"Deep Water" - the Tragedy of Donald Crowhurst, and the Price we Pay to Dream

"We are all human beings...and we have dreams."

In 1968, the British Sunday Times newspaper sponsored an international yachting competition, known as the Golden Globe Race. Nine men entered. Their task? Circumnavigate the world under sail, single handed (the Yachtsman's term for solo), without stopping. Nobody knew if a human or boat could withstand the stress of such a voyage.

Most of the men who entered the race were experienced sailors. Among the favorites were a 29 year old Englishman, Robin Knox - Johnston, and a quiet 43 year old Frenchman named Bernard Moitessier. There was also one "mystery man" among them. His name was Donald Crowhurst.

Louise Osmond explores the story of this race, and Donald Crowhurst's ill - fated voyage, in a documentary film titled "Deep Water." Through a combination of crude hand - held footage shot by the yachtsmen themselves, touching interviews, and dramatic narration by Tilda Swinton, she portrays Donald Crowhurst as a man who sailed off on a quest for self fulfillment, only to become a prisoner of both his own ambitions, and those of his sponsors.

At the time of the race, Crowhurst was a 35 year old father of four children, with a struggling marine electronics business. While he was, as one of his friends puts it, a man of "great brains," his business ventures had never validated him. While his wife and children had home and food on the table, they had little else. He saw the Golden Globe Race as a potentially transformative experience - one that would finally provide the self - actualization he had yet to discover.

There was only one problem - a lack of funds. To secure the necessary financial backing for his voyage, Crowhurst turned to a wealthy businessman, Stanley Best. He also hired a veteran journalist, Rodney Hullworth, who served as his press agent. As part of their agreement, Mr. Best stipulated that if Crowhurst either quit or failed in the early stages of the race, he would be forced to buy his boat back. This meant Crowhurst would be forced to sell his house, and he and his family would become mired in financial ruin. He had, in short, staked his (and his family's) life on being successful in the race.

Osmond chooses to depict Crowhurst as a man who became trapped both by his own dreams, and the financial ambitions of his sponsors. Best and Hullworth knew that if Crowhurst succeeded, they stood to make a lot of money, through book deals and interviews, among other things. As such, they transformed the mild - mannered Crowhurst into somebody he wasn't. Donald had no choice but to play the role in which he had been cast.

As his departure date neared, Crowhurst battled increasing self - doubts. On one hand, he wanted to be in the race. But he was also a realist, and he knew he was far behind schedule. His relative lack of experience, combined with the fact that he was custom building a boat from scratch with limited time, led to numerous errors. On the eve of the race, he confided to his wife and friends that the boat "wasn't ready." When he approached his sponsors and told them of his predicament, Osmond leads us to believe that they gave Crowhurst no choice but to sail before the departure deadline. He was, in short, already trapped.

Ultimately, his boat began leaking badly, and in his haste to depart on time, he had neglected to pack supplies needed for repairs. He was faced with a terrible dilemma. If he quit the race, his family faced an uncertain future. However, if he continued, his boat would likely be destroyed by the mountainous waves of the southern ocean. It was this dilemma that led to him deciding to fake his voyage. He drifted aimlessly in the South Atlantic for hundreds of days, all the while maintaining two logs - one true, and one false. He radioed in false reports of his position. In short, he played the character he was expected to play. However, the stress and internal turmoil of faking his voyage led to a severe mental breakdown, and his voyage concluded in suicide.

When contemplating Crowhurst's journey, the main question that arises is one of motive. Was Crowhurst's voyage and suicide an act of selfishness? Or was it something else?

Osmond seems to suggest it is the latter. She implies that Donald's decisions were driven by a deep, heartfelt love for his wife and children. Above all else, she suggests, he didn't want to fail them. Further, the restrictions imposed by sponsorship put him in a position where he couldn't afford to fail them.

In the latter portions of the film, Osmond faces an artistic choice. She can either ponder the question of who is to blaim for Donald's failure, or she can look beyond it for greater meaning. The fact that she chooses the latter is what makes the film especially strong.

The most compelling portions of the film are her interviews with the families of Crowhurst and Bernard Moitessier. Both faced a sense of loss and abandonment. Moitessier was close behind the race's leader (and eventual winner), Robin Knox- Johnston. He had a strong chance of winning. However, shortly after rounding the Cape Horn, Moitessier abandoned the race, and chose to continue sailing alone, all the way to Tahiti. His journey had proven transformative and fulfilling, but it meant that his home was no longer in France. Home was the sea, and his boat.

His wife and children were devastated by his decision to not come home. However, in a beautiful moment, Moitessier's wife, Francoise reflects that "I was expecting something, I knew him too well. Before the voyage, Bernard said 'Anyone who does this race for money or fame will come to grief.' He was happy at sea, he was content. He found himself."

While their marriage eventually ended, Francoise nonetheless accepts the fact that Bernard needed to go to sea. As she puts it, "A man can decide to take part in a motor race or go to the moon. You can't stop him. You can't stop a bird from flying."

Claire Crowhurst and her son Simon echo Francoise's sentiments, and, at least to my mind, help validate Osmond's suggestion that having great dreams and choosing to pursue them is not, in and of itself, an act of selfishness. Near the end of the film, as she reflects on Donald's death, Claire notes that

I feel that I failed. I didn't stop him from going, and I didn't help him when he needed it. But people need to dream. I think Donald needed that. And he had a right to have it.

