What? Another year come and gone?

Time has a way of slipping away. All the good intentions of the previous year have been carried over and are waiting for me to act on them. I acknowledge the fact that I am a procrastinator, but I'm going to try and squeeze as much into a day that I can. I try to sort out what's important. Laundry or writing, walk the dog or write a few paragraphs of the manuscript - Arethusa. My blog.spot has changed, left me a bit confused. I seem to have lost a couple months of blogs, they've disappeared into the void of the net. I wish I could keep up with it all. I need a new printer. That started a journey that has taken weeks. I bought one, only to find out that it didn't work on my computer, so I took it back and got a different one, only to find out that something was wrong with my internet connection, it appears all printers these days have a wireless component and I only had one of the two broadbands that I was supposed to have, whatever that means. So the printer wouldn't work, I had to take it back. Then began a series of trying to fix the problem. I finally hired a computer guy, Shawn and he figured out with the help of the internet provider that my modem needed to be replaced. Yeah, an upgrade, faster and more efficient. So then a friend loans me a printer that has worked for her in the past and I try to hook it up to my computer, LOL, hahaha, wrong, the old PC printer does not recognize my MAC. So here I am weeks later and no printer. But now that I have this upgrade in modem I can get any printer that will hook up to my mac. At least I hope so. I'm going printer hunting at Best Buy, those guys know what they're doing. Me I'm a dinasaur. So you can see where all my time goes, I fritter it away trying to figure out how to print a few pages from my latest book. Tuesday I will take my third trip up cape to find a printer. They say the third time is the charm, lets hope so. Happy New Year, let's hope is moves slow and steady. Fair winds.

Goodbye 2020

 Today I began putting the holiday ornaments away: the collection of santa clauses, the angels, and ceramic Christmas tree along with lights and wreaths. I've lived in this house, celebrating Christmas each year with family and friends for over forty years. I'm rewrapping the paraphernalia that I've collected, each a memory of past holidays, children growing up, grand children born, loved ones departed. Each year has been a treasure, different and still the same. I feel a renewing of faith around our world. We are learning to share, to forgive, to search for new and better ways to live.... Another holiday come and gone, and this one like no other. I'm ready to put 2020 away, box it up, and throw it into the wood burning stove. I want to hug my friends, go out to a restaurant, see a movie in a theater, and stop being afraid of breathing in public, or touching others. 

And now this. The word RESPECT comes to mind, meaning to have some degree of reverence.  How to respect others and how to respect ourselves needs to be taught. A lack of respect is a cry for help. We are not savages that storm the Capitol trying to dismantle our democracy. Thank heavens that we Americans are more than savages beating our chests, trying to destroy our political system . There are reasons to respect our history, our way of life, and our place in the world. We have been given abundance.  And that abundance comes from the way we as a nation, live.  Others have tried to establish their own rule of law, their own idea of what a government should look like, but history has shown that it doesn't work.  Democracy is made by the people, for each generation, past, present and yet to be. Democracy means freedom, not insurrection. It means we value our history, our country, and our way of life. When we hold elections, we respect each other's integrity and trust in our country. Democracy is what makes America great. It is not one man, one political view, and not an angry mob. Democracy means we trust one another because there is respect.  

When living organisms kill people, when angry mobs march the streets, when earthquakes and hurricanes savage the land, then fear rears its ugly head. This is where respect comes into play, we respect the organism that is killing people while we discover how to make it harmless. We respect hurricanes, and rebuild after earthquakes, making the world safer and more secure. And we respect others' views, opinions, and beliefs because we have learned to respect ourselves.  I believe that we are one people. We have one world and one life, why can't we respect that? I believe we need to feel reverence for what we have and not curse what we don't have. Close your eyes and think of the mighty oceans, think of this magnificent planet, smell a flower, watch the children play, or sing a lullaby. Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

Stay safe, warm and dry. Fair winds.

Arethusa

 

Fond memories, Dave with cup of tea, Bobby Giovino in yellow slicker, and me. 

