It is a Bad, Bad day at hotel hell.

As in very bad.

I am dressing in camoflage when i come to work next time.

management, touristas, christ on a cross for heavens sake, what the hell?????


But then again, I get to surf my ass off tomorrow.

So.......*&%^' em.


Hurricane Survival 101

Watching the news on Katrina's ravages by nature and man, is quite the downer. I have been lucky enough to have the experience twice in the past 20 odd years. First one, passed and nailed Kaua'i. Second, back in '92 paseed and nailed Kaua'i again.

It sucks to see the situation going on in the Big Easy. Sobering, to say the least.

When the lights went out, and the forces of nature cracked its whip, the islands seem to stand together. Looting? Your neighbors stuff? Business' trashed? Nada. The neighbors gathered together, warmed foods by propane, BBQ's and shared what ever was needed with each other. We all helped out the older couple down the street that were in need. Maybe it is just natural here to aid your fellow man. Surely there are those in N.O. that are doing the same. But the mentality of it all seems so wrong; what are you going to do with a new pair of Nike's? Or a stereo? Why brandish guns?

Prayers go out to those in need there.

Sensible people are needed, for sure. Hope, time, and patience.

Hope they get it.


(surf tomorrow, life is good.....)



Click Da Link.

Cruising The Slow Lane

I am a very slow driver. Usually, I do the speed limit, max. Stay in the right lane, use my turn signals, keep a safe distance, 'dont use the car as a time machine' - was once said to me by a Driving Instuctor, and it stays firmly planted. (Another thanks to teachers!) This drives Lady C nuts. I can drive in the parking lot for a space, and manage to miss all the open ones, 'cause I'm rolling on slow. Being on an island, it is really hard to get lost. Where the hell is there to get lost at? I know almost all the short-cuts, the fastest ways to be traffic tie-ups, the weird way to get anywhere, I know. I am a driver who appears well medicated.

Now, combine that little nut of information with how fast I drive a fire truck. Go figure. Vewy, Vewy fass, ewe wascially wabbit. For some reason, driving a $500K truck doesnt bother me a bit. Driving it very fast, neither. Now, dont get me wrong, I operate it as safe as possible. Use all my senses to drive. Watch here, there and everywhere at once. But I do drive 'em very fast. Training to drive our trucks is a fairly rigorous deal. The instructors push you pretty hard, forcing you to learn on double-clutching standard trucks. Moving these behemoths takes and understanding of the whole workings of gears, RPM's, and when and where to shift. Safety, of course, is paramount, and should always be.

Interesting things happen when I am driving. If I am driving the pumper, (the truck that supplies the water to fires) the calls will be of a certain nature, either fire, auto accident, or certain locales where the Ladder truck cant go. Once, I got the whole rig, airborne. A very heavy truck it is. With 750 gallons of water, all the gear, it weighs .... a hellla lot. But I managed to get the sucker airborne. Hit a dip just right, and at 55 MPH, touched the sky. Needless to say, my Captain, good old Conehead, was ... speechless. Once his eyes came to rest back in his head, he kindly asked me not to do it again. I always wondered why everyone seatbelts themselves BEFORE we even leave the station. If we arent going to alarms, old Mr. Turtle, returns. Oldtimers will tell you that 'we didnt start the fire, get there in one piece, etc.' I tend to think of it as we get there faster, we can save a life, but yeah, I do need to get the guys there safely. And I do.

When I was driving Chief Killa, I managed to put some extra grey on his finely coiffed 'do. With him, I drive a Chiefs SUV. Big sucker. Ford. Expedition. Loaded with equipment, heavy as heck too. I can get him to the other side of the island in 10 minutes, max. When doing the reports, he was always wondering how the times of our response to incidents was so quick. Then he would look over at me, and say - " that's right, YOU were driving" It would drive him nuts, because I take what seems like the worst possible way to get to where we are going, only to beat the other companies that are going too. Fun in the sun, I always say.

You probably dont want to know how much fun it is to blast the siren, air horn.

Keep those windows up, the stereo blasting, I will still get your attention.

Big yellow truck in the rearview mirror tends to do that.

Reason for mentioning this is two-fold - One if you are driving down the road, and emergency vehicles are rolling, pull over to whichever side is safest for you. The reason we could be hauling arse could very well be to save the life of your loved one, or even our own. Locations for firefighters, how to get there, should be second nature. We as professionals, are sworn to get there and do good. Fastest, safest route. I may sound like I am playing, but there is one thing in the brain going on - what can we do to help.

The seconds it takes off to get there, could be the defining difference in a persons life.

Our crew was out shopping for what was on the menu one shift, when the call comes in as a cardiac arrest. The location was fairly close, and it was not our alarm. But we knew we were closer than the company that was called, so we took it.

We arrive at the scene, (quickly, dontcha know) to find a 55 y/o male down, not breathing, no pulse, apenic. Family stiil on the phone to 911. Fast. From alarm to arrival was less than 21/2 minutes. The golden hour starts the second you go down. Quick questions on patient history, meds, vitals. Start CPR. Pull out AED. Ventilate, attach O2. Attach electrodes to patient. Detect shockable rhythm. Shock the patient. Analyze. Shock again. EMS arrives. Exchange info. Intubate (put the tube into the lungs) Continue CPR. Analyze. Shock # 3. Regain a pulse. Lose the pulse. CPR. Coordinate the transportation of the victim to the ambulance. Analyze, shock #4. Load patient, grab one guy to drive the ambulance.

A week later the family comes by with Dad, to say thanks.

The thing is, you cant know how many times it runs thru my head - would a second or two have made a difference? And that really wears you down. I try not to look at it that way, but sometimes you have to much time to think.

So score one save.

It sucks to think about the losses.

Stay well.



Variations On The Theme

Probably at least 40K worth of boards. Posted by Picasa

The Surf Auction Some Different Sizes

More sticks Posted by Picasa

A Brief History Of The World. (seen from a surfers demented POV)

Surfboards are constructed in various shapes and sizes for differing conditions. Differing levels of talent, as well. Throw in the height/weight options, you can do pretty much anything with a foam blank, glass it, and ride it.

Probably the closest thing to it would be the varying types of skiing equipment, sizes, and the variables there.

--But back to joy.

Surfboards have come a long way since ancient times, when boards were harvested from Koa trees, or the wiliwili tree. Huge, heavy planks were shaped into boards. The Alii (royalty, kings) had certain types of boards made for them. They also had areas reserved for them. Surf there, die. Harsh, yeah, but when you are King, you make the rules. They would have been shaped by hand, carved with adzes, and various tools made from stone. The basic shape would be recognizable in the sticks in the photo. Same general outline. The technical stuff, is pretty basic, you have to gain momentum, stay afloat, and be able to keep ahead of the wave. Turning, while not required, makes it hella lot more fun. Ancients would have been happy not taking one on the head. No skegs (fins) on the early boards, turning was achieved by using the foot as a rudder. The skegs actually came into the mix in the 1930's.

The curve you see in the boards is called 'rocker'. The rocker influences the paddling ability of the board (quicker, or slower) The ability to make the drop down the face of the wave (easier, or more difficult). Variables thrown onto that mix are surf heights and conditions, winds, tides, experience, just about everything but the kitchen sink. Options on rocker can be more forward, more rear, less curve, more curve.

I hope the fact that each board is made in an of itself, shows how much talent on the part of the shaper is needed. They really are one-of-a-kind works of Art.

Lengths vary by personal taste. This too is influenced by the surfers height, weight, and ability. In general, the longer the board, the easier the board paddles. The more volume the board has, makes it easier to manage as well. Shorter boards, while lighter and more responsive, tend to be less durable, as less glass, less volume take importance.

- - Kinda like short skis turn easier?

Tail styles can vary as well, the wider veing more bulky and harder to move in a short arc, where "V" or swallow shapes give you different pivot points. Pointed noses of boards "cut" into the face of a steeper wave easier, combine that with light weight, creates a sports car of the water deal. Wider, broader noses do the same, but on a flat faced wave, allow you to "hang ten" - or dangle 10 toes over the nose, while keeping the tail firmly imbedded in the wave itself.

Modern longer boards combine the 'old school' ease of paddling, but allow 'new school' agressive moves. The are long, yet light in weight. They have more volume, but not the weight gain. This is a double edged sword, because in soft mellow surf, you can really take over the line-up. It allows you if you are greedy, to be in on a lot of waves.

But when it is macking, you better be in the right place at the right time, because that extra length and volume will come around to bite you in the ass. The amounts of water that flow in a wave are pretty amazing, and being in control, well, mom nature letting you THINK you are in control of all that water, is the stoke factor.

People collect old sticks, and pay big bucks for pristine condition boards. I'll re-post the pix from the surfboard auction for more insight.

Todays surf session was good. 3 hours of choice conditions, at Full Point. No crowd, 4 out max. Had a buncha good waves, both lefts and rights. Couple a killer rights. Came home and watched the kids from Ewa Beach, Hawaii win the Little Leauge world series.

12 y/o old boys, making an entire island proud, and go nuts. Pretty cool.



