I can’t bitch about the weather this week. In my last post, Saturday morning, the weather dreamers had forecast rain and possible thunderstorms. All the thunderstorms in Southern California are “isolated,” so you have to be near that isolation to notice any effect. At noon on Saturday an isolated thunderstorm approached from the southwest and found our house. We had rain, lightning, thunder and hail. I turned the rocker around toward the windows and watched it for almost an hour.
It was not a thunderstorm in the biblical sense. Coincidentally, on Saturday, both my children, Jessie and Tyler, were in San Diego, not at our house, but close enough (Jamul) to share this storm and possibly comment on it. When they were little, we were together on a visit to Abilene when they encountered, and remember, the kind of thunderstorm that I admire. It was summertime, a perfectly still day with stunning humidity. They were at my grandmother’s house, and I was watching my uncle play in a golf tournament.
At about 2:30, north of us, thunderheads shot into the sky as if launched from the earth. By 3, the base of those clouds was black and reached to the ground. I judged I had maybe 15 minutes to get home before it hit. I was a couple of minutes late. Our block was a black box shaking with thunder, lightning, rain and wind when I piled through the screen door onto the porch. I yelled to Jessie and Tyler to come out to the porch and watch. But they were inside, on the floor behind the couch. Trying to crawl UNDER the couch.
By comparison, the storm on Saturday was a polite cough. But still it set a record for me as a Californian. Never in 35 years’ residency here had I been in a storm that lasted an hour. The lightning, all cloud-to-cloud, stayed directly overhead and gave instant thunder. It HAILED. Nothing you would report to the paper. “BB-sized hail pummels La Mesa residence.” The pellets were tiny and jumped in a darting fashion, like ice fleas, as they hit the ground. It was hail, all the same. I have pictures, and I will post them when I get a minute. I am writing this from my office at school.
Jessie and Tyler were here on a sad weekend, after the death of their stepfather. He was a builder, and loved the outdoors, and the avocado groves he brought to life on the slopes below their house. I hope the storm brought significance to his family and their memories and stories of him. I know it was ironic that Jessie and Tyler should be close, all these years after that Abilene afternoon, at the time a storm set a record for me in San Diego.
February 09, 2009
February 07, 2009
A pot of wet gold for San Diego today
We had steady rain overnight. This morning, the sun popped through.
On the other side of the horizon, the sunlight dropped a rainbow in the lap of downtown San Diego.
The weather dreamers have forecast more rain today, and thunderstorms in the afternoon. We will take what we can get. By sunset, maybe, the sun and the rainbows will have switched places.
February 05, 2009
New evidence from an airplane in trouble
I have written before – more than once – of my experience on board an airplane that I believed was about to crash. Now comes information that compels me to visit it again, because it is new evidence of an odd thing that happened to me on that airplane.
The new information, now finding its way onto the blogs, is an account by Susan O’Donnell of her experience as a passenger on board U.S. Airways 1549, that ditched in the Hudson River on Jan. 15 after hitting birds on takeoff. But O’Donnell was no ordinary passenger. She is an American Airlines 767 pilot, based in New York, who, after completing her flight sequence, was hitching a ride – they call it “jump-seating” – on 1549 on her way home to South Carolina.
Her account is fascinating in its detail, which is detail only a pilot could provide. She made the presentation to the Allied Pilots Association, which is the pilots’ union for American Airlines, but I read it at a site called PlaneTalking. Here is the excerpt that applies to my experience. It begins shortly after O’Donnell felt thumps shake the aircraft, followed by “a bit of smoke and the stench of burning bird.”
She said: “The passengers were concerned but calm. I couldn't see any part of the aircraft out the window from my aisle seat. Although I didn't hear much that sounded encouraging from the engines, I expected we would have at least partial thrust with which to limp back to LGA. We rolled out of the turn, and I could tell we were not maintaining altitude. Then we heard the PA: ‘This is the Captain. Brace for impact.’
