Posted tagged ‘sharks’

A date with 30 girls

March 6, 2014

*****Bear with me here. I promise goodies at the end if you can muscle through my attempts at being witty.***

As much as I would like to regale you with tales of my adventures in finishing the 2nd draft of my book, complete with riveting paragraphs of muscling through writer’s block, multiple and frequent interruptions and a losing battle with The Lazy, I fear you’d quickly tire and look for less exciting fare. With that in mind, here’s a little break from that chaos.

I’m a lover, not a fighter. Okay, to be fair, I’m not much of either, but I can fake it like anyone else. Achebeyo and I decided to put my imaginary Don Juan skills to the test in the Bahamas. I packed the tools of my part time trade and we made our way down Island way.

Unfortunately for all of you still reading here, there wasn’t anything of note on the flights. People were fairly polite and relatively quiet, something that is rare in this age of “I can do anything I want because I’m alive and there’s nothing you can do to stop my annoying-assed behavior”. Shocking, I know. Even the TSA was miraculously kind and generous, only stopping my bag once in the scanner to review the metal and plastic contraption that was part and parcel of my intended purpose in visiting the Bahamas. Easy as cake-pie.

We arrived at the airport and were directed to a double-stretch limo that would take us to our resort. Even though the inside was devoid of booze, blow and floozies, we still felt like rock stars pulling up to the front of the resort. The moment we exited our plush ride, we were greeted with drinks (fruit juice, non-fermented) and directed to the front desk to check in. The lobby of the place was quite active and I could see pool tables, a gym and ping pong tables close by. There was also a bar and what looked like a stage with lots of tables just inside beyond the hallway past the front desk. I was excited to think I would be talking a lot about going to the gym while actively avoiding it.

We were given our room keys, instructions on how to find our room and wrist bands that indicated we were “all inclusive”. And they mean all inclusive. When I timidly asked if all drinks were included, they knew exactly what I meant and explained that the pool bar would be right outside our sliding glass back door. This would wind up being a blessing and a curse.

The room was, as advertised, nestled right behind the pool bar, and conveniently located for all of the central courtyard activities. Also a blessing and a curse. A blessing if you want to mingle freely with all the bulging, sweaty masses like me, a curse if, like us, you want to be a ghost at the resort and just interact with each other and the ocean. It’s not that we’re anti-social, it’s that Achebeyo is. Okay, not really, but she does like to keep a low profile, while I like to be the belle of the (always wearing a shirt, even in the water) ball. I’m gregarious, what can I say. Regardless of our differing views on interacting with the rest of the all inclusive crowd, we settled in and began preparations for the following morning.

I made several phone calls to find a proprietor who could, and would, service my needs. One place, recommended to me by a passing stranger in the lobby, one who could apparently sense a kindred spirit, offered part of what I was looking for, but not the essence of what I wanted. I called the number of the place I was warned to stay away from and found out they had pretty close to what I wanted, if not exactly the brand of ladies I was looking for. I checked with Achebeyo and got the thumbs up. We would be picked up early the next morning and transported to our day’s destination, just not in the same rock star manner to which we had become accustomed after one short ride the day before.

That evening, we ate at the lavish and gut-busting buffet of fine foods, limiting ourselves to enough calories to ensure we could forgo most of breakfast the next morning, but still be able to walk back to our room. Since it was still early after we finished, I wandered past the pool bar and ordered what amounted to a few plastic cups of rum with a splash of soda for flavor. They were too generous with the alcohol and I was only able to choke down one before switching back to water. Besides, I didn’t want to be hung over for the ladies the following day.

We woke up early and got ready, opting out of full-blown showers and anti-stink chemicals. The kind of ladies who would be entertaining us weren’t impressed by things like cleanliness and nice body odor. It would be a “in the raw” kind of day for us. The bus that picked us up also stopped at a few other locations along the way. Other people looking to be tantalized and titillated by the lovely ladies we would all be graced by. We made our final stop of the morning and began the process of signing waivers and shelling out the currency to make my dreams come true.

