I'm not embarrassed to admit that sometimes I cry; big fat tears of sheer frustration. The old girly tears start running down my face now and then when it just gets to be too much. Days when your hands and feet are swollen with bites, you are covered in sweat, crawling around in a hot tiny berth, retching, cleaning up dog diarrhea for the third time in 12 hours. Intellectually, you know it's not exactly the end of the world, but you just get beaten down sometimes. Every single thing is 10 times harder on a boat. At that moment, when the faucet turns on, you forget about the times you're out on the water with just blue skies, feeling absolute freedom, when nothing else matters. Or biking home in the dark down the long winding road to the marina when the bay is still and shiny, feeling lucky that you live here, every single time. And so you just cry it all out and keep scrubbing. Oy, the glamour.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Scene of the Crime
I'm not embarrassed to admit that sometimes I cry; big fat tears of sheer frustration. The old girly tears start running down my face now and then when it just gets to be too much. Days when your hands and feet are swollen with bites, you are covered in sweat, crawling around in a hot tiny berth, retching, cleaning up dog diarrhea for the third time in 12 hours. Intellectually, you know it's not exactly the end of the world, but you just get beaten down sometimes. Every single thing is 10 times harder on a boat. At that moment, when the faucet turns on, you forget about the times you're out on the water with just blue skies, feeling absolute freedom, when nothing else matters. Or biking home in the dark down the long winding road to the marina when the bay is still and shiny, feeling lucky that you live here, every single time. And so you just cry it all out and keep scrubbing. Oy, the glamour.
