Dear Family and
Friends,
This is something you might like to read when you have
a little while. I wanted to tell you
about my adventures on the road this month but it turns out I had more to
relate than I realized when I began.
This runs on to five pages. So
please forgive my long-windedness. I
will put links here in case you want to jump to only certain parts:
|
1 EPCOT 3 GO-KARTS |
8 GLIDING 10 LARA CROFT |
Thanks to a software training assignment, I spent the
last two weeks training -- one week in Orlando, one in
I went to
There was a very pretty belly dancer in the Moroccan
restaurant, who seemed to wear a huge smile of genuine enjoyment as she
cha-ching cha-chinged away on the finger cymbals. I passed a very pleasant hour in the
restaurant, sipping their strong coffee.
Naturally some fat tourist guys in the audience had to get in on the
belly dancing act, too, which was indeed amusing. Maybe our rhythmic starlet knew that they
were bound to bounce in on the act and had been smiling in anticipation.
Midweek of week one, I finally made good on a
long-held ambition: going
parasailing. Not far away was a
lake with parasailing and airboat rides.
It doesn’t look scary, and people tell you it won't be, but I still had
trepidations whilst I was being strapped to the parachute. You start by sitting on the long back deck of
the power boat. The boat pulls forward
till the parachute fills, then accelerates a little till your behind starts to
come up off the deck. I shouted,
"What can you hold ON to?" The driver said, "The parachute
straps that are flat on your chest!" And up I went, being cinched out
little by little.
After my bottom
was off the boat, the fear went away.
Once you're airborne, you're basically airborne, no matter how
high. The boat got smaller and smaller,
quieter and quieter. The boat would turn
left or right and the chute wouldn't respond till about 20 seconds later.
Eventually, you
couldn't even hear the boat. It was a
ton of fun, with the wind blowing by you, that balmy
About the time I
was to come down, I noticed some dark clouds that had started to creep in at
the other end of the lake. And I heard
thunder. I gave the boat guys the thumbs
down to reel me in and thought, "Well, I'm sure these clouds probably just
have some internal lightning - - -" CRACCKK! A big bolt shot down to
the water from one of the dark clouds.
At this point, my
thumbs down signal was being done with BOTH hands (and probably feet, too!) and
very insistently! A witness might have said that I yelled a few naughty things,
too. I thought, "Unless there is some
huge object I am not seeing, it seems to me that I am the highest thing out on
this lake!"
The guys were
cinching me in so fast that the parachute got higher. "In fact," I thought, "I may
be the highest thing around for MILES! .
. . Is that a tingling sensation I am feeling in
my arms? Is my hair starting to stand up? You know, I don't get a warning if
lightning is going to hit me. Nature is
not a theme park attraction."
Such were my
cheery thoughts as I finally clunked down onto the boat deck, shaking worse
than before the ride. The guys maxed out
the turbo speed in getting us back to shore and about as soon as we tied up, a
big thunderstorm came in.
All in all, it
wasn't a bad beginning to my air, water and speed adventures. More were to follow later.
The next night,
another staffer on the training project seemed to catch my fever for fun as I
walked him through a handful of the choice tourist pamphlets. We accordingly bopped off in a rental car to
a go-kart track, a deluxe multiple-figure-eight roadway.
The track ran on
about 4 vertical levels and was pretty involved. Soon I was reliving my glory days as a
12-year-old, whipping around the deserted malls and church parking lots of
I made sure I
trailed the whole pack of dragsters and my only fear was that they would lap me
and get me into their mix-up. The big
black flag that was thrown to get me off the road after lap 4 seemed to come at
about the right moment.
At week end, I
flew to
We got in at
around
About every few
minutes, one would streak across the sky (about 1/5 of the sky's width), or
seem to fall. The stars seemed very
close, and the Milky Way a paved celestial road indeed.
