My Syndrome

by Penguin Scott

I’m not used to feeling uneasy when coming home to visit my parents. It’s not a sensation I much enjoy. It’s sort of like being back at the scene of a crime, but no crime was committed here. This is where I got sick two years ago. But to say I got sick makes it sound like I got a minor cold. This wasn’t just any illness. It was the type of event that was life-changing, and being back here brings about so many memories- as if it happened just a few months ago.

I remember how it started very well. I was home for Thanksgiving with the family. The house was full and some had to stay in a hotel. I bunked at night on a foldout couch in the downstairs living room. We’re a loud group of people when in a house together, and it’s a lot of fun. We played games, shared photos, laughed and contemplated the manner in which we should deep fry our bird without burning the house down. It was like so many other holiday gatherings before, with my grandmother and her daughters in the kitchen, the men sitting around the living room and the cousins downstairs playing and gossiping almost as much as the adults.

Hiking on my parent's property in Colorado



My parents live in Colorado on mountainous acreage. On the first day of my visit, a group of us took a long hike on the property, which left me a bit winded. The next day I felt a pressure in my chest, very much like the one felt after a day of exertion, so I didn’t think much of it. The situation worsened to where I started feeling light headed, complete with a headache. I looked up the symptoms of altitude sickness on my laptop. I had them all except that I was not nauseous. So again, I didn’t do anything about it…this, too would pass. But for the moment, I was feeling badly enough that I stayed home while the family all went to a dinner outing, complete with live music.

Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Eve, I had developed red spots on my arms and legs- they didn’t itch, but were a little sore to the touch. I went to bed feeling ill. I’d felt worse in my life, but I’d never felt anything quite like this. It was such that as I fell asleep, I began thinking about how difficult it would be for someone to close out my life in my absence. Certainly, that person would be my mom, having to go through all my belongings back home. I started to think of all my passwords to the various sites I use on the internet; banking, work, social sites. I didn’t know how sick I was about to become…but somehow I did, and my mind seemed to be preparing me for the worst.

The next day my family drove me to the emergency room. I was short of breath, my head hurt and the pain in my chest was incredible. The spots on my legs hurt, making it very hard to walk. Tests were administered and my body was poked and prodded. I was told it was not altitude sickness, and honestly, two years later, I no longer recall what the initial diagnosis was, but in the end, I was sent home with instructions to drink a lot of liquids and get some rest. The family, who had been jammed in my parent’s home for a few days in close proximity, was terrified that I might be contagious. I felt badly, praying that I wasn’t, for their sake.

By the time I returned home, Thanksgiving dinner was about to be served. Because of how I felt, and possibly from fear of being near me, I wound up eating on a TV tray in the living by myself. I had no seconds that Thanksgiving. In fact, I didn’t finish what was on my plate. Nothing tasted good to me. Everyone else praised the green bean casserole, dressing, desserts and the fact that the house hadn’t burned down with the tasty deep fried turkey. I picked at my plate, not really tasting much of anything.

By the time I went to bed, the spots on my body had spread to my neck and chest. They were very sore and getting out of bed was quite difficult. This was very problematic for me, as with drinking the amount of liquids required by the doctor, I had to get up often to use the restroom. If I hadn’t understood what my body was telling me the night before, it was becoming much clearer at this point.

Sunset at my parent's ranch


On Friday, I felt worse than I had ever felt in my life. I couldn’t get out of bed without a great deal of pain and I was no longer interested in drinking anything. I needed to return to the emergency room. Once that happened, and another examination by the same doctor as the day before, they felt it imperative that I be transferred to a hospital in Colorado Springs. This was partly because the little mountain hospital was not equipped to handle my condition, but also to get me to a lower altitude, which the doctor thought was necessary.

I’m not sure how long I waited to be transferred while lying in that dark room. I was forced to listen to a woman have a total freak out (mostly likely drug-induced) in a room nearby. It was very dramatic, but I was happy to be left alone as everyone else’s attention was on her. I remember seeing the concerned faces of my aunt, uncle and Dad as I was eventually loaded into the ambulance. I also remember how smooth the ride in the ambulance was. That must have been a very expensive vehicle!

I spent the next five days in the hospital. Mom brought me a few magazines and puzzles, as people do. I had my own room with a nice TV on an arm that pivoted to whatever position I needed. I wished I wasn’t so far from my network of friends, who surely would have come to visit.

I never read the magazines. I watched about an hour of TV during my entire stay. I fell asleep when Mom came to visit, so any other visitors would have been a waste of effort. My time was spent sleeping and that was frequently disturbed for numerous reasons; the first of which was that any time I moved, the pain from the red spots all over my body was intense enough to wake me. I was also constantly disturbed by nurses coming in to take blood and administer meds. And it was creepy; I was isolated with an unknown disease, so anyone entering my room had to do so wearing a mask and gown. For the first few days, I didn’t know what anyone looked like.

Having never been in the hospital before, I quickly gained a new respect for nurses. I was well cared for and everyone I encountered had a really nice bedside manner. They were proactive in dealing with the pain I felt. My only issue was that many of the people who came into my room tended to leave without moving my table back to where I could reach it. The pain was such that reaching for it, something I would normally be able to do very easily, was out of the question. I found myself constantly asking people to move my table closer to me before they left the room. Mom thought I was being unreasonable. But being alone in a room and not able to reach for water to quench my dry mouth- well, it was the one thing I had that was normal.

