Why sail?

Sailing is camping without the dirt.  That is one of the reasons why I like it so much (besides that fact it is something short people can do).  Sweating is the hot afternoon sun while docking or anchoring, hosing down or polishing a boat is fine with me.  What is not fine is the dust and dirt that mingles with sweat when you take to the roads and camp. Both can have beautiful vistas at the end of the day, but only sailing leaves me clean.  No stains on my clothes. No dirt buried in under my nails or in the crevices of my body. 

Ah, you might say – why sweat when you can have a recreational vehicle that moves smoothly and directly over the roads while cooling you in air conditioning to protect you from the elements thus limiting your camp set-up to hooking into the electrical outlet.  My answer is simple – sailing demands that I travel in the weather, with the weather and that I live in the weather.  It is takes skills and knowledge to know the weather and its powers.  The elements are the experience that has me learning something every time I go out.  But, it is also a dirtless experience. My boat does have air conditioning; but only at dockside when it can’t head up into the evening breeze at anchor.  Dockside is the garage of the boat world.

But, you might say, “Why depend on the vicissitudes of the weather, when you can have a power boat to take you directly and quickly to where you want to go.”  Again my answer is simple – sailing makes me slow down; I don’t have total control.  I can make plans, but they can change as the wind and weather changes.  I sometimes have to wait.  I must indulge in “getting there”, not just “being there”.  Sailing challenges my ability to adjust to my environment.  I do not battle the elements as racers do, squeezing every drop of leverage against the wind to be faster and better than the next guy. I take the time to live with them rather than fight it. I explore and I cruise.

However, you might say, “Wait, you have a diesel engine on that sailboat of yours.  You cheat the wind any time you want. That sailboat is just a camper without tires.”  True, my “iron jenny” can transform sailing into a direct trajectory.  It is my safety net; however, even when I use it, there is no mud to infiltrate my body and my belongings.

My anchorage is always well away from street lamps. There is much space to separate me from other boaters.  I rest, eat and watch the water.  After the sun sets and the air slows to a gentle breeze, the sky darkens and stars appear. If I wait a bit, that sky bursts, filling the inky blackness with the billions of galaxies of the Milky Way.  Only on the water do I feel that vastness of what I will never know.  And, there is no dirt between my toes.

Tomorrow morning we head home after a week with Forte Vento.  Two damage issues still plague us --weak batteries (easy to replace) and the very much more serious stress cracks around the cockpit arch and port shroud that will require  a redo of the gel coat and realignment of the arch).  BUT we are sailing once again. 

In search of sleep - on vacation?

The problem of getting to sleep plagues me often.  I can’t predict when it will happen.  It’s way beyond the tension at work situation (although I’ve got a lot of that lately).  Take last night for instance.  It’s our second night on our long awaited Chesapeake Bay sailing vacation.  We finished up a vigorous sail coming back from Forked Creek, ate and fell into bed, properly exhausted by 9:30.  My eyes were stinging like I’d pulled an all-nighter, but they determinedly popped wide open and refused to shut when I lay my head down on my pillow.  The husband was not snoring so it was all about me and not him.  I pulled out my iPad and proceeded to read a lengthy New Yorker – surely that would work, but it did not.  I turned to Words with Friends, then Solitaire and then stuck a bud in my ear, hooked into my “bedtime” playlist and still my shoulder did not go cold (my physical alert that I am about to go to sleep).  I sighed, got up, pulled out the ZZZQuil bottle and took a slug, stabbed the bud back into my ear, and hoped for the best.  It worked.  I oozed off into a restless sleep. This morning, after a long talk with myself, I chalk this episode up to battery worry.

The previous night, after we found the creek and ever so cautiously motored it (we motored all day due to a dearth of wind or any semblance of breeze), we had secured Forte Vento two a couple of old pilings that held up a sun dried, sliver filled pier.  As always, we left it to our batteries to keep the fridge and freezer running for night.  We enjoyed the company of two dear old friends over a casual picnic style dinner of hamburgers, potato salad and grilled corn on the cob on their broad screened porch.  It was an old fashioned late night complete with libations and much talk until the wee hours. 

