Baby Boy
Chris called at 4:26. He was out of breath. “Sorry, man. I’m on my bike.”
“Jen just called. I think she just had the baby.”
Gasp.
“Alone. With Ethan. Be on standby. And find mom.”
Click.
I called my mother, left a message, then did the digital equivalent of pacing around the office. By five o’clock, though, I was too restless to stay at work. I walked into my boss’ office, flashed my cell phone and Blackberry and said, “I gotta run. You can find me if you need me. But I gotta run. My brother needs me.”
Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from 72d Street Station. The air was thick and damp. The city was moving more slowly than I needed it to. I wanted to yell, “Get out of my way! My brother’s having a baby!!!”
I walked to The Dead Poet, and nursed a Harp. I flipped absent-mindedly through Details magazine, failing to comprehend even one word. Halfway through the pint, the phone rang.
“He’s a boy,” my brother said. “Come on over.”
“Does Jen need anything?” I asked.
“Cream puffs,” he said. “And a six pack.”
I was off.
A few minutes later, I was climbing the steps at Chris and Jen’s, haphazardly untying my shoes as I tackled each flight. I knocked, and knelt, anticipating that Ethan would answer the door. I kissed him three times before walking inside.
Chris, Jen, my mother, a midwife, and Jen’s brother Steven were all scurrying around the apartment by the time I arrived. Ethan took a seat alone at the dinner table and began eating. I sat with him, whispering in his ears, “You are a special little boy, Ethan. And I love you.” Over and over.
I heard Jen call my name three times before relenting; I wanted her to be settled. And I wanted Ethan to feel loved. (I was once the invading party, after all.) I tiptoed into her bedroom, and spotted The Little Guy wrapped in a towel by her side.
“He’s so big!” I said.
Soon enough, I was holding The Little Guy, staring at his perfect lips, smelling his perfect skin, and kissing his perfect cheeks. After a few minutes, he began to shake as a good cry rose from within him. His mouth opened to a perfect circle. His tongue arched and trembled. And then the sound…
“Waaaaaaaah! Wa, wa, wa, wa, waaaaaaaaaaah!”
“Sounds like a Wagner to me,” Steven said.
The Ol’ Philly Tri
“If you think you’re in the top ten percent of swimmers,” the race director said, “Start in the first wave.” I didn’t. But I did.
The swim start was brutal: bodies on bodies, limbs flyin’, knees to the back of the head. The pack thinned slowly, as the fluorescent buoys inched closer, leaving me in the bottom ten percent of the top ten percent. I struggled to find my pace, and my breath. I struggled to calm myself, to stem the flow of precious adrenaline. A few yards from the first buoy (the swim was a triangular-shaped half-mile course in the Schuylkill River), I spotted a flash of skin inches from my face. Soon, another swimmer was just millimeters from punching me in the nose. Worse, he too was breathing to his right, and hence couldn’t see me. I pulled myself away from him to the left, but he followed. In a moment of desperate, adrenaline-fueled rage, I crossed right over his legs, pushed his torso away to my left, and pulled away.
Soon, with a few arms’ lengths from my nearest competitor, I was able to settle in, and find my focus. Before long, I could spot the exit ramp. I looked around, and picked a few victims, battling past them to the finish. The volume dimmed the moment I my foot hit solid ground. I ripped off my goggles and cap, and looked down at my watch.
17:07.
In transition, I fought to catch my breath as I pulled on my Asics. My body felt leaden, my limbs dead weight. I strapped on my helmet, jogged my bike to the street, and hopped on. The bike course consisted of two eight and a half mile loops between Falls Bridge and The Philadelphia Art Museum. It was a beautiful riverside ride: fast and flat, tree-lined, and sun-dappled. I was out in front, and settling in. My quads were burning, but I leaned in, and kept it in low.
Only a handful of riders on five thousand dollar triathlon bikes passed me on my eight hundred dollar mountain bike. The rest of the time, I was overtaking road bikers and thinking, “You really don’t want to be passed by me: me and my eighteen speeds, me and my fat tires.” I gelled (Gu Orange Burst with caffeine) just after passing the museum (with a nod to Rocky) the second time, then dug into the final straight away. I wasn’t sure I could run four miles, but I knew I’d killed the last seventeen. I lept from the saddle, racked the bike, dropped my helmet, and looked down at my watch.
