GRENDEL AND ME (1109)
Bernie Moore

I hate cute kits.

I was talking to Grendel the other day. We were on a recon patrol and he chanced upon a delicious pheromone enhanced bush. He sampled it rapturously with his mouth open (cats have a “Jacobson’s organ” in the roof of their mouths specially designed for such information. I may have incorrectly referred to it as a “Cooper’s gland in a previous post.) He stood frozen for a while as the delights of the encounter enveloped him.

“Boss, you ought to smell this pXXXX.”

Hereupon I had to correct his political.

“You can’t use that word in polite company.”

“You’re polite company?”

“Irrelevant” You know this conversation may be recorded for quality control and customer service.”

“You humans abuse language. Why can’t you just say what you mean? “

“Because there are some who say what is acceptable and what is not.

“Another thing,” quoth he, “You humans use language to hurt each other. Why, if you want to hurt somebody, not just wrack their faces with your claws?”

At which point he looked at my recently manicured (self) fingernails and sighed, “Never mind. Still, we use language to warn others so they don’t get hurt. If they don’t heed the warning then the consequence is on them. And we also use musical language to serenade our… now what am I supposed to say here?”

“Well, I have heard that humans that run dating services for amorous felines call the ladies Queens.”

“Queens? That’s rich. Especially when you consider what those pimps call female dogs.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I replied sternly, pulling his leash away from the bush as he fell into a funk of brooding silence.

But it got me thinking about odors; and especially the ones of fall. There was a faint scent of crushed dried leaves about which stirred memories of long ago autumnal rituals. The sounds and smells of another era.

When fall meant falling leaves and the sound of the rakes that herded them to the side of the road where we burned them. Sometimes we created mountainous ranges the length of our property and started the fire on one end and coaxed it to the other with the rake. For safety, there was the garden hose, rubber of course, and no recollection of ensuing disasters. Let’s face it; fire is fun, and we loved the rituals that nurtured it to our own ends.

Sometimes the burning leaves had a pissy smell to them, but I don’t remember whether it was while they were burning or just rotting.

Sometimes in early the morning stillness I could smell the labors of a distant raker, way out of earshot, but within range of the drifting currents of air.

Today it’s quite a different story. The smells come from the roaring exhausts of powerful internal combustion engines mounted on the backs of hardy young men blowing leaves at hurricane force. When all the leaves have been herded streetside a behemoth juggernaut lumbers up the street wailing like thousand Banshees, sucking up everything into a two foot maw.

The days of sitting on front porches in the evening watching the neighbors go by is so archaic we don’t have front porches any more; besides the neighbors go by so fast you can only recognize the vehicle not the people in it.

Though much is gained; much is lost. I wouldn’t mind a fall’s afternoon scraping leaves into a pile and the ceremony of burning. Though Grendel’s sense of smell is 14 times greater than mine I don’t think he gains that much. Besides he will never know the scent of a reef. Life has its compensations, eh, Teddy?

GRENDEL AND ME (0909)
Bernie Moore

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and the discussion was about the paucity of chipmunks and other cat sized game upon which he practices his combat skills.
“Do you remember the folk song about the missing flowers?” he queried.
“Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one. How did it go?”
“Well. I think I can summarize it without subjecting your sensitive ears to my blaring basso.”
Where have all the flowers gone?... Girls have picked them every one…Where have all the young girls gone?... Taken husbands every one... Where have all the young men gone?... Gone for soldiers every one... Where have all the soldiers gone?... Gone to graveyards every one... Where have all the graveyards gone?... Covered with flowers every one. When will they ever learn?Pete Seeger
“Yeah, that’s the one.”“You know, it makes me wonder,” He pensed. (figure it out; it’s not in the dictionary.)“Where have all the chipmunks gone?”

