Submariners

When you ask the Ty-man what could have been, he will say Navy submariner. That's what he wanted to be. His dreams involved being an officer on board a US Navy submarine. Said dreams were yanked from him the first run up Crown Mountain. At North Georgia College & State University, all incoming, brand-new, ROTC cadets are required to spend the week before school at "Frog Week." I guess you could call Frog Week the NGCSU version of Hell Week, the culmination of which is a 5K run up, way up, and down Crown Mountain.

Ty-man ran up and down that thing and had to be held up by his fellow Bravo Company cadets as they entered the drill field. When they let go, he collapsed. As the weeks progressed, and the running didn't get any easier, a doctor finally diagnosed Ty-man with athletic-induced asthma. This means that at rest, his lungs are fine. If he runs, or fights a current, or over-exerts himself in any way, Ty's lungs shut down in an asthma attack of nasty proportions.

The US Navy was no longer an option.

Before our trip to Curaçao, we found out about the Curasub, a five-person research sub built by Nuytco Research Ltd., and stationed at Substation Curaçao. All the dream of mastermind Adriaan "Dutch" Schrier, the Curasub is in place for not only research (NASA and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution have shown interest in utilizing the sub) but to also show the average Joe and Jane the extreme depths of the ocean. Dutch's dream is to allow anyone the chance to dive the deepest depths only a handful of researchers have seen. After all, tourists have already breached space, why not the ocean?

Topside, we signed our lives away.


The pre-dive checks had already been made by our sub driver Michiel and after we signed off on the dive, he gave us our briefing.


We learned that everything on the sub is redundant, the batteries, the CO₂ scrubbers, and the oxygen tanks. Only half of each is used during the dive with the other half of each tapped in case of emergency. There is enough battery power/caustic scrubber/oxygen to keep us alive for five days and it only takes two days for a second sub to be flown in from Canada. And, as Michiel put it, we would be famous when we emerged.

Well, hell I thought, just two days? Let's go, baby!

Shoes make the sub dirty. So, on with teh sexy sub socks!


Being 5-feet 5-inches does not make for an easy or graceful entry into this thing. I wasn't quite tall enough to stand on the stool and hold onto the sides with my armpits. If you'll notice, behind that smile, I'm thinking Dear God, don't make me look like a complete idiot getting into this thing. I don't want to see this on Curaçao's Funniest Home Videos.


Ty-man, being a giant, had no problem getting in. It was during the fitting-in-it part that he was a bit squished over.


As we descended, I watched the emotions move across Ty's face. Wonder, joy, happiness, glee, and awe. He had them all. And I could see the mental calculations If I save x% of the salary each year, then by the time I'm 65 I can probably buy one of these for Lake Lanier. Yeah! That's it! The Ty-sub! He? Was giddy.


See that big grin on his face? Yeah. That's what I'm talking about.



The Curasub looks big but trust me, it isn't. There's barely enough room for five people and four of us rode that day: Ty-man, me, Michiel, and an intern. While our rear-ends were in Michiel's face, his feet were next to our noses. Yeah, crazy-small. But when you start paying attention to the ocean around you, you don't even notice the close-quarters.


See that? That's us, at 440 feet, looking at the propeller of the Stella Mares.

Yup, I totally put that depth in my dive log book. Yup, I'm a dork.

Towards the end of our dive, we checked out a century-old elephant ear sponge at 111 feet. Gorgeous, don't you think?

The sponge, not Ty's butt. Well, OK, that too.

Diving to the depths of the ocean is the last frontier of our species. Only two men have been to the bottom of the ocean but we've sent 12 men to the moon and continue to send men and women into orbit around our planet. Seven tourists have traveled Mach 25 around the Earth and yet... how many of us average citizens have visited the Titanic?

I'm not saying it's going to be cheap, but Dutch has made the first move into making the depths accessible to everyone and I'm all for it.

Like I said before, Robert Ballard better watch his back.


P.S. If you have about ten minutes, check out these two videos from the Discovery channel about the Curasub and see it in action! Video 1 and video 2.

P.P.S. Both pictures of the Curasub, taken from outside the sub while it was in the water, were taken by underwater photograph Barry B. Brown. Check out his amazing blog here.

This Post Brought To You By Sore Throats. And Rum.

This is John:


You all met him previously when we went ruby mining. He's the husband of my beautiful sorority sister Toni.

John's a great guy. I call him my "snorkel spouse." He and I have been known to get into plenty of trouble with some fins and lots of water.

But last week, in Curaçao, John exceeded my snorkel limit.

This is us, starting off on what I thought would be an innocuous exploration of the house reef.


Little did we know...

Here is our resort:


And this is the route of Death Snorkel Expedition 2010:

(Oh, yeah. Click on that sucker and make it bigger.)

