ConSynPro

викобзавеждане за спалниIt’s a damn tough life full of toil and strife we whalermen undergo

And we don’t give a damn when the gale is done how hard the winds did blow

‘Cause we’re homeward bound from the Arctic ground with a good ship taut and free

And we won’t give a damn when we drink our rum with the girls of Old Maui

Rolling down to Old Maui, me boys, rolling down to Old Maui

We’re homeward bound from the Arctic ground, rolling down to Old Maui

Once more we sail with the northerly gale through the ice and wind and rain

Them coconut fronds, them tropical lands we soon shall see again

Six hellish months we’ve passed away on the cold Kamchatka Sea

But now, we’re bound from the Arctic Ground, rolling…

Once more we sail the northerly gale towards our island home

Our main mast sprung, our whaling done and we ain’t got far to roam

Our stun’s’l boom is carried away, what care we for that sound

A living gale is after us, thank God we’re homeward bound

How soft the breeze thru the island trees, now the ice is far astern

Them native maidds, them tropical glades is awaiting our return

Even now their big brown eyes look out hoping some fine day to see

Our baggy sails, running ‘fore the gales, rolling down to Old Maui

Sea chanty from The Adventuress SongBook. Jason left it with me on his last visit.

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We belted a parting pint at a Provincetown pub while waiting for the fast ferry to depart. At sunset, on the dock, I had an interesting conversation with someone from the Schooner Hindu, an old wooden ship from East Boothsbay, Maine – same as Adventuress. In fact, right as dusk enveloped the scene, Hindu approached the dock under full sail like some beautiful ghost. Next it was my turn to board the fast ferry, and I hopped on – the vessel pulled out around the corner of the Cape, and off we went into the watery night. I stood alone on the top deck outside, feeling the waves in my feet and peering across dark water and into the bright stars. When the moon emerged I was startled, as at first I mistook it for some glowing gelatinous pumpkin emerging from the sea. We finally rolled into Boston Harbor at night; I headed straight down to the T metro, bound for Cambridge on the Crimson Line. I was going to visit some students at Harvard. The train was possibly the most homogeneous assemblage I’d ever stepped into: literaly everyone on that train was college-aged. Feeling a bit out of place, I simply imagined myself a visiting professor, like some Indiana Jones en route to give a lecture. This helped immensely. Emerging at the busy, bustling square, HH met me – we took a sneak peek at Harvard Yard, and she introduced me to some of the local superstition and lore. We ended up going on a sweeping tour which covered the Charles River, including examples of proper rowing technique provided by the crew and kayak teams. This armada was followed by some historic steam riverboats, a perfect accent to our conversation about the Steampunk genre. From there we continued to the exact spot where Taxation without representation is tyranny was declared, crossing over bridges and back to Harvard Yard. The Library, it seems, was dedicated to a wealthy gentleman who perished in the Titanic disaster: after being put out in a lifeboat, he attempted to swim back to the ship to recover a precious book, and was lost. We then went to the steeple of Veritas, or Truth, and on to the old secular college dining hall, which seemed fit for Harry Potter and his classmates. It was a brilliant tour, fascinating and condensed, which culminated in a stop at Veggie P where we met my cousin HG, also a Harvard student. Good times. Finally, I was collecting my bags and preparing to travel to Montreal. I chuckled, thinking of Thoreau, a Bostonian living off the grid at Walden Pond. Criticized by some as an underachiever, actually he essentially created political activism and environmentalism in his country. When he traveled from Boston to Montreal to protest slavery, he wrote the essay A Yankee in Canada. I liked the ring of that.

