Winter 00 news 1

We're Back!


	We become another homeless statistic!

It's been a while! Many of you no doubt figured we either fell off the face of the earth, had been captured in some distant land and sold into white slavery, or worse yet, dropped out to join the Hillary for Senator campaign. Well, no such mindless tragedy occurred, I'm pleased to report! All we did immediately upon returning from Papua New Guinea last June, was to sell our home in Colorado (which alert readers will recall we offered to everyone in a previous newsletter though thousands of you missed your chance), drove to Denver that very afternoon, bought a big motorhome the following day, and hit the road -- any road -- headed west. Fact is, we never looked at a map for hours. It didn't matter. We were homeless. Trailer park trash. We just pointed our windshield into the setting sun and put the pedal to the metal.


	Dressed to kill... myself!


	Of course, our purpose in this exercise in my version of a mid-life crisis was to buy a horse ranch. We didn't get too far in our journey before we needed to stop and supply our new rolling home. That turned out to be fairly traumatic for someone who just turned 50 and wasn't all

that happy about my advancing years and declining faculties. My fingers clutched the steering wheel refusing to let go after we parked at our first Campers' World. An hour passed before I could swallow my pride and enter this massive shrine to aging dreamers of the American dream. My worst fears were immediately realized when, instead of rows of shopping carts, they had racks of walkers. I was the youngest shopper there by half, or so my vanity told me. Unloading massive piles of goods at the check-out counter, the old feller in line behind me sez, ``Say sonny, looks like yer goin' on a long trip!" Futilely trying to hide my face by staring at the floor, I mumbled something like, yessiree, we sure are. Old Elmer (perhaps that was his name, it was embroidered on his cap), then asks, ``Where ya goin'?" To which I replied honestly, we didn't rightly know. So Elmer lets out this shattering laugh at that and hollers, ``Well that's the way to do it, sonny! Me and the missus never know either. I just spit in my hand -- he holds his hand out palm up to demonstrate, feigning expectoration -- pitooie! -- then I slap it with my other hand -- slap!! -- and whichever way the spit flies, that's the direction we go!!" Old Elmer certainly meant well with his sage advice. I just wanted to cry.

Among other things, I bought my first RV outfit, necessitating a trip to Walmart. My flowered aloha shirt disharmonized in a quaint way with my plaid Bermuda shorts, and contrasted smartly with my knee high black nylon hose. Polished black tie shoes and a floppy canvas hat completed my ensemble top to bottom. Deda chose a similarly distinctive wardrobe complimented by black pointy-end glasses, with rhinestones inset along the top of the thick rims. (She doesn't wear glasses.) I thought her long blond hair looked good in a bun held together by a black mesh net. Thus attired, we were ready for our first RV park.


	A long day's driving brought us to Liverspot, Iowa, and our New York-telephone-phone-book-sized RV park directory offered an number of enchanting possibilities. Last Pasture RV Park and Crematorium caught my eye. Not surprisingly, they also sold previously owned RV's. I admire vertical marketing initiative in any entrepreneur. We checked in, full of hope.

My elevated mood was not to last. The receptionist asked if we were ``Good Sam" members, and if we were, we could save two dollars per night! My characteristic greed enticed me to join immediately, never anticipating the psychological effect this would later have. We parked the RV next to a amply padded couple sitting outside in their plastic lawn chairs, dressed just like us. Then it hit me. I was now a Good Sam Member. In good standing, no less. And, with a heart-sinking glance to our neighbors, I knew this meant I was one of them. I proceeded to guzzle a six pack to dull my rising pain. Growing dizzy as a cold sweat beaded on my brow, I became aware of disturbing waves of chest pains. My life began passing before my eyes.


	Good Sam hell!


		I assumed my fall from glory was now complete. I couldn't possibly sink any lower and my downward spiral had reached a merciful end. In a complete stupor of beer and self pity, I began rummaging through our new Good Sam Members' kit. Cap pins, Good Sam newsletters, AARP applications, ads for Viagra by the case, Good Sam bumper stickers. Everything I found had Good Sam's smiling face. He looks for all the world like Fred Flintstone with a halo. But I knew better. He wasn't smiling at all, he was smirking at me. As another RV pulled in the space on the other side of us, I looked up and suddenly knew why. There, on the back of this massive coach, was a gilded decal declaring with bold pride the final step that I too could take into RV hell. It read, Good Sam Lifetime Member.

	Is this what becomes of old, washed-up underwater photographers? I always wondered what happened to them, where did they go, how did they live and so forth. Secretly I hoped it might be Al Giddings behind the wheel. But when Zeke and Mable lumbered out of the door with a spirited Hi Y'all!, my last hope died. They too were dressed just like us.


	Speaking of the Good Sam Club, imagine selling ``lifetime" memberships to the RV crowd in the first place. How low will some people stoop to make a quick buck? Have they no pride, no integrity? I went nearly insane with jealousy, wishing I'd thought of it! What a masterstroke of business genius, a can't lose no brainer!


