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.

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.

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.