Vultures

Late in September the sun rises over the Glacier Peak Wilderness and strikes the Strait of Juan de Fuca like a temple bell. The morning resonates with light. The evening mist lifts from the water and the vultures crowding Beachey Head and Rocky Point meet the rising sun with wings outstretched, waiting for their blood to regain the warmth surrendered to the night.

They roost singly on fence posts or shoulder one another on split rails. They roost in dead trees, on the roofs of ruined barns, on water towers or barren rock at the southernmost end of Vancouver Island. They are waiting for the day to warm enough to cross the open water of the Strait and continue south.

In late September turkey vultures begin to mass at the southern edge of island like a river current against a log jam. If delayed by the weather they may cross 400, 500, or 600 a day when the log jam breaks. The Strait of Juan de Fuca is only 12 miles wide between Beachey Head and Salt Creek, between Canada and the United States, but those are 12 miles of cold water and sinking air. Vultures have evolved to soar and glide rather than beat their wings against gravity. They are not strong swimmers.

A turkey vulture may glide at 45 miles per hour,  requiring only 20 minutes to cross 12 miles, but they lose 2 feet of altitude for every second of glide. That’s an elegant glide path but it doesn’t annul gravity. Their flight must begin with at least 2,400 feet of altitude in order to make the far shore or regain altitude in flight. The cost of failure is death.

As the sun rises the air heats unevenly over the land, over freshly tilled fields, roads and towns. Warm air rises, cold air sinks. Convection cells form as localized heating increases. The vultures begin rising from their roosts, rising with the heated air, banking steeply to remain in the core of the thermals, grazing the cell walls where cooler air descends. From a distance they appear like debris carried aloft in a tornado. The behavior is called kettling, perhaps because it resembles roiling steam rising from an iron pot. Their flight is a thing of exceptional grace.

Turkey vultures are much maligned. Some of their behaviors are wonderfully practical but hardly endearing to humans. Obviously they eat carrion, sufficient reason for most people to disdain them, but the fact that they kill nothing is usually overlooked. Farmers sometimes shoot them for fear of infecting their pigs without realizing that no bacteria can survive the caustic hell of a vulture’s gut. As well most people don’t know that vultures coat their legs with their own guano or vomit in self-defense.

They gather at fish kills, on the spawning ground of salmon, on fields of harvested hay where small animals have been mangled by machinery. They forage in the cleared path of high tension power lines, on farmland, rangeland, in pastures and estuaries and tide flats, along roadsides and sewage lagoons, marshes and landfills and slaughter houses. They eat beaver and black bear, ground squirrels, muskrats, coyotes, deer, domestic cats, cows, goats, rabbits and sheep, harbor seal placenta and harbor seals themselves, voles, sea lions, opossum, porcupine, skunks and marmots, garter snakes, gopher snakes, even rattle snakes, wigeons and geese, chickens and chicken droppings, double-breasted cormorants, glaucous-winged gulls, great blue herons, swans and scooters and turkeys. There’s almost nothing dead they won’t eat but they are most drawn by the smell of the freshly dead.

Ethyl mercaptan is a chemical compound with a distinctive smell that humans can recognize in concentrations as low as one in 2.8 billion parts of air. The Guinness Book of World Records listed it as the “smelliest substance” on earth. It’s added to odorless butane and propane to alert people to a hazardous gas leak. It’s also generated in the first stages of organic decay.

Few birds have a sense of smell. Turkey vultures are an exception, adept at smelling ethyl mercaptan from miles away. They can locate carrion concealed beneath the forest canopy or a shallow grave by smell alone, providing competitive advantage over eagles, ravens and crows. Union Oil engineers supposedly abused their keen sense of smell by adding mercaptan to their pipelines, using the circling vultures like short-haired pointers to locate leaks.

Unlike raptors who kill their prey, turkey vultures are more willing to share. For a vulture, all food is a windfall. They hunt alone but are attentive to the flight patterns of others. When a vulture abandons its pattern of listless circling and becomes more purposeful in its flight, others take notice. The behavior of the others is in turn noticed. Within a short time newly discovered carrion can attract vultures from beyond the horizon. A venue of vultures (the proper name for a group of vultures on the ground) are surprisingly well behaved. They don’t haggle over scraps like gulls.

