Myths

When I was a boy, my mother taught me that the treatment for a sore throat was to swab it with a Q-tip dipped in turpentine. This makes me laugh today because I know that turpentine is toxic… a poison! She could have done no worse to us had she used gasoline! But she was a firm believer. Her mother administered the same treatment and her mother’s mother probably did too. I remember going over to visit her and Charles a few years back when they lived around the corner from my present home and finding out that she was “under-the-weather” with a sore throat but had taken care of it with turpentine. In a modern world of easily accessible information and a horde of available “legitimate” and affectively safe remedies, her misconceptions could not be changed.  For me, the day I left home was the first day of never again tasting turpentine! My high school education was all it took to bust that myth.

To illustrate my point, let’s turn this story around. Let’s suppose that my mother taught me religiously to always use turpentine and although it did seem to be effective, she eventually learned, to her horror, the potential dangers of that remedy. How could she correct the wrong that she so diligently instilled in her children?

Here’s an interesting article. When you read it, consider the tactics of organized religion… in particular, the LDS Church.  http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/09/03/AR2007090300933.html?hpid=moreheadlines

When I read it, I shook my head incredulously and envisioned my home teacher, high priest’s quorum and Sunday school teacher… all the church members and friends who mentally have called me apostate (because I can read their minds!) who refuse to participate with me in any conversation on the subject of church history. I realize now that I spent a lifetime swabbing my children’s throats and now that I have real facts and realize the mistake I made, try as I might, as the Washington Post's article points out, there seems to be no way to right my wrong. I'm told how devastating it is to them that I have given up turpentine but, in another way, it is devastating to me as well.

Sold

As of this morning, it looks like we have a deal and the house is sold. All the counter offers and the counter-to-the-counter offers have been found to be acceptable. There is only a slim chance now that the buyers might back out, but they're quickly running out of time so it's looking good. We didn't get as much as we hoped for but, in today's market, I guess it could be argued that we didn't do too bad. At least... not too bad until I start to think about what the place was worth 4 years ago. I try not to do that!

So, the quest for relocation can now officially begin. My wife just couldn't wait. I guess she was excited with anticipation and wanted to get a head start so she has already moved out. Interestingly enough, the day she moved out was the day the eventual buyers first walked through the house. I'm not saying that there is a correlation but I can't help but wonder. Hopefully, her life is happier now.

It has occurred to me that, for the first time in what seems like my whole life, I can go anywhere I want to go and do anything that pleases me and only me, however difficult and complicated that might be due to my disability. That feels pretty weird, yet pretty liberating as well. I have spent forever always trying to please someone else and now I don’t have to do that anymore. I think that, for all those years, I had it all wrong. I think that the peace and happiness of life is a journey that becomes successful and worthwhile, not because of pleasing each other but because of sharing it together. When one takes charge and overshadows the other by setting the standards even to the point of demanding adherence, it ceases to be a sharing experience and a void of resentment is formed. Even in these first few weeks of my newly acquired independence I have begun to recognize and acknowledge that I have a responsibility to myself to do what is right. I now am “self-obligated” to answer to “me” and I actually find myself feeling like going to church and trying to do the right things. But then again… maybe I’m just lonely!





For the most part, I'm going to miss this place while, at the same time, there are some memories I can't wait to put behind me. I'll never forget the sensation after first moving here back in 1986. It was so long ago. I was driving down the lane on my way home after work for the first time. I rounded the corner and the property came into view and I had to stop the truck. It was a hot August evening and I could see my children playing in the yard... their young voices shrill with contentment. They always seemed to relax at the top of their lungs. As expected, Chris was halfway up a tree with a board, hammer, and nails in hand with Cameron not far below giving directions to keep the board level. Several more were bouncing on the trampoline as the woods did their best to damper the volume of the noisy irreverence. Another was busily trying to teach the dog to fetch. Candy (the dog) came with the purchase. She probably already knew how to fetch but was either already worn out by the kid’s rambunctiousness or old enough that she just didn't care to do that anymore.

