This will be the last post for a while. Early on Saturday morning I will depart in an automobile for Sevenhill, South Australia, the natal location of the Society of Jesus in Australia. The Wikipedia page does not really do the place justice, I am given to understand. You see, upon arriving in Australia, the Jesuits there discovered that they were unable to acquire suitable altar wines for use at Mass. Being rational, intelligent men, they did the logical thing and started their own vineyard. The vineyard is still under the ownership of the Society and there is even a Jesuit there who is listed as "Winemaker Emeritus" in the Australian province catalog. (Oh that the Society owned a brewery, I would have a position to aspire to; "Brewmaster Emeritus." Oh, I could get used to the sound of that.) The website for the winery, if you would like more information about the austerity to which I am going to subject myself, is located here. Taste the history in every drop indeed. You may wish to order some of the wares from the website so that you may determine their suitability for your uses.
So, some of you are asking yourselves, what, exactly, is he going to do there? I will be making the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. For those of you not in the loop on that, it means that I will be sequestered in silence for 30 days, more or less. Praying 4-5 hours per day. A more detailed survey of the Exercises is found here. At this point, many of you who know me are chortling to yourselves. "Keep his mouth shut for 30 days? Unlikely..." you titter. (I can hear you tittering, you know.) Each Jesuit makes the Exercises at least twice in his life: as a novice and as a tertian. Some may make the Exercises more, but twice would be more typical. I will have it known that during my first pass at the Exercises, I was one of four retreatants and my classmates commented on my rigid adherence to the instructions on silence and modesty of the eyes. I believe the exact phrase they used was "Silence Nazi," but I may be incorrect. I doubt it though, a phrase like "Silence Nazi" stays with you. It was interesting to note the inverse relationship between introversion and silence; curiously enough, my first time around, the more introverted an individual was, the less need they felt to observe the silence. My moniker may tell you something about the depths of my extroversion...
I look forward to this second turn at the Exercises. One of the other features of the Exercises from my first time around was that I was quite certain I had broken them. That is, I was so afraid of doing them correctly, that there was no way I could do them correctly, if you follow me. Good things happened, to be sure, but my rigid need to follow the letter and execute them perfectly also (probably) got in the way of what God desired to do with me. 18 years on, I think I'm in a different space internally. At least I hope I am. One of the places I hope I am more free is on retreat. It is now my experience that God, like a good guerilla, will dictate the terms of engagement. Do I come to the retreat with my own hopes and expectations? My own 'agenda' if you will? Yes, absolutely. How could I not do so? But somewhere in the last eighteen years I learned that God will take control of these types of things and do with you as he will, not necessarily what you expected to happen. So I have certain questions that I approach the experience with, things I would like answered. I am also completely open to God bringing me to a place I cannot forsee or expect. That is God's job, as near as I can tell, to be quite honest.
So I note that some of you gentle readers frequent this haunt with regularity (I have my ways of knowing, as I'm sure you know, if you know me...). I do not want you to be shocked when these airwaves go silent for a month or so. If you're the praying type, I'd ask you to pray for us (all 13 of us will be making this journey, separately together, if you will.) If you're not, then you may observe the natural beauty of the place on the website and wonder what delights of vinticulture I am immersing myself in. It shall be an adventure, I know that. A few thrills, a couple spills and maybe something I don't even know yet...I look forward to it. See you in a month.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Fauna Update
Last night four of us went to the movies and I was elected to drive. It's only a short way to the theater and when we were about 1/2 there, the Canadian in the back seat started in with "Oh thank God! It's on the outside! Oh thank God! It's on the outside!" Inquiring, he informed the rest of us that there was a Huntsman Spider running around the outside of the car.
"Uh-huh." I thought.
Spider on the outside of the car. What-evs. Until we got to the parking garage for the theater and a Huntsman the size of a beagle came loping down the windscreen. Honestly, this thing was HUGE. It trotted down into the gap where the windshield wipers get tucked when not in use and was lost to sight.
It was at this moment that the primary user of the car, the rector of the community where I'm living, piped in with: "Oh yes, he's been in here since the weekend. He was on the inside of the car on Saturday night. He seems to go back and forth from inside to outside somehow." This just after the spider has headed, unseen, for the engine compartment. Where the ducts which go from the heating/AC to the cab are. The size of this thing was...substantial. Seriously, it was probably 3"-4" across it's legs. And disturbing.
I now know where Peter Jackson got his inspiration for 'Shelob' in the film version of Lord of the Rings. He must have been staying in a hotel over here and found one in his room. He promptly called its agent and got it signed and it appears, lifesize, in the film, her name is Fiona and she lives in Milson's Point now if you want her autograph.