I thought about it awhile. Our hunting trips have been barren for quite a while. It sort of reminded me of Beowulf when our hero tracks down the dragon that is about to destroy him. He comes upon a deserted castle with its cellars full of gold and treasures, taken over by the dragon when the last of its race succumbed in honorable combat. Honor was served but the race became extinct.The silent castle bore nothing but the sleeping dragon who was content with his treasures and would have remained so for eons had it not been for some fool servant who stole a bejeweled cup for his angry master. When the dragon found this bit of his treasure gone he began warring on Man, thus prompting the aging Beowulf to save his people one last time. They both won; they both lost, and monster and hero passed into mythical history.
All quests must end, and the ending too often is tragic, but some are just melancholy as in the case of the hero who outlives his need. Grendel has rid the neighborhood of cute little vermin, and he wanders his turf in search of his raison’d’etre, a pointless quest but to no avail, a Don Quixote without even a windmill to tilt at.
If there is a heroic quality in each of us it is in the pursuits of our youthful goals. The struggles, anxieties, and (if you please) the blood sweat and tears of our lives define who we are: some take on dragons, some the niches, small and large of what has to be done to create a viable society. There comes a time when you put down the sword or pass it on to a youth, full of dreams and aspirations.
I do not think Grendel is saddened by his success; he is actively vigilant, prowling on the end of a leash, searching under leaves, peering into dark crevasse, and scenting the air for opportunity. He remains diligent in spite of his barren landscape.
It is difficult to strive without adversaries, whatever form they take, but he does so not because of some learned value, but because he is hard wired to. Still, I have to admire his tenacity. He teaches by example.I dare say that whatever medals are due me from my life are all in; there will be no more. My days are filled with indulgences only dreamed of while I struggled through the decades. My chipmunks are gone. The race is won or lost; it really doesn’t matter any more. I feel like I’ve just finished a 10 k race, tired but elated from the exertion. When are we more alive then after a great effort?
At the end of a soirée we return to the house and he has a tuna or a salmon snack, (he detests chicken and other fowl) and then on to a well earned nap prefaced by a tongue washing and a good smooching from his page.
Life is good. What is sweeter than a hot bath and a well earned rest?

Grendel and Me

(September ’09) Bernie

Mug Shot

I was talking to Grendel the other day and we discussed our policy of not publishing during the dog days of summer, but as the discourse unfurled, and with the threat again of Uncle Norm abdicating, we decided to give it a doggone try. We discussed poetry, but August verse is just so much doggerel, so it’s back to prose.

So here we are with Grendel’s 11^th birthday just around the corner and mine not too far behind walking through the jungle: he with his karate black pajamas on and me in short sleeves and walking shorts. He is also wearing a Mark II Combat Harness with Seeing Eye Leash with which he drags me through the brambles. As if that weren’t enough it’s humid and the mosquitoes are starving. All you need is to have one skeeter land on you and the next twenty are imaginary, but just as troublesome.

There are stations where he prefers to sit while I stand there smacking my exposed skin while trying to pass the leash from hand to hand. He looks up at me and sighs. I’m making far too much noise for his stealthy reconnoitering.

Our walks are shorter now; he has just about driven all the vermin from our unit. He goes to the former haunts of the displaced critters and sniffs around, but here is no action, no scent. He reaches down to his shoulder in an abandoned chipmunk’s hole but only half heartedly, almost as a bit of practice. Nothing. He stares at carpets of leaves and looks for the tell-tale shifting of twigs and debris that indicates a swale trough which mice flow. Nothing.

Occasionally a ladycat (Herein I note that cats do not have a pejorative word for the female of the species) will meander by and leave a bit of pee mail which he reads voraciously and then rubs his cheeks in. It’s what you gotta do if you don’ have a thumb-drive. Once done, he sues for leave to track her and offer his comfort, but, alas, I no can do.

While we are not yet into fall, when the world in New England turns on us, and summer forsakes us for other parts of the planet, we still are in a rapidly changing stretch. Children abandon the streets and fill their classrooms, gardeners are filling their arms, and the world is awash in zucchini, though native tomatoes have taken a beating.

It’s an enjoyable period for divers, though as the water is as warm as it’s going to get for a while. Some bold tropicals who heeded not their mothers will find themselves in water that chills faster than they can flee. Who knows? They may form a tougher breed that can survive the rigors of New England like those parakeets that have evolved on the light poles of Bridgeport. The water gets a little clearer, even at Fort Wetherill and vis is almost acceptable.

And of course the closing of summer brings on elections for Innerspace Explorers. The veteran officers are seeking relief. Too long have they been holding things together. It’s time to pass the leadership on to younger members with newer ideas and boundless energy. (OK mebbe not “boundless”.) In particular we need a new editor for the newsletter. It’s not a difficult job, but it does grab a little time at the end of the month. Our presidents are repeating terms, our treasurer has never been challenged, our webmonster has been so forever, our secretary is sometimes wearing two hats, our VPs are like the will’o’the wisps in the swamp. Or is that Wills’o’the wisp? “Ve need new bloohd! Please consider stepping up. We have been relying on the kindness of the elders for too long. Stand and deliver!

