British Virgin Islands under sail. Tortola, Virgin Gorda. Border Protection. Oh, yeah. More pictures.

Nice area, these Virgin Islands. Not a lot of difference, not a lot of distance, between the U.S. side and the British islands. But. Getting from one to the next is still international travel. And, with that comes Customs, Immigration, and the fun that goes along with it.

We had a slight glitch in one of our airline tickets, a glitch we discovered when we did the on-line check-in 24 hours before our departure. I love the advance check-in process,  being able to secure a boarding pass before we even reach the ticket counter. Modern technology that works for me.

The glitch was a typo. One letter in my wife's name was wrong. I called the airline when we checked in. Talked with a nice lady, and she assured us that it had been submitted properly, but the "system" had created the misspelling. It would be no problem, she said. We'll see, I thought.

Well, she was half right. No problem all the way from Jacksonville (NC), to St. Thomas, and even into the BVI's. No problem getting out of Tortola and into St. Thomas. But, that's when the fun started. We cleared Customs and Immigration in St. Thomas, but an eagle-eyed TSA inspector, at the screening table, us with our shoes on the X-ray table, spotted that tiny typo and sent us packing. Back to the ticket counter we went.

We really should have used that screener to examine all those spy satellite pictures our CIA was snapping, in its effort to find bin Laden, now known as Been Dead. I'll bet she could have spotted him back in 2001, and this whole mess would have come to a much earlier end.

(By the way...I like what the inspector did. It showed she was actually doing her job. Making our flight that much safer. Rules is rules and we all must abide by them. Besides, it proves what I used to tell my team when I was a news director...spelling does matter).

Being the overly cautious person I am (I carry two cameras-back up stuff- I have two VHF radios on my boat, and I always had a back-up pistol when I was a cop), we had plenty of time before our flight was going to leave. The nice lady at USAirways said there should not have been an issue. Tell that to the TSA lady, I thought. She tried, on her computer, to make the change. To no avail. She told us there was nothing she could do. I even thought about some white-out but figured eagle eye would catch that, too.

After a discussion about the ticket agent putting us up at her house, and feeding us, and maybe washing our clothes, she made a call. Likely to Winston-Salem. It took a few key strokes, and Voila! My wife's name was changed back, we had new boarding passes, and we were back in business. With about three hours to spare. At least we didn't have to do the O.J. rush through the airport terminal (you don't remember those commercials? The ones made before he went nutso?)

Too bad that our close friends, the Brits, don't sit down with our fine folks in Washington and work out some sort of deal like the French and Dutch have in St. Martin-St. Marteen. That's an island, not far from the Virgin Islands,  half French and half Dutch. The border is nothing more than an imaginary line. Locals and visitors alike wander from one side to the other. No border gates, no customs or immigration issues. Sort of like it really is between the United States and Mexico. Except that at St. Martin, it's legal to cross that border without clearing Customs.

In the Virgin Islands, even boating from one side to the other can be an issue. And, it can be inconvenient. Our hosts, U.S. citizens, and what they call resident boat owners, can take their vessel from Tortola to St. John, a US Virgin Island...a stones' throw away from Tortola...for dinner, but they would have to clear Immigration and Customs if visitors, such as ourselves, went along.

It would be cool if Hillary could get together with her counterpart in the UK and work out some play nice arrangements. It's not like the Brits are our bitter enemy. I'm sure they've forgotten all about that little incident back in 1776, and the skirmishes of 1812. A lot has happened since then, and we've all played well in the sandbox for a long time.

Ok, enough of that. How about some pretty pictures?

Saba Rock, just after sunset. A small island with food and drink. Good painkillers for $2.50 from 4-6 pm.

Our Fighter Escort

At Soper's Hole, rental sailboats await their new crews.

Now, this is border protection. At the Bitter End Yacht Club on Virgin Gorda, this slightly used weapon of mass destruction guards the harbor.

The Chicks are in charge. Linda, one of our hosts is on the left, Robe, my wife, is on the right.

Ahhhhhhh.

There are two dogs here. Look closely. One is on the port side (that's the left), at the transom.

Must have gotten those at a fish market. I dragged a line all along our inner-island runs and only picked up seaweed. I know there are fish there, because I saw lots of them, including some really nice grouper, while diving. And, I saw schooling fish on the surface. Just nothing that wanted my bait.