So at any rate, I find a parking space and we rapidly exited the car. Peering down toward the wipers, I couldn't see the beast.
I spent the whole film worrying about driving home. As I got in the car, I again looked down in the wiper slot and there were eight beady little eyes, the size of push pin balls, staring back at me. My entrance and locking of the door was swift.
One fool started to open his window because the Sydney night was muggy and warm. "What do you think you are doing? I don't care if we all roast, we are NOT exposing ourselves to that spider." He rolled the window back up.
I began driving toward the exit and the keychain, dangling down from the ignition brushed against the inside of my knee and I nearly rocketed through the windscreen. As we exited the parking garage, down a long, straight ramp, he popped out and began racing down the hood of the vehicle. Fairly certain that he meant to disable it and wait us out on the parking ramp, picking us off one by one, I jammed on the brakes and he disappeared over the edge of the hood. I gunned it in an attempt to crush him, but I don't know for certain that he actually fell off the vehicle. He made no further appearances, but I suspect he clung on, and I half expected him to pop back up at the last minute, a la Lord Wez at the end of The Road Warrior (Mad Max II for some of you). I made it home and parked the car. Got out hastily and gave the bonnet a cursory inspection. No spider.
My theories are that a) He may have gotten knocked off but is now only angry and will take this anger out on my when it finds its way home or: b) it is currently affixed to the undercarriage of the vehicle, waiting for me to come close enough to poison and feed upon.
If I stop posting abruptly, you'll know why.
"Uh-huh." I thought.
Spider on the outside of the car. What-evs. Until we got to the parking garage for the theater and a Huntsman the size of a beagle came loping down the windscreen. Honestly, this thing was HUGE. It trotted down into the gap where the windshield wipers get tucked when not in use and was lost to sight.
It was at this moment that the primary user of the car, the rector of the community where I'm living, piped in with: "Oh yes, he's been in here since the weekend. He was on the inside of the car on Saturday night. He seems to go back and forth from inside to outside somehow." This just after the spider has headed, unseen, for the engine compartment. Where the ducts which go from the heating/AC to the cab are. The size of this thing was...substantial. Seriously, it was probably 3"-4" across it's legs. And disturbing.
I now know where Peter Jackson got his inspiration for 'Shelob' in the film version of Lord of the Rings. He must have been staying in a hotel over here and found one in his room. He promptly called its agent and got it signed and it appears, lifesize, in the film, her name is Fiona and she lives in Milson's Point now if you want her autograph.
So at any rate, I find a parking space and we rapidly exited the car. Peering down toward the wipers, I couldn't see the beast.
I spent the whole film worrying about driving home. As I got in the car, I again looked down in the wiper slot and there were eight beady little eyes, the size of push pin balls, staring back at me. My entrance and locking of the door was swift.
One fool started to open his window because the Sydney night was muggy and warm. "What do you think you are doing? I don't care if we all roast, we are NOT exposing ourselves to that spider." He rolled the window back up.
I began driving toward the exit and the keychain, dangling down from the ignition brushed against the inside of my knee and I nearly rocketed through the windscreen. As we exited the parking garage, down a long, straight ramp, he popped out and began racing down the hood of the vehicle. Fairly certain that he meant to disable it and wait us out on the parking ramp, picking us off one by one, I jammed on the brakes and he disappeared over the edge of the hood. I gunned it in an attempt to crush him, but I don't know for certain that he actually fell off the vehicle. He made no further appearances, but I suspect he clung on, and I half expected him to pop back up at the last minute, a la Lord Wez at the end of The Road Warrior (Mad Max II for some of you). I made it home and parked the car. Got out hastily and gave the bonnet a cursory inspection. No spider.
My theories are that a) He may have gotten knocked off but is now only angry and will take this anger out on my when it finds its way home or: b) it is currently affixed to the undercarriage of the vehicle, waiting for me to come close enough to poison and feed upon.
If I stop posting abruptly, you'll know why.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Of Native Fauna
Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree!
Merry, merry king of the bush is he!
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra!
How gay your life must be!
If you do not know the song above, then, clearly, you were not instructed in music in the South Kitsap School District in the late 60's/early 70's. I think I was in kindergarten or first grade when I received instruction in this tune. And it is a good song to teach children. But of course, someone can teach you a song about something, especially something as far away as a bird in Australia, and said instructor may even provide an explanation of that call and it will still lack real significance until you encounter the Real Object of the song and discussion.
