Small Boat Sailor

Went out Saturday and Sunday to our little Shoreline Lake and completed Intermediate Sailing: Level II - which should really be called "Flipping Boats."

Saturday afternoon was a heavy-air day and my skipper in the boat (we were switching roles back and forth) was a happy young fellow named Alexander from Belorussia, who got a bit excited as we came around the little island, and flipped us on the far lee shore, over by the golf course.
That was ok for me since I just climbed the opposite way over the hull as boat rolled on its side, and stood on the little bit of centerboard that stuck out. Alexander struggled to replace the rudder which had come off as we drifted into the shore.
When done with that he moved forward through the muddy goop to the mast and un-cleated the sail halyard and pulled "down" the sail. I got him to extend the centerboard straight-out as it had run up into the trunk when we grounded, then I moved out and stood on the end of the centerboard and the little Catalina Capri 16.5 popped back up.
That was good, but better and smarter would have been to "scoop" Alexander into the boat at the same time, since now we were both in the water and not in the boat. I swam around to the stern and struck the bottom, sinking into it ankle deep. Crunching on bits of shell and stone with mud filling my sandals I plowed through the sucking-muck and stumbled onto shore where I met our Sailing Instructor who had arrived on a canoe to help explain and orchestrate our escape.
Messing around in the mud a bit more we re-attached the rudder again, and got the boat pointed into the wind, "in irons." Alexander went forward to re-raise the sail and pull-out the jib. I jumped into the back and grabbed the tiller, and with a big heave the Instructor pushed us out into the small channel. The wind caught the sails and I pulled in the sheet and pushed the rudder over to tack between the little island and shore. We sailed back to the dock and took off our shoes to get all the mud-crap and the rocks out. I like my new boat-shoes. The stout rubber toe-cap helped kept my toes from getting cut up on the sharp shell-mound that constitutes the shore of the little man-made lake. Cleaned-up, we hopped into another boat with a good rudder and went back out to practice more tacks and jibes, narrowly averting disaster a few more times.

Sunday afternoon was (unusually) a light-air day, and first we went out to practice some more. After practicing jibing and getting all tangled-up on a few occasions, we returned to the dock for more instruction.
Today we were going to practice the man-overboard drill with each person dropping into the water and being retrieved, then we were gonna flip it on purpose. We had learned a few important things, the first being TO HAVE A PLAN. When I stood on the centerboard and popped the boat back up I could have easily "scooped" Alex, but we didn't think of that or talk it up ahead of time.
This time I was with two other people more my age (a man and a woman mid-late 40's), and we had to plan ahead a bit. During the man-overboard drill our limits were tested. They had both required more help (than me) getting back into the boat, so in The Capsize and Righting Plan we decided to scoop one, then I would hop in and help the other over the stern into the boat. That person then would be right there at the tiller, which they could grab, pull in the sheet, and skipper us back to the dock. It didn't quite work out that way but it was close.
We sailed out with me at the helm and it actually took much more effort to intentionally flip the boat than to do it accidentally, but I finally managed. Once in the water The Gal went to the mast to release the sail and pull it down. I swam around the end of the mast and grabbing it began pulling the boat to face the wind, and once in that position The Dude held the boat in place while I climbed onto the centerboard and scooped The Gal into the boat. I came around the back and pulled myself up and into the boat and then helped The Dude who went forward to handle the jib, with that I grabbed the tiller, pulled on the sheet, and we set sail back to the dock. A fine day it was.


UPDATE: Don't let anybody tell you dinghy sailing's for wusses, I've got as many bruises and aches as a good day dirtbike riding. Also gloves, both sports need gloves.

UPDATE II: I'm getting sentimental for my Second Blog Post, I should have completed this class and advanced already!

UPDATE III: This is a morning photo of calm weather, the excitement and adrenaline rush came with the tipping and flipping, but now I'm not getting it, the fear is gone. I need to mash the two photos into an animated giff, I have Photoshop but I'm lazy, maybe I can find a web tutorial somewhere:

War Dead Flown to Iran - By AARON KLEIN - Special to the Sun

H/T to Maggie's Farm, Monday Late Links we are apprised of a maybe not-so-shocking revelation:

JERUSALEM — The bodies of Iranian Revolutionary Guard soldiers killed by the Israeli army in Lebanon have been transported to Syria and flown to Tehran, senior Lebanese political sources said.

