Ghosts of My Own Construction

There certainly is something special about going home.  Not something that is inherently "this" or "that."  But something significant.  Something that sticks - less like pine sap, and more like a mouthful of sweet, sweet honeycomb with a few bee stingers still left in it.  Depending on how and where you grew up, it may be more stingers than honey.  Not in my case, though.  And I feel comfortable with that metaphor because I'm confident that most people who read my ramblings have, in fact, eaten honeycomb. Right?

Sunrise highway drive through the gum and canebrake....flat, straight, and homeward bound

I'll spare you the emotive tales of a childhood at the beach, descriptions of how close I was with all my friends, and lamentations of how we're not all that close anymore.  We were a group of kids who experienced a lot together - an understatement capable of bearing some amazing, fun and very sad stories.  But that's not what this is about.  This is about what happened when I last moved away from the beach, intending to return (permanently) three months later.  It didn't happen. I never came back, except to visit.  I never really said goodbye, either, to anyone or anything there.

Queens Creek.  A special place.

I won't call it regret, but maybe that's because I didn't stick around to let some of these ethereal thoughts turn into solid regrets.  But ghosts they are.  250 miles from home and 15 years separated from many of these memories, I've found a new life, a full life, and there's plenty of external input to keep 20+ years of ghosts at bay - particularly those those of lost, special places and lost, special people. Even when I've come back home, it's almost always been with my wife and now my son - not enough time or energy to pay attention to what lurks in the shadows.  This trip, on my own, was different, though.

They set upon me as soon as I drove across the James River and south of Richmond, starting as cues of lost memories - her grandparents lived on a farm here - they had beef cattle.  We stopped at a bar one night there - that band was amazing.  He finally picked a fight he couldn't win HERE.  As I drew further and further south, the cues turned to thoughts, bred like infections.  Why didn't I ever tell him I found out about what he did?  How did I forget to apologize to her? Why haven't I been back there? Of course, at one in the morning, there are no good answers to these questions, and so I did what I always do.....I kept going.  But it's so much harder when you can see things stacking up in the rearview.

The third harbor crossing. I remember the first time
I drove it,  what I was driving, and who was with me in the car.
The car's been crushed and I haven't spoken to her in 17 years. 

Don't hold your breath for some kind of zen storybook ending to this depressing tale, because it doesn't have one.  I don't know what the way forward is.  Sure enough, the "to do/to see/to say goodbye" list that I should have written for myself 15 years ago still remains unwritten, although many people and places on the list  hover just in the margins of the places I go in southern Virginia.

I saw them - I saw you - there.  There are so many people and places that I miss. I could list all of them - the people and places - but they'd look no different than your list, if you have one.  And if you ever left your home and didn't return, I bet you do. Even if you never wrote it down.

One day, I'll allow myself the mental clarity to write down what I need to say, do, hear, and see to close out these old chapters, which I already know includes some ghosts that must be left alone.  The other ghosts, be they places, events, or people (living or dead), can all be assessed on their merits.  That's how important I think they are.  So who can really tell what it all will look like, or sound like?

Until then, I can't say that I'll change.  It's kind of funny - I'm a person who thrives on accepting challenges and taking the difficult path.  I overcome challenges. It's what I do.  But I am not ready for this kind of introspection.  Un/fortunately, my most recent trip to southern Virginia resulted in a bombardment of imagery, personal history, and places that I once knew, and I'm now having trouble ignoring it all.  Perhaps it was just a wakeup call to let me know that part of my history still wants something from me.

These are the ghosts of my own construction, and I owe it to them to either set them free, or let them come home....back to me.

Horny Blacktips on the Rise - An Old Tall Tale

Blacktip Shark by Dr. James McVey, NOAA Sea Grant

I once said, in a drunken stupor, that I did not need anyone to build a monument to my stupidity, because I intended to build it myself. 

It's in that vein that I bring you "idiotic encounters with horny sharks."  Not from the internet.  Oh, no.  Mine.  My idiotic encounters (plural) with sharks.  With the haze of time, each case's example of my inability to assess the situation  each seems equally ignorant, so instead of bringing you the whole list (about 10), here's my favorite, and it's a great story.


