Closing a door

Rohnert Park, California---“You can’t be strung along for 17 years unless you want to be strung along,” a friend had said days earlier when I described who I planned to see soon on this trip. A guy I had met about 17 years ago at an airshow in Daytona Beach, Florida. Under unusual circumstances; him getting locked out of the condo he was staying in and me having my date leave me, we talked for hours and formed a friendship that over the course of the years would be long phone calls followed by long periods of no contact, followed by seeing him, followed by too many promises to visit me. But there was always something really comfortable and engaging about him that kept me "interested" or yes, strung along.

Eight years ago I had spent a weekend. He was cute and fun and athletic and single and romantic. He took me out on an all-day date to Napa Valley, the base of the Golden Gate Bridge and an amazing restaurant in Sausalito that had a full view of San Francisco. To this day, it was the best date of my life.

I should have known better. Long distance is never real and it’s not what you say, it’s what you do. Actions speak. Sometimes they scream. With me on this trip, they screamed through a loud speaker.

I got to see him. He is still cute and fun and athletic and single and...married to his job. Coming off running a restaurant for over a year, I do understand being consumed by a job. I also understand human nature, especially with men. Women try to make it so complicated when it’s really black and white. “He’s just not that into you.” Period. Big period with an explanation mark followed by several frowny faces.

I tried my best not to let it get to me before I could pack up and leave as soon as possible, skipping putting on any makeup or even my routine of ultra-organizing my Hyundai before I hit the road. But tears filled my eyes and gag…guys HATE that. I think I babbled for a short while about my feelings: DOUBLE GAG…what might have been any feelings he had at all were HACKED to death on the spot. If my Hyundai had a tail, it would have been firmly tucked under the SUV as I drove away.

But I drove away. Knowing full well that that door was closed. No fight. No disagreement. No anger. Just the recognition that he was not the guy for me. After all the years of thinking there was a tiny crack of possibilities, it was now finally closed.

The further the distance, the clearer the picture. Disappointed? Of course. But I learned a very long time ago that life needs to be about what is ahead, not behind. And for me, what’s ahead is Napa.

I’ll drink to that.

From Africa to San Francisco

San Francisco---I couldn’t wait to see them. It had been three years and 5988 miles away the last time we had seen each other.

It was in a safe Marina, in a tense location. The boat I was on had been searched for the first time and the Arabic language was unlike the Italian, Spanish and Greek that we had constantly switched  to depending on the location of our sailboat. But this was different, this was Rabot, Morocco. A city that bumps up to an even poorer city called Sale (pronounced Saul-lay).  The Marina however was brand new, they were making a huge effect to attract yachts to the area. High fences with barbed wire tops bordered the entire Marina and armed guards stood at the gate as well as walked the grounds.  But on the other side of the fence was a huge population of the super poor. The long trails of  outdoor markets and vendors in either city were a short walk in either direction. A river separated the two cities.

I would sit on the boat and watch the scores of people scurrying along the fence on a busy road between the cities. The women were primarily in brightly colored, long robes, headscarves and some in full burqas. The first time I went to the market I wore a tank top and felt so uncomfortable with the stares I bought a scarf to cover my shoulders.

This was the Africa I sailed to nearly 3 years ago. And these were the couple with a boat at the same marina just across our boat slip that I had dog-sat for the day before leaving for the Canary Islands.  They were taking a train to Fez, Morocco and I was able to spend the night on their boat and feed their sweet little boat dog. But as we had planned,  I got up the next morning and sailed away  before they returned. I hadn't heard about the rest of their trip, or even the trip to Fez, that I was to find out now, ended up being an action/adventure story!

They were at sea for five years compared to my one.  I had not seen anyone that I met abroad and all my crewmates are now scattered around the world. Skype and emails are just not the same as seeing someone.  It has been hard for anyone to relate to some of my stories or certainly understand the difficulty I had re-adjusting to life after. They relocated to San Francisco and I was anxious to see them and hear the rest of their sailing story as well as compare stories of re-adjusting.

I loved that they lived in the city and had a perfect loft home. We sat for hours just talking about the time at sea and life on land. Many things were similar if not identical. It made me feel so validated when they confirmed that they had the same experiences adjusting.

They are still full of wanderlust and hope to get back to more than day trips on their boat, now docked nearby.  Challenges have been more than anyone planned but timing has allowed things to work out to be for the best.

I never thought when I left them in Africa, that we would be sitting in San Francisco together. However, we all agreed, the next time we meet it would be better sitting in the cockpit of a gently rocking boat, drinking wine, in another far off port.