I sat there for probably 10 minutes, soaking in the aroma of pine trees... the sounds of excitement... the scenery before me. I was consumed by an overflowing tide of emotion that I have felt from that same spot in the lane countless times since. It was an overpowering feeling of confidence and reassurance that everything was Ok and life was good… a kind of “goodnight-mama-goodnight-John-Boy” sort of a feeling.

I’ve had similar experiences regarding the boat. I used to keep it at a moorage that had high banks and a long ramp down to the docks. After parking the truck and on my way down the ramp, I would have to stop and eye the Turtle below me. She seemed so perky and beautiful… impatiently pulling at her dock-lines as though wishing for me to hurry. I know that there were many other boats parked nearby but I never was inclined to see any of them. We have spent many times together when the wind howled and the seas threatened but I always felt reassurance and confidence that she would bring me home safely. And when she did, I would have to stop on my way up the ramp and soak in one more parting look to keep my memory rejuvenated until I returned for the next adventure.

Well, this old house has certainly been an adventure and the realization of my wanderlust dream certainly promises to be adventurous as well. Anticipation is a marvelous motivator. Just ask my wife!

Someone's trying to tell me something about dreams

A couple of weeks ago, I changed the caption under the main blog photo (dreams are just dreams) to reflect my feelings as of lately. Last night, Kaylen and I had Panda Express for dinner. His fortune read: "There are big changes ahead for you." Mine read: "Your dreams will become reality." Today, our counter-offer was accepted by a family wanting to buy our house. So, it looks like it might sell afterall!

It's almost enough to make a believer out of me... ... but not quite! I think I'll leave the caption there a while longer, just to be on the safe side. The deal could still fall apart at any moment. No sense in humbling myself prematurely only to find out that I, in fact, knew all along what I was talking about!

New engine bulkhead and galley table

The piece on the left is the engine bulkhead and the piece on the right is the new table. They are of cedar and not yet finished. You will notice that the knots in the beautiful woodwork grew, amazingly enough, in strategically located places to coincide with parts of constellations. (Very nautical, I think!!) In the foreground is the prototype of the table hardware. It will eventually be mounted to the engine bulkhead. In these pictures, it’s laying down in relationship to how it will be mounted. (You can click on these pictures and get a little better view.)

This is a close-up of the table supports. They mount under the table and to the bulkhead.

This is the first sequence as the table begins to move into its stowed position.

The table continues to move toward its stowed position.

Here, the table is in a fully stowed position against the engine bulkhead. All of the hardware will be out of sight behind the table top.

Close-up of the hardware design. The locknuts are not yet fully seated because I foresee the need of disassembling many more times before arriving at a “finished” state. My object here was merely to prove that the design would work… which it beautifully did leaving me relieved and satisfied. The hardware is aluminum that I scrounged years ago from an old portable blackboard that had been discarded at work. The pivot shafts are also aluminum, which I threaded on both ends. The brown piece between the bracket and strut is Formica laminated to a thin piece of plywood. It acts as a spacer/bushing/dampener, to stabilize their action.

The table’s success and notoriety will depend on a specially designed latch to hold it in the fully extended and fully stowed positions. So far, this latch design is only in my mind but I’m confident it will work.

The only costs, to date, are the aluminum pivot shafts and locknuts… less than $10. The cedar was cut and milled from a tree on my friend’s property. I had to pay $100 to the sawmill for a huge, huge stack of cedar that I will be hard-pressed to find enough uses for. Therefore, the cost of the lumber in the table and bulkhead is barely computable. I suspect that there will be a lot of cedar used in the exposed interior finishwork of this boat!

Three Times the Charm - Chapter 2

Steve was a handyman. He was born with it… a natural comprehension of all things mechanical. That kind of stuff came easy for him so he capitalized on his interests and eventually got an engineering degree and became a vocational arts teacher. When I knew him, he was teaching electrical engineering in the industrial vocation department at Canby High School in Oregon. Because I had children in high school, I knew who he was and what he did but I had no clue that he was into sailing.

