Ficus Macrophylla

This makes me want to keep my feet on the ground. The phrase, “feet on the ground” has for those of us ‘ship folk’, a meaning quite a bit more towards the literal side than it does for the majority of the people who may or may not have uttered it a time or two themselves.

Space. Endless in all directions. The mere thought of walking, with or without purpose for more than 700 uninterrupted feet, is in and of itself, a freedom that has all but faded into distant memory. The vast sky above takes on a different shade of blue, when it’s held in place by a menagerie of men’s (and women’s) dreams, realized in the form of steal and cement structures glued together by the green force of life. It brings to mind the question, “How can I live for months on end without this?”

Sailing in on the gentle spring breeze, arrives a sweet aroma. A horticultural smorgesbourge of subtropical Asia and Australia envelops me. Almost instantly senses long since used, begin to awaken. Awaken as innocently as a child opening its eyes for the first time after nine months of darkness to finally see what all the fuss was about. Awaken as innocently (and as hungry) as a young bear awakens from their first hibernation to find spring as lush and beautiful as all the older bears had told him. From a metallic, stale beer dust cloud induced coma, I awaken, fresh and new, after an undetermined amount of time spent living in what may affectionately be called, (with dark, sarcastic undertones of course), ship life…(chuck chick)

A postcard picturesque landscape, framed by the fingertips of a Ficus Macrophylla, leaves in a state of spellbound awe, the heart of any set of eyes that may open long enough to capture a glimpse of it’s beauty. The giant Morton Bay Fig, as it’s known to the common folk, loosens its grip ever so slightly. From between it’s long, twisted fingers drips the warm, life giving rays of sunshine. It’s soaks me inside to out, finding it’s way through every part of my being as it passes through on it’s way down to rest upon the calm waters of Sydney Harbor.

There it glistens, staring boldly back at the face of it’s creator. I watch in admiration, as it moves with a sense of confidence and direction that I, while able to put on a good show of it, secretly wish I had. Unaware of any audience, it moves as gracefully as a single raindrop finding it’s own path down a well-polished windscreen, unafraid of ever missing a step. Uninhibited by it’s own nakedness, it dances. Full of hope and passion, angst, and aggression, smiles, tears, courage, fears…and above all, love…it dances the dance of humanity.

Beer No. 1, Beer No. 2.

No. 1

BARONS PALE ALE…Brewed right here in New South Wales in the little town of Woollahra…by the brave boys of Barons Brewing indeed. A surprisingly refreshing taste, as it runs cool and smooth, nibbling at the back of your tongue as it makes its way down to your anxiously awaiting beer belly, leaving behind a subtle hint of fresh squeezed berries, as it seeps into your alcohol deprived bloodstream.

‘Tobacco smoke is toxic’, screams the friendly reminder on the flip top of the Marlboro Light box on the desk. It glimmers in the flickering neon reading lights hanging beneath the t.v. set that looms ominously overhead by the window of your Formula 1 Hotel home, as you sit staring out the window over looking the corner of This Street and That, in the middle of Whoknowswhereville, suburbia Australia. ‘Light one up for me, and don’t forget to collect all three!’

People lie to themselves for different reasons. People lie to themselves at different times. People lie to themselves for different reasons at different times, but the important thing…they all do it.

For example; right now I’m sitting on a folded up pillow. I tell myself how much better it feels beneath my bony little ass than this hard wood seat its cushioning. I tell myself its purely for the comfort value, that I interrupted the eruption of my thought volcano to rip this fluffy fun bag down from the top bunk, and stuff it snuggly beneath my rump. The fact that without the added height of this feather filled elevation boost, I’d never be able to see over the steering wheel of this tractor-trailer thought bus, never even enters my mind. Without it, I’d quite possibly be speeding the wrong way down this four-lane papyrus parkway, and I wouldn’t even know it until I got there. Come to think of it, I doubt I’d even know where there was.

The bottom of the bottle comes quite suddenly to those who can’t see over the top. But, if that’s the only problem I have, I’ll be sure to be the last to admit it. Always listen to your mums kids. They sure as hell don’t know what they’re talking about, but let’s face it…neither do you.

