Penguin's Cruise to Bermuda

Penguin cruises to Bermuda by Penguin Scott

The trip hadn’t started off as I had hoped, yet as I emerged from the underground tunnel of the East River into Manhattan, I smiled and knew things would be fine. It was a beautiful fall day in New York and Stevie Nicks was on the radio; this was a good sign. The buildings looked down on me and people moved about seemingly at a slower pace than normal for the city. It was still early in the morning on a Sunday and I was so very tired. Maybe everyone was.

Penguin on the Veendam sails down the Hudson



I’d flown in on the redeye from San Francisco and had been expecting to be in first class. The flight loads had been looking good for this to happen until an hour before the flight, when all of a sudden there were more people clamoring for seats than were open on the flight. So instead of a nice lie-flat seat where I could get a decent nap on the 6 hour flight, I had to ride in the one and only open flight attendant jump seat. As a flight attendant, I fly for free if there are open seats, which includes the jump seat. Open jump seats have saved my trips more times than I’d like to admit.

Another wonderful benefit of my job is access to inexpensive cruise vacations. Cruise lines do not like empty rooms on a cruise ship for some reason, so they often dump open rooms for really cheap on a few web sites I have access to. The prices are so attractive, they are often very difficult to refuse. And this time, I had the time off from work due to an injury and my travel account had money in it to cover the costs. All I needed was a travel companion.

When cruising, I never care where the ship goes; I cruise for the experience of being on a ship and not for the destination. I like the pampering and how rich I feel on a cruise. I like dressing up for 5-course dinners and taking in a show afterwards. I love meeting people at high tea and enjoy a glass of bubbly at the art auctions. Yes, cruising is a great way to pamper one’s self and for me, it’s quite affordable.

Of course, when trying to find a companion, everyone wants to know where it’s going. This one was to Bermuda. I’d never been, so that was alluring for me. I love putting another pin in the map of places I’ve gone. But I wasn’t overly excited about Bermuda; I’ve done islands so many times. No, this vacation was simply about being on a boat, clear and simple.

My problem with cruise deals, which are often very last minute, is that my friends can never seem to get the time from work. Or if they can, they don’t have the money. And even though my friends can’t fly for free, which makes the vacation a little more expensive for them, it’s still a deal that’s hard to pass up. But even as attractive as these cruise deals were, there were not enough and the ship sailed without me.

The following week, the web site again had the same deal for the same ship to the same destination. I tried again to find a companion. After a few more days, the deal was still there and I decided, screw it, I’d go by myself! I called on a Wednesday and booked it and started getting ready right away, I’d be leaving in only 3 days. I’d have to pay double for going alone, and that plus the taxes was still a good deal. So Saturday night, I was off to the airport for my little vacation.

And what a rocky start it was. Had that jump seat not been available, it would have been very hard to get to the boat in time, as the next flight in the morning wouldn’t allow me time enough to get to the pier. I could have flown overnight to Chicago or Boston, but those flights were also oversold. As upset as I was to be missing out on enjoying champagne in first class, I was just happy to be on the flight and headed for New York.

Everything else worked out great. The weather was wonderful; clear, blue skies, very comfortable temperatures, slight breeze. My plan was to take the subway, but the flight attendant advised me of a bus that, for just a few extra dollars, would be so much better. It was. It deposited me about a mile from the pier. I was going to take a taxi, but it was just so beautiful, I decided to walk; after all, my bags rolled just fine. And what a wonderful walk it was, taking me through part of Hell’s Kitchen.

I was one of the first to arrive at the port and was rewarded with a number one card for boarding. I checked in easily and after a slight wait for the ship to be ready, boarded Holland America’s MS Veendam, the smallest ship I’d been on yet. She was decked out in flags fluttering in the breeze and seemed even smaller against the wall of towering buildings from Manhattan.

After boarding, I first went to my stateroom and immediately met the two men who would be servicing it all week. They called me by name and I was quite impressed! After a quick look around the boat, I found my way to the Lido for lunch and took some photos on my phone so I could impress my friends back home with the fact that I was on a wonderful cruise vacation. Maybe next time I could drag a few with me!

Sailing down the Hudson River alongside the tall buildings of Manhattan was quite impressive. Sailing past the Statue of Liberty was a thrill. Going under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was neat. And I even liked the high-rolling seas on our first night. I’m an odd bird; love turbulence in the air and feeling the boat move on the seas if fine with me. My room was at the very rear of the boat, so I feeling the seas would be certain!

I liked this ship. It was smaller than most these days, but very quaint and elegant. The show room had tables like an old cabaret might. There was only one pool which could be covered in inclement weather. And, fortunately for me, it was easy to meet people, as one was constantly running into the same people. It’s easy to get to know people on a smaller boat and I really liked that, especially since I was sailing solo.

On the very first day I started meeting others. By the second day I’d met more and by the third day I had found a group of friends to do things with. We had happy hour every night and there was never a worry for whom to dine with at dinner (I had been assigned open dining, which meant I didn’t have an assigned table with the same table mates all week). In port, I usually did my own thing, and actually, I never even left the boat at our first port stop in Bermuda. Days were always full with activities, lectures, shows, lessons and such. Of course, most days, I found a need to squeeze in a nap to keep up with my nocturnal activities. These included the after-dinner show in the theater and usually ended up with music and dancing in the Crow’s Nest, the club at the top and front of the vessel.

My new friends were really fun; mostly other flight attendants. They got to know some of the actors from the show, and before I knew it, we were having them dine with us at dinner. It was fun getting to hear about their time spent on the ship and how they rehearsed for the shows. I also enjoyed the attention from others, eyeing us as they recognized the performers.

Dinner with new friends and a few of the actors.



I had a wonderful week and found this to be the best cruise vacation I’ve had so far. The food was fantastic, best of the three ships I’ve been on. I gained about 7 pounds during the week, and that was even after avoiding the midnight buffets! I got to speak with the captain while he made pizza and went on a tour the main kitchen. I enjoyed exploring Bermuda and taking photos. The best part of the cruise was making so many new friends; from Ruth, who was celebrating her 100th birthday, to a group of American Airlines retirees I met at tea. And if I thought I was hooked on cruising before, well, I’m hopeless now. Let’s go!

This link takes you to highlight photos from my trip: https://picasaweb.google.com/107950777569456838804/BermudaCruiseHighlights?feat=email#

If you want to see more, see the videos or were on my cruise and want to see photos I may have taken of you, the rest of my photos are found at this link: https://picasaweb.google.com/107950777569456838804/BermudaCruise91811?feat=email#

 

 

My Stevie

By Penguin Scott
(photos not by PenguinScott)


The first time I noticed her, she was wearing a flowing red dress while lying on a settee on a sand dune in the desert. I couldn’t figure out why. It was one of the early summers of my teens. MTV was king. The song was catchy, but the blonde in the desert is what caught my attention; she was some sort of goddess to me. She was sexy, a feminine power that stirred feelings within me. I wasn’t so much confused as to why she was on a settee in the desert; music videos rarely made much sense. What had me was why she was in the video to begin with. She wasn’t singing in the “Hold Me” video and she seemed more than just a model. I didn’t know much about the band; I’d only heard the name.

Then there was “Gypsy”. This time, it was the voice which drew me in. Oh, that voice- that otherworldly voice; unique, strange, distinct and magical. I was captivated by her gypsy visage, the lace and by her smile. I was still confused about the two videos. In this one, she sang, and the other members were silent. Until then, the concept of multiple singers in one band was new to me. But I liked it. And I was hooked. The band was Fleetwood Mac. That’s fine and well. But I loved that sexy woman in the red dress from the desert. I’m a Stevie Nicks fan!

One morning at my home in Dallas, not long after the flurry of videos from their 1982 Mirage album with “Gypsy” and “Hold Me”, I saw an ad in the paper for an upcoming concert. I was a freshman in high school and a solo Stevie Nicks was touring in support of her Wild Heart album. I made a comment to my father and his girlfriend about wishing that I could go. He said that I should. It hadn’t occurred to me that going was an option. I wasn’t asking if I “could,” I was just wishing out loud.

At the concert, I was mesmerized. She was so twirly, so strong yet fragile. Her songs spoke to me. Her ballads made boats of my eyes as tears welled up. This was her second solo album, so I was able to get fully acquainted with Stevie through her first solo album, 1981’s Bella Donna, as well as The Wild Heart. I listened to them over and over again. And then at a backyard barbeque at a cousin’s house, I mentioned my concert experience and was introduced to Rumours, Fleetwood Mac’s album from 1977. He mentioned how much he loved “Rhiannon”. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he got the album and let me listen. It was like I’d never considered that there was more music from earlier than Mirage. Now I was able to start collecting all the older Fleetwood Mac albums as well.

