I used to fly radio-controlled airplanes. Fun to build and fun to fly. But noisy and polluting. I needed another hobby.

I was passing Harper Lake one day when I spotted a fleet of white sails. U-turn! Radio-controlled model sailboats racing in a regatta just like the big guys. This was perfect. The learning curve was not steep since I could apply my years of windsurfing sail savvy. I happily launched into my new hobby.

But what of all my airplanes? A P-47, a pattern plane, a bi-wing WW1 monster and a Sig Kadet. Do I sell them? Trash them? Or shoot them down. Hmmmmm.

I informed Alex and Zeke of my plan.They were enthusiastic. I quickly contacted my friend Joe San Fellipe. He runs a hobby shop in Cheyenne. He agreed to sign on as pit crew. 

This past weekend, Dixie, Joe and I drove up to the ranch on a fesaibility study. I had selected the Sig Kadet for our first event. It's ideal. It has pontoons, so we don't need a runway. We have a lake. Painted in WW2 German camouflage, it's large and easy to fly. We spent the morning checking out the craft. Control surfaces, servos, electronics and engine. I even changed the name. From now on it would be referred to as Sig Heil. 

We marched toward the lake with some trepidation. Sig Heil was ready but the wind was picking up. And, as we feared, it was impossible to taxi the plane. The wind would weather-vane the large rudder, making steering nonexistent. Too boot, as I lifted the plane from the water, the rear struts of the pontoons broke loose from the fuselage. The Sig Heil would not fly today. 

But stay tuned. Repairs will be made. The plane would be ready. Come spring it will fly and we will take turns trying to shoot it down with paint balls.

We inched our way through the herd of cattle, the bells reminding me of an Oklahoma ranch a long time ago. A young boy beat the animals' flanks to open a path to the village beyond. 

A group of Maasai men stood in the shade of a tree. Dressed in native robes of traditional patterns and colors, they moved toward us as the Land Rover came to a stop. I was introduced to the head man by our guide. The hanging silver discs danced on his forehead as he nodded his greeting. As instructed, I asked what he would charge for a visit to his village. Without hesitation he said, "$100".

I looked back at Dixie. "I'm arguing price with a tall guy holding a spear". She smiled, knowing full well I could handle the negotiations with my usual aplomb. "Sixty-five", I countered, my voice cracking ever so slightly. "Ninety", he replied. 

After ten more minutes of give and take, our guide told me I did very well to get him down to eighty-seven. Had I not negotiated at all, they would have thought less of me. The head man counted the crisp new American bills, threw his garment over his shoulder and gestured us toward the opening in the village's enclosure.

About a dozen small huts circled close to the round outer wall. Little kids peeked out from the doorways only to hide when I lifted my camcorder. Goats were staked here and there. Chickens scattered underfoot. In the center open space a group of about fifteen tall, very tall men had already started chanting. Holding their spears and staffs close to their sides, they began to undulate. Thrusting their shoulders forward to the time of the song, they slowly formed a single line. And danced toward Dixie and me.

They serpentined between us and around us, smiling as they sang. No real melody, just nice, rhythmic sounds  while they furrowed their brows, or widened their eyes giving the words real meaning. I held my camcorder low to accent the height of these wonderful warriors, letting them slip by one by one. Great stuff, I thought to myself as they danced, and never once did they look at the camera. We were mesmerized by the incantations. Repeated. Repeated. Slowly they danced, occasionally brushing against us. I remembered reading somewhere that the Maasai possessed no musical instruments, no drums, no jangles. Only haunting human sounds marshalled this wonderful parade. 

They stopped. And quickly formed a semi-circle. I almost mewed in anticipation. I knew what was coming. The jumping. Who hasn't seen travelogues of the famous jumping Maasai? But this was different. We were there. We were live in the Serengeti. We had video. We had fifteen warriors taking turns jumping almost three feet in the air with a flick of their toes. One at a time. Two at a time. Sometimes three at a time. 

I thought about why this strange ritual had come about. Could it have evolved to spot lions or jaguar in the tall grass? The sensible thing would have been to ask the head man. So I pondered and I shot and they jumped with what I suspected was an occasional, "Way to go!" from some of the onlookers. 

We went on to dance with the women, to visit the inside of one of the homes, buy some trinkets and enjoy the singing of the young students at the distant school enclosure. But nothing will ever compare to those magic minutes we spent on the Serengeti, in a Maasai village with fifteen magnificent men dancing and jumping amongst us.  

PHOTOS BY DIXIE

I was standing by a Maasai warrior near his village in the heart of Tanzania when his cell phone rang.

I generally take one of two paths when I design a logo. In the first, I sketch. The way I did when I was a kid. Putting my ideas to paper. 

In the second method, I sit back and close my eyes. I fool around with some shapes, try out a few fonts and place colors until I have a completely finished logo in my mind. Then I plod through Illustrator, assembling all the elements. Again. Why? It's already right there in my head. It's finished.

I predict that in the near future we will have a direct connection of brain to computer. Implanting the USB socket is the only tricky part.

Back in '62, it was considered a kooky thing done only by beatniks and naturists. Lamaze. Painless childbirth they said. New to the U.S and unheard of in Miami. We searched for a physician who would, or could deliver babies by natural childbirth. Luckily, we found one. Dr. Anderson. And Dixie was his second Lamaze patient. 

We studied the "book". The breathing. The mind set. The father's participation. And we had months and months to practice. At Dr. Anderson's request, we even hosted informal classes for other mothers and fathers-to-be. As the time grew near, it looked as if Dixie was in line to have the second natural Lamaze birth in Florida. 

We were with friends at a coffee shop after attending a C.O.R.E. meeting at the University. Dixie was trying to get my attention, but I was too busy ranting about some social issue. Finally, a fork in the ribs did the job. "My water broke", she said.

What the hell was that. I never heard of such a thing. I was too busy coaching and breathing. The actual biology of childbirth never came up. Close to losing it, I asked, "Is that good or bad?". "It's natural", Dixie replied.

In the delivery room, Dixie was calm as she employed the proper breathing techniques between contractions. My job was to time them with my watch. Other than that, I wasn't much help. She was cruising along on her own. She told me afterwards that she admired my aplomb, even though my surgical mask was over one eye.

It was the wee hours of the morning when Alex made his entrance. Dixie was superb. A textbook Lamaze birth. They laid him on her stomach a bit, then whisked him away. The doctor asked me to wheel Dixie to her room. We talked a bit, marveling at the wonder of the event. Then she fell asleep. 

I drove toward the studio, only to pull over to the side. My emotions swelling as I sat there in joy-tears. I drove on. I had a logo due that afternoon.