The Pseudo Panoramic

Most digital cameras today have the ability to create in camera interesting panoramic images. It is one of those things where you push and hold the shutter release then slowly pan your camera from left to right while the camera captures a series of images that are processed in camera to create a panoramic picture. It actually works rather well and I do use it from time to time myself. Even though there are numerous ways to create panoramic images there is another shot cut you can use to generate what appears to be a panoramic; The Pseudo Panoramic.

The Pseudo Panoramic is simply a creative cropping technique where by you trim the image across the top and bottom to create a wide area look. I run across photographers sometimes who tend to shy away from cropping probably believing this is what the camera captured and that is my image. They may also have a specific size image in mind like an 8 x 10 format or something like that. Certainly this practice is a perfectly rational and acceptable technique one where even I put into practice quite a bit. But sometimes an image serves itself well to take on a wider look.

There is no real magic here or complex formula, its just a matter of looking at the image determining what can be cropped and what should be kept. I typically do not worry so much about the aspect ratio, or size of the image. I just crop it until it looks the way I want it to look. If I need it to be a certain size I will usually create a poster format for a specific size and paste the image onto the background. The idea then is to observe the content of the image and determine how well it serves itself as a panoramic.

So give it a try. Using ordinary size images and making them appear like a panoramic can add a great deal of spark and interest to you photographs.

True Temper

Been under the weather in recent weeks and haven't felt like getting out nor spending the time to write a new post. But, I did spend some time looking through some of the older posts and found one of my favorites from October, 2011. It is called True Temper and is a reflection of growing up in southeastern Oklahoma in the little town of Wister. After reading it again I believe it fits well into my current attempts to take a nostalgic look back to early days. So I am re-posting it and hope you enjoy reading this memory laced example from a simpler time.

Last time I was there, there wasn't much left of the old part of town.  What wasn't boarded up was bulldozed down or burned into rubble.  A few cars from time to time did trickled through carrying their occupants to some other location.  Most were probably oblivious to the history here and rarely noticed the weathered and mostly faded advertisement for 'Big Chief' writing tablets on the side of one of the still standing old red brick buildings.  The rusted Judy's Drug Store sign still hung above the now boarded entrance and swung with an irritating screech in the hot summer breeze.  About the only businesses still operating were the bank and post office...the latter appearing almost new compared to the other redbrick shells.  Even so, it was at least 40 years old itself.  The former still operated from the same location on the corner for more than 80 years now I'd guess.  Somehow, they had managed to keep the doors open in spite of the economic situation.

Once a thriving but small community, its heyday peaked during the 1950's after the war.  Then the first flood came...actually the second flood...the first having occurred well back in the late 1920's.  A few businesses precariously clung to life after that, and the heart of the small town eventually began to recover, but the unmistakable signs of old age and downward trends had already infiltrated into the community...few saw or understood what was happening.  The flood of '61  shoved the little town toward its deathbed, but somehow it survived...and began to recover...until the flood of '66 gave it massive heart failure.  The high water mark eight feet high is still visible on some of the older buildings.

A year or so later, a new highway extension diverted what traffic came through town to bypass it on the north side.  Many of the remaining businesses simply closed...a few moved to a location along the new section of highway.  In a way the new highway gave the town a second chance and a new heart...but it wasn't the same town...nor the same heart.  It was never the same after the last flood.  The Mayberry like charm that was Wister, Oklahoma washed away with the brown receding waters that took it's soul.

True Temper Fishing Rod

The summer of 1963 was the last summer of what I remember as the old Wister...a Wister that retained its connection to the simpler days of the past, yet was faced with changing times in a modern era.  It was one where the recovery from the '61 flood was almost complete and a normal life was once again beginning to stir.  It was the summer I remember the most...the last real summer of my youth where the essence of what this little community was...still existed...at least in my heart.  It was the summer where my grandparents business...a dry goods store...came back to life and began to function again as it had in the past.

It was the summer I received my first real fishing rod and reel...a True Temper blue fiberglass rod with a True Temper bait casting reel attached complete with a few dozen yards of braided fishing line.  With that rod and reel combo, I began to truly explore for the first time, the intrinsic values only discovered in the sport of fishing.

My friend Geary, the grandson of my grandmother's neighbor Ruth, would also spend a lot of time during the summer in Wister.  More often than not we'd get into some kind of mischief that would cause both our grandmothers to grimace in disbelief and often sternly declare..."...Lands sake...what were you two boys thinking?"

I suppose we heard those words more often than we should have...usually during the times his or my grandmother would be applying a paste of baking soda to the multiple bee stings we had received after attacking a wasp nest with squirt guns and fly swatters.  I'm not so sure why we ever did such fool things...but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But...fishing began to have a greater appeal...certainly less painful appeal anyway..and we'd ride our bikes up to Hammond's pond and use the old row boat to get out to the middle...where the big ones were...or we'd head over to Caston Creek and turn rocks to find crawdads or set out minnow traps for bait.  His grandfather kept a compost pile behind his house and we'd dig around in it for worms to fill a can for bait...threw a couple of bobbers along with a few hooks and lead weights in a sack...and head out.  It was great fun and we actually caught a few fish.  My old Uncle Manly, my grandmothers brother-in-law who was well into his 70's at the time, would take us out to another pond and let us do some crappie fishing.