He grew up with an ambition for adventure and early in his marriage (late 60’s) he became interested in boating. One day while reading from the monthly periodical “Rudder,” a flattering review boasting the virtues and handling characteristics of the Privateer caught his eye. An intensive investigation revealed that the boat was still in production and was affordably available as a hull and deck “kit” to be finished by the owner. Numerous communications ensued, which even included correspondence with the boat’s designer, Thomas Gillmer. Eventually, a deal was struck, the money was paid, and the hull and deck was delivered to Steve’s home in Albuquerque, New Mexico where he was then living. This would have been in 1974 or 75.

He assembled the assortment of components and rough built some cabinetry and berths to the point that made the boat serviceable. He figured out, drew up schematics, and installed all the wiring then converted a 4 cylinder gasoline Datsun engine for marine use by building a custom designed water jacket for the exhaust header and an exhaust/water mixing elbow. He designed and built a water lift muffler and for a transmission, he designed a variable speed hydraulic pump and motor drive system. He built a rugged goose-neck style trailer to cradle the boat during construction and, before completing any of the finishing touches, began sailing on the various lakes of New Mexico.

And the Intrepid Turtle was born. Its name has a bit of a story. In that era, as old timers will remember, the America’s Cup winner (and namesake) was named Intrepid. If he ever found himself in a regatta, win or lose, Steve figured that the name of his boat would apply wherever he placed in the race.

A teaching position became available near Winchester Bay, Oregon and because of the ocean’s close proximity, making the decision to move came easily. They pulled the boat to Oregon and launched it in the bay. Then they returned to Albuquerque with the trailer and used it to move the remainder of their belongings. Although he and his family only lived near Winchester Bay for a short while, they enjoyed numerous opportunities to experience the movement of ocean swells and the maladies that motion brings as they ventured on short excursions up and down the coast.

Better pay and a more prestigious position motivated their next relocation and they moved north to Canby Oregon in the fall of 1981. This found them further inland but relatively close to the Columbia River where they would remain for the next 12 or so years. The school year was about to start and time was short. They choreographed this move similar to the first by off-loading the boat into the Columbia then using the trailer as a U-Haul.

After the move, the first order of business was to settle-in. There were many boxes to unpack, job-hunting for his wife, and finding his “place” in a new high school with new peers, unfamiliar students, and demanding responsibilities. The stresses of establishing a good reputation by demonstrating his conscientiousness monopolized all of his time and priorities during the first few months of school. Because of these distractions, the boat, safely tied in a secure moorage, slipped to the back of his conscious attentiveness. Besides, winter was on its way and most of the boating community in this area goes into hibernation until spring.

As fate would have it, winter that year came early and with a vengeance. Much school attendance was lost to snow-days and travel throughout the valley was difficult at best. Unusually heavy snowfall choked the traffic flow but the big news was freezing rain. After an unprecedented 12 to 14 inch accumulation of snow, it began to rain, which saturated the snow then instantly froze. The weighty buildup of water bloated snow brought down trees and power lines everywhere.

I remember being stuck at home for days, unable to open the garage door because of deep snow and ice. It was beautiful to look at but treacherous to navigate by car or even by foot. I remember watching the local news broadcasts reporting the number of power outages and tallying a death toll of senior citizens who, without power, were found frozen to death. I still incredulously wonder how, with so much technology and so many amenities available, someone in this day and age could possibly freeze to death in their own home. It must have really been cold that winter.

Streams, lakes, and rivers froze solid including the mighty Columbia. It froze over from shore to shore except for the strip of faster moving water down the center of the channel. This was a good thing because when it eventually began to thaw and break up, that strip gave the ice a place to go and to keep moving. I remember another winter near Idaho Falls, which froze the Snake River over solid. When it began to break up, there was no place for the ice to go so it piled up upon itself and created a dam, which caused massive flooding. I wonder if that could have been the same winter.