I was made for this hammock. At the Bitter End Yacht Club.

You want warm water? The sun will take care of your needs. Give it a few minutes.

Larry and Linda, our hosts.

Another nice boat on a mooring ball (a line with a buoy, running to a permanent rod sunk into the ocean's floor) take from the Reggae's galley (that's a kitchen) porthole (that's a window)

See you on the next installment.

Sailing, sailing. The BVI.s. Reggae, our nautical home.

This is going to be the first in a series of postings about a trip. For Gilligan, the Skipper, Ginger, Mary Ann, the Howells and the Professor, it started out as a three hour tour. It ended a few years later. Well, our trip started out as a seven day, six night adventure aboard Reggae, a 38 foot Benneteau sailboat. This particular craft was made in 1986 in France, and is a beauty. And, she was our home while sailing, snorkeling, and diving around Tortola and Virgin Gorda.

First, our hats' off to USAirways. Often maligned, we were pleasantly pleased with our connections. We left Jacksonville (NC) on schedule, arrived in Charlotte, on time, left Charlotte, on time after a short layover (just enough time to grab a quick breakfast, and arrived two minutes early at St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands. Amazing when you consider the distance, the variables, the vectoring around storms...that's the way to run an airline.

A ten minute taxi ride to the ferry landing in Charlotte Amilie, a 55 minute ferry ride, and voila! We were in Tortola. And, our hosts and friends met us in their dingy at the dock to transport us to Reggae.

I've known Larry and Linda Stutz for darn near 30 years. Larry retired as an airline pilot almost five years ago. They spend a month each year aboard Reggae, a boat they and eight others share.  Each gets a month each year. The boat is in dry dock three months for repairs and routine maintenance.

In the coming days, I'll detail the trip, our week at sea. It was a blast for my wife, Robie, and me. We came home relaxed and refreshed. But, now, I'm just gonna post a few pictures I grabbed during those days.

Larry and Linda said they had not seen so much rain during any of their trips. Ok, so it did rain, off and on, for the first couple days. But, that didn't slow us down. And, if you haven't stood on the stern of a boat, at sea, soaped up, and let the fresh, warm rain rinse you off, then you don't know what you're missing.

Larry and Linda. Our hosts. Captain and co-captain. Larry's been sailing since he was a kid. Linda has learned a lot over the past few years, and is preparing for her sailing certificate.

That's us. Robie, the good-lookin' half. And, me. What can I say?

Sunrise is important to me. It's the start of every new day. And, photographically-speaking, the 15 minutes before sunrise through the first half hour after sunrise, are priceless. The scene changes every minute as the light changes. A fresh start to a brand new day. Colors can be muted, brilliant, or pastel. Check it out.

Larry loves to eat. Well.  I do, too. With Linda on board, there's no end to the food. She whips up some fine chow, food with a flair, food with flavours (had to add the u; after all, we were in the British Virgin Islands), flavours only enhanced by our surroundings. From chicken, to steak, to tacos.Yummm.

My friends at the Ship's Wheel (gift  shop at Tideline Marine in Jacksonville) sent a bottle along. Not filled with booze, just with all of the necessary material to send a message. And, we did. I'll let you know if someone finds our note and makes contact.We set her afloat in Drake's Channel.

Robie, though a certified SCUBA diver, chose to snorkel a bit.

On the other hand, I headed for the bottom. First dive, and I couldn't believe it. After more than 45 years of diving, from North Carolina all through the Caribbean, I finally found some treasure. Returning to Reggae, after 50 minutes looking around and under every crevice I could find (ok, so I was searching for lobsters), I found this $20 bill half buried in the sand. Nice find, for sure. Lottery tickets, here I come. That twenty might be a lucky one. Who said I was superstitious?

Walking the dog. Early morning, at Soper's Hole on Tortola, this cute guy paused to chat.

On one of our ferry crossings, three of these guys stayed right with us. I believe they were our escorts. You know, sort of like the fighter jets that often accompany Air Force One. We felt special.

And, after all these years on earth, I finally learned how to play dominoes. I even won. Once.

