Our Halloween Cats

Misty, the big guy at 17-pounds

Meadow the queen in her pirate costume

When the Paperwhites bloom, I'll be here

We delayed by a week traveling from Kitwanga to Bellingham for my doctor’s appointment. I wanted to get my tomato and zucchini plants in the ground before leaving, and we were still experiencing freezing temperatures late into May. The day before we left I smoothed the soil around the last tender transplant. I moved slowly this spring… not like myself at all. Just scattering a row of seeds left me short of breath. It was why we were going to Bellingham. But I wanted the garden finished so that when we returned the snow peas would be climbing the trellis, the nasturtium in bloom, and the heirloom lettuce ready for salads. And this was the second year for my raspberry canes… their fruit would be ready by the time we got back. There was no way I could have known then that I would not be coming back.

It has been five months since I received my diagnosis of stage four lung cancer… five months since I was told that without treatment I had six months to live. My emotions have run the gamut from disbelief to discouragement to fatalism, and finally to realistic optimism and acceptance. At first my life seemed to be taken over by doctors, chemicals, drugs, procedures like biopsies, CT scans and Pet scans… and perhaps last visits with friends and family. The future didn’t exist. There was only now. It is hard to plant a seed or a flower bulb if you do not believe you will be around to see it bloom. But it is that very act of planting that represents Hope.

Monday we visited a favorite nursery of ours, from when we lived on San Juan Island. We looked only at the houseplants and conservatory plants for we have no yard. I wandered through the rows of greenery, inhaling the rich aroma of moist soil, and terra cotta pots. Before long Bob was carrying to the checkout counter pots of scented geraniums, a maidenhair fern, bay laurel topiary, and a pre-planted pot of Paperwhite Narcissus bulbs. The next day I puttered at the kitchen sink with a bag of soil, and new pots, replanting the scented geraniums. I spent time trimming and watering houseplants. Bob only chuckled at the mess I was making. I think he knows that taking care of plants is taking care of me. The pot of narcissus bulbs sits near a south facing window, the green tips an inch high. I have no doubt that I will still be here when their sweet scented blooms brighten a winter day.

... PLM

Night Landfall

“Winter Passage” continues…

After a week tied to the Comox dock, riding out a series of winter storms, a day finally arrived with relative calm. The marine forecast predicted southerly winds of 15 to 20 knots by afternoon. It was scheduled to worsen again and we wanted to take advantage of our brief weather window to move on to our next destination. It was 10 am – we needed to be underway by 11. With favorable conditions we thought we could make Quadra Island in about five hours. Most importantly, we wanted to arrive before darkness. Bob and I remembered all too well our first experience with a night landfall.

It was in 1996, on our first passage with Chiron from Seattle to her homeport in Newport, Oregon. Due to engine problems, we were several hours late getting to the waypoint outside of Yaquina Bay and we were faced with a night approach. Standing off until morning was not a reasonable choice since the weather was deteriorating and the engine was still uncertain.

Although Ed the transit captain had made the same Seattle to Newport passage only three weeks before, it had been a daylight approach and he was now ambivalent; I was at the helm and our friend Allen was lookout on the bow. Everything was disorienting; dark water, dark sky, a multitude of city lights reflected in the bay, making it hard to distinguish the red and green navigational lights from the city traffic lights. Allen suddenly becomes alarmed when he thinks he sees and hears surf breaking off our port (it was actually the breakwater), and Ed becomes confused. He grabs the helm from me and turns the boat around, back into open water.

We see another boat hanging around; it appears to be waiting for us to go in. Ed makes the decision to follow it, hoping it is a local boat familiar with the channel. The boat’s captain seems reluctant to take the lead but with no other choice he slowly moves into the jaws (jetty channel)… very slowly. I take back the helm, keeping my eyes on the two white lights that cast an eerie glow from the small boat ahead of us. Suddenly it stops. Then we hear the metallic creaking sounds of a winch being cranked. The guys let out with a string of expletives, “What the f*&*! He’s pulling up crab pots – in the middle of the traffic channel.” Not exactly legal, which explains his reluctance to have us follow him. He wanted us to be gone. When he finishes, the crab boat turns toward us. A decrepit and rusting hulk, it passes by like some ghostly ship… Charon the boatman, with his load of dead souls.

We no longer have the crab boat to follow. But Bob standing next to me points out the lights on the Yaquina Bay Bridge, and I use them to navigate our way through the channel. Captain Ed uses the Texaco sign as his marker, “Now I know where we are; South Beach Marina is just to the right of the Texaco star.” To hell with navigational markers.

... PLM

Chuckanut Drive

Well, it wasn’t the mountain adventure our friends from Whidbey took a week ago. It wasn’t even an overnighter. But our outing yesterday was spontaneous, the day was bright, and the fall scenery spectacular along the 21-mile narrow, winding Chuckanut Drive. The finishing touch was our lunch at the Oyster Bar Restaurant, a restaurant that began as a small shack in the 1920’s selling oysters to travelers on Washington State’s first scenic highway. Pacific oysters, whose seeds are native to Japan, were first grown in the U.S. at the Samish Bay farm in 1921. The farm, Rock Point Oyster Co. (now Taylor Shellfish), was the first certified oyster farm in Washington state. The Oyster Bar is no longer a shack, but an elegant linen tablecloth and candles kind of place, with an excellent menu and presentation. From our window table overlooking Samish Bay, we could see the Fidalgo, Samish, and Cypress Islands floating in the distant haze (photo above right). Parked in front of the restaurant as we drove up, was a sporty, red roadster. Now that would have been fun to drive on a day like yesterday.