In sum, "Deep Water" implies that daring to dream isn't selfish. It's something every human must do, in order to grow. However, Osmond reminds us that while dreams are a necessary part of life, they always come at a cost.

Bigelow Mountain and Flagstaff Lake - Three Days in the Heart of Maine

Tucked into the corner of Northwest Maine, the 36,000 acre Bigelow Preserve is one of the state's hiking and camping gems. Recently, Macy and I traveled to this remote area with the goal of climbing the 4,150 West Peak of Mt. Bigelow - a rugged alpine wilderness often described as Maine's "second mountain" (after Katahdin).

To be clear, the Bigelow Preserve is not far from civilization. In fact, throughout its history, the region has been impacted and shaped by man on numerous occasions. The mountain is named after an American army major, Timothy Bigelow. Bigelow climbed the mountain in 1775, "for purposes of observation." He was part of an ill - fated expedition led by Benedict Arnold through Maine's wilderness during the Revolutionary War. Arnold's objective was to march a detachment of troops from Massachusetts to Quebec, by way of Maine. He hoped to drive British out of Quebec, and form an alliance with the French. By the time he reached Quebec, the Maine Wilderness had exacted a tremendous toll on his men's health and morale. This arguably led to their hasty defeat at the Battle of Quebec in December 1775.

Maine's lumber and paper industries have long been a part of the region. The Dead River, which forms just beyond the preserve's northern boundary, was used as a thoroughfare for the famous "River Drives," when millions of freshly sawed logs would be floated downriver, towards the sawmills and paper companies.

On the Northern side of the preserve sits Flagstaff Lake, a massive body of water which despite its size, is remarkably quiet. Few people realize that the lake is actually quite young. It was formed in 1949, when the Central Maine Power company constructed Long Falls Dam on the Dead River. The resulting lake flooded the town of Flagstaff, which had been abandoned to make room for the project. Because of its unnatural origins, the lake is quite unique. It is deep in places, but randomly shallow in others, often in places one might now expect (maybe say, the middle?). The lake's boundaries are littered with evidence of civilization - be it rusted out farm of logging equipment, old fencing, etc. If you are canoeing on the lake, you might come across and old pot - bellied stove sitting just beneath the surface!

Finally, the preserve sits directly adjacent to the massive Sugarloaf Ski resort. Opened in 1951, the resort has transformed itself into a four season operation. Thousands of people travel north every winter and spring to use its numerous trails, which cover the mountainside. Many people also enjoy its premiere 18 hole golf course during the warmer months. Condominiums, ski lifts, and a hotel perch on the mountain's land, and a massive communications tower sits at the top.

Had it not been for the foresight of some individuals in the 1970s, it is speculated that Bigelow Mountain may have met a similar fate to sugarloaf. A developer sought to transform the area into an "Aspen of the east." Environmental advocates organized the opposition, and in 1976, the citizens of Maine voted to incorporate nearly 40,000 acres of land surrounding Bigelow Mountain, to form the Bigelow Preserve, maintaining the land in a natural state.

Exploring this ruggedly pristine environment set against the backdrop of civilization's influence makes one appreciate the beauty and fragility of our natural world.

So it was that on a beautiful day in early September, Macy and I packed up her Volkswagen Jetta wagon, and headed north. Our destination was the Round Barn camping area, a spot I had read about while researching the trip. It is managed by the preserve, includes eight secluded campsites, along with a large group site that can accommodate up to thirty people. It sits on the shore of Flagstaff lake, includes one central privy, and is free for anyone to use. There are no entrance fees.

We drove north from my parents' house in Woolwich on Route 27. After about two hours, we reached a small (and I mean, SMALL) town called Carrabasset, just south of Sugarloaf. We turned right onto a tiny road, called the Carriage Road. This road was derelict for a number of years, and as such, does not appear on older maps. It crosses land owned by the Penobscot Indians. A deal was recently struck, and they agreed to improve the road to make it more suitable for public use.

Despite its improvements, the road is still quite rough. There are many potholes and frost heaves, and rocks protrude from the road bed in places. Our vehicle had a relatively low ground clearance and did OK, but we had to drive very slowly. I would not recommend attempting this road in a car with a lower ground clearance. A sure indicator of the road's remoteness was the fact that it included signage intended for snowmobiles and ATV's, but not cars!

After about five miles of bumpy driving, we turned left onto the East Flagstaff Road, and continued on. This road was marginally better - wider and more graded, but still rough enough. The Preserve has added some signage to help visitors locate Round Barn, and we were appreciative of the help. After several miles, we turned off into the Long Barn Camping Area's lot. To our surprise, there were three other vehicles there, including a state - owned pickup truck.

After using the privy and stretching our legs, a fellow wearing a Maine DOC (Department of Conservation) uniform approached us. He introduced himself as Steve, the Preserve Manager. He was a cheerful, affable fellow, and welcomed us to the area. He explained that he was based out of Farmington, which is over thirty miles to the south. He periodically travels up to check on the Round Barn Area, but is also responsible for the maintenance and coverage of the whole preserve. The fact that our paths crossed was a chance occurrence indeed.

The only way into the camp sites was by foot. We poked around for a few minutes and identified a wonderful camp site, on a point looking out at the lake. We carried in our gear packs, and made camp.

A few minutes later, Steve reappeared to check which site we had picked. He asked us about how we had learned about the preserve and the camping area, and what we were planning to do. I had originally planned for us to hike the mountain from the western side. However, the long bumpy drive, combined with the proximity of another trail to our camping area, led us to decide on a different route. Steve recommended that we ascend on the Safford Brook trail, which left directly from Round Barn. This trail leads to the Appalachian Trail, which you can follow to the peaks. He even suggested that if we felt ambitious, we might backpack our gear up the Safford Brook Trail, and camp at a site near the end. From there, we could day hike a significant chunk of the mountain.

