Longing for a Road-Trip

"Ice-Diving in Hudson Bay"

ICE-DIVING IN HUDSON BAY

When we dive down in those cool and crystal
Blue waters, clumsy with our double wetsuits,
Steel tanks, and that thirteen feet of frozen sea,
Will we worry whether the ropes rub raw
On the rough-edged ice--safety-lines snapping,
Drifting from the ice-hole as we lose our way?
Perhaps, as we dive, swimming along stiff walls,
Sea-carved corridors, chill labyrinths of ice,
Our lamps might dim, or die, leaving us to grope
Blindly in that deep and dark, sightless world?
Will we wonder, what if--while we blindly swim--
The ice-hole freezes over, trapping us
Forever until the slow spring thaw?

Or will we be just like that Captain Hudson
And his young son, boating out on those quiet waters
Of the new-found bay, watching their tall ship sail
Beyond winter's ice.  A grim Captain-Boatswain yells
Hasty farewells from the fleeing crosstrees.
Winds bring their cries across cold, shifting seas.

--Matthew Duckworth

A fragment, a figment, from my youth.  Winter 1980: Poetry-Writing with Carl Dennis.
Undergraduate work here that I'm enjoying with hindsight.

Keith, my buddy Keith, was my partner in imagination, diving beneath the ice.
Fare well, rest well, strive well, my friend.
I miss you.

--MD

Mendocino Blue

Breather

Translation

I'm working on a story about a dead diver (from the POV of the surviving dive partner), and so I made these images today.  

Perhaps, that survivor's the one lacking a state of grace.

I call the shot above "Translation" -- 

     Rodeo Beach; 

     clay mask (Triton); 

     vintage diving mask (used continuously 1960s-70s).

Translation #3:
A visual poem, I hope.

Ocean Cove: 1978

Thanks, Dad, for having my back.

My first ocean dive at Ocean Cove, Sonoma County, CA.

Remembering Keith: Maui 2008

Keith, morning run to the Molokini Crater, Maui.

Keith, on the left.

I think he's smiling in this one.

I had thought this pretzel-yogic move was mine, but looking more closely, that's Keith.
We were both wearing our trusty Rocket Fins, which is what threw my initial indentification.

I miss you, man.

Cargo From Cumae: A Fragment

CARGO FROM CUMAE

Latium, 1164 B.C.

Nisus sighed as the shore lifted
With the easing of the tide before his eyes.
Younger, he'd have been under,
Working the wreck, allowing
Muscle and sheer will
To offset mere depth.
The boat shifted beneath his feet,
And the Trojan diver bowed his head --
Gray locks cropped against
The cloy, clammy, clinging weeds
Of long cold nereid fingers
And hotly wanton nereid needs.
Scars he touched and counted breaths . . . .

What youth ignores, age hoards.
Each foot ebbing meant
Longer labor, greater benefits
Below.  Both lungs and eyes
Less exercised by the low tides
Granted -- too soon denied --
By Diana and the marches of her moon.
Nisus surveyed his small domain,
This modest craft, consecrated
By Neptune's priest; nets; ropes;
Reeds; knives; hooks; weights;
A clay cup; worn sponges;
And that flask of olive oil,
Diver's mystery, for sight below . . . .

(an old fragment, newly polished a bit)

MD

Flying the Flag

I don't worry too much about fitting in, but a sense of community still feels good. Among the communities that have made me feel good, I have to rank the beachside parking lot full of divers fairly highly. I recall how my buddy Keith and I did our (old-school) diver training back in the late 70s and we went diving up and down Northern California, but we wouldn't put stickers on our cars or wear dive t-shirts until we felt we earned the right after a year or so. Then, we each put a modest diver-flag on our bumpers. (I think my dad gave me one that read "Think Deep.") And, we kept diving fairly frequently, at least for a few years before English grad school and law school distracted us. Nowadays, I like walking up the beach, in a soaking wetsuit, pulling that kayak with the rocket fins and weightbelt and other gear secured properly, getting and sharing the nods and smiles of like-minded souls in pursuit of salty experiences. I shoot my fish and creatures with a camera, but I still can talk abalone and spearfishing, and I like hearing those stories.

Window Tripping

One Beginning.