A turkey vulture’s beak is adapted for tearing flesh; it’s not strong enough to rend the tough hide of a large animal like a deer, a cow, or a bear. In the northwest they can sometimes be seen on fence posts, white legs and red heads in line abreast, patiently waiting their turn while ravens or eagles breech the hide.

Their red heads are featherless. Baldness is an advantage when thrusting your head inside the bloating belly of a goat three days dead. Feathers would trap bacteria and require constant preening. Long intestines, an industrial immune system, stomach acid that would peel the chrome off a trailer hitch, and a low pH also defend them against infection. Their naked legs are stained with guano for a similar reason and another benefit: cooling.

It’s called urohidrosis, an almost unpronounceable name for a behavior shared by storks and new world vultures. They use their feces and urine for evaporative cooling, lifting one leg at a time to precisely apply a coating of guano that dries like whitewash. The feces of a turkey vulture is sufficiently caustic to kill most bacteria acquired while walking on corpses.

Vultures aren’t aggressive but neither are they well suited for defense. Weak and clumsy on the ground and slow to take flight, they are easy prey. Their only defense is projectile vomiting. Within a six foot range they are supposedly quite accurate. It’s hard to imagine the emotional impact of a vulture’s stomach contents smack in the face. If the viability of the species is any indication, it’s an effective deterrent.

There are more reasons to admire than disdain vultures if we can disassociate them from mythology and our own mortality. They are an elegant solution to the problem of recycling resources and limiting contagion. The Cherokee called them the peace eagle because they killed nothing themselves. Perhaps they would make a better national symbol that than the thieving bald eagle. Long live the eaters of the dead!

Abyss

A ground swell rolled from the horizon, an old swell that had sorted itself across hundreds of miles into rows as regular as corduroy. It rolled across an ocean patterned by sunlight and cloud shadow, an ocean empty except for a single boat surrounded  by a thousand miles of solitude.

We were steering north by east, two weeks underway, circumventing the doldrums of the Pacific High on a passage from Oahu to San Francisco. I was alone on deck, the crew asleep below. Professional delivery crews are necessarily small to remain profitable. There were only three of us to sail 3,000 miles, each standing our watch alone, watch on watch, daylight and dark, week after week.

My skin was the color of Honduran mahogany from weeks of exposure to the sun. Salt streaked my cheeks like tears, my lips were cracked and bleeding, and the skin peeled from my fingertips. Salt crusted the winches, the hand rails, the running rigging. Salt crystals glinted in the sun. Fresh water was too scarce to waste on washing. Thirst is an especially hard way to die.

It was a quartering sea that passed beneath the boat obliquely, stern to bow, in a complex dance of forces, a sailor’s jig of pitch, yaw and scend—fore and aft, side to side, up and down. Despite the regularity of the swell it was not an entirely predictable motion. A subtle cross-swell from the northwest created an irregularity that would tumble you ass over teakettle if you were unwise enough to trust the rhythm without a secure handhold or bracing against a bulkhead.

Even in a calm the sea is an infinitely complex interference pattern of wave trains that may have traveled halfway around the world without obstruction and without losing much energy. The patterns are complex but consistent enough that Polynesian navigators could feel their way across vast distances. They were taught young to lay in the bilge with their eyes closed and recognize the patterns from pitch, yaw and scend. They learned to map the patterns to their body—kinetic navigation. A capable navigator could stand with legs braced, eyes closed, and plumb his location by the swinging of his testicles.

It’s a skill now mostly in disuse. Global positioning requires less mindfulness. Even those first men who crossed unimaginable distances in open boats were not native to the sea. There were no tribes, no people who lived far from shore. At best they traveled quickly and with trepidation between landfalls, praying for safe passage.

