Friends, Enemies, and Angry Rattlesnakes

Why is it that rattlesnakes always seem to cross a road perpendicularly?  The many that I have driven up on always seem to be a curiously long stick lying partway across the road, perfectly perpendicular.  Almost always at night, the closer I get the more they become part of a mirage that disappears.  The stick that one moment was in my lane has somehow slid a few feet over into the opposing one.  In that brief moment my mind registers:  “Rattlesnake!”  During the fall and spring, after a sunny warm day and as the night has started cooling the air, the cold blooded rattlesnakes come out of the grass to seek the heat that is being held by the paved roads.  There they lay looking like a stick in your path.

This is how it was an evening in October 1989.  The summer had held on longer than normal and the rattlesnakes had yet to den up.  I was out on a coyote hunt with my best friend Mark Kohler and his Dad, Lawrence.  We had just left a farm near Coupland, TX, home of cotton farmers and the famous Coupland Inn and Dance Hall.   Driving in my old Chevy pickup, Mark was riding shotgun and his Dad was crammed into the half-sized back seat.  Q-Beam spotlights were jammed between our legs with the cords running out the windows to a direct connection on the battery.  Both Mark and I had our favorite coyote rifle within easy reach, barrels pointing down into the floor, the stocks bumping our elbows in the crowded cab.

We turned off of the paved road and onto a gravel county road as the lights lit up an annoying stick in our way.  Simultaneously Mark and I shouted “Rattlesnake!” as a three-footer slid across the road to the right and started to disappear into the grass.  I yanked the wheel hard to the right taking my truck into the bar ditch and slammed on the brakes in attempt to pin the snake under my left front tire.  Coming to a sliding stop, with Mark's Dad hanging on to keep from coming over the seat and ending up impaled on the stick shift, the chalk dust from the gravel road enveloped the truck for a few moments.

Throwing open my door, a spotlight cord wrapped around my left foot, I jumped out.  With its cord ripped from the socket, the spotlight clanged as it bounced across the floor of the truck and hit the gravel useless.  All I could hear was the buzzing of a really angry rattler.  One thing I learned that night.  Mark hates rattlesnakes.  Mark’s Dad REALLY hates rattlesnakes.

With my flashlight in my hands I could see we had the snake pinned between the tire and a thick bed of grass just off the gravel.  The rear six inches of this snake was pointing toward the road, the rattle at the tip buzzing.  The other thirty inches of fanged madness was repeatedly throwing itself at the tire, its mouth wide open, striking at the monster that had it pinned to the ground.  Mark was behind me.  Mark’s Dad was WAY behind me.   All the while the snake was fiercely rattling his tail letting out a buzz like two hot wires in a high voltage short.   I don’t know how the snake managed it, but he  quickly squirmed his way out from under the 5000 lb truck.  He was about to get away.  Umm…I don’t think so.  I wasn’t quite done playing with him.

And I reiterate, Mark was safely behind me with his Dad still WAY behind me.

As I saw the tail just break free, I did the only thing any sane person would do:  I reached down and grabbed a fistful of angry rattles and quickly tossed the rattlesnake back to the center of the road.

Here is where it got REAL exciting.  Mark had exited his position of safety directly behind me and had come to the front of the truck, out of my line of sight, to get a better look.

Who needs enemies when your best friend hits you in the chest with three feet of angry rattlesnake? 

In slow motion it seems, I expertly flicked the snake out from under the truck.  Like a squirming boomerang it flew through the air rotating two and a half times before hitting Mark square in the chest.  I really didn’t know Mark could move that fast.  With flailing hands and high stepping boots, he could have done the 40-yard dash in 4.5 seconds, in reverse.  I guess he thought harsh language would kill it or something because for the next thirty seconds or so it streamed out of Mark’s mouth.  Now that I look back on it, I’m not sure if it was aimed at the snake or me.  I’m guessing it was aimed at me.  Shaken and thinking we had had enough fun for the night, we killed the snake, packed up the broken spotlight, and headed to the house.

During the one-hour trip back to the house, the only thing I remember Mark’s Dad saying was, “Kendall, I can’t believe you threw a live rattlesnake at my Son.”  I’m pretty sure he repeated this several times.   Even though he was grown up and married, Mark’s Mother had forbade him from doing anything with me for the next six months.  This sweet lady, my second Mom, had given me the dreaded stink-eye.  She made it painfully clear.  I would not be putting her son in any sort of imminent danger ever again.

