Riding a Cross-Country Health Roller Coaster

Riding a Cross-Country Health Roller-Coaster (and still smiling)

I was very tired when I arrived at my son's home in Santa Cruz, CA late in the evening of July 14^th.. The next few days I didn't feel quite myself. I noticed I had less than normal confidence when climbing the unstable steps in the backyard. I wondered if my brain's balance mechanism was suffering from oxygen deprivation. I also had a “frog in my throat” at times, and my voice did not have its customary timbre.

These symptoms vanished in a week or so. I felt normal at my grandson’s wedding July 30^th and then fit enough to keep pretty close to my two sons as we rode motorcycles up the coast and over twisty mountain roads in California's Tiffany Alps for four days.

Two weeks later, when up in the Portland, Oregon area, I noticed that at times, when I breathed deeply, I heard a faint rasp in my chest and occasionally coughed. In a few days my throat became sore. I visited a Doctors Express location for an exam. The assistant nurse confirmed right lung congestion with her stethoscope. An X ray alarmed the attendant doctor for she felt it showed a greatly enlarged heart. She referred me to a cardiologist. However, her written report indicated possible pneumonia and she gave me a medium strength antibiotic to take for it.

I saw the cardiologist the next day. She looked at the Doctors Express X ray CD and found the heart was only moderately enlarged. Her EKG proved normal but she got me an appointment the next week for an Echocardiogram.

I have had a heart murmur for 15 years. It and the moderate enlargement, are caused by stenosis (calcification) of my aortic valve. Other than an occasional echocardiagram, I have paid scant attention to it as I have been asymptomatic (no chest pain or shortness of breath). Now the cardiologist seemed to ignore the “pneumonia”. She evidently felt the congestion was caused by heart disease.

The echocardiogram diagnosed acute aortic valve stenosis. The cardiologist said she agreed, and while the AMA guidelines would suggest I now wait for stronger symptoms or an “event” before taking any action, she favored an aggressive posture – replacing the rusty old valve.

So I stored the bike with accommodating friends and flew into Islip, Long Island, on Sept. 5^th, Labor Day. The next day my brother-in-law, Buz Murray, drove me to see Dr. Berke, his cardiologist at St. Francis Hospital in Roslyn. Dr. Berke asked perceptive questions and examined me. He had me take a deep breath and exhale hard, as if I were blowing out a birthday cake. He later told me I failed that test miserably, (at least now, no one can ever call me a blowhard:). He doubted the rusty valve was life-threatening but said there were tests he could run later to assess its true condition. He suspected I had pneumonia and sent me downstairs to the ER for tests.

There, a doctor on the floor asked what they were supposed to do with me. He then glanced at a paper in his hand and said, “Oh, a CT Scan. Okay, go in the bathroom, strip to underwear and socks, and put this on like so”. With that, he unfolded one of those skimpy gowns, spreading his arms wide like a department store clerk. Once “gowned”, I was directed onto a gurney and pushed into one of the alcoves which bordered two sides of the room.

All the alcoves were occupied and more gurneys lined one wall. All bore patients and many had doctors, nurses, or family members sitting or standing alongside, making for crowded aisles. Personnel garbed in a rainbow of colors hurried about. Others sat and stood before work stations which paraded in a double row the width of the room. Gurneys and equipment carts moved slowly through the crowded space like storm debris helplessly caught in the current of a swollen river. Wow!

I was well-attended. I was wheeled out to exterior locations for a CT scan and X ray, had an EKG and a blood draw. Two antibiotics were subsequently intravenously administered for 90 minutes. My coughing ceased and my head began to clear.

At around 6PM, when I had been in the ER four and a half hours, I asked a passing asst. nurse if any further tests or procedures were scheduled. She looked at me quizzically, smiled and said, “You weren't thinking of leaving, were you? I'm sure you'll be here all night.”

I was dumbfounded! The cardiologist had said I was going down for tests, not an overnight. And poor Buz, standing by my gurney or sitting out in the reception area for all this time, waiting to drive me home. And then I needed to sleep!

Sleeping here was impossible. With so many people and so much activity, the large room was plain noisy. Then there was the other patient in my alcove. Like me, he had been wheeled in and out several times, jostling my gurney due to the tight space. His gurney also had a Vital Signs monitor mounted on a pole which frequently emitted loud electronic signals and alarms that would shame a Big Ben. And the ER elevator, a major traffic breeder, was immediately adjacent to my alcove. Down by the foot of my gurney, its tuberous CALL button protruded from the end of the partition separating my alcove from the elevator. Personnel would often bang on the switch to activate it, calling my attention as well as the elevator's. Sleep? – Not a chance!

I slipped into my street clothes. I told another passing asst. nurse to tell my nurse (I had learned each patient was assigned one) that I wished to leave. A half hour passed. Finally my nurse came by. I told her I wanted out because I couldn't sleep, my coughing had ceased, I felt good, and I needed rest but couldn't sleep there. I suggested she take my vitals and bring me any papers I needed to sign. Twenty minutes later she took my vitals, which were good, and quickly departed. After another ten minutes I told a passing attendant I wished to talk to my doctor, who was behind the nearby row of work stations. Time passed. Finally, I walked over to work station row and told my Doctor, standing on the other side, I wished to speak with him at my gurney.

A few minutes later the doctor came over and I told him my situation. He said he would have to talk to my referring doctor, Dr. Berke. A few minutes later I saw him exit the room with cell phone to his ear. A half hour later he returned to tell me Dr. Berke was tied up but might get free in 30 minutes to an hour. He suggested I wait. It was now after 8:00. I said I really wanted to leave. He said, obviously now feeding me morsels of information he had obtained from Dr. Berke, I needed to stay because I should see a pulmonologist in the morning. I told him I would be happy to return in the morning after I had been able to get some sleep at home. He responded by saying that there was something else – a suspicious looking spot had been detected on my X ray. Instead of caving at this piece of news, I told him to please, just get me the release papers. It was 9:00 before I and poor Buz could depart.

Dr. Berke called early the next morning to chastise me for leaving the hospital ER where he said tests and procedures were so convenient. He went on to say the CT scan had shown swollen lymph nodes and the chest X ray revealed a possible lesion (said almost reverently). I assured him I was calling the pulmonologist when her office opened.

Twin Carol and I arrived at the office of Dr. Janus, the pulmonologist, at noon that day. Because of Dr. Berke's “lesion” and “swollen lymph nodes”, we fully expected that, before the day was over, I would be back in the hospital and this time not just in its ER, but also the OR. We were ready!

