Category Archives: Sea Sighs

Water Always Wins

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RIP S/v Starlight
Photo by JAL

Anything Mother Nature makes she can break and eventually wash it out to sea. The Earth’s maximum terminator is (drum roll please) water. Water can break down and dissolve everything given enough time. Water is patient – it’s been around for over four billion years – today and tomorrow – our lifetime aren’t even a tick of a clock. Over the course of a year enough people die from water related diseases to populate Los Angeles. Ten times more people who aren’t on boats die from un-intentional drowning than those who fall overboard or go down with the ship and drown. Ninety nine point nine, nine, nine percent of boaters never have near death experiences aboard boats. That’s why it’s a recreation – we make good times on, in, and with water.

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Mast below dock, boat below mast, keel on river bottom.
Photo by JAL

According to lore, “what the sea wants, the sea will have.” Oversized egos make some people think the sea wants them more than life. They are terrified of drowning. There’s not a sailor who hasn’t had a white knuckled, green cheeked passenger who panicked every time the boat heeled or bucked a wave. I’ve never thought of reassuring such friends that they have a better chance of drowning on land than drowning while cruising. Besides, the adrenaline rush is part of the “90% boredom -10% sheer terror” sailing experience. As captain, my job is to project reassuring confidence as they cling to an extra PFD, and whisper the Hail Mary. Sometimes splitting the main brace is all they need to relax.

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Bow to Water
JAL

Water is patient. One of the informal laws of nature is that anything Mother Nature makes she can darn well break. She often uses water as the Terminator of choice. Floods, dirty water, droughts, mudslides, tsunamis are weapons of mass destruction. Is it any surprise then, when a sailor fails to take care of the boat – water is going to make a stealth attack and claim the booty as Davy Jones’ very own?

Such was the recent fate of a boat in our harbor. It had been an eyesore for years, collecting wasps, rotting ropes and canvas, breeding mosquitoes, pleading for a restoration. The frozen river bludgeoned her brittle hull, icy tendrils of the silent current breached and violated her to the point of surrender – her anguish silenced as she sunk.

That is a sad boat story. There are happy tales that better capture the sense of why we love boating and savor time on the water. Underlying many of these yarns is a description of a “close call” in the balance between fun and fear. Which reminds me…

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Dowry goats got us a whole new generation of sailors who love the sea!
San Diego, Photo by Marlene

We first met our son’s in laws for a day cruise aboard a rented sailboat in San Diego Harbor. Midway across the bay smoke started to billow from the engine compartment. I calmly suggested it was a great time to see how the life jackets fit and test the ship to shore radio by asking if anyone knew it was May Day. Peter, (the father in law) an experienced sailor and an engineer caught on immediately. He calmly opened the engine cover and examined the diesel engine while I grabbed a fire extinguisher (and George – oblivious to the situation – or perhaps because of – grabbed a beer). The problem was water – not fire – there was so much water in the bilge the heat of the engine was creating a plume of steam. He flipped on the bilge pump – George grabbed another beer and Linda snapped great pictures of the Coast Guard, Boat US and the harbor crew coming to the rescue. Water had it’s way into our boat – but we had a way off. We limped back to shore (with the automatic bilge pump cranking) – hopped on another bareboat, hoisted sails, cracked open a bottle of wine and negotiated the number of goats for the dowry.

Boats are symbolic – they represent hopes, dreams, power, and purpose. The boat that sunk in our harbor was a forgotten dream by a neglectful owner. Some among us, consider this to be a relief – they won’t lose sleep over it’s demise. The boat, all 40 plus feet of it, will be refloated, towed away and scrapped. Yet, peering at her topsides a yard beneath the murky surface was deeply disturbing. The river must have a millions of deep secrets. This is what happens when boaters forget to respect water and honor a boat. Water wins.

