An Uncharted Life

Nowhere Left to Go but Up

2025-03-31T18:17:00.006-03:00

It's all a past life now, and it's also time to talk about it.

In October 2022, I made the decision to leave my relationship, which I realised put me at risk of being forced to leave Scotland, the only place that had ever truly felt like home. My Spouse Visa was effectively cancelled when I left the croft (I'd been frequently reminded this would be the consequence, if things didn't work out between us, and that I would subsequently be required to vacate the UK within 60 days). In hindsight, it was a threat of the consequence of non-compliance. Staying on the croft until October 2024 was the alternative, and this was no longer an option I was willing or able to endure. Thankfully, the UK Home Office has a provision in place for such situations, and I was granted Indefinite Leave to Remain in the UK as a result.

The penny dropped in one single moment on a September morning that year, and has resulted in a slow epiphany ever since as to how I ended up in the situation I did in the first place, and how wrong it was for so long. After that moment, I sought advice from friends, as well as others educated in such matters with well-informed, professional advice, who were in a position to offer the perspective I wasn't able to glean while isolated. I look back on so much of it in utter disbelief that I wasn't savvy enough to see (let alone heed) the red flags and neon signs that were being waved and flashed in my face daily. I eventually awoke to an important realization.

I have been here before.

And yet, here I was again. Throughout my life, I have found myself dealing with the same person, just in different forms. So, if you find familiarity in some of the following, it might be time to confront some uncomfortable truths, and make some important changes to your own situation. It may mean making one of the most difficult decisions of your life, but take it from me, it will be worth it.

If they intentionally and continuously diminish the things you take joy in, or discourage you from taking part in them, be it something as small as your birthday, or hobbies or work that bring meaning to your life, it could be that they can't handle not being the center of attention. If they dissuade you from pursuing your passions, it could be jealousy, inadequacy, control, or because that’s not the role they envision for you, the one to suit their own personal purposes.

If you find yourself walking on eggshells, when you don’t know what to attend to first, as you’ll surely be somehow punished for what is left until later, think about how that makes you feel, not only in the moment, but how it indeed overshadows every waking moment. It is the harbinger of worse to come.

If you are frequently subjected to the ‘silent treatment’ for a week at a time, then the cold shoulder for another, that is neither tough-love, or any other form of love. Nor is the silent treatment a mechanism for their own self-preservation, as they might claim. It is a tool for control.

If you perpetually feel you’re limited to responding to them with only precisely what they want to hear, no more, no less, as you'll otherwise be slated and called names, that's not normal. Nor is them putting words in your mouth when you choose to keep quiet, rather than engage in the angry rant.

If you are required to prove yourself, or obtain permission, before being trusted with certain tasks, before making the full attempt in earnest, that is about control, and stems from their own inadequacies. It undermines your self-confidence and ambition, and slowly whittles away your sense of your own self worth and abilities.

If you’re the recipient of back-handed 'compliments', that seem to invalidate something positive about yourself that you know to be true, it is a manipulation tactic that allows them a facade of politeness and kindness, while actually belittling or undermining you. When you work hard, and are doing your best with what you have, but are inevitably met with ‘never-good-enough’ reactions to your efforts, this constant state of uncertainty can leave you doubting yourself, and eventually make you subconsciously dependant on approval that you'd normally never intentionally seek. The self-doubt will continue to snowball.

If it always feels like a no-win situation, and constant disappointment in yourself when you inescapably cannot live up to their expectations...

If respect is demanded, but never given; high morals are spoken of, but never enacted. If they expect (and get) the truth, but lie in exchange...

If they preach about the importance of animal rights, then they themselves do wrong by them...

If they tell you you can leave, but just realize if you do, you’ll always be alone, and will never find another one like them, while attempting to reinforce a belief that you cannot possibly make it on your own without them...

If you find out they’ve been turning down social invites on your behalf, ones you didn’t know existed until possibly months later...

If people show up at your home to visit, and are turned away at the end of the driveway, which you only, perhaps inadvertently, find out later, and God only knows what explanation they received at the gate...

If they consistently discourage your pursuit of employment, aside from specific jobs they've approved, namely ones that keep you under their supervision, and others that they possibly tried to arrange for you themselves, unbeknownst to you...

If they put on a show while in public, often charming complete strangers, then completely change their demeaner as soon as you walk through the front door of your house...

If they undermine your relationships with family and friends, making little remarks that leave you wondering who is really on your side, implying you're only in your friends lives because you're somehow 'of use' to them...

Or if they make subtle threats like "revenge is a dish best served cold," to attempt to intimidate, if you should ever consider defending yourself...

If, while in your company in public, they loudly demean certain members of society (expecting them to hear), notice the longer-term implications of such behaviour, and how likely you are to leave the house next time there's an errand to be run.

If they constantly remind you how ungrateful you are for everything they’ve done for you, and how ‘everybody else thinks so, too’, it's a way of shifting the focus away from their own behaviour. By continuously creating an impression that everyone has taken their side, they're effectively reminding you how alone you are, and it's a systematic approach in isolating you, leaving you hesitant and uncertain about who you might be able to reach out to for the help you actually probably need at this point, but not for the reasons they're trying to have you believe. They might even take it so far to feel entitled, as a non-professional, to encourage, nay, implore you, on their knees in prayer position, insisting you need professional intervention with very specific prescription medication, to "be normal again".

I must say, there were few red flags I've encountered over the years that were as blatant as that one.

If it gets to this point, they're probably, in all actuality, pretty close to owning you.

These people create alternative narratives early on, to later justify what they know will be the inevitable. These false narratives will likely only become apparent to you much, much later. They lay the groundwork as soon as you begin dating, because part of them knows themselves well enough (even though you don't) that it will never last. It’s so obvious in hindsight, and you may never fully understand their motives when they come out with a complete falsehood, trying to convince you it’s true when you know full well it’s not. It’s a new story they’re creating, for what you don’t even realize is coming yet. You’ll be in the dark for much of it, until you’re suddenly not, and then, you cannot unsee the light.

It may not be obvious while you're in the thick of it, but take a step back, and ask yourself one question: Do their words align with their behaviour? If you're noticing inconsistencies between the two, trust your own judgement on this. They have learned throughout their life that acting will actually get them pretty far, but actors eventually stumble if they forget which character they're meant to be playing. Their true selves will frequently show; don't let their incongruent words fool you.

Where they spare no effort in turning friends into enemies, let those who go along with their version, determined to misinterpret your situation, continue to do such. Try to give those folks your understanding. After all, it can take years to see through the manipulation. Perhaps that same veil will be lifted for them someday, too. Trying to defend yourself from the myriad of accusations contained within the inevitable smear campaign is an exercise in futility, and waste of precious energy, as what you might say will already have been anticipated by them, and will be readily countered by their carefully (or not so carefully) prepared narrative, which will have just enough of a dusting of truth to make it believable. They will play the victim, and will add that 'it's not a sob story', when that's exactly what it is. One of their own making.

The things you've done to them, how you took advantage, how you cheated (all their past partners left them for someone else, that's a tale they will always choose to tell). The abuse they suffered at your hands, and how miserable you made them.

The next victim, if they don't know any better, might look at them and think, gosh, they're such a lovely person; life just hasn't been fair to them. What a fool their partner must have been to have treated them that way, and to let them go.

How lucky the next one will be.

Textbook, as they say; which I gradually suspected, and was eventually told.

The funny thing is, these things you’re accused of, at length, are the very behaviours they themselves are displaying, and have in the past. They project them on to you, as a means of disowning what they know deep-down to be the worst of themselves. These accusations ultimately amount to an unconscious admission of their own character.

They are confessions. Pay attention to them.

If any of this sounds familiar, you may have fallen in love with someone who never existed. You might be seeing something in them that was never there. Don’t assume because you feel deeply, that all others in your orbit have the capacity for the same.

I've experienced all of these situations at some point in my adult life, and much more that only those closest to me will ever know. Yes, I have indeed been there before, and now that I finally see it, it's somewhere I will never go again.

P.S. This post can be considered the Prequel to my previous published Sequel (read here) from last summer. Since October 2022, things have done nothing other than continue to look up! 😊

The Sequel

2024-07-26T12:43:00.001-03:00

Four years without writing. That's a new record for me, by far. How little I realised in February 2020 how things would change in the coming few years; things I previously accepted as certainties.

As my last contract with the aerial survey company was coming to an end in America, they asked me if I'd extend. But, as this thing called covid-19 begun hitting the news, I felt it necessary to get home before the previously unthinkable came to pass. I arrived back on Lewis on March 8th, shortly before the first lockdown commenced. Looking back on those days, I've often felt like I dodged the actual Covid lockdown unwittingly in exchange for what could have been a life of permanent lockdown. Crofting life in a remote village can be isolating enough, but circumstances were to take it even further.

I had to learn the hard way what love is NOT, but the silver lining to that four-year cloud has been learning to recognize what love actually IS.

Suffice to say, there are some talented actors outside the theatre. Even though love wasn’t where I thought it was, it was still there somewhere; it was just in unexpected forms and places.

The first summer, that of 2020, I'll forever remember as the Summer of Nomster. Born early on the sunny, crisp morning of May 4th, Nomster the lamb was a twin to sister Dolly. This was the first year I was present for lambing, and I had a lot to learn. One important lesson, that could have prevented so much heartache, was to recognize that nature knows best. Shortly after Nomster and Dolly were born, as soon as Dolly found her legs, mum Scarlett toddled away with Dolly, leaving Nomster curled up in a tight ball on the cold concrete at the back door of the new house. Scarlett knew then what would sadly take me 3 months (to the day) to figure out. He was never going to make it.

That never stopped me from trying. He loved his bottle ('Want bitty?', and he'd let out an abbreviated "Meh!" and would come running). For the first couple of weeks, he slept in a box downstairs on the loom shed floor. He eventually graduated to sleeping in my ‘she-shed’, but when I'd wake up cold in my own bed in the early hours, and feel guilty about him out there alone, I'd get bundled up, bring him inside, feed him a warm bottle of Lam-lac, then we'd curl up under a demoted duvet on the couch downstairs for another couple of hours of sleep, him on my chest, attempting to suckle my hair, of all things.

When the time came to try to re-introduce him to the rest of the flock, Nomster and I both struggled with the separation, I have to admit. The first night I put him in the field on the lower part of the croft, I left him in a covered and fenced-in shelter, as I was worried (probably unnecessarily) of flying predators (crows, eagles) picking on him, as he was alone. When I went to check on him in the morning, who had pushed their way in there but Friendly (probably my favourite ewe of the lot) and her lamb, Findlay. The three of them were quite cosy and settled, as the rest of the flock were far in the distance, grazing at the bottom of the croft. It was quite unexpected, and it warmed my heart.

I don't think I'll ever fully forgive myself for how things ended with Nomster, but I have to tell myself that he at least had a couple of good months of summer life on the croft, and that I only did the best I could, with the knowledge I was equipped with at the time. To make a long, painful story short, he was born with a malformed jaw, which meant while he could happily drink from the bottle I fed to him, he would never be able to properly eat grass. And for a sheep, that's just a non-starter. It was difficult in the weeks that followed August 4th, to wake up, and for just a few moments to have forgotten he was gone, only for reality to sink in, and remember he would never again come running to me for bitty . I had to fight back a lot of tears, for a very long time, some of which are still coming out now. It's difficult to explain how much I took to heart the loss of this tiny being, but I couldn't help it. Love will do that.

'Gotcha' Day

But sure as the tide, the ebb and flow of life was to bring love again the following spring, not only in the form of 15 healthy lambs, but also when I went to the mainland to collect another addition to the croft, a red-and-white border collie.

Scotia and Joe

I eventually named her Scotia, as an homage to my home province. The original hope was that she would help herd the sheep, but making no earnest attempt, nor having any idea how to train her as such, she quickly became a full-time pet, who enjoyed chasing cars and chickens, and would frolic with the lambs, rather than herd them. We had to resort to putting her inside the loom shed if the sheep needed gathering, where she could be heard howling forlornly, no doubt suffering from a case of FOMO.

When life on the croft took a definitive and irreversible turn south, I took my first job since leaving the aerial survey company in February 2020. On January 1st 2023, I started part-time work as a cleaner at the Search and Rescue helicopter hangar in Stornoway. I took it in the hopes of angling my way into a certain cadet program, but fate had other plans in store; things I couldn't have dreamt of just a few months earlier.

I spent 6 weeks cleaning toilets and making beds in the hangar, which I rather enjoyed given the outstanding bunch of folk who work there as pilots, engineers, paramedics, winch operators, as well as the office manager. When someone from the head office in Aberdeen was paying a visit to the base, and I spoke about my credentials, I was asked if I'd like to apply for a position as a drone pilot. My initial reaction was actually, Um, no thanks. But when I had a closer look at the drone, and what the job actually entailed, I realised it would be an offer I couldn't easily refuse. A couple of weeks later, after dropping Scotia off with friends for an extended stay, I was on a flight to Vienna, to begin 2 months of training for the position.

It was my first time in Austria, and I was able to do some exploring, both alone, and with the other guys who were on the training course. From a solemn visit to Mauthausen concentration camp, to the typical tourist visit to Vienna city center, to the thermal baths at Bad Voslau. The use of the City Bikes rental was fantastic, and I often covered 50km on the weekends, through the nearby vineyards, and following the network of well-maintained cycle paths.

