On A Pirate Ship

I fell in love when I first laid eyes on her.  

The Bounty was a beautiful ship, a wooden two-mast schooner, and she was anchored just off the coast of Curacao.  We had made reservations for an afternoon aboard for sailing and snorkeling in the reefs surrounding the island.  As we boarded, I couldn't help but turn my gaze upward.  My eyes got lost in the tangle of thick ropes and in the folds of tanned, canvas sails.  The wooden banisters were worn smooth and I couldn't help but run my hands over those edges again and again.  I barely knew what to look at next: the blue sky, the bluer sea, the green and brown railings, the multitude of metal reels and pulleys, the rugged captain, the boyishly handsome deck hands...

We hadn't even set off on our voyage and I was already lamenting our return.

In my mind, I expected Captain Jack Sparrow to emerge from the lower level, shouting orders and swigging on a bottle of rum.  Or maybe Davey Jones with those slippery tentacles and that lobster claw would appear at the large wheel and terrify us with that maniacal laugh.  But this is just how my mind works... an overactive imagination combined with an affectionate soft spot for the "Pirates of the Caribbean" series.

We set sail for the Spanish Waters out of Jan Thiel.  This was only the second time I'd been on a ship with sails and I was enamored with the crispness of them, the way they puffed and pulled as the wind pushed up against them.  Everything around me felt more intense.  The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and I could feel both simultaneously on my skin.  The strangest sensation grew within me: I was calm... I was happy.  

The blue water crashed against the wooden hull.  I listened.  It sounded like Mother Ocean was playfully shushing us.  My sister and I talked and laughed, exchanging grins and happy glances. We looked over at our mother and she was smiling back at us.  I knew I was living in a moment that I would remember forever.  We were sailing and I swear I felt as free as the wide open sky above me.  

We passed by the rock quarry. The abandoned quarantine house on the cliff.  An old fort. The captain recounted the various histories.  I was spellbound.

Lunch was amazing: chicken satay with a divine peanut sauce, fresh fruit, sweet rolls, and as much rum and beer as we could put away.  Not too long after our bellies groaned from the feast, the captain announced we were headed for the sunken tugboat for snorkeling.  I remember passing on that last round of Amstel Brights for fear I'd drown from too much beer and chicken and sheer delight.

When the captain dropped anchor, I grabbed my snorkeling gear and headed towards the side of the boat.  The choice was to use a little rope ladder or jump.  Well, that wasn't much of a choice, really.  I leapt.  Down, down, down... in!  As I popped my head back above water, I looked up at the newest love of my life, The Bounty, with her tall wooden masts, brown against a blue sky, those crisp sails, and her green and gray-white sides gleaming brightly in the island sunshine.  Stunning and beautiful.  

She stole my heart.  And, given the opportunity, I would have gladly left my entire life behind to become a pirate. 

I imagined life aboard a ship, overly romanticized, of course.  A life at sea.  Vast open spaces.  Watching the sun emerge from the ocean in the morning only to sink below again at the end of the day. Starry nights.  A brilliant full moon, reflections breaking over the waves.  Storms in which thunder rattles the wooden deck while lightning cracks and sizzles overhead.  Hard work.  Calluses.  Salt.  Sunburn.  Sea legs.  And, what the Bounty represented most, freedom.

Once we were all in the water, we swam towards the sunken tugboat.  As I peered through my mask, my heart literally stopped as I heard the "Jaws" theme play in my head.  The vast blue sea was endless in front of me.  The long line of the anchor and the wide hull of the Bounty looked small against the big backdrop of the ocean... and I just knew it was a matter of time before something wild emerged from the depths.  (Again, too many movies.)

I turned my attention towards the sunken tugboat.  Thousands and thousands of tropical fish of every possible shape, size, and color emerged into my field of vision.  Slowly and carefully, we floated among them.  I dove down and admired the rainbow of an ecosystem unfolding in front of me - coral formations, sea anemones, urchins, and fish set against a cyan sea.  Instead of being a pirate, I temporarily considered growing gills and a tail like a mermaid.  