I spent many hours during high school listening to Stevie, either in her solo endeavors, or with Fleetwood Mac. I’d sing along loudly in my car driving to school. I’d listen to her albums through headphones on my father’s fancy stereo system. And I’d sing her songs to myself walking from one class to the next. I always bought her albums the day they released. When The Other Side of the Mirror was released, I was visiting my maternal grandparents in a small town in the Texas panhandle. There was really only one store in town that sold CDs, so there I was, probably the only person in town buying it so early. I got home only to realize that my grandparents didn’t own a CD player. It was 1989, so I didn’t have one with me. All I could do was read the lyrics printed on the booklet. By the time I actually heard the songs I was very familiar with them.

In 1985, she released Rock a Little. I got the album the day it was released and rushed home. I put it on the turntable and grabbed the headphones and studied the lyrics as the songs came and went. By the time I went to bed that night, I’d heard it 4 times! Wanting to know as much as I could, I found out that some of the tracks may have been recorded in Dallas. In fact, it seemed that Stevie had quite a few Dallas connections. She supposedly owned part of a club near downtown. She had friends and working partners in the area. I searched for names and addresses and on weekends, I’d drive around town looking for the homes of these people. Not that I would have bothered them; I was simply thirsty for as much information as possible, and knowing where they lived was information. I stopped by the night club, which seemed as mysterious as she was, fronted by a huge grey curtain and red velvet ropes on the sweeping steps leading to the entry. It must have been magical inside, but it was closed on this early afternoon, and I was too young to be allowed inside.

I never met anyone at the homes I tried to scope out, if they actually were the homes of the people I thought might be connected to her. I was a silly high school boy and wound up exploring some of the nicer parts of Dallas for my efforts. But with my connections in the hotel world of the greater Dallas Metroplex, I would find out where she was staying when she was in town for concerts. I recall driving quite a distance to her hotel near DFW airport after a concert. I stalked the hotel from the parking lot searching for activity in any of the rooms that might indicate which was hers. It was after midnight, after all, so it was easy to pinpoint the rooms with their lights on. I’d heard stories that she stayed up all night and slept during the day, so I knew she’d be up there. Eventually, I ventured into the hotel, just to scope it out. I didn’t see my Stevie, but as the hotel bar closed down, I spied Waddy Wachtel, her band’s guitarist, heading up to his room. I said hi and great show. He thanked me. I was star struck and wasn’t able to get anything else out of my mouth.

Years later, while living in Houston, I earned money working for a concert security company. When Stevie came to town for her Other Side of the Mirror tour, I found out not only which hotel she was in, but which room as well. Armed with a yellow rose and note wishing her a great show, I nervously knocked on the door. A woman answered. I introduced myself as a huge fan and asked if she would procure my flower and note to Stevie. She said that she would, as the door closed and I looked inside the room, I could see a pair of women’s legs crossed, sitting in a chair just out of view. I just know they were hers.

In leaving, I passed one of her backup singers, Sharon Celani, in the hotel lobby. I stopped her and told her I was a huge fan. She was humble and quite nice. I went on- I’d recently decided to prove my love for the band by getting a tattoo. It only made sense that because I also loved penguins, that I would use the penguin logo from the Rumours album- the one wearing a top hat with cane and crystal ball in his flippers. I showed it to Sharon, who seemed quite impressed.

After the show, I ran into her again while stalking the hotel in hopes of a glimpse of Stevie. I mentioned that I was driving to Dallas the next day to see the show there, as well, something I did more than once. She asked for my name and said she’d leave a backstage pass for me at will call.

Years later I’d run into Sharon in a hotel lobby in Phoenix, this time after a fundraising concert I attended. I reminded her of my tattoo and she remembered me. I was living in Maryland and making good money. Stevie was helping the Arizona Heart Institute and I bought a ticket for $1000. It included a fancy dinner with one of the institute’s top heart surgeons at his large desert home north of Phoenix, great show seats, and an after show party where Stevie would appear for a special presentation. We were led to believe that we’d have the chance to meet her, but we were quite disappointed when she graciously accepted her award and then promptly got back in the limo and departed.

In the 29 years that I’ve been a Stevie Nicks fan, I’ve probably seen her live twenty times, maybe more. I’ve lost track. I could search my records, for I’ve kept every concert ticket stub. There’ve been some really great Stevie moments in my life. I’ve shaken her hand twice during shows when she came to the front of the stage during her song, “Edge of Seventeen”. I had a conversation with her father at the Arizona Heart Institute show and met her mom there as well. The next day I went to the store owned by her mother, who sold Stevie mementos.

At the Behind the Mask tour in 1990, I got backstage, where I was able to meet the male members of Fleetwood Mac. Stevie and Christine McVie were “busy putting on makeup,” and I didn’t get to have them sign my program. Then, in Dallas, when I showed up back stage with the pass given to me by Sharon, I was recognized by co-workers from concert security and it was thought that I had obtained my backstage pass illegally. They tried to take it from me as they escorted me out. But that was my precious souvenir. I grabbed it, not allowing them to take it from me and demanded that they could kick me out, but by gods, they weren’t taking my pass!

In 2000, I got a job that required six weeks of training. The expensive Arizona fundraiser was taking place 2 days following the conclusion of the class I expected to be in. When I found out that they were putting me in a class one week later, I protested, giving up the details of my plans to fly to Phoenix to see Stevie. Fortune was on my side, for the woman on the other end of the line was also a fan, and she personally moved me back into the first class so that I wouldn’t miss her show.

I’ve seen her all over America; Houston, Dallas, Baltimore, DC, Phoenix, San Francisco, San Jose and Oakland. Seeing her concerts in the San Francisco area is always special, because she attended high school and started her singing career with Lindsey Buckingham here. I love to hear her talk between songs about growing up here and how special this place is. It’s always nice to see a musician in concert where they got their start.

I remember finding out where she was staying after a show in Houston. I had joined a local Stevie Nicks fan club and become close friends with a few other fans. Together, four of us rushed to the hotel after the show to wait for our goddess’ arrival. When the limo pulled up, she got out and looked at us. We must have been quite a sight to her- a sad-looking group of fans, the women looking quite a bit like her, in lace and chiffon. We stood there in silence, completely deer in the headlights. We didn’t think to call out to her. We didn’t think to move closer to her. We simply stood there, about 20 yards away and watched in silence. She paused for a second while taking us in, put out a cigarette and walked inside. Only then could my brain begin to work and I approached the limo driver, a man I knew from working other concerts. He handed to us some flowers she had taken from the concert and a few cold sodas that had been placed there for her. While we kicked ourselves for not meeting her, we felt on top of the world to have her flowers and soda!

Some of my most fond memories of life involve my Stevie. I remember listening to her tape on my Walkman when visiting my paternal grandparents. After the tape finished, I’d take off my headphones and I could hear my grandparents saying their nightly prayers before going to bed. While pondering the universe on a star-lit dock over the Caribbean in Nassau, it was her that I played. Any road trip I ever took included her serenades. I’d go camping and my friends from the fan club and I would sing her songs around the camp fire. And recently, while visiting the pyramids in Cairo, it was Stevie who I listened to on my MP3 player.

And one stressful night while in college, I was walking around the campus with its huge oak trees with moss hanging from its branches. It was slightly foggy and I had Rumours playing through the headphones. Gold Dust Woman came on and I heard it in a way I had never before; perhaps because of the eerie surroundings I was in. It started so soft and gentle, but had this forewarning quality to it. And as the song closed, I listened intently to the wailing and crying; the pain and confusion. It moved me. I rewound it, covered with goose bumps. I listened to it again and again. It was what I needed that night.

And that’s the magic for me and my Stevie. She always seems to be what I need. Whether it’s to be tied back to the more carefree days of my youth or to find some inspiration, her music, her voice, her mystery and lace, her strength and beauty- it gets me. Rare is the time that I’ll let anyone within hearing distance get away with disparaging my goddess. You may say she sounds like a goat or that singing into a fan makes you sound like her, but you’d be treading on thin ice with me!

Last night I saw her again. It seems like it was just a few years ago that I was in Dallas seeing her for the first time. I remembered how hearing her sing Beauty and the Beast made me cry. I remembered another time in Houston, that as she took to the stage to start the show how I began to cry. It was then that I finally understood the girls who cried when seeing the Beatles. I felt so silly and tried to hide it. She was larger than life and yet actually real.