50:25.
No sensation is more terrestrial, more earthly, or more grounding, than running. And no activity is more punishing. Every footfall reverberates from the heels through the knees up the spine and through the jaw. Every footfall feels like a small earthquake. Especially after a half-mile swim and a seventeen mile ride.
Still, I knew I only had to maintain for four miles, albeit long, hard, slow miles. I don’t remember the first two. I know some guy passed me, I said, “Go get ‘em” (as I always do), and he said nothing (which I thought was pretty dick). I know I had to stop and tie my shoe, which bugged me. And I know that, at some point, a freight train crossed a trestles overhead. Otherwise, nothing. I splashed a cup of water over my head at the halfway mark, and then focused on home.
At mile three, I began picking victims. I overtook a young couple in the final half mile, the heard another pair of footsteps gaining on my left. Two young men — twenty-one? twenty-two? — were pushing for the finish. The taller, skinnier was clearly carrying the other. I said, “Go get ‘em guys” as they passed. Then they settled in just in front of me and I thought, ‘I can use these guys.’
I stayed with ‘em until I could see the finish on the horizon, then made my break. “I’m going,” the taller, skinnier one said to his buddy as he looked over his shoulder at me. For every degree I turned up my pace, the youngster matched. The crowd became thicker, the cheering became louder, and we sprinted towards the banner. Twenty yards out, legs spinning like Roadrunner, I stumbled just a fraction and lost momentum.
Just across the finish, I patted the kid on the back, and thanked him for the strong finish. He looked up from under his eyelids like a zombie. I smiled, splashed an ice cold Poland Spring over my head, and looked down at my watch.
31:29.
The actual finish line came some eight hours later as Abbi and I saddled up to the bar at my favorite Upper West Side watering hole, The Dead Poet. A half-mile swim, seventeen mile ride, four mile run, three state drive, nine story move, and twelve block walk later, I settled into a dozen hot wings and a Harp.
I’d left my watch at home.
What’s It Going To Be?
I’m a bit of a trailer junkie. I tend to spend a minute or two every day checking Yahoo, Apple, Ain’t It Cool — the usual suspects — for new movie trailers. Yesterday I saw the trailer for Russell Crowe’s next film, “A Good Year.”
Crowe plays Max Skinner, a ruthless, heartless Master of The Universe. His uncle, though — a warm and meaningful man — leaves Crowe his Italian villa, and all of the substantive, deep and simple childhood memories that come with it. In the closing scene, Crowe’s uncle (played by Albert Finney) says, “So what it going to be? Your money or your life?”
No one asked Bo Lozoff’s grandfather what he did for a living. He painted houses. What of it? How he earned money, Bo explained, didn’t define him.
I was reading Wired Magazine’s “How To” guide on the subway last week, and bumbled across this interesting passage:
Once people have food, shelter, and clothing, their happiness curve flattens out. The extra effort to earn a six- or seven-figure salary has a low ROI.
You’ve probably noticed that Starbuck’s sells CDs these days. I was there on Saturday morning, and noticed a display called, “The Essentials.” They were promoting The Beatles “Rubber Soul,” which is arguable essential. But it was the displays ad copy that really got my attention.
“Even the most comprehensive collection is incomplete without this one.”
And that’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it? Culture does not discern who you are, how whole you are, or what you’re worth by any substantive criteria. Happiness isn’t a factor of small moments of beauty or grace. Instead, it’s about what you do, what you consume, and what you own.
Are you counter-culture? You’re Volkswagen says so. Are you a upwardly mobile? You must be; you’re driving a Range Rover. Are you irreverent? Drink Zima! Are you traditional? Jack and Coke! Abercrombie and Fitch, Gray Goose, TalbotÕs, Oldsmobile, Dell, Patron, Gap, Canon, Sony, Johnson & Johnson, Anheuser Bush, USAir, American Express, Victoria’s Secret, Guinness, Acme, Ralph Lauren, Wonder, Exxon…
You are what you consume.
Abbi and I were floating on a diving platform in the middle of Leopard Lake, a tiny little lake down the street from my mom’s house, earlier this afternoon. Locusts were droning in the trees. Birds were chirping in the branches. Dragonflies were skimming the shoreline. The water was still, flat like glass. We sat and sat, quietly tracing the miniscule changes in color and shape from moment to moment…
‘Now this is it,’ I thought.