Israeli and Egyptian security officials confirmed the news, which follows a report that first appeared in The New York Sun, that Iranian forces posted to southern Lebanon have been aiding Hezbollah terrorists in their attacks against Israel, including helping to fire rockets into Israeli population centers.

The Lebanese sources said between six and nine dead Iranian Revolutionary Guard soldiers were brought in trucks last week into Syria for a flight back to Iran. They said the bodies were transported along with the tens of thousands of Lebanese civilians fleeing to Syria.

Read the Whole Thing

Israeli officials said Iranian Revolutionary Guards directed the firing two weeks ago of a radar-guided C–802 missile that hit an Israeli navy vessel off the coast of Lebanon, killing four soldiers. Israel says Iran acquired the missile from China.

Yeh, Iranians - who'd a thunk?

Het id hot

All over people are...hot. Whatever. I grew up in a hot country, and here we have no air-conditioning either. The high ceilings of this home have no opening vents, and the whole solar load of heat is trapped. A rubber membrane is asphalted-down to prevent water ingress, and that is coated with some gravel and silver reflective paint. Five fans at various points of our small 2nd floor home currently pump still air around the hallway arteries, trying to exhaust it through screen doors. Not quite the biz for serious heat. But it's not even hot like where I grew up. Over there the massive construction absorbed more heat, but still didn't allow it to penetrate as much. My dad built and installed the concrete window-awnings to deflect the direct rays.

Here it's only 94.5 degrees indoors and fairly manageable. When we were kids it was manageable too. We didn't know the difference or our limitations, and anyhow the bugs were worse. But the heat was also much greater than today. Compared to heat I hate cold more to this day, - I can deal with warm. Not too big on snow-sports though.

I'm on the left in that old shot, and was educated to be on the Left too - and was for many years even though now I realize my natural inclination was always not.
If it gets real hot take a cold shower - we used to dip a tin from a giant earthenware urn in a wide open concrete shower-stall. We filled it when the local water pump was working, at different times of day - whenever it ran, you could never be sure, you could never be sure when the electricity would work either.
Here in America the pool at this location is heated by environmentally sensitive and cost-effective solar panels up into the high-80's - some idiot didn't turn the taps off so it was too damn warm to be very refreshing. Hot sap from the surrounding pine trees dripped onto the small lawn area and now we have a couple beach towels ruined.
Overseas the pools would be not as warm and surrounded by weirdly twisted overhanging Banyan trees, and thick with a layer of green sludgy stuff that would cover most of the surface. The banks were of slippery mud and the "tanks" were inhabited by the most huge and warty frogs you ever saw - thick-skinned beasts that were tough to kill even with a .177 pellet rifle - and they also had huge, scary-nasty water beetles the size of two hands scuttling about - and probably more diseases than you'd care to think of. Forget even going in unless there was a way out and a medical kit.
Pour up a Gin & Tonic like the old Sahibs and thrash a few servants. If I tried that as a kid I'd have gotten my ass kicked by the cook. Oh well, thank God the Egyptians invented beer and the Germans perfected it. Prost!

66th Carnival of Cordite, Completely

The 66th round of rounds is up, the bubbling bullets of brightness and the amazing ammunition of accurracy! Once again I'm missing in action, just because laying around in an overcoat, in the dirt, in the heat, punching paper - sheesh, no story there. That and I forgot.
But the best story is this:

A French reader saw his (James R.) essay and was kind enough to share his knowledge by email. The first part discusses the guns used by French security forces. James says "The last part of the Email paints a grim picture of how gun control has pretty much disarmed the populace even though crime is out of control throughout most of Europe. Law abiding citizens are forced to arm themselves with plastic beanbag guns, giant double-barrelled plastic toys that resemble something you might buy your kid at the Disneyworld Pirates of the Caribbean gift shop." You might want to go read the whole post here.

Check it out, seriously.

