seismicpirate

Broken, again

2007-02-05T17:57:00.000-08:00

This time its my back. I believe Jay will relate when I say that it's a type III injury with its own level of pain that I know only too well. It is ironic that I wrote about feeling on top of the world last night and today I write this from the deepest depths of pain.

It is something close to agony to sit here, work and post this. Walking around requires numerous handholds and so I have worked out several paths to get from my chair to the head, coffee pot and smoking lounge. The mess is out of reach, but there's a box full of snacks on the way to the coffee pot so I won't starve.

*********************************************************************

We had a fire drill but it was over before I made it all the way to the muster station. Not moving very fast, today. Today the medic was off on another ship in the armada, so I had to tough it out for several hours. We finally brought him back over about an hour ago, he has checked me over and hooked me up with painkillers, ant-inflammatories and muscle relaxers, sweet muscle relaxers. They have all kicked in now, but I am still walking like a little old man and still in pain, but its an improvement, nonetheless.

Ahhhrg!

Crane ops, Christmas and the Borg

2007-02-05T17:01:00.000-08:00

Today we took a supply ship alongside. I put my computer system on autopilot, got on my boiler suit, steel-toed boots, hardhat and went out for a little exercise and fun. We use a four-ton, knuckle crane to transfer supplies from the supply vessel to ours. Its mounted on the top deck and from there you can swing the ball over to the supply ship, snatch a pallet and drop it onto our top deck or down through a 3-meter hatch at the stern which opens up to the cable deck, just above the waterline. From there, we use a pallet jack to pull the supplies forward into the cable tray where one man breaks it down, handing it to a "bucket brigade" chain of crew members that transfer it by hand into the dry store, cooler and freezer, just off the mess. For a while, I stood atop equipment piled above the stern of the ship, guiding the crane operator with hand signals whenever the load dropped out of his sight.

It was sunny, warm and breezy and for a while I stood up above everyone and everything on the ship. I could see a full 360 degrees, marking the ships in our fleet, several dozen unmanned platforms, a stray crew boat and a shrimper passing through our prospect. I kind of felt on top of the world, riding the ship as it pitched and rolled in the swell. Those few minutes up there probably rank as the most enjoyable I have spent in this ocean bottom operation. I spent a few, quiet moments looking to the North and thinking about home, too. Eleven more days...

Years back, I picked up a crane course where I had to memorize something like 20 hand signals and I guess I still remember about half of them. Enough for our type of crane and the ops we perform, anyway. I also noticed today while rigging loads that some of the techniques and rules I haven't used in a while are also getting fuzzy. I'm just about due for a refresher, and I think it's perfect timing.

After we loaded supplies, bunkered fuel, water and oil, we cut the supply ship loose and went about the business of unpacking and putting everything away. The mates and cooks took care of the food stores, the seismic crew handles some dry goods and all the equipment and parts slated for the seismic end of the operation. For some of us, it was like Christmas. The guy next to me got one of those new 26' wide-screen monitors. It was plug and play for his PC and he had it up and working in 5 minutes. Took a little longer to make the connection to the Linux-driven workstation he uses to tap into my Linux system, but even that went well and the only trouble he had was wiping the shit-eating grin off his face when it was done and he could switch between systems, seamlessly. Even though I have a pair of linked 24 inch screens with dozens of virtual screens each, if I want, I couldn't help but be a little jealous. It's a damn nice monitor.

Tonight I had a look at the QHSE course offerings available around the world and saw a few in Russia, one in Moscow, which would be cool, but even better-one in Novabrsk (southern Siberia)and I have a friend there I haven't seen in over four years. They have the same course in Cairo and one of the things I've really wanted to do is ride a horse through the desert, around the pyramids, so that might be my first choice if I have to listen to QHSE lectures for a week. Whatever, anything is better than Houston and I bet that's where my ass ends up:(

Two nights ago I found a collector's edition DVD collection of Star Trek TNG, Voyager and Enterprise, All centering on the Borg. SCORE. I watched 3 episodes last night and 3 tonight, one I had never watched before. I hope the human race lasts long enough to develop the wisdom and honor that Gene Roddenberry dreamed off. In the meantime, I will scratch my ass and slag off on the Colts for not even letting me one freakin quarter on the squares.

