Diving the North Atlantic

Descending through the cold, green haze, the ghostly remains of a ship lying wrecked at the bottom of the sea gradually comes into focus. Looking more like a shattered junkyard than a 350 foot passenger liner, the wreck of the Mohawk is none the less captivating. Seventy feet beneath the choppy surface of the North Atlantic, hanging motionless and weightless in the water ten feet above the crushed wreckage, I survey the rusting remains of the old ship's bridge. My mind's eye journeys back 78 years, to a cold January night. I see a young helmsman, clad in a heavy, gray wool turtleneck sweater, as he glances briefly over his shoulder at lights of the small towns of the jersey shore that are visible through the frosty windows of the port side of the bridge. It's a bitterly cold night, and ice has formed at the bottom and in the corners of the windows. In the warmth of the bridge, the smell of strong coffee and pipe tobacco fills the air. It's quite. Suddenly, the helm goes limp. The steering gear has failed. The young helmsman shouts the alarm as the giant ship veered sharply, slowly, inevitably into the path of the on coming freighter, the Talisman. The Mohawk's watch officers on the bridge watched helplessly and braced them selves as the seconds melted away before the jarring collision. The Talisman, a Norwegian freighter, tore a gaping hole into the hull of the Mohawk. Barely one hour later, after all the passengers and crew had abandoned ship, Captain Joseph Wood entered his state room on the Mohawk, and closed the door one final time. He went down with the ship, joining forty four others who perished in the wreck. Floating above the wreckage, seeing all the life around it and picturing the events that put this wreck at the bottom of the sea, I was spellbound by the stark reality of this wreck. This wasn't some cleaned up and sanitized 'artificial reef' that an environmentalist thought would be nice to put here. This was a real ship wreck that was here because two 350 foot long ships hit each other on an icy January night 78 years ago, and this one sank. It's a real Jersey Wreck.

Diving Jersey wrecks isn't for everyone. Unlike most touristy artificial reefs, Jersey diving is a demanding, challenging, sometimes dangerous and always an amazingly rewarding adventure. The waters off New Jersey are cold and dark, and littered with the wreckage of centuries of bad weather, bad ships, and bad sailors. We usually have very limited visibility and often use dive lights. Jersey wrecks are covered with decades of lost fishing nets and monofiliment fishing lines lying in wait to entangle and trap the unwary diver. The North Atlantic has currents that are fickle, fast and powerful that can easily blow a diver off the wreck and into open water. A calm sea one minute can become a eternity of 4 foot rolling swells in a matter of minutes, making getting out of the water and on the boat something like trying to board a moving roller coaster. These factors ,and more, make for a brutally unforgiving diving environment, and account for the strict and highly developed training standards and safety protocols practiced in Jersey diving. The reward for managing the risks, mastering the skills and navigating the hazards is the opportunity to look upon some the shattered remains of what were once proud and majestic ships. Though they lie rusting and dissolving only 100 feet beneath the surface of the murky, green North Atlantic, these wrecks are seen by few divers.

Looking for adventure this summer? Consider Jersey diving. Anyone can safely dive the artificial reefs that are scattered about the Caribbean as bait for tourists as well as fish. Those dives are made in clear, warm water, on clean wrecks with divemasters who dive that site with tourists many times a year. The dives are usually not real deep, and specialized training isn't usually necessary. As with so many other things, Jersey is different. It's cold and it's dark, but the dive of your dreams was born on the night of someone else's nightmare. Welcome to Jersey diving.

A Florida Trip

As we planned our Florida trip, it became clear early on that we would need much more luggage space in the Expedition than we actually have.  With an Expedition, there are two options.  We could buy one of those racks that attaches to the trailer hitch, or we could get a roof top cargo carrier.  After some discussion, we settled on the roof top cargo carrier because it was water proof and lockable.

Day One:  I drove to the sears automotive center and bought a 18 cubic foot hard shell, rear opening, roof top cargo carrier.  It was exactly what I wanted.  The purchase took all of 10 minutes.  I took it home and was happy.