A Nantucket holiday

Dave, Jackson (eight-years old at the time) and me, left Provincetown Harbor for a short family vacation. We were heading for Nantucket. We sailed across Cape Cod Bay, sailed wing-on-wing through the Cape Cod Canal and now, with all sail set, jib, main, and mizzen, Arethusa was pulling, leaping forward, crossing Buzzards Bay. This part of our journey would take a couple of hours and so Dave told us the story of the islands that we were passing. We snuggled in the cockpit, taking in the distant views of land.  "Elizabeth, Martha, and Nan were the names of the king's daughters. Elizabeth was kind, generous to the people, giving to the church and so the king gave her the Elizabeth Islands as a gift. Martha was gentle with her mother and helpful to the people of the castle, so the king gave her Martha's Vineyard. But Nan was selfish and spent most of her time looking in the mirror and worrying about herself,  so the king gave her nothing. And that made Nan very mad. So what do you think she did?" Dave asked Jackson. "She took the last island for herself, a daring move. See? Nantucket."  Jackson started laughing, saying he got it, "Nan took it. Nan took it." 

The weather was perfect, winds light. We left Buzzards Bay and entered the terror known as Woods Hole Cut. There are other ways to reach Nantucket Sound, but this one is the shortest. Dave asked Jackson to spot the buoys, point to them, and call out the numbers.  Dave brought the sails in tight. He had a pair of binoculars next to him on the seat and the wheel in his steady hands. He had been through these waters with the Wildflower and with Justin Avellar onboard the Hindu. But this was the first time under full sail. For him it was like winning the Derby. The buoys came up fast, I could see rocks jutting out from just below the surface, only feet away. Jackson called numbers and pointed. I checked the chart book that lay open on my lap and pointed to the number in the book.  My heart was racing. The narrow passage seemed to be littered with markers, signs, and buoys, never mind the rocks and the boats moving in all directions. Dave had a big grin on his face. He was showing us that all we had to do was be prepared and pay attention. He steered the boat as if he was driving the Indie 500. And he had it all under control. On the other hand, I felt wild and not the least bit in control, a mixture of happiness and fear, blood pumping as if I'd jogged a mile, and yet exhilarated.  Dave adjusted the wheel, looked around, bending his body to see under the sail, checking the area around us. I could feel the confidence that radiated from him. We passed the NOAA buildings, The Wood's Hole Institute, and the ferry docks. Across Nantucket Sound I could see the low lying island of Martha's Vineyard. After passing the marker on the other side of the Woods Hole Channel, we fell off the wind to port, and began a steady sail up the sound to Nantucket Island. I could just make out a shadow on the horizon, our destination.  I'm a Jersey girl, brought up on lakes and ponds, so coming into Nantucket Harbor for the first time is enchanting.  And coming into the harbor under full sail is absolutely thrilling, a once in a lifetime experience. We sailed between the two rock breakwaters that stood out from beneath the water. The entrance is narrow. I  realized right away how small the harbor was, not wide and open like Provincetown Harbor.  Looking as if he'd been doing this all his life, Dave brought the boat up into the wind, let go the jib sheet, ran forward, dropped the mainsail, picked up the gaff and then picked up a mooring line from a white ball - all in one smooth move. He set the mooring warp over the bow cleat. Arethusa slowed its forward motion, fetched up and lay still. Beneath his dark beard, Dave's smile was a joy to behold, like he'd just won the Bermuda Cup. "Holy Moly!" was all I could say. "Smooth move, dad," Jackson added. We were folding the sails onto the boom when a boat came alongside driven by a man in a uniform. "That was quite a sight," he said. "Picking up the mooring was a nice maneuver, but I'm sorry you can't stay there, it's a private mooring." Dave thanked him, said we would move, and started up the engine. The Harbormaster, whose name was also Dave, said, "I watched you come in. Not many sailors would be capable of that little trick. Have you been sailing long?" I laughed when my husband replied that we bought the boat two months ago in Maine. They started talking about fishing and the Harbormaster told us to follow him. "I'll put you on a mooring closer to the wharf." He gave us a key to the showers and told us it cost $10.00 per night. "Stay as long as you like." Nantucket is one beautiful island with a history that dates to 1659. We enjoyed two glorious days exploring the streets, shops, and harbor before setting sail and making the return journey. Once we were back home I admitted to Dave that I was getting to like this thing called sailing.

