You Want Me to Do What?? It's Due When????

I may live in temperate Southeastern North Carolina, where winters are mild and fleeting, but I've literally been SNOWED under lately with work, stories and the itinerant deadlines.

The topics have been fascinating and nothing if not diverse. The stories are complete and publication starts next month and quite frankly, I'm rather proud of them given the fact that they are far outside the bounds of my comfort zone and niche.

First up: Bridge sensor technology. My super cool editor at PC Magazine has kept me busy and I'm completely grateful for it. He invited me to interview the creator of a new technology that is looming on the horizon and almost ready for its close-up. I had the pleasure of chatting several times with a brilliant and kind professor from Clarkson University, who is the force behind a new brand of technology that not only monitors the structural health of our nations bridges and overpasses, but uses the vibrations (i.e., energy) created by cars crossing the spans and harnesses those waves to create the energy to fuel the sensor itself. This story should be published in the February issue of PC Magazine in the "Front Side" section of the magazine.

In mid-December, Erik gave me something even more complex than bridge sensors to figure out and, at the time, I didn't think there could really be anything MORE complex than bridge sensors. Of course, I was famously wrong. Currently there's a bill winding it's way through Congress and it's "powered" by well-funded lobbyists working for the MPAA and RIAA. In effect, should this bill pass, our nation's 2200 colleges and universities would be forced to assume responsibility for any student within wireless "tapping" distance who might purposefully or unwittingly download a movie or audio file. In other words, it would force institutions of higher learning to take on the role of "police" rather than education and could possibly jeopardize financial aid and grants, because more money will have to be expended to install IT monitoring applications that are not only are ineffective and ridiculously expensive, but some bright student will figure out how to hack into the program the nanosecond it's installed. For this story, I had the privilege of interviewing a top official with Indiana University, as well as the VP for EDUCAUSE, which represents most of the colleges and universities in the US. It was a fascinating story and in the middle of my discussions, my editor was so pleased with my due diligence that he doubled the word count of the story, affording me more room to report the "other side" of the story. It was easily one of the most challenging assignments I've been handed to date, but I learned a great deal and I was honored to write this piece. It's scheduled for publication in late February/early March and I'm eager to see it in print.

Always one to keep me on my toes, Erik tossed me yet another interesting assignment. He must have been paying attention over lunch one day when I mentioned that I loved the water and boats. Last night I completed a piece on a fascinating prototype powerboat, aptly named "Earthrace", which will set off on 1 March 2008 in a quest to circumnavigate the globe and fueled by a "bio diesel" fuel. Pete Bethune, the New Zealand Skipper in charge of this boat not only mortgaged his home and most of his assets to pay for the venture, but in keeping with the theme of using renewable energy sources for fuel, he and two of his crew mates DONATED some of their human body fat via liposuction. When I mentioned this story to a few of my friends, they were most eager to inform me that they would be happy to donate some fat to the cause. This story will appear in PC Magazine's "Green Issue" which is set for publication in April. If you want to learn more about the boat, the captain and plot the course of the voyage of "Earthrace", you can visit www.earthrace.net and learn more about this fascinating adventure. Special thanks to Beverley in the UK for the high resolution photos, technical information and specifics which allowed me to write my story.

In between all of this, I have been working 37 - 42 hours a week at a Drug and Alcohol Assessment Company, processing clients who have received DWI's and are required, by North Carolina law, to complete an assessment following any DWI arrest. I've enjoyed this immensely and have learned a great deal. Not only has working with my new friend Sherry been educational, but she's been a peach in teaching me the ropes, the forms, the process of pulling driving records, Department of Corrections Offender histories and participating in both the ADETS (Alcohol Drug Education Traffic School), short-term and long-term therapy classes. I have gleaned so much in these days at the office and it's almost like being paid to learn even more about the disease of substance abuse and alcoholism and, if the number of times our phone rings is any indication, the problem is wide-spread and growing at an obscene rate.

I've met every age group, socio-economic and educational background, race, gender and varying levels of understanding and I've been exposed to the formidable power of denial. It's astonishing and some days, it's nothing short of heart-breaking. I'm so grateful to be given this opportunity to grow and learn and share and every evening, I become more grateful for my recovery and realize that in terms of "hitting bottom" a little over four years ago, I had a very soft landing.

Tomorrow night, I've been asked to speak at one of the treatment groups we conduct. Sherry has asked me to share a little of my own experiences - in other words, explain what it was like when I was drinking, what happened that inspired me to stop and what life is like now. Keep in mind, I'll be speaking to people in a treatment program who are pretty sure they've landed there by mistake or some wicked twist of fate, so it should be interesting to watch how my words are received. Another different facet to this form of communication is that, while I have written extensively on my alcoholism and recovery, I very rarely speak publicly about it to groups. In fact, it's rare when I share in a meeting, so this is a rather huge stepping stone for me and I won't have my trusty monitor or keyboard to help in the telling of my story. I'll be looking eye to "eyes", and I'll even admit to being a little nervous about the prospect, but the overriding thing I need to keep in mind, is that if I do nothing more than plant a few seeds, share a few past experiences that may ring true and sound familiar to someone in my audience, it may possibly make a difference and in the end, that's the prize. The brass ring. If I keep my purpose and focus on the reality that alcoholism is quite literally a life and death issue, I know inside that God will steady my knocking knees and distill my delivery into what I hope are the right words. He's gotten me THIS far, and I see no reason to doubt my Higher Power's direction. But don't let that stop you for praying that I don't make a complete shambles out of my presentation. Prayers for intercession are encouraged and welcome! You might want to pray for my audience as well.

Which brings me to the end of February and even though February is yet to commence, I have promised myself and my friend at Random House, that I will be flying up on 28 February to deliver more words, in a form I'm much more comfortable and familiar with - written words. Additionally, it will give me the chance to have lunch with my friend Erik at PC Mag, and Glen of RH fame, has promised me a "no holds barred" tour of his stomping grounds which happen to be on the same island that my daughter now calls home: Manhattan...here I come.

I must also let you know that my wonderful, lovable Daddy celebrated his 83rd (or was it 38th???) birthday on 24 January. This spry young man made out like a bandit in cards, good wishes, phone calls and I was most pleased to run out and buy him a new pipe, some special tobacco and yes, some very spiffy pipe cleaners! From where I stood, he looked as if he had a fantastic day and it's nothing less than he richly deserves. He's a pretty wonderful guy and so is his wife. They're both so blessed to have each other and I'm even more blessed to have them both. Happy Birthday DADDY!!!!!!