It was that season we purchased our first 'bass plugs'...mine was a black and white Lazy Ike.  I kept the plug for many years and caught many fish on it too...then retired it for fear of losing it.  Made a mistake a few years back and used it on a float trip only to lose it when the line snapped after hooking a nice smallmouth bass.

Internet Photo - Lazy Ike like the one had

One time we hounded his grandmother to take out to the spillway below Wister Lake dam.  She did...dropped us off and left us there pretty much all day.  Our tackle box consisted of that same old paper sack with a few hooks and sinkers.  He brought along a homemade dip net he had made out of an old screen door.  With that net we'd lower in into the shallows and wait for bait fish to swim back in then slowly raise it trapping a few each time.  Before long we had a dozen or so bait fish we had tossed in the old beat up minnow bucket his grandfather let us use.

My True Temper Rod and Reel

They were not running too much water that day through the gates, so there was a narrow long island that jutted above the water.  Out in front of it was good fast moving water.  Near one end was some older man fishing.  He had a big tackle box and a couple rods and reels and look the part of a real fisherman.  We felt almost silly with our paper sack and cheap equipment.  Even so, I tied on a large hook and attached a large sinker a couple feet above the hook.  Grabbed one of minnows, and hooked him in the tail and heaved that old True Temper as hard as I could.  The line landed near the middle of the current and the sinker began to bounce and roll across the bottom.  Not sure how long it took or how many tries it took, but I do know we caught several large Buffalo, or Drum...not sure which...standing on that strip of gravel and shale.  My first one was the largest single fish I have ever caught.  Considered trash fish...but man did they ever fight.

The line bounced around and then appeared to get hung.  I gave it a couple of hard jerks and the rod bent almost double.  Geary asked if I had one on...I said no...I'm hung...but my rod kept bouncing and jerking.  After a moment or two I realized I wasn't hung, I had hooked a big one...and man was it ever a fight.  That old True Temper reel didn't have a strong enough drag and that large fish in that strong current simple spun almost all of my line out.  I literally could not pull that fish in.  Geary ended up grabbing the fishing line and pulled it in by hand as I took up the slack...he then simply drug it up onto the bank.  That older man just down from us couldn't believe his eyes...the best I can remember, I don't recall he ever caught anything as we caught several through the afternoon.

And such was the summer of '63.  As time went on, we spent less and less time during the summer there as my family moved around and settled in another community.  During that time, that old True Temper rod and reel provided a young boy with a tool that all but changed the way he viewed the world.  Where once play was the main emphasis of my day...the opening up of the world of fishing through that rod and reel refocused my thoughts and began a life long love affair with a grand adventure.

Although I was unaware of it at the time...over the years I've been able to more clearly grasp the significance of those years.  When I am drifting in my canoe during the pre-dawn light...casting a line toward imagined encounters with a rising fish...when I reflect on the moment seeking to discover deeper meaning from why I enjoy such things...it is not the older man I have become that does these things, it is the young boy who spent those days exploring the world in and around that little Oklahoma town...building confidence...developing strength of character through trial and error...that does those things.

Experiences such as those generate unspoken words that attache themselves to our young minds as we grow older...words that echo across time attached to memories...it is those words that still encourage me...words that carry with them reminders of how those years provided a True Tempering in my youth that only now is becoming evident.  Oddly enough, I hear them more clearly today...silent words only a young boy hears...words that allow one to laugh at misadventures...wonder about grand adventures...and grasp the significance of events long faded from most memories, but words still freshly residing in the recesses of my heart.

My grandparents retired shortly after the flood of '66...their long run of operating a business that over time saw fewer and fewer returns eventually gave way to the inevitable.

My grandparents store - circa 1951

They are now long ago gone and missed and over the years...their stately old house where my grandmother lived for close to 70 years was sold. I lost contact with my summertime friend...even so, I thank God for having experienced such things in my life...simple things, like an old True Temper fishing rod and reel.

My grandparents house
circa 1930

The old town of Wister has, in recent times, seen a small resurgence of sorts, as its larger neighbor Poteau, a few miles up the road has grown and many people have moved to Wister as part of that growth. A new generation with new ideas and trials now occupy the community...a new business started up in the same building my grandparents used all those years...the owner somehow contacted me a couple years ago and asked for some old photos of those years...I sent him several copies. The years and summers I spent growing up in that little town became the most important years of my life. That old town in its own right has earned the right to say with a degree of pride that it has endured difficult times and shown a level of True Temper...the memories of those days certainly prove so anyway.

Keith

A Look Back - The Wave Warrior Days - U.S.C.G. Umpqua River Lifeboat Station 1973

Prologue...  As part of revisiting the early days, this is a repost of a Blog from a while back. I've added a few extra photo's and hope you enjoy this glimpse of the defining days of my young adult life.   This is the First-Person account as best as I can remember it of my initial experience chasing the waves across the Umpqua River Bar.       

