Golfing in the dark

Golfing in the dark — now that just sounds like trouble.
I can’t seem to make it through nine holes using the same ball in broad daylight, so how in the heck was I going to get through nine holes at dark?
With the help of a bright green glow stick, that’s how.
As soon as I heard about Wildwood Golf Course’s Glo Ball tournament Aug. 15, I knew I would be there. Regardless of the score, it seemed like a whole lot of fun. And I couldn’t quit wondering how such an event could be pulled off.
The golfing itself didn’t seem to be as difficult as rounding up a team. We had a foursome lined up, but then a few days before the tournament we learned that one guy couldn’t make it. Luckily, we were able to find a substitute.
Unluckily, a last-second scheduling conflict left us still one player short for the four-person scramble tournament. Oh well — winning wasn’t really on our minds anyway.
My friend A.J. and I met our third teammate, Steve, out at the course around 8:15 p.m. as the sun was slinking its way out of sight.
We signed in, grabbed 11 glow-in-the-dark balls, our pink and orange glowing necklaces, and then trotted out to hole No. 3, where we’d be starting the nine-hole tournament.
The mosquitoes followed us.
By the time we teed off at about 8:50, it was getting pretty dark, but we could still see the fairway and green.
Steve’s tee shot landed on the green about 20 feet from the pin on the 118-yard par three hole.
A.J. and I missed the green, but in a best-ball tournament, we were able to play Steve’s shot. We couldn’t sink the long putt and settled for a par. This would be the first of many missed putts.
As we got ready to tee off on hole No. 4, it was dark. We were past dusk and into the night, ready to see how we’d fare without seeing fairways. Once darkness set in, there was no need for practice swings; depth perception did not exist any more.
The first tee shot we hit into the night was amazing. Not that it was a great shot, but watching the glowing green orb that was our ball arcing through the air looked way cooler than any shot I’ve ever seen Tiger hit.
Throughout the night, we kept “oh-ing” and “aww-ing” over the glowing balls flying through the air all around us. When there are upwards of 150 people showering the course with glowing golf balls, it looks pretty cool.
Steve’s next tee shot, though, was very strange.
The glow balls have a hole through the middle where you place the glow stick. It’s recommended that you place the ball so the glow stick is perpendicular to the ground when teeing off.
Steve apparently missed that tip and managed to crush the end of the glow stick, sending the ball flying into the darkness with a stream of glowing liquid painting a trail away from the tee box.
This would be the first ball we lost. Many more followed.
As we played, a strange, sudden realization dawned on us: If you’re going to play golf in the dark, it’s probably advantageous to be on a course you’ve played before, especially if it’s one as challenging as Wildwood.
Steve had played the course once about six years ago. Neither A.J. nor I had played it at all, though I had seen some local high school athletes tee off at holes No. 1 and 10 this spring. That didn’t really acclimate me to the course much.
So we kept aiming at the group of four glowing necklaces in front of us, or we’d wait till we say one glowing item not moving: the flag. The flagpoles were adorned with glow sticks, which were also shoved into the hole, so you could see it when putting. Smart.
While Steve kept pounding his driver — and I continued slicing more than Emeril Lagasse — A.J. played smart and down the fairway. As it turned out, his driver never even left the bag, which served as a pretty nice insurance policy for our squad.
But no matter how many times we reached the greens in regulation, we couldn’t figure out a way to sink a birdie putt.
As we finished hole No. 9, we thought it wise to grab a couple more balls from the clubhouse for the last two holes because we were down to one ball apiece. The way things were going, that wouldn’t last two holes.
We were right.
I tried a new strategy on hole No. 10: swing as hard as physically possible. Past experience with this technique showed the ball would either be driven into the ground or sailing far away to a fairway on my right.
This time, somehow, I crushed a drive and it was — believe it or not — straight! Who’d have thought I’d hit my best-ever drive at 11:30 p.m. with a glow-in-the-dark ball? Not me.
But… I actually drove it too straight, and it left the fairway (had I sliced per usual, it would’ve been perfect).
Three hours after we started, we finished with a nine-hole round of 40, which was actually five strokes over par. We had five pars, three bogeys and one double-bogey.
And we also had one of the most fun, definitely the weirdest, rounds of golf I’ve ever played. I know I’ll be back next year, hopefully with a four-person team.

