Today was the first day I have seen this sea with any waves. It is usually quite flat. There were people surfing (which seldom happens here, at any time of the year). I found it difficult to stand in the waves, as they had tremendous power on-shore (remember, the beach in Barceloneta is entirely man-made, and drops off very quickly).

Two drunk guys on the beach today, here in Barceloneta, between 7:30 and 8:00 pm. One was completely wasted and trying to get back into the water. His friend, who had just opened another bottle of beer was blocking him, to the best of his ability.

The drunk guy (without the bottle in his hand) made it past his friend and fell face first into a wave. He lay there, face down, not moving while the wave tossed him a half meter high and low. As it tumbled him, he tried to stand but couldn’t get back to his feet.

His friend, still holding the beer, walked out into the water and tried to guide him back to shore. The next wave knocked him over as well, his beer now a mixture of salty water and brew.

The first guy was being tossed about as if in a washing-machine, mostly with his face under water. It was clear he was not going to get out again and would likely drown.

Thousands of people on the beach, yet no one doing anything. I ran down to the shore and waited. I did not want to go out into the water, as he could pull me under. The next wave tossed him to my feet, the water a half meter deep. I grabbed his shirt, lifted him, wrapped my arms under his and dragged him up onto the beach. He attempted to stand, stumbled, and I dragged him further up, to dry land.

Again, no one else assisting, but everyone watching.

He struggled to his feet, coughing, and tried to walk back into the water. I placed my leg behind his, pushed hard on his chest, and took him down. I threw his arm over his head and pinned it to the sand, placing my knee on his upper arm, the full weight of my body on his chest.

I yelled at him, “Hombre! No mas! No pincha mas, ok?!”

He nodded, but was still catching his breath.

His friend came along side, bottle still in hand. I pointed to the bottle and told him to empty it. He did, on command, and then thanked me for helping his friend.

I held him in position until he stopped struggling, and asked his friend to look after him (for what that was worth). I stood, they both shook my hand. Ten minutes later, they were both wobbling around the beach again.

By the public showers, I watched, waiting to see what would happen. Someone offered them two Cokes. The drunk fell down and lay still.

Barcelona, Spain – July 20
I was in the ocean twice today, at 7:30 am and again this evening. The water is so incredibly warm. I have not experienced anything like this since Hawaii. Amazing. I swam nearly 1km today, with one break on the beach. I am not an efficient swimmer, having had no lessons since I was six years of age.

This evening I will watch a few Youtube videos to see if I can improve my strokes.

I typically move from breast stroke to side stroke to back stroke to the other side and breast again, essentially rolling as I go to give muscle groups a break. All my days in the turbulent surf at Muizenberg, even if on a surf board, has given me greater confidence in the ocean, and more stamina.

Today, I recognised that I had hit a swimming “high”, the sensation that I could go on forever. As with running, it took about 30-40 minutes for me to get past that first plateau, and then the breathing and rhythm came easily.

My goal is to swim 1 mile, without a break, before I leave Spain.

July 24
I accomplished my goal! I swam 1.65 km (1 mile) without stopping. Damn! It took over an hour. Might have been faster to crawl on all fours (backward), but I made it.

The stretch between the man-made break (upper right) and the coastline near the W Hotel (lower right) was a bit scary for me as I have never swam that distance before, unable to see the bottom or return to something safe.

However, what the satellite image does not show are a half dozen buoys, anchored by long chains to the ocean floor. If need be, I could have clung to one of them, each was about 100 meter apart.

When I completed the lap, I felt as thought I had been run over by a bus, went back to Matt’s flat and slept for an hour.

Such amazing adventures unfold when you live life with little planning.

Tired of sweating all day, and all night, I decided to sleep on the beach here in Barcelona, two nights ago. Had to wait ’till the police cleared everyone off, the sand grooming machines gone, everyone returned to settle in for the night.

I fell to sleep to the sound of waves at my feet, and a solo trumpet playing a few dozen meters behind me. At 3:00 am, I woke to a light rain on my face. I was not worried until the lightning strikes were visible in the foreground. With the majority of patrons in this open air hostel, I packed my blankets and walked back toward my borrowed flat, to the patter of rain drops on the sand.

Not far from my resting spot, I noted a woman’s purse, unattended. I looked to a couple sitting ten meters to my front. They shrugged. I took it with me. The next morning I opened it to find a novel in English, a Spanish ID card, a bank card, eye glasses, a number of pencils, pens, and a sketchbook filled with wonderful sketches and drawings.

I worked for two hours to locate “Carla Besora”. I found her address an hour north of Barcelona, a few tickets stubs to know she was in the area the same day I discovered her bag. A Google search confirmed photos with the ID card.

I called Carla’s number in Brussels, as given in the notebook, but it was switched off. I contacted the company which hosted the photos I found via Google. They denied knowing her. I confirmed what I saw in Google images, wrote again, and directly referred to the photos on their website.

“Ah! Yes! We interviewed her last year! Good investigation work! I will email her your contact information.” Two hours later, I received a phone call. It was Carla. She was so excited that I had found her bag. As is standard in Barcelona, it was nabbed while she was sitting on the beach, cash removed, and then dropped only a few meters distance.

