Bowline Knot

My friend Neil is a man of the sea. He is teaching us a few knots which I find both practical and metaphoric. They help to hold valuables fast, to connect two lines as one, to keep us safe in our harbor. And when the time comes they allow for quick release. They are an ancient technology, a beautiful art form. This week Phyllis and I began each morning drinking coffee and practicing our bowlines. Next week, it's on to the clove hitch! 

The Difference Between A Groove & A Rut

Living with two cats on a houseboat teaches me many things. They love their routines - when they eat, when they sleep, a lot, where they sleep on the houseboat at certain times - one by the heater, one on the couch, one on Phyllis’ head at night, one curled up against my back. There is rhythm to routine - comfort, ease, flow. And this is true of me as well, when i am in my groove -writing and reading and exercising and teaching and editing and sharing coffee with Phyllis in the morning as we practice a new nautical knot or read a piece from the tao de ching. And I know, and the cats know that the difference between a groove and a rut is only two inches, the difference being that the cats never bother to measure. No need to calculate when you just know.

Hero's R & R

In the morning I battle

evil and injustice and in

the afternoon I go to the

beach. It’s always good

to take a little break.

Gidge tells me she

can’t stand Henry –

can’t say why. I say

sometimes you meet

people in life who just

rub you the wrong way.

With me it happens most

every day – in person, on

the phone, at the green

market buying fruit. It’s

amazing. It’s why I do

what I do. It’s why I

walk on crunchy sand

when I’m through.

 

 

 

I Have A New Favorite Color

January was a very pink month. We started the year with our Anonymous Pie salon, a beautiful gathering on a beautiful day here on our houseboat. People shared poems, sang songs, read stories and ate pie. Also cake! It was a victory for kindness— a creative, imaginative exchange, a ray of light, pink light in this strangely bizarre, dark cloud of time. Then the storms came. Walloped us good. Then sunshine. More storms. And the women's march, the pink pussy revolt. Drew and Jenn marched in D.C. . Phyllis and our neighbor Iran marched in San Francisco. I served as pink pussy pit crew. I drove them in, dropped them off on Polk St., returned to Sausalito and did my own parallel, one-man march with pink scarf and umbrella down Bridgeway. Only I wasn't alone. A young couple a few yards ahead of me pushed a stroller  and waved signs that said Love Trumps Hate, to passing cars, that honked in support. The woman smiled at me and said, "You gotta march where you can!"

Tula was working at the market so I stopped by and saw her - she had stitched, Smash The Patriarchy on  her beanie. We had a quick dinner. Then I went and picked Iran and Phyllis up at the ferry building. They caught the last boat from SF, arrived cold and damp but elated. I felt good being their support crew, amazed at the state-wide, nation-wide, world-wide wave that is rising in the name of  decency, humanity, sanity, and peace. January saw an enormous awakening.

And, yes, I discovered I have a new favorite color ~

A Break Between Rounds

Storms on a houseboat are different than storms in a house on land. Especially at high tide with strong winds when the boat moves and rolls. Like last Sunday with gusts up to 60 knots. You heel and bounce pretty good. A bit  unnerving. You think about water coming in over the hull and sinking your houseboat. So you pay attention to your lines, best before the storm(!), making sure they're tight, making sure your pilings are strong, and of course making sure you have flashlights and candles and water. Because if the power goes out there’s no running the water or flushing toilets as you don’t want your catchment tank to fill and then overflow, since the pump would not be operational. Our boat is tall and tippy with a broad side that catches the wind from the south like a sail. During this last storm, pictures danced on the wall as we rock n rolled; pans swung from their hooks on the ceiling, drawers flew open. Lines squeaked on their thimbles like rusty gates, ramps moaned, as the wind roared over us. We watched the tide book, eager for low tide to arrive, and when it did, at last,  we sat on the mud and high wind was just high wind. Small leaks appeared here in there in our ceiling. We used buckets and bowls and rags to catch the drops.  And then the leaks would mysteriously stop. Perhaps the wood swelled and blocked their entrance. The cats were not at all happy and longed for their old life in Sebastopol. Through it all we thought of Adele, who lived here for 24 years, 88 years old when she passed. A day before she died, she told her visiting son how much she loved this houseboat. We thought of the storms she'd weathered and this buoyed us.

