Settlement Harbour Dinghy
In respect for the early hour I don’t start the outboard. Instead I float halfway to the docks before yanking the cord, puttering a bit, then pointing the bow toward the preferred landing.
The sun has not yet exposed herself, but teases the harbor with hints of her arrival, peeking from behind a curtain of lavender clouds to the east. It is neither dark nor light as I carefully tie the dink to the pier. A clove hitch finished with two half hitches should hold, even if the wind kicks up. A red sign at eye level commands, “Boats must use a stern anchor.” The edict is clear but I don’t want to waist time. Sunrise will not wait. Sure, my craft is a “boat” but I rationalize the rule should not apply to it. Maybe in the Bahamas a dink isn’t considered a boat. It’s a rubber bumper for cripes sake. What harm could it cause if it swings? I disregard the sign, unwilling to re-board, dig out and set the anchor. They’ll know it belongs to an inept charterer. It’ll be fine.
A pudgy middle-aged man in a tiny rust-pocked car parked pointing to the quiet harbor watched as I tied up. Now, he openly stares as I walk toward him. I say good day and for some reason confess I didn’t deploy an anchor.
“Ah ha. Well, which boat’s yours?” he asks, as if he hadn’t witnessed my arrival. I know he did.
“The dinghy. I don’t need an anchor for a dink, do I?”
“Nah. Not for a dinghy.”
“Thanks,” I wave and trot up the narrow street, running faster than usual, wanting to escape his creepy gaze. I feel him watching as I huff up the hill.
There’s a five-mile long beach on the far side of the narrow island. Running toward the Atlantic, I hope to arrive there before morning floats above the horizon. I hurry to the beach. The view, singular in its splendor, stops me in my tracks.
“Ah! Ohhhh my!”
White-laced turquoise fans splay open on the creamy beach. In reverence, I remove my shoes dropping them in a sandy remembrance of volleyball and sand castles. The beach gives way to my weight until I reach the saturated strand where the water has flattened all evidence of anything but the sea. My steps dent the immaculate welcome mat to the Atlantic. This is the center of the beach. Long wings of sand spread both east and westward. I begin to run toward the rising sun, the sand sponging beneath me as I gaily sing, “Heaven. I’m in heaven.”
I go on a gleeful romp. Exuberance propels me at a too-fast pace to greet the sun as it pierces through a battlement of clouds. I’m kissed by the breeze against my cheeks. Perfect, this amazing place is perfect. Happy, I’m giddy, ecstatic … but about to run out of sand. A dark, craggy outcropping marks the turn-around. In my excitement, I’ve run too far, and on sand!
I make a wide arc passing my own footprints, some already erased by the surf. With the wind at my back and the sun out, it’s suddenly hot. The sun mocks my slowed running with a shadow plodding along. Wind whips hair across my sweating face and pastes it over my eyes. Attempts to hold it back are in vain.
Nearing where I dropped my shoes, I’m glad I’m done. Overheated and sweating like I never sweat in Arizona, I wade into the water and plop backward, letting a wave wash over my smoldering head. Hair swirls as I lift on my elbows, laying back with my face poking just above the quenching water. This extinguishes the heat, but as I walk to collect my shoes rivers of salty water erupt again and roll down my face, arms, back and legs. Hair hangs in dribbling clumps in front of my eyes as I bend to wash sand from my feet. I have to cross deep dry sand but I don’t recall where I entered. Was this the place? Or was that? The chaotic beach is featureless. I pick the closer way thinking, How can I go wrong on an island.
Jogging to cool down, it doesn’t take long to realize this is not the way I came, but I’m going the right direction, headed back toward the south. At the crest I turn right. It looks flatter, easier so I zig-zag down to the waterfront and walk exhausted to the dock.
Huh? I don’t see my dinghy. Where is it? Uhoh. Was I that sloppy with my knots? I wipe sweat from my eyes and rub them in disbelief. Its not here! The man in the rusty car is gone. Where’d he take my dinghy! I knew I should have put out the anchor.
I scan the harbor. Our Moorings 40′ has the tender tied at the stern. What the … who swam in and took the dink? Who’s that kid! … Oh, that’s not our boat … This isn’t our harbour. Where’s my dinghy? Where’s my harbour? Where’s my chartered boat? Not here. Where the hell am I?