"No Masterbacks"

Tag was called 'no masterbacks' in small kid time -
10 years ago -
Would have just finished waiting out a 4 year hiring freeze with the fire department, at age 36, I would be entering the 2nd month of a 4 month training class. (aka - No Surf For 4 Months) Lose 20 lbs during training, still work nights at the Hotel Hell, tiring my mind, body to the nth degree. October would make 23 years w/ Lady C, my sons would be 13, 12 and the lead female terrorist, Maimai, would be 3.
5 years ago -
Would have buried my father-in-law, my beloved Gram Minnie, realized what a awesome job I have, lived thru many a wipe out, fire, mentally taxing calls. Still having the mind of a surf grommet. Would be arguing on a daily basis with my oldest.
Yesterday -
AM - would be starting a 24 hour shift. PM- would be in the midst of a 24 hour shift. In between, probably taken 200+ 911 calls, from chemical leaks, to cardiac arrests, thru to brush fires. Auto accident that claimed a HPD officers life. Watched Lady C sleep, before I left for work. Smiled. Looked an appreciated a awe inspiring sunrise, before heading into the 911 basement. Drink lotsa Coffee, caffinated beverages. Appreciative of 'playground time' (inside running joke) Will have slept for 3 hours. Check the buoys and indications of incoming swell, on a constant basis.
5 pupu's - ( snacks, of course)
Sashimi, with wasabi/shoyu sauce.
Ahi Poki - Raw diced ahi, mixed with limu, chili pepper water.
Poi. 1 finger, 2 finger, 3 finger. Mo' sour, the more ono. (delicious)
Manapua, Pepeau, Pork Hash, Half-Moon. (chinese dim-sum)
Anything made by Gramma Minnie, Mom, or me when I gotta cook at the firehouse, cause it is all about the LOVE, baby.
5 songs -
Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd
Do You Remember? - Jack Johnson
Savannah Woman- Tommy Bolin
Cortez The Killer - Neil Young
Tonights The Night - Neil Young
5 songs (hawaiian) -
Somewhere over the rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwaole
Blue Hawaiian Moonlight - Gabby 'Pops' Pahinui
Waimanalo Blues - Country Comfort
Sunlight, Moonlight - Country Comfort
Hawaii Pono'i - Queen Lydia Liliuokalani
5 songs (that rock, or pre-surf blood churning muzik)
Blitzkreig Bop - The Ramones
In Your Honor - Foo Fighters
I Dont Know For Sure - Husker Du
Kiss Me On The Bus - The Replacements
Post Toastee - Tommy Bolin
A whole lotta Kala (money) -
Give the stewardess and the soldier/coach the most amazing 50th wedding anniversary year, ever. Buy a new surfboard. Maybe a pair of surfshorts.
Do Good.
Do real good.
Somewhere, somehow, via people who really care; for the kids, the land, the ocean.
Probably get taken for the rest.
Toys -
(see picture above - all the toys I need)
Not counting Lady C.
Stuffage that wont adorn my body -
Earrings. (where is the dress to match?)
Shoes. (if i didnt HAVE to wear boots, i wouldnt)
A suit of any kind.
Long Pants.
A tie.
Places to Go, People To See -
Tavarua, Tahiti
Maldives Islands
Ukubillion Joys -
Salt Spray Mornings, Dawn breaking, Surf Rising.
Lady C Smiling. Laughing. PO'd (cause I screwed up)
Son K - Smiling Laughing, sometimes when he cries
Son A (da bear) - Working. Doing. Being.
The Daughter - Living. Growing. Maturing (I could do without that part)
Da Teeeee Veeeee -
Rescue Me - Cause basically, we as firefighters, know someone in the show like that.
PBS - Cause if you stop learning, your dead.
Billabong Surf TV - I dont think it comes in midwest flavors (I keeed, I keeed)
The Older, The More Corny TV from the past - Anything, really.
College Football - 'Cause it is a real game, not whores in uniforms like that NFL.

Simple. It's In There.


One small added - for songs - The Acoustic version of 'Everlong' by the Foo Fighters, as done on the Howard Stern Show, is by far the most unbelivable acoustic version of a rock song ever done.

You want chills? You want to hear pure, unfiltered emotion? Find a copy, play it. The proof is in the pudding. If I can ever figure out a way to post the version I have, I will.

The song rocks.

I'm getting wet in the morning, BTW.


Aloha, the sequel.


Mmmmm Good.

The link will mean nothing to non-surf types, but it means hella good fun for me. Fact is, that soon, like September soon, the shores will get something worthwhile.

(click on Mmmm Good to see my bible)

Bust out the sickleave papers, Ma.

Burnt shoulders, sore arms, waterfilled sinus' - - WILL be the norm.

Oh Yeah.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.


Where Did It Go?

It was there when you were born. You could see it in the light; how it falls across everything, hiding nothing. An ornament hanging on a first Christmas tree. Splashes of color on a first experience of art.

The first Sunday Mass, after meeting you, the sly smile given after the body of Christ.

Did it run and hide from the stench of mans inhumanities to fellow man? Overloaded senses from media bombardment of Me, Me, Me? Is it shamed, tired of ruthless exposure of that which is between two?

The 3 days pain; for that first bologna loaf in the bassinet.

Squeals of excitement, brought on from unexpected discovery, for what is coming. Wide, saucer like eyes, (giving Bambi a run for the money) focusing on the new, the wonder, the rush. Surprise flowers, never knowing when they will come, or why.

Drying tears. Calming, soothing words.

Really waiting, for all time, for the roots to strengthen, the tree to bear, the shade to come. Protection. Protection from the elements, natural, less horrible than manmade. Look; the biggest word in the 'Dick and Jane books', really seeing with your own eyes that beauty we have all around.

Knowing they grow up, knowing only wanting for the best.

In silence, will it return? Will it decide that the best answer is sometimes - silence? Faith in knowing it will. Guarding that which is dear, that riches cannot acquire. Burning inside, willing to impart all that has been seen, all that has been in error. Not wanting a repeat. Be able to detour from the problems thrown across the path of life.

It is there.


Hiding in the breeze, possibly in the sea.

That budding flower? Perhaps.

It is there.

Because We will believe in it.

No war, attack, extreme bigotry will prevail.

Because everyday starts anew.




Tutu Wahine, Tutu Kane, Dad, Aunty, Uncle 1949

Back in the day, you were not suppose to be Hawaiian, they all wore long sleeves and shoes. Go figure.



Kaupo Gap, Maui, Hawaiian Islands.

My Tutu Kane (grandfather) was born, and raised in this gap. He was the only male child outta 9. His name, as well as mine, is fairly well known. If you say it, (my surname that is) someone will know someone I am related to. We live on islands, thus people know. For his fathers name and lineage to carry on, he needed to have sons. He had 2. My Dad, he had the only son. So Tutu kane's Mother always told me from keiki (child) time, that I needed to have a son. I didnt know what the hell she meant. My Tutu Kane was born on 3/7. My first born, his link to his own lineage, was born on 3/7. At 3:07 in the PM. He had the biggest smile, (my Tutu Kane) on his face, as he peered thru the birth-room glass. Somewhere, Tutu Kane, and Tutu Wahine are in a place where they see all this. They are happy.

My Tutu Kane had the most amazing amount of patience. When he passed, I cried deeply. All I asked was that he grant me safe passage in life, and a manini (small) amount of the patience he posessed.

Still trying, Tutu, still trying.

Me Ke Aloha Pumehana.


Kai O Wai Ola


"50% Off"

Frustration. That is a word I could do without. Couldn't we all? If it is just as simple as waiting at the stop light for the long red to change, to inter-family relations. Sometimes in the water, I can wait for what seems like eternity to have a primo wave come abouts. I can have loads of patience. Sometimes, it seems so long; due mainly to the fact of pulling up to a surf spot, seeing it look so good, paddling out and finding out that mother nature decided that was it. Wait. Wait somemore. No frustration, a wee bit maybe, but overall, patience wins out. Maybe it is because the wait amplifies the stoke factor.

Why cant I do that more often; with everything else?

If you took 50% off of my internal anger clock, you would still have a pretty harsh temper.

Worse thing is, I am better at it.

I screwed up today, and yet if I try to justify betting angry, a jury would acquit me for reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt. That a common man would have doubt on the fact the accused actually committed the act.

No doubt that I got angry.

Common man might find it excusable, extenuating circumstances, rationale behavior.

I don't do common.

You cant take back the anger, but it in the black box of emotion, and lock it away. It occurred, and it was released. And I feel like shit. Tired, overworked, stressed are nothing but EXCUSES. Excuses are bullshit.

Nothing god (little g, little od) awful, but the fact that I lost patience, really frustrates moi.

Woulda, shoulda, coulda. That and 2 cents, wont purchase diddly.

If'n I would have harnessed the patience available, the anger would have been in check. The argument would be nada.

I fucked up.

Don't repeat the same mistake, and the lesson will have been learned.

20/20 hindsight, sucks.




+ Work +

Pressing on, the Hotel Hell is packed to the gills. Back to Alarm Bureau for 24 'morrow. Water time today lasted as long as my shower. (no swell anyways, so WTF?) ... ..

Kim Chee II Fire -

The Kim Chee II was a restaurant in our area, when I was at my beloved station 5. 5 is haunted. I loved it. The spirits never bothered me, but many times guys got 'pressed'. This means that for some reason, you wake in the night to be unable to move, with a large weight atop your chest. There is nothing there. The rote answer to this has always been to swear at it, to make the spirit leave. So unnerving as it may sound, yelling in the middle of the night at the firehouse can be a good thing. The temporary guys, or relieves that come, they always ask about our 'friends.' I never yelled at 'em when I got pressed. The reason being is a kahu (Hawaiian priest) came to the station for a blessing after we had a bunch of 'pressings' in a row.

He asked what you do when pressed. All answered the same - swear, yell at 'em. The Kahu said "why?"... No one could really answer that. Just because, I guess. "That's what everybody says"...Etc. The Kahu was not too impressed with the commonality of the answers. He seemed to ignore us for a while, and went up stairs to the dorm. Being niele (nosy) I had to follow and bother. Kahu just kinda looked around, and seemed to be listening to the wind, or what was here in the station with us. He walked right up to my bed. My bed is the closest to the heiau (place of worship) behind our station. (that's a story for nother time) He looked at me and asked "whose bunk is this?" - I think he knew the answer, but I told him anyway- "It is mine."