Virginia Beach, 1998.  My buddy Dave and I were making arrangements for the next morning's typical weekday surf.  It was a great time in my life.  Dave mentioned that an old...err...friend... - Nicole - wanted to come with us so Dave could "teach her to surf" (groan).   Now, Nicole was a legitimate college athlete,  and she was an absolutely smokin' hot 23 years old, so I didn't actually see any downside to spending 6am-9am with her in the water on a warm summer morning.  I mean, there was actually a decent chance she might learn to surf.  And gas money don't care about gender. REAL TALK.

Dave and Nicole showed up at my little beach apartment around 5am - on time!!!  Go Nicole!  As Dave and I both predicted, the surf was up.  It was a great morning of fun, clean, punchy waves.  As we also predicted, Nicole picked up surfing immediately.  She was super stoked, and absolutely did not give up (unlike most guys I've ever tried to teach to surf).  And as I also predicted, Nicole's bikini was totally ridiculous. Yeah, it was pretty much the best Friday morning ever.

Who spoils the party?
This guy!

Suddenly, there were little black and white fins.  Lots of them. Slashing through the calm water. Splashing straight up out of the surf.  Why today, of all days? I mean, really.

Blacktip reef sharks had moved into the warm shallow water to mate.  It was for real.  Easily 40 or 50 sharks set up right where we were surfing.  Luckily, at that exact moment, Nicole had paddled in to the beach to grab a quick swig of gatorade.  Dave and I looked at each other and calmly paddled in, agreeing that it'd be a great time to nonchalantly move south to another submerged rock groin.

Nicole took a casual look out to the surf, as we gave her a nonsense reason for our sudden migration down the beach.  She said, "Hey, those aren't sharks, are they?" To which we replied, "OH No of course not, it's just stingrays in the surf.  They are harmless (how many lies can I pack into one sentence?)."  Honestly, it wasn't so much that we didn't want "bikini time" to be over, as we didn't want our possible new surf buddy (remember: gas money) to totally freak out and want to go home (a normal person's reaction after hearing they have been swimming with sharks all morning without knowing it). All three of us had another 90 minutes before we needed to be at work, and there was no way I was calling it quits on such a fun little surf session.

A pretty famous image of a Blacktip
jumping in Florida surf.

And so we paddled back out at the other sunken groin and had another 90 minutes of fun.  Did at least one blacktip shark try to make sweet love to my leg, as I straddled my surfboard? Yup.  That happened.  Dave got some shark lovin' too.  We finally called it a morning, with all three of us having to get to work.  Nicole never knew about the sharks, and that's okay.   I never surfed with her again, which is okay too.  Hopefully she had a great day and decided that it'd be a good sport for her, or now, given our age, maybe for her kids as well.

And thank God we didn't get bitten.

Photo: National Geographic

The Marmot PreCip - One Bombproof Rain Shell (Gear Review)

It was bound to happen.  On a ridiculously wet and warm day last October, I was out planting grasses in a newly restored wetland with a bunch of volunteers.  That rain would not quit.

It was also about 75 degrees outside, so despite the deluge, I had to keep unzipping my Patagonia shell to let some of the steam out.  Ahhhh.  That shell.  It traveled with me for 8 years across the Carribean and Central America.  To about two dozen states, up mountains, and through swamps.   It was solidly waterproof, totally packable, and had pit zips.  Winner!

But suddenly, the zipper disintegrated.  Totally fell apart.   Fabric, zipper line, and the zipper itself.  And I got wet.  Really wet.  Ultralight rainshells are one of the gear items that I demand the most out of, so I knew that a suitable replacement was going to cost me between $110 - $220 for sure.  And suddenly, it was time to act.  I looked at several choices for a replacement, and ultimately had to go to an expert, my former DU intern Nate.

Nate goes outdoors occasionally

Now, you need to understand a few things about Nate.  He loves the outdoors more than I do (a high bar to reach), is crazier than I am, and is just as dumb.  Yeah I think that sums it up. Oh yeah, he also has a keen understanding for what gear works and doesn't work in the outdoors, especially in poor field conditions.  He is also from Pennsylvania, so right off the bat you know there is something fundamentally wrong with him.

I gave him a list of rain shells I was considering, and he had a lot to say about all of them, but the overall ruling was "Bro, you got to get the PreCip." So, lacking a sponsorship from Marmot, I saved my duckets and some gift cards and was able to purchase a new Marmot PreCip for about $129, only two months or so after the failure of my Patagonia shell.  So how'd it do?

Ridiculously well.

