Jumping on the Bandwagon to Nowhere

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It all began a couple of weeks ago when a friend on Facebook posted that she was going to France for eleven days. I knew damn well she wasn’t; her husband is ill and she is hard pressed to go to an exercise class three times a week, much less make a trip overseas. To the four comments she received, she replied to none. A friend of hers replied, “Again?” and that sparked my curiosity.

Yesterday, another friend posted that she was going to Germany for 25 days. There were immediate replies such as, “Lucky you!” and “That’s fantastic!” I didn’t believe a word of it.

So, I began to research. I found out that somehow–though I fail to understand just how–this supports breast cancer research.

It works like this:

Write: “I am going to live in (month you were born [see below]) for (day you were born) months!” or “I am going to (month you were born) for (day you were born) days!”

January – Mexico
February – London
March – Miami
April – Dominican Republic
May – France
June – St. Petersburg
July – Austria
August – Germany
September – New York
October – Amsterdam
November – Las Vegas
December – Columbia

Try as I might, I cannot connect the dots between such a posting and breast cancer research.

So, I wonder, why would someone post such a thing on a social media site? And then, not reply to comments. Is there absolutely nothing else going on in their lives that they have to post BS? And, if nothing else remarkable is going on in their lives, why post anything at all?

It bothers me that some women do such things because it reflects negatively on womanhood as a whole. Such postings make us look like lemmings, weak and eager to follow the latest trend or  jump on the latest bandwagon.

On the contrary, breast cancer is a serious topic and breast cancer research needs to be supported.

So, if you have a mind to post something about one or the other, please make it count. Post a link to the latest research. Tell about how you’re training for participation in a Run or a Walk for the Cure. Shout out kudos to a loved one who beat the odds and is in remission, or honor someone who succumbed. Copy and paste a breast cancer awareness ribbon.

But please don’t do something stupid like posting you’re going to somewhere exotic for x-number of days/months, whatever. It makes us all look bad.

 

Our Daughter’s First Date

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Boston Whaler

“Discovery,” “Discovery.” This is “Miss Kate.”

“This is “Discovery.” Come back, “Miss Kate.”

“Daddy, switch to seven-two!”

Formal protocol concluded, both parties switched to channel 72 of the VHF radio aboard our boat, Discovery, and Kate’s sailboat, Miss Kate. Whereupon Dave got the biggest tongue-lashing he’d ever gotten from our then-15 year old daughter, before or since. Which makes me marvel when I think about it, since there is a tremendous bond between the two of them. So what horrendous thing did Dave do to deserve such treatment?

Our family was making our way down the east coast from Washington, D.C. in late fall of 1997 via the Intracoastal Waterway. The boys, Dave and our 13-year old son, DJ, were in the trawler, and Kate and I were in her boat. “Why” we had two boats is a whole other story, which will be shared another time.

That early December morning, Kate and I had awakened in an anchorage just south of the submarine basin at King’s Bay. Georgia. We might have even crossed the imaginery state line and been in Florida, but when traveling by boat, who knows? The boys had been delayed in Savannah waiting on an engine part, so it seemed logical that the girls would go ahead, since Miss Kate’s top cruising speed was about 10 miles an hour on a good day. The plan was to meet up in the anchorage off Fernandina Beach. Ah, Florida! You are never as beautiful as you are in winter.

It is imperative to get an early start when cruising in December, since the days are short. The lines are untied or the anchor gets pulled shortly before sunrise, and hot drinks help ward off the chill for hours afterwards. By the time high noon rolls around, the better part of the day has passed and all on board are looking forward to stopping for the night.

It was just a short while after we dropped anchor late in the afternoon that day that Discovery caught up. Once the anchors were set, arrangements to go ashore were made via the VHF and soon we were off to the dinghy dock in our Whaler. It was more like our station wagon, for all it hauled those years we lived aboard.

We wandered around, checking out the shops. All were decorated so gaily, it was just the elixir we all needed to get into the holiday spirit, as my dad had passed away just the month before. At one of the shops, Kate and the teenage boy clerk talked while the rest of us went outside to sit on the bench and wait. Eventually, Kate came outside and asked if she could come back after the boy got off work. This would turn out to be her first date!

