My family and I went to the DuPage County Fair this past weekend. It is a pretty fun affair, there are a ton of activities. Even though the area we live is not very rural, there is a full on animal exhibition with people showing off their hogs, sheep, foul, and horses. In addition there is a rodeo, a carnival with a fair number of rides for kids and adults and then there was a guy I will call Cat-Man.
There was an announcement over the PA that there would be a big-cat demonstration in about 20 minutes. The announcement provided that this would be an opportunity to see a number of big cats, including two ligers (crosses between tigers and lions). So, we dutifully trekked down there and got some pretty good seats on a set of bleachers. At this point, it was near 1 pm, and the sun was beating down pretty hard. We were ok with the heat, because of the expectation of seeing ligers. Most of what I know about Ligers comes from the movie "Napolean Dynamite." Some species of animals can cross breed, the most well known example being a cross of a mule, an offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. Often, this cross breed produces desirable traits that are not found in that of either of the parent.
A Liger is the offspring of a male Lion and a female tigress. For whatever reason, the offspring is typically larger than either of the parents, so you end up with a very big cat. The entire display was a small fenced in area in front of a large trailer. I was a bit concerned that we were going to be extremely close to these Ligers when they were displayed. In one corner of the fenced in area there was a 6 month old tiger cub, that was putting on quite a show climbing anything and everything it could. Although it was probably about the size of a rottweiller, it had giant paws that showed it had a lot of growing left to do. About 5 minutes before 1, we heard an announcement that the show was just about ready to begin. I did not realize it at the time that the term "show" was very loosely applied.
As the clock ticked past 1, a gentleman in the typical wildlife gear showed up. He was slightly overweight, wearing short khaki shorts, the typical green/khaki button down short sleeve shirt and the typical safari cat. He then launched into this long speech about working with large cats his entire life. He discussed how much food big cats eat and how expensive it was to feed them. Then it got a bit absurd. He launched into a bit of a tirade against PETA and other big organizations urging none of us to donate to them. He insisted that they had way too much money lined up for pensions for the board of directors and spent something like 2 cents out of every dollar donated to actually rescue animals. Not surprisingly, he advocated that we should donate to small independent operations like his.
Then he dropped this bombshell. He let us know that he would not bring the Ligers out. Rather, they were available to view through a small gate for a small fee. At this point we had been sitting for about 15 minutes. He tried to rationalize that he had yet to be injured by a big cat, and he wasn't going to start now. The problem with that logic is that he billed himself as a big cat show. I could say that I have a zero record of injury from snakes, but I don't bill myself as someone that runs a reptile show.
I wish I could say that we left in disgust. But we didn't. We paid our 4 bucks and went back there to see the Ligers. There they were, both lying down. One was asleep the other was awake and looking at us. It was pretty sad, it was a small enclosure, not much bigger than the animals themselves and all they could do was look at us as we stared.
It is absurd for people to keep animals like these as pets. First of all, the offspring is entirely human created. Ligers do not exist in the wild. Why create an animal that is only to be used for human amusement? This exhibitor provided that in order to generate enough money to care for these big cats, he and his wife were on the road most of the year. Sadly, this means that the cramped storage trailer that we saw these guys in was probably the rule rather than the exception. You cannot simply go to a big field and let these guys out to get some exercise. These animals will never be free, it is just a question of how big their prisons are.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Thursday, July 17, 2014
High Times - Part 1
Over the summer of 2005, I went through the necessary training to obtain my private pilot's license. There was a small aeroclub onboard the Air Force Base in Okinawa. I think there is too much material for one post, so I will break it into a series.
The Air Force Base accomodated all sorts of aircraft, from large cargo jets all the way down to our little Cessnas. Consequently, the runways were enormous, each one over 12,000 feet, close to 2 miles long. Our Cessnas could easily take off in a few hundred feet and land in just a bit more. The runways were also quite wide. It was interesting getting used to having all this extra room.
