Pho What?

I've been asked what a PhoGun is?  It is a clever play on Shogun, James Clavell's first novel.  I was captivated by the story, which led to a lifetime interest in Asian culture and history.  After a 4-year stint in the Navy where I had the opportunity to see Japan, Okinawa, Guam, the Phillippines, Thailand, Viet Nam, and Singapore, I returned home and started the rest of my life.

I knew there was a book in me so I started writing my first novel more than several years ago.  Pho is the main character, a Vietnamese soldier left behind in the evacuation of 1975, abandoned by his American friends.  He escapes by boat and immigrates to the United States.  The premise of the story is that nothing comes easy for Pho, he struggles for what he has, without complaint.  The three important aspects of his character are Courage, Integrity, and Attitude (CIA, clever again!).

Courage to face each day, whatever it brings, good or bad.  He believes that "pushing through fear is ultimately less difficult than living with the feeling of helplessness".

Integrity to accept his own truth, to be his own man, to be independent and free.  He relies on himself to overcome life's obstacles, not on any government or institution.  Integrity also includes Responsibility - responsibility for one's self and for those dear to him, defense of himself and those needing his protection.

Attitude is always positive, he refuses to be a victim, or to waste time on negativity.

Through this blog I will post articles reflecting these three virtues, comment occasionally on current affairs in light of these virtues, and continue writing to finish that novel (I keep telling myself it's the journey, not the destination that is important.  Eventually I would like to arrive).

Lake Powell Arrowhead

The Run

The sun is already setting when the boats go into the water.  The cars and trailers are parked; there is time for one more cell phone call home.  Once in the canyons there will be no more connection.  Running down to the dock, the others are waiting, anxiously, cocktails in hand, motors running and warmed up.  Everything we drink for the rest of this guy’s only weekend houseboat trip on Lake Powell is called a cocktail.  Even these luke warm beers.  The lines are cast off and we motor slowly through the wake-less speed zone next to the slips that anchor the large houseboats.  Once clear of the buoy we accelerate quickly, following in the wake of the lead speedboat.  It is smoother here.  The wind is alternating warm and cool as eddies of air above the land and water start the nightly intermingling with the waning of the sun.

We pull out of the wake of the lead boat and ride on their port side, catching up to run parallel and neck and neck with them.  A tip of the can in a small salute to each other and the acknowledgement that we are back on Powell, looking forward to some much needed down time.  One last look at the cell phone confirms the fading antenna connection, going, going, gone.  It feels like we are coming out from underneath an electronic umbrella.  I can see it clearly in my mind, know what it represents, and know it is one more tie cut with our business day routines.

I look at the flaming buttes jutting stately into the cloudless, blue evening sky, the pink band already following the setting sun, the darker indigo on the eastern horizon, the direction we are heading.  The brightest evening stars are beginning to blink.  The whole scene is prehistoric; we are looking at the geology born when this part of the canyon witnessed the dinosaur’s dive into extinction.

The water has a slight chop, but at the speed we're going, we glide across the tops of the small waves in smooth, bounding arcs, across the wide-open water of the main canyon.  We have the entire lake to ourselves.  No houseboats, speedboats, or jet skis on the water, an advantage of coming here in April.  The nights are cold, the days are warming, the water is frigid.  We continue on, the tension of the road trip and workdays flaking off us like snake skin molt.  Our spirits begin to absorb the solitude.  

Half an hour into the canyon, running lights now glowing, another boat up ahead with lights on squats low in the water.  As we approach, he suddenly stands the bow up, a white-water wake churns and boils astern, turning sharply to the direction we are headed.  He catches up and we are three boats abreast running together.  I look to see another familiar face, a wave of the hand, a greeting smile.

We turn into a narrower canyon, slow the engines, and fall into single file.  Twilight is past, don’t be on the water when it's dark!  The water level is down 32-feet, boulders normally safely submerged are dangerously close to the surface.  Our seasoned lake navigator in the lead guides us through the darkening canyon, twisting, turning, the rumble of engines echoing between canyon walls.  One last bend and there she is, the Wind Rose, anchored securely to the beach, lights on, music drifting across the water, guys making their way to the stern of the houseboat to accept anchoring lines.  Friends not seen in these parts for quite some time extend one hand of greeting and one hand passing a cold beer.   We have arrived.