And now, 29 years later, I’m still getting choked up when she steps out onstage. Her ballads still wet my eyes a bit more than I’d care to admit. But she looks so good; present and in control. She sounds just as magic as she always has, and completely more mature. That doesn’t bother me; now that she’s 62, I expect her to take on that matronly image that warrants as much from someone her age. And as she sings in her song, “Landslide”, “I’m getting older, too.” No longer do I trail her after shows (given my age and today’s fear of stalkers, that’s probably a good thing) or send cards to the event facility. She doesn’t twirl as much as she used to. But she’s there, on stage, as usual, all these years later, still with her wardrobe changes of chiffon and lace and singing her standards from both her solo career and her time with Fleetwood Mac. And I may be in a large auditorium full of other fans, but she’s my Stevie, and she always will be!

Things Learned from my Father

Two ships in the Caribbean


For many years I've been giving credit to Mother for my better qualities. My parents split when I was a toddler, so I have no memories of the two of them being together. I no longer know my father, and even though my issues with him are mountainous, I do have to credit him for teaching me some valuable lessons in life.

My parents divorced when I was about two and my father moved away. He moved to Dallas when I was 13 and I moved in with him just before entering 8th grade. It must have been a huge inconvenience for Gary, who was a card-carrying bachelor and one of god's gifts to society, although no one else seemed to get that memo.

One day, in my sophomore year in high school, he comes to tell me that for Thanksgiving, he and I would be going on a vacation to the Bahamas. I was really excited about this. We flew in first class and stayed in a nice hotel with rich surroundings and a pink exterior. Our room looked out towards the ocean. I could see the pool and there, beyond, a little pier with a gazebo, jutting over the water.

It was here that I had my first experience with cruise ships. My step-father worked in the shipping industry, so he had taken me on tours of large ships in the Houston Ship Channel. But these huge, white palaces full of revelers and lights…for a young teen, they were whole worlds yet to be explored.

Using binoculars, I watched with great interest as huge cruise ships would start out as a white speck on the horizon and slowly grow in size as they would near port. I soon noticed the tug boats leaving the dock to help bring them into port. Gary saw my interest in them, and one day asked if I wanted to go see one up close. I sure did! And as we approached the ship, he said, "Let's go on board and look around." But could we? With no time to debate, all I could do was follow.

One thing I learned from my father was that if there is something you want to do, do so with authority and like you are doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing. There may be questions of whether or not it is ethical, but if executed just right, one could get away with anything.

The next thing I know, he was talking with the people at the gang way, and we were soon going up the steps inside the ship. It was just that easy. We walked into the casino, now quite deserted, since gambling only took place in the open waters. We went high, onto the upper decks, and enjoyed the view out to sea. Then we crossed over to the port side and looked out onto the island, a view from such heights we had not enjoyed up to now.

I looked down to the ground and to the dock and saw ropes being undone and the gang way we'd come in on beginning to move on board. I punched my father for his attention to this detail and at the same moment, without either of us saying a word, we bolted towards the stairs and down them, post haste. I've never seen my father move so quickly in my life!



When we got to the door, after only being on board for 10 minutes, he had to explain that we were not passengers; they were very reluctant to let us off. He told them someone outside had let us come on, but earlier, I think he more or less made them think we belonged on board. The man in uniform muttered something about being lucky that we weren't arrested as stowaways. The gang way was returned to the dock and I followed Gary off the large ship, having to walk quickly to follow him, as his tail went between his legs.

He slowed down only after turning the corner, back on the street towards our hotel. We both had a laugh while catching our breath; glad to be back where we belonged. I asked him what would have happened had we become stuck on board. He supposed that we would just have fun as stowaways until the next port, where we'd have gotten off and found a flight back to Nassau! He said this like it was no big deal and I almost wished that had been reality. What an adventure to tell back home!

It was a huge lesson for me, watching him work his magic and seeing it blow up in his face. And the lesson learned wasn't so much how to make things work in my favor as it was that each action has a consequence. I know what he did was wrong; he didn't have to lecture on that. But I knew there was a power there, and if I were willing to use it, I had to be willing to accept the ramifications of doing so.

The following day was spent at the pool. It was the early '80s, so, as was the fashion with teens, I had my portable tape player, headphones and a collection of tapes of my favorite music. Gary spent a few hours with me and then disappeared; probably off to a bar to hit on women as usual (if they only knew).

I looked out towards the horizon where I could see a white speck. Reaching for the binoculars, I could see that it was another large cruise ship heading right for us. I looked over to where the docks were and could see a tug boat and its captain readying it for launch. I grabbed my things, dashed to the room and then to the dock. When I got to the tug, I looked up to the captain, a large, surly man with a beard and a hat and wearing yellow cover-alls, and asked if he was going to bring that ship in. And then I asked if I could come along. He welcomed me aboard, showed me upstairs and said that I had to stay there, out of the way. "I won't move," I assured him.

After reaching the balcony and looking down, I saw the last mooring line being pulled in and then we were off, just like that. Had I been a minute later, I would not be on board. And it suddenly dawned on me what I had just done. I didn't tell my father where I had gone. I asked a stranger if I could ride on his boat out to sea, while he was busy working to bring in a huge vessel. A smile graced my face as the wind blew my hair and I felt so alive. There was nothing I couldn't do. And I knew my father would be proud of me.

We reached the huge boat not too far out, took in some lines and pulled it back to Nassau. People lined the rails of the ship and waved down to me. The tug seemed so small next to that large boat and I felt as big as the ship in my success. I waved back like I was in charge of the whole operation.

The tug docked and the man who let me on motioned for me to come down, which I did. I thanked the crew and jumped on land and ran back to the hotel, where I found Gary. While not too concerned, he asked quite simply where I had been. Indeed, he was impressed.

My father was also successful at the bar, where he'd met a lady. He informed me that she was staying at a resort on the nearby island, and had offered for the two of us to join her for dinner.

The island was a short taxi ride. We reached a guard house and the man within seemed hesitant to let our cab go through. I paid little attention to what he said, but I recall feeling a little uncomfortable with the story Gary was making up. But the story did its job and the gate arm lifted to allow us to proceed. He looked over to me with this look on his face. It was like he'd just gotten past the palace guards. All that was left was to conquer the king. Or in this case- queen.

We left the cab at the main entrance to a luxurious all-inclusive resort. There were lush trees and bushes, sandy areas with bars and the beach could be heard nearby. Tables were being set with linens and nice, white china and all around were sexy, young couples, in varying degrees of intoxication. I've never seen such a collection of string bikinis, and so much cleavage!

Caribbean Sunset


Gary found his date, who greeted me with enthusiasm. They spoke briefly and then we walked to the dinner table. We dinned on steak and shrimp that night under a canopy of stars and palm trees. I had a virgin daiquiri, but Gary let me sip on some of his as well. It wasn’t so virgin. As dinner concluded, a man took the stage. Before I knew it, there was a call for volunteers from the audience to come and do a dance number. Gary prodded me into going up. I didn't want to, but finally gave in, not realizing at the time that it was a way for him to be alone with his lady friend. So there I am on stage, dancing like I was born to do so. One song blended into the next. Each time a song ended, a few people left the stage. But I remained, loving the attention of being in the spotlight. I'd look down to our table to see Gary and this girl. He'd look at me with a proud smile and give me the thumbs up and a wink. He had a look on his face like he wished I could stay on that stage all night.

Soon, my part in the show was over. There was a statue given out, but sadly, not to me, which sent me back to my table empty-handed and sweaty. "Let's go for a walk," Gary exclaimed. My father had also taught me good manners, and was big on chivalry. I folded my napkin and placed it along side my plate, as I had learned to do, pushed my seat in, and dutifully followed my father and this poor woman to the sandy beach. Before long, I lost them in the night air as I ventured off on my own to explore. It was a very nice resort, more secluded than our pink palace in town with its private beach and views of the harbor.

He later took me back to the hotel and then left again, saying he was going out for the night (meaning back to the resort to screw around with that lady). I walked out onto the pier, as seen from my room. It was a windy night and I loved to feel the breeze on my face. I put in a Stevie Nicks tape and reflected on our holiday weekend in the Caribbean. I thought about all that we had gotten away with. And thinking back on our flight from Dallas, he hadn't bought first class tickets. He had talked his way into those seats and then got a bag full of minis to boot! He talked his way onto the cruise ship, into the resort for dinner and had me feeling no fear in going out to sea on my own. Gary had taught me a lot on that trip, that you can get away with just about anything! He really was a smooth talker. I'd need a lot of practice to be as suave as him.

