The plane landed late on a Sunday night. It was near midnight by the time I picked up my duffle bag. I scanned the arrival area of the Hat Yai airport for my name on a sign. No one was there to greet me. For the first time since my trip around the world to work rigs started, I was alone at an airport with no knowledge of what to do next.

The drilling company that hired me as a consultant always had someone at the airport to greet me. Not tonight. I had the contact number for the rig superintendent in my phone. He lived in Bangkok, almost one thousand kilometers to the north. I dialed his number. He did not answer. I waited twenty minutes and dialed again, but still no answer. I had to make a decision regarding my next move. I needed a place to sleep, knowing I had a boat to catch in the early morning out to my next assignment.

I decided a hotel room was in order. I grabbed my bag and headed to the curb, and flagged down a cab. Climbing into the back seat, I said hello to the driver. My grasp of the Thai language was limited – I knew no words. The cab driver spoke more English than I did Thai, which was good.

“Hotel, please.” I said.

“Which?” was his brief response.

I shrugged my shoulders and said “Near harbor.”

The cab driver smiled and pulled away from the curb. I sat in the back, hoping he was taking me to a hotel and not a place where stupid tourists go to die.

Ten minutes into the ride, my phone rang. The superintendent’s name displayed on the screen. I answered.

“Gabby. Where are you?” he asked.

“In a cab, going to a hotel. There was no one to greet me at the airport.” I told him.

“Which hotel?”

“I don’t know. Wherever the cab driver takes me.” was all I could reply.

The superintendent sounded a bit worried. “Where are you now?” he asked. “What do you see?”

I looked out the window of the cab. I spotted a bar on the right. Outside of the bar, I saw a small elephant and a group of prostitutes. “I see an elephant and a hooker.”

“Christ! That can be anywhere in Thailand! Just call me when you get to your hotel.”

I made it to the hotel, and not the tourist boneyard, shortly after one. I called the superintendent to let him know I was safe. I told me a car will be waiting for me at four to take me to the shipyard.

Welcome to Thailand.

I found the Little Creatures brewery on Mews Road, facing the harbor where Australia won their first America’s Cup race. Blue skies and a gentle breeze filled felt good on a hot Australian day. I had been in Freemantle for two days, and had two days left before flying out to my first rig. Knowing that I couldn’t have any alcohol in my system to board the helicopter that would fly me out into the Indian Ocean off the western Australian coast, I decided I should enjoy one last beer before heading out to sea.

Finding a table on the outdoor patio, facing the sea, I ordered a pint and sat by myself, a stranger in a strange land. I overheard two local chatting about this and that. I knew they were locals because of their distinct ‘aussie’ accent. I listened for a bit, and then walked to the bar to order a second beer. On the way back to my table, I nodded to them and said hello.

“Hello mate.” One of the guys answered. Welcome to Freemantle.”

“Mind if I join you? I don’t know anyone here.” I asked.

“Come on over. We don’t get a lot of seppos here.”

I joined them for a beer or two. We had a great time making conversation about America, Western Australia and beer. More than once, I heard both guys refer to me as a seppo. I had no idea what they meant, but it didn’t bother me a bit – possibly because of the three beers – so I let it go. I was enjoying my last days in Freo. Two days later, I boarded a plane to the northern coast of Western Australia, followed by a helicopter, which took me out to the drilling rig, somewhere off Barrow Island.

The rig was my home for the next two weeks. Although I worked with many locals, I never asked what a seppo was or if I should be insulted by the term. A fortnight later, I left the rig the same way I got there; a helicopter ride to Barrow, a plane ride to Perth, and a taxi back to Freemantle. I was in my hotel by early afternoon. Time to head out to Little Creatures.

I found the brewery and ordered another beer. My two friends from my last time there were not around. I did find, however, three other locals sitting at a table outside. Once again, I took my beer outside, said hello, and asked to join them. Once again, they let me join.