Hence, I knew there was such an animal as a kookaburra. I was given to understand that it had a peculiar call. But I didn't understand, you see. And neither, even after listening to the recording of its call I have provided, do you. You cannot fully appreciate the kookaburra's call until he gifts you with it in person. He will appear, as if by magic, at, oh, say, 0515 in the morning, just outside your window. And then he will begin his call. Now, you must understand that, where the kookaburra whose call is recorded for your listening pleasure is sedated, compared to the real item, the one who appears outside my window most mornings seems to have been on an amphetamine binge.
You remember Cheetah, the chimp from the 'Tarzan' movies? Imagine if you mainlined him with Crystal Meth, some Speed and maybe a gallon bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. Then you spanked him with a cricket bat. The resulting sounds might approximate, but not fully capture, those released outside my window each morning. Early. If I were not actually grateful to the bird for serving as my alarm clock (you will remember I am running again), it would be my marksmanship I would be practicing rather than my aerobic conditioning.
Moving along in the avian world, we have the Sulfa Crested Cockatoo. Now these things are probably bigger than you are thinking. You remember 'Fred,' the cockatoo on the TV show 'Baretta?' Fred was a large cockatoo. These are his steroid using cousins. They are massive and white and they sit in the trees and flare those big yellow crowns and are imposing looking. You gaze at a flock of a half dozen of these things perched in trees and are grateful that they are notorius for tearing up your lawn, rather than say, human flesh. They are a marvel to behold and are equally impressive in flight. Then, they begin to remind me of some people I have encountered; they are beautiful to look at and then, they open their mouths and what comes out makes everything go horribly wrong. The ancient Greeks must have, in their sea faring days, traveled to Australia and, upon being greeted by the Cockatoo's call, promptly turned around and sailed back home, the inspiration for the Harpy safely secured. Suffice to say, I see no reason to keep any animal that makes this kind of racket domestic or otherwise.
Over here we come to one you may have heard of, the Sydney Funnel Web Spider. Quite likely the most lethal spider on the face of the planet. Nature's playful Atrax robustus abounds in and around the Sydney basin. If you have chosen NOT to go to the link above, I do not blame you. It will fill your head with nightmare images and facts. Fortunately for YOU, you are not living within envenoming distance of one of these wee beasties as I am. But allow me to excerpt for you, some of MY favorite facts from the spider page above:
So you see, life is not all beaches and spirituality here in Australia. There are hazards to daily life in both the aural and toxic realms. And I haven't even touched on the snakes. Something like 8 of the worlds 11 most lethal snakes are found in Australia. Haven't seen one of those yet. But you know, they're snakes, which are actually beautiful creatures. Even the venomous ones. In order to recover from the trauma of the spider colony thing, I think I need to go to the beach this weekend.
Merry, merry king of the bush is he!
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra!
How gay your life must be!
If you do not know the song above, then, clearly, you were not instructed in music in the South Kitsap School District in the late 60's/early 70's. I think I was in kindergarten or first grade when I received instruction in this tune. And it is a good song to teach children. But of course, someone can teach you a song about something, especially something as far away as a bird in Australia, and said instructor may even provide an explanation of that call and it will still lack real significance until you encounter the Real Object of the song and discussion.
Hence, I knew there was such an animal as a kookaburra. I was given to understand that it had a peculiar call. But I didn't understand, you see. And neither, even after listening to the recording of its call I have provided, do you. You cannot fully appreciate the kookaburra's call until he gifts you with it in person. He will appear, as if by magic, at, oh, say, 0515 in the morning, just outside your window. And then he will begin his call. Now, you must understand that, where the kookaburra whose call is recorded for your listening pleasure is sedated, compared to the real item, the one who appears outside my window most mornings seems to have been on an amphetamine binge.
You remember Cheetah, the chimp from the 'Tarzan' movies? Imagine if you mainlined him with Crystal Meth, some Speed and maybe a gallon bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. Then you spanked him with a cricket bat. The resulting sounds might approximate, but not fully capture, those released outside my window each morning. Early. If I were not actually grateful to the bird for serving as my alarm clock (you will remember I am running again), it would be my marksmanship I would be practicing rather than my aerobic conditioning.
