Peace and Gratefulness in Quepos

We left Panama City on the 11th of February.  Our captain drove us to a beautiful, remote, surf resort several hours outside of Panama City for a couple days off.    It was a gorgeous location, nestled in the middle of a long stretch of beach, untouched by cities or stores, with beautiful waves that curled into sleek barrels consistently throughout the day.  We arrived in the early evening and took the tender to the beach for a delicious dinner under the moonlight.  During the days, we kayaked to the beach from our anchorage or rode the small tender in.  Since the waves were a decent size, we would be dropped off as close as the boat could get and then jump off with surfboards and dry bags to surf in to the resort.   When we arrived we were nothing short of amazed.  A bohemian, modern-day hippie surf retreat in Playa Venao, it is owned by a beautiful young Israeli couple whose 5 kids bounce around their outdoor shaded paradise in the middle of nowhere.  Their resort offers 3 different hotels for low, mid, and high income travelers, which brings a nice mix of people to interact with.  The cost is fairly inexpensive, a decent room costing around $80 a night.  All get to enjoy the bamboo outdoor living room and restaurant on the water, which are connected in a very home-like setting.  Surfers and families lay on couches reading, ambient-massage parlor-ethnic music plays in the background, lunches arriving to hungry guests in the restaurant.  A small circular thatch covered bar hangs off of the end of the living room, patrons tipping back cold beers and looking out at the set of waves rolling in. Little boys skateboard through the restaurant,  mops of curly uncut hair.  We sat outside in peace each day, quietly reading our books in the outdoor living room, drinking freshly blended fruit juices.  I walked up and down the beach looking for shells and taking pictures.  The surf was perfect and glass-like with gentle breezes. We would return to the boat for dinner and have barbecues on the swim platform every night and enjoy sunset together.  After our three months in Panama City where our activities were limited in the big city to movies, malls, restaurants, bars, and casinos…it was nice to be out of the rat race and back into the breathing world.  I had begun to forget again what it was like to be in the outdoors and to be quiet in nature.  After our 3 days in one of the most amazing places I have been to, we made our way through perfect, calm waters to Costa Rica.  We caught two large Mahi Mahi on our first afternoon out and sailed quietly for another day before reaching Quepos.  After a couple days, we arrived. 

Quepos is a quiet town known for its sports fishing and for Manuel Antonio National Park.  It is one of the top destinations in Costa Rica for tourists from the U.S. but still a quiet and peaceful town with beautiful beaches, mountains in the backdrop with unreal jungle mist, and an occasional monkey hanging around.  HOT as hell.  So much hotter than Panama but I am happy for the exchange to be able to be on the water and to actually be docked at a marina and not anchored outside of the city.  We re-provision here for our next trip, relax a bit, and then the madness begins as we slowly make our way up the Pacific Coast amidst 3 long guest visits with lots of hours of work ahead. 

I have only to pinch myself every day to realize this life is not a dream.  It has been such a blessing, such a healing, and necessary place for my heart to grow again.  I am in the best shape of my life and able to help our crew to make healthy eating choices and to encourage exercise.  Some people describe it as a lonely life and perhaps that is partly true.  I consider it to be a quiet, reflective time for me and a gift at this time when I needed it so much.  It is STILL hard for me to think about my dear Tilly, though I try to let it go more and more each day.  I see her face in every stray dog that runs the streets and long for her energy and warmth in the mornings when I am not motivated to go on runs.  It seems unbelievable that anyone could have been so attached to a dog but I guess I am starting to see now how lonely I really was when I was in Vancouver and hurting still so deeply after losing my relationship with Brian.  She was the only living being I felt safe opening up all my love and care to, though I know I had people in my life I could have shared that with.  The crutches that have been removed have been replaced with warm hearted and loving people that I live with and a career that allows me to open up my creativity and share it with others.  It's funny how life turns out sometimes when we surrender to the leap of faith.  I thank God for this opportunity.  It has not only made me so grateful for all that is around me, but for all of those who stood beside and behind me to help me to get to this amazing place in my life.  I am one very blessed lady.

Taxis and Hookers

I am in the restroom of the Veneto Casino washing my hands when two tall and beautiful Latinas flank me on either side, applying exaggerated lines to their eyelids and plumping up their bras.  One is darker skinned with a leopard-print bustier, long silky black hair resting down over a pair of skin-tight black pants, long legs standing in gold 6-inch heels.  The other is a little more European looking wearing a sparkling sequin silver pantsuit boasting one of the largest fake asses I have ever seen. Her feet are squished into tall heels, hair cut into a black straight bob.  There is a lot of upkeep to this kind of beauty and it is a deliberate exaggeration of appeal. 

Hookers.  I am standing in between two hookers.  I finish up my hand drying, try real hard not to stare, and scuttle out of the restroom to the roulette table my crew mate is saddled up to, feeling as inadequate as a 12 year old girl.  As I sit down and take a look around, I realize that the bar top is lined with sex workers awaiting the evening traffic, lipstick applications occupying small hand mirrors, leaning bangled wrists on the bar ledges lazily.  Men smarm around the casino slowly sucking on toothpicks, eyes lazy and pervy checking out the menu for the evening.  A young woman close to me in age and a little more casually dressed sits down and smiles.  I scoot over graciously. She orders a drink from the waitress and orders Jake and I another.  We thank her, raise our eyebrows to each other impressed with our luck in meeting such a nice person and go back to playing.  She asks if I am having a good night.  I tell her it isn't bad so far.  She points to my chips and squishes her bosom on the table closely.  "Can I have some of your chips?"

