Plenty of Water on Mars

http://www.nasa.gov

If humans ever decide to colonize Mars, it appears that there is an abundant water supply; unfortunately, it is not in the form of lakes, rivers, or even underground pools. It’s in the dirt, and eating a handful won’t quench your thirst.

At one time, flowing water was probably plentiful on the planet, but the only immediate water sources found currently are located at the planet’s poles, as ice. Mar’s ‘watery phase’ likely lasted until about four billion years ago.

Mars’ diameter is about half that of the Earth, its mass is about 11% of Earth’s, and its gravity is less than 40% of our planet: all these factors facilitated the loss of the atmosphere’s upper layers as they were blown away by two mechanisms; the impact of meteors, and a natural ‘boiling’ of gasses into space. But a planet’s atmosphere — especially the heavier gasses — can also be absorbed into the soil, which is probably why the dirt of Mars contains such a high percentage of water.

NASA’s Curiosity rover scooped up samples of Martian dirt, deposited the dirt in its oven-abdomen (into SAM, the Sample Analyzer at Mars instrument) and heated the samples to more than 800 ⁰C to drive off and measure the volatiles. Its analysis identified about two percent water by weight, which converts to approximately two pints (1 litre) of water per cubic foot (0.03 cubic meters) of soil.

This discovery leads me to believe that a human settlement on Mars isn’t quite as far-fetched as it seemed a short time ago; additionally, early indications suggest that there is no life on the planet, so a terraforming operation wouldn’t destroy life that was already present.

It also occurs to me that viewing a planet that is devoid of life should make us all realize that we are the custodians of a jewel in space, a remarkable world that is bursting with miracles.

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For more information on Mars and Curiosity:

Volatile, Isotope, and Organic analysis of Martian Fines with the Mars Curiosity Rover

The Petrochemisry of Jake_M: A Martian Mugearite

 Curiosity finds no sign of methane, the gas linked to life

Rover finds evidence Mars lost its atmosphere four billion years ago

Mars Curiosity: Facts and Information

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Rain

While walking to work this morning, some rain dripped into my ear, and the slight discomfort reminded me of a poem by Sheldon Alan ‘Shel’ Silverstein (1930-1999), poet, singer-songwriter, musician, composer, cartoonist, screenwriter, and author of children’s books…

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can’t do a handstand —
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said —
I’m just not the same since there’s rain in my head.

I recall the poem from from Where the Sidewalk Ends, but it was apparently originally from an earlier collection, Hello Poetry. I scanned the contents of Hello Poetry and was surprised to discover that A Boy Named Sue was one of Silverstein’s works. For those unfamiliar, Johnny Cash recorded a live version of A Boy Named Sue (as a song, also apparently by Silverstein) at a concert in San Quentin Prison in 1969. A Boy Named Sue was Johnny Cash’s biggest hit on the Billboard Hot 100, peaking at #2 for three weeks, denied the #1 spot by The Rolling Stones’ Honky Tonk Women.

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A guity pleasure…

One of my guilty pleasures is single malt whisky; I’ve enjoyed the occasional dram for decades, but a little over a year ago I began to truly understand whisky’s subtleties. It has the potential to be an unhealthy obsession, but a dram now and again is a slice of heaven; indeed, the whisky lost to evaporation during the aging process is referred to as the Angel’s share.

A fine scotch should be enjoyed slowly and completely; when I’m savouring a dram of excellent single malt it can last over an hour.

My usual favourites are the peaty varieties (though it took me a while to warm to them), but there are exceptions. I had a birthday recently and was gifted some money for the express purpose of procuring a fine bottle of single malt  (thanks Mom!) and I bought a bottle of Aberlour A’bunadh cask strength, which is aged in Oloroso sherry butts  (A’bunadh is Gaelic for of the origin. My bottle is Lot No. 44, at 59.7% alc./vol). I sampled it on my birthday, and it was a wonderful experience: the nose, flavour, and finish are exquisite.

Cask strength, for the uninitiated, means the whisky was poured straight into bottles from the cask, with no ‘distillery water’ added (it is usual procedure to add water to bring the alc/vol closer to, but not below, 40%). While sampling a dram, a few drops of water can ‘open-up’ a whisky’s hidden flavours, but I enjoyed the dram of A’bunadh at full strength, a lovely experience. My Dad, bless his soul, would have appreciated A’bunadh: I put the bottle away and will have another wee dram on his birthday, a suitable way to remember him: perhaps he’ll be enjoying a dram of the Angel’s share at the same time.

