My Mind Was Snoozin' ... And Saturday Cruisin'...

Christmas is over. I'm on for driving the Saturday boat. It was nice having Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. Sorta hate having to break up 5 days off, in a row, to drive all the way over to the canal. Get it over with. Then have Sunday and Monday off. I'm looking forward to no stress Sunday & Monday. No Christmas shopping, no obligations, just kick back time.

I get up a little early, Saturday, because my son will be coming over to shower, too, from his little studio apt next door. He will be reporting at 12:00 at his work place, in Men's Polo. I will be reporting at 1:00 on the William Phillips. I plan to get over there early, since I haven't driven the boat since Thanksgiving weekend. Gotta get there early to check things out, make sure the boats are ready. There's the William Phillips, as well as the Henry Cumming. I always get there early. In fact, I complain that I'm not allowed to clock in earlier, to have more time to check the situation out. What if, for some ungodly reason, the boat I uncover isn't fully charged? What if there is something totally wrong, for which I will not have time to right, before the passengers come aboard? I'm a bit of a perfectionist. I may not be perfect, I may not even get close to doing anything perfectly, but I always strive to get it just right. It's more like an insecure thing, rather than a control thing. I want to do the best that I can, to avoid criticism. I want to feel as though everything is in order, and I'm in control of my day, rather than being in a hurried whirlwind, ill prepared. Does that mean, then, that it's also a control thing? And trust me... no matter how perfect I want something to be, how in control I might want things to be, it does not mean I will ever get it right. But at least it's something to aim for.

I plug in my electric curlers, start my coffee, and hop in the shower. Pour a nice cup of coffee, grab a bowl of shredded wheat and sit down to check out my crops on my little Isle of Wo-Man. I didn't get either of the two books I requested for Christmas, anyways, so guess I will play Facebook games a while longer. At least that's my excuse for the non-sensical, mindless games that I play... and I fully accept the notion that I surely must not "have a life", as suggested by those who don't play the games. On the other hand, perhaps my life is just different from theirs... and they are being a bit snobbish. As far as the books go, I went looking for them, myself. I love Books-A-Million, but hate it too. Nothing is in any sort of reasonable, sensible order. Try finding a book by author, or in alphabetical order. You will walk out with your neck in a crick, and make sure you take your magnified glasses, just to read the titles. Really, don't even go in there unless you are just in for an adventure and have a whole day to kill. I love Books-A-Million, but think I will be ordering my books online. Even the small book store in the mall is now gone, they having taken all their business. So, I check my Wall, check email. I never get real emails anymore. I miss real emails. Not since cell phones and Facebook. Glance at the clock, take my time applying my makeup just right. While drying my hair, I realize I will probably have time to stop by CVS or Walgreens to buy some more contact lens cleaner.

I'm wondering how many anxious people will drop in to ride the boat, and I'm wondering how cold it is outside. I'm wearing jeans today. I've never worn jeans on the boat before, but all the other Captains do, so why not. Today, it's jeans and a pink thermal undershirt underneath my lavender golf shirt, with the canal logo. I'm glad I bought that heavy skiing jacket for cold weather on the canal. I think I'll wear my purple scarf, too, and maybe even wear my crazy blue and purple fuzzy knit cap. My black mittens are in the car. And I slept in the beautiful aquamarine butterfly necklace that my mother gave me for Christmas. The blue will be just fine with my purple and pink. No one will be able to see it, anyways, underneath my jacket. The sparkly earrings might be over the top, especially since the sun is not shining brightly and so, therefore, they won't be sparkling... to take one's mind off the idea that they may be inappropriate for boating attire, while luring one into a sense of beauty and awe, as they shimmer and shine in the sun. Yes, I like sparkling things, just as much as earthy natural things. I can be a prissy boat Captain at times. I'm not gonna sacrifice my femanine qualities to look all butch and stuff, just because I'm a Captain... because women are Captain's too, and you don't have to look like a man, or act like one. Just like when I was in the military... and when I was one of the first female letter carriers in my area. I never could figure out why some of those other girls wore mens pants, mens clunky black shoes, and carried big fat wallets in their back pockets! Yeah, I know, some women are butch... but I'm not. And I don't want to be mistaken for that, just because I pilot a boat. There's a fine line between filling jobs which have been, typically, male oriented... and holding onto one's feminine side.