Day Two:   When I attempted to attach the 18 cubic foot, hard shell, rear opening roof top cargo carrier to the Ford Expedition, I discovered that I needed crossbars for the luggage rack, so back to Sears I went.  When I arrived at Sears, I was assisted by the three stooges.  It took super human effort to effectively communicate to them the need for crossbars.  I could see the crossbars in the rack, but I could not buy one.  I needed to buy the rail kit from the dealer,  they said.   I pointed to the rail kit on the Expedition and said "Like that one?".   Yep, the stooges agreed, like that one, but you need to get it from the dealer.  Why do I need to get it from the dealer?   The Dealer doesn't sell 18 cu ft, hard shell, rear opening, car top cargo carriers.  I need cross bars.  Yes, the stooges agreed, and said I needed a rail kit.  I looked out at the Expedition, and pointed at it and said "Like that one?".  "Yes", came the answer.

I got a refund and left.  No worries, I still have several days until we leave

Day three:  I drove to Pep Boys.  They are a north east regional car care chain best known for their customer service.    The young sales associate listened eagerly as I recounted my encounter with the stooges, and detailed my efforts to buy a rail kit for a hard shell roof top cargo carrier, and I was swiftly escorted to the area of the store where they had cargo carriers on display.  Again, I selected an 18 cu ft, hard shell, rear opening, roof top cargo carrier, and the rail kit necessary for mounting it "car top".  Amazed at the prompt, courteous and expert assistance, I immediately purchased the cargo carrier ($119), and the rail kit ($200), and headed home.

Day four:  Eager to attach the cargo carrier before the weather turned bad, I went to work.  I opened the rail kit and read it while sipping coffee.  "This", the instructions began,"car top rail kit is designed to support up to 150 lbs of evenly distributed weight.". The opperative words are "car top", and they should not be confused with "SUV top".

I returned to Pep Boys where yet another young and enthusiastic sales associate eagerly helped me.  I exchanged the "car top" kit for the "SUV top" kit and returned home.

Day five:  I brought the "SUV top" kit into the kitchen.  I poured a cup of coffee and began reading the instructions.  "This rail kit", the instructions began "will work with most SUV and Van cargo rails.".  In this case, the opperative word was "most".  "Most" is not "all".  Apparently, the Ford Expedition is why they say "Most" and not "All".  I poured two shots of bourbon into my coffee cup.

My wife, who has patiently witnessed this struggle over the last five days, was fighting to control her emotions at this point.  She was quivering, and was struggling to maintain her composure until she just couldn't.  I don't know if I was more hurt by the realization that she had found so much humor in my struggle, or the knowledge that the reason she was laughing so hard was that my only avenue that offered any hope of successfully attaching the cargo carrier to the Expedition was that which was first suggested by the three stooges nearly a week prior. 

Day six:  I called the dealer, and without going into the gory details of my struggle, explained that I was attempting to attach a roof top cardo carrier to my Expedition.  "You're gonna need the crossbar kit.", the parts man matter of factly said.  My hopes raised, "Do you have them?", I asked.  "Nope", came the answer.  My spirits crashed.  "I can have it here tomorrow morning", he said sending my spirits soaring.  I think I may be becoming Manic Depressive. 

Day seven:  I arrived at the Ford dealership at 9:00, and the crossbar kit was indeed there, and it was nearly $100 LESS than the cross bar kits I had been working with.  I feared the worst.  Nothing you buy from a dealer ever costs less than aftermarket stuff.  Nothing, and yet, the cross bar kit was.  I was convinced it would not fit, or it would be broken, or just be a nightmare in some other way

Day eight: No hardware.  The damn 18 cu.ft hard shell, rear opening, car top cargo carrier didn't have the necessary hardware to attach it to the stinking cross bars.  I returned to Pep Boys.  I explained I needed the U-bolt kit to attach the cargo carrier to the rails.  "They aren't supposed to go on rails.", the sales associate from the other side of the stinking world said to me with complete assurance.  "Yes, they are.", I countered.  "I've had one before."  "No longer.  It isn't done that way any more.  You must use a strap on.", he said as only a low functioning moron from the other side the world could say.  "So, why does the picture on the G** D**M box show it mounted on cross bars on a Ford f****g Expedition?", I said while wondering how long I would go to jail if I choked him.  "I will have to investigate.", he said and he disappeared into the back room.   "Investigate?"  Its a stinking parts store not a crime scene.  I should have choked him when I had the chance.  Of course, then it would have been a crime scene, and there would have been an investigation, but I digress.