I've hunted, fished, paddled, hiked, and worked in the PreCip - in some of the most intense rains you could put a coat through.  There are a few things I'd change about the jacket, but it's pretty much bombproof.

In sleet and snow, the jacket holds up perfectly.  While it's uninsulated, you actually get a little bump of insulation from the heavy dousing of proprietary PreCip waterproofing that Marmot gives the jacket.  And the pit zips make it possible to actually keep moving in the snow, without baking in the jacket. With normal wicking clothing underneath, I'd say the PreCip is comfortable down to about 30 degrees for brief trips outside and down to about 42 degrees for a long walk, hike, or site visit.

Surprisingly, it's very breathable.  And before going any further, I have to say this: if you want a high quality rain jacket that you won't roast or freeze in, you are going to pay over $100 (MSRP on the PreCip is about $129). If you want it to last, and you plan to actually use it with regularity, it is going to cost money.  Sorry.

I am a moderately sweaty dude.  Not extremely, but moderately. That being the case, I require my warm weather gear to be well ventilated.  Again, you're probably not going to find a well-ventilated shell for under $100, and certainly not one with well-constructed pit zips.  In fact, it seems like many outdoor wear companies are moving away from pit zips because it's hard to design and stitch them well.  I was really impressed by the PreCipon this count - the pit zips are 15 inches long!  I leave those babies open when I'm paddling in the rain, working outside in the rain, or doing anything that would have been steaming in my own heat if I were wearing a cheaper jacket.    Unlike some competitors (Kelty for one), the pit zips are constructed really fabulously on the PreCip.  I have no doubt that they'll hang in there for many years of sweaty abuse.

One minor issue that I've found with the PreCip is that while it's amazingly lightweight, the waterproof construction lends it to being a tiny bit stiff (not much), which makes it a bit less "packable" than my old Patagonia.  Make no mistake, you can easily cram it into any crevice in your pack.  But it might not fit into one of those 3" x 8" tiny compression sacks for rain shells.

A big test for me was determining whether the PreCip would hold up in "real" outdoors conditions here in the Mid-Atlantic and Southeastern United States - I'm talking eight foot tall blackberry briars, ten foot tall reeds in the marsh, and 200 year old barbed wire fences that were seemingly strewn up by the gods through what is now mature, dark forest.  While the PreCip is not a briarproof coat, the material has done an amazing job of shedding potential tears.  I'm constantly amazed that it hasn't torn.  And that's my kind of coat.

With all of this great stuff, you'd think that the PreCip has no flaws.  Well, aside from the fact that it's just a rain shell and it simply can't handle 110 degree rainy temperatures or 30 degree blowing snow (a limitation of the gear type, not this specific make or model), I've found just one thing I don't like about it - the generous pockets.

Now, the pockets are well constructed.  Zippered and taped, they are going to keep your gear dry.  Or rather, they would, except that the pockets are so generously sized, that when loaded down with contents, the webbed pocket liner hangs down below the bottom of the PreCip, which is no bueno in a heavy rain.  Basically, the pocket liner is only attached to the PreCip at the zipper, and is otherwise just loose and dangling.  Of course, the adjustment is simple - I don't put anything heavy in the pocket.  Most annoyingly, though, that excludes knives and truck keys.  But honestly, in several months of hard wear, that's the only flaw I've found in the coat.

In preparing for this review, I've also talked to many other folks who have owned the PreCip.  Everyone loves it and wouldn't trade it.  Three different people asked to inspect my hood, because apparently the older models (pre-2011) would pool water up around the neck, where the ultra lightweight hood is stored. Then, apparently, when they went to put the hood on, they'd get 5 oz of cold rain water dumped down their back.  All three exclaimed, "Great, they fixed it!" Which of course, was a relief to me.

The bottom line is that if you have $300 to spend on a rain shell, you have lots of options, and almost all of them are outstanding.  But if you have $100 to spend on a rainshell, you have a lot of mediocre options available that might get you wet, cold, or steaming in your own sweat after just an hour outside in the rain.  The Marmot PreCip is definitely an exception to that rule - it's bombproof, and dollar per dollar, the nicest rainshell, windshell, or even parka I've ever owned.

Recommended: Yes, Highly
Price: $129, $89-109 on sale
Ideal Conditions: 55 degrees, heavy rain, highly active outdoors
Limitations: 75-80 degrees/rain/humidity; 30 degrees/light snow