So far, so good

We've arrived in Georgetown, Great Exuma. Ex-um-a, it rolls off your tongue with a rumble and lands with the sigh of satisfaction that you make after a refreshing beverage. The word must be rooted in "exhume," to dig something up after it's been dead in the ground, raising it to breathe fresh air and drink tropical sun.
After about 400 nautical miles, three nights and three days on open water, not touching solid ground for six days, pitching, rolling, feet awash with a sea flooding over-deck in high waves, Georgetown is feeling like the a place we can stop and kick it for a while, relax and find a beach that most people will only see on the face of a postcard somewhere, or a Windows wallpaper--you know the one, with the lonely palm tree on the mini-cay, the sailboat in the background in the upper left.
And in two an a half hours, the only thing that's been missing during this entire trip will be arriving to the island on a plane from Miami (no, not cocaine): Kristen, my girlfriend.
Not long ago, the day before we set off from Luperon, over the course of a few hours Marty and I were jumping down a series of spring-fed waterfalls in a Dominican rainforest-rocks smooth, the stream only slightly tinged with the clay it sprang from, cliffs rising, vines hanging, and everywhere the whooooosh of rushing falls.
Life ain't so shitty, as Blind Melon once sang.
It was among the coolest things I've ever done in my life, and if you're thinking that it 'sounds like something out of a movie,' do me a favor and slap yourself. This was real, this was being alive, and the movies are pretend, a fake vicarious tramp through another person's vision of an experience, and if your only concept of adventure is through a pixelated projection on a screen, get out more, because it's worth the trouble.
When we reached the bottom of the mountain, I said to Marty, "Thanks for coming with me man, I would've done this by myself if I had to." It was our last chance that day to go to that national park, and I was hell-bent.
"Yea," he shrugged as he was drying off in the sun next to a streamlet I was sitting in, "but it wouldn't have been as fun by yourself."
He was absolutely right. Although at times there's a certain necessity for solitude, it is the company you keep that determines the richness of experience. I realized that over the course of the last few hours, it was her company that I was missing, imagining how her whoop would sound as she launched off a cliff into a blue pool, the mutual wonder to be shared in a place of perpetual amazement.
I've realized now the importance of sharing experience; that's the idea behind cameras, uploading photos on Facebook, and this freaking blog. Otherwise I wouldn't have filmed it, wouldn't be sharing it right now.
So if you have someone you care about, go do something with them. Take pictures. And remember when you see someone eating alone at a restaurant or riding a roller coaster solo, why they aren't smiling as wide as the ones who keep good company.

The feeling you get when you look to the stars in a clear night sky

Luperon, Dominican Republic, Saturday the 11th of February at 10:22 pm.
I looked up tonight. Stars I hadn't seen in years were clear. The feeling I got was, well, hard to explain.
The feeling could be described as a combination of the following things:
Bewilderment, at the expanse of the universe, just how insignificant my life really is, and the amount of stuff that exists outside of our my narrow worldview.
Shame, that for a great percentage of my life I miss out on the splendor of the sky I look at now.
Disbelief that so much exists outside my daily life on a regular basis that I just can't pay attention to.
Wonder. And lots of wonder.
There is no word yet in the English language to describe this particular combination of feelings. Maybe there shouldn't be. Some things are better left to mystery, undefinable and mysterious.
Like the stars, and what I'm feeling right now.

Riot Act

Today in the streets of Luperon, people burned tires, and threw rocks, glass bottles, and live tear gas canisters back at the police that shot them.
They did this because their inept government hadn't done real work on their roads for over two years, and a boiling point was reached where someone somewhere became a catalyst for a popular movement by being just pissed off enough; and one could argue that burning rubber and breaking glass wouldn't improve the quality of those roads they sought to improve.
And they'd be right.
But because their daily life was affected, these people got pissed off and did something, anything about it. I don't agree with the methods, but it got people's attention and it was better than doing nothing.
The idea is that in America, people don't really do something about anything. Sure, there's tons of diabolical fucked up shit going on, but people watch it on the television, go to work, and don't take it to the streets except in small numbers. The Occupy movement is a start in this direction, but compared to the heyday 60's might as well be an Avon house party. Ask 50 different Occupiers about their cause, and you'll get close to 50 different answers except for the idea that we really should be pissed off about something, and that's what it's all about. Righteous indignation en masse can be a powerful tool for social change. It's just not utilized enough, or peacefully enough, to make the difference it should.
So today, as roadblocks of flaming shit were set up not a mile away from me, I may not have agreed, but I understood.