I greedily hug my pile in realization and shake my head with a smile. "Sorry hon. I don't think so."  Her candy sweet smile melts into a disinterested line and she turns to my crew mate.  Giving up, she moves to the blackjack table where two young men hand her a couple chips.  She's smiling and on her game again. The waitress returns with our drinks (which are free at the casino), we shrug to each other and continue on. 

To learn a lesson from a good hustler one need not go much further than Panama City.  Taxis and hookers are where I would look first.  They await you patiently in dimly lit corners of slot machines in casinos and in the dark alley you stammer down in the late hours when the bars let out.  Bass blasting in the background, drinks sloshing the movement of your legs, hand up, they arrive. The fare for American travelers is what is called the "Gringo Tax" here amongst ex-pats.  Five to even 10 times the price for cabs but still so much cheaper than we can experience back home which is why most don't complain too much.  Hookers cost around $80 for an hour of their time.  A very hurried time, a cab driver once complained to me, but still not as expensive as in the States.  They spend an hour at a time with several different men a night, turning each quickly.  I have never thought to know this much about the sex industry here but you really can't help it.  It is everywhere and fascinating with its allure and manipulations to more than I would care to have known about.  Taxis and hookers work hand in hand, taxi drivers offering young men places to get special massages and pretty women to keep them company for the evening.  The working girls shuffle their business back into the waiting cab drivers who carry the buyer back to their expensive hotel room downtown.  Overweight Tommy Bahama-wearing old white captains on our dock almost always eventually end up sporting a young twenty-something beauty as a girlfriend for their stay in Panama City with no shame.  

A month ago I was invited to a dinner by a young guy on the dock I am friends with.  Crashing our lovely outdoor evening dinner came 2 of these captains and one yacht owner from a few boats down.  Snapping their fingers at our waitress, they drank their rums and quickly delved into the subject of fun for the night.  I listened quietly while evil-eyeing my friend as they discussed the kind of fun they would like to have.  Classier or younger?  Venetto or call up Manuel for his contacts?  One of the captains looks me up and down and asks me what I do  for a living.  I told him I was the chef on the yacht next door.  He smiled at me sheepishly, pointing to his admittedly large man boobs.  "Hey would you date this?  I can't get a pretty girl to look at me or smile at me unless I got a $100 bill attached to my forehead."  I smile and look him in the eye, put some food in my mouth and try to eat my meal and listen. I wanted to ask... Why do you have so little respect for yourself? I am almost embarrassed to admit I wanted to hear more of this conversation and to see truly what these guys would end up talking about.  They were pretty comfortable talking about their sexual options for the night.  I listen to the yacht owner beg the guys to stay out with him.  His wife is asleep on the boat and he is looking for "young ass."  I have passed this yacht owner and his dear wife everyday as they tool around their retirement home of a fishing boat, traveling the world for their golden years. I shake my head in disbelief.  My friend looks at me and says, Let's go.  I am relieved. I feel as though my eyes are darkened inside somehow.  Tinted from this.  I cannot explain it in any better way. I am becoming numb to it now.

That being said, this conversation is not uncommon.  It is almost like a sport, talked about with ease, something I am not used to.  Many young and old men from the United States let their inhibitions down and buy a woman for the night or simply entertain her with drinks at the blackjack or dinner table to have the attention. For a lot I naturally assume it is their shot at having a beautiful woman by their side that perhaps they may not be able to otherwise attain.  For all it is some sexual issue.  For some, something to try.  Some things I wish I could unsee, it is so unbelievable to me how common it truly is.  I know it is not just a Panama City thing too.  It is a Jaco, Costa Rica thing…it is a Dominican Republic thing…It is a Las Vegas thing.  It is an everywhere thing, especially in Central America.  

As for these women, a lot of them are truly stunning.  I can understand the allure handed so deliciously on a cheap platter of ease.  A lot of the women come from Colombia.  One of my regular cab drivers, Diose, tells me that this is due to a corruption in Colombia where a lot of these women are forced into this line of work at a young age.  Often voluptuous, often with plastic surgery, of which the butt implant seems to be the fad to a point of ridiculousness. They are given these surgeries and makeovers, brought to Panama, and required to bring in a certain amount of income a day towards their debt for all their "upgrades."  Some have their families threatened. They need to do a lot of business in one day and there is a lot of competition. The reason they are brought here, naturally, is because Panama boasts the U.S. dollar with a much better economy.  Although this is new to me, this is a business transaction that has been in action for many years with our military and the settlement of U.S. and European citizens. It is obviously a huge part of Panama's draw for travelers here, foreign business men from all over the world partaking regularly.  The government turns a huge blind eye to it, requiring these women to have health check-ins, yet maintaining their hypocritical stance that it is still illegal.  As with many areas of the law in Panama, the police seem nonexistent. This is, after all, a huge money maker and what government can be upset about that?