The illness peaked on the third night of my stay in the hospital when my temperature reached 106. At first, I was so cold that they layered me in warm blankets. They felt very good, which was odd for me, since I normally don’t like warm things on me. But soon they removed my warm blankets and started covering me in ice. This upset me and I let them know about it. Up until this point, my attractive nurse with the Australian accent was my favorite nurse. At the point at which she started icing me down, however, I was less than thrilled with her.

My head hurt so badly, I felt as if I were wearing a pain-hat that extended a foot further than my head in all directions. I kept the blinds closed during the day, ignoring what was a wonderful view. I picked at the food, even though I was able to select it from a menu. I’d not emptied my bowels in days. I faded in and out. One night, I woke up thinking it was morning and that I’d slept all night, a first, and thought I was over the worst of it. Turned out, it was only 10PM and I’d only been asleep for an hour. I began to cry. It was the worst I had ever felt in my life, and I suddenly had a thought…so this is how I die.

For four days I stayed in bed, not able to stand, and barely able to turn over. I slept. I moaned a lot. During my stay, I endured a spinal tap and a biopsy and had enough blood taken to fill a new human body, or so it seemed. I endured hell. At one point the pain was such that I asked the nurse to put me in a coma. But in the end I lived, and when I finally got home, I started thinking, well, that wasn’t as bad as I had made it out to be. Surely I had been nowhere near death. Maybe I had over reacted.

Not looking too happy in my hospital bed


That’s what I thought until a month later when seeing a specialist about some lingering effects of my viral syndrome, as they were now calling it. He looked over my notes and looked up at me and said, “You’re lucky to still be with us. Most people die with a temperature that high.” So it really was as bad as I had thought when lying in that hospital bed. And I think my body knew it as early as Thanksgiving Eve.

Many doctors and specialists were involved in my case. No answers were ever found. Every test came back negative. I was amazed to learn, that in our modern medical age, there are still thousands of viruses that afflict people and we have no idea of what they are. It was never discovered how I got sick or where I contracted the virus. It was indeed known that I had a virus. They did learn that my red spots were a separate disorder; normally brought on by a viral condition (my friends called it Penguin Pox). But they could only call what I had, a viral syndrome; a sort of catch-all term simply to give what I had a label of some sort.

A look at my "Penguin Pox"


And two years later I still have issues with being fatigued. It was a whole year before the symptoms of being light headed and dizzy went away. The cold of winter bothered me, where I normally love the cold, and my thinking has never been as clear as it was before the illness. I often forget what I’m saying. There are times I struggle with my health and feelings and wonder if I shouldn’t have died in that hospital.

So here I am, back in Colorado to visit my parents. I’ve been back a few times since then. The first time was very awkward for me; sleeping in the bed I went to right after the hospital and sitting on the couch I had slept on that night when going over computer passwords in my head. The living room has been rearranged, but the bedroom is the same and reminds me so much of the first few days being home after nearly dying.

I’m lucky to be alive and to have caring friends and family for support. As much as I never hope to endure such pain ever again, I feel richer for the experience of coming so close to death. In fact, only a few months after getting sick, it was discovered that I also had skin cancer. I thought it was odd that I was to survive the hospital only to face death again with melanoma. It was also interesting that after all the poking and prodding, no one ever noticed the black irregular-shaped mole on my stomach. No, the cancer didn’t affect the viral syndrome, but the virus is was what led to the discovery of the cancer.

In the end, the nearly fatal virus saved my life. I’m currently cancer-free, but my body is different now. I feel older. I used to enjoy perfect health. Now I have high blood pressure and cholesterol. The fatigue keeps me from being as active as I once was. It’s annoying that I make these complaints to my doctors, and often hear them reply that I’m getting older, but it’s got to be more than just my age that has brought all of this about. Something happened to me in that hospital-something that began to afflict me at home in Colorado. I may be uneasy about getting older and reliving these memories while visiting my parents, but it’s certainly good to be alive!

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Want to read more? I wrote about some of the vivid images I had in my head while I was in hospital and poem about being on morphine. You can read that blog here:
http://penguinlust.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2009-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2010-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=9

Penguin's Cruise to Bermuda

Penguin cruises to Bermuda by Penguin Scott

The trip hadn’t started off as I had hoped, yet as I emerged from the underground tunnel of the East River into Manhattan, I smiled and knew things would be fine. It was a beautiful fall day in New York and Stevie Nicks was on the radio; this was a good sign. The buildings looked down on me and people moved about seemingly at a slower pace than normal for the city. It was still early in the morning on a Sunday and I was so very tired. Maybe everyone was.

Penguin on the Veendam sails down the Hudson



I’d flown in on the redeye from San Francisco and had been expecting to be in first class. The flight loads had been looking good for this to happen until an hour before the flight, when all of a sudden there were more people clamoring for seats than were open on the flight. So instead of a nice lie-flat seat where I could get a decent nap on the 6 hour flight, I had to ride in the one and only open flight attendant jump seat. As a flight attendant, I fly for free if there are open seats, which includes the jump seat. Open jump seats have saved my trips more times than I’d like to admit.

Another wonderful benefit of my job is access to inexpensive cruise vacations. Cruise lines do not like empty rooms on a cruise ship for some reason, so they often dump open rooms for really cheap on a few web sites I have access to. The prices are so attractive, they are often very difficult to refuse. And this time, I had the time off from work due to an injury and my travel account had money in it to cover the costs. All I needed was a travel companion.

When cruising, I never care where the ship goes; I cruise for the experience of being on a ship and not for the destination. I like the pampering and how rich I feel on a cruise. I like dressing up for 5-course dinners and taking in a show afterwards. I love meeting people at high tea and enjoy a glass of bubbly at the art auctions. Yes, cruising is a great way to pamper one’s self and for me, it’s quite affordable.