Live long and prosper...

Ahhhrg!

What are the odds?

2007-02-04T21:42:00.000-08:00

I figure right about now everyone I know is watching the stuper bowl. I've stopped. My square this year is 9/6 NFC/AFC. That means I just missed 350 bucks on the first quarter as the Colts failed to get that field goal they scored on the next damn series of downs after the quarter. Guess who missed the field goal with 2 seconds left in the half that cost me 500 bucks? The same bastard who made it at the end of the second to cost me another 350 for the third quarter. I cannot believe how close I came each quarter. So here I am with 7 minutes left in the 4th and the score is 29-17 Colts. A Chicago TD and the extra point could net me 600 for the fourth. I AM NOT WATCHING.

There's always next year...

Ahhhrg!

Nick Nolte gives me the chills

2007-02-04T18:12:00.000-08:00

I guess I've always been the curious type. I really dig learning things, the little ones, mostly. I loathe to call them trivia, though I like to stock up on a bit of that, as well. Having the awareness that Borneo is the third largest Island in the world nestled in my pocket gives me a kind of warm, fuzzy feeling. Conversely, I don't give a flying fuck about numbers one and two. I guess the bits and bobs I prefer to collect, like the beer cans I horded as a teenager, have to connect to something inside. I don't know how the connections are made, but they are there and they are strong. Things like the secret tubes that Dorothy turned me on to, fascinate me and stick with me forever.

I can whip out the fact that sperm whales (Physeter Catodon) blow through a single hole at 45 degrees to port (left for the lubbers) and slightly forward. You won't catch me with my pants down when a sperm whale blows. Nope, I’ll be the geek in the crowd pointing out that it’s a sperm whale, yes-sir-ee Bob. The point is that I soak up all sorts of weird things like Mr. Bud collects tools and building supplies. I just wish my little buddies were useful, like the tools.

Sometimes they come together in the weirdest ways. A few days ago DGM, wrote about the pee chills. As a guy, I kind of figured that only guys got them. One night a couple years ago my daughter had to pee before I tossed her in the tub. I hung out and told her a short story about dragons, Barbies, or some shit, out of gratitude for her not peeing in the tub for a change and grossing me out. When she finished her business, she gave a little shiver. “Whoa! What was that?” I inquired. She told me she didn’t know, but it happened most times after she peed. I filed that little tidbit away. It took me nearly 40 years to learn that girls get the pee chills, too. Duh.

I was reminded of that when reading DGM’s pee chill post. Later that night, it got really rough, enough that waves began to smack the ship instead of tossing us up and down. When waves smack a ship, any ship, really hard, the ship shimmies from head to toe. After the second wave/shimmy effect I got a good laugh, thinking my ship had the pee chills because that is EXACTLY the effect you get on all ships in really rough weather-the pee chills.

Yup, that was pointless. Anything that follows will most likely be just as pointless, but I’m in a rambling mood. I’ve hit the rack, the ship is rolling heavy in side seas and I won’t sleep for a while, yet. I’ve got damn good tunes on the headphones and need to let the meatball sub I had for dinner settle a bit, or it’s back to murdering tripods and taconites…

I heard something mentioned in the instrument room and had to google the dude to find out this was REALLY funny….

A room-wide, free-for-all conversation went on for 3 hours tonight, right behind my back. At one point somebody mentioned a movie I’ve never heard of about swimming or diving. Somebody else mentioned that it starred a guy named Nick Nolte. Someone else chimed in and said, “That was back when he could act.” Another added, “No, that was back before he looked like he puts up magnetic cartoon signs in Boston.” The whole room cracked up and I googled up this,

laughing my ass off as well;)

Ahhhrg!

Living in someone else's colon

2007-02-03T20:32:00.000-08:00

The reason I quit taking mushrooms was the debilitating effect it had on my sense of smell. As a teenager, I adored them. Here was a food group that actually saved on entertainment costs by allowing you to laugh uncontrollably at a telephone pole for hours. Mushrooms taste damn good, too. Yes, even the magic ones tasted good to me.

