“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts.”
– Winston Churchill

 

It’s been a while since my last blog post. The last time I posted we were in Lagos, Portugal waiting for our mast to be repaired. It was a long stretch, from November to March. We had to redirect from our course to Madeira and the Canaries, and then to the Caribbean for the winter, to 5 months in a harbor in Portugal. We’ve made it into the Med and are on the island of Mallorca. And here we sit while all our friends sail on, once again.

Our Theme Song “Everything is Broken” by Kenny Wayne Shepherd

 

The good news is that our 30-year-old in-mast furling system is now brand new – the large bar inside the mast that rolls the mainsail inside. We had issues at times getting our main sail in and out of the mast so we knew it was eventually going to need repair. We always hoped for the best, thinking there is a chance our boat parts would manage to hang on until we complete our journey. Sadly, this is not the case.

It took five months to have the mast removed, for the new parts to arrive, and for the mast with the new parts inside to be reinstalled. Our plans to circle around the Caribbean and back to the Med got truncated, so we headed directly down the coast of Spain and into the Mediterranean in March.

Meanwhile, as far as repairs go, in the last year, we’ve had to purchase a brand-new alternator, inverter, anchor chain, water maker, dinghy engine, and refrigeration system in addition to a new mast furling system. This represents well over 20 grand of equipment not to mention thousands of dollars to stay in marinas while we completed the repairs. Our cruising budget has been rapidly depleted. A huge thank you to everyone who made it possible to get our mast repaired. We are forever grateful.

The plan after five years was to be halfway around the world. Thanks to two years in Ireland having to pay for a marina because of Covid, we are maybe a fourth of the way around the world and almost out of money. While we can understand the old parts breaking, it’s the new parts giving up on life after 6 months that hurts the most.

First, our new alternator stopped working. Dan was able to rewire the power source and get that repaired. Next, was the anchor chain. We knew the company had delivered the wrong chain in Wales, but it fit in our anchoring system so we went with it. Apparently, it’s not rust-proof for 20 years as advertised. Nine months later, it’s rusting horribly. The company is thousands of miles and many countries away – two grand down the drain and no idea what to do about the chain that anchors our boat in every harbor.

Next, the water maker went. Dan decided to fabricate his own system as he is experienced in designing systems. The only problem was that the membrane that filters the salt from the ocean to make our fresh water, which was shipped to the US, arrived a day late this past winter – missing the opportunity to be hand-carried back to our boat.

My Mother, My Hero

Fortunately, I recently took a trip back to see my mother compete in the Senior Games, 2 weeks shy of her 92nd birthday. All my brothers and sisters were going to be there to support her. I knew I would deeply regret being the only child not to attend, so I got the cheapest airline ticket I could find and flew home to cheer her on for the race on May 18th.

The National Senior Games, held in Ft. Lauderdale, was a huge success. My mom beat the old national record by a minute. She came in second but achieved her goal and was happy to let the other lady take first. The other woman came all the way from Texas and had no one there to support her. No one cheered her on at the start or was there to greet her at the finish line.
My mother had 5 children, one grandchild, and one great-grandchild to cheer her on. It meant the world to her to have all of us there. She graciously congratulated the other woman and was happy she had the winning title to take home. My mom beat the old record and had her family with her – that was a complete success in her book.

I had a wonderful week with my mother back in Charleston. It was rare mother-daughter time. I treasure every second I have with her, my mentor, my inspiration, and my hero, as I never know how many more days we will have together on this earth. I don’t even know when or where I will see her again.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Broken parts, broken hearts, stalled dreams… it all seems so tragic at times. We have no home to go back to. We can’t just give up and start over. What can we do? We can laugh about it all, count our blessings, alter our course and continue. We can hope the worst is behind us, but that’s probably a pipe dream. It can ALWAYS be worse. It seems a black cloud is hanging over us at the moment. We just can’t seem to catch a break.

