From Space, No One Can Hear You Quack
I've been playing with Google Earth for a while now (the free version, of course). It's fun to note what car was parked in front of your house when the satellite passed over your neighborhood. In my case, no car out front; but the wife's burgandy Camry is in the drive where it ought to be. Don't believe me? Check out the new Usepic!
Since home owner documents rarely come with latitude and longitude coordinates, I had to hunt for our house by using known and easily found landmarks and zooming ever closer. I then did this for my friend's house nearby, for my Mom's old house, Dad's house, the in-laws place (with help from the wife who is quite a bit more familiar with Lowell, Mass). . . hours of fun. Next came Devil's Tower, Wyoming and a few other famous places.
What then?
I started looking up old work sites. This was quite a bit more of a challenge, since I was until the last few years a working merchant mariner. My workplaces have a fixed location, sure; but only when they are at the dock. Folks, boats move. That's part of the fun. I found some of the easier targets, sometimes twice! The free Google maps have overlays of different pics, taken obviously in different times of days, even seasons.
Then I started hunting for the more obscure, smaller targets.
Here's what I found, at 47∘ 38' 51" N by 122∘ 19' 40":
I left the image larger than one might be tempted otherwise to illustrate the wake following the moving craft. Note it's prominance. That indicates a hull not necessarily built for optimal hydrodynamic slip, evident even at this low speed. You see, this shot is taken from Lake Union, Washington, a lake with a police-enforced 7 knot speed limit. Make this kind of a wake at less than 7 knots, and I can assure you, your hull is awkward in shape.
Note also that the wake starts just at the head of the boat. This tells the intrepid investigator that the hull starts below the visible deck, rather than cantilevering in from a prominant prow. Overhanging prows help most boats negotiate waves, rather than allow them to plow right into the leading edge of the vessel and slop, perhaps, up a vertical-ish wall to the deck.
Not this thing, evidently. It must be either very low to the water, riding with the water just below the overhanging fore-deck, or shaped like a brick. Who would design such a poor vessel? Why?
For clues, let's look elsewhere to see if we can spot others. Here's one, at 42∘ 21' 53" N by 71∘04' 26":
This pic suffers from the overlapping image sydrome I mentioned above, sure; but one can still see enough similarities with the Lake Union picture. Differences include a shorter overall length; a short canopy that exposes the aft, revealing what appear to be two rows of something; a different color; and a longer forward section ahead of the canopy.
What other clues were available? Near the image immediately above, I found this shot at 42∘ 22' 6" N by 71∘ 04' 9" W:
Why am I showing you a picture of a river's shore without vessels? Take your eyes away from the water and look at the pair on land:
Look familiar?
I introduce you folks to my old employer, the WWII DUKW, now modified in various ways and serving passengers all over this globe. Yes, I drove that monstrosity all over the fair Space Needled city, loading, in fact, very near the Needle at 47∘ 37' 17.30" N by 122∘ 20' 49.49" W (just above Duckzilla, the giant inflated cartoonish duck mounted upon the ticket booth at Fifth and Broad).
This picture below shows three of the above Branson-modified ducks awaiting passengers for a 1 1/2 hour trip through Seattle's exquisite traffic both on land and water. This is the time the captains take breaks of just a few minutes before wracking their bodies and souls navigating lumbering General Motors war surplus through tight streets and entertaining what can only be described as a jaded public expecting someone other than themselves to be responsible for their personal entertainment. Oh, let me tell you the joys of pretending to be happy, informative, and safe while quacking on a plastic toy, cracking jokes, pointing out historic drivel and obscured photo-ops, all while queueing a stereo with rimshots, fart noises, giggles, and other uplifting sound effects, simultaneously attempting to safely divide my attentions between a load of zombies onboard and a city of weaving idiots on both road and water.
Piece of cake.
There are dissenters. These guys are local, probably located in Fremont or Belltown, two hipster hangs that, according to them, belong only to hipsters. Others, even those here on the LJ, have adopted the anti-Duck message, like razzyfazzy. Check out his default Usepic!
Go to the Stop the Duck web site -- which, incidently, has a great DUKW history and cool pictures -- and you will find downloadable and printable stickers bearing this image, minus the "STOP THE . . . OCCUPATION" verbage. Just the profile and the French. They encouraged folks not only to foul our fair city with this opinion, but to tag the ducks themselves as they were stopped in traffic or at lights. I can't count the number of times I pull in to the nest near Duckzilla and find a fresh sticker on the bow, the stern, or whereever.
I loved it. We captains and crew used to peel them carefully off the ducks to keep as souveneirs. We proudly pasted them on our own cars, incongruously next to rubber duckies on the dash and Whacky Quackers hanging from the headrests.
Each Canard tag I wore as a Badge of Honor, showing the world my proud work pissing off huffy dilatantes, local elitists who for some reason feel tourists should wander with backpacks and Tevas, grokking local traditions along with the locals, rather than conveniently riding high above the crowds, occassionally quacking their amusement.
Don't believe me? A local fanzine rag printed a comic inspired by a letter from two women, entitled "Fuck the Ducks." They vented their ample spleen at the popular tourist attraction, demanding that people visit neighborhoods "on foot." Ladies Look, bitches, not everyone is as healthy or ambulatory as you expect them to be. Not everyone has the time to learn a city well enough to avoid touring crack whore corner instead of the Troll.
I took your condemnation as confirmation. For years, I drove to piss you off. And, according to many, I was damned good at it.
Sorry for the lengthy rant. I had to get my former job, filled with stories, off my chest. I'll tell some of those stories when I find the time, including the one that left me with this picture:
I'm the one with the fire in my eyes. And a quacker in my mouth.