Inevitably, we had to return to the ship.  This time, I had to use the rope ladder to return to the deck.  We toweled off and grabbed a round of cold beers.  The wind pushed into the sails and the would-be pirate ship began another graceful journey.  I leaned back against the smooth wooden railing, taking in that warm, Caribbean sun.  The journey was breathtaking and I cannot remember many other moments in my life that felt so absolutely perfect. 

Like a fish in the sea or a bird in the sky, I was sailing and I was free.

Our Notie Girl

A year ago today, I lost a lady that I adored as much as my natural grandmothers. Notie Bunch lived to the tender age of 97 and she was one of the most amazing women I've ever met.  A preacher's wife with a penchant for wine and dirty jokes: she was exactly who I want to be if and when I find my silver days.  She loved with a heart as wide as the open spaces between her heaven and this world. The very last time I saw her, she gave me an incredible gift, one of my young life's greatest lessons.

Notie was born in South Carolina and lived in Virginia and on the Eastern Shore of Maryland so naturally, she retained that sweet, southern accent to prove her roots.  Her voice was unmistakable.  When she called your name, you couldn't help but go running.  I loved to listen to her tell stories about growing up.  She was one of the only people I ever knew who actually used a Ford Model T car as a primary means of transportation and I was enamored with the story she used to tell about going out with her father to crank it up.  Literally.  Crank the car engine.  (As a child of the technology generation, this intrigues and baffles my electronically-inclined brain.)

She grew up, married a handsome young preacher named Harry Bunch, and had four children.  Photos of Harry and Notie from the 40s and 50s reveal a young couple that could have played in any number of Hollywood movies.  Harry's square jaw, dark hair, and deep eyes to Notie's coy smile, fashionable dresses, and slender figure.  When I said to her that I thought he was a good looking fellow, she grinned and quickly replied, "You bet he was!"  More than life itself, she adored that preacher man.

Together, they had two boys and two girls.  Their youngest daughter, Ginger, is my mother's best friend.  I have known Ginger for years and years, but it feels like she and her family have been in my life since the very beginning.  Maybe that's just how old souls work.  We felt like family (still do) and now I realize that's because we chose to be family.  

I have always known that we can learn a great deal from the older folks around us if we just stop and listen to them.  Notie was no different.  Once, out of sheer curiosity, I asked her who was the first President that she could remember.  Her answer: "Well," in that adorable drawl, "I think it was Coolidge!"  (Side note: Calvin Coolidge was our 30th President who served from 1923-1929.)  But her age was always just a number because I have never met a young person with half the zest for life that she held.  Even at 94, my Notie girl, as I affectionately called her, did shots of tequila with me on my 28th birthday.  The idea was jokingly suggested, but Notie piped up and said that for me, she'd do anything.  Stunned, I asked her if she really wanted to do that - I mean, tequila? At her age?  But she never batted an eye.  We poured the salt, shot the Cuervo, and bit the limes. I never took my eyes off of her. And, when we were done, she tossed her head back and laughed as everyone at my birthday party was caught up in an absolute state of shock, disbelief, awe, and hysterics.  She was like a little kid at Christmas.  She was bigger than life.

And there a thousand more stories just like it.  That was our Notie.  We adored her but not as much as she adored us.

She lived for years with Ginger and her husband, Gary.  But as Notie started to worsen and decline physically over the year, she was moved to a nursing home.  It was a decision that everyone dreaded but ultimately knew was coming.

Make no mistake: Notie continued to be the life of the party even there.  She always took the seat at the head of the table in the dining room so she could keep tabs on all her friends.  Her friends included a woman who chewed on a cell phone, another lady who constantly cradled a baby doll, a woman with part-time dementia, and a lady who was never without a tiara. Notie was the most lucid and so naturally she was their leader.  And after dinner, she would sneak a sip or two of wine that Ginger brought for her... with a doctor's prescription, of course.  She loved visitors and took great delight in regaling us with stories, which were usually a mash up of something old, something new, something a little smutty, and always something funny.

But each visit, our Notie got a little more frail, a little weaker.  Then, one afternoon in January of last year, I got a call from my mother.  Notie was in the hospital.  This was mostly likely her time and, if I wanted, I could come say good-bye.  I swallowed hard against the lump that was forming in the back of my throat.  I said I was on my way.

