A chapter in our life ended on Friday, May 14, 2010, when we said goodbye to our dearest Trevor. He was a dog of my heart, so close and special to me in ways that many would not understand. He was by no means a perfect dog. There was no object perpendicular to the ground that could escape his marking. I will never forget the vision of him casually strolling up to my son’s best friend and claiming him in that special doggy way. Trevor had the uncanny ability to start the doggy equivalent of a bar room brawl, and would never dream of walking away from one. A rescue dog, at times we aptly identified his breed as New Hampshire Hump Hound.

However, no dog could outdo his ability to create joyful times for young boys who, like Trevor, had trouble knowing when to put on the brakes. Even at the end, the sound of a young male voice would stop him in his tracks and change his direction. Trevor would dock dive for jolly balls, play king of the float, accompany canoes, kayaks, and swimmers doing laps. And he would do those things for hours on end. He was an avid fishing partner, patient and calm until the big strike came along. On hikes, Trevor always took point, showing off his jaunty stride and making sure the way was well marked and safe for others. He was a marathon play-master in his prime.

In his older years, Trevor developed the new role of play police for the younger dogs that entered our lives – teaching them when enough was enough, how to play nice, and the importance of not interrupting nap or meal time. It didn’t take much – he could walk into a room and create instant calm. Outdoors, a few well timed warning barks did the trick.

We found each other through adoption, when Trevor was approximately 1.5 – 2 years old, and relished the 12 years we shared our lives. He will be missed by many, including lads young and those now grown. But no one will miss him more than I. If there is a spot over the bridge, here’s hoping that there is a spring back in his step, lots of verticals for marking, a bag of Cheetos, and a never ending supply of jolly balls. Farewell dear friend – Godspeed.

Kris

Trevor’s Photo Album

Huck and Birr pull Kris through the snowy woods on my 50 year-old Flexible Flyer sled. Some day we hope to get a real dog sled, but in the meantime this is fun for everyone.

Huck and Birr are best buddies

Warning: This is a sad story about a 24,000-ton lady, a princess and three angels. My eyewitness account of the lady’s death at St. Thomas in 1979.

On St. Thomas in March of 1979, the cruise season was still in full swing. Ships arrived every day and thousands of passengers poured into the downtown shopping area to lighten their bank accounts. Merchants and cab drivers competed fiercely for a share of the bounty.

For me, the morning of Friday, March 30 was filled with apprehension. Two days earlier, the reactor at Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania melted down, and information was extremely hard to come by. Kris was pregnant with our first child, and medical complications beyond the local hospital’s ability to treat had mandated her return to the mainland several weeks earlier for treatment and rest. She was staying with her parents in her childhood home outside of Philadelphia. I was extremely concerned for their safety.

I started the workday in the usual way. Breakfast at Sparky’s Waterfront Saloon was a daily ritual among a large group of Americans settled in the territory. I sat with two of my coworkers, Frank and Jody. Jody was actually a native of the island, but he looked and acted like the rest of us — members of a population group referred to as ‘continentals’. Both of the guys were members of the VI Search and Rescue organization, and between them told a lot of fascinating stories of rescues, both humorous and dramatic, on the seas and on land. I heard many of those stories during my years on St. Thomas, and this day would give rise to a story that I’m sure they are still telling. I know I am, and you’re reading it now.

I bought a Virgin Islands Daily News and a San Juan Star from a young boy who made the rounds inside the restaurant. To my disappointment, neither paper held any substantive information about the drama unfolding in Pennsylvania near my wife and unborn child. There were wild rumors, and they weren’t good. Locally, the big news was the arrival of more film crews for the production of two network television shows. Filming had already begun, and there were famous people roaming the island.

The season openers for The Love Boat and Charlie’s Angels were being combined this year for back-to-back showings on network TV. The plot called for the angels to board the cruise ship for a much-deserved vacation. While on the ship, the Angels were supposed to become involved in some sort of intrigue that would spill over onto St. Thomas during a port of call. The ship used on Love Boat was actually the Pacific Princess, which sailed under that name for the last time in 2002.

Frank and I left Sparky’s and went to the office a block down the waterfront. We ran a business called Alert Systems for a man who had retired to the Virgin Islands at a young age after selling his NYC-based Musicast business to rival Muzak. He could not sit still, and began buying local businesses. We operated monitored alarm systems for the downtown businesses, and had just started the first pocket paging (beeper) business in the Caribbean. I had fallen into this line of work shortly after Barclay’s Bank padlocked the Virgin Islands Adventure multi-media show. It was a very interesting experience — not exactly my regular line, but I wanted to stay in the islands for a while and I had to do something for a living (I could easily write another book on the topic).