At about
The next day we
went to the Mexican border town of
The merchants'
various ploys to get you to come into their shops were amusing, from "I
got the best low-priced junk out here" to "If I don't got what you
want I steal it for you!"
Back in
So I headed off to
The climactic experience
for me was the Wave Machine, which released a three-to-four-foot wave every 3
minutes or so. I liked this because
confronting it was a chance to gain some inner mastery (so important for the
hyperactive youngster).
At first, this
wave would charge out and all the kids would scream and we would all just run
away from it. Suddenly I realized that
we were all running but the wave wasn't even hitting us till about 10 seconds
later. So I started playing a game of
looking this monster full in the face every time it was released and counting
the seconds of its approach. I figured
this would be useful to me later in tornado watching with professional storm
chasers.
Eventually, I
wasn't feeling a THING when the monster was uncaged. I had demystified the dragon. I had conquered my demons. At that moment a kid conked into my head with
his head. This was nature's little way
of giving me something new to think about.
Back at the
resort, I decided to find an interesting supper. Everyone had been raving about a Ruth's Chris
Steak House that I tried and it was -- you know -- just a steakhouse with the
nowadays-requisite "500-degree" serving plate (their claim, not mine)
where your (rather small) steak sizzles in special butter.
This night I was
allured by other emanations than any of bovine origin. As I walked about in an area of shops, I was
attracted by the (for me) unusual sight of "misters" that were
creating a gauze of coolness over a gazebo with sweet little Italian
lights. You've probably seem these, but
these misters are a web of pipes that traverse an area's ceiling and edges, and
these emit a fine, refreshing spritz.
This restaurant, “
SKY
SOARING: gliding on plumes of desert air:
Let me not belabor
my discoveries further except for two more: sky soaring, and the
In the outskirts
of
We were tethered
to a small plane that dragged us across a gravel runway till we eased up into
the air. The gravel squeaked so loud and
long through the flimsy glider's body that I wondered when we would make it off
the ground.
Up we went to
3.000 feet. Honestly, I couldn't look at
anything for a while. Job One was to
hold my composure and not get airsick like I never have been but like the guy
kept talking about my possibly being, especially in steep turns. The glider would go over the wavy air and
swoop from side to side and I would look down at the instruments and think
"Soon I will have the nerve to look around. But not now.
There's no rush".
Presently (I might
as well pick up some other resemblances to Charles Dickens besides being
long-winded) . . .
presently, I say, I gradually looked out at the desert below, the
mountains, the airport, the plane that was towing us. I kept trying to get slow deep breaths but
they were awhile in being easy. I looked
at the wing tips and gradually began to assume some confidence in the strength
of those light wings.
Then the pilot
said, "OK. Break us free."
(GULP!) "Pull that knob in front of you.
You will hear a snap when the cable disengages." "Uh. .
. . do I pull it hard or gradually?"
"It doesn't matter. Just
pull."
When I had done
such a “breakaway-pull” on the Dare Devil Dive ride at Great
Despite what I had
been told in advance, I believed we would go into a dive from that
instant. But the nose didn't even dip as
it does on a released hang glider.
Instead, we started lifting even more, and even got above the tow
plane. I looked at the meter that shows
rate of rise or sink and we were going up at 200 feet a minute. This was good because I had been told
that when the glider flies in still air it descends at 100 feet a minute. So we had some kind of good ratio going
there.
I had asked the
pilot before the flight when it got really fun in the sky. He said "when a thermal takes you up at
about 900 feet a minute." As I watched, the vertical speed meter went to
300 . .
. 400 . . . 600
. .
. and got over 900 feet a minute. And it was indeed fun!
Well, you know
what they say about things that go up.
Soon we hit the edge of the thermal and began clocking on the downward
side. In about fifteen seconds we were
falling . . .
excuse me – “descending” .
. . at 600 feet a minute. But we were so far up in the sky it didn't
matter. Yeah, you could get bumped
pretty hard on terra firma at that rate, but we were far from earth.