We said ‘yes,’ and the kids made arrangements for later. Back on our separate vessels, Dave and Kate (mostly Dave) went over things like curfew, and since she’d be taking the station wagon, last-minute instructions in that were given, as well. She took off in the dinghy, and we bided our time over the next couple of hours, waiting for her to come home.

No more than a couple of hours later, the engine on the dinghy being started could be heard, and we could see that she had all the necessary lights on before she even left the dock. We were only a handful of boats in the anchorage, so we knew Kate could see us. She made her way towards our boat, slowly, as to not cause a wake, when for SOME unknown reason that has never been fully explained, Dave flicked on the SPOTLIGHT that shown from atop our mast, and which illuminated everything around us. Poor Kate! I’m certain she was mortified.

“Daddy, how COULD you?” (Unbelieving)

“Bu…”

“Did you think I couldn’t see the boat?” (Sarcastic)

“Bu…”

“It’s a good think I’ll never see (what’s-his-name) again. I am SO embarrassed!  Good night, Daddy!  This is Miss Kate going back to one-six.” Leave it to Kate to remember protocol. And before Dave could utter another partial-syllable, the click on the radio signaled that Kate had turned hers off.

Next morning, the anchors were raised before dawn, and we continued making our way south along the coast of Florida, boys in one boat, girls in another, a blessing in itself, given the all the venting Kate was doing. Years later, our family still talks about the trip down the coast and and many other boat trips, as well. Those are special memories, for sure.

Crabby

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crab

My honeymoon was so bad, it was funny. From before it even began, during, and afterwards, it was completely unlike anything anyone could have imagined, much less planned.

It was the Monday before our wedding in October, 1979. It was a glorious and crisp autumn afternoon. The trees were ablaze with red, orange, yellow, and golden leaves, and the sun shone brightly. We had been home from work just a short while and were sipping on a glass of wine when the doorbell rang. Dave got up to see who was at the door, and the sight of our unexpected guest was astonishing. The frame of his body seemed to fill the entire doorway, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to outline the mass. His reflector aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, but his square jaw protruded nonetheless. He wore a suit, his muscles bulging beneath.

“Mr. Russell?” he inquired in a deep voice befitting such a hulk, although he must have known that the man who opened the door was Mr. Russell.

“Yes,” Dave answered tentatively.

He identified himself as a federal marshal and presented Dave with a court summons to appear in court in Lubbock, Texas the following week. Dave glanced at it and attempted to give it back, saying, “I can’t. I’m getting married Saturday and I’ll be on my honeymoon.”

“Mr. Russell, you WILL be in Lubbock,” he said authoritatively. “Oh, by the way, make sure you bring the clock with you.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but instead turned around and walked to the white, unmarked car parked in front of our flat.

It was at this point that I thought that perhaps I should have gotten to know the man I was to marry a bit better. I sat waiting for an explanation for why he was being summoned to appear in court. It was then that I heard the story behind the marble antique clock that was sitting atop the mantle. Apparently it was given to my beloved from a friend as payment for helping him move some “stuff,” specifically, thousands upon thousands of dollars of antiques that he had bought for a Texas “oil man.” The problem was that the friend had supposedly forgotten to give the Texan the goods for which the man had paid, and now he was was being brought to trial, accused of grand theft. Dave, having possession of the clock, was considered an accessory.

There was no getting around the fact that whatever honeymoon plans we had made were abandoned in favor of an unexpected trip to Texas. And where WAS Lubbock, anyway? I certainly had no clue. Resigned to our destiny, we purchased our plane tickets and prepared to leave the morning after our wedding. All that week a cloud hung over us; on one hand, excited about getting married, but bummed out that we couldn’t go to the Lake of the Ozarks like we had planned.

Our best man shuttled us to the airport on departure day, and we checked our suitcases, but not the clock which had to be hand-carried, lest it disappear into that abyss otherwise known as Lost Baggage. Because it was made of marble it was quite heavy and Dave cursed it repeatedly, especially when we had to race through the Dallas airport to catch our connecting flight to Lubbock. When we disembarked, Dick Tracy was waiting for us. He still wore his reflecto-aviator sunglasses, but instead of a suit he wore a polo shirt that appeared to be tight, but actually it was his muscles that was stretching the material beyond its natural limits.