Take my trip back to the US for example. The time there was great. The flying back and forth was a series of unfortunate events one just can’t make up. It began well before I even got to the airport. We had taken the dinghy to shore, locked and secured the dinghy, and had to walk to a bus to get to the airport. I hadn’t even walked out of sight of the dinghy when I stepped on the edge of a curb, lost my balance, and rolled my ankle sideways.

I heard and felt a pop. In moments, I was in extreme pain. I could barely walk. We had no choice but to continue. I limped to the airport and we immediately found a convenience store right inside the terminal. Dan bought me an instant ice pack, an ankle wrap, and ibuprofen. He helped me get checked in and got me a wheelchair. I was in horrible pain and knew there was no way I was going to be able to walk the long distance to the gate.

The wheelchair was a blessing. I was delivered to my gate and waited 2 hours for the plane. My first leg was stopping in Switzerland. “Cool”, I thought. I’ve never been to Switzerland. I gazed down at the countryside the moment we broke through the clouds. The snow-tipped Alps lined the horizon like white-haired giants contrasted by the quilt work patches of rich fields, dotted with blue lakes. It was gorgeous.

Thankfully, a wheelchair was there to pick me up. I didn’t know that I had to pass through customs on the way through Switzerland. Most of the European countries let you pass through without going through customs as they are all part of the same EU conglomerate. I was taken completely by surprise. Instead of standing in the long line with all the other passengers, I was wheeled through the tarmac to a single-window for the impaired. Thank God because what happened next was terrifying and traumatizing.

Let’s just say that I didn’t have what I needed to clear customs in Switzerland. I thought once I got on the plane in Spain, I was clear to get to the US. It’s a long story. I’m not going to bore you with the long list of things we need to travel outside the USA for an extended period of time. I had partial documentation – and the agent was irate. She informed me of all the trouble I “could” be in… and threatened me with all of it. Sitting in my wheelchair, thousands of miles from my husband, hurting, scared, and very alone in a strange country, all I could do was cry and plead.

“Please, I promise I have everything, just not with me. I have to get back to see my mother. She is 92 and I may never see her again, please, please let me go…” I knew that if I had been in the long line with all the agents in their little boxes and throngs of people in line, I would have been sent to Swiss jail. This woman glanced around, no one else in sight, her hand poised with the stamp above my passport. She looked down at me and saw the face of a desperate woman in a wheelchair, and shook her head. Then she glared at me in utter disgust and stamped my passport with angry flair.

Passport in hand, I turned and whispered to the man pushing my chair… “Run… push me as fast as you can away from here.” And he did.

I made my next flight and arrived in Newark, NJ at 9:00 PM. I was exhausted. I was never so happy to be back in the USA. I thought I was “home free”. However, Newark and I have a long and sordid past that could encompass an entire blog post in and of itself. I hate that airport and the feeling is mutual. Little did I know, the battle was about to continue.

A wheelchair met me when I disembarked. A man pushed me back toward the check-in area. I had to go through customs again, having arrived back in the USA. All I needed was my US passport and I did have that. We breezed through the small line for the disabled. Even though I was still in a lot of pain, I was feeling thankful I had rolled my ankle. I probably would have still been in Switzerland if things hadn’t worked out exactly the way they did.

God never makes things easy… but he always gets us where we need to go, one way or the other…

My faith, however, took a huge hit. My expression changed from a hopeful smile to complete and utter horror when the man pushed me to the check-in and informed me that my last flight to Charleston had been canceled. I had to be in Charleston by 7:00 AM to drive my mother to Ft. Lauderdale for the Senior Games. There we no outgoing flights on any airline that would take me to Charleston that night.

American offered to fly me the following day at 10:00 AM. That would not work. My mom had to register for the event by 4:00 in Ft. Lauderdale. It was an 8-hour drive, minimum. Fortunately, my brother Christopher was also flying to Charleston that night. He would have been arriving an hour before me. We were both going to drive my mom to Florida.
I called Chris and explained my flight had been canceled and there were no others that would get me there that night. He asked me what I was going to do. I had no answer for him. I told him to take my mom in the morning and I would figure something out.