Moving along in the avian world, we have the Sulfa Crested Cockatoo. Now these things are probably bigger than you are thinking. You remember 'Fred,' the cockatoo on the TV show 'Baretta?' Fred was a large cockatoo. These are his steroid using cousins. They are massive and white and they sit in the trees and flare those big yellow crowns and are imposing looking. You gaze at a flock of a half dozen of these things perched in trees and are grateful that they are notorius for tearing up your lawn, rather than say, human flesh. They are a marvel to behold and are equally impressive in flight. Then, they begin to remind me of some people I have encountered; they are beautiful to look at and then, they open their mouths and what comes out makes everything go horribly wrong. The ancient Greeks must have, in their sea faring days, traveled to Australia and, upon being greeted by the Cockatoo's call, promptly turned around and sailed back home, the inspiration for the Harpy safely secured. Suffice to say, I see no reason to keep any animal that makes this kind of racket domestic or otherwise.
Over here we come to one you may have heard of, the Sydney Funnel Web Spider. Quite likely the most lethal spider on the face of the planet. Nature's playful Atrax robustus abounds in and around the Sydney basin. If you have chosen NOT to go to the link above, I do not blame you. It will fill your head with nightmare images and facts. Fortunately for YOU, you are not living within envenoming distance of one of these wee beasties as I am. But allow me to excerpt for you, some of MY favorite facts from the spider page above
They are probably the most venomous aggressive spider in the world, all funnel web species should be treated as dangerous to humans.
- Sometimes, Funnel-webs may be found in colonies of over a hundred.
- When mature, the males leave their webs and lead a homeless existence. They tend to roam and often enter homes particularly during Summer after a heavy downpour of rain.
- Their massive fangs can penetrate a child's fingernail.
So you see, life is not all beaches and spirituality here in Australia. There are hazards to daily life in both the aural and toxic realms. And I haven't even touched on the snakes. Something like 8 of the worlds 11 most lethal snakes are found in Australia. Haven't seen one of those yet. But you know, they're snakes, which are actually beautiful creatures. Even the venomous ones. In order to recover from the trauma of the spider colony thing, I think I need to go to the beach this weekend.
Monday, February 12, 2007
The Flogging Will Continue Until Morale Improves...
So. I made a promise to myself and I'm keeping it.
I'm running again.
I have waited to post about this until I was sure I could do it, that it wasn't just an outburst of energy that couldn't be controlled for a few days and then would lie fallow, its promise unfulfilled.
I've been running for about a month now and I've logged 18 runs and am over the 50 mile mark. And the worst part?
I'm enjoying it.
I've never considered myself a runner. I've never, enjoyed running, per se. Running was simply a necessary evil required by my choice of ministry. But I find myself out in the mornings about 6 AM and doing 3-4 miles on the average day, 2 fast miles on a light day and nearly 6 on a long slow day. And, except for the enormous hill I had not factored in to my route on the long, slow day, I've felt pretty good. That hill simply would not end. It went on forever. In fact, I still may be running on it...
But I feel better for doing it. And, I must admit, that I use some incredibly cheap motivations to do this. I tell myself I'm losing weight (I am). I tell myself it will help with the cholesterol (it will). I tell myself I'm going to run my first true marathon (I've run the distance before, but never been in a real race) (I will). But mostly, I trick myself with my iPod and its aural promises of escape from being pounded on for fifteen minutes to an hour.
And, to get even more detailed, I use a Nike+iPod dohicky that tells me precisely how far I've gone, records my runs to exacting detail, uploads them to a Nike website so that I can compare my runs, see my paces, set goals, accept challenges from other runners, and generally compare all kinds of useless data. Usually, I treat these kinds of things with scorn. Weaker men need that kind of motivation, I tell myself, then I look in the mirror and see a weaker man and plug the attachment on to my iPod and hit the road.
That's the thing, it really seems to work. Example: I set a goal for myself of running 16 times in 4 weeks. And, when I did a run that got posted to my web page, it showed me I was 1 run behind my target goal, so I ran for the next two days straight to catch up with where I needed to be. Oh sure, it's a cheap trick. It's a carrot in front of this particular donkey, but, hey, it got the donkey moving, didn't it?
Plus, I like being able to view all this data on all my runs. I don't know why, perhaps because I can actually see the improvement (which is small at this point, but present, nonetheless.) Maybe it's because I'm afraid of failing on my goals that I set for myself. Whatever it is, that stupid little thing gets me back out on the road, and keeps me there, even when I really would rather not get out and run.
So there you go. I'm going to keep running and setting new goals for myself. I'm really looking forward to the long retreat where I'll have both time AND space (a wide open country vineyard in wine country) to really start pushing distances out a bit.
I don't normally endorse these kinds of things, but if you are, like me, a fallen runner, then I can recommend getting yourself an iPod Nano, a pair of Nike+ shoes and the Sport Kit thing and getting back out there. It's worked well for me, at least.
I'm running again.