I've Arrived

Luperon, Dominican Republic, Thursday, 2-9-12

After a sleepless night, I traveled by air to the Dominican Republic.  Customs waved me through without checking my bags, and an unwashed and flybitten Marty was there to cordially greet me at the entrance of the airport, a most welcome sight, because I would've been screwed trying to make it to Luperon by myself.  The air was balmy, the sun was shining, and I felt fantastic.

The country was waiting, and I had about 110 lbs. of gear to haul across it.  I'm learning that nothing is ever simple in the DR, especially travel.  We hoofed the gear from the airport to the main road, where we hailed a Gua-Gua.  Gua-Guas operate like buses, only they're cars stuffed with as many people and gear that they can hold, which isn't much when there's a propane tank in the trunk.  My backpack was too big for the trunk to close, so after a few attempts of shutting it, the little brown man shrugged his shoulders and got in the driver's seat.  I was nervous, but apparently he knew what he was doing.  This is the way things work here. Marty got in the front seat, and I opened the back door to find three people filling the back seat.  Marty slid over, and I was able to barely shut the door as we squeezed in.
Imagine driving with no traffic laws, or traffic cops.  Pass whenever you feel, even in oncoming traffic, liberally use your horn, go fast as you can, and hold on to your nuts because the roads are bumpy.
The next leg of the trip in Porto Plata was by motoconcho, essentially a dirt-bike taxi that you climb onto the back of.  Here is more trust that the dude knew what he was doing, with me and my 50 lb. backpack over the back tire and him cradling my bookbag between his arms gripping the bars.  The engine couldn't have been over 150 cc, so just getting forward motion was incredible enough, but the aforementioned driving is even more arousing when you're on the back of a bike, top-heavy and laden with gear, darting between cars and other bikes; there were a couple points where if I reached out my arm I could've touched the cars and people riding next to us.
We made it to a bus station and they knew what they were doing.  Stop worrying, with your cracker-ass American concern for safety, helmets, and seatbelts, because they don't exist here.  Relax man, it's the DR.
The next leg was uneventfully completed by shuttle bus, like the ones hotels use.  Air conditioned, which I haven't felt since.
After that, we haggled for seats on a van to Luperon; they wanted to charge us for our bags too, but we kept them on our laps so we only had to pay for our seats.  Because they pile in as many people as possible, any space you take up aside from your ass, you have to pay for.
Through the countryside, passing a scene on the way where apparently someone drove straight through a fence down an embankment, and we arrived to Luperon, triumphant, greeted by Loren and Stacy, and here I've been ever since, at the Marina Tropical (like trah-pee-KHAL).  The marina is in a calm bay, with palm lined hills in behind it, and the open ocean around the bend.  Luperon is considered among the most sheltered and safe ports in the Caribbean, and it appears to live up to its reputation.
We work on the boat by day (hull painted and batteries charged so far), and drink by night, though last night was particularly difficult to recover from.  We trekked to a beach across the harbor and over the hills, and after jumping off cliffs into the ocean and taking out the better part of a handle of rum, we returned to yet again close down the marina bar.  I forced myself to exercise today to cleanse my system, and almost puked doing it on a couple of occasions.  Takin' er easy tonight, that's for certain.
That beach was stereotypical paradise, rolling surf and perfect sand.  I sat with Marty and the surf lapped our feet, and marveled that it was February.  I felt like I've been playing the game the wrong way for so long, that when it's this easy and wonderful it feels like I'm cheating, and it can't be real.

 But I'm not, and it is.  Until next post, take care.  Thanks for reading.

Where I Should Be

I shouldn't be here right now.
I should be in the Dominican Republic, writing this first entry about my time in a foreign land, clumsily stumbling over a foreign language and palm trees on a beach while rum sodden with my crewmates.  This first entry of my travelogue is now being written at a bar in San Marcos.

On the eve of my sailing trip through the Carribbean, which I'd been anticipating for some 9 months, I had a conversation with the captain of the ship, Loren Drake.  He's a descendant of the same family as the famed Sir Francis, so you know he's a legitimate seadog.  I'm going through my final packing list, checking it twice, picking out which clothes I'm going to be wearing mostly unwashed for months, and my phone titters to signify an incoming text, which reads as follows:

"Could you text me your passport numbers so that I may print out our boarding passes por favor?"