Ultimately, we decided to make Round Barn our base camp. It was a beautiful spot, and we reasoned that with an early start, we could hike to the top and back in one day, easily. We spent a lazy afternoon lounging on the sandy beach nearby, staring up toward the mountain's peaks. One other couple arrived late in the afternoon, with a golden retriever and an infant. They had hiked on the mountain earlier in the day, and planned to camp there for the night. They were very good neighbors. Aside from their camp fire, we wouldn't have known they were there.

As the sun set, we made our supper. The breeze died, and we built a small fire, and sipped hot chocolate. Later on, after hauling our food and toiletries back to the car (didn't want to deal with mice, raccoons or bears), we sat on a rock by the shore and watched an absolutely perfect moonrise over the mountains on the far shore. I'm ashamed to say I didn't photograph it, but we just felt like sitting there and admiring it. The beautiful, mournful calls of loons echoed across the lake, and we quietly sat and enjoyed it, until the night grew too cold.

The next morning, we rose before sunrise, and were treated to yet another beautiful view.




After a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal and cocoa, we loaded up our day packs, changed into our hiking clothes, and hit the trail.

The Safford Brook trail gradually works its way up the mountainside for about 2.2 miles, gaining some 900 feet in elevation. We found the terrain very easy, and reached the Appalachian Trail in a little over an hour. The A.T. traverses the entire mountain Ridge, which runs some 14 miles and includes several peaks.


After a brief rest and some water, we set off on the Appalachian Trail, bound for Avery Peak, a distance of 1.9 miles, but with a 2000 foot elevation gain. It was tough.

Many people say that Maine and New Hampshire are the toughest sections of the A.T., and after hiking in the Bigelow Preserve, I can see why. The ground is very rough, rocky, steep, and covered with roots. The undergrowth is thick, and the forest canopy keeps the ground dark, even in daylight. I imagined Benedict Arnold's men struggling over this land, carrying heavy gear, wearing cold, wet clothing, clad in poor footwear. In short, I felt sorry for them.

Despite the rough trail, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. There were numerous viewpoints along the trail where we could stop and enjoy the scenery.

Additionally, we crossed paths with many AT hikers along the way. We met one older gentleman who was section - hiking all the way to Katahdin. He had started in Hudson Valley, New York. We admired his determination. We also passed two younger men, roughly our age. They were trying to find a water source. We directed them to Safford Brook, which would be a small detour for them. Despite their lack of water, they moved over the rugged terrain with remarkable swifness. We passed another young woman hiking alone, and another young couple hiking south. As we approached Avery Peek, we passed another older man carrying a heavy pack. He had a large strip of duct tape, a backcountry band - aid, on one of his legs. Still, he looked cheerful.

Finally, after a little less than two hours of rough climbing, we reached Avery Peek, which sits at 4088 feet. The peek is named after Myron Haliburton Avery, a native Mainer who, with Benton MacKaye, helped create the Appalachian Trail.He was the first hiker to complete the 2000 mile trek, in an era when the trail was poorly marked, and hardly mapped. His through hike was undoubtedly harder than those attempted by people today. There is a plaque bearing his name on the peak. My heart goes out to the poor soul who lugged it up there.






Sitting atop the peak is an old wooden shack sitting on a stone foundation. It served as a fire lookout tower until the old manned tower system was replaced by airplanes. According to records, the current tower on Avery Peak was built in 1965. It is hard to imagine Maine's fire wardens trekking to these alpine perches nearly every day, let alone roughing it out in the Maine wilds in their small cabins for extended periods.

We rested briefly. I treated a hot spot in one of my boots with some mole skin. We decided to push onward for the West Peek, which sits a little higher than 4,100 feet - the mountain's high point. We wanted to get to the top!









Shortly after leaving Avery Peak, we started making our way down into the col on the mountain's ridge. The total distance from Avery Peak to West Peak is just 0.7 miles, but it was tough. This was probably the hardest part of the whole hike - lots of boulder scrambling was necessary, and we needed to look for hand and foot holds carefully. At one point, it was so rough that I wondered if it would be worth it - I did not wish to dilly dally on the top since we only had daypacks. We decided to push on a little more, to see if the trail became easier. Sure enough, it did. We passed through the Bigelow col's camping area, and reached the West Peak a short time later. In total, it took us 3 hours and 50 minutes to reach the top from the trailhead.

We enjoyed our lunch, and some amazing panoramic views of the region. After resting for about a half hour, we repacked, and started hiking back to our camp site.

As we passed Avery Peek again, we crossed paths with another older section hiker. He was from Florida, and had started hiking on the A.T. for his 50th birthday. His goal was to finish when he was 60 - next year. He asked us to snap a picture of him on his blackberry, so he could send it to his wife, because, he said jokingly, "she didn't believe he had made it out here." He took a picture of us too. We wished him well, and parted ways.

The trip down was hard. Our muscles grew achey from the pounding, but the air was cool and pleasant. We reached our campsite at 4:15 in the afternoon, some 3 hours and 15 minutes after leaving the top. We spent a relaxing evening on the lake shore, hearing the loons call until dusk. I even went for a swim! We both slept like logs that night.

