Imagine…..Retirement- Nothing to do and all the time in the world to do it
There are many obvious reasons to retire. Most people who decide to retire do not expect to dine at the Ritz Carlton anymore. They know their lifestyles will change and they are willing to make the necessary sacrifices.
Armed with this knowledge, Tony and I set off with dreams of a lifetime of bliss and a careful plan to live on our now-limited income.
We enjoy lemonade. We pay upwards of a dollar a glass in a lot of different restaurants in Mexico, where we now currently reside. It occurred to me, one fine sunny afternoon, that this was a ridiculous price to pay for something that could be made so cheaply at home.
Never having made lemonade in my life, I needed to figure out the process. The first thing I will need, I decided, is a fruit- juicer and remembering my mother’s, a small glass thing that she twisted the lemons and oranges over, I began to search for one. I found electric ones to the tune of thirty dollars, but being the ‘green person’ that I am, I decided to forego the idea of using unnecessary electricity and find the simple hand-operated one that my mother used. Absolutely no one in town sold one.
Our friend Dwayne suggested that we walk out to Las Gobos, a famous flea market in Ensenada. He assured me it was only a little way out of town and the walk would be good for us. He said it couldn’t be more than a mile. I agreed to go. I am positive we walked one-hundred and fifty miles to get there, an opinion that is hotly disputed by many people that we know.
To add insult to injury, with my ankles and feet killing me, we walked at least another seventy-five miles around the flea market before we finally found my juicer. It even had a little plastic container screwed to the bottom of it to catch the juice. To my sheer joy, the kind lady only wanted one dollar for it. What a deal! This number fit into our retirement budget. I insisted on taking a bus home.
The next day, the doctor Tony took me to only charged us forty dollars to examine my swollen feet and ankles, but he did give me two ace bandages for free and instruct me to stay off my feet until the swelling went down.
Some time later, other friends of ours treated us to a day in the wine country. At one of the local vineyards, lemon trees, ripe with fruit, grew all over the property. The proprietor handed me an empty bag and told me to take home as many lemons as I wanted, for free. Just another plus to our retirement budget, I declared. Yippee! I picked fifteen lemons, sure that I would have to freeze most of the juice because I had enough lemons to make gallons of the stuff.
I set up my lemonade making station in my galley, very proud of myself for saving money and making the necessary sacrifices I had previously agreed to.
The first lemon…after much twisting and turning…produced about a teaspoon full of juice. Not one to give up, I kept twisting and turning, pouring more force and pressure into every lemon. Fifteen lemons later, my wrists swollen from the unbelievable pressure needed to squeeze a lemon, I had a whole cup of lemon juice.
My Betty Crocker cookbook stated that I needed one-third cup of lemon juice and one cup of water to make one serving. I did the math on this equation and found that there are three one-thirds in a cup of juice and I now had enough juice to make three servings.
The doctor that Tony took me to the next day only charged us forty dollars to examine my swollen wrists, but he did give me two free ace bandages and instruct me not to use my hands until the swelling went down.
Tony did his own math and found that our three glasses of juice only cost us eighty-one dollars, plus the bus fare.
I do not have a choice but to agree with Tony that he will be happy to buy me a glass of lemonade whenever I want one. As soon as my wrists are not swollen anymore, I will be able to lift that glass to my mouth.
I have found that when you are retired and you look like you have nothing to do, a fellow retiree will always suggest a good deed you should be doing.
This was the case, one fine sunny day in our marina, as I sat on the deck of our sailboat sipping a cup of coffee, wondering what I should do with today’s allotted sixteen hours of free time.
My friend and neighbor spotted me wasting my time and stopped over to tell me the story of her friend, Suzie.
It turned out that Susie is a sweet, Mexican lady whose luck had gone awry. Her husband lost his job and is somewhere in the southern Baja taking care of their boat, unable to pay their bills. She had to return to her mother’s home, in our town of Ensenada, because of a family illness and try to make some money to send to her husband.
Seeing that I was filled with compassion, my friend continued. Suzie, the poor thing, used to sell tamales to the boaters and was trying to restart her business, and, my friend added, it would be wonderful of me to help her.