While Achebeyo wasn’t as thrilled by the day’s prospect, she wasn’t against it either. She would prefer that we indulge in less exotic activities, but she is always down for adventure, and this would prove to be quite fulfilling that regard. Once we finished with all of the red tape associated with our day’s adventure, we were instructed to board a particular boat for our…wait for it…dive with reef sharks. Yes, all that anticipation and potential animosity at your perception of what a womanizing jerkwad I am, only to find out I was making a very thinly veiled and feeble attempt at manipulating your online emotions. But as the pictures will reveal, it was the dive of a lifetime, so it was worth your scorn.

The two dives in the morning were fun, but mere cheese and crackers to the big emotional meal coming in the afternoon. We dive two beautiful wrecks, including one that supposedly had human remains in it. I would never find out, because the dark hold of the sunken ship was where Achebeyo draws the line at following me into adventure, and I couldn’t leave her to navigate the wreck on her own. We saw some lionfish which, even though they are considered nuisance fish, are truly beautiful underwater. Unless, of course, you jam a camera rig with strobes all up in their scaly grills. Then they get all poison-spine bristly and aggressive.

After we finished those two dive,s we made our way back to the docks and dumped our gear in front of the next boat, as instructed. We didn’t just go all elitist jackass and expect that the staff would cater to limo-riding wanna-be’s like us. I even sat vigil on our gear while Achebeyo took her usual 25 minute bathroom break. I keep wondering if she’s conducting international business transactions in there.

It was difficult to wait for the next dives. I was anxious and eager, like a kid who’s slit the plastic tape on his gifts days before Christmas and already knows what he’s getting, but still can’t wait to open them (yes, I was that kid). When they let us board, I listened intently to their extensive speeches about the dive rules and etiquette. You might have even gotten the impression that I was an attentive good listener…if all you had to go on was that one encounter with me. Still, it pays to know what not to do on a dive with that many razor sharp teeth attached to living torpedoes.

We reached the dive site and proceeded to make the first descent, one that would take us along a wall with a 6,600ft drop to the Tongue of the Ocean. From the moment we began descending the anchor line, my heart was racing. The reef sharks, knowing what the black-clad meatbags with all the bubbles coming out of their face-holes would mean in just a little while, were gathering to watch us flounder around in their world. They were curious, but not aggressive. While we saw many beautiful fish and some huge lobsters, my mind was on the coming dive. The one where they would feed the sharks while we watched from our “seats” on rocks in a nice sandy area about 45 feet deep known as the Shark Arena. I couldn’t have been more excited if you told me that you would finish writing my book for me, give me all credit, that it would be an instant best seller and that I would never have to work another day in my life. That’s The Lazy talking.

Back on the boat after the first dive of the afternoon, we listened again to the safety briefings and the consequences of breaking the rules. Interestingly enough, the big threat wasn’t that a shark would hurt you, it was the rest of the divers. See, the way it was explained to me, almost as if they knew I would be the one diver would would want to issue hugs to these pelagic beauties, is that if we broke the rules, the dive would end immediately and everyone would go back to the boat. At that point, who could blame Lady Justice for taking the form of an angry mob of shark divers? Not me. I vowed to keep my hands to myself. Now, I imagine the dive crew has had this same conversation with the sharks, but they don’t really have to listen, do they? It’s their world and we’re just tourists with oxygen. They can (and did) touch whomever, whenever they want.

Even after all of the briefings and explanations, about how there would be 30-40 sharks around us at all times, I figured they exaggerated the numbers to make the dive seem more interesting before you took your seat in the Shark Arena. I was wrong.

This is just a small cross section of the entire dive. Most of the rest of these beautiful ladies (and a few gentlemen) were off camera, making their way in as the snacks were presented. I was tail-smacked, brushed and ogled, but never once did I worry that things would go all Spielberg on me, where I’d be forced to fight off the swarm of hungry fish with my own bitten-off leg. They were curious, but cautious. They did get a little “competitive” when the snacks were made available, but they knew exactly what they wanted and we weren’t it. I mean, if humans were on the menu, they had an underwater buffet to pick from. You know, once you peel off the neoprene wrapper.

It took everything I have to not stick my hand out as they swam by, but as the safety briefing explained, the dive team target feeds the sharks and my hand might make a motion similar to that target feeding motion. I didn’t want there to be any mistakes about what snacks were available and who was providing them. You can’t sue a shark for accidentally assuming all the bubbling meatbags could provide food.

