Back To Reality

I could feel blood pressure rise and a wave of stress come rolling in like a storm surge.
At first, I thought it was just because Dice-K was pitching again, but the list of things that needed doing in life made the edge-of-my-seat-while biting my fingernails anxiety of a Dice K start pale in comparison.
I had returned from vacation and life was returning to normal. I hate it when that happens.
This wasn’t any typical vacation. I was on the schooner Victory Chimes for a week. It is quite different from having a week off doing something else. When I’m spending a week or two relaxing at my beachfront cottage in Owls Head, I’m escaping from the world a bit and still manage to pay bills and keep track of the real world on occasion.
While on a schooner, it’s a different story. I returned to the mainland and discovered a week later that the Patriots had traded Richard Seymour. I learned that Republicans were trying to shout down the president (where were protests during the Bush disaster, I wonder?). Kanye West was making news and making me wonder who the hell is Kanye West and why should I care if he’s an idiot. Serena Williams was blowing a gasket on the tennis court drawing my attention to the sport of tennis briefly – very briefly.
While I was oblivious to what was happening in pop culture, I was also out of the loop in most aspects of my life. I lost track of what was happening at work. I had put off all bill paying and responsibilities until my return. My cottage rentals were taken care of for the time being. During my week-long sail, I had managed to put just about everything on hold.
All that was left to wonder was our destination each day, what kind of soup we might have for lunch, when or if Captain Fender Tender might annoy me enough to want to toss him overboard, whether the shirtless guy (who didn’t have a body to be shirtless) would actually wear different clothes at all during the week (he didn’t), whether there might be a good cat fight at the showers or if I could brow beat enough people to buy my book.
All in all it was a very good week. We had fantastic weather all week. There was no rain and no fog. We had sun every day, a few chilly temps and had some wind to sail by. The only drawback was some mosquitoes in the evening that forced us down below on some nights and a part in the steering mechanism that broke. That provided a delay but made things interesting as the Captain jury-rigged the steering and managed to get us back to Rockland without the use of a tow from a tugboat.
Even though it was my seventh trip on the Chimes, I was still able experience things I had not before. After sailing out of Rockland and through the Fox Island Thorofare, we crossed Eastern Penobscot Bay and anchored in Mackerel Cover at Swan’s Island. It was exactly where I thought we might go – in large part because I heard the captain say we were headed for Mackerel Cove. Hey, I’m a reporter. I’m a good listener and a nosey snoop.
From there we sailed up Somes Sound, which was a new treat, we then anchored in Bass Harbor that evening. We sailed to Brooklin the next day and watched another great sunset there. We were going to sail up the Eggemoggin Reach toward Castine the next morning but that’s when the broken steering pin was discovered. It forced a two-hour delay as the captain and crew tried to figure a way to fix a 100-year old part. Being too late on the tide to get under the Deer Isle Bridge, we sailed for Stonington instead. We anchored there for the evening, another first. That brief sail had bent the replacement pin the Captain had used to fix the steering problem. So, to be on the cautious side, he used the yawl boat to push us across Eastern Penobscot Bay. We anchored in the Thorofare and went ashore to North Haven and had lunch off Vinalhaven. Then we continued on to Rockland where we anchored inside the Breakwater for dinner. We had a wedding proposal on board that evening as well.
After dinner, the Captain decided it might be best to try to get into the dock that evening. So, under the cloak of darkness and limited steering, the Captain maneuvered the 100-foot three-master into the slip with ease. I was on fender duty that evening and barely had to react as the boat was guided into the marine quite smoothly. I don’t even park my car that effortlessly – as the scratches and dents on my rear bumper indicate.
But, the early arrival to the dock was too-soon-signal that the trip was over. Many began packing and taking things to their car Friday night. By Saturday morning, the trip was officially over. We said our good-byes and made our plans to rejoin the real world.
In past year’s I’ve had to make the leap quickly. One year I learned within a half hour of getting off the boat that my father had leukemia and had what could have been a few weeks to a few months to live. Another year I had a job interview on Monday for a publishing firm. I spent the next week sweating it out as one of three finalists over whether I might get the job and whether I actually wanted the job. I didn’t get it, probably because I didn’t know squat about the health care industry and my job would have been writing about it. I’m a sportswriter; my medical knowledge is limited to MRI and ACL.
This year I didn’t have events as significant as that to deal with upon my return, but it is still a challenge to catch up on the world and regain my normal schedule. I’m not awake at 6 a.m. to watch the sunrise anymore and I don’t have coffee delivered to me at 7 a.m. any longer. The things like coffee, bacon, sausage and eggs that I eat on board the Chimes are pretty much off limits for the rest of the year. I’m back to eating healthfully, I hope. I don’t have a cocktail hour at 4 p.m. every day and now snacks are no longer provided at 5 p.m.
What I do have is a job to get back up to speed on. I have bills to pay, rentals to book, books to sell, books to write and a Facebook page and blog that has been neglected. I have things to do, stress to manage and a pennant race to follow. Dice-K is pitching again. Tom Brady is playing on a wobbly knee (aren’t we all?). I have a life to live and distractions to distract me. Life isn’t as simple as it was a week ago. But I’m not eating till I’m stuffed this week and I have pretty good steering. So it isn’t all bad.
And, I have a vacation coming up in two weeks.

Tough Choices

I've heard it described as beautiful, ideal and perfect.

The only thing I haven't heard the weather talking heads say is that "If you were going to be on vacation next week, you have picked the absolutely best week weather-wise - especially if you're going to be on a schooner."

They haven't said it yet but I know on one of the next weather updates they will.

The weather watch is just about complete. I've even started getting a gauge on the what the wind conditions might be. Right now, Monday and Tuesday is forecasting 5 to 10 knots, blowing out of the southwest. I'll take that.

So, now, I have an inkling of what the weather is going to be and what kind of wind we might have, which gives me a hint in which direction we'll sail.

Those are the first few things I think of as my trip on the Victory Chimes approaches.

My seventh trip on the three-masted schooner begins Sunday when I board the vessel and haul out Monday morning.

Now that the weather worries are taken care of, my attention turns to packing. I've got an idea what clothes need packing and what items should make the trip. I'm thinking it's going to be an all-shorts journey again this year, meaning only one token pair of jeans will get packed - unless of course, I decide to live dangerously.

So, that's one of the big decisions I have to make in the next day or so - whether I pack jeans or not.

Another choice I must address is my cocktail hour strategy. You see, when the Chimes drops anchor each day at four p.m. in some harbor in Penobscot Bay, the custom is to have the freezer lid open before the anchor even hits the mud. The various cocktails of choice begin to appear. Who thought sailing could be so challenging?

Of course, for me, the drink of choice becomes complicated. I used to pack a couple different six packs of beer and that would suit me for the week. But, I tend to get bored easily. I have the whole try-something-different-be-unusual-don't be repetitious thing going.

By Tuesday, I'd be sick of beer and want something else. So, last year I had beer and had provisions to mix drinks. This year I may do the same. I'll probably bring some brews but I also have a concoction of rye and Moxie that I might make - that should get people talking on board. I've also already got gin and tonic to mix but might opt for rum and ginger ale- is it bad luck to drink a Dark and Stormy on a boat? If I drink that and Lenny keeps whistling, we might be tempting fate a little too much.

Isn't it nice that the biggest choice and decisions revolve around long pants and what alcohol to bring on board?

That's what I like about sailing on the Chimes. I can toss aside all other problems, stress or things that sap my attention and focus. All that really matters is what kind of soup we're having for lunch, what I've got to drink with the appetizers at 4 p.m. and whether I can keep up with Lenny on lobster night. Last year, I failed miserably. I think he had 4 and I had 2.

I used care about where we're going. I still do a little. Being completely obsessed with where I'm going and what I'm doing next, I can't help but ponder where the boat is headed. I've already started thinking about where we're sailing Monday and it's Friday afternoon. The captain himself probably hasn't even thought about Monday's destination.

I've often sat on the aft deck and been able to listen (as opposed to eavesdrop) on the captain. I'd bring along my maritime chart and begin guessing by late morning where we might be going. Sometimes I'd be right - especially if I heard the captain say where we were going - and sometimes I'd be wrong, imagine that. Now, I don't really care. It's either likely that we'll go someplace I've been before and if we go someplace new, that will be awesome also.

I don't really have to worry about whose's going to be on board. I was fortunate when I tried the Labor Day sail - now officially called the Labor Day Hooker's Cruise - that I met a great group of people. So there will likely be 25 to 30 or so passengers on board next week and I already know close to half of them. It will be fun seeing them all again and picking up where we left off last year. There will also be some new people that will be fun to meet and help provide great times. Or they'll completely regret that they booked themselves with a batch of rug hookers and one smart ass sportswriter.

