When Friends Break Things (or, That Sickening SNAP Sound)

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Things that break seem to fall into one of 3 categories. It was badly made (defective or cheap); it was old and worn out; or the user was just stupid.

I’ve always hated borrowing things. Mostly because of this engrained obligation taught to me by my father that something should always be returned the same or better condition than when it was borrowed, regardless of which category the break falls. So a borrowed knife should be sharper; a car washed and polished; a power saw lubed and cleaned. It’s kept me from borrowing many things knowing I’d spend more time getting it in better shape than when I got it. And then if it breaks, I’d have to replace it and I still wouldn’t have the benefit of owning whatever I borrowed!

My wife and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on this subject. Probably because she doesn’t realize the hours I spend disassembling a weed-eater to clean it up, replace the cutting line and lubing it before returning it to the owner. Even something as simple as borrowing a wrench makes me jittery. I always seem to peel off the chrome finish or put a nick in it.

But when it comes to people borrowing things from me, It doesn’t bother me if it breaks in the process. My pickup has had the inside door handle snap off 3 times in the past few years, twice when someone borrowed the truck (yes, it’s true what they say about having a pickup). Hearing the story of their horror when the handle breaks off in their hand and the gyrations they experience trying to get out of the vehicle is humorous enough without me heaping on a dose of guilt.

I find the older I get, the more tolerant I’ve become when things get broken out of stupidity, probably because I’ve become so masterful at being stupid myself. I recently was given access to a friend’s home when visiting the SF Bay Area. The key was cleverly hidden in the trash. I’m convinced this was a perverted test of our friendship. “Oh sure Erich, you can stay at our house. We’ll be home late so just dig through our garbage can where we’ll hide the key”.

We arrive late in the evening. Thankfully there’s a street light shining onto my friend’s driveway. Unthankfully, there’s 3 garbage cans. Nice. The scavenging begins. To my amazement, I actually find the key with the skill of a seasoned dumpster diver. Inserting the key into the lock on the iron gate, the key turns but with a lot of resistance. Something is not right. I remove the key and find the key twisted 90 degrees. Yikes. Cleverly, I stick the key in from the inside, assuming the lock would turn easier. It turned easier only because the key was now cracked and SNAP. This is one borrowed key that will not be returned in better shape than when it was received. And since the critical part was now lodged in the lock, retrieving it to make a new one was impossible. Things got worse before they got better. Just imagine a 54 year-old attempting to climb over a wrought iron fence in the dark, in a strange neighborhood… but that’s another blog.

But the cost of a key is a bit different than a $250 custom made fishing rod. But stupidity doesn’t seem to have a sense of value. In this case the rod was mine. It was the first (and probably last) rod I have ever built, which means, I spent way too many hours in the garage smelling doping products and epoxy, meticulously wrapping thread around eyelets and constructing the cork handle. The setting was on Shasta Lake on a beautiful fall day. A couple we’ve known and loved for years were up in Redding on business (riiight, come to Redding on business. That’s like going to Hawaii for a sign convention). Anyway, for the sake of not wanting to embarrass them, I’ll give them the fictitious names of Ron and Lani. It was good to see them and an opportunity to show off the neighborhood. Rumor had it that Ron had never caught a fish before so we threw our poles in the boat and off we went.

The first clue that Ron had limited experience fishing was when I saw the handle of his fishing reel fly by my head and into the lake on his first cast. It took some convincing but Ron finally succumbed to the idea that casting might not be a problem, but retrieving the line with no handle could pose a challenge. Of course, that meant Ron would have to borrow one of my poles. Yup, you guessed it. My custom rod was now in the hands of someone who chummed the water with fishing reel parts.

As the good Lord would have it, Ron soon snagged a spotted bassand squealed with girlish delight. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating. Regardless of the gender of his squeal, the focus now was on the fish and not the pole… you know, the custom fishing pole with 100s of hours spent crafting the finest fishing instrument I’ve ever had. Not to prolong an agonizing moment, it wasn’t long, seconds actually, that the physics of a thrashing fish on a short line resulted in a distinct SNAP.

“Hmmm, looks like I’ll have to stop by the local drug store and buy you a new pole.”

Ron has a great heart, but is clueless when it comes to assessing the cost or value of a fishing pole. But aren’t we guilty of the same when we access the value of Christ’s death on the cross as something we can replace by doing something good or dropping a tip into the offering plate? Our gestures of good works are as meaningless as a drug store fishing pole. In fact, they’re insulting. In the 64^th chapter in the book of Isaiah it says:

“We are all infected and impure with sin.

When we display our righteous deeds,

they are nothing but filthy rags.

Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall,

and our sins sweep us away like the wind.”