If you ever come aboard one of my boats – relax. Trust my boat – we take good care of each other. I’ll bring along a bit of sanity, a pocket or so of seamanship, and an intense love of playing on water just to convince you that there is simply nothing better than, well you know, just messing about in boats. It’s a win – win – win for boats, boaters, and water.

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Deck Monkey Wanna Bees
San Diego, Photo by Marlene

Turbulence

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Alton Pool Ice Flow 2/23/14
Photo by JAL

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Great Wave Off Kanagawa’, Hiroshige Utagawa
Courtesy of University of Waikato

Flights into and out of Chicago last week were cancelled due to bad weather. I adjusted my plans by booking a later flight directly to Detroit. The winter weather was ominous. The temperature fluctuated from 43º in the late morning to 72º mid-afternoon. In the Midwest we know this as “tornado weather.” Sure enough, the skies suddenly blackened, winds bucked. Within minutes the temperature plummeted 30 degrees and tornado alerts began crawling across the TV. The evening flight was bound to be delayed and turbulent. I was an unsettled, agitated traveler who was in for a rough ride to the Motor City.

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Airplane Vortex
Photo courtesy Wikipedia

Most fliers, with the exception of my husband, detest turbulence, those sudden, violent movements encountered when the plane hits what pilots languidly describe with their Texan drawls as “a little bumpy patch of air.” White knuckled passengers can be divided into God fearing penitents and those who figure their number’s up or it isn’t and smugly chug the rest of their drinks before they’re spilled or evaporated. Nobody wearing a seat belt actually dies of commonplace turbulence because it simply doesn’t have the power to crash planes – it’s lot in life is to just terrify passengers into thinking they’re going down.

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Sioux Harbor Storm Brewing
Photo JAL

Turbulence is part of living whether you’ve ever flown or not. Sudden swirls and eddies in routines create great commotion and upset our emotional wellbeing. When relationships depart from the smooth flow of comfortable compatibility to an irregular fluctuation due to miscommunication, emotional unavailability or conflict we get agitated and can’t think of much else. Some people get into a sense of flow regarding the turbulence and focus their motivation on getting the relationship back on course and moving along as it had and should. Whether these relationships are work bound or personal, turbulence can unsettle the most stalwart among us. Like aircraft, we’re built to handle the turbulent flow of life.

Only about 20 out of 800 million US passengers (not counting the flight crews bustling down isles with those essential peanuts) are injured by turbulence in any given year. More people are hurt by emotional turbulence – worrying about things they can’t control, stress, grief, conflict – which prevents them from thinking about and acting on other good things in their lives. It’s estimated that as global warming continues, air turbulence will double – so the older we get the bumpier the ride is going to be. Life, like the wind and water is full of turbulence. Relationships with ourselves and others include regular incidences of turbulence. We’ve got to understand that just as wind turbulence doesn’t crash planes emotional turbulence shouldn’t kill us.

This weekend I heard the river flow. It was full of mini-icebergs jockeying in the turbulent current for position as they raced towards New Orleans. The air was filled with static that was similar to the sound of Ship to Shore or AM radios – agitated, confused, cold and ominous noise. I envisioned the terror of falling in – sinking into the frigid black depths, then bobbing to surface only to have my skull crushed by oncoming ice and being unable to hold on to any of the ice chunks – drowning. It was a scary sound, softer than the winds that blast ahead of a cold front, quieter than shuddering joints of an aircraft as it slams through the jet stream. It was the unsettling sound of nature on the move and the turbulent wind that sent me scuttling off the dock back into Palisades.

Once inside – safe and warm – the view of the ice flow was majestic. A pod of pelicans soared playfully on air currents above the ice flow as the setting sun reflected off pure white light from their feathers. A week ago the harbor was a solid block of ice and today it was disappointing to see the river’s ice-free current carrying trees and debris south. On my next flight, it will be good to remember how quickly icebergs disperse and that pilots are trained to handle rough spots. I’ll relax and think about where most of my life is spent – being in the smooth flow – comfortably in the groove.