The houseboat of our 82 year old neighbor, Barbara, is a gigantic heavy floating home. During the storm it began to ram  the pier. I lashed a life ring against her railing to work as a bumper and my friend Neil, a man of the sea, arrived in foul weather gear with rope and a come-along, and calmly secured her. Our neighbor, Iran, from Barcelona, offered homemade chocolate chip cookies, and her husband Dancer, who had lived as an anchor out for 12 years, scanned the anchorage with binoculars to make sure no one was sinking or without a skiff to escape. The storm brought the community together even as it carried away untied kayaks and paddles and threatened to tear apart rotting roofs and skylights and penetrate floating hulls that clung to piers and pilings tied with thick line in simple, ancient knots that have held mariners fast for a very long time.

There is something artistic about knots. And functional, with different styles working for different  purposes. Much the way words and sentences, images and feelings work for me as a a writer, as I explore and evoke and capture, if but for a moment, a fleeting truth. Like the further discovered charm, and relief, provided by the muddy flats of low tide on a very wind blown day.

 

 

 

 

 

A wet world view

A wet world view

Cat Dock

Each houseboat dock in our harbor has a different personality. Issaquah is known as the garden dock with verdant planters of flowers and shrubs and trees that create a beautiful jungle corridor. People walk their bikes and dogs are kept on leash and cats sun themselves and step out from behind blue ceramic pots to purr and perhaps allow you to pet them. Liberty Dock is like this as well. Main Dock is a wider, shorter pier with evidence of kids - bikes and toys and playhouses catch your eye next to planter boxes of flowers and ceramic sculpture and rusty art. Here on South Forty we don't have planters on the dock so much, but it does allow for a wider feel. Some people walk their bikes, others ride. Some, but not all, dogs are off leash and there is but one cat, a sleek stealthy all black feline named Karue who cruises about in the open and has learned to navigate with the resident canines. We keep our two cats inside our houseboat where they appear content to sun themselves on the deck, or go up to the sky dock and roll on the surface, sniff the chairs, and watch the birds soar overhead. Pierre likes to sit in the window and watch people on the dock, mostly tourists, who stop and gaze in astonishment, often, at their, our, surroundings, and take photos. Sometimes they even sketch or paint. And me, no longer a tourist, often find myself doing the same. Funny, I should need a reminder of how beautiful and wondrous this place is, how fortunate I am to call it home. But seeing the smiles on the faces of visitors, petting a purring cat while walking the planks, stroking a friendly dog stretched out across the dock, brings me back to the moment, to right here, right now, like the lovely cat above who stops to smell the flowers, and perhaps inadvertently, shows the one with the camera . . .  the way ~

Midnight Kiss

As the clock approached midnight, Santos realized he just might make it to the new year and lifted himself out of bed. Sylvia was at the window in her nightie watching the lights of the boats on the water. They heard footsteps on the dock and people gathering as the clock wound down . . . or was it up? Santos could never figure that out - at some point in life, the uphill climb maybe leveled out for awhile and then somewhere along the way actually became a downhill slope and then and then it was like that British character in Sun Also Rises who, when asked how one goes bankrupt, answers, two ways -slowly at first, then all at once.

Maybe that was it. Why did Santos suddenly remember that line from 40 years ago, in a book written in the 20's, as he stood in the window with midnight approaching next to a woman he'd been with for 43 years?

Down on the dock, a voice shouted - Happy New Year! And another answered - Happy New Year to you! And the fireworks were shot off the Embarcadero in the City and if you looked just right, peering through the windows of a two story house boat down the way you could see brightness against the dark sky, a showering of red and blue and gold as rockets peaked, exploded, and descended in remnants of color. . . Santos reached for Sylvia. She smiled, so lovely in the moonlight, as they kissed and welcomed in another new year together.