China Town at Midnight

China Town, San Francisco, California---I started to think it was a figment of my imagination. I was searching for an arch way into China Town, a coffee shop attached to the end of the arch. As I looked for this exact spot within China Town, within San Francisco I had to realize how long it had been. I was so young, I thought. 34 years ago…was it possible? I kept re-counting the years to be sure as I walked up and down the streets of this packed tourist destination in the middle of Memorial Day Weekend.

It had been my first plane ride out of Kansas for a college journalism convention. Our hotel was blocks away from China Town. My best friend, Bonnie and I had explored enough to know the immediate area as well as skipped sessions to see Alcatraz and visit Sausalito.  It was also the first time we had spent time in a hotel bar. For my first mixed drink ever, I had requested a Grasshopper. Seriously? I have no idea why except I had seen it ordered in a movie. I thought it sounded so sophisticated.  Later when I was throwing up green I regretted watching ANY movie ever. I have never had a Grasshopper since.

But at some point the next night, I had got it up my sleeve to slip away into the night and go explore China Town. I knew it was nothing my college advisor or friend needed to know about and that I needed to take caution. So I thought I should dress to "blend in" so I wore a pair of overalls, a rainbow striped top and my hair tucked under a baseball cap. This was long before rainbow stood for what it does today so I simply looked like a bad version of Lilly May from The Beverly Hillbillies that lost a fight with a leprechaun. I certainly didn’t blend in.

I made my way to the entrance of China Town where there was a Chinese arch that spanned the street as a gate to the area. On one corner there was my destination; an open all night restaurant and coffee shop.  I had decided that I would sit there, have a cup of coffee and watch people. The diner was old and run down with a linoleum floor and metal tables and chairs. It could have been any truck stop restaurant along any highway USA but this was China Town. At midnight. There was an old lady sitting alone and staring out the window drinking coffee. A gruff-looking pudgy old man sitting with his back to me finishing a meal and the waitress, a not-so-friendly middle aged woman that seemed annoyed that I had come in.  Nobody was Chinese.  I sipped on my coffee and wondered what life the old woman had had. She looked so sad and alone. Her cloths were old but she did not look homeless.

Suddenly the man behind me leaned his chair back and mumbled something to me. I remembered it startled me and I asked him to repeat it. This time I clearly heard; “Fifty dollars.”

I started to say, “Fifty dollars for what?” and got mid-sentence and realized that this man thought I was a prostitute.

I remember standing up, facing him and in one big sentence I said something like, “What! I’m not that, I’m from KANSAS! and I’m at a journalism conference and I’m in China Town to watch people because I write for my student paper and I want to watch people and I want to write a story and, and, and.”

Red-faced, the man asked me to please sit down and stop talking so loud. He repeatedly apologized but said that anyone there at that hour he just assumed to be a prostitute.

I turned my chair and looked at him with pity. From there I "interviewed him,"  but until now, have never written the story. He was a cargo ship captain based in the harbor, divorced with children that he never saw. You could tell by his face and leathery hands that he had lived a hard life. I asked him why he would go to a prostitute in the first place and he said he was lonely. I told him to go to church. I told him to stop doing that and find someone real to love. I never knew his name and never would see him again but for a moment we connected. I, as a kid who felt sorry for this man and he, as a man who needed hope.

After the exchange, I got up and asked him if he had a daughter. He said he did. I asked him how old she was. Turned out she was my age. So I told him that. He was speechless and I turned and left.

Back at the hotel, Bonnie had made it back to the room from the hotel bar and had been terribly worried. I remember she let me have it.

And 34 years later I’m back searching for this little spot in China Town.

Then I saw it far at the end of a block. It was THE arch. I quickly walked towards it full of anticipation wanting that coffee shop to be there. But when I reached it, it was now a very high end antique and chandelier shop. I slowly walked in studying the ceiling and walls. Was this it? My senses said it was but the surroundings were the complete opposite.  The store keeper walked over and I took a chance on him knowing and asked.

“By any chance was this a coffee shop about 34 years ago?”

A long silence followed as his eyes looked up and he was obviously full of thought…”Yes,” he hesitated, “I believe you’re right. It was on this side, in this spot." His speech picked up as he was recalling.  "It was the only restaurant that did not serve Chinese food! It had eggs. There was no place in China town to get a good fried egg breakfast except here!”

I hadn’t planned to tell him the story but he was so nice and between our conversation and his curiosity about my asking, it all came out. He laughed and told me about how China Town had changed. That it had evolved.

I stood for a moment to remember the young daring me who walked to China Town at Midnight to get a cup of coffee. Then with a smile, crossed the street and walked into Starbucks.