Gettin' my motor runnin'

A while back, I read in one of Mike Weber’s racing stories that the good folks at River City Speedway were looking for people to come out and “pack the track” for their Saturday-night races.
I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I thought I’d ask. One phone call later, I was all set to get behind the wheel of a racecar.
While some scheduling conflicts prevented me from racing until this past Saturday, those same conflicts allowed the excitement and anticipation to build.
Oh, and a little fear festered as well. That whole idea of driving someone else’s car as fast as I can around a clay track with concrete walls was just a little unsettling. Just a touch.
But Mike Harrison, whose car I was driving, did not seem to share that fear.
“I’ve got total confidence in you,” he told me. (At least someone did.)
Mike and his wife, Jenelle, have raced at River City for quite a while, so they know how to move their cars around the track.
In fact, Mike’s 16.313-second qualifying time in his 1978 Chevy Malibu was the fastest of the day in the Street Stock division. So I knew going into my qualifying laps that I had one of the faster cars out there. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves just a bit, so let’s back up to before I first climbed into the driver’s seat.
Before I strapped in, I learned my first lesson: you need long pants and long sleeves at the racetrack. I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but Mike had an extra racing suit he let me borrow.
When I climbed through the window of the white and green No. 15 Malibu, I found myself in a car with just one seat, a roll cage and a couple of pedals. Then Mike handed me the steering wheel.
Unfortunately for me, there were no flight attendants to show me how to strap into my seat belt, and the ultra-safe five-point harness was pretty tricky. I had to connect straps coming over the top from both shoulders with a strap coming up between my legs and to two others hugging my waist from both sides. Not exactly how I buckle up in my Buick.
Sooner or later, I got the harness latched and tightened, then put on my helmet. Then it was time to fire up the engine.
Talk about sensory underload. I couldn’t turn my head very much to either side and the Malibu’s 350 cubic inch engine roared in my ears.
Mike directed me on how to back out of the spot without hitting anyone. Then it was up to me to get to the track so I could “pack it down.” This is basically just driving around at a decent speed, packing the clay into the ground so it’s not too loose when the cars go out to qualify.
This gave me a chance to get a feel for the car before what would be my main event for the day: time trials.
Quite a few cars were scheduled to qualify before me, so I used the last few minutes to pick Jenelle’s brain about driving on the quarter-mile clay oval.
How do I take the corners? How do I stay out of the wall? Do I brake or just let off the gas?
“It’s just like playing in the snow – you’ll slide through the corner and adjust to it. Don’t hit the brakes,” Jenelle told me.
Finally, I was sitting in line to get up to the track to qualify. My heart thought I’d drank four cups of coffee that day, but in reality, I’d had none.
I was the last qualifier to get timed in the street stock division. Basically, I’d drive four laps ... one partial warm-up lap, two timed and one cool-down.
I gunned it down the straightaway on the warm-up lap to see what I was working with. I felt comfortable driving straight, but my next challenge was coming up fast. Really fast.
I thought to myself, “OK, Jenelle said to slow down going in and accelerate about the halfway point. But didn’t Mike say something about powersliding through the turn?”
I went in slow, cautious not to ruin the car. Coming out of the turn I felt fine, so I gassed it again crossing the starting line to begin my first officially timed lap.
I came out of the turns pretty good, hit the straightaway fine, and did OK on turns three and four as well.
My first lap came in at 17.779 seconds, good for last place. The next-slowest lap was a 17.15; the fastest was 14.861.
My second lap was a little more dicey. I handled the first turn OK, but I lost control for a brief moment coming out of the second corner. My tail end started to spin out, then I overcorrected and started heading straight toward the wall. Keeping the day’s lone goal in mind – staying out of the wall – I lifted my foot off the accelerator, straightened out and got going down the straightaway.
This was not going to be a record-setting lap.
I clocked in with a 19.027 for the second lap, a good second-and-a-half slower than my already last-place finish.
Still, considering my prior racing experience was limited to a couple of runs on go-karts at Malibu Grand Prix in Beaverton, I wasn’t too upset with my performance.
And I was extremely pleased with the Harrisons’ generosity and willingness to let me drive their car and hang out with them in the pit area for an afternoon.
Mike said they’re always looking to bring people out to pack the track. Check out www.rivercityspeedway.net to learn more.