Taxis are like hookers in that they are also everywhere and they are typically there to scam an unknowing traveler.  It costs the average Panamanian a couple bucks to ride across town.  The average tourist will pay $10-15.  I have gotten my cabs lowered to $5, sometimes paying a couple bucks more if I am impatient and it's hot out. They don't operate on metres, so you can be stuck in traffic for an hour like I was yesterday and the agreed-on price remains the fare.  Due to the amount of business we give to cab drivers with provisioning for the yacht, we have 3-4 taxi drivers daily that will call trying to outbid the others.  It works in our favor for this sort of thing and I have come to really care for and enjoy talking to the drivers that I have gotten to know over the last few months here. Taxi cab drivers that work for us also are still relatively inexpensive, charging us around $10 an hour and offering butler-esque service.  My regular guys escort me through the fish market carrying my cooler and helping me through watery walkways.  In the grocery store they help to carry bags and through the cat-calls of the produce market, they are escorts of security.  Taxi drivers are as diverse as people normally are.  Some are good, some are sly, some will try to drive you to their house at the end of the night and drag you out of the car (true story, though I obviously got out alright), and almost all are hustlers in some way or another.  Their eyes are guarded, they don't talk a lot, they don't ask a lot of questions, and they seem to understand more English than they lead on.  I have yet to meet one who obeys any traffic laws and rightfully so.  Nobody here does.  No one is above cutting into any corner, to get an edge, to pass miles of traffic to the front of the line and force their way in.  It is a survival of the pushiest and an inability to care about anything but the destination and the dollar being acquired quickly that allows these men to continue to raise the small funds that they do to support theirs.  

I want to wrap this blog up with something safe and explain.  But sometimes things just are what they are and there is no making them anything else.  Certainly there are other wonderful and beautiful parts of Panama and I will write about those too.  For now…Taxis and Hookers. 

From Costa Rica to Panama City...

Small wakes from the local ferry jostle Dardanella on this early Saturday morning. The motion rolls me around in my bunk, as though the boat were telling me to wake up and join the day.  Try to go back to sleep and get rolled again.  I give up and swing myself into a sitting position. This isn’t going to get any better today.  Ferries and fishing boats zip closely by Dardanella’s side several times a day, so we have become used to the occasional sway or unexpected wave that sends you stumbling into the nearest corner. I can only battle it so long in the mornings, and reluctantly dangle my feet over the bottom bunk waiting for my eyes to adjust. My roommate is on a month long trip to South Africa.  I have the room to myself and it is a luxury looking down and not having to step over someone to hit the ground.  Several of my crewmates have taken the weekend to get out of Panama City, so I am not only enjoying the freedom of a room and bathroom to myself  this weekend, but a boat with only a couple people on it, quiet and home.  I jump out into the crew mess and no one is up yet.  I have the television to myself to watch the morning news without a running crew commentary, the toastie machine all for me and the coffee pot.  Today is going to be great.  Now I just have to figure out what to do with it.  There are a lot of options.

Panama City is a book all on its own. It is a city that wakes up with hot mornings and lately ends with a breezy cool night.  Cab drivers drive locals and tourists through the alleyways and highways for a fair price that must be haggled, roads lit up with yellow and black vehicles.  American and European tourists walk in the old town of Casco Viejo with Panama hats and cameras flickering at the colonial ruins and churches.  The women from the local Kuna Indian tribe sell their wares and woven baskets while cradling a small child swaddled in bright colors and wraps. The evenings are littered with foreign backpackers drinking rum at the local bar with a bowl of ceviche and casinos full of old white men picking out a Colombian prostitute for their hour.  Lots of locals come to the Causeway de Amador where we are staying to get out of the city for the day and ride a bike down the long peninsula to the small island of shops, tiki bars, and marinas. Sloths and iguanas move around in the trees that line the marina, while raccoons and cats play together near the entrance. Fishermen come home from their sun soaked day with Tuna and Dorado.  Cabs take people up and down the Causeway and the sun sets over the Canal where I usually take an evening walk.

Today I will probably enjoy the city, however, in Casco Viejo, my favorite part.  It is beautiful, feels safe, clean-ish, with alcoves and doorways, garden bars hidden in hostels, top notch restaurants nestled in refurbished historical colonial buildings, breweries, and water-front walkways with artists everywhere selling and creating.  There are bright murals and graffiti splashing color on the white washed walls that line many of the narrow streets in Casco, large dark wooden doors with heavy brass knocks, an occasional stray dog or cat, and brick ruins of buildings soon to be refurbished in this small piece of progress.  It is very tourist friendly and reminds me a lot of Taicang Lu in Shanghai.  It is an easy place to get lost in with a camera and an appetite.  I will miss this old town when we leave in a month.

Coming here from Costa Rica was a welcome change.  The two locations couldn’t be more different so there is a definite “grass is always greener” effect going on.  Costa Rica is lush, green, beautiful beaches, local surf spots, small cities and towns, remote and quiet.  Though Panama certainly offers the same experience outside the city we don’t really get that here.  Panama City is a big city, dirty, noisy, lots of people to meet, lots of restaurants to try, shopping, and history with malls and skyscrapers.  When we left Golfito in Costa Rica we were waking up to glass-like waters, morning kayaks, rain in the afternoon that didn’t let up till the evening.  We would walk up the wooden dock in rain jackets to the marina restaurant the Banana Bay, and use their Wi-Fi while sipping a beer for a couple dollars.  Weekends we would go to the local surf spot or nearby beach and play outside all day.  There weren’t a lot of people to meet, there wasn’t much to do after dark, and provisioning was a joke. But it was amazing, nonetheless.  Panama City is a welcome change for the crew to be somewhere to send packages home, buy a new set of headphones, go out to a movie theater, eat and stock up on foods so hard to find in Costa Rica, or to enjoy the nightlife and meet other people.  I personally have met a lot of nice people in the city and know that returning here is a possibility in my future.  Provisioning for me as a chef is also preferable here.  Panama offers what I need, as they are on the U.S. dollar and have a strong international draw.  The fish market here is amazing, with a ceviche market adjacent to enjoy with a nice cold beer in hand.  It has been a welcome break for me to get everything I need and a time of appreciation, both for what I had in Costa Rica and for the friends I have met here and gotten to enjoy while I can.