Kahu blinked, looked away and mutter some Hawaiian phrase that I could not hear. When he turned back to me, he said - "why do you yell or swear at the spirits?" - I gave the same moronic answer as we all did.

Then Kahu said this -"what if I told you that the spirits here are good, that they are here to help, and keep you safe?"

"What would you do then?"

"I would be greatful, and glad, I guess"

"They are looking out for you, the children from the past, the women from the times gone, the ones from the heaiau behind your station"

Chicken skin...(goose bumps) ..all up and down my spine.

Of course we got an alarm in the next few minutes, negating anymore conversation with the Kahu.

Late that night, we had the Kim Chee II fire. 2AM, building just going all ablaze. JB and I had the entry, as well as the attack line. The kitchen was in the rear of a long, rectangular shaped restaurant. JB and I bust in, head to the flames. Cant see squat, and it is extremely hot. We get to the kitchen and it is just doing the fire house boogie. Flames are shooting out of the kitchen, fed by the gas lines busted. There are things exploding in the kitchen, waves of heat come with them, so down to the ground go JB and I. Trying to make headway, trying to communicate, not going all that well. We blasted the entry for a moment or two, and pretty much, the entire wall to the side gave way. JB and I were on hands and knees a moment ago, right there. Pushing into the kitchen, you could feel the majority of the heat to our right. We push further, getting about 15' into the kitchen itself, probably 50-60 feet into the restaurant, total. The way the kitchen was set up, there was a counter to our right, maybe 3 feet high. We would stand, get a stream towards the fire, and hunker back down as the fire turned the water to steam and the increase in heat made it unbearable to stand. 2 or 3 times of this, and we were pretty much toasty. Couple more blasts, and it shoud be darkened down, I think.

I swear to God, that a little voice, like that of a child, said 'dont go back up'.

It startled me, it was so ...attention getting.

JB was going to stand, And with the hose line, in my one hand, I reached up and grabbed his turnout, and yanked him back down. It was only to a squatting position, from a standing, but the explosion that sent metal shrapnel from a pot or somenting, flew right over our heads.

I tend to pay attention to those little voices much easier, now.

Work. Everbody does it some way, somehow. We wonder when the breaks come, when the day will be over, when is payday.

On somedays, the break is IN the work.



Sand In The Vasaline

Spam. Thanks! I think I will visit your astounding site, penisinchesweightlossstockanalysis.


Besides the obvious, (getting a life) is there ANYONE in the world that would actually take advice from a spam comment? I mean - really?

" Yeah honey, I found this web site, thru a spam comment, and like, I took all the savings, and like, put it into like, woodchip fibers...and the spam said it will increase my dick length, help you lose weight, and cure cancer"....

Thank God for the no-call list. But I had alotta fun with telemarketers 'fore they got canned from my home phone.

Caller ID. My own perverse world of humor/timekiller springs into action.

"Ring"....."Ring"....."Ring"....(on another note - who the hell lets a phone ring more than 3 or 4 times nowadays?)

Me: "Ah, Herro?" ( the reason for the imitation fake chinese accent will become apparent)

Them: "Hello, is Mr. (insert mispronounced last name here) home?"

Me: "He not hea rye now, he no stay, he leeeve me in charge of house"

Them: "Oh, so you are in charge of the house for Mr. (X)?"

Me: " Ah, No. Me jus' take care for Mr., he lemme work in house for him, he good guy, lemme do work for him"

Them: "So does Mr. have the xxxxxx paper? We have a special for Mr., and he would like this paper......etc. (more hard sell crappola)

Me: "No need paper Mr. he reed all da newz on da TeeeeVeeee. "

Them: "So what about you, how about you, we can have a paper delivered for you at a great rate"

Me: "no need, I no reed. Jus' look at pickchers, look at funny pages, you know, laff , laff kine comics"

Them: "What is your name, or address? We would be glad to send you a free copy or 2."

Me: "Mai name is Won Bok. You know, li' da cabbage?" Only I no stink after you eeet."

Them: (now seriously trying not to laugh on the line, but STILL trying to make a sale) "Are you married? I bet your wife would like the coupons in the paper"

Me: "wife no need coupons, America great place, give us free money for food, call well-fair stamp, we go and get at beeg building in town"

Them: "But you..." (now ive tired so interruptions abound from here on out)

Me: "Yah. America glate place, I cum China, where communists run country, I spit on communists (spitting sound and retch) yuk, poo! Communists bad, China bad, America glate place"

Them: "But.."

Me: (louder more incoherent) " I sing now, amareiCAH, AmareICKAH, God shet his glace on deeeeeee...."

Them: "Sir, I ...."

Me:(continuing without pause) "Yu no say while I sing, bad you cut in whyle i sing AmeriKAh dee boootyfull"

Them: "Sir, but...

Me: " Nosir, I tell ewe mai name Won Bok, not name sir, meebe your name sir, not my name...(small pause) ...Now Mr pull in driveway, I give him phone, ewe beeeg troouble now"


Now if I can just figger out how to do that to spammers.


You dont want to know what I do to the credit card guys......


Aloha, again

More Brushfire Fairytales (thanks Jack Johnson)

The troops are getting pounded. Just getting nailed. The Nanakuli brushfire is now a day short of a week, and Waianae, Makakilo, and more of Waianae is afire. Brushfires, suck. Fighting brushfires, suck. Of all the things we are responsible for, this sucks little doggie dicks. The Westside is a dry spot in this green island. It also holds the most population of lower income families. Drug use is rampant, unemployment high, along with the maladies that come with that one-two combo. So the westside is ablaze.

The ignorant amongst us, they start brushfires...for thrills.

Combine wind, dry earth, plenty of fuel, you get the picture. The fools take it as a challenge to see whose area can have a bigger fire. Really. No concern that it might be their house that burns, just looking for thrills.

Mountain ranges, dry open fields, lava rock, sheer cliff faces; these were not made to fight fires on. Number one problem- there is NO water. In case I never said so, water really helps in putting out fires. So if you dont have water, you do it with your hands. Picks, shovels, this great tool called a brushbeater (invision a large fly swatter, with a rubber mat at the end.) Noone looks forward to brushfires. Combine heat, rough terrain, and ankle hating kneebusting landscapes, it is no fun. A house is extinguished in a matter of minutes. These burn 1000's of acres, for days. But you gotta do it.

My last big brushfire was in a inaccessible part of a valley. We got taken in by helicopter. Flying the bird is nice, but landing on a ridgeline is hairy, to say the least. The view is amazing, the sights astound. The fire isnt looking at what I see, 'tho. We get to the scene at 8AM. We hike, we get to the mass of brush that is burning. 3 miles deep, on a side of the mountain. Helicopter makes water drops, but only 'till nightfall. We are there all bloody day, and afternoon. To reload our water jugs, we gotta hike 3 mi. back to the staging area, 3 mi. back to the fire. Fun. Call your friends.


So we fight it, we gain headway. And night comes. Now the moral of this story is kinda like 'be prepared'. You hike 3 mi. in and out. You coulda picked up some TP at base staging. But you didnt. So those granola bars for lunch, the water all day, dinner of who-knows-what. It has got to go somewhere.

After it left, I didnt have socks for my boots.

10 sets of blisters the next day. Sore for a month.

I always have TP in my pack, now.


'morning sunshine.... Posted by Picasa



We walk on them. We measure by them. If you change the spelling, we rate it.

We once went to a call where a lady lost hers.

JB and I were working w/ a short crew, only Conehead as our Captain. The alarm comes in, 'auto accident'. So off we goes, hustling down the road to where the accident is suppose to be. The call was at the post-office down the road from our station.

As we pull up, there are no cars, there is noone around looking in need. So you let your guard down, thinking that it is a false alarm. Oh be prepared, O simple ones.

From the side of the post office, comes a lady, frantic, (but with both feet) telling us the car (over there) is involved.


From the distance, it looks like NOTHING. Car is not damaged, nothing on fire, nothing outta place.

JB & I go over with trauma bag in hand, to check it out. On the way over, we notice the fence blocking the gas pumps looks a bit askew. Not really noticed. Walk up to the vehicle, and notice that there is a huge amount of blood on the door, on the ground and LEAKING from the inside of the drivers door. Open the door, out dangles a ladies...foot. Held to her ankle by threads. Grab our BP cuff, make an improvised tourniquet, and start asking questions.

Apparently, Mama had driven up to the drive-thru mail box, tried to deposit a letter, and was too far away. So she opened the door, reached out, hit the accelerator, plowed thru a fence, (which fell back almoat perfectly in place) missed the gas pumps by ..inches, and practically svered her foot on the concrete base of the pumps.

So we stabalize her, take vitals, reassure. All she worried about was who was going to pickup her grandkids.

Shock, maybe.

Ass kicking, tough older grandma, more likely.

Believe it or not, 3 months later she and her whole family come by the station.

Her foot re-attached, bringing tons of sweets, manapua, raw fish, and well wishes.

Feats. Everyday there are new ones accomplished.

Matter of fact, I got to go for a surf. Damn sweet. Small, but damn sweet.



One In Every Bunch

She probably was saying "Oh ave Maria, Holy Ghost-a mary, he is doing it again"...
Or something to that effect...
Never have grown up.
You would have been 90 the other day,
and I will always be indebted to you,
for the food,
for the love,
for the scoldings,
but most of all -
The plain fact that you kicked ass.
Gramma Minnie.
Aloha Ke Akua.


