An Image of Dad

From the Blogmaster (or Blog Mistress, as the case may be)

This picture was sent by Mom (Dick's wife) to me last week. It's dated about 1957--when Dad was about 16 years old--posing with his swim buddies.

There are some things I've always known about Dad.

He's just a little bit off-center. He looks at life at a slightly different angle, which I think is healthy.

He's a showman. He's not afraid to be noticed. He's confident, but not cocky.

He may only stand 5'7", but his personality is over 6' tall.

I like to think I inherited some of this...and am able to pass it down to the next generation...no matter how weird it looks.

Global Warming

Now that nearly everyone on the planet believes in the gospel according to St. Al (Gore, of course) and agrees that civilization hangs in the balance because of global warming, it is time for me to confess to being a skeptic. Since we are in the midst of the most severe winter in half a century in many parts of the World and ice build up in Antarctica stands at one third more than normal, I think I have picked a good time to come out of the closet.

In the spirit of full disclosure I must confess that I have always had difficulty in accepting anything out of the mouth of Veep Gore. Would you buy a used car from a guy who claimed to have invented the Internet? Or, was the inspiration for the movie “Love Story”? And, let’s not forget, he wanted to ban the internal combustion engine. Of course, St. Al is but a missionary in a movement that has swept the world, gaining momentum like a run-away truck on a steep slope.

I have several problems with global warming that have prevented me from jumping on the bandwagon (or buying a Prius). First, it is an undeniable fact that in the distant past, much of North America, including northern Canada, was alternately a dismal tropical swamp and repeatedly covered with several hundred feet of ice. This alternate heating and cooling of the planet occurred over millions of years before the invention of the internal combustion engine or, for that matter, the discovery of fire. Secondly, I have seen in my lifetime (and so have you) dire predictions that have been spectacularly wrong. In April 1975, for example, scientists warned us that the next ice age was coming! You can look this up. “Newsweek” magazine did a feature story and scary cover warning us to get prepared-- the glaciers would be marching down the continent soon.

I will remind you of some other famously wrong predictions later. But first, this might be a good time to stop and read Michael Crichton's speech to the Commonwealth Club called "Environmentalism as Religion". In one of the most perceptive pieces I have ever read Crichton explains that, in our increasingly urbanized and secular society, environmentalism has become a religion. He observes that, like religious beliefs, environmentalism relies on faith, often in the face of significant contrary evidence. He believes that the greatest challenge facing mankind is “distinguishing reality from fantasy, truth from propaganda”. He said think of today as the “disinformation age”. This is especially evident with today’s 24/7 news and the herd mentality of sloppy journalists.

As an example, Mike points out the dire predictions of Professor Paul Ehrlich. In the 1980s Ehrlich predicted massive starvation from over population and that we would run out of critical resources including oil and gas. Wrong. Over the years he has made many such prognostications and all proved dead wrong. So, who would listen to this guy? Turns out, lots of people. He’s a respected spokesman for the environmental movement and often sought for his insight on TV shows.

Rachel Carlson and her famous Silent Spring brought about the emotional ban of DDT throughout the world and resulted in the death of tens of millions from malaria in Africa and other poor countries. Although repeatedly proven to be harmless to humans (and birds too, for that matter) this DDT myth persists to this day. (Editor's note: thin shells on eggs can be a sign of calcium deficiency.)

Over the years we have all witnessed countless examples of breathless warnings of this or that danger that turned out to be bogus. Remember the alar scare? And, what about butter?
For years we were told not to eat butter but instead smear that goop, margarine, on our morning toast. Oops. Years later we are told that margarine contains “trans fats”, lethal to the heart and butter was the better choice all along. Transmission power lines cause cancer? (Or, was it erectile dysfunction? I forget.) Later, of course, we learned that power lines cause poor radio reception and nothing else. The list goes on.

If you really want to get into this subject you might want to read The Skeptical Environmentalist by Bjorn Lonborg, although I warn you, it’s heavy going. It is a massive tome and reads like a college text on statistics, economics and biology. Ol’ Bjorn is a college professor of statistics in Denmark. He was once a member of Greenpeace until he wrote a couple of articles complaining that the environmentalists were drawing incorrect conclusions and misrepresenting the results of various scientific studies. Greenpeace kicked him out of the club and the environmentalists treated him like a leper. So, he decided to write a book and in excruciating detail describes their errors.

