Work

Picture taken Saturday afternoon heading west near the mouth of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Back to the daily groove of work and life in Bellingham. And the rains returned and I actually welcomed the smell of the replenished earth and the slowed pace of life. Everyone here changes speeds when the clouds and rain come. And I'm glad for this, after needing to decompress after this weekend.

Some neat memories come to me, but these are overshadowed by the more frightening ones: The bridge over I-5 is 71 feet in height. The boat's mast, the skipper was certain, was 65 or 66 feet from the water (versus the deck). I dunno, but when you're intensely staring straight up at an aluminum mast barely edging up the Columbia River under the bridge holding the busiest interstate in the Western U.S., the five feet or so of wiggle room between your VHF antenna and the girders of the bridge seems pretty god damned close.

But tonight I am of to hear a speaker (or actually three, although I'll probably miss at least one of them because I am sitting here typing versus peddling over there) on peak oil and I'm sure it will be well attended, although I am not a big buyer into the concept of peak oil, although we probably won't be saved by science this time around. The lives of our children (well not mine, so yours) will be far different than our generations have been.

My friend (who flies his single-engine plane) talks about how gifted we are to use the last of the cheap oil for things as convenient as flying for personal pleasure.