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AMY SMITH LINTON

Bloggetty Blog, life Blog...

March 4th, You Sailors of Fortune

3/2/2023

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Holy crumb-cakes! Here we go.  

The Everglades Challenge, an annual unsupported human-powered 300-mile-long adventure race sets sail on Saturday, March 4, off the beach at Fort De Soto Park at 10 am.  

My favorite skipper (aka "TwoBeers") and his trusty crew Moresailesed will be taking to the waves aboard Spawn.

They've been at this off and on for ten years, and while I may have exhausted my stock of anxiety last year (Oy, the 1200-mile version!), it's still a big event around here. 


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Here's the (in)famous tracking map. 

To track our Spawnsters,  select the event (Everglades Challenge) on the pull-down and either watch their individual progress or the progress of their division (two-crew sailing vessels Class 4), or the whole dang gang.

The ap is supposed to be updated something like hourly from their personal trackers, but in reality, it's sometimes less often). The map frequently freezes, particularly, it seems, in the middle of the night.  

I picture a squadron of interested index fingers mashing that "Regenerate View" button over and over, while the website weary and honest as John Coffey, replies, "I'm tired, boss."


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Click on the map to open link in new window!
In light of past years' performance, I anticipate a few cri de coeur about the failings of SPOT as a personal locator, but new year clean slate, right?  The personal locator is how the tracking maps keep track of the 100+ adventurers.  So, while sometimes the locater maps are slow, sometimes it's the personal locators corking the bottle. 

The SPOT is a hockey-puck sized piece of kit that promises to ping a satellite every 20 minutes or so. It also has a couple of buttons for specific messages ("We're OK!" "We're in trouble, but we're safe," and of course the panic button that calls the Coast Guard). It's proven finicky.

​Yes, we have heard that GARMIN makes a superior product with far nicer interfaces and reliability. Had we the option ten years ago, we would have chosen differently.

The SPOT hasn't failed, really, but it's disappointed me by not performing as I hope.  We weren't ready to invest in yet another piece of expensive electronica for Spawn, so we'll be SPOTTING again this year. 

Here's a link to that website. It follows Spawn only.

Another way to track the fleet is to check RaceOwl site –– again, selecting "Everglades Challenge 2023."  Spawn is known as "Racer Number 3951."  

​A less imaginative moniker to be sure –– what is this, a post Clockwork Orange, post-1984 world?

Whatevs, just don't call them late to supper. 

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Click on the map to open link in new window!
How long will the adventure last?  
I have an entire country-western song bemoaning that exact question. It's already playing in my head.

The short answer: we hope the gang starts arriving in Key Largo on Sunday evening, but the awards ceremony and official end of the time limit is the following Saturday. It's really anyone's guess.

​Knock wood. 

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Weather 'tis Nobler

2/27/2023

4 Comments

 
With less than a week until the WaterTribe is set to push off the beach for the Everglades Challenge, it's now all about the weather.  
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Every year, it's the same backing-and-forthing with my favorite skipper and his gang.  What will the future hold? Will there be a cold front and a line of disturbed weather, or will a high pressure stall over us. Will it be the dreaded easterly? Or more exactly: WHEN will the cold front roar through, and WHEN will the dreaded easterly kick up. 

Each sailor seems to have a personal preference: Sailflow. Predict Wind.  Windy or Wunderground. NOAA avionic or the local weather.

My opinion, and soothsayers will confirm, predictions are only as good as the memory holding them...because que sera, baby, sera.  
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A Challenging Time

2/7/2023

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Not so much challenging as Challenging. The Everglades Challenge to be precise.  
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Each first Saturday in March, a swarm of small and eccentric craft takes to the water and head south from Fort De Soto Beach toward Key Largo.  This year, on March 4 (casual National Military Day, let's say), the starting conch will moan at 10:00 am, a few hours later than usual. 

Among the WaterTribe's many members will be my own beloved skipper TwoBeers aboard Spawn with his doughty partner-in-adventure Moresailesed (Jahn JT Tihansky). Again.

NO they will not be racing around the entire state of Florida this year. That event is held in alternate years.  
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Team Spawn in Miss Patsie, March 2022.
YES, there is serious talk about bidding a fond adieu to both Spawn and the speedy canoe Miss Patsie.

Anyone in the market for a battle-tested and record-breaking sail-and-canoe platform for adventure races?  You can be the next owner!

​Step right up! 

