Home at last

The morning sun sparkled off the water as we boarded Dolce Vento on Friday, October 16, docked in Little Round Bay on the Severn River, about 25 miles north of her soon to be new home in Herring Bay.  However, our excitement dissipated quickly like air from a popped balloon as we struggled with unforeseen obstacles -- blue exhaust smoke bellowing from the idling engine, an autopilot and GPS no longer working as they did during the sea trials, and two inches of water sloshing in the engine's drain pan.  

We would not be defeated.  Three hours later after multiple phone calls with our broker, we had a dry engine pan (water from the leaking aft scuppers during the sea trials was scooped out and sopped dry), reassurances that GPS and autopilot problems would be fixed by the previous owner when new parts came in (a mechanic's butt had dislocated several electronic mechanisms while replacing the scuppers), and the engine smoke would dissipate (it hadn't been run much all summer).  We left dock at 12:30 carefully monitoring the depth sounder to avoid shallow water; however, we did go aground briefly when John, my navigator and first mate, directed me around a buoy as he mistakenly held his iPhone digital chart upside down. I will buy this navigator new paper charts that clearly show which way is up.

Despite all the issues, we had one hell of a sail.  After leaving the Severn River and turning south just east of Annapolis Harbor, we raised the sails, set a beam reach (the most perfect point of sail) and flew to Herring Bay in 12-15 knots of wind, gusting to 18.  

Dolce Vento sliced through the water at 7.5-8.5 knots with barely a 5 degree heal.  We were amazed because our previous 39' Hunter only occasionally did 6.5-7 knots, healing to an uncomfortable 20 degrees. The longer water line, the larger sails, the heavier hull and the Tartan design delivered beyond our expectations.  John was thrilled with all the room on deck to work with the sails, I loved the helm with its four foot diameter wheel.  Like Lilly Tomlin's Edith Ann, I was the little girl in a big sail boat where I could just see over the top of the wheel when I stood directly behind it.  Our second mate, Justine, loved the smooth sail so much that she put on an extra sweater and napped in the cockpit as the sun darted among fluffy cumulus clouds that speckled the late afternoon sky.  By five, with the sun still above the horizon, we were safely docked and began lassoing and adjusting dock lines on pilings to hold Dolce Vento safe in all kinds of wind.

We lived aboard this past week, probing Dolce Vento's innards, learning how her many systems work (ah, the secrets of marine refrigeration, plumbing, HVAC and audio/video), cleaning and organizing manuals and equipment.  We did have one minor situation on Tuesday evening after dinner.  With shoes off and socks still on my feet, I attempted to step up the steeply slanted port side soul (floor) of the aft cabin.  As I stretched my left arm to reach an shelf, my feet flew out from under me, smashing my body against my outstretched arm on the floor, resulting in my first, and I hope, my only dislocated shoulder and ambulance ride to the emergency room.  Six hours later, with my arm back in its socket and in a sling, and my brain, a bit woozy from a marvelous morphine and Valium cocktail, enabling me to endure the pulling and pushing of my left arm, John and I fell into bed, sleeping to noon. By 1 PM, it was back to work with a promise, like Edith Ann, to  "wear my shoes. Cross my heart and hope to die."  

Really, I promise.

Critique or Criticism?

So we're sitting at the bar in a favorite neighborhood restaurant having lunch with a bit of red wine, a luxury afforded us retirees, when I casually mention to my husband, "You're wearing that olive colored shirt again.  It makes you look sad.  Why not wear something more perky?" 

You'd think the world had exploded.  He bowed his head and with a deep sign emanating from his chest mumbled, "You are so critical."  Even after trying to explain that I was purely stating a visual fact, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, and whispering that I was concerned, it was clear I was misunderstood. "Don't you know the difference between critique and criticism? Critique is fine, but not criticism."   He was right; I didn't understand; I admitted it and asked for examples.  Turning to face me, he obfuscated and snickered, "I can tell the difference."  Not wanting to create what could have become a therapeutic discussion about his attitude, I apologized for my words; however, even if he was an English major, I don't think he knows what he is talking about.