On 6 February, I'll celebrate 48 crazy, unpredictable, adventure-filled years on this planet. I love birthdays. I love everything about them. I can be heard now and then to complain about turning another year older but, in the grand scheme of things and taking a quick glance at where I've been and, more importantly, where I am, I feel nothing short of blessed to still be around to splash in the waters, dig my toes in the sand and offer up a huge "THANK YOU" to all that is God. Turning 48 doesn't really rattle me because I know, deep inside, I'm still as dazzled and amazed at life as I was when I was 8 or 12 or even twenty.

One more request: There is a certain young man in Cincinnati who is presently undergoing a bone-marrow transplant after two relapses of Acute Lymphoctic Leukemia. If you would be so kind, visit his site at: Matthew Fackler's Website, sign his guestbook and leave a nice message, it would cheer him on immensely. I know that tomorrow night, should I feel my knees start to knock or my voice begin to tremble, I'm going to think of Matthew and remember what he's in the middle of and the courage and style he is exhibiting through his present challenge. He's a true hero. I'm just a hacker. 'Nuff said.

Four Years of Living Life One Day at a Time...

"Wake up Susie,
Put your shoes on,
Walk with me into this life...
Finally this morning,
I'm feeling whole again.
It was a helluva night...
Just to be with you, by my side.
Just to have you near, in my sight.
Just to walk a while, in this light.
Just to know that life goes on."

James Taylor wrote and performed that song, but I imagine it was exactly what God was inviting me to do on 11 January 2004. Thank God I finally heard this life-saving invitation and at the lowest point in my life, feeling completely beat to a pulp and completely out of options, something inside of me whispered that perhaps there was another way and maybe even "another day".

February 6, 1960 remains the date of my birth, the day I was given life. January 12th, 2004 is the day I was graciously afforded the amazing and precious chance to reclaim it. Not everyone gets a second chance. I never want to take that for granted. In many ways, January 12th is much more dear to me than February 6th.

It was a helluva night.

By all accounts, I should not even be alive to write this entry. I drove in a black out and somehow landed in the parking lot of a grocery store about a mile from my home. I have no recollection of the drive, but in the process, I somehow managed not to kill myself or anyone else who might have innocently been in my path. That fact alone is proof positive that God had taken over the steering of my car because I can't imagine how I made the drive from Wrightsville Beach to that parking lot and every single day of my life, I am so grateful that the only casualty was my neighbor's mailbox (it didn't survive). I have no memory of that either, but my friend Kathleen and I connected the dots and somehow it came to light that before landing in the parking lot of a nearby store, I must have made it home, turned around, and by some miracle made it to the parking lot of the closed store.

A few of the events of that night remain murky but one impossible to ignore fact is that I was in a very bad place and seriously sick. I have no idea how long I had been in that parking space, I was passed out over the steering wheel and though the car was in "park", it was still running. It was then that one of Wilmington's finest must have spotted the lone car parked with an idling engine and found me, knocking on the glass of my window, rousing me from my horrendously inebriated state.

My memories of what transpired after that are sketchy at best, but I wound up downtown at the police department and I was charged with a DUI and even though the policeman didn't catch me driving, the fact that the car was engaged was enough to earn a ticket I so richly deserved. As that long night progressed, I took advantage of my "one phone call" and for some reason, I called my neighbor across the street from my home, asking if he could come and pick me up. I have no idea how I came to choose him as my one designated call, but in my toxic reasoning, I felt it would be better than calling my parents because I didn't want to worry them. That's how twisted and irrational my reasoning was that night. As if they weren't going out of their minds wondering where in the world I was and how desperately frantic they must have been imagining only the worst possible scenarios. They had lost one daughter in May 1973 and I imagine that they were steeling themselves for the possibility that they may have just lost the other one. When I think of the anguish that my family went through that long night four years ago, I shudder and, as a parent, I can't imagine a worse way to spend a night.

My dad is a logical man and while I was busy downtown being booked with a DUI, he was calling the local hospitals, friends and finally, the police department to see if they knew anything about his missing and unaccounted for daughter. Fortunately, his call was answered by my arresting officer who told my Dad that he had strongly suggested I call my family, but he couldn't talk me into it. He relayed the information to my father that I was confused, disoriented, but still very much alive and that I would be free to leave in a couple of hours.

As dawn began to break on the cold Monday Morning of 12 January 2004, my father and the neighbor I had called earlier, arrived downtown at the police department at about the same time. I went home with my Dad who, upon seeing me, embraced me with a warm hug and was so completely thrilled and relieved that I was alive...maybe not in great shape, but alive. He told me that he loved me and I told him that I thought maybe I just might have a drinking problem. (You think???). My Dad told me that I would be OK and that he and my Mom and my son and daughter would help me any way that they could. There were no lectures on the trip back home. There were only expressions of relief and a well-spring of love, kindness and support. I didn't know much that foggy morning, but I knew that I wasn't alone and that no matter what the coming days might bring, the legal repercussions of my misguided behavior or the status of my impounded Buick, I did have the good sense to know that I was loved, unconditionally.

Three days later with as much fear as I've ever felt, my son drove me to my first AA meeting. I was beyond terrified. I knew nothing about the organization or what any of it was about. I come from a long line of teetotalers so this was foreign territory for all of us. I didn't know if AA could truly help me turn things around, but I was desperate enough to entertain the slightest possibility that there may be hope for me there. And thank God I was desperate and so frightened. I would never have sought assistance if I hadn't been. I needed to be knocked to my knees, it's the perfect position to begin a prayer. For me, it was also the best position from which to begin a life, as well.

Nearly on the brink of tears and feeling as shaky as I ever have, I walked into that meeting and I found a room full of smiling faces and hearty welcomes. I walked out one hour later with phone numbers and warm embraces from people who would play a pivotal role in my recovery. After just one hour, I emerged feeling as if I had finally found something that made sense. I walked in hopeless and I walked out with the priceless commodity of hope. At that point, I dearly needed hope.

In the past four years, I have made all manner of silly mistakes, stupid errors in judgment, some dreadfully bad decisions and I have faced some difficult situations. I've sailed through twelve hours in a roiling tropical storm and I've experienced a car wreck that completely totaled my car. It's been a busy four years! But the one thing I haven't done is felt the need or had the desire to take a drink. That's amazing and that's all God. That's a miracle.

This matter of "living life on life's terms" is challenging stuff! Recovery is a serious business because the disease of alcoholism is progressive and terminal, if left untreated. It's a deadly disease and we never arrive at a plateau where we who suffer from it are considered "well", but if we do a few simple things and follow the suggestions of the what I consider to be a divinely-inspired program, we can and do get better. Much, much better.

In my mind, "recovery" is a verb, a term of action, ongoing and, if I do the "next right thing", it's never-ending and that's one of the great things about it. At every meeting I attend, I see and hear from people who have relapsed, who have went "back out" and tried living in their old ways, and those are sobering moments for me because the point is driven home that I am only one drink away from the end of my life.