Friday night view from home

I liked Fridays because many of the ships stayed late in port. Kris and I lived way up the steep slope overlooking the harbor, just below the Mountaintop Hotel and across the street from Fairchild’s Park. It gets dark early year-round by the local clock in St. Thomas, so by the time I got home from work on Fridays, the remaining ships stood lighted and beautiful in a stunning vista visible from our porch.

As four o’clock approached that Friday afternoon I was able to taste the coming weekend. I just had to ensure that the night staff showed up to monitor the alarm systems, and then I would be free. We had a collection of radio scanners in the office, and suddenly the quiet airwaves came to life. “Fire at the dock. Units responding.”

I went outside and looked directly across the harbor where four ships were tied to the West Indian Company dock. Just the usual sights, though emergency vehicles were rushing along the waterfront highway heading for Havensight. Back inside the office, confusion reigned on the airwaves. The officials couldn’t figure out what was going on, and it was certainly no clearer to me. A few minutes later the night staff showed up, and I left.

On the waterfront I saw a clue. A little smoke could be seen, apparently coming from a familiar blue and white ship operated by Costa. It was here every Friday. Angelina Lauro had the classic profile of ocean liners from decades earlier. She was no longer counted among the more handsome vessels to frequent this place, and she did not usually get a position at the dock. Ordinarily, Angelina anchored in the harbor where she provided a big target for landing seaplanes. Passengers ferried ashore in the ship’s tenders. For some reason Angelina had a spot at the dock on this day, last in a line of four ships tied there. Most of the ship’s superstructure extended past the end of the dock itself and stuck out into the harbor.

Angelina Lauro on a regular day

As I stood there watching the smoke, Frank rushed out of the office, two-way radio in hand. “Search and rescue — ship’s on fire. If you see Jody, tell him to get over to the dock,” said Frank as he rushed past me. He jumped in his car and was gone in a flash.

Lacking anything better to do, I decided to stay put and watch. Maybe I’d get to see one of Charlie’s Angels. Over the next hour, the wisp of smoke turned into a cloud and then into a storm.

There was a steady wind blowing, and the smoke left the ship and blew horizontally out through the mouth of the harbor.

As darkness fell, I could see some flames. By 9:00 that night, a lot of flames could be seen. About 9:30, the trucks of the VIFD came roaring back the way they had come. Firefighters had been given the retreat command.

An hour or so later, a firefighting tug arrived. It had been dispatched from the Hess refinery on St. Croix and it immediately went to work. “OK,” I thought, “Now we’re getting somewhere”. The VIFD trucks came outof hibernation, and returned to the scene.

The three other ships at the dock left before the scheduled times, their passengers recalled by continual blasts of ships’ horns. I found out later that they also carried the passengers and crew of Angelina Lauro back to San Juan. After watching the drama unfold for more than seven hours, I returned to the office to see if any news was available. The dispatcher relayed a report that Jody had been trapped in an elevator on the ship and was rescued. He was in the hospital and his condition was not known. No one had heard from Frank, which was unusual since he used his two-way radio like people use cell phones today. He was always in touch.

Around midnight, I went home and tried to sleep. Between thoughts of my approaching parenthood, Kris with complications an ocean away, nuclear clouds and now the burning ship, it was a fitful night. I was sure the morning would bring an end at least to this latest of these events. At dawn, I went outside. A huge column of smoke rose from the harbor, making it look like Three Mile Island had sailed here and blown its top.

I got my camera, a little 110 Instamatic, and drove toward the dock. The sight was incredible, and got more so as I closed in. The ship was fully engulfed in flame, and she was leaning hard to port. Apparently the weight of the water being poured into it from a number of boats and shore crews caused the ship to settle to the shallow bottom and roll. Angelina Lauro was being held up by the lines, which somehow escaped the heat and fire. With surprising ease of access I took a road up the hill just behind the dock, got out and took some pictures. I was sorry I didn’t have a ‘real’ camera.

Frank ended up in the hospital, too. He later told me the story. It seems that a military team was dispatched from the sub base to help fight the fire. They arrived in full firefighting regalia, with breathing packs and fire-resistant suits. The commander took one look at what was going on, and tried desperately to stop the disaster from compounding. Fuel was pouring from the ship into the harbor, and the VIFD was pumping the fuel-laden water right back onto the flames. Wherever the hoses were aimed, the fire burst forth with vigor. When the fire chief insisted that diesel fuel wouldn’t burn, the commander ordered his military team to leave the scene immediately. Shortly thereafter, the fire grew so intense that it became impossible to remain on the dock. A general evacuation was ordered.

