"there are three things i like about being on an italian cruise ship. first, their cuisine is unsurpassed. second, their service is superb. and then, in time of emergency, there is none of this nonsense about women and children first." attributed to winston churchill
with thanks to tsnake
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
dogs
gtet, gunbearer, when asked if he ever had dogs on a lion hunt: "one does not have dogs, bwana. one eats them."
Thursday, January 12, 2012
betting the horses
i'm done. too many things can go wrong...think about it.
the horse won't go in the gate - or, more likely, the one you bet on is in and goes crazy because another one won't go in.
the horse won't come out of the gate - or falls to its knees while trying to get out of the gate.
the jock falls off.
it's rained and the horse doesn't like a sloppy track...or the reverse.
the horse pulls an outside number, likes to run on the front, and uses itself up trying to get to the lead or finds itself on the lead when it wants to come from behind.
the jock drops his whip.
another jock slashes your horse across the face with his whip.
a tiring horse cuts your horse off in the stretch.
your horse breaks down.
a foul is called - and upheld...your horse, the winner, comes down.
the teller punches the wrong ticket - and you don't bother to check it.
the trainer is a liar and a cheat.
too many people between you and a winner.
on the other hand, only three things can go wrong when you throw the dice: craps on the comeout, a seven after you've numbered, and forgetting to raise your bets when you're on a roll.
the horse won't go in the gate - or, more likely, the one you bet on is in and goes crazy because another one won't go in.
the horse won't come out of the gate - or falls to its knees while trying to get out of the gate.
the jock falls off.
it's rained and the horse doesn't like a sloppy track...or the reverse.
the horse pulls an outside number, likes to run on the front, and uses itself up trying to get to the lead or finds itself on the lead when it wants to come from behind.
the jock drops his whip.
another jock slashes your horse across the face with his whip.
a tiring horse cuts your horse off in the stretch.
your horse breaks down.
a foul is called - and upheld...your horse, the winner, comes down.
the teller punches the wrong ticket - and you don't bother to check it.
the trainer is a liar and a cheat.
too many people between you and a winner.
on the other hand, only three things can go wrong when you throw the dice: craps on the comeout, a seven after you've numbered, and forgetting to raise your bets when you're on a roll.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
the prospect of dying
my friend and guide, arno matthee, nearly died the other day. i faced an equally nasty possible outcome many years ago in tanzania...the difference was in elapsed time.
arno, some twenty miles from camp, at sea, off the coast of the congo, flipped a zodiac - a useful but inherently dangerous watercraft because if the wind gets under its bow, like a sail, it fills with air. arno, happily, managed to climb aboard the upside down hull and there he sat...drifting out to sea...for a day - 24 hours - getting hungry and thirsty with few, if any, attractive possibilties. luck intervened and some local fishermen found him and helped right the boat. by some miracle the engine fired and he was able to make it back to camp.
i was charged by a wounded lion. it was a brief encounter because a lion moves very quickly - covers a hundred yards in 5 seconds or so - and i shot as it leapt from the long grass covering its seventy yard approach. fortunately the bullet went home...the great cat fell dead almost at my feet. the shaking began shortly thereafter.
i'd rather have experienced the latter than the former.
arno, some twenty miles from camp, at sea, off the coast of the congo, flipped a zodiac - a useful but inherently dangerous watercraft because if the wind gets under its bow, like a sail, it fills with air. arno, happily, managed to climb aboard the upside down hull and there he sat...drifting out to sea...for a day - 24 hours - getting hungry and thirsty with few, if any, attractive possibilties. luck intervened and some local fishermen found him and helped right the boat. by some miracle the engine fired and he was able to make it back to camp.
i was charged by a wounded lion. it was a brief encounter because a lion moves very quickly - covers a hundred yards in 5 seconds or so - and i shot as it leapt from the long grass covering its seventy yard approach. fortunately the bullet went home...the great cat fell dead almost at my feet. the shaking began shortly thereafter.
i'd rather have experienced the latter than the former.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
life
there are two quotes applicable:
"life is short, play hard..." to which i subscribe, and
"life is hard, play short..." which is not a gambler's credo
"life is short, play hard..." to which i subscribe, and
"life is hard, play short..." which is not a gambler's credo
Monday, January 2, 2012
swahili
"toa bunduki...." [bring out the rifle....] "piga...." [hit....]
"mbogo kufa!" [the buffalo is dead!]
"chui kufa!" [the leopard is dead!]
"simba kufa!" [the lion is dead!]
"ndofu kufa!" [the elephant is dead!]
"asante sana bwana...." [thank you very much sir]
the last from pissy and gtet, gunbearers.