Of course, when trying to find a companion, everyone wants to know where it’s going. This one was to Bermuda. I’d never been, so that was alluring for me. I love putting another pin in the map of places I’ve gone. But I wasn’t overly excited about Bermuda; I’ve done islands so many times. No, this vacation was simply about being on a boat, clear and simple.

My problem with cruise deals, which are often very last minute, is that my friends can never seem to get the time from work. Or if they can, they don’t have the money. And even though my friends can’t fly for free, which makes the vacation a little more expensive for them, it’s still a deal that’s hard to pass up. But even as attractive as these cruise deals were, there were not enough and the ship sailed without me.

The following week, the web site again had the same deal for the same ship to the same destination. I tried again to find a companion. After a few more days, the deal was still there and I decided, screw it, I’d go by myself! I called on a Wednesday and booked it and started getting ready right away, I’d be leaving in only 3 days. I’d have to pay double for going alone, and that plus the taxes was still a good deal. So Saturday night, I was off to the airport for my little vacation.

And what a rocky start it was. Had that jump seat not been available, it would have been very hard to get to the boat in time, as the next flight in the morning wouldn’t allow me time enough to get to the pier. I could have flown overnight to Chicago or Boston, but those flights were also oversold. As upset as I was to be missing out on enjoying champagne in first class, I was just happy to be on the flight and headed for New York.

Everything else worked out great. The weather was wonderful; clear, blue skies, very comfortable temperatures, slight breeze. My plan was to take the subway, but the flight attendant advised me of a bus that, for just a few extra dollars, would be so much better. It was. It deposited me about a mile from the pier. I was going to take a taxi, but it was just so beautiful, I decided to walk; after all, my bags rolled just fine. And what a wonderful walk it was, taking me through part of Hell’s Kitchen.

I was one of the first to arrive at the port and was rewarded with a number one card for boarding. I checked in easily and after a slight wait for the ship to be ready, boarded Holland America’s MS Veendam, the smallest ship I’d been on yet. She was decked out in flags fluttering in the breeze and seemed even smaller against the wall of towering buildings from Manhattan.

After boarding, I first went to my stateroom and immediately met the two men who would be servicing it all week. They called me by name and I was quite impressed! After a quick look around the boat, I found my way to the Lido for lunch and took some photos on my phone so I could impress my friends back home with the fact that I was on a wonderful cruise vacation. Maybe next time I could drag a few with me!

Sailing down the Hudson River alongside the tall buildings of Manhattan was quite impressive. Sailing past the Statue of Liberty was a thrill. Going under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was neat. And I even liked the high-rolling seas on our first night. I’m an odd bird; love turbulence in the air and feeling the boat move on the seas if fine with me. My room was at the very rear of the boat, so I feeling the seas would be certain!

I liked this ship. It was smaller than most these days, but very quaint and elegant. The show room had tables like an old cabaret might. There was only one pool which could be covered in inclement weather. And, fortunately for me, it was easy to meet people, as one was constantly running into the same people. It’s easy to get to know people on a smaller boat and I really liked that, especially since I was sailing solo.

On the very first day I started meeting others. By the second day I’d met more and by the third day I had found a group of friends to do things with. We had happy hour every night and there was never a worry for whom to dine with at dinner (I had been assigned open dining, which meant I didn’t have an assigned table with the same table mates all week). In port, I usually did my own thing, and actually, I never even left the boat at our first port stop in Bermuda. Days were always full with activities, lectures, shows, lessons and such. Of course, most days, I found a need to squeeze in a nap to keep up with my nocturnal activities. These included the after-dinner show in the theater and usually ended up with music and dancing in the Crow’s Nest, the club at the top and front of the vessel.

My new friends were really fun; mostly other flight attendants. They got to know some of the actors from the show, and before I knew it, we were having them dine with us at dinner. It was fun getting to hear about their time spent on the ship and how they rehearsed for the shows. I also enjoyed the attention from others, eyeing us as they recognized the performers.

Dinner with new friends and a few of the actors.



I had a wonderful week and found this to be the best cruise vacation I’ve had so far. The food was fantastic, best of the three ships I’ve been on. I gained about 7 pounds during the week, and that was even after avoiding the midnight buffets! I got to speak with the captain while he made pizza and went on a tour the main kitchen. I enjoyed exploring Bermuda and taking photos. The best part of the cruise was making so many new friends; from Ruth, who was celebrating her 100th birthday, to a group of American Airlines retirees I met at tea. And if I thought I was hooked on cruising before, well, I’m hopeless now. Let’s go!

This link takes you to highlight photos from my trip: https://picasaweb.google.com/107950777569456838804/BermudaCruiseHighlights?feat=email#

If you want to see more, see the videos or were on my cruise and want to see photos I may have taken of you, the rest of my photos are found at this link: https://picasaweb.google.com/107950777569456838804/BermudaCruise91811?feat=email#

My Stevie

By Penguin Scott
(photos not by PenguinScott)


The first time I noticed her, she was wearing a flowing red dress while lying on a settee on a sand dune in the desert. I couldn’t figure out why. It was one of the early summers of my teens. MTV was king. The song was catchy, but the blonde in the desert is what caught my attention; she was some sort of goddess to me. She was sexy, a feminine power that stirred feelings within me. I wasn’t so much confused as to why she was on a settee in the desert; music videos rarely made much sense. What had me was why she was in the video to begin with. She wasn’t singing in the “Hold Me” video and she seemed more than just a model. I didn’t know much about the band; I’d only heard the name.