                                      Ok, admit it. It just can't get much better than this. Right?
More pictures to follow. Lotsa boats, lots of scenery. As I recall, I uploaded something over 500 images when we got home. I'm still sortin' 'em out. I'll try to convince Linda to give it up on a couple of the recipes that I plan to use at home. She did something with a filet mignon that was pretty cool. 


This is a rough idea of our route from the West End, at Soper's Hole on Tortola, up to The Bitter End Yacht Club and Saba Rock (not Saba Island near St Marteen) at Virgin Gorda.



Later, ya'll.

Police Involved Shooting. Too much paperwork? Reasons to shoot the scumbag.

Ever watched that TV show, Bluebloods? Comes on Friday nights, and stars Tom Selleck as the police commissioner in New York. This former Magnum P.I. star, who was, as I recall, The Marlboro Man, has a family...the Reagans (no, not that one)...of lawmen and law-women. His dad is a retired cop. His two sons are cops. And, his daughter is an assistant DA. Another son was killed in the line of duty.

Ok, you get the picture.

Last week's episode had multiple parallel-plot lines. The younger son, a Harvard graduate, shoots a guy while working a protection detail. That's the line I'm following here. At the scene, his lieutenant tells the kid to head back to the station to start filling out the dreaded officer-involved-shooting reports. A MOUND of paperwork, so dreaded by cops everywhere.

It's paperwork that can be used by the Internal Affairs guys, as well as the DA's office, as well as every person or group that has an axe to grind, against the officer. Self-incriminating. In most cases, district attorneys are wise enough, experienced enough, to understand the cop's job. Decisions are made in split seconds that can be analyzed to death in the comfort of an office for days on end.

Back to the storyline. Approaching the end of the show, as usual, the Reagan clan heads to Daddy Reagan's house for dinner. Daddy Reagan asks the rookie son how he's holding up. To which he quips, something like, not bad, except for all the paperwork. The older, much more experienced son says something like, yes, Mr. Commissioner, isn't there something you could do about that?

I don't know of any cop who enjoys paperwork. And, I don't know any who relish the thought of having to open fire on anything other than a silhouette target. I do sometimes wonder if the threat of all that paperwork keeps some officers from being as proactive as they should be. And, I wonder how many police officers have been hurt because they waited too long to take action, perhaps thinking of the mounds of paperwork, the endless Monday morning quarterbacking by armchair politicians and do-gooders, the ACLU.

So, with just a slight bit of tongue-in-cheek, I've come up with a simple Officer-Involved-Shooting form, one that should make the cop's job much simpler if he has to take that ultimate step.

                                   Reason for shooting the Scumbag
                                                        check all that apply

( ) He/she had a gun, knife, hatchet, tire tool, molotov cocktail, hand grenade, WMD, IED, or some device that I thought resembled one of these weapons.

( ) He/she kept running from me when I told him/her to HALT!

( ) He/she is a known drug dealer or trafficker, and is likely selling or giving narcotics to young people in order to create a new client base.

( ) He/she has been through the system time and again, and is known to jailers as frequent fliers.

( ) He/she has been warned by fellow officers: "If you ever do something like this again, I'm going to shoot you". And, they failed to heed that advice.

( ) He/she made a threat against my family.

( ) He/she called my mother bad names.

( ) He/she failed to do right.

( ) He/she is likely to do something at some point in time that will cause harm to a fellow officer

For lawmen south of the Mason-Dixon line, or west of the Mississippi, you may select the following:

( ) He/she needed killing.

To Recyle, or Not to Recyle

It's a pet peeve of mine. Not the fact that we should recycle, not the fact that we are MANDATED to recyle. Just the fact that there are some glitches in the system. (And, maybe a few irregularites, as well).

Let's take just ONE example.

The fine folks at the Trash Department, or whatever, for the  City of Jacksonville (NC) tells us, in this case, that we MUST put our recycle bins out where their truck can get them before dawn each Thursday.

Not the first time this has happened, but the first time I've documented it. In detail.

Last Wednesday, prior to 6 pm (that's 1800 for some of you), the recycle bins were rolled out to their usual locations for an anticipated "before dawn" pickup. At 8:30 am, the bins were still there. The fine folks were called and were given that info.

Now, I come into the picture. It's 8:30 Friday morning. The bins are still there, and the pile is growing. I called them. Personally. I was told that the bins were NOT outside in the usual spot at about 4 am Thursday. Not having first hand knowledge of the events up until that time, I said I would check on it.