"mbogo kufa!" [the buffalo is dead!]
"chui kufa!" [the leopard is dead!]
"simba kufa!" [the lion is dead!]
"ndofu kufa!" [the elephant is dead!]
"asante sana bwana...." [thank you very much sir]
the last from pissy and gtet, gunbearers.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
summer nights
there wasn't any reason to stop our hunting and fishing exploits on warm summer nights. once the sun went down and the mosquitos let up it was downright pleasant out there. our primary quarries were bullfrogs and bass.
the bullfrogs we hunted with flashlights and gigs or a .22 rifle. they "kerunked" mightily from the edges of the myriad ponds that dotted the area - some of which we had permission to scour - some we had to sneak to, usually late at night. the gigging was a bit messy but had the advantage of being quieter than a .22 short. i doubt you could buy a frog gig today - except perhaps at a walmart somewhere in the south...mine was purchased at the old hubers sporting goods store on ninth street in wilmington. what you got was the head of neptune's trident - hardened steel with barbs at the end of its three prongs so the frogs wouldn't slip off...hence the messiness. you had to supply your own broomstick to attach it to. the frogs, really just the legs, were great to eat especially when deep fried by cookie, big helen, and served with tartar sauce and ketchup. one day i gigged myself - on the inside of my upper right arm - while reaching up to get a fishing rod and i can tell you i don't envy the frogs. we needed bolt cutters to release me from the rest of the gig and broom handle. the doc in the emergency room didn't understand my muttered "frog gig" answer to his question so i had to draw a picture on the gurney sheet of what was protruding from my arm. i never bought a new gig. the old one, now a duodent, worked just fine.
bass fishing on a still summer evening, after dark, was just as much fun. the fish would come into the shallows - after the frogs - and we'd cast down the pond edges with top water lures. the big guys would have ventured out of the safety of deeper water and often would explode on our skirted poppers. very exciting when you didn't see them coming. late one night i had just made a cast when an owl struck a rabbit nearly at my feet - scaring me half to death. the rabbit screamed - the owl never made a sound.
the reservoir was our holy grail...first because it was illegal to fish there...second because there had to be big fish in an unfished, relatively large, body of water. one night we slung a small aluminum boat over the fence, agreed to be picked up at 4 a.m., and floated around for several hours. what luck we had i don't remember but it must have been little or no because we didn't fish that way again. but walk the banks and wade the shallows we did. the last time i went i heard footsteps approaching - whose i didn't know - through the brush and slipped into the water to cross the cove i was fishing. not a bad way to end a hot summer night...a few bass caught and a swim to cool off.
the bullfrogs we hunted with flashlights and gigs or a .22 rifle. they "kerunked" mightily from the edges of the myriad ponds that dotted the area - some of which we had permission to scour - some we had to sneak to, usually late at night. the gigging was a bit messy but had the advantage of being quieter than a .22 short. i doubt you could buy a frog gig today - except perhaps at a walmart somewhere in the south...mine was purchased at the old hubers sporting goods store on ninth street in wilmington. what you got was the head of neptune's trident - hardened steel with barbs at the end of its three prongs so the frogs wouldn't slip off...hence the messiness. you had to supply your own broomstick to attach it to. the frogs, really just the legs, were great to eat especially when deep fried by cookie, big helen, and served with tartar sauce and ketchup. one day i gigged myself - on the inside of my upper right arm - while reaching up to get a fishing rod and i can tell you i don't envy the frogs. we needed bolt cutters to release me from the rest of the gig and broom handle. the doc in the emergency room didn't understand my muttered "frog gig" answer to his question so i had to draw a picture on the gurney sheet of what was protruding from my arm. i never bought a new gig. the old one, now a duodent, worked just fine.
bass fishing on a still summer evening, after dark, was just as much fun. the fish would come into the shallows - after the frogs - and we'd cast down the pond edges with top water lures. the big guys would have ventured out of the safety of deeper water and often would explode on our skirted poppers. very exciting when you didn't see them coming. late one night i had just made a cast when an owl struck a rabbit nearly at my feet - scaring me half to death. the rabbit screamed - the owl never made a sound.
the reservoir was our holy grail...first because it was illegal to fish there...second because there had to be big fish in an unfished, relatively large, body of water. one night we slung a small aluminum boat over the fence, agreed to be picked up at 4 a.m., and floated around for several hours. what luck we had i don't remember but it must have been little or no because we didn't fish that way again. but walk the banks and wade the shallows we did. the last time i went i heard footsteps approaching - whose i didn't know - through the brush and slipped into the water to cross the cove i was fishing. not a bad way to end a hot summer night...a few bass caught and a swim to cool off.
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