Out of the Courts and into the Streets

Even though the protest started at 7:00 and I got there at 9:30, it was hardly over. Sure, most of the celebrities had gone home, but as I joined the crowd gathered at Hollywood and Highland I was wasn't alone. We took chalk and wrote messages of love and equality in the middle of the intersection: "I DO" the slogan of the moment and more personal thoughts like the person who wrote "I just want my fairy tale ending." It wasn't my rights at stake so why was I there?
Because there's nothing wrong with being gay.
Because I love America and America will only be the best it can be when everyone really has equal rights.
Because separate still isn't equal.
Because being engaged is amazing, and everyone deserves the chance to be that happy.
Because as a child of divorced parents, I know there's NOTHING gay couples can do to threaten marriage that straight couples haven't already done.

We Marched.

For miles.

Thousands of us.

At one point I thought that--based on the number of people in front of me-- I must have been near the back of the group, so I turned around and there were at least twice as many people behind me as there were ahead.
Thousands of us. All ages, all races, with boyfriends, with girlfriends, with groups of friends, with dogs, bicycles, roller blades, dressed in white, dressed in drag, wearing veils or leather or rainbow leis. (Fave outfit: burly, hairy-chested man in a pink leopard print v-neck dress.)
We marched. We marched down Sunset Blvd past restaurants and clubs where all the people came out on the sidewalk , waving and smiling. They cheered for us, and we cheered for them.

We marched for two hours. Shouting for equal rights, signs held high. (Fave sign: "You just stripped my of my rights, but I still get more pussy than you.")

The little toe on my right foot it nothing but a giant blister now. Totally worth it.
To the people who marched in heels: You are like Gods to me.

This isn't over. We won't be beat.

But in the mean time the supposedly progressive California lags behind a (wonderful) state where if you run over a deer you get to keep it.

DIE, ARNOLD, DIE

What a difference five years can make. I was 17 in 2003 when my mom covered part of our kitchen with pages from the LA Times filled with tiny pictures of the candidates for governor, each more preposterous than the last. What emerged from the chaos was perhaps the most absurd of all: the Governator. YEAH, I'M BITTER. One of the other candidates taped to our pantry doors that year was a college kid, some skinny white boy whose name I don't remember, and I'll tell you, if you had elected him, I'd be a hell of a lot better off.
Of course, on November 7, 2006, I was finally old enough to vote. I cast a ballot for some Democrat. I don't remember his name either, and I'm not sure if I even googled his position on...anything. I voted for the person I felt had the best shot at defeating Arnold.
Now, just over five years later, I'm back at the same school I attended in 2003. I'm in the perfect position to judge just how well Arnold has served us.
When I arrived at Pasadena City College in 2003, I was immediately impressed. You'd think that as an institution gets larger, it becomes harder to manage, but PCC proved that assumption wrong. With roughly 75 TIMES more students than the boarding school I attended, it was at least 1000 times more efficient.
Don't get me wrong: it's still efficient, which speaks volumes about the super-human intelligence of whoever is running the thing. But there's also a lot of desperation.
At every class I've attended in the last week, people start to congregate outside the classrooms more than half an hour in advance. People pack into the classrooms: 60 or 70 people in a room meant for 35. They sit at desks, lean on the walls, crouch in the aisles. Most of them will be turned away. And sure, part of this is due to the larger national issue of recession. People who have lost their jobs are choosing to go back to school, but the other half is that programs have faced huge budget cuts, 50% in some cases.
More students plus less money can't equal anything good. And all the 18 year old first-time college students inherit these problems even though they were NEVER old enough to vote against Arnold.