Is the difference between critique and criticism one of nuanced interpretation and impact rather than in pure definition? Is it more about the messenger over the content; or is it the receiver's previous experiences that creates the impact?  Determined to find out, I came home to investigate.

Criticism, according to the latest addition of the Merriam-Webster dictionary and Wikipedia explain that criticism is "the act of expressing disapproval, finding fault or of noting the problems or faults of a person or thing."  This encompasses evaluating, analyzing or making a remark or observational comment, of making careful judgments about the good and bad qualities of something. Critique, on the other hand, is criticism of a particular item. 

Smiling at the computer, congratulating myself on proving my husband was bluffing, he really didn't know the difference between the terms because there is no difference, I clearly win. However, let's be real, because I lose for finding fault.  My language was not objective.  I went beyond the observable ('you are wearing your olive shirt'); I saw his shirt choice as a problem. My apology earlier at lunch was the appropriate act of contrition.  However, what's a woman to do when her loved one repeatedly wears colors that make him look sad when she knows he isn't? 

Answer: Lay out the pink shirt on the bed while he's in the shower and hope for the best.

Just practicing

Saturday afternoon, sun shining, husband with a cold stuffing up the right side of his head, is napping on the living room couch and me, dog sitting a little guy named Fargo while I begin to practice writing on my laptop.  This past week I finished lecture 13 of 26 of the online Great Courses course, Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer's Craft.  To get it, that is to develop the skill, I must practice, so readers, you must endure my attempts at composition.  What is problematic today is that my brain is constipated. I have no idea, no titillating adventure or situation to write about.  All I have is daily life.

Lately, my life is just daily life, filled with routine and required tasks that must be done -- the exercising, the grocery shopping, the bill paying, the clothes cleaning, the cooking -- punctuated with an occasional movie, dinner out or walk around town.  When strung together, it's pretty clear that daily life is monochromatic, flat and ho-hum. It's enough to frighten anyone back into work.  I remember my mother and other bright women of the 1950's and 60's with their struggle to stay sane because they were relegated to the daily life.  My mother ate her insanity, ending up weighing 250 pounds. 

On the other hand, the daily grind, the work, the routine of coming and going to an office, the responsibility of production and timeliness, does keep the insanity of daily life at bay, but often creates stress and conflict as the two battle for attention.  But, whether I loved or hated my daily grind, it was a important because it gave me, like most people, an identity, something that defines us to the rest of the world.  Even financially secure people keep working when they definitely could do nicely without it.  Like myself, they resist retirement because retirement makes us confront the insanity of the daily life and the loss of identity.

Some people, like myself, leave work to "retire" because of the burnout when an identity shatters.  In the 1998, after my consultant identity exploded, I returned to school to figure out what the emerging networked digital world was about.  The resulting doctorate gave me a new identity, professor.  Then six years later, I retired again, not due to burnout, but more due to weariness and repetition. The passion was gone, I tossed aside both identities of professor and consultant. I was living in the Memphis, the city that never grew out of the 1950's and all that is "The South". Naively, I was sure I would become a novelist with minimal effort.  I'd co-authored two business books, so why not make the leap easily? Writing certainly kept me busy and my brain synapses connecting, but the intense social isolation and the fact that I was years away from fame and fortune as a successful writer, drove me back to the comfortable consultant identity and then to five years as a federal  government CIO, yet another identity. I had to ask myself, "What was I thinking?"

Now, like a beast emerging from battle, tired, scarred, but very much alive, the lessons learned are clear.  In this retirement, I have the opportunity and time to discover myself.  Self-discovery can lead to a more holistic identity, integrating my daily life with work that I will do for the shear joy of it, for that is how I will be paid.  I will integrate and transform the daily grind with daily life into daily pleasure. My pleasure comes from writing, a skill of expression that gets better with practice, and from sailing, a skill of action that gets sharper and bolder with practice.  I am pulling the two threads into my daily life.  Perhaps, I may weave a whole cloth, a strong, lasting, embracive identity. 

