Still Ticked Off

Originally, I started this blog so friends and family could follow my travels as I sailed around the world. For those who read the drivel that I write, you know very well that this never happened.

Thinking that the adrift period would be brief, I tried to fill this space with funny stuff, until I found myself back at sea again, blogging about my travels to tropical paradises, turning my readers green with envy as they plodded through everyday life.

Yeah well. That damn deer tick’s plans for his life overthrew mine in a complete coup.

And as sick as you are of hearing about my lyme disease, believe me, that comes not even a parsec close to how tired I am living with it, day in and out. Some days I just want to hurl myself into the compost heap, decompose, get spread all over the garden, and sprout again in some other form.

But instead, feeling like a freshly dug up turnip that the dog has carried around, I slog along slowly. Every now and then, I have a lucid moment, where I look around and notice that the world is still turning. Most of the time, I’m just not on it, but am circling in my own foggy orbit.

And finally, in those rare glimpses of the world outside my head, I’m beginning to be able to see the humor in my situation.

I’m not planning to turn this blog into the lyme journals (any more than I was planning to spend years on shore:), but maybe, if I can couch my confuddlement in comedy, I can give another lymie a laugh, which, as we all know, is the best medicine.

C’mon, folks, go ahead and laugh at me and with me. Then we’ll all feel better.

Home is where the ticks are

For the first time in my life, I’m not looking to move on. Yes, I often miss the sailing life, and yes, I miss traveling to new places. But as I wandered hither and thither throughout the years, I always kept returning to this one particular harbor. I never stayed for long, because of that freezing thing, but still I came back, almost every year.

Now, as an icy future stares me in the face, I have decided to stay. And even more insane than that, I’m not moving back into my house, instead leaving it to the overactive night squirrels who have completely ignored the eviction notices. Sleep has become so invaluable to me, that I have decided to attempt to spend the winter in my blissfully quiet tin can, which has very little insulation, and is nicely equipped with a furnace that only blows hot air when the outside temp is 70, otherwise, on dark cold nights, it works really well as an air conditioner. The single pane trailer windows with the large gaps was what I loved about living here all summer. It was just like living outdoors, except that the skeeters couldn’t get in through the screens, and I didn’t get wet when it rained.

Why would I consider major winterizing modifications to a twenty year old camper, when it would be infinitely cheaper to drag the entire rig to Mexico, where I could afford to live for next to nothing in the warm sun?

Scroll to the top of this blog and read the title: ALITLOFF. Okay so maybe I should change that to ALOTOFF.

In the spring I made a deal with myself: If I could eradicate my tick borne debt by the end of September, I would go south with the geese. Not only did I not come close to meeting my own expectations, but sometimes I still completely drop all my balls, and wander off to smell the pretty flowers. It only makes sense to stay here among friends, in an area where even many strangers understand the effect that lyme disease can have on a formerly competent person. Being here with the people I love will keep me warm in a way that I won’t find anywhere else. I know, because I’ve looked for nearly 20 years. That, and I still need a lot more sleep before I face the world again. The long dark days of winter are a perfect time to stock up on zzzzs, in the hopes that I’ll wake up a complete non-lymie in the spring.

So, if anyone has any spare insulation, firewood, etc, bring it on over. I wouldn’t say no to thermal socks either.

Here's Mud in Your Eye

Because we have an even number of people on the farm, we have two winning captions for the disaster that befell our lovely 'pond', which used to look like this:


But now looks like this:



The winning titles are:

Haiti
Meteor Crater

Luckily, Earl is coming to break the tie for us. I'm guessing that in the aftermath, "Haiti" will be declared the winner, because all that mud is going to slide down and fill in the crater.

Will humans ever learn to quit messing with mother nature?

Lightning DOES Strike Twice

History almost repeated itself, but thankfully, this time there was a happy ending. Conditions were almost the same, except that it was actually windier than when Safari took her final journey. The difference to Phoenix living to tell her tale was that she miraculously avoided all the rocks on her trip to the beach. Soft sand is no match for a tough boat.

The owner attests that it's much better to wear yourself out scrubbing the exposed hull at low tide, and then, on the evening's high tide, cranking on lines and anchors to haul the boat back into deeper water, than it is to chop up your beloved vessel with a chainsaw.

And also, that boat is getting chained to her mooring. No more beach parties.

Farewell Old Friends

I had the most delicious dream last night. I was aboard my anchored boat, and through an open porthole, could see my love’s gray steel boat anchored right next to mine. In the dream, each morning I awoke, day after day, and there he was, still beside me. Plus, my boat had a brand new engine in it!

When I started to awaken into the real world this morning, I fought to stay asleep to keep the dream alive. But alas, daylight reality entered, and I had to admit that dream was blown long ago.

But dreams do have meaning.

I purchased my last pair of sandals in 2007 at a Key West dive shop, while my love browsed the spear gun selection. Could that have been a hint of foreshadowing, a sign of what was to come not long after, when our relationship took a dive and I fled?

I wish he had harpooned me and reeled me back in.

Regardless, those aged, well worn sandals should never have been in this summer’s wardrobe. But there they were, in all their holey bottomed, strap failing glory, because I had been unable to locate any suitable replacements. Until today, when simply passing a storefront window, there were exactly the sandals I’d been waiting for all summer.

I just hope that pitching the old sandals into the rubbish bin and getting new ones has no meaning whatsoever.