When we broke our relationship with God by our sin, there was no replacing it. We became as separated from God as the two broken ends of the fishing pole in my garage. We are utterly and totally dependent on God’s grace and mercy to mend our relationship, and only the work of Christ can do that. God never intended us to replace what we broke but simply accept Christ’s forgiveness. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—“ (Ephesians 2:8).

“Jesus paid it all, all to him I owe. Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.” Elvina M. Hall, 1865.

King of the Air

“Do you see those two building to our one o’clock? Descend to a couple hundred feet and fly between them”

“Are you sure I can make it?”, I ask of my flight instructor and best friend.

“Sure, no problem. Get lower… lower”

“I don’t think we can make it Jim”, as we close at a rate of 200 knots.

Did I mention that this was my first time behind the controls of a Beechcraft King Air? Having successfully landed this graceful beast a couple times, Jim ups the ante and decides to play thread the needle using a twin engine aircraft and two of Orlando’s skyscrapers. I suppose I could be classified as slightly insane having such an abandoned trust in my instructor, but hey, he is technically pilot in command, even if he did just step out of the copilot’s seat mumbling something about the computer acting up.

“Jim, are you sure I can make it between these buildings?”

My mind flashes back to the late Cory Lidle who grievously attempted to turn his airplane around in downtown Manhattan just a few months ago… and if I remember correctly, he too had his flight instructor with him.

“It’s no problem, but you need to get lower to get the full affect”. Jim loves to see my shirt darken in copious amounts of sweat while teaching me the finer points of piloting an aircraft. I used to think he reserved these teaching techniques just for me until I had the privilege of observing his antics from the back seat while someone else was getting the constant barrage of correction during his multi-engine check ride from Jim.

“Are you sure you don’t want to climb back up here before I reach the buildings? I don’t think I can get through these buildings… and what happen to the 1000 foot boundary around populated areas you just lectured me on last night?”

“You’re doing just fine, don’t worry about it”.

I should have acted on my instinct. Like time-lapse photography, the buildings grew larger than life at a rate faster than seemed possible . There wasn't even enough time for my mind to play things in slow motion when at the brink of disaster. I frantically pull up on the yoke and roll the aircraft into a hard right bank hoping to slip through the concrete pylons.

Suddenly I’m through with only a bright blue sky before me and wings still intact. Apparently the simulator is more forgiving than real life, but the sensation is incredibly real. Jim laughs.

Dripping, I bring the King Air back to Orlando International. But remember who’s still back at the computer. Suddenly a truck pulls out on the active runway and I’m forced to abort the landing. But clearly, that would be too easy. I mean, I must have a full sixty minutes experience by now, so Jim introduces a fire in my right engine while I’m reconfiguring the plane for a go-around. With a press of a button, the fire is magically extinguished and the power of the sole functioning Pratt and Whitney engine effortlessly takes us around for another landing approach.

Ninety minutes later I’m safely on the ground and applying reverse thrust when Jim pipes up one more time.

“Leave the reverse thrusters on and see what happens”.

Quickly the plane stops and then begins to back up! What not to do? Step on the breaks. Instantly the Beechcraft tips back like a tipped cow with nose wheel in the air until it comes to rest on its tail. Lesson over, but another 1.5 hours logged of complex, multi-engine time in a plane I would never have dreamed to fly. Thanks Jim.

A THORN IN THE FLESH

Not so many years ago I experienced my first gout attack. I hate the name of the disease almost as much as the symptoms. It has the ring of some STD contracted as a result of some moral laxity, where the insinuation alone creates the wretched feeling of fingernails scraped along a chalkboard (remember those?) or biting aluminum foil with a mouth full of fillings. More often than not, caring individuals will ask "What is gout?" to which I respond in dispassionate tones that it’s the result of my body having the inability to metabolize protein (and apparently my fat either) causing my uric acid levels to build to such a level that tiny crystals form in the joints of my lower extremities, if I include my elbows hanging at rest. "Isn't there anything you can do for it?" is the usual follow-on query. Of course there is! I just enjoy the excruciating pain it causes.

I especially appreciate the random attacks made during the night on a chosen joint that would have been particularly useful in the next day's activity. Planning on a nice day of fishing or a quick flight for a $100 hamburger? Wake up to gout. Playing in a racquetball tournament and you've worked your way to the finals tomorrow? Wake up to gout. Ready to leave on a family camping trip in the morning... you get the picture.

So what value can possibly exist in experiencing these unpredictable, painful, life disrupting episodes? My family would argue that it's a great way to get out of physical work or dreaded social obligations. They often will remind me of "The Great Nor'easter of 1995" that buried our 125 foot driveway in 6 feet of snow (every passing year automatically adds a foot to the total snow fall). As I lay in bed (like that was a good thing) in the warmth of our house, my wife and daughters actively wore out a set of snow shovels boring a snow canyon to the street. Reminding them of the blessing it was to have 20F temperatures to keep them cool while working was hardly met with the enthusiastic encouragement it meant to convey.

