Originally posted on peter.vox.com

    So last Wednesday was my last day at Six Apart. Off to a new opportunity, but I'm really gonna miss my crew. And not all of 'em are pictured either. Wider lens might have helped.

 

Originally posted on peter.vox.com

The opening bars warm my heart.

However Nissan's use of the Clash's cover of the Maytals' Pressure Drop to sell cars really rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it's how suddenly (ok...not suddenly...Iggy's been rentin' out the catalog for a few years now) marketing slimeballs think it's OK to play with my sentimental memories of 10" vinyl discs...

Originally posted on peter.vox.com

I don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quiet

foo

seeing if this fixes things...it seems to....

what about compression????

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bar

my bad.

blog post

most of my shit is at wohlers.org....

maybe i'll mt-it instead :)