Thunderbird

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You just never know where the next blog post is coming from.

After not finding much time for blogging or much of anything else in quite a while, I decided to get away for a day with my wife this past weekend, so we drove up to Lake Tahoe.

While sitting at one of our favorite lakeside restaurants, which overlooks a small marina, what shimmering vision should appear across the Lake, headed right for us, but the semi-mythical Thunderbird, a 55-foot mahogany speedboat that has been the queen of the lake since it was commissioned by an eccentric local gazillionaire in 1939. There may be bigger and faster boats on the lake today, and there are certainly more elegant or more graceful ones, but none comes even close to the downright badass chutzpah of Thunderbird.

Okay, this may be a sailing blog, but think of Thunderbird more as a cultural oddity than a big power boat. And cultural oddities are something I feel comfortable blogging about.

I had never seen Thunderbird up close, and for most of her seventy-something years, most common riff-raff like me haven't either, which has only added to her mystery and mystique. She has been until recently in private hands and very well sequestered.

To say that the peculiar recluse who had her built was wealthy would be like saying Larry Ellison is wealthy. Born into a family whose fortunes originated in the Gold Rush (which is about as far back as modern history goes hereabouts), George Whittell, Jr. at one point had the opportunity to purchase 40,000 acres of Tahoe lakefront property - including 27 miles of shoreline.

So he did.

Today, shoreline property at Lake Tahoe doesn't come available often and when it does, it might be a quarter or half-acre at a time. And the cost? Well, if you have to ask...

Which is to say that George Whittell lived in a different age. Like today, some of the absurdly wealthy liked to flaunt their riches, but in the 1930's it seems they were free to find more absurd ways to flaunt it. George, for example, liked to keep pets. But it just wouldn't do to have ordinary pets like we riff-raff.

George befriended the lion tamer of the Barnum and Bailey circus and went off to Africa to get some proper pets - you know, giraffes and elephants and lions and cheetahs - which he brought home to his modest country estate near San Francisco (the little 40,000 acre spot at Tahoe was just a summer place). George liked tooling around Tahoe in one of his Duesenbergs (he had six), with the top down and his pet lion perched with its front paws on the windshield. No, I swear, I'm not making this up.

So, what kind of perky little runabout would George order to get to his new place up at Tahoe? You can bet he wasn't picking something out of the Bayliner catalogue. Those who were merely wealthy at the time would have a custom boat builder like Gar Wood knock out a little 30-footer and be done with it. But not George.

Like his elephants and his lions and his Duesenbergs, George would need something designed to impress. He had arguably the most famous power boat racer and designer of the time, John L. Hacker, create something twice the size of a merely extravagant boat. It was powered by twin V-12 550 hp engines and capable of 60 miles per hour. (Big powerboats don't go knots, they go miles per hour.)

If you think the boat looks something like the art deco airplanes of the thirties, that's no coincidence. George also owned a DC-2 airliner - the equivalent of having your own 737 today - and asked that the boat's shape and finish resemble the plane. A 100-foot boat house was built on George's estate just for Thunderbird and a 600-foot tunnel blasted out of the rock to connect the boathouse with the main house so that George and his guests wouldn't be seen coming and going.

George must have soon tired of his plaything. When the boat was sold to casino magnate Bill Harrah years later, the engines had run only 83 hours. Harrah used the boat as his personal yacht for entertaining the glitterati and showbiz types like Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr, who visited his casino, adding further to the legend of Thunderbird.

So here I was, suddenly, after years of reading and hearing about and catching occasional glimpses of her on the water, finally with a chance to see her up close. And what was my impression?

Well, she sure is impressive. I mean enormous, with acres of immaculately varnished mahogany brightwork and shiny, polished stainless steel and chromed metalwork everywhere. But, somehow, I felt like I was being played. This was a boat with very little purpose other than to impress - to make people take notice of its owner. Was it beautiful or elegant? Would it be as much fun to 'drive' as a nice sailboat? Would I want this thing if someone were to give it to me? I'm not so sure.

I was reminded of Maltese Falcon, the immense sailing machine built by Silicon Valley venture capitalist Tom Perkins. That boat was built mainly to be 'the largest privately-owned sailing yacht in the world'. Perkins and the Maltese Falcon project are described in a well-written book by Newsweek writer David Kaplan. Like George, Perkins must have soon lost interest in his giant playtoy after it was created and everyone had associated the boat with Perkins' name. He sold it three years later.