What made this the Death Snorkel was the current. On our way out, we fought against the push of the ocean. We finally found, well past the dolphin pools, a ladder and a walkway through the aquarium. Ah, wonderful. We're saved! In the little lagoon area at the base of the ladder were four teens snorkeling and having fun. My first indication that getting out here was a bad idea was the arm punch I received from one of the riff-raff. Now, mind you, we're still in the water. So, I whipped my head around and I was all WTF? and his face (behind the mask and snorkel) was all Who the Hell are you? (but read that in Dutch because he was probably Dutch, which according to Babelfish translates as Who is u? but I'm 99.9% sure Babelfish is wrong and can, therefore, suck it.) and suddenly, I found myself in an underwater Robert DeNiro moment (You talkin' to me?!?).

John and I exited the water, relieved that the madness of Death Snorkel Expedition 2010 was over, and who should we meet but the Evil Dolphin Trainer who yelled at us to turn around and go back. She was Dutch, too, and when she started shooing us back into the water with her hands, I knew we were cooked. So, we jumped back in the water and headed back the way we came. This time, the current pushed us but the waves sometimes crested over the top of my snorkel.

Hello! Mouthful of saltwater line 3!

By the time we returned to our beach, my legs and ankles were killing me and my lungs and heart were calling for a timeout. We kissed the sand, kissed our beloved spouses, and trudged back to our rooms. Now, you're probably wondering why I went into this whole, long, boring diatribe. Well, it's because I'm sick. I'm back from vacation and I'm sitting here with a nasty sore throat and an aching head. I'm just feeling yucky and I blame John. Because he's an easy target. Because he pouted and was all DER! You're going to go snorkeling with me right? RIGHT?!? It's going to be fu-un! I promise! Because he was coming off a cold when we arrived in Curaçao. Because I'm sure I woke up in the middle of the night last Tuesday and watched John lick all the doorknobs in our condo.* And because he took this picture of me:


And for that, he must pay.

*OK. He wasn't licking doorknobs. But he was injecting live rhinovirus into our rum drinks.

The Dutch Know How to Run an Island

OR

WHY I FRAKKING LOVE CURAÇAO!

You start the week with a gorgeous sunset:


Add nine non-native lionfish found during six separate dives:


A scorpionfish who doesn't know jack about camouflage:


Since it's close to Halloween, you also need some brains, BRAINS, BRAINS!


Mix in some gorgeous Dutch architecture and blue skies:


Give in to the awesomeness of Caribbean color schemes and WTF is an HOA?


Add a kiss from a dolphin named Annie:


Don't forget some discordant dolphin singing courtesy of Annie and Caiyo:


Throw in a five-person research sub courtesy of Substation Curaçao:


And a healthy pinch of Ty-man who saw the ocean at 441 feet:


All for the love of a deep shipwreck called the Stella Maris:


Look out Robert Ballard, here she comes!


Yep, it was an awesome week. Fill you in on the details as the days progress. Let's just say that I'm one happy scuba diver!

IRL

In real life, I've been avoiding my computer.

In real life, I'm nauseous from starting back on metformin. Eating is again a chore, not something I enjoy.

In real life, I'm fighting for my life because I don't want to be a type 2 diabetic so young.

In real life, I'm watching my kids quickly grow up and realizing my time with them is too damned short.

In real life, I'm thinking about my father who died at 67 and I fret that I'll follow in his footsteps.

In real life, I've been sitting on my front stoop, watching the neighbor's relationship with her teenage daughter blow up in her face. I hope she won't be watching the same drama at my house from her front stoop in 10 years.

In real life, I want more time. More time to parent, read, write, create, sleep, dream, live.

In real life, I want to write a book that 99.9% of you would either never read or be too embarrassed to admit you read. Refer to previous point about time.

In real life, I'm packing to go scuba diving, but I'm terrified. Ever since my near-drowning 10 years ago, my dives are overshadowed by a lingering anxiety. I worry that someday the anxiety will take away the joys of the underwater world.

In real life, I'm running nine miles and pumping iron six days a week.

In real life, I'm tired.

In real life, I'm here. Just not here. You know?

Speaking of not being here, my inaugural post at Buy-Her.com is up today. Go over and check it out. Nothing spectacular, but hey, I'm writing! Somewhere!

Rubbing Headstones

Last Monday, you may have noticed a tweet or two between me and @whipstitch (a.k.a. Father Muskrat's Pretty Bride). Ms. Whipstitch (real name: Deborah) is an amazingly talented woman, has a wicked sense of humor, and convinced me that we should experiment with rubbing headstones.

Yeah, you read that right.

Allow me to explain. Back in August, we all got together for an Atlanta Tweet-up and as Deborah and I sat across from one another, an idea formed. I mentioned wanting to eventually preserve my paternal grandparents' headstone, via a charcoal/paper rubbing, because the surname carving was based on my grandfather's signature. That's when Deborah told me about a technique, involving rice paper and ink, used to preserve ancient Mayan carvings that were slowly decaying. After teasing me with that tidbit, she said "So how about you and I go over to Oakland Cemetery and try rubbing headstones with muslin and water-based paint? That way, I can incorporate the headstones into quilts!"