Lonborg’s take on global warming is that although the Earth may be going through a warming phase, it is far from clear what is causing it. He points out that scientists differ on whether increased concentrations of CO2 can be blamed. And, in any event, he shows that none of the draconian solutions put forward will have any significant effect. He goes into detail on the cost of these proposals and the comparative costs of dealing with the problem. He also enumerates the advantages of global warming. As importantly, he debunks the dire warnings of Al and his ilk by citing in detail the science disproving the alarmist positions. Sorry, New York City will not be destroyed in a tidal wave. Lonborg spends some time on the politics of the global warming movement and how the press deals with it. It should come as no surprise that the people behind this movement are the same folks who believe government should run everything.

In my four years at Cornell I studied just about every science course offered. None of that makes me an expert on climatology, of course. But, it does give me some basis for critical thinking about science and reminds me of one important tenant…. “You can’t draw a trend line through a single data point”. Let me ‘splain. If you create a graph with the history of the Earth on the horizontal axis (time) and temperature on the vertical and you plot the temperature readings of the last hundred years on that graph, you have essentially a single dot. In other words, the sample everyone is considering is so small compared to the history of the Earth that it represents a single data point. You can draw a trend line in any direction through a single data point!

The problem now is that this global warming thing has gotten to be such an accepted fact that everyone has jumped on the bandwagon and no amount of contrary information will change anyone’s mind. As Crichton has pointed out, it has become a religion; a matter of faith. And, you can’t argue with anyone’s faith. The next glacier could be creeping down 4th Avenue in Seattle and some people would be out in front of it waving “Stop Global Warming” signs.

Tammy Max Image of Profile

Jim, my roommate for the last three of our college years, arrived for our senior year in 1963 with two new possessions: a beat up red pick-up truck and a Great Dane. Jim and I had become roommates in our sophomore year when we both foolishly decided to live in the fraternity house. We both worked in the kitchen- Jim on dishes, and me on pots; jobs we would keep for the duration.

The pick-up was certainly a welcome addition to our meager existence. It had experienced better days. For example, it refused to stay in third gear, so Jim, being an engineering student, had attached a chain-spring gizmo to the floor that held the lever in gear, leaving our hands free for more important duties. It was unclear to me then, or now, why Jim thought a dog was a necessary addition to our senior year.

His name was Tammy Max Image of Profile. He possessed that impressive moniker because of his exceptional bloodlines that clearly had not taken intelligence into consideration. I have owned very smart dogs and dumb dogs. Pro, as we called him, slid off the scale on the stupid end of the chart. He was goofy too, like a big dumb teenager. “Big” perhaps did not do him justice. Even for a Great Dane he was huge, being the approximate size (and color) of a mature white tailed deer.

For our senior year five of us had rented a ramshackle house in Collegetown just off the Cornell campus. Jim and I would share the largest bedroom on the second floor. Most of our furniture and wall hangings were constructed from salvaged doors from the boy’s freshman dorms. These hollow, laminates failed to survive the predations of angry and drunk freshman and were being replaced by more substantial solid doors. We bought the cast offs for $.50 and turned them into desks, beds and canvasses for our crude, lewd impressionist art.

In those days, dogs freely roamed the campus. It seemed every one of the sixty or so fraternities, sororities and group housing establishments owned a dog. Rumor had it that an eccentric, dog-loving woman had given the university many millions with the stipulation that dogs be given free reign on campus. Maybe. But, in any case, dogs wandered freely and could be found in the classrooms, the student union and even in the cafeterias. Pro, as we called ol’ Tammy Max, joined these wandering packs of mongrels and pure breeds that roamed the campus.

Pro liked to ride in the truck and preferred to sit in the middle between Jim and me. With his butt on the seat and his feet on the floor, he had his huge muzzle pressed against the windscreen on which he deposited copious amounts of slobber. Like all Great Danes, his greatest skill was drooling. When he took off with his gangly lope, gobs of this goop could be seen flying in all directions.

Squirt guns were the fad of our senior year and squirt gun wars common study breaks. Sneak attacks on our studying roommates also provided a welcome diversion. Pro became a frequent target. He’d be sitting there staring at you so you’d hit him with a couple of shots square in his huge muzzle. He’d just sit there with water running off his nose with a puzzled look on his face. After a while though, it started to really piss him off and he would aggressively go after the transgressor. He became so annoyed by squirt guns that if you made a “tsk, tsk” sound, imitating the noise of a squirt gun, he would awaken from a sound sleep and run around barking, looking for the culprit.