When I first joined AA, I couldn't imagine what kind of life lay before me that didn't include a glass of wine to get through a date, an evening alone, or a social gathering of any sort. What fun could there be in dining out? How would I make painful chit chat or appear "cool" without a glass of merlot in my hand? What joy was there left in this world? I imagined a life akin to that of being a nun and my transforming into the female equivalent of a monk. Surely people who didn't imbibe had to lead completely boring and colorless lives because there was nothing to break the ice, ease the tension and I wondered would I ever be able to laugh again? I knew I could never drink again, but I had it in my mind that my future looked bleak, colorless and without any joy and happiness and that I was evolving into a sad and boring existence, maybe something a librarian could deal with, but I didn't know how in the world I would find much excitement in the rest of the days of my life.

Fortunately for me, I was fabulously wrong. The idea of never drinking again for the next 30 or 40 years, if I happened to live that long, struck me as the most dismal prospect imaginable and I would become sad to consider the string of sober days ahead of me, with no buzz or mind-numbing elixir. As the haze of wine slowly lifted and I took in my new reality, it wasn't too long before I began to sense that rather than enhancing what I mistook for "a life", I had been making my way with a dulled sensibility. I couldn't see the forest. My vision was so obscured that I couldn't even make out the trees.

As I attended more and more meetings, found a wonderful sponsor and finally began getting serious about "working the steps", things began to happen. Life hadn't changed, because life didn't need to change. The change that took place came from the only place that it could and that was within me. As they often say, "it's an inside job" and my interior needed some serious revamping and major reconstruction. My life didn't transform overnight, and I learned to adopt a different method of measuring the mystical nature that is "time". "One Day at a Time" became my metronome, reliably ticking off the measure of my days and it's stood me well. This is a good thing - I needed recalibrating.

In my early days of attending meetings, I would often hear folks with many years in AA joyfully share how happy they were to be alcoholics and how their bottom became the springboard to a life worth living. I would look at these fine people and listen to them and wonder, "how could anyone possibly feel they were blessed to be an alcoholic?". Was it brain damage that sparked such nonsensical declarations? Mental disintegration? They looked sane and happy and completely normal but I couldn't help but wonder if they were out of their minds. I was sure I would never ever live long enough to feel happy about my status of being an alcoholic. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful to be alive and afforded a second chance, but I wasn't happy that I had landed myself in a 12-step group and while I was grateful for many things, alcoholism would never be one of them.

After four years of sobriety, I can unequivocally state without the slightest bit of hesitation or reservation that I am, completely and profoundly, happy to be a recovering alcoholic. My gosh, the blessings of these past four years, the connection with my Higher Power who, for me, is God, the ability to live my life with a measure of sanity I didn't know previously, and to know that, on good days and especially bad days, I am still a child of God and I am loved and cared for, watched over and protected, was worth every stumble I made to earn my seat at the table. I can't imagine how I ever lived "pre-AA" because that doesn't remotely resemble what is now my conception of living. Admitting my powerlessness, that my life had become unmanageable and willing it over to a power much greater than myself, is the kindest act I have ever taken for myself and I renew that admission of powerlessness on a daily basis.

Of the 47 years and eleven months I have been allowed the gift of this life, the past four years have been a period of intense growth, learning, understanding and offered more hope and inspiration on a very personal basis than I could have ever guessed was possible. In the days and weeks following 11 January 2004, I was sure that would forever be a date I would consider to mark the darkest and most painful day in my life and certainly nothing to celebrate but now I know it was the day that I was truly saved from myself and lead away from the wreckage that made up my life. This is a day of gratitude, thanksgiving and an occasion to reiterate my thanks to my family, my friends and most of all God for taking another chance on me. It is a day to celebrate the most precious gift I was ever allowed. It is a day of hope and joy and a study in unmerited grace; a reason to look forward to a future with the hope of lots of days to be spent at the doable rate of, one day at a time.

I am so very glad I woke up, walked into the LIGHT, and eternally grateful that I finally found my way. To my precious family (Barbe, Maxine, Katie and Justin), my cadre of crazy friends, Officer Locklear (for being the catalyst of change), Hearing Officer J. Stewart (for having faith in me and allowing me to get back behind the wheel), Peter at Monitech (for making me laugh every time I visit), Amy Hotz, (for the nice profile in the Wilmington Star), Erik Rhey (for feeding me so many interesting assignments for "PC Magazine" - this latest one takes the cake!), Glen Edelstein of Random House (for reminding me of the work that needs to be completed and delivered), and all of the angels who light my way on a daily basis and most of all, to God, I offer my deepest and most heartfelt appreciation for another year of magnificent miracles.

In case you missed my message, there IS life after putting down the bottle. That's the best part.

"Wake up Susie,
Put your shoes on,
Walk with me into this light.

Another night has gone.
Life goes on.
Another dawn is breaking.
Turn and face the sun.
One by one,
The world outside is waking.
Morning light is driven away
All the shadows that hide your way.
And night has given away, to the promise of another day...
Another day,
Another chance that we may finally find our way,
Another day,
The sun has begun to melt all my fears away...
Another day, another day.

Oh, wake up Susie,
Put your shoes on,
Walk with me into this light." ~ James Taylor, "Another Day"

Band of Parents...A Cookie Cutter Approach on How To Save A Life...

Last weekend when I was in Manhattan, after having a great lunch with my daughter at the "Moonstruck Cafe", near where she works on the Upper East Side, I found myself with a couple of hours waiting for her to get off work before heading over to her apartment. I decided to walk over and check out a place I've been aware of for years, and I know several people who know it much more intimately because their children have been treated there as they've battled neuroblastoma. Of course, I'm speaking of Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.

I walked through the doors, checked in with the guard and took the escalator up to the lobby. I saw the waiting area, where people sit until they're name is called to be admitted. You could see the fear etched on so many faces. It was impossible not to feel it. I remember being struck by two simultaneous thoughts: "This is a place where no one in their worst imaginings would ever want to find themselves" and, at the very same time, "Thank God this institution exists!". It was such an odd, comingling of impressions.

3F8 Antibody Treatment
Targeted High-Tech Therapy Meets "Grass Roots", Parentally-Steered Fund-Raising

MSKCC is a huge place and a great deal of cutting-edge research takes place there. So many families with kids of all ages have battled a particularly ferocious and insidious variety of cancer with treatments that are horrendously painful, difficult and not always successful. However, in the world of Neuroblastoma, Sloan-Kettering is known as a beacon of hope. They are currently on the cusp of a new phase of monoclonal antibody treatment and many kids of all ages, and the famlies who love them, are looking at it as a talisman of hope. It's a new antibody treatment and the only place it will be available is at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.