As for the yacht life, I am wiggling my way back into it like a duck to water.  We do live such an unusual life, even for yachties, and one of a lot of privilege for our hard work and trade of freedom.  As a yacht chef, I couldn’t be more grateful.  I get to travel the world and learn other cuisines, learn to provision and negotiate with all sorts of vendors from fishing boats, to trading with neighbors and asking local restaurant owners for advice.  I walk through the local fish market during my workday and pick fresh local produce from the fresh produce outdoor market.  I’ve gotten to know several of the fishermen on the dock and a couple of them have given me some of their catches in exchange for fresh baked cookies and fish tacos. My crewmates catch fish for sport, and I get to cook it for sport.  

No complaints there!  We do work hard, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week and non-stop 17-hour days when the boss is onboard.  But we are greatly rewarded for our efforts. The only other downside is living in such close quarters with people you don’t choose who are from all over the world…but it sometimes lends for amazing friendships…which we have…and for interesting debates and growth of open mindedness.  We sometimes want to strangle each other but we mostly get along great and live very close lives to each other. 

And of course…the life on a boat is the best part.  We got to stop at small deserted islands for several days on the way from Costa Rica in order to do scuba diving and surfing “research” for our boss’ recent trip. Late night watches at sea sitting up at the wheel in the bridge watching the boat dip in the waves, coffee in hand, a comedy recording playing in the background as my crewmate and I giggle into the darkness looking out for other boats.  Next morning we are anchored somewhere else and exploring the reefs and surf breaks there.  After our Christmas charter, we anchored out into the bay of this small deserted island near the city of David, full moon hanging above, no other boats around.  I paddle boarded out to the small island, about ¼ mile in circumference, with a dry bag, a tent, and a couple beers and snacks.  I lit myself a small fire and slept the night under the stars listening to the waves crash on both sides of the island and the occasional hermit crab trying to get into the tent.  Not a bad way to spend Christmas day.  

I know I sound like an asshole when I say this, but it is easy to take this for granted because it becomes such a closeted and unique experience.  More and more so these days when we are in the city and living closer to a normal life than when we were in Costa Rica. When I step outside of it and spend time with my friends in Panama City, I realize how rare and special this experience is.  I get to live a life that not a lot of other people get to live. When my day ends on land, I walk down to the end of the marina, radio the boat, and the small tender departs from the side of the big boat to come pick me up.  One of the boys arrives shirtless in a pair of board shorts, sunglasses, music blasting, and a relaxed smile.  I jump in the boat, he hands me a beer, and we drive out into the bay back to the boat swaying in the waves with the sun setting in the distance.

Finding Somewhere

I stepped onto the plane in Portland, Oregon in the early morning, a sheen of sweat on my upper lip from the night of Halloween partying and regret the night before.  My tired eyes searched the plane for my row number and I sat with relief to see I would be able to rest my head against the window for the few hours to Dallas.  My last few days were a blur of packing, throwing away long-kept unnecessary items, saying goodbye to new and old friends, and what seemed like an endless amount of drinks and social activities.  I had joked that I would be crawling to the plane but truly, the joke felt more reality than jest.  My head throbbed with so many emotions, undealt with feelings about Tilly and the last year I had held at bay till I crossed this imaginary border, my heart swelling and shrinking in a manic frenzy to make sense of everything inside of me and to also hold back the flood I knew was coming.  I was not right and close to breaking.  Thank God for Devon.  

A young attractive man around my age with a big red beard and kind brown eyes sat next to me. He looked at me as if to say he had an idea I was struggling.  "So are we drinking blood mary's this morning?  Cause you look about how I feel."  

I laughed out loud.   Judging by the nearby passenger reaction maybe a bit too loud.

"Probably not a good idea," I confessed pathetically.  It took me a microsecond to look at him again and say, "Oh what the hell." 

"Atta girl," he laughed.  

Devon is an Oregonian headed back to military base in North Carolina.  We talked boats, travel, family, and future aspirations…all before takeoff.  I must have said a dozen times, "Where the hell have you been?"  We laughed and laughed with ease and I thank God I didn't sink into the window just yet.  He was a welcome caffeine to my drudgery.

After the plane took off, he hailed down our flight attendant for a drink.  Scott, as we came to know him, was an older male flight attendant who had obviously seen a few too many flights and was over it.  He was more than happy to have some morning drinkers on his route this morning.  He came back with an extra beverage for us and wished us a good day.  We said a cheers to him and had an amazing flight to Dallas.  After a warm hug goodbye and a promise to write, I said good bye to Devon.  I slept in the airport there for the entirety of my 4 hour layover until I heard my name being called over the intercom for the final boarding call to Costa Rica.  Rushing up to make my flight, I was the last one on the plane, I am embarrassed to say.  But hell, I made it. 

Continuing my forage into the world of sleep, I drifted in and out of sweaty consciousness the rest of the flight, waking occasionally for a drink of water or to the sound of someone laughing nearby.  In all honesty, it was a blur.  I woke up as the plane made a ridiculously rough landing, gasps erupting from startled passengers as we bounced onto the runway, the plane as drunk as I was the night before.  I didn't care so much about the landing…I was in Costa Rica finally.  No more explaining where I was going.  No more waiting to get there to let go.  I was here.  The moment had arrived.  I wanted to cry and I still couldn't quite put a finger on why or what the emotion was or if it was just exhaustion.  I just knew I needed to get off the plane and get to my hotel and deal with it later.  Suck it up for now Sarah.