You never knew what other aircraft you might see on the runway, you could take off behind a flight of fighter jets or a large cargo jet. Generally, once you were airborne, you didn't see much other traffic. The military aircraft flew higher and faster than we did. Which was just fine.
On one occasion, I was flying at about 1,500 feet, probably cruising at just over 100 knots. It was a beautiful day, lots of great visibility and I was headed over to one of my favorite island chains to do a little sightseeing. All of a sudden, in quick succession, 4 F-18s zoomed by me quite close. Generally, you have to obey certain speed limits at lower altitudes. However, the military has designated corridors where this does not apply. I was in one of those corridors, there is no prohibition against it, you just need permission from Air Traffic Control. The first one was just a quick blur, I only caught it out of the corner of my eye and wasn't sure what the hell had happened. I was ready for the next few though, they all did a pretty similar maneuver, rolling in really close, hitting the throttles and disapearing. At least I thought they had disappeared.
The view out of a Cessna is relatively limited. Unlike the full canopy covers that the fighters have, you have decent forward vision, no rear vision and limited side vision. Since the wing is above the cockpit, you really have little view of what is above you as well.
It quickly became clear that they knew exactly where I was at all times. I was clueless. Additionally, the military uses a different frequency band to communicate, and I did not have access to this frequency. It was essentially a series of mock engagements as the aircraft would appear out of seemingly no-where and come flashing across. My guess is they came down from above me and were briefly behind me before coming into my field of view. I would sometimes hear them slightly before I saw them, but it was unclear where they would be coming fro. It was awesome. These guys were all professional pilots with thousands of hours of flight time. They knew exactly what they were doing and provided a very safe, but exciting experience. A couple of times, they would fire off the afterburner shortly after crossing and you could sense the raw power associated with it. On some occasions they would slow down and fly next to me. However, try as they might, they simply could not fly as slowly as I could without stalling. They would come by with the gear down, full flaps, airbrake deployed and still they couldn't stay nearby for very long. I think they did it just to make sure I was OK with it, I would give them a quick smile and a thumbs up and the airshow would continue.
There are some pretty good accounts of pilots that have inadvertently strayed into protected airspace over the Capital Region. Those guys are intercepted for real by fighter jets. Once intercepted, you are directed to land at the nearest airport where a group of federal agents with guns drawn are there to greet you. I have to imagine that is not nearly as fun.
The Air Force Base accomodated all sorts of aircraft, from large cargo jets all the way down to our little Cessnas. Consequently, the runways were enormous, each one over 12,000 feet, close to 2 miles long. Our Cessnas could easily take off in a few hundred feet and land in just a bit more. The runways were also quite wide. It was interesting getting used to having all this extra room.
You never knew what other aircraft you might see on the runway, you could take off behind a flight of fighter jets or a large cargo jet. Generally, once you were airborne, you didn't see much other traffic. The military aircraft flew higher and faster than we did. Which was just fine.
On one occasion, I was flying at about 1,500 feet, probably cruising at just over 100 knots. It was a beautiful day, lots of great visibility and I was headed over to one of my favorite island chains to do a little sightseeing. All of a sudden, in quick succession, 4 F-18s zoomed by me quite close. Generally, you have to obey certain speed limits at lower altitudes. However, the military has designated corridors where this does not apply. I was in one of those corridors, there is no prohibition against it, you just need permission from Air Traffic Control. The first one was just a quick blur, I only caught it out of the corner of my eye and wasn't sure what the hell had happened. I was ready for the next few though, they all did a pretty similar maneuver, rolling in really close, hitting the throttles and disapearing. At least I thought they had disappeared.
The view out of a Cessna is relatively limited. Unlike the full canopy covers that the fighters have, you have decent forward vision, no rear vision and limited side vision. Since the wing is above the cockpit, you really have little view of what is above you as well.