... PLM

Precious Days

These are the precious days of autumn when the deciduous trees still hold tight to their leaves of yellow and gold, rooftops glisten with frost at sunrise, or morning fog gives way to sunny afternoon skies. I find myself wanting to hang on to these days, knowing that it won’t be long before blustery storms swoop in to bare the trees and hide the sun. So yesterday we jumped into the Jeep and drove to Whidbey Island to visit our good friends Lee and Melanie. We passed U-pick pumpkin patches and a corn maze. There were canoes on a small lake and sightseers hanging over the bridge railing at Deception Pass. We made our own unofficial survey of political signs… more Republican signs than Democratic, and almost exclusively state and local races rather than presidential.

This was the first time I had seen Melanie since her accident that now requires her to have her left leg immobilized for a period of six weeks. Having to use a cane does not keep Melanie from giving big hugs, or from baking fresh-from-the oven gingersnap cookies, or preparing a wonderful lunch of French onion soup and Caesar salads. It was a wonderful afternoon and just before leaving, Melanie and I asked the guys to take a picture of the two of us. There I am with a knitted cap covering my baldhead, and Melanie with her cane and Velcro leg brace. I am happy to say that my lung cancer and Melanie’s heart problems and now leg, does not prevent us from sharing laughs and smiles… it only brings us closer.

The sun was going down as we passed Penn Cove on our return trip. Stop! The lighting was perfect for a photograph of this picturesque loading dock. Penn Cove is famous for their mussels and other shellfish. A beautiful way to end the day.

... PLM

Free Hugs and Pumpkins

Depending upon the season, I usually have some idea of what I will find at the Farmer’s Market. But there are always the surprises… like today. A mother and daughter were walking through the crowd with a hand-lettered sign that read “Free Hugs.” And sure enough, every once in a while someone would get a big hug. Even Bob and me. I enjoyed my hug and then asked why they were doing this. The mother said, “This is National Make a Difference Day.” And we can all use a hug… or give one.

No surprise – pumpkins were the stars of the market today.

Reminders

Sometimes I need to be reminded of things I already know but somehow misplace in the process of day-to-day living. Those reminders are especially important now, given the unpredictable time I have left. Yesterday Bob’s sister sent a brief e-mail to let us know of the death of her best friend’s husband. He died of cancer. The significance of this event is that the husband’s cancer diagnosis (esophagus and liver) had occurred within days of my own stage four cancer diagnosis. He is gone and I am still here… For that I need to be grateful and not take for granted the good days and months I continue to enjoy.

And today I received an e-mail from our good friend Melanie. She described the spontaneous ‘mountain adventure’ that she and her husband Lee had recently taken… “Just because the sun was shining when we got up Wednesday morning.” Hey, that’s a good enough reason.

“Since hiking was not on the agenda (Melanie fell recently and has to wear a leg brace for the next six weeks), we decided to drive old logging roads and explore the steep mountains between Winthrop and Mazama. The ‘roads’ were one-lane dirt, with tight switchbacks strewn with occasional large rocks fallen from the mountains above. WOW! Such gorgeous scenery!” They saw no other cars, just a “herd of eight Angus cows wandering down the center of the road in the middle of nowhere,” the herder - a very hardy older woman on horseback, and a rugged man collecting firewood who told them that to reach Mazama wherever there are ‘Y’s’ in the road, “keep turning LEFT.” When they finally came to an actual road sign for Mazama, it was at a Y in the road… and the arrow pointed to the RIGHT. Melanie concluded her e-mail with, “We had spent about four wonderful hours being ‘in the moment,’ and ‘not quite lost’ in those very beautiful hills. So we had two lovely, fun days. On the spur of the moment, just like old times. Life is GOOD!”

Yes, life is good. Thanks Melanie for that reminder. I think it is time for Bob and I to go on one of those spur of the moment adventures. It won’t be as far away as sailing up the Strait of Georgia, or driving cross-country like we did last fall, but there are adventures to be had close to home too. Stay tuned.

... PLM

Crossing the Bar

Bob’s Account continued from yesterday…

Morningstar comes back on deck as we approach the entry buoy to Comox Harbor. We now have to turn sharply from 280 degrees to 200 degrees magnetic and line up with two stick markers in order to successfully cross the shallow Comox Bar, which is charted at one to two fathoms (6 to 12-feet… Chiron draws 6-feet 4-inches), with rocks to the north and sand bars to the south. As we make our turn we take the weather directly abeam and Chiron starts to roll from side to side. Crashing noises from below send Morningstar down to secure things that we have never had to secure before. Then she wedges herself into the nav. Station and begins to call out our range and bearing from the computer. We had set the exact course for crossing the bar the night before and now she lets me know how we are doing moment by moment. Once we make the turn we are committed to the crossing – no turning back.

Morningstar’s Account from inside Chiron

Bob warns me that when we change course to make the run in, it could get rough… an understatement! All hell breaks loose. I hang on while anything not fastened down flies through the air… books, papers, sunglasses, the HP printer. In the wild melee, I catch a flash of black and white shooting past me like an errant missile, and hear a terrified “Yeowwwww!” Bustopher in a panic, always going the wrong way. I can do nothing but hang tight and watch the boat’s progress on the computer screen. From my place at the nav station, I can see Bob through the hatch opening. He stands solidly behind the helm as Chiron is hit abeam by each breaking wave and the tidal rips. I call out to him every few seconds, “You’re right on course.”

Bob’s Account continues…

At the wheel I brace my feet wide apart as the first wave slams us. I can feel the vibration of the engine, and every impact of the waves throughout my body. Salt spray blinds me. I can only catch quick glimpses of the red stick buoys in the distance – still in line – looking black in the storm’s darkness. Morningstar’s disembodied voice floats up to me every few seconds… “Still on course”… “Hold your line”… clear, reassuring – it is a link to warmth and order and certainty below deck. I am totally in the moment. I move to anticipate, then compensate, trying to read the rhythm of the oncoming waves and the counter-moving tidal current. No thinking – just reflex. There are so few feet of water between the keel and the sand bottom here. The compass is swinging wildly. Useless. Each roll puts the starboard rail in the water. Then Morningstar’s voice, calm… “Maintain this heading.” Focus. Only a matter of minutes. Just 1.51 nautical miles from the starting turn to calm waters. We are well tested.