Not brought to you by anyone, not sponsored, co-branded, co-signed, or co-opted. Neither virtual, nor simulated, nor fabricated. Not sold, bought, or processed. It just was what it was: a genuine, beautiful moment unique from all of the moments that have come prior, or will ever come again. All of the money in the world couldn’t buy it, and all of the planning in the world couldn’t schedule it. The moment just was: quiet, calm, tranquil, mysterious… and then gone.
So what it going to be? Your money or your life?
Five Things
I don’t usually buy into these memes, but I like the guy who “tagged” me with it. And what the heck; it was kinda fun.
Five Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Get married
2. Have kids
3. Premiere a film
4. Publish a memoir
5. Make a difference
Five Beverages In My Refrigerator
1. Gatorade
2. Veuve Clicquot
3. Vox
4. Harp
5. Coca Cola
Five Places I Want To Go
1. Kala Pattar, Nepal
2. Similan Island, Thailand
3. Lizard Island, Australia
4. Ngorongoro Crater, Kenya
5. Lankanfinolhu Faru, Maldives
Five Things I Know Nothing About (And Am Fine With)
1. Cars
2. Cards
3. Sports
4. Mixology
5. Sudoku
Five Things I Like About You
1. Your eyes
2. Your voice
3. Your skin
4. The way you smell
5. The way you feel
So, there you have it. I’m supposed to “tag” five other people, but that feels a little fifth grade-ish to me (all due respect, Alex). So… do it if you want. Feel free to change the categories. And be sure to enjoy your Thursday.
In Between Days
Late July is a strange time for me. The Video Music Awards loom large on the horizon. A restful week in Nantucket is still six (difficult) weeks away. And the New York City Marathon is much closer than it seems.
After two years in Miami, the VMAs are back in New York this year. Which is good news. Kind of. The change of scenery somehow made the madness and marathon work days tolerable. But the change of scenery also created challenges (connectivity, hardware, personnel) that only contributed to the madness and marathon days. This year (August 31, of course), we’re back at Radio City Music Hall, which is all of four blocks from MTV. It doesn’t feel quite like a full-scale mobilization. Everyone’s a bit more chill. That’s the upside. But that’s also the downside. Without all the hullabaloo around travel and lodging and hardware and real estate, the event is currently lacking any urgency (at least so far as my colleagues). Which is fine… for now. In my experience, though, today’s lack of urgency spells tomorrow’s frenzy.
So I have that to look forward to.
Just thirty-six hours after the VMAs, though, Abbi and I fly to Nantucket. You know all about Nantucket. Our little corner of it is one of the most beautiful, peaceful places on earth. My weekend escapes there have been key in maintaining my sanity. This’ll be the seventh Labor Day Weekend in a row I’ve spent there. It’s usually just my mom and me, plus a couple of family friends (none of whom are my age). This year, though, we’re blowing it out a bit in honor of my 35th birthday. A handful of old friends will be staying with us. They’re going to do the Mr. Rogers Memorial Triathlon with us. I’m gonna play a brief acoustic show (and record it for release), and have a big ole clambake. In fact, I just booked our tickets.
So I have that to look forward to.
And marathon training is in full swing. Abbi and I are doing five miles a morning, plus long runs on weekends. I’ve added planks and “Supermans” to my morning routine of stretching, sit-ups and pull-ups in an attempt to strengthen my core a bit. My appetite’s already increasing. I’ve been getting back into breakfast, and trying to cut down on the beer and ice cream. Because last year was a killer. I was pretty gelatinous after a summer being lazy, and partying with The Nadas. I didn’t resolve to run the NYC Marathon until September. Two months is not enough time. So this year, having never really stopped running, I’m hoping to have a stronger finish.
So I have that to look forward to.
Meantime, though, life proceeds kind of uneventfully. The Philadelphia Triathlon is Sunday. I’m excited for that, and excited to be home for a day or two. Chris and Jen are expecting their second child sometime in the next two weeks. That’s awesome. Chris and I are still chugging along with “Mr. Rogers & Me.” And Buckeye, Chris Abad and my new band, is coming together (we have a set list). But really, all is well, and all is quiet. It’s the calm before the storm. It’s the in between.