It seems I'm always horsing around

The last time I was on a horse, I’m sure I looked like an idiot.
I had gone out to the Deer Island Stables to do some research about horse camps that are instructed by local riders. Thinking I was just going out to talk horses, I thought nothing of making the trip out in slacks, dress shirt and dress shoes.
But, as instructor Kelley D’Agrosa said, “You can’t come to a stable and not get on a horse.”
So this time, I was dressed for the occasion, knowing full well I’d be learning how to ride.
What I didn’t know was that I’d have to think. A lot.
Kelley and fellow teacher Sierra Paxton, both Scappoose High alumnae, were teaching me and two ladies not only how to ride horses, but also how to handle them.
I started out with Royal, a horse I hadn’t met yet. He’s nice.
Roy and I made a few trips around the dusty arena, with me leading the mammoth creature by an 18-inch rope.
After a bit of leading, we all switched horses so we could get comfortable with them all. We got them to walk in circles around us, then trot around us. And we did it by holding a rope and clucking — in horsespeak, “cluck” means “go.”
I clucked more Saturday than any other day in my life.
But it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. To get the horse to go where I wanted it to go, and as fast as I wanted it to go, I had to fight my natural instinct to back away from the horse. Instead, I had to stand in one spot or, if anything, walk toward the horse to show that I was the dominant one… right.
One thing I learned during this exercise is that horses running circles around you in a dusty arena can make you want to brush your teeth a second time in the morning.
With our newfound skills and bonds with the horses, it was time to mount up and do a little bareback riding… with Sierra leading the horse.
I again started on Royal, who was described as a sofa because he’s pretty wide and comfy. I knew I wasn’t a real cowboy when I climbed a stepladder to mount.
Once Royal began walking around the arena, I struggled to balance myself using my hips instead of my shoulders. It wasn’t until Sierra advised me to close my eyes that I relaxed and balanced the right way.
Scary movies, airplane landings — these are times when it makes sense to close your eyes. Riding a horse? I wouldn’t have guessed it, but it was extremely beneficial.
After a while riding Roy, it was time to switch to Tucker. Tucker’s the horse that made me look like a fool in my city-boy attire. He’s narrower than Roy and has a longer stride, so riding him was quite a bit different.
At this point, I learned to figure out when a horse is stepping with his rear, right leg. Sounds simple enough, but it took a lot more brainpower than expected. The giveaway is this:
Say you’re sitting in an office chair that’s lifted as high as it goes, and you lower it — except only the rear, right quarter of the chair dips. That’s how you can tell when the horse is stepping with its leg, which is important to know when you’re a more advanced rider and are telling your horse what to do.
Next up was riding in the saddle. Because Kelley and Sierra want their students to get the whole experience of horse ownership, we first learned to saddle and bridle the horses — something I was finally able to master (sort of).
Leading them from the saddle was quite a challenge, though. Kelley and Sierra set up a little track for us to ride around, complete with barrels and cones for weaving in and out.
For a beginner, getting a horse to turn is hard. Apparently these creatures are much more sensitive than I ever would have imagined and can sense where their rider is looking.
So to initiate the turn, the rider must first look in that direction, then lead the reins with one hand to the side while keeping the other hand forward and applying pressure with the opposite calf.
If you’ve ever tried rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time, you’ll understand how tough it is to coordinate one hand pulling one way and a foot applying pressure the other way. Let’s just say, I messed this up more than once.
I also don’t have the world’s greatest posture, which is not helpful when riding. I can guarantee Sierra was tired of saying, “Keep your hands forward” after she told me to do that for the 600th time. But somehow, they always kept creeping back…
In the end, I started gauging my posture a little better and coordinating myself a little more gracefully, though I expect I’ve still got a long way to go before my rodeo debut.
If you’d like to take the first steps toward excellence atop a horse, call Kelley at (503) 397-9029 or Sierra at (503) 913-3135. They’re better than me.

