“Wow, your guest room is really bizarre,”
Said our friends, who had come from afar.
Just a tarp on the grass,
For this lad and this lass,
But they saw every bright falling star.
In the Pacific Northwest in summer, you can throw a sleeping bag on the grass and sleep outside. It’s heavenly during the Perseid meteor shower, when the stars are falling in streaks of yellow and white and blue across the sky … that’s what we did for two nights with our friends, Will and Tina.
We went into that boating store, “West,”
For a brand new flag halyard, the best.
We replaced it — OK!
But the very same day
‘Twas the main halyard broke: Who’d have guessed?
“I’m so glad it’s your problem, not mine,”
Said our Freedom friends, sipping their wine.
But those friends don’t know Lee,
Who, with Simplicity,
Kindly fixed it — we sailed back, just fine.
He went up using spitwads and tape,
But no halyard! We watched, mouths agape.
It’s a bird! It’s a plane!
Superman’s on our main!
No, it’s Spiderman! See? There’s no cape.
A little note of explanation for our non-boating friends…the flag halyard is a loooong piece of string that you use to hang pennants from the mast. On our way to the Freedom Rendezvous with our friend Jacqui’s Freedom 30, we replaced it ($20), because it looked old and rotten. Twenty minutes later, the main halyard, which is the big beefy one used to hoist the mainsail ($200), broke instead. Since there was no backup or safety line, we had to deliver the news to Jacqui that a crane would be needed to re-reeve her halyard ($150/hour). Then Lee and Kathleen magically appeared in the harbor aboard their C&C, Simplicity. Not only did Lee free-climb the 44-foot mast at anchor, he also cooked omelettes for us for breakfast.
Images below: Meps, motoring north, has plenty of spare cycles to clown for the camera. Lee sets up his climbing gear for the ascent. Barry watches Lee from below (hope he doesn’t drop anything!). The masts of Piper and Simplicity at anchor in Port Ludlow, with Lee at the top. Success! Barry shows the bicycle chain weight that Lee fed down from the top of the mast. Out sailing again, with Barry grinding the winch. Crewmember Will takes the helm of the 30-foot sailboat.
“Help others, because magically, when you need help, it will be there for you.”
You may be one of them, those so-called “friends” who tease us about taking 2-1/2 years for a simple boat refit. That’s enough teasing. Because from another perspective, 2-1/2 years is sadly too short.
In 2007, when we bought Flutterby, we needed a marine survey. We lucked upon a wonderful surveyor — a Sir Veyor, to use Steve Roberts’ phrase — who turned into a friend. Jon Roop understood exactly what we were trying to accomplish. He was the reason we ended up in Beaufort, because he told us there was plenty of support available to do-it-yourself boaters there. Best of all, he said we could call him any time we had questions, as long as we owned the boat.
We tried to exercise restraint and only call when the question was really serious. But every time we did, he extended an invitation to dinner or a party at the beautiful house where he lived with his vivacious partner, Carol. This, despite my getting the Squid Wagon stuck in his driveway and having to call a tow truck to get it out (remember? I wrote about that).
As a former sailboat cruiser, Jon loved sharing the house, which he’d built himself. Every social gathering revolved around the giant kitchen island. Guests circulated around it, as if it was an indoor fire pit.
Jon would extend an impromptu dinner invitation to cruisers. “Bring your laundry, and take a shower,” he’d say. I was too shy to try the fancy jacuzzi in the guest bathroom, and I figured a shower was a shower. Then, at a gathering in January, I realized that was simply not true.
They’d thrown some sort of party a day or two before and had so much food left, they decided to invite more folks over to help finish it. There were about a dozen of us that evening, including some local friends and two British couples from the boatyard. There was some joking about The Shower, and one of Jon and Carol’s local friends realized from our dumb looks that Barry and I hadn’t seen it.
“Come on,” said Pam, dragging us back through the master bedroom. Elegantly tiled, it was the most magnificent shower I’ve ever seen in a private residence. It was the size of a small room, with showerheads on each wall and one coming out of the ceiling in the middle. There was room inside for about ten people showering, or two people dancing. I recalled many miserable, cold boatyard showers, and I decided not to be shy — I would bring my shower kit the next time I came over.
It was a pleasant, evening, with lots of stories and laughter. But it was a little low-key; Jon admitted, reluctantly, that he wasn’t feeling well.
News travels fast in a small town. It was only a couple of days after that dinner that I stopped at a local machine shop. “Did you hear about Jon?” He’d ended up in the hospital. “Not feeling well” turned out to be complications related to melanoma.
Everybody wanted to know what was going on. “Any news about Jon?” was the question around the boatyard and around town. Carol sent emails, forwarded by Pam, until finally they set up a Caring Bridge blog. For the next five months, Carol shared the good news and the bad news, and the frustration of dealing with the medical system. Whenever an email came in, “A new journal entry for Jonathan’s CaringBridge website was posted…”, I’d click on it immediately.
