Christmas letter 2004

Dear Family & Friends,

Merry Christmas!

(It’s a little long…sorry)

I sat down to write out Christmas cards to send to the few people in my life who mean the most, and found there really aren’t that many people whom I place into that category. So here I am, writing a little letter to those few lucky (unlucky?) people who get to hear about some of my strange adventures in life, and occasionally partake in the adventures themselves. It’s to the traumatized family members of those nuts (I mean friends that agreed to adventure with me in the first place) that I extend my most humble apologies. I really can’t say ‘it won’t happen again’, because it very well might! So, I apologize for the past year of undue stress, worry, pain, etc… I’ll be apologizing again next Christmas, for sure.

So what do people put in letters like this? I don’t really know. There are certainly some things that would be deemed ‘inappropriate’ subject matter for a Christmas letter, so I’ll avoid those details with respect for tender eyes. But aren’t these letters supposed to be dry and full of facts which may or may not be inflated by a small dose of pride? Let me try that for a moment:

“Well, I turned down Harvard Business again. I really wish they’d just leave me alone. They know I’m attending Western Baptist College, starting in January.”

That was fun! I little white lie with a little white truth… I might be able to run with this. Let’s try another:

“I bought a townhouse in Corvallis this last May…” I’m not sure where to go with that. L Maybe I’ll come back to it later.

Okay, here’s a brief rundown of some events that shook my world just a bit. Again, I apologize to the families….

In May I made a trip with Brother (in-law) Rick to the sand dunes in Florence Oregon. There were many signs ‘from above’ that we should have seen as bad omens, but we didn’t. There were many times we could have turned back, but we didn’t. There were many warnings from others that I should have remembered, but didn’t.

Okay, I got a little overzealous with the gas peddle. True. Maybe I could have eased-off the gas peddle instead of gunning it up that hill. I may never be accused of doing ‘the right thing’, and I’m okay with that now. Though the twelve foot nose dive wasn’t exactly on our agenda for the day, it turned out to be a great bonding experience. Yes, we had some bruises. Yes, our pride took a hit. Sister Connie (Rick’s honey) even called us to jokingly see if we needed an ambulance. “No” Rick answered honestly, holding onto his heavily bruised chest the whole time. But looking back, we were certainly being watched over during our entire glorious journey. No doubt about that! We just happened to have the right equipment, tools, and replacement parts to get going again. Rick drove the second time; right to the top of a 50+ foot drop off! Together, we had a sudden and painful realization: we had entered the Dunes of Death. I’m betting that’s what the word ‘Florence’ means in the local Indian tongue. We danced at death’s door and limped home afterward.

Then, once-upon-a-time, Rick (yes, Rick. You’d think he’d learn from the Dunes of Death experience) and I went to Newport to do some crabbing in the 11-foot aluminum boat Brother Mike had given to me. Just the thought of going out on the bay with that little boat was concerning enough, which you’ll find in the next event. So instead of risking the bay in that little boat, we changed direction toward another little boat.

This other little boat just happened to be an inflatable speed boat that exceeded 60 mph out on the open ocean! Ok, the thought of moving from a small boat with a 7 ½ horsepower motor to one with a V-8 might be bothering some readers. It was one of the best adventures I’ve ever been on, but there’s a catch. What? A catch you say? Yep. You see, I was feeling extremely nauseous BEFORE we even left my house that morning. It could have been a sign… but you’ve already found that we don’t look for warnings and omens when we have our minds set on having an adventure. We should probably think about doing that one of these times.

Anyhow, the nausea just kept growing and growing. The cool breeze with the sweet stench of spoiled fish on the bay front really didn’t help. The finger vs. throat didn’t payout in the local pub’s restroom. Deep breathing exercises – nope… The persistent question from Rick: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Okay, I did it. That little boat rolled and swayed gently at the dock as we assumed our positions. I felt the bulge forming in my throat that held great potential for terrible embarrassment. Imagine letting it go before even leaving the dock! No, that’s not what happened. My pride (and a clenched jaw) held back that growing possibility at the dock. Before long we were cruising out of the bay and into the open ocean. This little boat flew through the air, launched off of cresting waves, landed with such force one lady was almost tossed out. Actually, I’m not sure we shared that part of the story with Rick’s family. Anyway, it was great! Until we would stop and roll with the swells…up… down…swaying back…swaying forth… Ugh! I did my best to be cheerful, but the reality of my nausea was all too present. Relax I told my self over, and over, and over. Before long we were jumping waves and racing up and down the beautiful Oregon coast leaving my illness behind.

The crabbing had to wait for another day, so here’s that story:

This next trip to Newport bay held many adventures for me. It was a beautiful three-day weekend, and I was determined to do as much crabbing as I could. The first day was off of the dock. It was pretty uneventful really. The second day I brought a friend along (who will not be getting this letter) to try out the little aluminum boat on the bay. We had our bait, we had our baskets, we had lunch… it was going to be great. Well, it was…for a little while. The little boat was just a bit smaller than what should have been out on the water. We pulled in about ½ dozen keepers, but the waves were cresting over the bow and I think the drain plug was leaking a bit. I know… ‘It’s a sign to get off the water, quick!’

