Interlude - Sometimes We Just Get Really Sick

A few have courteously inquired as to what has happened to cause such a lag in time between recent postings, the suspicion always being that something catastrophic has occurred. Well, something has occurred, perhaps more “semi” than catastrophic on the scale… but, here’s the whole story as best as my drugged and sedated memory can recall.

On July 27, I was admitted to Kaiser Permanente with intense, life-threatening abdominal pain. To some, turning to Kaiser would be considered to be a death sentence in and of its self! The initial exam suspected possible appendicitis but, because of my history with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, leaned toward a developing condition of diverticulitis or intestinal blockage, which is usually treatable with simple antibiotics. In extreme cases, surgery is required to remove the part of the intestine that is affected, which is not a pretty experience. An incision is made and the intestine is cut from the colon and the colon is stapled shut. The intestine is shortened to remove the infected area then a “new one” is cut and installed somewhere in the abdomen and a bag is installed to collect and manage all the waste until such a time as the GI track is healed and functional again whereupon the abdomen is re-opened and the intestine is re-attached to the colon in a traditional fashion and life goes on as ever before... assuming the psychological trauma of it all is kept in check! The very thought of the procedure makes me break into a cold sweat and when the doctor explained all of this and said that the only way to know for sure was to go in and see, well… I’m getting ahead of myself.

After a series of 2 CAT scans, each of which necessitated drinking a totally intolerable radiated sport drink that my body absolutely refused to hold down, the doctor decided that there appeared to be an abscess on my appendix, which appeared to be infected suggesting that it had ruptured and that it needed to come out. He installed a drain into the abscess and began pumping antibiotics hoping to clear up the infection, make the appendix healthy again, and then remove it orthoscopically in about 3 months. To do it this way is much less invasive.

Regretfully, he didn’t see the progress he had hoped for and began to suspect the possibility of 2 ailments occurring simultaneously; appendicitis and diverticulitis. He ordered a third intolerable CAT scan to better see what was going on and that’s when he said that the only way to know for sure was to go in and have a look. When I went under, I had the worst case scenario on my mind and I remember coming to after the surgery and asking the first person closest to me if there was a bag on my abdomen! She replied with a cheerful smile that all had gone well. It was only the appendix, which had been removed and that my intestine was in pretty good shape for such an old guy! With a sigh of relief I promptly fell asleep through the post-surgery recovery process. Had I known what lay ahead, I wouldn’t have sighed so prematurely.

In this type of appendectomy, it is possible to only close the muscle of the wound and leave the skin open, which allows a drain to remain inserted for several days to insure that all the infection is removed. When the drainage stops and the concern for infection passes, the drain is removed and the skin is then sewn closed and allowed to heal. Those several days were hell but when it came time to remove the dressing and close the wound… This was truly HELL! (Scuze my language!) Writing this makes my eyes tear up again as I recall the terror and pain of the doctor pulling timidly at the gauze that was by now dried and stuck down to raw skin and muscle tissue. I don’t know why they couldn’t have used a non-stick gauze, but they didn’t. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt of knowing what they’re doing and assume that it isn’t possible to do it that way. If it was oversight, somebody’s neck deserves a mighty wringing! I remember helplessly laying there screaming profanities at the top of my lungs and then hearing him finally say, “There, it’s all off. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” He’s fortunate that there were no bats or clubs within my reach!

My next recollection is coming to again and a pretty nurse saying, “There you go Mr. Gibb! You’re all sewed up and put back together again!” I should point out at this point that there is some discrepancy in the story here. Kathy claims that it wasn’t until the next day after the gauze incident that I was sewn up. I remember it happening immediately after the gauze incident, which would deserve double bats or clubs. If he was going to put me under to sew me up, why didn’t he put me under before he began to remove the gauze?

And thus began (because of the invasiveness of this style of appendectomy) my tedious and lengthy recovery process. I remember the pain drug of choice was morphine and that it included a self-medication button. It limited the frequency of doses but otherwise allowed me to choose when I needed more. That button became my best friend. I never lost it over the side of the bed or misplaced it in the covers. I was constantly aware of its where-abouts at all times and centered my entire life on its availability. Usually, I kept it gently coddled in my hand… cradling it to protect it from being lost or damaged lest it not be there when I needed it. It must have worked well because I don’t really remember suffering much pain but I do remember waking up and pushing that button over and over again. I remember the soothing sound of the intra-venous pump running 2 or 3 cycles in response to my push then, with a smile on my face, drifting back to sleep almost like going into a self-induced drug coma. It was bliss! I would make a good addict!