I know money is tight for many of us this year, but most of us aren't facing a possible last Christmas with the kids we love with every fiber of our being. There are some Moms and Dads, sisters and brothers however, who are facing this prospect and I can't imagine how they function, but they do and with a grace, style and steely determination that blows my mind and elicits my highest admiration and deepest respect.

You can meet some of these young adults and kids by clicking here: Heroes and, if you want to see a beautiful angel, check out Nathan's site. Nathan was also treated at MSKCC and, unfortunately, the hoped for biomedical breath-throughs will be too late for him and his sweet family, but Nathan and the kids who will be celebrating the holidays in heaven this season most certainly won't be forgotten. Through their endurance and desire to forward medical science they, too, have paved the way for research with inestimable and very personal contributions and sacrifice. You may read other online journals about kids like Erik, Nick, Sidney, Emily, Anna, Dylan and Toby, just to name a few, who's lives may still be changed by the money you spend to buy a dozen cookies.

These parents have banded together and, in fact, call themselves "Band of Parents" because they are raising money in order to enable head researcher, Dr. Cheung, and the Neuroblastoma Team at MSKCC, to move forward with this antibody trial that may mean that these families get to spend another holiday season with their children who suffer from this most nasty and evil cancer.

There is an online flyer that the "BoP's" have created explaining in more detail about who they are, the science behind the new antibody treatment, and what they need from the rest of us. I think it's the very epitome of a "grass roots" campaign and rather than allowing themselves to feel defeated and at the end of their road and ropes, they have literally forged ahead to raise the money necessary for this new trial to begin and possibly save the lives of their kids. Who among us wouldn't be right in there doing the same if we had kids fighting neuroblastoma? You bet we would. It's what parents do.

All they are asking from the rest of us is to buy cookies. It's a pretty simple request and it doesn't require very much of us. Not only are they in the midst of battling it out with this disease on the front lines by tending to and supporting their desperately ill children, but they also have to use that most precious resource of all, their time, to fund-raise for a possible therapy which may literally mean the difference between life and death.

If you get the chance, please check out their site and, if you can spare $30, know that every cent you pay for the cookies will go toward research in trying to eradicate Neuroblastoma. As I've mentioned, I've spoke with a few of these parents and I know this is not only a legitimate fund-raising effort, and I also know that if I had a child sitting in one of those seats in the waiting room at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, I would appreciate it from the bottom of my heart if others could help me save my child and I'd knock down anything or anyone who stood in the way. I'm betting you would as well.

I was lucky last Friday evening as I waited for my daughter to get off work. We walked around town, ordered a hot drink at Starbucks and we hung out at her apartment that evening with no more pressing plans than deciding which movie we would see the next day and where we might choose to have dinner. Pretty carefree stuff. It's incumbant for those of us with healthy kids to remember that many families aren't afforded the luxuries the rest of us take for granted. Their days are filled with what amounts to, literally, life and death decisions when considering treatment options.

I hope you'll do a little investigating yourself and read their pamphlet and find it in your own heart to say a special prayer of thanksgiving for the children in your life who are healthy and living their lives, even if they make you want to pull your hair out form time to time, and send a few bucks to families with children who aren't afforded the ease with which the rest of us go about our day-to-day lives.

It's worth noting that any of us could, at any time, find ourselves members in a group like "Band of Parents". I'm sure there was a time when these families never thought something like Neuroblastoma could possibly touch their lives. Unfortunately one day they discovered that it could and they were thrust into a situation that is the epitome of a nightmare for the uninitiated among us.

I believe in my heart this new research at MSKCC merits our attention and whatever we can afford to give. And also, when considering what to give this person or that, this holiday season, realize that most of the time it's forgotten before January is torn off the calendar. Not only would you be buying those on your gift list a yummy present, but you'd also be an active participant in possibly funding a new therapy to eradicate this disease and nailing down Neuroblastoma. It's a present that "gives" twice. One size fits all, no worries that it won't "fit" and tax deductible! Does it get any easier than this? You place an order and it's DONE. So place several and really be DONE!

When I walked out of Sloan-Kettering last Friday evening into the brightly-lit evening with cabs honking their horns and clutches of passersby making their way toward the subway, it wasn't lost on me that many people walk through those doors with heavy hearts - stepping out for a bite to eat with loved ones still in treatment or, worse still, returning to the outside world without a precious family member who will never, ever step outside of 1275 York Avenue again. Once again, I reiterate, any one of us could easily find ourselves in a similar position someday.

I really hope you'll check it out and order some cookies. I know some of these families and it's worth your money and five minutes of your time.

Hello November!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was only about an hour late picking my OLD friend Billie up at the airport this morning. I didn't think his plane arrived until 10:55 AM. I was WRONG! He was a good sport about it, but I think the Wilmington police probably thought he was a vagrant or something.

Billie has come in to help me paint my living room, foyer and hallway. However, it's not all work and no play. We had lunch at Bluewater and then headed to the South end of Wrightsville Beach for a long walk. There were surfers about (Rick, you should have been among them!), and the waves were starting to become impressive courtesy of what is now Hurricane Noel, presently situated over the Bahamas. Take it from me - it's better to be on the shore and observe these things than sail through them - I've done both this year and let me tell you, I was happy to be on the shore!

We ran into this wonderful woman named Sandy who, as it turns out, is a professional photographer and as we were taking photos, she asked if we wanted her to take one of both of us. Sure, how nice, I thought. Well, she took the camera and cut loose! You can see all of them on Flickr, but this woman KNEW what she was doing!

Sandy has her own website - Artistry by Sandy - and it's worth checking out. I definitely want to meet up with her again. She looked like an angel on the beach in her white shirt and free-flowing skirt. If I ever get married again (don't hold your breath on that one) this woman is handling the photography.

I then had to explain to her that Billie was JUST A FRIEND. He really is like the brother I never had but a better and more faithful friend would be hard to find. He's good people. In fact, he's salt of the earth. We're blessed to count him as part of the family.

After our beach walk and impromptu photo session, I had to drop something off at my attorney's office and then head home to change my clothes because, of course, I kind of got in the water while I was at the beach. In my jeans and Doc Martens. Hey, it was warm outside and the ocean wasn't all that cold. There were lots of people surfing and surf fishing and of course, I checked out several of them and their catches. All in all, it was a lovely day.

After I changed into dry clothes, we headed for my AA meeting which I am chairing on Thursdays for the month of November. Of course, I dragged Billie along for the fun. It was pretty amusing - he's never in his life taken a drink - so I'm sure it was quite an experience for him. I think he had a good time. We had a great meeting and a large crowd! They must have had no idea I was chairing...