I can’t begin to express how much I valued Carol’s updates and the online community sending love, light, and prayers to Jon. When Carol described dealing with Nurse Ratchett and Doctor Numbskull, we all growled in unison. We cheered when Jon got into an experimental treatment program, but worried about him flying to Boston and Nashville for it. We celebrated when Jon proposed to Carol, and congratulations came from around the globe when they were married, right in his hospital room, about a week ago.
And we all cried this morning, when Carol wrote, “Today I deliver the news that everyone knew was coming but no one wanted to hear.” Jon passed away last night.
That’s why I wish this time had been longer than 2-1/2 years. I wanted to know him longer. Decades would have been nice. It would have been lovely to have him at Flutterby’s rechristening and relaunching party. And Barry and I only got to dance under that magical shower once.
Jon teased us a little about how long we were taking, but he also made the most poetic statement about our departure date. “One of these days, you’ll look up and see the geese migrating, and you’ll know then that it’s time to put the boat in the water and follow them.”
He was kind and generous and caring, and most of all, he had his priorities right. Jon’s cousin Steve wrote, “‘Help others because magically when you need help it will be there for you’ is the essential Jon Roop.”
That statement is also the essential sailboat cruiser. It should be the essential human. Jon Roop was a sailor who showed us how to be better humans. Now it’s up to us.
===
Jon’s photo is the top right one in Seven Precious Friends.
When the skies opened forth with such power,
I was drowned like a rat. So I glower
At my husband, who’s dry,
And who says, smug and sly,
“I towel off when I go take a shower.”
It rained so hard the other day, I nearly drowned getting back to Flutterby — even with a fortuitous ride across the boatyard from Ted. I should have just gotten into my birthday suit and stood on the foredeck with a bottle of shampoo.
“Sham Poo? No way! Give me the real thing, or nothing.”
I went to Seattle, unsure of how I could be useful to Jacqui during her cancer treatment. The requirement to have a “caregiver” was imposed by her medical team, partly because no one knows how an individual will respond to treatment. Given her strong response to previous procedures, Jacqui figured the caregiver requirement was mostly a formality.
That’s pretty much how it panned out, in part because the actual treatment was postponed several times. Except for one hospital procedure and an emergency early-morning coffee run, I was most useful as emotional, not physical, support.
As a result, our relationship was very balanced between “giving” and “receiving.” We were caregivers to each other, rather than a giver and a receiver.
That is, until my world turned inside out on Tuesday. As usual, Jacqui was up before me, making coffee. I slowly drifted awake, enjoying the aroma. But what was this? Something wasn’t right. I swallowed. Ouch! I had a sore throat.
I gave it a few minutes, some water, and a cup of coffee. The sore throat persisted. “Jacqui, I have something to tell you,” I said. I knew I had to speak the truth, and quickly, but I was mortified about the disruption I was about to unleash.
No one with a “bug” could be this close to an immune-suppressed patient. But the transplant hadn’t yet begun, so did I have to leave?
Jacqui left a message with the clinic, then headed out for a morning appointment. A little while later, she phoned me. The medical team said I had to leave immediately. Using her car for transport was out of the question. And no goodbye hug!
I started packing in a daze, feeling like a pariah. How could I foist my sick self on friends? Nobody would want to risk catching this cold. Maybe I should hole up in a hotel room, alone, as penance. My luggage had expanded to twice its size; instead of a carry-on plus laptop, I now had too much to carry on a bus. I kicked myself for the shopping I’d done at five thrift stores and three international groceries.
I took a deep breath, put aside my martyrdom, and called my friend Tina back. She’d offered me their guest room in a phone call a half hour earlier. But in a strange coincidence, Tina was also undergoing cancer treatment. I wasn’t sure it was wise for her to invite Typhoid Meps into the house.
Tina got the go-ahead from both her partner, Will, and her oncology team, and a little while later, Will appeared at the door. He kept me company while I attacked every surface I could find with a disinfecting bleach solution. Then he took me to their home, with a brief stop for a soothing smoothie. I still felt dazed and disoriented, and I attributed it to the fever that was setting in. But it was something else: I had suddenly gone from the role of “caregiver” to “caregivee.”
Many of us live our lives feeling that we don’t have enough, so we can’t give to others. We don’t have enough time or money or energy, so we have to hoard what we’ve got.
I tend toward the other extreme, feeling that I have lots to give — time, skill, love, creativity, energy. Sometimes, though, I run low on supplies. What I was running short of on Tuesday (and Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday) were energy and health.
Ensconced in Tina and Will’s beautiful guest room, decorated with Eastern art and photos of family, I suffered my physical ailments without complaint. I accepted their gifts of hospitality and caring, and laying flat on my back, I thought about how I could give back. I couldn’t wash dishes or cook or make myself “useful.” My voice had given out, so I wasn’t even very good company for talking.