It occurs to me, though (as I seek some sort of conclusion here), that the in between is what it’s all about. I had a dog-eared copy of Thoreau’s “Walden Pond” in college (of course), and constantly read and re-read his passage on time. “I endeavor to stand on the edge of two realities,” he wrote, “the future and the past.” Which is, of course, the present. And which is, of course, a pretty good place to be.
Concrete Sky
Halfway through swim portion of the New York Island Foundation’s Freedom Tower Aquathon, I thought to myself, ‘I could win this thing!’
I did my first triathlon in Philadelphia in 1996. I’ve done roughly twenty since then, including New York City, Montauk, Stone Harbor, Malibu, and Nantucket. I’m into sprint (400m/20k/5k) and olympic distances (1.5k/30k/10k). Don’t even try and talk me into an Iron Man. I’m into suffering and all, but not for an entire day (and then some).
I’m really not much of a triathlete, I’m just a runner who rides a bike and likes to swim. I was on swim team for a bout thirty seconds in high school, and showed aptitude, but (not unlike running, or rock ‘n roll for that matter), am not much for training or practicing.
Still, I like duathlons and triathlons because they’re a different kind of challenge. There’s variety. You get to switch it up. There’s less of the drone of marathons. You get hurt in all kinds of places you forgot about. It’s great.
I’ve done the last six New York City Triathlons, but bungled my entry this year. You can’t hesitate when these things open up; they sell out fast. So Chris did it solo, and I watched. Which kinda blew.
This weekend was race weekend for Abbi and me. We did a brief four-mile “Run For The Parks” (one of numerous Central Park races organized by the New York Road Runners Club) on Saturday morning. It was wicked humid, like, Amazon humid. I extended to five; Abbi extended to ten (after all, the New York City Marathon is just three months away), then spent the afternoon in repose.
Sunday morning at eight o’clock, we rode down the West Side Promenade to Battery Park City. Race organizers were still getting their tables together, so we sat a while under the slate gray skies. The river was chopper than I’d expected. Water taxis, leisure craft and even cruise ships were kicking up a chop. Then it started to drizzle.
The swim was supposed to be a half-mile from the South Cove to the Yacht Harbor. In the late 90s, when I was in the throws of my heaviest addiction, used to ride my bike to the South Cove after work, and write in my journal. Invariably, those scribblings tended towards, “I need to get off the junk and do something with myself!”
Saturday’s heavy rains precluded us from starting in the South Cove, though, as the current had changed direction early (currents will do that because they can). We walked up to a New York Water Taxi pier outside of the World Financial Center, a creaking, rickety, tented thing floating about ten feet off the river just a quarter mile north of the Yacht Harbor.
We ordered ourselves by participant number (there were just seventy duathletes, and another thirty swimmers-only), and jostled nervously. Just as we expected to get started, the race director asked us to take a moment of silence to honor the recent death of Stuyvesant High School swim team member and NY Swim volunteer, April Lao, who was killed four months ago in a car crash on the New York State Thruway. The dock pitched, creaked and yawned, as her younger sister read from note cards, fighting back tears. It was sad, of course, and led me to reflect (as any trip downtown must) on September 11th. We were just a few dozen yards from what the world now refers to as Ground Zero.
Finally, we leapt from the platform one by one. The water was cloudy, and deep green. It tasted saltier than I expected. Soon, one hundred pink swim caps were bobbing in the swift downstream current. The race director motioned the group upstream to some invisible start line, which, by the time he yelled, “Go!” was some fifteen yards downstream. The smiles, jokes, nerves and platitudes turned to flailing arms and kicking legs. I concentrated on steadying my stroke, and finding a pace that wouldn’t wipe me out. I kept my eye on a cement pylon a few hundred yards downstream, and willed myself towards it. I wondered as I rolled over for each breath, ‘What is that gray thing out of the corner of my eye? Oh, it’s the World Financial Center. Cool.’ Slowly and steadily, I overtook the field. Then I began picking victims.
“Picking victims” is something I do only in sport. It usually occurs late in the race. It’s simple enough: I look ahead, find someone I can pass, and pass them. It’s not vicious; it’s motivational. It’s how I perform best. I overtake some dude, make sure he doesn’t catch up, then overtake another. That is, when possible. I’m not Lance Armstrong by any stretch of the imagination. But occasionally, I got lost in the moment…
Like yesterday morning. I was nearing the front of the pack thinking, ‘I can win this thing!’ The buoy marker for the swim finish was in sight. There were just a few pink caps between the buoy and me, one of which was just fifteen feet off my right arm. So I pulled a little harder, and focused on slipping through the waves with a minimum of resistance. Soon, the mystery man fell behind me. I climbed up the ladder, and jogged towards transition.
