. I climbed out and dried off on one of the volcanic rocks before heading back to the path.

The rest of the day was pretty laid-back. I debated going into town for dinner, but couldn't work up the initiative. Besides, I wasn't sure I wanted to drive the Thing in the dark. It was a quiet evening at home, which was fine.

Saturday, 2 November 2013

Friday night brought heavy rain, but as usual in the islands, it didn't last until morning. With the weekend upon us, it was time for me to return to the more isolated beaches in an effort to avoid the tourist crowd.

I had thought about going to Resaca, but I didn't have much confidence that the VW Thing could make it up the ridiculously steep ascent to the trailhead, and I wasn't very excited by the idea of repeating that insane hike. So I punted and went to Brava, which had been nearly as empty last weekend, but with an easier drive and an easier hike, as well!

That didn't mean the hike was painless, though. The overnight rain had turned much of the trail into slick mud, and I was sweating heavily by the time I emerged onto the strand, where four guys were out surfing on the huge swells that had accompanied the rain.

I once again walked the length of the immense beach to the rocky point, the whole time admiring the power and noise of the huge surf. I got some good video of the area, including the little cay just offshore and the view from the rocky overlook around the end of the point.

I also tempted fate by twice getting into the water for short swims in the big breakers. I didn't think there were any rip currents, both from visual inspection and watching the flotsam in the surf zone. Still, I wasn't especially comfortable trusting such heavy surf, especially when I was alone and after a couple of waves threw me around. Perhaps counter-intuitively, it was more difficult getting into the water than getting out, when one could simply ride a wave in by body surfing and then sprinting through the wash.

After a while in the hot sun, I made the long sandy trudge back across the beach, then the long wooded trudge up to the car. After a run to the grocery store, the rains returned just before dinnertime.

That posed a dilemma for me: either punt on dinner for a second day in a row, or drive the Thing in the rain. Did I mention that the Thing has no side windows? And no rear window? And only a canvas roof, which like a tent sags and lets water pool on top.

It was a wet drive into town, where I walked down to Zaco's Tacos, which displayed a prominent "Closed" placard. Damn! From there, I walked a couple blocks down to Heather's, which was fortunately open. Strangely, it was nearly empty of customers on a Saturday night, so I pulled up a bar stool and checked out the televisions. When the bartender came, I ordered the chicken alfredo, which really hit the spot, after having wanted it days earlier, when they had been out of chicken. So that made for a very satisfying dinner.

Walking back to the car, the downtown appeared to be completely dead: no one on the street, and no cars driving around. It didn't make sense that a little rain would be enough to shutter the town, but whatever. I drove the Thing home, then watched the New England Revolution jump out to a 2-1 lead in their first playoff game in four years.

Sunday, 3 November 2013

Sunday there was a 2-hour partial solar eclipse (61 percent obscuration in Culebra) which started 20 minutes before sunrise, so I got up early to "watch". That was pretty pointless, because it was heavy overcast with the occasional tropical downpour, so there was no show. Too bad! Meanwhile, this marked the most rain Culebra had received since May.

Ironically, the eclipse happened on the same morning that the US "fell back" to daylight saving time, which Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands do not observe. So we went from being the same time as Boston to an hour later than Boston.

Sunday was also the day of the Pan-Mass Challenge check presentation. While waiting for the rains to pass, I saw a story that reported a $39 million gift to the Jimmy Fund, which is a new record and the largest gift ever given to charity by an athletic fundraising event. It was a proud moment, but commentary on that belongs in my 2013 PMC Ride Report.

Next I piled into the Thing for the "long" drive out to Playa Zoni. Even if it might rain, I wasn't going to spend my penultimate day in the guesthouse! I walked the length of the beach and around the point on the left to return to my "secret" beach: Playa Tortuga.