In that time, I figured out a simple thing I could return to my friends to help maintain the balance between giving and receiving: Gratitude. It’s good stuff.
A few days later, my cold and I were sitting on a plane, heading back to Barry and North Carolina. I opened my pack, and there was the little paper bag Tina had given me as I left their home. Inside, I found a napkin, a baggie of apple slices, some ginger cookies, and a favorite exotic treat — jackfruit chips. Alongside, I’d packed one of the organic, dark-chocolate-covered pomegranate bars Jacqui had squirreled away when she discovered how much I liked them. I made my snacks last through all three flights, and each time I opened the bag, I beamed my gratitude, not just at my friends, but at the whole world.
Thanks, y’all.
When I arrived at the gate for my Charlotte flight to Seattle, most of the seats in the waiting area were taken. The other travelers avoided my eyes as I scanned the area, looking for a place to sit. I found a spot between a woman engrossed in a novel and a teenager engrossed in a cell phone. “But I texted her, and she never texted me back!” she complained, loudly, into the phone.
I boarded the plane and was soon settled in a window seat near the front of the plane. As the rest of the passengers streamed down the aisle, lugging their carry-ons, I chatted with the man seated on the aisle.
We were engrossed in our conversation and almost didn’t notice that all the passengers were aboard until we heard the telltale clunk of the doors closing. Then I craned my neck in amazement and looked around. Every seat on the plane was full, except for one — the seat between me and my row-mate. We tucked our bags under the spare seat and luxuriated (OK, that’s an overstatement for coach class) in the additional space.
By then, I’d heard some of his story. Craig, the father of five, was the owner of a large construction business in the Seattle area. He was returning home from an errand of mercy, a cross-country trip to the North Carolina hospital where his brother had just had three emergency surgeries. “He’s going to be OK now,” he said, the relief showing on his face.
I listened in understanding to Craig’s story. I was traveling on a similar mission, flying to Seattle to be with my dear friend Jacqui during her intense cancer treatment. Back in North Carolina, I’d discussed the situation with Barry. I decided it was more important for me to be with Jacqui than to work on the boat. Fiberglass can wait.
Craig had decided that his brother was important, too — more important than his own day-to-day life. As we compared our situations, we joked about being rewarded for our good deeds with the most comfortable seats on the plane.
I don’t think I’ve ever had such an easy cross-country flight. We chatted a little, but mostly, I read and listened to music and napped and looked out the window. The time flew as I did.
When I arrived in Seattle, I contacted my ride, a volunteer from the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance named Wendy. We’d never met, so I told her which door I’d be near. “I’ll be wearing bunny ears,” I said. I slipped them on when I got to the curb, my infamous fur-trimmed, sequined rabbit ears with flashing, blinking LED lights inside. To my surprise, none of the people standing near me even smiled. As a matter of fact, they sidled away and wouldn’t meet my eyes!
But my technique worked great for Wendy, who spotted the ears from a block away. She seemed less surprised by the bunny ears than by the fact that she had arrived at the airport, received my call, and driven right up to me without either of us waiting. She marveled that she’d picked up hundreds of people and never had this happen before. I just smiled and nodded. After my karmic experience on the plane, it was no surprise. Wendy was being rewarded for her kind deed, too.
Wendy’s volunteer work involves adopting families from out of town who come to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance for long-term treatment. She serves as their local guide, helping them find the bank, the post office, the grocery store. She’s a navigational beacon to them, physically and emotionally.
That’s how I see Jacqui, too. She’s an extremely bright light, a navigational beacon to me and to others. Even while she’s going through difficult and painful times and I’m serving her, as driver, medical advocate, and sherpa, she’s sharing her knowledge, insight, and deep wisdom. Meanwhile, we’re ensconced in a fantastic downtown Seattle suite with a view, enjoying wonderful books, movies, games, and food.
The key to Jacqui’s brightness is, as a Buddhist teacher said, “a predisposition toward favorable outcomes.” In simple words, a positive attitude.
We can all carry this attitude from moment to moment, and even if we drop it accidentally for a bit, we can pick it up again. When we lose something — our health, money, someone dear to us — it’s our predisposition toward favorable outcomes that gives us the momentum to go forward.
I’ll be here with Jacqui for another week, and then I’ll fly back to North Carolina, where Barry and Flutterby await. I don’t know exactly how Jacqui’s transplant protocol will go. I don’t know if I’ll have the best seat on the plane again. All I know is, if I carry bunny ears with me, each moment will be more joyful. And if I carry a predisposition toward favorable outcomes with me, each moment will be exactly what it’s supposed to be.
When I painted the name on the side,
Philip’s comments were terribly snide.
“All your curves are a fright!”