“I was here a couple of week ago, sitting at this very table, talking with a couple of locals. They called me a seppo. Not once, but several times.”

One of the guys spoke up. “Well mate, that’s ‘cause you are a seppo.”

The other two guys laughed. I laughed with them, not knowing if I should be laughing or leaving.

“I’m pretty thick skinned.” I said. “I won’t be mad if you tell me what it means.”

Dave, the first one to talk, gave me a lesson on Australian vernacular.

“It’s like this mate. We call you a seppo ‘cause it rhymes with Yank.”

I was dumbfounded. “How does seppo rhyme with Yank?” I inquired.

“Dave responded. “Seppo is short for septic tank, which rhymes with Yank. And we call Americans that ‘cause you’re all full of shit.”

They waited for a response. I held up my glass and laughed, even harder.

“It’s not just you, mate.” Mike, one of the others added. “It’s all Americans. It goes back to World War II.”

“I’m not offended. In fact, I know several seppos back home.”

Four days later, after exploring much of the Freemantle and Perth area, I boarded a plane for Malaysia and a new rig. I was a proud seppo in a strange land.

Linda and I had a game we played. A fun game amongst two adults; a game that included our child. The game went like this.

Our son’s name is Jerry. He’s not our real child, nor is he adopted. I bought and paid for him. Jerry is a frog. A small, green, stuffed frog. Small enough to sit on the dashboard of our car when we travel. Small enough to fit in Linda’s knapsack when we go hiking. Small enough to be hidden around the house by each other, from each other. That’s how the game started.

Linda and I have kids of our own, but none together. We have no pets. Jerry became our de-facto child and pet, all rolled up into one soft, squishy action figure. Jerry partook in many action-adventures. He never complained. He played along. He played by letting us hide him from each other.

The first time Jerry hid was when I strategically placed him in Linda’s side of the bedroom closet. Cleverly and delicately placed between two garments, one eye peeking from his hiding place, Jerry peered out, waiting for Linda to find him. It took almost four hours for Linda to find and rescue Jerry.

The second time, Linda hid Jerry from me. Jerry crouched behind a box of cereal in a kitchen cupboard. Unfortunately, my breakfast consisted of eggs and bacon for two days, and I didn’t rescue him until the third day. He was happy to be free from the cupboard and happier not to be poured into a bowl and eaten.

We continued this game for close to a year. Sometimes we found Jerry quickly. Other times, a week might go by with Jerry out-of-site. The game finally came to a stop on a Friday evening. Playtime was over.

Linda and I were going out for dinner and dancing. Before we left our house, I hid Jerry in the nightstand light on Linda’s side of the bed. We were heading to the door to leave when Linda remembered something in our room. She ran upstairs, turned on a light, grabbed a pair of gloves, and came back downstairs. We donned our coats and headed to the car. As we opened the door to exit, I stopped. I smelled smoke. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. We both ran upstairs and turned on the ceiling lamp, just in time to rescue Jerry. His two hind legs were sitting on the bulb in the nightstand light. A faint whiff of smoke floated from the lampshade. Jerry was on fire!

I grabbed Jerry by the neck. Linda turned off the nightstand light. She grabbed Jerry from my hands, ran into the bathroom, and submerged both feet in the sink. Other than two holes burned into the bottoms of his feet, he survived. We almost lost Jerry along with our home and everything we owned that evening.

Jerry does not play hide-and-seek any more. He sits in a chair in the living room, glad not to be a pawn in our silly games. Our silly games in time ceased.

Last Christmas I bought an Elf on the Shelf figure for Linda. Let the games begin.

He grew up near Colby, Kansas. He worked on his family’s farm all of his young life, sowing, raising, and harvesting corn, never traveling far from the fields, never seeing what lay beyond the corn stalks and sunflowers that stretched forever in all directions. The farm was seventeen hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean; sixteen hundred to the Atlantic. He’d only seen images of beaches in stories he’d read in National Geographic. His one wish was to see a beach, if only just once.