Total elapsed time: 06:56.
A lot of triathletes wear wetsuits. Wetsuits increase buoyancy, and diminish drag. But they’re also a real struggle to get on and off. It stands to reason, then, that any in-water efficiency is lost with that struggle. I don’t own a wetsuit. And this becomes a bonus in transition, as I don’t have to wrestle with the thing. I just pull on my running shoes (no socks for a short run like a 5k), snap on my belt (which has my race number attached), pull on my sunglasses, and go, leaving those wetsuit wearing chumps behind.
Total elapsed time: 00:33.
The run course was flat and fast: a mile and a half north along the promenade to Pier 40 and back. I went out with a dude in blue tri-suit, but a dude passed us both within the first few minutes in a blue Speedo and black tri-top. He became my victim. I passed him just prior to the turn-around, then focused on the next guy.
The great thing about pain is that it’s difficult to remember. It’s a biological imperative, really. How else would women have more than on child? How else would we ever fall in love again? How else would we ever compete in a second marathon if we remembered just how painful the first was? I can tell you this of running: no matter the race, no matter the distance, it is a constant attempt to balance muscular pain with searing, full-body heat with burning lungs and a pounding heart. I am in a constant state of assessment, pushing right up against the moment where my physical body overwhelms my will and stops me in my tracks.
The Promenade was crowded with bicyclists, bladers and joggers. I ran past one woman bicyclists three times (she congratulated me on my third pass), all the while keeping the guy in the blue tri-suit in my sights. Finally, in the last few blocks, there in the shadow of The Winter garden, I slipped past him. I spotted Abbi as I turned the corner towards the finish, but didn’t smile. I did finally smile, however, after crossing the mat (races are electronically timed with a chip worn on one’s ankle or shoe), when the race photographer pointed his Nikon my way.
Total elapsed time: 30:24.
I didn’t win the thing. I was fourth in my age group (30-39), twelfth among men, and fourteenth overall. But I did enjoy the ride, and relish the competition (as always, I thanked my “victims,” aka “pacers” afterwards), and got myself just a few steps closer to being ready for next weekend’s Philadelphia Triathlon.
The Rabbit Hole
It took John Stewart, Paul Giamatti, two Harps and a chocolate chip cookie to even begin to feel human again.
It was really was as a pretty good day — at first. I was beginning to hit my stride at the office. I had a couple of good meetings. I worked out a couple of things. I gave a few good pep talks, yunno, “It’s all about being a fan!” I helped a few interns out. I was startin’ to think maybe I remember how to do my job.
Late in the afternoon, I’m in a conference room thirty stories above the Hudson River discussing an ad deal. I make a suggestion. An ad sales guy says (I swear), “Anyone see a Cheshire cat? I think we just fell down the rabbit hole!”
He meant it as a compliment.
He had no idea how precient he was being.
I worked until about 8:30. Then I went to a screening. I can’t say what, only that it’s a forthcoming film produced by The Company For Which I Work.
Now, let me just say that I love The Company For Which I Work. I grew up on it. I’ve worked at The Company For Which I Work for nearly ten years. I respect and admire my colleagues at The Company For Which I Work.
The narrative of Said Film consisted solely of a series of comedic vignettes. I laughed heartily through the first twenty minutes. And then one of the characters took a bowel movement into a funnel connected to a tube that was connected to a respirator through which another character breathing. And then I heard a voice…
“I got into television because I saw people throwing pies at each other’s faces and that, to me, was such demeaning behavior. And if ther’s anything that bothers me, it’s one person demeaning another. That really makes me mad.’”
In the next scene, one of the characters threatened to splash horse semen into another’s face. And then I heard a voice…
“What we see and hear on the screen is part of who we become.”
I sank further and further into my seat as the rest of the film unspooled, then raced to the elevator banks before any of the executives could grab me and ask, “Sooooo? What did you think?”