I spent most of the morning there. The rain held off, and the slowly-thinning overcast meant I could swim and hang on the beach without sunblock or fear of sunburn. That was the theory, anyways. The one place I burned were the parts of my feet that are normally hidden by sandal straps. The exposed parts of my feet had tanned during a summer of bike riding in Boston, but the hidden bits—which were exposed when I swam or walked barefoot on the beach—had turned a bright lobstery red.

The Thing did a fine job ascending the steeply hilly road back from Zoni, and I even saw a couple whitetail deer (wild but not native) on the way back to the guesthouse. There I took a few minutes to take photos of the vehicle, then headed into town for dinner at Zaco's, which for some unfathomable reason had been closed on Saturday night.

Well, it was closed again Sunday night, so I went home and was so frustrated about the unpredictability of island businesses that I punted on dinner again. I spent the evening packing up my shorts, my sandals, and all my snorkeling gear to mail back to Boston the following morning.

Monday, 4 November 2013

Monday was my last full day on the island. I woke up and checked the temperature in Boston: 31 degrees! Ugh.

The first order of business was to mail off my three boxes of stuff, so I took the Thing into town and popped into the Post Office. After the usual "island time" delays, my boxes full of island necessities were tagged and piled up for shipment. All that remained were the few necessities I was allowed to carry on the turboprop flight back to San Juan. I walked sadly back to my Thing.

There was no question where I was going to spend my last day on the island: at Flamenco, of course! Under a mostly cloudless sky, I walked the length of the beach to the muellecito (site of a former dock and shark pens), where I sat under a shading palm and hung out for a while. I swam a little, managing to temporarily lose the GoPro on the sandy bottom twice while trying to capture images of me swimming.

After a couple hours, a few more clouds showed up, which gave me the opportunity to move closer to the swimmable section of the beach. I found another unoccupied beachside palm tree and stowed my stuff before going out an enjoying the water. The surf was again pretty dramatic, and I had a lot of fun playing with the huge waves in the surf zone, going so far as to be thrown around and doing multiple somersaults on the bottom in a couple of a larger breakers. It was a blast! Good video, too.

Knowing it was my last beach visit, I thanked the island and the sea, and tried to burn the images into my memory. But eventually I made my way back to the parking lot, where I discovered that someone had parked Dick's white Thing two spots down from my yellow one!

I returned to the guesthouse to get everything organized for an early morning departure. I checked into my flight and went upstairs to the proprietress' apartment to cash out and print my boarding pass. I chatted with her and her husband for a while and learned why I'd had such bad luck with Zaco's: apparently that week they had changed their business days. For my first week, they had been open Wednesday through Sunday and took Monday and Tuesday off; for my second week, they were open Monday through Friday, taking the weekends off.

On the other hand, that meant Zaco's, which I had thought would be closed as usual on a Monday night, was actually open that evening, so I piled into the Thing and had a BBQ pork quesadilla for dinner, rather than a repeat of the fettucini marinara that I'd planned to cook at home.

After that, it was time to set the clock for an early wake-up and log some sleep.

Tuesday, 5 November 2013

With an early flight, I woke up to the alarm and closed up shop. I piled into the Thing and drove to Dick's house, appreciating a nice sunrise and a greeting from a friendly cat. Then he drove me to the airport, where I waited around for my puddlejumper to the big island. That flight wasn't quite the white-knuckler the first one was, if only from the increased familiarity of having one such flight already under my belt.

I walked a few blocks from the tiny Isla Grande airport to San Juan's new convention center and then stepped into a Sheraton across the street. Having nearly five hours before my flight back to Boston and about $200 in $20 bills left in my travel fund, I had decided to check out the handy hotel casino.

Presumably the Sheraton hosts the city's biggest casino, which really isn't saying much. Granted it was 8:30am on a Tuesday, but there wasn't a single table game open, and the rows of slots were nearly empty. Instead of leaving some money on the table for them, I kept my cash and tapped into their guest wifi and hung around for an hour before finding a taxi to the big airport.