Grendel and Me (June ’09) Bernie Moore

Muskrat Rumble (apologies to Edward (kid) Ory)

I was talking to Grendel the other day; it was one of the better days in the low 80s and sunny. The kind I was beginning to think would never come again, but there it was and we were out on patrol, Grendel in his red combat harness dragging me along behind when suddenly (isn’t it always “suddenly”?) he espied a muskrat walking about our lower deck as if he owned the place.
This outrage put Grendel in a dither and he launched full tilt into a frontal enfilade of cat that sent his adversary scurrying under the neighbor’s deck, where with great strength and resolve I was able to hold him back with the John line that tethered us together.
Grendel was clawing and digging and trying to bring a violent lesson to this stupid interloper. I have told you in the past that Grendel is a sweet, affectionate, even smoochey kind of a cat, but he will not abide territorial incursions into his domain. Unless of course you are a fat stupid chipmunk or a plump juicy robin. Then he will welcome you with open arms, and I point out at this time he has not been declawed.
I was able to calm him down by assuring him that no creature in his right mind would infiltrate Grendel’s kingdom. I further speculated that the poor thing must have been mad with rabies, a condition that prudence would dictate we left alone and not risk ourselves.
“Let nature take its course,” I suggested.
“RRRRoooowww,” he mumbled, then, “phhhhhtt”. Which translated loosely sounds like a megapolis in Thailand. Which translated loosely is something we can’t print here.
Well, that was the end of it until a couple of days later some of the battalion of civil ground watch auxiliary ladies spotted the miserable wretch trying to scrounge up a snack by someone else’s deck. The drums beat incessantly and the forces of our civilization were called and traps were set out, and the perp was collared.
I approached him soon after his incarceration, so soon he was still munching on his apples. Content with such a splendid cusine he covered the remaining pieces with his body and cares little about my standing by him; however I thought it would be ill advised for me to attempt to share in his bounty.
Grendel was with me and since it was the neighbor’s deck he cared little more than a few casual sniffs, and turned and tugged the Jonline toward the scent of a succulent mole trail under the leaves.
I managed to get a better look at the muskrat and discovered he was really a woodchuck (groundhog). Well, what the hey; it was not a Muskrat Rumble after all, and this tale is quite pointless. By way of making it up to you I give you: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x17zto_kid-ory-muskrat-ramble_music
If your computer has sound and video enjoy the real “Muskrat Ramble” a great American classic touch of Dixieland. Be patient it takes a while to load.
By way of further recompense and since we have a woodchuck I can give you the answer to the eternal question about woodchucks. The answer is (opening the envelope) “None”. The word “woodchuck” is corruption of the word “wuchak”, a Narragansett Indian word which stands for this silly creature.

Grendel and Me (April Fowlers ‘09)

Bernie Moore

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and he said, “The Ides of March are come.” Aye, Caesar, but not gone.” We do this little ritual every year motivated by a teasing short sleeve day that is as illusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. That first day of summer gladness is always a lie, and certainly followed by cold dank periods that plunge us back into winter’s cold embrace. But we love the lie, and so our spirits are buoyant, at least for the moment, and sometimes that’s enough.

I mentioned will-o’-the-wisp, and for some of the younger members who might be rusty on folklore I offer the following. (Grendel went to sleep under the coat I was trying to sew a patch on, so I have a few minutes on the keyboard.)

“Will-o’-the-wisp” has a perfectly logical scientific explanation that is a boring as numbers. Rather let’s turn to the northern isles of our ancestors and see through the mists of time the occurrence that haunts the night.

Ancient travelers, who passing swamps or bogs, often noticed unnatural nebulous lights in the near distance hovering just beyond clarity. Any fool who would leave the road to examine such phantasmagoric radiance in the gloaming would certainly risk getting lost or worse, disappearing altogether, but the darn thing was always just a few steps more; a fatal logic.

This fatal result of overcurious behavior (Hear that, Grendel?) led folks to speculate just what it was out there. And the story goes:

An Irish tippler, Drunk Will, having rung up a humongous pub bill was in danger of losing his hide, so he made a deal with the devil to pay the bill for the usual fare to be paid at the end of his natural life. When Old Scratch came to collect, Will tricked him into climbing a tree under which Will placed a cross keeping the Devil bound in the tree with no escape. The deal was renegotiated and Will was excused from Hell. In fact the Devil was glad to be rid of him. Obviously his wretched life disqualified him from admission to a more climatologically favorable abode and he found himself dead twixt heaven and hell for eternity. In a rare moment of compassion Ole Beelzebub did allow a small glowing coal for Will for comfort and warmth as he wandered the desolate bogs of the ancient isles and later New England. It is this glowing coal that travelers see in the misty distance and the fate that awaits those who seek things more clarified is determined by Will, not someone I would entrust my fate to. But I wander.

