Last Day in Puerto Escondido

I shall battle the big foaming waves,

a bit subdued close to shore,

two more times then, and bid them farewell,

until we wash again each other.

I am a slippery porpoise with a gleam, out there,

a leaping dolphin, then

scuttling fingers gripping ripping sand, a crab,

a reddened turtle nose high,

a featherless pelican flung through the air,

and then a wave, roaring rolling with laughter

as I crawl onto land, again a man.

The Repeal of Silence

My Facebook posts are impulsive, but purposely built as I express…ME, practicing that expression on Facebook because it is so very important for me, to be me. On the web, I finally have a voice!

Today, I wanted to shout out my feelings of joy, but thought I’d give my Facebook friends a break because my words may confuse them, because I use them…differently from the careful way others use them. Not all others, but…others.

I was told to shut up at home, as a child at school, constantly, because it was disruptive, annoying, too many questions, shut up! I escaped.  But being told to shut my yap made me lose my voice. The chatterer was now dumb. But those difficulties drew me to the Seth Material. Oh so gently, and at my own pace, Seth, the master of mirth and wisdom helped me, and I found my voice again. No shut up from that remarkable being, only, “Speak from the wisdom of your inner being, SPEAK!”

Now I write, but still have trouble speaking.  Silence is a disaster!

But now I am a writer, and because the silence jumbled me up, I try to put words together in a unique way. There is the value of the lessons in silence. My Facebook posts are long, full of vigour and zest, and almost always meant to show something I have discovered.

I went to Vancouver Island University to polish my voice. I was ALWAYS encouraged there. I finally and completely broke the spell of silence .

Because my friends far and wide are intelligent, creative, and accepting, no one has told me to shut up in a very long while. That may have something to do with the fact that I’m big too, in a silent kind of way.
Now this is not an invitation to yell, “Shut up,” at me unless you must, to be YOU.

That will then tell you something…about yourself.

And if you do, I will not! 

Caressing a World

The surf pounds the shore, and as I wait for the sun to set, I find myself staring into the curling foam that sweeps across the sand as if giving a caress, and the foam vanishes into the tiny tan grains. I can’t help but be aware this has happened for billions of years, and know I cannot know what that number means, at all. But I try.

For all of time on Earth, from the moment when it began to form in cold vacuum under the  blinding light of its star, our planet searched for that caress that would warm its iron bones and form its hard skin of stones and grit. The temperature and fluidity of the materials would change over hundreds of millions of years. Such patience in self-formation astonishes me as I shift my bum on the ledge the rolling waters carved from sand as they pushed landward thrown up by huge waves that sweep in sideways.

So large are the waves, that they come from left and right to sometimes meet in the middle, cast up gouts of sand-filled water that splashes high, and higher yet in my delight at their liquid meetings. They too will go on forever. Or when a wave retreats and meets another coming in, the two dash across the sand in a foamed line thinly thrown upwards and moving so fast I must turn my head quickly to follow the ocean at play.

As the sun sets, the tide rises, and the edges of the bubbled froth touch my toes in a caress as old as Earth herself. The sun is an orange basketball ninety-six million miles distant, and as it falls beneath the horizon’s threshold, it blinks the green captured in emeralds. Then I think – this will never end.

Though one day unknowingly long away, Earth may fall into her mother sun, somewhere within the endless distance of our home, our universe, another planet begins its task of building towards a planet’s consciousness, and prepares to caress its many parts to coax from them, new life.

There Must Be a Way to Get to Oz

I would like to see the great island to the southeast, the land of seas and reefs, the place of red rocks rising mountain high in the dusty dry desert, visit the land of devils and gold coasts, where giant white sharks with more teeth than a movie star swim with sun-bronzed surfers.
I yearn to see the sun set in a southern sea, climb aboard a sailing ship, and steer towards the cold Antarctic, but not too close, just for a day, say, then return to a safe harbour where the beautiful Sidney Opera House waits for the right wind to find its sails and fill the throats of the world’s best, who sing, for me.
I need to gather stories from that elusive land, meet the people who talk in strange ways, and play games I’ve only heard of, like cricket. I like the idea of a sport taking days to play one game, with tea and cakes for everyone, and everyone in white. But I need to see this for myself to know, I must know so much, and it all waits, lazing in the eternal sun, just over the horizon.

