losing my serenity at sea

Today, my friend "Chica", also known as Optimist on Slapstick showed me a link to a hilarious post. A post  that belly-laughed me straight into a total body memory. The piece I refer to is by Skot on Izzle Pfaff! The post is called: White Whale! Holy Grail!  

I experienced Skot's post as brilliant and almost painfully funny. Because, I was one of the people on that whale watching expedition. Only, not really. The sail boat I was on was called a yacht, there was no watching for whales, and it was in a different hemisphere, at a different time with different people. But, I could have been one of his people and not known it, for Skot's description of what happened that day (his day) hit so close to home, it was as if he had a camera from above, filming my own dreadful trip.  

   *note: I have changed the names of those present on the following expedition, not so much for their privacy, but to save my ass from any of them coming down on me for sharing what was to become one of the most miserable days in my entire life. Yet, I live to tell.

   **extra note: about the photo ... it's not me, it's my friend Nancy, riding magical "Speedy" in the Gulf of Mexico. The photo's only link to the story is the water in the Gulf, and me also being a cowgirl. I did not have a photo of the alleged sailing vessel, and I chose to use this because it's more like me than the me in the forthcoming story. Besides that, I like horses and I like the photo. Except for admiring their craftsmanship and beauty from afar, I don't like boats.

Here it goes ... in email to Chica:

I share of my last, and final for the rest of my life, boating trip. I think I was on that same boat with Skot ... but, like I said before, my trip was not for whale watching in, I'm guessing, some waters in the far far north-west of here. 

Ours was on the annual Moonlight Regatta, a 24 HR (that's 86,400 seconds) sailboat race from Galveston to Corpus Christi, TX --  with my then boyfriend, I shall call "Bird". Our hosts were "Stacy & Mark" and several other nameless and innocent guests. Bird and I had been in the same community of the weekend warrior types with Stacy & Mark, where it was all about self empowerment, and healing our wounded souls. You know, recovering from the insanity of our adolescence, and reclaiming that innate wisdom and joy that on some level we all possess. 

Stacy's dad, dressed in a crisp white uniform, was the Captain of his beautiful 40 ft. sailboat yacht. Captain's First Mate was Stacy's fashionable mom wearing her matching whites. The rest of the crew was Stacy's hunky little brother, and his equally cute friend. Bird was also an experienced sailor, and I (desiring to please) was his timorous guest. 


Full moon still in the sky, we prepared and sailed out of South Shore Harbor @ 4:00 in the morning. Somewhat anxious in the gut, and like a good girl-scout, I was prepared with my ginger candy, ginger-molasses cookies, and acupressure wrists bands - all for preventive measures. It was a lovely pre-dawn as we set sail into the fresh quiet and morning's calm waters. Moments after appreciating the inspiring sunrise, I went below for a nap on one of the high and cushy platform beds. If you, my one reader, hold some any knowledge of sailing, you could be thinking, "recline for a nap below deck? ... big mistake, girrll." 

By the time we we were nearing Galveston Bay, about 3 hours into the race, 8 ft. swells were crashing up and over the sides of the boat. My ginger snaps did not appear to be doing the preventative magic I had hoped for. Bird advised that I might like to come above to ride out this adventure. He escorted me up the 2 steps past the Captain at the helm, then 2 steps more to be greeted by some "weather". The heavy clouds appeared so dark and close to the waves that the scene looked like an illustration out of "The Old Man and the Sea". Holi crap! What fresh hell was about to happen ...

We could hear through the static on the radio that other contestants were dropping left and right out of the race. "Storm coming!" (what the devil then was this squally nightmare?!) I prayed that our Captain would have mercy and turn inland. And, I prayed some more. But, Captain-dad was determined to sail onward. 

I was the first to go down. Couldn't stand up ... slumped over like a spineless rag doll on the deck. My Birdman suggested I move to the rail. Although, this was not exactly what he had in mind when he suggested I "move",  I clung to his calf and allowed myself to be butt-dragged to the rail where I could hang my head through the bars, puking up my soul. I puked and prayed, "I'm One with God, give me peace ... ohh lawsy-lawsy, just let me slide over the side ... I'll dog paddle the 2 miles in to the shore." (ginger cookies purged, dry heaving sets in) "I know there's a sand dune down there somewhere! ... I could walk? maybe dog-paddle? ... even drown! ... ohh, please God, just let me fall in and die! ... I'm One with God! ... oh, what would Deepak do?"  

Waves continue to soak my frozen and pitifully shriveled body. (it was August ... warm Gulf waters ... maybe hurling away your soul lowers body temperature? certainly, nearing death brings on chill.)