I’m on the right shore, the Sea of Abaco side of the island. I remember from the chart a Fisher’s Cove around a jut of land from Settlement Harbour. Ah, I must be at Fisher’s. I’m not lost. Not really. I’m at Fisher’s, but did I run past Settlement or did I not run far enough? I decide I needed to go up the hill when I took the flat route, but had I turned right or left? I can’t remember. I’ll ask someone where Settlement Harbour is! Of course pedestrian traffic is less than bustling at o’dark-thirty. I’ll jog uphill and figure it out.
Reaching the hilltop it is still not clear which way I should turn. There’s a fifty-fifty chance I went too far, so I turn back, run up one hill and around another. Not the way I came but reasonable. For a long way, there’s no road, no path back to the Abacos side of the island. I run farther thinking I made another wrong turn, wishing I had water. I’m hoping to see someone to ask for a drink, and directions, when a narrow road opens to my right.
Aha, this is the way. In a few yards there’s the tiny rusted car. He’s still there. I turn and walk casually to the dock. My dink is still where I left it. My boat is where I left it. My knots are as I left them and I didn’t need an anchor. No one needs to know, they’re not even up yet. I jump into the dink, start the outboard and buzzing along promise myself I won’t say a word about getting lost.
Lynyard Cay
026°21.3890 N / 076°59.1150 W
We anchor in the afternoon off Lynyard Cay. With the first sandy beach of our trip beckoning, I am quick to get into the water. Uncharacteristically, I huff and puff after a short swim to the bow, where I hold myself against the anchor snubber to breathe in the splendor. I settle my breathing and swim to shore.
To the west, nimbus clouds of many distinctions block the waning sun. A green-black ribbon of land splits the sky from the sea. To the north, a spit of green juts westward, a stand of trees testifying to the prevailing westerly winds. Beyond that, clusters of shadowy islands litter the horizon. I know from our approach, the island is inhabited. We had joked a Mic Jagger’s estate, made up of two over-sized houses, is to the north.
To the south, a nearby headland dotted with habitation caps the sea. Buildings stand brilliant white against a green lushness I am unaccustomed to seeing.
At the terminus of the sand, I join Mark who has appeared under the shade of a large mangrove fruited with a hanging collection of jetsam marked with dates and cheery messages from sailors. Nearby, a ceramic toilet, throne-like, is situated as if a castaway should preside over the display and the anchorage. It is an oddly harsh symbol of man’s nature in the otherwise densely natural landscape. As I stand reading the messages on the floats, a pea-sized hermit crab transits my toes. I show the delicate creature to Mark, lay him back in the sand, then walk back to the water’s edge.
A bagel shaped, nubby, black sea creature washes up at my feet. I squat to inspect, flipping the animal over to scrutinize a greenish center. I call to Mark, looking toward the hanging garden of buoys. He is no where to be seen but Emily is swimming toward the beach. She and a starfish arrive simultaneously.
I pick up the stone-like starfish.
“Look what came ashore!” I joke. We walk ankle deep in the sea toward each other taking long neanderthal strides. Leaning forward we lurch through water we churn with sand into a milky white. Holding the star’s underside toward Emily its stiff points curl magically toward me. Mark suddenly reappears as Emily strokes the creatures underbelly prompting sticky tentacles to protrude and blindly arc around their tiny reach. The star’s arms are pointed back at me. Its center is deeply puckered.
Mark laughs and says, “Look out, his stomach may come out his mouth.”
As if in cahoots with Mark, the star widens the orifice.
“Eeeuew!” Quickly I lay it in a Sasquatch-sized foot print Mark has left in the wet sand.
“I walked to the Atlantic.” Mark boasts.
“How far was it?” I ask, thinking I have no intention of making the trek in my tender bare feet.
“Allll the way across the island” she says with a wide gesture. “… about 200 yards. Come on.” he says more to Emily, then looks at me. “Let’s go look.”
“I don’t have shoes.” I state the obvious and add, “My feet are so tender.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s mostly sand.” he says assuringly as we start up the narrow path past the motley monument to cruising.
The sound of the Atlantic, feral and turbulent, bellows from just beyond our view as we tramp up the sandy trail. Waves crashing on an exposed coral shelf boom, then the sea seethes as water strains in retreat. The brush thins to reveal raw sugar colored sand trapped above the reef by the wrath of the ocean.
