Lunch Money
2/17/2026
We're still here.
A few years ago my wife and I took an organized tour, via the OAT tour group, of eastern Europe which include parts of Germany, Poland, Czech Republic and Hungary. All lovely places with tons of history, beautiful scenery, and for the most part friendly cheerful people. However, one cannot tour this area without seeing and learning from the many sites and monuments journaling the Holocaust. My wife, being Jewish, was particularly interested in seeing and learning more and included in our tour were guided visits to many well known sites such as Auschwitz-Birkenau, The Holocaust Museum in Berlin, the Old Synagogue in Berlin, Warsaw Uprising Museum and many more.
A Jewish friend we made on the trip asked if we wanted to join her to see the Old Warsaw Synagogue. It served the Jewish community since 1902 and though damaged during the war and used a stable by the Nazis, it has been repaired and in use today. So off we went and found it without too much effort. Near the entrance of this relatively unassuming building was a small cubical with what I assume was a security guard who, after brief conversation in broken English, allowed us in. The interior far surpassed it's unassuming exterior. We were free to roam most of the interior beautifully decorated, clean and quite a comfortable space.
We took a seat in the pews which were all facing the Bimah and were quietly just taking it all in when, from the direction of the entrance, came the chatter and shuffle people coming in. I looked up and in came a line of about 20 or so young men and women smiling and quietly chatting among themselves. They were accompanied by several adults. They filled the pews near us and one of the accompanying adults stood in front of the group gathering their attention and began speaking what I believed to be Hebrew. Or friend went over to one of the group to inquire who they were and what was going on. We were told, in perfect English, that this was a group of Israeli students on a tour of Eastern Europe to learn more about their heritage and history. We watched quietly as the one of the adult escorts spoke to them and although I could not understand a word, I could clearly get the gist of what she was telling them by the looks on their faces that went from smiling and giggling to serious and attentive.
There was a pregnant pause as the adult finished. Then, surprising to me, several youths began to quietly sing what my wife explained to me were traditional Jewish folksongs. The singing continued and grew louder and more animated as more and more student joined in. Students then began to leave the pews joining hands and dancing in front of the Bimah. The singing and dancing became more joyous and went on for quite some time. In the end, singing and dancing stopped, everyone hugged each other, and after a few came over and chatted briefly with us they filed out as they came in. Smiling and chatting.
The silence was deafening after they left. I sat there dumbfounded and trying to process what I had just witnessed. After seeing and hearing about all the atrocities and horror that had happened to the Jews of Europe, to experience the beauty of these youths celebrating in the same Synagogue that the Nazis had defiled was almost unbelievable. After a few days of processing what I had witnessed, I found it wonderfully ironic that while the great Nazi machine had done all that it could to exterminate the Jews of Europe the reality was, they the Nazis for all intent and purpose were gone and by law not memorialized in any way and those who they tried to exterminate were not only still here, they were prospering. In this current time, where hope seems fading, it was an important lesson for me to learn.
Quote from Mark Twain published in the year 1899, though written in language that today seems a bit inappropriate today, best describes my thoughts.
“If the statistics are right, the Jews constitute but one percent of the human race. It suggests a nebulous dim puff of star dust lost in the blaze of the Milky Way. Properly the Jew ought hardly to be heard of, but he is heard of, has always been heard of. He is as prominent on the planet as any other people, and his commercial importance is extravagantly out of proportion to the smallness of his bulk. His contributions to the world’s list of great names in literature, science, art, music, finance, medicine, and abstruse learning are also away out of proportion to the weakness of his numbers. He has made a marvelous fight in the world, in all the ages; and has done it with his hands tied behind him. He could be vain of himself, and be excused for it. The Egyptian, the Babylonian, and the Persian rose, filled the planet with sound and splendor, then faded to dream-stuff and passed away; the Greek and the Roman followed, and made a vast noise, and they are gone; other peoples have sprung up and held their torch high for a time, but it burned out, and they sit in twilight now, or have vanished. The Jew saw them all, beat them all, and is now what he always was, exhibiting no decadence, no infirmities of age, no weakening of his parts, no slowing of his energies, no dulling of his alert and aggressive mind. All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains. What is the secret of his immortality?”