Back on track, for the first time

Starting back in kindergarten, I was a baseball kid. It stayed that way through high school …when I became more of a softball guy.
At no point did I even consider going out for the track team. Mostly because I’m not what you’d call “fast.”
But with some free time on my hands Tuesday evening, I thought I’d see how I stack up on the track. So I made the quick drive to Scappoose High School to compete in one of the open track meets held there every Tuesday this summer (until July 28).
I was easily the best in my class. Unfortunately, that was because I was the only male competing in the high school/open division.
Had I been 20 years younger, the competition would have been mighty stiff. There were about two-dozen kids ranging in age from about four to 10 or 11. And some of them were pretty quick, even if mom had to run along side them to make sure they knew where the finish line was.
I went with the intention of competing in a few events. My friend Dennis, who ran track when we were at Philomath High School together, set some over/under marks for me: 32 feet in the shot put, 5 feet in the high jump and 14 feet in the long jump.
The first event of the day for me was the shot put. My first throw fell under the mark, measuring out at 31-6. Without any spinach to gobble up, I somehow still found a way to add a couple feet and tossed the next one 33-4, which ended up being my best toss (the other was 32-1).
So far, so good.
I strolled to the high jump pit next, where all of the kids were gathered. Most of them were attacking the bar with a somersault leaping technique. It didn’t lead to a lot of success, per se, but it was highly entertaining for all.
Once the kids took to the track for the hurdle races, I decided to try my luck.
Being wise, I thought I might as well set the bar at 5 feet and just go for it.
That’s too high.
I was able to get my back over it, but my bum nailed the bar on each of the three attempts.
We lowered it to 4-6: same results. Then I quit.
I stumbled by the turbo jav area and decided to try that out. Middle schools have adopted the turbo jav as a replacement for the javelin to increase safety. It looks like something made by Nerf.
Once I learned how to throw it, I was able to toss it out about 60 feet or so, but I didn’t get an official measurement.
The kids crowded the long jump pit, with most of them leaping upwards of 5-7 feet.
It turns out people weren’t that interested in running in any of the events that were longer than one lap, although there were a couple of brave souls who made it around twice for the 800.
No chance you were getting me to do that on a hot day.
A respite from the high temperatures came when Scappoose High baseball coach and teacher Robert Medley, whose kids were competing, brought Otter Pops for the crowd.
I never did end up long jumping, as I had prior arrangements to get to, but there’s no doubt I would have PRed.
If you haven’t made it to one of the open meets yet, you still have one more chance. July 28 is the last meet, and it will begin at 6 p.m. with warm-ups at 5:30. One dollar gets you as many running events as you can handle, and it’s a dollar per field event. All of the money goes to the Scappoose High track and field program.

I got to fly like an eagle

“You’re going to throw up,” is something I don’t hear from my father too often, but I understood why he felt that way when I told him about my latest adventure: airplane aerobatics.

After watching the Columbia County Fair banner being pulled across the St. Helens sky, I made a couple of calls to track down the pilot, Chuck Hamm, because I’d heard he also did stunt flying.

He most certainly does.

Chuck was kind enough to take me for a ride in his 1942 Coast Guard Stearman, a two-seat, open cockpit biplane.

Our trip was postponed a bit at first because he had to track down a friend to whom he had loaned his spare parachute. Thinking about needing a parachute wasn’t very comforting.

Before we got into the plane, Chuck demonstrated the maneuvers we’d be doing with a Styrofoam model airplane. There was to be lots of flipping, turning, and time upside down.

Maybe father does know best, piped a small voice in my head.

Nevertheless, we strapped into the plane, using two seat belts. Then I put the radio on, the propeller started spinning, and I started grinning.

The climb to 3,000 feet was unlike any I’d experienced, considering the air was smacking me straight in the face.

It felt good to escape the 90-degree weather into cooler air higher in atmosphere.

I was surprised to see how many bodies of water there are in Columbia County, as there seemed to be little ponds and lakes sprinkled in quite liberally with the fields and forests.

Once we got up to the 3,000-foot mark above Sauvie Island, it was time to start making some moves.

Chuck started out slow, which was wise considering I was in the front seat, so if I didn’t like what was happening, he was going to get the brunt of it.

A 90-degree turn to the left with the plane sideways and another to the right felt fine, so we advanced a little bit.

And by that I mean we did a loop. I felt completely fine until I looked right into the sun when we were on our upswing. That was stupid.

Next was a barrel roll, which was a little different, considering my shoulder straps started heading down toward the ground. I held on tightly to the handrails and learned what fields look like when they spin over your head: eerily similar to what it’d be like if you did one really long cartwheel a few thousand feet in the air.