Other than drooling and sleeping, Pro’s greatest skill was farting. Jim fed him scraps from the kitchen where we worked, and the gravy and meat scraps had a profound effect on his digestive system. Of course, with a beast that size you also had quantity as well as potency in his deadly emissions. Jim and I frequently evacuated the room in haste when Pro released one of his silent killers.

Pro had bad timing with this skill. One evening Jim and I were entertaining a couple of young ladies in our room. We were sitting around chatting and drinking very bad, cheap wine while Pro napped in the middle of the room. One of the gals commented on the good looks of the magnificent beast before her. Pro, apparently hearing himself complimented, woke up. He rose up on his toes and then stretched his paws out in front of him, raising his ass in the air, aiming his butt directly at Jim’s date. He then emitted what I called the “fluttering death” fart. It was not silent, but rather had tonal quality to go with volume and potency. One of his better efforts, as I recall. The scramble for the door was reminiscent of the run for the lifeboats and pretty much brought the evenings festivities to a close. Part of the problem may have been that Jim and I beat the girls to the door by a good five feet.

For all his goofiness, the beast did possess a decent sense of smell. When classes let out, hundreds of students would be criss-crossing the quads on their way to the next class. Pro would be romping on the grass with some other mutts while either Jim or I attempted to sneak across. He would stop what he was doing, raise that great head and sniff the air. Gotcha! Catching our scent, he would come bounding over like an overgrown kid. It seemed as if he was saying, “Hey, Dick, howya doin’? Goin’ to class? Chemistry? Boy, I love chemistry class. Great! Let’s go!” He’d bounce around you and there was no getting rid of him. So, off we’d go to class together where he would usually just sleep beside you. Sometimes the professors were exceptionally boring and we’d both catch a little nap.

Occasionally, Pro’s visits to class were not uneventful. On one visit with Jim, Pro fell asleep head down on a sloping auditorium aisle. When class ended, everyone crowed for the exit, Pro at the forefront of the pack. Apparently, the head down position had adversely affected Pro’s touchy digestive system and he deposited a copious quantity of vomit right in the doorway. Students skidded and stumbled through the mess swearing all the way. Jim pretended he didn’t know the dog.

Jim and I both signed up for The History of Western Civilizations, a required class, so plenty of students. Classes were held in an auditorium with a stage containing only a lectern and a blackboard. We called it the “book of the week club” since it seemed that we had to read one each week. The professor may have had a personality, although we never got a chance to find out. He arrived promptly at the top of the hour, opened his notes and spoke for 50 minutes, whereupon he closed his notes and walked out. The book for the week was written on the blackboard. Since he gave no clues as to what would be on the tests, we pretty much wrote down every word out of his mouth.

Pro followed us to history class one day and slept in the aisle. Except for the scratching of pens and the drone of the professor, the place was dead quiet. Jim looked up and Pro had gone. He looked on in horror as Pro ascended the stairs and walked onto the stage. Although he was impossible to ignore, the professor never missed a beat. By now, many students had spotted the dog on the stage. Pro sniffed the blackboard, moved over to the professor and sniffed his twiggy tweed coat. At this point, everyone was watching Pro. He sat down beside the professor, gazed out at the audience and….. gave a huge yawn.

The place erupted in a roar of laughter, for that yawn reflected our collective sentiments of the professor precisely. The prof finally said something that was not contained in his notes, “Get that G.D. dog out of here!” Jim hustled Pro off the stage and out the door while the laughter continued.

Funny, I can’t remember what courses I took that senior year—except history.

The Price of Gas

Note: This piece was originally written in August of 2006 when the price of a barrel of oil stood at $78. Now with the price around $100, some are suggesting $150 is within reach next year. Many economists opine that the US policy of allowing the US dollar to devalue has contributed to the rise in oil prices. I agree.

With crude prices hovering around $95 per barrel and sticker shock stunning everyone when they pull in to fill up the ol’ SUV, we once again hear politicians moaning about “dependence on foreign oil”. Some of us are old enough (and not yet senile) and can remember hearing this same refrain back in the early 70s when shortages and gas lines at the stations gave the “driving public” which is nearly everyone, a wake up call. So what have our elected leaders done in the last 30+ years since to alleviate our dependence on foreign oil that in large part comes from the historically volatile Middle East? Well, nothing. In most cases they have made things significantly worse.