While in the waiting room, I was summoned by a technician to get X rayed. When stripping off my shirt, I casually said that I had also been X rayed the day before. The tech left the area, returning in a few minutes to say I should stand down and return to reception. (How's that for an example of medical inefficiencies, etc.!)

Dr. Janus saw both of us. She was refreshing! She asked me to relate my recent travels on the West Coast and history of symptoms (I have logged them daily for almost two months). Then she said that she had already studied my hospital test results the evening before, courtesy of electronic wizardry (and no doubt thanks to a heads-up from my Dr. Berke).

She said I had a good case of pneumonia, but doubted there was even a hint of the big “C”. However, to verify that, she asked me to return for another X ray in two weeks when the lungs should be clear of pneumonia. She felt the lymph nodes were enlarged solely due to the pneumonia, but that it would be three months before they returned to normal size and that a CT scan should be taken then to prove this was the case. Dr. Janus gave me prescriptions for two antibiotics and told me to rest at home for two weeks. Earlier, I had told her of my exploits with my Oregon forester grandson, and now she shook her finger at me and said, “And no chopping down trees!”

Once I receive the “all clear” from the “lung lady”, I'll go back to cardiologist Berke to get an accurate reading on that rusty valve. If it ain't totally broke, I 'spect I'll soon be back in Oregon to again mount my steed and get her back to her deep-south barn, 'fore the weather window closes.

Fairhope, AL - Home of a True Renaissance Man

I arrived at the home of Ken and Marilyn Holland in Fairhope, Alabama on June 26, 2011.  I met Ken at the Dog River Marina in Mobile, Alabama in 2004. He lived on a sailboat at the marina and I was there working on Simba. We rode bicycles together a number of mornings, often ending up at a local McDonalds for coffee and an egg mcmuffin.

Ken is extraordinary in a number of ways. To begin with, back then he led what I felt was a unique life. He would work for a couple of years as an electrical engineer and then sail off to wonderful places until his kitty was emptied, returning once again to somewhere in this country where he would restart the cycle.

Later on I learned more about Ken. He was raised in the hill country of northern Alabama. His parents were sharecroppers, meaning they were allowed to till another man's land in return for paying him a portion of their crop proceeds. They were “dirt poor”.

Ken's uncles brewed bootleg whiskey. They built their stills back in the woods on other people's property; when the revenuers periodically came searching for stills, they would not find any on the uncles' property. When scarcely teenagers, Ken and a buddy delivered home-brewed whiskey to metropolitan areas in mason jars concealed under the car seats. They were never caught.

These days we suburbanites may boast that we rode a Beemer GS model off-road. We think we're adventuresome, but GS bikes were designed for off-road riding – not so Harleys! Ever hear of a Harley GS? Ha!

However, starting at a young age, Ken fiddled with Harleys, tearing the motors down to learn how they functioned, then modifying them and the bike suspensions. He rode his Harley's in the woods where the irregular terrain forced him to often jump obstacles. Word of his exploits got around: “He's jumping a Harley?!”, asked the kids in town. “Sure, and my pig can fly!”, they'd shout. But the rumors of Ken's off-road exploits continued. Finally the townies had heard enough and issued a challenge. They set up a jump which few bikes (and certainly no Harley!) could possibly manage, and staked a week's wages on the outcome.

Ken picked up the gauntlet. At the jump site, his challengers had selected a five foot high mound which they figured would be his Waterloo. But the only thing that Ken could see that he would consider a real jump was a 10-15 foot high hillock many yards behind the mound. He couldn't see the other side of the steep-faced hill, so asked what lay behind the “jump”. The townies thought he was trying to belittle the mound, their challenge, and ignored him.

Gunning his motor, Ken flew over the townies' “jump” with ease and then, to their consternation, sped on and up the steep face of the hill behind to soar out of sight. Although the backside of the berm dropped precipitously, Ken landed safely on his rear wheel. There were no more challenges issued.

Ken has been a ham radio operator for many years. The requisite antennae of various shapes tower over a large portion of his expansive back yard. And while from the front the Holland's attractive brick single story house and two car garage seem similar to their neighbors', there is a unique difference. At the rear of the garage is a door which leads to a room as large as the garage itself, and then a door at it's rear opens to an even bigger room. The first room houses motorcycle repair equipment (Ken has ridden the top-of-the- line Honda Gold Wings for decades), and extensive shop equipment including three sizes of drill presses (six foot, three foot, and a one foot tall model he uses to work on printed circuit boards). Upon entering the second room, one walks past several substantial pieces of. exercise equipment, then tables and shelves laden with electronic gear, and finally enters a ham's “radio shack” with the customary impressive black boxes faced with meters and gauges. The “shack” doubles as an office and Ken uses not one, but two, flat screen monitors to more efficiently utilize his computer.

Most impressive were the radio power supplies already built or under construction. I don't know the correct terminology, but let me say that where I might use a 7 volt supply for a computer accessory, Ken's power supplies are on the order of 10-15 THOUSAND volts. Yikes!

I had recently purchased a Garmin nuvi for my car. I was able to mount it on my bike and it served to tell me where I was and how it thought I could get from there to another point. However, Ken and I tried to install routes of my own design on it and failed despite numerous attempts. We finally determined that only a few of the nuvi series could perform this feat and that my 200 series unit was not one of them. I located a nuvi of the proper series in a neighboring town and purchased it. Ken found software that we also needed and downloaded it to my new unit. Through trial and error we learned how to create a route map on the internet Mapquest program that could be downloaded to the nuvi. So thanks to Ken, since leaving Fairhope I have been able to almost faultlessly follow scenic routes I design prior to taking to the road. Many thanks, Ken!

I am humbled and delighted to know this living proof that America is truly a land of opportunity.   Ken, the son of sharecroppers (who clawed their way up the socio/economic ladder to own their own farm(s),  is now in demand as a designer of chemical plant electrical systems.

One never knows where a conversation will lead in the Holland's house. For example, one day over lunch Ken and Marilyn spoke informatively about the Civil War, Martin Luther King's duplicitous actions in Birmingham, Alabama, and Custer's Last Stand. I listened in awe and felt like an ignoramus.

The little boy in me identified with Ken's newest toy: a six foot long blow gun. It arrived while I was there. Ken had seen a picture of one on the web and just had to have one. He wasted not a second to test it out. He dropped a four inch dart down its gullet, inhaled mightily and puffed out his cheeks like a five-year-old determined to blow out all those candles. With a noise like that made by old men aiming for barbershop spittoons, Ken propelled that dart 30 feet where it tore a hole in the target we had hastily drawn on a carton leaning agains the wall. “Bulls eye!”, we cried.

