He Woke Up With This Idea

[Editor's Note: This blog entry contains MATURE CONTENT. Usually my stuff is readable by the children as long as you're not too strict with the issue of profanity. This one, however, is about sex. Some folks are a little touchy about this issue...]

Kiss Kiss?
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

My friend Meri of s/v Windfall noted with no small amount of exasperation, “He woke up with this idea, and it followed him all day.”

I nodded in agreement. “Men.” Men. Argh.

Okay, let's just take it as a given that no matter how much you love a man, the Imbalance of Sex thing is a problem. Women are romantic and would like to savor the experience on special occasions. Men would like to fornicate like bunnies every morning and every night. It is true: women are from Venus while men are from some planet on which sex is the only important functional task required of sentient life.

And don't think under normal circumstances that I'm not appreciative. I'm a forty something mother of three. I have stretch marks and flabby boobs and at least 15 pounds more than I should. I never wear make up, and I cut my hair like clock work every 6 months. I'm incredibly, unbelievably, amazingly lucky to have a sexy hot hunk of burning man like DrC interested in my battered and poorly kempt frame. He thinks I'm sexy. He wants my body! He finds me incredibly stimulating!! Woo hoo!!!

But, for crissakes, it's 90 degrees and overcast. I'm so hot that sweat is rolling down my neck and pooling under my breasts. My face looks like I took a wash cloth, soaked it in olive oil, and anointed myself. I smell bad, I feel sticky, two minutes out of the shower I feel like I've been dipped in pig shit. And if that isn't enough, my nose is running, my eyes itch, and my head hurts.

So pardon me if my first reaction to a firm bump in the rear portions by an interested male while my hands are buried deep in dirty dish water is to elbow him in the groin. I find the thought of sex in this climate about as unappealing as an after dinner snack of chocolate covered deep fried maggots. But nothing I say seems to discourage him. I can't slap his hands off my boobs without covering myself in suds and soap scum. Even growling does no good since in the strange language peculiar to men in heat, he interprets this as a come on.

So I completely sympathize with Meri. Men just wake up with this idea, and it's all you can do to get the idiots to come to their senses. Every woman reading to this point will not doubt sympathetically agree with Meri and I, “What the hell are they thinking?” While every man is probably asking himself, “Umm.... what's the problem? You're already hot, dirty and sweaty.”

Ugh.

Before we left, my husband and I wondered mightily what would happen to our sex life when we moved aboard the boat and sailed away with our children. On the one side, we were always more relaxed, uninhibited and – shall we say – active on vacation. More time, more energy. On the other hand, a boat is a really small echo chamber making noisy, uninhibited passion a bit awkward to say the least. Sound carries on water, by the way, so unless you want all your neighbors to also share in the moment... While there you go. On balance, I probably thought that we'd do it with approximately the same frequency but enjoy it more. DrC, of course, assumed we would simply do it more. Our vision of our sexual future was a direct by-product of our respective gender expectations and wistful hope rather than a pragmatic analysis of possible outcomes.

In the end, it's neither, both, and other. I'd have to describe us as healthier, our marriage stronger now than at any time in the 20 years we've been together. Part of that strength is an improved and healthier sex life. A really good reason to never go back to working full time is that when you're clocking 60 to 80 hours a week, there is not a particle of physical or emotional energy left for sex. Boat life does make for creative timing, interesting variations of doing it in utter silence, and no real necessity to ever have the “sex talk” with the children since I'm afraid all boat kids are inevitably exposed to a bit more of the practical complications of sexual activity than your average youngster. But I've spoken with enough boat couples on the subject to know, you too can have a good sex life out here cruising.

Go Away
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

However, there is absolutely NOTHING on earth – no possible improvement or modification of our sexual habits – which will induce a sane woman to mate with an otherwise sane male under the conditions we face here in Santa Rosalia. It's too hot. We're too smelly and dirty. There's too little privacy. It's sticky and stuffy and everything smells funny. It just isn't going to happen. These captains are complete frickin' male morons and we're not going to be putting out until mid-October when the temperature drops 20 degrees.

Really.

No, I mean it.

“Okay, but just this once and only if you promise to stop grabbing my tits for 24 hours as a sign of your appreciation of my sacrifice."

Dipped In Snot

Where?
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

I stand posed in the salon, feet braced wide, arms outstretched for balance. Waiting.

The girls are delighted. With an explosion I sneeze, rocking back on my heels. Mera shouts, “One!”

This is not good. This is so not good. I practically hyperventilate as the next one builds. The girls urge me on, “Come on Mom... you can do it!”

Wait for it. Wait for it.... “Aaachooooo!!” followed immediately by a chorus of, “Two!”

Oddly, three, four and five come blasting out in quick staccato succession. “Choo choo choo” like a train getting going, small and sharp. “Three! Four!! Five!!!” Aeron calls, peeling with laughter and glee.

But then it stops. It's like that last bit of co co ca choo did the trick and abruptly my nose stops itching, my eyes stop watering, and I can breathe. I take a deep breath and smile. My happiness is Aeron's grief, however. Five is not impressive. It doesn't even come close to the record.

The record was achieved the day before in a half hour of unmitigated misery. Aeron and Mera are still arguing whether or not it was one long procession of 22 sneezes or actually – as Mera argues – three separate batches. The problem is one of definition. How long is Mommy allowed to breathe and recover between sneezes for the sneeze to count as part of a series? Like skipping rocks, my sneezes are now a children's game to delight and amuse. Like any children's game, the game is not sufficiently amusing unless it also generates endless bickering over the rules.