I can hear my cell phone vibrating. I can't get to it fast enough, so it bursts into 8 lines of Christmas Canon by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. It's a 706 number. Maybe it's the canal? I call them back. Louise answers. "You know you're on the schedule today, don't you?" "Well, yeah, I know I'm drivin' today." I glance at the clock, I can see it's only 11:00, but I still ask her, anyway, "What time is it?" "It's 11:00" she says. "Well, ok, but I don't have to be there till 1:00." "You're supposed to be here at 11:00, that's what the schedule says." "11:00? Why am I supposed to be there at 11:00???" Is she serious??? My mind is trying to remember if I'd perhaps forgotten some event that was happening that day, an extra tour that morning or something, maybe a small morning charter. Then I lost my breath, and I heard it escaping out of my mouth as my chest rose sharply, no forewarning. "Oh my god, this is Saturday, not Sunday!" "That's right!" "What time does the boat leave???" "The boat leaves at 11:30." "Are there people signed up?" "Yes, there are." "I'm on my way!... there wasn't a 10:30 boat??" "No darlin', there isn't a 10:30, my goodness, you really are confused, aren't you!"

In my head, I know that there isn't a 10:30 during the winter months, but I had to ask anyway. I had totally confused my old and usual Sunday schedule with the Saturday schedule. Clock in time on Sunday is always 1:00. I'd never driven the boat on Saturday before, and the only reason I was driving this Saturday is because the Saturday Cpt. was taking Holiday... perhaps so his own 5 days in a row wouldn't be broken up. And then I realize the only reason I am noting that is, perhaps, to take attention off the fact that I've been irresponsible. I thought I had taught myself to look at my pocket calender NO MATTER WHAT!!! Even if I think I am working on such and such a day, at such and such a time, the reality of the day and time is always written down in my pocket calender. Then I realize I probably never even wrote that one down, because she called me over the phone, to ask if I could drive the day after Christmas, so I was not actually looking at the work schedule. Then again, she usually gives the time, so I probably did write it down. It doesn't matter now, I have to hurry. I have to cross the river, and cross the state line... as if that means anything, other than added dramatic effect.

Thank goodness, I'm already ready, except for my lavender golf shirt, with the canal logo. I grab it up, sling the ironing board open and start to iron. It's a lost cause, the wrinkles aren't coming out. That's because there is no steam in the iron, because the water level is down to the bottom. Zip, zero, zilch, null, no wasser. Then I start to complain to myself that no one ever puts water in it, but me. And I realize that it takes only a second to put water in. Though it seems thoughtless of the person who ironed before me, it's really no skin off my back to put the water in. I close the ironing board back up and decide I don't have that extra second, because it will take at least another second for it to heat up, and I don't have two seconds... and I will have to show up with a wrinkled shirt. It's ok, though, because I will have my jacket on and no one will see it, anyways. But I will know, and I hate knowing that. And forget about the hair curlers, no time to curl the hair, all such prissy thoughts now escape the mind. Who cares, anyways, I'll probably have my fuzzy hat on.

I've never worn the fuzzy hat before, because it looks so stupid. Right now I don't care. I remember that when I inspected it the other day I found two holes in it. You can't see them unless you are up really close, because it is double layered and the layer underneath is exactly like the top layer... and it's made of multi textured knitting thread, so it will never show. Then I wonder how the holes ever got in it, if I've never actually worn the hat. I wonder if those baby ducks that my nephew bought, that time, pecked the holes in it. Then I wonder if there's duck poop and pee in it, because I loaned it to him, one day, to nestle the baby ducklings in, that he had placed in a shoe box. I know there's not really duck pee and poop in it, at least not the poop... and I'm hoping that they pee where they poop. If not, I'll be piloting the boat in a multi layered knit hat that looks a bit like multi colored shag carpet, with two holes, and possibly duck pee and poop underneath. I'm thinkin', we never really know what' under someone's hat, do we. Curly hair, a bald head... or possibly duck poop.