	Not all glamour!


		Anyhow, old Zeke got right to work setting up camp, unfurling awnings, stringing pink plastic party lanterns in the shape of little poodles, setting up an outdoor T.V., arranging the barbecue, putting some Schlitz on ice, while Mable hung a welcome sign engraved with their names. I already knew their last name though, from their personalized spare tire cover which read, The Dinkmans and under it in quotes what I imagined was their personal rallying cry, ``No gas, no glory". Inspired, I began doodling ideas on what might become our tire cover, something like, The Newberts, ``Wild and Free." I also sketched Chris and Birgitte, ``The Highway Huns" all in a big heart. Deda threatened immediate divorce.

	The R.V. life isn't always as glamorous as I make it out to be, and it does have certain unsavory aspects. There's generally a lot of fidgeting around every time you arrive or leave an R.V. park. Electricity has to be connected, propane tanks need to be topped off, and of course the holding tanks require constant vigilance with horrifying results if you are forgetful. We found it true what they say in those public service T.V. ads, that waste is a terrible thing to mind.


	Cause of global warming found!

I hope I am not coming across as a motorhomophobe. Actually, we grew to love our RV. In the first couple of months we logged over 7,000 miles during our ranch search, contributing to global warming to a frightening degree. These behemoths are not known for economy, and the mileage is best measured in feet per gallon. Had we bought Mobil stock before we started, we could probably buy any ranch we wanted at this point. As for performance, ours might do zero to sixty in a day and a half. But then, we'd run out of gas long before we ever hit 60 mph.


	Go East, young man, go East!

	A home at last!

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Alas, those 7,000 miles of searching bore us no fruit. By the time our fall Solomons departure arrived, we were still homeless, camped out in Oregon and effectively no closer to a land deal than when we started. Our attention turned to imagining where we might put the Christmas tree in the R.V. when we returned from our dive trip, singing Deck the Tires with Balls of Holly as we did so. My mood darkened.

Our time in the Solomons gave us the opportunity to reflect upon what we really wanted in a new place to live. Funny how 6 weeks of diving on some of the world's finest reefs can help clarify things! As soon as we returned, we fired up the R.V., put the setting sun in our rear view mirror, and headed east, to New England. Rational behavior has never been our strong suit.

And here I write, sitting in a rented old rambling New Hampshire farmhouse, with stunning views of mountains and ice covered lakes. It is incredibly peaceful, largely owing to the fact that those who didn't head south for the winter have long since frozen to death. But coming from 8,200 ft. in Colorado, we're no strangers to severe weather and this is tame by comparison. After six months of sharing extremely close quarters in the R.V., we are back in a house at last, back where we can set up an office, and back to where I can idle my time away writing newsletters. Deda is even starting to speak to me again. Yes, we're back!

We felt immediately attracted to the area, and when we found that the country music stations outnumber the rap stations 5:1, we were sold. Within our first two days of farm shopping in New England, we found a place that had the qualities which eluded us in the west. If all goes well, the transaction will be finalized this spring, and, after nearly a year of transience, we'll be fully settled once again. I truly think we will miss our carefree days of living by whim and fancy. In fact, we may just keep the trusty R.V. as it sort of became one of the family. Beyond the sentimental value, its such a gas hog I imagine only a few laps in the R.V. around the state will accelerate global warming just enough to take the edge off the coldest nights here. Besides, if we were to sell it, what will we do with our lavish supply of Bermuda shorts, aloha shirts, rhinestone glasses and hair nets?

Now that you are more or less settled, does this mean you'll start returning your calls?

No. Forget it. Okay, well maybe then. I can at least promise an improvement! For six months we had only a cell phone with which to stay in the communications pipeline. We found these worked great if you scale the phone tower and hold the phone directly in front of the cell's antenna. But AT&T's grand claims notwithstanding, their digital cell phone system stinks and we were constantly frustrated with how little of the country actually receives coverage. Two tin cans connected by a taught string have greater range than AT&T's ballyhooed wireless network. However, we are now back on the grid, hardwired once again to the world, and back to normal, such as it has ever been for us. Autographed books, prints, dive trips, lenses, you name it, we got it. Call us at 603-968-7625. We're back!

Get Soaked by Rainbowed Sea Tours!

Remember, in spite of our personal move, all calls concerning dive tours and other travel related questions should be directed to our office on our toll free number, which remains, as always, in Kona, lorded over by the ever trustworthy, dedicated and hard-working Phyllis. That number is: 1-800-762-6827. The fax is: 808-326-1658. The call won't cost you a dime, but we promise to soak you if you come on one of our tours!

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Rainbowed Sea Tours, Inc.
74-5590 Luhia Street
Kailua-Kona, HI 96740

Toll Free: (800) 762-6827
FAX: (808) 329-2608
In Hawaii: 326-7752

www.rstours.com