Once we came out of the barrel roll, we went into what’s called a hammerhead. In this move, the plane goes up, flips around and then goes straight down toward the ground. It’s like being on the world’s biggest, best, and oddly enough, safest roller coaster.

This move led to a similar one, in which we elevated, and then went straight down toward the ground again. Except this time, Chuck spun the plane in a full circle while the ground was coming up at us. It’s weird when the ground looks like a merry-go-round.

Update: No sickness in the stomach; facial muscles getting a workout as a result of the smile that doesn’t seem to want to leave my face.

Frankly, I think Chuck may have been worried about all the sounds I was making over the radio… mostly laughter, giggling and exclamations of “Awesome!”

For the next trick I went through a Half Cuban Eight. The plane did a little more than half of a loop, then half of a roll.

Eight wasn’t enough, as after the Half Cuban Eight we went into a Lazy Eight. Here the plane did about a quarter of a loop up, then the left wing dipped under the plane, another half of a loop, then the right wing dipped beneath the plane, and then we finished the final quarter loop.

All of the flipping in this move reminded me of the slow motion feeling you get when you do a flip on a trampoline.

To top it off, we did a two-point hesitation, which is basically just as it sounds. Chuck rolled the plane but with a bit of a stall while we were upside down. A bird has a good view of Scappoose High School. The track looks much redder from this perspective.

We went from this into a low-ride, cruising over some fields like a crop duster. Then Chuck pointed to two trees and said we were going to split them.

Naturally, as we approached the trees, the distance between them looked a little too short. So Chuck turned the plane sideways and we split them, with the plane perpendicular to the ground.

This was to be the end of the trip, but as we approached the airport, we noticed some smoke coming from the woods. We flew over to investigate but couldn’t get a good look from our altitude. So Chuck peeled off (think: jets leaving the “V” formation in “Top Gun”) and came around for a closer look. Sure enough, there was a fire burning up the brush near some woods.

In all, we hit five-and-a-half positive Gs and one-and-a-quarter negative Gs (when the plane was heading down for moves like the hammerhead).

For the half-hour we were up there, I don’t think a second went by when there wasn’t a grin on my face.

I’ve never really considered myself an adrenaline junky, but this got my blood flowing and was an absolute blast.

If it sounds like fun to you too, give Chuck a call at (503) 939-0252.

Row, row, row your boat...