The sea is an alien and inhospitable place for human beings despite the fact that our blood tastes of seawater. It is utterly regardless of humanity. There are no rutted roads or even footpaths to mark our passage, no cairns piled high upon hillsides to mark our dead, no smoke rising from chimneys to mark our living. Even the wake of a boat is soon lost among the wavefield, unremembered. It is a world without root or branch, without hearth or home, the native place of nomadic species who build no tools and have no possessions. It is a place old beyond knowing and violent beyond comprehension.

Joseph Conrad, a man who spent much of his life at sea, wrote that if you would know the age of the earth, look upon the sea in a storm. It is the first face of the world, the oldest face.

The violence of a storm at sea is greater than anything imaginable ashore. The wind is unobstructed by mountains or forests or the obstinate earth. It can rage without restraint. Goaded by the wind, waves achieve their own mountainous topography with peaks and transverse ridges and ravines where white water roars like a rock slide. A breaking wave can exert as much as one ton of pressure per square foot, enough force to shatter a boat. There are storms no boat can survive, no matter how well-found or competently crewed.

Storms are most dramatic but solitude is most unnerving. There is perhaps no place on Earth more alone than the deck of a small boat making a long ocean passage. The sea offers no place for a thought to stick, nothing for the mind to take hold of, nothing but the endless repetition of waves. The horizon is a perfect circle that encompasses three square miles. The trade wind clouds form at a uniform distance above sea level, sailing downwind like a fleet of Velella. In the silence and the distance thoughts become deafening. Many people, maybe most, have never heard themselves think. They’ve lived lives of distraction in a sea of noise. The real sea strips away the distractions and the noise. It enforces a monk’s solitude. It’s an unraveling of the everyday in the presence of vastness. For some it’s deeply disquieting. In Nietzche’s phrase, if you look long enough into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

The tropic sun polishes the sea to the brilliance of a mirror. In that mirror I saw myself reflected for the first time, the self concealed slyly beneath the noise and distraction and misdirection of my conscious life. In the silence and solitude I heard the constant criticisms echoing from my childhood still bouncing off the walls of my skull, the brutal and belittling comments of an abusive father, the physical violence thinly disguised as discipline, the inherited rage. I heard my father’s abuse endlessly repeated in my own voice. His words had become my own.

I felt the successive betrayals of parents who were still angry children themselves and a religion more intent on power and politics than a candid exploration of spirituality and a government that sent a generation to war against a rural country halfway around the world for no good reason they could admit without revealing their callous abuse of public trust.

I heard the continual monologue that occurs inside my head, the bilious, accusing, belittling vomit of words that had first belonged to others but had become my own, endlessly whispered in the darkness, a poisoned stream of words at the root of consciousness.

It was a staggering experience, the realization of how I had internalized the harm done to me as a child helpless to defend myself against the very people who should have been my defense.

Perhaps that is the gift of wilderness, the solitude necessary to see ourselves clearly, the silence necessary to hear the voices inside our heads. It’s arguable that the unexamined life is not worth living but it’s certain that the unexamined life has brought us where we are today, willfully participating in our own destruction. It’s a hard truth confronting your shadow self, the reason we readily flee into distractions and entertainments that waste our time but occupy our attention. Until we know ourselves we remain adult children—the terrifying power to ignite the sun on earth in the hands of petulant children. Ironically, the place that is least human may be the path back to our own humanity.

This is a second draft of an exercise that began with Mirrors for the MIT open course Writing and the Environment. The purpose was to write a detailed account of a particular natural (outdoor) setting that would enable the reader to envision a place they have never seen and to understand my reaction to that place.

Mirrors*

I rubbed my eyes to force them to focus. They were burned from weeks of sunlight reflected from the polished surface of the sea. Salt streaked my cheeks, my lips were cracked and bleeding, and the skin was peeling from my fingertips. The lights of a ship were visible, rising above the Eastern horizon. It seemed on a collision course. In all the vast Pacific, seven million square miles of ocean, what was the likelihood of two vessels occupying the same coordinates at the same time a thousand miles from shore?

In the darkness of the moonless night the stars were common as dust in the sky, shoals of stars so thick it seemed we might run aground. The only other light was from the binnacle illuminating the compass card. We were steering north by west to circumvent the doldrums in the heart of the Pacific High, the route followed by ships in centuries past before the wind no longer mattered, only the machinery.