​Because of the success of last year's Ultimate Florida Challenge –– longing to recall those times? Here's a 
link to past blogs –– Spawn has required little to no modifications for 2023.  
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At the Morgan Boatworks clubhouse. Chris is not so sure, but Monica is!
Spawn went to the spa at the Morgan's place and came home looking all fresh and Mediterranean bluey.   
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Monica Morgan and her CAN DO attitude! Yay! Lovely non-skid job!
As usual, the WaterTribe concors d'elegance will be open on Friday afternoon, March 3 at the beach at Fort DeSoto, for those who want to check out all the dreamers' machines.  

The variety and diversity of ideas in action on the beach boggles the imagination.  People approach the challenge from such different places and with such novel solutions!

I recommend taking the afternoon to soak in the enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, between 2.4Meter races, Flying Scot events, Merlin, Moth Midwinters, AND the upcoming Challenge, our house is humming with activity. 
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It's command central for the annual big pile-up of survival gear. Checklists and girthy blue Ikea bags full of waterproof duffles have begun multiplying. Floorspace is starting to close in.  
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Perhaps because Spawn is more or less turnkey at this point, (aside from some tidying and refreshing), my sweet skipper has been able to sail with fellow WaterTribesfolk.

He and Andy "Andyman" Hayward sea-trialed the Dovekie, a generously-beamed creature that was first sailed by a cheerful Kiwi team a few Challenges back.  

Andyman will again hit the beach with Nate "Natedog" Vilardebo; spousal hopes are high that this will be a less dramatic year for team Dovekie.

Mr. Linton came back considerably wind-blown after a morning with Dave "DeSea" Clement on the Prindle 19. A catamaran will do that to a person.

​DeSea will be competing as a trio this year, with teammates Chris "CCock" Growcock and Ed "SailEd" Ruark. They are also hoping for low drama/high fun.  
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New aqua non-skid deck, and miscellaneous high-density plastic backing pieces to replace teak backers.
​
Crossing fingers and knocking wood. 

If past performance is any kind of predictor, this month will slip under our keel like the tidal surge at Fundy.

​Hang on!
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Fashion Statements

1/25/2023

10 Comments

 
Why have I made more than one petticoat this autumn? 
​
​Is it texture? Volume? Swishy-swirly goodness?
​A latent Miss Kitty* crush?

​An elaborate plan to avoid writing?
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Nothing. To. Wear.
​ 
*Oh Lawsie, do NOT –– as you value and respect the variety of human experience and preference –– DO NOT google "Miss Kitty" + "crush" or "fetish" or "kink."


​True story: I was once a 21-year-old editorial assistant in Manhattan. I worked 70 hours a week for a pittance (the word derives from people given money from pity -- which is not actually a stretch for independent book publishers at the time).

I was in the office with William Dang Golding, Susan Freakin Sontag, Roald BFG Dahl, Holy Moly Madeleine L'Engle, Czeslaw Eyechart Milsovic, Polly Amazing Horvath, Maurice Himself Sendak, and Rapmaster Seamus Heaney, to drop but a few of the lifetime's worth of literary rockstars I met. 

​I loved that time of my life.
​
My coworkers included people who were famous in literary circles in their own right, as well as actual Guggenheims, a genuine English Lady Somebody–– the kind of folks who habitually went not just to the Hamptons for the weekend, but to Morocco.


A country church-mouse, I was just that tiny bit too poor to afford the subway for trips less than 40 blocks (my rule so I'd hoof it between Penn Station and Union Square daily).

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Here's me in a Sears purchase. Shoulderpads or throw-cushions –– I can't even.

Fancy-schmancy college had exposed me to the other, very wealthy side of the tracks, but still––!
Bonus side-benefit of scholarshipping my way through school: the crippling flush of envy had pretty well burned all the way through me. 

And as for blending in to the trés chic Manhattan publishing scene?

Errrm, even a minty-fresh
 Sears chargecard wasn't gonna godmother me to that ball. 
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​I embraced vintage. ​
​
There was a gorgeous Pendleton plaid suit, an old Chanel number from a garage sale, a handful of thrifted cashmere sweaters. I wore my riding boots with skirts, sported stacks of fake pearls from my grandmother, and sometimes I put together outfits that swooped past the line of "costume or not?" with joyous abandon.

Today, fashion historian Morgan Donner might call my choices "history bounding." Or as the cool kiddies put it: #Historybounding
​
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Okay, too much history, not enough bounding.

Still and all, fallible me at 21 or 22 saw a tourist descending the escalator to the tracks in Grand Central Station on sultry August day and was struck DOWN with want.  She was wearing exactly the item of clothing I coveted. Of all of the many MANY desirable commodities available in the big city, I wanted what she had. 