This is probably my favorite week of the year. It's a week of sailing out to sea and leaving most everything else behind. I said most everything else. I may do some keeping in touch with the mainland but otherwise, I'm out of circulation for the week. I'm chillaxin on a boat. I'm hauling sails. I'm eating and drinking. I'm trying to find the most gullible newbie onboard to tell far-fetched stories to - some of which are true and some of which are not. I don't think about work. I won't wonder how the Red Sox are doing. I won't have a to-do list in my head.

All that will really matter is what concoction I'll have at cocktail hour - or before and whether I'll regret not packing long pants or not.

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Goose Rocked

A lady once asked me if I was interest in lighthouses.
My reply was “Some of them.”
After she offered a puzzled look, I had no choice but to explain. There are certain lighthouses I care about, specifically the Rockland Breakwater and Goose Rocks Lighthouse – as well as a few others. My grandfather and great grandfather served both of those stations respectively. If I’m perusing various gift shops for lighthouse items, as I was that day when the saleslady asked (and probably regretted doing so), that’s likely what I’m looking for.
Today, I made my annual pilgrimage to Goose Rocks in the Fox Island Thorofare, the channel that runs between North Haven and Vinalhaven. It seems as though my summer isn’t quite complete until I’ve travelled the 15 miles or so out to sea to visit a key part of my family history. My great grandfather was the longest serving keeper there, from the early or mid 1890’s to around 1920.
The Rockland Breakwater I see all the time. I see it when I drive into town for errands. I see it when I walk the mile long Breakwater, something I do quite often over the course of the season.
Getting to Goose Rocks, however, is a bit more problematic. I pretty much have to rely on a trip in my brother’s boat or hope we pass it while on my September sail on the Victory Chimes, something we often do. My first trip out there was actually in my cousin’s lobster boat. He hauled out and boatload of Millses for a quick visit.
This lighthouse is pretty unique in and of itself. It’s a sparkplug light and it is stuck in the middle of the channel. It sits on a submerged ledge. The only access is by boat, and you need to scale a ladder to get up onto the deck. It looks just like Spring Point Light in South Portland, but there’s no candy ass breakwater for people to walk out to it on.
What makes it special to me is what it means to our family history and how my own life unfolded. I’m convinced that that lighthouse set the stage for my life to play out the way it has, to some extent. Had my great grandfather never served there, my grandfather likely never would have settled in Rockland. He wouldn’t have married a St. George girl and my father wouldn’t have been born or at least grown up in Rockland where he met my mother. I probably wouldn’t be sitting here or own in a seaside cottage that my parents bought around 1950 in hopes of visiting their parents in Rockland during the summer.
I don’t get the same charged up excitement I had when I would first go out to see the lighthouse. My first trip was actually a ferry ride to North Haven. There we met up with a woman that gave us a tour of the island and provided us a great view of the lighthouse from the land. My next goal was to get close enough to the lighthouse to touch it.
Sure enough, a year later or so, my cousin took us out there, after he took many of his own family out there. I’ve been out there three times with my brother since and by it on the Victory Chimes a half dozen or so times. I also went out there when the government was selling it.
I even considered trying to buy it. My wallet thought better of it. So did my common sense. I figured since it would be a hassle just to get my guitar up that ladder there might be other more important items that might be even more problematic, especially since I didn’t own a boat.
I knew a girl I dated once that lived on Vinalhaven. I couldn’t help but wonder what she would have thought had I bought the lighthouse and word got around enough for her to realize I had bought it and could be seen sitting in an easy chair, cranking Smithereens tunes and waving at passing vessels. She’d have been shaking her head and thinking it’s a shame how fast I had lost my mind.
Anyway, now I’m delegated to visiting it on occasion. I’m not so much in awe of it as I once was but I still love going out there and seeing it. When I made that first trip in my cousin’s lobster boat two members of the family made the comment “Who’d want to live out here?” Meanwhile, I was thinking “Wouldn’t I love to live out here!”
I’ve been inside it a couple of times and hope to get a chance to stay overnight there sometime. The new owners, Beacon Preservation Inc., offer visits for donations for the lighthouse’s preservation. They’ve recently put up a new exhibit highlighting the light’s history at the Rockland Lighthouse Museum. Most of the photos on display are ones I provided and included a whole generation of Millses.
Of course, my picture isn’t one of them. But they were nice enough to put the cover of my novel on the display. We’ll be updating the display next week with items of my great grandfather and maybe even a copy of my book, which is loosely based on my great grandfather’s life before he joined the United States Lighthouse Service. Go to www.kevincmills.com for more info.
Today’s trip couldn’t have been better. We had calm seas all the way out. We passed seals and porpoises on the way, and made great time through the Thorofare. We got to the light and dropped anchor and just sat there and looked at the light and watched vessels go by. One of my Douglass ancestors, my great grandmother’s family, owned Burnt Island at one time, which is just beyond the lighthouse in the Little Thorofare. And my grandfather worked summers on Widow’s Island, which is across the Thorofare from the lighthouse, when there was a hospital there.
Just like when I take my walks out to the Breakwater, I can’t help but feel in touch with my family’s past when I get out to Goose Rocks. It is always a great trip and pleasure to be out there.
Of course, it isn’t like I don’t see the lighthouse when I’m not out there. I only have a couple paintings of it at home and have half a dozen pictures of it here in Owls Head.
And I’m always perusing gift shops for more - just don’t ask me what I’m looking for. I just might tell you.

Cuts You Up

It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I simply had three options. I could have waited out the tide, sitting on a beach nearby until the water had returned or I could have gone back around Spruce Head Island, braving a few swells along the way.

The other choice was to just up and get out of my kayak, walk across the mud flats and get to the water on the other side and continue on under the bridge at Spruce Head and paddle back home.
As I said, I thought it was a pretty good solution at the moment, especially for someone as impatient as I.
A few hours later while having a phone conversation, I acknowledged that maybe it wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
While on the phone, I explained that I needed a little nursing. “What did you do?” she asked. “Something stupid,” was my response.
Now I like to make cracks about me doing dumb things and showing a distinct lack of judgment. I’m actually the opposite. I like to think of myself as a fairly rational, sensible and calculating person that typically makes sound judgments and decisions. And yes, I’m sure there are numerous friends out there that would start a list and offer examples that prove otherwise.
That’s because I do tend do things once in a while that ultimately are laced with some regret afterwards, even if they typically make for a good story anyway. My feet bare the scars of that regret this week.
The other morning I had chosen to take my kayak out. I had a beautiful day with bright sunshine and warm temperatures. No, really, I wasn’t imagining it. There was sun, no fog, no rain. It was a miracle.
Anyway, I also had a low tide approaching. I shoved off about 8:30 a.m., proving that I am up at that hour on occasion. Low tide was at 10:30 a.m. I wasn’t sure how much water I’d have in the cove at dead low tide and I didn’t really feel like trudging through the mud and shells if I didn’t have enough water to get in. How ironic that is!
So, I started out paddling fully intending to take my sweet old time and time it just about right that I might come paddling back home by 11:30 or so, after the cove had begun to fill back up a bit.
I was initially planning on paddling straight across toward the Eastern side of Spruce Head and paddle that shoreline back toward the mainland. Seeing as it was fairly calm and I had a good as any opportunity to paddle out around the tip of Spruce Head, and had time to kill, I decide to do just that.
That tactical decision seemed to work just fine, even with a few large swells that made me sweat a little out in the open ocean. I navigated through Spruce Head Harbor and headed over toward the bridge that connects the island to the mainland. The water had emptied out, but I had thought that there was enough for me and my kayak to get through. As Fonzie used to say “I was wrrrrrrrrr”
Any approach to the bridge was blocked off by a ridge of mud and mussel shells. There was hardly any water. I really didn’t want to go back around Spruce Head again. I thought I might paddle over to Norton Island and take a siesta on the beach while the tide came back. Then I learned it was already 10:15. It was almost low tide. I figured I’d paddle around a bit and the water would come rushing back to provide me a quick and easy access to the bridge. Wrrrrrrrrr again.