He chauffeured us in the unmarked police car to what appeared to be a three-star motel, but given where we were, it was probably one of the nicer motels in Lubbock.(Little did we know that a week later, we would give it an even lower rating.) After we thanked him and bid him farewell, he announced that he was, in fact, our babysitter for the duration and that he would be “just outside the door.” This is not good news for newlyweds. Evidently, Dave was the star witness and Dick Tracy had been given orders to shadow us. Our honeymoon was going from bad to worse real fast.

The next day, he and Dave, along with the marble  antique clock, headed to federal court. I began writing Thank You notes for wedding gifts we had received. When they returned later that afternoon, I could barely get excited at the prospect of going out for dinner because I knew our chaperone would go with us. He gave us the courtesy of not sitting at our table, but sat at another one a few feet away. Afterwards, the three of us made our way back to the motel, no one uttering a word.

Day Three in Lubbock was a repeat of Day Two, except for the news that Dave’s testimony was over and we were free to go back home on Wednesday. This was cause for celebration! After dinner we asked Dick Tracy if we could go to the movies and see “Animal House,” which had just been released. He consented and we made our way to the movie theater. He sat directly behind us.

Words cannot describe how happy we were to catch sight of the Arch as our plane made its descent into St. Louis the following day! We began settling into life together and when the following week rolled around, we returned to our teaching jobs and recounted the details of our most unromantic honeymoon to our co-workers, who thought it hilarious.

It wasn’t long after our return that my nether regions began to itch incessantly all day long. I had no idea what it was, and I was afraid to say anything to anyone, even Dave. Scratching only seemed to make it worse. I didn’t know what to do. Then one night, shortly after the itching began, Dave got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He yelled, “Holy shit!” and then he came back into our bedroom, flipped on the ceiling light, and announced in a voice that was angry/stern/disbelieving, “Maria, I’ve got the crabs. I know where I’ve been. How about you?”

I began crying hysterically saying, “I think have them, too, but I was too embarrassed to tell you.” Truly, I didn’t even know what crabs were. Never was the subject discussed in any of the Catholic schools I had attended. Immediately, we put the blame on the motel in Lubbock, for neither of us had been anywhere else.

Thank goodness that a 24-hour drug store was nearby. Despite my humiliation and embarrassment, I laughed when Dave recounted how the clerk, a teenage girl, gingerly handed him the bag containing the bottle of RID shampoo, using only her index finger and thumb as she stood as far away from him as she could. We each took turns bathing in the stuff, paying extra-special attention to the infested areas, and eventually the horror gave way to hilarity because the start of our marriage was nothing short of ridiculous.

While this story remained a secret between the two of us for a long time, I can freely recount it now, thirty-five years later. Given the crazy adventures Dave and I have had in our lifetime together, it seems only right that our marriage would have begun in such an unusual way.

 

 

 

Technology and Toddlers: Too much too soon?

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thCAWI7WK3

Times have changed. It was not that long ago that parents and children would play games in the car to pass the time—games like the license plate game, I Spy, or Twenty Questions.  Portable DVD players eventually appeared on the scene and became so popular that car manufacturers began offering them as optional built-in accessories. Children could sit in the back seat and be mesmerized by movies for hours on end, much to the delight of mom and dad. Today it is not uncommon for children to be occupied—in the car and otherwise—with an electronic tablet or their parent’s cell phone. The digital age seems to have captured everyone’s attention, including toddlers. But is this a good thing?

No one disputes the advantages of technology: fine-motor skills are refined, and cause-and-effect is quickly learned. Toddlers and preschoolers are so fascinated with anything that can be manipulated—such as switches, buttons, and levers—that swiping and tapping quickly become second nature. Learning is apt to be improved and tiny users acquire skills at their own pace with an ever-increasing plethora of games, books, and educational applications being developed continuously.