That all changed on a road trip when I was about 19. I took a trip (literally and physically) to a cabin on a lake, arriving very late at night. Myself and an equally spaced-out friend spent several unsuccessful hours, overturning these white stones that ringed the lakeshore, digging in the mud for worms. After, I don’t know, 2-3 hours, the sun began to come up and we finally noticed the white stones were thousands of very dead fish-the lake had been purposely poisoned to insure the success of a different breed of fish about to be introduced into the lake. I realized I had no sense of smell, whatsoever and that it was probably a bad thing. That was the last time I ate mushrooms for entertainment and I really have no earthly reason for telling you that, but the hallway smells like serious ass and I wish I had some mushrooms.

That and I can’t post what I want because I no longer have any functionality on my posting page-no formatting, image upload, compose mode, preview, spell-check.

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

Ahhhrg!

Who are "we" anyway?

2007-02-03T16:49:00.000-08:00

Ugh, We are temporarily experiencing technical difficulties with Blogger, rendering us incapable of posting the usual, witty and intelligent shit you're used to getting in the cove.

Ahhhrg!

BROKEN SHARDS (Of nose chili)

2007-02-02T17:03:00.000-08:00

I think I told PW, jokingly, that half my readers would head for the hills if I posted any of the rather bizzare posts of late. I was wrong, loosing just over 2/3 of them in the past week. It is in memory of those timid souls, departing for those unknown points of security and rational discourse in the blogosphere, that I dedicate this final piece and thus closing the circle on BIF's Revenge. Don Ho, if your out there, I'm sorry man. You really are a cool guy, Tiny Bubbles rocks and I lost my virginity to a hula dancer in a grass skirt.

The taconites aren't like you and I. Come to think of it, neither are you. Or, I.

I mean, it’s all relative and you can pick your nose…

The taconites. They are spawned of the dark places and favor the same dirty things we all do, but there is a horrible difference. Taconites are devoid of the kind of ritualistic hatred and screaming fits that make you and I what we are. I cannot imagine what drives them and fear that someday I might be confronted with that horrifying truth. For now, I content myself with the knowledge that what I am about to do is unrealistic and fueled by irrational headcheese.

At the nearest pay phone, I stop and call the law. The more weak-minded and soft amongst you might step back in shock and horror, but I had to do it. I tattled on the taconites and it was good. Whistling a merry tune, I headed back across town toward the old lady's apartment and my perch atop the radiator. A block down the road, I caved in to temptation and turned into the cafe I passed the first night back in this hellhole. The watering can behind the counter stirred a pot of chili, casually dropping ash from his fountain pen into the vile mix. I ordered a big bowl and tried not to think about the radios roasting in the back, or the recently fried ream of copy paper, still dripping tiny bubbles of Don Ho juice, right in front of me.

The watering can served my chili and ash; leaning back on the grill to stare at me as I inhaled a shot of chili through a straw inserted into my left nostril. "A dang lefty", he drawled. "You must be from up North". I just stared and shoved the straw up my right, inhaling half the bowl in one long snort. " He shivered once, nodded his head and replied, "I'll give you that one and this one, y'all can have for free, too. The tripods are massing at the camera shop, two blocks down the street. You know the place? The one they took when they rose up against...", he trailed off. This time I shivered and nodded my head, remembering the telephoto lenses impaled on tall poles, lining the streets. Deciding against emptying the rest of the chili, I pushed the unfinished bowl toward him and stood up, reaching for my liver. "It's on the house", he stated, taking my bowl and pitching it into the bin. I walked out, thinking it was likely to be in the gutter, soon as well.

Making my way down the block, I noticed small, furry shower curtains scurrying into the sewers and alleyways, predicting mayhem for the near future and damn me if they weren't right. I didn't think, didn't hesitate, just walked up and threw four grapefruits through the window of the building on the left-the only one lit from within. Within seconds it erupted in flames. Those few tripods that made out the front door were cut down, splinters from my ruler strewn about the broken bodies like unused kindling. I stayed and watched long after they stopped coming through the door, leaving only when the sirens began to wail and it was obvious I had to beat feet, or answer a lot of questions nobody wanted to hear answers for.