Fish Out of Water Part 2: The Panic

The Panic is an empty feeling. Days which started at 5:45 AM and ended at 6:30 PM or 8:00 PM or 2:00 AM, now start at 8:00 AM and end at 5:00PM. Those long days were never long enough. There was alway more to do. The short days are never full enough, but they are more tiring.
I think it's all the waiting. Waiting for your food to cook, waiting for a parking spot, waiting for class to start, waiting for class to end, at which point you wait in traffic, wait for more food to cook, wait for the water in the shower to get warm, wait to fall asleep.
There is no waiting in sailing.
Slowly panic starts to build up like salt deposits in all those empty spaces. Until one day your car turns toward the coast like it's driving itself - this wasn't your intention - and two hours later you pull into some lonely turnout where you sit for 15 minutes, maybe 20, and look at the sea.
That's all. You drive home. And as you drive you realize you were looking for confirmation that what you left behind was just something you like, but that's not what happened. The sea was forbidding and empty, nothing likable about it, but the longing was still there. You are a part of the sea, and you are not an amphibian.

Fish Out of Water Part 1: The Glee

Although I've never heard of any research on the subject, I can say with absolute certainty The Glee has been experienced by every sailor who survived his voyage.
You step off the ship and -wow- there are people! They're complete strangers, but, thank God, they are not the same eight people you've been sharing your meager space with. And you just. go. nuts.
You run into the nearest shop to get a candy bar. You leave the shop and find that the 20 dollar bill you were scrupulously saving has been replaced by a plastic bag filled with six candy bars and four sports drinks (nothing like orange gatorade after puking for a few days.) THE HELL WITH IT! YOU'RE GOING TO GET DRUNK AND MAKE OUT WITH-- WHOEVER!
Maybe one of the crew has been here before, and they know a good bar. Maybe no one has, but you can always ask local fisherman, or yachtsmen, or pretty girls who come to giggle and yell "Jack Sparrow!" Or you can just go into the first bar you see. Too fancy? Laugh loudly and leave. A little hostile? Tell the guy next to you that you're a sailor and show him a picture of the boat. (It's on your shirt, or your friend's shirt, or a flier you stuffed in your pocket.) Of course, if the bar's just right, there's already a poster of the boat on the wall, the bar tender has fond memories of the last crew that came through, and he doesn't even get annoyed when you burst into song.
Five hours later, you leave. You give the bartender a 100% tip because you LOVE him and his bar and his town SO MUCH.
The next morning you're hungover, and you're not sure why, as a straight woman, you were flirting with the slutty waitress (oh, wait, yes you are: The Glee. The Glee makes you LOVE EVERYONE.) "Whoever" gives you awkward looks during breakfast.

I firmly believe that sailors evolved with a special safeguard. The Glee simply cannot go on, and it doesn't, but while you have it, you're part of something huge. You're filled with the happiness of every sailor who came before you. 50,000 years ago when the first successful sailor pushed his dugout canoe up onto a beach, he felt The Glee too.

Some for the Pain, Some for the Germs, Some for the Doctor

The Pain
There is electic light on Fanning, just not a lot of it. True darkness is rare for most of us and shocking. You cannot see your hand in front of your face, even if your palm is touching the tip of your nose. Which is how the end of a piece of lumber, 2x4x20, swung at full force by a young and fit I-Kiribati, collided with my face. We were working late, full speed ahead, and it was simply too dark to see.
My first thought after the impact was about my glasses. Were they broken? Two years earlier on a different boat I had (under different and much happier circumstances) broken a different pair of glasses. They had plastic frames, and a clever and charming shipmate had melted them back together with a lighter. My current ones were metal...I reached up to inspect them.
About this time I realized that the warm liquid flowing down my hands and arms was not just the rain.

The Germs
The First Mate herded me into the Agent's house. There he sat me down and instructed me to pinch the bridge of my nose, which was helping until a well-meaning shipmate, attempting to wipe up the blood, bumped my arm. The hand that was doing the pinching was jarred, and I felt the structure of my nose move. Broken. The nearest hospital was on Christmas Island, more that 24 hours away.
The shipmate made another move toward my arm, insisting she was helping, so I took a swing at her (missed) and yelled at every one to FUCK OFF. I was left alone with some paper towels and a bucket of water.
I sat quietly for several minutes, pinching as instructed, and pressing cool, wet paper towels to my face. When most of the bleeding stopped, I wiped myself off and did a damage assessment. There was a small cut on my nose, where the impact caused the sharp bone to push through the skin. My hands and arms were covered in blood, like some hideous victim in a horror film or an ax murderer. There was even some blood on my legs.
Once I was clean I felt much calmer until I suddenly realized that I'd been rinsing my brand new wound in some random third-world water. Fanning Island has staph.