“Obviously we weren't returning to LGA, and I could see enough out the window to realize we'd be landing in the river. The flight attendants began shouting their ‘brace’ litanies and kept it up until touchdown. The descent seemed very controlled, and the sink rate reasonably low. I believed the impact would be violent but survivable, although I did consider the alternative. The passengers remained calm and almost completely quiet. As we approached the water, I braced by folding my arms against the seat back in front of me, then putting my head against my arms. There was a brief hard jolt, a rapid decel and we were stopped . . . .”
Now to go my experience of Nov. 28, 1958, over Big Spring, Texas. I was a member of the Abilene High School football team, flying to El Paso for a playoff game. We were on two planes, both chartered twin-engine DC-3s with 27 seats. About an hour out, without any sense of anything happening, or of time passing, I suddenly found myself glued, spread-eagled, to the ceiling of the aircraft. I could not move my arms or legs or even close my eyes, though I tried to. Directly below me was a window of the aircraft, and below that was the brown West Texas ground. I did not feel I was falling toward it, but that it was rising to meet me. My life passed before my eyes; I was only 15, so there wasn’t much on the reel, but I saw it all.
Again, without any sense of something happening or of time passing, I found myself on the floor of the aircraft. Another player was across me, and other materials, including a long, square stick, like a measuring stick, white with red and black markings. Since I was a nut for airplanes, I knew that this stick was used at the airport to dip into wing tanks to determine fuel levels. For a quick, reflexive second, I thought: this stick is supposed to be outside of the airplane. If it is, then I must be too, which means I must be dead.
But I wasn’t. We picked ourselves up and listened as our pilot, Charles L. Kageler, came on the intercom to explain we had almost been hit by a military jet trainer, taking off from Webb AFB outside Big Spring. Later he told reporters that to avoid the collision, he cut all power to both engines, stood the DC-3 on its left wingtip, and dropped like a rock for 1,000 feet. That was the g-force that glued me to the ceiling. Kageler also said he estimated the jet missed us by 25 feet.
We flew on to El Paso, played the game the next day, won, 45-0, and flew back without incident. But all on board that DC-3 had become members of a club. As a member, I knew three things: one, your life passes before your eyes; two, the ground comes up to get you; and three, there was no panic on that airplane at any time, no yells or screams, only silence throughout and a strange, complete calm.
Which is what O’Donnell described among the passengers on Flight 1549. After my 1958 experience, I formed the conviction that the brain, being a logical instrument, wants to place patterns on all the data it receives, but the data was coming too fast on Nov. 28, 1958, and Jan. 15. And probably on most of the other aircraft, that crash and kill people, which is why I am so interested in new evidence of my old conviction. It means all those people did not suffer the indignity of terror in those last seconds, and that has always been important to me.
The new information, now finding its way onto the blogs, is an account by Susan O’Donnell of her experience as a passenger on board U.S. Airways 1549, that ditched in the Hudson River on Jan. 15 after hitting birds on takeoff. But O’Donnell was no ordinary passenger. She is an American Airlines 767 pilot, based in New York, who, after completing her flight sequence, was hitching a ride – they call it “jump-seating” – on 1549 on her way home to South Carolina.
Her account is fascinating in its detail, which is detail only a pilot could provide. She made the presentation to the Allied Pilots Association, which is the pilots’ union for American Airlines, but I read it at a site called PlaneTalking. Here is the excerpt that applies to my experience. It begins shortly after O’Donnell felt thumps shake the aircraft, followed by “a bit of smoke and the stench of burning bird.”
She said: “The passengers were concerned but calm. I couldn't see any part of the aircraft out the window from my aisle seat. Although I didn't hear much that sounded encouraging from the engines, I expected we would have at least partial thrust with which to limp back to LGA. We rolled out of the turn, and I could tell we were not maintaining altitude. Then we heard the PA: ‘This is the Captain. Brace for impact.’