Craggy gray coral spires are cached with pools of tepid seawater, evidence of a retreating tide. The raw majesty is blemished with tangled tendrils of gaily colored fishing net knitted into the sharp rocks. Bright blue tangles, yellow knots and red bights of polypropylene punctuate the seascape. Scanning the scene, I realize I expected the litter. I easily accept it, impotent to change the fact that it exists. Casting my eyes toward a wave washing up to my bare feet, I step back as a wave deposits an orange and white toothbrush. It looks newer than the one I have at home. My flesh, my bones will be dust before all evidence of this discarded tool is gone from the earth. Another wave buries it a bit in the sand, then skitters seaward.
Ashamed, I walk away.
Manjack
Reefs. This place is full of them, or more precisely the Abacos, is a reef. Inexplicably, mounds of coral have protruded from the shallow sea creating islands as wild as one can imagine. Manjack is one of them. Almost as miraculously as the coral taking hold and forming a spit of land, this insubstantial protrusion from the water will soon be a place of human habitation. It will take Herculean efforts for man to comfortably live here, but it is imminent if not already a fact.
As wild as this spot is, we are not alone on the island. Three other catamarans bob in the anchorage and two small craft hang near the beach. One of the boats, Sloop du Jour, is familiar. A day ago we saw them anchored on the Fowl Cay Reef dense with Blue Tangs, Damsels, Sargent Majors and Parrot Fish. Literally, “anchored on.” They had dropped their heavy anchor and chain rode along the delicate reef so, for a few moments, they could snorkel in the splendor that took eons to develop. Surely they later ravished the coral dragging up the tackle with their windlass.
I eye them warily then don my goggles, jump off the stern, swim toward the bow, then veer toward the white stretch of beach. I aim for a smart yellow building, perhaps a small cottage. The sea bottom is a motley lawn of swaying grass pocked with bald white sandy spots dotted with spiny urchins. A body length in front of my reach, a turtle languidly flies towards the shore. I pick up speed to try to match the turtles’ pace. He seems unaware of my progress for quite a long distance, until I awkwardly thump my foot on the surface of the water. Without slowing, he cranes his neck until our eyes meet, then vanishes ahead with no apparent increased effort.
Turning to swim back to the boat to boast of my encounter I’m surprised when I surface. It’s raining hard and the boat is cloaked in a lacy skirt of spattering water, barely visible. The thought of loosing sight of my craft makes my heart suddenly race. I circle toward the stern, in my excitement unable to swim a straight course, and board pushing the dinghy aside. Lowered from the davits it is ready for a trip to shore. My shipmates are gathered in the shelter of the cockpit. From the swim step I tell of my encounter and take an impromptu fresh water shower.
“I saw the coolest thing! I swam with a turtle.” I let the cool downpour rinse salt from my hair and body. The boat begins a swing away from the beach to point toward a cut in the land where the sea is surging and breaking against exposed coral. Two of the boats have departed. Sloop du Jour and the runabouts remain. Toweling off, I join the others in the cockpit to watch the rain filling the dink.
The island, like most of the mounds raising from the Sea of Abacos, is a low crescent. It is easy to discern the end we lay closest to is very narrow. A few yards of coral separates the Sea of Abacos from the deeper Atlantic. The belly of the island is a dense tangle of green; wild, super-sized versions of common houseplants woven through mangroves, delicately edged with sea oats and a thin strip of sand laying before the water. Later, Mark reports the jungle is impenetrable yet a path has been cleared and a house on the Atlantic side is under construction.
Once the rain stops — pauses — we bail the dink then make way through the shallow water to a sandy curve on the beach. We run up as far as possible without going aground, then each grab handholds to lug the craft completely out of the water. For good measure we loop the painter around a broken tree stump as the rain begins to spit again. An orderly line of sea birds stand along the sandy crest pointing into the wind. A carcass of a dinner-sized fish lays close to the dinghy, its stench percolating through the rain. As I walk past, one bird tears away a long string of flesh while another stands nearby waiting for a chance to dine. The other birds point beaks toward the Atlantic; a gradient of excited turquoise blue water blending into a navy blue, dotted with frothy wind whipped white caps. The terns are unconcerned with our transit and stand inanimate like feathered weather vanes pointing windward to the skittering waves. I turn back for a last comforting look at our boat before cresting the low berm. One of the small crafts near the beach is leaving and the occupants of the other are gathering for departure.
