feather2pixels

My last day on land was hot and clear, with only a few cirrus clouds breaking up the sky at a high altitude. Down on the Academy quad, campus was temporarily transformed from a sleepy backwater into mass of sun dresses, academic regalia, and grandfathers in Dockers as a standing room only crowd overflowed from under an enormous white circus tent. The occasion was the graduation ceremony of 144 cadets, dressed in their salt and pepper uniforms, ready to take on their watery destinies.

Of course it was thirty three of these seniors whom I dragged through nine credit hours worth of electrically conductive muck this year. And of course my shit was not nearly together enough to have made the necessary arrangements to be part of the ceremony. So I put on my emergency dress shirt, positioned myself at the front of their formation, and intercepted my students one by one to quickly shake their hands as they marched in line to the tent.

I couldn’t have cared less about my own graduation, but something wholesome-seeming about the cadets’ enthusiasm won me over this afternoon. Rita, who, despite an admirable work ethic, struggled all year, found me after the ceremony. Until that moment, I had been completely unsure if my ongoing efforts to encourage her made any difference; she gave me a huge hug and squeaked “thank you so much for everything.” Ryan introduced me as his teacher to his mom, who’s surprise suggested that she was expecting me to be the janitor or something. I looked at him and we laughed. It was damn wholesome.

And as quickly as they appeared, the masses dissipated and suddenly there was nothing left to do but to consider my own watery destiny. I walked to the top of the cliff to get one last glimpse of campus and the Bear, plopped under the Carquinez Bridge for one last night this summer. And then I stole the golf cart, drove my stuff to the dock, and moved in to my cabin. I’m not sure what to expect, really. But I have a great room, the best job on the ship, and 20,000km of water ahead of me: it’s time to get off this rock.

[campus]

[the bear]

[the dock]

[my cabin]

As one of my final preparations for sea, I leave feather2pixels in the able hands of Mr. Nowell Valeri.  I hope to send him dispatches from the Pacific, the Philippine Sea, and beyond.  From there, it’s up to him.  “I’m the man for the job,” he says confidently.  And there you have it: no Earthly distance can keep feather2pixels down.  Ever.

We have approached the beginning of finals week at the Academy and it already feels like summer (although: it’s California–it always feels like summer). The sun is hot, the tides are strong, and the parking lots, depending I guess on one’s academic performance, are either half empty or half full. Graduation is on Saturday and the T.S. Golden Bear sets sail at 08:00 on Sunday . All hands must be present at 07:00. I got my cabin key and stopped in for a peek this afternoon. The room was unexpectedly huge with a private bathroom and a handsomely upholstered easy chair. Best of all, there was a recent Penthouse in the top drawer of the dresser, where you’d find the bible in any motel.

I ended up accepting Indy Sarah’s press pass to the Shins show and so on a cold Wednesday night I found myself eastward bound in a taxi down Market Street with her. I was excited; the Shins are good and the Shins are popular, but I had never seen them play and thus couldn’t fully commit to liking them.

We arrived in the middle of the first song, which according to band policy, meant that I had two and a half songs left during which to take pictures via my photo badge. They passed in approximately twenty seconds.

It was about then that I realized I have no idea who these musicians are, much less what they look like. It was a truly disappointing moment. Not that the performance was bad in any way, but it made me realize that all that I know about this music, which I supposedly like, is recordings–just another way to suck the experience out of life. Lots of people before me have expressed that sentiment at concerts but it’s my big thing now and maybe the experience of being behind the cameras cast it in full relief. Anyways, in addition to the digital, I also managed to lug the Polaroid along and by luck snapped this remarkable shot of James Mercer in what looks to be the bowels of hell.

So the verdict: The Shins’ are good performers and their music is intelligent and well-balanced, the logical result of a natural selection process operating on a sea of shitty indie bands, weeding out the undesirable characteristics in a lucky few. The problem is the Shins don’t move me. Until the encore, that is, when they came onstage, harmonicas in hand, and played old shit lithe way Neil Young would have. And sometimes two songs can make a show.

Then I accidentally let Indy Sarah use my chapstick and she gave me a virus.