Getting back to the Ides, the moral is quite clear: “A warm day does not a summer make.” It’s not yet time to put away your dry suit. But if you haven’t had you life support gear refurbished yet there is still plenty of time. Run some Sink-the-stink through your BCD; check the straps on you fins; vis those bottles; see how badly that neoprene has shrunk (there’s still time to shop for a new one); clean the masks and check for cracks and suppleness (you should have a spare, anyway); Has you dive knife rusted to its sheath? Two each of: booties, gloves, fins, (&@#*&%)

While plunging back into the primordial soup is a bit premature we can still wander the earth and occasionally bask in Solas and warm our bones.

Grendel and Me
(March Gladness) March ‘09

Bernie Moore

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and the topic was the long dark nights and the relentless cold. I swear the badass of Snowowl has become rather grandfatherly in his behavior and demeanor. His major workout consists of spreading himself carefully onto a patch of sun which stealthily steals across the rug. Its refusal to stay put is an annoying source of consternation for him.
Trying to break him out of his doldrums I proffered a twitchery piece of line. (Old sailors never use the term “string”) It danced enticingly before him, just out of his grasp, and all I got was a shift of glance and disgusted look.
“Look, Boo,” (A sometimes variant of his many nicknames.) as I dangled and danced the line before him.
“Mummph,” he replied as he settled his chin on the carpet raising a little tuft of dust. (Reminder: I gotta vacuum that carpet.)
He closed one eye, keeping one on me just in case I had some other mischief in mind. But soon that eye started to get heavy about the time the rest of him realized that the sun had moved on. This was a classic approach/avoidance conflict, and with a smirk I awaited his resolution..
On the one hand he wanted to be warmer so he could sleep with less effort expended. (Approach) But that meant he actually had to lift his dormant carcass and take two or three steps. (Avoidance)
So there we both were stretched out on the rug, vying for position in the sun when I started to think about what a desperate long winter this has been. January was colder than in years and that was matched with an incredible dump of snow. The only relief February gave us was brevity. My usual “spitting in the wind” gestures were excised; I fear age helped me make the decisions not to do the “Frozen Fin” or the “Ice Dive”. I promise myself to be stronger…soon.
Saturday is the sub mediocre Boston Scuba show with which Gerry and I will attempt to alleviate our cabins fever Don’t correct that, Norm- it’s ok. Later on the 14th of March, a day short of the ides, Eric is having the get- reacquainted-with your-gear session at his home- indoor pool there. This beats the hell out of Fort Wetherill (37) and New London (40). National Oceanic Data Center (NODC)
It feels good just to have gear in hand, even if you have to face the agony of trying on the shrunken wet suit after a lazy winter.(I can prove I’m getting younger by the baby fat I’ve girthed myself with over the winter.) Plenty of time to leisurely test (‘sblood! did that infinitive get split.) each piece of gear and take the critical stuff into the shop for the annual renewal. I’m guessing Eric and Rick can do a lot of that if you want the “professional” touch. To a certain young lady: “Get those regs serviced before I strangle you with them.”
For me it’s time to compete with Grendel for rug space so I can crawl around with my UW DSLR and take macro shots of the thingies the rug has captured over the winter. For myself I have decided to squeeze another year out of my trick knee; been pushing it in the Y pool regularly and hope the conditioning rejuvenates me enough to be a safer diver. As an early riser I leave you with the observation that at the sixes the sky has a gray stain. Helios is returning. Grendel would say good-bye but he’s…busy.

GRENDEL AND ME (January '09)

Bernie Moore

Zzzzzz...

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and he expressed disappointment that we have not dragged in a Christmas tree to watch in its final throes of decay and degradation.

“Boss,” he said, “I really miss the glitz of the tree.” Even though I’m basically colorblind, I do like the twinkling and sparkling. Reminds me of the gleam of a mousie’s eye trembling in a corner.”

“Your talking through your hat,” I replied, “There has never been a mouse in this house.”

“Just doing my job,” he smirked. He had me there. I know he’s active at night, else why does he sleep all day? Still, I’ve never seen any spare mouse parts rotting about.

“Not a creature was stirring, not even…you get the drift?” Continuing his smugness.