"Into The Blue"

The last movie Keith and I watched together. DVD (which I'd brought) in the rental condo on our last dive trip, the one for a week in Maui, that we'd planned for years. We preferred watching the director's commentary version, over and over, as we drank beer, or tequila, or rum, or whatever, and debated the states of our lives--as lifelong friends and dive buddies are wont to do--and planned the next day's diving or free diving. The trip of a lifetime. So glad we made it happen.

I miss you, man.

Julia Whitty, Diving, and Manysidedness: Highly Recommended

The current reading in my English 1As.

Check out Julia Whitty's blog at http://deepbluehome.blogspot.com/

Sirens: Models of Danger and Desire

Sophia Loren, diver: still shot from Boy On A Dolphin.

One of my earliest mermaids in clay: sculpture mix; pit-fired on Ocean Beach, SF.

The tail is reddish from the kelp I wrapped around that part. The charcoal and blue markings surprised me with their aptness here: pure luck in the pit for a crude piece of work.

I've posted shots of this one before, of course. I wanted to look at it again with fresher eyes, and so used the camera and posted it. (That tends to work for me. Handling it, actually taking the piece down from the wall and feeling the clay, works too, often better.)

Study prompts.

Early Crush: Sophia Loren, Diver

Still shot from Boy On A Dolphin, I believe.

(I happened on this shot by chance this evening, so I feel compelled to share it.  Thanks to the person who checked out my blog via a page with this photo.)

Time to go diving, I am thinking.

Keith: We Never Took Enough Photos

My best friend Keith in two unguarded moments: Kruse Ranch dive trip.

He hated photographs, hated sitting still long enough for a photo, hated posing.  I'd have to be sneaky to document our dive trips, our friendship, and since I was arrogant regarding the primacy of memory and the internal vision, I colluded with Keith.  I can't recall that he ever snapped a shot, though I think his children may remember the facts differently.  He would have told me, Matt, of course, I want to have keepsakes of my children.  (He loved his children fiercely.)

Memory Lane is a blurry avenue, don't you know?

We left home about midnight and drove the three or four hours up to our "secret spot" on the Sonoma Coast, talking all the while, solving the moral conundrums and practical puzzles of the day, crashing out after a few beers by the side of the road.  (We both had forgotten to bring a bottle opener, and consequently, we had to be creative with different parts of the Datsun or our dive knives to serve that need.)  I think there's a "No Camping" sign a few feet from where Keith is sleeping.  With the morning light -- though this trip we'd obviously overslept -- we'd gear up and harvest a few abalone.  I usually ended up driving homeward while Keith napped in the passenger seat.  (I sometimes railed at him for how he relied on me to keep him awake on the outward leg, but he snoozed on me, leaving me to my own devices, on the homeward leg, but he always failed to be impressed by my arguments.  As driver, I had command of the tape deck, and he knew I liked companionable solitude anyway.)

When would this trip have occurred?  Post-undergraduate.  Law school days for Keith?  Warehouse/driver days for me?  I'd have to do some homework.  Early or mid-80's?  If I think hard enough about that car, I can work out the year, I'm sure.

If I spent too much time with my instamatic taking photos of the tidepools, of the surf, of any of our group, he'd urge me to get done, as we needed to head home.  He usually had work or chores or something waiting for him, and I respected those responsibilities, yet it often seemed as if he just thought what I was doing was frivolous.

He claimed to hate these shots.  And yet I can recall one time he commented that I never bothered to share the photographs with him and the rest of the gang, if gang there happened to be that year.  I was surprised and hadn't shared due to my sense of his disinterest, or antagonism, or to the poor quality of the shots, hurried and taken from the hip, as it were.

I wish I had more of them.

I miss you, man.

Macbeth Underwater

I'm trying to cut back on my book-buying, so about an hour ago I was faced with a dilemma. In my right hand, I was holding Antonia Fraser's history of the Gunpowder Plot (which I will refer to tangentially when I teach Macbeth this term); in my left hand, I was holding the Diving and Snorkeling Guide to Scotland. I also had tucked under my left elbow a book about 18th-century England that I'd already decided was necessary and inexpensive enough to buy (for another class).

In the spirit of adventure, of Macbeth Underwater, I chose the diving guide, though I'm already noticing that drysuits are preferred over wetsuits -- sure, cold cold water -- and that snorkeling or diving in Loch Ness is not recommended (too silty, too little visibility; no warnings about monsters).

(There's always later in the week for the Gunpowder Plot . . . .)

There may be some broad hints toward that book-plot I've been wrestling with . . . Macbeth Underwater . . . .