While in college, I got a job working concert security. I was good at what I did and saw in others a lot of my father. There were those who would try to get backstage with stories of how they were related to the producer, or friends of some big so and so. It didn't work, but I was greatly entertained. I knew their game because I'd learned from a pro.

I have used what he taught me from time to time. I went back stage at concerts more than once without proper credentials. I've eaten at places reserved for those I was not a part of. I even learned how to access my favorite theme park without paying. No one ever said a thing. I looked the part, just as I learned in Nassau. The odd thing about having been successful in these adventures is that I'm a horrible liar.

These days, I don’t find myself in such situations like I used to. And I suppose that I've gotten most of that kind of thing out of my system. As much as my father has disappointed me in my life, I am thankful for some of the more profound experiences in using that power, and rarely with negative ramifications. Only twice was I discovered backstage, and each time I was simply escorted out. Now if only I could figure out a way to fly on Air Force One!

Airforce one at SFO

Penguin on the High Seas

* A link to my cruise photos follows.

I've been going around for a while saying it's been about 3 years since my last cruise. It was my first time to cruise. I had found a nice 5 day trip from San Juan, so I went out a few days early to stay with a friend of mine who owns a bed and breakfast a short drive from there. I loved it so much; it has made me a true fan of setting sail on a large boat over the oceans of our planet. Imagine my surprise at learning that it was 4 years, almost to the date, and not three, since that Eastern Caribbean cruise. It's no wonder I've been drooling over cruise ships and talking to my friends about going for over a year now.



So I finally put my foot down and decided that I was going to go again, even if I had to do so on my own. I went on my first cruise by myself, but on the first night I ran into a co-worker and her friend, and I had company the whole week. My biggest hurdle in cruising is finding someone to go with; either friends have the time and no money, or the money and no time.



I had the time off. I had a special cruise savings account with plenty of money to cover the low deals I was getting for working in the travel industry, and to cover the other fees needed to cruise; tips, taxes transportation and souvenirs. And almost at the last minute, I found a friend to go with me. Finally, after four long years, I would be sailing again.



So at two weeks out I booked an 8-day, 7-night cruise from Miami on Carnival. I spent the next two weeks going out of my mind in anticipation. I spent hours each day researching the ship and reviews from past travelers. I looked through people's photo albums and viewed videos from Youtube. I found sample menus, looked at excursions and discussed various topics on several forums. When I actually walked on the ship in person, I felt like I'd been there before!



With my bags packed my journey started the day before our ship set sail. It would do so at 4pm on the last Saturday in February and I wanted to make sure I would be on it and not stuck in some airport with winter delays. I had found a nice hotel near the airport that offered free transportation when I arrived, and that also had a free shuttle to the port the next day. Several hotels offered such a shuttle, but the main reason I chose this particular hotel was because their port shuttle left before the others, and I was in such a hurry to get on board…





My friend, Loren, had travel credits on another airline so he flew in a few hours after I did. And since that airline didn't fly into Miami, he had to fly into Ft. Lauderdale and take a van. We were so excited when he did arrive. It was like the vacation was finally a reality; our trip was finally going to begin!



We got little sleep that night from all of our anticipation. But we were up early for our complimentary breakfast and to be in line for the shuttle. The mood for the cruise was set on the van to the port from our hotel. There were several ships docked so the van had a few stops to make. The first ship had only 2 people getting off, a couple in their 60s. The husband started towards the door of the van but had left a bag behind so his wife began calling his name. Not hearing her, he continued towards the front when she finally shouted, "Hey, dumb-ass!" Not only did it get his attention, but every married man in the van turned his head!



We arrived at the port by 1130 and boarded the Carnival Liberty around 1230. It seems fast, to think we got through security and check-in in just an hour. But it seemed like it was taking forever! Unable to get into our rooms for another hour, we headed upstairs to the fish and chips restaurant and got lunch.



There were so many options for lunch on our ship. There was a burrito bar, a deli, a pizzeria that was open 24 hours, the fish and chips counter, the huge buffet, a grill for burgers, dogs, chicken strips and nachos and even free room service. It was like a challenge to see if one could experience all aspects of culinary delights that they offered on board! I did try them all but one. I never did eat lunch in the main buffet line. The burritos were great, and even included shrimp as a choice. Their fried oysters were so good that I had them at least 3 times that week. The pizza was OK, not as good as on my last voyage, but that was an Italian cruise line, so the bar was set very high. The burgers were decent and I loved the deli sandwiches.



I think what I love most about being on a cruise is the treatment I receive. It's as if being treated like royalty. My stateroom is made up while I'm at breakfast and again at dinner, when they turn my bed down. On Carnival, we are welcomed in the evenings by elaborate towel sculptures on our bed, and chocolates. You are always entertained and constantly fed. Drinks are a little expensive, but I did very little of that on my trip; doctor's orders.



The best part is dinner. I enjoy dressing up a bit in nice slacks and shirts and having a formal meal with linens and 4 courses and attentive service. The meals on board were very good. Some nights I found myself commenting that I've had better, but it certainly wasn't bad. On lobster night, I ate 2. Most nights I couldn't decide on the appetizer, so I had 2, or even 3. It's also fun to try food I wouldn't normally try, since it wasn't costing me anything. And if I didn't like it, I could just order something else! The one thing I found most disappointing with our meals were the desserts, which mostly were bland. Only a few I found decent enough to finish, but I was fine with that- after the huge meals, who needed a big dessert? Plus, the soft ice cream machine flowed 24 hours.



We ate each night with 2 lovely women, Melinda and Pam. They were sisters and were so very nice. Loren and I both enjoyed getting to know them. We were at a table for 8, but most nights it was just the 4 of us. On our second night, we finally met Rick and Tom, two buddies cruising together. Rick was a character, who kept talking of his wife, yet he wore no ring and seemed to flirt endlessly. Tom was single, but very quiet. Both were fishermen who looked forward to some deep sea fishing on our first stop in Cozumel.



I was a little disappointed in the rain that began to fall just as the ship brought in her lines to set sail from Miami. People scurried below decks, but Loren and I stuck it out, eventually finding a covered area on deck 10. The rain didn't last long and we enjoyed the views leaving Miami for almost an hour before exploring the rest of the ship. That first night we sailed fast, going through a low pressure area with high winds and seas. All night the boat swayed up and down and from our room over the bow we often heard the ship slamming into waves with a hull-shaking thud and rattle of anything loose in the cabin. It was like slow motion turbulence on a plane, which I love. A few times it woke us up, once causing me to comment that it was like an earth quake! And when asked the next morning, about a third of those in the theater said they were experiencing some sea sickness. Fortunately, it never bothered me.



On day 2 at sea, we arrived in Cozumel as the sun was rising. I awoke in time to venture onto our balcony for photos. I had booked an interior stateroom, as I normally spend very little time in my room, so I have no need to spend the extra money on a view. However, we got an upgrade into a room with a picture window. It was over the bow, 2 levels below the bridge. It looked onto a large balcony, which very few people seemed to know about. It was almost like having our own private balcony! I spent a lot of time there, especially when we arrived at our various ports.



It was in Cozumel that Loren and I had our only official excursion. We had booked a tour to see the Mayan ruins of Tulum. We had to disembark at 0800, so we had secured a prearranged room service for breakfast and got some sandwiches as well to take as a snack on the tour. To get to Tulum, we rode a 45-minute ferry to the mainland, where we boarded a bus for our hour-long ride.



I was amazed at the beautiful clouds that morning when we arrived. Our tour guide was amazing. He was of Mayan ancestry, so was able to give us a very interesting account of their history, making sure to convey his belief that the Mayans disappeared because there were more people than what the land could support, so they abandoned their great cities and greedy rulers, leaving most everything behind.



The ruins were amazing and Manuel, our tour guide, explained their correlation to the sun and stars and the seasons. He showed us places on the ground where one can easily find pieces of pottery left over, but saying that it was bad luck to take any. There were numerous birds and iguanas and the sea breeze and ocean sounds were quite pleasant. I was glad to be visiting at a time when it's not too hot, as I hear that Tulum can get quite warm.



