Here's to the journey

Well, folks, I can sail. Yes I can.

I raised my own mainsail and my own working jib and, as forecasted, headed out for my very first sail on my own sailboat June 16^th.

It was a defining moment in my life.

Granted I did have a consummate sailor friend on board who ensured my success by being there with good advice, but it was I, I Captain, who sailed the vessel.

The evening weather was perfect and the wind on Sand Bay allowed “Scout” to get in the groove and heel over. She cruised with a palpable energy—freed after nearly two years of landlocked stillness.

Under that dome of the present moment out on the lake there was nothing in my mind except my focus on keeping a trim sail and a steady course—with the orchestra music of the humming keel whizzing along under water.

A most humble “thank you” is due to the road so far—whose every winding and sometimes grinding bump, heartache, and heavy load got me to that incredibly happy “first ever” moment on the lake.  I could hear Maya Angelou saying, “Wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.”

After my partner, Jon Fistler, committed suicide in 2012 I came upon a bracelet at a local market that had beautiful jade beads and the words “For the Journey” stamped on a tiny piece of silver that hung from the black cording. I wore it a lot in those months following his death, as a rite of passage I suppose, for all the unknowns I knew would come my way. After a long while I took it off and put it away.

I put it back on in January, to help me once again, and vowed then to leave it on until I wore it out and it fell off. I believed that when it left my body, it would be a sign that I had reached an important crossroads in my life.

No word of a lie, the bracelet let go at noon on June 16^th, about five hours before I sailed my boat.

No date in history could have been more significant for that bracelet falling to the floor, given how I’ve struggled with my apprehension of taking the big leap—the one that meant the most—the one I wanted—the one I feared.

Truth be told I think I have been on a long road since that cold and traumatic January day in 2012 and Jon’s suicide. That was the day something inside me shifted out of place and ever since I’ve been on a personal journey to learn the lesson of letting go of what I cannot control, and to letting go of my fear of the unknown.

That day came on June 16^th. 

"As I sail through change

My resolve remains the same

What I chose are magic moments

Because ships are safe in the harbor

But that's not what ships are made for."

I know for sure I’m not done with my changes, and thank heaven I’m not.

But this “Little Miss” just sailed through something very, very big.

Raise the sails and let go

By the time you read this in the newspaper on (or after) June 17^th I will have left the dock on my own boat and raise sails by myself and used the wind as my journeyman.

That most awesome event happened last night after work, June 16^th.

But I am writing this on June 15^th, for deadline purposes, and can only imagine in my wordy mind what it will be like to be in the moment I have dreamt about since February.

My column on June 3^rd talked about fear and how it grows like a fungus and covers up all the good stuff. It kills joy and pleasure and excitement and even after I talked about facing it—still—fear stood there before me, trying to convince me I couldn’t do this thing.

On June 7^th, knowing full well I was booked with sailing friends to put my boat in the water the next evening, I grappled with my fear.

As I smoothed out the air bubbles from the vinyl font signage of “Scout,” set in deep blue sticky lettering on the side of my boat, I started to cry from my fear.

As I peeled off the paper liner, fretting my “what ifs,” I thought about my Grampa Caldwell and how much fear he must have had facing the horrors of war in those filthy, soggy trenches in France during World War One. 

By the time the paper was peeled away to reveal “Scout” I had closed the door on my fear. If he could find the courage in a real war, I could sail my boat. Piece of cake.

On June 8^th with a lot of help from my sailing mates, “Scout” was launched happily in a lovely little bay not far from here. My friends helped me raise her mast and we all watched proudly as she shape-shifted, stretched out, and settled in, tied to a dock in the buoyant blue of “Rainy Lake,” Piece of cake.

On June 11^th my sailing friend taught me how to put the main sail on. Piece of cake.

June 12^th, after stocking “Scout” with everything I needed to escape the trappings of land and sail off into the great unknown, I spent the first night ever on my own sailboat, tied to the dock where she’d been launched. It was a heavenly piece of cake for sure.