Carla came to meet me yesterday evening. She is an illustrator, and that notebook contained all her ideas for the past several months. As a gift for my effort, she presented me with one of her books, a beautiful, rich journey through an iconographic story without words.

I encourage you to visit her work at cargocollective.com/carlabesora

What an adventure, unplanned!

Here in Madrid, Spain, I reunited with Dalia, a friend I have not seen since 2004 in the little mountain town of Vinales, Cuba.

Between the two of us, we recalled so many splendid moments in those distant days, when the call of the limestone climbing was all that mattered. I would sharpen a machete each morning and march through farmers’ fields, cutting pathways to caves and boulders. The Cubanos on their way to work, standing in the back of a Russian dump truck or crammed too tight in an old bus, would pass and yell to me, wondering why this American was carrying a machete and where he could be going.

Each weekend my Cuban friends would follow me to those hollow domes, to be the first to climb the new problems I had set. Do you remember “La vangenza de Ana Maria”? A mossy, slippery, nearly green wall at the back of the cave. Ana Maria, the smallest of us all, was the first to make it to the top without falling.

When the sun had set, we filled the plastic containers my host family daily provided for my lunch with rocks and sand, marching down the middle of the road by moonlight. We danced and sang to the rhythm of shakers and shoes against pavement.

Once we were camped at a home not registered as a casa particular and a neighbour called the police, a typical event in a totalitarian state. Anibal’s aunt would be fined, jailed, or worse–if caught with Americans in her home. Taralee and I jumped in the back of a dump truck and sped off to a designated intersection marked by a large tree, an hour down the road. We were reunited later that day and Anibal’s aunt was unscathed.

Posterboy Anibal, Russo, Renier, Dalia and Elaine, El Turbo and Anna Maria, the German Tom and Canadian Devin. What an eclectic crew, like none before and none to come again. Dalia confirmed this evening, as we walked to catch her bus, “You came at a special time Kai. Those days were very unique. Nearly everyone we knew left Cuba and Vinales was never the same.”

Those moments came to life for me again, like something out of a story book.

Thank you Dalia, for conversation and story time.

My time in South Africa has been one of constant adjustment, of intentionally holding doors open in order that they do not prematurely shut; and sometimes being surprised by those which present themselves without even the sound of a key being inserted nor the turning of the knob.

The beach has become my home. It’s daily redesign by wind and water presents a new realm to explore. I no longer find the need to move from place to place, for each day there is something new unfolded before me.

Massive piles of kelp appear overnight while some mornings bring a scattering of snails, blue bottles, or sharp, black shells. What would require a labour force of hundreds of pairs of human hands coupled with powerful engines, scoops, and locomotion is undone in a matter of hours by the liquid fingers of the wave, tumbled foam, and gravity.

Sometimes the ocean brings a baby seal onto shore, separated from its mother, abandoned for reasons unknown, or orphaned by the success of the sharks which reside just past the surfers’ backline. The seal swims onto the beach, is rolled by the next wave, and while curious about the human lookers on, any approach is met by its bark and retreat.

Unfortunately, it is not only the sharks that torment these young, for humans too seem to share a propensity for harming those things which should be left alone. Last month a surfer rescued a baby seal not from the sharks, but from kids who kicked it and threw stones while it moved along the shore. It seems respect for life is gained only after our inherent curiosity about death is explored.

As when I lived at Buffalo Peak Ranch in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, I have again learned to shape my day based upon what happens out of doors. The weather, the motion of the sea, the rise and fall of the tide. Running, surfing, or swimming based upon what is presented, but combined, a daily routine that carries me from week to week, month to month, for nearly a year.

I have learned to find joy in a place that is not always easy for me.

I have learned to find comfort in the waves that once scared me.

I am again learning to accept what I am given for a day, knowing it may be gone the next.

As published by Space.com
January 29, 2014

Kai Staats, documentary filmmaker and member of the MarsCrew134 team, contributed this article to SPACE.com’s Expert Voices: Op-Ed & Insights.

I recall the first time I stepped into the red coveralls, pulled on the backpack, and with the help of a crew mate, closed the acrylic dome over my head to become part of MarsCrew134. Immediately, the sensation of a real expedition on the Martian terrain was suddenly made real. I could hear my own breathing, the cool air blowing across my face inside my helmet. The sound of those around me in the staging area was muffled and difficult to understand. Once outside, the glare of the Utah desert sun refracted in the scratches of the helmet’s visor, which has seen many Crews come and go over the years.

The Mars Desert Research Station (MDRS) is the second simulated Mars surface exploration habitat and analog research station, owned and operated by the Mars Society. Pioneered by Mars Society member Shannon Rupert, the society built MDRS outside of Hanksville, Utah, in the early 2000s.

NASA had used analogs for decades as a means of conducting research, testing equipment and conducting food and psychological tests to both improve methods of space travel and train astronauts — MDRS built upon that experience. In the years since Rupert envisioned the station, she has always remained fully engaged. Run entirely by a volunteer staff, it is a major endeavor, from managing the water supply, fuel, food, plumbing and generators to staffing a daily Mission Control from 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. every night. Each MDRS team delivers no less than 27 reports each day, measuring water consumption and fuel, and providing engineering, medical, and greenhouse updates.