His wish came true. In March of 1944, his eighteenth year, he received word from his uncle about an overseas job. He left the farm one cool spring morning. His first stop was North Carolina. He learned a new trade. Twelve weeks later, he left for England, a place he’d only read about as a boy.

He was not a boy anymore. He was a man. Ready to do man’s work. Soon after arriving in England, he boarded a boat. Ten hours later, the door of the boat opened. He saw his first beach.

I love you. I hate you.

Come sit at our table. Go back to where you came from.

Words are powerful.

You look beautiful tonight. Look what the cat dragged in.

We all have the power of words. More power though, depending upon who speaks them.

“We fight like hell. And if you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore.”

“For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life . . . . “

Politicians often use lies – powerful words to those that believe them. Religious leaders use words of fear – other forms of power to rein in their flocks.

Give peace a chance. Let’s bomb them back to the Stone Age.

Words can be optimistic or terrifying. Soothing or painful. Soul warming or icy cold.

Sometimes, the most powerful words are those not spoken. I have defused many arguments with silence and a smile. Last weekend, my wife and I made a trip to Tucson. Because of my loathing for Interstate highways, I drove backroads. At one point, I steered our car down a muddy country road, surrounded by cotton fields. I knew we were not lost, but my wife disagreed. She didn’t say anything. She kept quiet and shot me ‘that look’. I understood. I turned left onto the first paved road, made our way to the Interstate, and arrived in Tucson on time.

Powerful words, indeed.

He did it! He finally came through. After all these years, the fat guy in the red suit granted my wish. Miracles do happen.

My particular miracle revolves around a Christmas wish I’ve has since I was a small boy. I’ve had my wish ever since I got my first set of small, green, plastic army men. One of the men amongst the platoon of troops stood erect, and carried a double-cylindrical pack on his back and a nozzle on the end of a hose in his hands. He was one bad dude. Since that day, I have wanted what he had. That first Christmas, I wrote to Santa Claus with but one wish. I wanted a flamethrower.

Santa ignored my initial request. Instead, he gave me socks and underwear. I was disappointed, but never gave up on my dream. I continued to ask Santa for a new flamethrower.

I can understand why Santa wouldn’t want a young boy of eight years to own such as destructive device. Young boys are still developing moral standards. A flamethrower in the hands of such a youth could have dire consequences. A sibling’s dolls could become scorched. A neighbor’s prized rose bush could be singed. Ants could get vaporized.

I continued to write to Santa asking for a flamethrower. Even during my teens, when I had pretty much stopped believing in him, I wrote, just in case I was wrong about the whole North Pole thing. Santa continued to disappoint me. I figured that he would not want such a weapon in the hands of a wayward adolescent. Teenaged boys back then tended to watch too many war shows on TV, such as Combat, Rat Patrol or Twelve O’clock High. The destruction meted out could be immense. The closest I came to having a flamethrower was of my own design. I taped a Bic cigarette lighter to a can of hairspray. A push of a button and a flick of the Bic produced a four-foot flame would make Vic Morrow smile.

I gave up writing letters to Santa as adulthood consumed me. Wives, kids, and jobs became my primary areas of responsibility. Even though a flamethrower would have been quite handy when my daughter’s suitors came around, I forgot about my dream. For close to forty years, I received other, more suitable gifts for Christmas, such as ties, coffee mugs, and more socks and underwear.

Now I’m retired. I still have a wife, but the kids are grown up and out of the house and my job is a recent memory. I have times on my hands. On a shopping trip to buy gifts for my grandson, I saw a gift from the past. I was a bag of small, green, plastic army men. Memories of my youth took over my thoughts. Later that day, I was in a hardware store. I found an item at the front counter that made me smile. I was a mini-flamethrower, the type used to start campfires, light candles, or ignite gas stoves. They had triggers for ignition, and a handle for an easy grip. All it needed was a large container of flammable mixture to become a bona fide flamethrower. I told my wife that I would like to have one of the ignitors for Christmas. When I arrived home, I sat down and wrote a letter to Santa. Once more, I asked for a flamethrower. I convinced him (lied) that I’d been good all year. I posted the letter the next day. I then quickly forgot about my foolishness.

