The SOUNDS of SUMMER

As Winter is refusing to let go and the unstable weather lingers like a bad cold my thoughts turn to the hopes of Summer.  Further, as I close in on another birthday and reflect on how fast time goes by, I selfishly share an article of my fondest summer and childhood memory that I hope triggers any reader to think about the great things you have experienced. This is my other passion. . .

The Innocent Days. . .

Summer time in Seattle, the first week of August. Seafair Week.  Nary a cloud in the sky, a slight breeze mixing a balmy 75 degrees. Around 10:30 AM the Robins and Chickadees flit about among the evergreens, alders, and maples above the little creek snaking its way through a backyard in the Fauntleroy community to Puget Sound.  Two 11 year-old boys are climbing in an old Weeping Willow hanging over the creek.  They are intent on their climbing and dreams of building a tree house.

Then they hear it.  Talk stops.  The climbing halted.  The boys in unison look east, eyes squinting slightly, heads cocked to urge the ears to hear.  Mouths are half-open in anticipation.

IT IS THE SOUND.  The ultimate sound that defined a Seattle Summer in the 50's and 60's.  Wafting on the light breeze, muted by the hills and evergreens fading in an out like a far-off  station heard on a car radio during a long, late night drive. The source is never in doubt.  It came from the east.  Guttural. Cavating.  Undulating:  up and down without rhythm, but music to the ears.   “He’s coming out of the south turn now!”, one boy said as much to himself as to the other.

The boys scrambled down from their perch and sprinted for the house and into the living room.  Of course, the TV was already on.  It was always on during qualifying week: Broadcasting soaps and game shows nobody watched.  The Television was turned on for these moments.

“We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to take you LIVE to the shores of Lake Washington.”

No need to explain why.  Everyone in Seattle knew: One of the Unlimiteds was on the course preparing for a three-lap qualifying attempt for the upcoming weekend race.  But, which one?  The boys would always make their guesses based on the unmistakable sound that drifted over the hills. Which one of the huge, temperamental, WWII fighter plane engines that powered the beautiful, high riding 3 point hydros was uttering its intent?.  Each type of engine had its own voice.  Each boat’s hull made its own music.

The boats were pieces of art: Beautiful woodwork; exquisite, colorful, paint jobs.  When presented on a canvas of blue water and sky, framed by evergreens, the floating bridge, log boom, Mount Rainier and the Cascades, complimented by the soaring geyser-like roostertails, they were masterpieces. Add in the contradictory, ear splitting sounds of the big engines and you had an art form unique to Seattle.

Bill O’Mara’s call was always electric.  There was always a hint of impending drama in his voice.  As the thunder boat accelerated out of the north turn, the majestic plume of roostertail expanding in concert with the increasing speed, O’Mara’s call of, “. . .He’s 1500 hundred feet away, 1000, feet, 500 feet, and over the line!” was virtually drowned out as the hydro roared in front of the Start/Finish barge.

The boys stared with rapt attention at the screen.  Mom, being a pure bred Seattleite, but not necessarily a hydro aficionado, put down her chores, looked down at the boys and wondered if they were that attentive in school.  Doubt it.  But she enjoyed the boys’ wonder and had to admit that she, too was fascinated.

When the qualifying attempt was concluded, it was inevitable that the boys would employ any tactic to get mom to take a picnic out to Lake Washington on such a nice day.  Often, she would comply.

IN THOSE DAYS every boy tried to duplicate the various sounds of the Unlimiteds with their vocal chords including the cavitations as the big power plants toiled in the turns and came off the exit buoy gunning into the straight.  These vocalized Unlimited sounds could emerge at anytime when the image of a boat raced across a boy’s mind. If people were present when these utterings spewed forth, they understood - if they were from Seattle. The uninitiated would wonder if something was physically or mentally wrong with the child. 

Of course, these early August days were filled with “playin’ hydros”:  Pulling plywood boats behind bikes, racing carved boats down the creek; pushing cardboard skidders across the grass; just sitting and drawing your favorite boat; and building models.

Everybody had their favorites.  Each boat had its own personality.  It was defined by hull design, the ride, and the noise. Most boys could distinguish between Allisons or Rolls or the Coral Reef’s  Messchersmidtt. And who couldn’t immediately recognize the Thriftway Too’s distinct voice?

THOSE were the innocent days in Seattle.  Hydros,  Huskies, and Rainiers.  But in that first week of August it was all hydros.

Race Day. . . .