In the hospital bed, surrounded by blankets and beeping machines, my Notie girl looked so small.  I hugged and kissed Ginger, Gary, and my mother.  Go see her, they said.  They were smiling and crying.  I walked over to the bed and bent down to her so we could be as close as possible.  She was wide awake and as soon as we came eye to eye, the biggest smile broadened across her face. I reached down and found her hand.  And she said, in the strongest of whispers, "I love, love, love, love you."

"I love you too, Notie."

"I'm going home."

I pushed my forehead to hers so she couldn't see me cry, "I know."

And from there, we exchanged our whispered good-bye.  I stroked her forehead and ran my fingers through her snow white hair.  She never stopped smiling and I was so completely awe struck by her calm nature.  She wasn't afraid.  No, she was happy.  When I looked down at her again, all I could see was that my Notie was filled with serenity and peace.  How could I want anything else for her?

So, I gently squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead.  "Good-bye, Notie girl." And with that, I let go.  She passed a few days later.

But in my very last moment with her, Notie taught me something valuable - a lesson I will cherish.  I always knew I had a lot to learn from her, and at the end, I had to listen extra carefully, but I got it.  She was giving us the gift of letting go.  Notie understood where we were and she gave us the only thing she had left - peace.  I will never forget what it was like to see her that way: smiling, serene, and happy while living through the minutes of her last hours.  She wanted us to have the very best parts of her and we do... alive and well in our hearts and in our minds.

There is a great deal that the living can learn from the dying.  This is what I know now.  For Notie, it wasn't about the end or the sadness or the grief.  No, none of those parts.  It wasn't about the dying.  

It was about the living.

Lessons From Sky Buzzin'

Yesterday afternoon, I parked at the end of Runway 1-4 and opened the sunroof.  Even though it's January, the temperature was nearly 55 degrees.  My old yellow dog was curled up in the passenger seat.  I fiddled with the radio until I found something good.  I laid back in my seat and gazed up.  A small plane buzzed by and I watched it descend and land with a slight skip. I turned my eyes towards the circling skies just above and smiled. 

* * * 

My father was endlessly fascinated with aviation and always itched for the open skies.  At our house, on a clear night, you could see the alternating green and white directional light from the local airport flashing over the treetops in our backyard.  He talked about learning to fly often and my mother encouraged him to go take lessons.  When I was six, he finally got his private pilot's license - one of his proudest moments.

Within a few months, once he built up his confidence and experience, he started taking me up.  He said he needed a co-pilot.  He flew a modified Cessna 172: it was white with gray and blue stripes and lettering.  The call numbers on the tail contained "zero nine three echo" - I remember this because of the way we had to call into the tower when we were in motion.  The inside was snug and made of a sand-colored canvas and cloth.  I was small so I couldn't see over the instrument panel in front of me, leaving me to strain to see out of my small side window.  I remember twisting against the seatbelts every time in an effort to widen my view.

Every single time, my father performed an impeccably responsible and thorough pre-flight check and balance. My father, under normal circumstances was a bit of a silly, gregarious man, but as a pilot, he was intensely focused and serious. He taught me how to check the fuel, which quickly became my favorite thing to do.  I was not incredibly mechanically inclined, but crawling up under that wing and using the sample tool made me feel competent and important.  He told me to make sure the fuel was clear and without any odd coloring or particles and so I would hold the vial up to the sun, checking it from every angle like a chemist working on an important discovery.  I walked around the body of the plane, sliding my hands along the metal sides and bumpy rivets.  If I saw any ding or scratch, I was sure to call out to him so he could give it a good double-check. 