I was only three blocks from the old lady’s apartment when I broke down, unable to control my rage and overwhelming shame for not storming the building and dying in the process. I knew you were in there, tied to a chair, or a large can of salted peanuts, silently praying for me to come to your rescue. Yeah, I knew you were in there and I chose me, letting you burn. My mother used to call me a punk. I knew I wasn't a punk and told myself that I would never grow up to be one, either. I was wrong. I'm the worst kind of punk and your dead. I feel something dribbling down the front of my shirt. Reaching up, I feel blood running freely from a wound on my earlobe. A bloody piece of copy paper lies at my feet, uneaten. I try to stem the flow of blood draining from my ear and begin to sob.

When the crying stopped, utterly spent and bereft of memories of the time spent in libraries and other such places of ill-repute, I found myself leaning against a telephone pole, covered in posters advertising the latest number-27, I think and of all things, a drapery rally on the edge of town, set to begin in the morning. It called out to me like buggery in a church. "Perhaps there can be some good in my life, after all", I thought, as I pulled the tin foil flyer from the pole. Taking stock, I took stock and emptied my pockets of the thawed peas and rotten memories of this town and the feel of your skin against the doors of my mind. A block down the street, I turned the corner, heading toward the alley cutting across the district to where the taconites used to hang out in the hard hat bars before I put them to bed with a phone call.

Entering the alley, I pulled my coat tighter, looked to the still dark eastern sky, thinking the moon would soon rise, lighting my way out of town to the woodlot mentioned on the flyer and I felt alive for the first time in my life. Maybe Don Ho will be there…

Ahhhrg!

COMPLICATION (The taconite wars)

2007-02-01T21:42:00.000-08:00

(3 OF 4, THAT MEANS JUST ONE MORE)

She was just another pretty face. A refrigerator magnet, working the coatroom at one of the seedier hard-hat bars the tripods operated as a front for the safe house in back. Just another door hinge trying to make an honest buck who got in the way of the monster that was me as I lit a grapefruit and tossed it into the bar, ducking into the coat room. Our eyes met and I knew she knew her days were numbered in seconds.

I whipped out my best Elvis and asked her for a peanut butter and banana sandwich, just as three, fat tripods blocked the doorway and fired their pea-shooters. She died laughing, a frozen pea right between the eyes. Those eyes. Locked on mine as she giggled her last foaming breath unto her ample chest. She slid slowly down the door of the fridge and those eyes haunted me for years to come. I took the first tripod with one swipe of my splintered ruler, as a pea shattered the mirror behind me. The other two folded like tripods at the end of a photo shoot. Don Ho would have been proud.

I could smell the flatulence, like cordite after a gun battle, as I stepped over them and into the bar, frozen peas crunching underfoot like so many frozen peas. Those eyes still danced in my vision like sunspots, refusing to let me forget her sweet laugh and rancid breath as I began to systematically eliminate the bar tab of every patron in the joint, hard-hats and tripods and the three stuffed shirts in the corner, smoking a crack. Just as I leaned over to grab a shirt by the collar, I saw his eyes widen as he looked past me toward the front door. I flung him upright, diving into the crack just as six taconite pellets opened up on me with flashlights blazing. I dove out the window, rolled into the street and came up running. I could hear the shirts laughing as I rounded the corner with a dull router.

I had taken a stab of light across my shoulder, just a slight shadow remained, so I wrapped it in mystery and headed straight for the one place I knew I could uncomplicate this mess-the hideout of the head taconite pellet, himself-Hematite…

Ahhhrg!

BORN OF THE TEACUP (Death of a tripod)

2007-01-31T19:33:00.000-08:00

PW WANTS MORE AND PW GETS WHAT SHE WANTS, SO...

If you read my last missive, you know how I died.

The storm tossed the tiny ship to and fro, like a teacup in a tempest. But the tempest, born of the tea within the cup was all smoke and no mirrors. Storm stirred tea within the cup and it was good. And that, not what you might have conjured, is how I was born.