No. 2

The best part of cracking open a good beer is watching the erotic dance of the aroma vapors as they make their way to freedom. Like a five dollar stripper in a seedy North Seattle cock club on a payday Monday night, they work those invisible poles like their rents depended on it. Show me a bollte of wine that puts on a show like that, and I’ll show you the working end of an AK-47. Don’t fuck with my reality boy. My Dad’s got guns.

The best part of lighting a cigarette, is that for the next seven minutes or so, you know what you’re doing. Let’s face the facts here; seven minutes is a long time, and when it comes to making plans for the future, who can really be bothered? We’re all far too busy making excuses for why we don’t know what we want, who has time or enegery left over for wanting at all?

One way to avoid getting to where you’re going is to avoid heading in the opposite direction. Remember, it’s a universally accepted fact that the earth is round. Putting to good use some basic, high school level geometrical commons sense, one comes to the obvious conclusion that the faster you run away from something, the sooner you’ll end up running right into it.

So smoke your cigarettes and take your pictures. Collect your visitor center brochures and nurture your intentions to write some of those whitty little articles. Go on pretending to be some free spirited traveler, journeying around the globe searching for that ultimate experience, that you can comfortably call…life.

Keep your plans to those safe, seven minute intervals of the future, one toxic tango at a time. Just remember son, you’re not fooling anyone…you’re here because you’re in love.

Departure

Saturday morning arrived just an instant after the weight of a long Friday forced close my eyes and escorted my consciousness into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

A farewell family breakfast with mom and dad at a quaint little restaurant in Granby Connecticut filled my stomach as well as my bladder as I once again, driven by the irresistible force of habit, consume far more coffee than is advise able at the start of a day for any human being leading a ‘normal’ life, let alone one who is about to embark on a 26 hour flight to the far side of the world.

“Don’t worry…” I say to myself, in a meager attempt to calm my caffine charged, super overdriven nerves, that like to hide their apprehension under the veil of the Constant Bouncing Right Leg Exercise Program, (or C.B.R.L.E.P. for short), a calorie burning, fat eliminating, weight maintenance, workout technique that I am proud to say, is of my very own design. “…there are bathrooms on planes now.”

Upon hearing this gem of self-administered reassurance, a calm sweeps over most of my body. The exceptions being of course, the muscles and tendons of one right leg, deflected effortlessly by its Impenetrable State of Constant Motion, (or I.S.C.M. for short). I settle down at a cozy table in the corner of a café and pull out my choice of literary entertainment. A book, that when judged by it’s cover, is presumably a “how to” on smoking sharp beaker birds, that come equipped with their own ignition device, written by none other than one, T. Robbins.

There I sit, the rest of the while, sipping a cup of Green Mountain deliciousness, awaiting the magical phrase, “Group 4, now boarding…”

No Promises

...and I'm sure no surprise at the fact that I wrote not a word throughout the entire 2 1/2 months of the last contract or even the last month of this vacation. Each was full of many experiences. Many wonderful moments. Many tests and challenges. I'm not going to say I'll write more about each later. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.

No surprise that I'm writing only now, on the eve of another departure. Contract Three. This one will be five months, which will be the longest to date. Being in love with someone you get to share the days with out there makes for a different experience all together. That safe place...a person to trust and talk to. It doesn't make the difficult times fly by as one would hope, always hoping for miracles. It does, however, make them bearable. Five months...and if things keep heading in the direction they are going in, it will only be in preparation for an eight month stay I may be looking at if we do another contract together.

The thing that interests me at the moment is how entirely ready I am to leave. I've packed just about everything. Some weight must be shifted from one bag to the other and some small personal items picked up and added to the weight, but other than that it's looking pretty good. I'm up, tired, sore, but with this feeling like there's "so much to do". I sat down to make a list of things left to do, and found that I had nothing to put on it.

Well, one month home. The longest in nearly 5 years. Time to go back to work.

(written a while ago)

November 2008