Christmas Day arrived. After breakfast, my wife and I moved to the living room and opened presents by the tree. The last one I opened was from Santa. He got me the ignitor. Later that day, I retrieved a can of hairspray that I purchased earlier. I also got a roll of duct tape. Within minutes, I had my first and only flamethrower. I thanked Santa from the bottom of my heart, went outside, and tested my new toy. In a matter of seconds, I scorched the side of our house, singed a cactus, vaporized a spider, and badly burnt three fingers on my right hand. My wife took my flamethrower away from me and dismantled it. My dream is over.

I have a feeling I’m going to be getting socks and underwear next year for Christmas.

Mist rose from the waters of the primal lake. The warm rays from the sun lit the early morning, bringing life to the creatures that inhabited the swamplands that covered the area. The day looked to be another hot and humid day.

Two men, Nog and Ooga, stood on the shore of the lake, overlooking the vast expanse, which included not only the large lake, but tall mountains, including a volcano which spewed ash and steam into the air. The men also spotted several animals roaming the area.

Nog looked toward his friend and said “Uk twaugo cam gwet valca.” {Translated to I believe a see a sabre-tooth tiger in the trees.}

Ooga replied, “Wetrup goonta cam hetratum guano.” {Good thing you brought your club.}

Nog held over his shoulder a large club, which he fashioned from a tree. While most of the animals around their cave were harmless, the sabre-tooth tiger was fearless, and often caused havoc to their clan.

Nog added, “Express cam American loopa.” {I never leave home without it.”}

Off in the distance, they heard a noise; a loud screeching sound followed by conversation and then laughter. They had heard these sounds before and knew they came from the dreaded pterodactyl who took to the skies each day, tormenting other animals. Nog and Ooga knew they were in for another day of primal entertainment.

The pterodactyl’s name was Perry. His twenty-foot wingspan and crowned skull was terrifying enough, but his sarcastic sense of humor and outwardly joy in dispensing pain gave Perry the nickname Terror of the Skies. Perry flew above the land, clutching a large club, similar to the one Nog carried. In fact, the rumor was that Perry spied Nog one day and carved his club in a much larger likeness of Nog’s club. Perry named his club The Assault Weapon, and used it when tormenting animals. His tormenting usually followed the same pattern. Perry would locate his prey, circle high above it, yell sarcastic and belittling comments its way, and then swoop down and pound his victim in the head with his club. Today would be no exception, and Nog and Ooga watched from afar as Perry chose his first victim.

Perry spotted a brontosaurus named Betty, partially submerged in the lake, eating leaves from large eucalyptus tree. Perry circled low over Betty and let out with a barrage of mean comments.

“Hey Betty. What a big butt you have. But you wouldn’t know since you have a brain the size of a walnut.”

“Go away Perry. You’re awful.” Betty exclaimed.

“Maybe we should call you Big Butt, Brain the Size of a Nut, Betty.” Perry laughed, as he swooped down and smacked Betty on the top of her head. “Have a good day, pea brain.” Perry remarked, as he flew off, in search of his next prey.

It didn’t take long for Perry to find one. Stuart the stegosaurus, walked along the shores of the lake. Perry headed toward Stuart, thinking of trenchant words he can spew. In no time, Perry was circling above Stuart, waving the assault weapon back-and-forth. Stuart stopped in his tracks, looked skyward, and prepared for the dreaded attack.

Perry shouted as he flew closer to Stuart. “Hello Stu. Question. Does it hurt when you sit on your tail?” He laughed at his quick wit.

“Leave me alone. You’re a mean old person who must have had a bad upbringing.” Stuart said, anticipating what would come next.

