Decisions, Martha Stewart, and Mississippi Lesbians

I managed to make it out of Kansas Friday morning. My route should've taken me over MO, AR, MS, and AL. OK never figured into the picture during pre-flight, but as I launched I found myslef headed in that direction because of the thunderstorms over Little Rock and Memphis.

I took off from LWC and headed pretty much straight south towards Joplin, MO. The weather was bad in AR, but manageable in the southern part. I had intended to fly to Shreveport, LA, then east to Pensacola to get around the storms. But as I passed Joplin (JLN) I was met with a solid wall of blackness, something I vaguely remember from the move Independence Day. So at 9500, I made a nicely executed 180 degree turn, trying to be cool on the radio.

"Uh, Kansas City Center, 2528 Uniform. I'm turning back."
"Affirmative, 2528 Uniform. Say intentions."
"I want to land."
"Where would you like to land?"
"Anywhere."
"Where?"
"Anywhere that's away from the giant black wall of death."
"2528 Uniform, suggest heading of 020 for Joplin."

I touched down in Joplin, filled the tanks, checked the weather and found a way around the giant black wall of death. When I took off again, I contacted ATC, and they assured me nothing was in my way between AR and FL, but that I should stop in MS to reasses.

By two, I was in Greenwood, MS (GWO) By three, I was fueled, rested, weathered and ready to go. By 3:05, I was taxing. By 3:10 I was screaming down the runway. And by 3:15 I was being screamed at by Memphis Center.

"2528 Uniform, did you check the weather?"
"Yes I did."
"DId you get a breifing?"
"Yes I did. Five minutes ago."
"Well there's a line of weather between you and Florida."

I looked over my shoulder at the airport fading away. A seperate line of showers was quickly approaching the airport from the west. I looked at the weather ahead of me, now visible at 2500 feet.

"Memphis Center, 2528 Uniform.
"Go ahead,
"Uh...Memphis Center, I want to land."
"Where?"
"Anywhere."
"Where?"
"Anywhere that's away from that Giant Black Wall of Death."
"Contact tower on 118.35."

And so, safelty on the ground, I checked around a found a hotel in Greenwood called the "The Alluvian," owned by the Viking Company. They picked me up in a British taxi and drove me past the cotton fields of Mississippi to the downtown of Greenwood. I was amazed at the poverty surrounding the city, as well as in the city itself. But like an oasis in the desert, the Aluvian stood in the midst of the blight, welcoming those who want to get away.

I ran into an older guy with a younger girlfriend who said to the front desk girl, "Where's Tania?"
"She's not working tonight."
He turns to the girl he's with and says, "She usually takes good care of me."
I could read the girl's contention on her face.

Nothing like making a girl feel special...As if he's been there a hundred times before with different women. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but you certainly don't want the new girl to think she's one of a thousand, or even one of three.

Greenwood is known for two things: Cotton and Mississippi Delta Blues. I however, only got to experience neither. Instead, I was kept company at the bar by a couple of kids who were pissed at their mom for selling their Jimmy Buffett tickets while they were in the Bahamas. So the evening went on talking about Buffett songs. Now, I'm a big fan, but in order to be a big fan, one should know more than just "Cheeseburger" and "Margaritaville." But you have to start somewhere. They couldn't have been more than 25, and talking about how they haven't gotten laid in a year. And that they would at this point in the night, nail anything that moves. That's when I got a little uneasy, and began to shift in my seat.

So when my table was ready, I bid my new Buffett friends goodbye and headed to my table for an incredile meal. And aside from a boistrous woman who kept talking basketball to her group it was an uneventful meal. Between giving the waitstaff a hard time for no reason, she'd say things like, "I'm sorry. Terrence isn't the best choice for point guard. I know basketball. I'm sorry." She would start every sentence with "I'm sorry," then make a statement and follow up with, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry. But I think Michael Jordan was the last great player. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry. But I think that Martha Stewart is a lesbian. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry But I think that after all this wine, if Martha Stewart walked in and showed me any interest, I'd become a lesbian. I'm sorry."

So no big adventure on this night. I just sat and listened to a few knuckleheads and watched as they shamed the waitress, complained for no reason, and made me proud I wasn't anything like them. I'm a firm believer in two thing: The Golden Rule and Karma...which, now that I think about it, they appear to be the same thing.

When you make a no-go decision, there's a cloud hanging over you, making you wonder if you really made the right decision. An old addage goes something like, "Better to question your decision on the ground than have it confirmed in the air." And that night, after a strong drink, an incredible meal and a few glasses of Pinot Noir, I fell into the cloud-soft bed and knew immediately that I had made the right decision. Then just as I drifted off, I heard a knock at my door.