Two Boats

 The Wildflower and the Arethusa gave Dave plenty to do, constantly improving, rebuilding and adjusting. I was back to being a landlubber, mother, and working RN. Then came a day that is painful to remember, but a part of the story. I think it was because of an accident that I had, burned parts of my face, ear,  a trauma that I prefer to forget. Let's say it kept me out of the sun, off the water, and recovering quietly. We had owned the sailboat all of two months. While I healed, Dave began a new project. He reminded me of a bee, lots of energy, on track of a specific outcome, and could sense his plan coming together. Dave said to me one day, "I want to take a look at Arethusa's scuppers."  These are the holes that drain water out of the boat when it is moving. Then he said,"The cockpit feels a little spongy. There may be some rot. Might as well check under the floor while I'm at it." I knew what that meant, he was going to start ripping and tearing. Dave loved a good project, especially one that was connected to a boat. I loved to see his enthusiasm. His energy was infectious and I never said no.  I had witnessed what he could do. He built a twenty-three foot Swamscott dory, the Fanny Parnell  in his dad's garage in 1968. I sailed with him when it was launched, great sturdy, slow. I watched Dave and two of his friends, Marty, and Peter sail the Fanny Parnell in front of the breakwater in Provincetown Harbor. The dory Dave had built, was tipped on its starboard side with three big fishermen weighting down the port. That Fanny Parnell is now over fifty years old and sits in the parking lot of Moby Dick's Restaurant, in Wellfleet MA where kids climb in it and adults admire the full length planks. Dave built things to last. 

Arethusa was the project he took on in 1978. Rebuilding the cockpit was not unique and a good diversion while I healed.  He made a sort of workshop on the water: Dave bought a fourteen-foot float, attached it to a thousand pound mooring, and then tied the Arethusa to one side and the Wildflower to the other. "It's sort of my backyard on the water," Dave told me. The Wildflower provided generator, tools, and working equipment. Our home, seven miles to the harbor, is a short ride,a so he came home from work every evening, and sometimes during the day to pick up more tools or wood. "If I could clone myself," he said, "we could start our own boat-building business." I remembered the dory and what Dave said to me when he sold it. "The Fanny Parnell's not big enough." I knew then, that he had plans, dreams, and desires. 

Ripping out the cockpit on the Arethusa didn't take long, but the project kept getting bigger. "I tore out the floors in the cockpit today," he said. I listened as he explained. "I'll put in new ribs that are sistered to the old ones." He steamed wood in the garage and explained how the project was coming along. He brought home piles of debris that were sorted into keep, dump, and questionable piles. He bought boxes of screws, cans of glue, and all kings of epoxy and cloth. He purchased specialty lumber like white oak, cypress and mahogany from yards that it took all day to drive to. No fishing, no work for me and our funds were heading in the wrong direction. It worried me. It took patience and faith to keep going. That's when Dave would take me in his arms and say, "Let me know when the bank account gets really low and I'll go out and make a withdrawal from Cape Cod Bay and Trust." The work on the cockpit took more that two months. The anxiousness that I felt was soothed away with time. I went back to work. Dave was back fishing. "See I told you everything would work out, don't worry, but don't quit your day job just yet." We laughed. The Arethusa went up onto the the railway in Provincetown where her bottom was check and painted. A ladder was braced between the railway timbers and her hull. The ladder to get into Arethusa, seemed to be sixteen feet to climb, I was terrified of the heights but had to get back to that beautiful sailboat. I felt the attraction, looked forward to sailing again. I didn't know it at that time, but that rebuilt of the stern, scuppers, and cockpit would one day save our lives. 

