A Morning Ride...

I reached for the phone in the dark.  It had interrupted a perfectly wonderful dream involving me and a bevy of south sea beauties.  "Hello," I said in a voice completely devoid of warmth.

"It's your morning wake-up call, Mr. Young," said the voice in heavily accented English.

"Is it four thirty in the morning?" asked Claudette drowsily.

"Hurry, I'm not going to shave.  We'll eat breakfast when we get back."

We dressed warmly and met our friends in the lobby of the hotel. Soon the van stopped by to pick us up.  The driver maneuvered the van quickly over the rough road to the launch site after stopping at the business office for us to sign some disclaimers. They had some hot coffee and pastries for us too.

The cloudless sky was filled with stars as first light approached.  There were probably one hundred hot air balloons in the process of being inflated. The sound of the small engines that powered the fans blowing up the giant balloons and murmurs of the crowd broke the silence of dawn. The propane burners spouted six foot flames into the balloons as the giants erected themselves like montrous mushrooms from the rough terrain of the Asia Minor landscape. We waited expectantly as our multicolored flying machine rose from the earth raising its gondola from its reclining position.  Twenty of us clamored into the basket.

"I am Muhammet, your pilot, " he said.  The voice came from the muscular young man with close cropped black hair.  He had a flat nose, bushy eyebrows, deep set very dark eyes, thick lips, and sparkling white teeth. Surrounding him in the center of the basket were a number of propane tanks.

The balloon towering above was filled with over 300,000 cubic feet of hot air. As Muhammet operated the controls the propane burners spit out six foot flames heating the air inside the balloon.

We began to move. We had lift-off. We became a lighter-than-air craft. Soon, the lunar appearing landscape of Goreme, Turkey, was below us as we overcame the bounds of gravity and rose in the chilly morning air.  The jagged peaks of cave dwellings slipped below us as we drifted away. We raised our voices in a chorus of "o-o-oh's" and "a-a-ah's"  as the sun illuminated the multi-colored spheres of the others in the mass ascension. It was quiet except for the occasional roar of the burners. The view below became a patchwork as we reached 2,000 feet.  A twenty-mile-per-hour wind moved us along briskly.

Muhammet watched his instruments, altimeter, rate-of-climb meter, and GPS indicator. The radio chattered in Turkish.  "What are they saying?" I asked Muhammet.

"I don't know," he said.  "I don't speak Turkish.  I'm Egyptian!"

We were higher than any of the other balloons. They flew in silence below us.  After flying an hour it was time to land. Muhammet pulled a control line that allowed hot air to escape from the balloon,  and we slowly descended.  I noticed radio chatter was now in English. Our pilot was told to follow "Number Two'" in landing. Muhammet told us to review the crash position.  A Canadian man asked if the landing would be rough.  Our pilot responded, " I don't know, it's my first landing!"

When we were about fifty feet off the ground I saw a Toyota Landcruiser with a trailer following us.
Our pilot and the ground crew communicated and the trailer was positioned directly beneath us. Our balloon pilot gently landed the balloon on the trailer, and our flight was over.

We disembarked the gondola and joined Muhammet around a small table with campagne flutes. He popped the cork on the champagne, and we ha the traditional celebratory drink for good landing.

This ride in the most primitive of aircraft will remain one of the highlights of our trip to Turkey.

Click Here to see a YouTube video of our ride!

To Revisit a Moment in Time

Wikipidea image

He had a wrinkled, leathery face with his eyes shielded by the bill of a battered green baseball cap with "John Deere" embroidered on it. He clutched the front rail of his walker as he supported his frail body while peering up at the names on the wall. I watched his lips move amongst the stubble of gray as he read the names. Did the names on the wall represent shipmates or old friends? I could not bring myself to interrupt his moment of solitude to ask.  A shaft of light streaming through the memorial reflected off a tear slowly moving down his weathered cheek as the crowd of tourists silently moved me away from him. There were 1,177 names of the men who went down with the Arizona on that fateful day, December 7, 1941, listed on that wall.  A number had my surname, but to my knowledge we were not related.

I retraced my steps toward the entrance of the memorial where a naval launch was waiting to take me back to shore. Along the way I paused by a large opening in the floor of the memorial where you can see the vague outline of the ship below. The USS Arizona, BB-39, was a Pennsylvania class battleship of 30,000 tons.  Black oil bubbles to the surface from it as it has for the last seventy years.  This oil once fired the boilers of the warship, producing steam for the turbines which produced 31,500 horsepower for turning four twelve foot propellers.  Now the oil is called "black tears". She weeps for those she could not protect on that fateful day. The ship is 609 feet long with a width of ninety-seven feet.  The memorial is over one hundred feet long, since it covers the width of the sunken behemoth.  Off the starboard side is the USS Missouri, a larger battleship upon which the   Japanese surrender was signed.  The visit to the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, was a very sobering experience.