I was exhausted. We had been standing watch-on-watch since the Hawaiian Islands. With a small crew we stood watches alone, three hours on, six hours off. The watch below was called on deck whenever the wind became boisterous and the sail needed to be reefed or the reef needed to be shaken out. Sleep deprivation was cumulative. Sometimes I found myself sitting at the helm having been asleep for minutes with my eyes open wide, snapped awake when the boat rounded into the wind and the sails began luffing, shaking the rigging like a dog with a bone.

Hardest were the night watches when even the sameness of the sea wasn’t visible, only the stars if not obscured by cloud and the binnacle casting a puddle of light in the cockpit. There was nothing to see but the compass card, nothing to distract the mind’s attention from itself, nothing beyond the boat that had any substance…until the lights rising on the Eastern horizon.

Same bearing, decreasing range—the definition for risk of collision used by centuries of Admiralty Law. The red and green running lights carried by every vessel underway help determine its heading and ultimately its bearing in relation to other vessels. All I could see were bright white lights everywhere. Nothing at sea is so extravagantly lit as a cruise ship. They carry generators the size of locomotive engines and squander tons of fuel to enable passengers’ illusions that they are still in the known world.

We were half way through a 3,000 mile passage, a professional crew paid to deliver a 40-foot sloop from Hawaii to San Francisco, half way through three weeks of singular isolation—no communications, no radio, no electronic navigation, eventually not even batteries for our music. We sailed in the center of a circle less than 3 square miles, the visible horizon from the deck of a small boat, immensity viewed through a vanishingly small lens. We sailed across fields of waves regular as rows of corn, each wave separate but common as dirt, beneath clouds all formed at the same height above sea level, evenly spaced like tufts of cotton drifting on the Trade Winds.

Joseph Conrad aptly named his biography The Mirror of the Sea. He served on sailing ships most of his career, square-rigged ships manned by full crews. Even more so alone on the deck of a small boat, the sea offers no place for a thought to stick, nothing for the mind to take hold of, nothing but the endless repetition of patterns. It is a burnished mirror that faithfully reflects. Most are unprepared for that reflection.

In fact, most people living in modern society have never experienced solitude or silence. They’ve lived lives of distraction in a sea of noise. A long ocean passage strips away the distractions and the noise, enforcing solitude. It’s an unraveling. For the first time they hear the background chatter that occupies their thoughts. For some it’s a disconcerting experience. In Nietzche’s phrase, if you look long enough into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

We were making four or five knots on an easy breeze. It’s a speed typical of a sailboat or a brisk walk. Five knots wasn’t enough to make much difference trying to avoid another vessel driving ahead at 20 unless I could accurately determine her course and turn early to steer clear. All I could see were white lights getting brighter—decreasing range—but still no colored lights to determine her bearing.

They might not see us on radar, lost among the sea clutter, if the officer on watch bothered to look. It was an empty ocean far from shipping lanes and expectations of traffic. They might not even feel the impact. A brief tremor, a momentary change in the deck’s vibration, not enough to cause a misstep of the passengers dancing in the ballroom or register on the bank of engine instruments, and we’d be splintered wreckage left in their wake. Every year small boats go missing, presumed lost. It happens even to ships, 29 on average each year, tankers to passenger ships. The ocean is an unforgiving place.

The Collision Regulations required I turn to starboard. Always right, never left, unless turning right would cause collision. It was an elegant Catch 22.

I began to panic as the ship’s lights filled the Eastern sky. It seemed enormous. It was on top of us. I thought of calling the mate on deck but I was the captain. If I couldn’t make a decision about the proper course, how could the crew trust me? I felt like a goat tethered as bait in tiger country. Where the hell were they heading?

And then in a moment, like one of those figure-ground diagrams popular with Gestalt geeks, the background reversed and I recognized what threatened us. I recognized the ship for what it was. We were on a collision course with the moon.