Born of the tempest and the tea and the cup and the sweet music they made that day.

Still, I walked into this world much like I walked into this damn town; head held high and the sole of one tired, old shoe flapping on the pavement like the sound of a poorly snapped whip upon a naked and quivering back. To say I came for revenge would be an understatement. To say I came for justice would be a poor excuse for a torn basque, dripping with metaphor, lit by the rising moon and the passion in your eyes, before they took you away from me. I walked into town hell bent for feather; a caged bullet, a coiled string on the verge of hatless. A confectioner.

I passed a late-night, toe jam cafe; the pale, green Freon sign still lit, frigid and unforgiving. Beads of moisture gleam on the window, pearls of misplaced wisdom. A stark contrast to the mouth-watering smells of honey-roasted radio and deep-fried copy paper emanating from its slightly skewed, geometric interior. You know. The kind you find in dime-store novels depicting horseless carriages that seem to run on the very stuff dreams are made of. I was hungry yes, but not that hungry, so I made my way toward the center of town, the tripods and my fate of fates, while you sit staring, confused at this arrangement of little, white letters on a black page, Pirated for your pleasure, or perhaps, pain.

Whatever.

I knew the sort of places that tripods and taconites prefer and in another life would have avoided them at all costs, but that night those places became my prey. I took the first one quietly; with a soft, tenor whisper blowing down the door, devouring the empty light sockets, torn and hanging from the ceiling, tripods and all, in less time than it takes to blink your one good eye. I was their god of hellfire as they blackened and crisped under my flame. No questions, no explanations and no witnesses. Word would spread as their hangouts, safe houses and places of higher learning were found in ruins. They would fear me as the un-waxed floor tile fears the stiletto and I would use that fear like a loaded stapler abuses the nets that hang drying in the sun down by the docks every Saturday. I would have you back and have my indignation restored.

During the heat of the day, I rested; perched on a tattered, brown blanket atop a radiator in an old woman’s apartment on the Rue de Sirat, much like a tawny sock, soaking up the dust-lit sunbeams on a lazy, Sunday afternoon. It was here I developed a taste for drapes. Swaying in the artificial breezes of fan and windmill, alike, I felt a sense of kinship and belonging. I knew it wasn’t natural-an affront to the gods, but I needed something to hold on to; a kind of security as I searched for you amongst this city of diseased beer bottles, violent lampshades and used up, old car batteries.

Nightfall and I would rise again to tempt my fate and drink from the well that was the naked hatred I felt for the tripods and the cameras that ruled them and yes, rode them like the beasts of burden they once were. You see, it wasn’t the damn camera; though I still shutter at the images they left. Of laughing vegetables and fevered pinafores writhing in ecstasy upon the bones of those they captured and ate. Still life, their photoshop of horrors and….No, it was the tripods. They threw off the reigns of their masters and walked that long, dusty road that is the destiny of all who perspire to rise above the masses and rule, as their masters had before them. They chose their path and crushed the petals of a thousand flowers along the way. For that and for what they took from me, they will all die. Strains of Don Ho float amongst the darkened ruins of ancient buildings and Moroccan sunsets like the rancid mist coils around your feet in a shopping mall, making me laugh and laugh. And laugh.

I am still laughing as I take the next place of learning, like a parking ticket in a car wash. I save one tripod; carried to the edge of town, where I can work on him hard, away from the common trash and prying eyes of the local constabulary. It doesn’t take long to break him. He tells me what I need to know and begs me to end it. I don’t. I let my hatred fuel my work and my work in turn, fuels my hatred, whipping me into a biting, lemon meringue. The tripod bleeds and I suffer. The tripod dies and I am reborn, fevered and aching for revenge, like a guitar pick scraped along the strings, setting off harmonics that ripple through this city like the waves of re-painted rickshaw. Raw and bleeding, I move back into town amongst the shadows and soft places where the old black telephones go to die. I am one step closer to her as the moon rises over a city drenched in sorrow for its sins.

Ahhhrg!