Some people are better left in your past

Palo Alto, California---I knew it was a gamble. To look up someone that may or may not be happy to see me. A cup of coffee later I felt so warm and fuzzy inside. Someone I cared about was doing great. It had been three years and a hundred years of experiences for both of us on different ends of the spectrum. But now, I knew that it was all okay.

The next day we planned to hike.  Something casual that would be about the beauty of this area and NOT starring across the table and purposely avoiding any talk of what we didn’t need to talk about.

And so I waited for him. 1 o’clock turned into 1:30 that turned into 2 and as I continued use the Starbucks wifi, I knew the truth I didn’t want to know. I should have left that stone covered.

He didn't show. I never heard back again. I checked online and nope, not dead. He may be okay or he may have been putting on an act. Regardless, it is and always has been his life and his live choices.

Some things, especially pain, is better left in your past.

For me, overall, I might not know exactly where I'm going with my life but I do know exactly what I'm doing in my life.

Yosemite Contentment.

El Portal, California---I am sitting comfortably on an Adirondack chair on the front porch of my friend’s homey wooden house in the mountains that face Yosemite. I can see a waterfall in the distance and the mountain range that seems to go on forever.  I am wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot coffee resting on the chair. As I write this I hear only the sound of birds and the whistle of the wind through the trees.

It is early. Everyone is sleeping.

The houses here in this tiny village about a mile from the entrance of Yosemite’s gate are nestled into the side of hills with some roads that are dirt, some roughly paved. They are all individual looking homes, mostly wooden, some stone but all very unique. Similarly though, they all have huge piles of wood for their fireplaces. My friend has no heat and they must rely on this wood through the winter. No one has fancy yards. My friend has the most amazing yard of blooming wild flowers. A small field of yellow daisies are below this porch. And more flowers in all kinds of containers, even a bathtub.

I take a deep, deep breath. The air is…well, delicious.

And so is my coffee, a brand called “Peets” which I had not heard of but the husband professes is better than Starbucks.

I see a bird that has been squawking at me all morning start to dive bomb my friend’s cat. The cat does nothing but continue to walk under my Hyundai.

Last night I emptied my Hyundai of anything and everything that may smell like or be food items. I never would have thought of it but my friend highly advised it due to bears. Bears? Just a part of living and working at Yosemite National Park.

I grew up with this friend. She was my first adventurous outdoorsy partner. One year older than me she became a role model in many ways. We were a part of a group that had climbed mountains in Colorado, rowed white water in Arkansas, and camped many times. Together we had ridden our 10-speeds to high school and back several times; a 30 mile round trip trek. And one summer we had decided to go see a lake that was an 80 mile trip. At 16 years old on hilly country roads without water in the heat of a Kansas summer, we had no idea that our brilliant ideas were a little dangerous.

Yesterday I asked her about her husband and marriage. She had immediately said, “Oh I love my guy. He’s my best friend. We work together and play together. We take space when we need it.” Her husband is an avid climber and she has climbed but is an avid hiker and knows every nook and cranny in and around the valley.

And now here I sit looking towards Yosemite. I look around me and it is just so beautiful. I was here 20 years ago to see her and haven’t seen her since. I never understood her life choices but now, I finally get it. I understand why my smart friend with a college degree moved here to work in the Ahwahnee Lodge restaurant and never left. She told me yesterday that her husband just passed the 35 year mark and she just got her plaque for 30 years of service, yet she says, she is still 15^th in seniority!

What occurs to me is as I have worked a career that was fast and furious, hoping for a future of something more, she passed go and went straight for something more; a peaceful, happy life.

Everyone has a path, a journey in a life full of choices. I’m so proud of her. I don’t have the ego to not have tried to “prove myself” in the work force. Some people are born at peace with themselves I guess.

I told her that I was proud of her.

She laughed and said, “But I haven’t done anything.”

Oh but I think you have.

My Father's grave: a first visit.

Fresno, California---The grave stone says April 22, 2010 but it was April 23 for me. I was a world away, enough time zones that it was the next day when my father died. And because I was on a sailboat off the coast of Italy, I did not make it back for the funeral.

I knew the chances were high that he would pass during my year at sea, so before I left I traveled to California specifically to say goodbye. In one way my trip abroad in 2010 started here.

Although I had said goodbye and knew I wouldn’t be able to return, it was harder than I thought to be away. Nothing is really as you plan. And now, I am here. In the place that the funeral took place. And finally I am standing at his grave for the first time. Again, it was not as I planned.
It has been three years and I KNOW he is not here at this spot. It’s just a grave. Lifeless. But it finally feels full circle. Completion…or something? Regardless I bawled. He was my Daddy, then "Dad". I was his Pumpkin. I rode on his huge shoes, arms locked around this leg with my sister on the other leg until the day we were so heavy he could no longer walk. He was a good man with lots of problems that were not his fault. God made him with mental challenges that I didn’t understand for years to come.