It's A Good Thing What Happens There, Stays...There.

Walking down Fremont Street at 3AM, pleasantly buzzed, with Lady C on point. I love Vegas, the bustle the neon, the gambling. Its a big kids playground, where i get to cut loose from THE grind. The homeless appearing guy, walking about, saw me trying to snap a pix in front of the 4 queens. (queens, Lady C, it seemed a good idea in the haze) So up pops this guy, he offers to snap the pix. He does, hits me up for some change, I oblige. Walking away, I tell C, that will probabaly be the only good pix from the whole trip.

Pretty much, it was.

The elevator incident was one that stays there too. Good thing. Early AM, I am going for some joe. Lady C wants to pop over to her Aunty's room (right next door) - only thing is she is in bra and panties. I tried to tell her not to, but alas, some things between the 2 of us go, unheeded. So she pops out, the door closes, and I stand there, waiting for the elevator. She slides the card for the Aunty's room, only to have it be the one for our room. We laugh, but my key is in the room, and then the 'ding' of the elevator sends Lady C scrambling, cant get the card in the door, cant stop laughing. She bolts for an alcove to another room, hiding in the space. Elevator door opens, out pops 70 ish old Japanese lady, me standing there, basically trying not to pee my shorts.

She kinda looks me up and down, wondering why this guy is standing there, laughing to himself.

When she got to her room, she knew why.

Lady C standing, half-naked, in her doorway.

I just may have pee'd.

This trip should be innnaresssing.


Every Picture Tells A Story

If it wasnt for the homeless guy at 3AM, offering to snap the pix, I wouldnt have 1 clear pix.

Dim Sum / Sashimi / Sushi / Wasabi / Furukake Rice

Looking out the window at the start of the days festivities, I was struck by the awesome glare of the morning sun. Not completely unusual for the AM, being right in my eyes, causing squinting, and general blindness. The great part was the way it played off the water; it danced right over the bay, a forced shadow from the mountains, a deeper blue of the water to the outside. Driving my daughter Mai-mai to intermediate school, the day cracking outta its shell. 80 degrees and its 645AM. I am a lucky man.

Days go by quickly, the 2 jobs, the home fires, the responsibilities. No better place on earth for me, to have to do it. I could use a surf, but if mama ocean isnt cooperating, whatcha gonna do? Patience will, in do time, pay results.

Some of the sights today were so daily, so all-the-time, that I realized how much I take the beauty for granted. The breezes that cool right after mid-morning. The clouds that come in from the valleys, or off the ocean that bring some 'liquid sunshine'. Wait a minute, the showers pass, leaving only that after rain smell fresh off the concrete or ashphalt. Flowers. Lots of flowers. The pikake in my backyard is blooming. It has a demanding aroma. You will pay attention.

A month or so ago, the Hotel Hell had a convention of tutu wahines ( grandmotherly types) in. They all had lei on. The entire hotel was awash in fragrance. It was amazing. They walk, carry themselves, all decked out in Muu Muu, so fine. i know it was a bitch of a day for me, but that run-in with them made the brain work correctly. Instead of attitude, I had reason for joy. I swear, everyone of them had smiles on. Pretty cool.

Planned a vacation for the Lady & I, never enough time together so 4 days will seem eternal.

K got a new job, his GF M is so sweet, and her daughter K is as well. The Ohana (family), it grows. More on that at later dates.

Gotta work.

Jeezus Christmas, I say that a whole friggin' lot.



Lady C

Half-a-cat smile.
Wating for Vegas.
Mom x3.
Heart Mechanic.
Pain in the ass.
33 years, and counting.
I can do anything,
long as it is with -

New Day , New Challenges

If anyone wants, you can click on the "situations" for a link to an article on the 3 day brush fire.

New Day Dawns -

The promotional ceremony went fine, being that it was the morning after my first shift in FCC, (the 911 center for dispatch of alarms) as well as a 24 hour shift, I cleaned up nicely (!) and with Lady C by my side, anything is possible.

First day highlights were numerous. The start of a (now) 3 day brush fire in Nanakuli, a drowning off shore with a diver and his buddy, a DOA car accident in the same area as the brush fire (at the same time practically), a diver coming in with the bends off of the North Shore, a hiker rescue up on Diamond Head ( with the crew I shoulda been on), plenty of medical calls.

Like I said; new challenges, abound.


Not that I do not appreciate the assignment, the promotion, or the pay raise. It is just that when you are used to busting ass physically, doing it mentally becomes a whole new ballgame. The good stuff still out weighs the bad, as I was volunteered to FCC in 2000, it isn't like fresh meat to the wolves, so to speak.

So tales told will be more memory, and the current will probably be a bit more cerebral. Not that they wont be fun, for sure. The concious ones, that is.

24 hours in a basement, answering 911 calls, thrills ... (not) But yet it is. There is a line that comes into play as a servant to the public. You are charged with the assignment to help. That assignment may change over the course of a career, and not always what you want. It does not lessen the importance of the service. It just, arrggggh, is a change.

Slapping on turnouts, the rush of the alarm, getting there, doing our thing, Helping. It just takes a different view, I guess. I already miss the adrenaline flow of it. There is a rush in FCC, but mental kind. I remember it from 2000, the calls that are connect from EMS, the need to co-respond by us, with them. Be it a auto accident, or what have you.

They stick in the brain matter, too.

EMS connects the call to us, the address flashed upon a screen. Anyones address. The phone #. The name. You can at times, hear in the background the callers to EMS, talking, or hysterical, crying, etc. The sticking part comes when you never find out how it turned out.

A call came, and all I heard in the background was, hopelessness. A child was not breathing. The mother was on the line, just, well, whimpering in fear. I could not disconnect the call. Even tho' we are supposed to. For whatever reason, I had to hear. The EMS dispatcher was instructing the mom on what to do for pediatric CPR. Dont take this wrong - but-

Helluva time to learn.

She was so calm. She instructed, guided, soothed, assured. I was in awe. On the other line, I dialed the company that was assigned, informed them what the situation was, and knew the guys would holo-holo ( get there fast). Another call comes in, forced to disconnect.

Never knowing if the little one made it, remains imbedded.


You gotta do what you gotta do.




Stuff. / Hawaiian Food. / 9-11 FDNY Tapes

Tomorrow starts a new chapter ( of sorts) in the Department career. Promoted to my new position, and with that, new challenges and changes. Not what I wanted, but 'you cant always get what you want' - ah yeah. Sometimes, you get what THEY need. Bollocks.

Last shift at battalion HQ. Same old? Nada. You figure, with the way my days have been, (all bad luck, situations, no SURF, etc.) that the scenario would be set for a day of action, work, and well, drama. 23.5 hours go by. That's outta 24, BTW. Pack all my gear up, load my carwheela (truck) and for the most part, move. 23.5 hours go by.

515AM. Get up, load the last stuff. Multi-tone alarm.

Me - "youvegottabefuckingkiddingme"

Nope. Silence on the squawk-box. "Assist HPD with a robbery suspect, this located in the water off of the "wall" at 3000 Kalakaua Ave"

WTF? Lights, Sirens, Chief, Me, Ladder, Rescue. It is a block away. It is a truly, spectacular morning. There is hardly a breeze, the AM light is pink, light blue, big fat-ass clouds hovering. A huge ocean liner is off the beach, only it lit up from the sunrise in the east. Gorgeous. The surf is small, but people are packing boards, milling about, going to the water.

We meet up with HPD. The scenario - A suspect has fled from Police, and gone swimming. He wont come in. For the past 3 hours, he has been swimming up and down the front of waikiki beach, the hotels, and the beachfront. HPD finally, in their infinite wisdom, called for assistance. So Rescue, boat in tow, Ladder, surfboard at the ready, and me - (pissed). Chief doing his thing, me venturing to HPD, seeing what the hell I can come up with to get moron-boy in, and me off for the day until job 2 beckons.

We paddle a board out. Rescue paddles a board out. HPD strips uniform, and paddles a board out. Perp swims away. Swims, circled, swims, circled.

Me- mo'pissed.

Radio comments- "Rescue1- He says he isn't coming in except by boat" (that's because the crack-head is naked) "Rescue1 Captain- "Negative, not launching the boat for non-emergency in these waters, to many from the public niele (nosy) around, possible to obstruct" - Chief - "Looks like we will wait him out"

Me- The fuck we will.

No friggin' crack head thief is dragging my long-ass day out longer, OT be damned.

Think. (not my best trait) but sometimes, I get lucky.

My second job is 200 yards away, shining pink in the AM dawn. (shit) Think. Think.

Perp keeps swimming, the guys keep circling.

Oh, yeah, I gots me and idea.

He wants a boat, I will get him a boat.

A fucking Canoe.

So with my best Steve Magarret impression, I walk over to our beach-boys, who conveniently have a canoe, best used for traipsing tourists out to the ocean, but for now, will be my exit swan song.

"Hey Killa (chief), what say we grab the canoe, grab the biggest brothers we can find, and paddle out and grab Mr. Sorry-Ass?"

"Sounds good to me"

So with the theme from 5-0 playing in my head, "ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba-baaaam."

5 burly Hawaiians paddle a canoe out and remove ass-wipe from the water.

Day over, roll credits.

Final day at the station- Captain N made the spread.