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And, to digress, it just occurred to me that the woman’s whisky market may not have been thoroughly examined. For instance, think of the potential marketing campaign for Tomintoul. The whisky can be described as a gentle Speyside dram with a zesty kick. A commercial would hinge on the pronunciation of the product, which is, I think, something like tom-in-TOWEL.  A ruggedly handsome Scotsman, a fine specimen, has just stepped out of the shower and is tucking the corner of his tartan towel in place. He walks out of the bathroom into the living room and pours two drams of Tomintoul into long-stemmed, tulip whisky glasses. He hands one to his significant other. Cut to a still of the whisky bottle with a backdrop of the Scottish countryside at sunset; the voice-over is smooth, whispered, seductive: something like… Tomintoul, a perfect start to the evening…

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Of Syria, the Dali Lama, a dream, and Justifiable Anger

I often wonder why humanity has a propensity for steering sociopaths into positions of power.

I had a dream the other night; most of the specifics have faded into obscurity, but I think it was about a theoretically harmonic society. My one clear recollection was that only good people, who didn’t want to lead, were put in charge. It would be a great stress to these people, so their term would be short. Each past leader would serve as the next leader’s adviser, ensuring a smooth transition and experience at the helm. But it was just a dream, and the rest of my delusion-inspired, conceptualized society has been lost, swallowed by the cosmic ether. I think the Syria situation, and the international drama that swirls about it, was the germ of my dream.

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The Syria situation is frightening, and I think humanity, as a global society, must develop new solutions to deal with problems. The knee-jerk, violent reaction is an age-old trap; anger is natural, but violence begets more violence, ad nauseam…

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“Anger that is motivated by compassion or a desire to correct social injustice, and does not seek to harm the other person, is a good anger that is worth having.”
The Dalai Lama, from The (Justifiably) Angry Marxist

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On finding the slim man inside of me…

I seek the slim man inside of me and I’ve decided to walk aimlessly every day until I find him.

I see it as a sort of peripatetic Zen; a journey with no tangible destination — the ‘destination’  (a virtual node in the stream of existence) will present itself without conscious effort.

If I walk enough, without a particular purpose in mind, I’m certain to eventually happen upon the man I seek.

I think I’ll practice some Qigong as well; it can’t hurt, will possibly center my being, and will surely increase the density of synchronistic events surrounding me.

But I’m convinced it is the walking that will lead me to the man I seek: “…a man returning home by climbing over a hedge, to the surprise of his walking companion. Oh, how I love to reach home by climbing over the back fence, and to travel on bypaths!” [from the preface of Lin Yutang’s The Importance of Living(p. v – vi)].

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A day in Fort Langley

My eldest daughter, Bailey, and I were in Fort Langley. We walked along the main street, buildings from another age on each side. Suddenly, she asked me which antique store was the one where her Mom, my wife, Cathy, was separated from Brynne and me (in time, space, and/or in another reality).

I took Bailey into the store. As we walked from room-to-room, the wooden floor groaned warnings in an unknown tongue; we ignored the auguries, and descended to the basement.

On the way down the stairs, Bailey stopped, leaned toward me, grasped my arm in both her hands, and angled her head to grab my attention, eye-to-eye.  Then she whispered: “It’s haunted.” She was in her element. She repeated the pronouncement several times as the day wore on…

We had lunch at a 1950s-style café called Planet Java; each table in the café has an individual jukebox, just like I remember from so many years ago, in the Chinese food restaurant in The Village, in North Vancouver. But I digress…

Bailey and I had a nice walk along the trail beside the river, and I recall thinking how lucky I’ve been in life; the two souls that have decided to share this existence with my wife and me honour us with their presence.

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My new blanket

Brynne, my daughter, was crocheting up a storm; she’d just finished a blanket, and had started another. She asked me if I would like a blanket; and, before I had a chance to answer, she asked what my favourite colours were so she could buy the materials.

I’m not really a sit-on-the-sofa-with-a-blanket-draped-over-me kind of person; I don’t get cold easily and, if I do feel a bit of a chill, I prefer to don a sweater rather than ‘wear’ a blanket. So, after an explanation, I  said, “I wouldn’t use the blanket, so I don’t want you to spend your time making one for me. So, no thank you, I don’t need a blanket.” As the day wore on she asked several more times until I told her she was making me feel a strange sense of guilt. The next day she left a small water-colour by the computer before she left for work. Underneath the painting she wrote: “Here, your very own blanket.”