Then there was “Gypsy”. This time, it was the voice which drew me in. Oh, that voice- that otherworldly voice; unique, strange, distinct and magical. I was captivated by her gypsy visage, the lace and by her smile. I was still confused about the two videos. In this one, she sang, and the other members were silent. Until then, the concept of multiple singers in one band was new to me. But I liked it. And I was hooked. The band was Fleetwood Mac. That’s fine and well. But I loved that sexy woman in the red dress from the desert. I’m a Stevie Nicks fan!

One morning at my home in Dallas, not long after the flurry of videos from their 1982 Mirage album with “Gypsy” and “Hold Me”, I saw an ad in the paper for an upcoming concert. I was a freshman in high school and a solo Stevie Nicks was touring in support of her Wild Heart album. I made a comment to my father and his girlfriend about wishing that I could go. He said that I should. It hadn’t occurred to me that going was an option. I wasn’t asking if I “could,” I was just wishing out loud.

At the concert, I was mesmerized. She was so twirly, so strong yet fragile. Her songs spoke to me. Her ballads made boats of my eyes as tears welled up. This was her second solo album, so I was able to get fully acquainted with Stevie through her first solo album, 1981’s Bella Donna, as well as The Wild Heart. I listened to them over and over again. And then at a backyard barbeque at a cousin’s house, I mentioned my concert experience and was introduced to Rumours, Fleetwood Mac’s album from 1977. He mentioned how much he loved “Rhiannon”. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he got the album and let me listen. It was like I’d never considered that there was more music from earlier than Mirage. Now I was able to start collecting all the older Fleetwood Mac albums as well.

I spent many hours during high school listening to Stevie, either in her solo endeavors, or with Fleetwood Mac. I’d sing along loudly in my car driving to school. I’d listen to her albums through headphones on my father’s fancy stereo system. And I’d sing her songs to myself walking from one class to the next. I always bought her albums the day they released. When The Other Side of the Mirror was released, I was visiting my maternal grandparents in a small town in the Texas panhandle. There was really only one store in town that sold CDs, so there I was, probably the only person in town buying it so early. I got home only to realize that my grandparents didn’t own a CD player. It was 1989, so I didn’t have one with me. All I could do was read the lyrics printed on the booklet. By the time I actually heard the songs I was very familiar with them.

In 1985, she released Rock a Little. I got the album the day it was released and rushed home. I put it on the turntable and grabbed the headphones and studied the lyrics as the songs came and went. By the time I went to bed that night, I’d heard it 4 times! Wanting to know as much as I could, I found out that some of the tracks may have been recorded in Dallas. In fact, it seemed that Stevie had quite a few Dallas connections. She supposedly owned part of a club near downtown. She had friends and working partners in the area. I searched for names and addresses and on weekends, I’d drive around town looking for the homes of these people. Not that I would have bothered them; I was simply thirsty for as much information as possible, and knowing where they lived was information. I stopped by the night club, which seemed as mysterious as she was, fronted by a huge grey curtain and red velvet ropes on the sweeping steps leading to the entry. It must have been magical inside, but it was closed on this early afternoon, and I was too young to be allowed inside.

I never met anyone at the homes I tried to scope out, if they actually were the homes of the people I thought might be connected to her. I was a silly high school boy and wound up exploring some of the nicer parts of Dallas for my efforts. But with my connections in the hotel world of the greater Dallas Metroplex, I would find out where she was staying when she was in town for concerts. I recall driving quite a distance to her hotel near DFW airport after a concert. I stalked the hotel from the parking lot searching for activity in any of the rooms that might indicate which was hers. It was after midnight, after all, so it was easy to pinpoint the rooms with their lights on. I’d heard stories that she stayed up all night and slept during the day, so I knew she’d be up there. Eventually, I ventured into the hotel, just to scope it out. I didn’t see my Stevie, but as the hotel bar closed down, I spied Waddy Wachtel, her band’s guitarist, heading up to his room. I said hi and great show. He thanked me. I was star struck and wasn’t able to get anything else out of my mouth.

Years later, while living in Houston, I earned money working for a concert security company. When Stevie came to town for her Other Side of the Mirror tour, I found out not only which hotel she was in, but which room as well. Armed with a yellow rose and note wishing her a great show, I nervously knocked on the door. A woman answered. I introduced myself as a huge fan and asked if she would procure my flower and note to Stevie. She said that she would, as the door closed and I looked inside the room, I could see a pair of women’s legs crossed, sitting in a chair just out of view. I just know they were hers.

In leaving, I passed one of her backup singers, Sharon Celani, in the hotel lobby. I stopped her and told her I was a huge fan. She was humble and quite nice. I went on- I’d recently decided to prove my love for the band by getting a tattoo. It only made sense that because I also loved penguins, that I would use the penguin logo from the Rumours album- the one wearing a top hat with cane and crystal ball in his flippers. I showed it to Sharon, who seemed quite impressed.

After the show, I ran into her again while stalking the hotel in hopes of a glimpse of Stevie. I mentioned that I was driving to Dallas the next day to see the show there, as well, something I did more than once. She asked for my name and said she’d leave a backstage pass for me at will call.

Years later I’d run into Sharon in a hotel lobby in Phoenix, this time after a fundraising concert I attended. I reminded her of my tattoo and she remembered me. I was living in Maryland and making good money. Stevie was helping the Arizona Heart Institute and I bought a ticket for $1000. It included a fancy dinner with one of the institute’s top heart surgeons at his large desert home north of Phoenix, great show seats, and an after show party where Stevie would appear for a special presentation. We were led to believe that we’d have the chance to meet her, but we were quite disappointed when she graciously accepted her award and then promptly got back in the limo and departed.