It quickly became clear that they knew exactly where I was at all times. I was clueless. Additionally, the military uses a different frequency band to communicate, and I did not have access to this frequency. It was essentially a series of mock engagements as the aircraft would appear out of seemingly no-where and come flashing across. My guess is they came down from above me and were briefly behind me before coming into my field of view. I would sometimes hear them slightly before I saw them, but it was unclear where they would be coming fro. It was awesome. These guys were all professional pilots with thousands of hours of flight time. They knew exactly what they were doing and provided a very safe, but exciting experience. A couple of times, they would fire off the afterburner shortly after crossing and you could sense the raw power associated with it. On some occasions they would slow down and fly next to me. However, try as they might, they simply could not fly as slowly as I could without stalling. They would come by with the gear down, full flaps, airbrake deployed and still they couldn't stay nearby for very long. I think they did it just to make sure I was OK with it, I would give them a quick smile and a thumbs up and the airshow would continue.
There are some pretty good accounts of pilots that have inadvertently strayed into protected airspace over the Capital Region. Those guys are intercepted for real by fighter jets. Once intercepted, you are directed to land at the nearest airport where a group of federal agents with guns drawn are there to greet you. I have to imagine that is not nearly as fun.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Miles and Miles
The first time I joined the Navy, I joined the Civil Engineer Corps. After completing our training at Officer Candidate School, where unfortunately I did not get to karate fight my drill instructor Officer and a Gentleman style, I went for additional training in Port Hueneme, California. This is a beautiful area just outside of Santa Barbara.
The first week of training consisted of a field exercise. Which is sort of like camping, in the same way a travelling carnival is sort of like camping. We had tents and cots, but everything was on an enormous scale. We had multiple trucks full of gear, we not only set up sleeping tents but Comm Centers, a giant dining tent and so on. One experience, in particular, sticks out in my mind.
It was the Warrant. Warrant Officers are an interesting bunch. In the Navy, you can become a Warrant Officer only after making it to Chief Petty Officer, an achievement in itself. In theory, Warrant Officers are sort of a bridge between Enlisted and Regular Commissioned Officers. They are generally regarded as subject matter experts, and are very intelligent. They are usually incredibly salty and almost without exception hilarious. Most of them have been in the Navy for a significant amount of time before they become Warrants, and they tend to stay in for awhile longer. I am so glad we had a Warrant in our group. Although he was a relatively new officer, he had been in the Navy for 15 years or so at the time I met him. For whatever reason, he decided to take me under his wing.
The first thing the Warrant did was to appoint himself head chef and declare that he was not going to participate in any of the field exercises. For all of us new people, we were super excited about the field exercises, because it was a chance to traipse through the woods in Camo with an M-16. We had this pretty cool system that was like laser tag on steroids. You wore a series of sensors on your chest and back and had another set on your helmet. A laser was affixed to your rifle and you were armed with blanks for the weapon. When you fired the weapon, it would trip the laser. Depending on where your laser hit the other person they would hear either 1, 2, 3, or 4 beeps. Increased beeps meant the hit was more lethal. If you landed a kill shot, the other individual would hear a steady beep that could only be turned off by an instructor. Although you could still fire your weapon after a kill shot, it would not trip the laser, so it became an expensive party favor.
Before we got started, the Warrant advised me that I should take all the ammo I was issued and bury it. I thought he was crazy, where is the fun in that. So, I ignored the Warrant and thought I had made the right choice as I burned through as much ammunition as possible. The Warrant was definitely the right man to run the kitchen. He consistently cooked really good meals for the 80+ people we had, armed only with a BBQ and a few other rudimentary cooking machines. Perhaps my favorite part, was that you could pop up to the dining tent in the middle of the afternoon, after a fairly intense fake gun battle and he would cook you a real nice hot sandwich with the crispy bread and the gooey cheese. It was made even better if you ate it under the warmth of the sun with your rifle across your knees.