While trapped at home trying to cope with the seriousness of the weather, I remember watching an evening news late development. The heavy snowfall was wreaking havoc on the waterfront. The weight of the snow was causing gas explosions and electrical fires in the floating home communities. Because of their remoteness and the terrible weather conditions, land based fire trucks couldn’t get to them. They usually depended on fire boats for fire protection but, because of the ice dangers in the river, the boats couldn’t come either so all that the homeowners could do was evacuate then stand on shore and watch their homes burn to the ground… well, to the waterline. When one caught fire, because they were so close to each other, their neighbor would begin to burn… and so on it went until the whole neighborhood was gone. Who would think, surrounded by all that water, that it would be a lack of water that would cause them to lose everything?

I feel another story coming on so I’ll interrupt myself briefly and share it before I lose it.

After the storm had passed and spring approached and the weather began to improve, a friend of mine (another Steve… we’ll call him number 2) contacted me to see if I was interested in joining him for a floating adventure. He owned a 24 foot sloop that he kept on the Willamette River above the falls near Oregon City. He needed to sell the boat and since I was not in a financial position to buy it (as badly as I wanted to) he wondered if I would enjoy accompanying him to take the boat to a broker. Since he had no trailer, this trip would entail floating through the locks around the falls then through the downtown Portland area (raising railroads, street bridges, and impatient driver’s blood pressure) and finally heading upstream in the Columbia. It would be an all day voyage covering some 35 miles.

The day was disappointingly calm (no wind) and we motored most of the way. This was probably good because it was colder than an Eskimo’s toilet seat that day and, had the wind been blowing, it would have felt even colder. There was a short period when we thought that we detected a whisper of wind action so we raised sails but it quickly dwindled away making it hardly worth the effort.

In the late afternoon as we approached the area where Steve thought the brokerage was located, we headed in off the river into a large mooring basin. We discovered that it was still tightly locked in with ice and appeared frozen solid.

He knew the broker was expecting him and felt an obligation to make every effort to deliver the boat as agreed upon. I expressed my lack of understanding as to why a broker would expect us to deliver a boat to an inaccessible dock. My impression of Steve had always been that he was a logistic conservative; a cautious and wise decision maker. So you can imagine my surprise when, upon seeing all that ice, I looked at him… he looked at me… then with a slight smile and a shrug of his shoulders, he decided to keep going in!

The outer ice posed no resistance because it was melted and thin but as we continued to advance and the ice got thicker, we began to feel the boat rise ever so slightly then settle, rise, then settle. The closer we got to shore, the longer the space became between the rise and the settle! You’re probably already guessing how this story is going to end.

However…

My apprehensions about what was going on caused me to cross my fingers, utter a silent prayer, and keep a sharp eye on the shore (which was still a ways off) while mentally making an on-going recalculation of our odds against successfully making it to the dock. Each time I felt the boat begin to rise, the odds rose too!

While straining my attentions on the safety of shore, I noticed a Good Samaritan on the dock frantically jumping up and down and waving his arms to get our attention. When I saw him step off the dock and begin to walk quickly across the ice toward us, I pointed it out to Steve and suggested that maybe we needed to “hang-on” for a second. He throttled down, we felt the boat slide to a crunching stop followed by a cracking sound then it slowly settled one more time. The man stopped about half the distance between shore and the boat and began to yell at us.

The conversation went something like this: (I’ll courteously substitute the adjectives out of respect for the young and the otherwise more refined and higher educated adult readers!)

Man, at the top of his lungs: “What the phooey do you think you’re doin?”

Steve, meekly and calmly: “Is this where the {Such-n-Such} Brokerage is located?”

Highly irritated man, again at the top of his lungs: “What the heck is the matter with you? Are you freakin nuts?

He went on to insult our family origins and our mental competence and pointedly hollered that the {Such-n-Such} Brokerage was clear on the other side of the island. He then discourteously demanded that we “get the heck outta here” and agitatedly (and clearly to the point) explained how he was not in the mood to organize a rescue party for brain deficient and otherwise undeserving victims.