Of course, my friend would be happy to do it herself, she said, but she just didn’t have time and all I needed to do was take orders once a week and call Suzie with them.
Sounded easy enough, I thought, and feeling very sorry for Suzie and considering it might be time for me to give back something to other people, I agreed to lend this poor woman a hand.
I felt good about myself and immediately dubbed my part of the business, ‘Margo’s Tamale Delivery Service.’ I should also mention that I had no idea what tamales were.
My friend brought Suzie and her mother to my boat the next day to seal the deal and explain what I would be selling. We decided that I would call Suzie on Saturday with my orders and she would deliver them on Monday. She also agreed to give me two free tamales for my efforts. Since, as an American Citizen, I am not allowed to make any money in Mexico, I thought this payment hedged around the law quite nicely.
Tamales, by the way, are corn husks filled with meat, either chicken or beef, and an olive and sell for twelve pesos, or one dollar and twenty cents each.
My first week didn’t go too well. I began by soliciting my friends and neighbors on our morning net and requesting orders. I started this on Tuesday, and by Saturday, I had orders for thirty of the little devils. Most of the people that called me I didn’t know, so I had to make an Excel spreadsheet with their names, boat slip numbers and how many chicken or beef tamales they wanted.
I spent all day Saturday and most of Sunday trying to call Suzie. She finally answered her phone Sunday evening. Of course, due to her limited English and my limited Spanish, the call took awhile. Tony spent the two days waiting for me, while I called and called and called.
On Monday, Suzie and her mother showed up right on time with a big bag of hot tamales. She insisted that I pay her before we sorted the tamales and figured out what I owed her on her trusty little calculator.
It hadn’t occurred to me to collect the money from my customers when they ordered, so I had to front the money, of which, I had to borrow from Tony.
Cash transactions completed, the next step involved counting out the orders into little plastic bags and, using the labels I provided, labeling each bag with the name of its recipient.
She said she was sorry, but had forgotten my two tamales and requested one of my cigarettes. Her mother chastised me for smoking.
The real fun began after they left. I walked up and down five docks, carrying the little bags, and trying to find the boats that had ordered. Six of my customers weren’t home, so I had to store the tamales in our little refrigerator until they came for them. Tony made room in the refrigerator.
By Tuesday afternoon, I repaid Tony and put our stuff back in the refrigerator, throwing out a couple of things that had not made it through the night.
Okay, so this venture turned out to be a little more than I expected, and certainly, a lot more than Tony expected. All my little business needed was a dose of my expertise at managing.
The following week, I collected my money up-front. That solved one problem. I explained to all my customers that I would leave their order on their deck by three-thirty every Monday, home or not.
I also decided I needed an employee, with a dinghy, to help with the actual delivery process and that would take care of the problem of my swollen ankles from all that walking.
I offered Tony one-half of one tamale to work for me. If you do the math, that is twenty-five percent of my profit on the two tamales I received as pay and, I reasoned, more than fair.
He agreed to work for me and my business officially had an employee. Now all I had to do was make sure Suzie remembered my two tamales.
I patted myself on the back for my wonderful management skills.
I still couldn’t reach her on the phone, and used up a lot of my ‘pay as you go minutes’ on my Mexican phone, so I’d have to think more on that problem.
By the third week, Suzie was hanging out, smoking a half pack of my cigarettes and forgetting the little plastic bags, so I had to supply them.
Tony appeared frustrated and told me he didn’t really like tamales. He also felt he should be compensated for the gas he was using in his dinghy. He said he was considering unionizing my business, so I upped his salary to a full tamale during the negotiation process.
One morning, as I sat crunching the numbers on my Excel spreadsheet, it dawned on me that I didn’t like tamales either. I walked to the bow of my boat, took down my shingle, called Suzie, and informed her I was going out of business. Of course, I did have to leave a message. Tony took me to lunch to celebrate.
By early that evening, Tony had negotiated with the boater in the slip next to us to watch his boat for the six months he would be in Australia. The boater offered him forty dollars a month for his services and he, because he was now unemployed for a total of five hours, accepted the position immediately. What a show-off.