I remember one evening being agitated or upset about something. Most likely, I had been pushing my button but because it limited the frequency, it wasn’t allowing the fix I thought I needed. The nurses were just changing shifts and the new nurse mis-read my symptoms. I think she thought I was in pain and took it upon herself to give me more morphine. I, of course, was eternally grateful but it turned out to be a bit of an overdose. Kathy happened to have been there when this was going on and had an uneasy feeling about it all and decided to spend the night so as to keep an eye on the situation. I’m glad she did. It’s hard to tell how much damage I would have done to myself had she not been there to stop me. Because of their remoteness and busy schedules, the nurses would have never caught it or stopped me in time. She said that on at least 2 occasions she became awakened by my rustling about in bed. One time I was trying to undress myself. The other time I was diligently pulling off all of the heart monitor leads and anything else that was connected to me.

Kathy, “Leon, stop that!”
Leon, “Huh? Stop what?”
Kathy, “You shouldn’t be doing that!”
Leon, with child like innocence, “Oh! OK!”

I was way off the deep end that night, which brings up the next important point of this story; my eternal gratitude for Kathy’s diligence. With tearful acknowledgement I realize how difficult this whole experience would have been without her and her sane, un-hazed, and clear mind there keeping track of decisions on medications, schedules, and procedures. Knowing me like she does and her intuitiveness in which direction to take that would best benefit my improved health was verifiably invaluable beyond description. I’m a very blessed man to have somebody like her… willing to sacrifice so much sleep, time, and attention in my behalf in my times of need... when I was so undeserving. How can I possibly repay this debt or even begin to say an adequate thank-you? If the tables were turned, I know that I would come up miserably short when using her example as a comparative measuring stick of my devotions in her behalf. I don’t have a clue how she managed to sleep on that chair during the nights she chose to spend at the hospital. I don’t know where she found the ambition to wake up in the morning, make sure I was taken care of, and then spend the day at work only to return in the evening to do it all over again. And it’s not like this was the only time she has ever done this. There was the heart attack, followed by an allergic reaction to medication that attacked my lungs. That lasted 2 weeks in 1994 over the Christmas holidays. Then there was a suspected but unconfirmed second heart attack, a stroke, hernia surgery, and now appendicitis. I’m on pins and needles wondering what could possibly be next. Whatever it is, for sure I know where she’ll be throughout the “adventure.” Thank you, Kathy, for loving me.

So, after a 19 day stay, they finally released me to go home. Bear in mind that throughout my stay, until the last couple of days, I had been fed intravenously. I struggled to find my appetite again but it just wouldn’t come. I managed to eat by forcing myself and with the help of anti-nausea medications. Even the thought of food made me gag but I was determined to get the jump on my recovery. I diligently walked each day, which helped to wear me down so I could at least get a partial night’s sleep.

Then the worst of all circumstances struck. Somehow, I caught a stomach flu bug. Though there is no way to prove it, I most likely caught it from the grandkids that happened to be visiting when I came home from the hospital. The fact that my resistances were already quite low didn’t help much. I had diarrhea for 2 days then began to vomit uncontrollably. After 3 days of that Kathy decided that I wasn’t going to be able to fight this off on my own and set up with Kaiser for me to come back in.

At this point, acknowledgments and praise are due to Kaylen (our youngest son) who had also been suffering a more mild bout of the flu. (Before all was said and done, even Kathy eventually came down with it.) Kathy had been working out the arrangements with Kaiser while at work and when things fell into place, it was Kaylen who got himself up out of his sick-bed and hauled me back to the hospital. He, without complaining, spent the day there with me until Kathy got off work and finally relieved him.

They examined me and determined that I was grossly dehydrated and dangerously Potassium deficient. I spent 12 hours between my doctor’s office and the ER while they pumped 4 liters of fluids back in and replaced the missing Potassium. That was last Thursday, the 20TH. We got home about midnight and I have been feeling pretty good since. I still struggle feeling no “want” to eat and drink but manage to do OK. I can feel my systems slowly beginning to normalize. My wound itches and I count that to be a good sign as well.