How fastidious.  I knew exactly where said passport was, just under the lip of a brown leather valet.  I retrieve it, sharing the numbers with him, when I notice something very awry.  See if you can pick it out, although the picture quality leaves something to be desired:

Ah, my face at 16 years old.  So young, so naive, so prone to dumb mistakes.  How much I have learned since then, how much wiser I am.  Yet, for a traveler departing the country on the 30th of January, 2012, a passport that expires in May of 2011 doesn't help much at all.  I looked at this date, looked away in hopes that the number would change, which it didn't, and there arose a feeling directly below the right ventricle of my heart.  It was similar to the feeling of when I was told my mom's dog had cancer, or when Calvin Johnson's touchdown was nullified against the Bears in the closing seconds of week one in the 2010 NFL season.  I was dumbstruck, pacing the wooden floor of my friend Felipe's home where I had stored all my earthly belongings for the duration my voyage.
When my thoughts returned to working order, I asked myself, "Self, how am I going to have the heart to break this news to my captain?"  To let him down, and let him know I was an incompetent dullard?"  I couldn't, so I continued to pack my things.  If I pack it, I will leave.
I texted him my passport number.  He replied, "Thank you kindly!  How goes the preparations?"
I responded, "Double checking my list and packing clothes should be leaving within an hour."  So deep was my denial, everything was fine, fine, fine.  I may have even whistled as I continued to pack.
Here, a shirt, rolled tightly and packed into my green army surplus duffel bag (you idiot).  Here, a swimsuit, which will surely be put to good use (fucking dumbshit).  With every item my self-loathing unpacked.  My ladyfriend Kristen gently reclined on the daybed next to my duffel, in anticipation of our goodbye to come.  The outline of her body was akin to Manet's Olympia, but if you call her a whore I will punch you in the teeth.  I finally showed her my passport, a time capsule for what I looked like 11 years ago (passports expire in 10).
"Haha, you're so young!" She smiled.  Five seconds, and her smile faded.  A couple more, and "uhhh, you know that--"
"Yup, it's expired.  I just saw that a minute ago."  I rolled up a festive button down, for use on a jaunty trip to town, sliding it between an extra pair of underwear and a t-shirt.
For the next couple of minutes, we discussed options, looked up speedy passport renewal agencies, and determined I was fucked.  Loren sent another text, asking for my name as it appeared on the passport and  for the expiration date.  Now I had no choice.  I called him, waited for him to grab a pen and paper, and told him exactly what he asked for.  Eric H Hollman.  06 May/Mai 2011.
"All Right!" he scribbled it down.  "We're good to go, now it's just....wait, what?"
"Yup, you've got that right."
"What?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Well, fuck."
And so on.  We ended up moving up my flight exactly one week ($240, fuck you airlines) and scheduling an appointment at the Houston passport agency for same day service ($170, not too bad).
So here I am, where I shouldn't be, in limbo for a week.  But haven't I been in limbo for the past nine months?  And after all, wherever one is is where you are, and thus where you should be.  There is no other place, and to not make the most of where you are is to not live in the moment, wasting time.  Time is of the essence, and Death keeps perfect time.  To live life is to accept where you are and what you do, be happy with it, and willing to make the most of a raw deal.  Philosophical rationalizations help with these sort of things, don't they?  I've learned to move past my self-loathing, to realize that I've made some mistakes and make peace with myself having learned the lessons those mistakes have taught me.  After all, I am still leaving on a months-long sailing trip through the Caribbean.  What the fuck do I have to complain about?  It's not like I'm in Somalia or anything.  This passport business boils down to White People Problems.  So I'm over it, even more ready to finally leave on my sojourn to change the course of my life forever.
For now I'm here, and here is good.  Although this post doesn't come from a foreign land on the beach, I've learned the land itself and the ground underfoot doesn't matter so much as my mentality.
The return address of this post is "In Limbo."  I'm sure I'll return.

I Forgot What it Felt Like

Today in Texas, thousands panic, cars pull over to the side of the road, children run shrieking mad through the streets in their underwear as something that could be describes as "wetness" falls from the sky.
The cracked earth coughing dust through a hoarse throat hisses as the first drops hit, long-dead grass, brittle as glass and sharp as cinder, sucks in the moisture as I wonder if it's too far gone to come back.
It's been months, months of a hostile sun at full intensity with no rain, no rain, no rain.  By day, a pitiful cloud or two would appear every once in a while to create the illusion of shade for a moment, and it was even worse when night fell and it was still hot enough to sweat through your shirt.  In essence, Texas has been an electric stove coil for the summer, with a cruel god manning the controls.  Each day turned the burner on High heat, until the coil glowed an angry molten orange, and at night, with just a slight turn of the dial to the left--click--the burner was turned off just long enough to turn dark for a moment, but not long enough to be safe to the touch.  Then dawn came--click--and with a slight turn to the right, it was on High again.  Every day, I have been doing the summer blacktop-pavement dance on that coil, lifting my feet gingerly with each step and wishing somewhere there was some son-of-a-bitch responsible for this for me to give a piece of my mind to.  But there isn't, not a single one anyway, so I cursed the sun and Texas instead.
As I drink my coffee and regard this storm, a driving rain ricochets at a 45 degree angle off the street, a lightning bolt snaps down from somewhere high in the sky and booms like a felled tree, a stiff wind jars the chime next to me so hard it almost hits me in the head, and I remember what rain feels like.  I remember cool nights and green grass, things alive and lush, hooded sweatshirts that smell of bonfires and morning dew, and for a moment I'm homesick for Michigan.
The rain has stopped and everything is still brown, dead, and dusty, only now it is wet brown dead dust.  The wildfires still burn.  It's going to take a lot more than this, a monsoon, for things to be green again.  The moisture will all evaporate by evening, and I dread the approaching humidity--I can already feel the air sticking like a viscous goo.
But it's a start.  Maybe there will be more rain to come, less heat, greener times where days reminds me of  life.  The sun is out now, and I'm trying to look on the bright side.