“Obviously we weren't returning to LGA, and I could see enough out the window to realize we'd be landing in the river. The flight attendants began shouting their ‘brace’ litanies and kept it up until touchdown. The descent seemed very controlled, and the sink rate reasonably low. I believed the impact would be violent but survivable, although I did consider the alternative. The passengers remained calm and almost completely quiet. As we approached the water, I braced by folding my arms against the seat back in front of me, then putting my head against my arms. There was a brief hard jolt, a rapid decel and we were stopped . . . .”
Now to go my experience of Nov. 28, 1958, over Big Spring, Texas. I was a member of the Abilene High School football team, flying to El Paso for a playoff game. We were on two planes, both chartered twin-engine DC-3s with 27 seats. About an hour out, without any sense of anything happening, or of time passing, I suddenly found myself glued, spread-eagled, to the ceiling of the aircraft. I could not move my arms or legs or even close my eyes, though I tried to. Directly below me was a window of the aircraft, and below that was the brown West Texas ground. I did not feel I was falling toward it, but that it was rising to meet me. My life passed before my eyes; I was only 15, so there wasn’t much on the reel, but I saw it all.
Again, without any sense of something happening or of time passing, I found myself on the floor of the aircraft. Another player was across me, and other materials, including a long, square stick, like a measuring stick, white with red and black markings. Since I was a nut for airplanes, I knew that this stick was used at the airport to dip into wing tanks to determine fuel levels. For a quick, reflexive second, I thought: this stick is supposed to be outside of the airplane. If it is, then I must be too, which means I must be dead.
But I wasn’t. We picked ourselves up and listened as our pilot, Charles L. Kageler, came on the intercom to explain we had almost been hit by a military jet trainer, taking off from Webb AFB outside Big Spring. Later he told reporters that to avoid the collision, he cut all power to both engines, stood the DC-3 on its left wingtip, and dropped like a rock for 1,000 feet. That was the g-force that glued me to the ceiling. Kageler also said he estimated the jet missed us by 25 feet.
We flew on to El Paso, played the game the next day, won, 45-0, and flew back without incident. But all on board that DC-3 had become members of a club. As a member, I knew three things: one, your life passes before your eyes; two, the ground comes up to get you; and three, there was no panic on that airplane at any time, no yells or screams, only silence throughout and a strange, complete calm.
Which is what O’Donnell described among the passengers on Flight 1549. After my 1958 experience, I formed the conviction that the brain, being a logical instrument, wants to place patterns on all the data it receives, but the data was coming too fast on Nov. 28, 1958, and Jan. 15. And probably on most of the other aircraft, that crash and kill people, which is why I am so interested in new evidence of my old conviction. It means all those people did not suffer the indignity of terror in those last seconds, and that has always been important to me.
February 02, 2009
The Steelers' record hat trick
I don’t think anybody realizes – at least no one has reported it – that the Pittsburgh Steelers have made absolute NFL history three times since Jan. 11.
On Jan. 11, the Steelers beat the Chargers, 35-24, at Pittsburgh, in the second round of the AFC playoffs. In the third quarter of that game, the Chargers only ran one offensive play. I thought at the time that something like that had never happened before, at least in the NFL. After some research, The San Diego Union-Tribune reported a couple of days later that that one-play quarter was in fact the first of its kind.
In yesterday’s Super Bowl, Pittsburgh linebacker James Harrison turned in the longest play in Super Bowl history with his 100-yard interception return on the last play before the half. Given the yardage, it was a perfectly classic, and symmetric, 14-point turnaround. (Of course San Diego’s Antonio Cromartie holds the ultimate NFL yardage record for a play, 109 yards, on a return of a missed field goal at Minnesota, Nov. 4, 2007. Since the end zone is only 10 yards deep, Cromartie’s record can never be beaten.)
Also yesterday, the Steelers became the first team in NFL history to win six Super Bowls.
So in 21 days, the Steelers set three records, which no doubt is a record of its own. So in fact, they set four. Just for the record.
On Jan. 11, the Steelers beat the Chargers, 35-24, at Pittsburgh, in the second round of the AFC playoffs. In the third quarter of that game, the Chargers only ran one offensive play. I thought at the time that something like that had never happened before, at least in the NFL. After some research, The San Diego Union-Tribune reported a couple of days later that that one-play quarter was in fact the first of its kind.