I, too, have plans for the future. I’m going to study salsa dancing and practice on the deck of my boat so I will always look busy.
Our next adventure is scheduled. Our plan is to sail the boat farther south than we have ever done in California. We are headed to Dana Point and we will do it from the extreme southern end of Catalina, a course we have never sailed.
We are happy and excited. We dress in our warmest winter clothes… after all it is August 2nd, Tony’s birthday and who would expect it not to be freezing cold in the middle of the summer, especially in southern California? We pull in our flopper-stopper, top off our fuel tank and set our course on our brand-new GPS and radar system. We’re off!
The sun comes up and the sea is beautiful. We can hear whales spouting and we enjoy hundreds of dolphin, leaping and pirouetting in the air, as they voraciously fish for their breakfast. Pelicans circle above us, intent on stealing anything the dolphin capture. Our music is drifting gently into the morning breeze and we munch on our breakfast of fruit and cheese. The winds are light, the sun is warm. We are on top of the world.
Actual Notes from our Cruising Log
Halfway across, our new radar and GPS system shut down. After many attempts and one threat, we got through to a technician at Raymarine and he was able to get us up and running again, albeit without any of the co-ordinates we had previously set. As I spin into panic mode, I notice how calm Tony is. Fortunately, he had learned to chart courses, didn’t trust the GPS anyway and had been hand-charting our course on his chart all the way along. Is it no wonder I always feel safe with him? We managed the Channel into Dana Point with ease, anchored like pros and spent the next week playing in the beautiful warm water, under a pretty blue sky. We sailed up to Alamitos Bay, spent time with our friends and attended our daughter’s baby shower. Promising to return for the birth in September, we headed back to get more experience with our sailing skills in Catalina.
Our first major trip had been successful. We walked on air and could easily pat each other on the back. We felt we had come a long way.
The summer was quickly wrapping itself up and we decided to take the long way back to Alamitos Bay. Our newest grand-daughter was due on September 10th, and since we had done so well on our last trip to Dana, we wanted to re-visit it and possibly, sail a little further south to Oceanside. Besides, we now knew the course by heart and “what could possibly go wrong?” we asked ourselves.
Actual Notes from Our Cruising Log
Halfway down the island, we hit serious fog for about two hours…thick, soupy fog. Fog so thick, that when I went up on the bow to stand watch, I couldn’t see Tony at the helm. We had to use our radios to communicate. The radar worked beautifully and so did my air horn. At one point, three dolphins surrounded our bow, giving me quite a show in the milky air. After a near miss with a large power boat, that apparently couldn’t hear my horn over his engines, we broke through the fog into sunny, warm skies.
In hindsight, we probably should have gone straight to Alamitos Bay and skipped Dana Point.
Actual Notes from Our Cruising Log
The next day started out fine. And then, the wind came up. And then, the sea raised hell. And then, the giant multi-million dollar power boat, anchored in front of us, broke loose from his anchor, without the Captain on board. We raced to fend off, but he hit us. The wind swung him back and we waited for him to come back at us. His wife, onboard alone, tried to help us fend off with the second hit. The Harbor Patrol appeared out of nowhere and the wife reached her husband by phone. Her words, stricken with panic, informed her husband, “Our anchor is drift….we just hit!” The wind pulled them back again, but the giant boat took aim at us again. The man showed up in his dinghy, but didn’t seem to know how to react. The Harbor Patrol yelled, “Take control of your vessel, Captain!” and he ran to his helm. Tony held us off the best he could. I started the engine and joined the fending off party and Tony worried about him taking out our rigging. The sea was raging and the wind was howling. After many anxious minutes, the man got his boat away from us, but he could not pull his anchor up. It was just dragging across the bay, being pulled by the water and wind. He finally got it up above the water line and moved down into the channel. He eventually got the boat docked on an end-tie, but not without a lot of trouble. His anchor remained dangling from his bow. Damn these full moons! Fortunately, we took no damage and survived nicely. Thank God! The man and his wife left the marina a couple of hours later. We remained on our boat on anchor watch. Hopefully, tomorrow we will head for Oceanside.