A full, pale, ankle-length skirt with an antique, Edwardian vibe.
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Pass-a-Grille Beach around 1915. My gr-grrandparents are the couple on the right. My grandmother is the kid in the white dress. Those are Edwardian walking skirts.

That skirt! Lacking that kooky booty seen with late Victorian bustles, this item of mere clothing managed to be curvy but straight, with a sensible, workable air.  I thought it made the wearer look interesting and self-confident. It was perfection.

I looked high and low for that skirt. For actual decades. Chasing an ideal.

And even after I had been sewing stuff for ages ——I'm on my third sewing machine, for the love of Captain Pete Obvious! —— it only came me to this year: "Yo! Self! Why not make that skirt yer own dang self?"

​And so, dear Reader, I am. 
After a rush of creative energy, snipping of threads and hacking my way through historical methods of pattern-drafting, I have what I have longed for: a long skirt with pockets deep enough to double for a handbag.

A few of my YouTube mentors: Bernadette Banner, Morgan Donner, Rebecca at Pocket Full of Poseys, Ora Lin, and Marika at Enchanted Rose Costumes. 

I made one walking skirt from denim. I'm making another from a single thrifted yard of pretty plaid wool and the remains of –– as God is my witness –– velvet curtain panels from Ikea. 

And under the skirts, a wealth of swirly, swishy petticoats in flannel and cotton lawn.
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Still pairing outfits with riding boots.
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Advertising

1/7/2023

2 Comments

 
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Really, Planters Peanuts? This is the new packaging.

​https://www.killingussoftly4.org/
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A Week of Dead Days

12/27/2022

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A few years ago, I read a book with a title something like this. The Book of Dead Days?  

​The story did not stick with me, but I've adopted the phrase as a description of the time between the midwinter holidays and New Year's.​
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It's a week for not getting work done. A week to kindle up some fire against the dark and then sit poking the fire with a stick.

But I did mean to share the results of a recent photo safari. It's seasonable to the odd week. 
​
Here's hoping for a bright new year.
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View from the Sidewalk.

11/22/2022

3 Comments

 
While perambulating recently, I was stopped in my tracks by the oddest, most erudite of graffiti.

Strictly speaking, since the message was not written by hand (graph-itti) it might be called a poster or one of those bills nobody wants others to post. Whatever the actual medium, when slapped onto a garage door, the message is both mysterious and unsettling.
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A citizen in the 21st Century, I turned immediately to the inter webs. 

I will not deny that my first thought was that it was some sort of political code. And perhaps it is...one that might encourage deescalation. I mean, really: people are CHEERING that an 82-year-old got his head bashed in by a home intruder?

Well anyhoo, the formula I known as Euler's Identity. Which sounds like a spy story, but that name is pronounced "Oiler's". So, less international-operative let us say, and more rogue garage-mechanical. 

And, she re-phrased with laser-like focus, it's commonly considered the most beautiful of mathematical equations.  (I wonder if they have an annual contest with capes and crowns and airbrushed tans).  

​It's been likened to a Shakespearean sonnet, and my favorite starry-eyed quote about the formula is that it "is absolutely paradoxical; we cannot understand it and we don't know what it means, but we have proved it and it must be the truth."  

But wait, she said plaintively, what the Euler's identity DO in the world? Short answer: math stuff that I cannot, for the life of me and the love of light, manage to keep herded up in my brain for long enough to summarize. Dang. We REALLY don't know what it means.

Ah, but wait. Plot thickens: there's Euler's Identity, Euler's Constant, Euler's Four-Square Identity (okay, check this shiznit: double the sum of 4 squared numbers and the result can be expressed as the sum of four squares whaaaaa),  Euler's Number,  Euler's other Number (a cavitation number in fluid dynamics), and Euler's Theory, and, Holy Bologna on a pony –– Euler's Lucky Numbers. Which are, btw, a series of prime numbers that, well, geek.  

​Ooh! electronic music based on it can be seen here.

And of course there's a Euler's Society.

And to think I saw it on Mulberry Street. 
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The Next Little Thing

10/24/2022

4 Comments

 
There's a bit of reentry shock –– whoa, did you know that reentry culture shock is enough of a thing that the State Department has prepared this white paper on it? I am going to say the same applies when returning to the pro-growth, population-exploding, overextended state of Florida. 
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Inexplicable slowdown on I75.

Sparkle sparkle.

