Always proud of the red, white and blue

Ten years later and will never forget. May we celebrate love and honor, not hatred and evil. May we be thankful to this nation and each other, for the chance to live in a bountiful land with liberty and justice for all. God Bless America!



And this reminds me I never wrote about the 2011 summer containers. Oops! I guess I better do that!
Enjoy the day folks, take it easy, remember we are all in this madness together, and that can be a good thing. United we stand.

Travel Notes: Costa Rica 2001 (Aka Pic of the Day)

This morning I checked my email to find this photograph in my inbox. There was no text attached and yet I knew exactly what it meant. My smile was instantaneous. The Imperial label said it all. My friend Bob Pokorney was back in the land of "Pura Vida", one of the most amazing places on earth, Costa Rica. In 2001 Bob and I spent a winter down in a small town right on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. I rented us a house for $800 and we went down with nothing but cash and a couple disposable cameras in our pockets and surfboards on our backs. Recently I dug out the following pics and the memories were brilliantly vivid. It was a time when we had nothing and wanted nothing. Surf was on our minds, our journals were packed to help us figure out the next chapter(s) of our lives, and otherwise it was just about the adventure of it all. We didn't realize it at the time, but that trip would help to mold us into the individual, professional men we would become in the almost ten years since. It's important to remove yourself sometimes, take time to reflect, challenge your ideas and see where they take you, and then try and move forward, fearlessly following through, knowing the experience alone is going to make you a stronger person. That's how you learn who you are, and who you want to be.
This entry is for Bob, wherever he may be....

We traveled through the night from a frost-bitten New York and fell out of the clouds to a tropical green paradise we couldn't believe. From the airport in San Jose we found a taxi able to take our surfboard bags and us to the ferry in Puntarenas. Everywhere I looked the lush foliage and the brightly painted houses perched in the hillsides was such a contrast to the bleak Long Island winter from which I had come. I must have looked a bit shell-shocked at first.

Here's Bob getting into the swing of things on the ferry over to the Nicoya Penninsula.
Luckily for us the taxi drivers in Costa Rica know the routine all too well and weren't frightened at all by our oversized board bags. We breathed some major sighs of relief when we found this guy. He was great!
The catch was that I rented the house over the internet and didn't entirely know where we were headed. The last email from a mysterious guy named Murray just said, "when you get into town look for a white fence with blue paint and you'll find me there". Everyone, myself included, thought this was a bit vague but on we drove with eyes peeled, and eventually we found it.
There in the southern section of Mal Pais, a town only as big as it's two kilometer gravel road, we found Murray and our little house rental, what he called "Man's House". Some weeks later we would meet the owner himself, a gentleman named Man Leon, and get to thank him for allowing us a stay in such a perfect little sanctuary.
The house was equipped with everything a few surf bums could need. The house was at the base of some foothills and in the trees out back of our house the howler monkeys would deliver quite the concert.


This was our alarm clock, which would reliably go off every morning at 6am and get us up for the dawn surf session.
Our neighbors...
Across the street the property had all kinds of citrus trees and mangoes and pineapples and coconuts so finding breakfast was easy. Don't mind the sign. ;-)
If we were lucky in the mornings we might catch the local bus which would carry us up the road to the better surfing beach.
There you'd find a few mile stretch of great rolling waves. Different spots had different breaks but pretty much every morning and every evening we surfed, and always found some waves to enjoy.
In the evenings we retreat back to the porch and hammock at Man's House and catch up on the day. This day Bob had gone down to the southern most beach in town where the fishing boats come in and he was telling us about the different catches and what he decided to bring home for us to cook for dinner.
The house we rented slept five people so we did the only logical thing being bold young men and invited three beautiful women to join us. We all got along well and enjoyed getting to know each other. One day we decided to rent bikes and check out a nearby park called Cabo Blanco.
It was a long and arduous day trip but we pushed through and the scenery was fabulous.

Eventually we saw our destination in sight and we pedaled our rickety bicycles down the other side to the ocean's edge.
When we finally got back to the beach we found this amazing park, full of the most incredible snakes and birds and flora. I really love this stand of yellow bamboo dwarfing Grace and Kam as they make their way to the beach for a swim.

But most days we ended up back at the surfing beach. Some of the guys and girls traveling for as long as we were would build and set up their own surf camps right at the water's edge. Some of the camps were pretty ornately decorated with old boards and bottles and found objects and we wondered if we might have been better off. But then the police would sweep through and breakup the camps and the squatters and we realized we were much better off playing by the few laid back rules the town did have.

Even though all three girls tried surfing and loved it, they wanted to travel some more to other parts of the country so they decided to leave us halfway through our stay. For the final night we went to Mary's, a local restaurant, and feasted on their amazing homemade ice cream.