Sometimes the best laid plans of mice and men go awry. This lesson should have been learned on our first day of retirement, but is has taken a little while for us to acknowledge it.
Actual Notes from Our Cruising Log
The interesting thing about this adventure is that not a day goes by that you don’t learn something…sometimes something largely significant, sometimes mildly significant. Today turned out to be a largely significant learning day. For days, the weather forecasters had been warning surfers and swimmers about what they called a High Surf Advisory. We paid no attention. We weren’t going to be surfing or swimming. They forgot to warn sailors leaving harbors. Engulfed in our innocence, or our stupidity, or our naivety or whatever, we casually steered the Nelly Gray up the channel, while putting up our sails. We sailed out past the breakwater and made a left, headed for Oceanside. A roller, possibly the size of a ten-story building rolled under the boat, broadside. I turned to look at Tony and saw another coming at us only seconds away. And then, another. Nothing can describe the ride, sideways, down rollers this large and then, the immediate return up the side of another one. Simultaneously, we agreed to turn around and go back. Simultaneously, we agreed to get a slip and have a quiet week-end. Simultaneously, we agreed to drink a lot. We also agreed that we both had learned what a High Surf Advisory means. We revisited Tony’s interpretation of the size of rollers. These particular rollers were larger than anything we had ever seen, so I asked him to categorize them. He had previously said if they scare him to death, he figured they were six to eight feet, so these rollers were large enough to make him move inland 500 miles. We spent the next three days in a slip, eating out, playing on Wells Beach (our feet permanently planted on solid earth) and visiting the Ocean Institute. A great time in Dana Point!
At this point, the best decision seems to be to return to Alamitos Bay and await the arrival of our grand-child. But alas, we can’t seem to do anything without a little drama.
Actual Notes from our Cruising Log
Great ride up. Seas calm, wind light, sun out. Figures. We’ll be grounded for about a month, so it stands to reason that the weather would turn nice. As luck would have it, just when you think you’re safe, fate has a surprise in store for you. Heading into the Seal Beach channel, I went to the bow to put on our dock lines. I, busily involved in my chore, hear Tony call to me to bring the jib line to him. I look up and two small engineless sail boats, filled with kids, are headed towards our boat, coming the wrong way up the channel. I race the line back to Tony and he tells me our engine died when he put it in reverse to avoid a collision. We start to pull the jib out, to sail off the rocks we were heading towards, and the dock line I had been setting up wraps itself around the jib. Tony tells me to keep the boat under control and runs up to free the sail. Keep the boat under control? I have no steerage, no engine and my bow is pointed towards the solid rock jetty. Like I said before, not a day goes by without learning something. I learned that it is going to take more than this to give me a heart attack. Suddenly, the wind caught the sail, I was able to steer the boat and we sailed up the harbor. Ironic that as soon as Tony came back to the cockpit, the engine started. Think God may be testing us?
All is well that ends well. Our baby girl was born beautiful, healthy, happy and hungry, nine days after we settled ourselves in our old marina. Our friends waited with us for Kaylee Alana Winslow and we celebrated together.
Two weeks later, we returned to our adventure, none the worse for our trials and tribulations over the last four months, but a whole lot wiser, experienced, and happier than we had ever been.
Yes, a sailor’s mantra is that ‘All is well that ends well.’ This should unarguably be the first lesson a sailor learns. If we land our boat in safe harbor, hurting no one around us, or ourselves, our journey has ended well. This part of our journey had ended well for us. We thanked God, as all sailors do.
Everyone knows that Super Heroes have archenemies. Superman has Lex Luthor. Batman has the Joker and…Spiderman, the Green Goblin. Who knew commoners also have them. We met ours in Catalina…..He came to be known as…..The Weatherman. He proved to be a cunning, strategist lulling us, at first, into complacency.
We spent our first few days in Avalon as relaxed and content retirees. We strolled along the village streets, drank coffee in our favorite little restaurants and treated ourselves to a movie in the theater.