From there, I expected my return trip to Boston to be pretty ordinary, which it indeed was. I was happy to hop an MBTA train back to Copley, where I received an enthusiastic welcome from my diminutive roommate.

Epilogue

How did Culebra compare to my other Caribbean travels? I think the defining differences were a result of Culebra being a tiny island that has remained off the beaten tourist path. With no corporate chains, everything is a small business run by locals who know one other. That makes things interesting, but it also means they have the flexibility to open and close whenever they feel like it each day, or shut down for an entire month. In the midst of low season, that made finding food difficult. And the lack of fresh vegetables and meat began to wear on me.

This lack of development also meant there was less infrastructure. It definitely wasn't an all-inclusive luxury resort! I had to find my own entertainment, which was entirely limited to beaches and aquatic adventures.

Of course culturally Culebra is much more Puerto Rican than the Virgin Islands, which have more Black residents than Hispanic. I was certainly self-conscious about being a Gringo, but everyone was friendly, and there is a healthy American expatriate community there, as well.

Overall I enjoyed the island a lot, and it gave me a good long respite from the stresses I was under, and the opportunity to put all that back into a larger perspective. And yet in the end I was equally happy to return to the comforts of home.

Finally, I should try to encapsulate some of the topics that occupied my mind while I was hidden away from the world and completing my 50th year. Be warned: this is where things take a sharp turn from the tropical paradise travelog to our more usual moribund philosophical contemplation of ageing and death.

One might ask whether I have been satisfied with my longstanding desire to spend my birthdays alone and avoid any notice by others, and especially going to such lengths to spend this particular birthday by myself. I think the answer is a resounding yes. I'm not a fan of receiving attention for no better reason than because "it's my turn". Furthermore, for me a birthday is best spent on introspection and reflection on one's life, rather than performing obligatory social antics. So it actually pleased me that extremely few of my friends took any note of my birthday, and even those were kept one-on-one and low-key.

But if I have one regret about the trip, it was that I did not bring anyone to share this superlative experience and these memories with. That's a very deep disappointment, because I really value the connection that comes when my friends and I share our lives. But at the same time, there were benefits to being on my own: I wasn't bound by someone else's preferences and limitations, and I got to spend my time however I wanted.

Being a solid two-thirds of the way through my life, I have to admit that this trip was probably the pinnacle of my adventurousness. The extent and nature of my adventures is bound to narrow and become a bit less ambitious as I grow more risk-averse. For example, I think I'm pretty well done taking tiny turboprop flights! Although I've passed my peak strength, I should use the next few years to get as much adventuring in as I can, while I'm still fully healthy and able to do so.

Often you'll hear older folks say that although they are unable to do as much because of their physical decline, they feel as if they still had the mind of someone in their twenties. In my experience, that shows a lack of self-knowledge. I would say that in the past 20 years I have grown and matured more—both intellectually and emotionally—than any other period in my life. I've become more patient, philanthropic, supportive, and even nurturing: things that wouldn't have made sense to me when I was in my twenties. I'm much more attuned to my heart and my philosophical side, and am working to overcome the shortcomings of my adolescent upbringing. In short, as I've matured, I've gone from trying to be manly to being fatherly. That differentiation—between manly and fatherly—is incredibly important. In my opinion, many men and most feminists have lost sight of the fact that fatherliness is an integral and valuable part of male development.

In recent months, I've been inundated with one clear message about ageing. My Buddhist practice group has taken up the topic of renunciation, or actively practising how to hold things we think are important loosely and easily, since ultimately we have to let go of everything in this life, including our hopes, our desires, our relationships, and ultimately our bodies and our minds.

At the same time, my 88 year old mother—certainly no Buddhist!—has repeatedly told me the same thing, a conclusion she has come to independently: that growing old is a long and painful process of letting go of everything one holds dear.

I guess I'm gradually getting used to the idea, although it's something that's difficult for the heart to internalize.