When in the field, I knew the hardware we wore only moved outside air into our lungs — there was nothing but a mechanical connection between the helmet and the modest, home-built suits, worn and in need of repair. Yet, there was a certain excitement, an anticipation of the first, mock, extra-vehicular activity (EVA) of the day, which was amplified by the effort required to open the station’s airlock door.

I helped Ewan Reid, a Canadian electrical engineer, roboticist and member of MarsCrew134 configure the carrying deck of the RoadNarrows Kuon rover: a prototype, large-scale, multipurpose, wheeled, payload platform. The rover carried our payload, a laptop coupled with a pair of cameras that provide stereo vision for terrain mapping. Quarter-twenty bolts, zip-ties with mounting-holes, and kite string serve as mounting points and tie-downs for a machine capable of moving four hundred pounds at twenty miles per hour.

Our family dog, Cedie, died today. For some people, a dog is just a dog. For others, a dog is part of the family. For those who have shared a life with a Great Dane, it is no understatement to say, given their incredible size and demeanor, they are very much human.

But as with all dogs, they are locked into a stage that is, perhaps, akin to a two or three year old, never fully independent, seeing the world through the eyes of a child, forever eager to please. Perhaps that is why we have for thousands of years incorporated canines into our human lives, long ago enticing them to join the hunt and the campfire.

More than any animal on the planet, we have bred dogs to meet so many of our needs—to work along side us in police cars and fire engines, to guide those bound to wheelchairs, to locate lost children and discover hidden dangers. Every day is new for a dog, every day appreciated as though it were the first and the last.

In Cedie’s case, her life was many times extended for she was born without the enzymes required to digest her food. Each and every bowl served this past eight and a half years required the addition of enzymes in order that she could benefit from the sustenance she consumed.

We arrived to the veterinarian, just two blocks from my parent’s house, at 7 AM. The neighbor Darren, my father, mother, brother and I carried her, each holding a fold of the blanket on which she lay. One hundred and forty pounds moved with relative ease from SUV to the floor of the clinic.

The vet needed only a few minutes to recognize the extent of the situation, to let us know that surgery would not likely lead to a positive outcome. Cedie’s twisted stomach had likely also damaged her spleen. It was best to put her down.

It’s that moment, that brief instant in which you realize this companion will no longer be present in your life. It is then that you realize the routine of your day will no longer be built around the needs of this creature for which you have been caring for nearly a decade. It is the loss of the routine, the being needed as much as receiving which will be missed.

I stood in the doorway to the lab where Cedie lay on the floor. My mother was stroking her neck and belly, my father her front left leg. My brother was holding one of her front paws, dew claw to toe nail equal in size to that of his own hand.

The vet had introduced a needle and tube through which a pink fluid (a strange colour for something that brings an end to life). Cedie’s breathing slowed, her eyes no longer made contact with each of us. Her tongue no longer worked to moisten her mouth nor deliver cooling to her insides. Eventually, she … just … stopped.

At some undetermined point in time Cedie’s blood no longer circulated, her bone marrow no longer produced new blood cells, and her nervous system stopped transmitting signals that enabled awareness of temperature, movement of air, aromas and smells which for a dog create a complex map of the world.

At some point, the living, breathing, digesting, interacting body remains a wonderfully complex but no longer animated assembly of organs, cells, and molecules. For eight years, the atoms in Cedie’s body were held captive in the form of a canine. Today, they were released again, free to become something altogether different.

At what moment does one no longer harbour self-awareness? At what point does consciousness cease? We may never know. But when Cedie’s body is returned to the soil, new life will rise from her ashes, the same molecules again given form and function in the cycle of life on this planet Earth.

We thank the momentary form that was Cedie, for the laughter, the frustration, the routine, and the exchange of warmth. Mammal to mammal, pack animal to pack animal, we thank her for leading us around the block countless thousands of times. Through walking Cedie, my father became an integral member, even a leader of this local, historic community. Because of her many children overcame their fear of dogs.

Because of you Cedie, we experienced what it means to give and give and give without expectation of anything in return. That, more than any of the animal features we do share, eyes, nose, ears, and tongue made you a part of our human family.

Next time around, we’ll enjoy you in the flowers and herbs which rise in the spring, their aroma relinquished to the desert air. Again, you will arouse our noses, but this time (we do request) in a more pleasing manner. You’ll still be here, with us, in a wholly new form, recycled over and over, again and again.

My work in storytelling and documentary film this past year, in Palestine, Tanzania, and South Africa has shown me the incredible capacity for humans to do amazing things and at the same time, to conduct the most horrendous acts—based upon the stories we carry in our individual and collective histories.

We use stories as guides through our lives. Stories we tell ourselves, stories we tell others, stories we are and are not aware of which guide our success, our failures, our beliefs about who we are and how we are similar or terribly different from the “others”.

Change the stories we tell ourselves, and we change both our future, and the way we look back at our history.