As I was a short bus-ride from Budapest, I was able to steal away for a weekend to catch up with a

Hungarian friend, who had the best plans laid-out for our weekend together; a visit to a nearby airfield (now I have a renewed desire to fly a biplane!), a bicycle tour of both sides of the beautiful, blue (?) Danube, a train ride to the lovely village of Santander, and a good part of the day at the incredible thermal baths of Szechenyl. It was really hard to leave.

The post-Austria Reunion

It was little more than a quick touch-and-go in Stornoway between completing the course, to gather a few things (and most importantly, pick up Scotia!) and setting out for my new life in the south of England, where the position is based.

With a pretty much to-die-for schedule (night shifts aside...) there's plenty of time to explore the opposite end of the UK. And what better to explore the countryside than an old pop-top Volkswagen camper! We've had some adventures in Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, and a few trips to Wales. Here's Esmerelda, and some of the places we've been.... (more to read after the photos, if you're interested in an update on Effie!)

And now, for what I've been asked about most, by far, in the last few years... What ever happened to Effie!?

I cannot recall now if I ever let on, but Effie went on to live with the captain of the sailing ship that began my sailing career, Scott of Highlander Sea. My lifestyle was too erratic after the sale of Annie Laurie, after which I went from campgrounds to couches to bunks aboard yachts, all in an attempt to fulfil my latest endeavour of becoming a commercial pilot. It broke my heart to let her go, after all we'd been through together; raising her from just weeks old aboard the boat, and sailing far and wide together. But I knew at least that she was going to a good forever-home, with friends I'd known for years. It seemed like the best I could do for her, under the circumstance, and after all, she'd be secure, and loved, and even a doggy pal, Buffer, to keep her company.

Effie was with them over a year before I realised something was up. While hiking the West Highland Way in June 2018, I had a short message from Scott's wife, asking how old Effie was. She was just coming up on 11 years, I replied. I was so consumed with my own adventure, and deprived from steady internet, the inquiry was quickly forgotten, and I didn't think to even question why it was asked in the first place. It wasn't until late August, when I happened upon a Facebook post, suggesting Scott and his wife were no longer together, that I suddenly had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Yes, it was as I had feared... the animal shelter had wanted to know her approximate age.

After over 2 months 'in custody', and just a few weeks before I realised she was no longer with Scott, she was adopted by a wonderful young woman named Bella. Effie is now known as Coco, and here's a picture of her and her canine-pal, Elton. She'll be 17 years young this August. Thank-you, Bella, for loving her when I couldn't, and keeping the wind in her sails. And Scott, you have my forgiveness. You'll have to speak directly to Coco for hers.

Foundations

2020-02-12T00:11:00.003-04:00

Sanibel Island, FL

I never know where to begin after not writing for so long, so how about I begin with today, and I’ll work my way back to where I left off.

It is February, and I am in Fort Myers, Florida, after recently relocating after close to two months in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I am back in America for another (much shorter) contract, doing aerial survey in a little Cessna 172.

While in Albuquerque, in my free time, I decided to upgrade my skills to broaden future job prospects. I passed my commercial multi-engine check-ride in late November. Now I can legally work as a commercial pilot flying planes with more than one engine. Whether I ever will is another story.

With just a little over 2 weeks left in my contract, I’m more than a little excited to be going home. Yes, home to Scotland.

Multi-engine checkride successfully completed.
Farmington, New Mexico

Let me take you back to when I last went home following my other contract, after 9 solid months away.

When my contract ended June 30^th in Syracuse, New York, I was on a commercial flight within 5 hours, Scotland-bound.

Luckily, there were fewer than a half dozen folk on the final Glasgow-to-Stornoway leg of my flight, so I didn’t have to trample too many people as I eagerly made my way to the Arrivals lounge, where a handsome Scotsman was waiting to usher me back to the croft in Achmore. It’s the greatest feeling, coming home to the one you love, who’s waiting for you at the end of the line, where you know you belong. Home sweet home.

Building the foundations (background and foreground)

It was quite exciting to see the progress on the house, after being away for 9 months. B had the plans in the works well before we met, and he had just laid the foundation a couple of months after we met. Now the walls were up, roof installed and much of the stonework and Scottish larch siding was complete, as well as the hurricane-proof giant picture windows framing the spectacular view of the Harris hills.

We have a small flock of Hebridean sheep, and all the ewes had lambs in the spring, who were over a month old by the time I got back.

Within hours of being back on the croft, I was out in the fields helping to herd them for various necessities, including hoof-clipping, shearing, and medicines.

One lamb decided she wasn’t too keen on any of that, and when cornered, launched herself over the fence onto the neighbours croft. A sheep dog might have been helpful, but as we don’t yet have one, B and I got a weeks worth of exercise running up and down the croft, trying to encourage her through an opening in the fence we made. At one point the lamb seemed to think she found one of her own when faced with one of the cows belonging to our neighbours. She toddled up with a hopeful gait, but when the bull turned around and made a motion to charge, she realized her mistake, and was once again top-speed for the bottom of the croft. It was well after dark when B finally managed to reunite the lamb with her mom. There’s nothing quite as heart wrenching as laying in bed on a quiet night, listening to a lamb crying for it’s mother.

When I arrived back, the coming months still carried a certain amount of uncertainty, so we were determined to make the most of the summer. The weather gods did not make this easy on anyone during the Hebridean summer of 2019. As B said, it will be remembered as the Summer That Never Was. The running joke was that it only rained twice, once for 47 days, and once again for 43 days. Despite this, we managed a few overnight trips in the camper van, sadly only one dip in the ocean at Tolsta Beach, to try out my new wetsuit (the waters may appear tropical, but don’t be fooled), though B was able to get in a few dives in nearby lochs where he enjoys snorkelling for Viking gold (seeking, not yet finding).

My main project I had assigned myself was to build a chicken coop. I’ve been wanting to keep chickens for quite a few years now, but life aboard Annie Laurie was hardly conducive. Now with the time, and the perfect setting for free-range chickens, and some leftover lumber from the on-going house build, as well as pallets collected from around Stornoway, construction began. I cannot hide how pleased I am with the finished product (in Scotland, you might say chuffed). I didn’t have plans per se, I just made it up as I went along, and took some inspiration from our architect-designed house as well. On October 1^st, our first five tenants, pullets (teenage hens) from the Isle of Skye, moved in.

To say they moved in would be to stretch the truth a bit, at least for the first couple of weeks. I still don’t know why, but despite a warm, clean, cozy, inviting coop awaiting them as darkness fell each evening, the five of them would just huddle outside the door, at the top of the ramp, but would not go inside. Bitter north wind, sleet, driving rain.... it mattered little. They were not going in the box.

After picking them up one by one, and locking them inside for 24 hours, as advised by other experienced chicken keepers, they realized that was their sleeping quarters, and they now happily put themselves to bed each evening at sundown, marching in a row up the ramp, and popping through the door one at a time.

At this point you might be wondering if a chicken coop was my biggest news since my last update. It might have been, if it wasn’t for B taking me for a Saturday spin out the road to the nearby Callanish Stones on October 5^th, when, with a beautiful antique diamond ring kindly gifted from his dear friend Nan in America, amidst the 5000 year old standing stones, B got down on one knee.

Proposal at the Callanish Stones,
Outlander-style

It would be a short engagement indeed, as we were married two weeks later in a simple ceremony on the balcony of the town hall in Stornoway on October 18^th. It was simply perfect, and perfectly simple, surrounded by his family and friends, as well as my good friend Louise and her family who came up from Stirling, which meant so much to me. We were incredibly lucky with the weather, after such a miserable summer, as the sun shone through, and the temperature was mild. After a quick trip to Tesco’s in our wedding dresses (so funny, right?) for supplies for the evening pizza party (B’s favourite), we stopped by the Lews Castle grounds as well as back to the Callanish Stones, for some photos. A small and casual party in the loom shed back on the croft ensued. Chrissy also surprised us with a beautifully detailed wedding cake, having made it herself after our late-morning ceremony, complete with a Hebridean sheep, chicken, the Scottish and Canadian flags, along with B and I, including the details of our attire that day. We were touched.

The work of the talented

Chrissy MacDonald

Priceless expression, after his new bride

dropped appetizers all over the floor

Louise and Family, Cuddy Point, Stornoway

It’s official! Leaving Town Hall

I’ve never been much of a planner, as anyone who knows me at all can attest, but despite the minimal planning involved, I’m pretty sure a good time was had by all, and the day as a whole was virtually stress-free. I think we should get married every year.

Best Man, the man who introduced
B and I, the right Calum MacDonald

As one of my brothers pointed out, and rightly so, many newlyweds might take a week and honeymoon, together, in Rome, Italy. Instead, a week after our wedding, I would be back at work, alone, in Rome, New York.

It’s all a part of a bigger picture, though. We do what we need to do in the short term, and one of these days, when I go home, I’ll be there to stay.

Fill in the Blanks

2019-05-01T20:43:00.002-03:00

Picking up where I left off, I did indeed spend much of the summer in Scotland. I changed my return flight once again, and cancelled my checkride for my commercial pilot license (CPL), vowing I would reschedule when the time was right, and that this would be just a temporary deferment. Looking back, it's hard to believe how many memories to last a lifetime I made in those few weeks.

Part of the accommodations at HebHostel

On Calum's suggestion, and in exchange for cleaning and changing of beds, I spent my first couple of weeks in Stornoway based at the family-owned HebHostel in the center of town. It proved to be an excellent starting point, as Christine and her family are enthusiastic hosts who love to help any hostel guest or volunteer get involved in local activities.

Evening row aboard Manisiadar, Lews Castle

It was in this way that I became involved with Falmadair, a local group involved in preserving traditional boats and sailing on the island. I was introduced to a few local sailors and rowers, and shortly after found myself out rowing on an almost daily basis, and eventually partaking on a coastal trip aboard the last traditional working Sgoth, Jubilee, built for the silver jubilee of King George V in 1935, and is the last surviving sgoth Niseach, a Ness-type skiff, that participated in the once prosperous Hebridean line fishing industry.

Jubilee and a few of the skiffs in Crosbost

It was while walking back to the hostel from one of these evening rows that I noticed a guy on a motorcycle trying to get my attention. He drove past, and a minute later intercepted me at another street corner. After removing his helmet, I finally realized it was my new friend B the weaver. We talked a short while, and he mentioned a local music festival known as Stromash was taking place the following weekend, and that I should maybe check it out. You know, only if I wanted. Wasn't a big deal. Whatever.

Volunteering at HebCelt 2018

I had in fact arrived in the Hebrides at a great time, as summer festivities were just getting into full-swing. I attended the Stromash, not surprisingly bumping into B once again. And the following weekend was HebCelt, a Celtic music festival held each July on the castle grounds for the past 23 years. I volunteered in exchange for a free weekend pass, and somehow managed to convince B to join me there too.

Calum, Donnie, B and I, HebCelt

It wouldnt be long before I found myself, more often than not, making myself at home in B's loom shed. Joey and Luna, siblings from the local cat rescue, didn't seem to mind sharing the sunny spot on their couch. (Which reminds me, I'll have an Effie update for everyone soon, but I'll leave that for the next blog.)

captivated audience

By late July, after B had initially wooed me with a date to a cemetery, followed by the music festivals, camping trips, walks on the moor, and charity shop scrounges, I knew why I had come to Lewis. I had to experience it for myself to believe it could be true, and now I know how it feels to know forever could never be long enough. So much from my past all seems a bit silly now, though it all had a place in the process to bring me to where I am now. It's a life I certainly didn't see coming when I boarded the plane in West Palm in early June. In the near future, entries in this blog may not be focused so much on sailing, or flying, but they will at least be sticking with the uncharted theme.

Catching the last bus home

Camping in Glen Etive, en route to Runrig

I knew full well the time was drawing near when I would have to return to America and re-schedule my checkride to complete my CPL. I was pretty determined and single-minded that my first aviation job would be as an aerial survey pilot, and with many of the primary hiring deadlines being October, I decided I should be on my way back to Florida by mid-August. But not before one final hurrah...

Runrig's Last Dance at Stirling Castle

I became one of the lucky ones to be in the crowd of 25,000 for what would be Runrig's final performance, after 45 years together. Though I only knew a handful of their songs, and had not been a life-long follower of the band, it was an emotional evening all the same. I was sad I'd allowed them to drop off my radar since living in Scotland back in 2004. I had actually only realized in the final hours that fellow Nova Scotian Bruce Guthro was the current leadsinger of the band, and had been since the late 1990s. After the concert, I felt sorry for all I had missed out on over the years, and that it was really over.

Typical windy day in the Outer Hebrides

The following day, it was time for B and I to say bye for now. Nothing was yet etched in stone, but I did know two things: soon I was going to be a commercial pilot, and someday soon I would be coming back home.

Upon arriving in Florida, I did a few refresher flights with one of my favorite instructors, Nancy. With various roadblocks still standing between me and a checkride being conducted in Florida, it seemed much easier to drive 1500 miles to Maine (where life is the way it should be) and try to schedule with the lone FAA-designated Examiner in the State.

And on September 19th, in Sanford, Maine, 19 months after my first solo flight, I became a Commercial Pilot. 😃

With an abundance of applications for relatively few positions in the world of aerial survey, I knew a certain amount of luck might be involved in landing one of these gigs, no matter how qualified I may have felt. I agreed with B that I could apply for these various companies just as easily from the loom shed in Scotland as I could from North America. Within a few days of arriving back in Stornoway, I had an invitation for an interview with a company in New York. I was now not only a commercial pilot, I was an employed commercial pilot.