They have not allowed drilling for oil off our coasts, on public lands in the western US where the government owns most of the land, or in the much discussed Artic National Wildlife Refuge. If this desolate place were more appropriately called the National Artic Wasteland it might be less controversial. Nobody is going to go there willingly and the few caribou that wander through there from time to time could easily be accommodated, but the environmental lobbies have made it their Waterloo. By threatening to withhold their contributions and votes the professional tree huggers have cowed liberal Democrat Senators to continually vote against even looking for oil there. Stupid? Of course. Understandable? Yes. The Democrats know that if they lose the environmentalist vote, the trial lawyers or the Black vote that they will be forever consigned to irrevelance. So screw National interest… getting re-elected is more important.

Unfortunately, preventing even looking for oil at home is not the only anti-energy independence path our politicians have taken. Refusing to swim against the tide of fear and hysteria following the accidents at Chernobyl and Three Mile Island, our leaders have not allowed the construction of a single nuclear power plant in more than a generation. Ignoring the fact that France gets some 70% of its electrical power from nuclear plants with no environmental problems, politicians are afraid to promote its use. Worse, increasingly restrictive air quality regulations have forced many power companies to switch from coal to natural gas and petroleum thereby increasing demand and dependence. If the environmentalists were truly concerned about carbon emissions and global warming they would be actively promoting the building of nuclear power plants and encouraging the utilization of the Yucca Mountain waste repository. That they do not speaks volumes.

As we watch the dollars ring up on the gas pump when filling up we should also keep in mind that our fearless leaders and the “NIMBYs” among us have prevented the construction of a single gasoline refinery for more than a generation. The existing ones operate at full capacity all the time and even a small hiccup causes shortages. A major curve ball was thrown at the industry when Congress caved to the agriculture lobby and recently passed restrictions on the use of chemical additives in gasoline and mandated the use of ethanol instead. Predictably they had ignored the warnings that there were insufficient quantities of ethanol or adequate delivery methods to keep the refineries supplied. The unintended consequences, of course, were shortages and higher prices at the pump.

The environmentalists are quite happy with the current situation. They would be very pleased to see gasoline at $10 per gallon. Then people would stop driving their cars. As my wife so succinctly pointed out, “They want everyone to go back to riding bicycles”. Yes, and they want everyone to live in shacks without electricity and grow their own vegetables. I’ve got no beef with someone who wants to do that, but given today’s urbanized interdependent World, few really want to go there… at least not willingly.

The huge problem with the situation today lies not in the price of a gallon of gasoline but in the strategic dependence on Middle Eastern oil that fuels our economy. Huge amounts of petro-dollars flow into the coffers of despotic Middle Eastern governments who are quite happy to fund increasingly fanatical Islamic movements bent on the destruction of Western Civilization. Most of these governments have no economy save the oil that lies beneath their deserts. Were we not dependant on their contribution to the world oil supply and hence our economic health, we could simply say to Iran “Stop your nuclear develop-ment and funding of terrorist groups or we will shut down your ability to ship oil”. With little impact on our economy we might actually have the balls to do it and their economy would collapse in a matter of months. Regime change would follow without us having to expend our blood and treasure in an armed confrontation with them.

Many Americans would like to believe that withdrawing from Iraq and negotiating with Iran would avoid an eventual nuclear confrontation with radical Islam. This dangerous wishful thinking can lead to disastrous consequences in the future. If, as I predict, the Democrats return to power in ’08 on a “peace” and environmental platform, America will be more dependent on Middle Eastern oil four or eight years later. A nuclear armed Iran and its terrorist surrogates will hold a very powerful gun to the head of the Western World. Should a nuclear exchange or terrorists delivery of nuclear devices render large cities and swaths of America unfit for life of any kind for generations, what will the Serria Club have to say about the plight of the Arctic caribou?

During our long standoff with the Soviet Union we relied on MAD, Mutually Assured Destruction….. you fire missiles at us, we unload on you… end of civilization. No rational human being wanted that. But, we cannot be quite so sanguine about the rationality of the Islamic radicals. People who are quite convinced that heaven awaits those that blow themselves up in a pizza parlor full of women and children cannot be relied upon to pause before blowing up say, New York City, even if we threaten to nuke their entire country. And, they are reasonably certain that if a terrorist supplied by them did it, we’d probably not strike back anyway.