I realized, and accepted, the fact that my previous free-for-all shopping habits would no longer be possible on our meager Social Security income. The realization that extra money must now be saved for wine took hold. Our first lesson of retirement…..conserve money for your priorities.
In over-whelming heat and without even thinking of bringing bottles of water, we hiked out to Wrigley Gardens, discovering new- born baby squirrels behind a fieldstone wall.
Upon arrival, sweating and dying of thirst, we learned our second traveling retiree lesson. Always carry cash. With only a credit card to our avail, we were refused entrance and needless to say, the purchase of life-sustaining water. Third lesson…always bring your own water. Feeling that we were off to a good start with retirement rules, we repeated the exercise the next day and got it right.
Thoroughly enjoying our first retirement vacation, we decided to take the next step and sail up to the Isthmus to meet with two of our children for the week-end. For some reason in our relaxed, euphoric state of mind, we did not hear The Weatherman laughing.
Actual Notes from our sailing log:
We have convinced ourselves that the weather will be much better in the Isthmus. Based on our previous experience, our only concern is that the harbor will be full when we get there. We are locked into the marine layer all the way. Winds are blowing. Waves are crashing onto the beam of the boat. We add another layer under our Alaska jackets and put another blanket over Charro.
We weren’t at sea very long before the skies turned gray, the wind came up and the ocean started to roll. It didn’t take long for me to get sea-sick. After several hours of solo sailing through the unexpected storm, Tony navigated the harbor on his own. I did manage to help lash the boat to the thrashing mooring and not fall in the water.
This trip became a mumbo-jumbo of trying to keep warm, stay on-shore to avoid the pitching and rolling of the boat, escape the inevitable sea-sickness on my part and still try to enjoy the company of our children.
A bit dazed, tired and stunned that one small harbor could get that rough; we limped back to Avalon under dark skies and heavy seas on Monday. Deciding this was just a fluke weather system, we agreed to wait until July before attempting another stay in the Isthmus. This time, I thought I heard laughing, but decided it was just the three-foot waves breaking on the hull of the Nelly Gray.
The wind and seas did not let up. Memorial Day came and went, leaving in its wake, crashed boats and broken mooring lines. Harbor Patrol boats sat at their moorings damaged from trying to save the boaters from killing each other. The weather did not lay down for three days. We spent most of our time fending off boats and, fortunately, took no damage.
Actual notes from our sailing log
As the hundreds of power boats prepared to leave, sustained twenty-five mile an hour winds kicked up out of nowhere. The ensuing chaos enveloped the harbor like a plague. As the wind caught the fly-bridges of the on-the-move boats, the captains lost control of their vessels. They crashed into each other, one right after the other, fouled their props, hit the harbor boats and struggled to get their vessels back onto their moorings.
Still optimistic, we found ourselves with a couple of nice days in June and decided to sharpen our anchoring skills for our impending southbound trip to Mexico. A beautiful sea and sunny skies took us to a pretty little cove, halfway between Avalon and the Isthmus.
We anchored easily and set out to enjoy the day. We prepared ourselves a nice dinner on-board, passing on our plan to have a picnic on the beach. The sea had gotten a little rough. We finished our bottle of wine and went to bed, happy with our successes of the day.
At ten o’clock, our archenemy struck again. We awoke to the boat wildly pitching and rolling. The moonless night sharply diminished our ability to see anything at all, but we knew the shoreline was rocky.
For the next two hours, we worked at saving ourselves from crashing into the shore. Our dishes and anything loose flew violently around the cabin, as the wind howled.
Amazingly, our anchor held, but we swung around it at 360 degrees and barely missed the boulders protruding from the sea. At midnight, the full moon quietly rose from behind the mountain in front of us, the sea calmed to a reasonable level of safety and we sat the rest of the night, trying to ward off our remaining fears of death.
In the morning, we hit the sea running and hurried to the Isthmus. Tucked safely onto our mooring, a bottle of opened wine ready to be consumed, we both came to the same conclusion at the same time. This was happening to us on purpose. Someone, or something, was pulling the strings on our life. We had never heard of this prolonged type of weather on Catalina. It was summer, for God’s sake!