Blogroll Bandwagon

I updated some names in my Cool Bloggers sidebar under the blue martini where people and blogs I frequently read are listed. Those those have led me to others which I plan to start reading The Bitch Girls is a new one. For a while there's been Combs Spouts Off, and especially JimmyB at The Conservative UAW Guy, James R at Hell In A Handbasket and Bob at I ate my wafer... who's helped me some as a shooting-coach, and the fabulous Minerva with insight into both academe and Asia Mad Minerva has incredible exquisite posts like "Flaming dog meat sets Chinese school afire."!!
And then there are some blog-friends who have gone off on hiatus or sabbatical...

Just for fun I'm including a picture in this post.

(click to get another picture)

Hot Time, Summer in the City.

It was hot at 10:30 in slow-prone with the sun blasting straight down on my heavy shooting coat, and my cheek-weld slipped on the Garand's stock as the sights blurred and sweat fogged my glasses. With the sling tight against my arm I wiped my forehead with my trigger-hand and smeared my glasses more, I wiped a finger again to clear them. Leaning on my elbow over to look through the spotting scope, I could only make out a few fuzzy bright spots against the blurring, heaving, mirage that reflected up from the scorched earth.
It's summer and it's hot, get over it and make the shot.

With record temperatures announced on the evening News we had a light turnout, so I was shooting on #9 and #10 - and the rest of the guys with magazine-fed semi-autos had already shot their 20-rounds and fled to the shelter and shade of the canopy. I still had ten more to go.
In the first stage my sighters had flown to their appointed spots in the black, an X and four nines spread around it. The temperatures were not up yet and the new targets were crisp to view. In Offhand I plunked in a Nine then an Eight right above its straight off, threw a few more Eights and some WTF's, and finished by coming back into the center with a Nine, a Ten, and another Nine - I've done better but I've done worse, seeing a holes in the black felt good.


I stepped it up in rapid-seated and shot an 84 - second best yet and with a good brace to the inside of my knees against the sling. The first two were low Nines at around 7-O'clock, then after the reload went back to Nines up at 9-O'clock and then dropped a few Eights and a Six back out around 5-O'clock. Like going in a circle - at least I think, I might have worked it the other way around...
In rapid prone I started with a low Eight, and went up to a Nine at 10-O'clock, then Nines again across the top, and down into the center: two X's, nines and eights finished it out, but a few went wide-wacky dropping me down to a crappy 67. Blast!

Now here I was trying to poke into the fuzzy distance and only seeing it when a blurry light spot appeared in the black. My first shot was a near invisible Six at 4-O'clock, the second an unknown, with the third a Nine appeared, 12-O'clock high. The rest went Nine, Eight, Ten!, Seven?, Nine - I was peppering the hell out of it and couldn't see for crap. I quit trying to look through the scope, my zero was good, my windage was good - just shoot. I chambered another round and went into position again, my support arm tired from the pressure of the sling, and centered the front post below the fuzzy distant bull. In the end I had three Tens in a little cluster, five Nines, that Eight, seven Sevens, three Sixes and a Five for a 155. Not real great but considering the circumstances I'll take it. I dunno how you guys in Ohio and the East Coast stand the humidity, at least this was a dry heat.

Abscam Murtha

An unindicted co-conspirator in the "Abscam" investigation of the late 1970s and 1980s, cut-and-run-Murtha had close ties to the banking industry and an FBI tape. Only one short visible part, a 13-second snippet, was taken out of context to emphasize his "reluctance" to take the cash.
The American Spectator has a transcript of the missing portion of Murtha's ABSCAM tape. Murtha was never exonerated for his part in ABSCAM, in fact as an unindicted co-conspirator Murtha was never charged. That's the un-indicted part.

What else is there? What follows his claim stated on the McLaughlin show One on One where Murtha recently claimed, "I said, "I'm not interested." I said, "I'm interested in investment in my district, period." ?? This:

"I want to deal with you guys awhile before I make any transactions at all, period.... After we've done some business, well, then I might change my mind...."
..."I'm going to tell you this. If anybody can do it -- I'm not B.S.-ing you fellows -- I can get it done my way. There's no question about it."
"All at once, some dumb [expletive deleted] would go start talking eight years from now about this whole thing and say [expletive deleted], this happened. Then in order to get immunity so he doesn't go to jail, he starts talking and fingering people. So the [S.O.B.] falls apart."...