Entering Comox Harbor, we are finally sheltered from the wind and the waves quiet. From around Goose Point, a Canadian Coast Guard boat emerges – slows to check on us – sees that we are OK – gives us a wave and then powers on. We saw no other boats on this day.

Lasqueti Island to Comox

Morningstar's Journal (False Bay, Lasqueti Island)

It’s almost a relief to see morning arrive. It brings to a close a seemingly endless night. But it is hard to face another day of passage… every part of my body rebels. My head hurts, my stomach hurts, I am cold and tired and food has no appeal. Am I coming down with the flu? We discuss whether to remain here at False Bay for a day, or go on to Comox as planned. The weather forecast is favorable, so common sense suggests that we continue on. But my body begs for a rest … and when I had come on deck this morning, the sight of three circling eagles, a wind generator and solar panels on shore, and a bearded man waving to us from an aluminum skiff, tempted us to stay and explore Lasqueti Island for a day or two. It has possibilities. But fate has other plans.

Now I glance at the red boat that we are using as a marker. “Are we drifting closer to that boat or is it my imagination?” I ask Bob. “I was noticing the same thing,” he says, “I think we’re dragging anchor again. We’re going to have to pull up and go.” Unexpectedly the wind and chop is picking up. It is January, with all the unpredictability that winter can bring. We will have to act quickly before conditions close down and we are unable to leave. An open bay without good holding is no place to be with a storm coming in.

I pull on my foul weather jacket and take the helm while Bob tries to operate the windlass. But it keeps slipping. “Put the engine in neutral and come forward. We’ll have to pull in the anchor chain together.” In the frigid winter air we work; I step on the deck windlass control, while Bob pulls in the anchor chain inch by inch… stop, go, stop, go. He loosens the chain when it jams and we start again… stop, go, stop, go.

Though I shiver from the biting cold, Bob pulls off his jacket and tosses it onto the deck. Lightly dressed in a green flannel shirt and jeans, he hauls in 300-feet of chain and a 60-pound anchor. Once underway, Bob tells me to go below and get warm. Willingly I go… I do not feel well. After depositing the cats where each will be most comfortable, I curl up on the sea berth, fully clothed in my foul weather gear and wool knit cap, and huddle under the satin comforter for warmth.

Bob’s Account:

The crossing from Lasqueti to Comox on Vancouver Island is essentially a straight-line course of about 20 nautical miles across open water. Morningstar is not feeling well and after calming Bustopher (he panics) and cleaning up after Sammy (he gets seasick), she sleeps off and on during the passage. We had established the route the night before and entered it into the onboard computer. Our location is constantly being determined by GPS and marked on a moving chart display that gives the range, bearing, and estimated time of arrival at Comox. It really is pretty wonderful. So I ignore it and steer by compass and dead reckoning. We have a heavy following sea and make a swift passage, but a storm front is approaching and we need to make the shelter at Comox Harbor.

… to be continued

Nanaimo Storm - Part Two

Continued from Bob's Journal

This wasn’t fun in the first place and it is getting worse. I jump, grab the handrail on the dodger to stay upright, swing below for the engine key, back into the cockpit, discipline myself to a full count of 30 for a cold engine start, and it does – thank you Chiron. No time for a gentle run-up. In gear, ease the throttle forward – Pisces-Isuzu vs. the storm. I can see the bow swing toward the dock and Morningstar strain against the line. Then there’s another gust of wind and another surge. The bow swings sharply away from the dock, dragging Morningstar towards the edge. She won’t let go, just like her. I’m yelling for her to let go. But I can’t hear myself over the mingled roar of the engine and the storm, so I know she can’t.

A slight drop in the wind – full throttle this time – and Chiron strains forward and swings tight into the dock. I can see Morningstar struggling with the tangle of loose line. I can’t see what is happening for sure but I know that she isn’t able to recover the slack and secure the line. I leave the throttle full in and return to the dock. At Morningstar’s side I can see that she is trying to sort through 35-feet of tangled line. I take the line, secure the bow. Safe. Together we shut down the engine, and tighten the other lines. There are tears in Morningstar’s eyes.

Morningstar’s Journal, 14 January 1998

Bob’s look of concern told me all I needed to know about the situation outside. The sense of urgency in his voice propelled me to quickly pull on my rubber boots and stick my arms into the yellow rain slicker. Still struggling to pull up the sticky zipper, I stepped out on the deck to find a sea turned ugly. Chiron was still securely tied, but the force of the wind hitting her broadside had stretched the lines so much that a wide span of churning water now stood between the dock and us. Bob jumped first, safely landing on the concrete dock beyond. Now it was my turn. Don’t think, I told myself, just do it. I searched for the narrowest reach, climbed over the lifeline and took a flying leap, trusting in something other than myself. Bob’s hand caught mine and I felt my feet hit solid ground. We ran forward and grabbed the bowline.

It didn’t seem possible, but the storm’s force was increasing. Each time we pulled Chiron in closer, a gust of wind or a powerful surge of water would shove her back out before we had a chance to secure the line. With feet braced and every muscle straining, I pulled as hard as I could. I threw back my hood so that I could see better. Within minutes my hair was plastered to my head, and little rivulets of water ran down my face. Wet jeans clung tight against my legs, water sloshed in my boots. “Pull with me and when I tell you to let go, let go immediately,” Bob called out loudly to me. We tried to work with the surge but had no success. Chiron was now even further from the dock and straining hard against the dock lines. It was getting desperate. Decisively Bob returns to Chiron, clearing the ever-widening gap. He grabs the ignition key from a cup hook in the cabin, and starts the engine. “I’ll turn the bow towards the dock. You untie the line and pull in the slack,” he yells to me. I see his mouth move but the wind-blown words never reach my ears.