*Written as the first assignment for MIT open course: Taft, Cynthia. 21W.730-3 Writing and the Environment, Spring 2005. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology: MIT OpenCourseWare), http://ocw.mit.edu

Hopeless

In her new book So Far From Home: Lost and Found in Our Brave New World Margaret Wheatley savages hope, guts it like a street fighter.

Beyond hope of success lies the freedom to act without constraint, without need for practicality. Once you’ve abandoned expectations, intent is no longer harried by hope or despair or the need to endlessly compromise in order to achieve diminishing results. You act because it’s the right thing, the needful thing, without expectation, without hope or need of success. You act because you can, because you must.

Hope is the expectation of a particular result among a continuum of results. It’s hope that binds us to the fear of failure and the paralysis of despair. Hope makes us vulnerable to exhaustion. Hope deceives us with the belief that the outcome is the reason for action. In reality, action is the reason itself.

Wheatley has a long history of trying to save the world. It can’t be saved, no matter how much we sacrifice. There’s no controlling the future nor even the avarice and greed rampant in the present. The future emerges unpredictably. Once present, it can’t be undone.

There are hard times ahead for humanity, for the planet. We may not survive the challenges we’ve created. We may not have the intelligence or the heart to transcend our petty, squabbling politics in a time of great need. There is no guarantee of our evolutionary success. We could be a dead end, a net loss to the planet. Or we might make the transition to something unexpected and wonderful, a shared intelligence capable of governing itself wisely.

Ultimately, personally, it doesn’t matter which. The outcome isn’t mine to own, only the action, the intent. The metaphor that comes most to mind is Zen archery, a meditation in motion where the archer becomes both the bow and the target, collapsing the distance between. The arrow is released of its own accord. It doesn’t matter so much where it lands. What matters is the meditation, the mindfulness of the archer.

Wheatley mentions Carols Castaneda only once and obliquely, referring to Don Juan [Matus]. Castaneda has been discredited as an anthropologist but he was a significant influence upon me as a young man, a conscript in the US Army during the Vietnam War and wandering in the wilderness in the years afterward.

Juan Matus’ concept of the existential warrior is somewhat like what Wheatley describes—actions with intent but without expectation of success. Where they differ substantially is the need for community, for relationship. The Yaqui sorcerer’s world was solitary and guarded. Wheatley’s world depends upon relationships. Ultimately, they’re the only thing that matters.

Why I’m Here*

I’m an old man but unwise. I’m old by most measures throughout human history but wisdom isn’t an inalienable attribute of age. I’m an old man with more questions, fewer answers, and less certainty than my youth.

I’ve grown old more by chance than design. There was no plan, no strategy, no goal. There was only Joseph Conrad’s wistful phrase: “To see! To see!—that is the craving of the sailor, as of the rest of blind humanity.”

I was drawn to the edge of things—the edge of society, the edge of relationships, the edge of the world. I’ve lived in the desert, in the mountains, on a remote shore. I’ve been so long at sea I could smell fresh water a hundred miles from shore. I’ve done what I pleased without knowing what I wanted.

I’m here because my parents believed the end of the world justified their faith. Our actions as a nation, a culture, a species have fulfilled that faith. We have remade the world in our own image and now the mirrored reflection terrifies us. My face is also reflected and terrifying.

 

SillySeal_EN-US1199693670I’m here because I need the self-discipline necessary to look deeply into that reflection and speak the truth, as much as I can manage, without hope of salvation or forgiveness or even reprieve, to speak against the madness without hope of eliciting sanity.

But mostly I’m here because of heartache for the loss of beauty, the exquisite delicacy and detail that is being gutted as humanity collapses into madness and despair, burning the world down around us. I’m here because of the heartache of unrealized potential and promises never met and sanctity scarified for greed by men who should have known better, been better. I’m here because there seems no wisdom in our wise men, no remembrance from our elders, no reminder of our identity, our inmost selves and our rooted obligations.

I don’t know if the madness can be stayed, if the world can be saved from ourselves. It doesn’t matter whether I succeed or fail or even how the difference is measured. What matters is that I speak with all the strength and honesty in me and when that’s exhausted, find more. What matters is that my voice be among those raised in defense of the beauty and diversity we’re wasting indiscriminately. What matters is that my heart grow stronger even while it’s broken.

