On Sailing

"The ship beneath your feet is not a toy, and sailing is not a game, respect that and we'll all do fine." - Captain Sheldon of the Albatross

Today I finally booked my plane ticket that will carry me out of a verdant ocean of leaves and needles and reliable precipitation to a land of parched soil, palm trees, cacti, and sapphire waters.

I look forward immensely to the conclusion of this school year, as it marks the culmination (for the moment) of essentially 16 years worth of preparation and learning, and yet after all that time, I am still unsure as to what path I will follow afterward. Still, hopefully I won't have to worry about that too much this summer while I'm working perhaps one of the greatest jobs in the world, running a summer camp sailing program. This will be my third year working at this camp, my second as lead sailor, and my fifth summer as a camp counselor. In those action-packed summers I feel as if I have lived more than the rest of my life combined, and each day seems to feature more substance than a week spent anywhere else. Sailing is so unique, as every day seems to hold new adventures and challenges. The direction of the wind, the height of the waves, the flow of the currents in the channel, the character of the kids I'm teaching, they are constantly shifting and keeping me on my toes (or at least nine of them, my right big toe has an ingrown nail and is causing me extensive pain whenever I stub it). I was struck by the beauty of this place today as I was walking down the dive deck after the lifeguard swim, and Howland's peak soared up before me, like the throne of a god. However, nowhere is this vista more impressive than from the deck of a sailboat, crashing into a smooth slope of blue water. I'll have to try for some pictures this year... Anyway, the short version is, I like sailing, and I like Catalina. Life is good. Wish some of the old guard were here though, Stephen, Kevin, Danny, Rafa, Brad, know that you are missed.

I'm searching for some more good stories to tell at campfire this summer, so far the search has yielded minimal results. Storytelling is a difficult thing to do well, and finding a story that is interesting and engaging is equally problematic. I am also grappling with my own strong inclination toward horror as the primary genre for campfire stories, which really presents to many risks to be worthwhile.

Will write more as it occurs

Ringo: A Gunslinger's Tale

He lay face down on the desert sand,
Clutching a six-gun in his hand.
Shot from behind, I thought he was dead,
For under his heart was an ounce of lead.
But a spark still burned so I used my knife,
And late that night I saved the life of Ringo.

I nursed him 'till the danger passed,
The days went by, he mended fast.
And then from dawn 'till setting sun,
He practiced with that deadly gun.
And hour by hour I watched in awe,
No human being could match the draw of Ringo.

One day we rode the mountain crest,
And I went east, and he went west.
I took to law and wore a star,
While he spread terror near and far.
With lead and blood he gained such fame,
All through the west they feared the name of Ringo.

I knew some day I'd face the test,
Which one of us would be the best.
And sure enough, the word came down,
That he was holed up in the town.
I left the posse out in the street,
And I went in alone to meet Ringo

They said my speed was next to none,
But my lightning draw had just begun.
When I heard a blast that stung my wrist,
The gun went flying from my fist.
And I was looking down the bore,
Of the deadly .44 of Ringo.

They say that was the only time,
That anyone had seen him smile.
He slowly lowered his gun and then,
He said to me," We're even friend."
And so at last I understood,
That there was still a spark of good in Ringo.

I blocked the path of his retreat,
He turned and stepped into the street.
A dozen guns spit fire and lead,
A moment later he lay dead.
The town began to shout and cheer,
Nowhere was there shed a tear for Ringo.

The story spread throughout the land,
That I had beaten Ringo's hand.
And it was just the years they say,
That made me put my guns away.
But on his grave they can't explain,
The tarnished star above the name of Ringo.

I have memorized this and plan to recite it at campfire.

So that others may live... vicariously

I, David of Dentinger have created this blog in order to chronicle my adventures on Catalina Island during the summer of 2010. I am doing this partly because it will be fun to examine later, and also because Steve Yelenich isn't coming to camp but I refuse to let him miss out. I hope to make daily entries but the stress of camp may prove me a liar. Plus that would be a lot to read.

I am going to attempt to use as many ridiculous sailor terms as possible over the course of this record, so steel thyself for a mighty gale of obfuscatory diction.