I, Peristaltor, was once known as Captain Bill Loney. I drove a Duck.
Ducks that can now be seen from space.
Since home owner documents rarely come with latitude and longitude coordinates, I had to hunt for our house by using known and easily found landmarks and zooming ever closer. I then did this for my friend's house nearby, for my Mom's old house, Dad's house, the in-laws place (with help from the wife who is quite a bit more familiar with Lowell, Mass). . . hours of fun. Next came Devil's Tower, Wyoming and a few other famous places.
What then?
I started looking up old work sites. This was quite a bit more of a challenge, since I was until the last few years a working merchant mariner. My workplaces have a fixed location, sure; but only when they are at the dock. Folks, boats move. That's part of the fun. I found some of the easier targets, sometimes twice! The free Google maps have overlays of different pics, taken obviously in different times of days, even seasons.
Then I started hunting for the more obscure, smaller targets.
Here's what I found, at 47∘ 38' 51" N by 122∘ 19' 40":
I left the image larger than one might be tempted otherwise to illustrate the wake following the moving craft. Note it's prominance. That indicates a hull not necessarily built for optimal hydrodynamic slip, evident even at this low speed. You see, this shot is taken from Lake Union, Washington, a lake with a police-enforced 7 knot speed limit. Make this kind of a wake at less than 7 knots, and I can assure you, your hull is awkward in shape.
Note also that the wake starts just at the head of the boat. This tells the intrepid investigator that the hull starts below the visible deck, rather than cantilevering in from a prominant prow. Overhanging prows help most boats negotiate waves, rather than allow them to plow right into the leading edge of the vessel and slop, perhaps, up a vertical-ish wall to the deck.
Not this thing, evidently. It must be either very low to the water, riding with the water just below the overhanging fore-deck, or shaped like a brick. Who would design such a poor vessel? Why?
For clues, let's look elsewhere to see if we can spot others. Here's one, at 42∘ 21' 53" N by 71∘04' 26":
This pic suffers from the overlapping image sydrome I mentioned above, sure; but one can still see enough similarities with the Lake Union picture. Differences include a shorter overall length; a short canopy that exposes the aft, revealing what appear to be two rows of something; a different color; and a longer forward section ahead of the canopy.
What other clues were available? Near the image immediately above, I found this shot at 42∘ 22' 6" N by 71∘ 04' 9" W:
Why am I showing you a picture of a river's shore without vessels? Take your eyes away from the water and look at the pair on land:
Look familiar?
I introduce you folks to my old employer, the WWII DUKW, now modified in various ways and serving passengers all over this globe. Yes, I drove that monstrosity all over the fair Space Needled city, loading, in fact, very near the Needle at 47∘ 37' 17.30" N by 122∘ 20' 49.49" W (just above Duckzilla, the giant inflated cartoonish duck mounted upon the ticket booth at Fifth and Broad).
This picture below shows three of the above Branson-modified ducks awaiting passengers for a 1 1/2 hour trip through Seattle's exquisite traffic both on land and water. This is the time the captains take breaks of just a few minutes before wracking their bodies and souls navigating lumbering General Motors war surplus through tight streets and entertaining what can only be described as a jaded public expecting someone other than themselves to be responsible for their personal entertainment. Oh, let me tell you the joys of pretending to be happy, informative, and safe while quacking on a plastic toy, cracking jokes, pointing out historic drivel and obscured photo-ops, all while queueing a stereo with rimshots, fart noises, giggles, and other uplifting sound effects, simultaneously attempting to safely divide my attentions between a load of zombies onboard and a city of weaving idiots on both road and water.
Piece of cake.
There are dissenters. These guys are local, probably located in Fremont or Belltown, two hipster hangs that, according to them, belong only to hipsters. Others, even those here on the LJ, have adopted the anti-Duck message, like razzyfazzy. Check out his default Usepic!
Go to the Stop the Duck web site -- which, incidently, has a great DUKW history and cool pictures -- and you will find downloadable and printable stickers bearing this image, minus the "STOP THE . . . OCCUPATION" verbage. Just the profile and the French. They encouraged folks not only to foul our fair city with this opinion, but to tag the ducks themselves as they were stopped in traffic or at lights. I can't count the number of times I pull in to the nest near Duckzilla and find a fresh sticker on the bow, the stern, or whereever.
I loved it. We captains and crew used to peel them carefully off the ducks to keep as souveneirs. We proudly pasted them on our own cars, incongruously next to rubber duckies on the dash and Whacky Quackers hanging from the headrests.
Each Canard tag I wore as a Badge of Honor, showing the world my proud work pissing off huffy dilatantes, local elitists who for some reason feel tourists should wander with backpacks and Tevas, grokking local traditions along with the locals, rather than conveniently riding high above the crowds, occassionally quacking their amusement.
Don't believe me? A local fanzine rag printed a comic inspired by a letter from two women, entitled "Fuck the Ducks." They vented their ample spleen at the popular tourist attraction, demanding that people visit neighborhoods "on foot." Ladies Look, bitches, not everyone is as healthy or ambulatory as you expect them to be. Not everyone has the time to learn a city well enough to avoid touring crack whore corner instead of the Troll.
I took your condemnation as confirmation. For years, I drove to piss you off. And, according to many, I was damned good at it.
Sorry for the lengthy rant. I had to get my former job, filled with stories, off my chest. I'll tell some of those stories when I find the time, including the one that left me with this picture:
I'm the one with the fire in my eyes. And a quacker in my mouth.
I, Peristaltor, was once known as Captain Bill Loney. I drove a Duck.
Ducks that can now be seen from space.