I grab my purse, the tiny one that I don't have time to change. My tiny hairbrush is at work in my desk, my huge hair brush won't even begin to fit, but I grab it anyways. I grab my jacket. Then, just in case it's not that cold, I grab my vest. I run out the door, jump in the car, throw my stuff in the seat and back'er up. I reach for my Captain's badge, and realize it's not there. Oh well, no time to go back in the house, no one will see it anyways, it will be underneath my jacket... just like the wrinkles on my golf shirt. Then I reach for my purse, thinking I can put my lipstick on while driving, just like I do nearly every morning. I can't find my purse. It's nowhere to be found. I look for my cell phone, that's where I'll find my purse, but realize my cell phone is in the small pocket on my driver's door, near the door handle. I have to turn around and go back, so I pull into the suicide lane. It's a four lane highway, and I'm only 1/8th of a mile down the road, but it's unnerving to have to wait for the cars to get by, so I can turn around. I head back into the driveway, throw the car in park. I get out of the car, go around to see if I threw it so hard that it may have fallen between the passenger seat and passenger door. I open the passenger door, no purse! I go tearing inside. "I can't find my purse, I can't believe this, I had it in my arms as I went running out the door!" I also had my jacket, my scarf, my multi-colored hat, as well as my vest in my arms, when I went flying out.

I head back into the house, go through my room at rocket speed, throwing housecoats, night gowns, warm fuzzy socks, blankets, dogs, and stuff everywhere. It's nowhere to be found. "Good grief (yeah right, all I said was good grief) I can't understand this! It has my driver's liscense and my money in it! And my insurance card!" I can't stand the thought of this, because if I should, by chance, get stopped for speeding, I will get in double trouble, for having no liscense and proof of insurance. Never mind that I won't have any money with me. And I can't afford any tickets, my car insurance premium has just dropped down. Probably because my son's stuff keeps coming off... and maybe because mine already did, last year. And probably because my car is gonna be paid off in a month, and they want to keep me on. Ok then, whatever, I tear back out of the house, leaving a whirlwind of fast fury in my wake, and make my way back to the car. My mother is yelling, "You are gonna get a speeding ticket if you don't slow down!" "No I'm not," I yell back, "because I'm not even in the car!" So, there. Seems I heard my son smirk, as I went running by, "Are you gonna be late, mom?" He, who is perpetually late. He's late, because he isn't being responsible. I'm responsible, I just got my days mixed up. And I realize that's irresponsible. I hate this! I was already thinking of the money the canal would lose should the people not wait on me, who were waiting to ride the boat. And I was doubly grateful that it was wintertime, and there was no 10:30 boat. What if this had been the summer? How many passengers would we have lost, over my little huge snaffoo! I just want to hug Louise, for even having called me!

When I reach my car, I see the strap to my tiny purse hanging out the door. I can't believe it! I want to praise the powers that be for finding my purse (as if it was really lost). A sense of relief comes over me, as I realize my purse fell between the seat and driver's door while jumping into the car with my bundle. Then I can't think but how stupid that I didn't look there, before. How stupid that I didn't see it, earlier... and how stupid that I got in such a tizzy that I actually lost my purse. It could have been worse, I could have lost it some place else, and never found it, because someone could have picked it up. I realize how much time I have wasted. I realize there is nothing I can do, now, about being late, so I may as well slow down. When I am back on the road, I call Louise. "Louise, are there people signed up for the 11:30?" "Yes, mam." "Ok, I'm on the way, do you think they will wait?" "Yes, mam, they're gonna wait." Whew, I'm thinking! But I still have to get there. It's at least a 30 or 45 minute drive, depending on the traffic, the lights and how well I can synchronize that, how fast I drive, and how many cops I see out. When I'm nearly there she calls again. "Where are you?" "I'm passing by the church. I'm going straight to the boat, I'm not coming in to clock in. Give me 10 minutes, then send them up." "Ok, then."

I jump out the car, drop my peppermint crystal chewing gum squares all over the parking lot, stuff my jacket pocket with keys, hairbrush, and cell phone, grab my duck poop cap, open the back door and grab my mittens, slam the door and start running. I'm running, but I'm getting ticked off at myself, because I used to be able to out walk ANYBODY and never get out of breath. I used to jog, effortlessly. Now I can't even get in a hurry without getting out of breath. But I run, anyways. I get to the top of the stairs, sling open the wrought iron gate and I'm breathing very heavily. But I don't care. I'm thinking, at least I can still do it. Am I gonna drop over from a heart attack? I realize I've been afraid of getting sick, lately. Afraid, because I don't have health insurance. Even if I hardly ever used it before, other than the chiropractor and occassional female check-ups, when I wanted to take the time, it was always nice knowing I had it. What if I should drop from a heart attack, or find out I have cancer, because I haven't' been checked out in such a long time. I didn't even wanna know anymore, because what if there was something wrong? I don't want to become a burden to my family. Better not to know, just suddenly die, no cost incurred.