I could swim there, if I could swim twelve thousand miles without support. I could make a raft, load it with supplies, pole my way there, if I had a pole that would reach five miles deep into the blue ocean. Or I could get a really good start and hit the waves running, to splash across the ocean in my wide-soled running shoes, dashing from wave to wave and hoping for a tail wind to hurry me along. I could try all of these things, but the one thing I would like to do, is fly there.

I would spread my silver wings and with a great roar worthy of such a powerful thing, I would launch myself. So powerful would be the energy involved that hundreds of people could tag along. We would sing and flirt, become Facebook friends, and have a rollicking good time. When my new friends fell asleep, I would look out my oval window through the slightest breath of frost that I cannot melt with my breath, and watch someone on the mysterious ocean far below swimming, poling, and running, west, to Oz and the setting sun.

The e-publication of Songs In The Key Of Abundance

How can a person become a rainmaker? This way!

I am proud to announce the e-publishing of Songs In The Key Of Abundance, a novel by Eldon Arkinstall. Find it at:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/254707

 

 

Of Sailboats and Women

Nov 18, 2012

I used to sail on the Pacific Ocean. That was an experience so great, that I want another sailboat, to do it all again. I just need to find the right boat this time.

Owning a sailboat was not, in many ways, a great experience, yet…it led to sailing down the coast of the Baja, Mexico, 1100 miles, from Los Angeles to Cabo San Lucas, and up into the Sea of Cortez where I played for the winters of four years. Whales swam directly under my feet, great herons fished from my dinghy, I anchored inside a collapsed volcano, and on and on the experiences went. If there is bad then, it must be accepted and dealt with, for the good awaits.

It wasn’t that bad, it was just a tremendous amount of effort that required copious applications of money and work. The whole affair was exacerbated by the costs of attending a university two thousand miles to the north of where the boat, Oceans Arc, lay on the hard. The boat was in Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico, the university, in Nanaimo, BC, Canada. It was a long distance affair. I could only drive down at Christmas break and work on her for that month. For nearly two years Oceans Arc sat,neglected until I took a year sabbatical from studies to go sailing..

A boat needs almost as much care as a woman, or a child. They tend to break down in their own ways, if attention is not devoted to them in exactly the proportions required by their teetering stability, in a world that tends towards instability, by the nature of events. I learned I must attend to a hurt toe, a damaged heart, or rusted rigging, as they happen. Unfortunately, rust really does never sleep and the rigging on the sailboat became pitted, the boat became a burden, and I sold her. It was the right time, and the fellow who bought her was going to sail to Australia.

I also had a long distance love affair with a wonderful woman in Europe. That became a tragedy to mirror the relationship with my boat. I had to leave Oceans Arc, return to Canada to finish my degree, the boat sat too long, and the damage from such neglect mounted. Funny thing, that’ need to learn was the same reason, but in a different area of study, that caused the split between that lady and I. The only difference is, a boat cannot say, “You are too far away. Goodbye,” nor say it with a lovely accent.

Sailors call boats ‘her’ because we love our boats almost as much as we love our women. Men have left their women for their boats, and left their boats for their women.

A boat gives a person a sense of purpose. It leads one into adventure that is as dangerous as being on a bit of wood and fibreglass above two miles of water, as exhilarating as when she heels and the water hisses by the hull, as dull as slowly passing water, or as terrifying as traveling amongst mountains that move. The last part is often the reason people abandon their vessels for the predictability of land. Then, a person can find a boat that’s cheap because someone was scared out of their wits, and out of their boat.

When the wind brings towering waves, when the boat jumps like a drop of water on a hot skillet, her helm stiff and wanting to turn into the wind because the idiot skipper left up too much sail, when spray fills your eyes as she dives into a trough, when the sun sets and the world becomes black and the ocean doesn’t care what happens to you, people find the bottom of their fears.