Where was I? Yeah: coming back to Florida after a summer at the Would-Be Farm. ​The differences are few, in truth, though they shock us: the rate of travel, the volume of humankind, a factor larger of generalized chaos.  

We don't leave our keys in the car.  We look both ways at a roundabout. We schedule our supply runs to avoid the angriest hours. Instead of counting deer crossings, we keep track of how many times we are startled by vehicles weaving through traffic at near-100mph.  (I'm TRYING to watch out for you, motorcycles. Jeesh.)
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The bestest 6-year-old-great-nephew-on-his-first-snorkel-adventure-ever. Took to it like a fish.
But the flip side of the reentry shock is the sense of slipping right back into the balmy waters of home: family, fishing, and, naturally, the next sailing challenge.  
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The 2.4 Meter boat is about 8 feet long. I have described my favoite skipper's appearance in the diminutive vessel as a man sailing his own boot. Or possibly if Paul Bunyan were sitting in the companionway of a classic racing sloop... 
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He's been competing in the boat for a couple of years, primarily in preparation for the 2.4 Meter World Championships. which our home club has the honor of hosting for 2022.  

Never mind that we've been trying to hold the event for several years and have been thwarted by various world events...The regatta will be held November 5-11, 2022!   
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I'll be keeping watch from the comfort and familiarity of a chase boat. Himself specifically requested that I devote the boat to him and his modest needs for the regatta. I'm officially the beer-and-sails-boat for Team Linton. 
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The Power of One's Convictions

10/11/2022

4 Comments

 
I keep hoping to find a "conchie" in my family history. That's what conscientious objectors were called, mostly with disdain, by their contemporaries in WWI and WWII.

If your religious beliefs or your individual conscious said, "do not pick up arms and fight," you could end up in jail. Or be executed for cowardice and shirking.

St. Maximilan of Tebessa gets the title as first to suffer this punishment for conscience in modern memory.  Back 200 CE, hell no he won't go was followed by a prompt beheading. Capital punishment for being unwilling to kill –– oh the irony! –– has only recently receded from the world of modern military regulations. 

More proof that we humans aren't actually supportive of outliers from the herd. Or even for folks who exemplify the beliefs we think we hold dearest. Turn the other cheek –– oh no you DON'T.

But so far, I've uncovered garden-variety military ancestors from the start of European settlement in North America:  veterans of the Indian Wars, the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812. Survivors and victims of the American Civil War, the Spanish-American War, both WWI and WWII, et cetera. These are folks who gave time, limbs, life in exchange for their country –– of their idea of the country, right? 

A few during were batting for the other team in the 1770's; and in the 1860's, I trace slave-owners and abolitionists, North and South, Rebs and Yanks in about an even sprinkle across the family tree. Can't choose your ancestors.  
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Bompa at the Philadelphia airport in the late 1920's -- on his way to optometry school in Gainesville.
My dad's father, Bompa (for some of the grandchildren it's "Bampa." Weird.) was a genealogy fan. According to my possibly faulty memory, he commissioned a history of the family and then composed his own written narrative about Smiths and Fessendens in that wild northern corner of Pennsylvania.

​ The writing is 100% the way I remember Bompa: it's careful, arch, correct, and as I recall, all of the ancestors were upright good citizens.  For my purposes, it's not much use, as, sadly, the original source material is never cited, and again, as I remember, the professional genealogist's report was lost.

Still, it's a document in and of itself, revealing a certain mid-Century privileged mindset. It's also not terribly accurate (take note, cousins! Bompa's Enoch Smith seems to combine facts from Enoch Jr (1791-1871) and his father Enoch, Sr. (1771-?). Totally understandable, name like Smith.

Anyhow, where are my conchies?  Was their unpopular view a one-way ticket out of our family memory or do we simply have none? My best bucking-the-tide guy so far?  Aaron Augustus Chase, who seems to have had a steely grip on moral north, as least as regards the mining strikes of his day. 
 
But I'll keep looking. 
4 Comments

Book Love

9/18/2022

13 Comments

 
If never have you ever flipped open the cover of a new book –– or an old one, I'm not judging –– and taken an appreciative sniff,  just keep scrolling. 

Or give it a try. Page-sniffing is a thing.

​I don't know how others turned into readers.  The conversion interests me, seeming to divide the world into two groups (yeah, yeah, those who divide the world into groups and those who don't?).  A hard binary system of readers and non-readers.
Both parents were bookwormish; I started using my mother's given name because she was able to block any version of "Mom" from her hearing when her nose was in a book.
​
​Sometimes the use of her adult name worked to yank her attention my way.
My sister is a reader. She wasn't for a while, and then in around fifth grade, she suddenly was.. I think it was a biography of Miss Harriet Tubman that swallowed her up during –– was it a car trip?