To back it up it runs like so:
Amoroso: Let me ask you now that we're together. I was under the impression, OK, and I told Howard [middleman Howard Criden] what we were willing to pay, and [This is where the available videotape begins] I went out, I got the $50,000. OK? So what you're telling me, OK, you're telling me that that's not what you know....

Murtha: I'm not interested.

Amoroso: OK.

Murtha: At this point, [This is where the available videotape ends] you know, we do business together for a while. Maybe I'll be interested and maybe I won't.... Right now, I'm not interested in those other things. Now, I won't say that some day, you know, I, if you made an offer, it may be I would change my mind some day.
...
No wonder the general perception of Congress and of the Media is so low.

Making a meal from leftovers

It would be interesting to see if any of the illiterate clods who spam based on topic even read the recipe.

Mix into the Pot:
On the left we have fifteen brass and copper Zucchinis.
Five of the 168-grain Nosler Custom Competition Soup-Cans pushed by 46.5 grains will go off as sighters.
Going off with a little hotter flame to the saucepan and carried in a heavier chunk should mean a higher strike, so I won't have to adjust my elevation upward to compensate as my barrel droops, and the next for ten minutes stirred slowly, they will be slung (or un-slung as it were) downrange in the offhand stage.

Stirred into the middle are the old reliable carrots, each minced quickly with seventy and sixty sceonds each for sitting and laying rapidly, they will be chopped into eights and twos.

Steady on the right are the newly harvested. Twenty little sausage-casings measured into two one-hundredths by the headspace guage, they are closest in number and chosen to garnish the black in slow-prone.

Shiny Stuff Accurate Measurements

I'm prepping for a match this weekend and full-length re-sizing twice-shot cases. To check them I have a Stony Point Cartridge Headspace Gauge. This works with or without the bullets seated, since the .30-06 case headspaces on the shoulder that's what needs to be measured. The shoulders line right up at the same mark each time, with shot cases running short. Re-sizing to full length gets the shoulder back up where it belongs, but then the case is measuring out to 2.502+/- when it should be 2.494 so I have to trim the brass a smidge.

I'm going to use the load that worked so well for me before, the 150-grain spirepoints (center), with 46 grains of H4895.
The Square Green Thing: I got bored smearing on the Imperial Re-Sizing Wax and simultaneously was about to throw out the old case-lube pad when I noticed it was damp with soaked-in lube. In the past I had dinged up every case-neck I tried with an overdose of spray-on lube, but I thought maybe now my finesse had improved so I decided to give it another go.
It's working better than before, possibly due to the dies now being burnished and broken-in they're less dry and grabby, and also I'm just rolling the cases back and forth a couple time across the pad surface, instead of deluging them in spray-lube. Laziness of finesse, or whatever.

Hey Carnival!

The Carnival of Cordite is up over at Spank That Donkey and while I'm not in it, (havn't been doing much to assert myself gunblogwise) some other fascinating folk are, so go check it out!

Hot and Toasty Fried Stator

It was hot but not too bad down at Hollister Hills SVRA (State Vehicle Recreation Area), about 86-degrees or so and dusty - but not as much a choking dust-bowl as a blast-furnace up on top. Under the oak and walnut trees down in the camp-sites it's usually nice with a cooling breeze since the mountains angle towards the ocean about 15 miles away. We arrived about 10:00 AM.

Out on some trails there's no breeze because it's blocked by the hillside, on others if they',re on a southern-exposure the hills have short scrub sun-blasted vegetation while the northern and less exposed folds of the hills have trees, shade, and higher cover. The hillsides facing south had cooked-up to temperature by the time we rode them, and the heat difference was physical. You come around a corner with some shade trees into a bare rocky corner facing the sun and you can feel the heat like riding into a hot curtain, into a reflective oven. The dust lay piled-up in small berms in the corners of the hillside trails. In the winter this turns to sand that creates velcro-like traction but not now. A lot had been blown off the dry hardpack trail, but it was also slippery in a lot of places because of the dust-layer - like riding on graphite. Knobs are pretty useless in the summer because they can't dig into anything worthwhile. Might as well use a worn tire or even a street tire.

