When I say that, I mean it literally. Just a short time ago I was sailing in the Bahamas on a small sailboat with a wonderful man. But #$%* happens, and I ended up flying back home.
My love and I didn't leave things neat. Yes, in a way I did run away screaming, but not from him. He is a great guy and I am crazy about him. But THAT boat, and the way he kept it, made me nuts. I can't function or think straight without order, despite my best attempts to do so. And there was no way to organize the boat; there was simply too much stuff in too small a space. Adding me and my crap into the pile didn't help at all. That and being weathered in for THREE WEEKS at tiny little Staniel Cay in the Bahamas, while some of my family were in crisis here, led me to bail.
My man and I left it open as to when and where we would reconnect. It is much easier for me to make a plane reservation to travel to the boat, than for the boat to try to get to where I have landed.
It has now been nearly five weeks since hearing one peep from my other half. What am I to think? It’s hard to rejoin a boat when you don’t even know where it is. When you aren’t even sure it’s still afloat. When you’re not even certain that the skipper hasn’t been fatally whacked overboard by some moving part of the boat, or by some part that wasn’t supposed to move, say, the mast as it fell down.
I don’t even know if I’m allowed to worry or if I should be extremely p/o’d. If he’s fine, I’ll kill him.
misplaced love