Flying is part math and part poetry.  In the air, he explained to me what each single instrument did: altitude, air speed, attitude, directional indicator, and on and on.  I was always annoyed by the calculations but quickly realized that, despite my overall disdain for math, it was the numbers and equations and rules that were keeping us aloft and thereby keeping us alive.  I learned to appreciate math, albeit temporarily.  The poetry comes when you look out the window and see the world below look as differently as it ever has before.  I especially loved the flights over the ocean.  There was something magical about watching the brown and green earth below me dissolve into a blue hue... and looking out to see the blue sky and the blue ocean terminating in a thin, perfect line.  As we flew along the coast, I could make out the familiar landmarks: the inlet, Trimper's Amusement park, the boardwalk, the fishing pier, and the assortment of big hotels.  His fascination became my own: it's a wondrous and thrilling perspective.  And it makes you see everything with reborn eyes.

Once, he took my sister and I on a night flight over the ocean.  When the lights of the beach town faded behind us, the black abyss stretched out like the universe.  As he tipped the wings into the darkness, my belly dropped and it simply delighted me. My sister had trouble with the air pressure on her ears and spent the entire trip laying in my lap in the backseat of the plane.  But I was enamored with it.  I stared out and up... I always wanted to be an astronaut. I mean, how daring and adventurous it would be to leave the planet and be weightless among the stars! What could that feel like?  Would your belly ever stop flip-flopping?  Wouldn't your brain be permanently drenched in adrenaline?  It seemed like a glorious, wild ride!  But once I learned that my nemesis and its sidekick - math and science - were required in copious amounts, I left that preoccupation behind. But, I had these moments... sky buzzin' (as he called it) with my father and that was close enough for me.

And so, in those early years of my life, I learned to turn my eyes up.  I watched planes.  Wide open skies.  Circling above.  I even made up a game of choosing destinations for the planes I saw in the sky.  Try it: the next time you find yourself outside... on the beach, in a park, in your front yard, watching a meteor shower... just kick back, look up, and wait. When you see a plane cross overhead, imagine where it's going and always go with your first instinct. (Oddly, a lot of my planes are headed for Miami, Florida or Bangor, Maine.)

If we couldn’t go up, then he would take me to the airport anyway. Inside the small building at Bayland Aviation, there was an old Coke vending machine in the back where only the pilots could go and he’d buy us a couple of Cherry Cokes or Mello Yellows and we ride out to the end of Runway 5 and sit.  There was a particular spot, right off Fooks Road, where the fields and forests gave way to an expanse of asphalt.  He’d kill the engine and we’d listen for that familiar mechanical hum overhead.  In those moments, he’d ramble on about the workings of a Dash-8 or the differences between this jet and that one or about how a plane from Easton crashed at this airport  on the night before he did his first solo. I gazed out the windows and let my imagination run: who were the passengers?  Where had they been?  More importantly, where were they going?  I made up little stories about business men coming in to sell alarm systems or medical equipment or an old lady headed to North Carolina to visit her sister one last time.  The pilot  who was going to propose to his lovely girlfriend as soon as he got back from this trip.  The blonde flight attendant who dreamed of being an actress on a soap opera.  My mind ran on and on.  So, I never minded the quiet or the chatter, the mechanical hum or the buzz of the insects in the field grasses around us.  And in those moments, I appreciated the ability to sit still. Listen. Daydream. 

No matter how old I get, I always find comfort at the airport or at the end of a runway. I remember those old days with my father. I remember learning to embrace new horizons and perspectives, to appreciate the things I understood easily and the things I could not, to listen and let my mind wander a bit.  I remember that I learned to not be afraid.  

And those are lessons I should remember a little more often...

Free

I stole this idea from my friend, Ashley, a reporter for the AP and fellow word nerd.  Each year, she chooses a word to represent what she wants and needs, what she hopes for in the coming months. It's part mantra, part prayer, and part touchstone. On Christmas Eve, over cookies and ginger tea, she invited me to think it over.  A new year in a single word.

The whole idea intrigued me: I've never been good at following any of the countless and pointless resolutions I've made.  They are a series of broken or forgotten promises made to myself or the universe or to no one in particular.  By the dawn of spring, I'd barely even remember them.  So, her idea stuck with me: instead of a resolution, maybe I could just pick a defining word and see how it goes. After careful thought, I have chosen my word.

Free.