I have waited to post about this until I was sure I could do it, that it wasn't just an outburst of energy that couldn't be controlled for a few days and then would lie fallow, its promise unfulfilled.
I've been running for about a month now and I've logged 18 runs and am over the 50 mile mark. And the worst part?
I'm enjoying it.
I've never considered myself a runner. I've never, enjoyed running, per se. Running was simply a necessary evil required by my choice of ministry. But I find myself out in the mornings about 6 AM and doing 3-4 miles on the average day, 2 fast miles on a light day and nearly 6 on a long slow day. And, except for the enormous hill I had not factored in to my route on the long, slow day, I've felt pretty good. That hill simply would not end. It went on forever. In fact, I still may be running on it...
But I feel better for doing it. And, I must admit, that I use some incredibly cheap motivations to do this. I tell myself I'm losing weight (I am). I tell myself it will help with the cholesterol (it will). I tell myself I'm going to run my first true marathon (I've run the distance before, but never been in a real race) (I will). But mostly, I trick myself with my iPod and its aural promises of escape from being pounded on for fifteen minutes to an hour.
And, to get even more detailed, I use a Nike+iPod dohicky that tells me precisely how far I've gone, records my runs to exacting detail, uploads them to a Nike website so that I can compare my runs, see my paces, set goals, accept challenges from other runners, and generally compare all kinds of useless data. Usually, I treat these kinds of things with scorn. Weaker men need that kind of motivation, I tell myself, then I look in the mirror and see a weaker man and plug the attachment on to my iPod and hit the road.
That's the thing, it really seems to work. Example: I set a goal for myself of running 16 times in 4 weeks. And, when I did a run that got posted to my web page, it showed me I was 1 run behind my target goal, so I ran for the next two days straight to catch up with where I needed to be. Oh sure, it's a cheap trick. It's a carrot in front of this particular donkey, but, hey, it got the donkey moving, didn't it?
Plus, I like being able to view all this data on all my runs. I don't know why, perhaps because I can actually see the improvement (which is small at this point, but present, nonetheless.) Maybe it's because I'm afraid of failing on my goals that I set for myself. Whatever it is, that stupid little thing gets me back out on the road, and keeps me there, even when I really would rather not get out and run.
So there you go. I'm going to keep running and setting new goals for myself. I'm really looking forward to the long retreat where I'll have both time AND space (a wide open country vineyard in wine country) to really start pushing distances out a bit.
I don't normally endorse these kinds of things, but if you are, like me, a fallen runner, then I can recommend getting yourself an iPod Nano, a pair of Nike+ shoes and the Sport Kit thing and getting back out there. It's worked well for me, at least.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Of Beach Cult-cha
So, I'm overdue for a post, but, what are you going to do? I mean, I have a brutally heavy workload to deal with here. Mostly at Australian beaches.
After arriving here a few weeks ago, we had a couple of days of nuts and bolts about the program here in Pymble, then we headed a couple of hours south of Sydney to Gerroa where the Australian Jesuits have a house on the beach. No, you are thinking, right now 'this is the Jesuits, they have a house ridiculously close to the beach' you are wrong. They have a house ON the beach. It was built, originally, waaay back right after the Second World War, when there was no real Gerroa, and the place has grown up around the Jesuit house, which today, through arcane and ancient agreements, is the only house on the beach. And will likely remain so. The purpose of our excursion was so that we could tell our stories about who we are and where we were all coming from. 'Getting to know you' in some language, 'Team Building,' in another language.
Which means I should probably say something about my fellow crewman on the SS Tertiana. We are 13 Jesuits from 7 countries plus our Australian Tertian Director (think: spiritual Captain Stubing) and his assistant (who is more 'Doc' than Gopher). All are good guys, in my opinion. At least no one set off my personal warning buzzers, set to detect the slightest vibrations generated by Weirdness fields. Country-wise we hail from: the US of A, Korea, Canada, Germany, Poland, Italy and Switzerland. A fascinating melange of cultures and ideas, I can assure you. Dinner and discussions after are never dull, believe you to me!
So we would get up in the morning, do a little story telling until about noon, then knock off for a day on the beach...which meant swimming, body-surfing, beach combing, praying, etc. etc. Until the evening meal, then we'd watch a video or TV or what ever. It was definitely Relax Mode time. And it was great. I cooked one evening and made a 4th of July kind of picnic dinner with grilled sausages, potato salad, baked 'cowboy' beans (my mother's secret recipe), a green salad and an ice cream dessert that is laden with Oreo cookies, chocolate fudge sauce, peanuts and vanilla ice cream...it is delectable. Following cooking that night my gut and I were photographed entering the water for a sunset swim, the time when the sharks like to feed best.