On July 8, I readied to conquer the vast waters of the Columbia River once again. But this time, I traded in canvas sails for wooden paddles.
St. Helens High School volleyball coach and Columbia City resident Tom Ray planted the seed in my head a few weeks back. I agreed to ride in to McCuddy’s Marina in Portland with Rick Lugar of Scappoose to join the Mountain Home Canoe Club in a two-hour outrigger practice session.
We got to the docks and I was put in a six-person outrigger with one of the women’s teams.
The six-person boats are about 40-feet long and maybe 4-feet wide, with an arma on the left side that helps keep the boat afloat – if you don’t lean to the right.
“Have you paddled before, Kyle?” seemed to be the question of the night. Nobody seemed to mind that my answer was, “No.”
But nobody felt like taking it easy on me either.
Sitting in seat No. 5, my job was to keep my paddle strokes consistent with seat No. 3. Easy enough, except that once we got away from the dock, talk of throwing a bucket into the water started.
You see, these folks don’t just paddle for fun. MHCC is a competitive club that sends teams to races in Washington, Canada, Hawaii, Bora-Bora and anywhere else the crews choose to go.
So the bucket creates resistance and increases paddle strength. Just what I needed on my first try.
Ten minutes later, we pulled the bucket in and our boat magically became much quicker.
Twenty minutes in, I picked up an anatomy lesson, learning about some muscles I didn’t know I had. And I learned they were sore.
Eventually, I was able to figure out the rhythm of the boat and how to paddle in line with my crewmates. But the part I wasn’t able to grasp very easily was the switch.
Every 15-16 strokes, seat No. 2 yells out “Hut” and the crew switches sides. For example, seats Nos. 3 and 5 would switch the paddle from the left side of the boat to the right while seats Nos. 2 and 4 do the opposite.
These experienced paddlers are able to make the change swiftly without breaking rhythm. Not me.
About the half-hour mark I felt comfortable enough to shift my focus from the paddler in front of me to the beautiful scenery around me. Aside from all the expensive homes overlooking the river, I saw a fish jump just a couple of feet from the boat.
Soon enough, the club decided to switch me out to the faster women’s boat. Sure enough, this boat was ready for a little resistance training as well. Instead of a bucket, it was time to put some rubber tubes resembling a bicycle’s inner tubes into the water to create a drag.
I picked up some more tips and started using more of my body than just back and arms.
Once I grew accustomed to the rhythm on this boat, they felt it was time for me to switch to the fast men’s boat. So I swapped spots once again and joined a new crew.
These guys were fast. In the previous two boats, I thought we were moving well, but we seemed to never pass anyone. Not the case any more.
The outrigger glided across the calm waters in a hurry. The 70-degree, windless day seemed just fine to me. A T-shirt and shorts were comfortable, and the splashes from the paddles kept me cool when it got a little hot.
To the regulars, a day with calm water is boring because there are no waves to dodge and fight with. I wasn’t bored.
After a quick stint on the fast boat, it was time for a bigger change: On to the two-seater.
As I climbed onto the two-seat boat, I heard someone yell to my new partner, “Hey Bill, did you tell him you’re good at flipping boats?” and thought we may not have the best combination in the world.
To be frank, I was pretty surprised I didn’t give everyone in the six-person boats a quick dip in the river. Now it was just the two of us on a smaller boat.
Luckily, we managed to stay afloat for the rest of the trip to the dock. And we caused somebody to lose some money after they bet we’d be swimming.
Unluckily, as Bill pointed out, it’s a lot harder to “hide” on a two-person boat. If I wasn’t paddling, he was going to know who was slacking off. So the last leg of the journey was a bit more challenging.
Once our two-hour, roughly 10-mile excursion ended, we were all treated to some carrot cake for someone’s birthday. It was delicious.
Once I got home, I popped some ibuprofen and gained a newfound respect for these paddlers. That’s hard work, and this club practices Monday and Wednesday for two hours each night, then again for three hours on Saturday. But I’ll bet the pain is worth it when they’re paddling from island to island in Hawaii.
If you’re interested in giving paddling a try, check out www.mountainhomecc.com to learn more.

Swingin' for the fences

I love slow pitch softball.
My career began years ago when I was an underage high schooler filling in illegally on a team with some folks my dad used to play with.
Back then I had the instant advantage of being 25 years younger than everyone else on the team, making me quite a bit faster than the others. I just didn’t have the skills to hit a slow, arcing pitch.
Later, I spent four years on a team with some friends. After a yearlong hiatus, that career is back on track.
I’m playing for Naturalist in the St. Helens Adult Softball co-ed league. We’re in the recreational division, Division 2, which means the competition level isn’t quite as intense as Division 1. But the fun level is still high.
Games are played Monday through Friday, two games a night. Our last game was June 26 against the until-then undefeated The Buzz.
But we gave them a buzz kill, officially winning 23-11.
Trudy Schlaitzer filled in for Chris Singelstad as our pitcher for the game and held The Buzz to single digits before the final inning.
We were able to take advantage of some Buzz fielding miscues in the first inning, as we sent all 10 batters to the plate. The Buzz couldn’t get three outs, and the inning ended after Gene Loss hit for the second time in the inning, giving us a 7-0 lead.
According to SHAS rules, a team can only score seven runs in an inning, except for the final inning, in which scoring is unlimited.
Our right-center fielder, Doug Edwards, stirred up some controversy when he crossed the white line in the outfield too early. When women are hitting, outfielders cannot cross the line until the ball is hit.
Left-center fielder Audrey Hald made sure to let us all know that women could hit it past the line, and proved that in a later at-bat when she smoked one to center.
A few innings later, Tony Davis belted a home run over the fence in center field. Two batters later, Shaun Schlenker didn’t want to be outdone and hit his own homer to right field.
Although I don’t quite have the power to put any over the fence, I added an inside-the-park home run in the marathon that was the seventh inning.
The 240-foot run seemed a little longer than it was and left me (just a little) short of breath.
We sent 18 batters to the plate in the final frame to put the game out of reach.
In fact, The Buzz had everyone on the team hit left-handed because the score was so lopsided. As it turns out, they probably should have adopted this strategy earlier in the game. The first five or six batters in the inning reached base and came around to score before we were able to register an out.
But nobody on our squad seemed to mind. Heck, The Buzz even let the scorekeeper hit at one point, even though she hit right-handed. All part of the fun.