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Newport RI, Going with the Wind and Air Flow
Photo JAL

Just an Old Salt Doing Time

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Quartermaster Dick Libby, USN, an Old Salt: “Twenty years in the Navy. “Never drunk on duty – never sober on liberty.” Portrait painted circa 1834 by Charles O. Cole. Image is in the Public Domain of USA

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Big G @ Helm of Ex Libris
Mississippi River, Alton Pool
Photo by JAL

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Midship @ Narrow River – No Challenge?

Back in the grand age of fighting sail, an oldster was a midshipman who’d acquired at least four years of seniority. Most of the crew on 18th century sailing vessels went to sea as young boys so many midshipmen were generally obnoxious adolescent oldsters.

Seafaring career ladders divided the crew by skills. The waisters, sailors with dim wits and skimpy skills worked at or below sea level doing heavy hauling. Two in ten men earned the rating of Able or Ordinary seamen that qualified them to climb the mast and dance the rat lines. These “topmen” saw themselves as elite sailors because they worked above the officers and perceived waisters, odds and sods were beneath their esteem.

Regardless of where a man had done time aboard– sailors who survived a few tours of duty and had decent story telling skills were revered as Old Salts. Any man fortunate to celebrate 66 birthdays in good health should be thrilled, as my husband is today, to be called, Old Salt.

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Smells like love to Me.

 A research study on whether or not we pick our mates according to some magic formula of DNA involved college women sniffing men’s sweaty T-shirts. The study required the co-eds to sniff through two sets T-shirts and rate each  for its intensity, pleasantness, and sexiness. It was a study where guys majoring in science and geography felt comfortable wearing their cotton Ts for a couple of nights knowing a chick was giving it the sniff test later on in the lab. The women were pysch and bio majors. The results showed women prefer the Ts of  men with “dissimilar” DNA from their own – thus variety – viva la difference – rules the Hungryfor Mates Games.  Fuhgetabout birds of the nest flocking together. Women prefer men who are somewhat genetically rather than personality different from themselves. They can detect these DNA differences by scent. We hunt our baby makers by their genomes not their trust funds. It expands and strengthens our gene pool so Baby Einsteins and Walking Dead can flourish. George was a lifeguard when we met – and I confess – the scent of his T shirts were drove me wild. He smelled of sunshine, the sea, and Coppertone.

Years later, I learned that my mother in law had used only Tide detergent for – ever!  All of those years of thinking I’d fallen in love with the scent of a sailor when in real life I was seduced by Proctor & Gamble’s laundry perfume. Perhaps the T shirt study was on to something. George and I were different but powerfully attracted to each other – despite our parents’ cautions. When we met in the summer of ’69, I was a rambunctious art major favoring floppy hats and loose academic pursuits while he favored preppy clothes, criminology, and a serious grad school fellowship. I loved rock ‘n roll – he’d played bass in a youth symphony and the accordion for grins. He loved to relax on a beach while I yearned to be aboard a boat – preferably my own. There must’ve been magic woven into his 100% cotton Ts -we’ve spent 44 of his 66 years together on land, alongshore, and afloat.

George prefers to be a deck monkey and work the winches, take the helm, and weigh anchor. I don’t believe he’s a waister even though he does the heavy hauling – he’s not Ordinary either. Let’s say by virtue of his 66 candles today that he is definitely an Old Salt with a lot of sea miles in his wake and rich with stories to share. And, no matter what detergent we use – he smells better than any topman who hasn’t bathed since the ship left port. In fact – he smells terrific – and does the laundry – like an Able Seaman First Class.

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66 Candles w/Amberley & Nick, Houston, Feb. 2014
Photo by JAL

Inboards and Outboards

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OB&HandicappedWho among us naps in a public rest room? Last week we joined friends to see make sure our sailboats were secure in their winter berths. The forecast was for the mercury to plummet 50 degrees with 50 mph gusts. There was a great deal of ice in the harbor but the bubbler had kept our hulls bobbing on open waters. It was the flowing of beverages through the tube that connects our nose and toes that motivated a visit to Palisades – the local pub that during floods is located in the Mississippi River (http://www.palisadesyachtclub.com).