Well. Well. The owner of the business said that not only were the bins in place before 6 pm Wednesday, they were still there when he left the premises at about 10 pm Wednesday.

Another call to the folks. While the pile continued to grow.

I passed along the info. Never got a call back. I called, again, in the afternoon. I was told that the higher up muckty-muck would be in touch. Let me see. As of Tuesday at 4:30, they were still there. And, as of 5:45 Sunday afternoon, I still had no call. And, the trash pile continues to grow.

So, again before dawn tomorrow, a week later, we'll see how the pile of recycle stuff is handled. However they choose to deal with it, I would think that somebody is asleep at the wheel. And, as Truman said back some 60 years ago, the Buck Stops Here.

Mr. Mayor. Are you getting the message?  

Just a Day of Flying, complete with pictures.

Had an assignment Monday. Flew a bit around Wilmington (NC), getting photos for a client. And, of course, when in the air, on the sea, below the sea, or just toolin'  'round town, I take advantage of my surroundings.

Here are a few pics to share.

No, I was not walking on the wing. But, I did stick my camera outside on the approach to Wilmington's airport. It was such a nice day. My wife, Robie, went along for the ride. Guess my open window makes a mess of hair for those in the back seat.

Independence Mall in Wilmington (NC). A little history here. It was opened in 1976, the year of the Bicentennial, the 200th anniversary of this great nation. Hence, "Independence Mall". Cool, too, in that it's telephone number is 910-392-1776. Funny how I've remembered this for 35 years.

Air Force pilots routinely use Wilmington International for touch and go practice landings for it's Presidential fleet. Such was the case on Monday.

Downtown Wilmington, with the Notrh Carolina Battleship Memorial across the Cape Fear River

Longshoremen offload containers from a 900-foot ship at the NC State Ports in Wilmington

Bird's Eye View

              Henrietta, a river tour boat, passes the State Port on a midday trip out of Wilmington.

Ok, back on the ground. What a sweet dog. The driver is, without ANY doubt, an ECU grad. His Jeep was sporting a couple pirate flags, a bumpder sticker that claimed his other car is a pirate ship (I gotta find one of those...our boat is named Pirate Attack), his license plate was neat: ECYOU. And, this cool dog is sporting a purple collar. I'll bet they're a hit at tailgate parties. 

Anyway, that was our day. Beautiful, it was.  I could have stayed up there, shooting pictures, all day. Maybe next time.

What an excuse for a wuss.Your President. Mine to replace in 2012.

Can you believe that? The excuse for the leader of the greatest nation on Earth. A guy who has:
1. Never worked a real job
2. Never served in the military but is suddenly the Commander in Chief????
3. A simple, ordinary guy who has only been some sort of community leader? Whatever that is.

He has decided, with all his vast expreience in this world, that the photos of the idiot who held this country hostage, the low-life responsible for the billions of wasted taxpayer dollars, the scum who is responsible for our grandmothers having to remove their shoes and get groped at airports...yeah, Barack HUSSEIN O-Damn-Bama has chickened out. Again. He has decided that we might tick off some fine brethern rag heads if "he" releases pictures of what is, thank goodness, shark crap so all of the U.S. could have a bit of closeure.
Closeure, maybe even some sadistic, but well-deserved, revenge. Sure, why not? We deserive it. After ten years of what Olver North described as the "most dangerous man in the world" in the late 80's...how does that make you feel, Al Goreless...yes, we deserve some revenge. A bit of closeure.
Not to mention those survivors of the Twin Towers. How about the families of those who did not survive?  We watched as bin Laden's work sent hundreds to their death. They plunged to their deaths on  live TV. We watched, hundreds of times, as the towers collapsed, snuffing out thousands of lives on the way down.

But, B. HUSSEIN O-Damn-Bama thinks we might upset some rag heads if we show Public Enemy Number One with a little blood around his head and chest. We've all seen pictures of gunfighters in the Old West, in boxes, propped up for all to see, when they met their demise. What's the big deal?

What does this excuse for a world leader have to hide? Are his true colors now showing through? How HUSSEIN is he?

Remember. November 2012 is a little more than a year away. Maybe, hopefully, we'll find someone with some guts to take his place.  