I found the bottom, then realized it wasn’t so bad, or far down, after all. The wind died, the sun rose, I was afloat and wasn’t that something to go through and survive! I repaired Oceans Arc and off I went on another adventure.

I’m looking for another sailboat again, but slowly, carefully, because now I know what to look for. She’s got to be the right boat for what I want to do, and where I want to go. A boat is like a woman, and not just anything will do.

 

Solar Shenanigans

Solar Shenanigans

I’ve come to Quartzsite, Arizona to buy another solar panel, and boost the power in my RV. Who doesn’t need a little power-boosting? Well, maybe not Barack Obama. Even Stephen Harper could use a little more power, in his own mind anyways. He should come to Quartzsite and take a lesson from the sun. Power is free for all.
Panels costs half the price of one year ago. I’d like two, but don’t have room on the roof, what with a kayak, roof vents, a fridge vent and the other panels. $369, taxes in, buys 145 glorious watts of Canadian-made, from Victoria, BC yet, eh, of solar panel producing 8.9 amps of power/ hour – enough to run this little netbook computer for four hours, given an hour of daylight. Of course, we never get 8.9A. Those claims they make! But this addition, with a little shuffling of the other panels, could boost my power grab from 4A/hr to 13A/hour. Holy Grail baby!
We never get what they claim because the winter sun sits 20o below a perfect straight up apogee. It starts its day sultry and low behind brown mountains to the east that mark the edge of perception. It moves higher and brighter in the familiar way, and hot, thank you very much. Finally, the sun declines behind a graceful set of westerly hills, sinking with the yellow glow of a lamp from Edison’s day.
If you play with the panel’s $42 tilt-mount, the amperage arrives earlier and departs later. The mount pays for itself quickly. Gas at $3.75 for a 3.6 litre US gallon runs my generator for 8 hours of getting through permanently cloudy weather – which only happens in BC. The rest of the world is bright in the winter, even Seattle I’ve heard.
It doesn’t get cloudy in AZ, but the nights get dark. When coyotes howl in the mountains, it’s nice to have a lamp to brighten the night. If I must, I run the generator to watch The Voice on Monday and Tuesday nights. I get emotional watching people reach for their dreams.
The 22” flat-screen LCD is a power-pig, needing an enormous 16A/hour of 12-volt power to splash the emotion of The Voice into my eyes and ears. In six hours, the TV burns the whole day’s input from the sun. That much TV rots the brain anyways and produces weird dreams, so after the show, the TV’s off. Being a bit of an aware dreamer, I don’t want too many dreams of mayhem.
I go onto the roof to install the big glass miracle. I find it only fits where two 1A panels from Canadian Tire sit in the way. I remove them, almost whining with fear as I saw at the roof to get the wires out. Cutting the rubbery roof of my home is akin to heart and lung surgery. Fear comes from living in a rainforest part of the year.
The problem with rain is it gets into the thin plywood, rots, and trillions of black molds give thanks as they multiply into a mess that kills lungs faster than conservative politicians kill art. I’ll seal it really well. There might be 3”of caulking up there when I’m done.
It takes half a day to get the panel up and running. I tilt it to the sun and my amperage jumps from 3A to 9A. It’s late in the day, so tomorrow, the juice can only go higher. Power! I jump for joy.
Jumping on the roof of an RV built with springs to smooth the ride, is akin to suicide. I think we all understand what top-heavy and the physics of motion mean. Yes? The roof is 8’ high. Add my 6+’ height, and it makes my sun-seeking eyes 14’ above a ground that’s full of one of the hardest rocks on earth –quartz. Then too, the plywood really is thin, and a foot through the roof would present quite a problem
I noticed the swaying as I moved around up there. I acted with care born from my sailing days – one hand for the boat, one hand for yourself. I figured the motion of joy would produce an ecstatic swaying of the RV, kind of like sex, now that I think of it, which I won’t for long. A person could fall reaching for the sun, and perform the move made famous by Icarus. Face plant! Where’s the power then?
I wait until I’m on the ground to display my feelings. It’s five o’clock and time to hoist a beer towards the slowly setting Edison-era sun.