I paddled around a small island. Beached the kayak for a bit and watched the osprey and noticed that periwinkles will peak out at you if you hold them in the water. Then I shoved off and went around part of Rackliff Island and into what we (meaning my Dad and I) call Baum’s Cove. After killing what I figured was a good hour or so, I made my way back toward the bridge, fully expecting there to be enough water. As I approached I realized it was as dry as it was before, if not more so.
That meant Mr. Rational and Sound Judgment had a choice to make. I went with instant gratification. I climbed out of my kayak with the full intent of walking through the mud flats and dragging it to water. Isn’t there a saying that says “You can lead a kayak to water but you may not survive with your feet and legs unscathed.”
It only took one step to tell me what I was in for. When I set foot into the mud and took that first legitimate step, I sank up to my knees. “This can’t be good” I thought to myself. Of course, I didn’t alter my plan, proving that when you mix my impatience with my stubbornness, it can be a bad combination.
I kept trudging along through the knee-deep mud. It was a struggle and exhausting, but I quickly realized that while I was breathing heavy and might be inviting a heart attack, I couldn’t take a break. If I stopped, I’d be stuck - for good (or at least until high tide floated my carcass out to sea).
Keep in mind, I’ve walked through the mud in my cove tons of times. I pushed my brother’s motor boat halfway out of the cove at low tide trying to get a jumpstart to North Haven one year. I had just plopped through the mud just a week before when a quick trip was cut short because of rapidly decreasing tide.
I finally reached a spot in the mussel ridge that seemed to have some sand in it and made it more stable. The crushed shells beneath my feet hurt a bit but it was still better than sinking up to my thighs and then trying to suck them back out of the muck. I reached the point where I could see the water but there will still a patch of mud and shells that I needed to get through. I hoped it wouldn’t be too treacherous. It was very treacherous. I sank three feet in with one step. With an abundance of shells mixed in with this mud, I was getting sliced and diced with each step.
I was providing ample entertainment for those on shore that was watching this adventure. Even the clammers busy at work nearby took a moment to gaze over at the damn fool trying to walk through the mud. Oh, and did I mention that I was barefoot? Had I been wearing any kind of footwear, it would have been lost in the mud.
I would pull my kayak ahead of me and push off it as I slogged through the final 10 yards or so. I finally got to water and settled back down into my kayak. My legs were covered in mud but I could still see scars and streams of blood trickling down my leg. The sting of the cold salt water on my wounds also announced that I had been hacked pretty good. For the first few minutes of kayaking back, I could feel that intense sting up and down my feet and legs. I started to wonder how much blood I was losing, since I could feel it on my foot peddle inside my kayak. I almost stopped to soak my legs in the water and wash them off along the way home but just kept paddling away.
I finally hit my beach a little after noon and washed off all the mud. Then I hobbled up to the house and showered them off. For the next 24 hours, it felt like my feet had been sunburned badly. It hurt to walk or simply wiggle my toes. The day after, it all looked even worse as all the little nicks and scars that I hadn’t noticed the day before appeared as they began to heal over.

I kind of figure that for all the clams and mussels I've eaten in my lifetime, a few of their distant cousins reaped a little retribution that day.

But don't worry. My annual trip on the Victory Chimes is in September. That features dinner out with my sailing friends the night we board, and it typically features fried clams for me. So, the scars may be healed by then, but I won't have forgotten. And I just may have an appetite for revenge that night.

A Matter Of Trust

When the coverage began Friday night about the death of newscaster Walter Cronkite, one of the first things I heard was how he was considered the "most trusted journalist".

It immediately dawned on me that if I were to be described as a journalist, trusted would be the word I'd want.

That's what has always been my goal as a reporter. I wanted people to pick up the paper or magazine and see my name and immediately associate it with credibility. They'd read the story with full knowledge that they not only believed in my work but trusted it.

That's how I view other reporters. I see who the story is written by. If it is work by a journalist I respect, I'll likely read it and believe what I find in the story. If it is written by a reporter that I don't trust, I might bypass it completely or solely read it because I'm sure they'll have screwed up something so badly in the piece that I'll likely get a good laugh out of it.

I do the same for TV journalists. If Tim Russert reported something, I'd trust it. Same goes currently for someone like Chuck Todd or Andrea Mitchell. If it's one of those Fox nitwits, I won't even take it seriously. Most of the local sports talking heads are laughable. They try to be funny, when they're not and obviously lack knowledge of what they're covering. One TV journalist had to be rescued last week by their photographer - oh, sorry - their photo journalist - because when a golf ball was flying towards them and people yelled "Fore" they just stood there and nearly got hit.

Now, I know some people don't look at news the same way I do. It doesn't matter to them who is delivering the news. They don't care whose by-line is on the story. I've had people approach me to commend me for a story that they really liked - the only problem would be that I didn't write it.

Then there are others that when they hear my name, they'll be like "Oh yeah, I read your stuff all the time" or maybe they just remember my mug from the football picks we used to make.

It really doesn't matter to me whether they remember my name or not. I'm not in the business to literally make a name for myself. What I do care about is that if they do bother to remember my name that they associate that with quality work and trust.

I've been fortunate. I think I've been able to do that. I often show up at various sporting events and am told by coaches and athletic staff that they're glad to see me there - as opposed to other reporters that they can't stand or can't trust. Granted, sometimes they're happy to see me just so they don't have to report the score later.

I've had some tell me things off the record and beg me not to print it - citing the fact that another reporter they know would likely do just that, despite being told not to. That's a good way to give journalists a bad reputation.

When I was recognized by the Maine Interscholastic Athletic Administrator's Association last spring, one athletic director gave me one of the greatest compliments anyone had ever given me. He told me that people trusted me. And as if that weren't enough , he told me that I was one of the few that people could.

I work for a paper that could care less about the work I do or the credibility I've established. I can't remember the last time one of the powers that be commended me for a job well done and told me I was appreciated. Heck, when I was given the media award by the MIAAA last spring, the SJ made no mention of it in the paper or to me. I guess I can't complain. At least they gave me the night off, which is more than they were going to do for my father's funeral.

But, I'm not out to impress them. I'm not out to make a star out of myself like some reporters. I'm there to be a journalist. I want to to do quality work, treat the job and the people I deal with with respect and understanding. In turn, I want respect and trust.

I think I've not only been able to establish that but have also earned it. Coaches, players, fans and readers have come to understand, and hopefully appreciate, that.

The problem some newspapers have now is that they're losing that trust with readers and the people they're reporting on. I see many reporters that are just plain lazy and lacking knowledge about the event they're covering. Doing a half-assed job is just as good to them. There are others whose ego's are so big that they get in the way of their work and credibility. They like to brag about how much they do and how good they are - when they're not all that good at all.

I don't know how much time I've got left in this business. I've had one foot out the door numerous times. It is still a job I can enjoy and feel like I make a difference in.

Who knows where the newspaper business is going. The media is evolving into a faster-paced environment where the foundations of who, what, where, when and why are being replaced by sound bites, tweets and web posts. Journalists are trying to be media stars as opposed to doing their job credibly. It can be rather disgusting to watch because the job and its role is being diminished. I still think there is a place for trust in the media, but I fear that it is losing its place as journalism becomes more about entertainment and egos than it is about information and serving the public's interests.

I'm sure there will be a lot of talk about Cronkite's death and acknowledgement that he's of a by-gone era and that there won't be many like him anymore. That's kind of a scary thought.

I Kneeded That

There are not many dates that linger in my crowded mind of trivial details – but July 5th is one of them.

There are only a handful of such dates that stir my emotions and spark my memory. Some are good recollections. Some are memories I’d just as well forget.

There’s April 27 – the day I was born. Guess I have to remember that one – as much as I try to forget it each year. But that was also the day I first saw the Smithereens play live. It was probably one of my best birthday’s ever.
There’s February 4 – that was the day I found the greatest girl in the world.

There’s September 11 – which I remember for obvious reasons – and some not so obvious.
There’s December 24 – that’s the day my father died. I can still hear the phone ring at 7:45 that morning – and I knew exactly what the call was about.

July 5 actually wasn’t a good day, but it turned out to be one of the best days of my life because of what it prompted.

That Friday morning was the day I blew out my knee, badly. I snapped my patella tendon – the one that keeps your kneecap in place. My doctor said it was one of the worst he’d seen. Having my kneecap sliding a quarter of the way up my thigh gave me a pretty good indication of that.

I violated just about every maritime superstition I knew of that day. I was going to sea on a Friday. The rowboat I was going to go out in had blue on it. I was probably whistling and ignoring the red sky in the morning just to completely tempt maritime fate.

The plan was to take two boats over to Port Clyde for the day. While my brother readied to depart in his, I was pulling up our rowboat – the Goomer Too – to ferry out to my Dad’s boat. Because of a severe thunderstorm the night before – which had me delirious with fright while at the fireworks in Thomaston (cause lightning freaks me out like nothing else) - the rowboat was full of water. I had to drag the boat up above the tide line to tip it over and dump it. Frustrated and impatient, I reached down and grabbed the bow of the aluminum boat, lifted it with one might heave and began dragging it up the beach. With the bow lifted, I stepped backward, needing only to go five feet or so. However, the storm the night before didn’t just bring rain, the riled seas brought lots of washed up seaweed, and as I stepped backward, my foot landed on seaweed.