The sunsets, you see, are spectacular and, it is my opinion, that they are best viewed from in the water. Those with expensive photo equipment though, may wish to stay on dry land and capture incredible images like this:
After a week of this torture, we returned to Sydney this week, where I discovered that there is a beach house for our use about 20 minutes north of where I am, a place called Newport. I have visited there 3 times since last Friday. I think it only right and just to make the most of the experiences that are placed before me, and, in my opinion, it would be criminal not to use a facility like this. I have done a whole bunch of body surfing and desperately trying to figure out how to get my hands on an used surfboard so that I may continue to relearn old, corroded skills.
All of this brings us back to the original title of the post. I am amazed at the Australian beach culture and how pervasive it is in the Australian psyche, especially water recreation. Surfing here, unlike the States, is not a niche sport, it is something kids just grow up doing. The way American kids would play backyard football/baseball/fill in the sport, Aussie kids get a bunch of mates, grab their wetsuits (I haven't yet figure out why you need one, but my water temperature gauge may be permanently scarred by NW water temps), their boards and hit the beach. When such a large percentage of the population lives so close to the beach, well, things are going to get sandy and fun in a hurry. It's awesome... I am loving it so far. It's healthy and fun (outside of the SPF 30+ that I slather on because of the hole in the O-zone down here) and the people on the beach are pretty much Everyman. It's awesome. A place where the Boardless Man isn't trying to hold the Surfer Man down.
And because I know some of you will not be happy until I publish it, here is a shot of the Sydney Opera House and the Harbor Bridge at night. The views are from the old community rec room at St. Aloysius College in downtown Sydney. You know I only post these things to stoke the fires of envy, don't you?
After arriving here a few weeks ago, we had a couple of days of nuts and bolts about the program here in Pymble, then we headed a couple of hours south of Sydney to Gerroa where the Australian Jesuits have a house on the beach. No, you are thinking, right now 'this is the Jesuits, they have a house ridiculously close to the beach' you are wrong. They have a house ON the beach. It was built, originally, waaay back right after the Second World War, when there was no real Gerroa, and the place has grown up around the Jesuit house, which today, through arcane and ancient agreements, is the only house on the beach. And will likely remain so. The purpose of our excursion was so that we could tell our stories about who we are and where we were all coming from. 'Getting to know you' in some language, 'Team Building,' in another language.
Which means I should probably say something about my fellow crewman on the SS Tertiana. We are 13 Jesuits from 7 countries plus our Australian Tertian Director (think: spiritual Captain Stubing) and his assistant (who is more 'Doc' than Gopher). All are good guys, in my opinion. At least no one set off my personal warning buzzers, set to detect the slightest vibrations generated by Weirdness fields. Country-wise we hail from: the US of A, Korea, Canada, Germany, Poland, Italy and Switzerland. A fascinating melange of cultures and ideas, I can assure you. Dinner and discussions after are never dull, believe you to me!
So we would get up in the morning, do a little story telling until about noon, then knock off for a day on the beach...which meant swimming, body-surfing, beach combing, praying, etc. etc. Until the evening meal, then we'd watch a video or TV or what ever. It was definitely Relax Mode time. And it was great. I cooked one evening and made a 4th of July kind of picnic dinner with grilled sausages, potato salad, baked 'cowboy' beans (my mother's secret recipe), a green salad and an ice cream dessert that is laden with Oreo cookies, chocolate fudge sauce, peanuts and vanilla ice cream...it is delectable. Following cooking that night my gut and I were photographed entering the water for a sunset swim, the time when the sharks like to feed best.
 |
| From Aussie Beach Pix |
The sunsets, you see, are spectacular and, it is my opinion, that they are best viewed from in the water. Those with expensive photo equipment though, may wish to stay on dry land and capture incredible images like this:
 |
| From Aussie Beach Pix |
After a week of this torture, we returned to Sydney this week, where I discovered that there is a beach house for our use about 20 minutes north of where I am, a place called Newport. I have visited there 3 times since last Friday. I think it only right and just to make the most of the experiences that are placed before me, and, in my opinion, it would be criminal not to use a facility like this. I have done a whole bunch of body surfing and desperately trying to figure out how to get my hands on an used surfboard so that I may continue to relearn old, corroded skills.