The boys couldn’t wait for Sunday’s big event even though it always came too soon and gone too quickly.  Christmas had nothing on race day when it came to anticipation.  It was the day to fend off the scourge from the East: The Schoeniths.  It was hard not to like Don Wilson, Jack Schaefer, and Wild Bill. . .but the Schoeniths?  Easy. They always seemed to stay at the Hill Top Inn, kind on the edge of town as if no one inside the Seattle city limits could abide a Detroit presence.  A good guess is that car sales in the Seattle area were significantly down during Seafair Week.  The boys were sure the owners of the Hill Top were traitors. Let the Detroit boys sleep in the woods.   Hope it rains.

It was always stunning to go to the Lake and see the boats and realize they were not just black and white.  TV in the 50's did that to you. To find it was a symphony of colors, boats, buffed for war, resplendent in every color combination, thousands of fans displaying outrageous summer wear, the log boom crammed with every size and shape of leisure craft, was pure delight.

The classic Pacific Northwest color combination of deep green firs, mingling with the lighter hues of deciduous trees and grass, set against the back drop of the deep blue August sky mirrored on the lake’s surface, completed the setting for a perfect day.

EVERY VETERAN Seattle race fan had his favorite spot.  One had to get to the spot very early. . .VERY early. . . to insure blanket space.  By 9 AM there was no grass showing on the lakeshore’s bank along the entire length of the course, only blankets, coolers, and bodies.  The boys and their families always staked out on “the point”, a chunk of grass-covered slope jutting out and facing the start/finish barge.  Every flying start looked as if all eight boats in each heat were coming right at you.  It was the closest point of land to the race when they roared by plummeting into the South turn.

The air was electric.  The feeling of being part of this community was patriotic.  Secure. A family of 400,000 - 500,000.  We were one.  The boys felt a comradre with the thousands of people, young and old, from various backgrounds, strolling back and forth along the street by the lake.  Everyone was together that day.  The only disagreement was with which Seattle boat one would favor.  There was a feeling of unity to defy the Eastern establishment.  It was a mandate of Seattle citizenship to be a part of it.

The morning hours would pass slowly, especially for a pair of 11 year old boys.  People would be taking in the sun, playing cards, throwing Frisbees, floating around on inner tubes, or doing bizarre activities like dipping lizards in a beer and eating them. (Must have been a bet that was won, but the victor would later regret.)  The boys were fascinated.  And then. . . a roar would erupt from the pits.  A monster awakening.  All conversation and activity would stop and the speculation would begin.  It was 10:00 AM.  Testing could commence.  Who was making the noise?  Someone going out?  Nah.  Boat trailer-firing.  Conversation and activities resume.  But then: the sound of a crane revving up.  A boat was going in!  Everyone looked toward the barge to see who would be coming out.  It was either cheers or boos.  Seattle or Detroit.  The passions ran deep.

  

No Greater Thrill. . . 

This writer would debate it with anyone: Simply, there was no greater thrill than when the Slo Mo Shuns IV and V came hard under the high rise of the floating bridge, splitting the Detroit invaders who desperately tried to block the juggernaut. 

THE NERVOUS ANTICIPATION was agonizing: The five-minute gun.  The Detroit boats are out and milling. The various pitches of the tuned power plants mingling as they postured for battle. But, no Slo-Mos!  All along the lake shore and log boom everyone was hushed.  Naked eyes and binoculars trained on the north turn and the floating bridge.  Would they get there in time?  The clock ticks.   A million eyes searching for their heroes.  The clock winding down.  And then, someone yells, “I see them!”  Two white dots side by side becoming larger as they sped south toward the bridge with the enemy and the doting minions anxiously waiting on the other side.  The roar of the crowd grew in concert with the growth of the roostertail plumes.

Boom! The one-minute gun.

 

Detroit’s Gale boats, the step-hulled, twin engine Miss Pepsi, Miss US, the Tempo VII and the Such Crust III milling in the North turn.  The Slo-Mos closing.  People lined up on the bridge waiting to get drenched as the Seattle icons roared under the bridge. The six enemy boats seemed motionless even as their rooster tails came up with acceleration, as Seattle owner, Stan Sayres' mounts poured through the gaps hitting the line with the starting gun.  What a sight.  A Seattleite would have to be dead not to be screaming at the top of his or her lungs and hearts in their throats with excitement and pride. 

People can speak of Indy, the Kentucky Derby, the Olympics, the Masters.  They were never on the point staring at 8 boats with water flying, bouncing back and forth, jockeying for position as they pounded into the South turn.  The sounds of those big aircraft engines are impossible to describe. An audio oxymoron: Deafening sweet music. Eight Godzillas clearing their collective throats. Hurdling toward the turn at 180 to 200 miles and hour.  They blotted out every other sound and thought.  That moment of the start was all consuming.   