Under power, Bob maneuvers Chiron’s bow closer to the dock. I struggle with the water-soaked knots, feeling clumsy and unsure. Bob wants me to retie the line. What kind of knot should I use? Can I do it and keep the line taut, without another surge pulling it from my cold, numb hands? I have so much to learn yet about boats and sailing. Years of gardening and homemaking did not prepare me for anything like this. At 58, is it too late for me to live this kind of life, to leave an ordinary life and live an adventure? I have always believed I could do anything if I had the desire and perseverance. What if that were no longer true? I stubbornly hang onto the line that had become much more than just a dock line. In a way it is symbolic of my life and the way I want to live it... pushing the limits. Never giving up. Never letting go.

Bob jumps off the boat and rushes over to give me a hand. The wind continues to blow and the rain to fall as one by one each line is tightened. Chiron is safely secured, but now that the crisis is over, tears fill my eyes. Facing the storm has brought me face to face with myself.

I came on this sojourn looking for peace and at fleeting moments I have found it. But mostly I have found challenges, stretching me beyond imagined limits, pulling me through groundless fears. I am learning to accept the unexpected, the unpredictability of this life we have chosen to embark upon. Each day is like reading a novel, wondering what is going to be on the next page, in the next chapter. What is going to happen next?

Nanaimo Storm - Part One

With Bob’s retirement a year later, we set sail once again. We spent the autumn months in the San Juan Islands and then continued north, a solitary sailboat going in the wrong direction according to most folks. It was during a January storm in Nanaimo that we experienced our first test of the winter, and it happened while we were at dock. The details of that experience were recorded in our separate journals and were later published in the Summer 2000 issue of Canadian Yachting.

Bob’s Journal, 14 January 1998

Today starts with heavy rain and gusty winds. CBC radio (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) reports temperatures at the freezing mark throughout our area. While eating breakfast, I notice a great deal of extra motion of the boat and decide to go out and check the dock lines. As I get ready to go out I can hear the wind increase and feel the boat moving more violently. I dress in my foul weather gear and head topside; I am surprised by the strength of the wind, the slashing rain and the force of the waves pounding against the side of Chiron, pushing it away from the dock. The lines are holding but stretched. We are riding far out from the dock and dancing like a toy on the end of a string.

It is a nasty situation and seems to be getting worse rapidly. It is imperative to tighten the dock lines for lots of reasons; the boat is at risk; we are in a tight moorage and if the lines give way we will quickly be blown into the fuel dock only yards away, or into any one of the other boats moored throughout the harbor. And if the wind shifts, we could be slammed back against the dock. No choice. The lines have to be tightened.

In the few moments that it takes to assess the situation, I am chilled and thoroughly soaked. Horizontal rain – maybe some ice mixed in, stings my face. I step to the edge of the deck ready to jump. The gap seems more ominous as Chiron bounds up and down out of rhythm with the slower rolling motions of the dock. I think I see ice on the dock. I jump. I must look like a giant yellow plastic bird trying to get airborne. I land hard, can feel the impact all the way to my thighs. I try to flex my knees to take the shock, but I am too cold and too unpracticed. At least I don’t fall. Stern line first – it is stretched tight – don’t touch that knot. Up the dock – breast line set like iron – maybe it is taking the full force of the storm. Forward spring has some slack but it is not really relevant yet. The bowline is alternately tensing and slacking as the boat moves with the wind and waves. It has to start here. I loosen the knot knowing that time is running short, fingers already numb and I have to watch them to do the work. I leave one turn of the line under the dock cleat and brace against the cleat and pull with all of my strength. Okay. Okay. Then a sudden surge and I feel like my shoulders are going to rip out of their sockets. I hang on. Then a slight slackening. I tighten the line and quickly throw a temporary knot. I can’t do this alone. I call for Morningstar. Too much storm noise. My words are whipped away in the wind.

I will have to jump back on board – what the f*&*! Lose my dignity maybe. With tons of boat and dock moving – just don’t fall in the gap.

Made it! I open the hatch and look down into Morningstar’s eyes. I keep my voice level and calm. “I need your help.” No hesitation – no questions – she just moves to put on her gear.

Back on deck, I’m not sure what to tell her. I’m not sure how she will react to this. I watch her. She moves to the edge of the deck and looks down. I say, “We have to jump.” She nods. I go first. It hurts more when I land this time. A dull pain in my legs. I can’t feel my feet. I suppose it’s the diabetes. I turn – she’s ready to jump. She is going to land on the very edge of the dock – not so good. I hold out my hand and she grabs it as she hits the dock. I pull her forward. We run to the bowline – loosen the knot again. I stand behind her and we both grab the line. We make several attempts to pull in the bow. The storm seems to be intensifying. She has thrown her hood back and her face is red and her hair plastered against her head. We try again but lose ground. The boat is now even further from the dock and the motion is worse. The docks are deserted. No help. If we wait, the boat may be too far away to re-board. The situation is deteriorating and Morningstar seems confused and uncertain. I can barely make myself heard. Even if I could, I’m not sure that I could say much that was useful.

Last chance. The way we were laying parallel to the dock with the storm abeam and with the stern and breast lines taunt, the spring slack and the bow line swinging – it just might allow me to start up Chiron’s engine and power forward, pivoting on the stern line, forcing the bow into the dock. I explain to Morningstar with a few shouted words… she is to stay on the dock, take in the slack and retie the bow. No questions on her part. She moves to the line and stands ready.

... to be continued

Morningstar, can you hear me?