Back aboard the tour bus the bus driver reminded us that there were two sunken ships at Pearl Harbor.

"How many ships are still on the bottom near Ford Island?"

There were several answers of one, two or three.

"Two.  The Arizona and the Utah.  We know 1,177 men went down with the Arizona."

The big Hawaiian's composure became more calm and he said, "Fifty-eight officers and men and..." his voice dropped to almost a whisper, "one baby girl."

The big man had our attention.

He continued his the story.  "The Utah was an old battleship used for target practice and had a fairly small compliment of men. Albert Wagner was a sailor aboard that ship who had a very special cargo. Do you know what that was?'

No one answers.

"He had in his locker the cremated remains of his infant daughter.  Earlier, Wagner's wife had given birth to twin daughters. Only one survived. Wagner's request to bury his daughter at sea had been approved by the Navy, but there was not a chaplain on board.  However, there was a chaplain scheduled to come aboard before the Utah would put to sea on Monday, the eighth of December, 1941. As you know, the Japanese sank the Utah on December 7th.  But that's not all of the story. Wagner and all but 58 men survived the attack.  The tiny burial urn was never recovered. But every year a woman appears on Ford Island to throw a lei into the water at the Utah's resting place. She says that she's never met her twin sister but sees her in every mirror she looks into. She is eternally grateful for the 58 brave officers and men that guard her little sister's crypt."

The big Hawaiian bus driver finished his story and all was quite.  Like the old man at the memorial  I felt a tear on my cheek.

FYI Burial at sea information for Naval veterans and dependents.

The Road to Hana and then some...

I remember the last time I was traveling by bus on a mountain road. It was quite a few years ago, and I was going from Manila to Olongapo City in the Philippine Islands.  It was a rather short bus filled with mostly native Filipinos jabbering in tagalog. There were a few chickens and a pig on board as well as a couple of tired U.S. military men.  The trip seemed to take forever over somewhat primitive roads.  We traveled through several villages most with the seemingly prerequisite Catholic church. We managed to get some warm beer at one stop, where the bus driver obligingly opened the bottles of San Miguel with his teeth.

We boarded the mini-bus at Lahaina, looking forward to a trip through the other Maui, the part not cluttered with souvenir shops and places hawking other things for tourists. As we left the urban area of  of the city we passed abandoned sugar mills, a reminder of when sugar was the number one industry in the islands.  We left highway 31 for highway 36, following the coast in a clockwise direction.  Highway 36 is known as the "Hana Highway". This road has quite a reputation. It is a mountain road built through the mountains by convict labor in 1926.  It was paved in 1962.  I use the term paved loosely because with the average traffic of one thousand cars per day there is considerable wear and tear on the road's surface. Actually, part of the road is so rough that certain rental car companies don't allow their cars to be driven on it. I was on the right side of the bus, or the oceanside.  This is the best side for those who aren't squeamish and those not afraid of heights. But the left side of the bus gets to hear and feel the constant brushing of foliage against the side of the bus. The first stop the bus makes before entering the rain forest is Hookipa Beach Park.  We stopped at a grassy knoll overlooking the beach. There were a number of surfers catching waves of an azure sea on this picture postcard morning. The sky was near cloudless, and a gentle breeze rippled the flag with the Union Jack in its corner.  A breath of salt tinged air was invigorating.

It's only 58 miles to Hana but due to the 600 turns or curves and 59 bridges it takes a while.Water falls seem to be everywhere and we stop at Wailua Falls,Puuohokomoa Falls and Waikani Falls. You can always tell when there is a waterfall ahead because of all the cars beside the road. The drive finds a place to park the bus on the roadside and we get off and elbow our way through the hordes of touristas to get a picture of the waterfall.  The waterfalls are best seen from the bridge.  The driver warns us to be aware of traffic across the one lane bridge. However, the bridges are always in the center of the hairpin turns  and vehicles must slow down. But the view is spectacular of a waterfall tumbling hundreds of feet down the mountainside in a tropical rain forest.  On much of this road 20 mph is the maximum. It is very narrow and vehicles almost come to a standstill when meeting. I peered down at an SUV with a young woman holding her steering wheel white-knuckled. And she was two feet from the edge of the road! Those would be the visitors. The natives hardly reduce speed at all. However, I did witness a rural mail carrier committing an illegal act  We were meeting a rural mail carrier in a turn and she had to back up to let us through. It's against carrier rules for them to back their vehicles up.  I was much concerned about our drivers ability. He never honked his horn when entering a blind turn. How was anyone to know that we were coming through?  They could not see us! I found while driving similar roads in the Pyrenees Mountains you need to let people know you are coming. On the road to Hana in one place I looked out my window and I could see nothing but the pounding surf hundreds of feet below. I am confident we were on the road although I could not see it. We were in a bus, not a plane. 

