…in four easy steps.
At that point my mother chimed in like a ghostly voice from someone else’s phone call, “Write a blog about me!” “Didja here that?” my dad asked. “Yeah, but I don’t think you guys quite understand the dry spell I’m on. I mean I haven’t been writing regularly and it really isn’t flowing, etc.” Well, you know how it ended I guess. Let me just say that it takes me a while to write these things usually. I have to either be fired up about something (see last post), or I have to have a really cool idea that may take some massaging before it’s ready for full blog-dum (yes, I just made that word up. Up yours Webster). So, I had to do some prep for this and in doing so I actually had a pretty cool revelation. First, however, let me just say that writing about someone else’s motivations or personal characteristics is pretty much impossible unless fiction is the goal, so I decided to write about what I knew for sure…myself.
It is interesting how someone who is involved in your life can actually direct the paths you take, even if you think you are making the choices for yourself. This may seem like an obvious statement, but I have to admit it shook me a bit when I realized it for myself. Let me set the stage. It is the summer of 1990, I’m 12, and my mom is tired of seeing my ass in front of the TV. I remember she is driving me back from some place and gives me an ultimatum, as only parents can. She tells me that I can take acting lessons, photography lessons, or SCUBA diving lessons. I chose SCUBA because I thought it was outrageous to think that my parents would actually pay for it and I could get back to watching Transformers and playing whatever Nintendo game I was on at that time. Three weeks later I was four feet underwater in a local pool and finishing homework assignments that taught me about Boil’s law, pneumatic breathing systems, and human biology as it is affected by submersion in water.
Jump ahead five years; I’m now 17 and I am ankle deep in some nasty muck inside an ivy and weed covered spring house on the outskirts of a plantation house where my mother docents. She has some how convinced me that this would be a way better project than blazing a trail near the cool river at the rock cliffs where I literally spend all of my spare time rock climbing. No, here I am dredging old crap out of this 150 year old refrigerator, while mosquitoes are slowly draining not just my blood but my will to live. I have to admit to myself though, I am curious as hell to see what the next handful of slimy mud will uncover. I proudly line up my 1945 Coke bottle, a twirling baton, some old ceramics I can’t identify, and some iron fragments on the bank of the rivulet of the stream coming out of the stone door.
A year later, my mom tells me that after I graduate from high school I should think about taking a trip. I spend some time thinking about it but my best idea was going to
Before I left for the west, my mother suggested that I take all of my outdoor skills and apply to work at a high adventure camp, some place where I would be comfortable. She and I walked through some applications for an internship in Antarctica and more for some dream jobs at high adventure camps across the
One average humid and hot evening I was talking to my mom from a payphone near my base camp when she told me I needed to start thinking about college because I would be getting back soon. She had already sent me something that might help. For the next month, I was brow beat to read through this book that listed just about every job that has anything to do with SCUBA diving. I came across one that I thought was pretty cool, “Marine Archaeologist”. So eventually, I got into one of the five schools in the country that actually offered it as major.
Let me just wrap this up from here. Those who know me know that I am now employed at a commercial archaeology firm in