After the ladies left the focus was back to nonstop surfing and writing for Bob and I so we treated ourselves to a few "luxuries". The bike and surfboard rack made out of PVC pipe and pipe fasteners was one of the greatest discoveries while down there, which we ended up selling for the same modest price we paid for it. The radio we acquired in the next town over so we could listen to a funny station called Radio Dos which played a funny mix of American pop hits from the 60's, 70's and 80's.

We did a lot of walking. With no necessary agenda we went where the day naturally wanted to take us. The flora and fauna was forever catching our attention. Flocks of pelicans caught Bob's attention and years later he would make this great piece of art, Pelicanos.

Between the palm groves and the beaches with their rock formations and the shells and different finds our consciousness was raised and the days seemed rich with discovery.

The local stops for snacks and bites to eat were called "sodas" and each one had it's specialty. Near us in the more residential part of town was a church and school and soda that served the best fresh ceviche. Here a local green parrot of some kind must have been curious to see what the gringo was snacking on.
Most mornings we didn't see anyone on the road at 6am so we walked silently and relished in our peaceful morning routine. It wasn't uncommon to see the monkey mothers carrying their young across the power lines that zig-zagged the main road, but you never tired of the sight.
The Bambu was a little wooden cafe that had a full-sized restaurant oven precariously perched out back under a huge blue tarp where they would make the most delicious banana and nut bread.
At that time there were still a lot of vacant lots we could cut through so we felt like we got to know the little town pretty well in the time we were there. We also met some really memorable people, like "Cowboy", the local bartender who we helped out of a jam one day while on our way for a sunset surf.
This is one of the worst shots of Bob and I from that trip but nothing compares to how we felt when this picture was taken, relaxed, confortable, and psyched about life.
We'd surf in the morning from 6am until it got too hot and then we'd paddle out again and surf until it was too dark to see. Those were the days. And as you can see from Bob's tan line we both thinned down a bit, which wasn't a bad thing for me by any means.

Eventually we would have to pack up and prepare for our last dusty ride north on the gravel road. But first one last swing in the hammock and bit of sun on the toes, for soon I'd have to do something I hadn't done in ages, put on shoes!

The final day I would be the last to leave, so I splurged and spent $70 to take this puddle jumper back to San Jose. What a wonderful trip it was. Some day I too will return to Costa Rica, some day....

remembering 9/11, another New Yorkers tale

As New Yorkers can attest and tourists can understand September 11th is a big deal here in the city. It's everywhere in the media and certainly on everyone's mind. This September 11th, eight years after the terrorist attacks of 2001, it is rainy and cold. The work day was relatively quiet and we plugged away, did our work, and got out of there. Coming home I caught up on checking voicemail and returning phonecalls. On the phone with a woman in Colorado she politely asked how the weather was today in New York. I admitted that it was rather rainy and miserable, fitting with the day in many ways. The pause announced that she was lost. "You know, because of it being September 11th and all", I continued. Of course then she realized what I was talking about and had no idea what to say. In the same polite tone we got out of the conversation and off the phone. A bit stunned I realized some people forget this day. Hmm. Because I remember it so clearly, my story at least, like it was yesterday.

It was one of those perfect September mornings on Long Island. The air temp was soft and comfortable, the sky clear blue with picturesque little clouds. The surf was kicking so there was an extra dose of salt to the morning breeze and it smelled fabulous. I had to go to work selling trees at the nursery so I barreled along in my old blue Explorer. That day I was on the schedule from 9am to 6pm. When I got to the main building to punch in the administrative offices were buzzing. People were saying a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, others were hopping on the phone, there was no internet. I went downstairs to the basement to Alex Mao's desk, the IT wiz kid who started as a cashier with me years ago. Before the internet got jammed Alex had been able to save a tiny picture of the twin towers with the fiery impact of Flight 11 atop the north tower. Of course then I didn't know all these details, as a partying 24 year-old in the country I barely knew anything about the World Trade Center at the time. I kind of didn't get it. Things weren't registering. But that visual was like nothing I had ever seen. I retreated to the tree and shrub shack.

That season at the nursery the tree and shrub sales staff set up our own office in a small wooden shed a long stone's throw from the main garden center and shop. The wood was worn, the windows still filled with the old wavy glass panes. The shack let in a warm sunlight through the huge panel doors at one end, exposing pieced together computer stations and bookshelves full of reference material, plant samples, tools. A lot of people worked at the 21-acre nursery, and five very different characters ourselves, we liked our safe little space to hide out. Clad in our work boots and summer uniforms, walkie-talkies on the hip, we found an am/fm radio and turned it on.