I’m grateful to be healing and I try not to become disappointed when I think about all the time lost from working on the boat. There is already a month gone and I expect to probably spend another month recovering until I’ll be healthy and strong enough to manhandle the sander again. I had dearly hoped to have the boat painted by this fall and I now see the probability of that not happening. This puts me behind yet another season. The irony is that this is so “par for the course.” This whole boating dream has been nothing but a comedy of failures… one step forward two steps backward. One more failure and I’ll probably give up. I wish my boating brother would take compassion and show up one day willing to lend a helping hand. Knowing that somebody who loves you really cares brings such strength. I truly do not understand why he prefers to be left alone. I need him… I miss him. But he probably has his own burdens to deal with. As do I! First burden; get better!

Three Times the Charm - chapter one

Shortly after we moved to Canby, we became good friends with a family who lived on the outskirts of town. They had children about the same age as ours and we found various other interests in common. Their subdivision was one street long in the middle of a field, which was comprised of 10 or 15, one or two acre parcels. I remember the first time we went to their house. It was a meeting of some kind, a fireside with a guest speaker or maybe a business venture like Amway. They were into those kinds of things and we were willing to tolerate a sells pitch if it might solidify a friendship.

My wife and I turned the corner into their subdivision and as we drove along, I was checking out the neighborhood. About five houses in, I remember hitting the brakes and backing the car about 50 yards or so. I had to have another look to see if I had actually seen what I thought I saw.

Kathy rolled her eyes but had learned by now that this was typical behavior of her husband. I have always kept one eye on the road and one eye trained on the passing countryside and she learned early in our marriage to expect and tolerate sudden, un-forewarned U-turns so that I could check out potential vintage car restoration projects or really cool sailboats. I have even been known to discover homemade airplane projects being built in garages. Sometimes, the garage doors were even closed! That has been one of the perks from being disabled. They took away my driver’s license because they think I can’t see well enough to drive, which frees up both of my eyes to keep watch on the passing countryside. My visual impairment has so far not affected my capacity to spot reasons to turn around but, since I’m no longer the driver, I’ve surrendered not only my license but the authority to find value in U-turning. It turns out that she apparently didn’t enjoy all those little excursions as much as I did!

But, I digress! (If you aren’t familiar with the details of my disability, be patient. That story is chronologically still somewhere off in the future.)

It turned out to be a mobile home… a bit rundown with overgrown landscaping making it difficult to see past the front of the house. There didn’t appear to be anything unusual that was likely to catch my appeal. Yet, as we resumed our way on down the block there was something about it that stuck with me… a nagging itch that needed pacification.

On our way home after the meeting, I was determined to have another closer look and, despite my wife’s objections, I slowed substantially as we neared the mobile home. I’m sure, if someone was looking, we would have appeared somewhat conspicuous… strangers creeping down the road while pryingly gawking at everyone’s home. I found an opening between the jungle-ish landscaping that gave me visual access to the property behind, but it was so dark by now all I could make out was the dim outline of a small barn. Again, nothing that was likely to catch my appeal. Puzzled at why I should be drawn toward a scene that appeared so ordinary, I reluctantly dismissed the “itch” by concluding that I had only thought I had seen something.

It was a week or two later that I had my second opportunity to drive down that street. I had been assigned chauffeur duty for our oldest son who wanted another taste of country living. We lived in town in those days and playing in the wide open spaces of country life had an irresistible appeal to our children.

I had dismissed the itch so effectively that it didn’t occur to me until we were well past the mobile home. After dropping Loren off and I was driving back out, I again was determined to have one more look. I passed slowly so as not to miss anything and eventually arrived once again at the break in the shrubbery. I let the car creep along and again saw the barn beginning to come into view.

And… then… there she was. *Cue: orchestra, resolute romantic melody!*

THIS IS A SIMILARITY OF MY FIRST ENCOUNTER. THE ACTUAL BOAT WAS INDESCRIBABLY MORE BEAUTIFUL EVEN IN ITS NEGLECTFUL CIRCUMSTANCES!

There were trees close by benevolently trying their best to throw shade over her but through their limbs and leaves I could make out the shape of something very, very appealing. She was nestled in shoulder deep grass, the trailer was barely visible and blackberries were beginning to send their shoots across her foredeck. I stopped. I froze. I stared.

She had no mast but there was no question that she was for sailing. I quickly drank in as much of the scene that my hyped, adrenaline soaked hormones would allow my brain to absorb. Hormones? Yes… It was love at first sight! Definitely, hormones were involved.

To avoid being found suspected of invasion of privacy, I forced myself to continue on down the road. But by the time I reached the corner I had devised so many questions about what I had seen that I u-turned and went back for another look. I was headed in a direction that was more to my advantage this time and by slowing without stopping I was able to draw conclusions. Yes, there were scratches in her port quarter and yes, something was amiss with the rudder, the flow of its shape was distorted… broken perhaps. From this distance, it was difficult to know for sure. I also noticed that one of the legs of the bowsprit pulpit was sprung loose and hanging in mid-air.