​I want to remember the name of the paperback book Freedom Train, but I was a bystander, and this only my recollection.  Did she read it over and over? I think she did.

​So perhaps when I found a book that worked its wormy magic on me, I was only following her steps. 
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My sister en book.
There I was, awake in a hospital bed, contemplating the small but disgusting remnants of my appendectomy, bored at age 8 as I had never imagined being bored. 

It's a signifier of years under my keel that back then I spent 5 days recovering in the hospital. After the first dramatic 18 hours, the novelty of ginger ale, a nurse on call, limitless Jell-O, and four industrial-green walls wore off quickly. 

Mrs. Horack, fourth-grade teacher and all-round civilizer of the savages we were, brought a small bouquet and a get-well package of cheerful messages from my erstwhile tormentors and classmates and –– oh joy! –– books from her latest Scholastic order.

A small stack of cheap paperbacks.
There was a Disney movie novelization called The Mystery in Dracula's Castle.
And one of Clifford D. Hicks' Alvin Fernard series –– Alvin Fernard's Secret Code perhaps?
A third that might have been another Disney novelization. I'm not sure. The Parent Trap with movie stills of Hayley Mills and Maureen O'Hara, maybe? Anyhow, forgettable fiction. 
​And...tahdah! Walter Farley's The Black Stallion.

The story of Alec, a boy who tames the heroic black stallion. While marooned on a desert isle. And who brings the wild creature home to Queens.
​
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With dramatic illustrations by Keith Ward. Mr. Ward also inked that US advertising phenom, Elsie the Cow.
It surprises me a little that –– it appears –– nobody has based an academic dissertation on the works of Mr. Farley. The storytelling was like a barn fire: a smoulder for maybe the first sentence, followed by a five-alarm blaze for 18 chapters. Action! Horses! ​Danger! A Big Race!

​The Black Stallion was published in 1941, the product of a college boy who knew and loved horses (it shows), which means it's had 80+ years to percolate through popular culture.  The movie version, thank you Francis Ford Coppola and crew, is gorgeous.

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​I believe that JRR Tolkien produced the granddaddy of all modern fantasy novels in his Middle Earth (not that there weren't ancestors before then, but still –– not one Dragon, not one Dungeon, not one Song of Fire or Ice but which can trace its ancestry...) Anyhow, I likewise believe that The Black Stallion is, if not the first (hello, Anna Sewell's 1877 masterpiece, Black Beauty, not to mention Smokey the Cowhorse by Will James, which won the Newbery in 1928.) then it's the ideal exemplar of the horse-story.

The Black Stallion went on to sire a whole line of descendants. Not just look-alikes when kid meets horse, kid tames horse, horse and kid win big race, but Walter Farley wrote close to 20 sequels, and a son continues to produce new books in the series.

ANYHOW, I veer from me me me and my experience. The Black Stallion was the book that gave me my first immersive escape from physical surrounds. I dove into the dark and salty ocean with Alec and the Black while their tramp steamer foundered, forgetting about the discomfort an IV needle and the too-tight bedclothes, the scent of infection and Lysol, the hunger and weariness.  It was magic. 

The experience of reading and immediately re-reading the novel ––the pages of my copy are watermarked and foxed, scarred by tea and littered with petrified toast crumbs –– made me into a reader.

​Of course I had pretty specialized taste at first. Researching for this blog sent me to a Pinterest page showing column after column of vintage horse-story books. So many old friends among those covers!  
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Daddo proud and bemused on dry land at the start of Holly and my time together. She did not permit me to read while on board.
Horses and books, books and horses. Not all my book friends had horses, but a surprising number of friends know this two-pronged hayfork: Mumsie herself of course, and Cousin Shirley (Hiya!), the gang of Jill and Sheryl and Megan, plus Robyn, Jekki, Wendy, Arial, and more.

Decade after decade I crack open a book or swipe the Kindle awake, press the delta of "play" for an audiobook, absolutely certain that I'll be visiting a new world between the covers of one book or another.  Right now there are two SF novels beside the bed, the latest Robert Galbraith/Cormoran Strike audiobook on the phone for Mr. Linton and me, and a handful of who knows what options on the Kindle.  In fact, I should go update my Goodreads list. 

Gentle readers, name the book that made you part of this strange clan. Or say what book you're reading now. Or which one bucked you off like rodeo bronc. 

​You know, talk bookly to me...

​
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