2011 was a monster and it nearly ate me alive. I escaped, somehow, but my wounds have barely healed.  My heart was broken; my skin was burned.  My mind was stretched and torn in a manner that I haven't felt in recent history.  (But, then again, show me a writer that wasn't a bit tattered around the edges.  Sometimes, I think writers are destined for these sorts of bouts of agony... lest we forget how to bleed on the page.)  But, all of the hurt is a thick chain wound around me.  And I know that I am the only one who can undo the binding.  I have to choose to set myself free in the months ahead.  

Free.

Where I once longed for the blue horizon, I am now walking towards it and I can feel my body breaking into a run.  I cannot allow my fears and my worries to keep me rooted in quicksand any longer.  Life is much too short for that.  I have to believe anything is possible now - I have to believe I can find a quiet peace within myself.  Maybe, as long as I can embrace this second chance, just maybe I will finally become the best version of myself.

Free.

These days and months ahead, my eyes will be clearer.  My heart will mend.  I will walk in the sun.  Alone or in a crowd, I will not get lost anymore.  Stronger, faster, happier, and centered: this year, I will be free to be me. 

Found Under A Bottle Cap

Here's a true story. 

The summer before my senior year of college, I had lunch with Leah, an old friend from high school.  I was anxious about the months ahead, especially post-graduation life.   On this particular day in late August, we sat in the local bagel shop and we talked about the finality and the unknowns.  I was staring down the barrel of perhaps the most important school year of my life and I was half-scared I wouldn't make it.  To Leah, I mused: what will I do once it’s over?  What are the choices?  What am I supposed to do?  What do I want to do?  

And then I confessed: "I am feeling suffocated."

Leah nodded her head in agreement and twisted the cap off of her drink.  “Steph,” she said.  “Look.”  She passed the drink cap to me and in small, block letters, stained by grape juice, I read the inscription.

"Happiness is a decision."  

Leah always seemed happy.  You could look at her and see what some might consider a strange girl, but she was completely comfortable in her own skin.  A quality I envied and admired.  She proudly wore 7-11 employee shirts even though she worked at the Circuit City in town; her pants came from a thrift store and the shoes on her feet were the same ones worn by the skater boys in our class.  There was a tube of Chapstick hanging around her neck on a rope and she kindly reminded everyone that you never know when you're gonna need soft lips.  When all the cool kids were getting the latest models, Leah lusted after a late 1970s Volkswagen Beetle which she paid to have painted orange with sparkles in it.  (For Halloween, she made a green cardboard thing and attached it to the top of the car and proclaimed that she was driving a pumpkin.)  We'd ride around in her Beetle and belt out the lyrics to No Doubt songs, especially "Spiderwebs."  Leah was a misfit of a harmless, happy sort.  And in some ways, I was too.  Or at least, I wanted to be... and still do.

Anyway, I kept that bottle cap for years.  I always wanted to be reminded of a few things:

* When I am staring down the barrel of something scary and unknown, I need to remember that choices have to be made.  It's better to make the wrong decision than to languish in indecision... although it is far preferable to make the right decisions.  But life is hard and full of pitfalls and mistakes simply get made.  We get scarred up and we fall down at some point or another.  We just have to do the best we can and when we know better, we must do better.  (I think Maya Angelou once said something to that effect and I'm sure she said it much more eloquently.)

*Happiness is a decision.  In the recent months, as I have been alone, I have become more keenly aware that there is one undeniable truth.  At the end of the day, I must be able to lay my head down and  feel centered.  I need to find a way to make peace with myself and all the little splinters that exist within me.  I have to find some harmony between my head, my heart, and my gut.  For most of my life, much of my happiness has been predicated on other people being ok or an external set of conditions being met and so my happiness wasn't always truly authentic to me.  Now, I am faced with an overwhelming question: what will make me happy?  Deep down on a soul level?  I think I am beginning to figure it out... and it is both terrifying and tantalizing.

*Misfits are the very best kind of folks.  I need to remember Leah's example.  It is ok to be comfortable in your own skin... to say boldly to the world, "This is who I am, like it or not."  It is ok to be different and strange and a misfit.  At the end of the day, happiness is a state of being based on the decisions we make.  And I am ready to choose now.

Finally.