The next morning, we ate breakfast and broke camp early. After loading up the car, we drove back out via the East Flagstaff and Carriage Roads, which took almost 40 minutes all told. We enjoyed a leisurely drive through the Rangely Lakes Region on the way home, stopping at several gorgeous viewpoints.






I hope we return to the Bigelow Preserve some day. In many ways, it is the perfect place for campers of our experience level. It is remote and wild enough to feel like a real wilderness experience, but close enough to civilization to make access relatively easy. Additionally, it includes things - a privy, maintained camp sites, and well - marked trails, which make the great outdoors easier to manage and less intimidating. I highly recommend that you visit it some day!

I Published Something!

http://www.nha.org/history/hn/HNsummer08-baseball.html

Hope you enjoy it.

Who is the Real Richard Nixon?

Recently, I had the opportunity to view Ron Howard's latest film, Frost / Nixon. Set in 1977, it explores a series of television interviews between British talk show host David Frost, and former United States President Richard Nixon. It is based on a successful play of the same name, written by Peter Morgan.

The play (and film) styles itself as a classic David and Goliath epic. Both men are locked in struggle, both with themselves and each other. The callow Frost appears mired in a struggle to resurrect his rapidly fading television career, while the disgraced and heavily worn Nixon wants to save his tarnished legacy, longing to again feel the adrenaline of politics coursing in his veins. Further, Morgan makes it clear that in the end, only one of these men will "win." Nowhere in the script is this more apparent than when Nixon remarks

"I shall be your fiercest adversary. I shall come at you with everything I got...Because the limelight can only shine...on one of us."

I was captivated and moved by Frank Lenghella's carefully crafted portrayal of the former President. It goes beyond the soundbite - driven caricatures that have haunted Nixon's legacy for years, and offers us a Nixon which many of us have never seen before. Langhella (and writer Peter Morgan) certainly incorporates the classic Dick - isms, from the man's comically awkward physicality, to his great intellect and ego. However, they also offer an awkward, quirky charm to Nixon's character. Ultimately, we are led to believe that deep down, Nixon viewed these interviews as an opportunity to "come clean" to the American people, and thus free himself from the burden of deceit that had dogged him since he left the oval office in disgrace. This comes through with great clarity, when he finally admits,

I have impeached myself... I let down my friends. I let down the country. I let the American people down. And I have to carry that burden with me for the rest of my life.

The interviews revive Frost's career, and supply Nixon with the catharsis he privately seeks. As we leave Langhella's Nixon, looking out over the ocean near San Clemente, we leave seeing a man who while still feeling lonely and exiled, also has found a measure of peace.

Frost / Nixon provides great drama and wonderful theatre. It also provides plenty of lighter moments, and the film's actors present embodiments of their characters, rather than mere impersonations. However, I fear that many people will view this work as historical fact, when in many ways, it truly is not.

Like Langhella and Morgan's Nixon, the real Richard Nixon could in fact be charming. In 1952, as a young Vice Presidential candidate, he was accused of accepting $18,000 in illegal campaign contributions. He went on television and delivered a famous speech, which many would say ultimately saved his nomination. In addition to presenting what he claimed was a full disclosure of his finances, Nixon told a charming little anecdote about a cocker spaniel one supporter had sent his family, which his daughter named "Checkers." He claimed that no matter what anyone said, his family was going to keep the dog. It was a great moment of light-heartedness that distracted many from a growing scandal.

However, unlike Langhella and Morgan's portrayal, the real Richard Nixon's dark side was a much more significant part of his personality. He was, for instance, far more predatory, cold, and calculating when it came to politics. Since he was not born into great wealth or social standing, Nixon had to carve out his own niche in the world. He did so with a remarkably fiery, competitive, and vicious zeal, forging a career out of an uncanny ability to tear his opposition to pieces. Like a hunter stocking a ten - point buck, he could sense an opponent's weaknesses. In the early years, as a member of the House Un - American Activities Committee (HUAC) he portrayed himself as a crusader against domestic communism. When running for a Senate seat in 1950, he stated that his opponent, Helen Gahagan Douglas, was "pink right down to her underwear." He won by a considerable margin. In 1952, as Eisenhower's running mate, he lampooned Adlai Stevenson, calling him "Adlai the Appeaser...who got a PhD from Dean Acheson's school of cowardly communist containment." Stevenson lost by seven million votes.

The real Richard Nixon also often faced the world with a combative stance, which seemed at times to border on paranoia. His political life reached its nadir in 1962. He had lost the Presidency to John F. Kennedy two years earlier, and had been decidedly defeated in the California Governor's race by incumbent Democrat Pat Brown. In a post - election press conference, he blamed the media for his failures, and concluded a rambling diatribe by saying,

Just think what you're going to be missing...you won't have Nixon to kick around anymore...because gentlemen, this is my last press conference.

These losses did not prove to be the ending of Richard Nixon's political career, but rather, almost a stepping stone of sorts. For in losing first to John F. Kennedy and later to Pat Brown, Nixon's resolve to never lose again was galvanized. He would, in short, get back to his political roots, ripping apart anyone who dared to cross his path. Furthermore, he would always view the world through oppositionist eyes. There was always somebody, or some thing, out to get him.

Frost / Nixon only provides a brief foray into Nixon's darker side. Late at night, a somewhat drunk Nixon calls Frost in his hotel room, and proclaims that through the interviews, he and Frost will "make those mother fuckers (presumably the media and anybody else who dislikes him) choke." Langhella portrays Nixon's hard - edged, combative world view convincingly, but Morgan's script barely allows him the opportunity. The scene is brief, and later on, its entire existence becomes dubious, as Nixon claims to have no recollection of the conversation.