That evening, I watched “Captain Weekend” videos on “YouTube” and learned how to hook up my new marine deep cycle battery. Channeling “Red Green” I used aluminum foil and duct tape to cover my cabin windows. Worked great. Piece of cake.

Friends stopped by and helped get “Evin,” my little 6HP motor started and took me out for a “motor only” trek around the bay, and gave me lessons on how to dock again without smashing my bow into the cement pillars. (That piece of cake is reserved for the first time I do it alone.)

By the time you read this, I will have raised her sails and done the thing I have feared the most and I will have had so much fun that I won’t ever be the same woman again.

Letting go is not a piece of cake but once I get there, it will feel like a million bucks.  

On fear and second thoughts

My sail boat still remains in my yard on a trailer, far from the wind and waves.

The grass growing underneath the boat trailer, that I cannot reach with the lawnmower, grows tall and thick.

I now lament each day that I watch it grow unfettered because it defines the one more day—and one more day again—that I am not on the water.

For many years I have subscribed to “Notes from the Universe” and every morning around 5 a.m. (and without fail) I receive a philosophical message in my email. The message usually is the first thing I read when I wake up, because it helps me set the pace for my day.

One recent such message read, “For every fork in the road, Beth, there are often two paths from which to choose: the one you "should" take and the one you want to take. Take the second. Always take the second.”

I work on my boat nearly every day—fixing this, painting that, ordering this or that, and with every day that passes, I find one more reason why I should not launch. I could play “Miss Fix It” all summer long. Safely, I could do that.

I’m scared to take the next step—the one that means the most—the one I want—the one I don’t know enough about and the one I fear—sailing my “Scout” on my own.

That’s the worst thing about fear. It grows like a fungus and covers up all the good stuff. It tramples “could” and infects me with “not sure” and drowns out “want.” It kills joy and pleasure and excitement.

Before I started writing this column I was sitting in the cockpit of my “Scout” admiring my yard from my perch on stilts above the long grass and contemplating how I got “here.”

If someone had told me in early January that I would have my own sailboat by April, I would have said they were delusional.

But life changed the scope of my vision and my decisions. I couldn’t imagine my life without sailing in it and I was infused with a passion to do something to change that.   

If end of April someone would have told me that by the first day of June I would be finding all sorts of excuses why I couldn’t do the thing I want most of all, I would have said they were delusional.

Go figure.

A friend of mine with an eye for philosophy fired off an email to me about Mark Twain and Maria Shriver. Paraphrased, it read, “Throw off the bow line,” and “Let go of the life you imagined so you can experience the life you were meant to live.”

And then there’s the advice of my friend and consummate sailor, Colin, who stressed, “It will all fall into place. Stop worrying. Get the boat in. Then have fun!”  

I want to take that big, scary step. I want to never give up.

"Authenticity, the experience of truth, is our richest food. Without it we will freeze to death.”  I refuse to freeze.

I’m going in.

A boat name to sail on

Since the moment I made the decision to buy my sailboat, I have dwelt a lot on what defines me as I sought out a name for it.

I’ve brainstormed names, picked one, then another, and second-guessed them all. It’s nearly been a daily think tank for three and half months.

However, I’ve made a final choice. Quite simply the best name ever.

I was nicknamed “Little Miss” by a friend of mine who understood me and my journey through some tough hardships. “Little Miss” is the name of a 2010 country hit song by the duo “Sugarland.”

Both the band and the song have been long time favorites of mine. To his credit, my friend was fairly accurate calling me “Little Miss.”

I’m tough, I do my best, I never rest. Sometimes I do give up, hide my scars and yet, I go far. And I am so much more than I like to talk about. I have had more than one brand new start and I believe that sometimes “you gotta lose til’ ya win.”

I am defined by all of it, but “Little Miss” isn’t the name I chose for my boat.

I love my country of Canada. I passionately love where I live in it and I cannot imagine moving away from Rainy Lake, ever.