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Stag on Board

Palisades’ rest rooms are coded for boaters’ ease of comprehension – Outboards and Inboards. Apparently some guys need a visual cue to get them into the right room – so a stag head adorns the adjacent wall. It’s pretty common to give kitschy names to bathrooms located in nautical communities. The names Buoys and Gulls confuse landlubbers – but Out and In seem to trigger universal understanding of the appropriate venue for males and females to find public relief. The Aussie’s have their Dunny. Thomas Crapper gave Americans the Crapper. We have our Johns and TP, the Brits have their Jacks and bogroll.

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Comfort Station for the Gulls

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Sits one – stands a few good men

Palisades’ Inboard room sits two. While I didn’t venture into the Outboard – it had a distinct industrialized look from the open door. The Inboard is decorated and has a reading lamp to create a restful atmosphere.

The stark contrast between rooms reminds us that men and women are different. While the head is the center of attention in any public maritime bathroom – the brain of a man standing in the Outboard room is very different from the brains of women chatting away in the Inboard room.

Male brains are pretty much wired from front to back and concentrate more on one side of the brain than the other. Listening to the guys play back the same conversation week after week it’s probably the right side – the part of the brain that make sense of the big picture. Because the bulk of wiring in male brains isn’t linked to the center of language guys can sum up a three hour sporting event with just a few words. Some guys criticize men who talk a lot about their feelings and describe them as a clogged head –  full of it. Neural engineering is also responsible for the male phenomenon whereby what ever is seen goes from the eyes to the rear end of the brain that is close to the command center of instinctive bodily functions – like sex. When a man sees an attractive woman the brain automatically fires up the outboard.

Women’s brains are connected from side to side in a way that engages both hemispheres. The wiring scheme of human brains develops during the crazy teen years when guys sprout facial hair and a deep love for their outboards and women begin lunar cycles of cramping. The two sides of the female brain share neural pathways that connect what they see with how they feel. Neither side functions without the other being involved. The right hemisphere is connected with the left hemisphere that commands language. This is why it’s so easy for women to share our thinking and ask for directions. Women’s brains work by keeping both sides in touch. This helps us understand why women often visit rest rooms in pairs and why guys fear their galls are in there comparing the size of their outboards.

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It’s not the size of the lower unit – it’s the spin of the prop.

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Sailing a Jukung in a Bali Lagoon

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15 seconds of Jeri and George’s 40th anniversary

Hail the Halcyon Days at Fiddler’s Green

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Newport, RI

Many of us spend the last couple of days of the year preparing to welcome, or hail the New Year. We raise a glass to forthcoming Halcyon days, times of happiness and prosperity.

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GHL on a Hobie Adventure Island, Pettasquamscutt Lake, RI

Most of us harbor vivid imaginations, left overs from childhood when imagination and curiosity were the vital ingredients of happiness. Sailors of yore imagined a blissful land where there is perpetual mirth centered by a fiddle that never stops playing for sailors who never tire of dancing. This nautical nirvana known as Fiddler’s Green has as many longitude and latitude locations as there are dreaming sailors. Time spent in Fiddler’s Green are halcyon days, calm and ruffled times when thoughts about work are forgotten and ways to relax and play are remembered and practiced.

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Photo courtesy of Fiddler’s Green in Orlando

Few among us have ever been to sea long enough to yearn for a landfall that rivals paradise, yet most can imagine a Fiddler’s Green where dreams are possible, the music doesn’t stop and dancers never tire.