This unique man talks with a southern drawl and charm that puts one at ease immediately. I was gratified to learn that his wife Marilyn has the same fine qualities. In fact she is so generous and emblematic of “Southern Hospitality”, that I fear my waistline grew by two inches during my stay!

Clearly, I had an exceedingly pleasant and fruitful time at the Hollands!

Pensacola,FL to Fairhope,AL

June 26, 2011

I made the hour's hop from Pensacola,FL to Fairhope, Alabama on Monday morning, stopping in little Robertsdale, AL for breakfast at Mac'n Jerry's restaurant.

I am new at this travelin' business, so neglected to carry inside my motorcycle's tank bag which, in addition to maps and camera, contains pens, notepad (I purchased one the next day), etc. I realized my mistake

I had sat down for only a few moments before I felt a strong urge to record what I was seeing and feeling, but I had no writing tools. (The very next day I purchased pens and a notepad which I now carry in my motorcycle tank bag, along with camera, binoculars, etc., and now always remove and tke with me when I stop.) I went up to the cashier, a pleasant lady c.55 (she turned out to be Jerry), and asked if she had scrap paper and pen I could use. She gave me a pad of blank “kitchen checks” and pen. I sat back down and started jotting notes on the back of the checks.

Before entering, I had noted a sign on the door: “No credit or debit cards. Local checks only.” Up at the cashier's desk another read: “Please make BAD checks out to the Baldwin County Sheriff's Dept. Make GOOD checks out to Mac'n Jerry's Diner. Thank you. “ I guess restauranteurs had a little problem collecting in Robertsdale. On the brighter side, there was also a sign prominently displayed stating: “Will trade coffee for gossip”.

The interior was clean and bright, with pine walls on which were mounted several stuffed deer heads cum antlers. The deer sported large bibs fashioned from football jerseys: “Crimson Tide”, “Crimson Tide National Champs”, “Alabama”, and one wore “Auburn”. (I guess there was no doubt where the owner's heart lay.) Two large “Bud Light Playbook” posters displayed the past season's football schedules for the Crimson Tide and Auburn. Game scores had been added by hand with magic marker.

I asked the cashier if she was Jerry and if perhaps husband Mac worked the kitchen. She told me that she surely was Jerry, but that Mac was her mother, who had recently passed. I expressed my condolences and asked if the pretty and personable waitress (c.30) might be her daughter; she confirmed my guess with a warm smile.

Good venue, food, and people: Gee, this trip should be fun!

Tonopah,NV to Santa Cruz,CA

Wednesday, July 13^th

After yesterday's 369 miles at high speeds, I was seriously considering taking it a bit easy today by dividing the remainder of the route in two and attempting only one half today. I exchanged emails with Jeff late in the evening discussing whether to make sausage links of it or go for the gold, and if I chose the former then how best to arrange it. I worked on the route itself as well, and Jeff supplied a valuable short cut. I decided to let the next day's riding conditions, and my body, make the decision for me during the course of the day.

I woke as usual at six. High wind gusts were forecast for the afternoon south of Yosemite. So while I did some cals and stretches, I skipped the customary hour's walk to get an early start and was on the road at 7:45 after an Egg Mc Muffin and container of jo.

At Benton, I took Rt. 120 west and soon met a new type of terrain. A sign warned of “DIPS” but that meant nothing to me. Ahead I could see several “ripples' across the landscape and, although I slowed, I soon found myself launched into space for a few seconds. Each “dip” was a veritable ski jump. Although before encountering each series of dips I could see if there were obstacles ahead and adjust speed accordingly, it was disconcerting to lose all view of the road when dropping into the dip and then find myself defying gravity a moment later. Jeff told me the next day that the kids loved the dips and referred to them as riding a roller coaster – an apt description.

When I reached Yosemite it was 11 AM, far too early to stop. I drove the 31 miles through it, marveling at the scenery. I stopped to take pix but soon learned that the uneven gravel turnoffs were unfriendly to motorcycles. Wheels tended to slide, level spots where I could lower the kickstand were rare and usually soft, capable of quickly swallowing the kickstand and turning my upright FJR into a recliner in short order. Consequently, I was forced to bypass numerous photo ops.

The park ride soon offered another frustration: the single lane road contained numerous drivers who drove slowly to take in the vistas or search for a spot to park. In addition, there were many rented motor homes (CruiseAmerica, etc.) whose drivers drove slowly and cautiously. Places where one could pass were few and far between. The ride to the exit seemed interminable. I found myself yawning and losing concentration, not boding well for a safe navigation of the 150 miles lying ahead.

I finally reached the park “Portal”. Just outside there was a service station and restaurant. I pulled in to use the facilities, but once dismounted was disappointed to see a sign, “No Restrooms Provided”. It was 12:30PM. I called son Jeff to tell him where I was and that I would not stay overnight in Merced, some 40 miles ahead, but instead press on to Santa Cruz. He was happy to learn of my progress but said he believed I had about a four hour trip ahead and that perhaps I should stop at Merced and finish the trip tomorrow. As my finally exiting the park and now speaking with him had given me a psychological boost, I demurred and said I'd be there in time for dinner.

I rode to Merced but the GPS routed me into the center of the city, where several streets were closed for repairs with detours. This completely confused the GPS which insisted on sending me in circles. I was disheartened and very tired. I finally pulled over by construction debris and hollered to a sole pedestrian, asking if there was a park nearby where I might rest. The lady was apparently not intimidated by this “man from mars” figure in a bright yellow helmet and wearing a riding jacket with large shoulder pads. Nodding her head, she gestured to indicate I should come into the shade where we could talk. I pulled a California map that I had purchased before entering Yosemite out of my tank bag and joined her. She gave me directions to a park and, studying the map, showed me a route to Santa Cruz.

I found the park. I spread my jacket out in the shade of a tree and rested/dozed for a half hour. I got back on the bike and attempted to find Rt. 59 south leading to 152 west, but was soon lost again. I finally turned off my planned route on the GPS that had let me into the “maze” of Merced city, and called up its basic map of the area. In moments I saw where I was and found Rt. 59 south. “Hooray for the nuvi”, I exclaimed to no one in particular, and started off with renewed energy and confidence. Rt. 59 led me to Rt. 152 west which I was happy to find was a four-laner with cars zipping along at 65 mph. However, after a few miles traffic slowed and then stopped at a series of traffic lights, apparently timed to reduce speed to an average 25 mph. Then the lights disappeared and traffic accelerated to 65 again. In a few miles this scenario was repeated, and then again. Finally I saw a sign indicating I was entering the City of Los Banos, and soon I found myself in the city's bowels and Rt. 152 had vanished.