Accepting the job would mean close to 9 months apart, which was far from ideal, but I knew what I had to do. With a nice visit last month in Maryland to help break up the time apart, I have just 2 months left before I go home. And I'll go with hundreds of additional flight hours in my logbook, which has opened many doors to future job possibilities, along with months of invaluable experience that has taken me from New York to Ohio, Tennessee, North Carolina, Florida, Alabama, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Iowa.

The future is full of possibilities, and I have so many plans when I return to Scotland.

Oops, my mistake. From now on, I'll have to make that WE.

💙

Scotland: Part Two of Infinity

2018-12-29T09:15:00.003-04:00

I feel overdue for a response from another message-in-a-bottle I've tossed overboard through the years. I'm in need of a stroke of magic, an unlikely encounter, an uncanny coincidence. I'm hoping if I ask, I shall receive.

Camping in Harris

A few words from my personal diary, written the day before I arrived in Stornoway. I couldn't have known as I gazed out over the surf beyond Luskintyre Beach, but these words, along with my June blog, appear to have foretold the days that would follow.

The seed for that stroke of magic was planted on the West Highland Way. Natalie was hiking the WHW with family and friends, and we crossed paths numerous times during the multi-day hike. When I mentioned my intention to head to the Outer Hebrides, specifically Stornoway, she suggested I reach out to her friend Calum. "Just add him on Facebook. He's a really nice guy, he will show you around. I'll tell him to expect to hear from you".

So, I did just that, the day after completing the hike, as I sat in Fort William in my post-WHW slump. I added the only Calum MacDonald that showed up in my search as living in Stornoway. Must be the guy, I thought. What I didn't realize at the time is that there are likely as many Calum MacDonalds on the Isle of Lewis as there are John Smiths in America.

As I carried on towards Mallaig and Skye, and across to Harris, I felt good about having at least one contact of some sort in Stornoway, having previously had none.

While camping by the beach in Harris, without internet or radio, and just an outdated copy of Lonely Planet's guide to Scotland, I decided to read-up a little on where it was I was headed. I had been drawn to Stornoway in the months leading up to that day, but in reality knew next-to-nothing of what my destination had to offer. Luckily for me my heart was already set on going, because after reading Lonely Planet, I thought, why would anybody go out of their way to visit this place?

Stornoway Harbour

According to the writer, Stornoway "may lie on a beautiful natural harbour, but it's not one of the most pleasant places in Scotland". He goes on to mention the drinking and drug problem, "perhaps because there's so little to do". How exactly can one be a travel writer, yet, at the same time, live under a rock?

Sure, everyone has their own way of traveling, and their own interests, but before making such a blanket statement in a publication meant to inform fellow potential travelers, perhaps he could have first disclosed that he has no interest in: hillwalking, cycling, conversations with outwardly friendly and interesting people, sailing, surfing, fishing, music festivals, art, sea kayaking, rowing, ancient history, Harris Tweed, bird-watching, ceilidhs, or cosy pubs with live traditional music. If nothing in there piques your interest, then by all means, skip Stornoway.

After packing my camping gear from the Harris shore, and trudging up to the main road, before I even had a chance to stick my thumb out, a car pulled over, and the guy asked where I was going. He lived a few miles south of Stornoway, but said it was no problem to take me right into town. It was about an hour-long drive, and we chatted about a lot of things, from the horrors of online dating (I have never) to driving on the opposite side of the road (I had never). Upon that admission, he pulled over to the side of the road, got out of the car, and insisted I take the driver's seat. I briefly hesitated, considering liability, before throwing caution to the wind. And that is how I first made my way to Stornoway: behind the wheel of a strangers car.

I dropped myself off in the middle of town, in search of my first internet connection in days. I was hoping this Calum MacDonald fellow had accepted my friend request, and it might somehow steer my coming days, and make my own experience in Stornoway worth the trek.

Well.

Calum had happily accepted my friend request, though he couldn't seem to place this Natalie girl I mentioned I had met on the West Highland Way. Upon further inquiry with Natalie, I had in fact added the wrong Calum MacDonald. But, by this point, he had already taken the time to read a bit of this blog, and being a volunteer host with the local community radio station, Isles FM, he asked if I'd join him as a guest the following morning. Sure, why not. Who knows where it could lead.

And so, the next morning I went to the station for a chat.

Weaving Harris Tweed on B's loom

After the show, Calum mentioned he had a friend who was a Harris Tweed weaver, and he offered to take me around to his loom shed outside of town. As it turned out, his friend was a piper as well. B offered us cups of tea, and I learned a bit about how Harris Tweed is woven, and he allowed me to play a few tunes on his bagpipes.

They insisted my trip to the Isle of Lewis wouldn't be complete without a visit to the Callanish Stones, which weren't far along the road. Standing stones dating back to 3000BC, the Callanish Stones predate Stonehenge by about 900 years. Billy spoke eloquently about the stones and the surrounding landscape, pointing out Cailleach na Mointeach, Gaelic for 'Old Woman of the Moors', also often referred to as The Sleeping Beauty. She is a series of hills, Mòr Mhonadh depicting her knees, Guaineamol her breasts, and Sidhean an Airgid outlining her head and face. Her outline varies depending on your vantage point, and from nearby Achmore, Beinn Mhòr leaves her with the appearance of being pregnant.

Callanish Stones

This day will remain a top-contender for years to come for Days I Never Wanted to End. But, I had to keep reminding myself I was just a tourist passing through. There was plenty more to see in the Outer Hebrides before my return flight to Florida in about ten days. After all, I had my checkride for my Commercial Pilot License already scheduled, and I wouldn't dream of missing it, not after everything I had been through to get this far in my qualifications. All the same, it seemed like a shame that I would only be in Stornoway for another couple of days.

Somewhere in those couple of days, B the weaver called, and asked if I'd like to go to the ruins of a 15th-century church and burial ground, where generations of Clan MacLeod chiefs are buried. Despite the destination, I kind of felt like he was asking me on a date. I couldn't be entirely sure, as it had been quite some time since I'd been asked on one.

But, really? To a cemetery?

By the end of that evening, I knew I would not be on a return flight to America anytime soon.

Scotland, Part One: Stones Unturned

2018-06-27T07:47:00.000-03:00

Two weeks ago, I touched down in Glasgow, Scotland. My return has been a long time coming.

Scottish Castle, Isle of Harris

Fourteen years ago, I left for what was supposed to be two semesters. I would get my degree in Meteorology, and I would be back. I kept in touch with Davey, the pipe major of the Royal Burgh of Stirling Pipe Band, and he sent me the competition sets for the following summer season; the medleys, and the march, strathspey, and reels. I practiced them religiously throughout the winter.

As usual though, I was trying to keep other possibilities open as options, too. Backup plans, should my primary plans fall through for one reason or another. I applied for various jobs over the winter, and a few days after graduating from Dalhousie for the second time, I received a job offer aboard Bluenose II. To sail aboard a Nova Scotian and Canadian icon, I couldn’t pass it up. Just one season, and then I would return to Scotland.

But as soon as the summer drew to a close, I was surprised by an invite to interview with a company I’d applied to over six months earlier. I was offered a position as marine meteorologist, and of course, I took it. And then Annie Laurie happened, and she would keep me sufficiently preoccupied until last Spring. And that’s how 14 years pass in the blink of an eye.

Now, I sit on Luskintyre Beach, on the Isle of Harris, in the Outer Hebrides. With the smell of salt air, the sound of gentle surf just over the dunes, and the fragrance of clover and beach grass warmed by the sun, I’m going to have a hard time finding reason to leave.

I had many reasons for coming back to Scotland, one of which was to finish something I started 15 years ago, the West Highland Way (WHW). I had recently bid adieu to my home of 7 months, Eye of the Wind, and my friend Ben, the ships engineer, said if I went to Scotland, a must-do was the WHW, that it was ‘quintessential Scotland’. He wasn’t wrong, but I set out to complete it rather haphazardly, underestimating the trek, and overestimating myself. And so, after 3 mostly-miserable days, I was soaked, exhausted, back aching and bloody-footed and desperately lonely at the north end of Loch Lomond. I walkout out to the highway, and started hitch hiking.

Being the type to prefer finishing what I’ve started, I have carried that nagging feeling ever since of something left undone. A few days ago, I was finally able to put that feeling to rest. I’m still on the fence though as to whether it has left me in a better place. I’ve been referring to it as the ‘post-West Highland Way Blues’. Make no mistake, I had an incredible time, this time hiking with my dear friend Louise, whom I used to work with at a coffee shop in Stirling. And despite many days of rain, cold, and occasionally exceptional winds, it was, in the end, everything I was hoping it would be. I could have done without the midges (the local black fly; and I couldn’t have put it better than the hotel employee in Rowardennan who had stepped out for a smoke, and didn’t know anyone was listening, when he yelled and cursed, “YA WEE FOOKEN MUDGIE BASTARDS!!”

The scenery, the folks we met, the feeling of accomplishment at the end of each day... I won’t try to describe it. The closest you’ll come to understanding is to either walk it yourself, or, failing that, stand at the line in Fort

Friends at the finish line of
the West Highland Way

William that marks the journey’s end, and see the emotion on the faces of those who cross it.

But once Louise was off to catch the train back to her family in Stirling, and everyone else I’d met during those 6 days and 97 miles of wilderness went back to their regular lives, the loneliness and uncertainty began to settle in. I had planned to finish the hike for so many years; as if by finishing it, there would be some kind of answer, or epiphany, waiting for me at the other end. Well, there wasn’t. And now I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next.

It has left me with a latent depression that I can only keep on the sidelines by pushing on to new places. I’m wondering if some dreams aren’t best left unrealized, giving us something better; something daily to contemplate, to give ourselves the push to do something even greater. By leaving that reminder of a dream, that it might give us the drive not to allow the next one to slip by, and maybe keep us more in tune and at-the-ready for other possibilities and opportunities that might otherwise file past in the meantime.

In the meantime, I continue to wander.

I eventually decided to take the train to Mallaig. Girls from a local tour boat company pointed out a hillside where I could pitch my tent. It was still raining, off and on, as it had been since I arrived in Scotland nine days earlier. It seemed I was constantly in a race to get set-up and my backpack inside before everything I owned was soaked and cold. It was a nice spot, with a beautiful view of the harbour, made even more beautiful when I awoke the next morning to see the prettiest wooden gaff-rigged cutter on a mooring outside my window. I had half a mind to try to meet them and ask where they were sailing to next, and could I join them. I took the ferry to Armadale, Isle of Skye, instead.

I spent 3 or 4 days based in Portree, a really fun, though quite touristy, little town. Despite my feet still being on the mend from the WHW, I managed some sort of hike every day. One of the most spectacular thus far was The Quiraing, towards the north end of Skye. I couldn’t get my head around what my eyes were

The Quiraing

trying to say lay before me. All I could really do was take a few pictures, and tell myself I’d try to make sense of it later. Some places on earth are just that majestic.

Sunday afternoon, I took one of the only buses running that day to position myself for the 05:15 ferry from Uig to Tarbert the next morning. I had the same friendly English bus driver who’d given me good advice on where to camp in Portree, and again, I took his advice for my camp spot, and subsequent hike, in Uig. He pointed out the road that would lead to the Fairy Glen. He didn’t describe it, and I’d never heard of it, so I didn’t know what I was looking for. But as with many things in life, like stumbling upon a protected anchorage as a storm approaches, or meeting someone you know you’re going to someday love, you know what it is you’ve been looking for once you’ve found it. That’s the Fairy Glen.

A word I’ve been recently introduced to is coddiwomple. It’s defined as traveling purposefully to a vague destination. It’s not a bad description for what it is I’m doing now. Giving it a name can maybe bring a bit more meaning to my wandering, but any time I find myself alone for more than 48 hours, as I am today, I do find myself questioning what it’s all for, if it’s not to be shared with someone.

I forced myself to hitch hike after the ferry ride, as I was feeling shy about it, having not done it for a few years. It was time to get out of my comfort zone, meet people, and hear some stories, to take a break from my own for a while. I walked for about a mile south from Tarbert, still too shy to put out my thumb, hoping someone might just stop and offer. When the weight of my pack really started to get to me, and I could feel the initial indications of diminishing morale, I told myself I had no other choice now. I heard a car approaching, and I stuck my thumb out, not turning around, as I thought it could only help to keep my Canadian flag, and my ponytail, visible. The car slowed without hesitation, and with a big smile, the girl behind the wheel said, “Jump in!”

She asked where I was going, and I said whichever sandy beach happened to be along her route. She was from down south, so I asked what brought her here.

“Online dating. Found a man, came for a visit, went back south long enough to sell the house and tie up loose ends. When I arrived in a Harris, I knew this is where I belonged. Though, truth be told, many from here might not agree”. Oh yes, I understand the feeling of forever being ‘from away’. But what so many may never understand, is that while it may ring true for most, Home isn’t necessarily where you were born.

To be continued.

Sleepwalker

2018-06-07T00:06:00.000-03:00

Who doesn’t look back every now and then, and strain for a glimpse of what might have been, had they chosen differently?

A couple of years ago when I first embarked on this endeavor, I was reminded of my age, and that I was not going to be any spring chicken in the industry. I was told of the massive financial resources required to follow it through to completion, and the struggles that would bring. A few close friends tried to nudge me towards sticking with ‘the sailing thing’. I could have listened, perhaps.