The sunsets here are spectacular, the air is fresh, and there is a world of adventure at nearly every turn.

“Canadian Skye” is another of my favourite songs. It makes my heart leap when I hear the band “Spirit of the West” sing it.

But “Canadian Skye” isn’t the name I chose for my boat either.

“True North.” I am a northerner. I am true. I try to wear my heart on my sleeve as much as I can, because life is short and I don’t want to waste it by hiding—even if its risky.

I am my own “True North.” Certainly that does define me.

But “True North” isn’t the name I chose for my boat either.

I want to live and cruise on my boat and take it all in.

“Vista Cruise” was a dead ringer for me. It encapsulated the two words that depicted why I bought the boat in the first place.

But alas, one day I would be sailing near Belize and come under the shadow of the future “Carnival Vista Cruise liner.” That just wouldn’t do. 

So of course, “Vista Cruise” isn’t the name I chose for my boat either.

Between 1920 and 1922 my grandfather John Murdoch Caldwell wrote love letters to his sweetheart and fiancée Pearl Davis. I have 60 of those love letters still in their original envelopes.

The loving words my grandfather wrote to my grandmother are exquisite. Every one of the 60 letters, still as legible as the day he wrote them, speak volumes about what a kind, gentle, loving soul he was. 

Sometimes he slipped violets in the letters, and there they remain, pressed between the notes of his heart for 94 years.

He began nearly every letter with “Dear Buddy.” I will never know where he found that term of endearment for my grandmother, but by the looks of the envelopes torn open by her fair hand, she could hardly wait to read what he’d written.

Grampa Caldwell was a gunner with the 35^th Battery of the Canadian Field Artillery in World War I. He fought in Europe and he survived to come home, fall in love, and raise a family of five children, one of whom is my father, Bruce.

I was lucky to be able to spend summers of my youth with my Grampa Caldwell. I loved him and he loved me right back.

60 love letters to his sweetheart, some of them signed “Johnnie,” but most were signed with a name that I can only imagine defined him in the war, and once home, as my grandmother’s loving watchman.

“Scout.”   Quite simply the best boat name ever.

A few words about motherhood

When my daughters were “littles,” I would show them their reflection in a mirror and had them practice saying, “I love you” to them.

At bedtime when it came time for prayers of gratitude and lists of whom they loved, I cued them in as first on their lists.

There are countless philosophical quotes that preach loving yourself first.

I can’t write a better one than to encourage you to look in the mirror at yourself, really stare into those eyes, be you man or woman, and tell yourself “I love you” until you believe it.

Like most moms, there were times when I was sure I had failed other courses in the school of motherhood consecutively and bigger than a certain Canadian hockey team.

All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own. This I know for sure.

I am the luckiest of moms. Thank you Heather for writing such a wonderful tribute to me for Mother’s Day on behalf of yourself and your sisters.

“You are beautifully written.
You transcend the wisdom of your favourite books, and your favourite quotes have nothing on the knowledge that you feed back to people.
You are everything good in the world.
You walked into my room and told me your heart was in perfect condition- proof that fractures heal.
You are not to be held back.
You are strong, you are mighty.

I swear you were a Greek Goddess of resiliency in another life.
In the face of adversity, you do not cave.
You let yourself feel what the world has given you, turn it around and teach us lessons of courage.
You helped us grow and never failed to give us exactly what we needed.
There are things I’m sure you wished were different for us, people we never got to fully experience.
Please never forget Mom,
You raised three girls into three women.
 If you ever have doubts, fears, worries about who we will become, take a look in the mirror. 
We have your blood running through our veins, filling our bodies with life.
There is nothing more we could ask from you.
We are not perfect but we have something to aspire to when we look at you.
Thank you for taking care of us when we were sick, and loving us despite our hormones.
Thank you for always favouring us even when you needed it more.
Thank you for loving me even when I don’t want to wash the dishes.
I wish you so much happiness that you can’t even contain your smile.
The words I have to describe the love I feel for you are simple because there is nothing complex about loving someone so easily.
I hope you can see you are cherished.
You are loved beyond measure.”