Despite those several painful distractions, I could feel my heart amorously going thumpity-thump. This boat had obviously been neglected for a considerable time (judging from the mature overgrowth) and apparently had a traumatic history of some sort. As I drove back to town, my mind raced around several possible scenarios. Maybe the boat had been involved in a collision and the captain had been knocked overboard and lost at sea… or maybe murdered by pirates and his distraught, mourning widow didn’t have the heart to maintain the boat. Surely, she would eagerly welcome the opportunity to sell it for pennies on the dollar just to get rid of the ill memories and especially considering it was going to a romantic like me who had the skills and the yearning to return the boat to its luster.

What was I thinking? Even if that bereaved widow GAVE me that boat I couldn’t afford it. And by “affording it” I’m not necessarily talking only in monetary terms. I wasn’t sure I could afford to make room in my already too busy schedule for such a big project whose order of priority would tempt me to push it to the top of the list. I knew my mate would have something negative to say about that and, could I afford THAT?

It’s interesting how the realities of life turn out to be so distinctive from what you thought as a teenager it would be like. It’s not like I wasn’t happy with the choices I had made. It’s just that I discovered that the choices I made were conflicting with the dreams I had nurtured and I found a disparaging and ever widening gap growing between reality and my aspirations. I realized the possibility that my dreams might not come true, and to keep ahead of depression, I had to concede to the actuality that they weren’t dreams at all, but only fantasies.

Note to reader: I know, I know. I can see you now… pounding your fist on the table and screaming, “You idiot! That’s not how it goes! You NEVER let go of your dreams or you’re doomed to spend your life lamenting all the ‘what-ifs’ that never were.”

Well, for what it’s worth, that’s one of the reasons I’m writing all of this. I have learned that the process of surviving reality requires concession. You see, I didn’t let go of my dream and I’m now beginning to see how much it’s going to cost me (again not in monetary terms). I’m not really sure that the dream is worth the cost and I can see the real possibility that even the realization of my dream could cause me to lament a few “what-ifs” that might have helped avoid failure.

What is the equation that determines success or failure in life anyway? Who really knows? Of the estimated 6.8 billion inhabitants on earth, I would venture there are approximately 6.8 billion theories on what it takes to live a successful, fulfilling life. I guess the only way to validate all the diversity is to settle on the notion that it’s an individual thing. Everybody’s theory is right in its own way.

Another note to reader: Of you reading this who are religiously “zealoted” and caught up in the belief of absolute truth, I can see you now… pounding your fist on the table and screaming, “You idiot! I know you know that the ‘what-ifs’ aren’t important. Real success doesn’t come until the hereafter. In the meantime, all you need is faith, obedience, and service mixed with a yearning for food storage and genealogy to find fulfillment and happiness!”

Well, for what it’s worth, to that assertion I would add just this one more argument… … But, I digress!

I could hardly wait for the appointed hour to pick Loren up at his friend’s. I left 20 minutes early hoping to discretely spend a bit of time looking for more evidence of this boat’s history. When I got there I pulled off to the right at the view’s strategic location then pretended to be occupied by looking for something in the car. I spent the majority of time gazing intently at the boat in the distance while occasionally bending over and shuffling through the glove box. Just to be this close to her offered solace and peace as I memorized each detail of her seaworthiness and dreamed about the adventure she could provide.

Besides the times when we had occasion to visit our friend’s home, there were other times while traveling that I had the chance to see her again. From the road between Canby to Molalla, it was only about 2 miles out of my way to secretly slip down the street where she lived and enjoy another few intimate minutes of blissful pleasure together. Of course, typical of most married men looking for extramarital intrigue, I only took advantage of these little “side trips” when I traveled alone. I knew it was a lost cause to expect my wife to be indulgent of this diversion with another female, no matter how inanimate. My purpose in going there was to make sure she was still there and to see if she had been disturbed or changed in any way. With the exception of being occasionally relocated to various parts of the property, (I assume to facilitate pasture management) nothing ever changed.