The problem arises when a child spends too much time on an iPad or smart phone. A study done by Kaiser Family Foundation in 2012 revealed that school-age children spend an average of seven and one-half hours per day in front of a computer, a television, or an electronic device—seventy-seven minutes longer than when the study was initially conducted only five years prior! Experts are convinced that excessive screen time robs children of the hands-on creative play that is so essential for development. Backing up their claims is research that links young children who spend an excessive amount of time with electronic devices to delayed speech and language, strained eyes, dulled imaginations and decreased attentiveness to other incentives, as well as difficulty making real-world friends, obesity, and increased aggressiveness, often witnessed by temper tantrums and pouting when the stimuli of mom or dad’s smart phone is taken away.

So what is a parent to do? Experts agree that the most important thing is to set boundaries. The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) recommends that parents should regulate the time their child spends with an iPad or smart phone instead of using it as a babysitter. It is much easier to set limits when a child is two years old than when he or she is twelve. In fact, the AAP suggests that children under the age of two be allowed no screen time whatsoever, and recommends that young children be limited to twenty to thirty minutes no more than twice a day. It is important to be firm in your resolve to set time limits, and do not be tempted to give in to temper tantrums or fussing. Instead, explain what the consequences will be if the rules are disobeyed. Above all, be consistent.

Other suggestions include not allowing cell phones at the dinner table or keeping all electronic devices in one location rather than being transported all over the house. And since children model behavior, parents should be aware of their own dependency upon technology. Instead, get involved, talk and play with your children! Encourage outdoor activities, get out the board games and puzzles, and nurture hobbies such as reading, drawing or collecting. Besides helping to develop important life skills such as communication, good manners, and the ability to occupy one’s self, hobbies that children enjoy when they are young are likely to interest them in their adulthood. And—no matter how “educational” it purports to be—there is absolutely no computer application that can claim all of that.

 

 

“Get mad, then get over it. ” Colin Powell

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I believe in a Higher Power, but I’ll admit, I am not at all religious. I shirk away from people who make it their business to ask if I go to church, as if that in and of itself made me a good person. People who somehow manage to insert and expound upon Biblical verses in the midst of the most ordinary of conversations also turn me off. It isn’t that I don’t have high regard for The Book, but I believe actions speak louder than words. There are people who have obviously devoted much time to memorizing passages from the Bible, while at the same time not practicing what they preach. As far as I’m concerned, people like this are hypocrites.

I try very hard to see the good in everyone, and if someone ruffles my feathers, I close my eyes, breathe, and, in my way, pray. My prayers are simple and to the point because God knows what I am thinking. Such a day was yesterday when a friend vented her disappointment and anger on Facebook about a magazine article I had written. I had done my part; I had written the article and submitted relative photographs to the editor. From then on it is out of my hands. When the magazine finally hit the newsstands this week, I notified everyone whom I had interviewed, giving fair warning that the editor makes final decisions about what is and what is not in each article.

Soon I got a message from this interviewee, and it was obvious that she was upset about her photograph not being included in the article for which I had interviewed her. My reply was that I, too, was disappointed, because it would have added much to that particular article, but the final decision was not mine to make. I assumed that was the end of that, but it wasn’t. Her anger spilled out on a vague Facebook message, which in turn garnered sympathetic and inquisitive responses from some of her friends. Luckily, it happened at the end of my workday, so I powered down the computer and headed home, all the way thinking about how I would respond to her post. Or if I even needed to.

Something told me to consult Daily Word, inspirational messages with themes like hope, healing, and guidance. One such message is emailed to me each day, and it has become as vital a part of my morning routine as my first cup of coffee. If I skip either, I am off-kilter for the rest of the day. The app allows me to save the messages that hit home, and I hoped I would find just the right one for this situation.

My intuition was spot-on; my eyes focused to a Daily Word message dated many decades ago: June 7, 1950. The theme was gaining emotional control through the peace and love of God, or whomever or whatever that Higher Power is for us. We are reminded to be calm, and to let that inner peace direct our responses to say or write things that will bless the situation and not aggravate it. I realized that my own emotions, and just not hers, needed to be regulated because the more I thought about what had been posted, my feathers had become very ruffled.

When I finished reading that particular message, a calming stillness seemed to wash over me, and I felt directed to share the message with my friend. She responded in a very kind way, and said that she sincerely appreciated the message I sent. Still, her post remained on Facebook, and I couldn’t help but think about it all last night, up until the time I went to sleep.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered this morning that the post was gone! Had the Daily Word message softened her heart and changed her attitude? I know it did mine. And as simple as it seems, instances such as this is how my Higher Power reaches me. This is how I know He is.