Frank saw a motorcycle policeman he knew, and asked for a ride off the dock. The policeman decided to show off his riding skills, weaving recklessly through people and vehicles, going entirely too fast. They came upon a row of ambulances that had sat patiently through the night, waiting for customers to materialize. There had only been one minor injury during the whole episode (Jody) — until now, that is. A man was walking parallel to the row of ambulances, on a path about four feet distant. Traveling at 30 MPH, the officer tooted his horn and gunned the bike toward the gap between the man and the vehicles. Unfortunately the pedestrian darted toward the ambulance rather than away from it, closing off the passage. The officer swerved and crashed.

Frank recently recounted the incident for me. “I remember flying through the air. I landed on the pavement, staring straight up. I could feel pain in my hand, and as I raised it to take a look, I saw something dropping out of the sky. The cop’s helmet came off in the crash, flew through the air and hit me square in the forehead. I still have a bump,” said Frank, pointing to a pronounced lump above his eye. “I was kind of woozy, but I checked my hand and it wasn’t too bad. I felt for my radio. It wasn’t on my belt, so I started crawling around looking for it. That’s when the ambulance attendants found me. They thought I was either nuts or concussed, but they were glad to finally have someone to cart away.”

Angelina Lauro burned for many days. The last flames were not really extinguished — they simply ran out of combustible material. The fire was declared out on April 4, though I recall smoke and stream rising for several days after that.

The Charlie’s Angels/Love Boat film cast and crew were presented with a big problem. They were here on a tight schedule, and for the first few days it was not possible to get a shot of anything on the island without a big column of smoke appearing in the frame. After that, the hulking wreckage dominated every view of the harbor. Writers were called in to salvage the shoot. They made the burning ship central to the plot, and filming quickly resumed. Every day, individual crews would set up in multiple locations around the island, and the actors would shuttle around doing scenes. I wonder how many people later watched those shows and thought they were seeing some really good special effects. I got to see the whole thing live.

By the baby’s due date a couple of weeks later, I had scraped up enough money to fly to Philadelphia and cover the cab fare to Kris’s parents’ house. My arrival was a surprise, as was the fact that Kris did not glow in the dark. We hung around for two weeks before the doctors induced Kris into labor. Ryan was born on May 1. May Day, May Day.

Two weeks after Ryan’s birth, we boarded a flight for home with our new baby. I admired the two swirling cowlicks in his abundant hair. I couldn’t have known that they foreshadowed the arrival of Hurricanes David and Frederick later that year.

Angelina Lauro sat leaning on the harbor bottom by the dock for several months. Other ships came and went as usual, though the sight must have been unsettling to the passengers and crews. Eventually, she was pumped out and refloated. A huge Japanese tug towed her away. Halfway across the Pacific the radically unbalanced Angelina Lauro took a list, rolled over and sank.

In the fall of that year, the single local TV station was granted special permission to broadcast the opening shows of The Love Boat and Charlie’s Angels. We saw it in black and white. The plot was full of holes.

Jody Davis recovered nicely from his harrowing experience. His was one of only two reported injuries tied to the fire (Frank’s was not), and it is to Jody that we can attribute the little signs on ships warning passengers not to use the elevators in the event of fire.

According to the official Coast Guard report, the fire started in an overheated pan of cooking oil left unattended in the crew galley. Angelina Lauro was built in 1939, and although retrofit with 1960’s safety improvements including sprinklers, some serious design and construction flaws sealed her fate. A number of improvements for shipboard fire safety came out of this episode. Good ideas, like placing sprinkler heads in the service areas above the ceilings, installing effective dampers, improved fire door design (and more importantly, the mandatory closing of these doors), sprinkler pumps that can energize more than a few heads at once, reduced use of wood and other combustible materials,
and more effective training and procedure development.

Curiously, the sister ship to Angelina Lauro became infamous some years later. In 1985, Achille Lauro was highjacked off the coast of Egypt. She too met a fiery end, in 1994 off Somalia. I wasn’t there.

If you are interested, the complete Coast Guard Report on the Angelina Lauro incident is now public.