Lau-laus (pork,fish wrapped in luau leaves, steamed for hours)
Poi (of course)
Lomi-lomi Salmon (winner)
Raw Opihi (shell fish)
Tako Pok'e ( Raw octopus ) Double winner.
Lomi Oio - you dont want to know, but soooo good.
Rice (we aint talking Uncle Ben)
Chicken Long Rice
Squid Luau
Limu Koho - unebeliveable
More raw stuffs.
Ono (fish)
Saba (more fish)

Stuffed. (Mahalo (thanks) Captain N)

9-11 Tapes

FDNY released the tapes from 9-11. 343 Firefighters died that day. Working for the public, rescuing those who pay the salaries. It will always be more than a job, but that day must have started like any other, and ended, well, in infamy.

How many might have died, we will never know. They did not , 'tho. 'Cause guys went to work. And the guys manning the radios, listening to those transmissions, carry for all time, the echoes of heroes.

Thats right - the echoes of heroes.

It will reign in the mind for all time, it will never be silent. Just as all will remember where they were, what they were doing, how if effected them.

The voices that spoke, many are silent.

In our voices, we carry the spirit, the mana, that drove them to protect, to rescue, to guide to safety. In our voice, the memory will never die, it will strive on.

It will tend to the needy, extinguish the flames of destruction, aide the helpless.

343 voices will have our back.

Malama pono, FDNY, me ke aloha pumehana.

FDNY - No Ka Oi.


Really Number "5"

The old homestead. Right behind, on a inactive cinder cone, remains a hawaiian heiau, or place of worship, it was used by women and children. Sometimes at night, very late, you can hear the laughter of keiki (children). The best part? There are no children around. Just the night, the stars, the mountains, and our past.Posted by Picasa


I have always
this is the
best design
for a poster
I ever have


Na Wahine / Kane (the women, men)

Cruising the blogs I try to keep up with, I read a post by waiterrant, on the do's and dont's of male crude behavior.

(warned - I honestly dont want to piss anyone off, honest.)

The piece is accessible on his site. It is the one about MILF. I am sure anyone can figure that out.

My chromesomes make me male, but that doesnt make me human. My male tribe members can agree, disagree, call me pussy whipped, or any other comment they care. Its a free country. The gentler sex, can as well.

The morals of anyone else, I cant judge. The decisions they make as an adult, are their kuleana (responsibility). Good looking, attractive females are a delight to admire. Older, worn, experienced women, are too. For different reasons. Young fresh, sensual women tend to reek of confidence. So, too, the attractive man.

So where does admiration turn to out-right "assholedom"? And as a side, what encourages it? Bluntly sexual remarks, wanted, or unwanted, tend to be rather gutteral. Making love, a tender and engaging as it may be, too, can be animalistic, basic, need fulfilling. The stage in society has set the bar so low, that only the pleasure syndrome is made aware. The media's fault? Parenting? Morals? Society?

At work, many are divorced, seperated, single, or 'players' - I guess that is the term for 'fuckingaround' now. They are a good working crew. They are I imagine, a handsome, attractive crew, (or at least someone told them they were). Attractive or not, the comments I hear I dont agree to. I dont make them. Do I look? Hell, YES. Do I admire? Hell YES, X2. Do I have unbridled, rude, unflattering, sexsist attitude? No. Is it irritating, as a man, Yes.

But do I SAY something? No.


Bacause for this, actions speak louder than words do. Non-participation in audio/visual gang-bang of a attractive woman, creates doubt in anothers mind. I dont fucking CARE what they think of me. What I care about is how I conduct myself within the realm of my manhood. Sooner or later, the point gets through to even the most basic member. In being silent it creates doubt, and the speaker has to think, maybe not always, maybe once in awhile, but at least, thinks. Its too rude, too crude.

It makes me wonder why would another be attracted to this type? Badboy image? I can change 'em? Wonder? Excitement?

If I cant keep my Lady C excited, wonder, or intrigued, how the hell am I supposed to do that for another?

Like I said before, I am pretty simple.

But class act, is a class act, and No class, no matter how much you try to make it look classy, is still...No Class.

Thinking out loud, again.


Just a really cool picture,
of a real pioneer,
the father of modern surfing.
Duke Paoa Kahanamoku



Not what you think.

The soldier/coach taught me alot. He showed me by example how to dedicate yourself, apply that dedication, and push your ability to the limit. The S/C did not expect anything that he could not do. He could, and still does do a great many things, amazingly well. He has benched pressed 400 lbs, run countless miles, designed, executed and developed many offenses and defenses in football. He has taken young men, molded them to deliver beyond their own expectations. Time was not a wasted commodity for the S/C. It was valued, used, earned. Even when he was not there, his influence, was. He showed me how to read Playboy for the articles.

In discipline, he took no story on merit alone. If you deserved it, you got it. The S/C never hit me, but once. I deserved it. But the S/C could lecture. The guilt delivered was a greater influence on my karmatic development than any lickings (beatings / spankings) could do. It always remained in the back of my mind - 'he is gonna lecture you, is it worth it?' Most times, the correct decision was made. Thanks go out for that.

There were times when I wish he would have just gave me lickings. 'cause owning up to knowing you did wrong, and had embarassed yourself, was worse. You fucked up. You were wrong. You should know better.

The only time he ever whacked me (on the leg, minor) was when I really, really assholed out on the stewardess. The stewardess, his goddess, his mate. You dont fuck with a mans goddess. It got my undivided attention, fast.

Educated, wise, and even tempered, but with a pride and dedication that burns so hot, this is the S/C.

Opinions are meant for discussion, and the S/C always promoted that. The underdog is always rooted for, you dont kick a man when he is down, golden rule, well, rules. Simple.

Dont lie, Dont Cheat, Dont Steal, Put the Soap back in the Soap Dish, and Dont Play Ball In The House.

And to his side, the stewardess.

The Stewardess taught me that love, true love, knows no boundries. Corny, yes, but when as a kid, I found the"Joy Of Sex" book inscrbed to her from the S/C, even as a doofus young kid, I knew, they were a very special pair.

The stewardess always had to push me to look deeper into things and see what wasnt obvious at first sight. The stewardess always praised. She never, ever was critical of myself, or my decisions.

She stoked my appreciation for Art, for the common man, for those less fortunate than myself. She never held the enthusiasim she has for life, back. She is now 73, and still acts like a teenaged girl. Seriously. I have to calm her down, now. Not unlike her, trying to handle the wild eyed, ants-in-the-pants kid I was. (ADHD was unknown, but I'd have been a medicated student)

You could walk all over the stewardess, and she would still love you. She be pissed, hurt, and emotional, but she still loved the hell outta you.

She sees the beauty that comes in the smallest, most obscure places and packages, and wraps them for your discovery. She rejoices in your happiness more than you do.

She is truly, selfless.

I have been served.

Hug 'em while you can.



Surf / Humor / Tourist Trap / Did I leave anything out?

Back at the firehouse 'morrow. 4 days 'off', but work interrupted my life. More like ruptured. Ol' Hotel Hell is packed to the gills with sun loving, tropics breezin', over-priced drink paying, tourists. Management must be loving it. Then again, if I owned the place, I would too. The weather has been killer, the breeze cooling, and hotel occupancy is high. Good things for the hawaii economy, I assume.

There has been zero, nada, ala's ...surf. Not even a whimper. Maybe a cringe, but nothing to write home about. So what to do? Wait, soon enough, winter is here. Swell time to be had. (pun intended)

One thing I will defintely miss upon promotion will be the humorous calls. Laughter is good medicine. Even a chuckle. There are times when stress is high, so breaking that is paramount to a good beer, chug of wine, bowl of poi. Little old ladies (aunty's), we get calls from those 'lifeline' companies, located on the mainland, with no idea of how to pronounce words that carry mucho vowels, all in a row. These Aunty's have been hood-winked into buying and paying for this service. Granted, it may come to use to some, but for the most part, not. So in the high-value area my station is in, we have elders that subscribe to a company, or two. The alarm comes in as 'unknown medical' so off we go. For some reason again, these happen at 4AM. Popular time. You get to the scene, and Aunty is waiting outside, PJ's, hairnet, disheveled. In the house you can hear over a speaker-phone like device - "this is lifeline, are you all right?" repeating. Over and over.

Youve fallen and you cant get up. What will you do? Talk to a recording, apparently.

Aunty is fine. She just wants us to shut the "godamn thing off" The company, she tells us, isnt answering her calls. So we disconnect the thing, call the company, tell them its OK, everybody happy.

So you go back to the station, back to bed. And 5AM, a call comes in, same address, same call. 'Unknown medical' Off we go. Arrive. In the middle of the driveway is a speaker-phone like device.

Aunty had enough.

School girls at Halloween, or on display, perhaps.

Auto accident. Car has T-Boned another. 815AM. School traffic here is terrrors. Busy, rushing, congested. It is Halloween on top of it. So we arrive at the scene, check out the situation, begin EMS duties. 2 17 y/o girls, driving Moms Land Rover. Brand new. No serious injury, cuts, bruises, scratched. Ask questions, calm the worry. The seats for the car are semi-reclined, so the girls are reclined, legs, askew. Why they were not wearing panties is beyond me.

We had alotta help for that call. Lots.

Diabetic Coma

Diabetes is a killer. A great deal depends on diet, eating, eating right. So we get calls of people unresponsive. Or people, well, kinda looney tunes. We go to this large, extremely large, mansion. Lady meets us at the door. In the back ground you can hear - "whooooo, ahhhhh. whhheeeee, whoooo, ahhhhhh" Loud. Shouting loud. Of course, it is 3 or 4 AM. Middle aged gent, in bed. whooping, hollering. Diabetic. EMS ambulance comes, IV, calms him to responsive, accurate conversation.

So now he is 'normal' , we ask what was the last thing you remember?

We are all still standing there, EMS, Fire, wife.

"I was having sex with her"

Wife turns fifteen shades of red.

You tell me.