These days I’m not as foolhardy as I was back then.  Sitting in front of the TV with my kids, watching Jeff Corwin on Animal Plant, I grew an appreciation for all things snake and now tend to let them hang around as part of the local ecology.  Now I let the stick slide on across the road.  If its in my yard, I carefully urge it into a container and move it far enough away that I won’t have to worry about seeing it in my yard again.

No more throwing snakes for me.  Besides, I would hate to hear the string of foul language from Mark repeated and definitely do not ever want to see that stink-eye from his Mother again.

Shooting and being shot

Prologue

Summer 1972

That mysterious shiny dark blue Colt .45 sat on the top shelf in the closet, wrapped in a well-oiled gray cloth, and stuffed into a hand tooled leather western-style holster.  He could barely see the edge of the holster just hanging off of the shelf, wedged in-between the stacked shoeboxes and the well-used carry-on suitcase.  Until now it had been unreachable.

He discovered that if he dragged his mother’s vanity seat the ten feet into the closet, climbed up and stood on his tippy-toes, his fingers could just catch the edge of the leather and pull the pistol into his hands.  Finally.  He climbed back down and stood in the dark of the closet with an overwhelming feeling of awe and curiosity.  He had gotten the prize.  He pulled the cloth-wrapped pistol out of the holster and set the holster on the seat.  Then he unwrapped the shiny, beautiful pistol and just stared.  He had seen his father do this so many times.  If you grab the top and pull back, it will break loose and slide on a heavy spring.  It was a hard pull but he managed to pull it back.  As the port opened up he could see a shiny brass bullet sitting on top of the stacked magazine.  Not knowing what to do, he let go, and with a jolt the slide shot forward and the bullet was gone.  Fear immediately pounded in his throat.  Did that bullet go into the barrel?   As he looked at the rear of the gun he could tell that the hammer was sitting in the cocked position.  He knew enough to quickly figure out that this gun was loaded and ready to fire.  He had never fired a gun before and the red flag of danger replaced the awe and curiosity.  He also knew that his father would notice the hammer in a different position and he would be the first blamed, and with that blame would come several licks with a well aimed belt.

Carefully holding the pistol he slipped out the sliding-glass door and into the fenced in backyard.  He understood the danger he was in. Getting down low, he pointed the pistol into the grass, pinched the hammer between his thumb and pointer finger, held tight and pulled the trigger.  Only by the mercy of God did he feel the hammer come free and he somehow found the strength to slowly let it fall.  With a rush of relief he quickly eased back into the house, wrapped the cloth around the pistol, just like it had been, and slipped it back into the holster.  He then climbed onto the vanity seat and pushed the bundle back to the shelf.   Having putting everything back where it belonged he could finally breathe a sigh of relief.  All was good.

October 1972

Alone in his bedroom the former U.S. Army M.P. steps into his closet to check his weapon. His wife was in the kitchen with the iron in one hand pressing a long-sleeve shirt. The telephone was in the crook of her neck, wedged between her shoulder and jaw.  There was gossip to share and she often found ironing was the best time to do it.  The kids were laying on the floor in front of the TV, elbows ground into the shag carpet fibers with two hands supporting each head.  The palms of each hand were on each side of their jaw with fingers going straight up towards their ears.

A deafening blast roared through house.  The iron fell to its side and the phone slowly crashed toward the floor. Before the handset could hit the ground, the M.P.’s twice widowed wife let out a shrieking scream yelling her husband’s name as she ran in terror towards the bedroom.  A barely audible “Honey I’m okay” came from the bedroom closet as the shaken former soldier stood there staring in disbelief at his service arm. The acrid gun smoke permeated the closet.  “How in the hell did that happen?”  he said to himself.  His wife stood there crying while the kids looked on not understanding the emotions of either as the smell of the smoke drifted through the room.

The 200-grain soft-point bullet had punctured the drywall, ripped through a 2X4 stud, exited the wall on the other side, and lodged into the gilded frame of the vanity mirror six feet away. The soldier had NEVER kept a round in the chamber when it was stored at home.

****************

The above story is true.  It happened.  I was there the entire time.

I grew up around guns but was not formerly introduced until I was about 15 or so.  Since then I’ve been shooting the balance of my 48 years.   I have shot, been shot (by #8 bird pellets), shot my best friend with an arrow, and shot my brother-in-law in the chest with a 9mm slug on a ricochet. Fortunately the ricochet ended with a whelp and not a trip to the hospital.  Why anybody would want to do anything with me, that even remotely involves launching a projectile, is a mystery.

Until yesterday I had never participated in any formal shooting training.  Fortunately my Mother had seen fit to let me attend hunter safety training when I was sixteen years old.  I learned to shoot on my own and with a fair amount of assistance from friends and relatives. I received some good advice and some not so good advice.  I’m a pretty handy shot with a rifle or a pistol and I’ve been lucky thus far.  Yet I am also paying the price for my own ignorance and stupidity.