Photo-bombed by a shark

In the video I shot of the whole dive, the soundtrack is filthy with the excited and happy noises coming from my face. It’s not very intelligible, but the shark feeder understood when I bubble-mumbled “THIS IS SO COOL”. His head nod and hang loose hand gesture to me was all the verification I needed.

The dive went on for probably about 30 minutes, but I was so enraptured that I’m not really certain how long it actually took before we were ushered out of the shark arena and back up to the waiting boat. I made up my mind then and there that my retirement plan will include working for these guys as a Shark Don Juan like that guy.

There was definitely more to our visit to Nassau, including getting to do some basic trapeze work and fighting off persistent seagulls when food was available, but I think this about sums up this trip and my feeling about it:

Happy baldy.

Writing instead of writing

February 14, 2014

Listen, I’m not going to sit here and toot my own horn…much. I mean, the whole purpose for me to have a blog in the first place was to work on honing my writing so that I could make a run at something more ambitious, something you’d want to get as a gift and read in places other than the bathroom. And by run, I mean a drunken snail’s pace toward an unknown finish line.  And that’s exactly where I’m at.

Over the past four months, I’ve been working on the first draft of my first book. It sounds…not really impressive, I know. Four months? What, am I writing a review of some game or movie I encountered a couple dozen years ago? Something to get someone’s attention somewhere so they’ll ask me to agonize over writing something monthly, or worse, weekly? Yeah, not so much.

Understand that when I say I’ve been working on the first draft of this creation, I mean that I spent about two weeks last November crushing out the requisite 50k words for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for the uninitiated), and then slapped a few sentences together every other week or so until the story had the rough shape of what I wanted from it.

About a month ago, I got a wild hair (read: got bored) and decided to start an epilogue and prologue to my unfinished story. I thought it was a fun romp and it gave one of the characters a vehicle for venturing onward, if The Lazy and I can ever come to an agreement that means I’ll ever attempt to slog my way through writing another book. It did not, however turn out as I had planned.

Here’s the thing about creating something, from my admittedly limited perspective: it’s kind of like mad science. In my case, being the socially eclectic kind of person I am, I started slapping pieces and parts of life together from things I’ve seen, experienced directly or vicariously or simply wanted to try. What was born out of that process was rather like hooking Dr. Frankenstein up with Jim Carrey’s green alter-ego in The Mask. You may think it would be great to create something with the torso of Dwayne Johnson, the head of Peter Griffin from Family Guy and the arms of Verne Troyer, because hey, Human Tyrannosaur. Who wouldn’t like that? My proofreader, that’s who.

In the first email exchange we had after I sent her my first draft, I actually read the first few paragraphs and had to abandon the email for a few days. When someone starts outlining all of the things you feared were wrong with your project, the tendency is to protect your creation, to crawl into a hole and pout about not being able to create perfection on your first try, even though you knew there were issues that would need addressing. Well, at least that’s how an immature person like me reacts. I got over my pouting fit after a few days and realized that she simply wants to help me perfect what I’ve already done. And I honestly should feel good that I knew the problems she outlined existed before she addressed them to me directly.

Don’t get me wrong, she likes the clay I’m working with. She’d just like for me to give it some more definition and color than when it came out of the bag. That is how clay arrives, right? Bags? I can’t imagine ordering clay and having it arrive in a cardboard box full of packing foam bits. Regardless, she has given me some very valid points to ponder, as well as constant encouragement about the entire process.

Apparently, completing the first draft is supposed to be the most difficult part. And it really helps to have someone review my progress who has no vested interest in it other than to see me succeed and possibly be a note in the thanks or dedication section of the (hopefully) published end result. Still, I find myself doing more talking about what I’m going to do to make the story more enjoyable, coherent and cohesive than actually writing it.

I know it’s ridiculous, but I think I love the idea of this story more than actually doing the work to make it happen. That’s The Lazy talking, I know, but he can be very persuasive. Sometimes, however, his wiles fail to work their seductive magic on me. There are those moments when I stomp upstairs to my office and face two desks: one for gaming and one for writing. My mouth pouring out the idea that I plan on doing nothing that seems like work, I sit down and find that I can’t enjoy anything that is supposed to distract me from writing. So I wander the house, or visit this blog, wondering what the problem is when the problem is clearly me and my tendency to think that I’ve got all the time in the world to complete this project. Those are the times I reluctantly slide over to the writing desk and start taking those raw chunks of story and massage them into some semblance of a cohesive and enjoyable story.