We began to analyze possibilities. We helped ourselves to more wine. It seemed to us, after many scenarios, that Fritz Coleman, our local weatherman had seemed rather bored for the last couple of months. No one could blame him. He had to deal with the constant sunny, warm California weather. What weatherman goes through four years of college to put up with that nonsense? Who better to pray for some exciting weather, and then get it? Of course, this theory made perfect sense. Our archenemy was Fritz Coleman, THE WEATHERMAN.
It turns out…fourth lesson of retirement…that knowledge is power. Tony had always told me, “Margo, always know your enemy. You will win the battle.” We took on The Weatherman with a fierce vengeance. We spent the rest of the summer studying the weather. We used his own systems, which he continued to confront us with on a daily basis, as study guides.
Tony Studying the Weather
Our new found knowledge gave us the courage to circumnavigate the island. We watched buffalo walk and sleep in the mountains and we were treated to eagles and their young flying over our boat, hunting their breakfast.
Actual Notes from our Sailing Log
Looking forward to this new venture and the possibility of seeing buffalo and eagles, and also, to completing our long-planned circumnavigation of this island. Just the kick in the butt we needed to get started.
At seven a.m. this morning, we let our mooring lines go and headed out to conquer the legendary, gut-wrenching, wind-driven, ocean swirling West End of the Island, in an attempt to reach Cat Harbor. The tales we have heard are enough to put fear into the devil himself.
The ever-present gray skies, filled with enough moisture to mimic rain continue to plague us. We’re a little grouchy, not enough coffee and never any sun. We dress in four layers, t-shirt, sweater, sweatshirt and our best form of protection, our jackets from Alaska. We are ready to face whatever.
I stay at the helm until my face freezes and then Tony takes over. I crawl to the protection of the dodger and pull my coat up higher around my neck. It’s July, for God’s sake.
As we pass each cove, the anticipation of the treacherous West End grows at a rapid rate. Signs of civilization disappear and only looming mountains dominate the coast. We are alone. Just us, the boat and giant rollers.
We can see it. There it is. The famous West End. It’s 8:30 in the morning. We haven’t had enough coffee. We aren’t ready for this.
Tony works his way around to the left. We are expecting terrifying winds, sea serpents breathing fire, devils from hell rising from the sea to reach out and grab the boat, sucking us into the eternal depths of the ocean.
What do we get? The most beautiful, amazing scenery anyone could imagine. Towering cliffs, endlessly being drenched in crashing waves. Pelicans and seagulls, flying the thermals across the cliffs. The sea rolled gently beneath us, guiding us towards Eagle Rock, as if the whole thing was just child’s play.
Passing Eagle Rock, the sea kicked up a little, throwing us around a bit, knocking down our egos just a tad.
Calming again, carrying on just enough to let us know who’s boss, the water mellowed and let us continue our journey.
An hour and a half later, we sit on our mooring, enjoying bacon and eggs, and patting ourselves on the back for conquering the sea serpents
We learned that in order to empty our holding tank, we had to tackle a floating dock rising up and down and backwards and forwards every time we pulled up next to it. I learned to jump onto it without killing myself, lash the boat onto the pilings and get the job done.
Actual Notes from our sailing log
As Tony maneuvered the boat towards the dock, I got ready to jump on. It floated away. One leg over the side, one leg on the boat. Watching the dock float away in the current, Tony re-maneuvered the boat and I re-positioned myself for a second try. The fifteen mile an hour winds did not help my plight. Again, the dock floated away.
We sat there watching the dock float around like a rubber duck in a bathtub. It occurred to us that this might be some kind of sick joke on the part of the Harbor Patrol.
Tony decided to approach the problem backwards. He positioned the boat sideways to the dock and waited for the wooden monster to float back. He yelled, “Jump” at the right moment and I jumped, landing on both feet with a thud. He yelled, “Grab the line,” and I grabbed the line, ran down the dock to secure it to the bow and then ran down the dock the other way to secure the stern line, all before the dock floated away again.