I entered a convenience store and asked, “Could somebody please tell me where to find Rt. 152, the road to Santa Cruz.” I was met with blank stares from several customers, but then one man said he could help me once he had paid for his purchases. He joined me shortly, shaking his head and saying that following 152 through the city was virtually impossible. He then gave me directions which proved erroneous (or perhaps the error was in my interpretation). After floundering about some more I finally came to a corner where there was small oval green sign “Rt. 152” on a pole below a city street sign. Like a dog picking up a scent, I continued on.

Eventually the street became a four lane highway. I soon passed a large flashing sign: “High Wind Gust Warning” and it delivered as promised. Unlike the wind gusts I had faced in the vast basins of Nevada which, while quite strong at times, were from one direction, these gusts came from every direction. It was impossible to prepare for them. I was forced to reduce speed from the posted 65, to 50, while cars and trucks maintained the higher speed. I battled these winds for an hour or more until the highway climbed into irregular terrain. I was able to relax a bit and rest as I no longer had to wrestle with the gusts, but shortly saw a sign: “Hecker Pass ahead, reduce speed”. Then another: “Narrow single lane road ahead, drive carefully.” and another: “Headlights required on at all times.” I soon found myself thrust into a true “twister” containing numerous sharp curves and several hair pin turns. The road first climbed for several miles and then dropped precipitously. This was a road I normally would have relished riding on a motorcycle, but not now, when I was so very tired. My riding style must have been ugly for, with reflexes slowed and physical coordination minimal, I rode slowly and cautiously, surely frustrating the homeward-bound commuters in their autos behind me.

Eventually I exited the pass onto Highway One into Santa Cruz, then soon Rt. 17, and finally turned onto Vine Hill Road in the Santa Cruz Mountains, seemingly much narrower and twisty than I recalled. I descended the road cautiously and at last arrived at the gate at Jeff's home. It was close to 7PM, almost twelve hours since I left Tonopah,NV, and two weeks and 3,810 miles since departing St. Marys, GA. I breathed a deep sigh and smiled as I thought of the pilots' expression, “A good landing is one you can walk away from.”

Fort Stockton,TX to Las Cruces,NM July 4, 2011

Oblivious to the fact it was July 4th, I woke before seven, worked on routes and logs on the computer, then did a 45 minute fast walk.  I tried to get into the town's IHOP but the greeter was inept and rude, and kept me waiting for ten minutes although I could see a number of empty tables.   I finally determined the restaurant was short servers, so I bolted and got an Egg McMuffin instead of the IHOP three stack with blueberry syrup I had yearned for.

The country around Ft. Stockton is pretty flat but soon it got interesting. 

A wind farm of 50 or more giant turbines appeared ghost-like in the distance. When closer, I could see that they were strategically placed to take advantage of the irregularities of the terrain. Seeking a diversion, I let a portion of my brain rhapsodize for a moment: Several dozen turbines were spread uniformly across a large mesa, like the main body of a chorus. A group of five (with exceptional voices) stood on a smaller mesa nearby with music folios in hand, and perched on a sharp butte protruding between these choral bodies, two turbines performed their own special duet.

Once again focusing one hundred percent on the endless strip of concrete ahead, way off in the distance I could see the shapes of mountains shrouded in haze. Before long, at 85 mph, the mountains became sharp and bold. They were the most impressive I had seen so far. They were craggy and striated and clearly masters of the area, not to be challenged by mere mortals.

Every so often I spied an old fashioned windmill whose purpose once was to lift water to the surface, probably for cattle. I didn't see any with blades rotating so suspect they are no longer utilized. Back in Louisiana I did see windmills lifting water for crop irrigation.

Rest stops with bathroom facilities were almost 100 miles apart, with picnic stops offering sheltered tables every 30 or so miles. Like yesterday, at one rest stop I grabbed 20-30 minutes of zzzz on a picnic table bench. Although the temps were in the high 90's, a steady breeze and lack of humidity made the resting opportunities pleasant (although I did notice the back of my shirt was damp with sweat when I sat up).

The land to the south changed from brown to green as the Rio Grande neared. Before long I had entered El Paso city limits and I was thrust into a bustling metropolis. Once out of the city, the route turned northwest and in about 50 miles I reached Las Cruces (The Crosses). With the help of my nuvi, I found the Teakwood Motel, then Furrs Buffet where I jotted notes for this writing, and then a welcome bed.

Tomorrow's trip of 7-8 hours will lead into the Arizona Desert (and Scottsdale at last) so I will try to get a much earlier start.

Freeport (Clute) TX to San Antonio

July 1, 2011

After a hard hour-long walk and shower this morning, I rode a few blocks to Nena's restaurant, which I had spotted on my walk. As I was dismounting from my Yamaha stalion (hey, I'm in Texas now so gotta have a horse:) an hispanic looking man left the restaurant, admired the bike and then told me in English as good as my own that Nena's was a fine place. I entered and saw that most everyone there was also of Mexican heritage. Then I came to the conclusion that almost everyone in Texas was hispanic, quite a change from my experience in George, northern Florida and Alabama. I still have to bite my tongue to avoid greeting everyone with a buenos dias as, unlike in the other states, these people are likely to have been born here, in the ol' US of A, and might take offense at that salutation.

Regardless of their origins, the people in Nena's were surely of south-of- the-border extraction. And the decorations were some different from Mac'n Judy's place in Alabama. No deer heads for these folks, but football was still the theme. Oh sure, there were a few dark colored prints of Madonnas and mission churches, but two huge posters dominated two walls. I took pictures and apparently left my mental image of the graphics of one back inside the camera – but I do recall that the message was clear and it said in Spanish in large letters: DON'T SCREW AROUND WITH THE COWBOYS!

The other poster featured three foot high pictures of the three Cowboy's quarterbacks that have carried the team to victorious seasons in recent years: Roger Staubach, Troy Aikman, and Tony Romo. The logo, in Spanish, was “Carrying on the Cowboy Tradition”.

While I waited for my flapjacks to be flipped, I went back toward the entrance and met Nena's daughter Naomi, another daughter who was feeding her infant his bottle, and son Ed. He and I started chatting away like old friends. He was about 50, stocky (I'm being kind) with a graying mustache that continued down the sides of his mouth. He was very brown.

