J. Beaman - The Magazine

Ok, everything’s fine. I got a place to live for the next few months (a chance to get my bearings and learn the language). It’s in a great neighborhood (Sion, close to Savassi, if you’re wondering) with a great guy (Marcelo). It’s actually Eduardo’s room as he is in Angola for four months.

Sorry about yesterday’s post. I think I just had to bleed my vagina out a bit.

As promised, documentation of the paragliding adventure:

Leco, Steve and I arrived, late because this is Brasil and everyone is late, to a flurry of activity and Portuguese chatter. Ten people were standing on a cliff (a ridge, really); some drinking beers, some just watching the majesty of a man floating 300 meters out over the valley. Because we were late, there was little time for introductions and less time for safety instruction (not that I would understand it anyway). Leco gets strapped up and strapped in and I stood there wondering how I was going to communicate when things went bad.

I watched, with mild terror, as Leco abandoned me to the Portuguese gibberish. The Brasilian pilots, noticing my nervousness, kept repeating “Tranquilo” which according my dictionary means calm (duh), clear, easy, or certain. I felt none of those things.

Leco flies away.

Leco flies by. Note how I dropped the camera when they got close to the building. I think I subconsciously didn’t want to film Leco’s death.

They strapped me in and tried reassure me. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The guy in the red shirt in the pic above helped me get clipped and buckled and explained the process to me in rudimentary Portuguese. Hold (segurar) on here. Walk (andar) as the parachute fills with air and lift (levantar) my legs and fly away. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The pilot (Steve and I are sure they were saying bombeiro-firefighter or bombardeio-bombardment but we’re not certian. those don’t sound right) spoke no English. Fala nada. Speak nothing. We were not even on the cliff for more than 12 minutes and I was away.

We zigzagged back and forth along the edge of the ridge and it was marvelous. The wind, heated by the iron in the ground (this is the state of Minas Gerais - literally meaning general mines ) whips along the valley floor and up the slope of the ridge and into our parachute and up we fucking went. Calm, clear, easy, certain. After about 15 minutes of staying near the ridge (remember I have no idea what the fuck is going on - do we land back on the ridge? do we land on the valley floor? how long are we going to be up there?) we began to move out to the wide world; the really real world. 650 meters up and cruising along at about 40km/h. No shit.

Leco off in the distance. Again I stopped filming when Leco’s death seemed imminent.

After a bit I figured out that we were going to land way, way far away (3km, it turns out) from where we took off. As we started to descend, my pilot, emphatically repeated, “Levantar! Levantar!” and tapped my legs. I lifted my legs and we glided down and crashed through some bushes and slid our asses along the ground, somewhat ignobly but safely.

I was relived to be on the ground. And I was even more relived that about 100 meters from the landing sight was the coolest, tiny country bar with a few pilots and a few country people hanging out in it drinking beer.

These kids were parked out front in classic youth fashion. Miscreants. Teenagers. With big block Dodge. The world is the same everywhere.

I haven’t mentioned that Steve had been up on the ridge this whole time, patiently waiting his turn. And, not surprisingly, my favorite part of the whole adventure was hanging out down there at that awesome bar, drinking with these crazy Brasilians for hours while Steve and Leco drove up and down the ridge, shuttling the pilots and themselves.

View from the bar to the ridge.

Steve’s flight in.

I was fairly drunk when Steve came in for his landing. Living the dream, right? Right.

Steve’s landing.

So, what have we learned? I’m a big baby. Everything is not going to be ok, everything already is ok. And there could be worse ways to learn a foreign language.
Tchau!

I’m good with the plans. I’m passable with the executions but really really good with the plans. And, boy-o, do I have a new plan. A post Brasil plan.

Some of my favorite regulars from Firefly took me sailing on Saturday. I was so excited, I woke up at 6:30am and tossed and turned and worried that I might get seasick. I met Mark and Peter at Mark’s house in Noe Valley (very, very close to the Firefly) and we hopped right in the car and drove to South San Francisco to the Oyster Cove Marina where the boat is docked.

Before we go any further: how awesome do I look on a sailboat?

As we motored out towards the bay bridge I wrung my hands and worriedly paced (or the reasonable equivalent, on a smallish boat), having not taken Dramamine, terrified of falling overboard or some other less disastrous clumsy mishap when the fucking coast guard pulls up, port side, requesting to come aboard. It seems crazy that the coast guard can just pull up to you and hop on board but that’s what they do and Mark didn’t seem worried so I just hung out and chatted with them. Two of them got on board and two of them stayed in their little boat behind us.

Everything was fine, no one went to jail and we motored on passing under the bay bridge, waiting for the wind. And, as expected by the more seaworthy of us, just as we passed under the bay bridge, the wind picked up and with a flurry of activity sails were raised and we were at a 10 degree angle cruising along. I had no idea that sailing was so….fucking manly. It satisfies my desires of manhood. Not convinced?

Try that. I know you’re convinced now. So, when I’m ready (post Brasil, post sailboat buying, post practice) I sail out the golden gate and head south, land in Morro Bay, Long Beach, the Mexican Coast, Central America, through the Panama Canal. I’ll meet all my friends in Galveston and then sail the east coast. I’ll see how it feels.

Wanna come with?

More pics.

The beer is cold. Ice fucking cold. For reals. The refrigerators have large LCD thermometers, -3 deg (C, of course), -8, -15, sometimes it comes frozen. It’s mostly (at least in your average bar) Pilsner style–good but not great but, fuck me in the face, it’s cold.

I was dropped off today in a neighborhood called Savassi (in Belo Horizonte)–possibly to meet up with a tattoo artist friend of Luciana’s. She was cool–looked like a tattoo artist chic–a little bit hot, a little bit rundown but I hella made a tattoo appointment with her for Friday. What to get? I’ll work it out.

Ok.

I’m fucking moving here. Not because it’s great. It is great but everywhere is great when you’re on vacation. Steve needs me. It’s hard down here for him–it would be hard for anyone–but that’s not why either. I need adventure. I crave it. I need the the stimulation. I need to learn a foreign language. Think about it–I could come down here in June with about 10,000 bucks, live on that easily for six months or longer and be a friend to one of the greatest men that I have ever know, Steve Blanton. Of course, why wouldn’t I? And I’m young. I could live here for six months, a year, fuck….five years and still come back to SF (with a hot brazilian wife) and open a restaurant.

Oh, and another rad thing. Thumbs up. The thumbs up is a goddamn passport in this country. Thumbs up and hang loose. Thumbs up to the security guys–to your waiter–thumbs up to the guy who gives you directions. What a great country. Everyone is ecstatic to be alive here. I’m ecstatic to be alive here.