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What happens in BRC stays in BRC, so not much to tell. From there is was on to Lake Tahoe for decompression. After a hike and some lazy days by the lake, I was off to SFO for the cross-continental to BOS. Arriving in Boston, began Logan’s Run, the trek from Logan airport to the watta taxi, across Boston Harbor to the World Trade Center, there boarding the fast ferry to Provincetown, Cape Cod. This exquisite crossing roars out of the Harbor past the pentagon-shaped revolutionary forts, lighthouses, and tiny islands, then out into the blue Atlantic. After a short test of sea-worthiness, the vessel is rounding the small, sandy hook of the Cape, the Provincetown monument in view. This is where the Pilgrims first landed, before finding the water of Pilgrim Lake too salty and continuing to Plymouth. It’s great to arrive on the Cape to visit my friend JP and family; JP is co-founder of ConSynPro, and the gentleman who introduced me to the Internet. On the Cape, we reminisced, worked on computers in the Zen Den, jogged through the forest to the beach and back, and enjoyed dinners with the family every evening. This visit even included a special trip to King Richard’s Faire for a bit of jousting and merriment. At night, I played the Cape Cod Girls shanty over and over in the headphones, and the good captain visited with a bit of ice cream and brandy for a nightcap. Yes, I have a bit of a thing for the wonderful times on the Cape, falling in love with the place like so many others before…

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Is the American Dream a hoax? After trying all kinds of shameless spam techniques, I still couldn’t pin down a ride from the Reno airport to Burning Man. Would I even make it there at all? Finally on lucky Friday I just went for it, hopping a plane to Reno. Looking out across the desert I could see the contour of the festival from the air, a solid arc which looked like some crop circle glyph for UFOs. A single glint of light reflected out from within the event, casting up a tiny ray which flashed in my eyes. Upon landing, I prepared for a wait, as I still needed a miracle and was far from the site with much desert between. I was able to identify one person who I thought was going to the event. When he walked past I followed, stopping to sample from his conversations, soon learning of the Burners’ info booth at RNO. The attendant told me to find the girl with the angel wings in order to get a ride out to the event. I hurriedly found her at the carousel, and after hovering at the car rental booth as her arranged things, I joined an Egyptian and a Ukrainian for the journey to Black Rock City. We stocked up on booze and caffeine at the Food Mart, then leaving civilization behind for the Burn. The Ukrainian (from Kiev, pronounced ‘Keeve’) burned a CD with his laptop and we bumped the drum and bass mix while rolling through desert lands. I asked the Egyptian if it looked familar; he said his country was a bit flatter but this reminded him of Old West films. Eventually we reached the amazing sight of Pyramid Lake. This large body of fresh water is an extremely tempting swimming location, but this requires a permit from the Tribe. The Egyptian became super-excited, blaring the beats and yelling howls of joy in anticipation. The Ukrainian didn’t have a ticket yet, but a quick stop at the side of the road solved all that. Finally, we continued on to the gate and slowed as we moved over soft sand, driving into the dust bowl at around dusk.

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Soon I was flying to SLC, there catching the shuttle up the canyon to Park City at night. This de-railed part of the itinerary ended up being productive, as I fiended on the wireless connection in the loft, telecommuting away and catching up on work after a long period of spotty access. Also, my good luck – it was the time of the Olympics, and my Dad’s TV-friendly house featured full coverage of the Games. Eventually the Olympic spirit got to me, equating to mixed feelings from the futility and fleetingness of life, to the motivation to give my best to compete at the highest level possible. Just by chance, the unofficial Sundance in the Summer BBQ party was on in Salt Lake, so I borrowed the convertible and drove down the canyon into the city, arriving at the residential neighborhood just in time for the kebabs off the barbecue, a tour of the new house and garden, a pass by the hors d’ouvres table, and the selection of beer pong teams. A fine time became even better when we headed in to the entertainment room for some Rock Band shenanigans. I represented as Vori, the addled six foot goth drummer chick. I took up the hosts on the offer to crash overnight in the guest room. No buzzed driving; and, after sneaking out in the morning to find the convertible lightly dewed by the overshot lawn sprinkler, I drove up to find the road construction on Parley’s Summit still under-way; halfway through the ascent I was returned in a loop all the way back to the valley floor, blocked in Salt Lake until late afternoon. Being a Sunday, I called everyone on the phone, chatting with family and friends, popping into a cafe, store outlets, an organic grocery store, and spent several sessions on the computer at the Sugarhouse library branch. To round out the wait, I went in for food at the old cafe with the mural inside, then finally making my way back up to the newly-opened freeway, winding back up the canyon to the shelter of base camp, Utah.