10/26/2025
The days spent sailing
In my youth, in the late 1950's, I spent many hours leafing
through all the sailing and yachting magazines I could get a hold of, soaking
up the images and stories of boats large and small, learning nautical terms and
theory and dreaming of one day owning my own sailboat and sailing the seas.
Probably not an unusual dream for a small town boy from Santa Paula, CA a town
with a billboard as you entered the city limits with the banner, "Welcome
to Santa Paula the lemon capital of the world". When I was old enough, I
joined Sea Scouts, learned how to tie a bowline along with many other nautical
skills and terminology. Being an inland town, our troop did not have a boat of
any kind so the practical part of actually handling a vessel never really happened.
I grew up, the dream faded but not completely.
Fast forward to my 20's, having dropped out of college,
where I was majoring in drinking beer and chasing coeds, I found myself back in
my old home town, working in an auto parts store and still pretty much just
drinking beer and trying to get laid. It was 1965 and Uncle Sam got wind of my
predicament and decided that I needed to be in the Army and spend some time in
Vietnam. Towards the end of boot camp where I was scheduled to go to Combat
Infantry School next, I got called into the First Sergeant's office where I was
informed that because I tested high for mechanical aptitude, I was not going to
Infantry School but instead was going to Ft Eustis VA to become a Marine
Engineer. Hell, I didn't even know the Army had boats, but yup, they do. All
kinds of support vessels, landing craft and amphibians. So off I went and was
duly trained, certified and shipped off to Cam Rahn Bay Vietnam to be part of
MMAV (Marine Maintenance Activity Vietnam) where I did a variety of different
jobs around various watercraft.
Upon return to the States, the experience and training, Army
and Sea Scouts, helped me get a job working as a Harbor Patrolman in Channel
Islands Harbor. I honed my operator skills and learned marine rescue boat
operation. I spent almost 12 yrs working as a Harbor Patrolman in three
different Harbors on the water, every workday, and surrounded by yachts,
working boats, fishing boats along with being immersed in marine
culture.
This led to my being able to own my first real boat a 26’
Columbia sloop named Nicole. She was a good starter boat. Roomy, handled well
and seaworthy. The perfect introduction for me to the world of coastal sailing.
I feared when my daughter Andrea was born that we would have to sell Nicole and
spend time at home raising a child. But my wife insisted we keep Nicole and
sail her along with having a home and raising Andrea. And so we did, then sold
Nicole and bought a 31 Grampian ketch, Nightfall. We became a sailing family.
One thing led to another and eventually we took the leap.
Sold the house and after much research ordered a brand new Downeast 38 cutter. It
was truly a dream come true. She was unique in many ways in that I traveled to
factory when she was being built and had them do things not found on other
Downeast 38’s like converting the nav station to a quarter cabin to give Andrea
her own room. We named her Katherine. Yup, we sold it all and moved aboard. We
spent 5 ½ years sailing the California coast and offshore islands. Still
working but weekends vacations were at sea. It was magical, wonderful, hard
work and some of the best years of my life. Katherine was magnificent and very
forgiving. There were times of terror, absolute joy, family bonding and pride. I
often say now that you could not pay me enough money to give up all the
memories I had with Katherine and you couldn’t pay me enough money to do it
again.