Both my boys live within two hours of Newark. I called Derek first back in our hometown of Swedesboro looking for moral support and someone with a computer to do some research. He didn’t answer. It was now after 10:00 at night. My heart was pounding in my chest from fear and anxiety when I tried my other son, Philip in Parkesburg, PA. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief when he answered.

I quickly explained my dilemma. I asked him to look up any flight that would take me to Ft. Lauderdale from Newark. My sister Carol and my daughter Katie and her baby Carter were all due to arrive in the morning. Someone would be able to pick me up at the airport.

It took Philip about an hour of research to find an affordable flight to Ft. Lauderdale. Of course, there was nothing direct. That would mean more wheelchairs, more disembarking and more hassle, but I would get there around 2 in the afternoon. As Philip clicked the “book flight” button, I vowed to fight with American to get my money back for the leg to Charleston.
“Where are you going to spend the night, mom?” Philip inquired.

I glanced around at the airport filled with people on their phones, the hundreds of other passengers whose flights were canceled on all airlines flying to Charleston.
“I guess a bench, Philip.”
“Mom, I’m not going to let my injured mother spend the night at the airport.”
“I can’t afford a hotel, it’s okay. I will sleep on a bench,” I said, tearing up at the thought. I was tired, in pain, had an emotionally horrible day, and all I wanted in the world was a bed.

Through all of this, I hadn’t been able to talk to Dan because of the time difference. It was the middle of the night for him. I desperately wanted to hear his voice and the reassuring words that everything was going to be okay.

Philip talked to me as he searched for a hotel. He told me not to worry, he was going to find me a bed and he was going to pay for it. Within minutes, he found a hotel a few miles away. He found a room and clicked the button to book it. UNAVAILABLE. I looked around at all the animated people talking to hotels on their phones and suspected I was in trouble.

Next hotel. “I found a room, hold on, mom!” Not far away was another hotel with a few rooms left. Philip entered the information to book it. In the two minutes it took him to do that, it was gone. We repeated this process for about an hour. It was hopeless. The only hotels within a half-hour drive left with any rooms were a minimum of $450. I wouldn’t let my son pay that for the loss of one night’s sleep.

My wheelchair had long departed. It was quite a long walk to a train to get to any other terminal. As exhausted and in as much pain as I was, I had to stay in this terminal. It was filled with passengers also not able to find a hotel. All the benches were filled.

It was well after midnight when I limped slowly toward the food court area and saw a man vacate a padded bench. I scrambled over and lay down using my backpack for a pillow, thankful to have a place to rest my weary head. Suddenly, a loudspeaker blared at high volume, with a very annoying male voice: “Do not leave any luggage unattended.” That was followed by about 3 minutes of explanations about unattended luggage.

I wanted to cry. I shook my head wondering why they would make an announcement in the middle of the night. Didn’t they know that stranded passengers were desperately trying to sleep!

Unfortunately, the message was repeated every 20 minutes. Just when I was about to doze off, the message would repeat. I might have drifted off for 5 or 10 minutes here and there, until 2:00 AM when a security guard informed everyone in the food court that we had to leave for cleaning. He made us all leave as he roped off the area. That’s when I finally did break down and cry.

I stumbled across the aisle to the wall. There was a small alcove next to a beam. I crawled in and lay on the cold, hard, tiles. I pulled the hood on my sweatshirt over my face and finally had a good cry. I got a small taste of what it must feel like to be homeless.

Day Two

It was now day two of my trip. I should have been in Charleston, but instead, I was in the evil airport of Newark. At 3:30 AM it hit me. The freaking Covid test. They are only good for 24 hours. I had to take one the day before I left Spain. It was now over the 24-hour mark and I had one more flight. Oh. Dear. God.

My hatred of Newark stemmed partly over a Covid test last time I was there. I had a valid test, properly dated, and they still wouldn’t let me on the plane because it had a code instead of the name of the test. It was a battle that ended up with me running past the airline staff and ducking through security. I knew I was valid so I just ran when their backs were turned. They didn’t catch me and I did board my flight.