Our only way out of this box is a full-scale oil exploration of the entire North American continent and seacoast. Yes, new technology and alternative means of supplying our energy needs must be developed. But, we can’t wait for the magical arrival of undiscovered technology. New sources of oil must be found in the US, Canada and Mexico. Nuclear power plants must be built without endless delay. In five years we could be free of Middle Eastern oil and the political dynamic would be vastly different. Do we have the will?

My Captain…. Once Again

Those of you who know me likely suspected that I lacked the computer skills to set up this blog. You would have been correct and, if you doubted that I actually knew how to post these entries or amend them, you would also be right. Daughter Karen, to whom I have been sending my scribblings for a while, kept suggesting that I start a blog. I, of course, kept saying, “Yeah, yeah.” And did nothing.

So she created the thing. Now when I send something to her, she posts it and adds any pictures she deems appropriate from her collection or mine. She is my “blogmaster”. There, I feel better having confessed. And, thanks Karen.

(You're welcome!)

(Note: Read "My Captain" 12 Nov 2007, before continuing)

When I sent her the “My Captain” piece she did some research on the Internet concerning the Brigantine Yankee and Captain Kimberly. She discovered that Cap was alive and well and living in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. After tracking down his address and phone number I vowed to go and see him when Loi and I visited Florida to spend some time with our friends Pete and Shirley. We are in the midst of that expedition as I write this.

This week, after a visit to the UDT/SEAL Museum in Ft. Pierce and a stop in Vero Beach to spend some time with a mutual high school pal, we made the jaunt up to see the Skipper. He’s 87 or 88 now (he could not be certain which) and living in a group home with six other folks. It’s a good set up. He’s got his own large bedroom and private bath and is allowed to have his aging dog, Lucky, with him. His room is filled with memorabilia from his decades at sea including several models of square-rigged ships he’s building. The place is located right on the river front where it joins the ocean so he’s not far from the salt water where he’s spent his entire adult life.

I would like to think that he remembered me after 46+ years, but I don’t think so. Hundreds of eager young deck hands must have sailed under him over the years and a lot of water has passed beneath his keel since then. We talked about the Yankee, Frank the foul tempered but brilliant cook and Mel the First Mate from Marblehead. He described the around the World trip he took on her and how he met his wife Gloria aboard and married her when the Yankee reached Tahiti. Sadly, his wife died two years ago.

For reasons he did not explain, he left the Yankee mid-way through the trip and several subsequent captains failed to bring her home. She was eventually blown on to a reef in the South Pacific and destroyed. Cap was obviously saddened by that turn of events for he loved the Yankee. “She was a fine ship,” he said. As I have said in the past, any praise from Cap is high praise.

The Skipper explained how he and his wife acquired a ketch and began running charters out of St. Thomas. They were looking for a square-rigged ship but costs and availability were problems. Then luck smiled on them. A film company had rigged a Baltic schooner as a “pure Brigantine” for the film “Hawaii”. Once the filming was complete they just wanted to get rid of it. Being in the right place at the right time Cap and his wife were able to purchase the ship for the ridiculous price of $30,000. They named her Romance and began twenty-five years of deep-water charters. They did two circum-navigations of the World and several trips into the South Pacific, as well as charters in the Bahamas. The hundreds of people who sailed with the Kimberlys maintain an association with get togethers and a website. Clearly, the Kimberlys were loved by many. Sadly, the Romance is also at the bottom of the sea. She was heavily damaged while at anchor in the Bahamas and had to be scuttled. I believe the Kimberlys had left the ship by that time and others owned it.

After an hour and a half of conversation it was dinnertime at the home and time for us to leave. He walked us to the car and shook my hand in his claw like grip. He clearly relished having visitors and hated to see us go. He obviously loved talking sailing and ships. At times he seemed lucid and occasionally a little vague as I guess you would expect of someone who is 87, or maybe 88, years old. But, to me he was the same old Captain and had changed far less than the fresh faced 18 year old that had come aboard his ship in 1960.

Smooth sailin’, Skipper. And, thanks.