Are We Really “Friends”?

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Recently, a good friend reprimanded me severely for un-friending a couple of people that we both know on a popular social networking site. These people are actual friends of my friend; they are acquaintances of mine. The setting of the conversation was a public one, so it was brief. Still, I was really bothered for a couple of days until finally another friend firmly suggested that I “let this one go.” Gratefully, the disagreement between my friend and I has blown over, but meanwhile, the question remains: Ought not one have the freedom to pick their own friends on a social networking site without fear of being reproved, or worse, reproached?
 
I really thought I had let it go, that is, until yesterday. While tutoring a student with her psychology assignment, I happened upon something extremely interesting in her textbook. I read that Laura Carstensen, a psychologist at Stanford University, had studied aging for more than 20 years, and that she developed the idea of “socioemotional selectivity,” a life-span theory of motivation that attributes the honing of social networks as a process that one does more and more regularly as one gets older. In other words, selecting one’s friends carefully maximizes positive emotional experiences. At the same time, emotional risks are minimized.
 
Reducing my number of contacts began when my number of “friends” escalated towards the 300 mark. Did I really care what those 300 people were doing? Furthermore, was I so narcissistic to think that they actually cared about me? And so I began sifting. The process seemed rather heartless, but I was confident in the belief that my falling off the radar would hardly be noticed. The process was time-consuming, but worthwhile. After working on it sporadically over several days, two-thirds of my contacts had been removed. The result is that the time spent on this particular social networking site has been reduced greatly since I can quickly connect to people that really do matter to me. And I don’t have to waste time scrolling past the status of people that don’t. It’s nothing personal. In fact, social networking sites are anything BUT personal!As I approach my septuagenarian years, my time is becoming more valuable, and the way it’s spent is important. It could be that my horizon is narrowing, but subtly and surely, I find myself investing my time in meaningful activities with meaningful people. Whereas my friend’s comments were initially unsettling, the occurrence paved the way for yet another learning experience, this time in the psychology of aging. Tightening up my circle of friends isn’t being mean; I’m simply acting my age.

Birthday Gone Bad

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When it comes to buying a boat to live on, it’s good to have a list of what you MUST have. It will likely to save you from having buyer’s remorse, and make life aboard that much more comfortable. My Must Haves included a deep, double-sink in the galley; a bathtub; and a washer and dryer. We found Discovery had all that, compacted in a trawler-style, diesel-powered boat, 42 feet long, and 14 feet wide. Most landlubbers only comprehend square footage when it comes to living space, so I did the math: 588 square feet.

That doesn’t sound like a lot of room for a family of four with a variety of pets that included a dog, a couple of hamsters, a gecko and an anole, and even an ant-farm, although briefly. Our family boating adventure began in San Diego in 1991 when Kate was nine and DJ was seven, and concluded in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida on the last day of 1997. By that time, they both were teenagers, and everybody was ready to jump ship. But the stories and the adventures we share makes us realize that that was truly a special time for our family.

Ironically, the worst of times have yielded the most memorable stories. And the gift of retrospect has softened whatever negative feeling was initially attached to a particular incident. Again, the setting for this memory is Catalina Island.

The date is embedded in my mind. April 12, 1992, my son’s ninth birthday. DJ always loved animals, small ones especially. Which was good, given the size of our living quarters.

In spite of its length, our boat had a lot of ‘creature comforts,’ or at least they were to us. Having two heads–that’s boat-talk for ‘bathrooms’–was one of them. The galley, which separated the kids’ cabin and ours, was raised, and allowed mom a birds-eye view of what was going on down below.

That morning, the crew, with the exception of the Birthday Boy, were in the galley, slowly waking up, sipping coffee, reading. We were on vacation, after all, and if you’re on a boat and the conditions are just right, it is pure bliss. We had the makings for a wonderful day. Birthday Boy was down below in the head, working on his daily business, and playing with Arnold, a gecko he’d recently gotten at the flea market in San Diego.

