How do you come back?

The photos in this post are of our good friends Rod and Lisa (see their link in the side bar). They are photos that will accompany the soon-to-be listing on their boat. The photo titles read “Reaching off Vieques” and “Running wing and wing off Viesques.” When I saw them I thought, How cool to have such photos documenting that experience. My next thought was, how sad for them that it is over.



How do you re-direct at the end of the journey? Two years ago, Rod and Lisa quit their professional jobs, sold their beautiful house that overlooked a canyon/river, sold all their belongings, said goodbye to their friends/family, bought a boat and headed south. They confided in us that there were times along their journey where they hit their peak emotional lowest lows, and other times they experienced the highest highs. Almost in unison, they summed up their experience as being life changing – but didn’t elaborate on what that meant. There’s a blog entry that they posted on returning to their boat (on anchor in Luperon) after a visit to the states that I think explains it:

Julio drove with one arm atop the red Samsonite to keep it from landsliding onto him. And we were off on a typical Dominican taxi ride - fast and chaotic, but with a very friendly driver who seemed at ease with the other loco drivers.
It was a relief to be back to the boat and see that all was well. Instead of experiencing the anticipated culture shock upon returning to the D.R. after being back in the States, we found a comfortable familiarity. On our way back to Luperon I smiled as we passed a boy riding a burro down the side of the road. Smiled again at the sight of the typical game of dominoes taking place on a sidewalk table with players slapping their dominoes down with furrowed brows. Smiled at the sight of a beautiful young Dominican woman strolling confidently along with gigantic pink and blue rollers in her hair. Then I noticed I was just simply smiling. As much as we enjoyed our visit "home", it was good to be home. Oh sure, I miss running water and toilet paper in public restrooms but all in all it's good to be back.
When they first got back to civilization they thought they would just keep the boat dry docked – ready to go should the opportunity present itself. They recently decided that having that option available was too much of a distraction to their re-integration and have decided to sell her. Seeing the listing is hard for me to stomach. I don’t know, maybe I just think too much.

Just a Few Miles West of Crazy...

And I'm Driving As Fast As I Can.

It’s Friday at last (deep breath in, exhale). As a full-fledged, card-carrying member of the Monday through Friday rat race, weekends are my solace. The car trunk is packed with the necessary items to accomplish this weekend’s boat projects, and I just need to get through the day. The focus I was able to manage in the morning gave way to excuses in the afternoon. I convince myself that “nothing’s so important it can wait until next week.” Transported back to third grade – I watch as the time painfully, s l o w l y passes, click by click, on the imaginary big round clock above the chalkboard. I know I won’t make it all the way to 5:00 pm today. The big hand surely will be south of the 12 as I am driving out the parking lot and heading east. I will battle with the other rats for pole position, while detoxifying my soul with the help of Civil Servants, Jimmy Buffett or Lyle Lovett. Thoughts of deadlines and commitments fading into mindless thoughts of nothing with each mile I drive. The weight accumulated during the week will gradually lift from my shoulders – a vague memory as I pull into the marina entrance. I firmly observe the rules of D Dock: Rule Number 1 - Leave your baggage at the end of the dock. Someone pour me a rum and coke.

The Story of Me

Once there was a girl born to a family with a good pedigree. She grew up under the warm southern California sun and lived a predictable life. Somehow or another, the sea seeped into her veins without her knowledge or permission. I suppose it just happens that way when you are raised at sea level.

Her family owned a trawler and she spent many weekends crossing from Marina Del Ray to Catalina Island. When the sea was kind, you could find her belly-down on the foredeck – head resting on the teak toe rail, searching the bottomless green gray waters of the Pacific for jelly fish. When the sea was fierce, you could find her belly-down over the engine room floorboards - the hum and vibration of the engines, and the smell of diesel always kept her from getting sick.

Ironically, sailing never entered her mind until she had moved far from the ocean. What a silly notion that a girl in landlocked Idaho would be interested in sailing. As predictable as Pandora opening the box, the girl’s first sailboat awakened a sleeping passion. I am told that this passion can lie dormant in the soul for years, only to be re-awakened by the smell of marsh and salt air. Sailing was the catalyst that brought her back home to sea level. To the blue waters of the Atlantic - the opposite side - but home nevertheless.

The girl, now a woman, bears a tattoo of waves on her back and she submits that the ocean is her equilibrium. She lives in Florida but dreams of a day that she will have no home port. Most close to her don’t understand her passion - hobbies should not consume people, they reason. She supposes that those not born at sea level can never understand. Some passions run deep and flow through the veins, like heroin to the addict.