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Welcoming Self Back to Blogging Before retirement there was always time to blog. Journaling and writing articles flowed from my fingers. Click-clacking across the keyboard, nearly as fast as my hig…

Welcoming Self Back to Blogging

Before retirement there was always time to blog. Journaling and writing articles flowed from my fingers. Click-clacking across the keyboard, nearly as fast as my high school typing days breaking the speed/accuracy records of my classmates,  is how I whiled away sleepless nights. My energy level allowed swimming for 45 minutes each morning. Then, keeping in stride with the ad, I ran on Dunkin' in order to paste on a sincere smile as I opened the car door to greet all who awaited the beginning of another school day. For 35 years professional schooling was my financial support.
Now, as a retiree my income is less, my spending less, and my energy abates. Somehow, though I need to garner the spirit of my past 40 years. The world was my oyster. From the day I put a deposit on a brand new Hobie 18, life was a ball of cherries. It was one grand day after another. Anticipating  the next sailing event I prepared myself physically and mentally. The endless hours spent as a school counselor provided the time and money for my chosen  lifestyle. When not racing there was excitement as day and week-end sailing excursions persisted. Traveling around the state and around the world it was a never ending whirlwind of a wanna bee.
Yipe, I was the one who wanted to be a winner. Standing on the first place podium is where I envisioned myself. Whether it was a Friday night rum race or the Women's National Championship, I researched every means possible in search of the answer to a one question. What do I need to do to win? The drive to win, like anyone with passion, was instinctive. The drive was never forced, never even considered. The drive was an addiction. From the day my supervisor, Libby Schmidt, introduced me to goal setting, I boarded a merry-go-round that spun as fast as the world turns. I didn't know I was moving until suddenly, unexpectedly my lover, my friend, my husband died. It was an abrupt halt; a need to change tacts was thrust upon my soul.

Racing subsided. No longer planning a romantic sail around the world with the emotional security of Danny's love, I was on my own to pursue the adventure of sailing where I had never sailed before. Making passages alone, meeting people in far away places and becoming self-sufficient raided my thoughts. Not one to laz around, plans, expenditures and self confidence sprouted like weeds. 
Without jumping off the high dive before getting my toes wet, I embarked on a quasi methodical journey. First sail to Bermuda with a girlfriend to see if I had what it takes to sail offshore.  It is too easy to accomplish a sailing task with a 'man on board.'  Despite his level of competency there remains the psychological chauvinistic belief that if a man is on board it is his presence that gets credit for any success.  In fact, I thought of naming my new trimaran, no man's land.
Luckily, my sailing mate, Maryanne  was up for the adventure of a lifetime. It was a complete success. Despite some early engine challenges while sailing alone up the east coast nothing, deterred our accomplishment.  I picked Maryanne up in Atlantic City, New Jersey. After a night of hellish, cold, four foot upwind sailing about 25 miles to Sandy Hook, we employed Chris Parker for a weather report. For the next four days we sailed across the gulf stream from New York Harbor to Bermuda in flawless wonder. On equal footing as the sail to Bermuda with Maryanne was sailing back to Port Canaveral by myself.

From all the years of small boat racing, self analysis, raw desire and relationships I hereby vow to bring a new more exciting chapter into my current life.  It is as if I understand what is meant by reinventing myself.  I am happy and content as I honor my commitment to live with a handsome, kind gent until we die. To get the passion back in my life. That burning desire to meet each day that I had during the Danny years is what I want. As they say, if it is to be, it is up to me. Like the pink billed ibis I now put one foot in front of the other in search of more green pastures, blue waters, and friends I haven't met.

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