I was riding along about 20mph coming up the ridge-top trail when my KTM suddenly went, BWWHHUUuuuuuHHHhhhhhnn and died, rolling to a standstill. I pushed it under the shade of some trees to have a look as Mike rode up on his Gas-Gas. With a two-stroke the initial probable cause is usually a fouled plug or a seizure of some sort - but I had never even fouled plug before. It was hot as hell but mainly that was us. The old Toomer is reliable and even idles and pre-mix fuel was getting into the bike. The MX/C model has a "Desert" tank for extended range (I've done 70+ in Idaho before going onto reserve), and that extra capacity takes up space. The tank drops low over the cylinder head, close to the special, shorty sparkplug - a $12 plug. It's really hard to get at the plug with size-Large hands, and everything around it was engine-hot, especially the pipe. I put a bit of water onto the head from my Camelbak hydration system and watched it sizzle. We checked the coolant by cracking a little overflow nut, it didn't spit and hiss too bad. Temps were dropping so I got out my tools and took off the radiator-shroud nuts and bent the shroud back so Mike could start the plug wrench. Coolant was good, plug was black and wet but not "fluffy" like fouling. WTF.

We replaced the sparkplug and it still wouldn't start. But then after a bunch of kicks it did! Woo-Hoo! ~*danger*~ Since we were at an entrance to Troll Trail we made a bad decision, we decided to make the descent. Troll is a black-diamond trail under the trees in most places, on the side of a steep hill tucked in so there is no breeze or wind. It's a trail through thick vegetation most of which is poison oak, the rest peg-grabbing manzanita, nature's own spring-steel. The straight stretches are measured in yards less than 10, more like 5-yards at a time. It's twisty and ignorant-tight, a good-fun trials-bike trail compared to everything else.

About a 1/4 mile in it died again and wouldn't start. Crap! I got out the buddy-tow and and we tried towing it, but that worked only a bit. The weight of the bike and me was too much for even Mike's mighty Gas-Gas 300, on such a tight trail. So we pushed a bit. I tried running/pushing alongside as Mike towed, but that was like running alongside on a crooked diving board pushing a Dumpster - there's not much room and the trail keeps changing direction. We finally got to the outlet but it was 20-feet up one last steep up-hill section to exit. Baxter towed, kicking and clutching and made it over on the Gas-Gas, and I threw the KTM as far as I could throw a dead mule with dead legs. The tow-cord went taught and his bike piled over on its side, dumping my buddy on his shoulder. Mine lay stuck on its side facing downhill below the roadway while I wrestled with it. With a lot of heaving and pushing and sliding backwards we both tipped it upright, and with more exertions we rolled it up onto the road. We both stood gasping for breath in the heat and quickly removed our helmets to get some air. Water is so important to have at times like this, I would have been dead from heatstroke four times over if it weren't for my hydration system. I'm glad our guys in Iraq have 'em.

We assessed the situation and took off towing, winding-around mostly downhill, until we reached the lake. There's a hill you have to climb-out. Given the conditions the mighty Gas-Gas had nothing to work with, the knobs couldn't pull my bike and bear against the concrete-hard trail dusted with magic slippy-dust. I un-wound the tow-strap and gave the bike a kick - and it fired up! Crazily in a rush, I stabbed into gear and hit the hill as fast as I could, clutching to keep the bike on the power and from falling off into the dead-zone, the BbbuhBbbuuuWwwwuuuuhhhh... I had it screaming and clutching and bouncing up and over the top and tried to keep it going on the rest of the trail, going about as fast as I ever have on that section, bouncing into corners and clutching and revving out just to keep the motor alive, I flew through corner after corner heading down until finally as Mike was catching up, it went off-song and bubububuuuwwwuuhhhhh died.

Fortunately it was a flat just before another downhill, so I pushed off and rolled. My tires being low slowed me down until I got another push from behind from Mike - we did this pushing and the towing, all the way back to the truck. We sat on the picnic bench in the shade of the trees were exhausted.

This is the left side, you can't actually get to the plug from this side as the tank comes down as low as the clutch-cable entrance into the case, which that orange RTV goop is attempting to seal, center-low.
After sitting in the shade a bit the bike fired right up and idled fine. Ring-a-ding-ding-bling-blang-rip-rap-ding. Typical two stroke. That would make it probably a bad stator, with the heat affecting the contacts and killing the bike. Mike figured that out. There are a number of things to look at however... Nice bruise on the leg here too.