Well, I didn’t see it as a warning; I saw it as a challenge to stay afloat in the midst of uncertain and hazardous circumstances. The wind picked up and was pushing us toward the back of the bay with almost as much force as the little motor could drive us along. I wouldn’t use the word ‘panic’, but when I ripped the pull-cord out of the top of the motor I was a bit concerned. Fortunately the motor was running, so we made our way back to my pickup and I made the repair. Unfortunately when we started heading out to retrieve the crab baskets, the prop hit a rock and sheared a pin that wasn’t suppose to shear! The wind pushed us back into the sand, right by the truck. I couldn’t make the repair, and it was getting pretty dark, so we packed up everything and left. Yes, the baskets were left alone for the crabs to feast all night long on the bait without fear of capture.

The very next day a different friend joined me on a rescue mission. You see, I managed to not only have a great crab feast the night prior, but I also fixed the motor! I won’t mention HOW I fixed it; just that it IS fixed and probably will NEVER break again. So, the rescue mission was an outstanding success, and with the help of some generous boaters who gave us an entire tuna carcass, it was a very prosperous crabbing day. The waves were easily handled by the little boat, and the wind was crisp but relatively calm. We did find out that tuna doesn’t come out of blue jeans…ever. The day ended with a great crab feast and a lot of leftovers.

Not too long after crabbing, I met a guy at work named Chris who just happened to enjoy white water rafting. So we joined his wife and their two friends and hit the North Santiam River at Mehama Oregon. If you can recall September 18th, it was a Saturday with nothing but rain, rain, rain. Oh, it was mighty cold too. The river reports for that day revealed later that the river volume, height and velocity were nearly double its average for that time of year. This translates into a wild ride, far better than we could have hoped for. Class II rapids became class III rapids, just for us. Class IV rapids are small water falls, and class V rapids are guaranteed death-traps for all who pass.

The class II & III rapids were so numerous that we barely got through one before we hit the next. Now THAT is my kind of rafting. Where’s the catch? You’re asking. Well, there’s several. Ok…here they are: My raft, that ancient Mayan artifact from the days of Montezuma, apparently has a leak somewhere. Chris’s friends were on the front of my raft, and I was steering from the back. How’s this a problem? Well, the raft tried to fold itself in half several times while coursing through the rapids. Yep, that was pretty exciting. The friends (don’t remember their names) were pretty stressed the first couple times that happened. I found a strange sense of evil delight at their plight…

We did the first five miles twice, but the friends weren’t real excited about doing the final 10.5 miles, so they jumped ship. Being a good friend, Chris’s wife departed with them and left me and Chris to brave the final stretch by ourselves. This time I jumped into Chris’s wife’s inflatable kayak, while he stayed in his. So they went one way and we headed off into the wild unknown to brave whatever may rise to meet us.

Okay, I admit. We probably should have got out with their friends… hind-sight 20/20, right? The signs were there: Don’t go! They’re clear now, but we had our focus. I think there’s a common theme I’m seeing about my adventures… Anyhow, we went forth like two men charting unknown lands. Of course, we ventured off the main river and found ourselves on the FAR side of a diversion dam that was overflowing (not normal) due to the excessive volume of the river. Our first sight of this death trap was a really long wall of mist rising off the water in front of us. Normally a short wall would have been stubbed above the water to prevent accidental trips over the edge, but not this day.

Chris and his high-quality kayak made it across the great expanse to an outcrop of boulders that were the safe haven for people like us. Well, the kayak I had wasn’t the high-end sort and I paddled my heart out to make it across. For every foot I moved closer to the boulders, I moved three feet closer to the water fall. Yes, I found myself dancing at deaths door AGAIN! (I really need to stop doing this)

I managed to run the kayak’s nose onto the last rock available to me. Without landing there, I would have had only seconds to line the kayak up for a nose dive. Without Chris’s quick attention to my predicament, I may not have been able to stay nosed onto that rock; the strong current was pulling me away. So we carried our kayaks around the diversion dam of death and found that it held not just one 8+ foot fall, but two! Of course there were rocks at the bottom of the final drop, so if the falls didn’t get me, the rocks were sure to finish me off. Nice thought, eh?

The rest of the trip was great. We did almost 22 miles total that day. I didn’t realize though that when I was done with the trip, the trip wasn’t done with me. The next day I woke to my right leg hurting just a bit. The pain flared from a small worn area on my right Achilles tendon. By the end of the day I could barely walk. By the next morning the pain was excruciating. Oh, did I forget to mention the red line that stretched up to my knee? Yep. I was in serious danger of losing my right leg!

I was ‘directed’ to go urgent care by my supervisors when I couldn’t walk down the hall to a staff meeting. The doctors took instant action and flooded my poor, sensitive body with large vials of antibiotics injected right into my butt cheek! Ouch! The pain killers were pretty cool though. While I sat at home wondering if my leg would be around for Christmas, I wrote a small book for Johnathon’s 10th birthday…thanks to the elevated level of consciousness from the pain killers. I think it’s also coined as ‘being stoned’. I prefer the former definition. Fortunately, my leg decided to stick around to see what the next adventure might hold.

The best part of my whole year is that my boys are back in Oregon! We spent the entire summer together and now I spend every-other weekend with them, plus several whole weeks scattered through the year. I really don’t know how to express myself when it comes to having my boys nearby. I know I’ve put myself in a lot of difficult situations, but being without my boys was the worst situation of all. Now they’re back and I cherish them so very much.

Thank you all for such a great year! I can’t wait to see what next year will hold. Who’s willing to go on the next adventure? What!? No volunteers? Come on. How bad could it be…?




Merry Christmas!