Our newest addition to the family – a Chinook puppy. Name and details forthcoming…

For those in the area who have never seen a Cirque show, this is your chance. Those who have seen one (or more) wouldn’t dream of missing it. A TV broadcast of Alegria is the event that compelled me to see a live show. Kris and I have now seen 5 live performances, but I’ve always yearned for the chance to see this one in particular. It contains my favorite act, known as “Power Track.” Below is a YouTube video of this act. I have learned from experience that video can only convey about 10% of the magic and energy of these shows, but go ahead and take a look…

Power Track is on the program, and I sincerely hope that the “arena adaptation” doesn’t take away from the thrill. For those considering attending, I advise sitting as low as possible (to the side is OK) – the nosebleed seats would present an odd angle. Of course, down low is more expensive, but I can say with assurance that you will not be disappointed. We’ll be there on Thursday, 7/8/2009, at floor level (after eating peanut butter dinners for a month). Click here for the Cirque website.

Click arrow to play slideshow.

Enfield, CT., May 30-31, 2009
Huck and friends. Two Champion wins and a Best of Breed for the little Huckster.

Click arrow to play slideshow.

Huck, our Chinook, completed his conformation and earned his Champion status on the first day. On day two, Huck earned two Champion wins (five such wins earns Grand Champion).

This is an excerpt from chapter 12 of my book, “What Time Is the Midnight Buffet?” Here we visit Coco Cay, the private island in the Bahamas owned by Royal Caribbean/Celebrity Cruises. Kris makes a last minute decision to accompany me on a waverunner (jet ski) excursion, and the rest is history…

…
Near the lunch area, I spotted the waverunner hut. In anticipation of my 3:00 reservation for a ride, I dragged Kris along for a look. A large sign out front displayed a long list of prohibitions for participants:

• NO Excessive Speed
• NO Wake Jumping
• NO Wave Jumping
• NO Racing
• Follow the guide
• Maintain 300’ Separation
• Etc., etc…

If the sign had been just a little bigger, they would have had room to sum it all up with a simple “NO FUN”. Maybe this wasn’t a good choice, after all. In bold letters, the sensible zero tolerance policy for riding under the influence caught my eye. I had just been thinking about a pina colada, but now I had reason to dismiss the idea.

Carrying lemonade, we went back to our encampment. It was already 2:00, and there really wasn’t much time before the waverunner session at 3:00. We sat in the sun for a while, and I took one of the rented floating beach mats into the water for ten minutes of pure relaxation. I’m going to buy one of those things some day. Even though I would carry two of them around for the rest of the day, we never got another chance to float around. All the while we sat on the beach, waverunners buzzed annoyingly offshore.

I took a couple of pictures for the record, and it was time to go. “Well, have you decided if you’re coming with me?” I asked Kris.

“Oh…I guess so,” she answered. “It does look like fun.”

We packed everything up and headed to Waverunner headquarters. There were convenient shelves available to hold our stuff, beach mats included. The little straps that give your glasses a chance to survive vigorous activity were available at the check-in desk. For a couple of bucks each (on the room card), we made the investment. After an introductory video in an air-conditioned room, we put on life vests and headed for the Waverunners. Over my vest we added a set of straps that provided cushioned handles for Kris to hang on to.

On the dock, we were introduced to our guides — a young man and a younger woman. The male guide said, “Who wants to go fast?” I raised my hand, as did a couple of others. Kris nudged me, but the cushioned lifejacket reduced the impact.

“We don’t want to go fast,” said Kris. I kept my hand raised. “Put your hand down!” She nudged me again.

Our guide counted off the go-fast wannabes. “One, two,” he said before pointing to us. “Three.” He kept going until he reached the eighth and final participant.

“Listen up!” said the guide. “I will go first, and our other guide will go last. You will launch in your assigned order at her signal. We will maintain 300-foot intervals until I stop. You must follow my exact path because there are coral reefs all around. That’s why you must ride with a guide while you’re here.”

Again I wondered if we were wise to take this excursion. We could be relaxing on the beach with a cold drink, having fun.

The guide continued with his speech. “When I stop, you should gather with me until everybody catches up. After our first stop, we’ll be heading into open ocean. It’s pretty rough out there, so there’s no way to avoid some jumping. We will forgive you.”

Hmmm…this was sounding better.

“We will then go around to the other side of the island and stop for a rest. Ready?”

The group murmured an affirmative, and the guide gave the instruction to start our engines. When all the waverunners were running, he took off and curved toward Galaxy, which was anchored offshore. The follow-up guide pointed to waverunner #1, and blew a whistle. The driver launched smoothly and followed the guide’s wake. The whistle sounded again, and waverunner #2 took off.

Our turn. I gripped the handlebars tightly, and at the signal hit the gas. We were instantly flying, and I tried to get a feel for what the machine could do. Kris immediately transformed into a back seat driver of the worst sort, shouting warnings and pleading for mercy. “Ahhhhh! Take it easy!!”