“Yes, yes, but still no tree. It’s too much work. Especially vacuuming broken ornaments under the tree.”

“Boss, I have no idea how that happens.”

How a cat can lie with a straight face!

By now his eyes were drooping and soon he was fast asleep, ass over teakettle.

Well there I was, thinking about Christmas and not all too happy about not being able to find the box of Christmas cards I bought to house the gift cards I dispatch every year, because I am one of the world’s worst gift selectors. You know the cards with scenes of Past Christmases that not one of us has ever known. Sleighs and fireplaces and ten room houses on no less than ten acres reminiscent of the time Sears and Roebuck and Industrialism and that bastard Dickens conspired to convert Christ’s birthday into the centerpiece of the gross national product.

My wife is frustrated about gifting me, as the scuba gear I have is carefully selected and then reselected as safety advances through our product inventory. The chances of her hitting on the perfect gift are remote. So I guess it is among many of us; if you’re not a diver, it’s hard to buy for a diver. So I guess it is with skydivers. Used chute; plenty of jumps left in this old baby. Opening bid $1. Of course there is the old
give me a list option, but I have always balked at that. There have been a few surprise gifts in my lifetime where someone got me what I didn’t even know I wanted. The sheer delight of someone else getting ahead of me in my own mind

is a rare and delicious experience. And even more so when you can pull it off on someone else.

Rare.

So rare. Like having a French Angelfish swim into your focal plane just as you snap the shutter leaving you with a full frame, sharp, head on portrait. Like finding a massive cancellation on a luxury dive cruise leaves you and three others the sole divers on a weeklong voyage. Like finding a dozen twenties in you dive bag, left over from the last trip.

But the days are getting shorter. And darkness is creeping up inexorably, and I fear it will overwhelm us and drive us into oblivion where we will perish and stiffen for all the ages. This is serious business. We must bring back the light. So let us light fires, and candles, and lights, and dance and sing through the darkness. Make revelry and hope we are amusing enough to please the powers of darkness, so that we may be kept around for another season, another year.

Do not go gentle into that good night…

Rage, rage against the dying light

Thomas

And the triviality of gifts will pale to the joy of longer days and the promise of warmth. If there is one thing that New Englanders are, we’re long on optimism. The darkest day is temporary and only lasts but a single night. This piece is being clicked out on the eve of that day with the full knowledge that things will get better the day after tomorrow. With a foot of snow on the ground and another promised for tomorrow I am going to lug the golf clubs in for cleaning, have my regs serviced, check the hoses, the bladder on my BCD, change the battery in the dive computer, check the bottles for vis dates, so I’ll be ready when the first opportunity shows itself, and hope the wetsuit doesn’t shrink too much over the winter. Somehow a piece of dive gear in the hand in January is comforting; the offices of husbandry reassuring.

I have again sworn off going to Boston Sea Rovers and Beneath the Sea, but I know I will yield and head for them when the bell rings. Got to see the shiny new gear, the old faces, and the pics and videos that fuel the appetite, and make an appointment or two to paradise. With a little luck the air fares may go down.

Ah, that man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Else what’s a heaven for.

Browning

Grendel and Me (October/November '08)

Bernie

Pink is not my color

I was talking to Grendel the other day; it was on the occasion of his finally forgiving me for sending him to “kitty camp” during my annual west coast tour. I made it abundantly clear how glad I was to see him again, as I genuinely did miss him a lot. Pets that rehabitate empty nests can do that to you.
“Boss,” he said, “you call it “kitty camp” (cute) or, boarding but the fact of the matter is I was in a cage like a common dog, and I might add in the company of common dogs. You know how they always bark! And when they are not barking they whimper and whine. I can do the time, Boss, but those pesky pooches, smaller than me, are disgusting.
With much smooching and stroking he was pacified, and I was happy to be with him again. Our reunion was gratifying to say the least.
I have often heard that coming home is often the best part of a trip and I will not quarrel with that; I have thought it too many times myself. This year coming home was more than that cozy feeling you get when exhausted you plop again into your own bed.
This year I returned to my high school’s 50-year reunion. Few things can bore a spouse more than such an affair. Few events will get better spousal attention than a class reunion. High school reunions are full of former sweethearts, and that, dear reader, is why spouses so seldom miss them. (50 years)
That aside there was the shock of non-recognition. The astonishment of seeing faces, that in memory are as clear as any photograph, so changed they seemed strangers. Perhaps it was the look of astonishment on their faces that threw me off.
Things went well, and we reminisced about our adventures especially about fleeing and outwitting the cops, though I might add, if caught, the consequence would have been little more than a good scolding and a threat to call our parents which in itself was enough calm our lust for illicit adventures.
I miss them already, or rather I miss who they were: young and without the burden of the years, as we vainly tried to pretend we still were who we then were.
Our Christmas party is coming up in a couple of weeks. It is our annual reunion, and even on an annual tick there will be changes of loss. Whether from health or circumstance, faces will fade into the past. A job moves one of us away, a bad foot, an ear problem, or just the stubbornness of piling up too many years. Which is why I put such urgency into my 1st Annual Birthday Dive. Whatever else this nasty winter will bring, it, cannot stop me from having dived into my 70s, albeit by only a handful of hours. Thank you Kevin and Linsley and Julie. Your being there meant so much to me.
I had better swerve away from this melancholia; it is not fitting in the darkest hour of our year to dwell on what the festivities are designed to comfort us against. We will gather to reassure ourselves that spring will come and summer and the light and warmth under which we thrive.
Assemble us in the warmth of each other’s company and celebrate the coming of the light. Laughter and libations lighten the libido. (sorry) Let the trek to summer begin. Be of good cheer. Rotate your tires. Change the batteries in…