As if it were remotely possible, things turned even uglier as I was waiting on a train in the Times Square Station. I noticed a commotion out of the corner of my eye as I saught just the right song to uplift me from my stark moral dilemma. Just as I pushed play on “Here Comes The Sun,” a man and woman began to struggle about six feet from me.
“He’s going to kill me!” she said. “Call the cops!”
I opened my book, a feigned to begin reading. The woman was shouting and pacing just a few feet away from me.
“He’s been beating me all day and all night. Crazy muthafucka. Done stole my sneakers too! Somebody call the cops!”
The man lunged for her. She grabbed the lapels of my searsucker sport coat, scratching my arm with her long, red fingernails, and hid behind me.
My heart was in my throat.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” was all I could muster. “C’mon you guys. Settle down.”
“Call the cops!” she said.
“Ma’am, phones don’t work down here,” I said, as if rational thinking would prevail. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and speak with the station attendent.”
The two continued to shout at one another. I leaned on an iron pillar, and tried to read. Finally, the train came. Pearl Jam’s “In Hiding” came on my Ipod. I cranked it.
Back home, The Daily Show (another fine Viacom property) finally roused a smile. Still, I’m not quite sure what to do next, other than go to sleep. I can’t imagine a place, a time, or a set of circumstances in greater opposition to Mr. Rogers’ deep and simple ethos. It makes me feel sick inside.
Buckeye
I keep forgetting to mention Buckeye!
You know my buddy Chris Abad, right? Excellent singer/songwriter. Has a new record called “The Starting Point.” Plays on my records sometimes. Stand-up guy. You know who I mean, right? We talk a lot. We hang out. We do stuff.
So I’m back in the office, like, fifteen minutes on Monday morning and I get an email from him. “Hey,” he says, “Wanna play a show together next month? Something different: maybe I play one, you play one?”
And I’m like, “Yeah, totally. Better yet, let’s start a new band. Write some new stuff. Play some covers. Game?”
Ends up, he is.
So we bandeed around a few names (Buckminster Fuller Overdrive was in the running) and arrived at Buckeye. Not because we’re huge Ohio State fans. I was thinking more in terms of buck teeth, or black eyes. So we roped in young drummer Ryan Vaughn, and long-time bassist Tony Macelli. And I emailed siger/keyboardist Leslie Sink. So now we have a new band!
And we have a show: Sunday, August 20th at Rockwood Music Hall.
So, what do we sound like? Three singers, two guitars, drums, bass and a keyboard. Otherwise, we don’t really know yet. I can tell you what I wanna cover: Oasis’ “Go Let It Out,” Dandy Warhols’ “Bohemian Like You,” Men At Work’s “Overkill.” I’m sure we’ll do some of our own songs (though I don’t want to do anything I’ve released on one of my records; just new stuff). But we’ll see. Whatever. I’m excited.
So Much For The Afterglow
On our flight from San Juan to New York on Saturday, I predicted that the luster of a week off in the Caribbean would fade away by Wednesday.
From 33,000 feet, Monday held the promise of the first day of school. Everything would be fresh again. Everyone would be asking about the trip. Tuesday would hold the minor excitment of our first meeting with potential representation for the Mr. Rogers documentary (which you can read more about here). Wednesday? Hump day, baby.
The week has unfolded vaguely as suspected. We got two one hundred degree days as a bonus. Plus I got stuck on the subway for two hours; that was exciting. Work has been less harried to more overwhleming than I’d remembered. For starters, I’d forgotten just how many projects and corresponding details I’m charged with managing. For another, I’d forgotten just how vacuous many of the projects are in the first place. I’ve sat through some comically shallow meetings, and I’ve had some very substantive conversations to boot. But all in all, it’s been fine.
So far.
Abbi and I met to run in front of Bethesda Fountain this morning at seven o’clock, as we often do. The air was cool and clear, scrubbed clean by a late-night thunderstorm. I told her I was beginning to feel tired again. The run started poorly, both of us wordlessly slogging along. We did our loop, then parted ways on the East Side. I jogged west on 72d Street, then up a grassy hill above Bethesday Terrace. Oddly enough, I found my stride lengthening as I bound over Bow Bridge. I eased into a deeper, stronger pace. And I thought to myself, ‘I think I can do this,’ and sprinted home.
Shallow Is The New Deep
Next time I vacation in the Caribbean, remind me to pack just two things: swim trunks and beer money.