My second day on the island, after a long, arduous hike down a rock-strewn and ridiculously overgrown stream bed, I emerged onto the sand at Resaca Beach. Remote and isolated, I knew I was probably the only person to visit it all week. As soon as I walked down to the shore, I turned around and observed my footprints in the sand: the only footprints on the entire strand.

That put me in a philosophical mood. After fifty years, many of the things I've put time and effort and my heart into have already disappeared, whether we're talking about career, personal pursuits, material acquisitions, or relationships. In fact, like my footprints on the beach, everything we do will disappear within a few short years of our passing. Ultimately, in the bigger picture, everything we as a society and a species do is just as ephemeral and with no more meaning than a few footprints in the sand.

Many people find that thought depressing, but I have always found it liberating. I don't worry about the meaning of my life, because I know that my whole existence means little more than a mayfly's. But that means that I am free to make whatever I want of my life; there are no expectations to live up to, and no one with the authority to judge my life choices.

The nature of life demands that we hold everything as loosely as our footprints, knowing that we have to let it all go much sooner than we might wish. Ageing gives us many opportunities to practice this skill as our horizons shrink and our dependence on others grows. It might not be a process any of us welcome wholeheartedly, but it is the ultimate fact of life.

Harkening back to my days of adolescent explorations around the town I grew up in, one day I rode my bicycle past a cemetery and spied a headstone with a verse that, although it turns out to be a common old New England inscription, had a great deal of impact on me:

Remember me as you pass by.
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you shall be;
Prepare for death and follow me.

As I begin this final third of my life, these are the things I've been reflecting on. May those ideas serve you as well as they have served me.

I find myself in the mood to record a brief rundown of the major events of 2011.

In terms of my Buddhist practice, a few nice things happened. I completed a year of dedicated compassion practice, I became a paying member of CIMC for the first time, I began volunteering to read announcements at Wednesday evening dhamma talks, I continued attending CIMC’s Long-Term Yogis practice group, did another sandwich retreat, and attended our kalyana mitta group’s first weekend retreat. My daily practice thrived, partially due to finding time to sit during my lunch hour at work, and partially thanks to the mild competition fostered by the Insight Timer Android app, which allows one to earn badges and see how often one’s Facebook friends are sitting. Overall, I am comfortable with my meditation practice and happy with the results.

As alluded to, I also went back to work after a 2-year hiatus. Like any job, the new gig has its ebb and flow of both rewards and annoyances, but the influx of cash is certainly welcome. And despite having to overcome frequent outbreaks of stupid amongst my coworkers, I am getting to do the frontend design and development work that I enjoy. Unfortunately, it’s the longest commute I’ve had in a long time, but during the summer that gives me the opportunity to get some weekday bike rides in.

On the cycling front, the miles I gained by commuting didn’t quite offset the fact that working for a living meant I couldn’t spend summer days riding, so this year my mileage dropped from 5,000 to 3,000. But the income gave me the opportunity to do a long-needed complete overhaul of my bike and buy a new mapping GPS cyclo-computer. And I still did all my major events, racking up seven centuries, only one less than I rode in 2010. Notable rides included a rainy Jay Peak in Vermont with my buddy Jay, and a rainy three-state century with Paul and Noah. And I even had a training question published in the online magazine RoadBikeRider.

This year’s Pan-Mass Challenge was very memorable, as well. I began the season by attending my first PMC Heavy Hitter banquet and also the dedication of the PMC Plaza that comprises the entrance to Dana-Farber’s brand-new Yawkey Center for Cancer Care. I shared the ride itself with Jay, who enjoyed his first PMC. And despite riding on a loaner wheel because I discovered cracks in mine at the last minute, I still did my fastest Saturday ride ever. After the ride, I was delighted to find that a photo of me leading a paceline occupied the PMC Home Page for more than three months, and then was used again in a thank-you advertisement that Dana-Farber placed in 105 local newspapers throughout Massachusetts. Being the PMC’s poster boy and attending the dedication of the PMC Plaza both made me immensely proud of the years of work I’ve dedicated to the PMC and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

Despite all that, I have to say that I was frustrated by this year’s cycling season. This was the first time that I had clearly lost ground against my riding buddies, who admittedly are 20 years younger than I am. I don’t know whether that fall-off was because my competitive spirit has lessened, because work prevented me from training more, because of the natural fall-off due to aging, or whether there might be something more serious going on. All I know is that some of my rides (especially the Climb to the Clouds and the Flattest Century) were really painful, unpleasant slogs this year.