My elation was quickly sated by the reality that I was in Costa Rica and I am a gringa, which in simple terms means I am easy to over-charge and easy to take advantage of.   After an hour and a half of cab drivers taking me to the wrong Marriots,  (there are 4 in town) despite having handed them the correct address, I finally made it to my hotel at 1am in time to sleep a few hours before my 5 am flight to Golfito.  And true to Murphy's Law, I couldn't sleep a wink, though the bed was as comfortable as a cloud.  Dragging my bags in the early morning, I wearily took a cab to the tiny airport where my flight to Golfito departed from.  A tiny establishment, the size of a small house, I wasn't sure I was in the right place.  Knocking on the front door and peering in, hand over my forehead leaning on the glass, I gazed into what seemed to be an empty airline check-in, unlit with no-one in view.  I knocked and called out, "Hello!" and a young man peered around the corner of the building. 

"Buenos Dias!" He was friendly and smiley, a welcome sight.  Through hand signals and broken English and Spanish, I realized I was the first passenger to arrive.  They hadn't even opened yet, thus the reason the employees hadn't turned on the lights.  In fact…I was the only passenger until noon.  However, they opened the doors, turned on the lights, brewed some coffee, and were as kind as I have ever seen for any airline.  I was greatly impressed and relieved for a friendly face.  Two very happy, charming captains escorted me out to the 12 passenger Sesna, joking that I could brag I had my own private plane to my friends.  I smiled feeling at ease and sat right behind them for one of the most beautiful flights I have been privileged to have down the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica during sunrise.  

I can only describe what I saw as breathtaking.  Clouds rested in pockets of lush green hills, mist steaming off the mountains as the sun parted the evening into the day.  The plane dipped in and out of clouds as the two captains chattered in Spanish about this and that.  I watched the city dissipate into jungle and wilderness, orange sunrise bathing the green in its warmth.  Undisturbed coastline with inlets leading into marsh cleared into deep blue water as we made our way over land and out over ocean.  Memories of how small I used to feel out at sea, my respect for this world so unknown and so untapped began to wash over me in a familiar and old way.  

We circled a small gulf surrounded by green jungle and mountains, a sprinkle of buildings and fishing boats began to emerge.  In a matter of minutes, the plane lowered itself onto one small runway.  A handful of people awaited the plane. My fraction of working brain couldn't conceive of why so many people would be waiting for me, as I was the only passenger.  However, they weren't.  One man waved at me, a large smile on his face and a rain jacket covering him appropriately for the changing weather.  A young white guy with freckles, blue eyes, and a stocky build, he wore surf shorts and a pair of sandals.  I knew he was from the yacht.

"Hey there!  I'm Brady," he smiled, hand out with a firm shake.  He grabbed my bags and spoke perfect Spanish to our cab driver telling him to wait.  We went into the small terminal, a shack with a tin roof, and waited for a package he was also waiting for.

"Sorry to make you wait, I'm sure you're tired.  Getting mail here is ridiculous. You have to pay nearly $500 to mail something back home or wait for the random flight that comes to town.  Those other five people are pretty glad you flew in today," he laughed, a look of sheepishness on his face.  I smiled and let him know I was not bothered at all.  

"Oh, you'll get bored here quick.  There really isn't much to do here but surf and sweat out in this damn humid rain.  It's beautiful but it gets old quick."  

"I think I"ll be just fine," I laughed assuring him.  At that moment I knew I would.  This was heaven to me.  After my new captain grabbed his parcels, we loaded my luggage into the cab and rode the bumpy streets to the tiny Banana Bay Marina where my new residence would be. This town was truly tiny with one small road that ran through it and very little to speak of aside from an occasional restaurant or fishing boat.  In my exhaustion I grinned as I stepped out of the cab and wheeled my bags up to the sole vessel in the tiny marina.  Smiling to myself I realized I truly was in the middle of nowhere.  Thank God.  I was finally home. 

Last Walk With Tilly

My last walk with Tilly was 4 days ago before she got sick…before she mysteriously lost the use of her muscles and slipped into paralysis…before I wept holding her as the doctor euthanized her.  In these dark dark moments of life when your heart is drenched in tears and sinking to the bottom of your empty gut your friends pop up, each an individual burst of light to help you find your way through it.  They tell you the things you need to heal and often the right things to get you through each step of the cavern of grief.  In one of my many recent moments of deep belly cries this afternoon I received a text from a friend telling me to try not to cry that it is over, but to smile because it happened.   As I pulled myself up off Tilly's dog bed and wiped my face for the hundredth time in 3 days, I smiled at the thoughts of  my favorite memories of my beloved little girl and our many walks.   It led me to want to share with my friends as I try to forget the final memories that cause so much grief.  

It is only fitting that a walk with Tilly would be a part of todays' writing, not only because it has been the opener for many of my blogs, but also because it is Sunday.  Or as I used to and always will call it "Sarah and Tilly Day".  This was the day of the week I would set aside to go on an adventure with Tilly on foot downtown.  Sundays would begin early like any other day with Tilly pounding my back with her front paws to wake me up.  As small as her 35 pound frame was, she could pack a decent kidney shot.  I would grumble for her to leave me alone and try to go back to sleep.  She would jump off and sit on the floor, tail twitching expectantly for me to acknowledge her.  If I didn't,  she would whine and jump back up on my back and then quickly jump off back into position before I could swat at her.  She would pound her paws on the floor till I would look at her.  At this point I would roll over and acknowledge her complaining, "What do you want?"  She would whinny like a little horse and motion her head to the door, taking a couple paces to it as if to say, "Let's go already!"  I would teasingly pretend to go back to sleep knowing full well I was about to get another forceful pounce on my back.  When I would finally sit up and give in, hands up in surrender, she would jump up on the bed and roll around on her back kicking her feet to the sky and making weird dog noises of joy.  I can't describe them but they were pretty funny.  After our breakfast, a coffee, and a download of NPR podcasts, I was ready to take Tilly on our Sunday adventure.  I would pack a backpack with water, treats, a book, and my radio shows and take off on foot towards the river with Tilly leading the way.  We would walk down to the waterfront and walk along the waters' edge away from Sunday strollers and near the small wakes that Tilly loved to jump into.  We'd walk downtown and get her a bone at Canine Utopia, find a patio to sit at for lunch, and I would read while she went to town on her bone.  We'd spend a few hours out together exploring our neighborhood each week.  Sometimes we would be on the Burnt Bridge Trail, sometimes downtown, sometimes out to Frenchmans' Bar.  But we always spent Sundays outside and having fun, her sniffing around and me listening to radio podcasts off somewhere adventurous in my mind.  I think I loved these days so much because it is in these days that I see so clearly the wonderful influence she was on my life.  She made me exercise, even when it was pouring rain.  I did a lot of thinking and working out of my life, a lot of question answering, and a lot of soul searching on these walks.  I would never have done that if not for her.  She was a very special influence on my life in this way.

