Crazy Days February 25, 2014

[Marlene Anne Sassaman]

Believe it or not some days are so crazy I wonder how a day of quiet contemplation ever exists.

Yesterday, as an example, I cleaned about an hour's worth of bottom brushing. Then, retiring to the cockpit for some breakfast promised myself to resume cleaning in the afternoon. A basic yoga class ensued at the beach. Fun volleyball followed. Although the definition of fun raised my gander a bit. A guy on the southern court was bantering for players. About five folks began to warm up. Amazed by my ability to keep the ball in the air with these players, I stayed on when teams were informally formed. 

The intensity of giving one's all is fun. Always I have disdained the proclamation separating competitive sport from fun. Sorry, but I just don't see the difference. Fun has a personalized definition. Some folks think dressing up to go to a church sermon is fun. Sorry, but, listening to any lecture is just not my cup of tea. Anyway, once the game began my aim was not as controlled as during the warm up. I surmised that during the pre-game activity people were helping each other by aiming the ball in a direct controlled manner. Whereas when the 'rubber met the road,' the intent was to catch the receiver off guard. After missing every shot that came my way, except for miraculously the winning point, I quietly returned to SPRAY.

About 5 pm I took a nice swim, showered with my 5 gallon pressured jug of 'fresh RO water, dabbled some Clinique face make up, dabbed on the eye shadow, and enhanced my eyes with a black mat liner. Wearing that cute black dress with the sunflowers scattered about and a long sleeve white shirt to cover my arms, I boarded the dink. With the southerly breeze I was able to drift the 200 yards to shore without even rowing. As soon as the music began the end of the regatta celebration I walked onto the dance floor. Three people were swaying to Seger's 'Rock and Rol Music." Joining them was welcomed. 

Then, during a lull, George, my new single handed friend, took my hand for a nice rendition of Oletta Adams, 'Just Get Here." Soon as it was over I went back to the fast dancers. Before I knew it the skipper/owner of a particular tri grabbed my hands. For the next two hours we whirled and twirled; dancing the Lindy and Jitterbug without missing a beat.

Returning alone to SPRAY (as it should be), I awoke this morning refreshed. Before crawling into my bunk I ingested two aspirins. For the first time since day 70 of the x country tent camping trip last fall I actually slept the whole night through. When my eyes opened the sunlight was seeping into my foggy windows. I admit passing on the opportunity for a 'core' work out scheduled for 07:30 on the beach. Instead, to keep my girlish figure sleek as ever, I rowed the mile and a half to town.

Well, it's time to finish downloading some old Joe Cocker songs, look up some vocabulary words, read and send e-mails, check the post office,  then motor on back across the harbor. With luck I can design a plan for installing the new fuel filter. The new Yanmar Y30 M20 deserves clean diesel for a long life.

As Kurt Vonnegut proclaimed, "If This Isn't Nice, What Is?''