Simplicity

Do you remember the night we sat out on the jetty?  The sun sank low over the harbor and cast a orange-pink light over the ocean as it rushed into the inlet.  We sat barefoot on the rocks as the currents swirled just a few feet below us.  We didn't talk much.  We didn't have to, really.

Do you remember that?  I do. And it leads me to this... 

When everything falls down, when all seems at a loss, there is always the constancy of life: the sun always sets. The ocean continues to crash. The moon runs through its phases.  Seasons come and go.  We breathe in and we breathe out.  One foot in front of the other.  And, at the end of the day, we nestle down and drift off to a warm, sound sleep so that we can greet the dawn again with fresher eyes.

We must remember the simplest of things.

Unwritten In November

The summer lingers in my mind even as the cold of the impending winter bites into my bones.

- - -

The boardwalk was surprisingly busy for a Saturday in November. An older, heavy set man strolled passed me with his face shoved into a bucket of Thrasher's french fries. (I smiled because, if you know anything about Thrasher's, then you understand exactly how reasonable that is.) Seagulls squawked and picked at the remains of fries and funnel cakes left on the ground. The arcades were open: the music of bells and whistles streamed out into the chilly afternoon air. A little boy ran up behind his sister and pulled the trigger on a neon orange cap gun. Startled, she smacked him on the shoulder and then returned her attention to the guy behind the Atlantic Stand counter.

I zipped up my jacket and blinked as the cold wind swept through the crowd. I kept walking. Life goes on. It must.

Just a few months ago, the summer blistered our bodies. The days reached over 100 degrees; there was little relief from the heat and the haze and the humidity. We passed those days on the beach... under umbrellas, icy bottles of cider in our hands, our blanket just a short sprint from the cool refuge of the ocean. The clouds never lingered too long. We laughed and talked and day dreamed. And, although the sun was burning everything in sight, life seemed easy.

We stared out, straight ahead... The horizon was endless. A perfect blue line between this world and heaven: it looks like a promise stretched out in front of you. Your eyes get lost in the expanse of it and your mind wanders towards the unseen edges. Everything and anything is possible. The future is unwritten. All you have to do is believe.

Just believe.

I spent those days with my head lost in the spaces between the sand and the breakers, that little place where the sea foam bubbles up and quickly fades away. I did not care how much the sun burned my skin: the only things that mattered were the sounds of laughter, the smile of a friend, the wishes made on falling stars, the pulse of the sea, running for miles in the last minutes of daylight, watching the sunrise, stealing a quiet moment to enjoy a fiery orange moon, and pushing towards that horizon full of unknowns.

Because I did believe. I still do.

But now, walking the boardwalk, all zipped up in a thick jacket with my hands buried in my pockets to keep them warm, I couldn't help but feel the pangs of sadness in my heart. I miss the warmth of the summer. I miss the feeling of the sun on my skin and the sheer exhaustion of an afternoon in the Atlantic. I miss the days lasting longer into the twilight and the moments when night finally came and the stars emerged from a black velvet sky. I miss lying on my back and begging for one to fall down.

My eyes traveled ahead. Many of the stores had closed up for the winter and that further served to reinforce that my summer was gone. I looked out towards the ocean, over the sand, towards that beautiful horizon... The cold air brought tears to my eyes. (Or, at least, that's what I told myself.)

As I turned around to head back, I tried to shake the lonely feeling that had rooted down inside of me. This wasn't going to be forever, I reminded myself. It's just a temporary hibernation. The seasons come and go as is their very nature. The cycles must complete: summer to autumn to winter to spring to summer again. This is how life works and we cannot stay in one frame forever. We shouldn't.

I glanced again, this time over my shoulder, at the sand stretching out towards the sea and the sea pushing against the sky. When the winter comes, I will seek refuge in my warm memories of a glorious summer. And, when the spring comes and all the brown turns to green again, I will emerge too... a stronger version of me. Growing and rebuilding. The sadness will be flushed out. After the days and months ahead, my eyes will be clearer and my heart will be healed.

And when the times comes, I will shed my winter skin. I will be ready for the strength of my summer sun.