There were at least five of those starts on race day in those years, every one heart stopping, dramatic, and absolutely thrilling.

Race day had something for everybody: heroes and villains, planned and impromptu side shows; occasional disaster and near misses; colorful characters in the show and in the crowd; winners and losers.

AT THE END of the long day with the sun settling in the west, the many thousands of sunburned fans carrying blankets, coolers, and beach chairs were at peace even though the chatter was animated with reviewing the race.  Even though thousands of voices yakked on, there was an eery silence.  The sounds of big aircraft engines, which so dominated all conscience thought over the past seven days, were quiet.  The monsters put to bed.  But the imprint on everyone’s memory of those days would last forever. 

If one of those boys lived a thousand years and moved to another planet, worked in some futuristic profession, and heard “that sound” wafting on the breeze, his activity would stop.  As if hypnotized, he would turn towards the sound with his head cocked, eyes squinting, mouth half open.  And then he would smile, knowing what he heard, and the warm, nostalgic feelings of the innocent days would retur

Sprinkler Head Protector Professional!

A bit of Nostalgia

Have you ever done some building project, that, once accomplished, you feel a sense of pride in a job well done?  Something that is not in your routine nor considered a skill that you have?  So, you want to show it off and point out the superb craftsmanship.  But, it was something like putting insulation underneath your house where you discovered why it is called a "crawl space".  You went into places that claustrophobia lurked.  But, wearing the appropriate protective gear, you persevered, cutting, taping, and stapling until the entire underbelly of your house was effectively insulated.  But, you can't really show it off like you might point to an ornate armoire you built from scratch.  "Say! Wanna crawl underneath the house and look at the cool insulation I just installed?"

All that to say this:  We are closing in on finishing the building of our new volleyball facility designed for personalized training, coaching education, and other cool stuff we are contemplating.  Of course, real craftsmen are doing the real work.  But, I am doing some stuff to save money.  Yesterday was my day to shine; to demonstrate my versatility in the construction field.

The facility is in a warehouse building that, over the years, has been used for a variety of businesses.  We have worked on it so it will look like and function as a volleyball teaching studio. Or, as USA Women’s Head Coach calls it:  A volleyball boutique. As we discovered the wonderful world of codes and permitting the space requires an overhead sprinkler system in the unlikely event of a conflagration.  I worried over the potential of an errant volleyball hitting one of the sprinkler heads and unleashing a torrent rivaling the deluge that cascades over Snoqualmie Falls during the spring melt.

I decided that I needed "sprinkler protectors" - little cages encasing the sprinkler heads without inhibiting the H2O required in case of a fire.  If I had the job done it would have cost $22 a head, installed. Well now. There are 100 sprinkler heads.  At $22 a head that would be . . . enough for me to get some quality soap and a good shower if one of those unprotected heads exploded.  The actual cages cost a mere $2 a head.  So, I decided to put them on my self.  100 of them.  That is one-hundred. 

I begged the electrician who was doing all the wiring if I could borrow his Genie Scissor Lift and head for the ceiling.  He said it was no problem as he was going to ply his trade at ground level for the day.  After a quick lesson on driving the thing, off I went and spent the day 25 feet in the air dodging pipes, and fitting cages - carefully - over the sprinklers.  I also discovered that there was an accumulation of decades of dust on the various pipes so I decided to clean those off since flying volleyballs will likely start dust storms in the upper reaches.

I didn't receive too many accolades from the electrician, general contractor, the painters and the plumbers who were working. I believed I deserved some serious recognition for my craftsmanship.  Further, I got semi-good at negotiating the lift around piles of lumber, light fixtures, tool bins, and other strewn-about building materials.  I wanted to show off my new skills but nobody watched.  Despite being older than all of them, I was a rookie. A rookie! At my age! But, that felt sort of good, too.

But, alas, it is one of those projects that is difficult to show people.

However, when you come and visit, check out the cool "sprinkler protectors".  I will have some binoculars so you can get a closer look at these beauties.  100 of them. The Scissor Lift will be gone so I won't be able to give rafter tours but, I will be more than happy to regale you with tales of this new found skill.

I love a new challenge no matter how mundane it may be.  It was satisfying in an odd sort of way.  As the years have rolled along and we continue to do our best providing a quality experience for young people learning the great sport of volleyball, I occasionally look up to my sprinkler head protectors and smile to myself how the whole thing continues to be a challenge and satisfying.

I like to tell the players:  “You can’t put time in a bank for future use.  Invest it today.”  Learning how to put up sprinkler protectors. . , or learning volleyball. Don’t wait!  Do it now.