It seemed my Covid nightmare with Newark was about to continue. Talk about adding more agita to fuel the flames of panic…

By 4:00 AM I was standing in the check-in line. I figured if I got an early start, I would have enough time to do battle with the airline, find a place in the airport to get another test if I had to and make my flight at 10:00 AM. I couldn’t believe the long line at four in the morning.

I finally arrived at the counter. I was ready to do battle. I was going to explain that I had been traveling for 2 days and had not left the airport. They needed to take my test even if it was 2 days old because I had no chance to get another one. I puffed up and vowed not to cry.

The lady checked my passport, printed my boarding pass, and asked if I still needed the wheelchair. I told her I did. I waited for her to ask to see my Covid test, but she never did. Apparently, I didn’t get the memo that the US doesn’t require them to fly anymore, even though we had to have the test and wear a mask on the flights in Spain and Switzerland. I had no way of knowing.

Great, I gave up my comfy place on the hard stone floor at 3:30 MA for nothing. I waited for the wheelchair to arrive. A man took me down long hallways, onto a train, and out of the international airport to the local flights. I was seriously thankful I didn’t have to find my way on my own or walk that distance.

At 5:30 AM, I was dropped off at a café across from my departure gate. I ordered a huge breakfast and ate slowly. It was going to be a 4 ½ hour wait until preboarding.

The Big Race

My mother had been training hard for her bike race. Her goal was to beat the former national record of 16 minutes for the 5 K bike race in the 90 and over division. She had a newspaper and magazine write articles about her quest to be the fastest woman bike rider in the nation. She had inspired people to the point that they were stopping her everywhere she went on her bike, telling her stories about how they went out and bought bikes because of her story. If she could do it at 90, they certainly could in their 50s and 60s. She was a local celebrity. She was easy to spot as the only woman her age out and about, riding through the community of Daniel Island, SC.

Her dream of having all her children watch her race was fulfilled. The bonus was meeting her great grandbaby, Carter, for the first time. My daughter Katie flew on a red-eye with a one-year-old from California to watch her grandmother race.

Sadly, the event was very poorly run. My mom and Chris spent 3 hours driving to 4 different locations to register after their 9-hour drive. She was not able to see the race course never mind taking a practice run. The day of the race she barely made it to her 7:50 AM start because the traffic was horrible and they changed the location of the race at 10:00 the night before.

My mom was flustered. She was not able to warm up and was not sure of the course. She mustered her courage, not willing to succumb to the adverse conditions. She had trained too long and too hard for this moment. Her family had flown from all over the world, literally, to see this moment. Brother John steadied her bike for the start as we all cheered and screamed “GO GERRY!”.

Her only competitor started a minute behind her. There was no one to see her off. She had no one cheering. She almost fell when she started, losing her balance as there was no one there to steady her bike. I felt sad for her and yelled “GO LESLIE” to let her know she was not completely forgotten.

The Proudest Moment

We walked the short distance to the finish line to wait for my mom. 14 minutes later, Leslie appeared. She had passed my mom. Within a minute, Gerry appeared, pumping like the wind. She crossed the line and we cheered. It was about 85 degrees and we were all sweating bullets, but my mom was as cool as a cucumber when she crossed the finish line. Checking the time stamp on our start photo, we checked it against the time of her finish and knew that she had beaten the last national record by about a minute. She had achieved her goal, even though Leslie eked out a win. My mom was quite content with being the second-fastest woman over 90 in the nation.

Come to find out, my mom had to slow down and ask for directions twice along the course. It was not well marked. She wasn’t familiar with it, hadn’t practiced, had no warm-up, and she was terrified of flying past the signs that would lead her in the right direction. That, combined with the fact that she had a strange feeling Leslie needed this win more than her, she took a deep breath and focused on enjoying her ride, staying in the moment, and counting all the blessings that got her to this day, this moment, and the opportunity to be in this race.
Way to go, mom. Still, my hero is the lady who still doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up. Biking is done so now she has to decide on the sport for her next national championship campaign. Swimming maybe?