With a calm voice, Steve asked me ever so politely if I wouldn’t mind going forward to add a bit more ballasted assistance to the boat’s ice-breaking duties… then added, “I wonder what his problem is!?”

It wasn’t easy but we managed to make a slow, wide, U-turn and began moving back toward liquid water again. I clung to the bow pulpit with white knuckles and exerted all of my energies in mentally willing the ice to keep breaking beneath us. I was exhausted when we finally emerged from the ice into clear water again and I returned to the cockpit and collapsed.

Whistling as though nothing had happened and to ease the tension, Steve confidently steered us around to the other (ice free) side of the island and within 30 minutes we were safely tied to the obvious brokers dock. I say “obvious” because of the huge letters on the huge sign loudly proclaiming, {Such-n-Such} Brokerage!

But, I digress!! Now, where was I? Oh yeah… watching a late breaking news report about tragedy on the waterfront.

It turns out that Steve (number 1) must have been watching the same news report that I was watching. He sat with intense empathy as the camera panned across the burning carnage of floating dreams and expensive comfort going up in smoke. Then, he began to recognize some prominent landmarks in the area. He pointed them out to his wife and shared the startling revelation that the collection of burning homes was immediately adjacent to the moorage where his boat was tied. As the camera continued to move across the scene, his empathy evolved to serious concern then rose to panic as his slip came into view and his boat was not there. At first he thought that he surely must have been mistaken due to the amount of snow and ice piled on top of the neighboring boats making them difficult to identify. The TV story segued from home tragedies to boat tragedies and the camera zoomed in and his panic turned to terror. His fears were confirmed. His boat was there after all. The close-up angle showed that the only thing visible above water was the stern section. There was no mistaking the font and the painted graphics. The Intrepid Turtle of Albuquerque, New Mexico was, for the most part, sunk! The only thing keeping her that much afloat was the stern dock-line that had not yet broken.

(Hmm… Why do my stories always seem to involve boats that sink?)

It took a week before the roads were clear enough for him to get to the moorage and begin organizing the salvage. There was a witness, probably the moorage owner, who said that the boat was so top-heavy with ice that it began to roll until the scuppers got below water level and started to flood. With that much weight, it didn’t take long for her to sink. By that time, there wasn’t anything that anybody could do.

The Turtle wasn’t the only boat to sink in that storm. Within about a month, the many boats that had gone down and their locations were identified, a floating crane was volunteered, and a big salvage/rescue operation commenced. It took a couple more weeks until they got to the Turtle. They strung slings under her and lifted her enough until pumps could empty her out without the boat taking on more water. Floating again, Steve ordered a tow to the boat ramp where he loaded her on the trailer to take her home. It wasn’t until he pulled the boat and trailer up the boat ramp that he realized that the crane operators had placed the slings badly. They had gotten the aft sling under the rudder, which broke it and bent the propeller shaft. The only other damage beyond scratched paint was to the bowsprit pulpit. It was slightly bent and popped out of its mounting bracket, which probably happened when the boat rolled against the dock. Fortunately, none of the spars, sails, or rigging was in place at the time. Steve had left them at home during the move and had never taken the time to reinstall them onboard.

He parked the boat near his barn and, in an effort to save the engine, he opened the oil pan drain plug and emptied all of the oil, water, and muck from the engine. He then filled the engine with diesel through the oil fill neck using the logic that the diesel oil would displace any remaining traces of moisture and save it from rusting. This turned out to be quite effective. When I eventually opened the engine up, I found the bottom half pristine and as shiny as brand new. What he failed to do was remove the spark plugs and fill the upper parts of the engine as well. When I pulled the head, because of the inch thick layer of rust, I couldn’t tell where the cylinder walls stopped and the piston head started. It had a 12 year accumulation of decomposition and was rusted solid.

