I’ve always loved the wind.  From the time I was a kid growing up on the Oregon coast to 30 years on the southwest gulf coast of Forida crewing J-boats, the wind has been my friend.  Now in Doha, each day I go outside to our patio and sweep, hearing the calm rhythmic call to prayer, I sweep desert sand and neighbors leaves into small piles, only to find my friend the wind mocking me, blowing the small piles randomly about before I can clean them up, over and over again.  My wind, my friend, taunting me.  I imagine it’s blown west from the Oregon coast, and can almost hear Mom laughing for all the times I’ve told her to chill out about the neighbors leaves falling on her pristine yard. Then east from the white sand Gulf of Mexico, precious haunting memories of helming crossings with failed instruments, dead reckoning, pointing far south to be drug north by the Gulf Stream, drunken voices from my crew mates asking, wearthefugawi?