When I first saw Tilly I knew she was very special.  Brian and I had been talking for a couple months about getting a dog to keep me company while he traveled for work.  We had both always loved Pitbulls and so we decided to go check out the Humane Societies in Portland and Vancouver to look around.  One day after several prior attempts to find a dog we decided to check out the Humane Society in Vancouver.  In the first hallway we went down, 4 cages in, I saw this little tiger-striped dog sleeping on a bed.  She looked up at me sadly, curled into a little ball, tail wrapped around her.  I put my fingers in the front of her cage and called for her to come over.  She didn't get up but her tail wagged furiously.  I looked into her eyes and saw a sweet soul.  I asked Brian if we could take her.  He wasn't convinced yet so we had a tech bring her to play with us outside.  On her paperwork it said that she loved to play ball and frisbee.  Brian tossed a ball around and she jumped around after it.  When she brought it back she reached up her paws to him and licked his face.  He was sold.  We would high-five each other every day from then on how lucky we were to find her.  She proved to be a snuggly, silly, amazingly athletic dog with a huge heart and an energetic personality.  She was also a great companion.  When Brian and I ended our relationship and I moved home, she was an amazing comfort and a healing presence.  She always knew when I needed her and she had an amazing ability to understand what was going on with my life.  

True to her pitbull breed, Tilly was an alpha.  She wanted to lead the way, she wanted to protect me, always pulling and on alert.  Stubborn as a mule, I always joked I couldn't break her but I never wanted to.  She had such a loving and curious spirit, such a joy and excitement around people, and such an athletic nature. I found her stubborn morning alarm routine to be funny.  I loved that she would roll in the grass when I would yell at her to come inside from playing,  knowing I would think it was cute and buying herself more time with her rebelliousness.  I enjoyed the keen hunter she was, even when she brought a live 20 pound possum into my living room and it walked out the door after playing dead.   When we would leave the house, she would walk with a hop in her step, ears bouncing with curiosity.   A random squirrel would pop out and she would turn into a jungle cat and try to pounce on it.  I remember on one of our daily walks when she caught a squirrel several feet in front of us and shook it to death in her jaws.  Not one of my favorite walks, but amazing, nonetheless.  That was Tilly…amazing.  She stood up to big dogs and hid behind my back scared of cats.  She loved to chase butterflies, jump into water and swim,  and bury her bones in the yard.  She was funny and a character all her own.  And that was how she changed my life.  Because she challenged me to try to be like her adventurous spirit.

As I look back on my last walk with Tilly I wish I had known it would be our last.  I would have walked her further, fed her more treats, given her the best day of her life.  But most of all, I would have let her know what an amazing friend she was to me.  She may have only been a dog to most people that looked at her but she was my family.  I was always met with her unconditional love and her sweet snuggly disposition.  She would walk in sunshine or rain with the same happy gait.  Her loyalty had no end and her love through even her own pain was constant until the moment her eyes closed in death.  The doctors and the nurses that cared for her said that even when she was paralyzed in the oxygen cage with IV's stuck in her arms and trying to breathe through her closing esophagus, she would still wag her tail anytime someone would walk by.  Even in these last moments she was teaching me that no matter how bad the situation may be, there was something to be happy about.  I may have lost her and may not be able to take her on walks anymore like we used to, but I will always walk with the lessons she taught me and the love she gave me in my heart.  She will still walk with me everyday.

My gratitude...

  It is hard to remember in full all of the special memories of my childhood but one that is blazingly memorable was my introduction to my first friends in the United States and who would later become sisters to me. True to my routine, I was inspired today on one of my walks with Tilly to remember these special people who, for a short time in my life, made an impact that sends ripples through my life today.  In truth…there are really so many people if I were to focus on this time, but today I choose these.  If not for their intervention and love for me, I would not be where I am today.

My family moved to the United States when I was in the second grade to a suburb of Detroit, Michigan where my mothers' sister Wendy, my Uncle Tom, and their three kids lived.  I will never forget walking through the airport and seeing a t-shirt with a big yellow smily face with a bullet hole in the head and blood trickling down.  The writing on the shirt said, "Welcome to Detroit."  I often joke about this first impression of Detroit today and how I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It is one of those funny childhood things whose punchline didn't grasp me till years later, but freaked me out enough to have some hesitation as to where we had just moved.  Little did I know I the love, the acceptance, and the warmth I would be walking into in this new life.  

