wrasslin’

My boys love to wrestle around.  When you go to watch a boxing match the Official Time Keeper always uses a traditional bell -“DING-DING”- to start and end a round of a match.  We can be out shopping and the intercom in the ceiling “ding-dings” to gather the employee’s attention.  My children freeze in their tracks.  They look like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz stuck in unnatural positions.  Simultaneously their heads pivot on their shoulders to where they are all looking towards one another.  Each pair of eyes sparkle and shimmer with a glint of fiendish delight.  Their shoulder’s go up around their ears, their hands come up to the ready stance and a split second later three boys are stepping towards each other and forming a three ring wrasslin’ match.  They get about a second to pummel each other and I step in with a “hey hey” and a snap of my fingers.  They each back up a step at a time, hands still outstretched ready for any illegal punch, GRINNING like boys who just touched the top of the world. 

nascar

Man, sometimes in my life I have thought to myself “what the fuck.”  Can this be any worse?  Granted ninety-nine percent of those life experiences were orchestrated by this “myself.”  Upon reflection there are stories of circumstances in my life where my inabilities, inexperienced-ness, and of course stupidity dressed up as machismo or bravado have also contributed to the role I play in the bizarre events of my life. 

I was working on a research vessel.  An amazing rig.  It was a 70 foot aluminum hulled catamaran.  On its aft deck was a piece of equipment that drilled the earth with precision.  Our job was to hunt for sand.  Hurricanes and other storms often pull sand off beaches and other coastal areas.  Our job was to search out patches of sand formations.  Plot out and document the sands whereabouts and then call for the dredge to pick up it up and return it to its original starting place on the shore.  What a great job huh?  It was.  My uniform was a pair of shorts, boots and a pseudo mullet.  On super hot days there was also the optional pith helmet.

On not a sunny or a hot day in the north east I remember this one incident.  We were tied up at a spot that put us right next to the Statue of Liberty.  Our view ofManhattan was spectacular.  The Twin Towers were directly off the starboard bow.  The dock we were moored to was dilapidated and in disrepair.  Most importantly for the owner of the boat it was free.  If you’re unfamiliar with this area it was once owned, managed and used by the US Navy.  I believe they pulled out around the 1950’s.  The 5-6 storey buildings were over run by trees, bushes, rats and the homeless.  Literally 20-30 people lived in the vicinity.  No running water meant no toilets for the occupants.  Who needed Broadway?  Unfamiliar with the nuances and manner in which these folks survived in their life we sat like rookie NASCAR fans and just watched for the wrecks.  And man did we see some.

Our pier looked liked a child stacked Lincoln Logs together until it reached out into the harbor.  Many of the pylons had collapsed and tilted at unnatural architectural angles.  We knew to stay away from them.  We tied up half way between the end of the broken dock and the shore.  It seemed like the best place.  It needed some work to be manageable.  It would never be safe.

  A pylon is actually a telephone pole that is driven into the seabed.  Laid out flat it’s useless but driven into the earth at regular intervals a fine and solid dock can be constructed.  It was one such pole that brought me to confound my existence.   One pylon about 45 feet long laid out on the broken dock was giving us fits.  It made it difficult to tie to the dock and it made it more unsafe to enter and exit the boat.  It was time to move it.  Remember the machine that dug holes.  It was also capable to lift very heavy pieces of equipment.  But let’s forget about that.  I did.  Let’s just consider youth, strength and bravado as the name of the game.  I did.  If you want something moved just move it. Right?  Just bend over and pick it up.  I did.  It brought on one of the most painful experiences of my life.  I lifted the end that had been dipped in creosote to protect it from the elements.  I pivoted my end about ten feet to my left.  Leaning back with a grunt I pulled it towards me to clear a pylon that was broken and pushing itself away from the seabed.  When it cleared the hang up the pylons weight gave me a push and I was forced to concede.  I stumbled backwards still holding the pole.   I adjusted my balance and prepared to heave it one more time.  I needed it to fit between two other broken poles for it to be secured and out of the crews’ way.  The goal was to push it up to shoulder height, pivot it to my left and then on its way down squeeze it between two poles that were pushing up through the dock.  Up, over and almost down it went. On the way down I misjudged the gap between the two poles.  I took into consideration the width of the pole.  But didn’t manage to account for width of my middle finger on my right hand.  That sucker took the brunt of it.  When I was able to pull my hand away all I could do is clasp my hands together, bend over and put my hands between my knees.  The engineer was in my grill looking up in my face shouting “Are you ok?”  Have you ever noticed that pain can remove your ability and desire to speak out loud.  In my head was saying “Shut the F#@* UP! I didn’t make a noise or cry out.  After a minute or maybe 30 seconds I was able to get my hand out from between my legs for a look.  I had no idea what to expect.  I certainly didn’t expect what I saw.  My shit was flat.  From the first knuckle out to my nail. Flat.  Wow.  It was like watching a NASCAR wreck.  You want to look at it, then you turn away but you always have to go back for another look.