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.