My first introduction to TBC was in our girls' church group of Missionettes on a Wednesday night.  A Christian version of Girl Scouts,  they would meet every Wednesday night and you would move through the ranks through badges, activities, volunteering, and memorization of chapters of the Bible, including reading the entire thing all the way through.  Once all the hurdles were hurdled, you would receive the recognition of Honor Star, in which you were paraded in front of the church in a pretty white dress and a crown was put on your head to applaud your 4 year accomplishment.  (Which I did)  When I first  I walked into the younger class of Prims (kind of like Brownies) I was terrified and alone.  Not having started school yet and knowing nobody outside of my family in the United States, I felt I would stick out like a sore thumb, with my ugly K-Mart corduroy pants and oversized knit sweater.  And I did.  The MIssionettes leader Mrs. Sanchez paired me up with a young girl with an equally awful fluffy knit dragon sweater and corduroy pants named Brianne, asking her to be my friend and show me around.  With a reluctant huff and roll of the eyes she ushered me to the small band of girls, wiggling impatiently for the meeting to begin.  Tall, awkward, and spunky, the last thing I am sure she wanted was this mousy little shy thing clinging to her side.  But she took me under her wing, nonetheless, patting the carpet next to her on the floor where she sat for me to join her.  The girls started into their chorus of mottos and pledges and were each prompted to introduce themselves.  When it came my turn Mrs. Sanchez introduced me and enthusiastically said, "Sarah is from EGYPT, like from the Bible. Welcome her, girls."  And much to my surprise…They did.  In any other group my foreign upbringing may have been a nail in the coffin to coolness, but in this group, it was my acceptance.  "Wow, you're from EGYPT?!"  "Oh cool."   A round of gasps and smiles and "sit with me" were to follow.  Being from Egypt had never been cool to me but I wasn't about to correct them.  Brianne quickly grabbed me to sit next to her again, "I met her first. She was my friend first."  And so a spark to ignite the beginning of my friendships with some of the most amazing girls I have been privileged to know.  

From Left: Me, Christy, Sarah R. and Brianne (Her face has an arrow because I wrote an arrow to her as My Best Friend in my childhood scrapbook.  Sorry B.)

I had a unique school experience in that, I went to school where I went to church and led a fairly protected life for a time.  The girls in my Wednesday classes became my school classmates, my fellow Sunday school attendees, my pew partners for Sunday night church, and the members of every sports team I played in.  We played kickball together at recess, went to ski classes on Monday nights,  played truth or dare in our circle of sleeping bags for one of our many many sleepovers, and often regarded each others' parents as an extension of our own.  It was very rare we were apart.  We idolized the awkward characters of Anne of Green Gables and Calamity Jane, who were quirky tomboys that would eventually blossom into strong beautiful women.  In an effort to emulate our idols we formed a girls' club called TBC…or The Tomboy Club…refusing to ever become a prissy girl who didn't love running around in the mud and could beat any man at any sport.  How naive we were!  We traded Baby Sitters' Club books and gawked with blushing faces as we read the inevitable future we would have in puberty after reading Judy Blume books.  Not too long after, reality hit and we went through that lovely monster truck of puberty together, discovering cramps, pimples, and who would and wouldn't get their boobs for Christmas.  (I didn't)   Kept in a world of innocence with strong encouragement towards sports and spirituality , we were very fortunate to be able to truly enjoy being girls and to slowly grow into women.  We were encouraged towards kindness and music, giving and achievement.  Even more lucky…we got to come into our own together and though we DID become prissy girls who sprayed their bangs to unimaginable heights, we still kicked ass in sports. 

Around late junior high, my parents had decided to end their marriage and my mom moved my sisters and I to Arizona.  I quickly declined.  We moved to a rough part of town and my mom had to work very hard to provide for us 3 girls.  I remember being terrified my first day of school in 8th grade. There was a riot and one of my classmates had knocked one of my teachers unconscious and beaten two others into an ambulance.  Gangs were feared by our neighborhood and our teachers.  Bullying was extreme enough that I remember a couple classmates carrying guns in their lockers for fear of a rival gang jumping them on their way home and a couple knife fights in the hallways.  I befriended two Hispanic girls at this time who were well-respected amongst some of the more powerful gangs in the school and therefore protected from being bullied, as I undoubtedly would have been.  They used to giggle at my innocence and my preppy clothes.  Once again, I was a foreigner in a strange land.  And once again, wanting to fit in, I adapted.  This is where my decline began and fast.  Over the next couple years and into my teens I cringe for the terror I was to my mother and the things I did.  I think she was at a loss for what to do to help me and I can't say I would have known myself what to do even now.  Having experimented with all sorts of drugs and skipping school, sex and drug houses with all sorts of experimentation at my fingertips, my weight declined and I sunk into a deep depression.  My one salvation through this time was my good friend back home who continued to write me and to call.  Just like the first day of Missionettes,  Brianne kept me close to her side and wouldn't let go.  