In truth, this combative stance never left the real Nixon's character, even after he resigned from the Presidency in disgrace. In the actual interviews with Frost, this part of his psychological makeup clearly came across. One could easily argue that Nixon never truly admitted to being guilty of trying to cover up the Watergate scandal, nor did he want to do so. Instead, his most poignant admission was that he allowed his opposition to defeat him by using the very same tactics on which he himself relied - find the opponent's dirty laundry, and hang it out in the open air.

It was this admission that served as a loose basis for Frost / Nixon's climax. However, as direct quotations demonstrate, the real interview and its fictional counterpart contrast sharply. Ultimately, Nixon concluded,

I don't go with the idea that what brought me down was a coup, a conspiracy, etc., etc., etc. I brought myself down - I gave 'em a sword, and they...stuck it in...and they twisted it with relish. And I guess that if I'd been in their position, I'd have done the same thing.

In short, Nixon was admitting to failure. However, his was not a failure born out of his character. Rather, it was a failure born out of being outsmarted by his opposition. Perhaps he realized that he should have burned the tapes. By saying he would have "done the same thing," he was arguing that when it came to politics, this still was the only way to play.

Frost / Nixon's greatest contribution to American culture is not that it tells us what really happened thirty years ago. Rather, it reminds us of what so many of us wish could have happened. We wish Richard Nixon genuinely felt he "let the country down" by stooping so low. However, the fact remains that in the actual interviews, such an admission never really occurred.

This struggle to reconcile the real Nixon with his fictional counterpart should not invoke more cynicism or frustration in the film's viewers, and it does not do so in me. Rather, it serves as a reminder of the qualities we should seek in our leaders: Accountability, sound judgement, humility, and above all else, truly heartfelt honesty.

This, in short, is Frost / Nixon's greatest lesson.

McCain - Palin and their Socialist Deception...

Recently, I was driving to work, and, as I often do, listening to the news on National Public Radio. The journalist was traveling throughout the state of Colorado, and interviewing undecided voters. Recent poll data suggests that a state many have considered a Republican stronghold could actually be up for grabs.I was struck by a comment made by one gentleman in an interview. Although I cannot remember what he said verbatim, I do recall that he mentioned he was undecided, but leaning towards the McCain - Palin ticket. When asked to elaborate on his reasoning, he stated that he felt Obama's Socialist leanings would be bad for America.

As you might imagine, this caught my attention. More than anything, I wished the reporter had followed up by asking the man how he defined Socialism. This would have provided an interesting talking point. According to dictionary.com. "Socialism" is defined as a system "of social organization in which the means of producing and distributing goods (are) owned collectively or controlled by a centralized government that often plans and controls the economy.

Let's quickly examine the labeling of Barack Obama as a socialist. The central premise of this argument is grounded in the notion that Obama wants to "spread around" people's wealth to benefit everyone else. In a recent interview with CNN, Vice Presidential nominee Sarah Palin was directly asked if she thought Obama was a Socialist. This was her response:

"I'm not going to call him a socialist, but as Joe the plumber has suggested, in fact he came right out and said it, it sounds like socialism to him. And he speaks for so many Americans who are quite concerned now after hearing finally what Barack Obama's true intentions are with his tax and economic plan.”

The most troubling aspect of this quote is not the accusation itself. It is the fact that the concept of socialism has been transformed into a label with absolutely no substantive meaning behind it. It seems there are two forms of Socialism - the kind talked about by the likes of Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro, and the McPalin version. George Shadroi (voting for McCain), who blogs at www.intellectualconservative.com, recently stated that "...if we look at the definition of socialism, the textbook definition, it involves consolidating the means of production into the hands of the government. However liberal he (Obama) may be, there is no indication that Senator Obama plans to nationalize our major industries or centrally run our economy."

Interestingly, upon learning about her past, it seems that both the true definition of socialism AND its McPalin construct can be easily connected to Sarah Palin's record as a governor.

A centerpiece of her sales pitch to America is the notion that she is willing to "take on big oil companies." Soon after she was elected Governor, Palin decided to implement a new tax program that vastly increased taxes on oil production.

Additionally, the state of Alaska's approach to oil royalties is extremely intriguing. Essentially, the law says that Alaskans collectively own the state's energy reserves. Accordingly, permanent residents of the state are able to collect a dividend of these royalties. The government essentially distributes money from oil revenues amongst the state's qualifying populace. Palin has hailed this as a great policy, stating that "...Alaska—we’re set up, unlike other states in the union, where it’s collectively Alaskans own the resources. So we share in the wealth when the development of these resources occurs.”

Finally, Governor Palin has also demonstrated that she will not hesitate to use Alaskan dollars to make big investments in the oil and gas - driven economy. For years, major American oil companies have shown little interest in developing their natural gas - rich land holdings in Alaska. Governor Palin vowed to tap into these fields for the good of her state. However, in order to do this, she did not try to give American companies incentives. Instead, she took the process largely into the state's hands. She decided to split the cost of building a massive natural gas pipeline with a Canadian corporation. Alaskans would fork over half the cost, roughly $500 million dollars.

George Orwell was an astute observer of political language. He once mused that

It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts...Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step toward political regeneration.

In short, the McCain - Palin campaign has directly and indirectly muddied the meaning of the word "socialist" to the point where it obscures significant questions about Governor Palin's record. Unfortunately, many Americans have probably not taken the time to really notice them, nor has the American media done a very good job of pointing them out.