As far as I know, his effort to save the engine was the last act of compassion that he offered to the boat. It appeared that he never touched her, boarded her, nor gave her another thought for the next 12 years save to move her out of his way so he could mow the blackberries that would inevitably begin to grow over her. Maybe he had gotten seasick at Winchester Bay too many times and lost interest. I don’t really know why she let him neglect her for so long. I like to believe that it was because she was patiently waiting for my destiny path to finally join hers. I didn’t realize it at the time but that news report was our first meeting, albeit a less-than-favorable introduction!

Part 10

The sound seemed deafening and I could feel the concrete floor vibrating beneath my feet as the blade screamed a double high G at fortissimo. Describing myself as apprehensive didn’t come close. I was downright scared of that table saw and didn’t want to be anywhere near while it was running. Don’s gruesomely detailed lecture two weeks previous about the saw’s retribution to the unwary and over-confident operator didn’t serve to bolster my self-assurance in the slightest. I was greatly relieved when he said he would make the first few cuts to show me how easy it was but informed me that I would have to take over after that. It was my project, after all, and he wanted me to be able to say that I had done it all. Deep in the outer fringes of my darker fantasies I wondered if his misery only loved company and was hoping I would lose a finger too.

Our trio practicing had turned into a weekly routine and prior to our get-together the previous week it had occurred to me that Don’s woodworking skills and his shop might prove to be a blessing in disguise. I didn’t want to take advantage of him but I couldn’t help picking his brain. I still hadn’t resolved the design challenges of my next boat and his building expertise might solve the riddle. So, when our rehearsal came to a close and the expected girlish chit-chat commenced, I found Don and filled him in on my sailing history and my plans to build another boat. I showed him my sketches and in an instant he had the solution. “Make it have 2 points, like a catamaran,” he volunteered.

That solution had never occurred to me and in a few minutes the sketches had been altered and an acceptable shape immerged. It presented a few challenges but Don assured me that it wouldn’t be too difficult to build. He helped me create a materials list and volunteered to pick up the supplies for me and even offered the use of his shop for the project. We met after school the next day and following a quick trip to the lumber yard, we had the lines drawn and were making the first cuts. Despite his desires for me to be able to claim that I did all the work, he sensed my trepidation and graciously did all the cutting that was required on the table saw.

Beyond what I have so far recounted, I don’t have many recollections of the building process. I know that Don was there much of the time offering suggestions and giving supportive encouragement. He even entrusted me with a key to the shop in the event that he didn’t happen to be home when I wanted to work. In his shop, not only did he teach me skills and building techniques that I still use today, but he helped me discover self-esteem and confidence in my abilities to successfully be creative on a professional level. Many parts I did more than once in response to his observations that something could be done differently with superior results. With time, I conquered my fears and began using the table saw, fearlessly cutting like a pro. Today as an adult of his approximate age but nowhere near his stature, I now know that the time that he sacrificed in my behalf was costly and dear. On many occasions in life I have been tempted to hoard the value of my time but have remembered his example (and others) and have sheepishly changed my attitude and taken advantage of opportunities to repay my debt to him by “paying it forward” for someone else’s benefit like he did for mine.

By the time my 9th grade school year ended, the project was far enough along that I no longer needed the advantage of his shop and tools, and since Don didn’t know much about fiberglassing, we transported the boat to my home where I could spend more time at my leisure without imposing on others. For my purposes, fiberglass proved to be within my skill level and all the seams were soon concealed and watertight. A good sanding and several coats of paint finished the job in time to use the boat that summer.

Launch day was a typical hot Saturday morning at Fishhook Park. The year was 1965. My mother drove and I remember my sister being there. I must have invited a friend since the boat was bulky and cumbersome and required more muscle to get it up or down from the top of the car than my mother or sister could provide.

As is usually traditional on the launching of a new vessel, champagne across the bow seemed appropriate. Since alcohol was not part of my upbringing, Jessie and I had come up with an alternative… “champoogne.” We placed the boat near the water and after a youthful but genuine plea to Neptune to be kind and to protect my little ship, I gave Jessie the honor of breaking the shampoo bottle (in those days they were made of glass) on the bow. But after several tries by both of us it became apparent that the bottle was not going to break but rather do damage to the paint job so we abandoned that idea and commenced with the sea trials.