Keith Bridgman Image - CG44331 on the Umpqua River Bar

I stood alone, wedged between that appointment when day becomes night, and gazed toward the hills that surround this lost corner of Oregon at Winchester Bay.  Caught as I was where obscure memories find a fresh avenue of awareness, old recollections were aroused by sights, sounds, and the aroma of low tide. I returned to my old duty station back in 2007 and stood on a pier, alone, and searched the depths of my heart and rediscovered a part of my past which at that time was thirty-four years removed.

Sometimes events and opportunity pass our way and we fail to grasp the moment until years later.  The months and years I spent at U.S. Coast Guard Station Umpqua River, so long ago, were no exception.  In recent years I am finally beginning to understand how the emotions, personal connections, and the chance happenings I experienced then, touch me now. 

In so many ways I’m not the same person I was then. Even so, I realize more than ever that I would not be who I am now if not for those days.  As middle age evolved into those first vestiges of old age a desire inside to return to that place, to touch base again with a part of my past began to burn into my life.  It took a decade for those desires to find a path that lead back to Winchester Bay. It was as though I was called back to find an answer to some unknown question.  Over the next few days I sought a resolution to reconcile those emotions.  The riposte I uncovered lifted me onto another plateau of understanding, with a warming sense of confidence, and an elevated measure of respect for the current young men and women of the U.S. Coast Guard lifeboat service.  A respect they so mightily deserve.

During my tenure at Umpqua River from November 1973 until January 1976, life changing events, character refining moments, and memory building people, became my world.  We were a good crew back then, somewhat on the edge at times, always ready to lay it on the line.  We loved and hated our job at the same time.  We were young and searching and often foolish, but just as often, we were amazingly resourceful.  We had to be, as funding for the Coast Guard in those days amounted to a few crumbs of left over resources not allocated to the big four services.  

               

 It was a sense of adventure we sought, but more often than not our lives consisted of routine, mundane work dictated by long hours of  port and starboard, or maybe at best, two out of three duty rotation.  Even so, more often than we dared to discuss…circumstances carried us into that realm of high adventure and the searching inexperienced-lives that we were, became young men forced to deal with difficult and sometimes tragic life and death situations.  Although we never considered ourselves ‘elite’, under challenging circumstances we performed our job well, and whether we wanted to admit to it or not, we did so with a sense of purpose and duty.

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

They call them Wave Warriors these young people who challenge the treacherous waters that collide with the edge of a continent. For good reason as the coastline of Oregon and Washington is home to some of the most dangerous waters on the planet. The lifeboat units of the 13th Coast Guard District have garnered a rightly earned unique place in history as a result of their efforts. Often overlooked, rarely spoken of outside the confines of their respective locations, these brave young men and women, place themselves at risk virtually every day, standing ready to save those placed in jeopardy by the whimsical nature of the Pacific Northwest. 

 (Check out the video at the end)

************************************************************************

November 1973....

“Standby one!”

United States Coast Guard Motor Lifeboat CG44303 rolled to starboard as it coasted to a stop less than two hundred yards from the mouth of the Umpqua River Bar as Myron Dale replied to a radio call from the lookout tower.

The forty-four foot surfboat gleamed brilliant white in the foggy dim of the morning light.  Deep echoes rumbled from within the twin diesel engines as they settled into idle. Coasting to a stop the 303 turned broadside to the swells and rolled along its central axis, bobbing and whipping left then right then bow to stern. It was a typical November winter day on the bar in 1973, overcast dreariness where a diffused layer of fog hovered suspended above the main channel to boil against the abruptly angle ridge that formed the eastern wall of the river channel. Multiple rows of twelve to fifteen foot breakers collapsed across the narrow three-hundred yard gap separating the ends of the north and south jetties. The surge rolled heavily well inside the channel away from the main surf action.

Internet Image - CG44303 on Patrol

The Umpqua River Bar held the reputation as one of the most dangerous bar crossings on the west coast, or anywhere for that matter. Rightly deserved it was. It turned into a liquid hell at times when black storms rolled in to meet the outgoing tide surging with the stained runoff of the Umpqua River to blend into a boiling dirty brown cauldron. From its source high on the flanks of the ancient Mount Mazama deep in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon, the Umpqua River cut a jagged course across the western reaches of the state. It’s personality a beautiful, lively river for most of its length, a resource of unspoiled natural wonder, its flanks widened, its color turned brown, and its pace slowed as it approached the coast to eventually arch behind a thick layer of primordial sand dunes and spill into the Pacific Ocean.

8mm Video Frame of The Umpqua River Bar

It is here the Umpqua changes into its alter ego and becomes manic depressive in nature, almost Jekyll and Hyde. There are days the mouth remains deceptively calm and serene only to turn violent and depressing at the slightest provocation. It is during those manic times rows of breakers exploded from the depths a turbid boil upon the edge of the continent. This anger could only come from an entity that was alive it would seem, an evil unto itself without enmity, without concern for those who must cross through it, ready to spring from its lair a watery trap for those careless enough to forget. Its history is such that numerous sailing craft large and small have suffered because of its volatile nature, and with them the lives of sailors caught within its hellish waters.

8mm video frame - CG44303 Crossing The Dangerous
Umpqua River Bar

First Class Boatswain Mate BM1 Myron Dale surveyed the face of his rooky crewman, me, perched nervously to his right in the coxswains flat of the CG44303. Myron stood tall in the coxswain’s seat helped by a frame that stretched almost two inches over six feet. His athletic form was showing signs of softening around the mid section. Even so, his youthful appearance and longer than regulation brown, wavy hair, gave him a younger look than his years would show.