Ok, here’s the 101 for those of you who have no idea what or where Bonaire is. Bonaire is an island in the Netherlands Antilles. It’s right above Venezuela, less than 100 miles east of Aruba. It’s 24 miles long by roughly five miles wide. In total, it’s about 110 square miles of low desert: scrub brush, cactus and coral. It’s Dutch island, though in addition to Dutch, Papiamento, Spanish, English are spoken by a population of less than 15,000. The island is surrounded by a protected marine reserve. As a result, the 2700 hectares of reef are amongst the healthiest in the world. That’s why Abbi and I went: to scuba dive.
It’s an eight-hour trip via Puerto Rico under the best circumstances. It took us thirty-hour, including an unplanned 24 layover at the San Juan Ritz Carlton. We arrived late Sunday night.
Dawn’s first light Monday morning found us sipping coffee on a patio some fifteen feet from the water’s edge. The aqua-blue surf lapped the coral below. The crescent-shaped island spread out around us: barren salt flats to the south, the rugged hills of Washington Slagbaai National Park to the north, and the tiny, deserted island of Klein Bonaire in the center.
Because the reef is so close to the shore, Bonaire is known for its shore diving. There are some sixty sites accessible along the western coast alone. Fundamentally, though, you can wade into the water just about everywhere, swim a few hundred feet, and find the reef.
Coral reefs are the skeletons of generations of reef-building algae, corals, and other organisms that are composed of calcium carbonate. As a coral head grows, it lays down a skeletal structure encasing each new polyp. There are roughly 280,000 square kilometers of coral reef in the world, primarily in the South Pacific; the Caribbean only accounts for about seven per cent.
Our orientation took about fifteen minutes. They basically showed us a map, and set us loose. Our first dive was off the dock of our compound, Bel Mar Apartments. With just seven dives under my belt — all under the watchful eye of a dive master — I was a little nervous. But mostly I was excited. Which explains why I immediately descended to eighty feet. Until, that is, Abbi widened her eyes and pointed at her depth gauge.
The experience and beauty of diving is really difficult to explain. It’s like flying through a Dr. Seuss book in slow motion. The colors and shapes are outrageous; like nothing you’ve seen on dry land. It is an environment of constant surprises: tiny, spiny coral shrimp; lurking spotted moray eels; soaring rays and loafing turtles. The real beauty is in the minutia. The slower you go, the happier you are.
Of course, there are some risks involved. You’re sixty feet below the waves a few hundred yards from shore. You’re under pressure (about fifteen pounds per square inch for every fifteen feet of depth). You’re breathing bottled air. Your body can’t purge the nitrogen quickly enough. Without care, then, you grow drunk on the stuff, or boil your blood from within. And while there’s a beautiful, colorful reef on one side, it slips away into deep, murky blue on the other.
Abbi and I dove twelve times over five days, including our first night and wreck dives. If it weren’t so late, I weren’t so exhausted, and I didn’t want to be sure I was fresh for work in the morning, I’d tell you about each on of them. Instead, let me excerpt one of my favorites from my dive log.
Karpata – At northern end of one-way road, decided to address “challenging” entry to reap “rewards” guidebook promised. Platform entry was tricky, not impossible. Opted for shallow dive. Never descended below thirty feet. Sea floor littered with sea urchins: hundreds of spiny, none-blacker land mined the size of soccer balls. Two barracuda whizzed by staring coldly. Spotted young green turtle at about ten feet as we were looking under bushes. Absolutely beautiful and still. Gulped air at surface. Saw again on way back. Plus four nudi branch, white with pinkish-tan tiles. Plus white-spotted garden eel and largest cabbage-colored fan I’ve seen yet. Shallow is the new deep.
We dove the “house reef” a second time on Thursday night, ascending a brisk current just as the sky turned slowly from red to purple to gray. I sat on the steps, half submerged, until there was no light left.
In the end, I wore the same Quick Silver swim trunks and Nautica Malibu Triathlon t-shirt all week. I never wore shoes, or socks, or any of the short-sleeve dress shirts I so thoughtfully packed.
Though Bonaire is small, five days is not nearly enough time to explore it (thirty images aren’t enough to see it either, but click here and give it a shot). One could dive the same site three times a day, 365 days a year for their entire life and have a different experience every time. I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere.