To recap;

A) Governor Palin has increased taxes on oil companies.

B) She openly embraces a government - run system in which oil royalties are spread equally among all Alaskans - in essence, a "share the wealth" philosphy under state control.

C) Instead of looking to the American private sector, she openly advocates investing huge sums of tax dollars in building a pipeline that will be an integral part of her state's economic infrastructure.

To borrow from the Governor's own words, I'm not going to call Sarah Palin a socialist, but sometimes, her record sounds an awful lot LIKE socialism.

Hey there, Joe the Plumber. You really ought to pay more attention.

Who is Dean Karnazes?

Running a marathon is considered to be one of the greatest feats of human endurance. The total distance of 26.2 initially seems arbitrary. Why not 25 miles, or 30? Why 26.2?

The marathon is deeply rooted in history, and is thought to have its origins in events that happened nearly 2,500 years ago. In approximately 490 B.C., on the Plains of Marathon, a brave, but severely outnumbered army from the Greek city - state of Athens was battled an invading force from Persia. Tradition says that the Athenians launched a brave offensive, and managed to kill over 6400 Persians while losing less than 200 of their own. After sustaining heavy losses, the Persians retreated to their ships and prepared to head south toward Athens. Their goal was to regroup and destroy the city before the Athenian army (which was traveling overland) could return to defend their homes.

Facing the threat of invasion by Persia, the Athenians knew that they needed to deliver news of the incoming threat as quickly as possible. Accordingly, they ordered a messenger, named Phiddipedes, to run all the way to Athens, a distance of 26.2 miles. He was to deliver news of their victory, while also advising the citizens to prepare for a Persian sneak attack. It is thought that Phiddipedes ran the distance in approximately three hours. When he arrived, he was so severely exhausted that he managed to gasp, "Rejoice, we conquer." After that, he collapsed and died.

When I first learned of this story, I found it somewhat silly. For one thing, most of the artistic depictions of Phiddipedes I had seen portrayed him as running along completely naked. It was in college that I learned that this was typical of classical Greek art and their fascination with the "athletic ideal." Still, the image of a fellow running naked through the hills of Greece was comical. I could only imagine what people might have said (perhaps something to the effect of "dude, where's your chiton?"). Additionally, I found the story amusing because this run killed Phidippedes. Thousands of people successfully complete marathons every year, and finish in fine form. Phidippedes obviously wasn't in good enough shape. Either that, or, I thought, he did not understand that wonderful concept we call hydration.

However, all of these views changed when I learned of another great endurance athlete (with a Greek name, no less!) named Dean Karnazes. He recently gained national fame by running fifty marathons in fifty states in fifty consecutive days.

I'll say that again.

Fifty marathons. In fifty states. In fifty days.

However brilliant this achievement sounds, the truth is that Dean has run distances far greater than 26.2 miles without sleeping.

Try 350 miles in a shade over 80 hours of nonstop running.

I know what you're thinking. This guy is insane.

Well, as I later learned, Dean is not the first so called "ultramarathoner." In fact, tradition says that Phidippedes was the first.

What most people tend to overlook is a story related by the Greek historian Herodotus. As he tells it, the Athenians first dispatched Phidippedes to the city of Sparta, which is 140 rugged, mountainous miles away. Upon arriving, he was expected to plead with the Spartans to join Athens in pushing the Persian army back. The Spartans, however, refused to aid Athens until the moon was full, since their religion apparently forbid it. Thus Phidippedes turned around, and ran 140 miles back to Athens, delivering this disappointing news.

All I can say is, thank goodness for e-mail.

Later on, it is said that he grabbed his sword and shield and fought valiantly on the battlefield at Marathon all day. It was only then that he ran a "marathon" back to Athens, where he died. If this legend is true, then in total, Phidippedes covered approximately 306 miles on foot over the course of several days.

It's safe to say that I would have died long before making it that far. That can be said for most people. Not so for Dean Karnazes, though. Assuming the legends of Phidippedes are true (which admittedly is a significant assumption), Karnazes is probably the closest incarnation of Phidippedes walking...er...running among us today.

Amazingly, he does not earn a living by running absurd distances. He owns his own health foods company, is married, and has two children. He is not overly young, either At 45 years old, he has reached an age when most professional athletes have retired. And yet, he is widely considered one of the greatest endurance athletes (and fittest human beings) on the face of the earth. He regularly rises before dawn, runs a marathon before breakfast, showers and dresses, and helps take his kids to school before heading to work himself. Typically, situps, pullups, and pushups, perhaps combined with another long run, await when he comes home in the evening.

Karnazes recently authored a book titled Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All Night Runner. In his simple, colloquial style, he tries to provide rational explanations for his seemingly insane desire to run ridiculous distances.

The book is essentially an autobiography. Essentially, Dean uses various races from different parts of his life to tell us a story, not of his entire life, but rather, his life as a distance runner. He was a relatively good cross country runner in high school, but as he grew older, his interest in running was superseded by a greater interest in windsurfing and climbing the corporate ladder.

All of that changed on the night of his thirtieth birthday. As he downed tequila shots with friends (his wife had long since grown tired and headed home). He claims that in the drunken festivities, a married woman began flirting with him. She bought him several more shots, at which point, Dean says he became overwhelmed by a mess of emotions. He was entering a new decade, and despite his intoxication, realized he was a shot or two away from potentially ruining it. So, he he excused himself, claiming he needed to use the bathroom, and walked home.