The next morning we returned to Forte Vento to find our batteries had lost 60% of their power.  We expected 10% at most.  So, while sailing down the Bay (we originally planned to anchor out for a day or two), we returned to our slip where the sleepless night greeted me. 

All is not lost.  These are deep cycle marine batteries.  Normally they are good for five years.  However, we’ve determined that they are weak because of the year they spend drained of all “deep cycles” when Forte Vento was on the hard for repairs.  We’ve ordered new batteries (think summer round trip airplane fare for two to Europe for an estimate of the investment) and they should be installed this week.  We will just cut expenses elsewhere for a while.  A boat is a deep pit into which you sink money unless of course it’s your passion so it all seems reasonable. It’s my passion.  (Stop laughing now, please!)

The morning was bright and cool.  I swabbed the deck until it sparkled in the morning sun, then rewarded myself with a two hour nap this afternoon.  It was a dead deep sleep.  I woke see my husband looking at my refreshed state.  I am ready to enjoy the evening.  Why try to get out of the slip when there is a 15 knot wind blowing across your beam?  It’s just too much work. 

Forte Vento sails again

Our last entry in the ship's log was September 30, 2012, the last sail of the season.  It was June 7, 2014 when we sailed again.  It was everything we remembered it to be -- I am sane once more, ready to endure all that my work is currently demanding of me in this last year.  I will say no more!

In Africa - On safari in South Africa

The best times for safari are at "twilight" and "early morning" so we signed up for both.  John made the twilight safari the day we arrived, but did not make the 5:30 am early morning ride.  So, I went alone and what wonderful sights did I see?  Lion, Cheetah, Zebra, Giraffe, Wilde-beast, Elephant Hippopotamus, Rhino, Warthogs, and Vultures galore.  In some cases we were so close I could have touched them as they swayed walking across the road.

The animals say it all.  People care about these wonderful beasts; except of course, the poachers who sell tusks to the Chinese.  Here a few of the animals I saw that morning.  It was an incredible adventure.

In the past four years, my work allowed me to visit Africa twice and step into five very different countries - Senegal, Ghana, Botswana, Swaziland, and South Africa.  I do not love the continent as so many people do.  However, I appreciate their struggles to have stable governments after so many years of colonial rule; enjoy the countrymen I have had the honor to meet and work with; and continue to be amazed at their cultural heritage.

The flight home on Monday was both on time and uneventful.  I thanked the Gods that made it so.

In Africa - Swaziland

It's a land of  mountains, not the steep high craggy kind, but rather rolling kind, smoothed over from millions of years of wear.  They are dotted with small farms and small towns.  Although the weather is ideal, a smog from burning fields may cloud your vision if the wind blows the wrong way.

Swaziland is a land of extremes - a kingdom run by man for almost 40 years with 14 palaces, one for each wife surrounded by subsistence farmers and struggling town dwellers selling wares and foods from ramshackle stands.  The middle class is small.  It's not growing and thriving like Botswana as the king and his family and certain government officials take "a percentage" of every investment.

People are quiet, not talking about politics. Talking critical can land you in jail as two Swazi journalists discovered when they criticized the king.  You may have read about it recently.  I was not allowed to take pictures at the airport.  Not very welcoming to say the least.  However, it is also a land of kindness, persistence, and hope.

It was Bush Fire Music Festival weekend so there was no room at the inns or hotels.  We bedded down for a couple of days at the country director's home, hosted by his welcoming wife and kids.  After a full day of meetings with staff and Volunteers about the technology situation,  we went with the locals to the festival Friday night.  A parade of brightly costumed men walking on stilts waving flaming torches preceded loud, rhythmic, beating singers on the main stage.  Around the perimeter were an array of outdoor, craft markets, eateries with everything from grilled chicken, steaks, ribs and even some very decent pizza combined with a multitude of libations.  All of this took place  under a clear sky filled with the southern cross swimming the a milky way sea.  A perfect venue for this charity event to raise money for HIV and AIDS prevention.