In a flash I was hit with an image of Eduardo plopped on a low bench outside an adobe ranch house. He had his arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed, chin on his chest and a large sombrero tipped down to shade his face as he caught some “z's”. But contrary to this image, the English that Ed spoke was pure “American”.

Naomi, her sister and brother Ed are the managers and chief employees of the restaurant, as their mother Nena is apparenly retired. It's a true family affair. Naomi's sister and Ed were sitting there eating and jawing because, as Naomi was quick to tell me, they were Off today. Their replacement server was a cheerful (possibly anglo) gal in her early twenties who had social graces but few server skills. I had to go up front for milk for my coffee, and then returned to look for a knife to butter my cakes. I saw a container of plastic forks and spoons, but no knives. Naomi solved the problem by pulling a metal one out of a cupboard, wiping it off with a cloth, and handing it to me with a smile.

And smile is what I did a lot this morning as I watched a corner table of six and high-chaired infant having a good time at one table. They spoke mostly Spanish. Next to me an Anglo 50-ish grandmother with daughter and her two girls (the mother fessed up her infant was spoiled as she picked her up from her high chair for the umpteenth time). Two Anglo workers sat near, and then two late teen males of most likely Mexican heritage. And in came more customers. The place was now hopping.

However, out front near the cashiering counter, sister and brother sat at leisure. I sat down with Ed and two younger brown men to discuss the Cowboy's outlook this coming season. It was fun. This was important for me. I am at home traveling, meeting good people. Like later in the day, at the Angelton Museum, the tourist information lady went out of her way to tell me the best way to San Antonio. And near the end of the day 25 year old Christopher deferred his shopping at Home Depot in order to learn precisely what type of motel I sought and then sketch a map of the best route to follow to find same.

Last night I pondered why these folks were so friendly and helpful. Was it my non-threatening demeanor, my white hair, my glasses? Maybe these and maybe also the two nickel size brown scabs on both sides of my forehead (plus the scars in the center from last Fall's surgery:) Or maybe it's the whole package.

I think it may also be the fact I look at, and into, a person's eyes. Somehow they know I am looking past the color of their skin or their southern drawl or their accented English, to meet them on equal footing, where the rubber hits the road.

Before I left Clute, the neighboring town to overly “refined” Freeport, I had wanted to take a picture of Mama Teresa's where I ate last night. I almost passed it by then because it was difficult to ascertain that it actually was a restaurant. But it surely was. And a fine one at that. It was a one story stand-alone building on a street corner. Some two dozen ceramic planters embracing scrawny green plants outlined a parking area in front. A large rusty empty bird cage watched over the planters. If you stood within a few feet of the building you could read the faded letters on a sign that declared Mama Teresa's produced fine food. I drew up to the building to decipher the sign and would have turned away were it not for a young man performing some chore outside. I asked if the establishment were open and doing business. I was answered in the affirmative so parked the bike and entered.

Inside it was wonderful. Soft warm lighting; browns and deep reds; an aria playing softly, and those wonderful rich Italian cooking aromas in the air. Mama was 75 and garrulous, with a heavy accent. The young man outside was Misha, the sole server. Bright and conscientious. He agreed the exterior aesthetics were pallid. He said they (probably mainly he) had placed a number of attractive ornaments, banners, etc. outside, but they were quickly stolen. He said his ideas were also often spurned by Mama, who was set in her ways. She had had a successful restaurant for many years in the next town, but was forced to move two years ago when the landlord jacked the rent. Now...(you can see where this is going).

With my departure delayed by my good time at Nena's, I forgot about taking a photo of Mama Teresa's. Perhaps it's just one more missed opportunity the restaurant seems destined for. It is very difficult for a stranger to navigate about Clute at this time as highway 183 is being widened with roads blocked and detours seemingly everywhere I wanted to go. It was tough on me and worse for my bewildered gps. I finally headed north and figured I'd pick up my planned route stored on the gps before long. Bue the gps and I weren't getting along; I felt it was taking me too far north so I hopped off the highway when I saw a Tourist Information Center sign at an exit. I ended up a few miles away at that museum in Angleton which I referred to above where that nice lady, I just remembered she was Rose “of Texas”, gave me the info I needed (anything but I-10 that would get me fairly directly to San Antone). Essentially I headed north to Alternate Rt. 90 which paralleled I-10 to SA. I could see a good number of fields were barren due to the extreme drought in this area. Soybeans looked green and healthy (but what do I know). The other most common crop appeared to be two foot high corn plants with brown tassels. I sure hope they weren't corn for, if they were, the farmers have serious problems.

At 4:30 I still 140 miles from San Antonio and my body began to tell me it would really prefer traveling in a soft-cushioned, air-conditioned car (average temp was 97 today). I stopped in Shriner, “The Cleanest City in Texas. Pop. 2069” to drink a bottle of water and study the map Rose of Texas had given me. I decided I had seen all there was south of I-10 so picked a road pointing north at a not-too-distant town coming up, and hopped on it soon as I could.

I was fresh out of water by now so ducked into a Wal-Mart for an infusion before making the route change. In 20 minutes I was soaring west on the super highway. But dang, these Texans are impatient drivers. I moved along in the left lane with the fastest vehicles, doing a steady 75 on this 70 mph highway. This seemed to create a problem for the impatient drivers with no tail-gating inhibitions. I, on the other hand, believe that the second greatest danger for me, after drivers like these, lies in the truck tire retread

carcasses you can frequently see, usually lying on the side of the road. I would not relish running into/over one of these crittes and consequently try to keep at least 5-6 car lengths behind the vehicle in front of me at highway speeds in order to have time to steer around such a danger. While I do not slow any drivers behind me as I keep my speed up with the flow, some drivers see that space ahead of me and are determined to fill it, “because it's there”. They pass me on the right and cut in front of me. They probably could care less about tread carcasses – they gotta push by me and the next, and next guy as well.

My new nuvi 1450 was not showing me Points of Interest so I could not search for Days Inns or anything else. (Carol and Buz and I like Days because often the price is ok and the quality not too bad.) Once inside the SA city limits, I asked a convenience store clerk where the motels were clustered. He gave me bad directions. I then accosted the afore-mentioned Christopher at Home Depot. He was very helpful. I hit the downtown Days Inn on the chance it wasn't too pricy (near the famous River Walk, Alamo, etc.) Clerk Lisa was wonderful. She agreed their $110 (with tax) price was a bit high, but asked if I should expect a bargain on a holiday weekend. She had a point. We hit it off (she's 42 and a (good-looking) grandmother, yet. I told her I was headed west for a grandson's wedding. She went to work for me calling the other Days Inns in the area to seek lower prices. Lisa found one a few miles away that quoted $180 for two nights and I hopped on it. (She gave me her card and told me to come back some other weekend and she would get me a good deal. She wasn't hitting on me – just being a friend.)