As if by instinct, we scatter to survey the wild unsheltered side of the Cay. Solitude has been rare. Without explanations or excuses we turn away from each other and commune privately with nature’s glory. Sunset pink conch shells litter the coral head. Tiny sand tunnels bubble as waves wash over them. A sand dollar slides washes up stopping at my feet. Far off Dianna holds up a huge star fish then drops it back into the shallow water. Bruce stoops over to watch it drift away. Ed walks along well behind me. I wade around the point towards the narrow slit of land. I can see most of our mast as my shipmates disappear behind the jut of land. Ed joins me and we walk to the narrow, picking up conch, examining the creatures and dropping them back to their watery home. As we reach the strand the wind whips. We take a moment to pick a plastic bottle from the sharp coral and head back at a quickened pace. The sea has begin to buck in response to the wind. Waves begin to break against the coral. Suddenly it looks beautifully threatening. Without discussion we turn to retrace our steps. Emily passes us, headed to were we have just left. As we reach the berm, Dianna and Bruce are casually waiting. We ask them about Mark. He is no where to be seen, so to relieve any concern, we joke he could walk anywhere being so tall. Emily is out of sight too. So we wade and turn our faces into the wind and watch the sea’s increasing turmoil. I ask Ed if we should go after Emily.
“Maybe…” He lifts his hand to her small figure wading toward us. It is windy and raining when she joins us.
“Do you think Mark is okay?” I ask, my hair whipping across my face.
“Oh, yes. Sure. He can take care of himself. He’s so tall…” She points down the boat-side of the beach to Mark emerging from the jungle. I notice the fish has been reduced to skin and fins. In the placid lee, the salty surface water springs upward to groove with the rain. The birds stand on the berm ignoring it all.
Without discussion we shove the dinghy into the water and motor to meet Mark who has waded to the middle of the cove, the water scarcely at his hips. Evidence of our presence seems washed from the sand by the peppering rain. I find this comforting.
Showing up is a winning strategy
It’s blustery and the wind reminds me I haven’t written about sailing for quite a while. I have been busy enjoying it, instead of recounting my experiences.
In two weeks the Arizona Yacht Club will host their Commodore’s Dinner in celebration of the Fall ‘09/Spring ‘10 Race Series. I just looked at the final scoring and had to walk away, refresh the web page and look again. Unbelievable! It appears the women aboard Hot Flash, the Santana 20 with the over-confident flaming hull paint job, took third place. Really. I can’t fathom how THAT happened. Could it be a case of race point accounting gone wrong?
There is ample reason for me to doubt our podium results. Hot Flash had races that were down right embarrassing, notably the ones when Lynn was not aboard to constantly remind me to head up or fall off, or when we had such light winds the touchy boat veered off without my intent, seemingly possessed, avoiding the holy waters between race buoys. We spent more time than any sane sailor would bobbing along, creeping toward the mark at imperceptible speed.
When I told Ed the third place news, he said, and I quote, “Congratulations! Showing up paid off!” His complisult is dead on. If we had not sailed when we had little enthusiasm for sailing soaked, cold and beat up by squally conditions or facing the opposite of over-warm windless grinds, we would have been like most of the fleet, with a slew of “did not starts” and a burden of points to reflect the comfort of staying at home. So, I can’t boast that we placed because of superior skill. I can only say we were tenacious and showed the guys that we could suffer with the best of them. Our winning strategy was to show up.
But it certainly was not all bad, as a matter of fact, overall I had a blast. There were spills and thrills and a lot of learning to sail better that happened during the season. There was bonding with the crew — not all of it pretty. I also discovered, without a doubt, I am a blood and guts competitor. I really love to win, but absolutely hate to lose. Somehow I had managed to deny those two facts, preferring to think I did not need to win to be confident of my skills. I was surprised by my competitive behavior. When we missed a start by two minutes (an eternity) I was fit to be tied. When I missed a mark, I was not a happy camper. When a crew member made a mistake I quietly fumed. (I tried to keep it to myself — but they could undoubtedly tell I was “displeased”.) When a Catalina, not in our fleet, failed to respond properly to my “Starboard!” calls to give way, I exploded the F-bomb while our competition passed and the guilty Catalina fended off our stern, veering us woefully off course. My anger was over a few seconds lost during a seven-month, 43 race experience.
Our actual racing time for the season was recorded as 37 hours, 21 minutes and 28 seconds, figuring our four time limit expirations as only two hours each (not the eternity they actually took). I needed to know the details. The five seconds that cost one point, the few moments we squandered with a sloppy tack, the sail we let go untrimmed — I see how they all added up.