8mm video frame - CG44303 Crossing the Dangerous
Umpqua River Bar

Station Umpqua River was one of the older Coast Guard stations on the west coast originally established well back in the days of the old Life Saving Service. In the year 1915 it became part of the newly formed military service officially known as the United States Coast Guard. The first new older facilities originally constructed in the late 1930’s up on the hill overlooking the bar now stood boarded and abandoned after 1962 when the newer station was built on the entrance channel into Winchester Bay Harbor. Today those older buildings house a museum.

Keith Bridgman Image - One of the 44's tied up
At the fueling dock

Small units like Station Umpqua River were not just places to put personnel, they were part of the communities in which they were built. Crew’s of these units became like foster sons to the people they interacted around and it was important to maintain as much as possible that sense of family and connection. Family is simply treated different. Experienced personnel like Myron became invaluable assets to maintaining productive relationships. Winchester Bay exemplified the quaint life that was small town life along the Oregon Coast. Scattered here and there amongst the Victorian style homes and coastal shops were well attended, stout, old churches weathered by wind and rain.

8mm video frame - Salmon Harbor Winchester Bay, Oregon

Today’s drills was one of my first times out on a 44, first time on breaker drills, first duty station out of boot camp, one of my first times to get seasick. Slightly behind Myron and to his left stood Third Class Boatswain Red O’Neil, along with Dan McKean, our engineer, another sandy headed with a dark red beard old timer.

 “Come on Sport…let’s get you strapped in,” Red shouted as he swung around the backside of the coxswains flat where he opened the white equipment storage box behind the coxswains chair and extracted two sets of a seatbelt-like harnesses. He fumbled with the tangled mess before handing one to me. After receiving it I am sure I looked somewhat puzzled as to what to do.

“See this part…snap it around low on the hips like a seat belt then pull it tight…like this,”  Red demonstrated using his harness, “ then take the two end pieces and snap them into the eyes built in the bulkhead there and there. Once you’re snapped in, lean back and take out the slack…use your legs like shock absorbers and hold on here and here…it’s going to get rather bouncy once we head into the surf…like this…”

Again he demonstrated by placing tension on his harness, leaning back until the straps tightened and then he began to rhythmically bend at the knees.  I followed suit.

Myron looked on with approval and started to verbally give his opinion when the radio cracked.

            “…303 this CG44331.”

Master Chief Boatswains mate John Whalen, Commanding Officer of Station Umpqua River and one of the best surfboat operators in the Guard, also one of the most unorthodox…was approaching from up channel in the 303’s sister craft CG44331.

I turned to my right and spotted the 331 loping along about three hundred yards behind our position. It was mid-morning and the early fog had not completely burned off. Behind them the black bulk of the Umpqua River jetties curved away into the distance filtered by the haze until they disappeared. Nothing was more beautiful than morning on the channel where the haze blended the features of the surrounding terrain into a soft gray. Then, when the sun poked its disc above the ridge, its rays would spread through the haze like golden beams and generate highlights on the dunes against the darker background. I soon discovered that I would never grow tired of witnessing such moments.

The 44’s were powerful rescue boats, yet at the same time they often appeared vulnerable out on the bar almost like toy boats thrown up against an unforgiving adversary. They first came on line in 1964 a few years before my time. Chief Whalen was one of the first to operate them, a new breed of surfboat operator in his day, who helped write the book on how to handle the new vessel.

Tom McAdams

During the 44’s initial evaluation the legendary Chief Tom McAdams would run the prototype through the treacherous waters off Cape Disappointment, where the Columbia River met the Pacific, until they broke it.  Afterward they would limp back to port, have it repaired then they tried to break it again. When it didn’t break anymore, they figured they had themselves one fine rescue boat, certainly a much better craft than the old wooden hulled 36 footers. The old 36 footers were venerable craft, but ancient by the standards required of the new era. Even so, two old 36 footers were still under commission back then, one, the CG36498, sat tied to the fuel dock still used from time to time but only when necessary. Even with the newer 44’s it was still seat of the pants operations, only now they had a vessel with far greater capabilities.

Internet Photo - The Old CG36498

The 331’s gleaming white hull glowed against the dark gray background as a beam of sunlight broke thru the haze, and its red slash across the bow became readily apparent in the new light. On the hill beyond and somewhat to the south, the Umpqua River lighthouse cast its one red and two white beams through the thinning fog. Less than one hundred yards to the north of the lighthouse was the lookout tower which was not really a tower but a small building resting on the edge of the ridge that commanded a view of most of the channel and the bar along with a long stretch of coast as far as the eye was allowed to see.

            “Go ahead 331…” Myron responded.

            “Looks like a good day to break in our rooky, how's Bridge doing?”

Being the reserved sort of fellow I was at the time, I was embarrassed by the comment. Everyone at the station had nick names or shortened names…that’s just the way it was. To have one made that person feel like they were an accepted part of the unit.

            “Ah Roger that Chief…I think my young cherub here is a bit nervous.”