Dominica

Many times in the last two years, I have felt like I’ve been beating my head against a brick wall. So many days I have faced the feeling that I’m not cut out for this, that my ability to learn just wasn’t what it was when I was younger. Beyond the seemingly never-ending self-doubt lay the plain old logistics of everything. I had weeks on end of feeling like I was pushing a boulder uphill in the mud; that I’d never get to a plateau, and would end up being crushed no matter how hard I tried. There were so many signs, pleading with me to give up. I could have heeded them, perhaps.

Boat deliveries over the past year have sporadically provided the necessary income to keep me going, but the uncertainty of finding the next job, and nothing being for-sure until the lines are cast off, have made an already weather-dependent, instructor-availability-dependent, aircraft maintenance-dependent goal very difficult to adhere to, or complete on any sort of defined timeline.

Hiking in Nevis

It would have been easy to give up. But, over the years and my travels, I’ve observed many around me; the patterns, the ruts, the complacency, the personal history that implored them to keep repeating their habits that have them continue living in a manner that makes them old before their time. They’d rather resign themselves to living a life of quiet desperation than run the risk of changing their situation, and the perceived security they hold, for the possibility of attaining what they truly desire. But certainty and stability is nothing more than an illusion, and it gives us an erroneous sense of comfort. No matter how secure you think your job may be, or your home, or your closest relationship, none of it is truly for certain, is it?

Something within us is lost when we settle for the status quo when we yearn for so much more. There are a thousand different ways we can learn to suppress it; with distractions, alcohol, hoarding, obsessive tidying and re-organizing, retail therapy, or any other mechanisms of avoidance. A part of ourselves gets bundled up and tucked away, almost forgotten until maybe one day something is awoken with us, and we are overwhelmed by the time we think we’ve wasted. At that point, many decide that it’s simply too late, and will close their hearts and minds, to better cope with the cards they think they’ve been dealt. For those folks, it is just that. Too late.

Finished my Instrument Rating with Yankee Doodle (Cessna 152)

But while some cards may be dealt, others are chosen.
 
After my six-month gig in Antigua lasted only one week (the same standards of professionalism and morals and basic laws about harassment and inappropriate behavior in the workplace often don’t apply to the yachting industry), I decided to return to South Florida, with the intention of finishing my instrument rating and commercial pilot license.

Training was periodically hindered when the circus came to town (you know the kind that exhibit such marvels like, oh, let’s say, a hippoPOTamUS) and the airport where I did my last few flights was completely shut down during these times, due to its proximity to the circus tent.

I have had some really fantastic people come into my life recently, many of them fellow pilots, who have offered everything from emotional and logistical support, to sharing their knowledge in the cockpit (Rick, Nancy, Rainer, Riley, Justin, Kimberly, Beth). Or, in the case of Beth and Jib, whom I met while sailing Annie Laurie in the Bahamas, a roof over my head as I completed my instrument rating in March and April. I couldn’t have come this far without all of you.

Being a moving target for years on end sometimes has me worried that I’ve traded love for ambition, and that I’ve sacrificed a life I could have shared with someone, and everything that entails. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a sense of community, or that I belong anywhere or am needed by anyone. If those are sacrifices I’ve somewhat inadvertently made through the sum of my actions thus far in life, in doing so I’ve at least managed to not compromise the lifestyle that I consider fundamental to feeling alive. I’m not sure that any one person could replace that anyway.

Wherever my life goes in the coming months, I’m looking forward to maybe, just maybe, staying put in one place for a little while. I’d like to meet some new friends who might be in my life for more than just a few weeks at a time. Sleeping in the same bed (or bunk) for more than a few weeks at a time might be nice, too... along with having refrigeration and a little kitchen (or galley) where I can rediscover the pleasure of cooking. I’d love to have a little space of my own again, where I can sit with my diary or book and a cup of earl grey tea, and have the simple pleasure of looking out the window (or porthole) at the falling rain, or perhaps across the table to see someone looking adoringly back at me. If my next home is indeed a boat, I’m going to ensure it is more prone to floating than the last one.
 
I have little other choice than to continue living like a vagabond for at least a little while longer. Looking back on the past 2 years, part of me finds it incredible that I’m not living under Brickell Bridge at the moment (though my tent and backseat of my car have seen some good use). I often go back to the notion that has thus far never failed me in life; do what you love, forget about the money, and the Universe will conspire to help you achieve anything your heart desires.
 
So far, so good.
 
Having recently completed all my requirements for my commercial license, all that remains is that final check-ride. It’s now just finding and scheduling a plane, an examiner, and a day of decent weather. The hardest part is finally over.

 I will never have to look back and wonder what might have been, had I only kept striving for what my heart wanted most. I will never have to wonder if I'm sleepwalking into the rest of my life. Because very soon, I'll awake from a dream that I turned into reality by never, ever, giving up.

When and If

2018-01-15T01:54:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, while living in Scotland and playing my bagpipes with the Royal Burgh of Stirling Pipe Band, I was fortunate enough to join them in performing at that year's Nuit Interceltique in Paris. Our band was flown to France for 5 days to rehearse and perform with doze

ns of other Celtic-rooted talents from all over the globe; pipers and dancers, singers and fiddlers, from Pakistan to Brittany, India to China, Canada to Ireland. But the part of the performance I recall most fondly didn’t occur on the main stage.

It was 3:00 am, during the after-party that followed the final act, in the underground caverns of Stade de France. With much whiskey being handed around, world-class bagpipers were taking turns showing off their talents. A couple hundred of us were crowded into a small room, drinking and conversing, and a generally rowdy and joyous atmosphere prevailed. Then, a tenor from the all-male Welsh choir, a group of distinguished and primarily older gentleman, made his way to the center of the mob. He stepped up onto an inverted milk crate, and began to motion with his hands for us all to shush and settle down. It took some time, but one by one, folks began to comply, until eventually, you could have heard a pin drop in the room.

And that’s when he began to sing.

‘Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed…’

One by one, the other members of the choir, scattered amongst the crowd, joined him. The entire audience, more male than female, was entirely captivated. By the end, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Certain rare moments create memories that will last a lifetime because of the way they made you feel.

In the same way, a handful of people during our lifetime can leave the same, indelible mark.

Sailing off Cape Cod, late December

Over the last few months, I’ve had the pleasure (mostly) of spending weeks at a time aboard small boats with a variety of characters, most of whom were perfect strangers as we cast off the lines and headed for open water. Thousands of sea miles later, I’ve shared passages between Maine and the Bahamas, Florida and Virgin Gorda, Bermuda and New York, Rhode Island and Sint Maarten, with international crews hailing from Scotland, France, New Zealand, England, South Africa, and the United States. Every trip brought its own trials, some more personal than others. For some voyages, the primary challenge was the weather, as with the 95-foot ketch Carmella. Delays forced us to get underway from Camden after Christmas, and I had never before and will never again subject myself to the conditions we encountered during that trip. Never. Ever ever. With other deliveries, the weather and the sailing aspects were simple and pleasant; it was the company that left something to be desired. And in the case of Conchflyer, well, that little bi---oat just plain tried to kill us.

Gerry and I, aboard Annie Laurie

Through all these passages, I have been exposed to challenges that have forced me to confront some of my biggest fears (Cockroaches, Cooking for Others, Love). It has also cast too bright of a spotlight on where I, myself, am still lacking. I have felt useless, incompetent, and irrelevant on one boat, only to find myself feeling valuable, essential, and loved on the next. I have misinterpreted situations and intentions, and have been left with unresolved regrets. In the lowest of times, I remind myself of the encouragement I could always count on from good friend whom I recently lost (so many of us lost…). He believed in me, and knew where my talents lay, especially when the going got rough. I always felt like I could do anything after a conversation with Gerry. “You’re fine, Laura. You are fiiine,” he would say with a smile, in his Irish leprechaun way. Then he would laugh at me, and give me a hug. That’s how the majority of our conversations would end, and I would walk away with a new, more positive perspective on my life. Oh, to have just one more talk with Gerry over a glass of wine at the Redneck Yacht Club on the Miami River. I would give anything, especially after a day like today.

It seems the only constant in my life is starting over, and for now, Antigua is not a bad place to try, as winter looms over Maine. My flying dreams are only temporarily on hold, as I work as 1st Mate on a sailing yacht in order to earn the means to finish my instrument rating and commercial license. And when that happens, I hope I'll be ready to start over once again.

To Everything There is a Season

2017-09-21T22:22:00.001-03:00

After selling Annie in March, I became a bit of a vagabond for a couple months, while trying to finish up loose ends with my Private Pilot License. In an effort to get things done fast, I pitched my tent at the Paul Bunyan Campground at the end of Runway 33 at Bangor International, where I could easily commute to my rental plane, and build the necessary time and experience to get 'er done. It was an okay arrangement, until three days before my check-ride, when the starter on my new car died. With last minute studying and flying to do, and too far to walk to the General Aviation terminal, there was no time to

Paul Bunyan, the original Maine Man

arrange repair, so I did what was most logical for someone with my brain structure: I had my car towed to the airport parking lot. Sleeping in the car the night before the big day wasn't the most brilliant idea I've had recently, and I was worse for wear during the checkride and oral exam the following next morning. But, all's well that ends well, and now I'm a Private Pilot.

Trail in Carrabassett Valley

No time to rest on my laurels, though. With a plane to adventure and explore in, and so many new places to see in Maine, I've built more flying time in the last six weeks than I had in all the previous months combined since my first flight on January 10th, 2016. Flying up to the mountains for the first time is imprinted in my memory, and I keep going back, chasing that originally high. Rangely, Twitchells, Eastport, Millinocket, Stonington, Islesboro... I go in search of a challenge on most days, and if there's nothing particularly challenging on a given day (weather, wind, short runways with tall trees at the end, etc) then I at least pick a new place to fly to, or where I know I can enjoy a hike. Sugarloaf is one of my top destination these days, with plenty of trails handy to the airport. The only down side is that it seems like such a waste to have an empty seat beside me. There must be someone out there to share this with.

August in Sugarloaf

April in Sint Maarten

So, these days I'm based in Bangor (though I've upgraded from the tent). I'm building flight time when the weather allows, meeting a few interesting pilots from around the world in the lounge at the General Aviation terminal, studying for my Instrument Rating, and also (and this shouldn't come as a shock), sailing!

I've logged a few thousand miles at sea this spring and summer, from the Caribbean to Rhode Island, Bermuda to New York, Baltimore to Rhode Island, and various trips along the Maine coast to Cape Cod, Martha's Vineyard, and Nantucket. A good friend told me for many, many years that OPB's (Other People's Boats) were where it's at, and, I finally have to admit Wojtek, you were right.

Meanwhile in Bangor...

July in Bermuda

Being in Stephen King's neck of the woods, I felt like I was in a lost scene from Stand By Me a few Fridays ago when jogging past 5 young teenage boys making their way to a footbridge crossing the Kenduskeag River. They were on their way to go bridge jumping. How nice, I thought. Kids out being kids, and not sitting at home on Facebook, or otherwise glued to internet, television, Playstation, or sneaking their parents liquor. The bridge is the rebuilt remnants of an old covered bridge, and the original, broad granite-block pedestals still stand in the middle of the river as support. One of the boys grabbed a long stick from the forest, and once they got to the middle of the bridge, it was his turn to climb over the side onto the granite, and coax out all their 'river shoes' from their hiding spot.

May in Newport

More often than not as I walk the river, it is little more than a trickling brook, just enough water to keep the rocks wet.

The boys donned their shoes, and began climbing over the rail to take their positions.

"Are you sure it's deep enough right now?" I asked.

"Oh yes, we've measured it. At the deep spot, it's twelve feet deep right now. Don't worry, we're being careful. Come on, you should jump in with us! Before you're too old."

I laughed. "I'm already too old!"

"I wouldn't put you a day over 18", said the blond one.

How cute, I thought.

Kenduskeag River, Bangor

One turned to me and said, "You're not going to call the Police, are you?"

Again, I laughed, "No. Why would I do that?"

"Some girl last week thought it was illegal to jump from the bridge, so she called the cops on us. But, there are no signs that say that anywhere. The police showed up. The policeman said he was coming down to make sure we were having fun."

If you're not familiar with the Duck of Justice, the reputation of the Bangor Police Department, and the writings of Lieutenant Tim Cotton, it's about time you were. Start with this post about Flannel Shirts.

It's been a while since I've seen as a tight bunch of friends as they appeared to be. They were all quite chatty and friendly, and wanted to talk about a myriad of heavy subjects, such as girls. And drugs. They said they know there are a lot of drugs around town. A lot of heroin, one boy says. Drugs destroy families, he adds. So does alcohol, asserts another.

"We don't do any of that stuff. Pot is legal though. Well, once you turn twenty-one. I'm not sure if you're 21 yet or not..."

As old as I've been feeling lately, I'll gladly take the compliment. Even from an obliviously innocent 14-year-old.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes I wonder if it's more than just travel and adventure that I'm forever in search of, or if time-travel is also an element to what I seek. I recently sailed to Nantucket for the first time, and I was so excited to go. With all the whaling history, and Moby Dick lore, I knew there'd be so much to see and learn. Surprise, surprise: time kept ticking in Nantucket like everywhere else I've ever been, and it's not 1850 anymore. It was so obvious once I got there, that of course it was going to be like it was; rich tourists visiting for Labor Day, trying to fit a certain image, rich younger guys in pink shorts and polo-shirts with stupid little seagulls all over them, and navy cardigans around their necks. All born with silver spoons up their butts, feeling entitled to say just about anything they wanted, to just about anyone. It was definitely an eye opener as to how some of the country's elite choose to live. I was quickly disgusted. Do be sure to visit the whaling museum if you find yourself there, though. I only wished the museum gift shop sold a reproduction of a vintage 1981 bumper sticker they had in one of the displays: NANTUCKET USED TO BE NICE.