 

Stop, look, listen, time out

I looked out my kitchen window just now and there was my black cat sitting like a statue in the driveway and staring at me with her telepathic flat stare that said, “You must let me in.”

I think “Millie” is feeling the pinch of neglect these days as I race around here like the human version of racehorse “American Pharaoh,” winner of the Kentucky Derby.

I put the spring in “Spring” and the get up in “Go.” I am a machine—the female underdog shadow of middleweight boxer Manny Pacquiao as I fight my way through the chores and to-do lists that multiply like rabbits on my kitchen table.

My cats miss me, my daughter who is home from University for the summer certainly has cause to ask me if I remember who she is, as we pass each other in the porch doorway with my spring causes stuffed under both arms and in my hands. 

And the causes that do not fit there, are thrown in back packs and slung both shoulders. I have lists in my jean and shirt pockets, in my shoes and two wrapped in pencils shoved along the top of each of my ears.

I make a beeline for the barn to do my chores there and I can feel my Grampa Joe’s mission-style focus teeming in my stride.

I was in the grocery store after work tonight, nearly hell-bent on getting home to attack “The List” that my pace nearly put two car lengths in between my and the daughter who’s home for the summer. “What is your name again?”

As I type this Bruce Cockburn popped into the stream of music playing on my laptop with “Last Night of the World.” 

“What would I do that was different?” he chimes, strumming that beautiful guitar of his.

The first thought I had was that I’d bargain for more time, because I’d have too much that I wanted to do on that last night. Then I laughed out loud and said, “Beth, you just don’t get it.”

And then I really got to thinking about what I would do on the last night of the world. 

Here goes;

I’d listen to guitar music while facing the sunset. I’d say the words “I love you” a lot, to a lot of people I care about. I would meditate a little, say thank you a lot and try that expensive red wine I’ve always wanted to taste.

I would watch birds fly and listen to them sing, because they sing anyway. I like that about birds. They are among the most genuinely positive creatures on earth.

I would eat chocolate and write some good thoughts about my life. I’d listen to the late Louis Armstrong sing “What a Wonderful World,” I’d burn my to-do lists and I’d laugh in the face of my misgivings.

And to think I wasn’t even going to slow down long enough to write this column.  

Slowing down is on my list too.

Living life in more gears than one

Charles Schultz once penned, “Life is like a ten speed bike. Most of us have gears we never use.”

I think I’m a few gearshifts ahead of the game at this point.

In the last 29 days I have learned about electrical panels on sailboats, deep cycle and “AGM” batteries, pintles and gudgeons (which are not names of fairies from a fantasy movie), what contexts ay good bilge sponge, and what the real definition of “premium” is.

Sadly these days, “premium” is not a financial term that lends itself to fattening my wallet. It is instead the quintessential definition for how much storage space I have for supplies on my boat once I am out on the lake.

I’ve climbed a ladder every day for the last 29 days as I board my boat for “Little Miss Fix-It” jobs, or just to sit with my cold beer and dream.

I’ve contorted myself into strange pretzel-like positions to check small spaces for wiring schematics—all the while hoping I come across another hiding space for food and chocolate when I’m on a long cruise this summer.

I’ve scrubbed the entire boat inside and out by myself, de-oxidized the hull and waxed it back to the beautiful blue that was hiding. It’s been physically demanding and mentally freeing.

I have spent more time on the “Catalina Direct” website ogling over all the parts, pieces, and luxuries I can buy for said sailboat than I have spent on the entire Internet since it was let loose upon us all those years ago.

I’ve also watched “YouTube” videos on how to restore teak hardwood, splice wires together, and remove wires off a marine battery and how to use a battery charger.

All of the lessons on batteries warn against contact between negative and positive wires if one is still in contact with said battery. I should have taken the repeat safety course for dummies on that score. Yikes!