As my first grade teacher, Miss McDermott, often said, as I struggled with my yellow #2 pencil and wide, blue lined woody paper to write my first sentences, "Practice makes perfect".

You'll know her as "Dolce Vento"

You gotta love Facebook! When I requested ideas for renaming our boat, within 30minutes, 18 candidate names were delivered.  Where we were at a loss for words, Facebook friends were filled with creativity.  Candidate names were:

1. Reinvention (describes what I do)
2. Andrew (root - manly, masculine)
3. La Dolche Far Niente (The art of doing nothing)
4. Eslissi Lunare (Eclipse of the Moon)
5. Luce del Sole (Sunlight)
6. Brezza Celeste (Heavenly breeze)
7. Brezza Marina (Sea breeze)
8. Fluid Horizon
9. Sails Away
10. Dolce Vento (Sweet wind)
11. Friendship Star
12. Ama tu vida (Love your life -- Spanish)
13. Al du l`a (Love your life --Italian)
14. Judy, Judy, Judy
15. Point of Sail
16. Bella Stella (Nice Star)
17. Nolte Stalatta (Starry Night)
18. Tempest Fugit (Time Flies - Latin)

We set ourselves the following guidelines for our final selection which included:

• Italian - the words must sing and John is proudly of Italian Heritage
• Enunciation -  When you say it three times over the sometimes scratchy VHF, it has to be understood and repeatable
• Old name - Legally, we can use the same name as our last boat as the new owners kept "Forte Vento" (Strong Wind)

After careful review, we chose "Dolce Vento", the submission by Judy Southerland, artist and friend.  It met all the criteria plus it brought forth the previous boat without using the exact name.  We agreed that strong winds may not be what we want going forward.  Sweet winds will be much more pleasant.

Thank you everyone for helping us out.  Judy will help us christen her and then help sail her away.

Robert Bray 1926-2015

Robert Bray

His feisty manner, fundamental belief in the Republican party, Texas style football and absolute commitment to his family (a daughter and two sons), made being with my Uncle Bob both nutty and sweet.  He was a man of his times - a Korean War Navy veteran, a 50's St. Louis man, a believer that men should be men and take care of women.  What he got was a daughter who carved out a career in financial services, and three nieces each insisting on their financial independence, committed to living life on their own terms.

Visiting with Uncle Bob was never, never dull.  We'd laugh and argue, drink beer, eat and then argue and laugh some more -- right after the football game, of course.

Uncle Bob was not an executive, rather an engineer whose work took him all over the world on projects in the aerospace and oil industries.  I never knew where he and Jean would land next - could it be in New Jersey (yes), Florida(yes), Saudi Arabia (yes), or his homeport of Texas (yes) -- a few on a long list of work and travel adventures just like his sister, Marion, my mom.

Uncle Bob and my mom were not always close, but after dad died, they visited more often and talked regularly.  Rumor has it that my dad did not favor Uncle Bob.  I never knew why as they were so much alike, and most likely, I never will.  They shared the same voice, I couldn't tell them apart on the phone, and their walk, gestures and facial features were uncannily alike.  They could have been twins.

In early 2006 my mom's health failed most likely from diabetes and an ankle break that would not heal as a result.  At 82 she was in a nursing home under hospice care near our home in Baltimore. When Uncle Bob and Aunt Jean learned how dire the situation was, they immediately flew up from Texas to be at her side.  Despite a near coma state, she knew they were there, holding her hands, talking softly for some hours.  At 2 AM after their visit, she died.  She had been waiting for him.

Well into his 80's, Uncle Bob remained involved in the world using the internet to keep up to date with the world news, his computer to manage his finances, and email as well as the cell phone to keep in touch with us.  But, when Jean died several years ago unexpectedly, her death tore a hole in his heart, his spirit escaping, which could never be recovered. He tried, but just wasn't the same. 

This morning, with gray clouds and rain all around me, I learned that Uncle Bob died at 2:15 AM, just shy of his 90th birthday, after surgery, in Texas, peacefully.  If I were religious, I would tell you how happy he is to be reunited with Aunt Jean.