I just have to take a minute to look back to realize how much has changed since arriving in Maine. It's been a series of unique opportunities, each experience meant to last for a little while, then to never be again. Arriving aboard Annie Laurie in Belfast in spring, to summer in North Haven working for Penobscot Island Air, fight training through winter, then finally earning my pilots license in spring. This summer as a pilot and boat delivery crew will, inevitably, come to an end, and winter will bring something I can't even conceive of yet.

And after spending last winter in Maine, the only thing I know of my plans this winter is that I will not spend it here. Beyond that, I'm toying with a few ideas. Trans-Atlantic in a crop duster, anyone?

August in Stonington

Recent days are sometimes long, and seem to just drag on, without having someone to talk through the daily trivial stuff that, in one sense, is quite mundane and on the surface meaningless, but in another way, is what essentially defines our lives. Reading my stories, you might think my days are chock full of excitement and adventure. And sure, it is there, but it's by far the bulk of my existence. There is plenty of in-the-meantime, that will never reach this page, nor my Facebook wall.

Dolphins on Delicia's bow

There's a fair amount of self-imposed isolation, partially for the sake of ambition. Also though, the more time I spend alone, the harder it is to be social, and the easier it is to just remain in my cocoon to avoid the social awkwardness that sometimes adjoins getting reacquainted with regular, sociable life. It's all a part of an unsettled feeling of never feeling complete, or feeling like I'm where I'm supposed to be (in either Place or Time), or like I've ever reached my goal and can enjoy where it is I've found myself. Why am I always left feeling like it isn't enough? All the while I wonder if the act of taking life so seriously is a habit that can be broken, because I'd be the last to argue with Oscar on his proclamation that life is far too important to be taken seriously.


September in Camden

It's easy to look back and second-guess our decisions when forks in the road were reached, but harder to look back and imagine what might have been, had we been more aware of ourselves, our surroundings, and our situation at a given moment in time. How might that have altered the decisions we would have made? In aviation, there's the term situational awareness; being familiar with and cognizant of all the factors that might pertain to the current situation. Losing track of how different factors are affecting a flight can result in an undesired outcome, in the worst case scenario, a crash. In life, it can be more difficult to determine how the outcome differs from what might have been, or, in fact, which result might have been more desirable.

The wonder of it all, Nantucket Whaling Museum

I guess we wouldn't be human if we didn't allow ourselves to ponder what might have been, had it not been for lack of situational awareness, or if other immutable circumstances had been different. How many ships in the night pass in the run of a lifetime, never seeing each other in the light of day?

I've learned to accept that there is no endless love, and that some moments are not meant to be anything more than a fleeting connection. Sometimes people don't end up playing the role we think they're meant to play in the story of our lives; sometimes we have to accept that they were only ever meant to be with us for a season.

Tomorrow, I'll welcome autumn with open arms.

Ode to Annie Laurie

2017-09-06T23:41:00.005-03:00

What began this morning as an intention to write a full update of the many events since my last blog, has ended this evening with a delving into the memories of the last ten years.

I wish I could say that my lack of writing is due to lack of time, or lack of inspiration, but neither would be true. When I discover what is resulting in months between blogs, I'll let you know.

Life has nevertheless been busy enough in recent months. I am now boatless, for the first time since beginning this blog in 2007. Yes, I experienced the third happiest day that can happen in a boat owners life: the day you sell the boat for the second time. Annie Laurie is now in the hands of a couple of ambitious young women in Maine, ready for a new life in the Midcoast. Letting go the second time was much easier, but still bittersweet. While a sailboat can sometimes provide the ultimate freedom, with my new direction in life as an aviator, she had became a hindrance. I know she's in good hands now, and I wish the new owners as many years of happy sailing and adventures as I was able to have.

Below are some memories, placed in no particular order, except the final shot. Full update coming in the next couple of days.

Cuba 2008

Lunenburg 2007

Bound for Second Peninsula 2007

Carving her nameboard at the Dory Shop, rainy week March 2007

New crewmate, Effie. Lunenburg 2007

Lunenburg 2007

September Classic, Lunenburg 2007

Lunenburg, Cuba departure imminent, October 2007

P-Town, Cape Cod, November 2007

Dean's dock, Eastern Points 2006

The one and only Ed Sturgeon

Block Island, November 2007

Cold morning approaching Block Island, November 2007

Ben and I, Great Bridge Lock 2007

Tide's out at Westergard's, southern Nova Scotia, 2007

Southbound in the Carolinas, 2007

First winter living aboard, Dartmouth 2006

Christmas in St Augustine 2007

Sister Katie, Miami, January 2008

Hawkes Channel, Florida Keys, January 2008

Early morning crossing, Key West to Cuba, February 2008

Good thing I was home today

Cuba

At anchor, somewhere in Cuba 2008

Somebody had to steer us from Mexico to Key West

Carving homeport, Isla Mujeres, Mexico, 2008


Katie and Wyatt, first coastal sail 2006

Concentrating

Haulout in Florida Keys, 2008

Florida Keys, July 2008

No Name Harbor, Miami, July 2008

One of Effie's Key West love children, born en route to Alaska, Aug 2008

Effie worried about Mom

Exumas, I think, 2009

Creative time in the Bahamas, 2009

Highbourne Cay, Bahamas, 2009

Somewhere in the Abacos

Tongue of the Ocean, Bahamas, before the waterspouts, May 2009


Effie thinking she may need to cut back

Skimming the sand, east of Cat Cay, Bahamas, May 2009

Dad in his element (who knew?) Effie still minding the compass, July 2009

Dad and Effie, watching the ICW go by, July 2009

Dad at the Great Bridge Lock, Virginia

Another beautiful sunset at sea. Or sunrise.

Gloucester, Massachusetts, Autumn 2010

Allans Cay, Bahamas, 2009

North Coast of Cuba, 2008

Southbound Jersey Coast, 2010

Hells Gate, East River, 2010

12th Ave Bridge, Miami River, 2013

Happily divorced, South Fork Miami River, 2014

West Palm Beach, June 2015, with Daniel aboard Conchflyer

Motoring up the ICW, Florida to Maine voyage, spring 2016

Arrival in Camden, Maine after trip from Ft Lauderdale, June 2016

Scituate, Massachusetts. The calm after the storm that broke my hand. Autumn 2010

Belfast, Maine June 2016

Rowing Effie away from Annie Laurie for the last time, Camden October 2016

My last photo of Annie Laurie, Rockland, Maine, Spring 2017

Swallowing the Anchor

2017-03-05T20:06:00.000-04:00

--> It was a perfect day on scenic Penobscot Bay for a trial sail with a prospective buyer; less than 10 knots of wind, flat seas, and a gradually-retreating fog. The entire time I was consumed by the thoughts that this was my final sail aboard Annie Laurie.

This guy was new to wooden boats for sure, but he wasn't a tire-kicker. He was asking all the right questions for someone who fully intended to buy a boat and sail south in a matter of days.

When we returned to the town dock in Camden, he thanked me for the sail, then made a quick departure, in no small part due to his extreme allergies to cats.

As the days went by, and his communication became minimal, I became a bit uneasy that he was no longer considering her.

But he had come all this way.

Everything felt like the poetic ending I’d always hoped for my time with Annie Laurie. He's a pilot, with his own plane, and when he heard through the grapevine via a mutual friend that I had a boat for sale in the price range and location he sought, he flew his personal plane from the west coast of the United States to have a look. He was landing at the airport where I worked, and once I had his ETA, I stood on the ramp waiting. It felt like it was meant to be.

Cleared to Land, Nantucket

He was also taking some time to look at other boats in the area, too. Prudent, I agree. But a few days after our trial sail, when he offered to take me on an afternoon excursion in his plane to Nantucket, I had just one initial thought.

Rats. A pity flight.

I'd been wanting to go to Nantucket for years, but had always seemed in a hurry in one way or another as I transited the vicinity with Annie Laurie.

We didn't discuss the boat at all during the flight. I began to come to terms with the fact that I'd likely have a wooden boat on my hands until at least next spring.

Arriving in Rockport for haul-out and survey

But, somewhat to my surprise, and to my great relief, he decided he wanted to move forward, and schedule to have a survey conducted.

And so, on October 15^th, after a couple of weeks of consideration, shopping around, then an out-of-water survey, Annie Laurie’s new owner and I shook hands on the public dock in Rockport, Maine, and made it official.

It was, naturally, a difficult few weeks. I was ready to let go, but as the various final moments with her came and went (not least of which was rowing Effie ashore one last time, and her cries as she kept her eyes on the boat the entire way to the dinghy dock), I was inevitably emotional.

So when I received a text message about two weeks later, saying “Laura, your boat and I do not get along, will you take her back?” I was in utter disbelief.

What could I say?

Noooooo. No no no no no no.

No.

I just laughed it off, in the beginning. I told him things will get better, and he just had a bad day, and to ‘Keep going. You’ll be fine.’

But I didn't know at this point that his personal belongings were already on the dock in a little port town not 25 miles from where we’d signed the papers. He was already in the process of figuring how he was going to hitch a ride out of there.


Retrieval voyage. So very cold. Yet, I somehow never lose my fashion sense	.

That was a Tuesday morning. By 10am Saturday, David and I were motoring Annie Laurie through the Mussel Ridges, bound for Rockland, where I'd ultimately be hauling her out for the winter.

So much for swallowing the anchor.

I was more than ready to move on with my life, so re-acquiring the boat was a setback, and took a few days to truly sink-in. But, as with everything in life, if you can laugh at it, it makes it easier to cope. I allowed myself to have vivid daydreams of what exactly Annie Laurie had put her new owner through. I could just see her, throwing her tantrum, him holding onto the jib sheet like reins, her hobby-horsing like a bucking bronco trying to throw him off her back, white hull now turned an angry scarlet-red... all the while screaming, "You're not my mom! You're NOT my MOM!!!"

#neveragain

Winter has never been an easy season for me, especially when weathering it in northern climes. This one has been no exception. By late December, I had lost my bearings, and no longer knew how to move forward, especially in terms of my flight training. With various challenges mounting, I had almost entirely lost sight of my goals. As I foundered, I reminded myself of Thomas Edison's words, how most of life's failures are people who do not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.

It wasn't quite two weeks after re-committing myself that I reached one of the most memorable milestones in any pilots career: my first solo flight.

Some fires you have to continuously tend, but the desire for flight is one fire I couldn't extinguish even if I wanted to. Like some fires, this one just knows how to burn.

Ground School

2016-08-27T17:40:00.000-03:00

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Public Dock, Camden

I know it’s been a while since I checked-in here, but yes, I did indeed make it to Maine. And in the end, it was with the help I’d been looking for since Fort Lauderdale.

Belfast. For a Minute.

After seeing my boat advertised online, a gentleman, potentially interested in buying Annie Laurie, offered to drive to Norfolk and help me sail the rest of the way to Belfast, Maine (he just happened to live in the Belfast area). After waiting for a perfect weather window for over a week in Virginia, we finally headed out on a 5-day 4-night offshore extravaganza that would put us exhausted and dockside (and, as it turned out, with oily water above the floor boards) at the western end of the Cape Cod Canal. I think that arrival was the final nail in the coffin, laying to rest any further interest in purchase of my leaky vessel. I was very open with him from the get-go of the leaks that were present, but my first indication that he didn’t understand the extent to which the salt water was intruding, was the way, on day 3, about 100 miles offshore, he was watching the water pumping over the side, and he looked at me and said, in his very German way, short, clear and succinct, “Laura. This boat is pumping a shit-ton of water. The pump has not stopped in ten minutes.” Uhhhh-huh. After ten years, I know. “That’s normal,” I say. “If it stops pumping, let me know. That’s when our problems begin.”

My crew, doubting the GPS

As kind, generous, gentlemanly, and endlessly fascinating as he was, he was also 6’8, and in my personal space, I quickly became claustrophobic and anxious to arrive in Belfast. And when we finally did arrive in Maine, it was an interesting turn of events.

Our first stop was Camden, a tiny little harbor on Penobscot Bay, just a stone’s throw from Belfast, so my crew was able to disembark upon our arrival there. The next day, as I wandered around town and mentally prepared myself for my journey finally coming to an end, I stumbled upon a boat that I recognized. It was a sailboat I had sailed on for no more than a week, fifteen years earlier, a couple thousand miles away…

After asking around, I learned that yes, indeed, that was the same boat I sailed aboard from St Thomas to Antigua in 2002, and that the couple who were running it at the time were living in Camden, now running their own, beautiful 1918 schooner Surprise. I eventually caught up with Ramiro, who had little recollection of me. After a brief catch-up, and mentioning I sailed up here to work on my commercial pilot’s license, he said, “Oh, I have a friend you just have to meet… He’s a sailor and a pilot, he works for Penobscot Island Air, and I think they are hiring…”

Goats, looking for their mail

And so, 2 months later, though I did do a quick touch-and-go in Belfast, I ultimately landed on the island of North Haven, Maine, working for Penobscot Island Air. I am the UPS/FedEx girl, delivering via company van, and am sometimes lucky enough to go flying. No two days are alike, as I deliver everything from diapers to transmissions, queen bees to lawn mowers. And the people I’ve met along the way… The stories I could tell. Though it might be more proper to save much of it for a future work of inspired fiction a few years down the road.