About thirty of us were gathered under some shaded picnic tables early yesterday listening as our instructors discussed the plan for the day.  Our ages ranged from 16 to 75 years.  The lead instructor had each of us give a brief rundown of our shooting history.  As one might expect, we all had different backgrounds and levels of shooting experience.  When it was one of the ladies turn to speak, she admitted that she had never fired a gun before.  “Perfect!” the instructor said.  “You are my favorite kind of student.  We won’t have any bad habits to fix and you will learn how to do this right and safely from the

beginning.” When my turn came up I told them my name, that I had been shooting my entire life, thought I was a pretty good shot, and I probably had a lot of bad habits to fix.  I could tell right off:  I was the kind of student they feared the most.

I took home a lot of knowledge and specifics to work on.  However one of the things they told me really struck a chord.  The lead instructor said that those who have never shot before might go home and never shoot again. They may not like it or just never have another opportunity, but through the training they will have gained a lot.  They will have gained a respect for a handgun’s capability and a great understanding of safety and handling should the occasion ever present itself in the future.

That is why I had to tell the story above.  Until now it had never been told.  Only one person knew the entire story.  Me.

There have been guns in my house all of my adult life.  My kids have grown up around them.  I purposefully did not hide them.  They were usually within fairly easy reach, however ammunition rarely was.  My daughter was about seven years old when she first saw a deer shot and field dressed.  My son was barely able to hold up my twelve-gauge shotgun the first time he went dove hunting with me.  He carried a Daisy Red Ryder.  After the dove hunt I helped him hold up the shotgun as he pulverized some empty coke cans.  My kids understood from an early age how powerful and dangerous a gun can be. We talked about how they are not to be touched and so on.  I knew that my daughter never had fear of firearms, yet always carried a great respect for them.  I was also confident my son was the same way.  As I was thinking of writing this today, I decided to call him while on his trip with the Texas Aggie Wranglers to Washington D.C.  I wanted to know if he had ever had an experience like I did as described in the story above.  I told him the statute of limitations was in effect and no answer was wrong.  His answer was “No Dad.  Why would I ever have to sneak around?  You took away all of the mystery and I never had to wonder.  I got to pretty much shoot anytime I wanted anyway.”  I said, “Even to just look at them, play with them, or anything?”  He assured me  “Nope.  We also learned some things in school, and definitely in Boy Scouts, about staying away from guns without proper supervision.”  I told him that was what I had hoped to hear.  That maybe that was one of the things I had done right as a parent.  “Dad, I would say you did it right.”

Could I have done better?  Definitely. Would I do things differently If I could get a re-do on my history of the use of firearms? Absolutely.  The ringing in my ears is a ready reminder as is the loss of hearing in most of the upper frequencies of my left ear.  It makes having conversations in a noisy room extremely uncomfortable and difficult.  My advice here: Don't be stupid enough to be tough enough - protect your eyes and ears.  And as I learned in the class, take safety to the extreme every moment. Nine out of ten times you might be able to back out of the garage without checking behind you first. But the tenth time there just may be a bicycle lying there.

So if you, the reader, can take away anything from this blog, it is that you will take the time to expose yourself, your children, or your grandchildren, to some good firearms training.  Take away the mystery for young people so they won’t have to ever wonder as I did forty something years ago.  Even though you may hate them or fear them, firearms are here and always will be. Enroll in a class somewhere - you will come away with an entirely new perspective.

Be safe!

Into the wind!

Acknowledgements and Prologue

Thanks to my son Walter for his input on this blog.  As he was proofing this last night we discussed how challenging it is to attempt to put on paper the excitement and intricacies of sailing a Hobie Cat.   One can get technical in sailing terms so quick as to possibly have the non-sailing reader glaze over.  My hope is that this blog will put you on the water, with the wind rushing in your face, and feeling the ‘pop’ of the sails as you turn away from the eye of the wind.  Walter and my daughter Lindsey are my sailing partners and have both experienced and learned with me the art of flying a hull one moment, and getting thrashed by an unforgiving craft the next.

Why do I write this stuff?  Mainly for them.    It’s a way for me to record my joys and thoughts and experiences so they can look back later and remember as well.  It is also for me, as it is something I’ve just wanted to do for a while. 

I appreciate the feedback you have given me thus far.  If by some chance you read this, and I don’t know who you are, please let me know, and don’t hesitate to give it a thumbs up…or a thumbs down.

So grab your life jacket.  You will be needing it….

Into the Wind!