To my children’s chagrin I confess… this illicit affair went on for years. I think that it all started in the early to mid 80’s and she and I didn’t come out of our closet until August of 1994. There were times when I was consumed with the need to visit her and times when years went by without any opportunities presenting themselves. Eventually, she hardly ever even crossed my mind. The pressures of earning an always-too-meager income to meet the needs of 7 children made it easy to neglect her. Besides, similar to the habits of those blessed few who have experienced true love, we had developed an understanding and confidence in each other. She knew where my devotions lay and that I would be back eventually. I knew she was patiently waiting for me and I had a deep-rooted, sixth-sense assurance that she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

Part 9

I sat toward the back of the class. It was a 9th grade U.S. history class at Pioneer Junior High… affectionately referred to as Pi. Hi. In those days, 9th grade was still part of Junior High. It was the first period after lunch and I was satiated, comfortable, and fighting off the urge to nap. The teacher was droning on in a boring monotone that was soothingly dull and guaranteed to make me lose the battle against sleep. I wished I knew which brilliant administrator it was who came up with the great idea of offering a U.S. History class right after lunch.

As my eyelids drooped and my head began to nod, my ears thought they heard the word “boat” and I was instantly awake again. He was saying something about Washington Crossing the Delaware, which was a rude let-down bringing me back to the cruel reality of a history subject, not a boating subject. At least with boats on my mind I might be able to avoid dozing while giving the appearance of paying attention and possibly steer myself clear of trouble.

I blocked him out and mentally reviewed my most recent conclusions regarding my next boat’s design criteria and performance expectations. They had been bumped up a notch due to my past experiences. A size increase would be necessary so that it could accommodate at least 2 crew members thereby eliminating the need to wait for a turn. The ability to keep water out was also high on my list. In my mind, to haul the weight of 2 boys equated to increased beam, freeboard, and draft. Esthetics seemed to have importance as well. I didn’t want to have to take responsibility for having created a monstrosity.

In the background of my daydream, I heard him tell us to get out a piece of paper and write down a few important dates that would for sure be on the next test. I reached for my spiral-bound and began thumbing through in search of a blank page. On my way there I got distracted by some of my more recent boat sketches. Some of them were beauties but far beyond my skill level. While he assumed that I was diligently taking notes, I penciled in weak places and accented important details on some of the unfinished drawings.

Because it was so readily available and affordable, I felt restricted to the dimensions of a 4X8 sheet of plywood. That meant that it needed to be as wide as 4 feet but could only be 8 feet long. This presented a problem designing something within those limitations that still had the pleasing visual characteristics of a boat. When drawn to scale, I found its appearance totally unacceptable because it tapered from 4 feet wide to a pointed bow within the confines of an 8 foot sheet of plywood. It looked stubby and awkward. I liked the feel of the three foot beam but wasn’t sure it would ride high enough to be comfortable for 2 people. A square bow lent decent proportions to the four foot beam but it almost caused me to break into a cold sweat because it reminded me of past experiences.

By now, I considered myself to be an experienced shipwright; one well versed in the use of plywood as a construction technique. Canvas and tar were definitely out! Despite my affinity for wood, I couldn’t help but notice the appearance and growing popularity of Fiberglass Reinforced Plastic (FRP) in boat construction. It was a relatively new medium of the day and only barely taken seriously for offshore work. For my purposes, it was the natural cure to all of my painful agonizing about how to keep the insides of my next boat dry. My early morning 30 minute library research sessions headed off in a new direction. It seemed fairly simple to do… easy enough for even a 14 year old. Take a half cup of resin, thoroughly mix in 12 drops of hardener and spread it on quickly before it had the chance to “kick” and turn into a solid block of plastic. It wasn’t long until I felt confident that I knew enough to give it a try. I was mentally ready to go. All I needed was to decide on the design I was going to build.

“Take out your textbooks,” the teacher droned. I raised the desktop and there sitting on top of my textbook was my recently checked-out library book, “Boat Building with Fiberglass” and temptation took an even deeper grip. I felt foolishly confident that if I managed to get it open on the desk in front of me perhaps he wouldn’t notice. It was slightly smaller than the textbook… about the size of a hymnbook and so I further disguised it by setting my notebook slightly over the top of it while I began to browse.

Speaking of hymnbooks…

Over the course of that school year, I became acquainted with Donna. She was my older sister’s age and enjoyed singing. She had a pretty soprano voice as I recall. My sister and I liked to sing and, sitting together in church, Jessie taught me all about harmony while singing hymns. In the years previous to puberty before my voice began to change, (I was probably about 9 or 10) we developed a pattern of singing together. If Jessie sang the melody, I would sing alto. If Jessie took the alto line, that afforded me the choice of melody or tenor. As my voice eventually began to drop, I discovered the thrill of being able to sing way down low on the bass line. It was probably my favorite because it was the foundation of the harmony and provided a solid sense of rhythm and confidence. However, over the years I learned that really good basses are hard to find but regular basses are a “dime-a-dozen”. Anybody can sing bass so I decided to be a tenor and fortunately, my “voice change” was kind to me and accommodated my resolve. I can’t remember mother ever involving herself in our harmonizing. I knew she sang even well enough to be in the church choir. I think when she heard us break into parts, she must have stopped singing just to listen.