So many nice people!

It was now almost dark. I drove to the Days with the better rate, but the Scotch in me (I thought I was only English/Welsh:) caused me to turn in a block before at a place with a “Best Rates in Town” sign. The manager was having a dispute/discussion over rates with a group of four so I waited patiently. After 15 minutes things calmed down and the manager quoted me $165 for two nights, tax included. I was turned off by the tone of the prior discussion, and was giving some thought to the quality of my potential neighbors at the establishment. I said I'd think about it and ducked out while the manager scowled. I was relieved to finally register at this Days Inn. It is of lower than average quality, but it's clean and does have a Wifi that works (most of the time:)

Today, Saturday, I rode down to city center to see, and photo, the Alamo, River Walk, Needle, etc. I walked quite a bit to get in my aerobic duty, and picked up a “Foot Long” from Subway before leaving. I ate half when I returned to my room, and will eat the remainder NOW.

Day One of Trip West

Saturday June 25, 2011 Departed St. Marys

Today, Sunday, I am sitting in the saloon of Stan Carver's 43 ft Moorings Benateau at Palm Harbor Marina in Pensacola, Fl. I arrived last night at 7PM my time (6PM Central Time here). I first met Stan in St. Marys Boat Services boatyard, St. Marys, Ga, where he and his friend Peter Robinson worked on Peter's 33 ft Moody sailboat periodically over the past nine  months.  The boat was in very poor condition, unfortunately much worse than Peter had imagined.  In addition to cosmetic repairs, they had to replace most of the equipmen starting with the engine.  They peformed all of the work themselves.  Fortunately for Peter, Stan is a whiz at mechanics and a hard worker.  They are both blessed with a good sense of humor and spirit of comraderie which served them well during this daunting undertaking.  Happily, the boat is now back in the water and, after one or more addtional trips to Georgia, Peter will bring it to Pensacola.

I departed St. Marys at 9 AM, Saturday. I was sent on my way by neighbors Carol and Andy Pilsbury on trawler Damn Foole, and Irene Loycano on Valiant Katya. I rode I-95 south to just north of Jacksonville where I took I-10, the southernmost east–west, coast-to-coast Interstate. Unless I need to make time, as in this case, I plan to use it only when more scenic routes are not available.

The trip to Pensacola is 400 miles and Google Maps estimated traveling time by auto to be about six hours. I find that on a bike my traveling time is considerably longer.  After an hour or so of riding my butt usually begins to ache, one or more other body parts joins in, and my right forearm cries for relief from fighting the throttle spring. Consequently, I usually warmly welcome a rest area. I walk to a distant picnic table to stretch my legs, carrying tank bag and Coleman cooler. A few pages of a novel and a few gulps of water or an apple are sufficient to recharge me physically and mentally and off I go again. Yesterday's trip lasted 10 hours. An hour's halt at a rest area triggered by the need to seek shelter from a thunder storm added to the day's travel time.

Last night Peter, Stan and I dined at a restaurant on the water. I of course carried my purse for I had learned if I didn't I would surely come to find I would need one of its contents like sun glasses, or tape measure, jack knife, etc. However, this night I was embarrassed to find that while I had the purse, it was lacking its prime occupant – my wallet. Duh! (For ready accessibility during the ride, I had transferred it to my new tank bag.) Stan picked up my tab. Today he refused to take repayment in cash but I pretty much got even with him by buying his breakfast and then veggies for the scrumptious grilled steak dinner he prepared on the boat.

Stan is a retired real estate developer and Peter is Director of Emergency Management for the College of North Western Florida. Peter left this afternoon to join wife Diana, and Stan departed in early evening to nurse a nose infection back at home on terra firma. I will bunk on the boat again tonight and ride off to Fairhope, AL tomorrow morning

The recent week or more of surface prep and painting on Simba had tired me a bit, and then the last day's work of closing up the boat for the summer and packing for the trip added to my ennui. To top that, the trip itself was a bit demanding, so I was eager to hit the sack. I slept so soundly I never woke up until my customary 7 AM (a small miracle:) Then today I caught an hour and a half nap as well, so I feel well rested and eager to get moving once again tomorrow.

Can we anticipate the end of Al Queda, of Muslim terrorism?

Ponder this: Since the source of Muslim terrorism is dissatisfaction of youths with their lot in life, i.e. economic and political repression forged by the ruling elites, what we have seen in Tunisia and now Egypt may signal a quantum leap forward for all these oppressed peoples.  This may well be the turning point for them and consequently for the rest of the world in the war against terrorism.
Now all we need is for Israel to make a deal with the Palestinians so there can be a Palestinian state;  it would eliminate that festering abscess as well.
Lynn
Comments?

Crystal Took the Sparkle From His Life

My welder told me this story today.

Jimmy's brother Ted was 45 years old, happily married, two teenage kids, lovely home.  He had a nice little hardware business that every year provided a six figure income which, in rural southern George, enabled him to make the mortgage, meet all expenses, and build up sizeable savings and stock accounts.  Ted had worked seventy-hour weeks for as long as he could remember, and had figured he always would.  But now he was slowing down, no longer eagerly jumped out of bed in the morning to meet the challenges of the day.  He found he was looking for excuses to close the shop early.  The change gnawed at him.

One day Ted was having a drink with a good friend he hadn't seen for a couple of years.  His friend asked how life was treating him, and Ted surprised himself by confessing life actually didn't feel all that great these days.  His friend commiserated with him, then said he ought to try something he'd recently found helpful, stuff called crystal meth.  The friend said he'd been using it for a few weeks, said Ted should give it a shot.

Ted bought some, took one hit, and wanted another.  And that was it:  The End.  It was the end of his stock and bank accounts, his business, his home, and his marriage.  He now lived in his mother's house. 

Oh, Ted knew he should kick the habit, get a job, get a life.  But he didn't care...didn't care.

St. Marys Loses Its Mill

  



Companies, People, Ideas
The Fall of The House of Gilman
Robert Lenzner Tomas Kellner, 08.11.03

 How family feuds, business neglect and extravagant spending destroyed a billion-dollar fortune

Howard Gilman led a double life. He ran a group of companies that churned out the most mundane products you could imagine: paper bags, bleached cardboard and two-by-fours. Yet he could be found hosting glitzy functions where he would sip champagne with the likes of actress Isabella Rossellini, or entertaining dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov at his elegant plantation near Jacksonville, Fla., which Gilman transformed into a dance center and wildlife preserve.