In the 29 years that I’ve been a Stevie Nicks fan, I’ve probably seen her live twenty times, maybe more. I’ve lost track. I could search my records, for I’ve kept every concert ticket stub. There’ve been some really great Stevie moments in my life. I’ve shaken her hand twice during shows when she came to the front of the stage during her song, “Edge of Seventeen”. I had a conversation with her father at the Arizona Heart Institute show and met her mom there as well. The next day I went to the store owned by her mother, who sold Stevie mementos.

At the Behind the Mask tour in 1990, I got backstage, where I was able to meet the male members of Fleetwood Mac. Stevie and Christine McVie were “busy putting on makeup,” and I didn’t get to have them sign my program. Then, in Dallas, when I showed up back stage with the pass given to me by Sharon, I was recognized by co-workers from concert security and it was thought that I had obtained my backstage pass illegally. They tried to take it from me as they escorted me out. But that was my precious souvenir. I grabbed it, not allowing them to take it from me and demanded that they could kick me out, but by gods, they weren’t taking my pass!

In 2000, I got a job that required six weeks of training. The expensive Arizona fundraiser was taking place 2 days following the conclusion of the class I expected to be in. When I found out that they were putting me in a class one week later, I protested, giving up the details of my plans to fly to Phoenix to see Stevie. Fortune was on my side, for the woman on the other end of the line was also a fan, and she personally moved me back into the first class so that I wouldn’t miss her show.

I’ve seen her all over America; Houston, Dallas, Baltimore, DC, Phoenix, San Francisco, San Jose and Oakland. Seeing her concerts in the San Francisco area is always special, because she attended high school and started her singing career with Lindsey Buckingham here. I love to hear her talk between songs about growing up here and how special this place is. It’s always nice to see a musician in concert where they got their start.

I remember finding out where she was staying after a show in Houston. I had joined a local Stevie Nicks fan club and become close friends with a few other fans. Together, four of us rushed to the hotel after the show to wait for our goddess’ arrival. When the limo pulled up, she got out and looked at us. We must have been quite a sight to her- a sad-looking group of fans, the women looking quite a bit like her, in lace and chiffon. We stood there in silence, completely deer in the headlights. We didn’t think to call out to her. We didn’t think to move closer to her. We simply stood there, about 20 yards away and watched in silence. She paused for a second while taking us in, put out a cigarette and walked inside. Only then could my brain begin to work and I approached the limo driver, a man I knew from working other concerts. He handed to us some flowers she had taken from the concert and a few cold sodas that had been placed there for her. While we kicked ourselves for not meeting her, we felt on top of the world to have her flowers and soda!

Some of my most fond memories of life involve my Stevie. I remember listening to her tape on my Walkman when visiting my paternal grandparents. After the tape finished, I’d take off my headphones and I could hear my grandparents saying their nightly prayers before going to bed. While pondering the universe on a star-lit dock over the Caribbean in Nassau, it was her that I played. Any road trip I ever took included her serenades. I’d go camping and my friends from the fan club and I would sing her songs around the camp fire. And recently, while visiting the pyramids in Cairo, it was Stevie who I listened to on my MP3 player.

And one stressful night while in college, I was walking around the campus with its huge oak trees with moss hanging from its branches. It was slightly foggy and I had Rumours playing through the headphones. Gold Dust Woman came on and I heard it in a way I had never before; perhaps because of the eerie surroundings I was in. It started so soft and gentle, but had this forewarning quality to it. And as the song closed, I listened intently to the wailing and crying; the pain and confusion. It moved me. I rewound it, covered with goose bumps. I listened to it again and again. It was what I needed that night.

And that’s the magic for me and my Stevie. She always seems to be what I need. Whether it’s to be tied back to the more carefree days of my youth or to find some inspiration, her music, her voice, her mystery and lace, her strength and beauty- it gets me. Rare is the time that I’ll let anyone within hearing distance get away with disparaging my goddess. You may say she sounds like a goat or that singing into a fan makes you sound like her, but you’d be treading on thin ice with me!

Last night I saw her again. It seems like it was just a few years ago that I was in Dallas seeing her for the first time. I remembered how hearing her sing Beauty and the Beast made me cry. I remembered another time in Houston, that as she took to the stage to start the show how I began to cry. It was then that I finally understood the girls who cried when seeing the Beatles. I felt so silly and tried to hide it. She was larger than life and yet actually real.

And now, 29 years later, I’m still getting choked up when she steps out onstage. Her ballads still wet my eyes a bit more than I’d care to admit. But she looks so good; present and in control. She sounds just as magic as she always has, and completely more mature. That doesn’t bother me; now that she’s 62, I expect her to take on that matronly image that warrants as much from someone her age. And as she sings in her song, “Landslide”, “I’m getting older, too.” No longer do I trail her after shows (given my age and today’s fear of stalkers, that’s probably a good thing) or send cards to the event facility. She doesn’t twirl as much as she used to. But she’s there, on stage, as usual, all these years later, still with her wardrobe changes of chiffon and lace and singing her standards from both her solo career and her time with Fleetwood Mac. And I may be in a large auditorium full of other fans, but she’s my Stevie, and she always will be!