The title of Kaplan's book is Mine's Bigger.

Exactly.

What do you think? Is Thunderbird a work of nautical art? Or is it just a bit too much?

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Picture Quiz

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Where am I?

Well, yes, you might well ask that since I haven't posted here in over two months. But that's another question involving an all-consuming project at work, and some all-consuming problems we've had with a sick family member. All that time I used to have to write blog posts has been mostly all consumed, lately. Hopefully, that will change soon.

But, what I really mean is where was I when I took this photo, and just what is this a photo of?

Is this an early prototype for the Oscar-Mayer wienermobile?

Is it a vintage New Jersey diner?

Is it the secret love nest where Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra used to tryst?

Or, is it the biggest, baddest Wurlitzer jukebox ever made?


It certainly has some stories to tell.

Someone reading this blog should recognize it (assuming anyone is still reading this blog). It's been photographed almost as much as the Golden Gate Bridge.

If you think you know the answer, write it on the back of a Hallberg-Rassy 352 and send it over to O Dock. Or, better yet, leave a comment here.

There will be a follow-up post with more pictures and a thougtful narrative that draws insightful life lessons from a chance encounter with this, uh, whatever it is.

Now, let's not always see the same hands.


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Picturesque Speech

A

day

hardly

goes by

without me

thinking how

much life tends

to go around in circles and how much

I'd rather be sailing on my boat

on the rolling sea      on the rolling sea     on the rolling sea     on the rolling sea     on the rolling sea

                 on the rolling sea          on the rolling sea        on the rolling sea        on the rolling sea  

Instead, here I am, stuck

in my cube in my cube in my cube in my cube

in my cube in my cube in my cube in my cube

in my                                                          .

in my                                                          .

in my                                                          .

in my                                              my cube

in my                                              my cube

in my                      _  _                  my cube

in my                      O O                  my cube

in my                        >                    my cube

in my                        o                     my cube

in my                                              my cube

in my                                              my cube

in my cube in my cube in my cube in my cube

in my cube in my cube in my cube in my cube

day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day,

writing these tediou.....zzzzzzz, writing these tediou.....zzzzzzz, writing these tediou.....zzzzzzz,
um, maybe some coffee will help.....writing these tedious


   
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports
reports        reports        reports        reports        reports        reports


that no one will ever read.  



philosophers
and wise men have tried to
tell us over the years, of course, that
life moves in cycles and in circles, that we
do not travel along a simple, straight path, reaching
our destinations and achieving our goals in a direct way.

We must suffer interruptions and diversions along the way.
That way is bumpy and frought with peril. There are dangers
and demons and dragons to dispatch before we may triumph.
As I am learning, into every life some spreadsheets must fall.
Long distance mariners and pilots know that the shortest way
around the globe is an arc, and not the straight path that the
unsuspecting would suspect. So, I am learning to put up with
the detours, to negotiate the potholes and the bumps in
the road. This time spent in purgatory will serve its
purpose, will make the sweet days that must
surely lie ahead that much sweeter, and
may, perhaps, yet turn me into that
most tedious thing of all, a
philosopher.

                

Sailing Blog Writer

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Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my blog?
I've been down for weeks, working like a dog,
It's nothing novel, but my boss is here.
I'm on the job, but I want to be a sailing blog writer,
Sailing blog writer.

It's the dirty story of a crew of eight
That's been cut to four, so no time to waste.
Wish that I were working for the Daily Mail,
But I'm working here and I want to be a sailing blog writer,
Sailing blog writer.

Sailing blog writer (sailing blog writer).

I'm a thousand miles from San Francisco Bay,
No sails for me even though it's May.
The days get longer, I don't like this style,
Maybe I should quit cause I want to be a sailing blog writer,
Sailing blog writer.

Today we're sending off some long-time friends,
Will I ever see any of them again?
Too many empty desks, too many empty chairs,
How I need a break and I want to be a sailing blog writer,
Sailing blog writer.

Sailing blog writer (sailing blog writer).