In the same vein, this was the first year where I felt that my health had declined. I found myself fighting frequent intense headaches that often included nausea and vomiting, especially when I traveled (which turned the Flattest Century and Jay’s Labor Day ride around Mt. Wachusett into terrible experiences). I also noticed that I sometimes experience cardiac issues when riding flat-out, where I feel a sharp, intense pain in my chest and my heart rate drops by about 15 bpm for 30 to 60 seconds. These have, of course, been added to the list of things that I need to bring to my PCP, but they’re also the first indications that my body is starting to decline. Which brings me right back around to my spiritual practice!

In other noteworthy events, I observed my tenth anniversary of buying my condo, and remain extremely pleased with that. I got to see the Cars perform live, which was truly a once-in-a-lifetime event. I got around to making ice cream flavored with Pixy Stix candy with SweeTarts bits mixed in, which was fun but not quite the confectionery orgasm that I was hoping for. And I decided to punt on my planned trip to California for the second year in a row; the good news being that I am more committed than ever to making it happen in 2012.

Speaking of which, I’m not making too many plans for 2012, but there are already some themes emerging. I’m going to spend a week on the Riviera Maya (outside Cancun) with Inna. I’m finally doing my first residential meditation retreat at IMS (5 days). I’m once again going to try to make California happen in September. Of course I’ll be doing my 12th Pan-Mass Challenge and probably Outriders, but I also hope to do some new cycling events, such as the Mt. Washington Century, the Eastern Trail Maine Lighthouse Ride, and/or the Buzzards Bay Watershed Ride.

So if things work out, 2012 will be an interesting year, too. With just nine hours until it begins, here’s hoping!

4:52am.

It's like having just come from an incredible movie that touched you to the heart, over and over.

And no one else has ever seen it.

No one else has ever even heard of it.

And they'll never get the chance to see it.

You'll never be able to share it with anyone.

"Made mindless" and the Southern Cross.

Berg and the Nakeds.

From Ka-Ve to my wedding to the Paint Lady.

Car magazines and reading primers

Frankenstein and Philadelphia Freedom.

Corrugated fun.

Dodgeball and Seally Pond.

The Saco River and the quarry.

Garnet and Garnett.

Watching the most important person in my life dying in an ICU.

The Bentmen and Concussion Ensemble.

From group love in a Jersey suburb to a different kind of group love in a cottage on a Scottish loch.

Free Enterprise.

Disco duck and "sprots".

Frodo Lives! at the McClurg Court Theater.

Sink the buses and save the nukes.

He's an eviscerator.

Sweet, Abba, and Devo piped thru a jury-rigged speaker system.

Mosquito Mountain and the Devil's Triangle.

Miles and miles of roads and trails that no one else has ever seen.

The Klong Yaw.

Hundred thousand dollar tax bills, and one-cent bank statements.

The Great Lie, and Then Again, Maybe I Won't.

Blond. Egad.

The turn toward Race Point, and resting at the beach afterward.

The campanile of the New Old South Church.

Astoria, and the RR.

Nights at Bill's or the Pluff.

The Toxicmobile. The Glick. The Starship. The Devinci and the Plastic Bullet.

Quack and meow. I'm flabbergasted. Ay-ant! Juggo naiyo.

Fletcher Pratt. "Eh? Did you say munny?" Yes, shut up, Hal.

