The Moving Finger Writes...

"Heavens!" exclaimed the aunt of Clovis, "here's some one I know bearing down on us. He lunched with us once in Town. He's heard of the picnic I'm giving for the Princess, and he'll cling like a lifebelt till I give him an invitation; then ask if he may bring all his wives and mothers and sisters. The worst of these small watering-places is that one can't escape from anybody."

"Pretend you don't know him," was her parting advice, tinged with the reckless courage of the non-combatant.

Dancer Tom Pfaeffle introduced me to Clovis. Selected H.H.Munroe stories are 7 on the Richter scale. Read for yourself! And three cheers for The Gutenburg Project.

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I met a sailing wench! Karen Paffendorf has long, soft hair, a gentle manner, and a resume that befuddles me. She sails and swims and does something that caused a painful road rash. Karen says she will teach me to windsurf! But the road rash interferes; this weekend will not do.

I chat with my locksmith, who lives on a boat. He says the first day of windsurfing is spent hauling the sail out of the water, hand over hand, over and over again. I decide to take windsurfing lessons at Cal Sailing Club, and get that rite of passage over with. I begin tomorrow morning.

I hope I can lift my arms for Friday Night Waltz (on Saturday in Oakland) afterwards!

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Bab5 continues wonderful. I met Joel, who moved to Baltimore for a professorship, but still has not found his niche. He was loathe to leave Bab5, so I stayed later than is my wont. It was interesting to watch the waves of people drift in and out. Morgan and David are so awesome! Morgan dances and sews, and never says an unkind word against a person. David emits puns like PigPen emits dust, and gives great hugs.

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The Peculiar Tent Maker stories are coming... but I have get my tent, first. Then, many strange tales will be made manifest on this blog!

Hugs, Renee

Posted by Goddess at 11:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

By happenstance, today I am wearing a green aloha-patterned shirt purchased from a sailor while in the Caribbean (sic.)

One day, we moored behind Tobago Cays. Such lovely, uninhabited beaches. As we ate our evening meal, we were hailed by a man approaching in a small motorboat. He and his wife live in France for six months a year, he explained, and cruise for the other six months, selling their custom printed shirts. He came aboard and modelled his shirts for us. His trim, muscular body and convivial personality were persuasive sales tools. He had his 6-month-old child aboard his boat, and he described the safety netting, flotation signal, and other safety measures. I was young and impressionable; to me, his lifestyle seemed enviable.

I slept on deck, partly because I was wary of roaches, and partly because I had a crush on the captain, who also slept up top. Every night, there was a light rain that caused us to shelter inside for half an hour. We could see the Southern Cross. The air smelled sweet. I swam daily.

During the sail, i read "Desperate Voyage" again. This book was written by a fellow who found himself in a predicament after WW2. There were few boats headed for Australia, yet he yearned towards his fiancee, Mary. He decided to buy a sailboat, and learn to sail along the way. I actually met the man. He and Mary own Palm Island now (formerly, Prune Island) and run a resort. He signed my book.

The shirt is wearing out, I rarely wear it anymore, and never put it in the dryer. I love it dearly. It reminds me of that lovely time at sea.

One of my science writers was a woman named Moira with no fixed address. She was crewing on boats in warm locations; her blog entry talked about the hermit crabs she tried to coax into better accomodations; she ended it by saying, "I put a dab of nail polish on 'my' snails, so if you're ever in ___ look for them!" Since I am self-employed, and only need to work part-time with a computer with Internet access, I often wonder why I don't just head off into the wild blue.

But I don't. I do not know why!

Posted by Goddess at 01:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)