Next week, Achebeyo and I are off to dive with sharks and bask in weather not summoned by ice-loving shut-ins. I hate trying to type on a tablet, but if I want to keep the new ideas that spawned as a result of my proofreader’s comments I’ll need to stay on task or risk losing these new ideas to the sun, the sea and late-night karaoke. But really, could you blame me if I take another break? Says The Lazy. I really need to evict that guy from my head.

Character development

April 21, 2013

I remember being afraid of spontaneous human combustion as a child. It probably wasn’t anything prevalent in the media, perhaps just one focus on this insanity type of passing story on some pseudo-science show. But it stuck with me. How could someone so normal and happy one minute wind up turning into a barbecued biped the next? With no warning?? I was terrified…for about a week. Then I shifted to other odd concerns, like why I couldn’t bend spoons with my mind. But human torches would be part of a trend for what I was willing to accept as possibilities in my life.

There was never any shortage of things to do, living where I did. There was the national park in my backyard, there was one grandparent’s ranch where many rotten egg fights were had and there was my maternal grandparents’ pool. Or as I like to call it, the pool of dreams.

In the southern California summers, that pool was an irresistible force, pulling me away from other fun and chores alike. It was where I learned the differences in pressure between the surface and the bottom of the pool when I had all the air sucked out of my lungs trying to breathe from a garden hose. It was also where I built an underwater air station with a bucket and a bungee cord. Hey granny! Watch me stay underwater…for ten minutes! That one got me in some trouble, but it was worth it.

In the winter, my grandfather and I would erect The Bubble, an inflatable, anchored cover that turned the outdoor pool into an indoor one. There’s something magical (and noisy) about swimming in the rain under a protective plastic bubble.

Minus the snow, of course…and the forest.

Nothing could prevent me from sneaking in there at all hours to swim in complete privacy. Nothing, that is, except Jaws. I was convinced that sharks, being the masters of time and space that they are, could either teleport directly into the pool, or fit through the little quarter-inch drain holes at the bottom, and would devour me messily before sneaking back out through the plumbing to the ocean. And if it wasn’t sharks, I was certainly going to be suction-cupped to death by a giant pool-squid. Those things are even more sneaky than plumbing sharks. Somehow, I beat the odds and wasn’t mangled by either species in my grandparents’ pool.

Plumbing sharks always roll with an entourage.

Ninjas. They’re real, and they’re spectacular. They could (and can) jump, flip, roll, dodge, fly and vanish in a puff of toxic chemicals. And they were coming for me. You know, because of my importance to the Asian community at a young age. They wanted my secrets and nothing would stop them from abducting me to get them (except reality). The only way for me to be safe was to pretend to be one of them. So I would dart around the neighborhood at night wearing my ninja costume, sneaking through un-fenced backyards and hiding in bushes when cars would drive by, all in an effort to ensure that, aside from me, the neighborhood was ninja-free. But was it really?

I was adopted.

Whoah! What the WHAT?? You can’t drop that in the middle of a series of stories about your crazy childhood fantasies and…oooooh, I see.

Yeah. I wasn’t, but I also wasn’t convinced by all of the overwhelming photographic evidence. I was certain I was a robotic experiment and these other meat-marionettes were simply observing my progress and protecting me from the ninjas and plumbing sharks until I could grow large enough to compute for myself. I was also part wolf and part tiger, because that’s how all cybernetic child-organisms are built. Look it up.

There was a door somewhere, if I could only find it, that would let a cyborg-tiger-wolf-ninja (cytwonja?) live the way cytwonjas were meant to live: fighting dragons, rescuing maidens and recovering lost treasure. This door was guarded by Mr. Rogers, and only a select few of us cytwonjas were allowed through. I never found it to ask permission to cross over, however. It certainly wasn’t at the far end of the abandoned mine shafts in the mountains behind my house. I kept checking weekly, though.