Now, for you landlubbers out there, seaweed doesn’t really need a sign on it that says slippery when wet. That’s pretty much understood, and if you don’t know that , you should stay of the beach and rocks. Of course, even a know-it-all like me can get distracted enough to forget that.

When my foot hit the slippery seaweed, my leg went out from under me. With all my weight leaning backward, I fell right on my leg, popping my patella tendon with one giant severe snap.
I won’t even get into the whole drama of getting me off the beach. It wasn’t easy. A few hours later, I was in the hospital room. My knee had been surgically repaired. I was facing a long rehabilitation. My summer vacation was ruined, and I wouldn’t be able to drive for three months. For a brief few minutes, I felt pretty sorry for myself. I was lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut, so to speak.

But, it didn’t take long for me to snap out of it. I was helped by an eight-year old girl, my niece Caitlynne. She had been diagnosed with bone cancer that spring and had gone through drastic surgery just weeks before to save her life. I had actually seen her the week before my knee injury and was inspired by her strength and courage.

So, I sat in that hospital room determined not to let a little eight-year old girl show more guts than me. Right then and there, I put my game-face on. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself anymore. I had the eye of the tiger. I was going to make this injury one of the best things that had ever happened to me.

I set goals for myself that day. While embarking on my rehab, I was going to get myself in shape. The recovery time was estimated to be about three months or more. I was determined to trim that. I was going to take on this challenge with a positive attitude and kick its ass.

I later took a Sports Psychology class that talked about dealing with adversity. We were shown a clock and it was divided into sections. The top of the clock, 11 to 12, was where your goals were, what your dreams are. The previous half or quarters were what you had to do to get there.

Around the 3 o’clock mark, however, was an obstacle. The prof said that quite often people encounter adversity on the way to that goal. If they don’t deal with it or overcome it, they remain stuck, living that never-ending cycle between 1 and 3. If you can endure that challenge and get over that adversity, you’re on the road toward your goal.

I related completely to that scenario. I've seen people get stuck in one bad moment and never get passed it. I didn't let that happen. From the first few moments of coherence after my surgery, I was determined to take something bad and make it good. I didn’t really know how I was going to do that. I had meager goals – eat right, lose weight, get in shape and rehab my knee with persistence. I did all that with an attitude that was determined and unrelenting. It taught me that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I just needed the right attitude and to channel my stubbornness (which I have an abundance of). I didn’t just hobble past that hurdle. I took my crutches and beat it to smithereens. Then, I tossed the crutches away and limped off – glaring at anything else in my way with a “you wanna a piece this?” attitude, or something like it.
And, it paid off. I was driving almost two months to the day of my injury – without doctor’s permission of course. I returned home and began work a few weeks later. When the three-month recovery time estimate had elapsed, I’d been back at work for weeks and driving regularly. I was still building the strength in my knee but the daily walks and exercises had paid off. As if that weren’t enough, I lost about 30 pounds during that summer and would later drop about 40 more.

The benefits didn’t end there. Because of my lost vacation time and some awards I had won, I had extra time and prize money to spend. This was in the day when the paper actually rewarded us with cash bonuses for awards. Now, we might get a mention in the paper or ignored altogether.

I decided to use that time and money for something special. I decided to go on a schooner trip. The next July I sailed on the Victory Chimes. The following year I returned to the Chimes for a sail in September. It has become a yearly tradition, a week I anxiously await each year and has provided me a group of friends that are near and dear to my heart.

I think back to that July 5th now. I don’t really dwell too much on that morning and how my journey began. I still have the scar and my knee gets cranky once in a while – just like the rest of me.

It’s where I’ve gone and what I learned from that experience. It made me a better person. It taught me to be determined and committed to my cause and my goals. And I remain unrelenting in my pursuit of those dreams. I did turn a pretty bad morning into something special. The pain and misery I felt on the beach that day has been surpassed greatly by the resolve I’ve found inside and the benefits that came with it.

July 5 now reminds of the song “Beautiful Day”. It was one of the Leveller’s biggest hits in England. It goes “What a beautiful day, I’m the king of all time. And nothing is impossible in my all and powerful mind.”

How true. So, happy July 5, my independence day.

The Proof

It has been the only item remaining on the list for sometime.

I made the list so long ago, I don’t even recall when it was. It was before my first guest appearance on television, before my first Maine Press Association award, before my first magazine article was published and before I was working a pro hockey beat - because all of those things were on that list of things I wanted to accomplish.

For the last few years, the only thing left on that “to do” list was to publish a novel.

Thursday, I came pretty close to accomplishing that feat. When the UPS man buzzed me, I knew what it was. My proof of Sons and Daughters of the Ocean had arrived.

I opened the package with great anticipation and even greater fear. After struggling to try and revamp the cover artwork and get it to work with my publisher's template, I was afraid it would look distasterous and I’d have to start all over again.

When I pulled it out, the front cover looked pretty cool. I liked it. And in my hand I held my novel - a piece of fiction I’ve been writing off and on for most of this decade. It’s been so long, I can’t even remember when I started it.

The story is based on some of my own family history. It chronicles life in a small Maine coastal town called Brooks Harbor. The story focuses on three teens - Alfred Miller, Sarah Dyer and Sammy Jones - that have grown up in a village where sea-faring and shipbuilding has shaped their lives. But their close proximity to the sea comes to change them more than any of them can imagine. It is a historical novel based on true stories culled from the rich maritime legacy of my ancestors.

I don’t even recall exactly how I this particular story became my first serious attempt at a novel. I have had other ideas. If I had a book for every book idea that goes through my brain, I’d have an entire library by now.

I know Sons and Daughters of the Ocean stemmed from the extensive research and writing I did for a book on Mills family history and then another book on the life of my grandfather. Both books were 350-plus pages and took many years to complete.

After completing my book on Mills history, I kind of followed the old newspaper adage of “write what you know.” And a new novel idea was born, one which I could actually see potential in and maybe even finish.

My great great grandfather was a reknowned shipbuilder and built one of the nations’ first three-masted schooners. My great grandfather sailed on schooners for about 20 years before becoming a lighthouse keeper. Their lives served as a bit of a template for this story.

This work was also inspired a bit by the Civil War trilogy by Michael and Jeff Shaara. The Killer Angels and the subsequent works Gods and Generals and The Last Full Measure were excellent historical novels. I wanted to take the history I had researched and do something similar. I even have enough material from my family history to do a three-part series. In fact, my second novel, Sea of Liberty, is a bit of a prequel to this story, but more on that later.

Writing this has been a bit of an ardous process. As much as I love writing, I discovered what a challenge it is to write a piece of fiction when you are so trained and accustomed to writing about actual events and people. When I sit down to write a newspaper story, I have all the facts, details and perspectives in front of me. Many times I've seen this person or team play and can write from my own perspective as well as their's. All I have to do is weave it all together with a little flair and creativity.

Writing a story without those facts, details and perspectives was a challenge. I had to draw on a creative writing mind that is not accustomed to making things up. Many people tell me "It's amazing how that mind of your's works." But it was a chore to develop a process and force myself to be able to create characters, events, details, moods and personalities from scratch. That's why Sons and Daughters of the Ocean draws from a lot of my own experiences. I'll be able to go through the novel and pick out various characters or instances that are based on actual people or occurences. More on that later.

To force myself to write wasn’t easy either. That’s what I do every day. I often crank out at least five stories per week, if not more. When I have down time and put my slightly overactive mind to rest, the last thing I want to do is force it to write.

Eventually, I managed to find a way to create a writing mood and got myself in the frame of mind to pluck away at this story. Little by little it would progress. There were times I lost interest or couldn’t find the time. There was one point where I went an entire year without touching this story or even thinking about it. There were times I almost scrapped one of the characters or a story line but didn’t.

Of course, then there was my continuous attempt to tinker and fix and rewrite and redo and meddle and critique. I honestly still don’t know whether this is any good or not. I learned a lot about the process of writing, and I was a better fiction writer by the end of this endeavor than I was a the beginning. So much so that I often contemplated starting the whole thing over again and starting anew, utilizing the skills I’ve developed. But I figured I wouldn’t actually change all that much and instead stuck to my incessant tinkering and meddling until I finally got so tired of working on it, that I decided it was time to get it published.

Now the proof copy sits in my hand. At one time I realized that if I had just one copy published, that would meet my goal. I wouldn’t even have to have anybody else read it.

But, deep down, I want people to read it. I don’t know whether people will become engrossed in the characters and the story. I don't know whether people will be rivetted and be unable to put it down. I hope so. but we’ll see. Readers can at least be entertained by some of the various things I put in for fun. More on that later.

I'm glad this process is nearly over. I've spent many years thinking about and working on this story. I'm excited about this project being nearly completed and am excited about the others I can devote my attention to.