All of this brings us back to the original title of the post. I am amazed at the Australian beach culture and how pervasive it is in the Australian psyche, especially water recreation. Surfing here, unlike the States, is not a niche sport, it is something kids just grow up doing. The way American kids would play backyard football/baseball/fill in the sport, Aussie kids get a bunch of mates, grab their wetsuits (I haven't yet figure out why you need one, but my water temperature gauge may be permanently scarred by NW water temps), their boards and hit the beach. When such a large percentage of the population lives so close to the beach, well, things are going to get sandy and fun in a hurry. It's awesome... I am loving it so far. It's healthy and fun (outside of the SPF 30+ that I slather on because of the hole in the O-zone down here) and the people on the beach are pretty much Everyman. It's awesome. A place where the Boardless Man isn't trying to hold the Surfer Man down.
And because I know some of you will not be happy until I publish it, here is a shot of the Sydney Opera House and the Harbor Bridge at night. The views are from the old community rec room at St. Aloysius College in downtown Sydney. You know I only post these things to stoke the fires of envy, don't you?
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| From Aussie Beach Pix |
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| From Aussie Beach Pix |
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
An Atypical Entry
As I have been tagged by the PAgent man, I feel required to post my book entry. Now, you understand that I am 'on the road' for several months and while my abode here in Australia is comfortable and very pleasant, it is also somewhat spartan. And I brought few books with me. When the call came from the PAgent that I had duties to perform, vis a' vis this book list, the only things on the desk at that moment were:
a) a Sydney phonebook
and
b) a guidebook to Australia, which, on page 123 had listings for hotels, none of which seemed that pertinent to my struggle to be interesting (in fact, the entry was much like that in 'a' above.)
So I got some books that we will be reading here in the program I am in and I selected one, more or less at random and performed the rituals. I now give you the entrails of the literary bird I have split open at the behest of PAgent:
"Assessing pedagogical effect is never easy. The only attempt to do so for catechetical instruction during this period has been for Lutheran parts of Germany. It led to negative conclusions, hotly contested, and to the surmise that an examination of catechesis in Catholic Bavaria would show the same results."
From John O'Malley's The First Jesuits.
And so it is complete. Read the Oracle as you will.
For my tagging, I choose:
1) Hog
2) SPU
3) Chuck D. (the attorney, not the one from Public Enemy)
Those NOT having blogs of their own may post in my comments. The rules, gents, are simple:
1) Find the nearest book
2) Open to page 123
3) Type lines 6-8 of said book
4) Tag three others
You have been tagged. Proceed at your peril.
a) a Sydney phonebook
and
b) a guidebook to Australia, which, on page 123 had listings for hotels, none of which seemed that pertinent to my struggle to be interesting (in fact, the entry was much like that in 'a' above.)
So I got some books that we will be reading here in the program I am in and I selected one, more or less at random and performed the rituals. I now give you the entrails of the literary bird I have split open at the behest of PAgent:
"Assessing pedagogical effect is never easy. The only attempt to do so for catechetical instruction during this period has been for Lutheran parts of Germany. It led to negative conclusions, hotly contested, and to the surmise that an examination of catechesis in Catholic Bavaria would show the same results."
From John O'Malley's The First Jesuits.
And so it is complete. Read the Oracle as you will.
For my tagging, I choose:
1) Hog
2) SPU
3) Chuck D. (the attorney, not the one from Public Enemy)
Those NOT having blogs of their own may post in my comments. The rules, gents, are simple:
1) Find the nearest book
2) Open to page 123
3) Type lines 6-8 of said book
4) Tag three others
You have been tagged. Proceed at your peril.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Words Fail
There are these theories, elaborate constructs of quantum physics, time and space, math and language, that state that it is possible for a place to be more beautiful, more wild, more spectacular, than Great Barrier Island.
I can state, conclusively, these theories, they lie.
Last week I was treated to a 4 day fishing trip to the Great Barrier. We left Auckland about 6-6:30pm and sailed North for about 2 hours, the Coromandel Peninsula on our right and the Northland of New Zealand on our left. The sun was setting just as we arrived at the Great Barrier, a spectacular explosion of color and beauty on the South Pacific...
We entered Fitzroy Sound just as it was getting dark, settling down in one of the myriad small bays for the night; the water still as glass, two Morepork (really) owls calling gently to one another across the sound, photoluminescence made the water around our boat glow and sparkle, making the place positively other-worldly. Fitzroy Sound (and I recommend you check Google Earth or some such for more detail) is big. As in, in the 1800's it was reckoned that Fitzroy was one of only two harbors in the world that could shelter the entire British Navy. It's that big, and that spectacular.
In the morning, we woke early to go out fishing and I was greeted by the captain and this view, the sky slightly overcast with high clouds.