Adventures in Flight: Penguin in the Left Seat

The sun had set and a dark purple curtain of darkness had fallen. There wasn't enough light to be illuminating, yet it wasn't quite dark enough to say it was night time. I could still see the features of landscape in the distance, but only as darkened objects against the lighter colored sky. I sat in the left seat of a 747 cockpit, the one normally reserved for the plane’s captain. I’m no captain. I’m not even a pilot. I would like to be, but I’m not. But there I was, sitting in the left seat; the engines turning and the lights at the forward landing gear lighting up the centerline of the runway.

In front of me was runway 28-right, the longest of the four runways at San Francisco’s International Airport. A real captain was in the right seat next to me and he hit a switch, turning on the plane's landing lights, thus illuminating the runway from one side to the other. Past the runway I could see San Bruno Mountain with its antenna towers blinking on and off. I looked to my left and could see the headlights of the cars moving along highway 101 and was happy to not be sitting in the backup of traffic. To my right was the company's large maintenance hangar and the San Francisco bay was beyond that.

Captain Henry was more than my co-pilot today. He was guiding me through the step by step process of our mission. He finished inputting data into the plane’s computer and we were ready to roll. But first he wanted me to experience taxiing this behemoth. At his instruction, I pushed the throttles forward just over an inch. I heard the engines rev up, felt the vibration and then the plane slowly started to move. With my left hand on the tiller, I began to control the direction the plane went. As we lurched forward, the wheels began to run across the centerline lights and I could feel the plane vibrate over them.

A747 photo by Penguin Scott

I felt like this was a dream. I've longed to ride in a 747 cockpit for a very long time. I remember taking a small Cessna from Maryland to New Jersey back in 1999; I was so excited. After we landed, I spoke to my pilot friend about how great it would be to fly in the cockpit of a commercial jetliner. He agreed, and I've since done that. But here I was, in the cockpit- the left seat at that- at the controls. It was no dream.

I was instructed to turn right, off of runway 28R, and return the plane to its takeoff position at the start of the long runway. Capt. Henry gave me a stern warning- I was turning too soon. “Don’t forget, the wheels are behind you. You have to pass the center line and then make the turn.” While saying this, he assisted me with the tiller on his side of the cockpit and corrected my mistake. It was a hard thing for me to learn as I did it again on my next turn, for which I was rewarded with another stern warning.

Steering a plane is nothing like steering a car. It doesn’t respond well to small corrections made often. Basically, what I needed to do was put the tiller in one position and let it go. Constant corrections only make the plane continually zig-zag down the taxiway. By the time I learned this, my taxi was complete.

Back at the start of runway 28R, we were now ready for take off. I was buckled in and ready for the task of letting this 747 loose, to tear down the runway and lift off into the night sky. Capt. Henry instructed me to push the throttles forward. There were four; one for each engine, and they all moved in sync. It took a second and then the power hit the engines and the plane lurched forward, gaining speed down the runway. I asked the captain when to rotate. He seemed impressed with my knowledge of this.

When I was in flight attendant initial training, nine years previous, I had the opportunity to sit in a cockpit for the duration of a flight, from push back to block-in. After taking off, I had the chance to ask questions. This is when I learned that the point at which the pilot pulls back on the stick to make the plane take off is the point at which one of the pilots say, "Rotate." And now, in the 747 cockpit, not sure if he'd state that point of the takeoff roll or not, Capt. Henry said he’d tell me when to do so.

About half way down the runway, he told me to pull back. I did and the plane lifted up. Capt. Henry pushed a lever and the wheels retracted. I could hear them do so and could feel them take their place in the wheel well somewhere below me, just as I had felt so many times before from inside the airplane cabin. He pointed to an artificial horizon (or the attitude indicator) on a screen in front of me and showed me at what point to keep the nose on the screen to keep our current rate of climb. If the plane started to sink below this line, I pulled back a bit. If it started to get too high, I pushed down. Then I was instructed to make a left turn.



As I began to turn the stick, and as the plane began to bank to the left, I noticed that I was losing my rate of climb, so I pulled back on the stick. It was difficult and took a bit of strength. I was concentrating so hard on keeping the rate of climb, that I ignored the turn. I got another stern warning from the right seat, “Watch your turn or you’ll end up in the drink,” which was slang for water, or in this case, the Pacific Ocean.

We were now over the water just off the coast of Pacifica, which was my home. I looked up and out of the cockpit window and we were in a very steep bank. He grabbed the wheel in front of him and corrected it back to a normal left turn. It was a good thing the cockpit has two sets of throttles so he could make the flight corrections we needed.

His warnings reminded me a lot of my grandfather teaching me to drive. I spent my summers visiting my grandparents in the Texas Panhandle. Once I had my learner's permit, he went with me on a short drive. He had a tendency to sound a bit more stern than I'm sure he meant to, but he made his point and was concerned about me wrapping his nice car around a pole, or worse, another car. And like my grandfather, Capt. Henry was concerned about our safety, not to mention that of our flight.

The turn was completed and we were now flying steady at about eight thousand feet just off the coast of California. I could see the car lights on Hwy. 1. Capt. Henry instructed the woman in the jump seat directly behind me to hit a switch and suddenly the windows went blank; nothing to see but a gray screen. Another switch was hit and the windows came back to life. Suddenly, the view changed to about five miles south of the airport. We were now over the bay, frozen in time, suspended as if in a video game.

But this was no ordinary video game. This was a multi million dollar simulator, used by the best pilots of the company for training purposes. My captain in the right seat was a flight instructor. And I had just taxied and taken off a 747 airplane. Not a real one, of course. But you can’t get any closer to the real thing than one of these simulators. From the traffic on highway 101 and the blinking lights of the towers on San Bruno Mountain, to the wheels crossing the lights on the runway and the feel of the wheels retracting after takeoff, everything was as real as the real thing itself.