Older people tend to let things go a bit too long. Weather it be the grass in the yard, or the meds they are suppose to take, some mess up. It can cost them, dearly. Or it can be pretty funny. We get to the scene of a run-down home. Trash in the yard, overgrown. Get into the house, find the patient. 60 something, run down herself. Not all there. "what seems to be the problem?" No answer, blank look. Do some tests, ask more questions. No answer, still.

She has meds that are near that indicate she has diabetes, heart condition, breathing problems. Ask more questions. Still, no answer.

Do blood pressure, check pupils, ask one last time, "what seems to be the problem?"

Slurring. Hazy speech. So I put my ear up to her lips, and she shouts - "I dont know, You tell me"

I now have spittle in my ear, the crew is convulsing in laughter, and she, dear old lady is grinning.

I guess she told me.



Teahupoo, Tahiti (pix #1)
Poster From da past (pix #2)
Nightmares from #1, Wonder what surfing was
like in 1957 from #2.


It is a rush to be the people who run into a burning house instead of out. Lack of appropriate compensation aside, no money paid, I'd still do it. Professional firefighting, it never occurred to me that I would be paid to take chances, chances taken with reasonable safety, to extinguish fires.

There are some fires that burn hotter, in retrospect, than others. Some really make you go - hmmmm?

The Wela Street fire was one of those that did both.

For some reason, building fires like to come in the middle of the night. All tucked in, snug in the dorm, and 4AM is meant for sleeping. When the multiple tones for a structure fire come in, the first thing we all do is ... Pee. 'Cause peeing on your turnouts wouldn't be fun. After, 'tho is when all the adrenaline is pumping, you are getting suited up, and looking out as we go to the alarm, Looking out of the truck to see if the night is glowing, if a column of smoke is rising in the night sky.

Wela Street did both. The sky was glowing, the smoke rising. Amped, we get to the scene, lay hose, get oriented with our Captain. "Captain Peacock" - He is retired, but he was a good Captain for me. Cap does a 360, I get moving, a neighbor says that the house has 3 kids, and they arent around. "Shit" - Cap says. "Mark, grab the 1 1/2 hose and come with me to the backside". Faster than shit I dig to the line, grab it, and plow thru hedges, garbage, and anything else in my way. Cap & I get to the back door, bust thru, and start trying to head to where the bedrooms would be. Kids tend to hide from fire. So searching for them with all the gear we wear, is a battle. A battle that is so intense, so mind consuming, so NOW, that you truly, dont think. You just, Go. Into the inferno,walls on fire, roof on fire, degrees? I havent a clue, but Carbon monoxide burns itself at 1110 F, and this fire was rolling. Cant hear, see, but 2" in front of my face. Everything is red, orange, or black. And hot. You can hear people screaming, the sirens from the other companies that are responding, along with the sound of burning, cracking, wood. Trying to make headway, inches at a time, the clock running in fast motion, your body, in slow.

It isnt your house, so where to look? Concentrate. Think smart. "What Cap?, What!?" Words unintelligable. Stick my face in his, to see what he is saying. Through the mask, I can make out that he is motioning towards the right. To the right. Blasting streams of water to the right, to the roof, to the far wall. Cooler. More progress, moving more easily now, getting headway against this fire.

Right then, the roof fell in.

It stopped half a foot from Cap and my heads. We gotta get out, now. No. We gotta find the kids. No we gotta get out. No, the kids. Ah, shit, shit, shit. Turn to the right. A room. Roof intact in the room. Into the room, on all fours, grab, feel, yell. Nothing. Progress being made from the outside crews, Cap still on my side. Can make out a bed. Look under the bed, always. Closet. Look in the closet. Nothing. Windows breaking. Crew from the outside venting the room. Smoke quickly clears. Fire going down. Various shouts, noises, creaking, burning. Cap saying something into the radio. "We're outta here, the kids were at the grandparents"


Now just get the fuck out. Easier than going in. Work our way out, rubble, debris, water. Its really fucking hot now. 'cause fire turns to steam, and steam, well, steam sucks. Feel way out, but damn touched a live wire, shocked the shit outta me. Fucking roof in the way. Lots less fire now, almost completely out. Under control, as they say.

And its been 5 minutes since we got there.

Things go good, things go bad. You recover from errors made, and try not to repeat them. People lost a home, valuables, mementos. No one lost their life.

Clean up, put the hose back, secure the home, leave the Police to guard.

The sun starts to rise, we go back to the station, drink some Joe, shower, go home, go to our other jobs.

We may not get paid, enough.


It is priceless.



The soldier & the stewardess..


The name means hardworker. Damn if it dont fit my ass to a "t". My middle name.
Arggg. Today at Hotel Hell, I got reemed-a-rocious.

So busy, so inept is the management that I cant even begin to go there. There being the ineptitude. Tomorrow looks like a surf, so that said, Stoke-a-boka for this clam.

Arggg. & of course,


'fore i fo' get - the real deal on what it is like to look into the eye of the fire, and come out smiling, oh the tales to tell, oh yes.


Number 5

Odds -

What are the odds? I like the dice game of craps. Odds play a big part in the throw, luck, of the dice. You cant manipulate the mathmatical outcomes of randomness of rolls, but you can try.

That is another tale, best left for pre-vegas kine times.

There was a young man, back in the 1800's. He left a fishing village in Pico Azores, Portugal. He got on a whaling ship bound for the south pacific, points beyond his comprehension. Sailing half-way around the world, to a place that nature gave isolation as its greatest gift. What are the odds he would jump ship? That he wouldnt get caught, dragged back, flogged, and worked to death?

Pretty good, I guess. He jumped ship, off the coast of the island of Maui, made it to shore, and survived. He went to work for a man land-rich, but workerless. He worked for room, board. Worked long, hard. Never paid, he made due, with what he grew, what he knew, and who he met. He met a pure hawaiian lady. His luna (boss) saw his love for this woman, and suggested marriage. They married. The luna's gift was land. The land that stretched from Haleakala to the sea, all of Kaupo Gap. Kaupo is farther down the road from Hana, Maui. Even locals think Hana is the end of the road. They had keiki, (children) And they too had keiki. One of them had 9, with only one being male. He was raised on a farm, taught in Hawaiian in a one room school house by his mother.

My tutu kane, (grandfather). What are the odds that I would never know his ability to speak fluent hawaiian until the 1980's? For shame it was to be hawaiian a long time ago. Sadness. You were not to know.

Even odds.

There was this flight attendant (stewardess). She was on lay over in Honolulu, Waikiki to be specific. There also was this guy, preparing to go to Korea. He went to the beach, to catch some sun, some surf. He asked the stewardess to watch his belongings while he swam. Passing showers caused them to huddle under a banyan tree that still stands. They exchanged address' an a promise to write. They wrote. For a number of years. In one letter, the now being discharged soldier asked the stewardess to marry him. What are the odds of yes?

Odds, they can be beat.

Me ke Aloha Pumehana.


5 Summer Stories



My first date w/ Lady C, so I am jaded.

Five Summer Stories - Version 5.0

Tales from the crypt, per se.

Better Than Sex -

Now there is a hard sentence to type. Well, almost sentence, I guess. Possibly the most fun you can have not involving sex, may put it better. Surfing, of course! One track mind here. Only reason I feel this can be said as follows - There is no one to please but yourself, self centered, yes, but naturally orgasmic at the same time.

It runs like this. Early morning, tip-toe outta the house. Stalking the 'net to find the proper tide, spot, and swell - I should have a somewhat sane idea of where it will be firing. Time limitations aside, the island will give up something. No begging here. No bargains, no guilt, no unsatisfied customers. Once primed, the action will unfold, naturally, no artificial additives needed. The ocean has moods, but in general, she is a very forgiving lover. She is always wet for one. Pre-surf rituals are common, from blessing ones self with the water of the ocean, to yoga, meditation, stretching. Entering the sea, the water just seems to be so refreshing, so soft, so all encompassing. But lovers need attention. So post-surf, you pack some opala (trash) and thank whoever, whatever being that you seek enlightenment from - thanks for the waves, the sun, keeping me safe.

But the waves are the star of this type of mating. It is making love. You can try to force your will on her, but she will win in the end. Sooner or later, she will outlast you. You will try all the smooth moves you box of tricks has, but she has seen them all. All she has to offer, she will keep that nugget, that perfect wave, for herself. You stroke into a wave, you glide into it. You thrust, dance, carve. You float delicately. You thrash. Peeking into her soul, if you are lucky, you get to see the world from her POV, wet, wonderous, sublime in its creation.

Sooner or later, 'tho you will pull out.

And she will leave you exhausted, reborn, withered. If it is cold enough, or you have been out in the water long enough, you will find your ala's (balls) trying to find their way into to your arse to stay warm, too.

She does not do cuddling, either. Act up, young fool, old wise ass, she will remind you who runs the show.

I keep coming back for more.

Die 4 You -

It seems a bit passe, perhaps, with 9/11, and firefighter deaths in the news more prominent now a days, to say it.

You better, 'tho. Because it is reality, in my day to day exsistence. We work with various crews in our careers, after awhile, 'tho you stop moving stations, and home becomes 1 stop. I have been fortunate to work with guys (and wahines, (women) too) who I would not hesitate to sacrifice for. Seems a bit heavy, no? In reality, it is not. You live with each other for so much of the time, that you know more about them then of your ohana (own family). What they are going thru, (divorce, bills, kids, emotions, side salad(expression used when someone fools around on SO), what have you) We eat each others cooking, some great, some...less great. We see some really depressing shit. We see some amazing, amazing shit. Lots of funny shit. So we tend to watch each others back quite a bit. It is love, but you wont hear that from me. Or anyone else. You pass time, pass out from parties to celebrate births, deaths, graduations, promotions. Bonding.