When he came home, he realized he did not want go to bed. Rather, he craved a revitalizing adrenaline rush - perhaps something to make him feel good about himself again. As he tells it,

...I went out to the garage and cautiously made my way through the darkness to the back porch, where I kept an old pair of sneakers used for yard work. I deliberated for a moment about what else to wear. After some thought, I undid my belt and pulled off my pants. I had on a pair of loose - fitting jockey briefs, which would be comfortable enough. I took off my sweater but left my undershirt on. The socks were a problem. They were black, silk knee - highs. I folded them down low around my ankles, then put on the sneakers.

In my pants pocket I found a twenty - dollar bill. It had started the evening as a hundred - dollar bill, but the bar had consumed the balance. Folding it up nearly and stuffing it into my shoe, I took a swig of water from the hose, and made my way back to the street...

He then proceeded to run thirty miles on his thirtieth birthday. The pain was excruciating, but as he tells it, his spirit soared to knew heights. He had found a new passion.

There are countless other tales of long distance runs, including the Badwater ultramarathon in Death Valley, and running a marathon at the South Pole, among other seemingly ridiculous places. There are also many humorous, but nonetheless true, accounts of Dean shoving pizzas and cheesecakes down his throat on the run in order to keep his body fueled.

The book itself is very easy to read. It will never be considered a great work of literature, as Karnazes' writing is quite conversational. At times, the book presents itself as more of a transcribed interview as opposed to an autobiographical work.

It is also largely grounded in familiar athletic cliches. For instance, early in the book, Karnazes relates a story about his stoic junior high school track coach, Jack McTavish. After completing a race, the coach approached and asked how Dean felt. He of course replied that he felt pretty good.

In response, his coach said "If it felt good, you didn't push hard enough. It's supposed to hurt like hell."

In other words, no pain, no gain.

Despite these minor shortcomings, the book is nonetheless inspiring, particularly in an era when increasing numbers of Americans are struggling with weight - related health complications at earlier and earlier ages. We may not all be able to run 350 miles (most of us aren't crazy enough). However, Karnazes' amazing cardiovascular feats demonstrate that the human body is an absolutely remarkable machine, and that, when pushed, it is capable of doing amazing things.

Ultramarathon Man does not teach us about any radically new concepts. It is not a book filled with revelations or brilliant insights. Indeed, when asked about why he runs such long distances, Karnazes will often say, half - jokingly, "well, I'm not very bright."

Rather, this book reminds us that oftentimes the most fulfilling experiences in life are those which are difficult to attain. This lesson is so simple (dare I say "pedestrian") that we often forget it, but it is, at least from this reader's perspective, very important.

So, in short, don't be afraid of some pain. Don't be afraid of a little stress. For there are few feelings that are greater than when we can look back at an accomplishment, and simply utter, "wow. I can't believe I did that."

Excuse me while I grab my running shoes...

Bidding an Old Dog Farewell...

Last night, as I was preparing for bed, my phone unexpectedly rang. When I looked to see who was calling, I was surprised to see that it was my parents' phone number. I wondered what would possess them to call me at 10 PM, since more often than not, they're sound asleep by that hour. So, I picked up, and was greeted by my father's voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi Erik"

"Hi dad."

"What're you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed, early morning at work tomorrow, Dad. What's up?"

"Well...did you watch the ballgame?" I paused for an awkward moment.

"Um...yeah, Lester pitched pretty well."

That's when I began to sense that my dad wasn't calling me to talk about a baseball game. He only does that during the playoffs. It was then that he informed me of why he had called me.

Our old dog had been put to sleep.

My reaction was one of mild surprise, but in a sense, I was prepared. I knew Shadow was nearly eighteen years old, and that most dogs don't live for that long. I also knew that she extremely old and slow, struggling with arthritic joints, and that sooner or later, she would be leaving us.

Still, I felt sad.

You have to realize that Shadow was a part of our family for the majority of my life (along with my two sisters). During the summer between second and third grade (1992), my family took a trip to the local animal shelter. Mom said we were going to just go "look at the dogs." She never really said anything about taking one home.

My parents had not owned a dog since the death of their last one, a lovely Springer Spaniel, named Benjie. My parents acquired Benjie shortly after they were married. When they were starting their careers, they rented a cottage on a farm in rural Pennsylvania (how wholesome is that), and Benjie had one of the happiest lives you could imagine. Every day, he was greeted by fresh air, a plethora of smells, and, much to my parents' chagrin, ample opportunities to munch on garbage, which he did, frequently.

Mom and dad eventually settled in Maine, and soon thereafter, my older sister came along. Benjie came along too. Sadly, his life ended before I showed up. His formidable body became severely overheated during a long car trip, and to this day, dad believes that this was what ultimately led to his passing. About a week after coming home, it was clear that he was just too sick to recover. So, they bid him a tearful farewell.

Over the next decade or so, the Ingmundson family grew from three to four, and then to five. Mom and dad had their hands full keeping track of three children. It was not the right time for a puppy. Then, in 1992, Shadow became a part of the family.

Shadow was a classic example of the kind of dog people forget. She was 100 % pure mutt. The staff at the animal shelter believed that she was mostly springer spaniel and black lab. Interestingly, these are two breeds that are highly prized...but when they mix, not so much. I can't imagine why. Her first owner had been very neglectful, and apparently, he had tied her outside of his house and left for a trip. A kind - hearted neighbor was upset by the owner's neglect, cut her loose, and brought her to the shelter, hoping, I'm sure, that she would find a better home.