The pancakes I’d been working on were close to being ready, and I signaled to the crew to get the table ready. From down below, we hear the Birthday Boy cry out, “I lost Arnold!” Well, the cabin is only so big. Surely, Arnold will be found soon. But, no. Amazing how many cracks and crevices one comes across when looking for something intently, as the captain and the Birthday Boy did. The pancakes would eventually get cold, but it was more important to find Arnold.

The captain, sympathetic to Birthday Boy’s feelings, concluded that Arnold must have slipped through the door leading to the engine room, and that it actually would make Arnold easier to find, since the engine room was painted white and thus, extremely bright. Birthday Boy bought it, and the captain convinced him to go upstairs and have some breakfast; then we’d head into town. We had a birthday to celebrate!

On his way to the galley, Birthday Boy noticed that, in all of the upheaval of Arnold’s disappearance, he had forgotten to flush the toilet. So he did.

This time, a blood-curdling cry came from down below. Arnold had slipped into the toilet, and the macerater, designed to pulverize waste, did the same to Arnold. It was a horrible sight. The Birthday Boy cried hard. He cried real hard.

Why did this have to happen on the kid’s birthday, for heaven’s sake? As if being raised on a boat didn’t have its own possible ramifications, then certainly this incident would. And if a water-pump in Avalon cost $350, what would a psychologist charge, because for awhile, that was being considered as a last resort. Time, thank God, does heal wounds.

We all mourned Arnold. He was, after all, a perfect pet for a boat kid. He didn’t take up much space and didn’t require a lot of attention. The Birthday Boy didn’t have the best of birthdays that year, but he did get over what happened to Arnold. At least, I think he did.

Why We Had Two Boats

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Most people can’t understand why we bought a sailboat for our daughter when she was 14. But, the fact of the matter is that our family had outgrown “Discovery.” Literally. When we moved aboard in 1991, Kate and DJ both were just a few months shy of their 10th and 8th birthdays, respectively. Nearly five years later, the kids were much bigger, and if it wasn’t their phsical size that made things on-board seem more cramped, then their hormones more than made up for it. Kate’s especially.

Much to her credit, Kate put up with her younger brother longer than most big sisters would have. They shared a cabin at the bow of the boat, so there really wasn’t a lot of room TO share. But they made the best of it (what else could they do?), and learned to compromise on most matters. Our general rule, ‘if something finds its way on the boat, then something has to find its way off,’ usually worked, even as they got older and the ‘toys’ (boombox, portable TV) got bigger.

Even so, there was no denying that we were bursting at the seams, the waterline hadn’t been seen in months, and the inevitable solution, whatever that solution might be, would have to happen sooner rather than later. It was the making of the perfect storm. 

1994 found us living at The Capital Yacht Club in Washington, DC. Out of all the places we lived aboard, DC was my favorite, which is so unbelievable, since my initial reaction to Dave’s being transferred there from Corpus Christi, Texas, was “Isn’t that the murder capital of the U.S.?” But, once we got up there, we joined the Capital Yacht Club, and that turned out to be one of the best things to ever happen to us as a family. Though fellow club members had very respectable positions by day–military officers who worked at the Pentagon, government contractors and employees, the presidential vet, a congressman (who is currently in jail, by the way)–they could also be classifed as a bunch of crazy misfits, especially after 5 o’clock in the afternoon, when many convened around the Club’s very beautiful and well-stocked bar. Which probably made life very interesting for the kids growing up at the club. Ours.

On one hand, Kate was a typical 14 year old girl, full of of angst and moodiness, but atypical in that she’d already more than five years of living aboard and cruising under her belt, was great at handling lines, knew the rules of the road, was fascinated by marlinspike, and even dabbled with ham radio along with Dave. She had been a boat kid for about a third of her life, after all. The thought of getting a bigger boat did enter our minds, albeit briefly, and left soon after. Though the additional space would have been nice, the thought of the additional cost in maintenance alone presented a daunting responsibility. Personally, I was comfortable handling Discovery, but apprehensive of handling anything much bigger, especially, God forbid, if I had to do it alone. And besides, in just a few short years, the kids would be out of the house, or so we hoped, and then we’d be stuck with a bigger boat than what the two of us needed.