Tony became a master at the helm. I learned that I could put a boat on a mooring under the absolute best…and the absolute worst of conditions. We learned to get the boat back to the mainland with an overheating engine and no wind. We learned to install our flopper-stopper and stop the pitching and rolling of the boat and we learned how to repair a dinghy leaking air in the middle of cresting waves and blowing sand. Best of all, we learned how to stay one step ahead of The Weatherman.
The Isthmus Mooring Field
But most importantly, we learned to love and trust each other no matter what. It was quite a summer and…. only the beginning.
On the first morning of our retirement…to borrow from an old Irish expression, we were full of ‘spit, vim and vinegar’. We couldn’t wait to get going.
The parties and good-byes were complete. Our residency in Florida was established. Our cars were sold. Opting to live ‘bow to stern’ on our thirty-six foot sailboat, we had eliminated every single thing from our life that didn’t comfortably fit within its confines.
Ready to Go
Our friends of twelve years stood waving on the docks of our marina, shouting well wishes as we sailed out. From our stereo, Chris Isaak serenaded the all of Alamitos Bay with Tony’s chosen song for our retirement, ‘Think of Tomorrow’.
We realized, as the marina’s new tenant pulled into our slip, that we were officially homeless. We owned no property on land… there was no space to return to and there would be no turning back. Our next stop was a mooring ball in the Isthmus on Catalina Island.
We had committed our lives to the sea and sailing, visiting foreign ports, meeting new, exciting people and eating strange foods. We saw ourselves sitting on exotic beaches, sipping wine and eating fresh fish. We pictured ourselves holding hands as we gazed up at star-filled skies and hiking through beautiful mountains.
As I stared at the water beneath us, I became acutely and painfully aware of our decisions. We had never even considered the possibility of anything going wrong with our starry-eyed, romantic plan. Panic welled up in my breast and crippling fear gripped my soul.
As Chris Isaak’s words, ‘You can always count on me’ filled my head, I looked back at Tony, standing strong at his helm… and he was smiling. He smiled the same confident smile that had calmed my fears and had given me strength to go on for almost half a century. Once again, calm embraced me. His eyes told me we were going to be OK. We needed no words. We both knew that the future…. a new, exciting alternative lifestyle…lay before us.
As we headed down the channel and into the open sea, we became aware that the present was our immediate problem. We had paid no never mind to the two storm flags flying from the fuel dock. Santa Ana winds were blowing like crazy and giant swells engulfed the breakwater as the huge black storm approached our bay. We turned on our heel…. without a moment’s hesitation…and raced as fast as a sailboat can race, back to the public marina to rent a slip and seek temporary shelter.
The first night of our highly anticipated, new-found freedom was spent less than one-quarter mile from our marina…. along with the second night.
The raging storm did not turn to beautiful sun and seas until our third day. Our friends had stopped by on several occasions…. bringing along bottles of wine…. to casually inquire as to why we hadn’t checked the weather and…good-naturedly laugh at us. It is true that our egos were a little bruised, but the wine was really good.
There is a good possibility that had we known even the smallest detail about the summer we were about to experience, today we would be sitting in rocking chairs somewhere way inland, as far away from the sea as we could get.
When I got married, my father said to me, “I am only giving you away once, don’t come back.” Kidding of course, his words stayed on my mind until this day. I attribute this ‘little joke’ to the reason we did not give up….we could not ‘come back.’ Every marina in California had at least a one-year waiting list. It is well known that no one in their right mind gives up a perfectly good slip. We did. One can only wonder why.
We would find out. We would learn lessons about courage, about being a team in the worst of times, about living out and accepting our decisions and about what is means to have the best time of our lives.
Imagine……A sandbar, skinny dipping and a bottle of wine.
We woke up one morning and we started packing……..Great words from a great song……and what would become our mantra for life!
We married at a young age, had a wonderful family, home, careers and used every spare minute we could find to go someplace…. anyplace. Our children learned to travel on a moment’s notice, at a very early age. We took them from the dinner table in New Jersey to the car and ended up skiing in Vermont the next morning or in Florida doing their pre-arranged homework at Disney World. We don’t think they ever held it against us.