All of these fantasies, and more, led to me feeling as if there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do/be/experience at any time in my life. So far, it’s led me to getting my junk sniffed by a lion, becoming a skydiver, SCUBA diving with sharks and traveling the world in search of new places to make Achebeyo mad and make new friends. I’m always looking forward to what’s next. Unless a plumbing shark or the ninjas get me.

Top 10 things you’ll know about me after reading this

April 19, 2013

***I find posting information about me that you could certainly live without very pretentious…so here we go.***

I’ll spare you the woe is me for not having any writing inspiration, and just force-feed your eyeballs something I cooked up last minute for this week. It came to me while I was asleep in the shower this morning.

10. I once had an art exhibit of my photography at a local business during one of those come eat free food from several offices while you pretend to like local art deals. A friend of mine had watched me taking photographs before rehearsals (“12 Angry Men” with a local theater group) and asked if he could see some of my previous work. I hesitantly shouted Hell YES and promptly produced a book that Achebeyo published at Blurb.com for me of her favorite photos I’ve taken. My friend was sold and set the whole show up. People came, listened to the live musician and acted like they weren’t just there to eat the free food. I even sold about 15 photos. All in all, it was the kind of event that means I can brag about it for a few more decades. Here are a few samples:

A picture, in lieu of raking.

This one gives my brother nightmares.

9. I’m a part-time wanna-be actor. What have you seen me in, you ask? Well, if you recorded a GE commercial from a few years ago where people were line-dancing through an aircraft engine plant (and then across the globe), you could pause it and hope the resolution was good enough to see the bald guy in the black polo shirt just outside the plant bay doors for the millisecond he was on camera. Additionally, if you’re addicted to re-enactment shows, I’ve had the distinct pleasure of being in both Wicked Attraction and Unusual Suspects on Investigation Discovery Channel. Both jobs were a lot of fun and gave me the chance to work with my current friends in the industry here, as well as making new ones. I’ve had the distinct honor and pleasure of helping local filmmakers pursue their goals and dreams of creating in their chosen art form, and I always come away wishing it would never end. However, my limited ventures into the world of entertainment don’t pay as continuously as my day job, so I continue to dabble until someone decides they need a bald, sarcastic smart-ass as a sidekick on an on-going basis. I’d point you to my IMDB profile, but I’m at that stage where a stalker wouldn’t seem like the dangerous threat it probably is.

8. I am a skydiver. Most of my skydiving friends would say that I was a skydiver, and that you have to make more than 2 jumps a year to claim that title. I would counter with you’re still a skydiver until you sell your gear. I have over 600 jumps from various aircraft (including a helicopter and a hot air balloon), and I even used to “fly camera” for a few skydiving teams. I don’t jump as much now because…well, because of The Lazy mostly. I make excuses like, everyone I used to jump with regularly has moved or moved on and waaaa for me, but it really boils down to time and motivation. Plus, it’s a tough call on weekends during jumpable weather between diving with sharks in the ocean or diving with monkeys in the air.

My brother-in-law posing for me.

He used this one on a business card.

My buddy Tony rockin’ a dust broom.

7. I love to travel. You may be saying to yourself, and the screen, Duh! Why do you think I infrequently visit this place of yours and fail to comment? What you may not know as you secretly snipe at me from behind the Internet is that my love of travel is more than simply a desire to generate stories for you to enjoy. The longer I spend in the teeth-grinding work-a-day world, the more these trips turn into retirement scouting. At some point, I’ll have reached that place in the employment process where sane people flip their boss the middle finger and wander off into the land of NOW what do I do? while not-so-sane folks contend with the voices in their head until Gollum convinces them to get rid of those filthy Hobbitses. With that in mind, if you own a tourist-friendly country and have properties in the 12-19k range that won’t make me look like I expatriated to become homeless, let’s talk.

Places with views like this are preferred.

6. I had my junk sniffed by a lion. Up close. While this is arguably a story for a much larger offering here, I’ll condense it for today’s effort. I volunteered for a time at an endangered species rescue park in the United States. I worked with leopards, tigers, lions and other exotic cats. One day, while in the safety area of this lion’s habitat, he decided I wasn’t entertaining enough through the fence and knocked the other volunteer out of the way as he left his habitat to join me in the not-so-safe-now-that-you’re-here area. While urine production may or may not have benefited me in that moment, I dried up like an Arizona mud puddle and calmly talked to the 300lbs predator sniffing my sack, imploring him that everything was okay as long as we respected each other and our individual bodily integrity. He finished giving me my exam and proceeded to knock over a few things in the safety area before meandering back into his habitat.  After that, me and my new bro-cat-seph were tight. And by tight, I mean through a fence.