Everyday 'tho, in that little macadamia nut inside my brain, I have to admit I might not come home. Facing that everyday on the way to work, makes me think way toooooo much.

With the support of my brothers & sister firefighters, I deal, I deal.

And it is all good.

Captain Melonhead -

Hoo boy. Where to begin. Captain M is old skool. So old, perhaps, that the horses that used to draw the fire trucks, miss him. Granted, I respect the position, but sometimes get irked with the man. Worst is, he is related to Lady C.

First off he cant hear. His hearing aid at times, goes off in reverb. So you can be sitting down, and all thru the firehouse, you hear a high pitched whiiiiiiiiiiine. He never realizes it. Never.

Second off his truck is sloooooow. Hardly any alarms. So he moves - - sloooow. The truck stationed w/ him, 'tho is mega-arse busy. Common courtesy would be to grab alarms for the other, but Captain M, he doesnt. Even if we are on the same street as the alarm is. That shit is just wrong.

Thirdly, he is basically unintelligable. With the hearing loss, the aide that doesnt work, speech comes out like - "Marumoph, - Canr redbia doccus?" Really, I havent kept up with my latin, so I usually shrug, alot.

Lastly, his memeory of past exploits, be it sports, women or fires, has grown. Many times the size of his ego, and then some.

Respect the position, irked with the man.

Casual Fridays -

I really have no concept of this. Altho' I will give a perspective on 24/7 casual friday. In alohaland, there is no concept of casual. It is always casual. Even big business, try as they might to be button down proper, cant do it. You gotta bust out the slippers. Bare feet, shorts, tank tops, rule. You wont see a sign - no shirt no shoes no service, The business' would all be broke.

It does drive malahinins (newcomers) nuts. We all tend to drive, well, relaxed. All the roads were designed, well, relaxed. When on the road, you dont need to use your turn signals, cause - we are an island, we know everybody, and everybody already knows where we are going. The Left lane on the freeway is for - driving slow, or medium fast, or for cruising. No passing here. When it rains, you better leave early, cause everyone forgets how to drive. The median speed drops down to 25 MPH. Why? I have no clue, but for the past 30 years of driving, everytime, it does.

Class cant be seperated by what you wear, cause you all dress the same - casual. It makes ogling women, easy. Vice versa for women on guys, too. So the line comes as to where you reside. Honolulu has a median price range for houses about 500K. For a "as is". The homes in the area I reside have risen from 300K to as of today, 900K. Can you say shaft? Shaft as in property taxes? I will be getting reemed, thank you very much.

Cool Shit -

Shave Ice. The stars the way they look from bamboo ridge, when while arguing with C, make the world so friggin' small. Arguing is not my strong point. So I tend to be raging idiot, demented psychopath, or small combo, macaroni salad on the side.

So I relegate myself to self-imposed exile to the desolated area known as bamboo ridge, named for the poles the fishermen use there. Quiet, deep black, million stars visible. Moon rise, a beer, time to chill, usually works.

Times it dont, 'tho. Aye yah.

So dealing with C and moods can be a, hmmmm, experience? It hurts to want to help someone so bad to feel better, but feel like no matter what you do, you are wrong.

Trying to cool her down, when all I do is wrong, is a challenge. Kinda like you lose, you win, you still lose. Keep on trying 'tho.

I guess PMS wasnt so bad, after all.

One more tale, soon.



The Elevator / Captain 'Melonhead" / Ricky The Crackhead

The Elevator Call-

We often get calls for people stuck or trapped in elevators. Hotels, mostly, or condo's. We got this one on a friday night, about midnight.

We get to the building, and security takes us to the 25th floor. Standing outside the elevator are 2 people outside of the lift, and the door open about 1/2 inch. A japanese man, and his sister. In the elevator is a younger man, probably 20's. He has claustrophobia. Wonderful. And the japanese guy is his gay lover. Even more wonderful. We are there to help, but if he aint dying, we arent breaking a elevator. The elevator trapped guy, he is doing fine, staying calm, and listening to what we are saying. But lover-boy, he is, well, anxious. Putting it mildly. His sister is trying to keep him calm in a dialect of mixed japanese, pidgin, and english. Our crew consisted of Gpac, me, 'meloveyoulongtimeeyes', and captain melonhead. Gpac is about 6 feet. Gpac is about 250. Gpac got some cannons for arms. Anyway, lover-boy decides we are not moving fast enough, for his desires (pun intended) After he verbalizes this 'meloveyoulongtimeeyes' takes him on the side and explains our procedures. He seems to understand.

For a while.

Lover-boy is calm for minute or two, and then starts ranting, I mean RANTING at the top of his lungs that trapped lover-boy is going to die. Now professionalism is a word, but doing it under certain circumstances requires patience only Mother Teresa has.

Patience, I got. Well, sometimes. Gpac,he hasnt. Meloveyoulongtimeeyes, he got tons.

Captain melonhead, we will get to him, later.

So lover-boy goes after a broomstick, tries to pry open the door more, and has to be restrained. Gpac does that well. Me & meloveyoulongtimeeyes laugh. Amazingly, right then the door opens.

Lovers reunite, everybody happy, lovers start kissing, everybody snickers.

Except Captain melonhead.

He says " He really like that guy, doesnt he?"

Captain melonhead lives in small, very small, box.

Ricky the crack head -

Ricky is a regular, a frequent flier. Calls for Ricky come in alot. Ricky passes out almost anywhere. One time, tho' Ricky passed out and didnt get up. So we go. And EMS goes. And Ricky gets looked at, poked and prodded, but Ricky wont get up, sternum rub, nothing.

Out like a light.

Put EMS carries a wonderful drug that when injected, takes Ricky and his ilk outta lala land and back to sober. Fast.

They dont like that, Ricky, that is.

So EMS injects Ricky.

Ricky sobers up, angered, at losing his high, he hits Gpac. Gpac practically removes Ricky from the gurney, and almost throws Ricky out of a very, very high place.

2 days later, Ricky comes by the station to apologize. And brings....

A crack pipe.


And Ricky, as is known to do, passes out, right in the station.

God, I love this job.



Liliuokalani was the queen and ruler of the islands when the United States annexed these islands. Strong woman. Smart leader.
Princess Kaiulani was the daughter bound for the throne, but passed on.
Rell Sunn was the queen of Makaha (surfing beach) and one of the first lifeguards for the City of Honolulu, great surfer, and breast cancer victim.

Brave, beautiful women create strong, caring societies.

Thinking out loud, sorry.



Rell Sunn.

Ocean Front Rooms Available

Sky Blue enough?

Sand sandy enough?

Pink Hue pink enough?

It is just a job.

Paying the tax for paradise.

You work, you work, but playtime...

Simple. Part II

There are newspaper hawkers on some street corners in alohaland. A lot of times, it is younger children, around 10-12, hawking. For the most part, they are busy kids. ADHD busy. Most are probably from very low income households in the more impoverished areas. The hawk papers like a drug dealer sells his wares, albeit, they sell printed words.

A couple of shifts at the firehouse a week, we travel to a busy intersection where 2 hawkers work. Both are "mentally challenged" to varying degrees. One is "Billy-Girl", and the partner, I never knew what his name was. They are high spirited salespeople. Driving in the firetruck, they always hoot, holler or someway or another get our attention. As a rule, on the truck, there are at least 4. A Captain, driver, and 2 to 3 Firefighters. You live together for 24 hours, so knowing personalities comes easy.

Sometimes, you work with assholes.

I have never figured out what it is in mankind that guides him to ridicule the less fortunate. What kind of shibai, (bullshit) infected your views of fellow humans? We had a relief FF come to work with us, and we passed Billy-girl and pal. Always cordial, they holler, throw a wave, whatevers. We acknowledge back, and if stopped, "talk story" from the cab of the truck. This FF when we left, after making ignorant, repugnant remarks, spit on him.

I wanted to emasculate the fuckwad.

But you cant do that, so how do you deal?

Boiling with anger, I could barely think straight for the drill we had to do. All the time, I wanted revenge, come-uppance, something. Blind with foaming rage.

This hit was not pono (righteous).

But payback, it comes around in ways you are not really privy to question.

We get back to the station. In the driveway is our Chief, a sedan, and a Honolulu Advertiser delivery truck.

Billys partner knew enough to complain.

The FF was sent home, (working OT, so lose money, asswipe!) We apologized as best we could to Billy's partner, her and the staff of the paper that was there.

Apologies are not enough sometimes. If you had the power to stick a person in someone elses life, if just for a day, wouldnt it be wonderous to see real change?


Somethings are not as simple as I or anyone else may wish or desire.

I still wish I cracked the fool.

Maybe that wouldnt be pono either, but it would feel good.

Empathy, what a great thing to be blessed with.

Peace, Aloha.


1 Minute Sooner, no problems now


Samurai Solution

Terrible situations abound. Classic cases of getting screwed. Told by the ones most dear that you dont say nothing.

Feeling used.

What you do with adversity is the mark of a man. Sometimes, tho' you just do not feel like dealing with the primordial soup bullshit. You do what you gottta do, try to do it well, and by fucknuts, you get reemed. Tending to what is not the most asthetic, pleasing, or satisfying. Zatoichi, the blind swordsman of Samurai movie flicks would deal. He would deal the swift blade of retribution, no ifs ands, or butts.

Kick ass; he would. Fuck Yoda.

Samurai - you see the 20th century version all the time. I wont get racist on anyones ass, so the best parts will go unsaid. Walk behind me, woman! Silent. No show emotion.