Throughout the course of the week, you do a number of different engagements interspersed with practical training. The staff members represent the opposite forces and wear a different kind of cover (hat) to distinguish themselves. If you happen to knock one out, they will take their cover off and wave it in the air to indicate that you killed them. On one of the later days, we were on a patrol up on a ridge. Down in the valley, probably 250-300 meters away, we saw a group of staff engaging a fellow platoon. The maximum effective range of an M-16 is about 400 meters or so. I don't know why I decided to do what I did next. I took a knee, chambered a round and fired. Two things happened almost at the same time. First, my entire platoon quickly turned around to figure what the hell I was shooting at, and almost at the same time I saw the staff members hand go towards his cover. As he took it off, he was looking all around wondering where the shot had come from. That was the closest I would come to being a sniper, just an incredibly lucky shot.
On the last day in the field we had to break camp. Once again, the Warrant came through for me. He told me that I should grab a shovel, put it over my shoulder, look angry and limp. That is what we did for the next few hours, no-one ever asked us to do anything. The Warrant knew all the tricks. I was about to see his best one yet.
At the end of the exercise, we spent an entire day at the armory. The weapons get pretty dirty from all that firing, particularly from firing blanks. The armorers who run the armory are very strict. Once you bring your weapon up for inspection, they will conduct a very detailed inspection with a white cloth, if any part comes back dirty you are sent back to clean it again.
I glanced out of the corner of my eye, and there is the Warrant, smiling as he absent mindedly gently rubs a cloth over his immaculate weapon. Again, he was smart, he could have turned it in early, but he was content to just take in the sun as we furiously digged into every knook and cranny of the weapons. I could hear him chuckling the entire time.
The first week of training consisted of a field exercise. Which is sort of like camping, in the same way a travelling carnival is sort of like camping. We had tents and cots, but everything was on an enormous scale. We had multiple trucks full of gear, we not only set up sleeping tents but Comm Centers, a giant dining tent and so on. One experience, in particular, sticks out in my mind.
It was the Warrant. Warrant Officers are an interesting bunch. In the Navy, you can become a Warrant Officer only after making it to Chief Petty Officer, an achievement in itself. In theory, Warrant Officers are sort of a bridge between Enlisted and Regular Commissioned Officers. They are generally regarded as subject matter experts, and are very intelligent. They are usually incredibly salty and almost without exception hilarious. Most of them have been in the Navy for a significant amount of time before they become Warrants, and they tend to stay in for awhile longer. I am so glad we had a Warrant in our group. Although he was a relatively new officer, he had been in the Navy for 15 years or so at the time I met him. For whatever reason, he decided to take me under his wing.
The first thing the Warrant did was to appoint himself head chef and declare that he was not going to participate in any of the field exercises. For all of us new people, we were super excited about the field exercises, because it was a chance to traipse through the woods in Camo with an M-16. We had this pretty cool system that was like laser tag on steroids. You wore a series of sensors on your chest and back and had another set on your helmet. A laser was affixed to your rifle and you were armed with blanks for the weapon. When you fired the weapon, it would trip the laser. Depending on where your laser hit the other person they would hear either 1, 2, 3, or 4 beeps. Increased beeps meant the hit was more lethal. If you landed a kill shot, the other individual would hear a steady beep that could only be turned off by an instructor. Although you could still fire your weapon after a kill shot, it would not trip the laser, so it became an expensive party favor.
Before we got started, the Warrant advised me that I should take all the ammo I was issued and bury it. I thought he was crazy, where is the fun in that. So, I ignored the Warrant and thought I had made the right choice as I burned through as much ammunition as possible. The Warrant was definitely the right man to run the kitchen. He consistently cooked really good meals for the 80+ people we had, armed only with a BBQ and a few other rudimentary cooking machines. Perhaps my favorite part, was that you could pop up to the dining tent in the middle of the afternoon, after a fairly intense fake gun battle and he would cook you a real nice hot sandwich with the crispy bread and the gooey cheese. It was made even better if you ate it under the warmth of the sun with your rifle across your knees.