Chris flew back to Connecticut from Ft. Lauderdale. My mom and I dropped Katie and Carter off at the airport at 7:30 AM. We continued on and I drove my mom 9 hours back to Charleston. This was a feat since I don’t drive cars anymore and highways scare the bejesus out of me. We had a pleasant day; traffic was light and we had lots of time for great conversations.

We were an hour from Daniel Island when she called a couple of friends and scheduled the corn hole tournament. We only had 2 hours before it got dark, but my soon-to-be 92-year-old mother had not had enough after waking at 5 that morning and driving for 9 hours. Is it sad when your 91-year-old mother has more energy than you? Yupper!

We had a quick dinner of cheese and crackers and a glass of wine. We donned our Team Gerry tee shirts and went to the battlefield. We lost the first game but were victorious for the second – lost the daylight to continue the match. A tie. Of course, we had to tell all the stories of the bike race, a story that we would be repeating everywhere we went for the next 3 days of my visit.

Precious Time

I spent an amazing 3 days with my mother. I cooked for her. We entertained. We shopped. We took care of the little things she struggles with in her foreign world of technology. It was one of the most precious three days I have ever spent with my mother.

What I learned is how much my mother is loved. She has so many wonderful friends that love her for the support she gives others. She is a mentor and physical and spiritual advisor to so many people. We couldn’t walk through her community without getting stopped and congratulated for her achievement. I knew that there would be a surprise celebration event for her, I didn’t know when or where. Her friends assured me it was in the making.

The three days passed far too quickly and it was time to get to the Charleston Airport for my flight back to Spain. I was passing through Dulles to Frankfort Germany and then on to Mallorca. Three more flights home.

While I contested that I didn’t need a wheelchair on the way home, insult was added to injury literally and figuratively back in Ft. Lauderdale. My daughter Katie is a Dr. of Acupuncture. She treats me whenever I see her. My mom, Carol, and I were all treated to an acupuncture session in our hotel room. She worked on everyone’s ailments including my sprained ankle.
I was so excited to be able to walk to the beach after her treatment almost pain-free. We had a wonderful day with baby Carter swimming in the ocean. On the way back to the car, I was walking along the sidewalk, which apparently, I am horrible at. I rolled the same ankle on another curb. What are the chances?

Back to being in pain and gimpy again, my mom dropped me off at the airport for my flight back. I kissed her goodbye and dreaded the fact she had to drive home from the busy terminal. She assured me she would be fine and we waved goodbye.

I never know when I say goodbye to my mom to travel back to the other side of the globe if it will be the last time I see her. I think I have a better chance of dying before her given the way our lives are going, but that fact doesn’t make the farewells any easier. I struggle with that reality. I barely managed to keep it together when I hugged and kissed her goodbye.
I was wiping my tears as I limped to the counter. I made a vow not to cry once on my return trip home. It was my only goal.

I was the only passenger there. I had arrived over two hours early, just to be safe. My first leg was a domestic flight to Washington Dulles. I was overjoyed at not stopping in Newark. My chances of not crying were just boosted by 80%. Little did I know the struggles I was about to encounter. Back to 100% in a flash!

I gave the man my passport and he looked up the reservation. He got a very strange look on his face. He called his boss over. My stomach dropped. They whispered.
His boss looked at me and said with a smug expression, “It seems all your returning flights have been canceled.”

To make a painfully long story, slightly less painful, my flights on American Airlines were canceled because I had called for a refund on the canceled flight to Charleston. Instead of refunding the one leg, the agent canceled and refunded the entire rest of my trip. This was not what I had requested. I was furious!

A battle ensued. The man at the counter fought for me. His boss could care less and I never saw her again. She walked away and told the young man, “You deal with it.” Another young agent came over to try and help us that also worked there. She said, “This is why I am quitting this job and going to work for another airline.”