The winter of 1994-95 in Washington, DC was unforgettable because there was a blizzard every other weekend, beginning on New Year’s Eve.  I know because that is my husband’s birthday, and every year I try to surprise him. That year I arranged for a friend to watch the kids for the whole weekend, and booked a jacuzzi room at the Comfort Inn on Kent Island, halfway between Annapolis and the Eastern Shore..It may sound ho-hum, but a jacuzzi bathtub to a boater is heaven-on-earth.  That, plus a little bubbly, and some time away by ourselves. It would be so nice. And then, shortly after getting out of the jacuzzi the first night, I remember seeing the blizzard warning issued for Washington, DC on the Weather Channel. Well, that plan was squelched. We headed home the next morning.

Boaters deal with snow differently that homeowners. Because of its weight, it cannot be allowed to collect indefinitely like it can on land.  And because of the smaller area needing to be cleared off, traditional snow shovels are useless. Cookie sheets worked best for us.  And because snow was everywhere for at least eight consecutive weeks, the entryway to Discovery‘s main salon/galley was continually cramped with coats, boots, hats, gloves, and scarves, which made getting around difficult..The boat was becoming smaller while tempers were shortened with the passing of each frigid day. The perfect storm was brewing stronger with each blizzard.

When the first signs of spring appeared, the hunt was on in earnest to find a sailboat for Kate, armed with information gleaned from a few months-worth researching, pouring over boat classifieds on-line and in magazines and visiting boatyards, of which there are many not far from DC. It certainly wasn’t wasted time. In the spring of 1995, an older-but-sturdy 26-foot, double-keeled sloop made in England would enter our lives. And, in an amazing way, someone else’s life in a very significant way, ten years later. But that is another story. For now, as an introduction, here is Miss Kate.

It Doesn’t Take Much to Make Me Happy

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I don’t know if having the soul of a gypsy is innate or acquired, but I have admitted on more than one occasion that I’m lucky I found my partner because he is a gypsy, too. Whereas many of our friends and relatives have never left home, we have moved many times and lived in many places (Key West-Pensacola-Gulf Breeze-North Palm Beach, all in Florida; Dothan, Alabama; San Diego, California; Port Aransas, Texas; Washington, DC; Bay Saint Louis, Mississippi; Hopkinsville, Kentucky) in the thirty-four years of being together. We have lived in a house, on a boat (twice), a FEMA trailer, and an RV. We even had a job that kept us on the road for months at a time, a different city every week. Traveling is in our blood.

Looking back, there were so many forks in the road that would have steered us to a different path. But then we wouldn’t have met the people, or had the experiences that have so enriched our lives. As I reluctantly but steadily inch towards what is known as one’s “golden years,” I realize just how blessed I have been to have had a life rich in adventure.

I think I used the word “romantic” in a previous essay to describe how I perceived life on a boat when all it was was just talk. That was absolutely NOT what it was, but it is the memories that are attached to those times that I remember most.

When we lived aboard in San Diego (and this was with children) dockage was horrendously expensive: $10/foot (length of the boat – ours was 42 feet), plus $100/per person. We were paying more than $800 a month for the privilege of tying up to a dock. So we tried living on the hook, as San Diego had several city-owned anchorages. Looking back, we must have been crazy to do it with kids and a dog that needed to pee a few times a day, but we did. Getting to shore involved transport by dinghy. And going back and forth to shore happened several times each day, because he had a job, the kids attended school, and I had to do things like shop for groceries and do laundry ashore (even though our boat had a washer and dryer, those are fairly useless when not connected to water and electricity.)  In retrospect, loading groceries and laundry into a dinghy to then we transported to a boat an anchor was not easy. Plus, the dog needed to be walked from time to time.

Even though the boat had a powerful generator, it was impractical to always keep it running, so even our refrigerator became virtually useless. We operated out of a cooler for the most part, which is alright to do for a weekend or so, but rather impractical for a family of four, 24/7. But we did for awhile.

One day, my knight in shining armor returned from home from work, riding his steed of a dinghy, bearing roses. He was one for flowers and gave them to me often. I should have blushed and thrown my arms around him. But what happened instead? I burst into tears and cried inconsolably. To say he was confused is an understatement.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. This was before cell phones and we had not spoken all day. From the way I was sobbing, he thought that surely something terrible had happened.