In yesterday’s Super Bowl, Pittsburgh linebacker James Harrison turned in the longest play in Super Bowl history with his 100-yard interception return on the last play before the half. Given the yardage, it was a perfectly classic, and symmetric, 14-point turnaround. (Of course San Diego’s Antonio Cromartie holds the ultimate NFL yardage record for a play, 109 yards, on a return of a missed field goal at Minnesota, Nov. 4, 2007. Since the end zone is only 10 yards deep, Cromartie’s record can never be beaten.)
Also yesterday, the Steelers became the first team in NFL history to win six Super Bowls.
So in 21 days, the Steelers set three records, which no doubt is a record of its own. So in fact, they set four. Just for the record.
February 01, 2009
The month of purple flowers dawns
On the Alta Mira Calendar, on the morning of Feb. 1, the sun rises out of the top of the head of the Bust of George Washington. Below you see our old friend, the Mummy of King Tut, at the right side of the photo: his head, then his folded arms, then his feet poking up. His feet are pointing at the Bust of George Washington, whose head is at the left edge of the photo, and then his torso.
On Dec. 21, the morning of the Winter Solstice, the sun rose out of Tut's eye, below, and then began its long trek northward across the planet's face and, as we see it from the porch, across the features of the Alta Mira Calendar.
This morning, we reached Feb. 1 on that trek, and the sun rose out of the head of the Bust of George Washington. I can hear you thinking, why do I give a rat's patoot where the sun comes up from the porch of a doofus living in California? Well, I too wish the Alta Mira Calendar had some sort of Stonehengian oompf, that the sunrise on Feb. 1 lined up with something eerie or important. But it doesn't. At least as far as I know. I do think it is cool that the Alta Mira Calendar has been accurate for millions of years, patiently waiting for a doofus with a camera to come along and prove it to a waiting world. Something else I think is cool. When the sun first peeks over the ridge, for a long instant or two, you can look straight at it and note its brilliance. It looks exactly like a blazing, bazillion-carat diamond. I see it as a diamond on the rim of the world, connoting the marriage of the sun and the earth, together about to create another day and all the life that goes with it on this tiny dot in the universe.
Among those creations, around here anyway, are streams of purple flowers, a variety of iceplant or succulent that goes nuts in February, cascading like bridal trains across our hillsides and highways. It is the Southern California version of the Texas bluebonnets, which will be hiding from the icy northern winds for another six weeks or so. These are outside our front door. I wanted to get Gulliver in the shot, but you know about dogs and holding still.
On Dec. 21, the morning of the Winter Solstice, the sun rose out of Tut's eye, below, and then began its long trek northward across the planet's face and, as we see it from the porch, across the features of the Alta Mira Calendar.
This morning, we reached Feb. 1 on that trek, and the sun rose out of the head of the Bust of George Washington. I can hear you thinking, why do I give a rat's patoot where the sun comes up from the porch of a doofus living in California? Well, I too wish the Alta Mira Calendar had some sort of Stonehengian oompf, that the sunrise on Feb. 1 lined up with something eerie or important. But it doesn't. At least as far as I know. I do think it is cool that the Alta Mira Calendar has been accurate for millions of years, patiently waiting for a doofus with a camera to come along and prove it to a waiting world. Something else I think is cool. When the sun first peeks over the ridge, for a long instant or two, you can look straight at it and note its brilliance. It looks exactly like a blazing, bazillion-carat diamond. I see it as a diamond on the rim of the world, connoting the marriage of the sun and the earth, together about to create another day and all the life that goes with it on this tiny dot in the universe.
Among those creations, around here anyway, are streams of purple flowers, a variety of iceplant or succulent that goes nuts in February, cascading like bridal trains across our hillsides and highways. It is the Southern California version of the Texas bluebonnets, which will be hiding from the icy northern winds for another six weeks or so. These are outside our front door. I wanted to get Gulliver in the shot, but you know about dogs and holding still.
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