Out of that day-and-a-half actively racing, I estimate I spent eight hours frustrated with the oh-so-slow pace, two hours thrilled, a few minutes scared out of my wits, and the 26 plus hour balance having a really good time. Out of the 37 plus hours, I learned more than in the past four or five years of kicked-back, relaxed sailing, not caring where I went or how fast I got there.
I’m glad it is over so I can relax, but look forward to doing it again — a bit faster.
Wannabe Garbage
It is nearly May, almost five months past when I should have posted a recap of my 2009 plastic aversion adventure. I still feel deflated from not making my seemingly doable ten pound goal. Even though I did not have a valid way of measuring what was not brought home, surely I didn’t reach ten pounds. Just a guess — it was more like eight. The truth is, as soon as the new year began I splurged. In January and February I indulged myself with a new pair of running shoes (lots of plastic), a big jug of vinegar (plastic to save a few cents), new tooth brush, hair clips, new CPU (computer power back up). I even used a few plastic bags from the grocery store rather than walking back to my car to retrieve a paper one. I had pent up desire for plastic which I lavishly indulged once the year was over.
Regardless, today I easily pass by boxes of baby greens without longing. The heads or bundled greens are actually, by and large fresher. And I have been lucky enough to pick lettuce from my own garden. It doesn’t get fresher than that!
Our tortillas and bread still come in plastic bags instead of from our oven, (shock!) but the bags are reused until they are truly used. As a matter of fact, now when poly is tossed in our house it is broken, unwashable or unusable, in other words garbage. Lately a row of matching glass jelly jars, with red gingham lids are kept near my fridge. They’re much better for most leftovers than ziplock bags and I reuse the plastic tubs from yogurt and cottage cheese several times. I can’t imagine ever buying a bit of plastic to use in my kitchen again. Metal, ceramic, glass or wood is almost always the better choice and I wrap my occasional sandwich to go with old-fashioned wax paper.
Regardless, five months after my planned finish, there is little doubt I have made my ten pound goal. Without a doubt the year-long experience has forever changed how I view and consume plastic. I’ll won’t use as much. Being cognizant of unnecessary or misused plastic I know I can avoid most of it without undue sacrifice or inconvenience. For that reason, I’m glad I tried and learned to ask when it comes to plastic, “How long will this be used?” and “Is that long enough?” I discovered the truth is, plastic it is mostly garbage waiting to be.
Something to hope for
Ofttimes while watching a movie I figure out what is going to happen well before it does, but watch anyway, hoping to be surprised. In life we do the same. We know some unpleasantness is bound to happen, yet we cling to optimism.
A while back, while driving home with Ed, I told him I thought Diane was done. I shared with him how she had sounded so tired and ready to give in to cancer. I noticed at that moment, as he paused for consideration, he more firmly gripped the wheel, moving both hands purposefully outward. It was odd for him to have such a strict posture behind the wheel and his terse reply, “She will die if she has that attitude,” was an echo of his physical bristling. It was as if he had perversely misunderstood the script. As if he had some how defied the direction of “terminal.” I noticed his hands, like a stunt driver’s spaced widely apart balancing the effort of steering with commanding intent, while his words adeptly swerved around cancer and its wreckage.
As soon as we got home we squabbled, in pretense, over a piece of mail. I was angry at him for being naive, pretending, acting, badly. I expect he was distressed at my pessimism and frustrated nothing could be done.
If you follow my yammerings, you know Diane passed away, not long after I foretold it. You may have also noticed I haven’t posted for quite a long time, just “Ode to Diane.” I have not written about cancer, which I wanted vanquished from my consciousness, nor have I made a final analysis of my year of avoiding plastic. Both subjects had unhappy endings.
I didn’t care to share that I couldn’t stop cancer from its carnage. You already know that. I didn’t care to write that even though I would like to convince the world we should change our wasteful ways, I was incapable of reaching my own seemly easy goals. I feel a need to remove the mask, tone down the theatrical bravado and expose that I’m just me, a little 110-pound, middle-aged woman, audacious enough to hope I can do something of import. I recognize my feeble push is ineffective against such big problems, but mostly I choose to ignore how implausible it is that I can change the world even in the smallest way.