Most of all though; I have dwelt on what defines me as I try to decide what name to give to my boat.

She has never had a name, so the field is wide open to invent just about anything my imagination can muster up—provided I can repeat it three times clearly—and without laughing—on a marine radio.

Knowing that fact eliminated a few favorites right off the top—“All Gulls No Buoys,” “Passing Wind,” and ”Yacht Sea.”

I started a list of boat names in a note file on my IPhone. I’ve brainstormed them, picked one, then another, and second-guessed them all.

I was born in the arms of a good imagination but for the life of me, naming a sailboat takes the cake on difficult.

However, I have made a final choice. It came to me out of the blue as I was falling asleep one night. Quite simply the best name ever.

I’m tempted to let the cat out of the bag but that’s another story.

A snow day breeds positive vibes

I stared out longingly at my sailboat this morning. It looked dejected and beaten down by the skiff of snow that covered her like a thin white layer of wax paper that weighed two tons.

I’ll bet she, too, was thinking “Really? Snow? I just want to sail.”

And then again, she looked so right at home sitting there, waiting patiently for the next round of new paint, a cleaner hull, and a new life for the water.

A little snow wouldn’t keep her down.

It’s Monday night and it’s snowing again as I write this. I have the heat turned up, two sweaters on, and there’s a pot of pea soup brewing on the stove. The warmth feels good. It feels like a cozy winter story.

Mother Nature plays hard to get. 10 days of sunshine, one of snow. She gives and she takes away and she gets us all talking mostly about one cold snowflake event in a score of many sunshine moments.

Life is like that.

My ex-husband Peter used to say, “It is much easier to be bad than good.” He was right.

Don’t allow the negatives to get more attention than the positives.

I’ll bet the person out there with terminal cancer and is still able to stand at the window each morning, didn’t say today, “oh blast, it’s snowing again.”

I’ll bet that person said, “Thank you for another day.”

My grandson stood outside this morning and let snowflakes fall on his tongue and smiled at the tingling magic feeling that those most original phenomena in the entire world left on his palate.

Find something really good to talk about.

Take up positive thinking like my dad and repeat after me, “It’s always a possibility.”

My dad used to say that to my brother and I a lot when we were growing up. It gave us hope for whatever it was we were hoping for. Maybe we got our wish, maybe we didn’t; but we always had a positive spin on things.

Read the life lessons by Regina Brett, written at age 90.

“Life isn’t fair, but it’s still good; When in doubt, just take the next small step; Life is too short to waste time hating anyone; When it comes to going after what you want in life, don’t take no for an answer; If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d grab ours back; Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, don’t save them for a special occasion, today is special.”

I’m dreaming of future holidays that are on my bucket list. How about horseback riding in Iceland or kayaking the Haida Gwai on the B.C. coast? Italy is on my list and so is the Grand Canyon.

And now I have a sailboat and my adventure list is growing to include not only the fabulous Rainy Lake, but also sailing my boat one day on Lake Superior and to the Apostle Islands, or maybe even a salty dip in the ocean off Florida.

And I’ve been told by a reliable source that recently there was a Catalina 22 tied to a dock in Belize. Just imagine. One day it might be me.

All these great thoughts and all because it snowed today.

New words wash ashore with my boat

If it wasn’t for lists I would never get anything done around here, although I freely admit that sometimes just having a list makes me feel I’ve accomplished something, and sometimes that means nothing the list really gets done at all. I just look it over and cross stuff off and add other things to it.

In fact on the desk beside me right now is a list I wrote in the spring of 2014. It reads, “outside tarp (not sure what that means), new patio flooring, black earth, lawn seed, rocks, cinder blocks (not sure what I was thinking about here either.)

I don’t think any of those “to-dos” were accomplished, but the list still looks good just sitting there beside my coffee cup.

I have lists on the go for spring projects inside the house and out, including a separate one for basement, one for the barn, one for interior painting projects, and one for my garden and flowerbeds.