Recollections of our first voyage on Chiron… second day (excerpt from WINTER PASSAGE)

Our friend Allen suffered greatly from seasickness during the three-day passage. After spending a brief spell in the cabin, he opted never to go below again. He slept on the teak bench in the cockpit, and offered to take some of our watches because it kept his mind occupied and the seasickness at bay. While I sat with Bob during his 3 to 6 pm watch, a heavy squall hit bringing wind, rain, and a pitching sea. I went below to make peanut butter sandwiches and hot cider. Reaching for the bread was the last thing I remember until Bob’s voice came to me from a great distance…

“Morningstar, can you hear me?” I struggled to open my eyes, as if waking from a dream. Bob’s two hands cradled my face as he looked into my eyes. “Do you remember who you are?” he asked. “Do you know where you are?” I felt disembodied, like I was observing the scene from some detached space, but I dutifully gave the answers that would reassure him that I had no concussion. I reached around to touch the back of my head. A gigantic and painful lump had formed there. Bob put me to bed and I slept for the next few hours. Whenever I woke I found him there beside the bed, his head resting near mine.

Later Bob filled in the details.

I was at the wheel and we were running through high seas. The ship was taking some serious rolls. The transit captain was asleep below and our friend Allen was asleep in the cockpit. Morningstar was in the galley on the starboard side. I could occasionally see her move about as she fixed a sandwich, when we suddenly took a major wave and Chiron canted to port, burying the rail. I watched Morningstar fall past the companionway opening. As the boat righted itself, she lay on the floor, not moving. I called to Allen to take the wheel, which he did unquestioning, hearing the urgency in my voice. I cleared the ladder and was at her side. In that instant I faced the loss of my friend and love. I held her close – no breath, no movement – I called her name. I would not let her go. Later she told me that she dreamed of going away, of being off somewhere, and then she heard me calling her name, calling her back.

Hours later I shared with Bob his 9 pm to midnight watch. While the others slept we motored on in the darkness of night… a small speck on a very large sea. Less than twenty-four hours before I had stood alone at the helm of Chiron, enthralled with the new experience of handling a big boat by myself. Now I had a new respect for the sea, and our fragile grip on life.

A line of squalls approached. Jagged bolts of lightening struck the water with a responding clap of thunder. Briefly but dramatically, the sea churned into a tumultuous tempest. Nothing makes you feel so small and infinitesimal than being in the throes of Mother Nature. It is awesome. When the squall moved on we could see the Milky Way in a shining swath across the nighttime sky, and the pinpoints of light in Orion’s Belt. A shower of falling stars. It was a magical night that made me all the more glad to be alive. I could well understand the words of Caroline C. Leighton describing her voyage across the Straits of Juan de Fuca in 1866. “It was all too wonderful for us to be afraid; it was like a new existence, as if we had cast off all connection with the old one, and were spirits only.” (West Coast Journeys 1865 – 1879… The Travelogue of a Remarkable Woman)

... PLM

First Voyage

With the sale of our boat and my rainy day digging through journals and book manuscripts, the memory of those early days on Chiron has come flooding back.

Recollections of our first sea voyage on Chiron (excerpt from WINTER PASSAGE):

Bob: I am certain that she didn’t know then, and I believe that she doesn’t know even now, how extraordinary those three days in November 1996 were. We had purchased Chiron, a 47-foot cutter rigged sailboat, the month before and had planned to leave it in Seattle until more favorable weather in the spring. But the long-range forecasts were for a very hard winter and the immediate predictions were for a brief weather window in the first week of November. So we made hasty arrangements for the few necessary repairs, arranged moorage in what was to be our homeport of Newport, Oregon, hired a transfer captain, and talked Allen, a sailing friend, into filling out the ad hoc crew. As the morning fog lifted, the weather predictions proved true and we left Puget Sound on a sunny day with light winds.

This was the beginning of Morningstar’s first blue water experience; it also marked the irreversible transformation from a person rooted to the land to a person who would become hopelessly enchanted by the sea. Only three months before she had taken her first sailing course in Portland. Now she sat quietly in the cockpit as Chiron sailed past a slow moving regatta with a kaleidoscope of spinnakers, trying to catch what little wind there was.

Morningstar: By midnight we had exited the Strait of Juan de Fuca and were motoring south, six miles off the coastline of Washington State. I was scheduled to take the next four-hour watch… my first ever, so I was teamed with the transit captain. It was a raw November night and I had put on my thermal and fleece underwear, flannel shirt, wool sweater, socks and hat, plus my bright yellow foul-weather gear and rubber boots. I felt like a little kid on her first day of school, and just as apprehensive.

The nighttime sky was clear and filled with stars. Bob and Allen slept below. I was content to sit in the cockpit and let Captain Ed man the helm, but it wasn’t long before he turned to me and said, “Here – it’s all yours. Just keep this heading and yell if you need help.” With that announcement, our hired delivery captain descended to the warmth of the cabin below, and closed the cockpit hatch behind him. With white-knuckled hands gripping the wheel, and legs spread to give me firm footing, I was left to guide Chiron through the offshore waters of the Pacific… alone.

The first half hour was smooth, rarely requiring adjustments to be made at the helm. I enjoyed the silver reflection of an autumn moon on the gentle ocean swells. But soon scudding clouds swept toward us and we were hit by a squall. The swells became four to five-foot whitecaps that pitched the boat from side to side. The compass needle swung wildly. Water broke across the bow. I was scared and exhilarated all at the same time. As the wind and cold rain stung my face and obscured my vision, Chiron powerfully sliced through the heavy sea. I looked up and saw a star off the starboard side of the bow. To port was a headland beacon and I kept Chiron on a heading between the two. Standing at the helm, dressed in yellow foul-weather gear from head to toe, the taste of saltwater on my lips, I received my baptismal. But the oddest thing was a feeling that I had done it all before.

… PLM

Full Circle

They say that the two happiest days in a boater’s life are the day you buy your boat and the day you sell it. Well, we have come full circle… Chiron, our 47-foot sailboat has been sold. I won’t say that it is one of our happiest days. There is a certain sense of loss. Chiron was more than just a boat to us; it represented an adventure, discovery, and a transforming experience. The day we loosened Chiron’s mooring lines and sailed away from the dock was the beginning of a new life.