I have my book Sidelined destined to be done later this year while Sea of Liberty is being written. I might even finish that in less than a decade. I hope so. I've already got two other story ideas for novels to follow it. One of which could be a sequel to this novel (but isn't about sailing).

I'll post more info and details about Sons and Daughters of the Ocean on my webpage (www.kevincmills.com) once it is up and running. The book should be on sale in the coming weeks. I'm hoping this morning was the last tinkering I am to do on it. Well, at least until I'm working on the screenplay for the Hollywood movie version.

Welcome Back My Friends To The Show That Never Ends

With just one quick riff through the opening chords, it becomes obvious to me what song is coming.

And the chills already begin down my spine and goosebumps bubble up on my arms.

That’s how I often know a concert is really reaching into my soul and grabbing my attention.

On this night, the Bodeans had barely begun to play. But when Kurt Neumann began the opening sequence of "Dreams", I was taken away to a heaven filled with amplifiers, guitars and Kenny Aronoff’s steady thump from behind the drum kit (a sound I still hear in my head).

Just thinking about it takes me back to that September Sunday night. I had been through a stressful week, and it was only getting worse. This Bodeans show at the Paradise was just the first show I was going to that week. I had the White Stripes on Wednesday and Paul McCartney the following Monday. Three concerts, 800-something miles in eight days. That was the good stress to help me forget the bad stress.

When the Bodeans roared into “Dreams” that night and belted out the chorus “Ain’t this what dreams are made of." The chills on my arm answered with a definitive “Yes”. I remember thinking this is one of those things that truly makes me happy. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world.

I’ve been going to concerts since I was in high school. The first show I went to, as a licensed driver, was Survivor and REO Speedwagon. Yes, that dates me. I wish I could say it was their reunion tours. It wasn’t. Saga and Pat Benatar followed with the J. Giels Band up next. From then on, my life has revolved around waiting for the next show and the next onsale date.

There was even the time when I was doing concert reviews for the newspaper. Between gigs I’d go to for myself and ones I’d actually write about, I was going to a concert at least once a month for a good year or two.

I once made a list of all the concerts I’ve seen and all the venues I’d seen them in. I don’t recall the final number but it was lengthy. Heck, there are a handful of artists that add up to significant numbers on their own. Between Bruce Cockburn, the Bodeans, Ellis Paul, the Smithereens, Richard Shindell, U2 and REM, there’s over 30 shows right there.

There are some shows I probably don’t remember too much about, but I bet if pressed I could tell you a little something about each one. I have binders at home that serve as scrapbooks to all the shows I’ve been to. They’re filled with ticket stubs, set lists, newspaper advances, concert reviews and even autographs of Ronnie James Dio, Allison Krause, John Gorka, Patty Larkin, the Saw Doctors, the Moody Blues, Jars of Clay and Margo Timmins, of the Cowboy Junkies. I even have concert photos from the shows I shot pictures at, including the above photo of Paul Stanley. I thought security was going to toss me because after being told what not to do while shooting photos, I did exactly that. Got a good shot out of it.

There are still memories from the various shows that are inevitably burned into my mind. There was the disco ball and sweeping lights that circled Foxborough Stadium as David Gilmour roared through the guitar solo of "Comfortably Numb" at a Pink Floyd show. I can never forget that powerful moment where light and soaring notes combined to create a feast of sight and sound that carried you away for those moments.

There was Tony Levin’s bass that thundered in my chest with each note during a Peter Gabriel show. I was in the front row, standing right in front of the bass speaker, where every note thumped inside my body as Levin looked down and smiled.

There was Billy Duffy’s bad ass riff as the Cult roared through their best stuff. Those catchy power chords had me in awe. http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=51121946652&h=1dOO_&u=LrQMF

There was Bodean Sammy Llanas handing me his guitar pick after a stirring performance of “Naked”

There were the moshers and slam dancers that made the mistake of bumping into me. One got shoved forcefully into the stage as Live played at Great Wood during the Womad Festival. Another wound up on the floor, where other irritated concert goers began kicking him.

There was seeing McCartney for the first time. Being a lifelong Beatles fan, it was incredible to see one of the artists that had influenced so much of my musical foundation.

There was seeing a solo Peter Wolf at small club in Portland or the Dave Matthews Band at the Gray Cage at Bates College, sharing a bill with Big Head Todd and the Monsters.

There was the combination of mudslides and Social Distortion at Hampton Beach.

There was being in the seventh row as The Who played Quadrophenia. When Pete Townsend broke a string and was obviously frustrated, I hoped and prayed he smash the guitar. He didn't.

There was seeing legends I never thought I’d see, Roger McGuinn, Fleetwood Mac, Gordon Lightfoot, Simon and Garfunkel, Crosby, Still, Nash and Young and Rush.

There was the spur of the moment trip to a show in Augusta featuring 80’s metal bands and watching Cinderalla come out with some attitude and swagger and rock the house.

There was the first rock concert at the newly built FleetCenter, featuring REM.

There were second-row seats to see Radiohead, in their largest concert in America at that time - and the warmup band, Spiritualized, which I likened to the Moody Blues in a train wreck.

I could go on and on.
Some of the best concert going experiences were shared with friends. What got me thinking about writing about concerts is the fact that I went to see Shindell Sunday night in Portland. I went to the show with one of my favorite people. I’d looked forward to the evening for days. We drove down the Portland, relaxed in a pub in the afternoon before taking in the show. It was a fantastic day, and Shindell was excellent.

There was the Bodeans show at the Metro in Boston with another dear friend. It was great hanging out with her and watching the show. Even though she developed a crush on Kurt and wanted to become a groupie and follow the band to Providence for the next night.

There were a pair Smithereens shows with another cool girl I know. I even saw a Springsteen show with her years later. There was the Dokken/Sammy Hagar show at the Orpheum when a college buddy and I caught the train into Boston and barely caught the last train home. That friend and I caught AC DC in the old Boston Garden and then took a road trip to Portland from college a few years later to see the band again.

I saw The Firm at Boston Garden with my sister, who asked “Which one is Jimmy Page?” when the band took the stage. I saw a couple of shows with her, including the Moody Blues, when we met the band afterwards and she drooled all over Justin Hayward while getting his autograph.

There were the Pearl Jam shows which ticked off the powers to be at work when a group of coworkers and I took the weekend off to go to back-to-back shows at Great Woods. We missed the companies precious computer training sessions (which we made up in about 15 minutes later the following week) but had a great time.

I come across people all the time that have either never been to a concert or hardly ever go to one. I can’t imagine that. That experience is such a significant part of my life and existence that I can’t fathom it not being there.

Being a sports fan and a sports writer, the fan part gets lost sometimes. Sporting events are where I work. I enjoy the excitement and the atmosphere and am still surprised on occasion by what happens, but it is still my job. The emotional aspect of being a fan is often lost.

Concerts give that back to me. Granted I'm a pretty tame fan. I don't sing along (I'm there to hear the band sing not me and the tone-deaf people near me). I don't shout out requests. I don't get up and dance. I listen to the music. I watch the band. I analyze as only I can and enjoy the moment and the surroundings.

They’re social events, entertainment, opportunities to escape, a chance to lose oneself in the music (and a few mudslides and Irish drinks in a girlie glass). But the concert atmosphere does more than all that. It draws you into the world, connects you with the artists and their raw power, intensity, intimacy or the tender sounds of their voices and words - depending on the style of music. It can be a communal celebration, a shared experience for couples or an individual escape.

There will be times I will stop and pause and think to myself that I really need to go to a show. It’s like a junkie suddenly needing a fix. Sometimes I’ve thought that to myself and realized I had just gone to a concert a few nights before.

I don’t get to as many shows as I used to. I only go to see ones I really must see now. I don’t spend the ticket money that I used to or travel the distances I used to. But I still love the experience.

I’m fortunate to be thrilled by the excitement of sporting events or savor time spent on the water. Both are very unique experiences that I cherish. So is enjoying a good concert. It nearly gives me goosebumps thinking about it, but that’s the point. I go to the shows for the real thing.