The Doctor
"I need you to see if my nose is broken," I told Nate, our medical officer, when I got back to Kwai.
"Oh, I can see it's broken," he replied without so much as a closer look. "It's at a 20 degree angle."
The Captain fed me two prescription-strength tylenol and a shot of Sailor Jerry rum. Nate eyed my nose eagerly.
"You're excited," I said. I wasn't angry or even that surprised.
"No I'm not."
He sat me down in the galley (ship's kitchen) and carefully pressed my nose back into place. We didn't have a nose scope, so he checked his work with a flashlight. The tylenol and rum performed marvellously. I took a deep breath and found I could breath much more easily. I looked at Nate.
"Admit it. You liked that."
"Yeah! That was awesome!"

Island Tour Two: Fanning Island

On Fanning we were greeted by a slightly larger Japanese pickup. The bed of the truck was fitted with plywood benches. A 2x4 made a backrest/handrail along the sides, and in each corner of the bed more 2x4s supported a thatched roof. The benches were covered in thin cushions with Hawaiian print fabric. It was our Agent who had arranged the tour, and we sat on the benches next to him, his wife and children, and a teenage neighbor.
The truck crawled along the unpaved road. We drove past houses made of everything: plywood, corrugated metal, palm wood, cinder blocks, small sticks laced together, thatch for both roofs and walls. (Thatch walls are more like window shades for rain. In good weather they are rolled up, and in bad weather they are unrolled to provide a sheild against rain.) Some of the houses are actually on stilts.
As we drove the Agent told stories. The son of a British father, his English is excellent. He described how a ship once gave him a ride to Honolulu. When he arrived he found that all the cars drove very fast (during our two hour island tour we left first gear for only a few minutes.) But he braved the traffic and took a carefully assembled shopping list to Walmart.
"The list was destroyed!" The agent exclaimed as he described buying everything in sight. He went on to admit that he got lost inside and did not find his way out for three hours. The Cook, Nate and I (the three Americans present) all shrugged. This had happened to all of us.
Finally we ran out of road. A bridge had washed out seven years earlier and was never replaced. (Fanning Island gets epic rains. It can pour for three weeks straight. The Agent once opened his front door and found tilapia swimming at his feet.)
We stopped the truck, and the Agent sent the neighbor to get coconuts. The boy selected a tree, one with a very vertical trunk, carefully wiped his bare feet on the bottom of the tree, and walked right up it. Like the rest of us walk down a side walk. He stomped down the coconuts and split them open with a machete.
Coconut water is always safe to drink, and according to the Agent, is so pure that it was used as IV fluid during World War II.
On the way back we stopped to watch a group of boys climbing coconut palms to "cut toddy." Coconuts are essential to Kiribati. They are responsible for the nation's main export Copra, which is dried coconut meat that can be pressed for oil. In addition there are the previously mentioned house-building and medical uses, and the edible meat and milk with which we are all familiar. Furthermore, there is the toddy, a sort of island beer made from coconut sap. The sap is procured by climbing a coconut palm and binding (with a rope generally made from coconut fibers) the tiny green berries that might have become coconuts. The end of this tightly-bound package is cut off, a leaf is attached to make a spot, and the sap leaks from the berries, through the spout, and into a jar, where it eventually becomes toddy. Toddy is delicious and is one of the reasons I had such enthusiasm for the coconut water on that particular afternoon.
The plant both creates and cures hangovers. You just have to know how to use it.

Excellent Sea Food

"LAND CRABS??"
Yep. That's right. Christmas Island (and Fanning too) is covered in land crabs.
They are Christmas Island's principle form of roadkill. In this way they are like squirrels.
They range from about the size of a very large spider to bigger than your hand. In this way they are NOT like squirrels.
They are edible, but are not a dietary staple. (Like squirrels.)
They are sand colored and live in holes dug in the sand. (Unlike squirrels.)
They do not pinch unless provoked.