This morning I returned to the pages of our as yet unpublished book, “Winter Passage.” It relates the story of the three years that Bob and I lived and sailed with Chiron. I reread the Introduction that I had written… the words and reflections that flowed elegantly in a literary sense. Then I read Bob’s Preface and thought, “His words capture the essence of our experience far better than all my carefully rendered lines of prose.” And so it does.

Preface
A LOVE STORY

We have tried to describe these months aboard Chiron in different ways at different times. But when you get right down to it, I think that this is a love story - about two people, a boat and a couple of cats. We set off looking for adventure and find each other. And just maybe learn a lot about ourselves as well. Sure we have some real adventures. But the important part is discovering about what it means to care and respect and trust. Not just nice words - the real stuff - put to the test - when not being true might mean being dead. So you get along together in close quarters, you come to know your own strengths and weaknesses about as well as your partners, you burn through all of the small stuff from the past and you fall in love again. And again. ... Bob

When Chiron sails out of Bellingham Bay, it will be in different hands. We will be watching from the shore. But we know what it is like to “raise our sails and dip and soar in the breeze.” I am not the same woman who sailed out of Yaquina Bay in 1997, following a dream. As Miriam Beard writes, “Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” Thank you Chiron for taking us there. Bon voyage.

Bob and Morningstar in 1996, at haulout for boat survey

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A Rainy Day

I don’t know about anyone else, but I am weary of the unending political and financial news that is going on right now. It shouts at us from every media outlet and neighborhood yard sign. And yes, I have added my own noise to that cacophony. It will be a welcomed relief to have this 2008 presidential election finished. We received our ballots in the mail yesterday. We filled them out, and Bob put them into the ballot drop box downtown this afternoon. Done.

I also don’t want to dwell on the little time bomb that sits inside my right lung. For now it is passive, allowing me to return to a somewhat normal life. So on this rainy Bellingham day, I have been digging through my journals, stacks of filled notebooks, and the poems, essays, and newsletters written these past years. It is an interesting experience to look back upon the pages of my own lifetime. I have the urge to put it into a memoir but where do I begin? Not at the beginning. It is the end that holds the key; that wraps everything up like a treasured gift; that takes all the scattered, disparate parts and weaves them into the story that is my life. I am searching for the theme, the thread that runs through it, and wondering if I have anything to say that others will find interesting or helpful.

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The Great Depression

There was one comment to my Great Depression posting on October 10, that inferred a “rose-colored glasses” look back at those times. I beg to differ. While I don’t remember all of the stories I heard while working on the oral history project, I remember the ones about men riding the rails up and down the west coast looking for work, and of drifters who knocked on back doors and offered to chop wood in exchange for a meal.

I heard my own mother’s story too. She lived on the Oregon coast during those years, and mostly ate what they could catch from the sea. The clothes she wore were from the Salvation Army. They joined other families in seasonal farm work at the hop or bean fields, while my grandfather did common labor on WPA projects. It became necessary for my mother to drop out of high school because her family couldn’t afford to pay the school bus fee for two teenagers. Her younger brother continued his education while she took on a job caring for an elderly man.

Yes those were hard times, they all tell of it, and yet my mother and others found much that was good. Like my own cancer, the tragedies that confront us can often clear our eyes to see anew what really gives our life meaning… it is not money or material things. It is friends and family and community working together for the common good; giving to those less fortunate, treating them with dignity, and when necessary, learning to accept the charity of others yourself… not always an easy thing to do. That was the discovery made by those touched by the Great Depression, and why there are so many good memories.

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Good News, Bad News

First the good news…This news story in the Bellingham Herald today:

Secretary of State Sam Reed is predicting 83 percent voter turnout in November.

“If he's right, it would be the best showing for the general election in more than six decades. The statewide general election turnout average since 1936 is 78.85 percent. The previous record in modern times was 84.5 percent in 1944.”

The bad news is what most Americans don't want to hear, but Bob Herbert of the New York Times so clearly shines the spotlight on in his Op-Ed piece “Amusing, but not funny.” This quote from the article gives a good summation.

"A country that refuses to properly educate its young people or to maintain its physical plant is one that has clearly lost its way. Add in the myriad problems associated with unnecessary warfare and a clueless central government that wastes taxpayer dollars by the trillions, and you’ve got a society in danger of becoming completely unhinged."

This is not a feel good news story, but it is one we must look at with wide-open eyes. Herbert is not optimistic. He ends with:

"Surely this is a good issue for discussion and analysis in the presidential campaign. Let the candidates have at it in their final debate. Let the pundits weigh in. And why not interview a few teachers, principals and thoughtful citizens?

Don’t hold your breath. Neil Postman warned us years ago about amusing ourselves to death.

The end is near."

Something to think about as we prepare for the upcoming election… both state and national. I still like to think my vote is a way to have my voice heard.

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THINK About Your Vote

This election year is one of those years when I avoid talking about politics with some of my family members and friends. There is such a vast expanse separating Obama-Biden supporters from McCain-Palin supporters, a distance too far to cross. Passions run high. Reasonable debate about issues seems impossible. Left, right, liberal, conservative, labels that don’t seem to mean much anymore, but that is the danger in labeling. The word ‘Patriotism’ is a good example of that… each side has its own interpretation of what it means to be patriotic. So I do not try to persuade the un-persuadable. I accept that sometimes there is no middle ground. And some relationships are too important to risk losing over differing points of view. It does not mean that I am silent, far from it. But in case there is any question, here are some of the things I feel strongly about:

• I am an advocate for the Fair Trade social movement
• I am an advocate for the United for Peace and Justice national organization
• I support abortion rights… a woman’s right to choose
• I support ‘death with dignity’
• I support gay and lesbian rights
• I believe that climate change is happening and that human activity has played a major role.
• I believe the evolutionary theory of life and that the earth is 4.54 billion years old
• I believe strongly in the separation of church and state

I am a college-educated woman from a working class family. I admit that I am not a fan of NASCAR, don’t watch TV, and don’t like biscuits and gravy, fast food or red meat. I do like good coffee, farmer’s markets, organic food, vegetarian meals, and Fair Trade goods. I care about the environment, and I love books, libraries, and asking questions. I read the New York Times. Does that description brand me as an elitist, a word that has become politically synonymous with an effete, nerdy, intellectual, snob? How can intelligence and thoughtfulness be considered bad?