            “He won’t be in a few minutes. How ‘bout you take a quick run through the surf then sit outside by the number two buoy as I come through.”

Myron removed his tight fitting helmet and propped it against his leg. It felt good to get it off his head and feel the fresh air circulate around his ears again. The 303 continued to slowly roll from one side to the other and the light wind whipped the diesel exhaust into the coxswains flat with its noxious fumes. His bright reddish orange neoprene survival suit squeezed him a little too tightly around the shoulders, but was loose around the waist. He glanced at me and detected distress in my expression. He winked at Red and cast a sly grin while nodding at him. Red chuckled.

            “Hey Sport…you’re look’in a might peek-ed around the gills there bud.”

I could only muster a forced grin as my insides were beginning to turn to mush and my head was spinning. My once rosy cheeks were now pale and my jowls and under the eyes contained a delightful greenish hue. Red could not hold his laughter.

            “You know they say there are two kinds of seasickness…”

            “Oh yeah…I didn’t…ummmph…know that," I naively replied stepping feet first into Red's joke.

            “Yeah…you see there’s the kind where you get so sick you’re afraid…and there’s no doubt about it… you’re going to die…”

            “Must be pretty bad….what’s the other kind?”

Red laughed again knowing he had set up his young rookie, “Well sport…then there’s the kind where you get so awfully sick…you’re afraid you won’t die.”

 He, Myron, and Dan burst into a loud obnoxious laughter at the old worn out joke. Red must have told that to every rookie that ever passed through the station at one time or another. I could only grin but wasn’t going to let them get the best of me. I replied,

            “I figure I’ll…ooouuuumph…survive.”

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

 A moment later I leaned over the side and emptied my gut with a loud retching much to the delight of the gulls swarming around the boat. They dove into the slime covered water and fought each other for some of the larger of the regurgitated chunks. I felt much better afterward, but also felt foolish and embarrassed. Red laughed and patted me on the back.

“Aint it amazing at how wide your mouth opens up when you barf big like that…and how those stupid gulls…man-o-man…they’ll eat anything won’t they, even something as vile as puke.”

The laughing continued, but Red could see the disappointment in my eyes. He knew that everyone was different when is came to getting seasick. Some of the boys never had a problem, while others almost never got used to it.

“Hey Sport, don’t let us laughing at you bother you none”, he said slapping me across the back, “most all of us have done the same thing at one time or another. You’ll get used to it soon enough. Next time out have ole Cookie get you a bag of plain peanuts still in the hulls so you can crack and eat them while you’re out…keeps your mind occupied where you don’t think about it so much and it helps settle your stomach. You ain't a real Coastie, until you toss your cookies a time or two.  We’re expected to ride the big stuff…and if that don’t get your insides churned up…”

           I interupted him, “Gee thanks Red…that makes me feel just all warm and fuzzy inside," then I leaned over the side one more time, only this time a thin ribbon of yellowish fluid oozed out between the strained retching sounds.

Reds laughter increased in volume as he patted me across the top of my helmet, “You’re alright Sport…you’re going to do just fine. Now, let’s get this here show off high center and have some fun.”

By now the 44331 had pulled alongside and cut the engines to idle about twenty yards off the starboard side. Myron spun the 303 slightly to get a better angle so they could hear each other above the roar of the surf and the grumbling of the engines.

           

“Looks like the middle ground is beginning to lay down some…I guess we better get some drills in before we lose the tide”, Chief Whalen shouted.

Chief Whalen loved to operate the 44’s on drills. He was quick to talk affectionately about what he considered engineering marvels. Equipped with LORAN navigation and RADAR technology, and a tough hull design, they could plow through the waters of the North Pacific in any kind of weather, and they could turn on a dime and tow a battleship with the twin diesel engines rated at 180 horsepower each. Geared and supplied with special props, they could handle breakers upwards to thirty feet, designed to make a 360 degree roll in heavy surf, snap upright in a few seconds and keep on going.  It was a simple conclusion to him and anyone who operated a 44…they were the best surfboat design in the world hands down.

The small fleet of fishing trawlers and charter boats that operated out of Winchester Bay had grown to admire the abilities of the 44’s and the crew of the Umpqua River Station. There was a kind of unwritten acknowledgment and respect they showed for each other, an almost symbiotic relationship. Each needed the other, each depended on the other, each, could only function if the other were there. The Umpqua River Lifeboat Station had a unique relationship with the community of Winchester Bay as they were located in the heart of the small community. The local folks knew the station boys treating them as though they were their own son’s in many cases. It was a bond with roots going back several generations, a bond of trust not easily broken, nor easily mended once lost. A monument dedicated to those who lost their lives operating out of Winchester Bay served as a reminder of the dangers a life on the sea subjects on those who dared to challenge it.

 Myron replaced the helmet and secured the strap under his chin. Turning toward me he said,

            “You ready for this…”

            I nodded.

            “Okay…Let’s do it…”

He waved his hand in the air in a circular motion then pointed toward the bar and pressed the twin throttles full forward.  The 303 surged, the stern driving low as the torque of the props driven by a combined 360 horsepower bit deep. He spun the wheel to straighten the bow and then cut across the front of the 331 about fifty yards out. A foamy wake exploded out from the bow and the deep staccato rumble of the engines vibrated the air. Without taking his eyes off the bar, Matt shouted above the roar so I could hear.