Already a few minutes after 9am the second plane had crashed into the south tower. We heard how Manhattan was being shut down and the military was being called in. Like everyone else we had no idea what was going on. People were pacing around the small office getting worked up. I ran out of the shack and scrolled through the address book on my cell phone. I was able to catch my mom at home. Frosty, my brothers girlfriend, worked on the commodities exchange in the basement of the World Trade Center. Luckily she was late to work that day. As she got out of the subway there was already a flow of people walking away from the twin towers towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Frosty called Gian Carlo still at home in Brooklyn and told him to turn on the news. Gian was able to call mom and let her know Frosty was alright before the phone lines into and out of New York became jammed because of the high call volume. Mom was watching the news on TV, and couldn't describe the images. I stepped back into the shack as the radio had a new announcement. The DJ was interviewing a general at the Pentagon when all of a sudden they themselves were hit by commercial Flight-77. The Pentagon, attacked! This is big we confirmed with each other.

It was 10am when the south tower collapsed and even the radio announcers were speechless. An hour had gone by but time was standing still. It's that moment that I remember most clearly. There was something about the duality of the perfectly beautiful day and the unfolding devastation that together made the moment so surreal. We just stopped and listened, suspended in space, absolutely motionless. James, a proud firefighter, sat with his 6'+ frame hunched over the small computer desk, the screen still inactive. I think that was the summer Cassady was pregnant, sitting at her desk, facing the other side of the shed. Kevin and Jessica stood in the late morning sun pouring into the building, motionless like stone obelisks balanced atop the worn wooden floorboards. About this time my brother was finally getting to the water's edge at the end of North 1st in Williamsburg. He joined the crowd and stared in amazement at the scene unraveling across the river. At one point, he would later tell me, he turned around to register the sea of eyes staring along with him. Expression was inevitable and instantaneous because none of us knew such devastation, violence, uncertainty, death. We screamed and cried and questioned. We heard the rebirth of "terrorists" and "terrorist attack". We hugged and held each other, wondering if this was really happening. Gian Carlo watched the second tower collapse with his own eyes around 10:30am.

All of a sudden our walkie-talkies rang out through the airwaves. "I need a tree and shrub sales associate outside the garden shop to help with flowering trees". The five of us looked at each other in angry bewilderment. There were no words but we were all thinking the same thing. Are you fucking kidding me?!? Someone wants to shop right now?!? Aggravated curses started and already tired of the banter I said I'd take it, grabbing my wide brimmed hat and heading out towards the larger barn. I passed through the admin building to confirm I was taking care of the call and it was the first time I heard of Flight-93 crashing in the Pennsylvania countryside. I met the clients and their garden designer and we began into the sea of overhead balled and burlapped trees. They told me their wants and we began to swim through the options and price tags. Somewhere between the fruit trees and the espaliers I finally had enough. I asked them in a smooth tone if they knew that we had just been attacked by terrorists. They did, though their reaction seemed enragingly bland. The garden designer, a local woman I knew, began in on her own rant. Soon the richie couple realized their priorities were kind of fucked up, or at least the garden designer and I did, and the purchase was pushed back to another time. The couple got back into their Range Rover, the gardener back into her Chevy, and they were off. They would be my first and last clients of the day. Once again I would retreat to the tree and shrub shack. James had found an American flag and we hung it across the front entryway. Kathleen then announced that we were closing for the day and sent us all home to be with our families.

By mid afternoon the media coverage of the same video clips was getting tiresome. I went over to Bob and Raina's house, my great older punk rock friend and his amazing daughter who I was dating. Having lived in the city for many years I wanted to see Bob and hear what he had to say about it all. We sat in his room with the dogs sharing a bone and talked through the flurry of emotions trying to make sense of it all. Years ago when he lived in Breezy Point and shaped surfboards Bob had befriended a fellow surfer, a firehouse captain. That morning when Bob first heard about the twin towers attack he called his friend. It went right to voicemail. Bob left a message saying to call him back right away. Eventually Bob would get a call back, his friend the captain on the other end. Because the surf was so killer that morning he took the morning for himself and decided to paddle out at dawn before going to the firehouse. When he got back to his truck he had two messages. One message was from Bob, the other was from his firehouse that they were heading into Manhattan. He called Bob back right away and Bob was the one to fill him in on the news. In the end the captain was the only one who survived from the entire fire company. Ultimately surfing saved his life that morning. An entire company of firefighters, killed in the collapsed dust and debris that swarmed the city. How would he ever get over those feelings of grief and guilt for all his lost men? I still don't know. Thinking about it still makes me well up. That's when it got really personal.

The church bells begin their evening chimes across the street. The rain persists in New York City. Manhattan is barely visible through the fog from the elevated N train carrying me back to Astoria, Queens. Each person in our own way reflects on this day. We relive our memories, and continue to move on, to help others cope, to show our support of the men and women who gave their lives. From the standpoint of this New Yorker, even though I can rant and rave like the best of them, I am thankful to those men and women who give their all to ensure safety and peace for the rest of us, and I hope people never forget 9-11-01.