Nantucket Dreaming

Dave and I bought the forty-five foot yawl Arethusa back in 1978. We had been sailing it for six weeks when one evening at the supper table Dave asked, "How about we go somewhere, take a few days off, and sail to Nantucket. What do you think?" Of coarse I said yes, but inside I was a nervous wreck. Leaving land is not easy, I had a job and a home. I thought about how much I didn't know about sailing, about all the things that can go wrong when you are alone on the water. Gradually I began thinking that a short trip somewhere would be fun. I was absorbing the sailing life, excited by it, thrilled to be able to do this. We talked about what we would need. "I'll put the Wildflower on the mooring. We've got the charts. I can bring Arethusa to the wharf, get fuel, water, and take onboard whatever you want to bring from home." I was in for a new experience. "We just need Jackson, food, and plenty of cash," Dave said.  I looked at my husband and said  to him, George Bernard Shaw wrote: Some people look at the world and say why? And some look at the world and say, why not?"  I think you are in the second category."  We opened the charts, listened to the Beatles, the Stones and rocking hillbilly music, while we checked off items from our never ending lists and transporting them to the boat. In a week's time, we were waving bye-bye to home and heading away from Provincetown Harbor. For Dave this was a weekend away from fishing, his vacation. For me it was risk taking, excitement, and adventure. During the past six weeks we had been sailing around Cape Cod Bay, taking friends for short sails, and racing alongside of the beautiful Hindu. I was comfortable on the boat, I knew how to tie lines, and I could handle winches. I was ready, or so I thought.  I had much to learn. I didn't even know the names to the parts of the sail, what's a clew? What's the difference between standing and running rigging, abaft or aback? From Alfa to Zenith, forepeak to stern, ground swell to gybe, it's a language all it's own. Dave had been a student of a mariner's way of life all his thirty-five years. His knowledge came from hanging around fishermen, boat builders, and sailors. Born in Provincetown in 1945 to a family of fishermen, being on the water came naturally to my husband. We left the dock at dawn, crossed the bay and entered the Cape Cod Canal. The captain planned our trip, so that we would enter the canal with the tide going west, an ebb tide that had a maximum velocity of 5.2 miles per hour.  The seven mile cut in the land, dug in 1909, is thirty-two feet deep and four hundred-eighty feet wide, built to accommodate vessels to eight hundred-twenty five feet. The water pushes through, changing directions every six hours. The entrance buoy was tipping on its side from the wake of the tide. "I've got an idea," Dave said once we entered the canal. "Judy, take the wheel. Jackson and I are going to set the jib boom, to keep the jib set out to starboard while I set the mainsail to the opposite side of the boat, that's port to you land lubbers." This sail plan can only be used when certain conditions are met, breeze on the stern, moving with the tide.  It was our first taste of what's known as Wing-On-Wing. What a treat it was.  I waved to people in cars passing on the bridges over our heads, to people walking, biking and fishing alongside the canal. I wondered if they imagined a mythical creature, a dragon navigating the passage, or the goddess the boat was named for, as I did.   

To Be Continued:

Hold on to the love

Our losses are magnified because we feel them together, but are alone and we can't be together to hold each other during this grieving time.  Our community is mourning the death of Scott Stewart. I met him through my friend, Dianne whose daughter married him. His family adored him. He was fifty-one years old, witty, energetic, helpful, a loving husband and father, and the kind of man that people love being around. He grew up on the lower cape. He worked hard, rebuilt houses including his own, loved the beach, and he had many friends.

His wife Tracy will feel the pain the most, you could see the love they shared when they were together. A friend sent this to me after David died. I don't know who wrote it:
"I believe the hardest part of healing after you've lost someone you love, is to recover the "you" that went away with them."

It takes a long time; patience is required. I cry on a daily basis, but I also laugh, enjoy a good meal, cuddle with my pooch, and love. I love my sons, their families, my friends, my dog, and a walk on the beach. I was told that love never dies and I believe it.

They say we are in this together. We are. I feel your lose, Tracy. You will move forward  taking the love with you. It does take time, the ache lessens but never goes away. The days will bring sunshine and eventually joy, because love never dies.

Oh WOW:
Three wild turkeys just walked past my window, the dog started baking like mad, and I laughed till I cried. I told DD to stop barking, let them be, you never know - if things get really bad they may be our Thanksgiving dinner.

I'm sending you some love today. Fair winds.