From the shenanigans that inevitably occur when lobstermen and beer coalesce,

to the anecdotal stories that come my way via the people I hitch-hike with from my anchorage to the ferry terminal or airstrip, it has been an interesting summer.

In many ways, it has been both the best of times, and the worst of times. I honestly, overall, could not have landed a better job with a better group of people (save one, there always has to be one). With a kind, genuinely caring man as an employer, and the nature of the job being to go out and bring other people happiness in the form of Amazon packages, it is not the bar/cafe/boatyard job I'd been anticipating and dreading as I sailed north. I am frequently met with gratitude in the form of smiles and words, and other times in the form of fresh garden vegetables and warm pecan pie.

Take-off from Witherspoons

It may never have come to be, if it weren’t for sailing on a schooner named Bonnie Lynn from Massachusetts to the Caribbean in 2002, and owners Bonnie and Earl introducing me to Ramido, and all these years later running into all of them up here in Penobscot Bay. The universe was definitely up to something when it allowed me to land where I am in this moment. And that is why it has been the best of times.

The worst of times are the lonely moments, the moments of feeling like I don’t belong, because, of course I don’t. I’m not from here, and nothing will change that, and some people here make it a point to ensure that I won’t forget that. And having to put my flight training on hold while I repay my debts and try to save for an expensive endeavor, whilst listening and watching, daily from my anchorage, everyone I work with, flying in and out of the grass strip over the trees. That has been a little touch of torture, as I struggle to figure out where I’m going to go from here, in terms of training, in terms of where to base myself, in terms of how to rid myself of the responsibility of a this little ship before winter.

Formal Rural Maine Signage

But, there's a lot more that I witness on a daily basis that serves as a good reminder to stop feeling sorry for myself.

One of my stops on my route is home to a little feather-light Sheltie, who always tears out the door and across the yard to terrorize and intimidate (then, of course, lick my toes). Her owner tells me, everyday that I stop to deliver, that the dog is very lonely, and wishes more people would come to visit. I don’t know, of course, what’s in the identical yellow envelopes that I deliver on an almost-daily basis, but I can’t help but wonder if she is placing orders to receive items of importance, or if it’s just to see another human being come down that long road to her isolated house.

Lola, the Post Office Princess

And a few weeks ago, while sitting in the back room of the Post Office awaiting the ferry (which carries the bulk of my deliveries from the mainland), I could tell it was someone of considerable age who had come in to check their mail, by judging the amount of time it took from the moment the screen door opened, until the rattle of the keys finally settled into the key slot of their post office box . When the box door closed, without any sound of rustling envelopes, a delicate, fragile voice quietly said, “Mary, Mary dear… have you had a chance to sort the mail yet this morning?”

“Oh yes, the mail arrived on the early plane this morning, it’s all been sorted” replied the postmistress. There was a heavy sigh as the old lady turned to leave, and she was talking to herself as she slowly shuffled her way to the door, “But, there isn't anything in my mailbox...”

I try to remind myself that I’m still young (enough) and that I still have plenty of time ahead of me to accomplish what I set out to do when I decided to move to Maine. And maybe, just maybe, I still have time to not grow old alone.

Going, Going

2016-05-21T18:40:00.000-03:00

Texting and driving, 7 Mile Creek, SC

A few days before departing South Florida, I learned I’d be making the journey to Maine on my own.

The stress of preparations, and the realization of the extent of the trip ahead finally hit home about 10 hours before I planned to weigh anchor. I burst into tears while dropping off my car with friends (hey, what are friends for!) and that would be the first of many crying spells to come over the next 3 days, though for the rest, there were no shoulders to cry on.

Banff in Charleston, SC

There is no way one can ever be 100% ready for a trip like this, and I could not wait for things to be just right. There were plenty of unresolved issues as I weighed anchor from Lake Sylvia on the morning of April 19^th.

I did have plenty of reassurance, which I frequently sought, from good friends via telephone, especially from one in particular (poor Banff!), as I dealt with the inevitable issues that arise whenever a boat is actually put to use. Slowly but surely, I have checked many of these off my list.

Sunrise, Middle of Nowhere, GA

Of course, in hindsight, I wonder what the hell I was so terrified of. The fear of going aground, fear of engine failure, fear of the bilge pump quitting. While traveling within the relatively-protected intracoastal waterway, none of these possible snags are anything to fear, though the thoughts of dealing with them on your own does add something to the mix. Facing things alone always adds another dimension to any hurdle in life. It wears you down.

Some people count beads on their rosary in times of stress. I instead buy hard-to-peel oranges to occupy myself until a situation that makes me nervous has passed. It’s been working well enough.

I somehow am overcoming these fears, at least to the extent that I have been able to put almost 1100 miles at my stern. For me, overcoming fear does not mean letting go of it. I’m still somewhat afraid of one thing or another each morning as I prepare to get underway. But, I go anyway.

Annick, Giles, and Dukey aboard Calista

And as my reward, I have met some awesome, awesome folks along the way, and have managed to reconnect with a lot of friends I haven’t seen in a while. Annick, Giles, and their terrier Dukey, also from Nova Scotia, have been frequent cruising companions since New Smyrna, FL, and I can't imagine what my trip thus far would have been without them. I’ve walked deserted ocean beaches alongside wild horses, I’ve woken up in remote, pristine creeks, surrounded by tall grass and covered in dew. I’ve watched more sunrises in the last 30 days than in all my years living in Miami. I’ve seen ospreys returning to their nests, feeding their young, deer and raccoons scavenging the waters edge, and even one massive turtle, who apparently, somehow, did not see or hear me coming. I’ve even become acquainted with a few charming little towns I’d somehow bypassed on my previous passages through the same waters.

Cumberland Island, GA

Stage One of the trip, the inside route from Fort Lauderdale to Norfolk, is complete. Stage Two will soon begin; the offshore passage from Norfolk to Belfast.

Jodi & son

The most challenging part of the intracoastal, by far, were the hours (occasionally days) of solitude. I know many of you will find this difficult to believe, but I sometimes over-think things. So, these extended periods of time without outside input were occasionally unfavorable to my state of mind. I worried excessively about things that never came to pass. The incessant drone of my engine hasn’t been helping matters, either. It has left me craving complete silence like nothing else ever could.

That said, I am facing the likelihood that this is my final trip aboard Annie Laurie. These last few days, she has a distinct skip to her step, like she knows exactly where she’s going, and can’t wait to get there. I’m less anxious than her for this all to be over. I have that feeling most days like everything is coming to an end, and that has been the other difficult part of this trip. I am writing my final chapter with her, and there is so much I am going to miss. Recalling the memories of the last 10 years has been bittersweet. I think of all the people I never would have met if it wasn’t for this boat. Some, of course, I wish I hadn’t, but I can count them on one hand. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to deal with the solitude of living ashore.

Sunset, contrails

As I watched birds land on the island sanctuary, just a stones throw from where I sat at anchor last week, with their wings tilted and their tiny feet and legs out, braced for landing, I was seeing tiny feathered planes; landing gear deployed and wing flaps fully extended.

And I was reminded what all this is for.

P.S. – I think I have had more inquiries on how Effie’s doing than how I'm doing. Rest assured, she believes she’s aboard an all-inclusive cruise, and has been eating accordingly.

Changes in Latitude, Changes in Altitude

2016-04-09T17:52:00.001-03:00

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My original plan of going start-to-finish, Private to Commercial in 6 months or less, has not exactly gone as planned. But then, what in my life ever has? While it was a disconcerting realization that I would not be able to reach my goal in the time I allotted myself, it was slightly less distressing than realizing the artist I’ve been happily singing along to for weeks is actually Justin Bieber.

I have opted to embrace my setbacks as just part of my journey; as how I’m meant to experience the road to becoming a pilot, instead of pushing against a brick wall expecting it to move.

I have already met the best people, and isn’t that what it’s all about? From some very inspiring gal pilots (Melissa, Kimberly, Beth, Myra, just to name a few), to some great times with my instructor Brian at North Perry, to all the other fun people who are only in my life right now as a result of my flying endeavor (Klaus, Rick, Pretti) I have no reason to regret these delays. I'm sure I will look back fondly on these days as some of the best; I have some wonderful memories in the bank for when I’m old and grey.

One of these friends is someone I met a couple of years ago, but have only had the pleasure to become better acquainted with very recently. He owns a flight school in Maine. And as a result, I have decided to sail Annie Laurie to Maine.

First flight in a taildragger!

An Austrian who learned much of his American dialect in Maine (lobstah!), Klaus is actually my original inspiration for becoming a pilot. Following a boat delivery from Antigua to Maine in spring 2013, Klaus was hired by the owner of the boat to fly my crewmate to Nova Scotia, and then to drop me off outside Boston. I was impressed with his piloting skills, as we landed at Halifax International on a typical Nova Scotian spring day (the fog was so thick, I didn’t see the runway until the wheels were actually touching it). He was flying his Beechcraft Duchess that day, and he allowed me to take the controls on the way south. From that moment, I knew it was only a matter of when, not if, I would become a pilot.

My reasons for Maine are twofold, as I am still actively looking for a buyer for Annie Laurie, and what better place to find a buyer for a classic wooden boat than along the coast of Maine? And I’ll be glad to escape the southern heat, and the extreme weather summer could bring. Which reminds me, I don’t think I mentioned the tornado that came through the anchorage in Fort Lauderdale, did I?

It was a rude awakening. Around 7AM, the day after my birthday, I was still in bed when I heard the wind begin to roar. I assumed it was ‘just a squall’, and hesitated to even bother getting up to look out the window. Then I remembered I had new neighbours anchored fairly close to me, so I got up to make sure if one of us dragged anchor, we wouldn’t be on a collision course. Almost as soon as I stood up, the boat was knocked down. Books flew off the shelf, my toaster oven landed on my shins, and all my undone dishes smashed to the floor. It was a WTF moment, and as the boat gradually righted herself, I jumped on deck to watch my new neighbours drag past me, about a boat-length away. Then, I realized I was dragging too, in the direction of a concrete seawall. The rain was torrential and the wall of wind so solid, I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so I went below to switch my battery switch over to my starter battery for the engine. On my way to the switch, the boat was knocked down again, this time on the other tack, and it took an excruciatingly long time (say, 20 seconds?) to right herself. For a moment, I didn’t think she would, and my mind raced with contingency plans. What could I possibly do? Nothing. There was absolutely nothing I could do but hope for the best. My dinghy James was tied-up midships, and the boat had fallen on top, submerging him (with a bow and stern line tied to the mothership, he didn’t actually sink). When she finally did right herself, I scrambled on deck again in the driving wind and rain, started the engine, and motored for no less than 15 minutes, with the anchor still down, just trying not to drag any closer to the seawall. When it was finally over, I was so drenched and cold, I thought my teeth were going to break from chattering so hard. Then I heard my phone ringing down below.

My neighbor Monica was calling, asking if I was okay. I was in shock, I suppose. I couldn’t even answer her question. The only thing I remember uttering was, “Monica, what the fuck just happened”. That was indication enough to her that I was indeed okay, and she informed me of the extent of damage in her end of the anchorage. I looked out beyond the gas cans, paddles, cockpit cushions and life jackets bobbing around in the now relatively calm lake, and there I finally saw that a catamaran was capsized, and a trawler had sunk.

Annie Laurie suffered no damage except some broken glass down below; my nerves were far more shattered than the glass. Now, winds of 15 knots or more in the anchorage cause my hands to shake and my breathing to shallow. I think I have a mild case of PTSD after that morning.

So, it is with much trepidation that I plan my final northward journey with Annie Laurie. Weather being what it is, and with so much experience behind me and therefore extensive knowledge of what could go wrong, I’m honestly not looking forward to the trip. But, as fearful as I might be, I have no doubt it’s exactly what I should be doing. However long it takes, and whatever route I end up going, one thing is for sure: it is bound to be an adventure.

Turbulence

2016-02-14T17:20:00.000-04:00

Flying over Flamingo

It seems to be human nature to cling to what appear to be well-shaped stories. Whether it be a series of circumstances which put us in a situation we never would have otherwise found ourselves in, or a romance where coincidence seems to make certain implications, it is sometimes tempting to believe that in one way or another, it is meant to be.

But when a character falls short of their role, or an unexpected piano drops from a 4^th-storey window, we can be left feeling empty by failing to find ourselves in a movie-script ending.

As wondrous and mysterious life is, it is also random. Just because you’ve been through the wringer doesn’t necessarily mean something good is on its way. And if things are really quite good, there’s no reason to live in fear that something bad is about to happen. It probably just means that you have a good outlook on things, and you are approaching life with the right attitude.

If your narrative until now has made for a good story, it isn’t an indication of where you are supposed to go. It is simply where you’ve been, and is as impermanent as life itself, only shorter.

By letting go, an entirely different story, perhaps much better, has the potential to be written.

Cleared For Take-Off

2016-01-27T18:11:00.000-04:00

Storm approaching the anchorage, Lake Sylvia

As most of you know by now, I have begun my training to become a commercial pilot. I’ve surrendered my dock space on the river, and am living peacefully at anchor in Lake Sylvia.