Of course I now have project lists on the go for my sailboat including a list of questions about what exactly it is that I’m looking for, how to spell it, and what the heck it means. 

Now if I could just learn how to carry on a proper sailboat conversation about it all!

“There are no such things as ropes on a sailboat,” a fellow sailor recently said to me, chuckling over something I’d said. Indeed. They are “sheets,” and no, they won’t double as bed cover for my tired aching skeleton at the end of day on the lake.

A “hatch” is not what comes after the chicken egg, and there is no “front” and “back” of a sailboat nor is there a “right or left” and “port” sadly not a reference to a fortified wine.

“Starboard” is not a term used by Captain James Kirk. “Winch” is not slang for wince and “Aft” is not slang for after. “22” is not a rifle, it is the length in feet of my sailboat. 

“Main” is not a street and the good ol’ “red, white and blue” is not a reference to the U.S. flag. It is the electrical schematics on my boat that I am determined to learn how to read and how to fix.

The “head” is not what is on my shoulders. It’s is the “go-to” for bathroom relief. Curtain please.

“Whisker pole” is not some guy’s beard hair glued to a cedar post and “tiller” is not a garden tool. “Tang” is not a drink; “pulpit” is not from whence the church minister gives his sermon. 

“Gooseneck” is not that which I would love to throttle for pooping in my farmyard and a “traveler” is not the guy on the highway looking to hitchhike. 

“Tell tales” are not the little children in your life who like to out their siblings for misbehaving. “Tang” is not a drink and “block” is not something even remotely related to me during those times when I can’t think of something to write about.

I wonder if chocolate is in the sailing supply manual?  It will be when I’m done.

Here's to uncharted waters

Someone paid me a heartwarming compliment recently, revealing to me that I enriched life during time spent together.

I’ve learned to say thanks for sincere moments of offering like that. 

There was a time when I would have reduced the accolade with “Oh, don’t be silly,” or “I don’t know if I’ve done that,” or “are you sure you mean that?”

Today I love and believe in myself enough to accept it as true when someone says such a nice thing about me. And good feelings are best when shared.

That is not to say that I don’t doubt myself sometimes. Books sliding off the shelf of my life can, on occasion, raise doubts of all kinds. Sometimes a turn of events harangues me enough that I call into question my integrity, gullibility, reasoning, and intentions.

I think even the strongest of us have moments like that. What’s important is that we, each in our own way, find gratitude, lessons, and keep walking our path.

One of my favorite songs right now is “Silver Lining,” by First Aid Kit. I can’t remember how that song dropped in my lap but it certainly came along at an appropriate time.

“There’s no starting over, no new beginnings, time races on,

Gotta keep on going, looking straight out on the road,

Can't worry 'bout what's behind you or what's coming for you further up the road, I try not to hold on to what is gone, I try to do right what is wrong.”

A wise man I know also would tell me in times of hardship I have three choices—“suck it up, change it, or quit.”

Crosby, Stills, and Nash would sing, “Rejoice, we have no choice, we’ve got to carry on.”

I think I’ll do all of those things, because there is no starting over, no new beginnings, time does race on. I must keep going, look straight out on the road I’m on. I will change it. I have no choice. I must carry on.

In celebration of all of these roads less travelled I bought my own 22ft sailboat last week.

I’ve never sailed alone in my life, but I’m going to learn and learn quickly.

I am as determined as the worker ant that carries 100 times its own body weight up hill in a hurricane. Trust me. I know myself very well. I may have a soft shell sometimes, but my core is as solid as they come.

Gratitude abounds. I have been given a silver lining I would otherwise have never known.

I’ve always believed in a Power greater than myself and I pray often to this Power for strength, clarity, wisdom, and often for the courage to accept the things I cannot change.

I also believe one of the greatest gifts of the Universe is free will. Nothing happens until I decide. 

I am mine. I am my own.

“She stood in the storm and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails.”

And now, I’m a sailboat captain.