Of course, the visit didn't start so well.  Although the flight went well and we arrived on time, two of our bags didn't.  The young girl at the Gaborone check-in counter only checked John's bags to Johannesburg, not all the way through to Mazzini. Luckily, my bag had my clean clothes.  John made do for the day on his tour into the countryside for lunch with a  homestead   family.  He even ate lamb stew from the communal bowl (and didn't get sick).  Our bags did get recovered that afternoon by one of the post's drivers.  Patience is the watchword.

On Saturday morning, sharp at 10AM we were in a van traveling to our next and last destination - the Grand Lodge Resort just off Kruger National Park.  In just about three hours we were going on a twilight safari!

In Africa - Botswana

The country reminds me of our Southwest - dry, broad taupe plains sprinkled with sage  green shrubs and small trees and big expanses of blue sky with hazy  mountains framing the horizon.  This flat land is punctuated occasionally with rock outcrops that look like pimples from the air as you approach the airport.

Botswana is not a place you would vacation.  It is land locked and, as I described above, not particularly beautiful.  However, once here, you will find the people are kind and welcoming.  The pace of life is calm, but not lazy.  There is no sense of urgency, but people are attentive to time and schedules are kept.

The food is good.  Hoved animals graze the countryside.  Many cuts of grilled meat, roasted vegetables and salads fill menus.  Breakfasts are English as this country was once a British protectorate (not colony).  Their squashes are terrific smashed or roasted.  And, to our surprise, favorites include pizza and italian dishes.  John tested the pizza  twice.  His assessment was "tasty toppings, but the crust, despite the wood fired ovens, needed work".   We followed the basic outsider eating rules -- don't eat raw veggies,  drink bottled water only, and eat fruit if it has been peeled.  We both continue our trip without gastro-intestinal issues.  Thank God!

The money is called Poula.  There are 8 P to the dollar.  That makes Botswana a bargain for tourists, especially if you venture outside of the hotel.  Even then, a great bottle of South African Cabernet-Shiraz blend  is only 179 P or about $22.50 in the hotel restaurant.

There is no sense of fear or tension amongst people, although neighborhood theft crime is up.  The locals blame refugees coming across the boarder from other countries experiencing turmoil.

Gaborone, the capitol, is a small city or a big town depending upon where you came from.  It has a growing middle class.  Autos abound.  They are proud of their manufacturing industrial area, modern malls, and good roads in the city but the foundation for the country of only two million people is diamonds - the right kind - not blood diamonds.  People still have small stands by the side of the road at intersections and across the street from the small mall shopping areas.  You can buy groceries, lunch, clothing, and get a haircut.  Each stand is shaded by a tent like cover on four poles.  Houses and housing complexes for rich and poor are walled for protection.

My meetings went well.  We stayed at the upscale Lansmore Hotel in the center of the new downtown in Gabarone. John toured during the day with two other spouses, hosted by the wife of our Botswana post.  The small group drove into the bush a bit - off the pavement onto dirt roads to find crafts and lunch locally.  They also visited a local museum and generally "saw the sites", what few sites there are.

It's time to board the plane for Manzini, Swaziland.  We transit through Johnessburg.  That airport is a sprawling place, full of shopping opportunities.  It is the "big city".

Date line:  Arrived Manzini missing two of our bags.  Seems the young lady at check-in in Gaborone only checked them to Johannesburg.

Into Africa - Take Three

The attendant led us out of the KLM Lounge down the glass hall to the gate. With boarding passes and passports checked and swiped one last time, we confidently entered the plane and were walking to our seats. Seats that were within our reach, when "Ladies and Gentlemen," the lead attendant said announced with determined authority, "All crew and passengers are instructed to leave the plane as quickly as possible.  Please turn around and exit through the door you entered."  She repeated it for emphasis.  This time there was strain in her voice.  We spun around and marched to the exit door.  John and I looked at our  colleague who was traveling with us to Botswana.  Our faces spoke to each other, "What the F---?"

Like kids pressing our faces to the window to see into the night, we stood in the glass hall looking out onto the plane.   It was over.  We smelled the fuel before we witnessed the expanding spill on the tarmac.  A leaky fuel tank valve, the captain told us minutes later, The flight cancelled an hour later after two promises of repair.  Betrayed again. We dragged ourselves out of the lounge area, sat a small table, put phones to ears and did it all over again.  Time was running out.  We had to get to Gaborone by Monday.

