This concept I’m running with, the big year one, of course comes from birding, and sometime soon, hopefully before the next decade, Pam and I will do a proper Birding Big Year, of some sort, across some geographical territory. My pulse quickens at the thought.
What I can say is that we won’t aim for the stratosphere, which right now is Arjan Dwarshuis’s global record, set over 2016, of 6,833 birds, two-thirds of the world’s species. Just as unattainable for us is the previous record in 2015, Noah Strycker’s 6,042 species, but let yourself be inspired by this terrific Longreads article by Eva Holland about Strycker and his quest . (Image from the Longreads article)
A recent image of a Californian dam experiencing problems. Dams do fail and when they do, casualties can be high. The pro-nuclear folks say reactor risks – the actual deaths over half a century, even allowing for Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, and Fukushima – are dwarfed by dam risks, let alone coal risks. As an ex-actuary, I’m partial to numerical calculations, but all my reading of the voluminous writings in the “field of energy risks” hasn’t put me fully in sync with that judgement.
You see, I can’t help but feel that the ordinary person in the street is right to be scared of reactors. Often they’re frightened not because they’ve evaluated risks but simply by association with mushroom cloud images. That doesn’t mean they’re wrong. The antinuclear folks can exaggerate certain reactor risks, but the scariest risk, that of meltdown and mass radiation release, seems to me to be terrifying for all the right reasons. Maybe that risk is one of Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s “black swan” events, very rare but horrendous in outcome. Who knows what the next meltdown, assuming there will be one, will bring?
No wonder I love my work. How hard to make up one’s mind, yet how endlessly fascinating!
At Archie & Kirk in Marrickville, the ideal spot, in a superb suburb of Sydney, to submerge the brain in the most important chapter of my book so far. The decade from the mid 50s was when the global battle between different nuclear power reactor designs roared. Every skirmish cowered under the more fraught peak of the Cold War. All the histories of this country or that country or some aspect . . . well, they gloss the drama and reality with myth-making. Only one person can decipher the truth. Or so I tell myself this cooler morning.
I’m five days into seven of this work here, a bewildering period on many levels. My mind writhes at night and I sleep in every morning, technically breaching the Big Year rules. I struggle with jogging and cycling. Progress through my stacked notes is tardy, though it’s quickening. Several times I’ve longed to give up, just give in.
But the welcoming hospitality, just being away from home (where so much side work awaits), and a steady, dull routine . . . all these have worked a magic. I’m perceiving the rhythm of the past, absorbing the sins of our fathers, spying patterns. I smile.
Here I am. Sydney’s Marrickville, Wicks Park Cafe. Slow start but a beginning is a beginning. 1954 to 1963, the great internationalisation of reactors.
Carbon monoxide, fat drivers, an uncomfortable fence . . . it doesn’t seem like a fit place to write. But my head had been crowded at Bar Ristretto and on the way home, thoughts flooded in. Once thought, thoughts need to be recorded, right?
The past three days, I’ve been moaning about this Big Year. I forget that last year, I was quite preoccupied with the notion that maybe, just maybe, forcing oneself to take a given daily action could lead to a habit. I realized today that even if my jogging, cycling and gym’ing cause me angst, every day I go out and exercise. Every day. It’s no longer a question mark. Exercising is one of my habits. How wonderful!
Catch up on gym? Easy if irksome.
Catch up on cycling? Have faith and enjoy!
I simply don’t know what to do with jogging. I failed yet again a couple of days ago. The way I’m going, I’ll fall short of 1,000 kms by 100+. Since 10 kms is my limit, since I can’t jog and cycle on any one day . . . well, I’m in deep shtuk.
There’s no ready solution and I’ve bigger fish to catch right now, so I decide not to decide. I just affirm that I’ll keep lacing up those blue joggers twice a week and heading out to pant. Somehow I’ll keep dejection at bay. Maybe inspiration will strike like lightning, eh?