New Year’s Eve is a great time to envision places to visit, quests to test our mettle, and adventures to chart. These are waypoints on the upcoming voyage around the sun. Some waypoints will be simple ports of call to replenish our stock, fix what’s broken, and take refuge from storms. Others waypoints will fuel our desire for more time and resources to raise the sails, savor the sunshine, shoulder through waves, and soar with the winds.

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Solana Beach, a true Fiddler’s Green

And so it is we leave 2013 astern. My wish is that we all may sail our imaginations to Fiddler’s Green. Hail the 2014 New Year!

Mostly Water

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Relaxin’ @ The Soggy Dollar Bar, Jost Van Dyke, BVI

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The Soggy Dollar Bar

Three quarters of Earth is water, as is the human body.  Human brains are even soggier. Gray matter accounts for only 15% of the stuff within a skull – the rest of our smarts are composed of – water. Three lush-ish days of relaxin’ at the Soggy Dollar Bar in Jost Van Dyke amplified my thankfulness for the sea. They also affirmed the adage, it’s not the ice in the frozen concoction that chills.  It’s the booze in the Painkillers that melts brains. The cup may hold 12 ounces, but 75% of the swill is water – the minority rules.

Vacations are hyped as get aways. Vaykays spent on, in, or near the sea, are really “get closers.” Our inner sea floats with the swells. Blood feels lighter – saltier – and heart beats keep time with the surf’s rhythm. Ebbing tides swipe land bound worries. We become lax; what was firm back home settles as soft silt beneath our toes at the water line. The past ebbs and the future dissolves. We savor the moment – now.

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SDB Challenge, “Swim In, Drink, Swim Out”

We discovered the ultimate beach “get closer” in the Caribbean. Jost Van Dyke is a small island, there is always a sea breeze no matter the time or tide. Every room has a library, the pages of the books are softened by the tropical sea air. Meals are prepared by a chef rather than a fry cook. Smiles run rampant, stories become legends, laughter triumphs. By day’s end, fresh friendships flourish and stress is forsaken. The star soaked sky merges with the sea and envelopes one’s senses with bliss.

The Soggy Dollar Bar serves scores of patrons on a busy day – but it sleeps just six couples at it’s Sandcastle Hotel.  It’s only approachable by boat. We traveled by ferry from St. Thomas and Tortola – but most guests arrive on cruise ship excursion boats, catamarans, and other vessels. These patrons swim from boats to the beach – and back. That’s the SDB challenge; Swim In, Drink, Swim Out.

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A Sunny Place for Shady People

Mick, the bartender at the Soggy Dollar understands the magic of lax.  He will tell you it’s not what’s in the glass that is so different from the spirits poured in millions of bars. The famed plastic cup holds a sip of this particular island, a slug of the sea, a dash of sand clinging to the rim. A sprinkling of freshly grated nutmeg crowns the brew. To expect the same sensation from a cocktail by the same name anywhere else is foolish. It’s the whole-ness of being at the Soggy Dollar that is inebriating.  Oh, sure it is, until you ask Mick for another round and the water within begins to spin with the sea.

If you plan a “get closer” to the Virgin Islands, skip the U.S. Saints and ferry to the Brit’s isles. Pack a toothbrush, a change or two of casual wear. Leave the make up home.  Plan to play.  Allow 75% of your being to blend with it’s counterpart – the sea. Make a reservation to Jost Van Dyke to relax. To lax again. That whole thing about becoming slack  and letting salt water make worries go soft … To relax is to get loose…again.

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True Blue Blood

Thank you Tina, Mick and the great staff of the Soggy Dollar and Sandcastle for outstanding service – our best beach vacation in 42 years! A shout out to the gang who introduced us to One Love and Ivans – stories to follow  – send me some pix and Stay Shady. Sorry to have missed you Jerry & Tina (two LaSalle Alums) – we are sorry for your tragic loss.

Readers interested in visiting the Soggy Dollar and Sandcastle Hotel contact Tina at

relax@soggydollar.com and visit them online at soggydollar.com.