My Father's Day

My father sat in his chair reading contently.
It wasn’t an unusual sight. One of his favorite things to do would be to recline in his chair that overlooks our cove in Owls Head with a book in his hand. On this occasion, the story he was engrossed in was his own. This particular summer he was reading his memoirs. His own life story that he had written a year or so prior to that.
I’d watch him be completely enthralled in his own life story and tell him “Dad, it’s not like you don’t know how it ends.”
He’d laugh or at least acknowledge his smart ass son and comment about how interesting his memoirs were. I must say, he had a point. His story was quite incredible especially when you look at the man that rose from those early years of uncertainty and tragedy. In fact, he only wrote about his life up to the point that he got married and had kids. There wasn't much exciting to recant after that.
Today is my Dad’s birthday. There are a couple of ways I could recognize him on this day. I could spend the day in Owls Head at the place he loved and cherished. I could go out and buy a pie, something else he loved and cherished (but not for the same reasons). If I had gotten down to Owls Head, I would have visited the cemetery, even though I’m not sure his stone would be visible beneath all the snow. So I would have ended up working around the cottage doing various chores, all things he loved to do (even if he did fail to fully inform me about the significant amount of work and responsibility the place requires).
Since I couldn’t do all those, even though buying a pie option is still being considered, I thought I might write a blog about him.
One of the things that amazes me most about my Dad was the fact that he was such a normal person. I recall one lady referring to him as a gentleman – a gentle man, which he was (unless of course you accidentally back the car down the driveway by releasing the emergency break. His hand wasn’t so gentle on my backside in that instance).
He was a friend, a minister and a teacher to many, yet most people probably didn’t even know the adversity he faced growing up. In this day and age, his upbringing could have been described as a bit dysfunctional, but I’m sure he never would have called it that. I remember the morning of his memorial service and stopping by the church. I got into a conversation with the minister at the church and recounted some of the things my father went through as child. He wasn’t even aware of those hardships that my father faced.
My Dad was only a few years old when it was discovered that his mother had tuberculosis. My grandfather’s first wife died of that disease a year after their wedding in 1917. My grandfather married one of her closest friends, my grandmother, a few years later. My Dad, his two brothers and their mother spent much of the late 1920’s in a sanitorium. First they were in Fairfield and then were moved to Hebron.
Eventually all the boys were able to return home while Frances, their mother, stayed at the sanitorium in Hebron. My grandfather, a clerk at a manufacturer in Rockland, would make regular trips to Hebron when he could to visit Frances.
Most of my Dad’s interaction with his Mother was in the sanitorium. She died when he was just 10. From there, my grandfather raised his three young boys on his own. He worked hard but tried to make a good life for his boys. He made sure they were baptized, a wish made by Frances before she died. He gave them a fine upbringing and then watched all three go off to World War II. My Dad was a radio operator, and as a result he didn’t get sent to Europe until the late stages of the war. After the war, my Dad finished high school and went off to college, the first in his family to do so. He went to seminary and became an ordained minister.
Between reading his memoirs, researching the life of my grandfather and having numerous discussions about his life and upbringing, I know my Dad's story well. One day, he and I even made a trip out to Hebron. The place is all grown in and hardly any buildings remain, but he drew out a map and gave me a tour. Thanks to the sharp memory that I inherited, he remembered exactly where everything was. I drive by Greenwood Mountain fairly regularly think about that part of his life.
I can’t imagine growing up in such a scenario and certainly having limited access to your mother and then subsequently losing her at age 10 are circumstances that I can’t even fathom. I can’t help but think about the story of the day the telegram came to say that Frances was very ill. My grandfather tried to make arrangement to get off work and find care for the boys so he could drive to Hebron to be with Frances in her final hours. He didn’t make it. He got another message the following day telling him that she had died. My father recalls crying himself to sleep that night after learning that his mother was gone.
My Dad had a hard life early on. It was a life filled with hardship, adversity and disappointment. Yet, he never spoke of his upbringing in those terms. Life in the sanitorium, he said, provided him a place to live and play with kids his own age during the depression. It also allowed him interaction with his mother.
Between his mother and other influences at the sanitorium, the seeds of his desire to enter the ministry were sown. His father provided for his boys and was active in their lives in the church and the boy scouts. For a young life that was so difficult, my grandfather and father made the best of their circumstances.
And that was always my Dad. Like his father, he always moved forward and wasn’t burdened by misfortune. He lived a life of strength and courage, resembling one of his favorite scripture verses. You never heard him complain. He never showed any signs of bitterness for the travails he experienced as a boy. Those were the years that shaped him and defined him, and I think my Dad made sure they did so for the better. He used those experiences to make himself a better person and lived life with full knowledge that despite the adversity, he had many blessings as well.
I remember the day I learned the prognosis that he had gotten at Dana Farber. I had been away on a schooner vacation and returned home to hear what the doctor had said. My Dad initially downplayed it and said that it was leukemia, the worst-case scenario, and that he had to be sure he was careful with germs etc because his immune system couldn’t handle it. He made it sound like it was no big deal and nothing we hadn’t already been doing. It wasn’t until my Mother got me alone moments later when she explained that the real prognosis was that he could live another two weeks or another two months.
It turned out to be another two months. He died the day before Christmas, and I spent Christmas Eve writing his obituary. Never during that time did my Dad ever shows signs of anything but complete strength and courage, even though he knew his life was at its end. We spent those two months watching football games, watching Meet the Press, talking about the cottage and going through books and tools that he wanted to get rid of.
I could go on and on about various influences he had on me and my life. But as I reflect on his life and the hardships he endured, he proved to me that life is full of good and bad, but it can be what you make of it.
Hardship and adversity can break you down and ruin you or it can build you up and make you stronger. You can feel cursed or you can feel blessed. My Dad showed me that strength, courage and faith is enough to get you through most anything. Misfortune only dictates your life if you let it. He never did that. The simple blessing of his life shaped him and kept him going.
As I researched and wrote a 350-page history on the life of my grandfather, I developed a great admiration for a man who I hardly knew. He died when I was just six. In my Dad’s memoirs, he wrote about his own father “ Dad’s legacy was not in his property but in the life he lived and the faith he passed on to all three of us boys.”
That is great legacy left by my grandfather but one that my Dad also followed and left for me. My Dad was a better man for all he endured in his lifetime. As a result, I hope I am a better person, learning from him and his legacy.
Which has me thinking. I could go for a piece of pie. Happy Birthday Dad!

Hoopla

This is a column I wrote a year ago about the basketball tournament, which starts in full Friday. It was our most read online basketball item. I thought I'd post it here - because I'm too tired and too lazy to attempt writing something better after finishing all the hoop previews for tomorrow's paper.

There will be moments that last a lifetime. At basketball arenas all over the state over the next week, there will memories made, and entertainment you just can’t find elsewhere, no matter how many Hollywood writers end their strike.It’s basketball tourney time. It starts in full today, and it is one of my favorite days of the year. I look forward to this day and week almost as soon as the previous one ends. Even as I scramble to gather information for countless previews, it feels like a last stressful dash toward Christmas Day. Except, I guarantee, over the next week, you’ll receive something you wanted, and you’ll witness something you didn’t expect.There are numerous reasons I love the basketball tournaments. It is not the eight days of driving to Augusta or Portland (or both in one day). It’s not the 15 games or so I’ll write about or the games I’ll simply watch, which will number twice that, at least. It’s not even the drama of who might win. I made my predictions already. I know who’s going to win. Well, I think I do.What I like about the tournament is the atmosphere, the excitement, and the buzz around the arena when a game is on the line. People are yelling, screaming, praying. Bands are cranking out the tunes. Fans are on the edge of their seats. Coaches are on the edge of a coronary.I like the people that you see. It’s like a family reunion. Over the years, I’ve met plenty of great people in the basketball fraternity. The tournaments provide the opportunity to reunite. You catch up, watch games, talk hoops and share plenty of laughs.I can step through doors of the ACC and feel like I’ve traveled to another world. It is where basketball is played around the clock and nothing else matters. You have limited contact with the outside world. All you care about is who’s playing in the next game or where you go eat between sessions?There will be bands that absolutely rock. I still haven’t gotten all my hearing back since the MDI band came to the ACC for the Class B state championship game a few years back. I was seated at the press table toward that end of the arena. Their thunderous volume and close proximity gave me a mighty headache, but they were tremendous. I remember more about them than I do the game.There are fans that are inventive and entertaining. I remember the kid that wore a box and dressed up as a robot. It made me create my list of “Things I’d have to be intoxicated to do.” Wearing a box and dressing like a robot is still atop that list. There are students that enjoy being kids and have fun, without being obnoxious. Who can forget when the Dexter fans brought out the Dexter Tiger in a wooden cage prior to a state game? That was one of the best bits I’ve seen. What about the raucous Mt. Abram contingent last year? They were a force and certainly a boost to their Roadrunners.There will be games that are absolutely ugly. There will be blowouts. There will be times that you feel you’ve been there all day and it’s only 11:30 in the morning. You go long periods without seeing the sun, assuming the sun is shining. You’ll even drive through at least one snowstorm to get there. You might have to swear off coffee by the time the week is over.There are going to be fans that act like idiots. There will be parents that make you feel badly for their kids. There will be coaches and players that make mistakes and let their emotions and actions get the best of them. The bad side of high school sports will rare its ugly head in one form or another. We’re in a culture where lunacy and self-involvement are becoming the norm.But, there will also be great moments that you won’t forget. I just saw a Wells team Thursday night in which the Warriors Sarah Quint hit a 3-pointer in the final seconds to force overtime. Wells went on to win in overtime. Quint told me after the game that they set up plays like that and practiced them, but she never actually imagined she’d have to hit a shot in that situation. She did, and it was amazing. It’s a moment she’ll never forget and neither will the fans that saw a very entertaining game. Can Survivor beat that?The basketball tournaments give us the opportunity to see heroes that last for more than just one day. We see amazing moments and unbelievable developments. Maybe in the coming week, I’ll chronicle some of my favorite moments from years past.Granted, we can see fabulous feats on television. We can watch the greatest athletes in pro sports. We can see drama in the movies. People can even tune into their favorite reality show and snoop into other people’s lives for their own jollies.The basketball tournaments give us the best of all that, but these are our kids and our communities. It’s the kid that bags your groceries and works at the local fast food place. It’s a neighbor down the street. It’s the kid of a friend of yours. And, even if you don’t know the participants, you are pulled into their world as you watch them play their hearts out. These are real people. They’re people from your communities that are facing challenges and overcoming odds. They’re stepping up and achieving. They’re doing things many us only can only dream of doing.I remember when Dirigo won a state championship at the Bangor Auditorium. Shannon Daley finished off a broken play in the final seconds and scored with a short baseline jumper. I remember the whole play moment by moment, including the jig that Coach Gavin Kane danced at the final buzzer. Afterwards, I talked to Daley outside the locker room. With tears of joy, she exclaimed, “I scored the winning basket in the state championship.” It was a moment she couldn’t believe and couldn’t explain. It is a moment I’m sure she’ll never forget. It is still etched clearly in my mind, and I’m sure fans that saw it can still picture it as well. It was a moment of unexpected greatness that many Maine basketball players might experience today or tomorrow.As the coming week unfolds, take time to notice them. You’ll realize that there are things you won’t witness anywhere else or in any other way. We’ll see the unexpected, the unbelievable and the unforgettable. There will be moments that make us smile, moments that make us laugh, moments that bring us to tears, moments that we won’t soon forget. It’s just basketball and a great chance for communities to rally around their kids, but it gives us all a whole lot more.