Ladies and gents, I was sold.

And that's how I found myself at Oakland Cemetery last Monday, getting acquainted with a few of Atlanta's late residents.



Our first headstone was that of Colonel Lovick P. Thomas. We picked him to be our inaugural headstone because he was buried next to both of his wives. Colonel Thomas was obviously a busy man. This was our first try, using one piece of muslin and a heavily-loaded roller. Paint bled through to the marble headstone and Deborah and I frantically scrubbed off the excess paint, hoping a cemetery volunteer wouldn't see us. We decided then that maybe two pieces of fabric would work better. That, and a quick exit from that particular row of graves.


With Ms. May Louise, we discovered that a lighter touch with the paint and two sheets of fabric worked best. The Edward Gorey-esque definition of the words and the lack of paint on the headstone made us grin like idiots.


William C. Loughmiller's headstone was our favorite. When you walk up to it, you can barely read it. But after Deborah gave it the special Whipstitch treatment, his secrets were revealed.


You can clearly make out Mr. Loughmiller's birth and death dates. See those interlocked rings at the bottom? They denote that Mr. Loughmiller was a member of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. Without the rubbing, you couldn't even see that tidbit. The quote reads A happier lot than ours, and larger light surrounds thee there. Before we did this, most of this stone was unreadable. Deborah? I think you and I need to offer our services to Oakland for a minimal fee. And by minimal I mean We're rollin' in the dough, baby!



I loved doing this. This quick hour-long project is something I could easily turn into a full-time hobby. Mainly because getting up close and personal with someone's headstone, touching the stone, and revealing it's secrets that may be unreadable to the human eye, reminds me that the person in the ground below had hoped to leave his or her indelible mark in stone so that future generations may remember them. Well, Mr. William Loughmiller? You are remembered.

If you want to see Deborah's finished results, go check out her blog here.

The Anti-Nobel Prize for Motherhood

J-man brought home a rather large red Nerf ball from his grandparents' house.

The first thing I announced, really loudly, so that even the neighbors two houses down the street could hear, was DO NOT THROW THAT BALL IN THE HOUSE! Because even though it's a Nerf ball, it's plenty big and heavy enough to knock something off a shelf that would, in turn, crack a skull.

Of course, since I announced the Nerf-ball-throwing-moratorium to the entire block, that meant it was a free-for-all in our house.

Yesterday, Bubba finished his dinner first so he hopped down from the table and disappeared into the toyroom. A few minutes later, I heard a noise very similar to the noise a heavy-ass Nerf ball would make if it was thrown at a shelf-full of toys. I proceeded to ask him what he was doing.

Typical. Little kid. Silence. With the big Who. Me? eyes.

I stared him down and said menacingly kindly Don't. Throw. The Nerf ball. Please.

I returned to the kitchen to make sure Miss-Miss and J-man were eating and not painting the walls with yogurt and heard the Nerf-slapping-toy-shelves noise again.

So again, I asked him if what he was doing involved the ball and again, he gave me the blank I-can't-understand-you-because-I-speak-Inuit stare.

Because he wouldn't give me a truthful answer (or an answer-period) I sent him to timeout. Now, allow me to explain. Timeout in this house is in the toy-free living room. Bor-ing. I typically send the offending child into timeout for the number of minutes corresponding to his/her age (5-years-old gets a 5-minute timeout) with a discussion when it's all said and done about why they were in timeout, what they did wrong, how to avoid timeout in the future, and that I love them.

Bubba slowly walked into the living room, head down, and I returned to the kitchen to wait for Miss-Miss and J-man to finish their dinners. Ten minutes later, they were finished and began to play. Meanwhile, I nursed a nasty headache I had acquired that morning. J-man and Miss-Miss were occupied and the next ten minutes were peaceful. Then, through my headache-haze, I realized why the previous 20 minutes had been so very quiet.

Something I've learned about having three kids is that odd numbers of children create lots of strife. When one child is playing alone, all is well. When two children are playing together, they get along swimmingly. When you add that third child to the two-child mix, then you get screaming chaos. There hadn't been chaos for 20 minutes because my sweet, quiet Bubba had been sitting in timeout, waiting for me to give him the go-ahead to play.

Twenty minutes, people. He's not supposed to be in a 20-minute timeout until he's a surly, drunken college student siphoning my money to text books and frat party keggers.

Hello, Ms. Dorkwad! I'm Helga Funkquist with the Nobel organization. We're debuting a new prize to the Nobel family. The Anti-Nobel Prize for Motherhood! Bonehead mothers like you will be receiving this prize every year! But, instead of an all-expenses paid first-class trip to Stockholm to receive your precious metal medal alongside the rich and famous you'll receive your plastic Anti-Nobel in the mail. Encased in a dirty diaper. That's been wrapped in a bio-hazard bag. Because you're an idiot. Buh-bye!

Sorry, Bubba. Next time I send you to timeout, fuss and cry about it. You're too danged quiet! And I'm too danged distracted!