Outside the Window

The Banana Spider,

http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/galveston/beneficials/beneficial-49_banana_spider.htm

Impressive, but harmless. She's huge!

More Waterfront Stories - Liam

Writing is something to which I am drawn. It's never easy for me. This blog post has been downright painful. But Life, real Life, is not all lightness, not all rainbows and butterflies. It's sometimes dark. I struggled with this one. Still, it is real Life and I watched it unfold on the waterfront.

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We would discover later that Liam was not his real name, but this technicality was insignificant among the wreckage of his life, later revealed.

His friendly smile, cautious eyes, and small, muscular physique earned him a job on the dock loading boats and trucks with 400 pound barrels on lobster bait; salted herring and poggies, redfish and skate. He showed up on time and worked hard doing backbreaking, dirty, honest labor among a crew of a dozen men. We worked from 4:00 AM until the job was done, typically 10-12 hours a day, six days a week. When the sun blazed, we sweltered in the heat. When the rain came and the wind blew, we shivered in our oil-skins.

There was no complaining. They were grateful for the work, appreciated the opportunity to feel pride, to feel productive in a world where welfare was all that society seemed to offer. And, for these men, there was no pride in that. There had been hard lessons in their past, most had spent time in jail, most struggled with some form of substance abuse, but most of these events were overlooked on the waterfront... most, but not all.

Liam rode with me three or four times on bait deliveries. We would head up the road in the early morning light to some fishing shanty on the coast, stopping on the way for diesel fuel and steaming hot coffee, and we would talk. He gazed out the window at the beauty of the sunrises, the ocean inlets and marshes, as he told his story; half Cherokee Indian, born on the California coast, learned to surf, moved to Phoenix during high school. He joined the Army and became a "tanker" for a couple years, driving massive Abram tanks, loading munitions. He loved to play guitar and write music, lamented that his prized Martin guitar was destroyed by a jealous girlfriend.He was 34, single, had "too many" girlfriends.He had been clean and sober for 12 months, didn't smoke. His dream was to buy a Harley Davidson and travel the country working the waterfront up and down the East and West coasts. "Waterfront work suits me." he explained. I liked him.

Liam seemed to fit in with the crew. He worked hard, didn't complain and didn't tolerate the petty criticisms of others who often would attempt to elevate their status by denigrating another. He wasn't looking for trouble... but trouble found him.

Most of the guys are wired... that is, they have cell phones, sometimes ipods, but one of the crew had a smart phone with internet access. It's an enigma of our time that someone without a home, without health insurance or a vehicle, who's worldly possessions would fit into a box, would spend his limited resources for a data plan and access to the web . But he did.

I arrived back at the bait shop from a run to Boothbay Harbor and backed the monster truck into the loading dock. It was always a relief to feel the thud of the truck body snugging up to the dock and know that I had not hit anything or anyone this trip. Unfortunately that was not true for all my runs. But, as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Still, a smooth run brought a sense of satisfaction.

I swung the door open to find Allen standing there with his smart phone in his hand. "Everybody knows about it already. Look at this." he spoke in a low voice. I scanned the screen. It was the website of the Maine Sexual Offender Registry. Oh shit, this can't be good, I thought. There was Liam's picture with a description of his convictions, numerous unlawful sexual contacts with a minor under the age of 14, and his prison record, 6 years in the Maine State Penitentiary.

There is no tolerance on the waterfront for sex offenders. And violation of a minor is deemed the lowest of the low. They call them "skinners". In prison, I am told, skinners go through a special kind of hell. They are tormented and attacked. When they are released, they are required to register with the local police, report their place of residence and any change in residence. The have great difficulty finding work. Child molesters are not allowed to be within 500 feet of any school or playground. There lives are destroyed. For their offense, perhaps this is fitting... justice. Still, it is cruel to see.

I walked into the foreman's office to find him in conversation with the owner. "Close the door", he said. "We've got a situation here and I want your thoughts on it. You were a Human Resources director at the paper mill."

"I have already heard about it on the floor. Has anyone objected to working with him?" I asked

"Yeah, we've got complaints." said the owner

The foreman said "It's already a problem. None of the men will work with him."

I took a deep breath. "Then, by law, you are required to take expedient action. Failure to do so could lead to charges of sexual harassment against you, the employer. It's Employment Law: 101. If you deem it possible, he could be reasonable accommodated, reassigned to an area where he is not in contact with other workers who object to working with him. Failing that, you should terminate him. Document all your conversations and action."

The owner just shook his head.

I never saw Liam again. He drifted into that place where the damned go to live or to die, no one seeming to care which. I do not know, nor do I care to know, the details of his offense. Perhaps he is a cruel predator, a selfish sociopath capable of smiling into the faces of the unsuspecting and destroying lives. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances, God knows what those might be. The jury found him guilty. I will never know.