Super Party

Escargot, blue mohawks and a dude called Poopie.

Now that's a Super Bowl party.

With the game that nobody I know cares about this coming Sunday, it got me thinking about Super Bowl parties and some of the ones I've ventured to.

I'm not exactly a Super Bowl Party type. I like the game, the food and the "beverages" but not the crowd of bandwagon jumpers who are there just because a party is going down. It is a night that teases the socialite in me but turns off the loner gene that I possess.

I usually actually want to watch the game - and sometimes yell at the TV and throws things (like last year, but we don't talk about that game any longer). Sometimes a large crowd of partiers gets in the way of that.

It's kind of like the time a group of friends all gathered to watch the NCAA basketball Final Four one Saturday evening. We began watching the games and eating dinner at a local bar. The next thing we now we're crowding 11 people in van, cruising the back roads of Maine to go bar hopping. I remember nothing about the basketball games, but unfortunately, can't wipe away the vision of the Pimp Daddy mooning everybody. It was certainly a memorable and fun evening, but not because of the basketball.

So, most Super Bowls I've watched have remained low key. I've either watched them at home or watched them with a few friends and family. Since my niece's birthday is often right around Super Bowl Sunday, we often got together for both occasions. She didn't really like sharing her birthday party. So, we just moved her birthday from January to early November. Problem solved.

The most interesting Super Bowl party was the one mentioned above. I wasn't really even invited to it. The Patriots were playing the Eagles that night, and rather than give me the night off to enjoy the game, the SJ thought it might be a good idea to make me work. I was assigned Super Bowl party duty. Since I struck out finding somebody I knew that was holding a party to attend, write about and watch the game, I had others set up potential places to go.

I started with a guy holding an outdoor grilling party. He was tearing down the back of his house to rebuild for his mother. He had a batch of friends over to grill all kinds of food - including escargot. It provided me the great opportunity to refer to the T.O. Has B.O. T-shirts and dump on Payton Manning in the story.

After spending a little time there, I went over to a house of guys where they were giving themselves blue mohawks. One of the guys was nicknamed Poopie. He later left the party in a snit over the betting rules. I was able to watch most of the game there, but rushed back to the office in the second half to start writing. I finished my story while monitoring the game in the office. I finished it enough to catch the end of the Patriots win. Here's a link to the story http://www.sunjournal.com/story/101569-3/Sports/Patriotic_parties/

Of course, with my task for the evening done, I just sat around watched the game and made a nuisance of myself (one of my strengths). While the editors were trying to decide on a headline that would look good on a poster they were doing of the front page, I suggested "Threesome". For some reason, they chose not to use it.

Most of the gatherings I attended in college were pretty low key. The one I remember most was me and my roommate ordering pizza just before the game. We chowed down and then both fell asleep in the first quarter. We didn't miss much because the Dolphins got trounced. I did watch the Chicago-New England Super Bowl with a bunch of Bears fans, now that was fun.

When Scott Norwood missed his infamous field goal that cost the Bills a win, I was at a gathering in a Boston suburb. I don't even recall who was there that I actually knew. It was a party that my sister set me up with.

One memorable one, of course, was the Patriots first Super Bowl win. Thanks to the Portland Pirates, I had to cover one of their games that day in the afternoon. I didn't have time to get my story and go anywhere else after. Instead, I rushed out to Gorham to watch the game with my Dad. I still remember watching the game-wining field goal and thinking "They actually did it." It was cool to spend that evening and share that moment with my father.

As I write this I realize, as much as I like the game and the strategies of it, what has made the past Super Bowl parties memorable haven't been the game. I barely recall most of the games, except the Patriots games (with one exception that we no longer discuss). What I remember are the people, the setting and the fun we had.

Now I'm kind of in the mood for a Super Bowl party. I wonder how many football fans we can squeeze into a van?

Bye George

See ya. Wouldn't want to be ya!

The Bush era, I mean the Bush error, is over. Good riddance.

I've spent the last few hours watching the final moments of his dictatorship, even though he hasn't dictated anything in about six months. I've revelled in watching him leave power in disgrace and ridicule.

The ego-maniac, self-serving, religious zealot, war mongering dictator I won't miss at all. The bumbling, moronic dufus will be sorely missed.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching Bush's final moments and was nearly brought to tears and/or jumping up and down (or flashing an obscene gesture at the TV) as Bush boarded the helicopter and flew away.

But I will miss ole jug-ears in a way. Watching David Letterman won't be the same with his "Great Moments in Presidential Speeches", playing clips of Bush and ridiculing him with his own words. Fortunately, the Late Show has a clip of a sneezing monkey to replace the speeches of a bumbling jackass.

I'll miss the mockery that Will Ferrell made of him on Saturday Night Live. I'll miss the jokes from Jay Leno or John Stewart. Fortunately, but also unfortunately, we won't have GW to kick around any more.

As much as I'd like to see Bush prosecuted, tarred and feathered or even waterboarded, I know he'll likely get away scot free and won't learn the meaning of accountability. So the only justice we get is to watch Bush leave office in shame and disgrace. And I've enjoyed every moment of it.

The jokes and ridicule he has endured by comedians has been great. He'll go down in history not only as incompetent but also a laughing stock. His stuttering, mumbling and bumbling define his policies and his cowboy legacy.

It has been a joy to watch him squirm the last few months. He'd been rendered a lame-duck and useless national figure. Even when he tried to bolster his own record and rewrite his own legacy, he came off as an idiot and wasn't taken seriously. The White House web site has already replaced Bush with photos of Obama, and the word "Failure" in the dictionary has already been updated with Bush's likeness.

It all couldn't have happened to a better guy. I took great pleasure in watching today's ceremonies, knowing full well how bad it made Bush look. He was booed by the crowd and given the "Hey, Hey Goodbye" treatment. Classic. I could barely contain myself when Dick Cheney was wheeled out in a wheelchair. He looked just like the evil banker in "It's a Wonderful Life" I thought for sure he was going to say "I'm going to ruin you George Bailey." Of course, Bush and Cheney likely would have ruined that savings and loan also.

How sweet was it to have Bush sitting there during Obama's speech and making him listen to the new President's indictment of the last eight years. He was forced to watch millions celebrate his removal.

Today's ceremonies were about renewal, change and restoring hope. In a matter of hours, the country took out the trash and kicked it to the curb. The nation now starts anew.

I only hope I don't have to see George Bush ever again - unless, of course, it is while he's on trial.

Super Bore

The Super Bowl pairing has been set. We're now in for two exciting weeks of mindless hype about the Pittsburgh Steelers and Arizona Cardinals. Yikes.