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

         “Always remember…let this be the first and most important lesson you learn…never underestimate the bar and never overestimate your own abilities, once you hit the surf you have to stay on top of it at all times always keep your head moving, look ahead to the next series before you come out of the first, know what you are going to do before you do it, learn to react, learn to think quickly, this bar never stops coming at you, it will pound the crap out of you, always pushing, always shoving, always looking for a way to bust your butt. You must not let it have it’s way but you must control it. You must be in control of your vessel at all times, know what it will do and more importantly, what it won’t do.”

I barely heard a word. My mouth was dry, but my body was wet partly from sweat, partly from the spray blown into the coxswains flat as the powerful boat surged into the ever increasing chop. Oddly enough my seasickness disappeared with the adrenalin rush. I was scared but excited, intrigued, but wished I could have more time to prepare. Time ran out.

The first layer of breakers across the middle ground rose to meet us and Myron throttled back causing the 303 to surge downward toward the bow. He spun the wheel to port then to starboard lining up the next breaker, waiting for the swell to build…timing his approach…full throttles forward and the 303 lunged into the rising wall of foaming water. The bow shot upward to what seemed like vertical, then hung for moment on the crest and in a rush slammed into the trough behind the cresting swell. The jolt caught me off guard and I didn’t bend my knees in time and almost lost my footing but recovered.  The 303 sat seemingly lost between two walls of giant swells that now surrounded us.  

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

Myron spun the 303 to port, backed off the port engine and pushed the starboard engine forward spinning the 303 within its own length. A second later he jammed the port throttle to meet the other and spun the 303 to starboard timing it exactly to rise into next breaker cresting in front of them. The 303 plowed through the top of the crest and became airborne. For a moment we were weightless as the bow of the 303 arched slowly toward its collision with the surface, the engines screaming in protest as their props broke free. The impact staggered all of us, but we adjusted to the forces applied to our bodies, our heads jerking downward and forward, our bodies twisting against the torque. An arm of the curling breaker slammed into the corner of the 303’s coxswains flat and a jolt of water slammed into my face as it shot through an opening along the side. It took my breath away as it surprised me at how cold and salty it was.  I shook my head to clear my vision and glanced over toward Red whose smoke stained teeth glowed in the dim morning light through his wide grin.

            “The old 44’s are the bulldogs of the surfboat fleet. They power their way through the surf with brute force”.  Red yelled above the roar of the surf and engines so I could hear.

 Myron slowed the 303 turning the port side broadside to the next approaching swell, working the throttles causing them to alternately rumble then whine, then roar, spinning the wheel with a delicate touch, rubber necking his head right to left and back again. He rose up slightly to get a better view, then plopped his seat down quickly and cursed aloud as he realized the next breaker was approaching more quickly than he anticipated. He spun the wheel and jammed the starboard throttle forward…there was a delay and the 303 did not respond…a loud clanging bell began to ring indicating the engine had died. I wasn’t sure what was happening as my eyes were transfixed on the approaching breaker. Myron instinctively cursed out loud and he repositioned the throttle to neutral and slammed his free hand on the red starboard engine re-start button located in front of the helm. 

The engine sputtered…and he cursed out loud again and repressed the switch.  The engine roared to life and the ringing stopped as he jammed the throttle forward while spinning the wheel to port, but it wasn’t in time and the 303 angled at 45 degrees across the breaking swell. It rolled sharply 90 degrees to starboard and tons of water began to fill the lower well and swirl around our bodies. My eyes grew wide as the 303 tipped, close to rolling, and I was plunged into a dark, salty, freezing torrent of foaming water. I held my breath knowing from previous indoctrination that the 44 can and will roll 360 degrees…it was designed to do so…but I had no desire to experience this activity, not on my first outing.  A few seconds later the 303 snapped sharply to port righting itself from the near rollover and surged forward, the water that collected in the lower well draining out the self-bailing ports.

Myron yelled out loud with a whooping laughter and Red joined him as he turned toward the stern to take a glance of what they had just come through. I hadn’t taken a breath in close to a minute and gasped for air while I shook off the shock. That 90 degree roll on my side drenched me as much as a full roll would have. The 303 spun again lining up with the next and final line of breakers. Myron pulled the throttles back and brought the 303 to a complete stop waiting for the swell to develop before pressing them slightly forward. The final swell broke about 10 yards in front of us and slammed into the bow with the force of several tons. The 303 lunged upward and then through the swell and Myron kicked the throttles forward and headed out to open water.

Internet Image - Breaker Drills

            “And that’s the way we ride the waves!” he shouted as he high-fived Red.

 I was speechless. Never had I experienced such a rush…such a sense of fear tempered with excitement and now the knowledge that I too was a full fledged member of the Umpqua River Lifeboat Station having seen the elephant for the first time.

Myron delighted in breaker drills but his concern was with the engines as it was a real problem when they shut down during drills.

            “Dan, when we get back in take a look at that engine and figure out what’s going on there…that’s the second time it’s shut down on us this week.” he shouted at our engineer.