I don’t like confess to resorting to prayer to cover for my human shortcomings, even though I do it daily. Recently, while thinking of the loss of Diane I dusted off an old standard and gave it a whirl. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” The prayer has not been answered. I don’t expect it ever can be. I’m too stubborn to realize I can’t change the unchangeable, much less recognize the immovable, but the pondering of my wee influence on the Sisyphean has not reinforced any feelings of futility. Indeed it has pulled the curtain to renewed optimism. Perhaps the prayer helped me realize I can not change many things. I can only hope to change — something. That simply is all I can do, and that is enough.
Ode to Diane
Chemo.
Goddess.
Warrior maven of defense.
You led us, your sisters, through fields where
we battled insurgencies within our own breasts.
You offered sorties of resistance,
standing resolute, hell bent against giving ground.
You were our stalwart midwife past death,
delivering us to shimmering new days.
Be we cowards or brave,
without judgment, you ushered us to hope or glory.
We rewarded you imperfectly with our beating hearts
or saddened you with its confirmed stillness.
On grounds hallowed by your tutelage
you have sheathed your own sword
as pink ribbons flutter silently in salute.
You have surrendered to peace, at last.
Goddess.
Hero.
What are we dancing for?
A few days ago, I watched what was intended to be an uplifting video of hospital workers, all wearing pink gloves, dancing with glee. As I watched I bitterly asked, “What are they celebrating?” Earlier the same morning I learned a special friend is now in the end stages of battling breast cancer. I felt no joy in her cancer story, just a stark disconnect between the dancing hospital staff aiming to raise a chunk of change for research and care and her predicament. I watched the glove groove disheartened, angry and hurt that such a wonderful woman could be taken by a disease — while those people danced in hopes for a cure that could not help her.
Perhaps the breast cancer public face we have painted is a too happy mask. We know that false face so well. We think of cancer and see a pink cover of walkers, racers, ribbons — a fluffy feminine shell of the heroic and tearful quest for survival. Below though, under that facade of success, there is still suffering, loss and death — the naked, ugly scars of breast cancer.
Watching the pink clad hands swaying, flicking and swinging in a breast cancer jamboree, I felt like a grim wedding guest considering the impending divorce of the bride and groom. As I viewed the video of the hospital staff cavorting, I questioned how many of them knew the face of breast cancer struggle and loss. Did the surgical staff, dressed with masks and eye shields know what it was like to loose a breast, or a life? Were any dancers survivors? Which revelers were they? I searched the faces to pick them out.
Was she dancing because she lived, like me? Was he joyous even though he lost his mother, sister or friend, or did those folks excuse themselves when asked to help with the video saying, “No, I can’t dance.”?
Now, a few days later, while I am still hurt, I understand why they were dancing. They were celebrating hope, an irresistible reason to dance, but a tragedy when it has faded.
In the dumps
If I had a clue it would be so hard to shed 10 pounds of plastic, I wouldn’t have resolved to do it. Now, after 10-plus months, a 10 pound reduction seems unreasonable and unattainable. I have not done the math, but I don’t think I can make it, unless I move to a deserted island. Even then, recollecting the gyre, the reason I vowed to do this thing, tons of plastic might wash ashore.
Today, I only left my house to run and to check the mail, yet bits of plastic came to me like metal flakes to a magnet. I swear I attract it.
Returning from my run, I saw each house on my street had a paper flung onto the drive. “Oh boy, a crossword!” When did they quit using rubber bands for news papers and stuff them in plastic bags? I loomed over mine for a moment and considered leaving the paper and the bag in the driveway. It would not go away, all my neighbors got a paper too, so they had no reason to take it off my hands. I took it inside to read cranky letters to the editor and look for the crossword puzzle. I pulled the bag off, tied it in a French knot and put it with the dwindling stash of plastic bags in my cupboard. I’ll reuse it for something.
Mid morning the doorbell rang. I froze at my desk, breathless for a moment, then slunk to carefully peer around the corner, knowing there might be an annoying solicitor peeking back at me through the door’s side window, or I would hear a delivery truck roll away. It was the later. I took in a breath, opened the door and picked up a FedEx envelope left on my doorstep. It had a plastic sleeve to hold an absent airbill, the barcoded shipping label was glued to the front. Even though it was clearly addressed to Ed, I couldn’t resist opening it. He’s been in Ohio and my snooping would save him time and bother when he gets home. (I’m such a thoughtful wife.) I opened it, therefore I take full ownership even though only half of the contents were actually for me. Inside were uniform insignia tapes packed in enough plastic to construct a raincoat. Sixteen baggies to hold sixteen small embroidered pieces of cloth tape. Really, I kid you not, each insignia in an 
individual zipbag! I can’t imagine any second use for the bags which have quarter inch holes drilled at the top for hanging on a display rack, so anything small enough to fit, seeds for instance, will fall out of the hole. I could mail the empties back to the uniform distribution center, or better yet the manufacturer, but chances are they would open my envelope, wonder why some nut mailed them trash and toss them anyway. Oh well.