One morning, when we began singing the opening hymn, we heard the sweetest soprano sounds coming from the pew behind us. Jessie immediately switched to alto, which forced me down to tenor and, golly, it was pretty! I didn’t dare turn around to see who that sweet sounding soprano was but it was obvious that she was tuned-in to the sounds of our trio as well.

After the meeting concluded, we discovered that it was Donna and the three of us got together and agreed that it would be fun to try something besides hymns. There was a talent show coming up, numerous school opportunities and, of course, the music chairman was always excited to learn about new sources for special musical performances in church. And thus began a life-long career and love of music and singing.

I suppose that because it was close enough for me to walk there after school, we decided to do our practicing at Donnas’ house. It was at one of these practices that I became acquainted with Don, Donnas’ dad and namesake. I knew who he was but until then I didn’t really know him. He had a calm way of imparting wisdom that taught me so many important, timelessly valuable lessons about life. He was a gentle, loving man and as a result of the friendship that evolved, I will be eternally grateful and forever in his debt for his selfless kindnesses and personable interest in me. I only wish that I had one more chance to talk to him. I’d spell out the depth of my appreciation with a big ol’ bear hug.

As you can imagine, practicing with Jessie and Donna involved tolerating considerable girlish chit-chat, which occasionally caused us to (in my opinion) waste a lot of time. While patiently waiting one day for their gossip sessions to wind down so we could head for home, Donnas’ dad noticed my boredom and sympathetically invited me out to his garage.

When we entered, I immediately could tell that he hadn’t parked his car in there for a long time. There was sawdust everywhere. It was a large garage and directly in the middle I recognized a table saw. Lining the walls and set up in various spots throughout the area were numerous other tools most of which I had no idea what task they performed. I saw blades and bits and switches and cords running everywhere. There was a strong, sweet smell of a mixture of oak, fir, and glue and off to the side was a project in progress that had shelves and lots of clamps. I felt like I had just crossed the veil and this must be what heaven smelled like.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think this is really neat!” I responded. “What does that one do?”
“Oh, it lines up the blogenphlap with the forthfernaught then trims them flush.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but he sure sounded authoritative like he knew everything there was to know. Then I noticed that his right hand was missing a finger.

“What happened?” I pried, gesturing toward his hand.

He then took the opportunity to spend 20 minutes instilling in me a healthy fear and a cautious respect for the destructive powers of the spinning blade of a table saw. He made me swear that I would tirelessly and devotedly pay homage to its supreme authority.

“When that blade is turning, IT is in charge, not you!” he boisterously ordered.” Never close your eyes or turn your back on that tool when the motor is on,” he emphatically demanded with a drill sergeant’s tact. “You’ll never win a battle against THAT blade, I promise you! When YOU’RE not paying attention, IT will be.”

Clearly he loved the tool but hated it at the same time. As I resisted the urge to vomit, I was almost sorry I brought it up!

Note to reader:
Although I’ve had my share of close calls over the years and have even on several occasions lost skin and blood as a result of that blade’s gruesome, deadly, and unyielding vengeance, I feel blessed to be able to announce that I still have all of my fingers. His graphically dreadful admonitions that day must have sunk in and scaring the bajeebas out of me paid off. (Knock on wood because I’m not done with the table saw yet!)

Reflections

Chronologically out of order. Maybe a better word would be chrono-illogically. I wrote this sometime last winter (2008). It had been raining for days and I was in one of those “moods”… tired of all the cold rain and antsy for spring and to be out working on the boat. I think that my conscience was working on me. I must have been suffering some guilt for ignoring her for so many years.


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Three Times the Charm

I look out past the back deck at my baby... lonely, cold and neglected... half under the shop roof, half under a tarp. Granted, these meager accommodations are much nicer than she has been accustomed to, but still... I can almost hear her whispering curses at me for ignoring her for so long. I'm reluctant and almost embarrassed to go to the shop for a tool because I have to walk so closely past her and I don't even stop to visit. I glance up at her and I can feel the communication... the mutual, kindred desire for each other tugging us together much akin to the experience of locking eyes with a beautiful stranger in a public place. The attraction, the titillation, and the twinkle in her eye that says she likes what she sees... the coy smile that you return in concurrence... then, you force yourself to pass her by. She was excited with anticipation then bitterly disappointed, to be jilted once more... to feel the rug of a potentially intimate rendezvous crassly jerked out from under her.

