Windsurfing the Columbia River Gorge and Bridging the Cultural Gorge

We went to the Columbia River Gorge. I sailed in it. That confers a certain amount of status since it is the premiere nukin' wind spot of the planet. Of course I sailed in an uncommonly light wind, using my longish floaty board that I can tack. I never got very far into harnesses, foot straps and carving jibes even when I was at the peak of my game about 20 years ago.


Me


Son James near the event center. I taught him everything I knew; then he took it from there. He has videos of the same outing taken from his water proof video camera that straps to his head.


More James, this time at Mary Hill park about 40 miles east of the event center


When we began packing up our gear after our last evening at Mary Hill park we passed a native American family grilling their dinner. I made some cheery remarks like, "Mmmmmm, smells really good. This elicited some chuckles. Just a little later as we started loading our stuff a little girl from the family came over and invited us to join them and share their Bar B Q. I thanked her effusively and declined politely, explaining that we had to get back to Hood River. I didn't have much time to think. I figured we didn't have much to contribute and I didn't know how much they had to spare. Also dear wife had been excited all day about a restaurant in Hood River where she wanted to eat supper.

After we all got under way we each confessed that we wished we had accepted. I felt like an oaf for declining. If you only listen to the news you would think there is nothing but squabbling between native Americans and European Americans over who gets the salmon, what can't be built in native cemetaries, whether to dam a river, etc. In this un-newsworthy moment total strangers extended themselves and invited us to break bread with them because we appeared hungry. Truly for us Americans, notwithstanding diverse origins, there is much more that unites us than divides us. ...like food and family!

The Model Airplane Family

As a child in Columbia, SC in the mid-50's, Owens Field was but a short bike ride from my home. I loved to go there and study the airplanes up close. I marveled when they defeated gravity as they took off or gently floated in for landings. The big airplanes were fascinating, but so were the model airplanes that hobbyists came to fly on weekends near the old Curtis Wright Hanger. Eventually at age 12, I built my own model, which was frankly a rather disastrous performer.

On Sunday afternoons an African American family frequently appeared to fly their models. That seemed a bit unusual to me in those Jim Crow days where everything was segregated. What I remember most about the family was that the model airplanes they built and flew were superb. They looked as if they should be carefully displayed in a museum rather than flown about over the hard asphalt. They were excellent replicas of actual aircraft including even spectacular multi-engine bombers. The whole family worked together to fuel them, start their engines, and set them into flight. They performed as well as they looked.

The family was as memorable as the airplanes they flew. They arrived in a late model Dodge that always gleamed from a recent wash and wax job. The family was always dressed as if for church. Even the young boys wore suits and ties. At the time, I wondered why they arrived so spotless and formally attired for an afternoon of play. Did they feel they needed to go the extra mile in appearance and decorum to assure being accepted among all the white people? Did they take just pride the fact that they far exceeded their comparatively advantaged neighbors in their craft? Did the parents feel resentment that they had to go to such lengths to demonstrate their competence and respectability? Were they encouraged and heartened by the acceptance and admiration shown to them by onlookers like myself? I suppose I shall never know.

Ten years after my idyllic Sunday afternoons of aviation admiration, I was designing real airplanes for Boeing in Seattle. My skills had improved since my first crash and burn model. I received tremendous support in improving those skills. In South Carolina I was allowed to go to good public schools and encouraged through my university years in a tough engineering curriculum. Those advantages were not available back then to the family with those fine models.

Over 40 years since I left South Carolina to seek my fortune in the great northwest, I have maneuvered myself back home. The other day I walked by the old Curtis Wright hanger at Owens field. It still sits there, windows broken and vines crawling over it. A cyclone fence surrounds the hanger and grass grows high from all the cracks in the asphalt around it. The carcass of an old B-25 bomber or something of that ilk sits like a ghost inside it. Jim Hamilton Blvd. and a skateboard park occupy the space where people flew the model airplanes. As I looked over that memorable space I wondered what became of the nice family with the perfect model airplanes. Are the parents all wizened and gray somewhere enjoying their golden years? Have the children grown up and realized their dreams? I sure hope so. I wish I could thank them for entertaining and inspiring me with those cool model airplanes.

Girl race car driver - Selling it with sex

Have you ever heard of Danica Patrick? For those who don't remember, she's the girl rookie who at 100 pounds and age 23 led in the 2005 Indianapolis 500 race. She raced aggressively and wisely to finish ahead of all but 3 of the testosterone fueled veteran male drivers. I'm not a racing fan but I channel surfed into the race that day and was hooked. As father of a daughter the same age, former coach of a girls' softball team, and a believer in women's abilities to achieve as highly as men where brains and coordination are involved, the drama grabbed me. I was on the edge of my chair rooting for her.

Because I am not particularly a racing fan, Danica was quickly off my mental radar screen after the race. Once in a while I'd hear her name in the sports news as having placed in some position in some race, but that was about it. I never heard of a win… until now! She just appeared on my computer news page for having become, on April 20, the first ever woman to win an Indy car race and she's holding a third place point standing this year in that sport. I felt a little "hooray moment" and quickly Googled my way to her web site to revel in the excitement and see what this woman was all about.

Whoowee! Imagine my shock when the page opened up with a big splash of highly sexualized Bat-woman type whiz bang. The page opens ponderously slowly if you don't have an Indy-speed bandwidth but it links to this page. http://www.indymotorspeedway.com/danica.htm There she is wearing trashy little skimpy outfits and draped sensually all over a yellow '57 Chevy. This certainly doesn't promote my interest in Indy racing. If anything it makes me want…uhh…to have a vintage '57 Chevy. Then it only gets worse with a link to her Sports Illustrated swimsuit photo-shoot where she appears in various stages of squirming out of a racing suit wearing a tiny bikini and not always both parts of it.

Now I don't have anything against nudity or sexuality. In fact, sex is my favorite human interaction. It's just that this business of SELLING IT with sex really puts me off. There's not one chance in a googolplex that Ms. Patrick would blunder into this blog post, but if she did, she might comment "Mind your own business gramps. This is who I am. This is who I want to be. Don't confuse me with Nancy Drew!" Continuing this imaginary conversation I might say, "OK, fair enough. But consider the unique position you are in to inspire the three billion women and girls in the world to believe in and nurture their athletic and intellectual gifts." In 1993, pro basketball bad boy Charles Barkley defended his personal behavior, declaring that sports figures should not be considered role models. I couldn't agree more. But I say to you, Charles and Danica, sports figures ARE considered role models, whether or not they should be or want to be.

Danica, you ARE certainly cute draped over a yellow Chevy quarter panel with your hiney crack peeking out the top of your underpants, but so would be a million other young women. My grandfatherly advice is to save this for your close friends or spouse and keep your public image focused on racing. Women who can't back out of a parking place without having a thousand dollar crash can pose for these kinds of pictures. NO! On second thought, I don't want my wife posing for such pictures either. Well anyway, be careful zooming around out there so fast in your Indy car. I'm still your fan. I want to keep seeing you for a long time…holding trophies while completely zipped up in your racing coveralls!