We transferred to Florida, the children grew up, the homes got sold and we found ourselves looking at new things to do. We bought a sailboat and learned how to sail. Hurricane Andrew prompted a move to California, but ultimately, we quit our jobs and moved to Hawaii for a year, and then came back to California to love our first grandson…. and live on our sailboat. We waited patiently for the rest of our grandchildren to be born. The year 2009 brought the sixth and final one….. Next stop retirement!
Life got really interesting at this point. We would have to live on Social Security. We would have to learn to live without fancy cars and good restaurants. We would not be able to live our lifelong dream of going to Europe. No more expensive vacations.
On the bright side, we had no financial obligations. No bills, no mortgages, no family to support and a little nest-egg if we got old and needed some medical attention. OK, we thought. So…… we decided, over a glass of wine, that it was worth a try. We packed up the boat and started a brand new life, leaving it all behind. We have never looked back.
We now live on our beautiful boat, The Nelly Gray, in Ensenada, Mexico and enjoy a wonderful, full life.
By the way, we still go to nice restaurants and managed to save enough money to spend eight weeks in Europe.
The fancy cars? We drive a little Mexican Chevy that is cute as a button and costs us one hundred and fifty dollars a year to insure.
We recently purchased a 1982 VW Vanagon, restored it and have happily camped all over the Baja.
We’re saving again and next year, we will take the van to Europe and camp everywhere possible.
We have never held it against ourselves for retiring!
As a child, my mother chastised me often, telling me that I was just like my father, wings on my feet, stars in my eyes and dreams in my heart. “Star-gazers go nowhere,” she’d tell me. “Dreams are for sleeping. Hard work is the answer to everything.”
During other moments, when her softer side snuck out, she mesmerized me with stories of my Scottish great grand-father, a safe cracker by trade, roaming the country by stagecoach in the late 1800’s. He was born with “a special ear”, she said. He could open any safe by just listing to the lock click. Errant bankers called for his help from all over the country to open their accidentally locked safes. Ultimately, she would get to her favorite part of his story about him bringing home to New Jersey a Navajo Indian squaw, right off the reservation in Arizona, to take as his wife.
My mother’s stories took us to the Netherwoods, a tiny little forest in the” Queen City of Plainfield” New Jersey to my Irish great-grandmothers house, which sat right in the middle of the woods.. It was here that my mother heard the disgruntled old woman tell tales every morning of the mischievous, little green leprechauns that she had to chase back behind the ice-box with her broom before she could make breakfast. My mother laughed as she recalled her grand-mother doing an Irish jig around the kitchen as she cooked the food, happy with herself that she had conquered the “devilish little creatures” one more time.
She led us through the kitchens of “old country” Italy, where another round of relatives hailed from, describing how they taught her to “make the spaghetti you are going to eat tonight!
When she was too busy “working hard” to tell us stories of our ancestors and their customs, our father would step in to fill the gap. He took us to places like the Marshall Islands in the South Pacific and Hawaii, which he hailed as the most beautiful place in the world. He took us to Helena, Montana, where horses roamed free and men wore cowboy hats. He told me of giant ships taking him and his Army buddies to foreign ports and the beautiful women he met. He taught me to play craps with dice against the kitchen sink when my mother wasn’t looking. The wings on my feet sprouted at a very young age.
My childhood and teenage years were peppered with people from all parts of the world, but the one with the most influence was a girl named Andre, from French Morocco. She was beautiful, she spoke four languages, French being number one and English her second and she introduced me to her family. I, at ten years old, spent every minute I could at her house, annoying I am sure, asking her parent’s questions about their life, their languages, why their cat spoke French and a million other curiosities I discovered about them. They only stayed in America a year, but my wings grew six inches.
As far as I can tell, there have been three phases to my life, my childhood, my adulthood, and finally, the third phase, my second childhood. This blog is about how I, and my wonderful husband, have figured out how to get the dreams back out of the hollows of our minds and make them come alive again.