Then I realize I don't even have life insurance, so nothing to bury me with. I'm not going to be buried, actually, but it still costs to be cremated. Maybe they can build a funeral pyre. Yeah, right. I'm actually happy that I can run, even if out of breath. More, happy that I was FORCED to run, just so I could see that I can still do it. But running isn't my thing, anymore, because it's too damaging to the back and knees. Maybe I should start walking again, instead of merely paying it lip service. Maybe I won't die young, maybe I can actuallly get healthy again. Ditch those extra pounds that make my life miserable in more ways than one. Or... maybe I should ditch that idea of setting an unreasonable goal. One that I can't seem to actually reach. Instead of hoping to lose x-amount of lbs, perhaps I should set a reachable goal... to arrive at 200 lbs by the time I reach 60. Hey now, that, I could do.

But I rebuke that statement, because somewhere deep inside of me, I believe that we have what we say. I remember the conversation that my friend and I had... "Sarah, you know that if you believe that, it will happen... and that if you think on these things, you are starting the process of dying." "Yes, I realize that, but all this stuff is new to me, not having healthcare. Not having a stable job, with benefits, making decent wages, not knowing what I will do about retirement." "Sarah, I've always had to worry about these things, and I'm telling you, you just can't worry about them. Start looking around, search for options, you will find them." "But I've never had to worry about those things, till now, and it's taking me a bit to get used to all this, I've not adjusted well." She lectures me some more. I had thanked her for a good swift kick in the butt, and was grateful she was there to remind me, the same way I had reminded her, years ago, when we first met, and she was just starting her spiritual searchings.

The boat is prepared, there's a bit of water underneath one seat, from the days previous rain, but it will be ok. There are only two passengers, and they can avoid the wet spots. Imagine that. All that tizzy I got myself into, and there are only two that I must apologize to. It could have been much more embarrassing. They were awesome, patient and kind. It's a bit nippy out, but I have my jacket and fuzzy cap and mittens. There are lots of birds on the water today. Beautiful white egrets, huge great blue herrons even a few kingfishers, though they aren't making a sound. They're everywhere, the birds. I think of a friend who hates crows... and I love them all, love all the birds... except maybe buzzards, and I'm even trying to love them. Trying to see their beauty. But all I see is death when I see them... and I can't help but smell the stench of rotting meat, even if my window is rolled up. Maybe because vultures found my puppy, once, before we did. I know they have their purpose. And crows, btw, sound the alarm... they forewarn... and hey, they like shiny things, like I do.

The tour is over, I pull up to the dock, and it's not smoothly. Well, the approach is smooth, but I can't seem to manuever the boat with the finesse that I usually do. I'm having a bit of trouble exacting the stairway line-up. My guide has that look on her face, as she waits to reach for the line. I don't appreciate the look, although I've been accused of having that same look, when I was guiding, and someone else was Captaining. I don't get this. The boat is not doing what I think I am telling it to do. It's only been a month since I've been on the water, surely I haven't forgotten how to dock. I begin to panic on the inside. "How long have you had your liscense?" I hear. "A year... but I've only been driving since the Spring,"... (hoping that might explain this, as if that is even any sort of viable excuse, I'm the freaking Captain, for heaven sake!). "I'm sorry, folks, I can't seem to manage, today." "Oh, you're doing fine, nothing to worry about." How kind of them, as I feel like a fool. Finally I manage. The man on the boat was actually making for the line, as if he was going to tie us up. His wife pipes in, "Don't do that, let her, they might get upset with her if they see someone else tying the line." You ain't lying! That's one thing we are never to do, get the passengers involved. They helped a male Captain, once, and we never heard the end of the long, mis-told tale. And, as a female Captain, men have a tendency to "want to help".

I have to remain in control, act as though I know what I'm doing, if I may not, at some point in time. Sometimes it's a mystery to any Captain, depending on the current at the dock. But I can't help but think of the last time I drove. It was the same tour guide. And she had laughed her ass off, when I tried to leave the dock with the battery charger still attached to the boat. I was glad for the laughter, but couldn't quite get over my own shock. Why, I had looked at the charger, when I first went down to the boat. I remember starting to unplug it... then someone spoke to me, and I turned my attention away. I never felt like such a fool. It pulled a few screws loose, and I called my lead Captain. At least I repaired my mishap, on my own, instead of being a sissy freaking girl, wanting some man to take care of my snaffoo. It was no big deal, to him. "As many times as those boats leave the dock, it's bound to happen." "But," I protest, "it's totally unacceptable! This sort of absent mindedness is what sinks ships!" "You're not the first to do it, and probably won't be the last." "I feel like such an idiot! This could cost us a lot of money!" "It's no biggy... and hey, I'll bet you don't ever do it again."