Dateline: It's 9:30PM Sunday in London where we have just taken off. We arrived about 11AM into Heathrow.  Now it's an 11 hour flight to Johannesburg, then a four hour wait to get our flight to Gabarone.  In total, I will have spent over 36 hours in same underwear and makeup by the time I arrive.  Makes you put international travel into perspective and yearn for a shower all at the same time.

Dateline:  Arrived at hotel at 3:30PM Monday.  Quick shower to revive me and I joined the last hour of the conference.  In Africa at last.

Into Africa - Take Two

Sunshine opened my eyes this morning as cool air breezed through the balcony screen into the bedroom.  Our  new flight didn't leave until 6PM so the day was in front of us.  The bags were still packed and after a coffee, energy was seeping from my pores.  I had to move.  After 80 sit-ups and a couple of  "planks", I plugged in my ear bits and took to the streets.  I walked and ran for over an hour.  The streets were full of tourists, locals and "Rolling Thunder" visiting Arlington Cemetery and viewing the Potomac River and its quite elegant Memorial and Roosevelt bridges.  Not a cloud in the sky, the air dry, the trees at full leave, brilliantly green.

This time we leave from Dulles Airport.  I sit in the KLM Lounge typing and sipping white wine in a soft but modern chair.  What a difference a day can make.  Yesterday we were amidst hundreds of other frustrated passengers just like us, iPhones pasted to our ears trying to rebook for today.

Today is better.  If the plan takes off it as planned, I'll upgrade it to excellent.

Into Africa - Day 1

We stood in line waiting to board.  Ahead of us was two hours to Atlanta with a two hour layover before an over night haul to Johannesburg. We'd have to arrive an overnight at an airport hotel before a short hop to Gaborone, Botswana on Sunday morning.  We waited.  Boarding time passed.  A broken cockpit gauge stood between  us and an African adventure.

A series of announcements soon brought home the reality that we were not flying today.  All connections would be missed. It was chaos as people scrambled to change flights.  John reached the airline reservation desk (Bless the smartphone1).  Two hours later we were rebooked.  We fly tomorrow evening.  Instead of arriving in Gaborone Sunday morning with the day to enjoy before my conference begins, we arrive Monday morning after it has commenced.  At least we will get there.

Into Africa is now Out of Africa.  The good news is we are packed.  The bad news is that the trip is 8 hours longer.  We must go through Amsterdam, not Atlanta.  And, I forgot, it's coach all the way.

Splash!

The waters did not part nor did the sun hang in the sky a bit longer today, but you might have heard a low roar from the east coast late this afternoon.  Forte Vento is back in the Chesapeake waters, snuggly bound in her slip. It's been a year and 26 days since the disaster in dry dock.

We return on Saturday to empty the shed and fill her up with gear, domestic paraphernalia, and prepare her for a tuning sail sometime next week.  It is a good feeling to know we will sail again soon. I can't wait!

A Spring Saturday

I've less than an before my Saturday morning "Challenge" exercise class.  It's near the last one in the 12 week series.  My reputation in the group is that of "determined" and  "beast" as I'm the oldest in the group of 20 and almost twice as old as many of them. I just refuse to give up as I bring up the rear in the relay runs.  They cheer me on.  It's beyond embarrassing, but I don't care anymore.

I am most certainly in love with my inner core despite my inability to lift weight over my head.  My shoulders can't take it.  Never do I want to go through rotator cuff surgery again.  That translates into "girly" pushups instead of "regular" ones, although my planks are "up to snuff".  My workout is also distinguished by my pathetic burppies.  My legs just do not spring back like the should; nor do I jump up with the enthusiasm of my younger colleagues. It's like I've lost the perk in perky.  It's just "Y" now. 

We'll be outside this morning sweating among the flowering ornamental fruit trees.  The sun shines and bird chirp while we pant and sweat.  But it's only an hour.  Later, this afternoon, John and I will  be on the mall walking amongst the cherry blossoms, blending in with great hordes of tourists. 