5. Achebeyo and I visited a Korean prison…in Middle Earth. When we visited New Zealand a while back (another tale for later), we decided to hike up a hill in Queenstown where they had all sorts of animals roaming around freely, and where parts of The Lord of the Rings trilogy was filmed. Remember that scene where Aragorn and company get attacked by Warg riders and he goes over the “cliff”? I fell off that same “cliff”…onto grass a few feet below. There were many markers on that hill stating which scenes were filmed there so you could feel like a time-displaced part of the show. The largest attraction, however, was a sizeable structure surrounded by barbed wire fences at the top of the hill. It kind of felt like the onset of insanity, with a picture of some Asian dictator painted on the front, until we saw the sign:

Remember when Disney was all about prison movies? Me neither.

The great Kiwi oppressor, Mao…or something.

4. I went through my online photographs to determine what most of these numbered items would be about.

3. If you felt cheated by #4, I don’t blame you.

2. However this type of thing happens, I don’t have a sense of smell. I was born without it. Some of my earliest memories are of my grandmother making the most wonderful meals and baked goods. She would spend days over the holidays making pies, cookies, candy, bread and other delicious treats. Everyone would drool over the smells wafting from her kitchen. I would play along, but all my nose picked up was a change in temperature, which my brain would translate into delicious. While it may seem that I miss out on quite a bit without a sense of smell, remember that I’m a male. Most of my time before, and between, relationships was (and is) spent with other males. When we gather, we generally don’t tend to fret over brief bouts of eye-watering stench. It can infrequently be a badge of honor if you can make one or more of your friends cry. If it becomes an on-going, pervasive thing, we might exclude you until you sort that problem out. Not being forced to endure the invisible stink-baths men are occasionally prone to emit is a bonus in my book. Plus, I will forever NOT be the one who dealt it, by the dude-laws of the United States. Look it up.

1. I love animals. Not in a lock him up so the farm can sleep easy kind of way, but in a goofy baby-talk kind of way. Achebeyo is constantly warning me away from touching furry unknowns everywhere we go. You’d think after getting bitten in the face and being the recipient of a battery of tetanus shots I’d be wary. Nope. You might imagine I’d be careful after nearly getting gored by the New Zealand version of a wooly mammoth. No way. And don’t get me started on the sharks. I love me some sharks. My goal for this year or next is to at least dive with the tiger sharks at Tiger Beach in the Bahamas or, optimally, great whites in South Africa. The sharks I usually dive with are big, but relatively harmless if you respect their personal space and don’t yank on their tails as they pass you. I’m looking to help show that sharks are not the mindless, demonic killing machines that Hollywood and the media portray them to be in order to earn ratings and money.

Those horns are made of foam, right? Right??

Here, I got you this baby dinosaur.

Before I got my good camera, I jammed my old one in this girl’s face. We dated for a while after that.

Thanks for playing Who the heck are you and why should I care with me this week.

Song of the Lazy

February 16, 2013

In the course of my soul-cramping day job, I’ve actually been what amounts to busy for me. I say amounts to because I’m not one of those burly lads out building structures for people like me to complain about having to work in, or using non-sentient machinery to gleefully tear those same structures back down when someone with more money wants them gone. Nope. I sit at a desk, slapping a keyboard all day like a barely-literate primate (no offense to literate primates). Still, what I do has some merit, trust me. But with the level of activity I’ve been pressed into by the need to pay bills and buy crap I’ll stop using in a week or two (I’m currently in semi-hostile negotiations with Achebeyo on the potential purchase of an expensive microscope), I haven’t had time to trek through my gooey grey matter to see if anything worthy of sharing grabs me by the satchel.

Writing about not having anything to write about is still writing, if a bit trite. I’ve got a few $20 reviews coming up for games and movies most of you have either already made your decisions on, or simply don’t give two ragged rat’s innards about, but those aren’t quite ready yet. I’ve got tales of my childhood attempts to accidentally end my own life early, but I need to confer with my childhood friends who now read this blog to ensure I get everything as incorrect as I can so as to shine the best possible light on me…you know, the one that makes me look like an intelligent moron. It’ll happen.