As I pass by her on my return trip to the house to resume my remodeling chores, I can almost hear her stifle a tearful shudder and a deep, remorseful sigh... or was it just the wind in the trees? Puzzled, I can't resist stopping and turning to look back at her one more time before passing through the back door into the house. Even when she's sad I don't think that in my nearly 60 years I've ever seen anything compare with her poise, beauty, and graceful elegance. She catches my glance and quickly hides her tears and, with almost canine devotion, she smiles back hopefully, in a sentimental display of understanding, tenderness, and forgiveness.

To some, she is just a boat. To others, she is a hugely frivolous nuisance… a distraction that sucks the life out of priorities and makes a mockery of worthwhile time invested. In church when they talk about boats, it’s in scornful reference to covetousness and the evils of breaking the Sabbath day… or squandering money that could be better spent on sacred things. Never mind that it was an Ark that preserved humanity… and a ship that carried an ancient prophet’s family to settle Central America. In Sunday school, it’s conveniently overlooked that both of those voyages had to have caused a compromise of latter-day definitions about what constitutes acceptable Sabbath day activities. By contrast, they knowingly and approvingly smile at the testimonials of those who twiddle away the Sabbath day in appeasement of their genealogical hobbies.

Despite all the contemptuous notoriety, to me, she is an empathetic companion who cures idleness and discouragement… a therapeutic ointment for a broken heart. She bolsters me up and gives me youthful vigor. She fills my life’s need to have goals, dreams, hope and reason to keep going. She is a work of art in progress… the dollop of clay in the artist’s hand prepared to be molded into something beautiful… a rough sketch on canvas awaiting the joinery of wooden brush strokes to give her color, definition, and personality.

She is 26 feet of shapely bends, swoops and curves that sit atop a strong, full and heavy keel all of which proclaim ‘seaworthy.’ Her sheer line is filled with utter magic that causes the eye of the passerby to stop and stare almost in disbelief. “Did I really see that?” he asks himself as he rubs his eyes to sharpen his view. “Are my eyes deceiving me? How is it possible that a designer could capture that much character and charm in the simple twist of her sheer?”

Thomas Gilmer obviously knew what he was doing. There is a natural attraction exuding from her lines that causes even the most lubberish of landlubbers to stop and ponder and yearn to know more about this boat. What’s her name? Where did she come from? Who designed her? But, even knowing those facts never seems enough. They want to talk about how she handles in this or that condition and where she’s been and where she’s off to. They can tell just by looking at her that she is destined to voyage and that she must have a unique story that they thirst to hear.

She does. And I feel an irresistible compulsion to share it with them. It’s not an easy story to tell. It’s already full of a complex mixture of pleasure and trauma. She’s a two time survivor before she’s even been completely finished and seaworthy. Her first catastrophe was falling victim to an icy winter storm’s attempt to drown her but she managed to keep enough above water to stay alive. The second was an attempt to burn her down but a compassionate fireman heard her cries for help and saved her first. This is her third chance and most likely my last chance. This time around, for her it will be… “Three times the charm.”

Interlude

In the previous posting I confessed that I don’t believe in luck. This confession might deserve an explanation. While writing about that experience I encountered, by timely coincidence, an author whom I am growing to respect and who explains it better than I. Tommy Cook (a sailor, naturally!) has a sixth sense with which he reads my heart and pens my feelings on the subject: “You see, ‘luck’ is merely a word contrived to sell me lotto tickets and get me to the casino or to allow me to explain away another’s hard work, ‘he’s sure lucky’”. To see the entire explanation in its eloquence, click on
http://www.arcticsolosail.com/blog/
Find the entry of May 14, 2009 titled “Luck”. It’s a worthwhile and enjoyable read.

part 8

Until this point in time, I felt heavily the weight of our predicament but had managed to stay collected; confident that survival was still within our reach. I could see the shore only another 200 feet or so away but, as the boat quickly filled with water and began its decent, doubts and questions about my swimming abilities arose in my mind and I felt my confidence in survival begin to wane. I became particularly anxious when I heard Joe frantically call out that he didn’t know how to swim. “Why, I asked myself, did he wait until now to bring that up?”