Mid afternoon I brought in the mail. The November issue of Sailing Magazine came in a plastic bag so the holiday catalog of sailing jewelry could get into my hot little hands. I leaf through it year after year wondering who could possibly afford, and want, a sterling silver monkey’s fist bottle stopper, or an 18 karat gold, open barrel, turnbuckle hinged bracelet. I suppose some yacht owner with a huge wallet and a little tiny brain will be ordering a trinket for Lovie. I myself own six open barrel turnbuckles, none of them for show. Mine are on my boat, made of stainless steel and hold up the mast. I could barely afford them. After marveling at the photos of gleaming excess, I tossed the catalog into the recycle bin and the plastic bag into the trash.
Then I attended to our mundane mail; a credit card application — which we still get, probably because we forgo the turnbuckle bracelets — it came complete with a thin plastic replica of a credit card; and a Travelers Insurance letter with a plastic “priority quote card” glued to it. Both cards embossed with my name went into the trash — identifying me for a millennium as the culprit who threw them away. Damn.
For the month of October. I will estimate an avoidance of 14 ounces of plastic “stuff.”
Falling into permanent material
Because I did so poorly avoiding poly in September, I have put off telling about the results.
First, I took a head-over-heals dismount from my bike, knocking my head, which was thankfully encased in a quality plastic helmet. Wearing a bike helmet surely saved me from a nasty knot on the noggin. Because it is recommended a helmet be replaced after taking a significant blow, I bought a replacement brain-bucket. What I got is very light — 275 grams, or 9.7 ounces — but virtually all plastic. I justified the purchase as a fair trade for prevention of brain injury. Brain damage suffered in a subsequent bike crash — because of a possibly degraded helmet — might be permanent, but only in reference to my head. The plastic helmet will exist on, and on, long after my hopefully mostly intact brain and I are dust. Still, I recalled when my brother was in neurological intensive care, I noted how medical care uses an incredible amount of plastic. I could argue that the helmet purchase, by potentially keeping me out of intensive care, could result in saving oodles of catheter tubes, syringes, splints, etc., so I won’t count my helmet as a plus.
In September I was also busy planning a woman’s sailing event. In spite of my efforts to keep the Ladies’ Day @ the Lake plastic free, I was inundated with poly bags, foam packing peanuts, and other plastic packaging as I received shipments of donated items for event goody bags. While I was very grateful to get so many nice items for our participants, it was a disappointment to see so much plastic packaging used for materials that had no chance of transport damage. Even if a fleet of UPS trucks had run over one particular box, its unbreakable contents would not have crumbled or broken. Another donor offered several dozen plastic thermal cups he wanted to get rid of. He claimed he had them in storage for years. I gladly accepted, plastic or not. Hey, that plastic already existed! I was not consuming, but rather putting to good use what was already there. I printed sleeve inserts (on recycled paper) for the cups. I tried to make them special, in hopes each recipient would use their fantastic, functional cups for the rest of their days, then pass the treasure down to their first-born. Three cases of bottled water were purchased for the event — even though I suggested coolers. I cringed when I saw recycling bins at the venue filling with one-use bottles. I could have insisted, so I’ll take partial ownership, say half liability, or around two pounds of resulting trash.
Putting on a complicated event kept me hopping. When Ed and I hosted nearly twenty folks for dinner after a challenging work day, the evening before, I asked Ed to run to the store to buy a “box” of greens. I didn’t pointedly tell him “Get one of those big PLASTIC containers of salad stuff,” but I didn’t instruct him to get a few heads of lettuce either. He knew my time limitations and brought home the most convenient salad fixing he could muster. I was glad not to have to wash, dry, pick and break fixings for a huge salad. Even though I’ll use the resulting box for storage, I must own up to a few ounces of packaging I really did not want, solely for saving a few minutes of preparation time.
Other than that, I did okay, about the same as August. In total, I will call September a two pound, two ounce, back slide month.
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Sailing The Pink Sea
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COMING SOON!
I'm working on instructions for an eye splice any sailor would be proud of making.