Finally, a weekend out of doors with no rain nor snow.  Ah, Spring!

Hunting in the technology jungle

Sometimes it takes a BIG event to get you off your expand butt and out of your comfort zone. John's last day at work was our BIG event.  He needed a phone to replace his corporate Blackberry, so we set off  for a short trip that became a journey deep into the technology jungle.  Instead of a hunt for lions, tigers, and elephants, we set out aiming only for small game -- a new smart phone.  It was an easy capture.  However, one good capture gave birth to a frenzy that ended up with laptop and desktop computers, tablets, hotspots, and wireless tools of all sorts.  It was breathless and it was exciting.  We collapsed at the end well satisfied.  Then we started to unpack the spoils.  It was an "OMG" moment.  Our work had just begun!

This weekend, we find ourselves in a great maze of connections, restores, setups and sharing options as we construct our new collection of accounts, apps, a mix of touch screens, swipe techniques, voice controlled searches, and mouse free key boards.  Like any DIY vision, we've learned it is more than a project, it's a monster of ongoing change-- "ah ha" moments of success are sprinkled chats with customer support and wicked downloads with fingers crossed.

Today, we continue...

Sunday morning

We're still waiting for spring.  It was warm on Saturday, but little skaters were still stumbling around on the ice at the Pentagon City ice rink.  We've tried to push through the gray that enveloped us again this morning.  I escaped to Savannah a couple of weekends ago.  We threw a "Food Truck" party - twice to gather friends to celebrate the end of winter. There was sun, but not enough to make buds pop out on our flowering trees.  I cleared out old winter clothes and hauled them off to Good Will.  None of this has worked.  It's going to snow again tonight.  It's hopeless.  This year spring is a tease.  I imagine that one day in late April it will be summer -- completely skipping spring.

Killing time at the airport

I'm stuck at Dulles Airport waiting for a delayed flight to Savannah GA to spend a weekend with my youngest sister.  It's catchup time -- just us girls-- to reconnect as our lives have drifted apart for the last couple of years.  I don't travel much anymore and am glad of it, so to be delayed late at night and then arrive at 1AM is not at the top of my list of fun things to do.

Dulles has grown up.  The "people movers" are gone.  Instead of piling in those oversized buses to cross from the main terminal to the outer terminal, there are sleek automated driverless trains, and then lighted floors guiding me on the long walk down sterile shiny halls full of Mariah Carey's voice softly floating through the air.

At gate C28X at the very end of the hall, I sit with quiet people buried in books (yes, actual printed books), tablets, smart phones or laptops.  A few children, wrapped up in their jammies, whine.

There's a guy standing about 15 feet from me eating from a fruit cup while he talks on his smart phone via earphone and wire about Republican politics, senators and players.  I catch references to Goldwater and "thanks for jumping on that for me."  During his second phone call, he tosses the fruit cup into a nearby bin then calmly sips his Starbucks coffee.  Soon, he's onto a third call which has lasted for some time now.

The dude's well cut suit, light blue shirt and dark blue tie separate him from the rest of us.  He would be handsome if he were taller and his shoes weren't scuffed. The rest of us are in jeans, sweats, and are generally wrinkled, showing the wear of a long day. The worst of waiting passengers wear tight shirts that reveal lumps that are definitely not worth sharing and they really don' look good when the shirt is pink.  Then there's the lady speaking into her phone as if it were a walkie talkie while she pushes, not pulls, her carry on bags.  Another guy is blowing his nose into his handkerchief while he searches for his gate.  We are a motley crew, except of course for the Republican operative.  It must be swell to be so sure that your are so important.

We have a launch date!

It all started on March 23, 2012 when the braces holding Forte Vento steady on land while she was getting a fresh bottom paint job gave way in the night.  Now, over a year later and some $65000 in repairs (luckily covered by the marina's insurance) she's like new (even better than new) and will go back into the water on April 21st.  All she needs is the bottom paint, deck and hull cleaning and waxing, and the installation of the main sail before she splashes into the Chesapeake.  A short tuning sail to ensure her mast is aligned properly will make her "good to go."