The facts of what rapidly transpired in the next minute or two are not really clear in my mind. I’m sure that, at the moment, my mental processes were preoccupied by fear. What is clear today is that what happened was nothing short of a miracle.

I’m pretty sure that Joe’s announcement caused me to finally give in to panic because I believed that it was very likely that Joe was going to perish that day. I felt like my swimming skills were probably good enough for me to save myself but I knew that I didn’t have the training or stamina to save myself and Joe. I also feared that my valiant lifesaving attempt would most likely cause the loss of my own life. I was faced with making a quick and dreadfully mature and consequential decision.

In those fleeting few seconds of terror, my life began to pass before my eyes (as folklore testifies) and I reflected on the opportunities I had had to learn better swimming skills. Most recently; just that past summer at Boy Scout camp on Wallowa Lake, I had declined to sign up for any waterfront instruction. The water was so cold it was all I could do to pass the qualifying swim test. There was no way that I could persuade myself to want to return and willingly get in that frigid water again. If someone had told me then that it might have made the difference between my best friend’s life and death, I would have done it. At least, in those fleeting few seconds of terror, I wished that I had done it.

I suppose that I could turn this into an incredibly believable Hollywood epic screenplay (as believable as all of their screenplays are) by elaborating on how a porpoise miraculously came out of nowhere and scooped Joe up and towed him to shore. Or, maybe a fisherman’s boat suddenly appeared at the last moment. Or, Joe’s dad had coincidentally installed floats on his airplane and swooped out of the sky to save his son. But, what really happened, though equally miraculous, wasn’t nearly so dramatic.

As the boat went under I felt a natural inclination to take a stroke or two in an effort to escape the area and avoid becoming entangled in loose canvas. I looked for Joe and saw him a ways off, thrashing his arms and pleading for help. I stopped and treaded water in a vertical position while I pondered what I was going to have to do. Joe was, by now, choking and gasping for breath. I can only imagine the depth of helpless despair and the breadth of fear that he must have been suffering in those moments as he fought with the realization that these were his last. I know that I agonized at the prospect of watching him drown and knew that I didn’t have a strong enough character to cold-heartedly abandon him in his need. I felt my decision process leaning toward dying together rather than having to live with myself knowing that I didn’t even try.

It was while I was floating there that it happened. I expected to see him, at any second, go under for the last time. I kicked my legs such as to put myself into a swimming posture that would take me to Joe’s aid and I thought that I felt something beneath my feet. I extended my legs out straight and, to my surprise, (and huge relief) I found myself standing in water, chin deep! With only seconds to spare I propelled myself to Joe’s side and felt his trembling arms wrap around me in a death grip. Had the water been as deep as we assumed that it was, there would have been no way to have freed myself from his grasp and he would have taken me down with him.

I had to yell at him to penetrate his hysteria and get him to comprehend that all was well and that we weren’t going to die after all. With both of us now standing, we made our way together toward shore. I say together because Joe refused to let go of me until we arrived into knee deep water.

We sat together on the shore waiting for our composure to return. Words weren’t necessary. Tearful gratitude and indebtedness were thick in the air between us as we savored the sweet fragrance of each life sustaining breath we inhaled. Besides, expressions of gratitude weren’t applicable. I didn’t really save Joe’s life. One… I was there and, two… Joe was there, but it was the third element that saved us both. We were either lucky or blessed, depending on your definition and based on your source of faith. As for me, I don’t accept that it was luck because I don’t believe in it.

Finally, I heard Joe mutter, “We gotta get the canvas off that boat or my stepdad will make me wish I had drowned today!”

In all of these years, the ramifications and humbling significance of this experience has never occurred to me until writing this story. I now have a better understanding of my empathetic nature… … Life is just too short and too precious to waste it caught up in ourselves.

Interlude

Author’s note…
It has come to my attention that there may be some discrepancies or inaccuracies in the facts of these recollections. After some 45 plus years since their occurrences, I’ll admit that my memory has a tendency to let me down a bit. I know that these events happened and that most of them involved other people. The shortcomings of my mental diary may have caused a mix-up concerning the locations of which events that involved what person. Add to that the fact that these were adolescent experiences now recounted through an adult’s perspective with a more mature interpretation and, the others who were there might be left wondering why their recollection is different than mine. In other words; I may not have precisely told my friend “not to dawdle too long lest he sink and be lost at sea” but, had I been 59 years old on that day, I surely would have.

Anyway… back to the story!