Throughout the course of the week, you do a number of different engagements interspersed with practical training. The staff members represent the opposite forces and wear a different kind of cover (hat) to distinguish themselves. If you happen to knock one out, they will take their cover off and wave it in the air to indicate that you killed them. On one of the later days, we were on a patrol up on a ridge. Down in the valley, probably 250-300 meters away, we saw a group of staff engaging a fellow platoon. The maximum effective range of an M-16 is about 400 meters or so. I don't know why I decided to do what I did next. I took a knee, chambered a round and fired. Two things happened almost at the same time. First, my entire platoon quickly turned around to figure what the hell I was shooting at, and almost at the same time I saw the staff members hand go towards his cover. As he took it off, he was looking all around wondering where the shot had come from. That was the closest I would come to being a sniper, just an incredibly lucky shot.
On the last day in the field we had to break camp. Once again, the Warrant came through for me. He told me that I should grab a shovel, put it over my shoulder, look angry and limp. That is what we did for the next few hours, no-one ever asked us to do anything. The Warrant knew all the tricks. I was about to see his best one yet.
At the end of the exercise, we spent an entire day at the armory. The weapons get pretty dirty from all that firing, particularly from firing blanks. The armorers who run the armory are very strict. Once you bring your weapon up for inspection, they will conduct a very detailed inspection with a white cloth, if any part comes back dirty you are sent back to clean it again.
I glanced out of the corner of my eye, and there is the Warrant, smiling as he absent mindedly gently rubs a cloth over his immaculate weapon. Again, he was smart, he could have turned it in early, but he was content to just take in the sun as we furiously digged into every knook and cranny of the weapons. I could hear him chuckling the entire time.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Yakety-Yak
I realize I have not posted in awhile. In an effort to post more, I may not confine myself to camp stories. Although, I have already failed to do that.
From 2002-2006, I was stationed in Okinawa. Prior to going there, my entire entire body of knowledge had been gleaned from watching the Karate Kid. A lot of wonderful things happened in Okinawa, not the least, meeting my wife. We went on a number of adventures together. After work, we would often meet up to do a bit of evening kayaking.
The kayak I had was designed by a company called Folbot. I had never tried a foldable kayak before, but I bought it because it could be shipped via the USPS to Okinawa for a reasonable price. I had a blast with that sucker, it was not the sleekest or the fastest craft, but it was well built, sturdy and lots of fun. Most of the time, we paddled along the shoreline of Okinawa in a body of water called the South China Sea. On most days it was relatively calm, and even if there were swells, you would gently ride up and over them.
Our usual launch location was a Marina located near the Air Force Base. This marina was leased by the US Government and used primarily by Americans. There was a good core group of older guys who would gather most evenings, stand near a boat and drink a lot of beer together. These guys were all boat owners and they would rotate which boat they drank near. They made no pretext about it, they didn't even climb aboard a boat and act like they were working on it. They were there to drink beer, near boats. In some ways that reflects my drinking experiences in college where I would drink beer, near girls.
Even if it was a little choppy, it was always calm in the harbor because it was surrounded by breakwalls. It was always a little dicey leaving the harbor because it was quite shallow and if the swells were a bit larger than usual, they would break over the mouth of the harbor. But, provided that you could keep your kayak headed straight in to the waves, it was no problem. Our usual route would be to paddle straight out for a bit and then turn to paddle along the shoreline.
On this particular evening, it was a bit windier than usual, but did not cause any real alarm. We were also running a bit late, we didn't have any lights on the kayak so we tried to make sure we were in before dark. It started out as a routine paddle. We paddled the 400 yards or so to the mouth of the harbor, and as expected the waves were breaking. Breaking a bit harder than usual. As we continued paddling, I realized that if we turned go along the shoreline, we would take the waves broadside and it would not be very comfortable paddling. I also felt like we were not making particularly good time, so we would paddle out a bit and then turn back for a quick paddle in. We probably paddled for about 25-30 minutes.