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Mr. Neptune Visits O Dock

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I'm down at the boat for the first time in a few weeks, doing the usual maintenance and wine drinking.

We came down late Friday night after work and, arriving in the dark, noticed that something was amiss with one of our dock lines. Not thinking much of it, as there are four other lines securing the boat to good old O Dock, we turned in for the night.

In the light of day, I took a closer look at the 5/8 inch line and discovered this:

Hokey smokes! No noticeable chafe two months ago and now the line was almost shattered.

Then, I looked across the fairway and saw this:

Yikes! Where a finger pier and two boats had been, there was now a big open space and some orange caution cones placed on the dock.

And then that storied little light bulb we read so much about in unimaginative writing went on in my foggy brain.

The Tsunami!

I wrote in a post just last week about how easy it is for those of us who live thousands of miles from Japan to turn away from news reports and return to our comfortable lives. And here was Mr. Neptune reminding me in that playful, ironic way he has that it's really just one big ocean. What happens in one little corner of it, eventually, in one way or another, affects all of us. This may have been just a tiny ripple compared to what happened in Japan, but the message was there.

The wave had crossed 5000 miles of Pacific Ocean, and then another 10 miles of San Francisco Bay. It curled around a rock breakwater, through the marina entrance, and another few hundred yards right up to O Dock, and practically snapped a dock line that had a breaking strength of 10,000 pounds.

But Mr. Neptune wasn't quite through with me. He had another lesson up his watery sleeve.

It seems Mr. Neptune has been reading this blog and all of those wise-butted comments I've been sprinkling across the blogosphere. And, apparently, he has not been pleased. I mentioned that there were four other lines tying my boat to O Dock. Mr. Neptune left all of those untouched.

There was, however, something unusual about the line that he destroyed.

If you're reading this, you probably know that signature photo I use of a Flemish coil. It's not a photo I just swiped from the internet. I actually wound that coil on one of my docklines just so I could make the photo for my Blogger profile.

After I took the photo, I was so pleased with my handiwork that I left the coil in place on O Dock and it has been there for the past two years.

So, which line do you think it was that Mr. Neptune travelled 5000 miles to single out and destroy?

Should I take this as a sign?

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To Caulk Or Not To Caulk

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Sometimes I think Laser sailors have no imagination at all.

A while back, Tillerman was lamenting having too many regattas and not enough weekends to fit them all in. He asked his readers to come up with excuses for not sailing so he'd have some time for other things.

Frankly, I think the pressure to free up some weekends was coming from another member of his household, but that's just my own theory. And please, don't ask how I arrived at that theory.

But how vast is the sea that separates Laser sailors from those of us with keelboats!

For a keelboat sailor, finding excuses for not going sailing is as easy as falling off a Laser. I have a keelboat, and, because of that boat, I hardly ever go sailing.

In fact, there are some keelboat sailors who never sail at all. They are on the dock every weekend working on one thing or another that needs either fixing or 'preventative' maintenance.

Before I got a boat I thought 'preventative maintenance' meant work you do to keep stuff from breaking. Now I know the only thing it prevents is me from sailing.

The problem is I'm outnumbered. Fighting on the side of good, it's just me. But my enemies are many - an evil axis of rust, corrosion, UV damage, delamination, electrolysis, metal fatigue, and all sorts of other gnarly things with fangs and teeth that go drip in the night.


For many in my position, maintaining a keelboat in itself becomes the primary focus of life. They become gurus - not of sail trim or boatspeed or racing tactics, but of plumbing, electronics tinkering, rig tuning, and diesel engine karma.

Eventually, a hierarchy develops on the docks among those who never sail - the novices (like me), the journeymen, and the masters. But above them - at the very top -  is the most holy and sanctified dock yoda of all, the ultimate high priest of boat maintenance - the Varnish Master.

Every dock has its resident Varnish Master. He is aloof and deigns not speak with the unwashed (guess who). He bestrides the dock like a colossus. His gait is measured and steady. His gaze straight ahead.

Like any other high priest, the Varnish Master is generally a quiet, contemplative individual of few words, closely in touch with both his inner conciousness and the spiritual world. Certain practices of his art may be performed only during specific phases of the moon and alignment of the planets.