With the impending trip to Curaçao, I’ll likely have some cautionary tales about what not to do when traveling with someone who’s had about enough of your sarcastic crap to last two lifetimes, as well as some pictures that try to establish a serene façade on what is really me making Achebeyo mad at least once per trip. I’m learning, if slowly.

Oh, and stick around to see if my plans to dive with great white sharks this year pans out. If I haven’t already shared this go here to see a video I shot and edited hastily of one of my favorite dives: The Hyde. Some of the best parts of this dive show up around the 2:13 mark, and then again in greater numbers at the 5:42 mark.

I’m not sure how appropriate it is for a mostly faceless entity writing here to address his (hopefully) growing readerherd, but I’d like to thank everyone who stops by to see what kind of nonsense I’m serving up each week. The bowel-clenching stress of finding something to keep you around and sharing this so that I can one day struggle to survive doing this for a pittance is worth it when I frantically check my stats every ten minutes and see that someone new has been lured in.

Boredom as exercise

January 1, 2013

I’ve been getting that itchy, how long do we have to stay at Great Aunt Allergen’s house, feeling lately. You know, where you feel like your brain is screaming at you to peel your carcass off of whatever surface you’ve chosen to adhere to and do somethingANYTHING! But something definitively different than what you’ve been doing for the past few weeks. That’s how this time of year always makes me feel. And that’s why I never bother with resolutions.

If there’s one thing I’m exceptionally good at, it’s manufacturing and burdening myself with ridiculous guilt. Deep down inside, I know I’m not to blame for anything holocausty, slavery-ish or something of a people-feasting nature. That being said, it doesn’t take much for me to immediately want to apologize for being alive any time I watch some atrocity on the news or history channel. That’s exactly why I don’t need resolutions or lifestones (life milestones) to add that heavy lard frosting to my irrational guilt-cake. I’m not casting aspersions on people who function well with self-inflicted, easily modified and later rationalized goals, I’m simply saying I’ve got enough emotional flail marks on me that I don’t need documentation to support it. However, there are a few things I would like to do/encounter in the coming 12-24 months.

Tiger Beach – a stretch of fairly shallow water in the Bahamas where dive crews take you to dive with (if the name wasn’t clear enough) tigers…the underwater, razor-toothed kind. As part of my who is this guy and why should I care what he’s doing with his life campaign, I want to do my part to show that sharks are not the mindless toothy torpedoes that Hollywood (and some newer authors who haven’t figured out that the whole demon shark thing is rather played out) is striving to convince you to empty your pockets for. I figure enough people know that sandtiger sharks are fairly harmless, so it behooves me to visually document the sharks most feared by land-based bipeds. Since all of the tours I’ve looked at state that they have a 100% limb-retention record, I figure I’m as safe as any other oddly shaped non-fish around these predators.

South Africa and Great White shark diving – actually fairly self explanatory. Except for the fact that I want to take the tour where “you go in the cage; cage goes in the water; shark’s in the water…OUR shark“, then you have the option to join the guide outside the cage to truly dive with these beautiful near-dinosaurs. I’ll be surprised if Achebeyo even joins me on the boat that will take me on this adventure, but I can hope. No sense in living if it’s always 100% safe.

Travel, travel, travel – again, pretty self explanatory. I find that my story telling abilities shine the brightest when I’m completely out of my element and experiencing new worlds, willingly or less than. Having time off from work to be a potted slack-plant is fine and all, but at some point you have to scrape off the sweat pants and snack-dusted t-shirts and get back to what makes life truly worth re-living: seeing the world…or seeing places you’ve already been because you only have a few days and St. Thomas & Costa Rica are close and fairly affordable as 3-4 day weekends. Anything to put a few spikes in the flatline of the workaday world.

Write and film a project with some of the very talented people in this region – take what you will from that statement.

Reviewing what’s happened relatively recently based on a numbered day/year makes sense if you’re looking for change, or see a limited window to convince yourself that improvements are necessary or required. Me? I’m pretty happy with who I am and what I’ve done. If you know anything about me, that last statement is change enough.


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