If it wasn’t for these two angels, I’m not sure what would have happened. Initially, they wanted to book me for $2,500 on a one-way flight back to Palma. After explaining this was not going to happen, I don’t even have that much money in my account, the agent spent the next hour and a half on the phone with corporate, battling for me. He will have a special place in heaven.

I’m pretty sure his job may be on the line as he stood up to the jerks from corporate and demanded that they make the situation right. A woman was stranded with a life-or-death boat part (my water maker membrane and my story, a four-foot-tall tube which I now had to lug around). All her flights had been canceled by American in error. Corporate explained that because a refund had been issued, it was now out of their hands.

This agent didn’t take no for an answer. After several more phone calls, he finally asked them why they couldn’t put a stop on the refund and rebook me. They didn’t have an answer for that. Finally, some good news, half an hour later, they called back and informed us they had halted the refund. My flights home could now be rebooked!

Meanwhile, I panicked. I had called my mother and told her she had to come and get me. She turned around after arriving home and headed back to the airport. When I got the news that I would be rebooked, I tried calling her to let her know. She was driving and couldn’t answer the phone. She got all the way back to the airport before getting the message. She was looking for me when she got the text that I was okay. The woman never uttered a word of complaint – she simply replied how happy she was that I was getting a flight home.

Just when I was about to be so proud of myself for not crying once during the entire ordeal, more bad news hit. My heavenly agent informed me of one small problem. The flight to DC had been delayed and I was going to miss all my flights back to Mallorca.

“No, no, no,” I told him feeling the dam about to break. “I will not spend another night on an airport floor! I did that on the way here and I’m not going to do that again!”
“Of course, you’re not,” my agent angel replied. “I’m about to hand you a voucher for a night at the Crown Plaza Hotel and three meal vouchers.” Unfortunately, the next flight he could book me on wasn’t until 6 PM the following night.

If I didn’t think I would have been arrested for accosting this handsome young black man, I would have jumped over the counter and kissed him. He saved me from another horrible night at an airport, which I felt would have pushed me over the edge.

This kind young man also noticed me limping on the way in. He informed me that the wheelchair notice was still on my ticket. He told me that he had arranged for a wheelchair to the gate as it was in another terminal and very far away. It required train transportation. Once again – God knew what he was doing when he shoved me off the second curb. I would have never found my way.

Seriously, I have never flown without Dan through international airports. I follow him like a blind sheep as he finds the terminals, busses, trains, and gates. I was dreading getting lost on this trip in one of the 6 airports and missing a flight. Some had only an hour between flights with terminal and gate changes. Thanks to God’s plan of disabling me so that I required a wheelchair for each flight – I think he kind of agreed with me.

Not Home Yet

It was midnight when I arrived at the Crown Plaza Hotel. I had a luxurious bed. I slept like the dead. There was no hurry to get back to the airport as my flight wasn’t until the evening. There was a noon check-out so I headed back to the airport at 11:00 AM.

I was worried that my Covid test was going to be invalid. I had gotten one in Charleston the day before I traveled, not knowing my flight back through Europe would be a full day later. The agent accepted it on Lufthansa even though it was over 24 hours. When I boarded the plane for Germany, it would be past the required time stamp.

In Frankfurt, I was met by a cart with the other passengers who needed help and taken to the customs agent for the invalids. It was great. He took our passports and pointed to each of us and told the agent our destinations. The agent glanced at our pictures, then our faces, and stamped them without question. The last stop was the final boarding gate to Mallorca. If no one questioned me there, I was home free, or so I thought.

Last Flight Home

I was so relieved that no one questioned me or looked at the now expired Covid test when I boarded the last Lufthansa flight to Mallorca. All I needed was my boarding pass. I pre-boarded and found I was in the last seat at the very back of the airplane. I limped down the aisle carrying my large duffel, a backpack, and my 4 ft. long tube with the membrane. I had been very worried I would not be allowed to carry it on the plane, but none of the three airlines I took objected, thank God!

Two hours later, the plane circled over the harbor where my boat sat. I looked out the window and saw Equus was the only boat anchored in the harbor. But there she was. My husband would be waiting eagerly for my return at the airport.