The boat greatly exceeded my expectations. She performed without a flaw and eventually provided years of relaxation and the acquisition of innumerable sailing skills and experiences. Sage-knowledge-acquired prompted me to include a drain plug in its design but I never saw a drop of water leave her interior.

There was a time several years later when traveling back from a day-sail and a particularly big gust of wind caught the boat and plucked it (car racks and all) from the top of the car. I heard it happening and felt it go and, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I looked in the rear-view mirror to see it tumbling end-over-end down the highway behind me. After making 3 or 4 flips, it settled on its topsides and finally slid to a stop. I dreaded that, at the very least, the boat had surely met its demise. When I went back to do my civic duty by cleaning the road and picking up the pieces, to my surprise and amazement, I found the boat still intact and relatively undamaged. The aft-most starboard corner had been slightly caved in, probably from the initial kiss of the asphalt, which required being rebuilt and re-glassed. Beyond that, there were numerous scrapes and dings all of which only needed some touch-up paint. Even after all that, the boat never leaked. I guess I was learning!

I believe that this picture was taken in the summer of 1968. I'm at the tiller and my brother-in-law is standing at the bow. His oldest son is in the foreground. Jessie probably snapped the photo. I would have just graduated from high school. I seem to look a lot younger than that but Ed's presence with a child tells the tale! Note the sagging boom after 3 or 4 years of use. Muslin is affordable but not the ideal material for building sails.

----------------

Throughout the construction, 2 close friends in particular made it a habit to keep themselves apprised of my progress and eagerly awaited the chance to go sailing again. I take credit for the fact that, after numerous excursions to the river, they both became smitten by the sailing bug and they both eventually designed and built similar boats. It became somewhat of a contest as they tried to improve on my design. Both boats admittedly looked better but, in my opinion, neither one sailed as well. What rests fondly in my memory were the choice times when we were able to sail together as a fleet to all the available latitudes of the Ice Harbor reservoir. Many hours were spent together in the pursuit of youthful adventure which quenched the “Tom Sawyer itch” that nags and tugs at all teenage boy’s restless imaginations. Through all of these experiences a lifetime bond was developed and I still look forward to our next sailing reunion.

Over the following years spanning my brief college education and 2 years of missionary service, the boat remained unused and stored safely in my mother’s garage. As a married man and beginning a family, my wife and I had the opportunity of living in mom’s home while she and her new husband served a mission on the east coast. When we moved out, we took the boat with us but really never had the chance to use it. Eventually, we tired of moving it from place to place so I gave it to another family with boys who had a lake near their home, all of which contained the ingredients guaranteeing the likelihood of more sailor conversions.

Since I’m taking so much credit, I might as well tell one more story that relates to this boat and illustrates my responsibility for infecting yet another unsuspecting victim.

My brother, the middle sibling, was away from home throughout the beginnings of my sailing ventures. When he returned from his missionary service, I invited him to go sailing with me. This was a first-time experience for him since he had spent his teenage years absorbed with hot rods, girls, and his rock & roll band, “The Frets.” You might wonder how teenage years spent thusly would prepare a boy to be a missionary but that’s a “whole-nuther-story” which he will have to tell for himself.