GRENDEL AND ME (August '08)

Bernie Moore

It’s Time for Our Walk…Now!

I was talking to Grendel the other day and he was telling me how much he likes the hunt. “Ya know,” quoth he, “You’ve been gimping around a bit lately. You could unhook the leash, and I’ll just have a little look-see around. Nothing big, just a peek.”

“Grendel, me boy, you know how much I’d love to watch you on the hunt. But! We’re 20 yards from a busy street and cars travel faster than you brain is programmed to respond safely. Besides, the neighbors hate it when you raid their bird feeders. You see, the birds are supposed to eat there, not be eaten there.”

“I don’t eat them there,” he protested weakly, “I always bring them home.” He knew his position was weak and meowed it for from habit than spontaneous enthusiasm.

“OK, then you go down with me; I gotta do a good sniff around and see what the skinny is,” his enthusiasm back. “Huh? ”

My reply was rote, no more effective than before, but still you gotta respond someway. “You know”, saeth I, “If there is one thing they hate more than a black cat prowling their decks, it’s an oversized human leading him around.”

It was then he abandoned his discourse and began tugging relentlessly on his leash. As he set out his fluffy tail began to vibrate. Don’t know how else to describe I, but when he gets really excited about something coming up his tail starts vibrating like a tuning fork. It ripples and cascades and I know whatever coming is going to be done at high speed.

This will lead us to our monthly homily:

“The true meaning of life is found in anticipation.”

This is my own, so it’s probably not something someone is going to hang on the fridge, but it does give rise to the anticipation of an upcoming dive trip. It’s nice to doze off at night with the thought of an upcoming trip, 3, 4, or 5 months away.

Our thoughts on the trip begin to feign the doppl;er effect of a train approaching a crossing, Louder and faster as it approaches. By the last 48 hours the clanging in our ears drowns out practically everything, and packing and repacking seems to be the only relief.

So at under two weeks to Curacao my mind is not entirely my own. Perhaps the most anticipated moment is unloading the car and thinking, “Home again!” At that point my tail too is vibrating like a tuning fork.

Then there is the timeless dreamy kaleidoscope of wetdry, wetdry until that dreaded moment when we realize we have to finish the booze and get packed and quickly too.

Returning home we have crowded memories to keep us warm, but only until we can get the next trip into the book. Then anticipation leans in above the surreal seam of life, and dreams, waiting for the call, drift like clouds of smoke just beyond the clamoring of our days. My tail’s atwitter.

GRENDEL AND ME (June '08)

Bernie Moore

Mother’s Day Gift: “How about me instead?”