From the outside, I was in a contraption supported by numerous jacks that control a motion platform. On the inside, I was in a 747 cockpit just like any other in our fleet. Inputs made from inside controlled the motion platform, which was calibrated in such a manner that even the slightest motion, like the wheel going over the center line, made a movement noticeable in the cockpit.

A flight simulator

We were now ready to land, and with the hit of another switch we were again moving. The lights of the city below were angled as the nose of the plane was pointed at the beginning of the runway we were about to land on. As we crossed the San Mateo Bridge, he lowered the landing gear. As they locked into place, they added drag on the plane's flight, and we could feel that in the cockpit as slight vibrations. Looking at the attitude indicator, I kept the box on the artificial horizon where it was supposed to be for our landing. I thought Capt. Henry did most of the flying on the approach, but he swears it was all me. I know this plane can land itself, and it really did seem to fly quite easily.

The plane came to a stop. I had landed. The switches were hit and the screens went blank again. When they came back on, we were at the start of runway 28R once more. I got out of the left seat and Sandy, the flight attendant seated behind me climbed in. Now it was her turn to fly and mine to observe.

I was at our main training facility for my annual recurrent emergency training (RET) to refresh my skills of being a flight attendant. Once a year, we are required to practice opening and closing airplane doors, drill emergency procedures, recertify our AED and CPR skills, and get hands on experience using emergency equipment, such as fire extinguishers. I normally do this at my home base in the Bay Area, where I also live. But for some reason, this year I was sent to the facility where the pilots also train. And after a few of us in class expressed interest in a tour of one of the huge simulators, our instructor was able to arrange for Capt. Henry to meet us early the next day. I had no idea he’d actually let us “fly”, but it was the thrill of a lifetime!

After we completed our takeoff and landing, we went to class, a bit later than planned. I was so excited that I was actually still shaky from the experience. The instructor had informed the class as to why we were late and he asked me how I liked it. I told him that I felt much the same way after my first time sky diving. It was a thrill, exhilarating, and a dream come true. I was on a high like none other! Every nerve tingled. Every sense was alive. I had just taxied, taken off and landed a 747. Not a real one, but the realest I’ll ever get. It was an amazing experience that I'll not soon forget!

A 747 landing at LAX

Things Learned from my Father

Two ships in the Caribbean


For many years I've been giving credit to Mother for my better qualities. My parents split when I was a toddler, so I have no memories of the two of them being together. I no longer know my father, and even though my issues with him are mountainous, I do have to credit him for teaching me some valuable lessons in life.

My parents divorced when I was about two and my father moved away. He moved to Dallas when I was 13 and I moved in with him just before entering 8th grade. It must have been a huge inconvenience for Gary, who was a card-carrying bachelor and one of god's gifts to society, although no one else seemed to get that memo.

One day, in my sophomore year in high school, he comes to tell me that for Thanksgiving, he and I would be going on a vacation to the Bahamas. I was really excited about this. We flew in first class and stayed in a nice hotel with rich surroundings and a pink exterior. Our room looked out towards the ocean. I could see the pool and there, beyond, a little pier with a gazebo, jutting over the water.

It was here that I had my first experience with cruise ships. My step-father worked in the shipping industry, so he had taken me on tours of large ships in the Houston Ship Channel. But these huge, white palaces full of revelers and lights…for a young teen, they were whole worlds yet to be explored.

Using binoculars, I watched with great interest as huge cruise ships would start out as a white speck on the horizon and slowly grow in size as they would near port. I soon noticed the tug boats leaving the dock to help bring them into port. Gary saw my interest in them, and one day asked if I wanted to go see one up close. I sure did! And as we approached the ship, he said, "Let's go on board and look around." But could we? With no time to debate, all I could do was follow.

One thing I learned from my father was that if there is something you want to do, do so with authority and like you are doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing. There may be questions of whether or not it is ethical, but if executed just right, one could get away with anything.

The next thing I know, he was talking with the people at the gang way, and we were soon going up the steps inside the ship. It was just that easy. We walked into the casino, now quite deserted, since gambling only took place in the open waters. We went high, onto the upper decks, and enjoyed the view out to sea. Then we crossed over to the port side and looked out onto the island, a view from such heights we had not enjoyed up to now.

I looked down to the ground and to the dock and saw ropes being undone and the gang way we'd come in on beginning to move on board. I punched my father for his attention to this detail and at the same moment, without either of us saying a word, we bolted towards the stairs and down them, post haste. I've never seen my father move so quickly in my life!



When we got to the door, after only being on board for 10 minutes, he had to explain that we were not passengers; they were very reluctant to let us off. He told them someone outside had let us come on, but earlier, I think he more or less made them think we belonged on board. The man in uniform muttered something about being lucky that we weren't arrested as stowaways. The gang way was returned to the dock and I followed Gary off the large ship, having to walk quickly to follow him, as his tail went between his legs.

He slowed down only after turning the corner, back on the street towards our hotel. We both had a laugh while catching our breath; glad to be back where we belonged. I asked him what would have happened had we become stuck on board. He supposed that we would just have fun as stowaways until the next port, where we'd have gotten off and found a flight back to Nassau! He said this like it was no big deal and I almost wished that had been reality. What an adventure to tell back home!

It was a huge lesson for me, watching him work his magic and seeing it blow up in his face. And the lesson learned wasn't so much how to make things work in my favor as it was that each action has a consequence. I know what he did was wrong; he didn't have to lecture on that. But I knew there was a power there, and if I were willing to use it, I had to be willing to accept the ramifications of doing so.