All I could think was that it was carelessness that had sank the Titanic. It didn't matter that this was only a 65 ft boat, 13 feet across, the canal was only 150 feet wide, max, and only 11 to 15 ft deep (people can drown in mere inches of water)... and that I could place the bow or stern on the bank of the canal in one swift movement. I took this seriously. But, he was right on that one, I knew I'd never do it, again. Still, it was unacceptable to me, to have been so absent minded. Just like I had been, this day, forgetting that I was supposed to be there at 11:00, instead of 1:00. Now my mind was racing with all of this information. Last time I drove, she had witnessed this sad event, trying to leave the dock with the charger still attached. Then I arrive late, today, making our passengers wait... and NOW? NOW, I act as though I have never docked a boat before???

It's ok... the rest of the day is seamless. I ease through the bulkhead with finesse, 6 times. I dock the boat, each time, like a pro. I don't care that I waited 15 minutes, by request at the front desk, for two people to return from fetching their coats, even if they return two minutes too late, and the boat has already left the dock. And why wouldn't I wait? They sometimes wait on us, like my two passengers did today, and many have, in the past. I did show up, afterall. Some Captains have been known to not show up, and being 3 hours away on the coast, with no way to even show up late, and someone else having to rush around to find a substitute. Some Captains had even been known to still be in bed, and the lead Captain having to drive over and rouse them from their stupor. And I realize that thinking on all these things somehow makes me feel better about my own stupidness. But not really, because I still don't accept the imperfectness in myself... and expect more of myself, than this.

Although I know my guide will not be happy about this, my two passengers missing the boat means that we will be doing a 3:00 run, and my tour guide is cold. I can't convince her to cover her ears up, even though I know this will surely help. When I'm on the job, I'm there for the long haul. I get paid by the hour. If that means 3 tours, then I'm happy to do 3 tours. If we have 4 tours, I'm there for 4 tours. If we don't have all of the tours, then that's ok too. I'm always happy to clock out and head back home. But I won't cut a tour short, at the suggestion of any guide, who might choose to not be properly dressed for the days weather... who might be too hot, or too wet, or too cold. For heaven sake, I've been in the Army, and had to sleep on the ground, in all kinds of weather... I've been a mail-carrier, and had to forge every conceivable type of weather known to man (ok, I exaggerate) just to get my job done... and if you are a tour guide, working outdoors, for heaven sake, be prepared... or find another job! If the people pay to go on an hour tour, they are gonna go, unless the passengers, themselves, suggest we head back, early. Some are obviously cold, some are obviously not. Why, I do wonder, would one embark upon a boat ride, not properly prepared for the cold... in the month of December? Being a decent human being, I would have asked if they might care to head back, had it been intensely bad. But it would never be on the suggestion of a paid guide. Think of it as a challenge... think of it as an adventure... think of it as your job, for heaven sake! But... as good luck would have it, the 2nd and 3rd tours turned out to be warmer than the first, anyways. Ocassional whisps of warm air hit us, and the sun peeks out ocassionally. All in all, it has been a good day. Fishermen, along the way, waved at us... and the birds continued to greet us... even if the kingfishers were strangely silent in their usual flights.

I wonder when I will finally stop being so stupid, and when I will finally learn to remain calm, in the face of my utterly human error... and when I will stop worrying about my undetermined future, and my much too late to change ill lived past... and start enjoying my every days.

Afterward, I head over to the guides home, where we always enjoy a drink or two when we're working together. Sometimes she trims my hair. This time, I request coffee. And I place my new jacket in the other room, hoping it won't smell like her cigarette smoke whenever I'm ready to leave. Yeah... things... they are a changin'.

Life is... life is changing for me... constantly. And I think about all the people from my past who have reappeared in my life, suddenly and unexpectedly. Even that makes me wonder if I'm going to die sometime soon. Just kidding, folks. Mostly, I think it's just about reconnection. Finding peace with a lost past. Finding love and acceptance, in places that I had wondered about, but long since let go of. Yeah... maybe it's true... when you let go of something, if it was yours, it comes back to you. Some doubts about some truths and true friendships come to rest. As well as thoughts about my own worthiness. I think I'll be alright.

There's a reason... and a season... and I think I'll keep on cruisin'...