Stacy's graceful mom came running up from the galley with a tiny, I mean t-i-n-y plastic cocktail cup, offering that I might like to hurl into the cup rather than down the side of their lovely yacht. (could it matter-a-damn with the deck et al passengers being sopped by these mountainous crashing waves?)  I glared smiled meekly, then politely accepted the cup, for surely I must have looked like I was enjoying myself, glistening pale green and putrid in the rising sunlight. 

Mark-the-asshole fiancee, from a secure spot astern the rolling coffin, chirps out to me in his most supportive weekend-warrior voice ... "thank you, Pamela, for doing our work for us". This gave all a good cackle with Mark's humor at my expense.  My only response could be a weakly raised single finger gesture.

Just minutes later, seconds even, my angels gave up the last laugh. Ahh hahaha. One by one, each of the guests and crew were dropping, leaving only thumps of squall soaked bodies everywhere. Stacy's dainty mom was losing her breakfast bran-muffins overboard (sans tiny cup). At last, bounding up from the control station where he had been courageously commanding his handsome sailing vessel, came El Capi-tan - who commenced to spew away his dignity. 

From my shadow side, to the optimist inside of me, there came a wee bit gratitude for the comfort of feeling not-so-alone in this wet hell. My humiliation was now a shared experience.

Soon afterwards, Captain-daddy recovered enough to radio someone, somewhere, "#8, blah, blah, blah, dropping out ..." ("oohh, thank you! thank you! thank you, heavenly gracious goddesses and generous gods of the sea!") The boat turns, making headway toward the harbor. Yet, it was another gruesome hour and a half (5,400 seconds) of fighting swells before we were on solid ground. 

Superfluous to say, what little was left of me slithered and clawed my way like Gollum down the plank onto dry concrete where I found myself a very cool and dark corner in which I pretended to be dead. I laid still and silent, hoping no one would talk or attempt to move me. When I was capable of standing (somewhat) erect, there appeared a greasy-juicy hamburger to fuel my remains for the many-more hours awaiting a ride back to civilization (home).

In closure, I must give an honorable mention to the brave ones of the day who kept their sea legs about them. The only sailors unafflicted with the green misery were: Stacy's hunky little brother who had secured himself to the mast for the entire nightmare, and who was whooping it up like only a Texas grown hunky-boy could do; to his equally cute friend who kept on his own sea legs, and of course, my Bird-man ... standing pale and upright like a frozen yellow-slicker'd statue with his green eyes set on the horizon. 

Those few hours of unmitigated wretchedness were so deeply registered in my bio-computer as a great reminder of why I am certain ... that I always have been ... and I promise to always ... stay grounded on dry land as a tree climbing, mountain-loving, sky-jumping cowgirl ... who doesn't like boats. 

saturday night's alright 4 putting it down

I'm watching Forty Year Old Virgin on HD Cable tonight. I am happy to be sitting on my throne, MacBook on lap, puppy close by. All the essentials are present. I noticed that's the second time today I've used  "essentials." An appropriate word for these days of simplifying.  

So, I'm watching one of my all-time favorite movies that can still crack me up. The first 2 times I saw it, I guffawed through the whole thing. I do not exactly know why. Does it even matter? Perhaps, the innocence of the main character ... and enough silly naughtiness in the film sparks me up for some good belly laughs. 

My inner 11 year old just loves to cut up, be saucy. She is my child on the inside who is inexperienced (my, that's a bit of a stretch) and a fearlessly curious tomboy. That can be a dangerous combination, and at times it was.

A therapist once told me that "it is a wonder that (you) are still alive." Then she said something about my having had some "suicidal behavior as a child." To that I replied, "(expletive deleted) ... I don't think so."

I may have been on the wild side, but more like a young filly who tosses her mane and often gets into mischief.  She loved being alive, and at times required a tighter rein than at other times. If only for her own protection. I get that now, although the environment in which I (survived) was, for the most part, in-freakin'-tense. 

I always loved, and still do love to soar. Who doesn't? But, the difference in me today (besides having had some dozens of years in which to mature) is that I'm pretty well disciplined, with a decent sense of awareness about balance. Most of the time, or at least a lot of the time, or some of a lot of the time.

That was the first and last session with the "therapist" who held up fear to me, and looked ready to give me an Rx. I promptly changed therapist's.  Good lord! If she saw me for only one hour and had that strong of a reaction, one of us was fucked up. I did not think it was me. (which I now believe to be one of my healthier thoughts in those days!)  I may have been a mess, but I was not a lost cause. The woman only heard what amounts to 'dipping a toe in the water' of what I had lived. I wonder what she would have prescribed had we continued to work together and had she heard more of my story. 