In this new pursuit, I have met with a mild degree of opposition, not unlike that which I faced when I stated my intention to sail from Nova Scotia to Cuba all those years ago. This time, it’s much easier to shrug my shoulders at those people who say that it cannot, or should not, be done, and thank them for getting out of the way while I do it anyway. Another similarity to my Cuba trip is the presence of my cheerleaders too, of whom I am grateful for.

4500 feet over Lake Okeechobee

Sylvia Plath once said that perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing. We all owe it to ourselves to pursue what inspires us, despite our age, or other circumstances that might initially suggest our desires are an unwise investment of time or resources. Following your bliss is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself.

You may not be the youngest, the most talented, or the most successful, but if you’re doing what inspires you, you will find yourself fulfilled. You cannot know ahead of time the opportunities that will arise when you start down a new road. You might not be considered ‘ahead of the game’, but the time will still pass, no matter how we chose to spend it, so why ever hesitate to do something that excites you, and that you feel passionate about?

Life, unlike flying, only gives us one go-around.

High & Dry Hopes

2015-11-24T11:54:00.000-04:00

--> My hopes were raised to unspeakable levels in recent weeks when I thought I had a serious buyer for Annie Laurie. Some papers were signed, a deposit was submitted, a sea-trial conducted, and we sailed south to haul the boat for an out-of-water survey. The potential buyer had the same stars in his eyes that I had for Annie Laurie the first time I saw her at Armdale Yacht Club one early spring morning in 2006. I felt the deal was cinched.

I saw a whole new future for myself, unburdened, some cash in hand, able to pursue other opportunities I've had on the back-burner for a few years. When the call came yesterday that the potential buyer was no longer interested, I wasn't fully equipped to handle such a let-down. I don't blame him; his sailing experience was minimal, and after the sea trial, he realized he might want a smaller boat to learn to single-hand with.

On the upside though, it resulted in an excellent bill of health for Annie Laurie in her survey, which can only help when the right buyer comes along. Although I will remain aboard and based in South Florida for the foreseeable future, after purging my boat of most everything I own, letting go of hope when there was none, and withdrawing from situations that were not healthy for me, I feel able to move on in other ways. I’ve accepted a new job locally with great people, where new opportunities are more than probable, they are inevitable.

It remains true that you really don’t know what you’ve got until you’re about to lose it, and after this fire drill, I really appreciate Annie Laurie in a way I haven’t for quite some time. I look forward again to the simple things; weekend trips down to Lake Sylvia, to sit quietly at anchor, unplugged from shore-power and shore life… propane stove, charcoal grill, and a kerosene lantern light to read by.

Just Effie and I, and yet another new beginning.

Irony

2015-09-18T16:58:00.000-03:00

I had a few false starts when trying to leave Miami. First, a little bit of corrosion on the bottom of my new fuel tank resulted in a bilge full of diesel, and a two-week delay while I figured out how to access the hole and do the necessary patch. Next, as I headed offshore bound for Fort Lauderdale, my dried-out planks, not having seen any real seas in the past 5 years, began allowing more water into the bilge than my bilge pump could handle. I returned to No Name Harbor, and spent the next week, at anchor, dumping water down the inside of my hull to encourage the planks to swell. So, when I was finally underway up the ICW on a hot peaceful typical summer day, I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

Annie Laurie's last trip down the Miami River

Hours passed, and slowly I was reassured that I was finally on my way; I was finally escaping Miami once and for all, and everything was going to be just fine. By early afternoon, I had one final drawbridge to clear, Dania Beach Blvd Bridge, and as I approached for their 1pm opening, I was to be 4th in line, with three fishing vessels also standing by waiting for the same scheduled opening.

I called the bridge tender to ensure he saw me. He acknowledged, and said yes, he was opening in 5 minutes for three other vessels, and he would hold the opening. The bridge opened, the vessels passed, and then I was a bit surprised when I was still about 300 yards from the bridge, and I could see the spans lowering. I called him back, saying, "Dania Blvd Bridge, northbound sailing vessel, can you please hold that opening?". He stopped the spans, and said "Roger Cap, hurry up, I'll hold for you". I said, "Roger, I'm almost there, I'm going as fast as I can".

It's a little frustrating traveling on the ICW sometimes, when you just miss a bridge opening, and are forced to sit there for another 30 minutes waiting for the next scheduled opening, so I try to be as kind to the bridge tenders as I can, and often times, they are kind in return, and will hold an opening a little longer than I know they feel comfortable, so I can continue on my way.

I was so appreciative of this particular bridge tender, holding the bridge for about 4 or 5 minutes for me. I felt bad, because the closer I got to the spans, the harder the current was flowing against me, and the longer it was taking me to get there. When I was finally in the fender system, between the spans, I was almost full throttle, but making less than 2 knots. As slow as I was moving, I finally felt relieved that I had made the 1pm opening.

Relief quickly turned to horror though, as I heard the all-too-familiar sound of the bridge hydraulics running. I had my sunshade up, so for the final few yards of my approach, I couldnt actually see the bridge spans. I thought it was safe to assume that after holding the opening for 5 minutes, the bridge tender was going to hold for the additional 20 seconds that it would take me to pass between the spans.

Atlantic Blvd Bridge, Pompano

Nope.

I was directly between the spans, and they were coming down.

It was too late for me to abort. I throttled up, maintained my course, picked up the radio and, in what I'm sure was a raised and panicked voice, I said "Dania Beach! Dania Beach! I'm right between your spans! Stop the bridge!". The bridge tender sauntered over to the window, just to make sure that he wasn't about to unnecesarily stop the spans and further hold-up vehicular traffic. Once he was certain that there was indeed a sailboat about to be crushed, he stopped the spans. By that point, I had about 3 feet of clearance on either side of my main mast.

He muttered something over the radio... 'Why would you attempt to pass with the spans coming down?", something to that effect. Exasperated and shaking, I angrily said, "I didn't see your spans coming down! You told me you were holding the bridge!". He obviously didn't bother to stand up and look out the window before bringing the spans down, as I was in clear sight from the bridge house during the last 7 or 8 minutes of my approach.

All is well that ends well, so they say, but the cumulative effect of all these traumas have taken their toll. When I anchored that afternoon in Lake Sylvia in Fort Lauderdale, I had myself convinced there was no way I was ever going to make it to the Bahamas. I no longer felt I had within me the mental fortitude required to head out on the open ocean alone. I would continue up the intracoastal to West Palm Beach, and that's where I would sit indefinitely, too scared to head out into the Gulf Stream, becoming one of those sailors who talk about getting out there again someday, but who are ultimately destined to sit at anchor until their ship rots beneath them.

I couldn't have known that afternoon how things were about to change. The next day, as I sat idling at Atlantic Blvd Bridge waiting for their opening, I met a fellow who said he might possibly be up for a jaunt to the Bahamas too...

Dreams For Sale

2015-07-27T14:04:00.000-03:00

As is often the problem with cramming so much life into a few very short weeks, I struggle to know where to begin telling the story of my life since escaping Miami. I could start at Day One, just a few hours north of Miami, when Dania Beach Blvd Bridge almost crushed my boat. Or I could start on the day in Pompano when I met another single-hander with whom I'd share some of my Bahamian journey. The conching, snorkeling, the dinners aboard with new friends... it has been anything but contemplative time, until a couple of days ago, when my buddy-boater cast off his lines one final time to return to Florida.

I am not far behind, having recently accepted a job back in the States. Soon, the Bahamas will be just a memory, and a great memory at that; a perfect final cruise aboard Annie Laurie. The push is on now to get her sold. Please share, friends: Annie Laurie For Sale

Next post, I will share the story of the drawbridge, and I think I'll call it Irony.

Blank Pages

2015-05-25T17:42:00.000-03:00

Miami has become a series of dead ends in many aspects of my life, and so, after 5 years, a fresh start is in order. As I leave the Miami River in the rear-view mirror, I look forward to, well, looking forward.

I've had moments in these final days that have ranged everywhere from bliss to calm to confusion, and a few days, frankly, that I could do little more than stock-up on mint chocolate, don my favourite onesie, and binge-watch
Madmen and Gilmore Girls. On those days, all one can really do is try not to think too much, batten down the hatches, and ride out the storm. Or, alternatively, weigh anchor and sail to calmer waters.

Finally departing the place you once felt entirely conflicted about leaving is a bit like coming to terms with the inevitability of your own death. You can fear it and dread it for months, years, or even decades, but when the situation reaches a point of being unbearable, you come to terms, and maybe even welcome with open arms, where it is you're bound. By that point, you're likely more than ready for the trust fall.

I don't really fear change this time around, though departing before determining a final destination has my stomach feeling a little unsettled at times. But all in all, I recognize how very lucky I am; how I am utterly free.

I have said most of my goodbyes, in one form or another; hugs, tears, texts, phonecalls, letters, tequila shots. Letting go of some of the characters from the Miami episode of my life has been akin to coming to terms with the loss of a limb. They will never be a part of my future, and I will always miss them, but there's unfortunatley not a damn thing that can be done about it. Others I know I will see again, somewhere down the road, and the goodbye is no more than a so-long for now. Then there's a special few that will be the recipient of a silent good riddance, perhaps in the form of sign language, as I look back on the Miami River one final time from Brickell Avenue Bridge.

There are many ways to turn the page to a new chapter to your life, and we all require something different. I need a change of scenery, a journey to a new place to call home, a book of blank pages.

To begin the journey, some bridges must be burned to ensure they aren't crossed again, while others just need to be raised. Those bridges can be raised by letting go of what no longer serves you, by forgiving those who may have hurt you, and, most importantly, by forgiving yourself for the blindness that put you in the path of those who betrayed you.

Hasta la vista, Miami.

Feeling Small

2015-04-06T00:56:00.001-03:00

I set out a couple of weeks ago on what would be my final camping trip with old Bella, my '69 Beetle.

I wanted to go to a place where I could feel insignificant again; a place that could bring me back to earth, to be reminded of how temporary the pains and joys of daily life truly are. It's easy to feel emotionally lost in a city; the constant hum of traffic and planes, the chores of daily living, and for me, the constant reminders of the past, and what is over.

My destination was a little island 8 miles from Everglades City on the west coast of Florida. Camping on a small island by kayak is a bit like being offshore in a sailboat; knowing there is no Emergency Exit, and you have to face however it is you feel, without being able to so much as pick up the phone to reach out to a friend. I wonder how differently we might feel, or how we might otherwise react to situations if we didn’t have this constant access to instant feedback in our daily lives, if we only had ourselves to turn to when faced with a dilemma. The men of 19th century Nantucket whaling ships would go to sea for years at a time, sometimes receiving letters from their loved ones a year or more after they’d been written. Take a moment to really ponder that one.

Gulf of Mexico

Ultimately, my excursion to Ten Thousand Islands as a whole became a lesson in letting go.

Bella broke down twice on the Tamiami trail on my way to Everglades City. I attempted to troubleshoot the best I could, from what I'd learned about Volkwagens from friends, and from my Compleat Idiots Guide for VW's (yes, that's how the authors spelled it). After sitting on the side of the road half the day with not a single person stopping to help, including, sadly, a club of old Volkwagen campers passing at one point (they broke the code!), I eventually made it to the National Park with just enough time to paddle like mad to reach my destination before sunset.

Tamiami Trail

After 5 or 6 breakdowns on the return home, and really feeling that I was not only putting myself in a potentially dangerous position (I could already imagine the headlines: Canadian Woman Reported Missing in Everglades: '69 Beetle Found with Camp Shower Bag Full of Gasoline Mysteriously Lashed to Roof") but also, as many times as friends have gone out of their way to help me when this car has left me stranded, I was beginning to feel inconsiderate and irresponsible asking for help.

Aside from being naturally special as an antique Beetle, Bella was my first car, so it was difficult to let go. She was responsible for a lot of special moments in my life, especially recently, that wouldn't have otherwise happened.

But you can't hold on forever when the universe is telling you in so many ways to let go. And so, last weekend, I let go.

Bella's new home with Seth in Key West

Letting go of what you know is rarely easy, whether it's a car, or memories of experiences with someone who has become a part of your personal narrative. But, when the cord is cut, truly cut, you realize the sun will still rise tomorrow. The anticipation of what may be when you let go of what you've clung to so fervently is by far the worst part of the process. You have to look at it as making room for new beginnings and positive experiences and great new memories, and accept that there's a reason why evolution put our eyes on the front of our head, and not the back.

In the quiet nights laying under the stars at Ten Thousand Islands, listening to waves just outside my tent, a feeling of urgency began to surface; I thought about just how short life is, and how we each serendipitously stumble upon a handful of people during our time on earth who we can love, and we are often the ones responsible for building the walls that stand in our own way. What lays ahead if we're finally able to wash away all the self-doubt, confusion, frustration, and misguided loyalty, and cut the chain to an anchor that is irretrievably caught on the rocks and weeds of the past?

I hope to find out.

Epiphany

2015-01-06T15:36:00.000-04:00

Sea smoke and George's Island

As I drove with Cheryl to the Halifax airport today, looking out on a bitterly cold harbor, with billows of artic sea smoke rolling down the narrows, I think about how not much has changed since I left Nova Scotia for the long-haul when I was 27. I feel lucky that I have changed though, and I am now able to look at my hometown with a new perspective; I see opportunity and possibilities for a fulfilling life that, despite always loving my city, I honestly could never fully see before. Despite awaking to a minus 30 degree wind-chill on the morning of departure, winter almost seems tolerable, and worth bearing.