We stopped at a state park for a box lunch. It was a chance to relax a bit and enjoy lunch. Waves in this area can reach a height of 60 feet in winter making it a prime surfing spot.  We continue to Oheo Stream and Pools, sometimes called the Seven Sacred Pools. This gave us a chance to stretch our legs. The waterfalls cascade down the mountain to the sea creating seven pools along the way. The shoreline is either lava rock or vegetation here.  

On our way back to our hotel we stopped by a winery.  The tasting was very poorly administered, no cuspidor to spit in or no water to wash out the taste of each wine before sampling another. We bought of bottle of sweet wine and enjoyed it that night in the hotel. 

I'm not sure that I would refer to the road to Hana as an adventure but it certainly did show a part of Hawaii seldom seen. 

My Ride

Suiting up

This past Sunday I did something I have dreamed of for a long time.  Since the days when I watched stock cars race around a quarter mile dirt track at the local fairground I have dreamed of driving a race car.  Through the years I've watched NASCAR become one of America's greatest spectator sports.  Recently I bought a coupon via the internet for driving lessons from the NASCAR Driving Experience. I would take my lessons in Darlington Raceway, Darlington, SC.  I had heard many a stock car race broadcast from this track in my teenage years while working at a local filling station on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Darlington was the oldest of the "super speedways" and I was looking forward to driving on this one and one quarter mile asphalt oval.

Darlington Raceway is located near I-95 and easily accessible. We found the race track easily and followed the signs through the tunnel under the track to the infield. There was a car hauler and another van with a sign , "Check in Here".  I checked in with my signed disclaimer.  Honestly, if you get a cold while driving one of their race cars they aren't liable. It's all spelled out in the disclaimer. They issued me a bright red driving suit, told me to put it on and wait for my name to be called for the driver's meeting.  We walked over to the pit area where there was a tent set up and some folding chairs for spectators.  Claudette's interest waned and she parked herself and broke out her Nook.  I, on the other hand, was busy putting on my driving suit, looking at the race cars, and cultivating a "dirty old man" interest in a buxom young blond woman in extremely short shorts and cowboy boots. During this time race cars were coming and going. They sounded good.

The drivers meeting was held in a building about a hundred yards from the pits. We watched a video about what to expect; the do's and don't's while driving one of the race cars. Safety was emphasized a lot, and you were reminded that if you didn't follow the rules your race car would be stopped by way of a remote kill switch.  You would then be removed and banished from the premises. I knew safety was important, but I thought I was just going to drive a car at a high speed.  In my younger days I had driven my street cars to near 130 mph, so what was the big deal.  I guess I realized what kind of company I was in when the instructor asked, "How many people can't drive a four-speed manual transmission?"  A number of hands went up.  And none of them were girls! This meeting took about an hour with the instructor repeating that, "These are real race cars," several times.

Climbing aboard Tony Stewart's old ride.

Back in the pit area they stuck some earbuds into my ears, plugged them in to test them, and then taped them to my ears. The crewman stuffed a racing helmet down on my head, fastened it on, and put this foam collar around my neck. (I didn't know what that was for.) I was helped across the pit wall, it's about waist high, and to a waiting race car. Then, my minor difficulties began. Race cars have no doors. You must climb in through the window. I watch Johnson, Gordon, Junior and others do this every Sunday on TV.  But, they are much younger, thinner, and shorter. Size does make a difference! I could get everything in the Kyle Busch M & M's  Toyota Camry but my head, so I was extricated, pulled out.  They were real race cars with custom made seats positioned for a particular driver.   We waited for another car to be free.   I was happy to see that it was the number 14 Chevrolet of Tony Stewart. I knew that "Smoke" was a big boy, and this car might fit me better. I got in it with a struggle and knocking some skin off my hand. They strapped me in with a five point harness.  My torso was immovable but with some discomfort. My butt is considerably wider than Tony Stewart's.  I was wedged into the seat. Tony is 5'9" tall and I'm three inches taller and over forty pounds heavier.  Get the picture? Nevertheless, they plugged in my earbuds and put on the steering wheel. I gave it a tug to see that it was secure. I was asked to hold the clutch pedal to the floor as the pit crewman started the engine. He fastened up the window net, and I waited for my "expert driver's" voice in my ears. My "expert driver" is my spotter who will tell me what to do. And I thought they would tell me to get in the car and drive away. Dumb me. When you're in the race car you can't see anywhere but directly in front of you and a little out of the corner of your eyes.