After the tour we had some time on our own to look around, and then Loren's agenda was to get a good Mexican taco. Manuel recommended a place so we returned to the bus area to give it a try. We both had a combination plate with a fish taco, a beef taco and a chicken quesadilla. All were very good and the margaritas were so strong that by the time I finished my 2nd one, I was a bit loopy. I slept almost the entire way back to Playa del Carmen for our return ferry.



We still had a lot of time and did some brief shopping before running into Tom and Rick, who were at a bar getting hammered. Tom showed off photos of the large mahi mahi that he had caught on their fishing trip and then we made our way back to the ship.



Loren and I were very much looking forward to snorkeling in Grand Cayman, our second stop. I had found a place within walking distance of our pier where there was a ship wreck over which we could snorkel. However, an early morning announcement informed us that due to strong winds and high seas in Georgetown, we were positioned in a different area of the island. Many tours were cancelled and we would not be able to snorkel over the Cali, due to the big waves. However, the area the ship was positioned was fairly calm. We took the tender to the island and asked about a place to snorkel. The lady told us of a public beach about a five minute walk. We set out for said beach and found it to be quaint, beautiful and a perfect location for snorkeling.



It wasn't the prettiest snorkeling I've done, and the waves were a little intense at times. But I accomplished what I had set out to do. That was to see turtles, sting rays and lobster. Not only did I see these, but I saw a cuddle fish and a neat-looking flounder. It's for times like these that I'm happy I have a waterproof camera and I even took some underwater video.



After getting out of the Caribbean waters, I found a nice shady spot to lounge in and met a family from San Diego. I took more photos of our ship, which was unable to actually anchor, due to the depth of the ocean, so it, and a few other ships, kept their positions by using their thrusters.



The following day we arrived in Ocho Rios, Jamaica as the sun was rising. It looked so colorful and inviting. But I found Ocho Rios to be a pain in the ass. Every three steps and we were accosted by someone new asking if we wanted a tour, if we wanted a taxi, if we wanted food or music, if we wanted ganja and I even was offered an 8-ball, which I think has something to do with cocaine.



I was more than happy to get back to the ship after our short little walk through town, where Loren picked up some Jamaican jerk for lunch. I was satisfied with the jerk I had at dinner the night before, so I ate on board, grabbing a tray of food and eating on a lounge chair on deck 10, which is where I spent most of my deck time on board, as it was shady there and I could keep out of the sun.



It was so nice to lounge on deck on our at-sea days. I'd take some reading, but it was often difficult to do much as I'm easily distracted by the people to watch. There were a lot of young people and people my age on board our cruise. There were also a lot of Canadians, escaping the winter. I loved meeting all the interesting people and hearing about their cruise experiences. I was also happy that Loren and I were content to be spending most of our days doing our own thing. It was the perfect balance of having a friend to go on excursions with and to enjoy the shows with, but being able to move freely and keep my own agenda on board. He loved playing bingo and I enjoyed the art auction and games, or going to high tea.



Each night we attended the shows in the large ornate theater. Most nights the shows were really good and offered song and dance numbers. One night we were entertained by a couple of guys who did comedy and juggling. The next morning at breakfast I actually heard someone use the term, "tomfoolery" in his review of that show! It was hilarious. On 2 nights there was a hypnotist. I've always been skeptical of these shows, not trusting that people are actually under. But I met a kid in the hot tub who said he really was looking for his belly button and couldn't explain why he wanted to belly dance – and try to take his clothes off while doing so. Maybe it was for real, after all. But then, the next night I met one of the guys who said he wasn't under and that he was just going along with it for the glory of being on stage.



Our cruise director was so energetic. His name was Butch and he appeared to be only in his thirties. He talked fast but often was quite humorous and ended most paragraphs by saying, "Ay?". He even had us repeating 'Ay' every time he said it. He was from Minnesota, as were a lot of the American guests.



My biggest disappointment with this ship was the smoking policy on board. I had been looking forward to spending time in the disco at nights and in the piano bar and doing some karaoke. But in each of these bars, and a few others, they allowed smoking! I went to the desk to inquire; do they allow smoking every night, or are there some non-smoking nights? Nope, every night. And where were the non-smoking bars? One was in the main lobby, which is where all the octogenarians hung out with the lounge music. One was a bar that closed down at 11pm each night. And the other was the bar next to the casino, where the smoke was so intense you could hardly see the far wall! Not only that, but Carnival allows smoking in the state rooms (any interior cabin and any cabin with a balcony…and you can smoke inside the room, not just on the balcony!). This meant that in walking down the corridors, it was like walking through an ash tray. The ship often seemed like one, big, floating ash tray!



It was for this reason alone that I have told numerous people that I could never sail on Carnival again, not until they change their smoking policy. When I sailed on the Italian line (MSC) I was never bothered by smoke on board! It's sad, too, as the ship was beautiful, the staff were friendly, the other passengers were fun and energetic and other than not being able to enjoy the night life on board, I had a really good time.



The week was over far too fast for me. I could have spent another week on board and now I am thinking one day, I'll need to take a 2-week cruise! Loren was ready to get home, though, saying he was tired of eating! Yes, we lived like kings and ate like there was no tomorrow. Now I'm home, a bit depressed, and on a strict diet to lose the pounds I put on last week! But it was so worth it. And with more vacation coming to me in November, I am already putting out the word that I'm seeking cruise partners. Maybe the Mexican Riviera!

Here is a link to all my cruise photos:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/gallery/creativeapps/slideShow/Main.jsp?token=823345368211%3A274494334&sourceId=533754321803&cm_mmc=eMail-_-Share-_-Photos-_-Sharee

Mrs. Sanders

Photo: Albany bulb artwork by Penguin Scott

The year was 1981 and I was in seventh grade. Paul Revere Middle School had just opened for seventh and eighth graders. In fact, during the first few weeks of classes, there were still a few minor construction projects still under way.

Yet, for being a brand new school, it had a rough quality to it. Perhaps this is partly due to the fact that at my previous school, the elementary, my class of several hundred sixth-graders were at the top of the food chain and had no negative influences reigning down on them, whereas the eighth-graders had come from a middle school in a rougher part of Houston, where they had different values of behavior. Being in a new building was nice, but I didn’t like the energy of the other students.

I was assigned a class to learn Spanish. The room was located on the second floor of the new school, near the front of the building. The newly-scrawled graffiti was a bit more prevalent in this part of the school, which I thought was odd since it was closer to the principal’s office. I largely ignored the graffiti, in part because I didn’t understand what much of it meant.

The thought of learning Spanish intrigued me, so I was at first eager to take part in the curriculum. Walking into the room, I found a seat near the center of the room and laid eyes on Mrs. Sanders. I knew it was Mrs. Sanders because her name was written on the green chalkboard at the front of the room. The lettering was exquisite. I don’t know that I’d ever seen a teacher with such nice chalkboard script.

To my young eyes, Mrs. Sanders seemed to be a hundred years old. Round spectacles hung on her tiny nose, which was framed by wrinkled cheeks and a forehead full of horizontal lines etched deep in her skin. She had to be older than my grandparents and I wondered if she’d still be alive by the end of the semester.

Her hair stood high and rounded from being teased, and apparently had been dyed, as she had roots of a slightly lighter color with some grey evident throughout. Skinny legs seemed to dangle from beneath her blue polyester skirt and on her feet were wimple and sturdy low-heeled sandals, like any typical person of her age might wear, with a large gold buckle and squared fronts. Her bony arms formed points at either side of her body, with its bulging tummy, as she listened to a student with her hands rested on her hips.

As she listened to the girl speaking to her, her brown eyes would squint, seemingly to better concentrate on what was being said. This created more wrinkles on her face, which seemed very unnecessary to me!

When she spoke, she did so with an old, gravelly voice. She had no accent, which I think I expected from someone about to teach me Spanish. But she spoke with a careful consideration of what she was saying, deliberate in her pronunciation and sure to be understood so as not to need to repeat herself. And I would come to find that she had a habit of looking downward towards the end of her sentences, as if she was looking down on the person being spoken to.

The room quickly filled and the new-styled electronic horn sounded , announcing the start of class. It would take some time getting used to hearing this horrid dual-toned beep after hearing bells for so many years.

I said a quick hello to Tim and Bill, friends of mine who sat in nearby seats. Our rectangle desks with their storage shelf just under the simulated wood grained tops were arranged in five rows of six desks in each row. I put the books from my other classes in the wire shelf and readied my notebook for class.