The following day was spent at the pool. It was the early '80s, so, as was the fashion with teens, I had my portable tape player, headphones and a collection of tapes of my favorite music. Gary spent a few hours with me and then disappeared; probably off to a bar to hit on women as usual (if they only knew).

I looked out towards the horizon where I could see a white speck. Reaching for the binoculars, I could see that it was another large cruise ship heading right for us. I looked over to where the docks were and could see a tug boat and its captain readying it for launch. I grabbed my things, dashed to the room and then to the dock. When I got to the tug, I looked up to the captain, a large, surly man with a beard and a hat and wearing yellow cover-alls, and asked if he was going to bring that ship in. And then I asked if I could come along. He welcomed me aboard, showed me upstairs and said that I had to stay there, out of the way. "I won't move," I assured him.

After reaching the balcony and looking down, I saw the last mooring line being pulled in and then we were off, just like that. Had I been a minute later, I would not be on board. And it suddenly dawned on me what I had just done. I didn't tell my father where I had gone. I asked a stranger if I could ride on his boat out to sea, while he was busy working to bring in a huge vessel. A smile graced my face as the wind blew my hair and I felt so alive. There was nothing I couldn't do. And I knew my father would be proud of me.

We reached the huge boat not too far out, took in some lines and pulled it back to Nassau. People lined the rails of the ship and waved down to me. The tug seemed so small next to that large boat and I felt as big as the ship in my success. I waved back like I was in charge of the whole operation.

The tug docked and the man who let me on motioned for me to come down, which I did. I thanked the crew and jumped on land and ran back to the hotel, where I found Gary. While not too concerned, he asked quite simply where I had been. Indeed, he was impressed.

My father was also successful at the bar, where he'd met a lady. He informed me that she was staying at a resort on the nearby island, and had offered for the two of us to join her for dinner.

The island was a short taxi ride. We reached a guard house and the man within seemed hesitant to let our cab go through. I paid little attention to what he said, but I recall feeling a little uncomfortable with the story Gary was making up. But the story did its job and the gate arm lifted to allow us to proceed. He looked over to me with this look on his face. It was like he'd just gotten past the palace guards. All that was left was to conquer the king. Or in this case- queen.

We left the cab at the main entrance to a luxurious all-inclusive resort. There were lush trees and bushes, sandy areas with bars and the beach could be heard nearby. Tables were being set with linens and nice, white china and all around were sexy, young couples, in varying degrees of intoxication. I've never seen such a collection of string bikinis, and so much cleavage!

Caribbean Sunset


Gary found his date, who greeted me with enthusiasm. They spoke briefly and then we walked to the dinner table. We dinned on steak and shrimp that night under a canopy of stars and palm trees. I had a virgin daiquiri, but Gary let me sip on some of his as well. It wasn’t so virgin. As dinner concluded, a man took the stage. Before I knew it, there was a call for volunteers from the audience to come and do a dance number. Gary prodded me into going up. I didn't want to, but finally gave in, not realizing at the time that it was a way for him to be alone with his lady friend. So there I am on stage, dancing like I was born to do so. One song blended into the next. Each time a song ended, a few people left the stage. But I remained, loving the attention of being in the spotlight. I'd look down to our table to see Gary and this girl. He'd look at me with a proud smile and give me the thumbs up and a wink. He had a look on his face like he wished I could stay on that stage all night.

Soon, my part in the show was over. There was a statue given out, but sadly, not to me, which sent me back to my table empty-handed and sweaty. "Let's go for a walk," Gary exclaimed. My father had also taught me good manners, and was big on chivalry. I folded my napkin and placed it along side my plate, as I had learned to do, pushed my seat in, and dutifully followed my father and this poor woman to the sandy beach. Before long, I lost them in the night air as I ventured off on my own to explore. It was a very nice resort, more secluded than our pink palace in town with its private beach and views of the harbor.

He later took me back to the hotel and then left again, saying he was going out for the night (meaning back to the resort to screw around with that lady). I walked out onto the pier, as seen from my room. It was a windy night and I loved to feel the breeze on my face. I put in a Stevie Nicks tape and reflected on our holiday weekend in the Caribbean. I thought about all that we had gotten away with. And thinking back on our flight from Dallas, he hadn't bought first class tickets. He had talked his way into those seats and then got a bag full of minis to boot! He talked his way onto the cruise ship, into the resort for dinner and had me feeling no fear in going out to sea on my own. Gary had taught me a lot on that trip, that you can get away with just about anything! He really was a smooth talker. I'd need a lot of practice to be as suave as him.

While in college, I got a job working concert security. I was good at what I did and saw in others a lot of my father. There were those who would try to get backstage with stories of how they were related to the producer, or friends of some big so and so. It didn't work, but I was greatly entertained. I knew their game because I'd learned from a pro.

I have used what he taught me from time to time. I went back stage at concerts more than once without proper credentials. I've eaten at places reserved for those I was not a part of. I even learned how to access my favorite theme park without paying. No one ever said a thing. I looked the part, just as I learned in Nassau. The odd thing about having been successful in these adventures is that I'm a horrible liar.

These days, I don’t find myself in such situations like I used to. And I suppose that I've gotten most of that kind of thing out of my system. As much as my father has disappointed me in my life, I am thankful for some of the more profound experiences in using that power, and rarely with negative ramifications. Only twice was I discovered backstage, and each time I was simply escorted out. Now if only I could figure out a way to fly on Air Force One!

Airforce one at SFO