We headed out through Man O' War passage, which is only a couple of hundred feet across, I'm guessing and just outside of Fitzroy, we anchored next to a large rock and dropped our lines overboard. The results were almost instant. A couple small, throw back snapper later and we started pulling up a fisheries' manual of the local fauna. I landed a Trumpeter, Bede landed a John Dory and Red and I landed a couple of Parore, including this one, which weighed in at about 8 pounds.
We returned to Fitzroy, the village at about 1030am after fishing for several hours and gorged ourselves on the Trumpeter, Red's Parore and the John Dory, which you can see Bede cleaning and filleting here:
The John Dory was exquisite, I can assure you. My big Parore was held in reserve, we went back out that day and fished the north end of the island, near The Needles, way up top of the island, not really doing much, lots of small throw backs and a parade of non-eating fish graced us. Returning to Fitzroy Sound, we selected another isolated little bay, anchored and prepared for dinner. My Parore was butterflied and a smoker was produced. The fish went in, the beers came out of the cooler and we went into the water. Following brief showers to rinse off the salt water we settled onto the back deck to relax, lie about the ones that got away and enjoy the exceptionally delightful company of one another. It was incredible. The next two days we spent fishing and circumnavigating the island. The wind came up and we actually got stuck in Tryphena Harbor for a day as the winds roared through Colville Passage at 28 knots, bringing up the waves. We celebrated Mass each day we were out and it was absolutely amazing.
There are, you see, these places where language, where words are crafted. Adjectives roll off of tongues in these places and are soon sullied with overuse and unreflected application. These language mills, at the mention of the Great Barrier Island, they fall silent. The adjectives they would fashion falling uselessly to the floor, the craftsmen themselves painfully silent, like a Greek chorus that knows it cannot possibly meet the task of reducing this place into a sound which accurately captures its meaning. And this is the only place I have ever been where words positively...fail.
This was the sunsetting on the clouds my second night on the island...even the image doesn't capture it adequately. But it will suffice to stoke you to go there for yourself, perhaps...
More to follow...
I can state, conclusively, these theories, they lie.
Last week I was treated to a 4 day fishing trip to the Great Barrier. We left Auckland about 6-6:30pm and sailed North for about 2 hours, the Coromandel Peninsula on our right and the Northland of New Zealand on our left. The sun was setting just as we arrived at the Great Barrier, a spectacular explosion of color and beauty on the South Pacific...
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
We entered Fitzroy Sound just as it was getting dark, settling down in one of the myriad small bays for the night; the water still as glass, two Morepork (really) owls calling gently to one another across the sound, photoluminescence made the water around our boat glow and sparkle, making the place positively other-worldly. Fitzroy Sound (and I recommend you check Google Earth or some such for more detail) is big. As in, in the 1800's it was reckoned that Fitzroy was one of only two harbors in the world that could shelter the entire British Navy. It's that big, and that spectacular.
In the morning, we woke early to go out fishing and I was greeted by the captain and this view, the sky slightly overcast with high clouds.
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
We returned to Fitzroy, the village at about 1030am after fishing for several hours and gorged ourselves on the Trumpeter, Red's Parore and the John Dory, which you can see Bede cleaning and filleting here:
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
The John Dory was exquisite, I can assure you. My big Parore was held in reserve, we went back out that day and fished the north end of the island, near The Needles, way up top of the island, not really doing much, lots of small throw backs and a parade of non-eating fish graced us. Returning to Fitzroy Sound, we selected another isolated little bay, anchored and prepared for dinner. My Parore was butterflied and a smoker was produced. The fish went in, the beers came out of the cooler and we went into the water. Following brief showers to rinse off the salt water we settled onto the back deck to relax, lie about the ones that got away and enjoy the exceptionally delightful company of one another. It was incredible. The next two days we spent fishing and circumnavigating the island. The wind came up and we actually got stuck in Tryphena Harbor for a day as the winds roared through Colville Passage at 28 knots, bringing up the waves. We celebrated Mass each day we were out and it was absolutely amazing.
There are, you see, these places where language, where words are crafted. Adjectives roll off of tongues in these places and are soon sullied with overuse and unreflected application. These language mills, at the mention of the Great Barrier Island, they fall silent. The adjectives they would fashion falling uselessly to the floor, the craftsmen themselves painfully silent, like a Greek chorus that knows it cannot possibly meet the task of reducing this place into a sound which accurately captures its meaning. And this is the only place I have ever been where words positively...fail.
This was the sunsetting on the clouds my second night on the island...even the image doesn't capture it adequately. But it will suffice to stoke you to go there for yourself, perhaps...
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
More to follow...
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