Don't Mess With My Dog, Mr. Guv'ment Man

We all get cute e-mails. Some funny stories. Some funny, cute stories that, while obviously creative fiction, could very well be true.

By the way. I get tired. Tired of government waste. Waste means that it costs me--and YOU--lotsa tax dollars. I'd like to thank the Navy SEAL who, no doubt, was thinking of my tax bill when he used just two rounds...one to the chest, a second to the head...avoiding an expensive confinement for bin Laden, and a lavish trial at some point in the distant future. Efficient. I like that.

Bear with me. I'm like Matlock. I'm getting around to tying all of this together.

Story is about a cowboy. I just love the common-sense cowboys out there. Hard working. Steak and beans guys. Simple, but efficient.

Story goes that a cowboy, minding his own business....
well, enough of that. I'll just paste from an e-mail from another common sense friend of mine, a retired state trooper:

A cowboy named Bud was overseeing his herd in a remote Pasco pasture when suddenly a brand-new BMW advanced toward him out of a cloud of dust. 
The driver, a young man in a Brioni suit, Gucci shoes, RayBan sunglasses and YSL tie, leaned out the window and asked the cowboy, "If I tell you exactly how many
cows and calves you have in your herd, Will you give me a calf?"  
                     
Bud  looks at the man, obviously a yuppie, then looks at his peacefully grazing herd and calmly answers, "Sure, Why not?"

The yuppie parks his car, whips out his Dell notebook computer, connects it to his Cingular RAZR V3 cell phone, and surfs to a NASApage on the Internet, where
he calls up a GPS satellite to get an exact fix on his location which he then feeds to another NASA satellite that scans the area in an ultra-high-resolution
photo. 
         
The young man then opens the digital photo in Adobe Photoshop and exports it to an image processing facility in Hamburg , Germany . 
         
Within seconds, he receives an email on his Palm Pilot that the image has been processed and the data stored. He then accesses an MS-SQL database through an
ODBC connected Excel spreadsheet with email on his Blackberry and, after a few minutes, receives a response.     
  
Finally, he prints out a full-color, 150-page report on his hi-tech, miniaturized HP LaserJet printer, turns to the cowboy and says, "You have exactly 1,586 cows and calves."         
               
"That's right. Well, I guess you can take one of my calves," says Bud. 
         
He watches the young man select one of the animals and looks on with amusement as the young man stuffs it into the trunk of his car. 
Then Bud says to the young man, "Hey, if I can tell you exactly what your business is, will you give me back my calf?"        
         
The young man thinks about it for a second and then says, "Okay, why not?" 
    
 "You're an aide in the Obama Administration", says Bud.
(Note...it could have been from every  administration  since The Buck Stops Here Harry Truman) 
       
"Wow! That's correct," says the yuppie, "but how did you guess that?" 
"No guessing required." answered the cowboy.
"You showed up here even though nobody called you;
you want to get paid for an answer I already knew, to a
question I never asked.
You used millions of tax dollars worth of equipment trying to show me how much smarter than me you are;
and you don't know a thing about how working people make a living - or about cows, for that matter.  This is a herd of sheep. ... 
        
Now give me back my dog.

Bin Laden is Dead. SEALed with a kiss. Of death.

I'll make it short and sweet.
Good riddance.
Well, that's short, but I must add a little more to make it truly sweet.
You might say that bin Laden's fate was "sealed". For good. By a squad of U.S. Navy SEALS.
Four helicopters.
40 commandoes. 24 entered a compound identified and confirmed as a hideout for the country's number one target.
They confronted him, ordered him to give up the ghost, he refused, and they sent him off to wander around for eternity looking for 72 virgins.
The SEALS picked up their trophy, brought it back for positive identification, then, according to morning after reports, dumped his miserable carcass into the ocean.
Hope the sharks don't get indigestion.
Great job to our guys, ALL of them. 24 went in, all 24 came out. A job well done. Keep in mind that it took a lot more than a little village to make this happen. The diligent work of the Central Intelligence Agency got this ball rolling.
By the way. Did you ever try to pronounce CIA?
Try it this way.
See-ya.  
The whole story will come out one day. I'll anxiously await for the book.
Now, back to Moo-a-mar Kha-daffy. Wonder how he's feeling these days. We haven't quite touched him, yet. But, we continue to whittle down his heirs.