When choosing a president and vice president, I want the best and the brightest, not someone I can sit down with and have a beer. I want someone who meets a higher standard of morality and ethics, whose leadership comes with intelligence, competence, and compassion. I want someone who practices diplomacy, showing a healthy respect for other nations and cultures and viewpoints. I want someone who will inspire the best in us, so that we can once again feel proud to be an American. I believe that Barack Obama and Joe Biden best exemplify those leadership qualities. On the Obama-Biden official website is this quote by Senator Obama, “I’m asking you to believe. Not just in my ability to bring about real change in Washington… I’m asking you to believe in yours.” I am voting to make a difference. I am voting for Barack Obama and Joe Biden, and I ask you to join me.

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Happy Thanksgiving Canada!

At this time last year we were in Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia. It was the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, and we stopped to talk with several ladies who were busy decorating their church with a harvest display of pumpkins, cornstalks and tiny crabapples. “If you are around tomorrow, please come… especially if you can sing. We’ll put you in the choir,” they said. We heard that there was a Farmer’s Market taking place, the last of the year, so we drove around until we found it. The weather was beautiful and everyone was in a holiday mood. We bought a homemade pumpkin pie, which we had devoured by nightfall, and talked with a man about Teddy Bears. You can read more by clicking here. We have also enjoyed past Canadian Thanksgivings in Kitwanga with our good friends Richard and Cheryl… sitting around the table eating turkey and all the trimmings, followed up with Cheryl’s carrot pie… with spices it tastes just like pumpkin pie. We will miss that fellowship. Happy Thanksgiving to all of our Canadian friends.

This morning as I looked out the window I could see rooftops covered with frost. The temperature stood at 31-degrees. I guess you would call it a crisp fall morning. I put on my warm Tibetan jacket to wear to the Bellingham Farmer’s Market. Corn, apples, and winter squash were the favorites today. Tomatoes too, but with this morning’s frost, that may not last much longer. I bought a lovely chili pepper wreath from Tobias Flores Hernandez (see photo above). I asked if he had made it and with a smile he nodded yes. Suddenly a small group of costumed people came down the sidewalk… a man on stilts towered above us, bent down to shake our hands. Another man wearing a white top hat and long white scarf around his neck handed us a card that advertised the Fifth Annual Dream Science Circus. On one street corner was the Obama campaign display with buttons and signs and bumper stickers. On another corner was a group of wild (but friendly) looking guys promoting Amy’s Place Drop In Center, a sanctuary for teens who are struggling with drug use or living on the streets. One of the pierced, leather clad guys gave me a handout and said, “Help get us off the streets.” A sign said, “The best nation is a donation.” I put a dollar in the donation jar. It’s a good cause. Wandering through the crowd was a grey-haired man wearing a sign on his back… “A Thought 4 Today,” and a quote from Mother Theresa. I love this town!

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"This sucker could go down!' Another Great Depression?

I have been hearing the word ‘Depression’ more and more in terms of the current financial crisis. Even our president is quoted as saying, “This sucker could go down!” I worry as much as anyone else about what is going to happen to my retirement funds, and I guess that is pretty funny when my oncologist doesn’t believe that I will be around for very long anyway. It’s going to be a race to see which one gives out first… my money or me. (A little dark humor there.)

But talk of another Great Depression reminds me of the oral history project I undertook for one of my college history classes. Inspired by the 1970 Studs Terkel book, ‘Hard Times: An Oral History of the Great Depression,’ I interviewed senior citizens about their experiences in the 1930s. Almost without exception, their remembrances were positive… it was a time of shared hardships - everyone helping everyone else, creating a real sense of community. There was no longer any distinction between those who had and those who had not. Everything was homemade and having fun didn’t have to cost much. There were church socials, taffy pulls, community picnics, evenings spent playing cards or games like Monopoly or listening to the radio (George Burns and Gracie Allen was popular), and there were occasional outings to a movie theater to see ‘The Wizard of Oz” and “Gone With the Wind.” As I listened to their stories, it was evident by the smiles and wistful tone in their voices that despite the hard economic times my interviewees had experienced, they nonetheless remembered it as a good time.

I was born in 1939, an inheritor of the Great Depression mindset. In my family money was still saved for a ‘rainy day,’ and everything was done on a cash basis. To pay the monthly bills Mother would send me down to the post office with cash for money orders. A family outing for us was driving to the A & W for root beer floats. By today’s standards I guess we would have been considered of ‘limited means,’ but we had a roof over our head, food on the table, and we were happy. If the worst happens and “this sucker goes down,” perhaps it will be an opportunity to reset the world in which we live to reflect real values… not only monetarily but community and cultural values as well.

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The Right to Vote - Part II

Bob and I became newly registered voters just last month, so a headline in the New York Times and Seattle P-I this morning caught my attention…

States' purge of voter rolls appears illegal
In some areas, for every voter added, officials removed two

By IAN URBINA - THE NEW YORK TIMES

Tens of thousands of eligible voters in at least six swing states have been removed from the rolls or have been blocked from registering in ways that appear to violate federal law, according to a review of state records and Social Security data by The New York Times.
…To read more click here.

This is something that every American citizen should be concerned about. How can we have a democracy if citizens are indiscriminately denied the right to vote?