Setting sail on the mighty Columbia

Sailing on the Columbia may seem like a tranquil, relaxing activity to landlubbers watching from the docks — the sails are up, the wind gently guides the vessel downstream, and life is good.
On June 11, I learned first-hand there is a lot more to sailing than kicking back and watching the banks float by.
I boarded Raven, a 35-foot Santana 35 sailboat owned by Rick Calnon, to take part in the St. Helens Sailing Club’s weekly Thursday night race, having no clue what sailing is all about.
The St. Helens Sailing Club is a group of local boat enthusiasts who gather to race different courses each Thursday. Boats racing on June 11 were Raven, Nanuk, Barnestormer, SP&M, Enchantress, Mo-B-Dick, Warrior, Sleazy Dog and Captiva.
With a great crew, we on the Raven were able to nip Nanuk by 60 seconds to win the race around Sand Island, although with this club, it seems having a good time is more important than winning the race.
The races are scored using a handicap system, similar to golf. The faster a boat can go, the lower its handicap. This way, a wide variety of boats can race against each other and still remain competitive.
This was the second win of the season for Raven, while Nanuk has also seen a victory.
A few minutes before 6:30 p.m., the crew of Rich Calnon (Rick’s son), Zach Peterson, Herb Olson, Tammy Blakely and Toni Doggett started furiously tugging ropes to hoist the main sail (in the middle of the boat) and the jib sail (in the front of the boat).
I sat at the back of the boat and watched a bird fly by with a fish in its talons.
Once the clock struck 6:30 and all nine boats had their sails up – except Surprise, which had its motor in the water and no sails up – the horn sounded, and the race was on.
Heading up to the starting line, the boats got a little too close for my comfort, with Nanuk sailing within just a couple feet of Raven. Apparently Nanuk had the right-of-way, forcing us as well as Mo-B-Dick to change paths.
But Rick’s river savvy – he said he learned to sail when he was 8 – helped us grab the lead over Nanuk by staying near the jetty on the Washington shore and keeping out of the current.
Once the spinnakers came up (an even bigger sail at the front of the boat), Raven started pulling away from the crowd.
It was at this point that I couldn’t help but feel I was added weight just getting in the way. Rich and Zach were lifting metal poles, Toni, Tammy and Herb were pulling lines and I was sitting by the rail trying not to foul up the ropes flying by my head.
But along the way, there were several jibe maneuvers performed by the crew. As the rail mate, this was a pretty easy move for me, except the bruised knees I ended up with the next day.
For all the non-sailors, ship jibes occur when the wind changes direction or the boat needs to change its course. The crew flips the main sail, and as a result, the low side of the boat becomes the high side.
For me, this meant scrambling over the ship like a salamander, but not a graceful one. I had to go from one side to another while making sure to stay below the boom (the horizontal bar the main sail is attached to), which is about two-and-a-half to three feet from the ship deck. In other words, there was a lot of frantic crawling by me, hence the bruises.
For everyone else aboard the ship, a jibe meant a lot more work. Pulleys were pulled, sails were moved, and the ship was steered. While it may sound easy, in truth, these maneuvers are quite strenuous for the crew. It’s a good thing I was on strict rail-mate duty.
After we made the turn at the red marker, just upstream of Warrior Rock at the tail-end of the 5-mile course, nobody was going to catch Raven. We breezed back past the 13 Nights on the River concerts and toward the St. Helens marinas at about 6.5 knots to finish the race in 1:01.13.
All in all, my first experience aboard a sailboat was awesome. Not only did it open my eyes to a sport I may otherwise have never tried out, I had the opportunity to take in the sights and sounds of the river — the passing birds squawking at us, the 13 Nights concert, the waves splashing against the boat, sailors talking like sailors.
Not a bad way to spend a Thursday evening.
If you’re interested in having a similar experience, contact Club Commodore Herb Olson via e-mail at herb@kingpac.com or visit www.sthelenssailingclub.org.