The Imelda Marcos of Boat Shoes

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Call Me

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Imelda’s Tootsie Keepers

           Last year the world shuddered at the news of Dictator First Lady in Exile Imelda Marcos’ tragic loss of her entire collection of 3,000 shoes. Among the lost soles are a pair of white Pierre Cardin heels. Termites ate them and mold rotted their perky little heels. Her fame was due less than her role as Dictator First Lady than her reputation as the epitome of excess in the Philippines. In her words, “I really had no great love for shoes. I was a working First Lady; I was always in canvas shoes. I did nurture the shoes industry of the Philippines, and so every time there was a shoe fair, I would receive a pair of shoes as a token of gratitude.”

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A Shoe for All Seasons

I understand. Every time I go to a boat show, a ship’s chandlery, or pass a Sperry Topsiders’ store, I seem to acquire a new pair of boat shoes. My collection is up to 46 shoes. Less than Imelda’s but 44 more than Mary Ellen’s and she’s a live aboard sailor. I have seasonal favorites, beginning with my spring bamboo woven pink flowers on tan, pink & pale pink two-eyes, darker pink three-eyes, and preppy one-eyed pink, white, and emerald green. When hot weather comes and I’m not wearing flip flops (two pair are Topsiders) the seasonal fare includes yellow, light blue, tan, and light blue, Nantucket red, and madras canvass. Fall brings on the hounds tooth and corduroy, camouflage green, Black Watch canvass and cordovan (cute little anchors tooled in the leather). By winter I’m ready to slip into sturdy Blue Fish standards, a snugly pair with furry lining, or my new Navy blue boots with the really cool medallions.

I went to a Women on Water seminar (St. Louis Sail & Paddle) last Saturday (they don’t stock boat shoes). The theme was that women are from Venus, Men are from Mars, and most sail boats are Captained by human beings that pee standing up. Women were encouraged that it was not necessary to “grow a pair” to command a vessel. However, they should learn all aspects of sailing so that if Captain Bligh is knocked over board by a rogue boom that the woman may or may not have been responsible for securing, said woman will have options. Well, the presenter might not have said or implied this but my take away is:  confident sailing women who know the ropes (and sails, and navigation, etc) can and should take charge when they want to because they can. For example, if a woman practices how to do a Man Overboard maneuver; she knows how to conduct a rescue. She’s also got the chutzpah to toss a life ring and circle around the sodden, misogynic, control freak a couple of times reminding the soaking Captain Testosterone that a woman’s independence is a strength and if he doesn’t get it he can swim to shore.

The Ex Libris is docked in a gender-balanced harbor, probably more Uranus than Mars or Venus. All of my female dock friends are on their first marriages and can sail. Most are proficient at the helm or as crew. Crew is anyone saddled with the job of hoisting and tuning the sails, taming the wind, yanking the lines every time the wind changes or you want to change course. Frankly, lugging a huge sail up a 50’ mast is not my idea of recreation – hence, George serves as the crew or, Deck Monkey. We women eschew being, smelling like or working as hard as a Deck Monkey. We like taking the helm and we don’t bark orders. That’s what’s different about River Rat Winch Wenches – we don’t ask any man for power– we take it.

5Logo We also like fashion and accessories (custom embroidered shirts, hatbands, and jackets) to embellish the jargon laden sport of sailing. Some women decorate their cabins with nautical tchotchkes and wear nautical styles of jewelry. I decorate my feet. Deck shoes serve as a function, an amusement, a fashion (lack there of), and a secure platform to walk on slippery decks. My collection is probably 25 years old. By rotating through the seasons and flip flopping most of the summer –  deck shoes really don’t wear out. And, like my jeans, striped shirts, patch madras Bermuda shorts, embroidered caps, emerald green slacks, and pink oxford Polo shirts – they never really go out of style. The thing is my shoes fit me and acknowledge my passion for the sea and all things boats. George just smiles and compliments my shoe-thing and is content to be First Mate.  He’s pretty confident that should he ever fall overboard his Captain wouldn’t circle three times before hauling him back on board.