I was the last passenger off the plane. No wheelchair waited for me – the first time in 6 flights. I didn’t care, it was a tiny airport. I limped toward the exit and yearned for the moment I saw my husband waiting for me – standing there with a huge smile, waiting to take me back to our boat. It had been a long, physically and emotionally draining experience. I limped to the last ramp leading to the baggage claim area where I knew Dan would be waiting. I didn’t check any bags, I was carrying everything I needed.

That’s when I saw a table with two women between me and the exit. They were stopping each of the passengers and asking for Covid tests. What were the chances? Was this going to be the final stopping point for me? Had I made it this far to be thwarted by that damn test? I resolved not to cry. I had made it this far, overcoming all the obstacles in my way.
“Covid test.” The woman demanded.
I pulled out my phone and showed her the Walgreens test.
“Is this an antigen test?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“We don’t accept those tests anymore. Besides, this expired.”

I’m not going to give you the details of the conversation that took place next. Let’s just say that I had had enough. Enough of the ridiculous tests, stupid regulations, and bogus requirements. I unloaded a list of reasons and rationales as to why she was going to take this test and let me go. I must have turned into a large monster with sharp teeth and huge claws because the woman backed down immediately.

“Go! Just go…” she said with a look of concern flashing across her face.
“Thank you,” I said. And I limped off to go meet my husband.

The Struggle is Real

I think I hugged Dan for 10 minutes before I could let him go. I was so proud of myself for not crying once on the trip home, that I did shed a few tears of joy. That joy was short-lived. I was so happy to be back with the one part we needed to get our water maker going, watching Dan spend hours the next day getting it installed. When everything was in place, and the magic moment arrived when we turned it on, nothing happened. The old pump needed to siphon the seawater into the system was dead. Dead as a doornail.

We found a pump an hour bus ride from our harbor. We took the bus and half a day and $550 later, we arrived at the boat ready for our woes to be over. During the time we were away, our brand-new refrigeration system, installed last year, died. Thankfully, it’s still under warranty but the closest dealer is a 2 -day sail to Corsica. Another brand new part is dead.

Dan tried to install the new pump but the right fittings to connect it to the system were not included. He is on another several-hour bus ride as we had to move harbors because it got so rough, to find a store with the correct fitting. I’m here recounting this story, crying and laughing, because really, what else is there to do?

We have the fridge and water maker to sort out but we will have to leave on Sunday, June 5th when the wind is in the right direction for our 2-night sail. The good news? We don’t have to worry about the Orcas. They are in waters in a different part of the ocean still wreaking havoc. One must be thankful for the little things!

Thankful I am, despite the rough waves we have rolled over. We are still alive, still in love, and still afloat. If we measure our lives by those criteria, everything is good. I do have a steady income now with my writing. I now have to spend too much time on the computer – which is another reason I’m not writing as many blog posts. Dan and I will probably be spending the winter in the United States working to stop the financial bleeding these past two years have caused.

If things hadn’t gone so wrong, we would be sailing to the Caribbean this winter and then on to the Panama Canal. I will continue my writing job and Dan will hopefully find work with his Rolfing. One winter working should get us back financially where we can continue our journey.

As our chapter in the Balearic Islands comes to a close and we open a new one in Corsica and Sardinia, the French and Italian Islands west of the boot of Italy, we can only hope smooth sailing awaits. When the good days arrive, we appreciate them more. Having had our rough patches makes the sun-filled, breezy sailing days that much sweeter. We can never be accused of a lack of appreciation when things are going well.

Life aboard a sailboat is not easy, it’s often fraught with hardships and challenges. However, I get to greet a sunrise every morning, a sunset every night, from one of the best views in the world. We are masters of our own destiny and are visiting places most people only dream about. Our life is all about taking the good with the bad and the good days are awesome enough to make it all worthwhile.

May you find the smooth sailing and small joys that make your journey wonderful too.

–Dr. Steve Maraboli,

Alison and Dan
s/v Equus