When my mom died in 1998, he was a mess. I received almost a letter a day from Kansas to Florida during his loneliness. Five years passed and he met his second wife and moved to Fresno, a mecca for the Mennonite Brethren sect of Mennonites due to our seminary and college located here.  Both of my parents are MB’s. But no, I did not grow up riding in a horse and buggy: we are not Amish, nor Old Mennonite. I respect my heritage immensely but have chosen to be a non-denominational Christian myself.

I made it a point to ask him where he wanted to be buried, not an easy conversation for any kid to have with a parent but very necessary. He did not hesitate to answer, he wanted to stay in California. At first I was hurt. We had a plot for him in Kansas next to my mom, where his parents were, where other family was! But then as I processed things more, I realized that when he moved to Fresno he was able to "recreate" himself. At 80 years old, he was able to become the man he had always wanted to be. He was no longer "Junkman Dalke" or that man that had been in Prairieview. All the eccentricities that I had grown up around (and made for some GREAT stories) were behind him. No one knew him as any other way than a sweet, funny, Christian man. Of course he wanted to stay here, he wanted to stay THAT man.

A cup I had mailed his widow marriage.

When he passed, I remember talking to my sister on the boat through Skype when I was in the tiny marina in Sibari, Italy. It was nice to be told “in person”. We had made a plan that did not include her going to California either, but she surprised me and went. Other things came full circle. Pastor Larry, the minister of the church that I had grown up in had gone on to be the president of the Fresno seminary and lived in Fresno. AND Pastor Mark, the man that was the minister of the same church 21 years later and was with us in the room when my mom passed away, had also moved to Fresno.  Both men had pastored at my home church in Newton, Kansas both men moved to Fresno, California and both men had attended the funeral.

That alone was very special.

Life is that way. Things come full circle, I came full circle.  But for me, this circle stays in Fresno as I move on, keeping the good memories and putting all the rest behind me.

 

 

Note: My blog Changing Courses post about that day in 2010:     bit.ly/d0JBG6

Adam's Cove

Somewhere on the California Coast---I climbed over huge rocks to what revealed itself as a small cove. Among the locals it is a secret spot to surf and have late night parties. That’s how Adam knew it as a kid.

It has been 13 years since his death. For me he walked on water as far as I was concerned. But for real he was a great stand up jet skier, and dirt bike rider, and supercross rider, and bicyclist...anything fast. And that’s why my friend and I named him and his group of friends “go-fast boys”.

I met him and his friend Paul on a street corner in Daytona Beach, Florida. Literally. We were all 20-something and that chance meeting on the corner of A1A and Seabreeze turned into life-long friendships. They lived in Atlanta and my house became the beach house crash pad for a trail of friends of friends of friends. I used to say that when they all came into town it was like taking a trip without even leaving the farm. I learned to stand up jet ski in the ocean jumping waves and it consumed my life for at least 10 years. I would joke that it wasn’t a good weekend unless someone got bloody. Someone usually did.

But it was Adam that changed everything with his diagnosis of Leukemia. Suddenly we were all more than good-time friends, we were having real life conversations and started really getting to know each other. He inspired hundreds to join the bone marrow transplant donors list, raise money and run marathons for the cause. For me it was my first marathon in San Diego, my running partner Beverly and I raised $25,000 only due to amazing friends and corporations.

I remember the day I found out he was sick. He called me late at night after earlier that day his wife Kristy had called and broke the news to me.  He was calling because he heard I was upset and he wanted to assure me that he was going to beat it. He gave me a full pep talk!

A bone marrow transplant later, too many rounds of chemo, so many twists and turns and miracle stories, and lots and lots of people praying and hoping…Adam made it through, but not out.

He died in 2000. It seems like yesterday…it seems like a lifetime ago. Kristy followed his wishes and he was cremated. Then later, on the shores of this secret cove, where he had grown up but a world away from Atlanta, Georgia, a small group gathered with surf boards to spread his ashes. Kristy told us later of that amazing day.

I called and spoke to her in Atlanta from the cove and she repeated the story:

“Suddenly a group of dolphins appeared and swam around us,” her voice cracking with emotion. “It was just so unexpected. It was so amazing and special.”

And so I stood, after years of wondering what it looked like, there surrounded by cliffs in “Adam’s Cove” on the coast of California, waiting. Staring out at the endless Pacific Ocean wishing that dolphins would appear. But they did not. He was not there.

If anywhere, he is jumping the biggest waves in Daytona or ahead of his friends riding a dirt bike.