We came home and my Mom had prepared a wonderful dinner. Good thing - tomorrow will find us painting and remember, my living room ceilings are 20 feet high - I can't wait to see how Billie plans to tackle the walls. But of course, I still plan on trying to get some fishing in this weekend. There should be even MORE impressive waves tomorrow as the tropical system moves north up the coast. We might have to take a break about mid-afternoon and head back for the beach.

Halloween was fun. Justin and Stephanie did a great job with their pumpkins. Mine didn't turn out so great. Oh well, in another life - as a homeroom Mom - I was known to turn out some pretty impressive pumpkin carving but this was not the year for it. Mine didn't turn out anything like the pattern I used.

I had plans to make it over to Wrightsville Beach to see a "legendary scarecrow" who lives on Harbor Island, but my parents got misplaced and I had to stay around until they turned up. I never got to see the scarecrow and I was deeply disappointed. I wonder if I can talk this "legend" into doing a special performance for me? I think he's susceptible to chocolate.

And never let it be said that Halloween is only for the young! Yesterday morning, my Dad knocked on my office door and I turned around to find Alice Cooper instead. I was a little surprised! My Dad was getting ready to go mow the grass, but apparently he had been channeling Alice Cooper and voila! You don't tend to see an 82 year old guy looking like this first thing in the morning!!!!

For a brief few minutes, I realized that I was the most "normal" person in this house and let me tell you, that doesn't happen often. Fortunately, he didn't mow the entire time like this - it got too hot and, to be honest, I think his "new look" frightened Cassie. She wasn't quite herself the rest of the day. The cats just fixed him with a puzzled look and went on about their business. It takes a lot to ruffle cats.

I hope everyone had a great Halloween. It was one freak show after another around here! I love this crazy family of mine.

There Are Angels and Good Pirates Among Us...I Found THE STUD, Got a New (Pot) Rack, Welcome Home Justin & Get Well Soon, Katie!!!!

Updated 10:15 PM, EST, 28 October 2007...

On 19 August, I had an over due final lunch at Bluewater with what I not so affectionately refer to as a "bad pirate". Yesterday, I had lunch at the same restaurant, with someone I had corresponded with and would never have known unless I'd met that "bad pirate". Lunch with a "good pirate" is a wonderful thing and unquestionably the better choice. [Photo: Susie & Bobbi at Bluewater, Wrightville Beach, NC.]

Bobbi had visited my blog back in the summer and she'd sent me a note in my blog guest book. Her expression of good wishes was genuine at the time. She didn't quite understand how everything had come to pass in such a short span of time, something many others found difficult to digest as well, but she's a dreamer, a gifted artist, a sailor and she still maintains faith in miracles, so she accepted the rapidity of the relationship as perhaps being just that and, like so many others, she just hoped for the best.

There were miracles in progress - I survived several storms, not the least of which was T. S. Barry in the Abacos. Eventually, in the immortal words of Sting, "I was brought to my senses", but even in the madness and tumult of those almost four months, I collected a lot of precious gifts. I met one of them yesterday and she was just as I imagined - maybe even better.

Bobbi was right at home with my animals, immediately welcomed by my parents and I think we talked nonstop for hours. She arrived at 11:00 and left after six but only due to the fact that she had a long drive back to Raleigh, not because we ran out of things to talk about. If she'd stuck around, I'm sure we'd still be chatting!

It was uncanny how much we had in common and the many points our lives had intersected, even to the point of having met some of the same people. The similarities were astounding and if our visit yesterday would have had a soundtrack, it would have probably been the theme from "The Twilight Zone".

We sat outside at Bluewater and smiled as sailboats paraded forth following the opening of the drawbridge. We talked of sailing, books on sailing, and I listened in rapt attention as she described her own sailboat and her recent sailing adventures. I shared with her what I had come to love most about sailing - close-hauled. The quietness broken only by the sounds of slicing through the sea. We talked of the mystical nature, of how when one is sailing offshore, life changes and is distilled into only that which is happening at that moment on the water. We both agreed that whatever chaos is swirling onshore, the moment the anchor is weighed and the sails are unfurled, the detritus that can confound and annoy us on ordinary days, recedes right along with the sight of land as one heads for the open water. Sailing is, to me at least, better than an "E" ticket and so many things that she shared about her sailing experiences were instantly familiar and recognizable to me and I know she understood my feelings and affection for all that is sailing. [Photo: Susie & Bobbi, Wilmington, NC.]

Bobbi fixed me with a look as we drank our second cup of coffee and then in a most serious tone said, "You do know it's an addiction, right? And you do know that you are afflicted. It's probably terminal.". I suspected as much, but it's always good to have a reputable second opinion. I think of boats constantly - real boats, not leaky, listing ones. When my friend Rick and I were crossing the bridge on our way over to the beach the other evening, we stopped and gazed out at all the boats anchored in the sound. I wistfully imagined being on one of those boats, the cozy warmth of the golden light being emitted through the port lights, the soft sounds of the wavelets lapping the fiberglass and the gentle sway courtesy of the wind across the water. It's all so irresistibly elemental, quiet and very spiritual.

Thank God my love for those things weren't extinguished or even slightly diminished by a series of unfortunate events at the hands of what Barney Fife could only term, "A NUT!".

As we were taking leave of our table, Bobbi slipped her hand in her purse and pulled out something with a ribbon tied around it. She handed it to me and I broke into smile. It was a clamshell, hand-painted with a setting sun and a sailboat. She suggested I untie the ribbon and open the shell. Taking her suggestion, because she is a good pirate, I opened the shell and found a floating key chain with Parker on it. I was told that not if, but when I finally get a sailboat of my own, I would be prepared and have a key chain ready and waiting. I broke into a grin and carefully placed it in my purse, grateful for the beautiful artwork, the "hope" attached to an empty key chain and, best of all, thankful that out of my messy and, at times, dangerous summer, I'd made what already feels like a good friend under the most unlikely of circumstances.

Thank you, Bobbi! What a gift of a day.

As Bobbi and I were sitting in my office talking, an e-mail came in as if right on cue. It was from another newfound friend, also courtesy of this past summer of trials, tropics and errors. My Texan friend, Sheri, had been visiting friends in Greensboro this past week and I dearly wish we could have met in person, but it just didn't work out (this time). Sheri, thanks for writing and your comments on the attachment I sent you Friday Night were hilarious. I opened your e-mail up with Bobbi sitting right beside me and we both had a good laugh. Next time, we have to meet up!

And in other news, my son, Justin, left Friday for a trip to New York City where he met up with his Dad, who flew in from Texas, and they both joined Katie for a fun weekend in Manhattan. We've missed Justin around here, but were delighted the three of them had this special opportunity to hang out together. I can't wait to hear all about the trip and hopefully there will be some great photos - I reminded Justin about fifty times to take his camera. He will return home later this evening and I'm sure he will be tired but very happy after hanging out with Katie and their Dad. [Photo: Tim & Justin in NYC. Taken by Katie Parker.]