A few months ago, a friend suggested I go to the local
independent theater and see a particular movie. It was a Japanese movie called
After Life. It takes place in a small, mid-20th century social-service-style
structure which is a way station between life and death. Every Monday, a group
of recently deceased people check-in: the social workers in the lodge ask them
to go back over their life and choose one single memory to take into the
afterlife. They are given just a couple of days to identify their happiest
memory, after which the workers design, stage and film them. In this way, the
souls will be able to re-experience this moment for eternity, forgetting the
rest of their life. They will spend eternity within their happiest memory. Guides recreate the memories chosen by filming
on sets with basic stage props (cotton balls serve as clouds for the pilot; an
audio recording of street noise is played while the old man stands in a trolley
and social workers jostle the trolley to replicate movement). The hosted souls
watch the films of their recreated memories in a screening room, and as soon as
each person sees their own, they vanish. The film left me wondering what memory
I would choose. The birth of my children, falling in love, one of my amazing
travel journeys. I pondered the question only briefly and settled, without any doubt,
on this memory:
We had sailed Katherine to San Migual Island the western
most of the islands in Channel Islands Nation Park. No small feat in that it is
approximately 70 miles offshore and noted for windy, crappy weather and rough
seas. We sailed up the leeward side of the four island chain that make up the
park spending one night on anchor at Santa Cruz Island.
We arrived at Cutler Harbor, San Miguel Island, the next
day, a large well protected but open roadstead, dropped anchor and settled in.
Not another soul in sight. After some
lunch, we rowed ashore in our dingy, Cuyler has no docks or facilities of any
kind, where we met up with the only other soul on the Island a newly hired NPS
Ranger. Off we all went to spend hours touring the Island and it’s rugged
beauty. We came back to Cuyler via a long, beautiful, protected beach on the
leeward side of the Island. It was a glorious sunny day, sparkling ocean on our
right and island wilderness on our left. Before long, I spied Katherine peacefully
riding anchor in the harbor and saw the only foot prints in the white pristine
sand were those of Andrea, running ahead of us. The footprints lead to a sock
and sandals in the sand, the shirt, then pants all leading to my beautiful 3 year old
daughter, running butt naked along the beach chasing sea gulls, Cuyler and
Katherine on one side, Island on the other, beautifully clear sky above filled
with white fluffy clouds and squawking gulls above.
Arriving back at our dingy on the beach, we thanked the
Ranger, rowed back to Katherine and settled in for the rest of the afternoon and
night. I had heard of the legendary wind and fog that frequents San Miguel but
never had I experienced anything like that night on anchor. The water in the
anchorage was flat, and our anchor well set, but the wind blew 25-30 kts all
night and the fog so thick you couldn’t see more than 100ft. Just plain weird.
Sunrise brought the halt of the strong winds and after breakfast, the fog began
to lift, and we lifted anchor and set sail back to Santa Cruz Island.
The channel between Santa Cruz and San Miguel can be
extremely rough but on this day the sailing Gods gave us beautiful weather.
Clear blue skies with fluffy clouds scattered around, warm temperature, flat seas and a pleasant 15kt wind off the
starboard beam. Katherine’s sails were well set, and our self-steering wind
vane was keeping her on a true course for Santa Cruz. Andrea was sitting near the
companion way reading as was her Mom. I had turned on the stereo with Christopher
Cross’s “sailing” filling the air. I was
standing near the helm soaking all this in when I was hit with a strong, clear,
deep, undeniable feeling. Everything, absolutely everything about this moment
was perfect and exactly as it should have been. And each of us were exactly
where we were meant to be and as much a part of it all as anything else. I had
never felt so centered, so grounded so peaceful in my life. For a brief moment,
I glimpsed what I believe is the perfection of the universe. It was the perfect
day.
No long after having Katherine I had mounted a plaque I had
found with these words from ancient Phoenicia
“The Gods do not account against man’s allotted time on
earth the days spent sailing”
I think they were onto something.
2/17/2025
The most righteous
I read idea this somewhere and really like the premise.
All religions are really transactional. In almost every religion there is a sort of contract between the believer and the deity. So, I pose this question to my religious friends. If a Christian is living a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he is promised a wonderful after life in heaven by doing so. Or a Muslim is living a good a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he is promised a wonderful after life in paradise by doing so. Or a Buddhist is living a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he is promised to be born repeatedly and eventually attain Nirvana by doing so. Or an atheist is living a good a good life by doing the right things, and not harming others because he just feels better living that way.