There is just something about screaming across the water on twin fiberglass hulls with sails filled to the breaking point by a stiff Gulf breeze that just makes my day.

For me flying a Hobie 18 Catamaran is my extreme sport.    The only thing better than flying the Hobie on Lake Travis, is flying the Hobie out of the Port Aransas, TX surf and into the swells of the Gulf of Mexico.

The Hobie 18, built from the late 70’s through the mid 80’s, is all engine.  The “engine” on a Hobie 18 is 215 sq ft of sails supported by a 28’ aluminum mast.  This mast sits atop twin 18’ fiberglass hulls sitting 8’ apart.   Our Hobie is the “Magnum Version” which is outfitted with “wings” that sit about two feet above the hulls and extend out over the water about two feet.  These provide a comfortable seat and a place to stand as you fly. Total weight the craft:  400lbs.  The hulls are very thin and literally slice through the water with little drag.  Just the slightest puff of air will turn this boat from a raft to a surprisingly quick ride.

When the sails on the Hobie find their shape in the wind, and the pilot has everything adjusted just right, the hulls start slicing through the water.  The daggers, protruding down from each hull into the water prevent the boat from slipping sideways; literally allowing the wind and the water to squeeze the boat forward.  As she comes to speed you hear and feel the rising vibration of the daggers as they cut through the water.  The vibrations increase and you, sitting on the windward hull, start feeling the lift of your hull as the boat heels over to the leeward side.  You can feel the tension on the entire boat as the stay (wire) that supports the mast on the windward side tightens up like a banjo string and the song of the boat seems to hit a whole new octave.  The blocks that hold the lines for the sails seem to reach the breaking point.  You are constantly watching the tell-tales on the sails and the wind indicator as you adjust the lines, allowing the sails to keep that perfect shape as a wing in the wind so as to pull the boat forward.  As you build up towards top speed the vibrations cease and all you hear is the water rushing past the back of the hulls and the wind screaming past your ears.

As you get your angle into the wind just right and that hull continues to rise, you clip yourself in to the trapeze wire attached to the top of the mast.  You lean out, keeping steady pressure on your trapeze line,  ease your feet up to the edge of the wing, stand up, and “hang out”.   With your butt now at least five feet above the surface of the water rushing by, the only thing keeping you from falling off and being left behind is that one wire.  You eventually learn to trust that wire; however it takes courage the first few times.

The lift you get as the hull comes all the way out of the water is incredible.  Before you know it the hull is all the way out and just the tip of the dagger is slicing across the surface of the water like the dorsal fin of an inverted shark.  You are hiked out on a parallel plane with the tops of the hulls which puts your head about eight feet above the surface of the water.   With the lines coming out of one hand like the reins to a pair of mustangs pulling a runaway wagon, and the tiller in the other hand, you are one unexpected gust of wind away from disaster.  Disaster can be as simple as a blow-over when you mistakenly turn away from the wind.  Or it can be as dangerous as when the tip of the leeward hull (the hull on the downwind side, the one in the water), digs into the water and 18’ of fiberglass screaming at 20 knots cartwheels to a sudden stop.  The top of the 28’ foot tall mast slams into the surface of the water.  You, on the other end of the trapeze, become an out of control ragdoll at the end of a tetherball line.  As you fly forward, the boat has almost stopped, and you brace for impact watching for the hulls and stays.  If you are lucky you end up in the cushion of the jib.  The unlucky end up crashing into the forward part of the hull.  In-between are a maze of lines and wires waiting to catch you like a clothesline.  Is this fun?  Oh yeah!

Fortunately the sailor learns from these mistakes and in the future adjusts the sails correctly to keep the tip of the leeward hull from going under and digging in like a shovel.

When you head to the beach you quickly understand what sailors mean when they say the Hobie 18 is the ultimate “Beach Cat”.  The beach, the surf, and the swells of the Gulf of Mexico are where this baby shines.  One would think that skipping across the tops of 3’-5’ swells in the Gulf would be a terrifying ride.  But with an eight foot beam and 18 feet of length to bridge across peaks of the swells, the ride is amazingly smooth.  As the aft end of one hull leaves the peak of a swell, the fore end of the opposing hull has already engaged the next swell – creating a delicate balance.  Occasionally you catch a swell just right and the entire 18 feet launch off the liquid ramp and gets airborne.  As you hang out on the trapeze and the hulls gently drop down into the bottom of the swells, you get a cooling splash of water as the tops of the adjacent swells rush by and try to knock you off the wing.

Launching off of the beach through a crashing surf, and then flying through the five-mile run from the jetties at Port Aransas to the grouping of condos half way to Corpus Christi is one of the most exhilarating things I have ever done.  It is never dull, always exciting, and forever inviting.