When I opened it up, there was Martha Stewart buck naked. In her deep voice she said, "I'm here to prove I'm not a lesbian."

I grabbed her by her shoulders, turned her around and gently pushed her off. "I think you want the room across the hall. The one with Jimmy Buffett playing."

At least that's the way I remember it.

Jayhawks and Whale Sharks

So I was sitting in my suite in Lawrence, Kansas watching the rain streak the window overlooking the Kansas River, and although I shouldn't be, I'm pissed. I've been up here conducting a workshop since Monday night while my friends are plying the great blue Gulf. I'm trading flat lands for flat seas and Jayhawks for Whale Sharks.

I flew in on Monday afternoon. The flight to LWC was nicely unventful. The plane seemed to trim itself out in the smooth air at 8500 feet and stayed that way until I touched down on Runway 19 in Searcy, AR (SRC) long enough to refuel. I had the music going, and ATC was very relaxed. I kept my 330 heading all the way, stopping long enough to refuel. (They have a great little self-serve pump on the field where you can taxi your plane up to the pump, lay your hose under your plane and fill your tanks.)

From SRC to LWC, the air over the cornfields heated up, causing the clouds to settle between 7000 and 10000 feet, so I dropped to 6.5 and bounced atop the thermals below the clouds, picking up a ground speed of 160 mph(statute).

I'd had to pay the bills that week, so I was in KS showing folks the best way I know to Call On Docs. Then on Thursday, it was time for me to go....I was hoping to get back before what we called a "sickday."

Last week, Dave said, "Let's call in sick on Thursday."
Me: "I can't," I said. "I've got to be out of town."
Dave: "Cancel it."

I couldn't do it. I had too many people counting on me. "Calling in sick" simply met that we wouldn't take any charters that day. The guys would go spearfishing all day instead of work. But had I known what they were going to see that day, I would've done anything I could to stay and dive.

So...I was ready to return to Pensacola, but as I stood on the wing of the Archer and looked to the south at the thick, dark lightening filled clouds, I knew I couldn't go. Here's a rule of thumb: if it takes longer to decide to fly than it does to fly, then you shouldn't fly. It's kind of like ironing your clothes. If you even question whether you should iron them, then you should.

When the rain stopped, I ventured out to downtown Lawrence and spent the evening along Massachuesetts Ave, looking at the hippy kids from KU. Apparently "Introduction to Hygene" was passed over in favor of "Dreadlocks for Rastas Wannabes."

As I walked along Mass avenue, I came across a store called, "Brits." It's a store where you can by Brittish food. I was surprised there was a market for it, but apparently someone's making a living from it. I checked out shelves full of "Heinz Salad Cream," "Mrs. Balls Hot Chutney," and my favorite "Spotted Dick Sponge Pudding." If you're longing for the cuisine of Royalty, check out www.britsusa.com. The girl at the counter was incredibly helpful, and even gave me a candy made from Treacle--whatever that is. I'm sure she went home that night, laughing with her friends saying, "I gave this asshole a piece of shit wrapped in a candy wrapper. And he actually ate it and smiled and said, 'Thanks.' "

From there I checked out the bands playing that night. It turns out that there's a band named after one of my favorite mottos: "Dead Girls Ruin Everything." I didn't get a chance to hear them, but just based on their name, I knew we had a lot in common. So instead, I headed to Pachamamas for drinks and dinner.

A hot bartender with flames on her wrists fixed me a Makers and water. She was playing it cool, completely ignoring me. But I was playing it even cooler, writing her name on a napkin with my last name after it, encircled with hearts and arrows.

They kicked me out of the bar and into the restaurant, and I ordered perfectly. Fois Gras; Short Ribs, and a couple of glasses of Cardinal Zin, followed up a with a flourless chocolate cake. The Fois Gras was a little on the chilled side, but as it was explained to me by my Vegitarian waitress, it was supposed to be that way. But as she walked away, I began to wonder how the hell a vegitarian would know how seared duck liver should be seved. I had to use all my wit and charm to get her to even touch the liver to verify its temp...which, based on her expression, I don't think she enjoyed one bit. I did.

I ended the night walking back to the hotel as Mass Ave filled with music from the street musicians. The sliver of moon held up in the distant clear sky and I knew I had nothing to complain about. A friend of mine explained the the premise of "Get to; Got to." And thankfully I get to see these small towns. I've never said, "I've got to fly to Lawrence. " Or "I've got to dive every day this week." I'm so fortunate that I get to.