That’s why I’m here.

*Written as the introductory assignment: Taft, Cynthia. 21W.730-3 Writing and the Environment, Spring 2005. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology: MIT OpenCourseWare), http://ocw.mit.edu (Accessed 31 Dec, 2012). License: Creative Commons BY-NC-SA

 

 

Afloat

Someone whose house is firmly aground doesn’t know the experience of living afloat unless at some point they’ve abandoned the shore and sailed across oceans, day after day, weeks between landfall. Living afloat has an intimacy and an immediacy missing ashore, a contradictory sense of shelter and exposure much like a mollusk inhabiting its shell in the turbulent tidal zone.

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A houseboat is alive in a way not possible for something fixed to concrete foundations. It dances in the rising wind and strains against its moorings in a storm. It feels the pull of the sun and moon and the centrifugal force of the turning earth. Life afloat is about life in motion—the isolated impact of the wake from a passing boat or the riotous force of a winter storm. A boat is a thing that moves even if it moves only in place. The floor of a houseboat may not be as lively as the pitching deck of a boat in a seaway but more than one resident has unexpectedly fallen ass over tea kettle because their assumption of immobility proved mistaken.

The certainty of the unmoving earth is something we take for granted since childhood. Every motion we make, every step we take is dependent upon the simple premise that ground won’t rise or fall beneath our feet. In those moments when our expectations are undone and the earth moves we find even the simple act of walking impossible.

A sailor—or the resident of a houseboat—surrenders that assumption of stability. The deck beneath their feet is continuously moving, whether a barely perceptible tremor or energetic enough to create a tempest in a coffee cup. The perception of motion is always present, asleep or awake, a kinetic awareness that orientates them in space. It’s the reason sailors stagger ashore after a long ocean passage, lurching down the street from one handhold to the next. Their bodies have learned to live in constant, unpredictable motion.

The experience of fluidity has ramifications like ripples radiating from a stone dropped in still water. I suspect it removes some of the certainty so characteristic of the middle class. Maybe houseboats attract a bohemian type or maybe it makes them. The truth is all of us are walking on water, we just don’t know it.

Houseboats are wonderfully eccentric, neither one thing nor another, wholly belonging neither to the sea or the shore. Like a foreign embassy, they are sovereign soil transposed on another country. They are the shore afloat, an impossible transposition of land and water. Heart and soul, they are anomaly harboring communities of eccentrics.

They are floating shells, exteriors weathered and roughened but the inside worn smooth by intimacy and the passage of life through chambered cells. Unlike houses anchored to the soil, houseboats can’t afford the luxury of space, the extravagant waste of empty rooms piled one on top another like packing crates. Every inch must be economized, every corner rounded, everything secured. Even a well found house ashore isn’t built to be buffeted by waves, corroded by salt water, or encrusted by barnacles.

Houseboats by preference and construction are ephemeral creations. There are houses hundreds of years old but no houseboats. Nor are they built with the stubborn sturdiness of a wooden boat intended to survive the casual violence of the open ocean, passage after passage. They are vulnerable to hazards both common and uncommon to houses ashore—fire and flood, foundering, parting their moorings, grounding, collision, tsunamis, disdain, envy and bigotry. They are marginal creations that inhabit the edge, a characteristic that is both their strength and weakness.

There were once over 2,000 houseboats on the Seattle waterfront, Lake Union and Lake Washington. Now there are less than 500 sequestered in waterfront ghettos on Lake Union. Their vulnerabilities are less relevant to the decline than the rancor of homeowners who look down upon the ramshackle communities from the Seattle hills and complain about property values, sewage, lawlessness, tax evasion, and moral turpitude. The floating communities have always attracted both derision and envy, the envy of the bourgeois for the bohemian. There’s nothing more rancorous than success.