When I turned around to see how far we were from shore, it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. We were much further off shore than we should have been. Also, as soon as we turned around we felt the wind blowing quite strongly in our faces. The reason it had felt so slow on the way out was that we were being pushed by the wind so we didn't feel the usual breeze you feel just from moving through the air. I didn't want to panic my wife, so I kept quiet but was paddling much harder than I normally would. The problem was, when you are off shore it is not immediately apparent if you are making any progress. It was quickly getting dark too. We were getting wet from the spray off each successive wave. Unlike the way out, where we were surfing along the waves, we were now crashing through them.
Eventually, I had to tell my wife. I let her know that I was concerned that we were not making any forward progress and the wind had blown us much further out than I expected. She doubled down with her paddling, and after about 5-10 minutes, scary minutes, it became clear that we were making forward progress. Still, no-one talked until we were safely in the harbor. As we took the boat out, the old men drinking team let us know they were concerned we had gone out. Not concerned enough to put down their beers though.
From 2002-2006, I was stationed in Okinawa. Prior to going there, my entire entire body of knowledge had been gleaned from watching the Karate Kid. A lot of wonderful things happened in Okinawa, not the least, meeting my wife. We went on a number of adventures together. After work, we would often meet up to do a bit of evening kayaking.
The kayak I had was designed by a company called Folbot. I had never tried a foldable kayak before, but I bought it because it could be shipped via the USPS to Okinawa for a reasonable price. I had a blast with that sucker, it was not the sleekest or the fastest craft, but it was well built, sturdy and lots of fun. Most of the time, we paddled along the shoreline of Okinawa in a body of water called the South China Sea. On most days it was relatively calm, and even if there were swells, you would gently ride up and over them.
Our usual launch location was a Marina located near the Air Force Base. This marina was leased by the US Government and used primarily by Americans. There was a good core group of older guys who would gather most evenings, stand near a boat and drink a lot of beer together. These guys were all boat owners and they would rotate which boat they drank near. They made no pretext about it, they didn't even climb aboard a boat and act like they were working on it. They were there to drink beer, near boats. In some ways that reflects my drinking experiences in college where I would drink beer, near girls.
Even if it was a little choppy, it was always calm in the harbor because it was surrounded by breakwalls. It was always a little dicey leaving the harbor because it was quite shallow and if the swells were a bit larger than usual, they would break over the mouth of the harbor. But, provided that you could keep your kayak headed straight in to the waves, it was no problem. Our usual route would be to paddle straight out for a bit and then turn to paddle along the shoreline.
On this particular evening, it was a bit windier than usual, but did not cause any real alarm. We were also running a bit late, we didn't have any lights on the kayak so we tried to make sure we were in before dark. It started out as a routine paddle. We paddled the 400 yards or so to the mouth of the harbor, and as expected the waves were breaking. Breaking a bit harder than usual. As we continued paddling, I realized that if we turned go along the shoreline, we would take the waves broadside and it would not be very comfortable paddling. I also felt like we were not making particularly good time, so we would paddle out a bit and then turn back for a quick paddle in. We probably paddled for about 25-30 minutes.
When I turned around to see how far we were from shore, it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. We were much further off shore than we should have been. Also, as soon as we turned around we felt the wind blowing quite strongly in our faces. The reason it had felt so slow on the way out was that we were being pushed by the wind so we didn't feel the usual breeze you feel just from moving through the air. I didn't want to panic my wife, so I kept quiet but was paddling much harder than I normally would. The problem was, when you are off shore it is not immediately apparent if you are making any progress. It was quickly getting dark too. We were getting wet from the spray off each successive wave. Unlike the way out, where we were surfing along the waves, we were now crashing through them.
Eventually, I had to tell my wife. I let her know that I was concerned that we were not making any forward progress and the wind had blown us much further out than I expected. She doubled down with her paddling, and after about 5-10 minutes, scary minutes, it became clear that we were making forward progress. Still, no-one talked until we were safely in the harbor. As we took the boat out, the old men drinking team let us know they were concerned we had gone out. Not concerned enough to put down their beers though.
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