I love my new blanket; it makes me feel much warmer.

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It’s a Cat’s Life

I’ve been on holidays for a couple of weeks, and Blogging is about the last thing I’ve thought of; the weather has been phenomenal, and I’ve been enjoying the outdoors like never before.

I live in a suburb of Vancouver, which, at times, can be quite a rainy city. July and August are usually quite nice, but this July has been completely without precedence;  Vancouver set a record today, the thirty-fourth day in a row without even a trace of precipitation (the previous record was recorded in 1953). It looks like there will be zero precipitation for the entire month.

Any time I’ve spent inside has been spent either reading, watching a short movie with my daughter, or rearranging/cleaning our home. Yesterday, I spent the entire day shifting around bookshelves in our bedroom, and one of my daughter’s cats spent the day sleeping on the only corner of the bed not covered with books and/or other extraneous materials; I continuously piled and removed material from around him, but he managed to sleep through the entire event.  As I was grunting , he was snoring (‘purring’), and as I was heaving, his paws were twitching as if he was dreaming of chasing his favorite prey. I suddenly realized that somewhere in the scheme of things I’d gone down the wrong path: the life of my daughter’s cat was the one that was (surely) meant for me.

Since then, I have been treating my daughter’s cat with the reverence that he obviously deserves from his build-up of positive karma.

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The Open Championship at Muirfield

Addendum (July 21,2013): Well, Phil Mickelson won the Open, and has been acclaimed Championship Golfer of the Year, and has been presented with the Claret Jug he thought he’d never get. He played an unbelievable final round in difficult conditions on a challenging course, scoring a 5-under par 66, remaining the only golfer under par after the dust had settled. My heart goes out to Lee Westwood, who battled, but couldn’t maintain his exemplary form through the entire final round, and to Adam Scott, who, for the second year in a row, came close, but fell short. Westwood and Scott finished in a tie for third at one over par, along with Ian Poulter, who played an exceptional final round, almost the equal of Mickelson. Henrik Stenson played a fine final round, finishing second at even par.  Mickelson birdied four of the final six holes (including the last two) to cement his fame in the annals of Open championship golf. Mickelson, who had always struggled with links golf in the past, also won the Scottish Open on a links course, and he has definitely risen to the upper echelons of fame in the golf community. It was an excellent display of golf by all of the world’s top players who were ‘in the hunt.’

This year, the Open Championship is being contested at Muirfield, located in Gullane, East Lothian, Scotland, overlooking the Firth of Forth. Muirfiled isn’t one of the oldest courses in Scotland, dating back to ‘only’ 1891, but it is considered one of its finest (Jack Nicklaus once called it “the best golf course in Britain,” and when he designed a golf course and community in Ohio, he named it Muirfield Village). Muirfiled is also home to the oldest private golf club, the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, which began in 1744 (previously, the club’s home had been at Leith Links until 1836 when they moved to Musselburgh; finally, due to over-crowding at Musselburgh,  they decided to build the new course at Muirfield). The course was designed by Old Tom Morris (Thomas Mitchell Morris, Sr. (1821 – 1908)).

I enjoy watching the Open Championship because the links courses look so different from the golf courses seen in North America, and the style of play required reflects the differences in course design.

I found a few quotes about the game of golf, and thought this would be as good a place as any to share them…

“If you are caught on a golf course during a storm and are afraid of lightning, hold up a 1-iron. Not even God can hit a 1-iron.” Lee Trevino

“Golf is a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into an even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.” Winston Churchill

“Why am I using a new putter? Because the last one didn’t float too well.” Craig Stadler

“When I die, bury me on the golf course so my husband will visit.” Unknown

“They call it golf because all the other four letter words were taken.” Raymond Floyd

“The older I get, the better I used to be.” Lee Trevino

“Golf can best be defined as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle.” Unknown

“Golf is a good walk spoiled.” Mark Twain

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And last, but not least, an exchange between Jack Nicklaus and Lee Trevino after Trevino had beaten Nicklaus in an 18-hole playoff to win the 1971 US Open…

Nicklaus looked at Trevino and said, “Lee, if you took this game more seriously, you couldn’t be beaten.”

Trevino smiled and said, “Jack, if I took this game more seriously, I’d never win again!”

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Beyond the self

“Buddhism asks us to go beyond the self, not to perfect the self.”

Dharmavidya David Brazier, from Living Buddhism

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