I suppose there are worse things in life, or so I am led to believe. Instead of excruciating pain seemingly searing my flesh, I could have leprosy. But how bad could it be if the toe that has turned against me would painlessly fall off? Certainly people would be more sympathetic seeing body parts fall off while performing every day tasks compared to moaning about some unseen affliction that causes me to flinch every time someone walks within a 10 foot radius of my mutinous joint.

I also find it disturbing that gout is referred to as “the rich mans’ disease. Just because my gout-kinsman King Henry the VIII was known for his ostentatious banquets and love of rich foods, everyone now debilitated by the disease is assumed to have eaten the wrong foods. Wrong foods? What’s wrong with oysters, goose liver pate, bacon laden gravies and a little wine for the stomach? And where, pray tell, is the enormous hordes of cash that accompanies the adjective describing the man? Rich man my arthritic foot. Show me the money and then we’ll talk.

There ain't noth'n to fish'n

    The Fishers of Men hosted their first official bass tournament on February 25th on Shasta Lake. Since I have the reputation of fishing on the Kenai River in Alaska and not catching anything, I rationalized paying for the entry fee as a donation toward a good cause. What I couldn't rationalize was getting up at 4:15a (yes, it's still dark out) just to throw a lure in the water, hoping to snag an exceptionally stupid fish. Sadly (and beyond my comprehension) even if I did snag something, tournament rules prohibited me from keeping the stupid thing! What's up with that? Alas, not wanting my fishing partner, Nick Borgwat, to curse my name for years to come and spread vicious rumors about me at the racquetball club, I dragged my sorry carcass out of bed in time to meet him at the local bait shop (and yes, it's still dark).

    Since the local Starbucks was still closed, my decaffeinated brain had little stimulus. I think Nick talked about the strategy of the day and secrets of catching lunkers from his past experience, but mostly I just heard blah, blah, blah as the old Ford pickup motored it's way to the lake... in the dark. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Packers Bay Marina to find dozens of sleep deprived fishermen moving toward a small light with moth-like instinct. As we gather around, the tournament boss, or master, or whatever they call the guy collecting my donation, we receive our final admonitions and rules of engagement. You know, important stuff like be sure your boat will stop running if you get launched from the helm as you skim across the water at 55mph in log infested waters. As darkness in now changing to shades of black, we launch our boats and practice or prey's habit of schooling until "released".

    The moment the morning light betrays our silhouettes as identifiable people, we're off. Captain Nick restrains the horses propelling our boat to about 35mph until a fellow fisherman attempts to pass us toward our favorite fishing spot, at which point you'd think it was Moby Dick about to consume us as we accelerate to a screaming pace across the lake (I wonder what the wind chill factor is of 60mph winds in 40F). Total body frostbite was only held at bay by the 6 inches of layered clothing and an arctic jacket I bought while living in Connecticut. Leaving the monster behind in a spray, we entered our secret cove where fish were rumored to jump in the boat.

And jump they did. What other explanation can I give for limiting-out within a few hours and begin the practice of culling – a term I had no clue to its meaning, let alone its practice. I’m not sure if it was the secret sauce painted on the artificial worms and caused fish to escape the smelly waters or my partner’s supernatural ability to overcome my fishless curse inherited from my father. Either way, the success was undeniable and created fodder for suspicion, ribbing and outright amazement by my wannabe-pro friends.

    

    With the live-well full and time running out, the way back to the weigh station provided just enough time to remember the day’s wildlife encounters and how easily a 60mph wind coming across the bow will grab a glove sitting on the deck, shake it with enthusiasm and drop it in a wave. We witnessed a doe and her two fawns swimming from a newborn island created by the annual rise of the lake as four, blue ribbon streams deposit their collection of water behind the ominous Shasta Dam. Two bald eagles screeched their gratitude as they swooped down and snatched a bass no more than 50 feet from our boat. Awesome.

As the weigh-in ceremony began, it appeared that more than a few were surprised when Nick announced “Hey Erich, go get your fish”. What’s this? Erich caught a fish big enough to weigh? Hardly. Erich caught countless fish that morning but only brought in the tournament limit of four. Snatching the fish out of the live well by their culling tags, I have to admit, a child-like pride was bursting inside. Disbelief spread over the dock as I nonchalantly strutted to the scales with my limit.

“Six point zero three” was the announcement. I had placed second, missing first place by 7 ounces. Surely John Green (the winner) thought culling meant dropping lead weights down his fish’s throats, but the best man won. All in all, a wonderful day fishing with Nick, catching fish, watching friends jaws drop as wide as the stupid fish I caught and going home with $100 in my pocket.