The Blue Marble

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The Blue Marble
Photo Courtesy of NASA

When the crew of the Apollo 17 spaceship was about five and a half hours into their lunar voyage 41 years ago they became the first human beings to photograph a fully illuminated Earth from 28,000 miles away. With the sun at their backs and a clear view of the whole planet, the astronauts declared when viewed from space the Earth is a blue marble. Look closely at the top right of the photo – that’s a typhoon in the Indian Ocean.

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Pohnpei, Micronesia

Last week, we worried about the projected path of Typhoon Haiyan in the South Pacific with winds up to 240 mph. Abruptly; a storm half a world away seemed personal. When I was a very young high school teacher, one of my junior history class students, Leslie, distinguished herself as the most brilliant person I’d ever encountered. She was bright, perky and curious about how the world worked. We urged her to graduate early and attend UConn. Within a scant few years she was doing biogenetic work at MIT. She retired 11 years ago and has been on an open-ended sailing adventure ever since.

I taught at a small rural school in northeastern Connecticut that is less than 90 minutes from Rhode Island but it’s always seemed too far away to visit. Like time, travel is relative. Leslie and her husband, Phillip sailed 28,025 miles from their homeport, Seattle aboard Carina, a 33’ Mason. Over the past decade they’ve posted hundreds of photos and narratives of their voyage  (http://www.sv-carina.org) including a live GPS page that plots their current location. They’re currently anchored off Pohnpei, an island in Micronesia, which is 7,033 miles from my office window. Carina’s steady blogs have kept me connected to Leslie all of these years. I’ve followed her across the seas. This summer she gifted me with a day together in Rhode Island. I felt very close to her having kept abreast of her voyage and peered at her photos for the past decade.

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Photo Courtesy of NASA

Leslie said blue water cruising is the same situation that astronauts endure in space. Sometimes the night sky and sea blend as one and it becomes absolutely clear that there is absolutely no one out there who can save you except yourself. You’re on your own on a big blue marble. If something breaks, you have to fix it. The sea won’t remember you or the boat if you sink.

Satellite image of typhoon Haiyan 7/11/13

Satellite image of typhoon Haiyan 7/11/13

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Corner Office with a View

I can’t see past the willow tree outside my office window but the screen size images of the typhoon’s wake are intensely clear. When I saw satellite weather photos of Typhoon Haiyan with winds up to 240 mph charging up from Micronesia, I feared for the safety of the souls aboard Carina.  Leslie seemed so far away and too close to Harm’s way. I thought of the Blue Marble and realized our world is smaller and what’s outside a window can be seen on a laptop. Without hesitation, I emailed Leslie and inquired about her safety.

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Leslie & Phillip in Pohnpei

Within the hour, Phillip and then Leslie replied – “The ugly nasty horrible typhoon Hiayan was just a nasty little 1007 mb low when it passed us last weekend.  Computer weather models predicted it would spin up into a nightmare and it did just that. We had a rainy, gusterly day at home, monitoring our gps drag alarm and bailing the dinghy regularly.  Otherwise we were fine.”

There is a box of marbles on my office bookshelf. Marbles remind me that there are just so many days to play during any lifetime. Some of us learn that playing the  game of rowing our own boats means discovering that is life is often but a dream as we go gently down the stream. But, as with most toys, it’s easy to lose one’s marbles and then the game is over. I figure the best way to express my gratitude for Leslie and Phillip’s safety is to offer some help for those not as lucky. I’m 5,565 miles away from the Philippines but only a couple of keyboard strokes from the Red Cross (http://www.redcross.org/news/article/Red-Cross-Sends-Support-to-Philippines-for-Typhoon-Response). Give a little, it will mean a lot to people who feel like astronauts lost in space.

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Too Cold to Sail So We Cook In

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Too Cold to Sail So We Cook In