I was talking to Grendel the other day and although I lavish him copiously with praise he’s always amenable to more, especially when it’s accompanied with a scratch behind the ear or a good chin rub. On this occasion I was telling him how cute it is for a kitty to snore. “Cat,” he corrected, “And cute is for mutant dogs, smaller than me. I wish they’d roam free. I’d teach them to climb trees in a hurry.”
Nonetheless we began linking fancies about sleeping, and I was reminded of a dream I had recently. A dream in which I was dispatching bad guys with rather uncivil efficiency; I was surprised at my own ruthlessness. I assume that such imagery grows from my association with The Reel Men’s Film Club where we gorge on films “…full of prurient violence and having no socially redeeming qualities.”
But of course there comes a time in all dreams when you gun jambs and fear wells up like the rushing waters from a broken dam. My blaggard adversary was pointing a large caliber pistol at a very delicate personal target lovingly cherished all these years. Fear exploded into panic, and I used the only defense I could save the lame jamming of the assailant’s weapon: I woke myself up.
Safe at last, I was left with the residue of a dream went bad, the emotional state of anxiety and fright. You can tell yourself that it was only a dream, but the adrenalin is still in your system and sleep is improbable any time soon. The answer of course is to think pleasant thoughts, and if you’re going to have pleasant thoughts in this column they are going to be about diving.
So when sleep lurks beyond the shadows of your reading light think of diving or going to dive. There is the nearness of your last dive or of a planned future dive. No one should have a calendar with out a dive trip scheduled on it or else what’s the point of getting up?
At the end of the journey of crowded shuttle busses, harried ticket agents, homeland security people who repack your carry-ons like the cannoneers of square riggers, hung-over stewardesses, baggage handlers who think shot-putting is the only way to load a taxi, and the traffic of a small hot country gone mad all at once, you collapse in your rented room only to find the air conditioner doesn’t work or sounds like a space shuttle launching. Why do we put up with this? And you all know the answer:
To silently float like an albatross over warm coral societies that tolerate you as a curiosity even though you leak bubbles profusely and writhe through the water like a Spanish Dancer (Hexabranchus sanguineus.). This of course threatens few but the neurotic nervous Nellies who seem to twitch about anticipating calamity at any instant anyway.
That aside I recall staring at a coral and staring and suddenly realizing it’s staring back.

.
Or something beautiful with the decidedly unbeautiful name of a slug.

Legions of images present themselves and the wonderful recollections soon calm the fretting mind which itself drifts away into a dream of diving. And who has slept better than that?

Grendel and Me (May ’08)

Bernie Moore

Another Snooze Ruined

I was talking to Grendel the other day. He was grousing about the red combat harness and leash we are connected by when out on a sortie. “It’s totally unnecessary, boss,” he explained. “We cats dress ourselves perfectly for whatever occasion.” He barely finished his sentence when his eyes got heavy and he dozed off. I would have myself, but when I am sitting and doze off my head either drops and I involuntarily snap it back pulling a muscle or two in the process.

Grendel, however, is built for snoozing. He was in a sphinxian (don’t bother looking it up) recumbent position looking like a vintage cookie jar I frequently raided at my grandmother’s house. We were sitting on a retaining wall in the quarter acre jungle (he proofreads this) behind our condo on a spring day that weathermen like to call one of the ten best of the year.

It was sunny and mild, dive tee weather, (but not shorts) Traffic was light on the nearby street and the silence was broken only by little critters going about their business, stuffing long neglected tummies, and the occasional raucous scream of a distant riding lawn mower called upon to trim some protruding stone from a still dormant lawn. But I digress.

Grendel would have me believe that he does not need to be tethered to me by a stylish red harness and leash, but even with these he has managed to break away occasionally and head for the neighbors’ bird feeders which causes no end to consternation to the neighborhood guild. These buxom beefeaters think it cruel for kitty to crunch a chickadee or two. Besides that I have a heart stopping fear he may someday decide to traverse the busy nearby street, and cats are just not hardwired to deal with the unnatural speeds of cars and trucks.

In spite of his protestations I know when he goes out to play his gear is needed.

On the other hand…

I seem to have amassed a lot of gear. (once essential, now junk?)

I have: (category mostly never used anymore)

Eight air tanks. How many do I need? Reasonably!

A John line. (strap) for hanging while hanging at 15’.

Two wreck reels. I have never used the big one. I use the little one to tether Grendel when cleaning the garage. He stays close and I keep a keen eye on him; he’s very vulnerable to roaming dogs when he cannot run up a tree, but he wanders otherwise.

A scallop opening curved blade knife.

Hoses, hoses, & more hoses.

Fin straps and other spares for gear I no longer have.

Useless strobe.

Suicide harness.

Blinking lights.

Non blinking lights.

Broken lights.

Broken computer.

Never worn wet suit, booties.

Assorted SS clamps.

Wings.

Cool monster dive knife for attacking great whites.

Stretchy things to hang gear I never use to my BCD.

Dive magazines.

Seasick shocking wristband. (With vomitus stains)

Leaking waterproof containers.

Inflator hoses with mechanisms.

Spare prescription lenses for lost masks.

Bowls of spare parts. (nuts and bolts)

Compass. (nothing to put in in.)