My plans are still quite vague, but what I do know for certain is that I cannot be in Miami right now, and the Bahamas are only a day-sail away. Knowing what you don’t want is perhaps as valuable as knowing what you do want, especially if what you do want is not currently realistic.

Scotty on a tugboat ride

I’ve been accumulating ‘last times’ in Miami; my last haul-out for the boat, my last Critical Mass bike ride, last tugboat ride, last swim at Venetian Pool… soon will be my last swing dance, my last camping trip in the Everglades, and my last night at anchor in No Name Harbor before setting sail for the Bahamas.

As I search for leads on how to make life decisions in the coming weeks, I have whittled my thoughts down to a few basics, and these are things I know: first and foremost, friends mean more to me than anything else on this earth, and I need them. And I know I cannot be with someone who cannot be alone. I also know I don’t want to sit aboard a boat that doesn’t move anymore. I think the combination of these factors provide a solid, if mottled, foundation with which I can begin to construct a meaningful life, and move on from the general confusion and uncertainty that has followed me since moving to Miami.

I feel good about being alone right now; about knowing it’s a choice, and whatever comes next, I’m happy with myself and where I am (figuratively speaking, of course). It’s much better to be alone than to live in the delusion that someone else is able to fill a void that can ultimately only be filled on your own.

Rainy Christmas Day on the Northwest Arm

Talk is cheap, and getting cheaper as I grow older. I’m becoming more adept at seeing through people when they claim to feel one way or another. If words aren’t accompanied with a reflection in the form of action, they’re meaningless, and slightly offensive because of the thoughtlessness behind them. I’ve wasted enough time on people who offhandedly throw notions on the table in an attempt to keep their options open.

A friend said it so well the other day: you know the truth by the way it feels.

And today feels like a great day to start over.

The End, Otherwise Known As The Beginning

2014-11-20T23:55:00.000-04:00

On a recent trip back to Canada, I was on my way home from wherever I’d been wandering, and I decided to stroll through the Public Gardens off Spring Garden Road. I exited through the old wrought-iron gate that drops you out onto Sackville Street, across from the CBC Radio-Canada building. I thought a lot about opportunities I had lost in recent years, including the maybe-sorta if-you-lived-here offer from CBC two years ago, following my interview on Weekend Mornings. At the time, I was still married and living in Miami, and I thought if things had been different, that it would have been a tremendous opportunity to work for Canada’s most respected broadcaster. We all risk losing wonderful opportunities when we hold on too long to what we may already know is not right for us.

Walking out of the park that day, I felt a pang in my heart, and asked myself why it had taken me too long to see, and so long to get out of that relationship, and what I’d lost by being so haphazard in my decision-making throughout life.

Many circumstances during my most recent trip amounted to a final decision for me; that I would sail my boat home in the Spring. I’m perhaps famous for deciding on a road to follow, reasons for which I probably possess at least momentarily, but then quickly forget, then end up following through with, more-less blindfolded. That hasn’t always worked out so well for me, but I’m no longer sure that I know any other way to live. What other instructions are there to follow, but intuition, right or wrong, telling you this is where you belong, if only for a while?

As I prepare to sail home, it doesn’t feel like anything is about to change. Every day feels like the other, aside from a slightly increasing stress of bringing everything together by my self-imposed deadline. It’s all very reminiscent of my departure for Cuba seven years ago. Some days it can feel like you’re going nowhere, and the tedium of mediocre repetitive days leave you with the impression that you’ve accomplished nothing. But, when I sum up the last 7 years, I’m able to reassure myself that I have packed in some life experience; some of it good, some of it horrific, and others are moments of absolute bliss that I wouldn't trade for any amount of comfort and certainty of an ordinary life.

But, I know myself, I have all but stalled-out here in Miami.

As a good friend recently helped me see, not everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt. I’ve spent a lot of my heart on people in whom I thought I could see more, only to learn it was never there; it was just a projection of my own hope, for both them, and for myself. Right now, I feel like it has been a lot of wasted time. But someday, I am sure, I will see a greater value in my treading water in Miami for as long as I have. There’s a reason, and whatever that reason is, it has led me to a new beginning.

The Miami River will soon be in the rear-view mirror, and along with it, past hopes of what I once thought would have, could have, been a good life.

A good life still awaits… anywhere but here.

Timing is of the Essence

2014-07-27T00:35:00.000-03:00

While out rowing the other evening on the Miami River, a couple of familiar fisherman, older Spanish gentlemen, sat in their usual perches on a dead-end road, casting their lines and hooks out into the river. As I got closer, they began to shout and make gestures, trying to point out something in the water. Neither of them spoke English, and their gestures confused me. Each of them stood with an arm extended on front of them, making a snake-like motion. A python? I know they’ve been taking over the Everglades at an alarming rate, and are often found in surrounding canals and rivers. I scanned the opposite side of the river where they were pointing, and saw nothing. I figured they must have meant a dolphin, manatee, or something else common, and so I shrugged my shoulders at them, and with my best attempt at sign language, tried to tell them I didn’t see what they were seeing, and I continued to row.

And then I spotted him. The fishermen had been saying "caimán”.

It was the first time in months that I’d taken my good camera with me along for my evening row, so timing was perfect. I rowed closer, for a better photo and an adrenaline rush. At first, he held his ground, before turning his tail to me and slipping away. I followed him, until I saw he was slowing down, and as he turned his head to see what I was up to, I stopped and drifted to get a few photos. He spotted a Santeria sacrifice, a rotting bloated chicken, and swallowed it in three gulps, his eyes rolling back in his head in supreme satisfaction. I know, gross.

I rowed a little closer as he glided away, until again, he stopped, calculating whether or not I was a threat. I stopped, took more pictures, and waited for him to lose interest so I could get a little closer. When he started off again, I rowed towards him, when he suddenly whipped around and made a bee-line for me, with terrifying gusto. Just at that moment, a young boy, who I hadn’t even noticed was there, shouted from the dock behind me, “LADY! YOU’VE GOTTEN TOO CLOSE!!!!”

The timing of his holler left me with the feeling that everything was about to culminate in an overturned boat, and me in the alligator’s jaws, being rolled to a death-by-drowning not far from my own front doorsteps.

As I sat there trying to decide whether it would be smarter to go with the flow, so to speak, and hope the river’s current would take me away from him, or stick my oar back in the water (giving him something to grab onto) to steer away, the current pulled me toward him, and I felt him brush along the edge of the dinghy, before he retreated below the surface. Then, all became silent. I sat, frozen, knees slightly buckling, waiting for something to happen, waiting for him to surface. I looked at the little boy watching from the dock. His eyes were fixated on the water around me.

“Do you see him?” I asked.

“Nope, he’s hiding now. That was stupid to get so close to him, Lady.”

Mierda.

But some of life’s greatest moments are simply the result of being in the right place, at the right time.

Of all the contributing factors that bring us to such moments, whether with nature, or our personal relationships, or a personal achievement, I have come to believe that no combination of positive factors can overcome the effects of bad timing. You can be an amateur photographer, and catch a great shot as a result of good timing. Conversely, bad timing can turn otherwise perfectly good efforts and intentions into something forever unattainable.

Of all the little things that can effectually change the course of a life, being in the right place at the right time is sometimes just a result of being in the mood to get out of your pajamas on a given morning. Life is fickle.

After three weeks in Halifax reconnecting with family and old friends, sailing the RNSYS Wednesday night race, taking in Jazzfest on the waterfront, attempting to surf with my brother and his family at Martinique, my now-traditional wine and lunch with Peter at the Royal Artillery, my first swing dance lesson (!), hiking and getting left behind for the coyotes (thanks, Ian), proudly completing a 50 km bike ride to Lawrencetown with Cheryl, camping on the South Shore, being home for Canada Day for the first time in years, randomly bumping into old friends at the Farmers Market (nice to see you, Michael), listening to the bartender tell creepy ghost stories of the little girl who haunts Henry House, a Bluenose II crew reunion (along with other fine young sailors) at The Old Triangle and finishing out the night in true Scotian-sailor style at the Middle Deck… and sushi, sushi, and more sushi, watching Ross dance during a Gypsophilia performance (holy cow you have to see that guy dance!) and an unforgettable evening on the pier by the HMCS Sackville with the Lemon Bucket Orkestra, I have predictably come back to Miami suffering from a touch of post-time-of-my-life depression. I feel like I did more living in the last 3 weeks than I’d done in my 3 years of marriage. I desperately want to relive every single moment of those three weeks, and make some of those moments last a little longer, or never end at all.

When Halifax sends me notification that it has canceled winter, I’ll gladly get my little ship ready for a voyage north, and put out a call for crew. Until then, I’ll take Miami as it is. Yes, even its summer.

While on one hand I have sometimes felt like life is infinite and everything that happens will somehow have an opportunity to come around again, in reality, each precious moment is singular, and should be treasured. I’m learning to avoid putting off experiences, assuming I can have that experience again later when I feel ready, when in reality, that moment may only have a single shot at existence. Yes, in other words, I’m learning to live in the moment.

Timing may not be right, but it may be the only time you’ll have.

-->

If Not Now, Then When?

2014-05-25T14:30:00.000-03:00

I arrived to park under the 27^th Avenue drawbridge, as an old man, holding a bouquet of flowers he appeared to have picked from the curbside, wandered under the bridge, looking lost, with sparkling blue eyes that I haven’t seen in a Spanish man since I’d sailed to Cuba. I parked my car, then walked over and asked if I could help him with anything.

He turned around and sat down on the stack of 6” x 6” ‘s that sat beside the bridge’s spare drums of hydraulic fluid. He looked confused as his eyes wandered from the ground, then to the steps, then to the underside of the bridge. He was wearing a name-tag, with his name, Pedro, and the name of the medical facility I thought he might have wandered from.

“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked him.

“17^th Street. It’s where I live. I’m going home.”

He spoke broken English, which was further exacerbated by the fact he had no teeth.

I asked if I could help him home.

“No, no, thank you. I will be fine.”

Then he extended his hands, full of the local flowers that I should know by now, but I don’t. I honestly didn’t know what to do at first. After helping care for my grandmother with Alzheimer’s for five years, my first thought was that he’d picked those flowers for his wife, whom he’d probably lost years ago. On first instinct, I didn’t want to take them, but I didn’t know what to say.

I hesitated a little too long, and so he dropped them on the ground.

I quickly gathered them up, and said, “Thank-you, they’re beautiful… can I call someone for you?”

He sighed, and said no. He knew where he was going.

He started walking towards the gate, and I said, “I’ll walk you home, it’s not far,” and again he said no, he was just fine. Before turning to walk up the grassy ledge that lines the east side of 27^th Avenue Bridge, he turned around and said, with confidence, “I’m going home”.

~~~

It will be one year next week that I withdrew from a relationship that was doing neither one of us any favours. I remember, initially, one of my fears of leaving was the feeling of having wasted so much time. I somehow felt that by leaving, I would lose the handful of good memories that we had made during our 4 years together; that they would be rendered meaningless. Now that I’m out, I can’t understand how I once felt that way. Staying together would not have changed what we already shared; staying together was not the solution. Those memories will linger either way, and each and every one had their place in our story while we were together.

It’s funny, the careless little phrases others may say in passing to us; words we cling to that come to define our thoughts. If we only knew their motives, we might feel better about ourselves; or know where we stood with those who said them. We all come from a unique history, and cannot ever judge another, or allow ourselves to be judged, by how we might interpret someone else’s words or actions. The way we interpret what others share with us can be a reflection of how we feel about ourselves, or be a result of our own personal experiences thus far in life. Someone else might have taken those flowers from Pedro’s hands, before they fell to the ground.

~~~

My new mantra, in regards to many aspects of my life, has become if not now, then when? I’ve put off dozens of boat projects all winter, telling myself I’ll get to it tomorrow. But knowing my personal happiness is hampered when I feel trapped, I decided to bite the bullet with the essentials (fuel tank, check!) and was actually able to leave the dock last weekend for the first time since my divorce. With a new tank to replace the dirty one, I hoped things would go smoothly. They didn’t entirely, but I have no complaints about the outcome. Anchored out for a couple days, I made a few new friends, and I think received a bit of clarity on others.

Motoring back up the river Sunday night, I looked ahead to a setting red sun, perfectly centered between the spans of 17^th Avenue Bridge. As the sun was sinking and the spans were rising, the world fell silent for a moment. Time stood still. Whether it’s out of love of the river, the one thing that has kept me in Miami this long despite all my personal circumstance, or apprehension of leaving a place I’ve spent more time in than anywhere else since high school, or fear of starting over alone... I’ve found myself not wanting to go. I have plenty of reasons to leave this city, and fewer to stay.

But it comes down to a question of quality, not quantity.

I have stopped thinking about what might have been had things worked out with my marriage. I’ve been forcing myself to spend time alone, if only to prove that I will be okay alone, if that’s how my future is written. I have, with no small effort, let go of the anger, the frustration, and the disbelief of the dishonesty that my marriage was based on. In the process, I feel in some ways that I’m back to where I started when I first met him, aside from the fact that I am now too old to romantically die young. While life is decidedly more worthwhile when you have someone to share it with, and cooking for one is just not worth the dishes it generates, going it alone is still preferable to being in a bad marriage.

Life goes on. Everything is so temporary, and life is all too short. We might all be surprised at how quickly we could become that gentleman under the bridge, with a handful of flowers and no one to give them to, just trying to find our way home.