Idea Hotel

Check in for intelligence, insight, and vision.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

My Code Name was "Vicuna"

On October 29, 20--, Harry sent me a clipping from the The Economist which turned out to an advertisement for a clandestine career with the Central Intelligence Agency, with the subtitle, "Possibly, the most demanding job in the world."

Nick,
GO FOR IT! As you know your uncle Harry spent a number of years in the intelligence services as a special agent. If you want advise (sp) simply give me a call . . .

My Code name was "Vicuna"
Vicuna? What the hell did that mean? According to Bonny Doon Alpacas:

Vicunas are the spirit and the life blood of the camelid families living in the high Andes. Unfortunately, due to their very valuable fleece vicunas were nearly hunted to extinction by the late l970s. Conservation efforts in Peru, Chile and Argentina have led to a phenomenal resurgence in vicuna populations. Once again, due to careful management, vicunas can be found in healthy numbers in the Andes.
Here is a picture of a Vicuna:


The Vicuna lends some insight into the operations against NK, possibly suggesting a mountainous area of operations and patrol. However, the ocean always figures prominently in Harry's long and sustained dream. Apropos, the young Vicuna is easily distracted from the rest of the herd by the sound of the waves below.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

End of a Cold Warrior

Harry's ashes sat in a box on my cousin's mantel for six months after his death. Finally, my cousin's husband said it was time to scatter them. Harry wanted his ashes in the Pacific, preferably under the blue waves of Trestles in San Onofre, site of his high school surf sessions before joining the Army. This feat proved to be too much for the funerary budget. Instead we hired a boat in San Pedro and scattered Harry's ashes about a league beyond the breakwater. For the first time I saw the Los Angeles lighthouse, built in 1913.

I was surprised when the sea captain lowered the ashes overboard in a special bucket draped with bright flowers. At first, I thought he'd send the bucket adrift, like a tiny funeral barge. When he pulled a tethered cord, the bucket flipped over and dumped Harry's ashes into the green water. The ashes seemed to be fine white sand from some faraway beach. We cast red carnations in the air and watched them paratroop over the watery grave. We circled twice and rang the ship's bell eight times. I couldn't help but wonder if there was something more I could have done, back when the struggle for life was still being fought. Harry reminds me of the latter day Ulysses in Tennyson's poem, restless with old age, and longing for a final mission.

We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.