“Get a stick, do it right!”
Now I’m feeling all shame and no pride.
We could have had the name applied professionally in vinyl for a few hundred bucks. The only reason I painted it freehand was to fulfill a sense of “artistic pride.”
We found in our mailbox a letter–
Inside, a surprise! Even better!
A tiny flat boy,
To bring us much joy.
‘Twas Stanley, the Airmail Jet-Setter.
Stay tuned for more photos and stories of Stanley’s visit to Beaufort and environs. He was an excellent boat guest.
Americans are not very common in Havana. And we’ve certainly never been there. So what are the chances of two guys running into each other at Hemingway Marina and figuring out that they both know Meps ‘n’ Barry?
These two strangers, on Hemingway’s dock,
Had a chat, and it caused them a shock.
“Where ya from?” “From K.C.”
“You?” “Seattle, for me.”
But they both know some nuts here at Bock.
As a man named Grey told me, “It started with a beer.” He could have been speaking of many regrettable activities. In this case, he was referring to the judging process for the “Backstreet Pub’s first (hopefully annual) Meatloaf Off.”
When pub owner Liz Kopf sent an email promoting the event, that’s exactly what she called it — first (hopefully annual). How refreshingly honest! As my pappy, the editor, told me, you should never say “first annual” in a news story. An event is not actually annual until it happens the second year.
As a food writer, I was super-excited by the prospect of a meatloaf competition. I pictured myself running around with my little notebook and pencil, documenting the judging process and interviewing the winners. Perhaps I could get a scoop and publish the winning meatloaf recipe in the Foodie Gazette!
When we arrived, the bartender told me that the judging was upstairs, and no one was allowed up there. I was crestfallen. “Not even members of the Press?” I asked. He rolled his eyes at my impertinence and went to take someone else’s order. I entertained myself by playing with my camera.
A few minutes later, as I was cooling my heels, one of the judges came down the stairs. He was not much of an interview subject, though, being a dog.
Finally, the other judges came down and announced the winners. I was standing beside the third-place winner, a woman named Donna, and I congratulated her and asked how it felt. She shrugged. Then she saw my camera, scowled, and turned her back, saying, “No photos.”
Disappointed, I turned to one of the judges, a man named Grey.
“How did you get selected to be a judge?” I asked.
“I’m the bar-owner’s boyfriend,” he said.
“Er, that’s nice,” I said, lamely. He returned to his beer.
At this point, I decided interviewing people was hard. Eating meatloaf would be easier. I joined the crowd making its way up the narrow spiral staircase.
Upstairs, folks were lined up, plates in hand, to taste the 12 meatloaf-off contenders. I took a small spoonful of each, along with some mashed potatoes and some sort of spinach dish. Afterwards, I talked with first place winner Kathy Roberts and second place winner James Lewis about their winning entries.
Kathy’s meatloaf was based on an old recipe published by Kellogg’s cornflakes. Instead of baking it in a loaf pan, she pressed the mixture into muffin tins, making small, round meatloaves. I’m sure her lettuce-lined platter got the highest score for presentation, before the hungry crowd descended upon it.
Kathy’s topping was not only delicious, it was nice and thick. She had basted each loaf at least three times during baking with a mixture of chili sauce, brown sugar, and catsup.
James’ meatloaf, which took second place, had a secret ingredient: Klaussen’s Sauerkraut. He used a basic meatloaf recipe with oatmeal for filler, pressed half of it into a pan, and then covered it with a layer of sauerkraut. On top of this, he put a mixture of one part stone ground mustard, one part yellow mustard, and one part honey. He covered this with the rest of the meatloaf and topped it with catsup.
I asked James where he got the recipe.
“I’m a computer tech,” he said. “A few years ago, I went to somebody’s house to work on their computer, and they were making dinner while I was there. I saw them putting the sauerkraut in the middle of the meatloaf, and I thought, ‘Sauerkraut? What the heck?'” But I went home and tried it, and I’ve been making it this way ever since.”
At the end of the evening, I realized I was not cut out to be a hard-core journalist. First of all, I found it easier to interview meatloaf than people. Secondly, I was not objective. I preferred James’ meatloaf over Kathy’s, and I thought the spinach was better than all the meatloaves! Most importantly, I had failed to answer the key question: Who brought the spinach dish?
A few days after the event, I ran into a woman named Denise who I knew from around town. She’d been at the Meatloaf Off, where she told me about the prior competition — a macaroni and cheese contest. She was also brainstorming on the next one, which might be a chicken soup contest. So it was natural for me to ask, “Did you have anything to do with organizing the meatloaf competition?”
“Oh, no,” she said, “I just brought the spinach souffle.”
And that’s how I got the recipe for what I consider the REAL winner of the “Backstreet Pub’s first (hopefully annual) Meatloaf Off”: Denise’s Mom’s Spinach Souffle.