“I needed a block of ice!” I shrieked.

If he thought he didn’t understand women before, this confirmed it. We were back in a marina the following weekend. As it turned out, paying $800 a month for dockage was cheaper than getting a divorce.

Surprise!

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Thirty years ago, one had to pensively wait for the result of at-home pregnancy test for at least two hours. Nowadays, that seems like such a long time, but back then, just being able to do a pregnancy test in the privacy of one’s home was revolutionary. But if one’s home is a boat, doing such a test was impossible because of the constant movement. Such tests required absolutely stillness, like the kind afforded by a solid table on a solid foundation.

The spring of 1980 found my husband, Dave, and me in the Bahamas. We were living on our first boat, a sailboat named “Foreigner.” Prior to crossing the Gulf Stream, we provisioned with all the supplies we imagined we would need for several months, and I brought along one of these tests, just in case. After all, better to have it and not need it, rather than need it and not have it.

One day, after missing a couple of periods, I announced that we needed to do this test, but obviously, we couldn’t set up the sacred vial on the boat. So we made our way to The Compleat Angler, a modest hotel with 12 guestrooms in Alice Town. Earnest Hemingway was one of its regular patrons in the 1930’s, and that contributed to the hotel becoming a major tourist attraction on the island of North Bimini, with one room being dedicated to his exploits and many of the pine walls covered with decades’ worth of faded photographs and newspaper articles about assorted anglers proudly showing off their trophy fish . Notable visitors included Lucille Ball and Jimmy Buffett, and in the mid-80’s, Colorado senator and then-presidential hopeful, Gary Hart, who was photographed on his boat, “Monkey Business,” with a woman who was not Mrs. Hart. But to Dave and me, The Compleat Angler will be remembered for other reasons.

We were there when the bar/restaurant opened its doors at 11 o’clock, and we quietly slipped into a corner booth. While I went to the bathroom to collect a urine sample, Dave ordered a pitcher of beer and an order of conch fritters. We figured we might as well eat while we were biding our time. I brought back the sample in the vial, and we set it up according to the directions. Now it was just a matter of time.

Bahamians are such gentle folk, you just can’t help but love them, and the islands themselves, for that matter. It wasn’t too long before people began coming in for lunch, and soon the restaurant was full.  Island music filled the air and lively chatter of that morning’s fishing and dive trips echoed throughout the room. Dave and I took it all in, thoroughly enjoying the laid-back atmosphere. It was quite a change from Miami, from which we had departed several weeks before.

One islander, on his way to the restroom, stopped at our table, and, noticing the vial, innocently inquired, “Hey, Mon, what’s that?” Dave told him. Clearly the do-it-yourself pregnancy test was something unheard of here, and without a missing a beat, the man pulled a bill out of his pocket, and said, “I bet one Bahamian dollar she’s pregnant, Mon.” The bartender, overhearing the conversation, soon appeared with clipboard in hand, and duly noted the bet. One by one, people–both men and women–approached our booth to see what the to-do was all about, and in no time at all, a mound of money covered the table. I’ve got to hand it to the bartender; he kept track of each and every bet while ensuring everyone’s drink did not remain empty for too long.

Two hours passed and the restaurant patrons anxiously awaited the results, probably just as much as we did. But, when the contents of the vial were compared to the pictures in the pamphlet that accompanied the test, they looked neither positive nor negative. The crowd began getting restless and disgruntled. They demanded an answer, one way or the other. One of the patrons brought a woman to our table and announced that she had six children…surely she would be able to tell if I was indeed pregnant.

I was ordered to get on a table in the middle of the room, and I gingerly stepped up with some assistance from Dave. The woman slowly walked around the table twice, eyeing me up and down closely. Finally, her conclusion made, she announced with complete certainty, “Honey, you’re pregnant.” That answer was good enough for all who made a bet, and a rousing applause rang throughout The Compleat Angler. The bartender divided the winning shares among the winning bettors and within minutes, Dave and I were the only one left in the room. Well, maybe not the only ones, because the woman was right. I really was pregnant.