Mrs. Sanders started class by saying something in Espanol, and then followed with the English translation. Nothing like feeling lost in a class from the fist words out of the instructor’s mouth. It’s a feeling that would not be replicated again until I would reach college, when I enrolled in algebra! Carrie, who sat just behind me seemed to understand, though. She showed off by giving a little laugh after the teacher’s opening statement and before the translation.

Her first order of business was to rearrange the class in our seats according to a diagram she had already made. This was so she could better remember our names, as she could easily look to it and match the child with the corresponding box, which represented the seat the child sat in. But it was because she was too old to remember us any other way. My name came towards the end of the list, so I lost my nice seat near the center of the room and was now in the row furthest from the door and near the back of the room.

Mrs. Sanders’ next duty was to assign us all the Spanish equivalent of our Americanized names. I started to get excited at this prospect. I wondered what my name in Spanish would be. I liked my name, but it didn’t seem to have much flair. I did like that it was not a too common name. But after hearing it for so many years, I liked the idea of hearing something new for a while.

My friend Tim, while within the four walls of this room for the rest of the semester, would be known as Timmy-TAY-oh. Neat. Linda was now Leenda. Here, Mrs. Sanders took a moment to comment that her name meant “beautiful”. I like that, since that is also the name of my mother. John was assigned to be Juan. George became Hor-hay, there was Carmen, Rosa, Tow-mahs and I loved how Bill became Guiermo.

This was so exciting. What wonderful names. We were to use these names at all times during this class. My turn was coming up, she’d gone through almost the entire class. I sat up a little higher in my seat and presented a good, clean image to the ancient one. She got to me, first looking down at her list for my name. She looked up, hardly giving thought of my new name much consideration . Her lips parted and air from within her old, wrinkled lungs pushed through her vocal chords and they produced my very own name, as I’ve heard millions of times before, but only now with a slight accent over the O, coming out rhyming like something between hot and scoot. I could hear Leenda snicker.

And just like that she moved on to the next student and for an hour each day I would simply be called, Skoht. I slumped back down a bit, the smile from my face faded, my anticipation dashed. I hated Mrs. Sanders. And Leenda, too!

The class would be fun at times; trying at others. During the year we had a few celebrations, even going outside to finally burst the piñata that had been hanging in the class all semester. We had a field trip to a flamenco guitar concert and visited a Mexican bakery. Mrs. Sanders taught us to conjugate verbs, how the language had masculine and feminine words, and I became very good at the pronunciation of the words of the language.

But I never really came to like Mrs. Sanders. I don’t think it was the way in which she carelessly threw out my name with an accent on our first day, nor was it the fact that she was a small, scrawny ancient woman. She was an abrupt woman. She was very strict when it came to her familiarity with her routine. We were often required to state classroom answers “en Espanol”. I was a slow learner and not very motivated. She was constantly calling me out on my lack to answer in Spanish to the ability that she thought I should have.

However, after all these years, twenty-eight, to be exact, I now see that Mrs. Sanders was actually a wonderful teacher and a nice woman. I still think about her when, for fun, I will read a paragraph in Spanish with the proper pronunciation. I don’t know what the words mean, but I know how to say them.

I now appreciate her routines. I see that she was not yelling at me or talking down to me, but that she was pushing me to become a better student. But I was too busy learning the bad habits of the adolescents who shared the halls of Paul Revere; who had a rougher upbringing than that of mine.

Surely she’s expired by now, or in a state that she’d certainly never remember me. But I’ll never forget that class, that meticulous old woman, and the way she would call my name…Skhot.

An Acquired Taste by Penguin Scott

Photo by Penguin Scott

There goes an old man shuffling down the street. You've seen them a hundred times. If you live in certain parts of the country, maybe more. I've often wondered about that old man shuffle. How long have you had it? How did it come about? Did it start slowly or was there some traumatic event involved. One day you walk with majesty, the next- after some terrible accident, or finding out your hero is gay- the shuffle.

I recently had a bad bout and was taken to the hospital where I was told I had some unknown viral infection. With a fever of 107, sore, red spots all over my body, fatigue and achyness, I've been starting to feel my age, whereas, before getting sick, I felt about 7 years younger than I really am. But the latest thing is, I can drive for as short a distance as 10 miles, and when I get out of my car, I shuffle into my house; just like an old man.

So recently, I asked a friend of mine if this was going to be the start of how I look old to others. Will I have this shuffle from now on? Will I no longer be able to run up a flight of stairs? Will I now be taking the phone of the hook between 2-3 for my daily and quite necessary nap? Oh, wait, that last one, I've been doing it for years now.

When I was in high school, I remember a neighbor of mine in the condominium complex in which I lived. I didn't really know the guy well. I would run into him as I picked up bags of trash . I had a job with the complex office and twice a week they would let me drive around in their electric golf cart and collect the trash people put out by their back door. By the time I would get around to servicing the buildings in my part of the complex, it was usually getting to be dinner time, and I would see Mr. Napier leaving for his car. He was a classic looking man, meaning he always wore slacks and a button down shirt with a tie and a hat and all very well coordinated. I knew so little of him but that he lived alone. One day I came to find out from him that his daily excursions were to go to various local restaurants for dinner. I got the impression that this man has never dirtied a pan in his life. Why, his countertops must be free from any scratch marks, burn marks or stains.

There have been times when I've been in eateries and I'll see a man eating by himself and wonder if he was not similar to Mr. Napier, heading out each night for sustenance. What a life, I think, to always have the luxury of eating out, to always be waited on and to be able to afford it. It's never like Mr. Napier was always going for the dollar menu, to be sure. He was going to nice sit down places, please wait to be seated, why, Mr. Napier, so good to see you again, would you like your regular table?

With my recent illness, I've not been much in the mood to do any cooking. Not to mention that where I currently live, decent cooking is made difficult by the fact that I only have a kitchenette; a small fridge, a sink, a few cabinets, a microwave and a toaster oven. These are hardly the tools with which to make a roast chicken or a succulent casserole. I eat a lot of frozen meals, stuffed in my small freezer. I also make a lot of sandwiches or little concoctions in my nifty omelet maker that I found in the aisle of the store that shelves the, "as seen on TV" items. It's not usually too bad, what with my travels all over the world. I eat a few meals on the plane, or I eat out; in the airport, in the hotel restaurant, in the downtown mall food court. I don't see that as luxurious, as it's the only thing I can do, really.

But being home and unable to work for the last six weeks, I'm eating out more at home than normal. And what with my feeling my age, or older, and my newly acquired, and hopefully temporary old man shuffle, I've been feeling more like Mr. Napier than ever. Is this what I have to look forward to? Forever the bachelor who can't cook for himself, for whatever reason, and eats out for his dinners. Why, Mr. Scott, so good of you to join us this evening. Would you like a menu or will you have the special, as usual?

A few nights ago I was trying out a local restaurant for the first time. It was fairly crowded, which was a good sign. It always seemed empty to me, so I never entered, thinking, well, if no else will eat there, I surely won't. But I'd heard good things about it so I found myself there with a table for one and with quite a few others but all in groups of 2's or 4's. As I sat there, I had nothing to do but watch the other people. A young couple came in and occupied a booth to my right. They were in their mid thirties and once they took their seat, they both took out their portable communication devices and starting thumbing at them like they were covered in ants. They remained silent, a mirrored image of one another; head down at the same angle, same postures, holding their devices identically. Their only interruption was to give their dinner order, and then they returned to the silence and to the invisible ants.

They must have known one another for a long time to be so comfortable with that silence, I thought. I felt badly for our society when this is acceptable behavior for two people in a restaurant. Was there nothing they had to say to one another? What was so important out in the world that they couldn't tear themselves away from it for 40 minutes while they enjoyed a meal, each other's company and remembering what the other's face looked like, or how they each laughed. From where had they just come that they seemed to now be so out of touch? The woman finished with her project and I even heard her ask a few questions, each one answered by moans and grunts, while the guy continued. The only time he put that phone down was to shove a sandwich in his mouth. Then the phone came back up to his face, the bill was paid, and the two left- in silence.

Today I went to a fast food place for a burrito. Next to me a guy sat down. For a moment I thought it was one of the Baldwin brothers, the more famous of them. He hadn't shaved in a few days and he wore baggy blue sweat pants and a baggy orange shirt. His hair was mussed and I thought had I been close enough, he probably smelled as if he hadn't showered in a few days, either. On his tray were 8 food items, wrapped in various colors of the restaurants food wrappers, indicating that not only was he hungry enough to order so many items, but that he enjoyed variety.