In what seemed like the darkest hour and a time I was very close to taking my own life for what I had seen myself become, Brianne's parents called my mother early one morning and asked her if I could come to stay with them for a year.  My mother was (and still is!) a great mother but had to work very hard to put food on the table and a roof over our heads,  while dealing with us older two becoming completely unmanageable.  Supporting my two sisters and I and our grandmother, it was probably one of the hardest things she had to agree to do.  It takes a strong person to be able to let go and to ask for help and I can never thank her enough that she did.  In a couple weeks' time and after many tears, I left my home to live with the Christmas family back in Detroit.  I look back now at how nuts these people were, with 3 teenagers of their own, to take on a 4th.  To give me my own room, to feed me, to take me to counseling weekly, to pay for me to attend the same private school I had gone to as a child, and to nourish my body and soul back to health.  Many nights of me shouting and rebelling at the new rules put upon me, crying in the arms of Mrs. C in her car after church, being brought to family functions and being treated as one of their own children.  Mr. C, who is the kindest and dearest man I may ever know, arm around me, treating me as one of his daughters.  I lived with them for a year and they helped me to raise funds through hard work and fundraising to complete a life dream of a trip to Africa to work with missions.  What a difference one year can make!  I can only imagine what else I would have been doing with that summer, if not for their intervention in my life.  I cannot imagine the woman I would have become if not for their love and protection of me and if not for my mother's hard decision to let go for that year.  I cannot imagine my life without the friendship and sisterhood of the girls of TBC, how they held me and brought me back into the fold.  I cannot be more grateful for the love Brianne had for me to take a strangers' hand at that young age and to never have let go.

I had tears in my eyes today on my walk thinking of how grateful I will always be for all I have been given.  Thank you Mom, Mr. and Mrs. C, Brianne, Brandon, Colette, Heather, Sarah, and Christy…and all the names that would take up two more pages.  You know who you are and I thank you for the wonderful memories that are able to take over my thoughts today because of your love for me.

From left: Brianne (pregnant), Sarah R., Me, Christy (we are missing Heather here...)

Alone

A turn of keys and I am home from work. I let the dog out the front door to romp around in her newly found freedom as I return to the confines of my lonely castle.  It has been a long day and my mind needs to sigh some relief.  Drop keys on my entryway stand and remove sunglasses, nudge work shoes off socked, sweaty feet, and pad my way to the bathroom to gaze at the small wearings a day at work has given my face.  Take a quick wash, remove my firewood and smoke fumed uniform, and adorn my limbs with soft, clean comfort.  Shuffle my feet, cell-phone in hand searching for messages of validation, and relent to sit on the front porch watching Tilly chase butterflies, wings floating bug-like towards her chomping anxious hop.  My desire to not be alone is overcome by my desire to be lazy and I cancel a couple tentative plans for the evening because…well…sometimes that is lonelier when your mind is somewhere else.  I opt, instead, to grab Tilly's frisbees and watch her charge at them over and over, my feet running through fresh cut grass, my ears listening to my latest npr show.  I let my mind get engrossed in the stories on the radio and laugh out loud as Tilly makes a powerful leap too high and almost trips herself on the landing.  Funny dog.  Stories of  humility.  My breathing slows into an attitude of gratefulness and my focus is blurred into relaxation as I realize that all the dumb little things that have built up on my shoulders throughout the day are really not that heavy.  And suddenly…I don't mind being alone in my little castle.

I have been in a slump lately with my attitude towards life and I believe it is probably part product of my age and part observance of my financial accomplishments topped off with a dollop of relationship failures.  If I were to look forward into my life at 25, I never would have seen myself living with a dog at 34 in a duplex in Vancouver, Washington.  I certainly wouldn't have seen myself alone.  Life doesn't always turn out how you plan and often as the result of the small choices made along the way.  It is the listening (or in some cases ignoring) of that inner voice, that turn to the path less traveled, that "Don't do this" that we do or that "Don't stay in this" that we stay in that brings us to a clearing with a view that we did not expect to end up at.  

A lot of these decisions in my life have been made in respect to the men in my life.  In fact, almost ALL my major moves have been based on men.  Move to the U.S….my dad.  Move to Arizona…mom leaving my dad.  Move to Colorado…me leaving my husband.  Move back to Arizona…not a man.  Move to Oregon…first move with boyfriend.  Continued travel on yachts…moving around with boyfriend in the business.  Move back to Oregon…lack of man in life and breakup from previously mentioned boyfriend.  Move to Vancouver…boyfriend.  Move to China…same boyfriend.  Move back to Oregon…same boyfriend broke up with me.  At some point the madness came to an all out dizzy spin and I collapsed to the ground.  I have been on the ground for the last year and a half trying desperately to avoid the low flying planes of more bad choices.  And as sad as that may sound and lonely as it has become, it has been the best thing that could have happened to me and something I need to remind myself of.  I have become safe and cautious, closed in and protective, gained girlfriends and weird guy friends, and sat still in one place by myself ON MY OWN for the first time in my life.  There are no boats to jump onto, no surprise trips to Brazil from my boyfriend to brag about, no one to tell me that I should be doing this or that with my life, no one to help me manage my money.  The need to have someone there just to fill the void diminishes more and more as time alone is more wholesome than time with the wrong person.  Waiting feels better…silence sounds clearer…budgeting is an accomplishment.  Why it takes some people longer to truly discover themselves, I don't know.  But it is a happening so important and necessary and one that makes me thank every path beforehand that brought me to here FINALLY.  I have to remember these moments when I am down on myself for what I haven't accomplished.  Because if accomplishing joy and a knowledge of oneself had been my original goal, I never would have taken such lengthy paths to get here.  But I am here, nonetheless and the growth doesn't end here.

I take a quiet stroll with Tilly, enjoying Zac Brown in my ears. It unravels the day and brings on the setting sun.  I walk back into my home, turn the oven on, prepare my dinner for one.  Tilly wiggles anxiously at my feet, tail twitching in expectation of fallen food.  Okay…dinner for two. Amy calls and we chat about our odd weekends, how we will get through the next week's stresses, and why men are so strange.  Comfort and acceptance, love and sisterhood, see you later, and goodbye.  I grab Tilly, snuggle into my couch with a book, softly pet her head till her eyes droop, and the day ends one more time.  I am home and home is me as I should be in my cozy castle safe and sound.  I am content. Alone.