If you've ever been to an animal shelter, you are familiar with its sound - a constant cacophony of barks, in a variety of registers. There are the small yippy dogs, and the large ones with deep, sonorous "RRRUFF's."

The average human can interpret this interaction in two different ways. We can go the Disney route, and say that by barking, each dog at the shelter is saying "pick me! Pick me! Take me home!"

Or, we can go with my preferred interpretation, supplied by "Far Side" cartoonist Gary Larson. When pondering the meaning behind a dog's bark, he argued that a dog is actually saying "Hey! HEY! Hey! HEYHEYHEYHEY!!!"

The funny thing was, Shadow didn't do that. She was quiet as could be. That's what drew us to her. Almost entirely black, and quiet as could be...seeming to blend into the shelter's background - just like a shadow would. Hence, her name.

She was tethered to a simple green lead under the shade of two pine trees. When dad approached her, she jumped up and gave him a doggy hug.

Needless to say, we were ready to take her home.

I have many fond memories of my childhood with her. In her early years, she would fetch sticks, but she soon developed a taste for tennis balls, and eventually, rejected sticks altogether. She loved the water, and could jump several feet in the air from our dock in pursuit of a tennis ball. She loved the fresh air, loved our company, and loved begging for food. She loved frolicking in the big, grassy fields behind our house for hours on end.

However, she wasn't a walking pedigree commercial. She was truly a dog.

She loved munching piles of deer poop. Occasionally, she'd vomit it up on the floor, and look at us as if to say..."wow, I don't recall eating that...sorry..." She also loved rolling in the stuff. She would jump into mud wallows and soil her coat on hot days. She would steal food and treats from the dogs next door. She never, in all of her life, understood the meaning of the phrase "drop it." If you wanted a ball back, you had to play tug of war until you either won or quit. Sometimes, she ran off into the night when she caught a whiff of a raccoon. She was poked by a porcupine in the face - twice. She also was afraid of houseflies, but would readily gobble mosquitoes.

In other words, she was a dog through and through.

Living on Nantucket, I frequently cross paths with dogs of all shapes and sizes. I always look at the dog, but I also pay attention to the owner, and I always ask myself one simple question: Is the owner letting their dog be a dog?


Too often, I think pet owners exhibit this annoying tendency to anthropomorphize their animals. Hollywood is partially to blame I suppose (that said, I love the sheep dogs in "Babe"). We want to believe that dogs can speak and think in complete sentences, although they probably don't.

Other anthropomorphic examples include the merchants who have pioneered the concept of dressing dogs up in silly outfits, braiding their hair in comical ways with ribbons, and shaving toy poodles in the most bizarre ways imaginable. Additionally, there are those who treat dogs as fashion accessories. Thank you, Paris Hilton.

Similarly, there are also those who place their dogs on top of a ridiculously high pedestal. I call them the "man's uber-best friend" crowd. These people are steadfast in their belief that a dog must be loved in a manner that is akin to loving a human being, but also believe that their love is best expressed in tangible ways. This love often manifests itself in absurdly large, materialistic, financial investments - deluxe dog beds, frequent trips to the groomer, paying $100 per night to let dogs stay at "pet hotels," etc. I know a man who once spent over $7000 in an ultimately fruitless attempt at saving the life of one of his pugs. I can't say that I was very supportive.



Don't get me wrong, I love dogs, but no dog deserves $7000 dollars worth of poking, prodding, and surgeries. Sometimes it's better to let nature take its course.

Dogs and humans are intimately connected, but not in the ways that I have outlined above. Treating a dog as a fashion accessory or showering them with needless, undeserved (and unwanted) gifts ultimately puts a human face on our canine friend. A dog is not meant to be loved in these ways.

No, a dog must be loved for what it is. A dog, through and through.

Dogs a simple creatures with simple needs. They need a healthy diet, plenty of exercise, opportunities to socialize, and above all else, to be loved for their perfections and also their imperfections. My many years with Shadow taught me that. I loved the way she would randomly show her affection by putting her face in my lap. However, I also loved the way she would eat all of the cat's food, and then walk back through the house with the guiltiest facial expression possible. I loved the way I had to wrestle tennis balls out of her jaws. I loved the way she licked the kitchen floor whenever a beef roast was in the oven. It's what made her who she was.

Humans are no different, really. We need a healthy diet, exercise, and companionship. We also need to have our strengths and weaknesses be embraced equally in order to feel loved. This, I think, is what can make a dog "man's best friend." In giving them a loving home, they can remind us of how we ought to treat ourselves.

Does that mean that dogs are meant for everybody? No. A dog deserves a good home, and if you aren't ready to commit to one, then you shouldn't acquire one. Too many dogs are dropped off at animal shelters, just as Shadow was. And sadly, not every dog is fortunate enough to find a new, loving home.

However, if you think you have what it takes, I would encourage you to stop by your local animal shelter some time. You might just find a friend in need. I like to think that in adopting Shadow, we probably added seventeen years to her life. She likely would have been put to sleep if we didn't bring her home.

Shadow's final resting place is a peaceful spot in the big grassy field near a bluebird house. I cannot think of a better place for her to be. Whenever I think about it, I imagine her chasing countless tennis balls, and frolicking in the tall grass,ignoring my persistent calls to come back, only to emerge 20 minutes later...

With a mouth full of deer poop.

Good bye, old friend. I'll never forget you.

Here's to the kind of life that every dog deserves.