Who is the most righteous?
I believe none are more righteous because it is not what you believe but what you do that matters.
11/11/2005
Veterens Day
Another Veterens day has come. Another chance to take a moment to measure the terrible cost of this war and all wars. I have to wonder---what has all the suffering really accomplished?I am compelled to re-post my blog entry for last Veterens Day:
In 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, the world rejoiced and celebrated. After four years of bitter war, an armistice was signed. The "war to end all wars" was over.
I was standing at the checkout stand today while the lady ahead of me struggle to fill out a check to pay for her purchase. After what seemed a lifetime she handed the check the cashier who reviewed it and then handed it back saying "you need to change the date to the eleventh" . Oh, said the lady as she looked back at me apologetically. I smiled and said "no problem, today is Veterans day you know, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. That’s the way I remember it". Both the lady and the cashier looked at me dumbfounded and the cashier asked " what’s that, I’ve never heard that before !". I actually felt a tear well up in me. At that moment I heard the collective sigh of thousands of young souls. Young soldiers buried throughout the world, lost to the various wars (maddness) that has come to almost every generation . Had their loss, their sacrifice, their blood, their bravery and gut retching agonizing fear been lost from the collective memory of those they died for, the next generations ? I am a Veteran. I do not say that often or do I often talk about my experience in Viet Nam from 1966 to 1967. I am like thousands of others who went to war and did the not so glorious part of war called support. I did not participate in any battles, sieges, campaigns or actions. I was not physically wounded. I lived in a tent with twenty other guys and did a job ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week for three hundred and fifty five days (I circled every one on a calendar). As so aptly put in a scene from what I believe is a great antiwar movie Mr Roberts, I "sailed from boredom to tedium to apathy and back again". It was a backward , foreign country and a war zone, and I never was not scared and lonely , except when I was drinking to much beer which was all the time that I was not working or sleeping. There was a skinny young guy from Los Angeles in the tent next to mine. His parents would occasionally send him copies of the L.A. Times and he would share them with me. A taste of Southern California, of home. I remember how great it was to read about familiar names and places. I cannot say we were close friends but friends we were. Comrades in the struggle to stay sane in a crazy world. Coming from a small mostly white and Hispanic Southern California town, Cleve became the first black American I had ever known let alone befriended. And I felt privilaged that he would let me in his small circle of friends. Even in my training companies there had been few blacks and everyone seemed to self segregate themselves. Black and white alike. Many of my racial prejudices based from ignorance were erased by Cleve and his friends.About halfway through our tour of duty in the Nam, Cleve, became quite ill. He would go on sick call and the medics would send with back with a handful of aspirin to try to reduce his fever, and orders for "bed rest" which meant that he got to lay in his bunk in 110 degree heat all day. On the third day of being sent back from the hospital with aspirins and bed rest, Cleve collapsed in the middle of the company area while trying to walk to his tent. One of the few decent Officers in our outfit saw Cleve, found out what was going on from us and immediately drove Cleve back to the Hospital. We were with him when he literally ordered the intake Medics to admit Cleve or heads would roll. Two days later while laying in one of the largest Field Hospitals in Viet Nam, Cleve Jackson of Los Angeles California died of an infected bowel.
In 1985 I visited Washington DC and one of the first things I did when I arrived there was to visit the Wall (The Viet Nam Memorial). I searched the list of names for Cleveland Jackson and found nothing. I went to the information booth and asked for help. Why wasn’t Cleves name in the book? How could I find his name on the Wall ? The guy at the booth was a Veteran himself and I think understood my sense of urgency. He told me in matter of fact but understanding way that because Cleve did not die of wounds received in hostile action or in combat, his name is not on the Wall. I was dumb struck and still am. So to Blogging world, on the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, I offer in memory of a fallen soldier the name:
Cleveland Jackson
