adventure

Following Directions

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 1 Comment

It wasn’t just that I was attracted to him. What with the thick, dark hair hitting his shoulders, one group of tendrils separating from the pack, twisting down along his temple. Or his beard with flecks of ginger glinting, also full, and above a black vintage Levi’s Strauss T-shirt taut across his chest. The calm, considerate way he listened reflected in his thoughtful nod and unwavering gaze. 

But I was, definitely, attracted.

But to more. The air of adventure rising off him, swirling around me and mixing with mine, forming a threesome with the smell of freshly frying fries. The pairing effect similar to the scent of just baked cookies wafting through a realtor’s Open House. I spotted it right away, his position by the only outlet in the dining room, his two backpacks and dirty fingernails. I know this move. This is my move. I’m a gypsy writer. And I’m always scoping for future places to plunk down, pop open my laptop, and write. 

My first words to him, full of curious exploration,“Is that the only outlet?”  

“Yeah…but, I have a double plug, if you want to share.” His answer further endears him to me. The misunderstanding makes me smile and his generosity restores my faith in humanity. 

I love people who share.  

They call my number and I excuse myself. I return to a booth not too far away. After reading and eating, I rise up to go and our eyes connect.

“I like your pants,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. Because, with their rust-colored, complementary striped bell-bottom style, I like them, too. “I think they make me look like Donna from That 70s Show,” and that’s a good look. They’re one of those things you know you’ll get compliments on when you wear it. We all have them.  

“Where did you get ‘em?”

Really? Not only a follow-up question, but the same one I was asking myself as I pulled them on this morning. 

Thus begins two hours of talking about adventure and freedom and herbs and the island. About following one’s nose, and one’s calling. And biking the Sunshine-Skyway bridge (him, not me. And not even him, because the cops stopped him at the top). “I had a song all cued up for the long coast downhill.”

I liked how I felt in his presence–comfortable. The longer I was in it, the more comfortable I became. Our initial ease was growing into a warming glow.

He motioned to the other section of his booth, “You’re welcome to join me.”

Like a flower blooming, our conversation was, and I within our conversation. We spoke of where we were from (me Wisconsin, him Michigan), how to properly sleep in a hammock (diagonally), and how old versions are better than the new and improved (countless examples). I liked what was coming out of me. All my best stuff–my words, my perspective, my suggestions (he’d only been here a few weeks) . . . even my hair looked good, judging by its reflection in the big window framing winter’s early darkness.

I was into me, and I was really into how this had all come to be.

Single moments of the evening–seemingly weird and random at the time–were now showing themselves in one fluid movie in my mind. I’d stopped at a Free Little Library to drop off a book. It wasn’t even my regular one. And I have a strict rule of only dropping off, but as I slid mine in, a spine of another caught my eye with its fiery sunset colors and title Heaven and Hurricanes. 

Just the back cover, I think because, the rule, and because I was trying to get to the seven o’clock showing of the Whitney Houston movie and had dirty laundry in my back bike basket to wash on the way. But as all good back covers make you do, I was opening the cover and reading the prologue. And then I was tucking it between dirty sheets and detergent and taking off, pushing hard to make up time. 

Everyone at the laundromat was on their phone, while I leaned against a folding table and sunk into the superb writing and intriguing plot. As quarters dropped and clanked, an idea dropped into my mind: check the rating on Rotten Tomatoes. They persuaded me to wait and catch it streaming. With clean sheets, I rode off into the night now wide open, sans plans.

Except to read more of this book. 

And I was hungry. Nothing at the cafe next to the laundromat had really grabbed me. The tartar on a Filet-O-Fish does, as the golden arches come into view. Suddenly, I can think of nothing better than my feet up in a booth, reading and eating.

Sailor’s Delight

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

We sailed for so long that second day, I felt the motion of the ocean while lying in bed–a joyous sensation.  While my body rocked, my mind rolled back over the events of the day.  The wind had been wilder this time, calling for more engagement from the crew. We began to keel and it took a lot to not fall over while filming as they rapidly trimmed the sails.  The snorkeling was better–we got the last mooring ball by the reef and visibility was clear.  Red coral, angel fish, parrot fish with pastel iridescent scales and light blue lipstick, some needle nose fish looking like a syringe with fins.  

I was also thinking about J.  He’d grabbed the check at the Happy Buddha Bar in the marina once we got back on shore–the unexpected move had evidently left an impression on me. 

Part of me thinks if he’s leaving soon, I should just throw myself at him and have a quick romp, riding it for all the good times I can–while I can. Part of me thinks I’m safe within his escape plan and I don’t need to do anything because why even start what’s got an expiration date stamped on it already?  I’m off the hook.  Besides, I’m off the market.  

The next day, my Facebook feed fills with sailboats for sale. After vetting them (okay, and picturing myself on them) I do my own little circumnavigation and text Pat about a few of my favorites.  They work together, so I figure he can tell him.  Pat tells me to friend J and tag him in it.  “He can be kind of shy.”  Feels like too big a step to take.  

I’m not sure what I’m doing when I reach out to him about coming to trivia at Waterfront Brewery the next night.  It seems pretty benign I tell myself, as I open then close Instagram.  Then open.  Then close.  

Then open. 

Pat had texted he’d be late, so I was preparing to wing it solo until he arrived.  Seeing J come around the corner of the bar truly startled me.  Since he hadn’t written back, and Pat didn’t mention him coming, I didn’t expect him and it caught me completely off guard.  

“What’s our team name?” Pat says when he arrives a little later. 

“Sailor’s Delight,” I say.

He laughs, “Leave it to the writer!”

“Actually, J came up with it, but I loved it.”

The TV screen with the questions is above us.  The scorecard on the bar below, I’m leaning over to write an answer when the next question comes on.  Fingers softly graze, then slightly rest on the inside of my arm, gently requesting my attention.  I lean back into this tender move as it withdraws.  Again I’m thrown.  It’s one of those moments you can feel getting recorded in the story of your life

J himself is a soft touch.  No big ego driven song and dance, no verbal billboard conversations.  His light teasing, when I make some comment about not minding mornings as long as no one’s telling me what to do during them, is: “Is that why I always beat you to the boat?” and a kidlike smirk.  It was more to say Hey, we have a history than, Let me use this to elevate myself.

After we come in fourth from last, Pat goes out to smoke and J and I swipe on the sailboats on my phone.  Island Woman.  Another one with a name we can’t read.  Again, I picture myself on each of them.  Again, I’m not sure what I’m doing or wanting to happen.  Left alone with him, I think I just panicked.  

Walking out into the humid locker room of a night, J makes another subtle move I find impressive. Pat’s first and we’re both in step behind him. Being closer to the door, J reaches out his arm and without missing a beat in word or step, he holds my gaze while he holds the door open for me via side arm.

I try to fall asleep for an hour, but I can’t because words keep coming, demanding to be written down. I write on three different pieces. Time with him hadn’t pinch off my muse, like I’d feared, it was doing the opposite.