Playing ball against the wall of the DMV for years at a time.

Compersion, and the ten thousand and one unspoken crushes.

Suits, casual, and back to suits. Purple rugs everywhere. I think the Morale Committee should have considered that.

Pemaquid, Camden, Battie. My tree in Old Town.

The ComDisk, MJJWSMBB, and HSnet.

Mazar Balinu, Carmarade, and DAL-SYS.

Kenny Kinnikinnick, inventor of Gnip Gnop.

Silent summer drives back from girlfriends' homes.

And the Southern Cross.

This is what it's like to grow old.

I've lived my life thinking: while I'm young, I'll live it up. That way I'll have a huge collection of wonderful memories to relive when I get old, and can't do all those fun things anymore.

I guess I'm over the crest of that proverbial hill, because when I look back, I'm filled with hundreds upon hundreds of memories of my life.

I see now why old people feel isolated. It's not because they're alone; it's because they've lived an amazing, deeply touching novel that no one else will ever read.

So many people and places and events have touched my life, but no person will ever share the things I remember, the things that even today bring up deep feelings that toss me around like a toy boat toy boat toy boat.

If you've been part of my life, I owe you something I can never repay. You've honored me greatly, and no matter how small a part you played or how distant the events in question, rest assured that you have touched me, and I remember.

Though no one else can or will, I shall remember, until the end of my days. Namaste, my friend.

Think about how many times I have fallen.
Spirits are using me, larger voices callin'.
What Heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten.

I found the following clipping very interesting. It’s similar to how I envision my old age: a time to reminisce about the life I’ve led.

A life of solitude does not have to be a life of loneliness
By Donald M. Murray, Boston Globe Correspondent | January 18, 2005

When I was 40 I was warned about the loneliness of old age, but now that I am twice 40 I find I enjoy the community of the self.

I have been surprised and grateful for the support Minnie Mae and I have been given by family, friends, and neighbors, even some whose names I do not know.

The importance of the support from the community has been so dramatic that I have overlooked the importance of the increased time I spend alone, since Minnie Mae unfortunately needs the care of an assisted living community.

Of course I miss her. In the 53 years we have been together our lives have grown as one. Each morning when I wake, I still expect to find her at my side, but the loneliness that I had feared has become a blessing, not a curse.

I enjoy the trivial freedoms of living alone. I can get up early or late, nuke and eat a one-course meal of peas, only peas; turn the volume on the hi-fi up and the TV off; sit at my computer at 3 a.m. if I can't sleep; keep a refrigerator without eggs or milk.

True solitude, however, takes me far deeper into the self than the freedom of the trivial. I realize I was bred for aloneness. Some of my ancestors, I am sure, spent their days alone, in a small rowboat fishing out of sight of Scotland.

Others spent weeks, perhaps months, hunting alone in the great forests of Scotland before the English slaughtered the trees so they could provide fuel for the early factories of the Industrial Age.

I feel those great-great-great grandfathers and beyond in my genes, and alone I can travel back to live with the ancestors who programmed me for solitude.

I was blessed with a sickly childhood and that wonderful condition called convalescence, and spent weeks in bed reading, daydreaming, and being introduced to classical music on the radio by Walter Damrosch.

I like waking in an empty house, walking from room to room, listening to the silence, different in each room. Shadows share my rooms, and they become friends, and we laugh at how they scared me at bedtime when I was young. The painter's light at the edges of the day changes each room from hour to hour.

It takes an hour of sitting alone to empty my brain of yesterday and tomorrow. Then it fills. I am the boy who explored the Ashuelot River by himself; the soldier who was sent, alone, to find the British Army so we would not attack each other; the newspaper reporter who felt comfortable on the sidelines, taking account of life.

Alone, pleasing no one but myself, I keep exploring my many lives, what was, what is, what might have been.

I no longer travel to the Norwegian Coast but I am a tourist in my past, surprised at those who worry about an old man's lonely life.