           Dan shouted back, “Done that already. Can’t find anything wrong with it Myron…we’ve checked it out top to bottom…everything is set up like it should be.”

            “Well, something’s wrong.  Check it out again when we get back in.”

             

For the next hour the 303 and 331 traded turns running breaker drills through the Umpqua River bar. By the time we finished, I felt like I was a real veteran. As the bar began to moderate and the surf converted into shallow swells, we headed back in. By this time, the sun was full up and the fog mostly burned off.  The experience, the sights and sounds taught me to enjoy those moments when the golden dunes were illuminated by the beams of sun that broke through the clouds. It was the colors, the sounds, the odors, and the feel of the moment that moved me the most.

Inside the Cove Near the Base of the South Jetty

Now as part of one of the oldest military branch of the United States my purpose was to perform my duty at the best of my ability. From that point on I wanted only to be prepared to do what had to be done when the time came. Somewhere inside of me I knew that destiny would bring me into conflict with this purpose.  

Any surfboat pilot could perform the routine stuff…train with breaker drills…tow in the broken down boats or run bar patrols as had been performed hundreds of times. Only the best could do the impossible.  Only the best could look death in the face and tell it to move aside. Only the best was what was expected of us. There prevailed a hovering specter lapping over our shoulders, always watching, always taunting. Somehow after that first introduction with what the Umpqua River Bar had to offer, I knew it was only time before something more seriously sinister would thrust its ugly world into ours...into mine. As it turned out, it wasn't long before I was to witness near tragic events that rammed home the importance of always being ready to face the dangerous unknown challenges that is the life of a Wave Warrior.

(From the Lassie series: footage of the CG44303 vs the Umpqua River Bar)

Connections: Revisiting The Early Days

My grandparents took thousands of photographs. Almost all of them using an old Kodak No. 1 box camera or something similar to it. They most likely didn't realize it at the time, but those photographs became a visual record of a family history a few dating back to the mid-1800's while most were captured during the early 1900's forward into more modern times. Locked away inside dogeared envelopes sitting inside old boxes and one old small suitcase resides the evidence of who we were as family.

Dormant emotions are rekindled each time I scan through a few of them. I often stare at some trying to grasp the significance of the moment like the one of my great grandfather, Robert Star Bridgman, as he stands with his hat in his hand and head hanging low mournfully saying his good-bye to my great grandmother who had died three days before my dad was born. Robert Star moved his family around 1896 from Arkansas to Poteau, just up the road from Wister, using a borrowed wagon. There he established several businesses including a hardware store, a Cotton Gin, and a newspaper. The Hardware store which is now a home furnishings store is still in business, almost 120 years now. My dad often said I resembled Robert Star. I have only two photographs of him and both are priceless reminders of my distant past.

And then there is the oval shaped image with my grandfather, Robert Lee Bridgman (Bob), my aunt Mae, and Aunt Goldie, all three obediently sitting in their Sunday best having their photo taken what must have been around 1904 or so. It looks like so many other family portraits from that era until you read what is written on the back. Goldie, who was only two years old or so at the time, shortly after this photo was taken was playing too close to a fireplace and caught fire. She was so badly burned she mercifully died shortly afterwards. My grandfather rarely spoke of the incident but his handwriting carried a distinct backward slant even though he was right handed. I discovered later, handwriting such as this is often an indication of someone having experienced a traumatic event in their past.

There are old photo post cards of Wister, Oklahoma, my ancestral home where my grandparents were born in that area and lived all their life. The old photos are throwbacks to the end of the Victorian era, an innocent capture of a slower time where people are seen dressed in the period style of clothes. Parked along the edge of the still dirt road are early models of automobiles with a horse drawn wagon working its way down the street. Oddly enough, this view of Wister changed little over the years. Most of the old buildings are still there, vacant now and the dirt road is paved. I can when I search through the archives of my own memories relive this exact shot as seen from this perspective as part of my life, a scene I witnessed during a more modern era.

Then there is the photo of the old railroad station depot with a steam train seen pulling in. People are milling around awaiting their turn to board or to meet arriving passengers. That old depot remained in operation until the mid 1950's or so and then stood abandoned for many years until it was unceremoniously torn down. What a loss it was to have such an historic building removed from history. I remember hiking down the tracks with my dad to take a closer look at the building before it was demolished. He pointed out the two waiting rooms where white folks were separated from black folks. It seemed foreign to me even then to think of such things, but history is what it is where prejudice was often the result of fear and uncertainty.

Mingled within the hundreds of photographs are dozens of classic family pictures from around 1930 where my grandfather and grandmother stood beside my dad, a very young and dapper looking fellow. Behind them stood the old home with the water well seen in the back.

Over time they expanded on the home and across the yard trees grew larger. I remember as a lad hauling bucket after bucket of ice cold well water from that old well. It still runs cold and deep.


This one image represents the essence of their photographic work from back then. Sun in their faces, showcasing their Sunday best clothes and their home. What amazing moments from small town Americana.

There are numerous photo's of my dad, probably taken on a Sunday afternoon around 1930, as he stands alone with his boyhood home behind him displayed like the proud example of small town America it was. I played, romped, and stomped all over that big porch that wrapped around the house on the hill, and the yard was filled with adventures and mayhem, as it became my refuge as a boy, much the same way it was when he was the same age. 