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Happy days at the lake, and blissful nights by the fire drinking wine with my new friends while watching the Perseids meteors streak across the skies. Waking, there were pleasant swims in the warm lake, good conversations, and splendid times. When all was done at this amazing place, I carried my bags all the way from the campsite to the dock. I made it in time for the first departure, climbing aboard for the longest free ferry ride in the world, sitting inside on the metallic talons and carved metal osprey benches in the cabin. The views of the steep Kootenay mountains were unreal. Arriving back at Balfour I made a phone connect with AG, then waited for the bus into Nelson; still reading, and winding back along the forested lake shore to the hillside face of of the town. I hung out downtown until AG arrived, who greeted me as I loitered outside by the charging cellphone. After a couple of errands and a coffee, AG, her mom, and I were all off in the car headed down to the US border on a hot day. They chatted as I sat in the back, looking out at the landscape as we rolled on. At the border we were selected for a search and interview, and passed with flying colors. We even got a look at the Colville and other Columbia River dams which I’d heard so much about from reading Cadillac Desert, A River Lost, and the orca and salmon recovery plans. I was surprised at the beauty and serenity of the area, despite the silent killing done by these valued yet costly structures. Finally reaching the grid in Spokane, we crossed over the bridge for a good view of the river and downtown, continuing on to GEG airport. There, I was reeling a bit from an unexpected change in plans: my next host’s home was suddenly in quarantine, so I would have to shoot from the hip now. AG rallied to take an earlier flight home – I followed her but was intercepted by security as she continued on through the gate. Realizing that I didn’t want to push my luck with homeland forces, I turned back to the counter alone and checked in with my newly-revised alibi.

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Woke up early and broke camp, carrying it out and departing the festival with the sisters. Virtually no one was ahead of us on the way – just wide open roads to Nelson and beyond. At AG’s mom’s place I was introduced to the other family members. A bit nervous considering the situation, I connected to the open WiFi to catch up with the ‘net, then taking a shower and a nap. Awoken for dinner, I feasted and then relaxed back into sleep, returning to pleasant dreams. Felt great waking up, and I chatted away with a fierce cup of coffee in the back yard; played with the kids, then headed into Nelson with all my gear, less the computer and hat. Now downtown, I hit the laundromat, grocery store, and the wireless cafe, hanging out at the bus stop reading Into the Wild as I waited to get to the ferry. Once picked up, we headed off along the Kootenay lake shore, back into a steep, glacial canyon. We finally reached Balfour, the terminal of the Osprey 2000 ferry. While waiting, backpacker YR noticed the book I was reading and dropped by to have a chat about it. While riding on the ferry deck, there were gorgeous views and raptors circling over the blue water of the lake. I didn’t care that I had no idea where I was going… YR showed me the ropes of how to find a ride to the campsite. When I asked the driver about the rules, he said ‘Common sense, respect, and have fun.’ Sweet. Heading down the pathway into the trees, I selected a site and set up camp. There I sat on a log at the beach looking out over the water. I read for hours until completing Into the Wild and starting into The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Later, YR walked by completely nude, eating quinoa out of a Tupperware. We had a great chat about backpacker and survivalist lives, as I stopped occasionally to spoon food from tin cans while sipping on the iodine filtered water bottle. He was several years my senior with far more experience living the life outdoors; that night, YR again swung by to check on me, mildly rolling his eyes when he discovered I hadn’t yet met the neighbors. He took me by the blazing campfire, introduced me to the girls from Montreal, and left me there as he strode off to camp.

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