UPDATED: 9:44 PM 28 October 2007. Dateline: Wilmington, NC.

I Have A New Rack and Found a Stud! (How's that for a teaser?)

Justin returned safe and sound from his trip AND (this is for your benefit R.E.), I did it!!!!!! Yes I did! I'd been wanting a hanging pot rack for over the island in my kitchen. However, have you priced those things lately? Well, I had so this set me on a quest to find a DIY (Do It Yourself) version and I found a kicky one on, what else, someone's blog!

I followed the recipe (it was a kitchen accessory, after all), and removed the tire from the wheel of a bicycle, scrubbed it, spray painted it, went to Lowe's Home Improvement for the hardware, where I was assisted by a very sweet and dedicated young man, came home and then realized that I needed to hit pay dirt when it came to the installation...(i.e., I needed to hit a stud first time around. This summer, my stud-finding radar was way, way off - totally missed anything close to a target.).

I was talking to a friend and he offered me the use of his which I appreciated very much but, well, I was ready to hang the thing up and we all know how impatient I can be when I have it in my mind to do something - can I hear an "AMEN!" to that Rick? Even though I will be seeing this friend tomorrow night because he's consented to go see "Dan, In Real Life" (the movie, not that 'Ol Dan'), I knew for certain I wouldn't be able to wait until tomorrow night to see my pot rack hanging in all it's black, shiny glory. What to do?

Well, what I did was take a very fine, long hat pin and pierce the ceiling to see if a stud was where I suspected it to be. Guess what. It was! My Dad and I had quite a time removing the bolt from the wheel so we could insert the eye bolt, but with two pair of pipe wrenches, we did it, by golly. I then climbed up on the island and, holding my breath and saying a prayer that I had, in fact, found a stud, I bravely drilled a very large hole and, voila, I hit sawdust! Just what I wanted to find! I had, in fact, FOUND A STUD!!!!

I then screwed in the 8" eye-bolt, attached two large "S" hooks and then ceremoniously hung my project. Nothing fell! Before long, I had the cabinet emptied of pots and frying pans and about five minutes after it was complete, Justin arrived home from Raleigh Airport. He was rather impressed with my handiwork. I took a deep, long bow and gave him a big, hearty hug.

I know, I know, I could have saved the pot rack story for another day, but I had to write about it because it is DONE! I wonder if my "stud finder" is working now? This could be good news all the way around, the least of which has to do with pots and pans.

"Oopsie Daisy, Celia"

One more thing, you need to read Celia Rivenbark's latest column. I read it as I was waiting for my Dad to find the pipe wrenches and I laughed myself silly. Fortunately, I didn't have any trouble installing the @#$%&*& pot rack or I would have possibly gotten arrested like the lady in Scranton, Celia wrote about. If you want a good laugh, check it out. Another note about Celia - she was on "Good Morning America" yesterday. Celia - we need to do lunch soon so I can get your autograph and sell it on ebay.

Justin is downstairs in the middle of carving two very LARGE pumpkins he purchased before he left for NYC. It's chilly outside and supposed to dip down into the 40's tomorrow night. Can a fire in the wood stove be far behind? Rick, I hope you finish building that firewood rack soonish. I'm dying to say, "Wow, you've got a nice rack!". Hey, come to think of it, I guess I have a nice rack, now...get your mind out of the gutter...I'm talking about my new pot rack.

Oh, and I got a new PC Magazine assignment...and a new deadline! YIPPEE!!!!!!!!!!!! I have seriously missed having deadlines...go figure!

Katie - keep using the Vick's and drink rivers of hot tea. Feel better soon, please. We love you.

More later...

Taking Things With a Grain of Sea Salt...Separating the Facts From Fiction

"It is only with the heart that can see rightly..." Antoine Saint-Exupery.

But it's still a good idea to keep your eyes open.

Every morning I get an e-mailed meditation courtesy of Hazelden. It's interesting how often these meditations seem to present a particular concept that I need to employ in my life. They're short, but they always leave me with new avenues to explore as I go about my day.

"Today's Gift" had this particular paragraph and the above referenced quote: When we see with our hearts, our responses to the turmoil around us, the fighting children, the traffic snarls, the angry lovers, will be soft acceptance. When our hearts guide the action we can accept those things we cannot change, and change those we can. And the heart, as the seat of all wisdom, will always know the difference.

It was good for me to read "Today's Gift" because my heart, along with my mind, have been been reliving a particularly unpleasant episode that occured on June 2nd - specifically, sailing through Tropical Storm Barry. I know I've written about that storm, but not in the fine detail that I read about it when someone who had "crewed" for the erstwhile captain a few times - once resulting in a voyage she's quite likely never to forget - alerted me that an essay had been posted on the experience, and yes, that essay was found on the illustrious ragbagger website - the one owned by the person I was engaged to this past summer. The essay can be found here. "of storms and other blessings"

I read it and in doing so I relived those twelve harrowing hours to the point it made me shiver and left me feeling like I had dodged a bullet who's path I was completely clueless as to having been positioned in. It haunted me. The reliving of the storm, remembering the noise of the flogging remnants of the sail that was reduced to tatters courtesy of T.S. Barry's 60 knot winds and shivering in the cockpit as waves rhythmically assaulted me as I sat in a corner wondering if the next one would result in my imminent demise, knowing I was powerless to do anything to prevent it.

First of all, I appreciate the "accolades" offered to me in the essay for having an "intuitive hand on the helm" and we can both thank God for my "cool head in the storm". I take no credit for either. I loved sailing, even after that awful day and I love it still. It spoke to something deep inside me. Maybe the Aquarian part of me but it was probably borne of my profound love of the ocean. I loved sailing from the first moment I was on the water, no question about that.

But about that storm...I try not to, but I still come back to this one burning question: "What the h*ll were you thinking, sir?".

When I wasn't pondering how I might survive, I had mental images of my family huddled around "The Weather Channel", not knowing if the storm was being broadcast in all it's glory, back in the states. Wondering if Jim Cantore was giving a "play by play" of all I was living through was actually more agonizing than the pitch and roll of the small sailboat that was being pelted from all directions by wind, waves and horizontal rains that stung my salt water saturated skin. I dearly hoped my dear family had no idea what my Saturday was like that day and my heart ached imagining their concern and fear.

Perhaps Neptune laughed, but I can promise you that for a woman who tries very hard and with great dedication to find something funny in the most absurd of situations, I couldn't for the life of me find anything to laugh about in our tangle with that tropical storm or the swim to the island 3 miles away on the first day of our sail or any number of other situations that you exhibited no regard for safety and sensibility. It was just about the most unfunny situation imaginable. I value my life. I wanted to live to see my kids, parents and friends again. I wanted to see my future grandchildren, my home, and so many people and animals who define that word for me. No, I couldn't find anything to elicit the slightest smile or faintest chuckle. Truth be told, I don't think Neptune would have found any of it funny, either. I'm betting Neptune was shaking his head, genuinely puzzled, like the sailors safely tucked in slips at the marina.