I looked away for only a minute. When I looked back, there were now 7 items and one balled up piece of paper. I thought little of it, looking out the window to the surfers visible in the ocean just beyond. Now the man had 6 items and 2 balled up pieces of paper. Another glance around my environment and there were 3 items left. Amazed at how quickly his food was vanishing, I found that I simply had to watch. He opened the next item and I saw a taco emerge. It was gone in only 4 bites! His first included a good third of the crunchy treat. I thought, well, he could buy smaller clothes or try to fill out into what he already had. I also imagined that a few years prior, this was a good looking young man, busy in college with an active social life, an active sex life and a healthy interest in a sport or two. But now, here he was, looking like he was on a fast track to becoming the local town hobo and shoving food in his mouth like it was 2012 and the world was about to end.

As I got up to depart, I saw that he was again at the counter and was being handed a plastic bag quite full of more food which he followed me with out the door. Now I thought maybe he was one upping on me. He'd go out for dinner like the rest of us going down hill, but he'd at least take some home as well! Bon appetite, sir.

Hospital Stay

Photo of my mother's hospital visit and my left arm with the "Penguin Pox"

On November 25, while visiting family in Colorado for Thanksgiving, I started feeling ill. Mostly, I had the classic symptoms of altitude sickness; tight chest, heavy breathing, headache, lightheadedness. The next day I had a fever and was feeling wrong. I also had developed red spots on my face, neck, arms and legs.

On Thursday I went to the emergency room with a resting heart rate of over 120 beats a minute. They put me on an IV to hydrate me, took some Xrays and a CT of my chest. They were afraid of a blood clot, which was negative. They said the spots were a viral infection and said I had a light case of bronchitis. They medicated me and sent me home.

That night the spots on my body became so painful I could hardly walk. This meant I stopped drinking water, as I couldn’t get up to us the rest room. So on Friday, back to the ER I went. They took me by ambulance to a better hospital in Colorado Springs, as they also wanted to get me to a lower altitude.

By the time I got to Memorial General, I could no longer stand. During my 5 days in hospital, I had a fever of 106, had a biopsy, a spinal puncture, was on oxygen, given lots of drugs, many with needles, and had what seemed to be half my blood taken for tests. There was another Xray and CT scan; I had a constant headache and the spots kept me unable to get comfortable and sleep more than an hour. But also, I could barely stay awake for more than hour at best. My esophagus was pained and even simply rolling from one side to another would have me winded; breathing heavily for a few minutes and elevating my heart rate again.

I was finally well enough to go home on Tuesday to be taken care of by Dr. Mom. But I really longed to be home. So my friend Ra came to the rescue by flying out on Thursday, a week after Thanksgiving, and flying me home on Friday, a week after I was originally scheduled to head back home.

And now, a week after getting out of hospital, I’m still recovering. The spots still exist and cause me a bit of discomfort. My headache is gone but I still feel ill, sort of like a flu, but not as intense. My esophagus, which has been giving me a lot of trouble, is much better. It often tickles a bit and makes me cough. I walk like an old man.

I’ve been assured that I’m not contagious, even though at first, anyone coming into my hospital room had to don a special gown, gloves and a mask. They don’t know what caused my spots, known as Erythema Nodusum. They said going in that they may never be able to identify the underlying virus that infected my system. But they did try, I have the track marks to prove it; on both arms.

In the days after being released, I kept thinking of the things that went through my head while in the hospital. I can’t remember everything, but I wrote down all that I could. Some of it is quite profound, so I thought I’d share it. Following are some of the thoughts and memories I have during my stay in the Springs.


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The family was concerned about the degree to which I snore. Last year at Thanksgiving, in Texas, I wound up sleeping in a tent near the house at my Aunt and Uncle’s ranch.
This year, with a house full of family and being the only single, I was positioned to sleep on the couch fold-out in the central TV room between the two bedrooms. Each day I did a snore check with my family members, who all seem to have to get up a few times a night, so I know they’d be able tell me, and be brutally honest about it as well. Each day I got the all clear, no snores! After the 3rd night I was admitted to hospital after getting a viral infection.
Now the next time someone complains about my snoring, I’ll tell them to go to hell, the last time I stopped for someone it put me in the ER!

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I closed my eyes and I saw a vibrant red ruby floating in the blackness.
I closed my eyes and I saw a sea of what looked like pot leaves. Just the outlines.
I closed my eyes and I saw an ornate black on black texture, very rich looking. In the near distance was a rapidly spinning shiny object. It seemed to be casting off diamonds as it spun. It was shaped like a thimble and spun faster and faster, the bright white diamonds flying from it in all directions, like a mirror ball casting off white light. I was amazed by it and have never seen anything so beautiful in my head before.
I closed my eyes and I saw bushes outside a window.
I closed my eyes and I saw a man standing behind me. His fist was in my chest, clutching it and making me hurt.
I closed my eyes and I saw a huge crowd, as in a stadium, cheering me.
I closed my eyes and I saw a huge throne in front of a large window. It was a red throne and no one seemed to be sitting in it. I thought I might.
I closed my eyes and I saw an ice floe and dark blue water.
I closed my eyes and I saw a large leaf covered by bees. They were just sitting on the leaf with very little movement.
I closed my eyes and I saw s-tubes, as in an ant farm, filled with small white pellets. The pellets were so clear-looking, like I was watching HDTV.
I closed my eyes and I saw thousands of black spots on a gray background.
I closed my eyes and I saw a spiraling river. It flowed rapidly towards infinity.


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I closed my eyes to focus the pain away. I had a vision that I was in a hole, I could look up and see a disc of light above me; a pale light, light blue, like the sun was setting. But I didn’t seem to be in a hole. The darkness was not dirt, but many, many faces. They were looking at me, most of them crying. The water left their eyes and fell at my feet like beads of sand, not at all wet. As the sand rose it felt so good.
But not all the faces were crying. Many were smiling. These seemed to be the faces who understood. They understood life and were not sad for my parting, but happy for my having come in the first place. And happy to see me move on, something I am not afraid of.
I wondered, then, why it was that the crying faces that created the sand could make me feel so well. Was I feeling happy in the sadness of others? I don’t want this! But I realized that it was not the rising sand that was making me feel so warm. It was the simple fact that there were so many faces to begin with.

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I was never scared while in the hospital. I’m not afraid of death. I kept pleading to be put in a coma but I was done with the pain. It’s been pain, not death, that I was afraid of all these years. But not even now did I feel fear of the pain. And I don’t like needles. A hospital is not a good place for such dislikes.
One odd aspect of being in hospital was the randomness in which someone would enter my room and announce that they were there for blood. This was code to me, saying, I’m about to stick you with a needle. They would come at 3am. They would come in at 2pm. Once they came and announced that they needed a blood sample from two different places. So that meant two different needles. They even came an hour before I was discharged; one last bit of blood before you go, please.
What’s worse was that during much of my stay, I was dehydrated, which made it more difficult to find a good vein. One woman seemed to give me a little arm massage as she spent a good 3 or more minutes gently pressing around my arm trying to find one. I was happy at this, for there was another woman who came for blood for who didn’t spend a lot of time, and wound up having to stick me twice for one sample of blood.
But I resigned myself to the fate of what I had to endure. If enduring needles to take my blood meant curing the pain, fine. But it was the pain that I was soon tired of dealing with, and is why I kept asking them to just induce a coma. I was tired of the pain; such intense and constant pain. I was worn down and not sure I could endure much more; it never ended. I understood torture more now. And in my pleas for a coma, only one person ever asked me if I was scared. It’s such an interesting question. “Please, put me in a coma.” “Are you scared?” If asked the right way, it would really sound twisted. But at least it was asked in a way that seemed to indicate that she cared.
No, I’m not scared. And after this, I’m not even quite so scared of pain. I mean, look what I lived through!


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At some point during my stay, I was taken to get one of my red bumps biopsied. I was taken into a standby room and sort of prepped for the procedure. Because I could not stand, they moved my whole bed downstairs for this. The doctor arrived and looked me over and soon I was led into a completely white room. I had only previously seen these rooms on TV. The walls were covered in white tile. The floor was white. The ceiling was white. One thought that went through my head was that this must be one of the oldest rooms in the hospital. Another was, who has to keep this clean?
The doctor selected one of my red bumps, and the 5 others started busily getting ready. Me, still delirious from pain, sort of came and went, watching the ceiling; the big lights; the large column that came down from the ceiling like a periscope on a submarine. I was warned that the anesthetic was a small needle but would be painful. He knew what he was talking about. It hurt, but not as much as the pain I already was in. But it allowed him to scrape the red bump from me down to its core without any discomfort to me.
They took me back to the prep room and I soon was being wheeled back to my 3rd floor room. I had one less red bump than before but now had a suture in its place. The stress helped me sleep for a while, until my pain brought more morphine from the RN. A burn; a sigh of some relief; a feeling of light headedness; more sleep.