I am conflicted. I liked him. And because I did, I glimpsed his damnation. I glimpsed his hell on earth. Tragedy... all around.

It ain't all lightness, rainbows and butterflies.

The Perfect Sendoff

When we left the Island earlier this year our friend Jo was on the final leg of her journey. She knew it, welcomed it. And we knew that we would not see her beautiful face, hear her delightful southern speech, feel her warm love when we returned. Her parting words were," I do not know what is beyond... but wherever you are, my spirit will be around you." Connie wept until we hit the mainland, primarily out of gratitude that life had placed this person in our path. Jo breathed her last breath on June 12th, in the early dawn, the morning after our daughter 's wedding....in the arms of her daughter, Tara.

Jo was very much about structure... that is, she would instruct those around her as to her specific preferences and desires... this is about as gently as I can state that, like many mothers, she wished to control the events and the people in her life. I found myself involved in events in which I would never have previously participated, things like poetry readings...and tea parties... because Jo requested it. Whenever she called upon me for assistance, whether it was to repair an appliance or fix her computer or attend a gathering on her front deck on the dunes of East Beach, I gladly complied. Perhaps it was because I so missed my own mother's mothering. Perhaps it was because she would tell me how "brilliant" I was when I changed a battery in a clock or reset a tripped breaker on her garbage disposal. "You are a genius!" she would gush with her southern charm... and I would believe her.

David was also caught in the web of her charm. His love and kindness toward Jo and his incredible support allowed Jo to orchestrate her own end days, remaining in her beach house, saying her final good-byes, attending to her final wishes... describing him as a "good friend" is the ultimate understatement. She gave him her last instructions... no memorial service... scatter her ashes across the beach and in the ocean in front of the cottage where she loved to walk, where her husband Bill's ashes had been scattered. Knowing David as well as she did, she must have realized that her limited, though pointed, instructions left him maximum flexibility in execution. And the wheels began to turn...

I was driving a 45 foot box truck hauling 10 tons of lobster bait down the Orr's Island peninsula when David called toward the end of a long summer in Maine. He had hatched a plan and was seeking a fellow conspirator. The date was to be 11/11/11, the day of his 60th birthday. The place was to be among the dunes at Jo's beach house. The time was to be shortly after sunset. My part was to stop in South Carolina on our way South and purchase a sleeve of fireworks, specifically mortars. These were to be the delivery system by which David intended to fulfill Jo's final request. Would Jo have approved? Well... she hadn't specifically detailed the method of "spreading her ashes"... and she so enjoyed an outrageous, joyous approach to life... Yeah, I'm in David.

We were approaching the South Carolina-Georgia border when I pulled off the highway and into the truck stop. The fireworks shop looked like a bunker; spartan, square, windowless. Inside the single front door, the room was packed with all manner of exotic explosives. It was deserted of people with the exception of the man behind the counter. He sported a polished, petrified wood bolo tie around his neck, and gaudy gold rings on his fingers. "Can I help yew?" he drawled. Yup, we were back.

I explained what we were about and, without missing a beat ,he directed me to the shelf with the largest commercially available mortars in the state. It included a fiberglass mortar tube and six fused, elongated charges around the size of my fist. The clerk offered,"Sorry about yer friend. These should work jes fine... You wouldn't be military would you? We offer a discount." No. unfortunately... "Are you a truck driver?" I grinned and produced my CDL, "Why, yes I am." I spoke proudly and pocketed the cash discount.

This was not the first time David had messed with high explosives. Still, I chose to not be present for the deconstruction and reconstruction of the mortar shells, adding the ashes in the space around the explosive charges. As Kenny Rogers sings "Gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em..."

We gathered in Jo's cottage, sat on the floor, and told Jo stories. Her spirit was palpable in this place. Outside, a butterfly landed on Connie's outstretched fingers. She was "around us" indeed. The full moon was casting a shimmering highway of light across the ocean as David dug the four plastic PVC mortars into the sand. All four were connected with a common fuse, which David carefully lit and hastily retreated to a safe place to watch Jo's earthly remain soar into the starry sky. Four streaks of flame blasted into the heavens over the beach and exploded in reds and greens and blues in echoing roars of thunder.

We stood stunned by both the pyrotechnics display and the ensuing quiet and by the descending cloud drifting out to sea. As it passed through the moon-glow, a million silver rays of light erupted, but for an instant, and then it was gone, leaving us wondering if we had really seen what we had seen. It was the perfect sendoff...

The Island is not the same without her presence. Some of it's charm is gone. But there is no sadness in the place where she was. Only gratitude...