Gemini XI Recovery

Recovery of the Gemini XI, 1966

These days the space shuttle’s return from a mission gets about 30 seconds on the evening news. Astronauts spend months in the Space Station ignored by the media unless there is a technical problem. Forty years ago it was very different. The space program had captured the imagination of the World and the media covered every aspect of launch and recovery with nearly everyone glued to their TV sets. I got to participate in this circus when I was selected to be part of the recovery team for Gemini XI in 1966.

The Russians always landed their spacecraft on land, but the US opted for bringing them down in the ocean. Not sure of the reason for this… softer landing maybe or perhaps a bigger target. In one of the early Mercury launches this decision did not look too smart as the spacecraft got swamped and sank. NASA figured it might be a good idea to put a floatation collar around the spacecraft to prevent losing the thing and all the important data carried on board. They determined that the job of entering the water after splash down and applying the collar would fall to the Navy’s “frogmen” (now known by everyone as the Navy SEALs).

The second job of these swimmers entailed inflating and tying a raft along side and getting the astronauts out of the spacecraft. After spending time weightless in space, the Gemini capsule became a claustrophobic seasick machine once it started wallowing in the waves. The astronauts couldn’t wait to get out of the thing. After a week or two in that cramped tin can it also stunk like a port-a-potty on a hot August afternoon.

The procedure called for us to get the collar installed, inflate the raft and then using a special wrench open the hatch to let them out. We had a telephone we’d plug into the spacecraft so we could talk to the astronauts and let them know how we were doing. On one of the early Gemini flights the boys wanted out so badly that they activated the explosive charge that blew the hatch from the inside. Unfortunately, one of our guys was in the process of peeking in the window and undoing the hatch at the time and the blown hatch caught him square in the forehead knocking him ass over tea kettle into the raft. This little embarrassment never made the news, but did lead to some changes by NASA instructing the astronauts not to blow the hatch except as a last resort.

In the early days the assignments to recovery teams got passed around to various Teams, alternating between East and West coast Teams. Eventually, because the launches and recoveries all occurred on the East coast and because of the retraining issues, all the recoveries became the job of Lt. Denny Bowman. Denny’s three-man team always had the primary recovery job and the three man backup team was assigned on a rotating basis to other frogs from UDT-21 and UDT-22.

A third team got sent down to wait off the coast of Florida in case the astronauts decided to abort and fire the space craft off the top of the rocket and into the sea. This never happened and seemed an unlikely option. The crash test dummies had never “survived” a test of this procedure.

After an eight month Med cruise with Third Platoon I got assigned the plum job of backing up Denny on Gemini XI. The two enlisted men assigned to my team were Paul Deaton and Sam Siaea. Both Paul and Denny were fellow classmates from Class 33 so I knew them like brothers and Paul had been with me on the Med cruise. Denny, unfortunately, passed away a couple of years ago from cancer. After Paul got out of the Navy he returned to college and then med school and has been a family practitioner ever since. Smart guy.

After some practice around Little Creek the six of us headed off to join the USS Guam, an LPH (helicopter carrier) designed to carry Marines and their equipment for airborne assaults during amphibious landings. Upon arriving we were surprised to see a huge disc mounted on the aft end of the flight deck. Although it may have had something to do with communi-cation with the spacecraft, the ostensible purpose was to transmit the TV signals back to the mainland. Our second surprise was the enormous number of civilians on board. CBS had the job of providing the pictures for all the other networks and had their own on camera people on board. Terry Drinkwater had drawn the long straw and would be the CBS personality on camera. Of course, NASA had a big contingent as did ITT who provided the communication. It must have been nearly 150 civilians along with the Navy personnel assigned for the recovery that crowded into the massive wardroom for the Captain’s welcoming speech.

After some general remarks and outlining the game plan for the launch, the wait while the astronauts circled the Earth for two weeks and the recovery, the Captain reminded the civilians on board that this was a US Navy ship. “This is not a cruise ship”, the Skipper pointed out. And, while they were aboard he expected them to observe the rules of a Navy ship. In particular no alcohol was allowed. Yeah right, I thought. The Captain really had no authority over the civilians and, of course, they ignored him. The civilians had nothing to do while the Guam circled Bermuda waiting for the astronauts to come down, so every afternoon a party started. The smell of whiskey and cigars filled the passageways where they were housed. Non-stop poker games became the norm and the search for ice the biggest challenge.