The houseboat ghettos have created a sense of embattled community. Nothing defines a community more clearly than the struggle to survive against land developers, city commissioners, zoning authorities and citizen committees. The community is further defined by narrow docks that thread together individual homes and anchor them to shore. Walking the dock each day, passing within a few feet of your neighbors’ kitchen or bedroom windows, living in such close proximity doesn’t allow the anonymity of a middle class suburb. When you know your neighbors’ name and the visible details of their lives it’s harder to ignore their distress when their house begins listing or breaks free of its moorings and drifts across the bay.

A Dream of Place

I woke from a dream this morning. We were kids throwing a baseball in an empty lot. Each time it was my turn I was hesitant, apprehensive, unsure how hard to throw, how much force to exert, and each time I threw the ball it fell short, rolling on the ground in front of the catcher. Each time I threw I felt more embarrassed and inept.

Then something changed — I’m not sure what — but I no longer wanted to restrain myself, exactly measure the force of each throw, hesitantly attempt perfection and always fail. Something in me no longer cared whether I tried and failed nor how obvious my failure might be to others. I just wanted to throw the ball for all I was worth.

I cocked my arm back so far my front foot cleared the ground. I was balanced on a single foot, pivoting, utterly committed, focused only on the throw. I put everything I was into that throw, conscious of nothing else. My body uncoiled, my arm whipped forward, and my wrist snapped the ball as it left my hand.

The ball burned past the catcher and broke the windshield of a car parked on the street. The car alarm blared as we stood and looked at the shattered glass.

“Jeez, the cops” some kid said (in my dreams kids still say things like that) and we all ran as if it spooked by a Halloween wind.

I suppose some context is needed. I’ve been wondering about my place in the world and more so, the world in which I have my place. I’ve spent the last year trying to convince other people to do the right thing, the thing I thought right, with predictable results. Even if the right thing was apparent, it remains a game of Prisoner’s Dilemma.

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I don’t have the passion to be an evangelist however secular the cause. I wore myself out for little purpose. Questions haunted me. What was my enduring passion? What sustained me through the bleak times? What made me whole?

I suspect we live our lives in spirals, returning to common themes and familiar places but at different levels, different perspectives. I’ve come ‘round again to this familiar need, to understand the world in which I have my place.

The stories that linger on the land aren’t divorced from our own. They shape our days and measure our nights. They frame our lives with daylight and night, with mythic images, with fire and ice. This place especially, at the edge of the world, between the mountains and the sea, this mythic place obscured by cloud.

We weren’t the first ones here. There are stories older than ours. And older still, the stories told in rock and water, restless mountains and glacial ice. Those are the stories I want to learn.

We are so deeply rooted in the earth that our disdain for it wounds us immeasurably. Without knowing the stories of a place we can’t know where we belong. We become like ghosts driven by the wind.

This I Believe…

National Public Radio (NPR) broadcasts a series of essays titled “This I Believe.” I’ve shamelessly stolen the idea on a smaller scale. These are the things I believe stacked in no conscious order.

  • Humanity is much better at responding to disasters than avoiding them. If we’re not embroiled in crisis, we create one. There’s nothing more abhorrent to us than boredom.
  • We’re past the time when a sustainable economy was an option. What we need now are resilient communities capable of weathering radical changes.
  • Our economy is a Ponzi scheme that’s now unraveling. A few hucksters have stolen the inheritance of generations. Unfortunately, they’re the ones most admired by society.
  • Evolution is no longer just genetics, it’s cultural, even technical. We are no longer the effect of evolution but the co-creators.
  • We need to consciously choose our evolution. The ability to do something simply isn’t reason enough.
  • In order to choose wisely, we need cultural values that encompass not just the present moment but moments across time and generations.

 

The Economy of Sail

My wife isn’t keen on the idea of hauling freight under sail. When I begin talking about the inevitable decline in oil production and the relentless rise of energy costs, her eyes glaze and her attention strays to something more interesting like the annual yield of winter wheat in the Ukraine.



She’s not entirely convinced our future is an economy of scarcity.


 

And frankly, I’m her husband. Why should she believe me? It isn’t even my idea, hauling cargo under sail, but it’s an idea that resonates.