Many images of a young and vibrant woman who was my grandmother are in the collection. In 1940 she stands beside a new old bicycle again with their home seen in the background. The yard is what is significant here for it appears large,open, and well kept. A while back I drove by the old place and much has changed. The new owners have allowed the yard to become overgrown with trees and bushes causing it to appear congested and choked. What at one time was a lovely and envious home has become just another run down residence. I was saddened by what I saw.


My grandmother's brother, my Uncle Polk, lived just across the gravel road next to their home and he was quite the character. I was always a little afraid of him as he was sort of gruff, but harmless, and walked around with a three days growth of stubble on his face. But he was an interesting character who added a colorful flavor to those years.

My dad was an only child but Polk had two sons, Charles and Harold with his first wife who were in essence brothers to my dad for they grew up together. They were cousins, brothers, and best of friends and eventually went off to war together.

Harold and Yoko on the left. My mom
And Uncle Denver (my grandmothers
other Brother) on the right

Uncle Harold eventually married a Japanese woman, Yoko shortly after the war. My grandmother, although superficially accepting of Yoko never fully let go of her anger toward the Japanese who had caused her son along with Harold and Charles to fall into harms way during the war years. I always felt a little sorry for Yoko, because my grandmother although a wonderful person, never fully allowed herself to embrace her as part of her family. I was never around Yoko very much, just enough to see her as a polite and respectful person. Even so, she became a unique, distinct and ironic part of our family history.

Dad on the right, Charles, and Harold

Uncle Polk remarried and they had four daughters, Jennie, Phyllis, Mary, and Paula. Paula and I were born on the same day if I remember correctly. Their mother, Loney (not sure I spelled that right) was an amazing lady who churned butter on her back steps, and raised her family with an iron will and was perhaps the fattest person I've ever known. Uncle Polk always grew a garden outback and always had a milk cow in the pasture next to their old, unpainted, rickety home. He loved St Louis Cardinal baseball and would sit under the shade tree drinking lemonade listening to the game on his vintage Philco radio. It's been some years ago now, but the old home they lived in caught fire and burned to the ground. They were lucky to get out of the inferno.

Uncle Polk...man what a Car!

Even in her last days as my grandmother grew closer to heaven while in a nursing home, she would speak of her big house on the hill and tell everyone who would listen about it. She as a young girl watched it being built and told her friend as they were walking to school that some day she would live in that house. And so she did...she truly Lived in that old home and because of their lives, a family history was written and chronicled photographically. Of all of those family members who had original connections to that home, I am the only one left to remember those days. Maybe, just maybe that is why I will from time to time write about them, just so others from a newer generation will know and understand just how important those days were.

I suppose I could go on and on about those old days, but space and time makes it difficult to do so. Each of those hundreds of photographs tell a story that still live inside my collective memory. My dad eventually moved us, his family, away and we began a new era of family adventures in new places, but the days before I was born are as real to me as if I lived them myself. Through those old photographs I learned about my family history and today as I browse through the hundreds of digital photographs I've taken, I realize not very many of them are family photos and even fewer of them are printed images. Maybe it is time to return to the habits of that early time and start taking and printing some of these. Someday, just maybe, there will be a family member from a newer generation who just might enjoy revisiting these newer, old days.

Lighten Up - Don't Be So Serious

I take my photography way too seriously at times...concentrating so much on what I'm doing, that I don't always simply enjoy being there.  It's a bad habit to fall into.  Looking back over the tens of thousands of images I've captured over the years, the ones that hold the most importance are the ones I took when I was simply having fun doing what I was doing.

I've had a number of occasions over the years to talk about photography to not only groups of people but individuals.  One question that comes up from time to time is..'How many good ones do you normally get on a photo shoot?'  At one time I tried to come up with some kind of profound words of wisdom on the subject and most of the time tended to say all the wrong things..."10 out of a hundred maybe...2 or 3 normally...depends on how many shots I take..." when in reality the way I should answer is like this..."It really doesn't matter as long as I get the shot or shots I wanted and had fun doing it."

Photography should be exactly that...a way to have fun and express our creative instincts.  I've often had the desire to actually make a living at photography. A few friends have indicated doing so might be a good idea and I should pursue it.  But, when I think about it, trying to make a living at it just might be the wrong way to go about it, for then it becomes a job filled with all the job-like responsibilities and problems. Most all the fun might be removed out of it by doing so.  I'd rather keep on doing what I'm doing...earning a little here and there...but having fun at it and taking joy and excitement in seeing for the first time a new amazing moment of light come to life as captured through the lens, and to share what I've learned with others.

I suppose if I were to provide a bit of insight for new photographers on how to improve their photography...the best advise I could offer is to simply encourage them to approach their photography from the concept of simply having fun with it.  Not to get all caught up in the whistles and bells and technical jargon that goes along with it.  All that stuff will come in time if one continues to read and learn about the craft...but, it is far more important to begin at the beginning...and simply have fun learning about a fascinating hobby.

You might be amazed at just how amazing your pictures will turnout.  Always remember...there is no such thing as a bad photograph as long as you like it...so, lighten up and simply enjoy being there!

Keith