We would find
thermals, ride them up, then come off them and ride down the sinks. We got up to 6000 feet, 3000 above the
altitude where we had been released.
When the pilot finally told
me to take over the flying, I didn't mind.
It was easy. Go down and get
lift, pull back and up until you start to stall. Bank to the side with pedals and stick. Pull back out. You want me to give you a ride sometime? (As if!)
Finally it was
time to come in. The pilot took over and
as we approached the airfield I noticed we were descending at the old familiar
600 feet a minute. I won't tell you I
didn't get nervous and wonder whether or not the pilot was also, but obviously
we made in down fine.
Then they asked me
if I wanted to go on the acrobatic flight, with barrel rolls and front
loops. I politely declined. Don't know if that one's even going to make
it onto my wish list.
The last adventure to relate was a real
surprise. I went to the
There was a
gallery of pictures by Barry Goldwater and some pottery donated by Sandra Day
O'Connor. There was a great section that
had recordings by people from each major tribe of the Southwest. Kind of what I expected.
Then came a
shock. Upstairs I came upon a gallery
that was about "The
For the free
Indians, re-enculturation at faraway boarding schools was the murdering of
their whole way of life and, in touring these exhibits, you imagined you could
feel some of the trauma that they went through.
You started in an
area with murals of the prairie and grasslands, where you felt the Indians'
freedom. Then you heard the trains and
saw the engines that took the children away.
There were many
spoken recordings of how hard the parents and grandparents cried when the
children were confiscated and removed.
The children would be gone for years at a time and some of the kids died
in school and never returned. Their
graves showed their tribes of origin.
After the train
area, you saw the school barber's chair, with the kids' beautiful long hair on
the ground all around it. This was an
appalling sight. You knew that this was
the moment, the guillotine moment, when their dignity, pride and prior identity
as free people was stripped away in mere moments.
Next came an
office where you would choose you new white name. Both first and last. Then came the classrooms and dorm rooms.
Suddenly you
realized that the school had you enveloped in the middle of their Total
Environment. It felt like a
completely foreign and sinister
encapsulation, especially in contrast to life in the forests and
grasslands.
If you used any
Indian words or alluded to any Indian ways, you were punished. The recordings of the Indians describing life
there were so real and moving. Of
course, most acclimated to the new ways, especially being young, but these were
conquered people, living under conquest, and their progress under the system
had a bittersweet cast.
There were posters
to recruit you for activities. These
were so extreme that they seemed a plant by some political activist group to
enrage you against the schools. On the boys'
poster, it said "Learn to be tough and not show your emotions. Learn to take direction from a stern,
father-like coach." Literally,
these were the words.
This school
system, incidentally, was organized under the Department of War and was run by
the military. On the girls' activities
list, it said, "Learn to be clean and civilized."
The pictures of
the boys, heads shaven, in military uniforms, was such a disconnect. Their bodies and faces were completely Native
Indian! And they were dressed in Army-like uniforms. It looked like the ultimate
vanquishment. One only hopes they were
never sent to kill their own. But
somehow I would not feel surprised if they were.
I found myself
asking as I thought about the conquest of
Of course, there
were Indians touring this museum, too. I
met them in a room where there were copies of some of their high school
yearbooks, "The Sandwriter".
The book was in
the same style as all high school yearbooks.
These books were from 1986-88. I
noticed that they did mention the tribe of each student, with the name. But there were no Indian names. Only, "Tom Wilson" and "Susan
White." It was an eerie sight.
I bought a Native
Indian newspaper in the bookstore and noticed so many writers and letters to
the editor written by people with no trace of tribal roots in their names. But they were all Indians. Some would be "Bob Black Elk" or
"
And so my
adventures on the road ended not with thrills but chills.
Upon getting back
to
I hope you have
enjoyed my stories. Remember that I like
to hear yours, too.
--Robb Murray