 "Freedom is what you get when you let go of your stories," say I.  (a follow-up thought just trickled in: hmm, i guess that's what i'm doing here ... letting it go ... on to another page, and out of my head where i get to experience that divine emptiness for awhile. like the blonde in me. oh, shit ... there she goes again. let's take a quick break here.) 

With great fortune, I was guided to a woman, a spiritual psychologist, that was not so quick to lay judgement. In fact, I never experienced judgement while working with her. That's what I dearly love about my "spiritual mentor", Colleen. She taught me with the greatest of patience about ego, fear vs. love, self-forgiveness, and guided me in the direction of learning to love myself. 

I have not seen Colleen since she move away some years ago. I grieved when she left, yet, after 7 - 8 years of studying with her, I think she helped me onto some pretty solid ground. I loved that there was someone in my life who "got" me, and who did not make presumptions about who they thought I was, nor who I should be. That was/is balm to the loneliness, the feeling of separateness, in which I had lived most of my life. Not so much today. Whatever may remain is more likely to be on a cellular level. Don't misunderstand, I'm not pretending to be finished with my soul-work. If I were (finished), I wouldn't need to be here anymore (done with Earth-school). "There is no finish line," said Colleen.

 

... to be continued one day, maybe. I heard Bossy say to me about writing -  "the trick is just to keep pushing forward!"  I get it. Thank you, Bossy, wherever you are.

It's Saturday night, and as I was saying earlier ... a light movie, cuddling with Puppy, my pretty white MacBook, and some old memories that give me cause to smile. Life is good.

an evening walk in the 'hood - a short picture story

"Hey, Little, you wanna go for a walk?"  After many quick full-circle turns and happy dances, Little is at the door. Forgetting the stretchy wrist thing that holds the house key, we gather only the essentials;  a camera and a dried magnolia leaf for poop-scooping. (Fact is, we're a green family & we don't need a plastic bag for picking up something that seldom equals the size of my little finger minus one inch.) Where was I?  

We almost always pause to admire some flowers, and Lil' checks for messages at the corner of our block. (what's she talking about?)

 

We stop to visit with neighborly neighbors. Sometimes friends join us and we walk together for a few blocks. It's a very friendly neighborhood, especially if you're a dog person, or a garden person, or a person with a garden and a dog.

Meet a few gang members:  Senor Leo. A very laid back maestro.

And his house-mate, Katie, a feisty little bitch who's far too cool to walk in public with the dudes. A face only a mother could love (in the south, we always follow such a statement with, "bless her heart!" I suppose it's meant to take the sting out of the insult?). Anyway, Katie gets big points for attitude. 

Then, there's darling Zoey, who's usually airborne and one of Little's most very cheerful friends.

It takes a while to greet all the gang in the neighborhood, and eventually we stroll 2 blocks over to the great lawn by the museum where we run into some more of Little's friends.

Ellie is a baby. She's even littler than Little and she wears a pink harness. They are happy to see each other and perform the required formalities of butt sniffing, then wag tails 'hello'.

Cleo is Ellie's elder and shows her the ropes in the 'hood. She's not a poser, that one. Much too busy for such nonsense.

It's fun to walk thru the lawn-art. Little enjoys his culture. He has attended art openings, and visited several museums in our neighborhood. He has (while hidden in mommy's purse) also paid respects at two funerals, partied at a reception in a hotel bar, takes regular road-trips traveling east to La., and driving out west in Texas, and has flown on 12 airplanes where he has thrown up only once.

There are dozens of flowering trees around the museum, and a park across the street with even more giant trees, plus a bona fide bat-house on a post. The park was once recognized by a local paper, as "Houston's Best Dog Park" where our gang of a dozen or so canines romped freely. Until an onslaught of wanna-be gang members read the article and raised the population by 30+ dogs, and their people-who-did-not-scoop-up-their-poop, and one misfit from "outside the loop" who went after a neighbor's cat. (I won't give the sad details, but I'll mention that it was not pretty.) Hence, some strong petitioning promptly resulted in a new leash law forbidding the once peaceful family of dogs-of-all-sizes, and unscathed cats, free to roam.  

Sometimes we see people climbing or sitting in the hospitable oak trees. (We're building a photo album labeled  "Tree People")  

But, today Little is the only tree dweller around.

Sometimes there are signs in yards that we notice, and make a mental note to look up what the initials represent.  Seems this one is the "oldest registered ecumenical lobby, founded in 1943, and the largest peace lobby in Wash., D.C." (note to self: look up ecumenical)

Our afternoon constitution has been quite lovely and social enough. It's nearing dinner time and some of us are hungry to the point of distraction ... so just one more stop to leave a message for our Big Dawg pals whom we've missed today.

The end. 

p.s.  I do hope our neighbor is home with an extra key to let us in.