Now, I'm not one to promote the writings of a person I have no affection or any shred of respect for, and I'm hesitant to publish a link to this person's website because, to be honest, the beginning of this "essay" strikes me as generously fictitious and self-aggrandizing. If he finds being a father "the best fun I've ever had", he certainly never exhibited any signs of it during my four month relationship with him. I would be more than bereft if my kids didn't have any contact with me for that period of time. I can't imagine such a situation and I certainly wouldn't be sailing on the high seas, laughing my way all over the Abacos, but everyone is different, I guess. My family comprises what is best in my life - they always have and always will. I left for my flight to Marsh Harbor with hugs of love and good wishes from my kids and parents and I returned to warm embraces nine days later. I would never have made the ill-fated journey without their knowledge and approval. Not for one-second.

If invited (or uninvited) to choose one word to express my opinion on the the behavior I witnessed over time and with horrifying repetition, I would choose "reckless". Pure, unadulterated and unapologetic recklessness and a terrifying disregard for safety. Not attributes one desires in a captain.

I may have exhibited calm, but make no mistake, my eyes were wide-open. I also know, as most everyone does, that you are at a decided disadvantage when disrespecting the power of the ocean. It's bigger and more powerful than we are and, dare I say, it simply doesn't care if you're an attorney. Makes no difference. Did they not clue you into that fact in "captain college" or "skipper school"?

Before I set sail with this man, I was informed (by him) how he had scored highest on his tests for certification as a charter boat captain and he even proffered a copy of his (expired) captain's license. I assumed those facts implied practical ability and I was wrong in my assumptions. There's a vast divide between sailing through a test with flying colors and actually applying the principles of sailing in practical terms. An impressive test score doesn't count for much if the captain has an ego the size of Texas and the imperiled decision-making to go right along with it. This captain proved time and again - the man with the highest score nearly landed us at the bottom of the sea. A prudent, cautious man, even one "running away from a bad marriage" would have turned back when the storm changed, but this was not a prudent, cautious man.

The boat was marginally sea-worthy. Unfortunately, the captain was "sea-worthless", and that's the bottom line.

It's no surprise at all, to me, that this man lays part of the blame for the situation we found ourselves in at the hands of the fishing boat skipper he ascertained the informal weather forecast from the morning we set out, and that's not fair. That is simply not right, but it's typical. Every error this captain commits is somehow the result of someone else's mistake. The truth is, that the captain needs to learn something about owning his mistakes and admitting them, taking full responsibility. His failed marriage, the failed relationship with his kids, and failed relationships with those who went before me, were always assigned as being "the other party's" fault - it was a common theme - but not a reputable one.

I returned from that sailing trip internally shaken and confused. My life had been placed in danger and I wasn't consulted or informed of what might happen prior to June 2nd. Seeds of doubt had been planted during that fateful Saturday and they grew with each passing day. I was clueless about sailing, a true novice in every sense of the word. I made the mistake of casting my fortunes and, unfortunately, placed my safety in the hands of someone who had no issues with tossing all manner of caution to the wind, even if those winds blew from every point on the compass and at a velocity of 60 knots.

I remember when we finally, blessedly crawled into West End, the look of confusion on the mass of sailors waiting to welcome us and the unrelenting question heard over and over was, "What were you doing out there in that weather??". The captain summarily dismissed such inquiries and seemed annoyed at the repetition with which we heard that query over and over as we walked around the marina at Old Bahama Bay. I became increasingly, albeit privately, haunted by that question. I didn't have an answer and he never offered much of one to them or to me.

Privately, when I would engage in conversations with these fellow sailors, I couldn't help but realize that they had sat that same storm out safely in port. They were aware of it. They knew of its existence. I would try and quiet myself and buy into the belief that the good captain couldn't help it. He couldn't know. There was no way he would have set out that fateful morning knowing we would be faced with those sea conditions. No one would be that crazy and purposefully place our lives in such danger. Surely no one would do that, right?

"You did have on a personal flotation device the entire time, right? You had your harness tethered didn't you?", several people in the marina would ask. Well, um, no, I didn't. Not at all. Then I would wonder, "Why didn't he hand me a PFD?". Lifelines? At the time, I had no idea about harnesses and lifelines. I didn't know I should have been TETHERED to a LIFELINE because it was never, ever mentioned. It wasn't offered. Why were there no safety precautions? As captain, isn't it sort of assumed you protect your crew? I was the ONLY crew so how was it that I didn't merit a PFD????? A harness? Was I overlooked? I WAS the crew.

But the fact is, he should have known. When we left our anchorage that morning to sail for West End, the sky was gray and ominous and even the novice that is me, knew something didn't feel right. I don't recall the patches of blue sky he alludes to in his essay. My recollections of the morning before we weighed anchor were of atmospheric conditions that were in turmoil and certainly not conducive to a clear day of sailing.

I had no idea that we would be sailing out of sight of land or that I would close the day out having experienced what is easily the closest to death I've ever been. I was bruised, exhausted, hungry and filled with anxiety.As soon as the hook was dropped, the captain headed for bed and I spent the evening quietly drinking jasmine tea, cleaning up the sloppy mess the storm had made of the cabin, and walking out to the cockpit and searching the sea for hope in the slowly clearing sky. There were a few stars available that night and, though the sea was still angry, you could feel her mood shifting and settling down. I remember sitting out there alone for hours, trying to understand what I had just lived through. I looked at my arms and legs and torso and realized there were very few inches on my person that weren't bruised or nicked. Mostly, I worked on my mind and told myself it was a fluke, unavoidable and that probably everyone sails through conditions such as this from time to time. I had no yard stick by which to measure what I'd been through.

Only later, and not much later, mostly from hanging out in Oriental this past July, I would learn that most sailors don't encounter the conditions I unwittingly found myself in one month earlier. Most people never see 60 knot winds in foreign waters. The ones who do sometimes don't live to talk about it.

I had to adjust my mental attitude because my "adventure" was hardly finished. I still had the Gulf Stream to cross and while I'd heard a few sea stories from people on the boisterous and unpredictable nature of that river in the sea, I could only wonder if that passage would mimic what I'd just been through. I dearly hoped it would not - oh how I hoped it wouldn't be ANYTHING like the 12 hours I'd just spent being tossed about like a rag doll. But again, I didn't know. I'd never been through any of this before and when you have nothing to measure something against, you just hope for the best and try and remain calm. You tell yourself, "this is normal". And for a time, you buy into it because it's just the best you can do.