I'm not sure what is worse, that this is what we have left of football season or that football season really is over and now I'm left to watching the Bruins and the Celtics. Or wondering when Jason Varitek will come crawling back to the Red Sox. What's really scary and I concluded yesterday that at least I've got the Daytona 500 to watch in a few weeks. If the only sport I've got left is are the Turn Lefties, I've got troubles.

Too bad they can't play the Super Bowl game tomorrow and get it over with. I can't stand the Steelers and I don't give a hoot about the Cardinals. I'm now left to root for a team that got its ass handed to them in the snow at Foxborough a few weeks ago. To think that hapless team could actually beat the Steelers, I have my doubts. So I have no interest in the Super Bowl. I just might take a hiatus and move to one of those counties that has never tried a Whopper. Maybe they don't get the Super Bowl either.

Now my opinion might be a bit skewed because I'm still in mourning over last year's Super Bowl. Any time the talk turns to last year's game, I change the channel and walk away from the conversation. Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to hear about it. It used to be the same with the 1978 Red Sox or the infamous Game 6 of the World Series. Those, however, don't quite sting anymore. Funny how two World Series championships alters your perspective.

Now this football season has been pretty much a lost cause from the beginning. When Tom Brady went down with a knee injury, I knew the Patriots chances of a Super Bowl title were gone. It was questionable to begin with because of the Pats defense, which only got worse, and more injured, as the year went on.

I followed the Patriots season with mild interest. I didn't want to get too excited with their wins or too aggravated with their losses. I maintained a mild curiosity of the NFL all season even though all the teams I can't stand appeared to be the front runners.

My interest got peaked as the playoff chase narrowed and the Patriots were in contention. Even though New England got squeezed out, I enjoyed watching the Jets and Cowboys fall apart.

Then as the playoffs continued I was thrilled to see Goober and Gomer Manning get heaved out of the mix. All of a sudden, the only team I couldn't stand that was left was Pittsburgh.

My hope was that Baltimore would take care of business, but rookie Joe Flacco turned into Joe Flunko and the Steelers are the favorites in two weeks.

I probably wouldn't be anymore excited if it were the Ravens and the Cardinals. My slight hope is the fact that I've been able to watch the teams I can't stomach go belly up. So maybe the Cardinals will give me one more thrill by stomping on the Steelers hopes. I wouldn't bet on it. I think the Steelers defense will eat Kurt Warner alive and give the Cardinals a good old beating. The Steelers will do to the Cardinals what the Patriots did to Warner and the Rams years ago. They're going to put a bigger hurt on Arizona than Obama did McCain.

So, that leaves me with no interest in hearing all the hype of the next two weeks. I'm not really interested in the game. The Super Bowl tends to annoy me anyway since it is another one of those events where every yahoo comes out of the woodwork and pretends they're a football fan for a day. They're more interested in the stupid commercials and the partying than the game itself. It would be like me showing up and acting all giddy for the finals of American Idol. And, it would be a cold day in hell when that happens.

So, Super Bowl Sunday, I'm thinking my schedule is free. No commitments. No games to watch. Do they still run the Andy Griffith Marathon on Super Bowl Sunday? Maybe I'll give Tom Brady and Giselle and call and see what their doing.

The Final Countdown On Crazy Train

If I hear that blasted Europe song one more time, I'm going to hurl. That one-hit wonder from the 80's needs its own final countdown.


If another basketball team storms out to the sounds of Ozzy Osbourne, I'll be going off the rails of a crazy train.


In my profession, I hear warm-up music every night. Quite often it is the same batch of tiresome tunes. Most of them are songs I never liked to begin with, but now, I really can't stand them. Yet, I hear them over and over again.


It makes me want to stand in front of a speaker at a Disturbed show so my hearing will suffer, and I won't have to listen to the current crap I endure each night. Maybe I'll just start using the earplugs I bought when I did a car racing story from Kyle Busch's pit crew. But, those just dull the noise, not eliminate it.


One thing I know a little bit about is music. Okay, I think I know a little bit about everything (but I do, so live with it). I think I have some credibility when it comes to the songs I hear basketball teams play. And, in my professional opinion the current choice of music is tiresome, stale and just plain sucks.


So, I'm thinking I should hire myself out as a professional music consultant. You want a warm-up mix tape that rocks? I'm your music man.


I've even got proof that my way works. This summer my brother and I both painted our respective decks at our summer places on the coast. I had Metallica blasting through the boom box, along with a little REM's "Accelerator." My brother chose to paint his deck with doo-op music. When I went down to help him and heard his tunes of choice, I wanted to do shots of paint thinner. Well, want to guess whose deck got rained on by Mother Nature? Not mine. Mother Nature obviously likes Metallica.


Now I know music is a matter of personal tastes. I just put together a mix CD that is pretty killer. Yes, it makes Squiggy get quite jiggy. It opens with the Dropkick Murphy's followed by Eve 6, Pearl Jam, Disturbed, Buckcherry, Ronnie James Dio, the Killers, Evanescence, Foo Fighters, Fuel, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, AFI, the Exies and Puddle of Mudd (got to like a song that gets me singing "Maybe I'm the one that's just a little bit psycho" all day long) and then a little more Disturbed and Dropkick Murphy's.


If I don't feel like cranking up that disc, I've got the old standby's like Social Distortion, Metallica or the Crue's "Kickstart My Heart", which if I play while I'm on the treadmill, there's a good chance someone actually might have to kickstart my heart.


But, I doubt those tunes would please the guy that shows up at the workout room at work and likes to play tunes from the Country Music Television.


Now I'll admit my musical tastes have been criticized for decades now. My father always hoped that when I went off to college I'd take Music Appreciation class and actually develop a good taste in tunes. He said that's what happened to my brother. Look where it got him. He's painting to doo-op music - and facing Mother's Natures wrath for it.


I did take the Music Appreciation class. The only thing I recall is that I did take the class, but that is it. For someone who remembers just about everything, that must be a telling sign if I have no recollection of the class.


So, unfortunately for those tender-eared people out there, I still tend to listen to some pretty obnoxious stuff. When I'm in a good mood, it usually means I'm cranking the Smithereens or Social Distortion. Nothing like loving life while grooving to "In this world of pain I have no peer" or feel good songs like "Mommie's Little Monster" or "When the Angels Sing."


Now, I should mention that I do have some quality tastes in music. Out of the 500 or so CD's, I have some pretty good stuff and a wide variety, including my favorites like Richard Shindell, the Bodeans, John Wetton, Buddy Miller, the Levellers, Peter Gabriel etc. But, none of those are great warm-up songs.


But, I'd be psyched to hear a basketball team come out to the Bodeans "Closer To Free" (heck, I've heard it played in the grocery store) or the Levellers' "One Way" or a good Gabriel tune, but that's unlikely to happen. Besides, there are better choices, and it just takes a bit a creativity and a sense of humor. And I got both!


A team like the Cougars could come storming out to Ted Nugent's "Cat Scratch Fever". A team called the Ramblers could use Led Zep's "Ramble On". Even a local team called the Red Eddies (I have no idea why) could use Sammy Hagar's "Red". A winless team could use The Killers' "Mr. Brightside" as their theme song. Now, that would be funny. There's got to be something good for a team like the Blue Devils. Just about any Ronnie James Dio song mentions devils. Better yet, go with the Cult's "Lil Devil". If a team thinks their coach is a complete nimrod, they could go with Disturbed's cover of "Land of Confusion." If a team wants to display some attitude, go with the Crue's Wild Side. And, nobody could go wrong with the Cult. Pick "Rain", "She Sells Sanctuary" or "Love Removal Machine."


Speaking of the Cult, have you seen my head on YouTube? Check out the Cult video from Hampton Beach. That's my melon around the 20 second mark or so. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMTc7v9Bprw


If team's want to go with the AC DC, put away "You Shook Me" and go with "For Those About To Rock" (you can't go wrong with a song with cannons in it) or the new song "Rock and Roll Train". Since I'm usually at girls' basketball games, the Smithereens "A Girl Like You" would be pretty cool. I could even sing along since I know all the words.


Now, I know teams pick music they like to groove to and their particular tastes dictate what junk they stick in the CD player. They're not too concerned with appeasing the musical tastes of the people in the stands.


But, keep in mind, if the Poison Pen shows up at your gym, ready to write something about your team, wouldn't you want to keep him happy by playing tunes he likes? I'm not threatening or anything, but do you really want to test my patience with a few minutes of "The Final Countdown" or "Crazy Train"?

So, next time a team puts together a new set list for warm-ups, they might be wise to pick a selection from the Squiggy Soundtrack. Remember, a happy Poison Pen is far better than the alternative. Just let it be known that you've been warned.