When I returned to my room, I checked emails and found one from Dave. He had attached a few pictures of a whale shark they had seen on one of the sites. They had spent a few hours riding it and shooting most of the eleven Cobia hanging around the shark. For them, it was the perfect day.

So maybe I didn't make it to see the whale sharks on Thursday. But like life, every adventure is what you make it. And if you're going to be holed up in a small town, you might as well treat yourself to whatever you can and savor every bit of the experience. Maybe I won't come home with fresh slabs of Cobia, but I will always remember the pained look on my Vegitarian waitress' face when she agreed to touch my cold Fois Gras. Some things you just can't capture on film or on the sharp end of a speargun. Besides, dead girls ruin everything.

Fly By Nighters and World Travelers

I was sitting at the bar with a couple of buddies after a great morning of diving. It was a perfect day. We'd had a full boat with motivated divers, on flat seas and clear water. I had been hired by a father-daughter team to tag along, keep an eye out, and point out a few hidden treasures of the wrecks. They were naturals and I almost felt guilty taking their money. But the beauty of being a good divemaster is never putting anyone in a situation where you have to prove how good you are.

So we're on our second beer at the bar talking about the dive and how incredible it had been. We went down the mental list all divers go though, comparing notes on viz, fish identification, shark patrol, talking about the upcoming dives on the Oriskany. We're lost in our own conversation about the upcoming dives when suddenly a strange voice pipes in.

"You guys dive the 'riskny." He sat on the other side of my buddy Jeremy, and spoke with a rural Florida accent. He looked in his late fifties, but I pegged him as a little younger. He was thin with feathered hair, as if the seventies were coming back any day now. Something didn't seem right with this guy.

"Not today," I replied.

"What you charge for a dive?"

I hesitated. For some reason I didn't feel comfortable telling him the rates. "The company handles that," I said, and went back to my beer.

"I got to talk to you guys," he said.

Let me back up a couple of days here...

For a few weeks I've been emailing with a group of divers who want to dive the Oriskany. They're all former aviators who have spent time aboard aircraft carriers. They tell me they're all accomplished divers, having explored Palau, Truk and other parts of the world. I was really getting excited about diving with these guys. But after a few emails, their leader tells me they're all just Open Water certified. Apparently during all of that international travel, it never occurred to any of them to get beyond their Open Water I certification.

I advised him that we follow the guidelines approved by the Gulf Coast Dive Council, and one of those guidelines is that any open water diver must have a divemaster with them in the water. And my fees are $50 per diver up to two dives.

That threw him for a loop. He was stymied that someone would charge something like that. He , and how he has 400 dives all over the world, adn how he's not a "hairy chested diver," and that I "would not be disappointed" in their abilities. And then he went on to belittle the work divemasters perform. And that's where I became a little upset--not about the money. What rubbed me the wrong way was I would've thought that an aviator would understand the theory of responsibility. Just as a private pilot with thousands of hours can't sit in the left seat of a 707 and fly a load of passengers to Atlanta, an Open Water diver can't expect to receive privileges and accords any higher than their certified level.

So now the situation is, if he wants me along, it's going to be an investment in experience. But if he doesn't, no worries, I'll find some kid fresh out of DM class to take him at whatever he wants to pay. Someone who can't do it well is always willing to do it cheaper.

And that's where we pick up the conversation at the bar...

"I got to talk to you guys," he said. He paused, wiped the foam from his lips and said, "I just started a new website. "something Oriskany.biz." He took another hit from his beer. "We're gonna take people diving."

"Really," I replied. Pensacola is a small town. Divers and Captains know of each other, and this guy was from somewhere far away. "How many times have you dove the Oriskany?"

"I haven't." he said. "We just move up." He motioned to a woman next to him. She looked exactly like Velma from Scooby Doo.

"I'm a divemaster," she added. Then she took out a magnifying glass to look at the menu. (I'm not kidding.)

"Yep. We're gonna get the boat fixed and start taking people out."

"You're going to take people out on the Oriskany and you've never seen it?" I asked. "How can you do that?"

"I just gotta get'em there and back," he said. "We got a website. And you can have our overflow."

"And that's all there is to it? Getting them there and back?" The guy had no clue what it means to run a boat, or probably a business.

"That's it," he said proudly. "I hear they're getting $150 a trip. And that's a lot of money. I'll do it for a lot less."

So many people are coming into town to run trips, and it's becoming disconcerting. Just like guy at the bar, they're all going to try to undercut the professionals who've been here years before the Oriskany came. Unfortunately there's a market in cut-rate risky diving.

And so when I hear back from Mr. World Traveler, I'll have a brand new website address to pass along that just might fit his needs. I just hope the divemaster can find the wreck without her magnifying glass.