So there we are, in Borneo, 1939. The war was almost at hand…wait, that’s someone else’s story.
I walked 6 miles through the snow every single day to put a meal on this table. Wait – we don’t have a table.
No bike, which means walking 2.5 miles from the boat to South Station, a half-mile from the train station in Braintree to work, do it all over again at night…that’s six miles, not counting walking circuits of the 35,000 square foot store in between. A few weeks ago, we had this incredible cold snap. It went all the way down to -4. My shock absorber on my fancy-shmancy recumbent bicycle suddenly blew its seals and came crashing down on the chain, making the bike pretty much unrideable until I can replace my $400 shock that’s supposed to be indestructible.
Blah blah blah, bitch bitch bitch, but hey, I get another day off!
Then the second storm hit so hard that it froze the water around us along with the fog. This is the first time we’ve seen frozen fog. Suspended ice particles. That was kinda cool.
We had a wonderful time. We worked on Heart of the Lilikoi, Dena’s new book, the wind howling, doing what we really love to do.
Snow on ice in the marina provides an image of our immobility. We can’t sail, we can’t work on the boat, we can’t travel or be at anchor. Because of how extreme this is, we have to plug in to the grid for months at a time. We don’t have to live like this – we stayed away all summer long – so we have to get to a place where we can live underway. That means other latitudes. We are not the first to realize this, and Florida seems kinda scary – overpopulated, making rules against how we like to live, politically fucked. But we need to do more boating than we get here in New England.
Really, we can’t even ride our bikes. If we can’t keep our bodies moving, we can’t achieve the feeling that we’re ready for anything.
Meanwhile, we’re having a great time playing in the snow and walking around town. We’ll wring this place of every joy we can achieve.
Part of that is simply admiring the strange beauty of our surroundings. The boater’s million dollar view doesn’t disappear with the falling of the mercury.