Did you know, for example, that critical stages of the varnishing process may commence only two hours after sunrise on days when the relative humidity is below 40 per cent, the temperature below 80 degrees, and the wind not above eight knots and out of the east - the traditional direction of the Epifanes factory?

Varnish Masters serve an elaborate apprenticeship, progressing through ever finer levels of varnish awareness, which are curiously analogous to the grades of wet and dry sandpaper that most of us laymen find so unfathomable.

Eventually, the Varnish Master enters a transcendant state wherein he is at last able to hear the sound of 800-grit sanding.


I realized long ago that I do not have the rigorous mental discipline that is required of a Varnish Master. I have accepted my lot and am content with annual applications of Cetol. But, please, do not reveal this to anyone. I suffer enough humiliation in life as it is.

My Cetol  requires no special gift or intellectual refinement to apply, no incantation of holy texts, no cultivation of sacred brushes, no careful meterological observation, no selfless dedication to a life of endless labor and spartan deprivation. To the Varnish Master, my Cetol is the symbol of all that is base, rotten, uncultured, and morally bankrupt in life.

But in the harsh marine environment, I cling to it for survival.

In a way, Cetol is the touchstone of my slipshod approach to boat maintenenance. I'm just trying to get by - to put off the inevitable for another season. I still hold onto hopes, however slim, of sailing occasionally. And that makes me feel guilty whenever I do manage to sail. I know that somewhere, in the deep recesses of my boat, rust is winning another battle. And it is like any mortal battle - the weak and the unprepared and the uncaulked shall perish.

But unlike the unfortunate Laser sailor, I, at least, can find an excuse to not go sailing whenever I wish.

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A Kernel Of Truth

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You must admit that popcorn is one of the great miracles of life.

Scientists know all this absurdly complex stuff about the structure of matter, right down to subatomic particles, but no one has any idea how popcorn works. If anything, a dried kernel of corn, when tossed into a boiling pot of oil, should just burn up or, at best, explode into something you have to scrape off the ceiling.

There's simply no rational explanation for how it turns into those neat little puffs of food that are unlike anything else.

I think God made popcorn when he was either very drunk or absolutely bored out of his mind. It's really one of his best jokes.

So why do I bring this up?

Well, Carol Anne has asked us to write something about food and this is the best I could do. You don't want to hear me sermonizing about sauces, semolina, and saucisses, do you? I don't know the difference between a soufflé and a sous-chef.

It's much better that I stick with something that I know - or that I used to know.

I was munching on some microwave popcorn last week and stopped in mid-bowl (and with popcorn, you know how hard it is to stop in mid-bowl). What the heck was this yucky stuff I was shoveling down, I thought. The crud tasted so much of chemicals that I started thinking back to the halcyon days of my youth when I was actually pretty darned good at making real popcorn.

If you think about it, the sad state of popcorn today is really emblematic of everything that is wrong with us. It is said we don't make anything in this country, anymore. Well, we certainly don't make popcorn. When did it become too hard to measure out some kernels, put some honest to goodness vegetable oil in a pot, set the flame properly, choose some seasonings, and get busy?

Must everything come pre-measured, pre-packaged, sealed in cellophane, drowning in diacetyl artificial butter flavoring, and laced with tocopherols (whatever the heck tocopherols are)?

Are we no longer masters of our own destinies? Can we not pop our own corn?

I marched myself over to the market (well, OK, I drove there), picked up some popping corn (they had only two kinds on the shelf, next to the 342 kinds of microwave popcorn), and vowed that I would start saving America right then and there, one kernel at a time.

Back home, I measured.

I poured.

I waited for my three test kernels.

I spread to the critical one-kernel depth.

I moderated the flame to perfection.

And dammit, I popped!

And, perhaps most important of all, I removed from heat at just the critical moment. No burned and pungent embarrassment for me, thank you.

I may now proudly report that I am once again master of my own kernels!

But what about you? Are you a slave to that wimpy, oily bag of pre-packaged mediocrity? Are you content to let the heirs of someone named Orville call the shots for you from their power base somewhere in Nebraska?

Throw off your chains! Take charge of your life and season to taste!

And please, if you know where I can find that spicy, yellow-colored popcorn seasoning I used to get when I was a kid, tell me, please.

That's still driving me nuts.

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