John and I will both take the day off work to witness this most momentous event.  We've missed Forte Vento.  If you have ever experienced a house disaster, you know how we have felt this past year. We've learned how much it means to have a place to which we can escape.  We've missed the water, the wind, even the sudden rain storm in the heat of the summer.  Somehow being on the water had become part of us and we wanted it back.  We'll have it again soon.  We feel like expectant parents.

ZAPPED!

I never thought it would happen to me.  I've heard that it happened to others, but not to me.  No way. 

A 24 hour snow fall shuttered the government last Thursday, so I sat at the dining room table teleworking from my PC.  Not the fasted machine in the camp, but it was a productive day.  I pounded out a risk analysis of one of our major applications and was pleased with it.  I saved it to my official encrypted flash drive, not saved it to my desktop.  That was the last thing that happened before a sinister force took over my PC.  In a matter of seconds all my applications and most of my files had been overwritten with some kind of software that looks like Office Word asking me to select the Asian language I wanted to work in. 

"This can't be happening,"  I screamed by the computer. "I've got two kinds of anti-virus software.  I back up my files to a cloud service every week,"  I moaned, thrusting my hands into the air, pleading to the computer gods.
 
I typed furiously, trying to find an application that worked, then I tried to access the flash drive.  The machine didn't recognize it.  I snapped out the flash-drive hoping against hope that it was not corrupted.  It would be impossible to recreate the paper! 

Thinking that I had been injured somehow, John  rushed out of his home office. "What's happened?  Are you alright?"  I explained.  Like the EMT volunteer he once was, he took direct and immediate action, "Disconnect from the Wi-Fi and then turn off your PC.  You don't want the cloud service to do another backup now that everything has been overwritten."  I did as I was told. My forehead fell onto the dead keyboard. I felt hopeless.  It was like loosing a buddy, a reliable friend who was always there when I needed her.  We'd spent over five years together.

John consoled me.  "This can be fixed.  It's not a fatal blow, but surgery is needed." 
Today, I turned over my friend to the Geek Squad.  The young woman gave me hope. "These old machines are sturdy.  Don't buy a new one.  Give us three or four days and we'll bring her back to life."  I smiled.  I have hope.

Mid-winter happenings

The weather continues to be cold, icy and gray.  It's just plain miserable outside and I'm loaded with existential angst.

What is the meaning of living is such grayness?  Daily life is not just routine; it's monotonous, no sparks of inspiration; no glimmers of sweet warm sun.  Outside my window people shuffle themselves down the street, grocery bags in hand, scarfs wrapped around heads and necks to ward off the wind. I play endless games of solitaire attempting to beat the high scores of ghostly unnamed competitors.  For what reason?   Shouldn't I read?  A year's worth of New Yorker magazines lay mostly unread expect for the cynical cartoons - at least they make me smile.  My Kindle app is loaded with a new book I am reluctant to read.  None of this makes sense.  I wait for spring.  My mind is numb.

The only hope I discover is to find pleasure is small things - a balancing game  that sparks a fun moment; a baby shower that reminds us that a new generation will turn us into great grandparents one day; babysitting a friend's pet for a week to remind us why we love but don't have dogs anymore; a physical challenge that puts me in the gym three times a week with women half my age; a roasted chicken Sunday dinner occasionally to put us in our comfort zone; an  alumni event eating hot dogs and slugging a bit of beer one evening to do service. 

What is excitement during this gray time of year?  My Fitbit got washed in the laundry this morning and survived. Our neighbor is helping us hook up an HDMI Video and Video player --Netflix, YouTube and the Internet now all on the big screen.  New ways to enhance our couch potatoes-ness.  Endless House of Cards chapters.  No wonder people are reading less and enjoying it more. 

With the sun and warmer weather angst will give way to anticipation as I can begin to imagine sailing again; outside runs through town; and open windows refreshing our rooms.  Until then, I wring my hands and catch up on all the House of Cards chapters I missed since I first saw it on a long plane ride last September.

We haven't done what yet? Not again?