While the civilians partied we practiced. We had a dummy Gemini capsule that a helicopter would haul off some 10 or 20 miles from the ship and dump in the ocean. Following the beacon we’d locate the capsule, jump from the Navy Sea King choppers and do our thing, including hoisting guys up to the chopper. None of it was particularly difficult, but it gave us a chance to get off the ship and go for a swim.

We even practiced night recoveries. On one black night they dropped the capsule far out of sight of the ship. As we neared the site the helicopter pilot got a bit lax and he started bouncing the flat-bottomed Sea King off the tops of the 10’ waves. He hit two with resounding thumps nearly knocking me off my feet. I figured that with both doors wide open that heli-copter would sink like a stone and I got ready to bail out if he hit another one. The pilot managed to get the craft aloft again and then in that “no sweat” pilot twang calmly spoke into my headphones, “Sorry about that fellas. Spacecraft’s just ahead.” After we’d installed the collar and inflated the raft, the helicopter left. Following the roar of the chopper and the brightness of the landing lights, the sudden silence and total darkness came as a bit of a shock. We scanned the horizon and not a single ship was in sight. The three of us sat there riding the large swells in silence for a while until Paul muttered what we all thinking. “I hope they don’t forget we’re out here,” he said.

After what seemed like my longest two weeks at sea, the boys (Conrad and Gordon) were finally headed back to Mother Earth. It was a perfect day for a splashdown with calm seas and bright sun. We loaded into the waiting helicopters in full wet suits and tanks. The tanks were required because of the toxic fuel the spacecraft spilled into the ocean when they first splashed down. It quickly dissipated and by the time we hooked up the collar and inflated the raft we could dump the tanks.

My team’s job was primarily to back up Denny’s team in case their helo malfunctioned. However, on this mission our secondary mission was to try and recover the Rendezvous and Recovery Module, a piece of the spacecraft that breaks away when their chute opens. It had the floatation characteristics of an anvil and had always gone directly to the bottom. We were going to try to get on it quickly and attach an inflatable raft. NASA had a strong desire to retrieve it if we could.

Since I owned a Calypso underwater camera just like the ones NASA used and had been taking pictures during the training exercises for the NASA boys, they outfitted me with two underwater cameras and wanted me to take photos of the splashdown and shots of the astronauts being hoisted into the helicopters. My tasks were to drop Paul and Sam with a raft on the R & R Module and then photograph the recovery from the air and then from the water.

Our two helos launched without incident when the Gemini XI spacecraft reentered the atmosphere and were on station about 2 miles off the bow of the Guam when their parachute opened. I wore headphones and could listen to the astronauts talking to the ship and the communication between the ship and the pilot. I could only talk to the pilot.

By the time the space program got to Gemini XI the NASA boys had that reentry calculation down pat and Conrad and Gordon were going to splash down right off the bow of the ship.
We spotted the bright red and white parachute at about 5000 feet and circled around as it slowly descended. Denny and his guys were on it as it hit the water. Our pilot had us over the R & R module at about the same time and Paul and Sam jumped out. I pushed the raft out right after them and we headed back to the spacecraft where I started snapping pictures of the recovery.

The astronauts have the option of riding the raft and spacecraft back to the ship or being hoisted in the helicopter and flying back to the ship. It seems kind of silly to go through getting hoisted into the helicopter for a ride of less than half a mile. But, the short ride gave them a chance to get out of their space suits and make an entrance on the flight deck in front of the TV cameras and the formal reception committee while being welcomed by a Navy band. Conrad and Gordon opted for the helo ride.

When the astronauts were gone I jumped into the sea and swam up to join Denny and his crew at the spacecraft. It was still warm when I arrived. We rode it until the ship maneuvered along side and got it hoisted aboard. Our job was finished.

Sam and Paul were not successful in saving the R & R Module. It sank like the stone it was before they could hook on to it, although they hung on until they were below 100 feet down before giving up.

I’ve always regretted that I took the Gemini recovery so casually. We considered ourselves serious special warfare operators and this was a simple job. We aimed to stay aloof of all the hoopla. At the time I was so casual about it that I neglected to mention to my Mom that I would be on the recovery. She first heard about my involvement when the TV guys mentioned my name on national television. She was watching…. like just about everyone else in America I guess. I never heard the end of that one.