While waiting for him to reappear, I walked over to the display area for the cargo carriers.  Rummaging around, I found the U-Bolt kit.  I decided to buy the U-bolt kit and to let my friend from the other side of the stinking world live.

I am eight days into putting a cargo carrier on my Expedition.  I have bought and returned two cargo carriers, and two sets of rails  I have an assembled cargo carrier, and the U-bolt kit to attach it with. It's 10 till 2:00 and I need to go get Becki at school before I attach the cargo carrier to the expedition.  I walk out to get in the Expedition, and I notice it's begining to snow again....and...I have a flat.

A Chimp is loose in the House

There really isn't a good way to describe the fear that permeates a parent when one of his children approaches driving age.  Jenn and Jordan passed through the early driving years without much trouble.  Both had been reasonably sane children and teenagers.  Both made great grades, though Jordan worked like a dog and Jenn merely attended class.  They were my girls, and when I gave each a set of car keys, I was confident they would come home safe and sound.  They made good choices.  They were confident, cautious drivers, who stopped, looked and listened, I thought.  I was content to think that because it kept me from being fearful.  I had confidence in the girls.

Now we have "the boy".  Having a small boy is a lot like having a chimpanzee loose in the house.  He's 16 now, and in New Jersey, that's when you get to start learning to drive.  Hell, I got my first ticket (45mph in a 20mph zone) on my 16th Birthday.  While the girls were relatively calm and thoughtful, the boy, when he was about 5 and having to take some horrible tasting medicine, thought it was a good idea to jump up and down and spin in a circle while throwing up.  Only in the mind of a 5 year old boy does that seem like a good idea.   This is the same boy who once told me that our labrador retriever, Buckwheat, had put poop in his diaper.  He also used to tell people that Buck was his brother.  I found him sitting on the banister at the bottom of the stairs and he told me he flew up there.  He flew down.  About a month after 9/11, he called 911 to report a dead soldier in our basement.  G.I. Joe's head had popped off.  The police department's response time in South Plainfield for calls like that is about 90 seconds.  Cops with guns drawn.  At 3 he tried to order the Phonics game because he did not feel he was reading at his grade level.  We had to explain to him that he didn't have a grade level.  In the 2nd grade, at the Spring teachers conference his teacher told us how helpful he was in explaining all the Jewish holidays to everyone because while there were numerous Muslim, Christian, and Hindu kids in the class, he was the only Jewish kid.  We told the teacher that he wasn't Jewish, but Episcopal, and having heard him explain baseball to a friend, I was fairly confident he had mangled the Jewish Holidays just like he mangled the game of baseball.

So now, my chimpanze has grown into a young man.  He's one of the 'hosses' of the swim team.  He lifts weights three times a week.  He plays indoor soccer twice a week, and is on the Honor Roll.  This time last year, he only knew foods, numbers and colors in Spanish, but now he can converse in it.  I look at him, and I remember getting dad's LTD stuck on the gravel road that runs beside Quail Hollow.  When he laughs, I remember when I got mom's Oldsmobile VistaCruser stuck on a muddy road off the By-Pass.  When he and his posse play pool and listen to music in the basement, I remember doing the same, but holy cow, they have some horrible taste in music!  Where we had the Stones, Creedence, Cream, Clapton and the like, they have...rap.  Is that even music?

So, now I'm going to cough up some keys.  16 years sure went by quickly.  His mother went into labor on Superbowl sunday in 1997 as the game was about to begin.  That game ended at about 10:00 or so, and we went to the hospital.  Roughly 20 hours later, a whole new game started.  It's been a good game so far.  The boy is becoming a young man.  He's a lot better at figuring things out than I was at his age, and given the profound lack of gravel roads up here, I am very worried about where he is going to get my Expedition stuck.

The Roaming Gnome of Dutch Springs

In the begining, he was a lonely gnome with little in the way of outside interests.  Over coffee with a friend one morning, he hatched a daring plot.  While all his friends were consigned to a sedentary, pedestrian life in flower gardens he yearned for something more, something exciting.  But what?  What else is there in the life of garden gnome other than gophers, bird crap, and petunias?