We loaded the boat and headed for the river. On the trip, I gave him a brief overview of sailing fundamentals so he could understand what was going on. There was a nice breeze producing light whitecaps when we launched the boat and, with me in control, we made a few passes across the moorage area so he could get a feel for all of my explanations. He was an unexpectedly fast learner and immediately commandeered the tiller and headed the boat into the river and downwind, which on this day was upstream. We ran downwind for about 30 minutes, which got us further upstream than I had ever been. I knew from experience that the return trip upwind was going to be a long, wet slog and I prayed that the wind wouldn’t strengthen because we were already challenging the outer fringes of my confidence since I had never tested the boat in such gusty conditions. It took us 2 hours to make the exciting return trip through mounting swells and a stiff breeze. When we finally arrived at the dock, my brother absconded the boat leaving me stranded on shore. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone, quietly in the shade of a lonely tree, forlornly watching my boat ply back and forth under his command. I have long since forgiven him especially considering the extensive impact that day’s experience had on his future. After all, it was such a minor infraction. He had only committed mutiny. It’s not like he had done the unpardonable by neglecting to request permission to board!

My brother eventually went on to design and build a forty-some-odd foot brigantine and has spent a goodly amount of his adult life living aboard a sailboat with his wife in balmy, southern California bays. I try not to covet his lifestyle but I take pride in my role of launching him toward realizing such dreams.

By unjust comparison, I’ve nurtured and coddled the dream since my youth but the path of my priorities led me to a landlocked way of life. The financial strains of raising seven children on a “three-children-income” always managed to consume all of my spare time as I tried to creatively earn enough to meet their needs. Consequently, the illusive dream seemed to always be hiding barely beyond my reach. I’m not complaining! My day will surely still come… at least that’s my ever-present and undying aspiration. My life is rich in rewarding memories of irreplaceable family experiences and blessings that I wouldn’t trade even for a wayfaring voyager's life. I’m just hoping to still be able to squeeze in at least a taste of the other and experience a bit of that dimension before I leave mortality.

Addendum (appendix!!) to “Getting Sick”

Cameron sent me a couple of snapshots he took while I was hospitalized. I had completely forgotten about having that tube down my throat. Seeing it makes me wish he hadn’t reminded me! Some memories are best forgotten. The reason for the tube was to vacuum my stomach to ensure it was completely empty before they did the surgery. It was only there a couple of days and when I came out of the surgery, it was gone… something I was very thankful for!

I had my post-op appointment yesterday. The doctor removed the stitches from the wound and gave me a clean bill of health. He drew a clever sketch of my innards and thoroughly explained what had happened based on their findings after the surgery. They found where the appendix had been leaking. It’s good to know that he wasn’t mistaken in his diagnosis and that all of this was not a waste of time or perfectly good suffering. He explained how the bacterial leakage immediately begins to spread throughout the stomach cavity and to attack where ever it lands. It forms a pock or small abscess and white blood cells go to work to kill it off. It was his opinion that the flu symptoms I was suffering could have been simply a reaction to the bacterial sickness going on inside of me. So… there’s a bit more evidence refuting the culpability theory that I caught something from the grand kids. It’s one of those questions that, I guess, we’ll never be able to answer for sure. So, quit feeling guilty Kotryna!!

Anymore, I have good days then I have bad ones. Today happens to be a sorta bad one. I’m just feeling sickly and not well all over. I’m a bit concerned because the incision continues to weep near the top. It has been a month since the surgery and it seems like it should be totally closed and dry by now. The doctor didn’t have much to say about it so I’ll assume that it’s OK for a while longer. Hopefully it stops weeping soon.

I continue to fight for an appetite. Food has to be very flavorful for me to want to eat it. I lost 25 lbs. before I finally began to gain again. Today, the scale says I’ve gained 5 so I’m only down 20 lbs. now. I generally have to force myself to eat so the weight gain hasn’t been easy but I’m encouraged to be making progress.

Sleeping and nausea have been a struggle too. I had been taking a pill to help with the nausea but then began suffering intense insomnia. While awake one night, I went online to investigate what could be the cause. I’m always suspect of medicines and, sure enough, Compazine (for nausea) listed insomnia as a side effect. What do I do now? I must sleep so I stopped the med and do my best to tolerate the nausea. It’s getting better with time, except for today! But how much time is required? I so dearly want to feel normal and whole again and I don’t understand why it’s taking so long. I try not to dwell on it for fear of depression taking hold but it’s difficult to deal with so many emotions. This has truly been a trial.