Of course, now I look back at that day now and I feel gratitude directed toward God, for allowing me to survive, and anger and frustration that any man's ego could allow him to thumb his nose at the sea with a brand of arrogance I'd never encountered, and allow his boat (and crew!) to be caught up in such dire straits. Yes, I learned a lot about myself, employed coping mechanisms I wasn't even aware I was in possession of, and I survived without a single fit of hysteria or panic - purely by the Grace of God.

The most intriguing part of remaining calm is that I have had panic disorder since the day my sister died when I was 13. I'm talking full-blown, hyperventilating, heart palpitating, dizzying panic attacks that can randomly occur when engaged in the most benign of pursuits. I KNOW how to panic, make no mistake about it. And yet, I can only credit God with preventing even the tiniest hint of those terrifying symptoms to arise during that tumultuous sail on June 2nd. In my mind, that's nothing short of a miracle and I know deep within my marrow that God truly sailed with me on that tiny, tossed sailboat that first Saturday in June. There is no other explanation for it. I felt God with me that day. I prayed like I've never prayed in my life and God was right with me and I experienced the essence of what is called the "peace that passes all understanding". It was one of the most spiritual experiences in my life and should I ever find myself doubting Divine Intervention, I need only recall that day on that ocean in that storm. I know it's real. I lived it.

And I also know, in time, the same God who kept me calm in that storm, will allow me to find a way to let go of the anger that I feel at times, toward the man who placed me in "harm's way". I'm human. I'm not there yet. I struggle with it. I know progress is being made - the anger softens and I remind myself that the man (I can't use the term gentleman because frankly, I know too much) who steered us in the path of that storm has, let us call them, "issues". Personally, I don't believe that he'll ever seek help or even acknowledge the presence of insanity that swirls inside of him. That's simply my opinion based on what I observed and experienced. I can't do anything about any of it but wish him the best and I try hard to sincerely feel that way but, again, I still deal with a great deal of anger directed squarely at him because I almost lost my life courtesy of his arrogance and misdirection.

My experience on that boat and my feelings aren't singular in nature because I've heard from others who have had similar voyages under his direction. These women found themselves on raging seas (though not of a tropical storm variety - thank God!), completely ill-suited to sailing offshore, and they also felt afraid and similarly in danger because the captain's ego overpowered any common sense that would have directed a more humble, reasonable and sound man. Two of them were nearly overdosed on Dramamine and bullied into taking it not per the directions on the label, but as he prescribed which was potentially dangerous. For some reason, he never made the attempt to dose me with Dramamine but I wouldn't have complied because even in the midst of my ill-advised infatuation, I would never take anything prescribed by a lawyer. I hadn't completely lost my marbles! No, I just set sail for parts unknown with a nut - which proves hands down that I'm hardly brilliant and I most certainly don't always make the best decisions.

If you read his essay on "Storms and Other Blessings", I warn you that this is a man who readily admits to writing in a style suited for the likes of the deceased former president, "Woodrow Wilson", and it's a bit on the superfluous, flowery side and, as the captain once reported, he doesn't write for "real people". To be honest, the style is reminiscent of someone trying to mix a "wholesome folksiness" within a dry, stiff framework more suited to writing an amendment to the constitution (of a country I wouldn't want to reside in IF he was in charge of writing anything attached to said constitution) rather than an engaging, page-turning tale - but that's just me and everyone has their own favored literary style. Suffice it to say, I'm not impressed.

I personally found the beginning of the story about "Master Kip" segueing uneasily into the tale of Tropical Storm Barry to be a disjointed meld - kind of like when you have an almost finished puzzle and the final one or two pieces left to place, you discover that in order to make them fit you must aggressively twist and push in order to achieve the necessary interlock and yes, you may have a completed puzzle, but then you have to hope that onlookers won't "notice" that not all the pieces quite fit the way they're supposed to when the puzzle is worked the way it's intended.

What a metaphorical example of my four months this past summer. The puzzle pieces ddn't fit right and it looked askew. Nothing interlocked the way it was suppose to - the way it was intended.

Something about the essay is off but, again, I'm not a "critical first reader" and I'm sure my assessment would be labeled "deconstructive criticism". So be it. I stand behind it. I'm entitled to my opinion. Then again, the captain's literary style sort of befits a man who isn't at all comfortable in his own skin and I don't believe for one-second that he's honestly ever felt comfortable in his skin for more than five minutes in his life. You may well find his style more literary-pleasing than I do. I guess I'm just one of those obstinate "real people" who enjoy nonfiction. I like it when I feel a writer is talking to me in a conversational style. His writings always felt more like homilies and there's nothing wrong with a good homily - I just prefer to receive mine in the sacred setting of a church, rather than read one bound in a book.

Oh, and there's a video attached to the site as well. I don't advise lunch before viewing. Then again, I know the guy. The "Gypsy Moon" lives again, I just fear for whoever takes to the seas under the current administration. I know one thing, my own experience with T.S. Barry aboard the Gypsy Moon most definitely brought me "nearer my God to Thee.".

As for the "acceptance" alluded to in today's meditation at the beginning of this post, I'm seriously working on it. I want to peacefully put this episode behind me, but it's still fresh and there are days I am completely addled by the events that colored my summer of 2007. Hey, I managed surviving a tropical storm and a car wreck that totaled my car. The car wreck, in retrospect, wasn't nearly as difficult to understand and process. Another driver ran a red light and smashed into my car as I was making a left hand turn at an intersection. It was an accident. A mistake. It wasn't pre-meditated and I don't think for one-second that the woman assessed conditions and decided to plow right into the side of my PT Cruiser. She didn't know me and I certainly didn't know her. Yes, it was scary and frightening and I wouldn't ever want to relive it, but it was also so random.

Sailing aboard a 32 foot sailboat in the Abacos into a tropical storm with someone who supposedly had great volumes of skill and all manner of knowledge was not random. He did know me. Because of that, it was all just so much more personal and I still to this day can't understand how someone with such supposed knowledge and skill can act with what I can't help but term an "arrogant miscalculation" and no forethought of safety for his "crew" (me). I try to find answers or understand the thought processes that lead to the decision but, honestly, I'll probably never know. At some point, I know I'm going to have to let go of any hope for logic, and simply "accept" the fact that I can't change any of it. Acceptance is, in fact, an action and one that I am taking...one grateful day at a time.

And I am grateful - even to be around to try and figure out something that will ultimately prove impossible to understand. It's OK, and I'm getting there.

I got a note from my Dad a couple of nights ago after he read the epic, fiction-laced, "Of Storms and Other Blessings":

"Susan - Your Mom is reading a copy of this now.

We are THANKFUL you are HOME TONIGHT.....Love, Dad"

Me too, Daddy. Me too.