There already are people delivering produce to market across the Puget Sound from the organic farms of Sequim to the docks of Ballard. They pile their produce onto the deck of a Catalina 34. It’s not the most seaworthy arrangement. Any offshore sailor would cringe at the sight but there’s not a lot of cargo space on a fiberglass production boat. You use the tools at hand until better tools are available.

Soliton
The Soliton carrying produce to market across the Puget Sound. Photo credit: Ballard News-Tribune. A soliton a mysterious wave that can travel without dissipating energy through non-linear systems, behaving both like a particle and a wave.


A better tool might be a wooden schooner designed for the trade with wide beam, broad decks, large hatches and a cargo hold. A broad beam provides stability and cargo capacity on deck and below. (Schooners often carried deckloads of lumber or livestock—sheep or pigs or even cattle in temporary pens rigged on deck.) And wooden construction relies upon a renewable resource easily repaired and commonly available in the Pacific NW. As well, the harvesting and shaping of wood can be done with little dependence upon fossil fuels if you have none.

It would be lovely to see the Sound fill with working sail again, patched and threadbare sails but still serviceable, standing out to sea or working inshore at the end of day, the westering sun silhouetting their squat hulls and pedestrian rigs like a flock of sea birds settling on the water. Lovely, perhaps, but it begs the question—why?

A schooner leaves little wake or impact upon the earth by its passage. It’s remarkably self-contained, efficient, and cost effective if it isn’t competing against time. The conceit of time—time as money—unmade the age of sail and replaced it with the machine, the age of internal combustion. But the machine has proved a less human tool.



A schooner’s schedule isn’t a promise but a proposition, a negotiation with wind and weather and current.


 

There is a grace in shaping your course by wind and current, reaching your destination through skill and persistence, acknowledging the wider world rather than willfully disregarding it but the economy of sail can’t compete against cheap oil and a predictable schedule. As oil becomes increasingly expensive and then increasingly difficult to buy at whatever cost, sail becomes a more attractive method of transport. And, I’d argue, a more human method.

I think the question isn’t whether commercial sail will become viable again but when. My guess is sooner rather than later. So many significant factors—climate change, population density, peak oil production, the scarcity of arable land and clean water—are converging to create a perfect storm of change. That storm will overtake us unprepared. We’ll remain convinced of the certainty of our lives until they’re changed forever in an instant and only afterwards will it seem self-evident. Perhaps that’s by design.

GloucesterSchoonerFestival2
Photo credit: Gloucester Schooner Festival. 

The Age of Altruism

The only thing that will save the human race from ourselves is hope—hope in a future where we treat the earth and each other with dignity, respect, and consideration. Fear isn’t enough to change our behavior, not even fear of death, or patients who’ve had bypass surgery or angioplasty would quit smoking, lose weight, exercise more. It doesn’t happen. Fear isn’t enough to move us—only hope.

Dan Pink’s book Drive includes a remarkable insight. As a person matures, their interests tend to become more altruistic. That isn’t the insight. What’s remarkable is that we’re approaching a unique moment in human history when there will be more people in Western societies over the age of 60 than under the age of 8.

Wave

The aging of the West represents a potential wave of altruism the likes of which the world has never seen. It comes at a time when we are gravely threatened by diminishing oil reserves, the end of cheap energy, radical climate change and a human population that can’t be sustained by dwindling resources. If any time in human history desperately needed altruism, it’s now.

We need to recreate our economy based upon sustainability rather than compound greed. We need to use our resources wisely and share equitably or I’m afraid the wars for water, arable land, food and energy will leave human civilization in ashes. And as our days darken we will be at grave risk of surrendering ourselves to another brutal savior, another demagogue promising salvation and security in exchange for our souls, when what we really need is kindness and common sense and the will to act for the good of others.

Only hope will prompt us to action, hope in a better world, hope despite the evidence, despite our history, hope that we can be more than what we’ve been.

Perhaps the unprecedented numbers of people approaching the age of altruism will be the tipping point that makes our hope a reality. It seems to me our last, best hope before the encroaching darkness.