Here’s to Happy Sailing!

Strings

Have you ever wondered why a guitar has six strings?  I remember Steve Martin years ago doing a comedy skit with his guitar.  He looked at the instrument hanging from the strap around his neck and said something like:  “oh crap, what are all these strings for?”  At the time, I had no idea of Steve’s musical abilities.

I always thought a guitar should have just one string.  That way my simple one dimensional mind could just make music with the thumb on my right hand, and my pointer finger on the left.  Simple.  Whoever thought up the idea of putting five more strings on it was either a real comedian or was really into torturing people like me.

My Dad and his closest friends were REAL musicians.  About the same time in my life that I was screaming about Kiddie Parks and the Zilker Train, our home would regularly become the gathering place for the likes of the Hill Brothers - Ed and Pooch, Raymond Lucky, and my Uncle CD.  Somebody would get on the Baby Grand and invariably a jam session would ensue.  Right there in our living room.  I am really sorry you missed it.

Dad made it look so easy.  He would slide a pick onto each finger of his right hand and start picking while his left hand would morph into a series of unimaginable configurations.  Music would burst from the guitar and flood into every corner of the room, leaving no space unfilled.  I once asked him why it was so easy for him.  Silly me.  He answer was “Eight hours of practice a day.  That’s all I did for a long time, before and after work.”  Now that is patience and determination.

So today as I stand at the bar in the kitchen, with a tired old strap draped around my neck supporting a vintage Gibson Electric, I hope Dad wouldn’t be too disappointed at my efforts of trying to work out the riffs on an old Charley Patton blues song. 

Okay. 3^rd string from the bottom, 2^nd fret.  2^nd string – 1^st fret. 

Isn’t there a way to do this with just one string?

Definitions

It is curious to me how sometimes we come about the definition of words and phrases.  As slobbering young people our brains try to relate how others reference an object or circumstance and apply it in future communications.  We had to learn words by being immersed in the language.  It is amazing to me how some of those childhood memories somehow manage to stick in my head, only to be retrieved on the odd occasion. 

I grew up in Austin within a stone’s throw of the intersection of Barton Springs Road and South Lamar Blvd.   This little intersection was the best place in the World.  Within walking distance was Sandy's Frozen Custard, the bowling alley, (now Bicycle Sport Shop), the roller skating rink, (which became the Armadillo World Headquarters), and Put-Put Golf.  However the biggest attraction for me, and any kid fortunate enough to grow up in the area, was the Mini Carnival.  I am sure it had a real name back then, but to me it was THE place.  The Carnival had the tallest and most amazing Ferris Wheel - it must have towered fifteen feet.  The Shetland Ponies stomped impatiently as they awaited my arrival, and the little wooden boats floated in still waters, ready to deliver me to my next adventure.  Long ago Jack in the Box desecrated this little slice of paradise sending the ponies to pasture, the boats to the bone yard, and the Ferris Wheel to wherever kids memories are kept.

In the 1960s Mopac Expressway/Loop 1 did not yet exist.   From our house, which was in-between Westlake Hills and Rollingwood, the closest grocery store was Kash-n-Karry grocery.  It was one block North of Barton Springs Rd on South Lamar.  We traveled Bee Cave Rd to Barton Springs to S. Lamar daily in route to the grocery store and most other places in the Universe it seems.  But I digress.

The words?  “Maybe” and “I doubt it”.

“Mom can we stop at The Carnival after we leave the store?”

“Maybe.”

In my young impressionable years this one word held the slightest ray of hope. Like a single tired rose on a withering bush, it gave a splash of color to a grey world.  Yet, inevitably, the last petal would land with a deafening crash as we departed the grocery store and Mom would fail to make the turn into heaven.  We would continue home with the meaning of “maybe” answering the question about a pig's ability to fly.

“Mom can we stop at The Carnival after we leave the store?”

“I doubt it.”

Early on “I doubt it” failed to click with me.  I understood “No” really well, but I could not hear a “no” in “I doubt it”. 

It did not take long to learn that “I doubt it” held zero hope.  I guess Mom had learned that if she said “no” then I would soon be clawing at the glass with bloody fingers while dirty tears streamed down my face as I screamed something unintelligible about the injustice being served a perfect child with an abusive Mom denying an Angel his basic necessity in life.   “I doubt it” postponed the inevitable for a while.  Perhaps Mom could make it to Zilker Park where I could focus on the next best thing, the train.

By then I would have surely forgotten the Ferris Wheel.  Maybe.  But I doubt it.