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Looking Back

While my son Jeff was visiting several weeks ago, we sat on the sofa together and leafed through family albums, wedding albums and baby books. We started at the beginning with the September 1960 wedding of his Dad and me. The 8 X 10 photos are in black and white, and show two young people arranged by the photographer into all the typical wedding poses… hands clasped on a Bible, standing together at the altar, cutting the wedding cake, and a mad dash down the steps of the old Methodist Church amid a flurry of rice. I made my own wedding dress… a Vogue creation in satin and Chantilly lace. Flowers were from the garden of a family friend, arranged in baskets by another friend. Grandmother’s church ladies took care of the reception. My parents said I could choose to have them put on the wedding or receive a wedding gift of $100 instead. I chose the cash and paid for the wedding myself. Can you imagine? That was the better deal.

There were more things in the wedding memory book… cards, list of wedding presents, a napkin from the reception, and receipts from the honeymoon. One night at the Benson Hotel in Portland, Oregon cost us the grand total of $11.50… the Benson was Portland’s finest hotel at the time. The piece de resistance though was a cash register receipt from the first trip to the grocery store as newlyweds… a Safeway store in Corvallis, Oregon. The receipt was two-feet long, with 68 items ranging from 11 to 98 cents, and the total came to $23.93. “There’s nothing listed here that’s over a dollar,” Jeff said in amazement.

With the economy in crisis as it is now… and the future in unknown territory, it is nice to remember a simpler time when people lived within their means; when you visited your local bank to get a loan and knew that you would get an honest deal.

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The Right to Vote

I received a chain e-mail this morning that deserves mentioning. It is a reminder to women in particular, that the right to vote did not come easily. The United States was one of the last major countries in the world to grant women the right to vote (August 26, 1920). That story, and the women who made it happen, is excellently portrayed in the 2004 HBO movie “Iron Jawed Angels.” If you’ve never seen it, I would urge you to look for it at your local video store or library. Continuing from the e-mail…

WHY WOMEN SHOULD VOTE

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-grandmothers; they lived only 90 years ago.

Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.

The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote. And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.' They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.

They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.


Thus unfolded 'The Night of Terror" November 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote. For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

The author of the e-mail writes:

"Please, if you are so inclined, pass this on to all the women you know. We need to get out and vote and use this right that was fought so hard for by these very courageous women. Whether you vote democratic, republican or independent party - remember to vote. History is being made."

I would add that it is every citizen’s duty to vote, whether man or woman. Your future, and the future of our country, hangs in the balance.

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Is this a joke?

In 1960 I watched the first ever televised presidential debate. The debate was between Vice President Richard Nixon and Senator John F. Kennedy. I was 21-years old, newly married, and looking forward to taking part in my first national election. An estimated 80 million viewers watched that first debate, mostly on black-and-white TV screens. Few if any of us could have imagined the impact that television would have on American politics. As the PBS special “Debating our Destiny” points out, it had an immediate impact as well.

“It gave John Fitgerald Kennedy a golden opportunity to introduce himself to millions of Americans all at once. For Vice President Nixon, however, it probably was a major political miscalculation that cost him the election. Nixon had been sick and his advisers urged him not to debate Kennedy. He was leading in the polls and they feared sharing a debate stage with Kennedy could give the young senator equal standing in the eyes of voters.” Most people who watched the debate on TV believed Kennedy had won while the much smaller radio audience believed that Nixon had won. Public image would matter from this point on in the political arena.

I bring this up today because of the Sarah Palin phenomena. Bob and I did not watch the vice-presidential debate on television… rather we listened to it on the radio. Thus we missed the rolled eyes, winks, brilliant smile, and Alaska beauty queen good looks of the GOP vice-presidential candidate. Instead we listened to the questions and answers. We listened for substance. Eugene Robinson, Washington Post columnist, called the VP Debate: “The strangest I've ever seen… one of Biden presenting facts and Palin countering with… saying stuff.” Bob Herbert of the New York Times wrote, “This is such a serious moment in American history that it’s hard to believe that someone with Ms. Palin’s limited skills could possibly be playing a leadership role.” The New York Times editorial staff reached this conclusion, “In the end, the debate did not change the essential truth of Ms. Palin’s candidacy: Mr. McCain made a wildly irresponsible choice that shattered the image he created for himself as the honest, seasoned, experienced man of principle and judgment. It was either an act of incredible cynicism or appallingly bad judgment.”

Many of us are increasingly concerned for the outcome of this election that will determine the future of the United States of America. Will Americans treat it like an American Idol competition and vote for the cleverly packaged representation of Sarah Palin as a “mainstreeter”…just like the Joe Sixpacks and Hockey Moms who sit around a kitchen table wondering how they are going to pay the mortgage and for health insurance? (The Palin household assets are reported to be worth at least 1.2 million.) A frontier woman, mother of five who shoots moose and wolves, has been featured on the cover of Vogue magazine and just happens to govern the state of Alaska. That’s quite an image, but does it qualify her to deal with world affairs and possibly to become the president of the United States. Palin is certainly not in the same league as the young John F. Kennedy, and I wonder as Maureen Dowd (NYTimes) does, “Can likable still trump knowledgeable at such a vulnerable crossroads for the country?”

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A Mixed Day

It was a great morning for the Farmer’s Market – a brisk breeze blew and the sun broke through the clouds. There were fewer vendors at the market today, but more political tables set up along the sidewalk… Obama-Biden campaign buttons for sale, sign up registration to vote (last day), and people holding up signs that read ‘Vote No on I-409’ (enforcement of immigration laws). Dried hydrangeas, hop vine wreaths, gourds, pumpkins, and sunflower seed heads bespoke of the autumn season. Crossing the street we passed a heavily tattooed woman who sat behind a card table with a display of beaded jewelry. In her hand was a large white rat. “This is Alley Rat,” she told me as I snapped a photo.

By afternoon a weather front arrived with blowing winds and heavy rain. Bellingham Bay churned with white caps and crashed against the breakwater along Boulevard Park. We stopped for a cup of hot mocha at the Wood’s Coffeehouse… it was packed with people. Some hardy folks even sat outside until a gust of wind blew away the giant umbrella that had sheltered them.

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Gone Fishing