My ride, or maybe I should say drive, began.
"Bring the engine up to two thousand and release the clutch."
"Ten-four"
"Come up to three thousand in each gear."
The shift pattern is tight and the gear changes are smooth. By the time I was at 3000 rpm in fourth gear I was beside the back stretch of the track.
"Pull out on the track and follow the white line."
"Roger"
"Let off the throttle."
I was going into the third turn.
"Stay away from the wall!"
Fourth turn.
"Gimme thirty eight hundred."
Front stretch.  Flagman's stand.
"Let off the throttle."
Turn one.
"Keep your left wheels on that white line."
Looks like a black line to me.
"Bring it up to forty-two hundred,"
Forty-one,forty-two...
Turn two
"Forty-five hundred."
The back stretch. That is where you can really fly. All the great drivers have driven here, this very track.

I continued for four laps.  Each time I increased my speed. I'd only bought a few laps.  They were expensive  for me. It would probably take fifty or more laps to get comfortable in the race car.  It is extremely responsive in acceleration and handling.  And, of course, it would help to have a car that fit your body. The NASCAR Racing Experience cars will probably reach 150 mph but current NASCAR cars being raced here reach speeds in excess of 190.



My time was up and I was told to enter pit road from the back stretch and test my brakes. The brake pedal went almost to the floor, but it slowed the car. On pit road a sign told me to put the gearshift into neutral and a crewman directed me where to stop.  As I stopped he dropped the window net, killed the engine, and began unstrapping me. I knocked more skin off my hand getting out of the car. They removed my helmet, and I got a breath of fresher air. The fumes inside the car have given me a headache.

Blood was dripping off my hand, but there was a smile on my face.

Additional Stuff

Darlington Raceway
Tony Stewart
Jimmie Johnson
Kyle Busch
NASCAR Racing Experience

"It'll stop anything short of an elephant!"

I was at my first gun and knife show Saturday. Why? Curiosity, I reckon. You see I'm a southerner. We grew up with guns. We learned to use and respect them at a very early age.  Daddy gave me my first shotgun when I was eight years old, so for me, taking a deep breath of air in the autumn without the smell of gunsmoke is like breathing at the beach without smelling salt air.

I have long had an interest in firearms.  The shear mechanics of a well designed and manufactured pistol or long gun is like a work of art. Since the Chinese invented gunpowder the design of firearms has been paramount to our evolving civilization. Perhaps no other invention has had a greater impact on life as we know it.

The Ladson Gun and Knife show allowed me the chance to reacquaint myself with guns. I was not prepared to see such a huge display of firepower. There were literally hundreds of guns as well as several hundred customers for the show and sales event. Guns were of all kinds: small handguns, hunting rifles, and assault style rifles. There were shotguns, too,  many with beautifully engraved pheasant and quail with some inlaid with gold.

I overheard fragments of conversations.

"How many shots does it hold?" a young professional-looking man asked.

"Six, and it'll stop anything short of an elephant."

A vendor held an ominous looking black shotgun and operated the action. "Hear that sound?" he said. "When they hear that they will usually run before you have a chance to shoot 'em!"

"It'll drop an elk at a thousand yards."

There were quite a few law enforcement people around, all of whom were armed. Some folks in plain clothes were carrying pistols on their belts as well. But the only confrontational comments I heard were those expressing the virtues of particular guns.  "A 1911 Colt 45 is much better than a Barretta nine millimeter!" "I'll take a Remington over a Winchester any day!" My oldest son carried a Baretta in Iraq, but as a petty officer in the Navy I had to use a .45 Colt.

There were some interesting antique guns from WWII and earlier, but the most common rifle on display was the assault-style rifle. A true assault rifle, which an American military combatant carries, is a fully automatic weapon.  It fires as long as you pull the trigger back. The assault-style rifles available to the public are semi-automatic; the trigger must be pulled for each shot.  Actually, hunting rifles are probably just as lethal and have greater range but don't have the large cartridge capacity.

I was quite surprised at the number of people buying guns. Why? Are we expecting an armed invasion? Are some planning an armed insurrection or another revolution? Is the second amendment to the Constitution in danger of being repealed? Perhaps they're just good old boys who like to collect guns? I'm reminded of a recent television interview in which rapper/actor L. L. Cool J. said that we had to have our guns in case of a tyrannical regime.

It was a good show, but I don't think I'll be back...something about that many people with all those guns just make me feel uneasy.