Suddenly, he had a thought....

Waldo, the gnome, hitched a ride out of New Jersey.  Anywhere, he thought, would be better than a garden in New Jersey...but he was wrong.  As he sat on the engine of the sunken Cessna, he thought to himself, "Well, now it can't get any worse."

And, once again, he was wrong.   Waldo found himself sitting in a sunken boat 65 feet below the cold waters of a Pennslyvania rock quarry.  For months, divers from all over the North East traveled to Dutch Springs to see the Waldo the roaming gnome of Dutch springs.  Many divers took Waldo to see the many attractions that have been placed in the quarry, but none would remove him from his watery prison.  Finally, Waldo disappeared.  For weeks, no one reported seeing him.  Numerous dives were made to search for the gnome, but all failed.   Hope for finding Waldo was fading, and then the Jazz man arrived.

Some men aspire to greatness.  Others have it thrust upon them, and this man found it 60 feet beneath the surface.  While peering into the bottom of the engine cowling of Helldiver sunk in the quarry, he saw the waving arms and heard the faint cries of Waldo as he frantically signalled for help.  Rescued at last! 

But, Waldo still felt all alone.  After months beneath the waters of the quarry, he felt like something was missing from his life.  He left the quarry, and retired to the Jersey Shore for some sea food, but still something was missing.  Something just wasn't right.  It haunted him, night and day, a profound emptiness.

One day, from across the bar a trio of lovely ladies spied the lonly gnonme drinking alone and cautiously approached him.  "Are you", they shyly asked, "The Roaming Gnome of Dutch Springs?"

Suddenly he knew what he had been longing for.  He knew what had been missing from his life.  Women!  For the rest of the night, the trio of lovelies and Waldo sang and danced and laughed!  Life was good again.  It just couldn't get any better than this!  Waldo likes the ladies!

Waldo, had a bad feeling.  Things were going to well.  A familiar hand grasped him, and lifted him away.  He had a gloomy sense of deja vu.

Have you ever heard a gnome cuss?

Twenty Years Ago

Some years ago, when I first moved to Pennslyvania, I lived in a haunted house.  The ghost was a young lady who had been an employee in the house during Prohibition when the house hosted a fairly exclusive brothel.  Apparently, she became somewhat disgruntled, and hung herself in what was now my apartment.  Rent was low, and I figured that if the place was haunted, I should make friends with the ghost so that maybe she wouldn't bother me.  I called her"Bonnie", and I used to greet her when I came home, and say goodby when I left.

Life was interesting.  Being newly divorced, I owned a couch, a computer, an iron and ironing board, and about a thousand books.  I was working at Air Products and Chemicals, and stopped at the same pub after work each day for a beer.  It was a simple existence, I thought.


So, naturally I met a girl.  She was a pretty little blond with sparkling blue eyes that twinkled when she smiled.  The morning after our first date, a blind date, I called to ask her out for real.  She told me she would love to go out with me, but only after I got a hair cut.   I figured that would be ok....it had been nearly a year since I had had a hair cut.


We dated a couple of months, and she handled being introduced to Bonnie ok.  To me, being able to handle certain levels of insanity is a good thing.  I called home to tell mom and dad that I had met a girl.


"Son, you can't marry all of them.", my father warned.  


So I planned a trip to Arkansas for my pretty blond to meet Mom and Dad, my brother and his family, and my sister and her family.  At the same time, I began to try to prepare my blond for a slightly elevated level of insanity.  Try as I might, I knew I wasn't getting through.  She just didn't believe me.


So, we make the flight to Memphis, and drive to Jonesboro for dinner at Mom and Dads house.  Mom pulled out all the stops.  Dinner in the dining room was unbelievable!  Steak with a baked potato and a beautiful salad.  A very nice red wine was served with dinner.  The conversation during dinner was pleasant, polite, and fun.