When we got back to Little Creek we were interviewed by the local TV people and various newspapers and for months afterward received requests for autographs that arrived in the mail. I began to realize that I had missed the boat. I could have taken a ton of action photos that might be of some interest to my children and grandchildren. I wound up with copies of about a dozen 8 x 10s that I had taken for NASA.

At the time the World was fascinated with every aspect of the space program. The astronauts represented the best and the bravest of America and what they were doing unimaginable.
Today everyone wants to know what’s happening with Brittany and OJ. Different time. And, I gotta tell you, for all my blasé attitude, I was pretty excited when I saw that spacecraft dangling below the big parachute right in front of me. We were a tiny piece of the event, but I now consider myself lucky to have been there.

Torture?

The latest shoe to drop in the never ending search for scandal in Washington comes with the appointment of a Special Prosecutor to investigate the CIA for the erasure of some tapes made during the interrogation of a few Islamic terrorists. This, of course, comes following the debate over the technique of “water boarding” and the major scandal surrounding the incidents at Abu Ghraib. The tapes in question supposedly would have revealed the CIA using “rough interrogation techniques” on the suspects.

OK, let’s discuss this subject beginning with Abu Ghraib. The crime in this case centers around “humiliating” the Muslim prisoners. They were stripped to their briefs and led around with dog collars. They were NOT lowered feet first into industrial shredders, raped or subjected to electric shocks to their genitals, something the previous proprietors of the prison did with regularity. The media and the anti-war folks jumped on this incident and with World opinion strongly opposed to the war in Iraq and the US in general, the military hung out the soldiers responsible. Of course, it was stupid, childish and accomplished nothing in the way of gaining valuable intelligence. The biggest mistake, obviously, was in photographing their little pranks. I am quite confident that the terrorists endured the embarrassment of these games quite pleased that the soldiers had not chosen to attach electrodes to Mr. Happy instead.

The value of intelligence gained by torture and rough interrogation techniques such as water boarding has been debated endlessly. Most of the opponents have never been in the military, thirsty, hungry or endured anything more stressful than a “D” in Poli Sci. On the other hand, someone like John McCain who endured real torture, is opposed on moral and practical grounds. The Senator knows from first hand experience the horror of real torture. He also knows that everyone eventually breaks under torture. At some point a person will tell them anything to get the pain to stop. The value of the information gained in this way is therefore highly suspect. I agree. And, I also agree that as a civilized society, we should not engage in the many and varied techniques man has devised over the centuries to inflict pain on his enemies.

The problem lies in how you define torture. Clearly, the rack, the electrode thing and thumb screws fall into the category, but what about sleep deprivation? Or, being forced to listen to Donny Osmond records endlessly. (After an hour or two of listening to rap music I’d tell them everything). And, what about water boarding? The US Congress has refused, despite their loud objections, to vote to ban water boarding. Why? Because in spite of all the political posturing they recognize that actionable intelligence has prevented attacks by Islamic radicals on North American soil. They fear that hamstringing the intelligence fellows may result in the horrible deaths of millions of innocent civilians. So they posture and pontificate for the Left while silently hoping the CIA or CSIS uncovers a plot before some more women and children get blown up.

What many opponents of determined questioning of terrorists fail to accept is that we are in a war. The confessed goal of the Islamo-fascists is to destroy Western Civilization. We need not take their word for it. They have amply demonstrated their intentions with the dramatic events of 9-11 and with the bombings in London, Madrid, Bali and many others. Does any serious minded person doubt that these fanatics would hesitate to detonate an atomic bomb in London or New York if they could manage it? In light of these threats to our way of life does it make sense to spend a lot of time worrying about whether the captured terrorists are comfortable at Gitmo or embarrassed by their questioning? It’s as if we wish to fight this battle by two sets of rules. They cut the head off a non-combatant journalist and send the tape to Al Jazeera, but we can’t make a terrorist stand in the corner. Short of obvious torture I’d let the intelli-gence boys do whatever it takes to get information out of these fanatics. This is war not a tennis match.
I worry about the US 2008 election and the possible victory of another Lily Livered Liberal Democrat. Clinton did nothing in response to terrorist attacks and Jimmy Carter was even worse. If you remember, under Jimmy’s watch the Iranian radicals, led by none other than the current President of Iran, held the US embassy and diplomats for 444 days. They let them go the day Reagan was inaugurated. Seems like there’s a historical lesson in there somewhere.