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I had been ordered a lumbar puncture so that they could determine if there were any virus in my spinal fluid. Having had lumbar injections in the past with back injuries, I was not overly excited to hear of this.
The two lackeys arrived to move me and my bed to the room for the procedure. I had been fighting a fever of 105 and had endured severe shivers, which lasted over an hour and left me battered. I’d even hyperventilated and the RN spent a good deal of time at my side keeping an eye on my vitals machine. A temperature this high is dangerous, so I’d been kept iced down. When the shivers started, they did take the ice away and gave me blankets. I had 4 blankets on me and I wanted more but was refused. They were very concerned with my fever. So when they wheeled me down for the lumbar puncture, I was not exactly with it to say the least.
I have no memory of the room but I can tell you it was not as white as the biopsy room. I could not tell you how many people were there but I do recall them bantering. I seem to recall being asked to roll over. I left consciousness. Looking back on it now, it’s a scary deal- losing consciousness.
This is being written on my last night in Colorado on this visit. My friend, Ra arrived today to assist me in going home tomorrow. He mentioned something to me today about the lumbar puncture. I’d completely forgotten it even happened. And if I didn’t recall part of the ride down, being asked to roll on my side, and being told it was done, I may not have recalled it at all. I don’t remember the ride back to the room but I do recall the doctor telling me it was all over and I asked, “It’s all over?” I don’t know what time of night or day the procedure was done, although I think they did it Saturday morning.
I think the fact that I don’t remember so much of this event scares me more than knowing what they did and that it most likely was painful.

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On the second night in hospital my pain level reached high limits earlier than normal. Nights seemed to be worse for me than days. I skipped dinner and was asleep around 6pm. When the RN woke me at 10 for vitals and meds, I was in a daze. I thought it was morning. I thought I had slept through the night, mostly beating my viral infection. Surely I could go home now! But it was only 10pm. I still had a whole night to go through. My temp was over 105, my heart raced, my whole body sang out in pain. I thought I might surely die before the sun came up. I called out to Adelie. I cried that there was still so much I wanted to write. Falling asleep with tears in my eyes made me feel more alive for some reason.

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There was a light knock followed by the sound of the door opening. It awakened me. Sleep for more than 20 minutes was really rare at this stage. I was lying on my left side. I was under a sheet and 4 blankets and I was shivering. A nurse was here to check my vitals. Knowing this, I began to move in bed so she’d have better access to my arms. The BP cuff hurt so much as it squeezed my bumps. The finger thing that checked for pulse and oxygen was no issue. My temperature would be taken in the ear; that was the easiest.
Every part of me ached and the spots all over my body were erupting in pain. My chest hurt and I was wearing one of those rotten overstuffed headache hats that I couldn’t tear from my head. With one eye open I looked up to her and pleaded, “Please, put me in a coma. I can’t do this any more.”
“Are you scared?” she asked. “No, I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid of this pain.”
“I know how you feel, dear. Be patient,” was her reply. She did her job, tucked me back in. I sort of passed out from the effort and stayed asleep for 30 minutes or so, until some part of my body moved and the pain would again wake me. I would moan, move, fall back asleep. This was my third night.

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Mom was my only visitor while in hospital. Her visits always seemed a bit odd to me. I always think of my mother as needing to be entertained. I know she can be happy just sitting with a good book, but she never seemed to bring anything with her, so her visits from the start just seemed like they would be brief. I always felt like I was keeping her from something.
I was admitted on a Friday, and she called me that evening to say she wouldn’t be in until the following day. Knowing that she was an hour away, I could understand this. She raised a very independent boy, after all. I would be fine. But I wanted her near me.
At some point on Saturday I opened my eyes from napping and heard her voice. At least I thought it was. Sure enough, there she stood in the medical gown, cap, mask and gloves she would be required to wear while visiting me. With the get up, I couldn’t tell what her expression was. Horror? I looked awful with all those red spots on my face and arms. No, she was calm and clear as far as I could tell. She was strong and independent. And perhaps she was not aware of just how much I hurt.
Her visits were always somewhat brief. On Monday she arrived early, before going to work, which she does in the Springs, so I guess it was convenient for her to be there. To entertain her, I turned on my TV, which was attached to the wall behind my bed on a long arm that I could move and manipulate. I knew I couldn’t stay awake and thought maybe the TV would keep her there longer. I didn’t want her to go and I didn’t want her to be bored.
On another visit, I tried my best to keep a conversation going to entertain her. As I wore down and knew that a nap was coming, I thought about just fading off and I’d see if she would still be there when I awoke. But she knew I was fading and cut things off by announcing that she had some things to do in town and would be by later.
I think it’s funny, my being sicker than ever in my life and still thinking that I needed to keep Mom entertained while I was the one she was there to visit. She brought me a large photo book and a magazine. I was never able to do anything with them and after a few days I asked her to just take them away. (Now that’s sick, if I can’t even read a magazine that I asked her to bring!) But I guess it says a lot about the man she raised.


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I’ve always said that I am not afraid to die. Then as I went through this past week, and there came to me two times that I actually thought I might die, I pleased myself to know that I didn’t back down. I really was not afraid to die. When I really thought I would not leave the hospital alive, I didn’t chicken out and plead for more life. I accepted it, although a bit disappointed that I have not written all that is in my head. I must now work on that, so the next time I think I hear death, I’ll again be content to follow.
But thinking about death and my life has me wonder, have I lived my life well enough? Have I gotten from it what I need, what I should have? Are there holes? Did I do well? There is yes and no for all questions. But I am happy with the footprint I’ve left. I’m happy with my status and the things I’ve accomplished. I’ve done more in my life than so many do in theirs. And even though I feel left out on a good deal of things, I don’t think I got a short stick. I may not know an instrument and made it in a band, but I’ve traveled the world as if I were in one.
The meaning of life is different for all people. Once you discover the meaning of yours and start applying that meaning to your life and living that meaning to its fullest potential, you can never be disappointed in death. You’ve been doing it right. And for that, there is no disgrace. Live life well, take all opportunities, learn, listen and watch, and have few regrets.
The bottom line is this- real or perceived, I came close to dying in the hospital and I have little plans for any change to the manner in which I will live my life. I may have new goals, but I think I’m doing pretty darned good here.

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I’m starting to hear stories of things I don’t remember. Mom tells me I had a nice conversation with Blossom. I do recall that we spoke and I recall him saying I should come up for his birthday later this month. But she told me other things I asked about that I simply don’t recall.
Ra tells me we had almost the same conversation twice. Apparently I didn’t recall the first one. I remember Terry calling to tell me not to worry about the cats, but did we say anything else? My grandmother called nearly each day, but I really don’t even recall those conversations. I hear this is very typical of fevers and pain and hospitals.
I watched very little TV. I remember watching Sponge Bob. I remember laughing at one episode and thinking how nice it was to laugh. I wanted to wait for the next episode, but fell asleep. When I awoke, it was nearly over and I just turned off the TV. Mom says we watched the Today Show together one morning, must have been Monday, but I don’t remember that. For the most part, the noise from the TV simply irritated me and I didn’t have the attention span to watch more than about 15 minutes, which is the length of a Sponge Bob episode. It was rare that I was awake for more than 20 minutes at a time.
And in reading back the text I sent out to a few select good friends, it did not sound like something I would have written, especially in ending it by writing, “pray for me.” As spiritual as I am, I would normally never ask for prayers.
Lesson learned here, I can not be trusted with a phone while feverish. Maybe it was a combination of the pain and the fever, but I was simply not myself during my 5 days in hospital.


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Morphine a poem by Penguin Scott 7Dec09

Four dose an hour
I need me some more
A little burn going in
To even the score
The effects of the light headedness
Will fade in time
But until then enjoy this drip
I’m set up
Ruler of the pain
Seer through the rain
And circling down this golden drain
Sleep tight on the rope
Sweet dream in the dope
An hour more
Then I’ll get another four
Racing through my bones
For a second it gives relief
But I see through the haze
Please are-in, take it from me
I’m done in
By the maze
They drop it in bit by bit
To even the score
Four dose an hour and
I need me some more