“How does it feel to always be followed by a bunch of pricks?” Perry laughed.

Again, he swooped low and bonked Stuart on the head with his club, and then flew off, screeching loudly.

Perry was having a grand morning. It was still early, and he’d already assaulted two unsuspecting victims. Looking for his third, he spied Thomas the tyrannosaurus rex sauntering though an open field. Perry flew toward the field, delighted in the knowledge that he would soon mock one of the most vicious animals around.

Circling above Thomas, Perry pronounced, “What’s up, Thomas? Try and catch me. Oh! You can’t with those measly, small stubs you call arms.”

Thomas looked up and shook his fist Perry’s way. Perry, of course could not see it and mocked Thomas more. “You waving to me? Hard to tell with those bitty protrusions you call hands perched on those small arms of yours.”

As he’d already done twice that morning, Perry flew down, club extended, ready to rap Thomas on his head. In one quick movement, Thomas swung around. His massive tail knocked Perry out of the sky. Perry fell dizzily at Thomas’ feet. Bending over, Thomas stretched as much as he could and grabbed Perry with one hand and the club with the other.

“This is what you get for your mean-spirited, brutal ways.” Thomas said, holding Perry as high as possible so he could look into the dazed pterodactyl’s eyes. Thomas swung his other arm and gave Perry three hard knocks on his noggin. Adding insult to injury, Thomas said “You’d best change your ways, you bird-brained, featherless, freak.”

Thomas released Perry, and then lifted one of his gargantuan legs and broke the assault weapon over his knee. He threw the broken parts of the club at Perry and said, “Now, be off with you and don’t come back.”

Perry flew off, empty handed, and without words. He left, never to be seen in the area again.

The moral of the story:

One doesn’t need assault weapons when small arms will suffice.

Light. Look around. It’s everywhere. Without it, looking around is wasted time.

I am a photographer. I photograph light. Most of my photographs are images of my surroundings; mountain vistas or river views, and sometimes, man-made objects such as old buildings or distant roads. What I photograph, however, are not the objects my camera points to, but the light that is reflected from those objects, into my lens.

Light is not static. It changes, depending upon many factors. The time of day affects how light reflects off objects. Likewise, the time of year also has profound effects on light. The environment affects light. Rain, fog, or even pollution affect how light bounces off things.

My camera can also change light. Add a filter to my lens, and darks become darker, reds jump out of a multi-colored background, and faint clouds appear stark white against a bold blue sky.

When I make photographs, I look at what I want to capture. I frame my shots. I check for angles and background clutter. I look for contrasts in color. I strive to include a focal point; the main object of a photograph that everything else in the image compliments. When I have what I want in my viewfinder, I press the shutter release, capturing what I was looking at when I made the image. What I saw at through the viewfinder is often not what I found. I give credit to or blame light for that. A recent trip into the desert is a great example of this.

I spent an afternoon in the Boyce Thompson Arboretum near Superior, Arizona. I went to hike and always take a camera to capture my surroundings. An old house stands in the park. Built into the side of a mountain is the Clevenger House. One of the rooms contains a small window, carved into the rock wall. It was late afternoon. The sun was sinking in the west, dimming the usually dark room even more. I stood back in the room, looking at the contrast between the dark wall and the fading light which shone through the glass. I framed the window in the top center section of my viewfinder, and used the stone floor to move the eyes up toward the window. Everything looked well. I made the image. Later that evening, I opened the image to perform post-processing fixes.

The image looked different. I saw something in it that I didn’t see while making it. When I looked at the scene while capturing the image, I missed the eeriness of the floor. Only afterward did I see a secondary image, this one in the floor. A face appeared. A weird, scary face, with mean eyes and a slanted, almost frowning mouth, filled the photograph. The stones in the floor didn’t make the face. The light filtering through the window did.

The photograph, although not what I planned on when I made it, is a better photograph because of how the light painted the face on the floor. I looked at a dark windowed room. In time, I saw much more.