Fuck that.

I will yell if I friggin need to, hopefully not with anyone listening. Hopefully in the deep dark realm of my dreams. Stalking the blue badlands, scream INSIDE, where it rebounds of the innards, relflecting onto all that is stuffed inside. Damaging the wares. No good to take back to the supplier, now. Let it out only in measured bits of sarcasm. Well deserved spite, placed at the altar of the goddess. (in your own minds eye) Manipualte the controls, get what is desired, not needed and fuck the others.

Even if they are yours.

For want of patience, I get rage.

For that rage, nothing can conquer.

In conquering that rage, I have lost.

Auwe. ( alas, disgust, forlorn, without reason)



Mango Season

Sugar rush

Mango Season / Blood Pressures

Mango season. Huge groups of mangos hang on the trees. 1/4 pound bombs of fruit. Litter the driveways, cling to your tires, create instant buffets for the birds.

Hot, sweet, and sticky.

Porn, lite.

Mangos, mango trees specifically, almost killed me. Tutu kane (grandpa) had a huge ass mango tree in his yard. As he aged, so did the tree, only tutu got smaller, and the tree, giant. So being akamai (smart) tutu had me, lolo (stupid) trim the tree on occasion. Tutu was akamai. You trim the tree, at the right time, you get a hoard of mangos. My job- trim a 40 ft. tall tree. I like challenges, so I tend to do shit like this on my own. Needless to say, it is a back killer job. But that is not how I almost died. It was the fucking brown recluse spider in the tree. These bastards bite, drill into you, and insert their rotting venom. I never even knew I was bit. 2 days later, when fever, sweats, and assorted maladies hit, I knew I was fucked, and not in the orgasmic sense. Apparently, these little fucks rot you from the inside out. Pleasant thought. Long story short - antibiotics, dig the rot out, and heal up.

I still love mangos, but really, fucking really, hate spiders.

Segway into -

Blood Pressures

One of the tasks we have in the firehouse is we do free blood pressures. It helps the older population keep tabs on their health, and keeps the clinics and hospitals free of elders roaming the halls. We generally do these from 8AM to 8PM. And we get all kinds of riff & raff. Most are harmless, some are cretins, vermin, and the like. Some, do tell, blow your fucking mind.

The Golf Ball Guy -

The golf ball guy comes everyday. 7AM. He knows we dont do 'em till 8. But he gets his done, 'cause he wants to avoid the "rush". The golf ball guy tries to sell me golf balls every time. I still tell him, everytime, that I dont golf. His BP is normal, and his life, perhaps a bit empty. So he sits and talks a bit, and tries to sell me golf balls, again. We do this Fred & Ginger song and dance for about 20 minutes, and he packs up, and toddles off. One day, tho', the golf ball guy wont come in. And that will suck.

The Cocktail Waitress & Mate-

The cocktail waitress has a set of 38DD's. She is oriental. Fake as shit. But damn if they dont look fine. The thing is, her "mate" brings her in for BP's. Now, I dont know kink too well, but something funky is going on with this shit. I swear he is wacking off when we are doing a BP on her. Her BP is perfectly normal. She always wears a sweat jacket, which her "mate" tells her to remove, as soon as she is seated. Of course, this lets out the Roman Empire that hides behind the jacket. Some people are just a tad "different".

Aunty 1 -

Aunty comes as a regular. Probably mid-70's, mixed, Hawaiian, Portugese, Asian. Weathered. Wrinkled, brown, age spots. A smile that runs the gamit of her face. Red hibiscus in her hair, everytime. Blood red lipstick, haphazardly applied, generally in the area of her lips. Talks about the old days when the "firemenzes" didn't do "no goddamn blood pressures" " The goddamn lazy-ass doctors nowadaze tell ya ta go to da fire station" " Then they tell ya ta pay all dis kala (money) fo' da goddamn peescripshuns" "Buncha rich pake (chinese) bastahds" Put it mildly, Aunty got some issues with the medical profession. Cool, tho' cause she got the shit right, she gets fucked by the medico's and has 'no mo' nuff kala' to pay for it, so her health declines, and sooner or later, she too, wont be a visitor.

Aunty 2 -

Comes with her daughter, she never says a word. You know, you just damn well know, she is getting fucked by her family. Her eyes say more than anyone needs to say. They most of the time are filling with liquid. She exudes fear. Her total weight cant be more than 80 pounds, max.
I tend to watch out for these ones. Reason? CYA - cover your ass, 'cause every now and then some lawyer happy fuck will try to sue one of us for doing something they percieve as damaging to their "loved ones". And our city, pays. Up to 200K, 'cause it is cheaper than fighting it in court. Of course, I lose my job, my home, my way of life, for some low-life elder abusing crackhead to make some coin. CYA, all the time, CYA.

The Veteran -

The vet carries tatoos that for want of a better word, are, worn. His arms are riddled with vanes, so this gent worked in his life. Shuck and jive, he tells tales about WW2, Korea. "Missed Vietnam" Deep set, hollow blue eyes. Haole ( white man) from the mainland, who stayed. Never left. Just stayed. Always trying to talk politics, but I avoid that. Might be too radical, too left, for him. I have nothing but respect for people who are willing to sacrifice for our freedom. I wont fight, till the enemy is at my door, too much Bullshit in it for me to justify killing another for whatever is the killing point of the moment. Veterans, real veterans, got balls.

I always thank him for his sacrifice when he leaves, and he always looks so puzzled; I realized one day that probably, no one else ever did.

The French Lady -

The french lady came in once. She came from a hotel across the station. She carried with her a book, a postcard, a cane, a bag of fruit. The french lady walked, as if she was royalty. Not ego laden royalty, but confident, determined, for the people royalty. She had a wonderful accent. She loved Hawaii, the weather, the colors of the children, the variety of the population. Her cantor went from sing-song to serious. We spoke of nothing earth shatteering, nothing that would make the papers today, tomorrow, or next week. Volumes of nothing, all building a bond for what would be 20 minutes. She had elevated BP, not extreme, but higher than normal. When told, she shrugged it off, saying " a glass of good french wine, my dear, and I will be fine" I knda wondered about that at 9 in the AM, but ... what the hell. I will never see her again, but she spoke so true, so earnestly in those few minutes, that I was entranced by her, her life, what could it have been like? What tales? What hearty laughs did she share with others in her home land? Before she left, she shook my hands (both) and stared right into my eyes, looking, I swear, past me, into what I can only call my soul, my inner being, and said - "you have a spark, my dear, a spark, and if you never let that spark die, your life will be wonderful" " Dont ever lose that spark"

That spark. It tries to die out every now and then. I can see her eyes.

I promise to keep it burning, dear french lady.

I will try.



'fore I fo' get - Got a quick surf in, small kine no waves of.....consequence.

Aloha, all wet.

Dumb Moves / Injuries

Active. Radio active. Being more than slightly hyper, I have managed to commit bodily harm in a myriad of ways that, for some, may seem a bit improbable.

In the words of Bill Cosby, "I started out as a child"...

And it got worse from there.

At 4, I was hit in the head with a baseball bat. Wood. Direct to the forehead. 47 stiches and 2 metal staples later, good as new. Got a real cool 1/2 a "Y" shaped scar right smack in the middle. Cracked the egg, so to speak.

Played football. Lotsa football. Nothing like the physical agression release of being able to hit someone, legally. Was on scholarship to a fine West coast instution of higher learning. Worked the summer at a establishment that had great lunches. Lunches that had large wooden toothpicks in the sandwiches. I swallowed one. It gave me a ruptured appendix, perforated intestines, and a week long hospital stay. It took my game playing weight of 215, and in 2 weeks, dropped me to 145. Still went to the school. Shocked the shit out of the coach. Played the entire season, enjoyed the hell out of it. You dont see too many linebackers in California that weigh less than the quarterback. Or that hit the shit out of you. Anger, chanelled the anger.

Took off almost my entire right big toe surfing. Put holes in my head from the reef, numerous times. Emasculated myself from landing on my skeg (fin) of my board. Big, huge balls for a week.

Fractured my skull 3X's skateboarding. The last time, I lost conciousness, and my memory. For about a day. Fun coming back from the efge, tho'. Real interesting, when you are on the mainland, too. And didnt know it.

Ripped open various body parts, from surf, landing wrong, what have you.

But the dumbest move I ever made was smuggling.

1980. I think the movie midnight express had just come out. I saw it. Shoulda known better.

Specifically, I took a LARGE quantity of high grade Hawaiian Bud to the mainland. Not for personal use. Well, maybe, if was gonna be stoned for the whole year. Packed in my carry on. Stuffed. Now this was in the days when, well all kinds of shit went on; on planes. Mile high club like that. That one, too. So the trip route is from here, to there, stopping in O'hare. (rhyming!) All goes smooth, and I land, get out in Chicago, and wander around the terminal, till my next flight to midwestern hell. I left the secured area, with my carry on.

Ooops. Big kind ooops.

I have to come back in, thru the detectors, and a wisened older african american lady is the agent there. She notices that I have a large box in my carry on, she asks to open it. She goes rumagging thru the stuff on top, talking with yours truly. Then she stops. She asks "what is in this tackle box?" I say, fishing gear, from Hawaii, going to try to see if it works in ----. "Oh, you are from Hawaii?" Yes. "They grow a lot of Marijuana there, dont they?"... At this point, I figures I was dead, dead to rights.

I said - "I guess so, i dont really know"

She then grabbed the entire bag, moved it to me and said, "You have a nice year at school, sweety"

After cleaning the piss off myself, I rolled the biggest joint I could.

Sometimes, you get lucky, even if you are a moron.