Exhausted

I try to live life to the fullest, as trite as that sounds.  I try pursue activities that are conducive to a singular consciousness: reading, writing, fighting, playing piano.  But is it possible to do all of the shit I want to do, accomplish all that I'd like to, while constrained in the American work week?  The answer is no, it isn't.  I know this, for I've measured it from alarm to alarm:
7:40am: Alarm rings.  Getting ready for work consumes over an hour a day.  Keep in mind how it adds up: 5 hours a week, 20-ish hours a month, 240 hours--10 days--a year.  Mindless brushing teeth, showering, tying shoes, eating breakfast.  Maintenance activities.
9:00am-5:00pm: Work.  8 hours.  Although I appreciate what I do and maintain a positive attitude, if I had a choice between working and being able to do whatever I wanted, I wouldn't work, and the odds are neither would the majority of folks.
5:00pm: Ah, the school bell rings.  Freedom to pursue my intellectual interests for two hours; yes, that's right.
5:30-7:00pm:   Time for physical activity (sedentary lifestyle is not an option), namely MMA class, three times a week (the other two days are consumed by either weights or yoga).  Here is singular focus: I'm not thinking about anything else when I have to dodge a punch to the face, or when I'm trying to figure out how to pass someone's guard without getting triangle choked.  I'm not contemplating that I'm going to die some day, because I'm living in that very moment.  And if I'm not focused, if I'm thinking about some bullshit that frustrated me at work that day, there is immediate feedback in the form of formidable physical discomfort: true mind-body unison.  I'm tired at this point, but not tired enough, and I need to have good conditioning if I'm going to fight well, so...
7:00-8:00pm:  The River.  I wash off the sweat and sometimes blood, I swim upstream until my heart gets tired, and I float.  The evening sun sinks behind the cedar trees, I sit in the grass and breathe.  If I have a thought, I write it down.  If not, I'm content to unwind from the day and let my mind drift to wherever it may.
8:00-9:45pm:  Driving home, cooking dinner (I'm starving), doing dishes, showering, using the latrine, doing laundry.  Similar to when the alarm went off in the morning, these are all maintenance activities, adding up just the same.  The clock ticks away.
9:45-11:30pm- "Free" time, in quotations because time is never free.  Within the limited amount of "free" time I have each week, I'm fighting fatigue, depressive mood swings, laziness, boredom, existential crisis, and although I've eliminated TV from my weekday life entirely, the internet can be just as much of an attention-span quicksand.  It's too late for coffee, I just have to suck it up.  These two hours are spent either reading, writing, practicing piano, or getting distracted from doing those things.  On the one hand I'm physically and mentally exhausted, and it's very easy to find something to space out on for this time.  On the other hand, I feel that I fail to realize the day's potential if I'm not doing something self-enriching.  Things that have recently been bumped from these two hours: memorizing Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven, learning Spanish, practicing French...
11:30pm-12:00am-Between this time, I'm brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed.  Every minute that passes now is less time I have to sleep.  If I'm going to be in any kind of shape to tackle the next day, I need as close to eight hours as I can get.  From waking up in the middle of the night to piss, or tossing and turning, eight hours in bed is probably closer to less than seven hours of sleep.
7:40am- The alarm rings.....
I'm happy if I'm self-actualized, and if I'm constrained, I have to make do with the best I can.  To me, happiness is ethereal, something to be pursued and never quite grasped.  Contentedness is for the indolent.  So this week, I got a second job.  This seems counter-intuitive to the purpose of outlining the importance of using time on this earth to the fullest, but if the purpose of that job is to save money to get out of Dodge in January on a sailing trip through the Caribbean...well, I'm more than happy to be an ant for some time so that I may be a grasshopper for the rest of my life.
Pass the fiddle.