It was at the 7,500-acre White Oak Plantation that Gilman was felled by a heart attack at age 73, in January 1998. By this time the Gilman family fortune, with $1.1 billion in assets, carried $550 million in debt. Now, just over five years later, much of the remaining money is gone. Gilman, who was childless, bequeathed the vast majority of his assets to the Howard Gilman Foundation. Yet at the close of 2001 the fair market value of the charity's assets was only $227 million. The foundation's 2002 IRS filing won't be available until this fall. But the circumstantial evidence is that it is in a downward spiral. One of the assets it held was a $47 million IOU from the parent of the buyer of the Gilman paper mill. With the buyer in bankruptcy--and the parent suing the Gilman estate for fraud--that asset may be worth nothing. The foundation, which typically gave to arts groups, is so broke that it stopped handing out new grants in 2003. (It is honoring existing grants.)

Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations, says the adage about family fortunes. The rise and fall of the Gilmans fits that pattern. Like many American success stories, this one begins on Manhattan's Lower East Side, the first stop for Jews fleeing eastern Europe. Isaac Gilman arrived in the 1880s and peddled trinkets on the crowded streets. By 1907 he had enough money to take over a distressed New England paper company in the village of Fitzdale, Vt., making newsprint and wrapping paper. The locals were so grateful they changed Fitzdale's name to Gilman in 1921.

Isaac passed the business to his son Charles, who in 1939 moved the business south to the Georgia-Florida border, not far from Jacksonville. There he built a large mill with three paper machines. He added a short-line railroad to haul trees, pulp and paper. The Gilman Paper Co. prospered and grew into the largest privately held paper company in the U.S.

When Charles died in 1967 the problems for the third generation of Gilmans began. Charles Jr., known as Chris, was president; Howard, the older brother, was a senior officer. Their relationship became strained, riven by jealousy and bitterness over control of the company, according to friends and family. In 1979 their mother, Sylvia, sided with Chris, disinheriting Howard and leaving Chris with control of the business.

Enter Bernard D. Bergreen, a New York City attorney who says he met Howard at a New York party in 1979 and became his personal counsel and, later, financial adviser and general counsel to the business. "Howard's financial future in 1979 was clouded at best," says Bergreen, 80. He also states Gilman had no equity in the company and limited business or investing experience.

Bergreen spoke only briefly with FORBES. His account, which largely blames Howard and Chris for the demise of the fortune--and of course can't be disputed since the two men are now dead--is contained in an 81-page petition filed with the Surrogate's Court in Manhattan. Bergreen says he managed to reinstate Howard's stake in the paper company by arranging for the two brothers to each obtain 50% of Gilman basically for free from the trust that controlled their father's estate.

In the middle of this turmoil Chris died from a heart attack in 1982, at 51. A new round of litigation ensued between Chris' widow, Sondra, and Howard over whether she was required to sell her share of the company to Howard. Sondra told FORBES she decided finally to sell her shares to Howard because, she says, she didn't want to leave her future "in irresponsible hands." That left Howard as the sole owner of the Gilman empire.

But after two decades of legal wars, the business was ailing and, as Bergreen tells it, Gilman wasn't the right person to turn it around. He says he could not convince Gilman to invest the capital necessary to keep the paper business competitive. A papermaking machine today costs $100 million or more; Bergreen claims Gilman had other uses for the money. Between 1988 and 1997 he lavished $300 million on his philanthropy and what Bergreen calls "pet projects." Back at the mill, a big source of this largesse, the business faltered and profits turned into losses--$55 million over the last two years of Howard's life.

The biggest pet project: $154 million spent transforming the White Oak Plantation in Yulee, Fla., which was acquired by the Gilman family in 1938, into a dance center for Baryshnikov and other noted artists, a conference center and a home for 60 species of endangered and threatened animals, including reticulated giraffes, okapis, black and white rhinoceros, and cheetahs. Howard played host at White Oak to U.S. presidents and celebrities and their families, often using the company's plane to ferry them to White Oak. The guests were fed meals prepared by top-notch chefs. Bill Clinton played golf on Gilman's private nine-hole course.

The Gilman fortune also was devastated by huge losses in the bond market during the years 1992-94 and by a bad investment in the entertainment business, $63 million spent on a forgettable television series called Space Precinct.

But Howard Gilman never neglected his philanthropy, making big gifts to the Howard Gilman Gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Howard Gilman Opera House at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Gilman also backed many dance and theater companies and was Baryshnikov's patron from the moment the Russian dancer landed in the U.S.

Bergreen, coexecutor of Gilman's will, sold off some assets, including timber holdings and the plane. A division that sold lumber declined in value from $230 million after Gilman's death to around $67 million today, according to Dun & Bradstreet. Bergreen blames a glut of Canadian lumber. Other foundation assets at year-end 2001: $38 million in securities (not counting the dubious loan on the mill), White Oak and a highly regarded collection of photos.

If the Gilman Foundation is ailing, Bergreen is not. Between 1985 and 1997 he earned $40 million from Gilman, according to a court filing, and in 2001 Bergreen wanted another $40.5 million for services from 1998 to 2000. The foundation's board sliced that to $17 million, and the New York attorney general's office is trying to force a further reduction.

Why didn't Gilman sell the holdings if, as suggested, he had little interest in running the business? The former corporate controller of Gilman Paper, Michael Pallen, offers this: "He felt tremendous loyalty to his family and employees." Sentiment, in this case, seems highly overrated.

The Baby Suffered a Rek-O-Kut

It was the fall of 1958.  Jeff, our first child, was ten months old.  His mother and I were visiting her parents.  Her father and I had been messing around with his Hi-Fi installation all morning (High Fidelity Magazine featured it on a cover, labeling it "The Clancy System").  There were pieces of equipment lying about when we sat down at a card table in the living room for a sandwich and coke.   Toddler Jeff was sitting at the table on a chair-back kitchen stool.  We adults were talking and happily munching away, when young Jeff reached for his Micky Mouse mug and fell off the chair.  The floor was carpeted, so his landing should have been relatively soft, but a Rek-O-Kut turntable was lying there, tilted at a 45 degree angle.  Jeff landed head first, his jaw striking the sharp metal edge.  We jumped to pick him up and were horrified to see that his lower lip was deeply split, forcing his mouth into a hyper-wide, grotesque grin. 