Depth gauge. (same)

Penguin emergency buoy

And that’s from my feeble memory. I shudder to think what else there is if I did an inventory.

And yet it’s just too precious to part with. Who knows? Someday…? This is the part I have trouble explaining to Grendel.

Grendel and Me (April ’08)

Bernie Moore

Sunstruck

(A process whereby a cat walking across a rug is immobilized by a ray of sun)

I was talking to Grendel the other day; it was on the occasion of one of our first hunts of the pre-spring season. Hunting starts when the chipmunks begin their active foraging. The squirrels have been active most of the winter as it has been relatively mild, but they are much too quick and acrobatic for a feline hunter attached to a human by a six-foot tether. The tether is required by law of condo management controlled by very senior cits who cannot distinguish between the habits of dogs and cats, and who decreed,” All pets must be on a leash.” This has put severe restrictions on my choices of animal companions particularly of the fin and feather varieties.
Alas, I wander.
“Com’on, boss,” He implored, “There’s one just ducked into the drainpipe.” I probably do not need to point out the difference in sprint speed between us. He tugged me toward the drain pipe with incredible strength. I have always maintained that pound for pound cats can out pull any sled dogs on the planet…for about ten yards whereupon they would fall upon quarrelling and caterwauling amongst themselves. It seems that the alpha male position of cats is a very tenuous position.
Meanwhile the chipmunk is scratching away in the drainpipe trying to garner some precious altitude. Needless to say traction is wanting and he remains precariously close to the opening, which fact Grendel gleefully exploits by stuffing his arm to the hilt probing with his claws, supremely confident and with a serious look of expectation on his face.
“YeaAAAAaach”, cries Grendel, “The little %&@*&er bit me.” Here I must apologize for Grendel’s language; it really is beyond human transcription. Try to recall two Toms on a fence when the femme felines are in heat. Such was the outpouring of rage and angst.
He shook his paw and looked at it whereupon his tail shot straight up and he walked haughtily toward a nearby bush to check the first stop on his peemail circuit. Identifying something of interest with his supersensitive nose he opens his mouth into what appears to be a snarl and began sampling the air in greater detail applying the pheromone gland in the roof of his mouth, the Coopers gland. The message is sweet and the message is long, as he works it as thoroughly as a Yale scholar preparing a dissertation.
Moving to several more drop points he memorizes the mating needs of the colony of cats that prowl our neighborhood. He then goes to several of the favorite hidyholes of chipmunks around the air conditioner, but the effort is half hearted. He’s not in the mood to plunge his arm too far into the darkness.
Finally, he heads for the bits of sweetgrass that have hunkered through the winter cold. A few blades have swollen inviting a closer sniff. Chewing a few blades, he moves to the next clump and repeats the process and I know he will be rolphing it up on the rugs as soon as we get back inside.
“Why do you do that?” I asked again, knowing the question is as pointless as the answer I will get again, as I have before.
“Idonno.”
“Does it taste good?”
“No.”
“Then why…never mind.”
He then headed for home; his sortie completed satisfactorily.
So many of our rituals are ingrained in us, “God bless,” to a sneeze; stuff like that. And so it is with Grendel, yet on this day he did inspect the perimeter of his domain and found it free of dangerous predators and resplendent with the lovely scents of game and invitations from fellow felines and felionesses.
I started to think about my upcoming rituals. My tanks have been gathering sand grit and dust; dampness has been eating the inside of my BCD wings. Salt has been wreaking havoc with my regulators, batteries fading in my dive computer. Did I remember to remove the batteries from my dive lights? Tanks need to be vised; hopefully none will have to be hydroed. Regs need to be cleaned, corruptible parts replaced. Test fin straps for little crevices, order specialty batteries, see if that cheap wet suit has shrunk over the winter, and make sure the Leprechauns didn’t cut an inch or two off your weight belt.
Even though I doubt I’ll be diving this month it will feel good to have the gear in hand again, the heft of the tanks, the fit and taste of the mouthpieces, the absurd reluctance of weight belts, the beeping of puters, holding the dive knife again, rarely used but essential to heroic fantasies. Great white attacking my group. The women, the little children, tremmoring in fear, as I swirl around and around with the beas,t pumping the blade time and again, until lifeless he sinks to the bottom where his hungry brothers await patiently. Where else can you go about your business with a lethal weapon strapped to your leg? And best of all… “I love the smell of neoprene in the morning. It smells of…sniff??...sniff??….urine!”