Ahead, waverunner #2 came to an abrupt halt. I think the girl driving got scared and wanted to let her father take over. I had to make a split-second decision, and scanned the water for obstructions. Seeing none, I swung far to the right and gave the sled some more gas, passing the stopped waverunner in an arc at least 400 feet away.

Kris pulled so hard on the handles attached to my vest that I had to secure myself with the handlebars. From a few inched behind my ear she screamed, “You can’t do this! You aren’t supposed to pass! Slow down! Don’t get so close! Stop! Wait! Oh…myyyy…Gawwwwd!!” I rolled my eyes and steered back on course behind waverunner #1.

The leader stopped at the entrance to the bay, and we slowed to join him. It took some time for the others to catch up. The guide asked if anyone wanted to change positions in the lineup, and I volunteered for the number two spot. Kris groaned, and increased her handhold. The guide warned us that we were about to leave sheltered waters and go out where the waves were dancing around.

“All right, dude,” I thought. On the signal, we went.

I watched the guide when he took off, and his technique seemed to be to hold the throttle wide open and hang on. I decided to give it a try. We hit the first wave and launched into the air. The sled slammed back down with the engine screaming before we got the water equivalent of traction, launching us up the next wave and back into the air. A woman behind me was screaming. Sounded like someone I knew.

We established a regular rhythm: Bang, whoosh, scream (engine) — bang, whoosh, scream (woman), bang… I knew anyone within earshot would be well and truly annoyed, but this was seriously fun. Huge sprays of water hit me in the face, and my mouth was full of salt. My sunglasses remained fixed in their proper spot, but I desperately needed windshield wipers.

I found that I could establish a less jarring rhythm by timing things a little differently. It was possible to get the waverunner skimming over the wave crests for good distances. We kept encroaching on rider #1’s space, and I’d have to back off. When you let off the throttle there is absolutely no steering control, leaving you are at the mercy of other forces. Faster please. It is easier that way.

We rode around the far side of Galaxy. I wanted to look, but thought it better to concentrate on keeping the sled upright. The waves became larger and more closely spaced, changing the whole dynamic of the ride. I don’t think I ever really discovered the secret to handling the beast, but it was fun to try different approaches to the current situation. Kris eventually became silent. Her face seemed to be burrowing into my neck, and her death grip on the handles continued to pull me slightly off balance. We were making progress. Around the far tip of the island, we entered a calm bay and again paused. Just in time for me. I had been holding on so tightly my hands ached and I had lost my finesse on the throttle. White knuckles contrasted sharply with tanned hands.

“How are you doin’ back there?” I asked Kris.

“I’m all right,” she answered. “I think I’m getting used to it.”

“Do you want to drive?”

“No way!”

As the others slowly filed in, the lead guide dove into the water and came up with a huge starfish. We passed it around while we waited. Kris was carrying a waterproof camera, and another driver offered to snap our picture.

“Did you take any pictures while we were moving?” I asked.

It was a rhetorical question, but she answered anyway. “Are you insane?”

When everyone had gathered, we were again offered the chance to swap places in the running order. I was sorely tempted to put us in the lead position behind the guide, but I deferred out of respect for my passenger. We reversed our route, traveling back over the largest waves where we spent more time in the air than in the water. The kids would be proud. I didn’t hear any more human screaming behind me — it was quiet back there. We repeatedly had to slow down to maintain the proper spacing, which became quite an annoyance after a while. The guide did not make an intermediate stop on the return trip, and we soon approached our departure point.

As we motored in to the dock Kris said, “I can’t believe how slow the first waverunner was going. You should have asked to go first.”

I rolled my eyes again.

Back on shore I noted that it was five and a half hours after noon in the next time zone eastward. We had avoided having anything to drink because of the waverunner policy, and shared a strong mutual desire for a pina colada. Floating mats and snorkeling gear safely returned, we set out for the beachfront bar.

Timing is everything, and ours was terrible. The bar had just closed, and the staff was cleaning up. Even though the last ferry didn’t leave for an hour yet, there were very few people left on the island. A man sweeping the floor told us that we might be able to get a beer at the hut near the dock. When we got there the crew was packing up, but they were glad to serve us a round of Beck’s beer, and then another. Kris ran over to the market area where the vendors were also packing up. She got some end-of-the-day bargains on t-shirts. As 5:30 approached, the last ferry pulled up to the dock, and we went to the end of the short waiting line. Our bags were hand searched in case we had met up with smugglers, and we boarded.
…