We held a clean towel to his chin to staunch the blood flow and quickly carried him to a doctor's office which we knew was located in the next building.  We burst into the reception room.  In a few moments the doctor appeared.  He was clearly taken aback by the scene of the baby screaming at the top of his lungs, his bloody gag, and two panicky parents.  We forced ourselves upon him, demanding his assistance.  Reluctantly, he backed into a treatment room where, with shaking hands, he attempted to thread a needle.  He approached the baby who howled even louder, wanting nothing to do with this stranger.  G' WAY! G' WAY! he screamed.

The doctor threw up his hands, shaking his head, and said to us, "Sorry, I'm not up to this".

Fortunately, there was a doctor who had treated my wife located only a few blocks away.  We hurried there.  He was everything the first doctor wasn't, and somehow, despite a screaming, squirming patient,  he managed to stitch the lip back together so well that Jeff hasn't a trace of a scar today.

I am happy to report Jeff never developed a dislike for high fidelity classical music.  In fact, I am sure he doesn't even recall the event.  But I certainly do, for while not scarred either, my memory surely bears the mark of that day.

Desert Storm in St. Marys

I am in my own Desert Storm here.  The mighty air hose nozzle screams and roars as it shoots those glass particles against the hull.  Inside it sounds as if a brigade of middle eastern terrorists is mounting an assault and will break through walls any minute.

Until two days ago, Craig and Harold were attacking  below the waterline but now they are up to the engine room and living quarters level so it's getting nasty.  The "sand" is coming through the portlites.  These apertures are recessed ten inches inside the hull so Craig, the "gunner", has to direct the jet stream at sharp angles of contact to blast off the old paint.  He must direct stream around the windows with great care to avoid breaking the glass.  With one hand he places a rubber shield in front to the glass to try to protect it.  Initially, Harold, inside, opened the portlites to swing the glass window up and away from danger.  He covered the opening with plastic and cardboard but the powerful jet spewed granules inside.  I was absent when they first attacked through a portlite, but I was here today and helped Harold defend the castle.  We learned as we went, and by the time Craig got to the third portlite, we had almost completely turned back the enemy. 
I spent an hour yesterday sweeping and vacuuming in the engine room and today more of that there and then into my stateroom.  Yikes!   And even after vacuuming in those areas, I am losing the battle in other rooms. The granules get tracked around and there is serious "dust" everywhere.  Were I anything close to a fastidious housekeeper I would be insane.  (My sister Carol would be the first to laugh were the words "housekeeping" and "Lynn" used in the same sentence.)
The siege will become more intense when the men start blasting  up on the next level near the doors, two of which are sliders so don't seal tightly.  But Desert Storm did end finally, so there's hope for me.

Intimidation Not Permitted Here (or Wedding Rings Can be Hazardous to Your Health)

Well, Simba and I have climbed out of the deep hole we were in two months ago.  Back then we discovered Simba's hull was pockmarked with corrosion pits and even had some holes.  Holes!  Unbelievable, but true.  The boatyard owner thought it was beyond repair.  As I studied the problem and he saw I was not going to kiss my boat goodbye, he switched to telling  me about lobster boats he'd seen with bad hulls that had been encapsulated in fiberglass.  I dismissed that idea out of hand and hired a welder to close any holes and deep pits, while filling lesser pits myself with an epoxy compound used to repair steel tanks in manufacturing plants.

As a reward for making such a strong recovery, I bought Simba a used bow thruster.  Naturally I was going to install it myself.  I studied the owner's manual, compared the itemized part list to what I had received from the seller, and ordered any missing parts.  That was easy.  But the electrical aspects of the installation were formidable.  I have never learned much about electricity.  Oh, I forced myself to comprehend the wiring diagram of my diesel generator enough to spot a faulty element, but it didn't come easy.
 

Fortunately, my friend Phillip Landmeier, now down in Guatemala, is a whiz at things electric.  He not only reads schematic diagrams, he creates the darn things on a computer!  He reworked the original idiotic shore power setup on my boat so that it is now easy to use and never fails.  He even designed the electric installation for a large marina (and these are only the things I know about).  I asked Phil if he could help me figure out the electric installation for my thruster and he stepped right up to the plate.  He created one of those schematics, even specifying what size wire I needed for various segments.  He also told me I needed a special relay called a contactor.  The area electrical supply house people had heard of them but could not even locate one for me.  Phil found it himself, through the internet, down in Texas. 

 

Phil also told me that installing the wiring for this complicated project could be dangerous.  He told me of a man he knew who was working with powerful batteries like those I had purchased for the thruster.  The man lost a finger when he shorted wires with his wedding ring.  Yikes!
 

So here I am faced with schematics that look like hieroglyphics, gizmos the electrical supply house can't locate, and now physical danger as well!  I thought maybe this project was too much for me – that maybe I should bring in a professional electrician to do the actual installation.  Then I scolded myself.  I forced myself to remember that I didn't know a Bull from a Bear when I decided I would become a stock broker and investment advisor--and that worked out pretty well.   I decided I would at least initiate the project, take it on piece by piece.  If I hit a wall, I could always stop  and call in a pro. 

  

I had read, (probably in one of Phillips informative lengthy emails), that to get maximum power from the batteries, they had to be located close to the thruster and their connecting cables had to be short.  So I built a large shelf of strong 2x4's for them, close to the thruster tunnel, which is located deep in the bow.  Common sense told me to then box the batteries in so they wouldn't become dangerous missiles when the bow tossed about in heavy seas.

Then I mounted the contactor gizmo on a steel beam right between the batteries and the thruster.  I mounted the electronic control box on a piece of plywood at the side of the compartment.  I knew I needed to connect the batteries to a charger and first thought I should purchase a charger dedicated to them and place it near the other components.  But I realized it would be difficult to monitor charging conditions up there in the bow, under the floor boards, so I ran wires from the batteries back to the engine room where I knew my central charger had an extra port which I could connect to.

Now running cables the length of my boat is an arduous task in itself, pushing and pulling them through holes in bulkheads, removing floor sections, taking beds apart, emptying storeage lockers, and more, in order to access the bilges.  So having completed that task, it was almost child's play to run a master control cable from the pilot house console down to the bilge and up to the bow. 

 

Up to now, I obviously did the right thing by winging it on my own.  I've found success taking just one step at a time.  But now I'm entering new and possibly hazardous territory.  I have to measure up, fabricate, and then connect the control wires and thick power cables. 

No problema.  In preparation, I'm studying the schematics again and even starting to make sense of them.  I'll study them some more and if I have doubts, I'll consult with Phil again.  I'll stay at this until I get the job done correctly.  And I'm confident I'll complete the job in one piece, for I won't be wearing any wedding ring.