It happened again.  Despite my best intentions, the holiday cards continue to rest on the top of the filing cabinet.  The envelopes are addressed, but somehow the cards remain stacked nicely to the side.  I imagined that in the middle of the night, each card would get a hand written personal message and then be gently placed in its appropriate envelop ready for us to lick and close the next morning.  Wouldn't that be a piece of Christmas magic! Where are the elves when you need them?  Did they go on strike?  But, no worry.  We'll get the job done.  The question is how soon? 

Why do we keep "doing" cards year after year?  Is it about the need to let people know we are still alive?  To brag about our adventures and mis-adventures?  To keep the "tradition" going in a time of electronic instant messaging and texting?  Maybe it is all of these reasons; but if the truth be known, I really enjoy opening a holiday card sent through the mail. I slow down for a moment to read the greeting, even the occasional note or holiday letter.  It can all surprise me; make me smile, even laugh or once in a while, when the news is sad, make me sigh.  However, not matter what the message, I am touched that someone remembered us and I want to do the same for them. 

This year our cards will be a big surprise especially if they don't get sent before the twelfth day of Christmas.

Keeping up in London

London greeted us with mild but cloudy and sometimes sprinkling weather; however, it was perfect for walking and walking we did as we trailed behind our dear friend, Londoner, and tour guide, Martyn.  You'd think a guy would slow down at his age (80), but he is undaunted and full of vigor. Nothing makes him happier now days than to show off his home city. We met him and his wife, Ruth, hiking in Tuscany almost 20 years ago and he's still at it. Together we spent a week tubing and hoofing down by the Thames, to Covent Garden, Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Street, the West End and all the surrounds.  We boated to Greenwich for a spectacular retrospective of Turners paintings - the all time master of marine painting of the 1800's and visited the Victoria & Albert Museum.  We laughed ourselves silly through the satirical and a bit shocking "Book of Mormon".  Such talent they have in London! Every night we began the evening with champagne to toast to our visit, then ate and drank fine wine in a favorite restaurant of Martyn's -- places free from tourists except for us. 

And, to top it all off John and I slept until at least 10 AM every morning.  True relaxation.  It was a perfect week -- a perfect holiday to start the Christmas holiday.

Life after furlough - the thrill of the normal

Normal is the joy of the daily grind at work, then waking up once again at 3AM all perky and unable to sleep.  I just can't sleep more than five hours without breaking out in a sweat or having weird dreams--like sailing down a highway in rush hour traffic wondering where all the cars came from-- that wake me up.

Normal is feeling healthy again after a week of "the crud" that kicked me flat on my back with a 102 fever, chills, smashing headache with full boar hacking and projectile vomiting.  Not delightful, and definitely an ugly scene and I was a good patient.  I lost a couple of pounds that I've been able to keep off.  I take delight in small miracles.

Normal is my 67th birthday confirming that my mind and body no longer match.  You know your old when your grandson is your date and you enjoy the company.  Grandson was the youngest person in the packed theatre that night.  It was tough navigating among the gray hairs with canes and ladies whose bottoms overflowed the chairs. He endured and the play was decent (Pride in the Falls of Autrey Mill, a tragic comedy of the suburbs).  Probably wished his granddad had not flew off to Bali for a conference (at least that is what he said).  When I asked him what it was like, he stated flatly, "The Caribbean, but it takes 30 hours to get here."  Guess he really was there on business.

Normal is visiting our sail boat in dry dock on Saturday.  The sole (aka floor) is refinished. Not a ding or scratch to be seen.  Buster, the guy who repaired it, took great pride in the work.  It's so beautiful, I may never have the nerve to wear shoes below decks again.  Now, if we just had the mainsail, we'd be ready for action -- but wait--it's 40 degrees out and the boat, after eight months still needs a coat of bottom paint --the original reason we took her out of the water in the first place last March 28th.  Now we morn for spring when we will have the final work done -- the bottom painted, the deck exterior decks cleaned and polished, "tuning" sail and radar lessons. 

Normal is planning dessert for Thanksgiving dinner.  We're going to friends.  I'm making a killer apple tart with almond cream.  Appropriately deadly, but non-traditional - a requirement for the event.