Post dinner cocktail in hand, dad smiled, and sat back in his chair.  He looked at my pretty little blond and very casually, and in incredible detail, recalled ever girl I had ever dated, and explained what was wrong with each one.  Mom was clearing the table during all this.  I looked at dad, but he never looked at me.  He and my blond were in deep conversation.  Neither was paying me any mind at all.  This wasn't very much fun for me, but both of them were enjoying it.  Mom relieved that dad was behaving himself.  Finally, as he finished discussing my last marriage, I thought my suffering might soon be over, but I was wrong.


Dad looked at my pretty blond, and said, "so, Miss Landi, just what the hell is wrong with you?"


"BILL!", Mom shouted above the crash of the plate she just dropped.


Landi's eyes sparkled, and with a smile nearly containing laughter, "Not one damn thing, Daddydoc!"


Dad snickered, Landi laughed, and I knew I had found a very special girl.  






Wh

Is that parsley?

The Mt. bethal Fire Company hosted a wonderful one day event last Saturday. It was a small competition, along the lines of the old Hillsboro competition. It was fun, and we ran across a team we knew. It's always fun to know some of the crazies befor getting down to the cut throat intensity of small time high performance barbeque. So, as usual, the day started with Mimosas and the standard meet inspection. "Ya done this before?". Me,"Yep". "got ice?". Me,"Yep". "good luck.". Me,"thanks!" And the game was afoot. To the sound of Janice Joplin screaming"take a little piece of my heart" from my Ipad, I got the fire going. While I prepped the ribs and chicken, I sang along with the Monkeys as they sang "I'm going to buy me a dog". At this point I paused and noticed that several af the other teams were staring at me. Was it my kilt? We're they admiring Redneck (camo) tartan? Why was the small child crying? Suddenly, it was crystal clear. Since the batteries in my external speaker were exhausted, I was using my ear buds. A number of very adamant contestants confirmed what my wife has said for years. Apparently I do not do justice to Janice Joplin or the Monkeys. Having been thusly enlightened, we hunkered down in true Memphis fashion for a hard run for the money. I switched to Makers Mark, and put the Stones on. We were rocking...and this time, because my bride had arrived with additional supplies, we had batteries for the speaker. Instantly, Landi was a rock star. I had to promise the small child I would not sing along. So, we barbequed, sipped bourbon, and visited with a wonderful bunch of folks. Finally, time for turn in arrived, and we learned a lesson. Everyone who competes in Kansas City Barbeque Society events knows that you can not garnish with Kale. Using Kale gets you an automatic one. As there are three criteria that are judged on a scale of one, the worst, to ten, the best, it is not difficult to determine that a one is catastrophic. As of this writing, both my bride and myself can now tell the difference between Curley Parsely and Kale. Even with getting "ones" for a third of our scores, we finished sixth overall. As with most BBQ competitions, it really became more about making friends than winning. And as I promised so many whom I gave acard to, heres where I barbeque every Wednesday. KC'S Korner is located at 100 Oak tree road in South Plainfield. Y'all come see us!

Units of Measure

It has become apparent to me that not all people in the north are enlightened as to Southern Units of Measure.  I have been here neigh on twenty years, and have completely mastered the yankee language, and have endeavoured to these pagan folks the proper way to speak Mr. Lee's Language, but alas, it is a task meant for Sisyphus.

So, as a primer, let us discuss units of measure.  There are three fundamental units of measure in the Southern Vernacular.  'Aint caught shit', 'a Mess' and 'a shitload'.

'Ain't caught shit' means that you have caught less than a dozen catfish.

'A mess of Catfish' means that you have caught between a dozen and two dozen catfish.  All have to be 2 lbs  or better.

'A shitload' of Catfish means that you have caught more than two dozen catfish.  Anytime you have caught a shitload of Catfish, it is Arkansas state law that you have to buy two cases of beer to feed to your friends who come over to help skin the fish.  You don't even have to be in Arkansas to have that law enforced.

Some things about fishing that may not be apparent to my northern friends should be mentioned at this point.  They need help.  They dont know what night crawlers are.  Night crawlers are worms....not vampires.   Stink bait really does stink.  Bloodbait is really made from blood.  If you are fishing with dynamite, always start the motor before you light the fuse.  A failure to do so frequently results in an abrupt and unpleasant expulsion from the gene pool.

Thus endeth the lesson.