Dante truly lacked sufficient imagination, because surely this must be another heretofore undescribed circle of hell. My head is stuffy, nose and eyes running, face itchy, eyes red. And at the same time, it is 88 degrees this morning, 72% humidity, and a fog bank is rolling in through the harbor. I'd like to say it's beautiful, but my sweat is sweating and I feel like I've been dipped in snot.

DrC diagnosed the malady as Hay Fever. Of course, there is no hay for at least 750 miles. Besides, I'm not allergic to hay. I'm allergic to sheep, oak trees and grass. There are no sheep, oak trees or grass within 750 miles either. So it's not fair. I stomp my feet twice and tell you it is not fair. Make it stop. Make it stop yesterday.

Hamming It Up
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

The girls watch me closely. Their internal clock is apparently still ticking. I'm not out of The Zone in which another sneeze would accrue to the prior series. I glare across the salon at my spawn, not in a particularly accommodating mode. They ate all the yogurt and granola leaving me nothing but corn flakes and a limp banana for breakfast. This eagerness to see me suffer is simply adding insult to injury. To hell with my kids.

And as if the thought blew in on a karmic wind, I'm suddenly gripped by fate, muscles abruptly tense, a shudder blasting through my body, “AAAAAchoooooy!”

Alone Again

[Editor's Note: Written as we returned from Bahia de Los Angeles to Santa Rosalia in mid June.]

Rock Finds
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Something about timing precludes the Conger Clan from exploring new territory at the same time as every other boat in the cruising fleet. We headed north for the Vancouver Island inside passage about two months before everyone else. When it came time to head south to Zihau, we got down there at least three weeks before the rest of the troops. Now heading into Bahia de Los Angeles area north of Santa Rosalia, we leave the summer Sea of Cortez fleet in our wake and head into the wilderness toot sool. At least we're consistent.

For three weeks, we haven't seen another living cruiser. We've seen living souls, though few enough even of those. A couple of pangas, some sport fishers, a pair of tourists escorted out of one of the resorts. We even saw a quartet of hikers on the way up Volcano Coronado. These exceptions to prove the solitary rule, however, just make things a bit more interesting while leaving the cruising grounds isolated and beautiful.

Unexpectedly, the Sea of Cortez has literally flattened the family with its harsh, desolate beauty. This area makes Espiratu Santos look positively lush. There are no trees; In fact, in some places you would be hard pressed to find even so much as a blade of grass. Humans can barely shoe-horn an existence in the few tiny pocket arroyos and lagoons. Animals find the lifestyle nearly as challenging.

We often sail at roughly 2 knots. That's hardly a sail, I realize, but with no swell or wave action, we can float quietly and peacefully while DrC plays his guitar and the girls and I study. We don't have any where in particular to go so we just waft along, moving, I suspect, almost entirely on the tide. It's amazing how far you can go at 2 knots if there are no waves to slap you around.

Our patience is frequently rewarded by encounters with the abundant sea life. While the landscape is almost alien with its rocky, volcanic geology, the Sea of Cortez itself is so full of life we can hardly move the boat without running into something. What we believe to be fin whales are everywhere we go. We can see and hear them blowing all around us as we passage from one small anchorage to another. On several occasions, the big guys have come near the boat. Once, we all ran to the bow to watch three lurch past. There is no question the creatures were considerably longer than our boat. The tail fins alone looked nearly 10 feet from tip to tip if not wider. Two passed along side us just under the surface while a third decided to go straight under the boat. We gasped, ooh'd, ah'd, and panicked as the huge fin slid slowly through the tramps at about 20 feet below us. OMIGODWTF. I love whales, but I really think that they are creatures better seen from a distance. It's hard to be calm when a creature half again the length of your house gets a bit curious.

We have also seen several pods of feeding dolphins as well as whatever you call a bunch of very pleased-with-themselves seals. We hear coyotes on shore so there must be something somewhere to eat. When we anchor in turquoise waters off white sand beaches, the bottom 25 feet below us is so clear we can practically snorkel by sitting on the transom with a rum punch and peering over the side. And while our fishing luck continues to run towards nothing more exciting than sculpin and trigger fish, we could dine almost nightly on lobster and clams were we so inclined. The official going rate in these remote anchorages for lobster is five medium sized creatures for a box of orange juice and a 2 liter bottle of Fresca. Deep fish like tuna is a bit pricier, requiring us to hand over several tomatoes, a half dozen eggs, and a package of tortillas. The barter economy is live and well.

Without the distraction of buddy boats, fellow cruisers, or the temptations of town, we've settled into a steady routine. Morning is school and boat chores while underway or at anchor. A hot lunch, then we go our separate ways. If at an anchor, the children often take the dinghy and head off on their own adventures. The basic wildness of our girls grows daily, the freedom and safety and stunning natural beauty of the landscape bringing out the same in the spirits of our children. We snorkel and we hike. We study, watch movies, and practice our instruments. We read and read and read and read.

The regret and sadness is palpable on the boat as we make our way southwards back towards Santa Rosalia. Soon Daddy will leave for several months. Soon Don Quixote will be tied unnaturally to a dock in a harbor for months on end. Too soon we will be surrounded again in people, food, the Internet, and all sorts of tempting ways to spend our money. DrC is at the helm, Aeron in his lap. A world music mix plays Caribbean sounds as a background to swoosh of the beam sea and 15 knots of wind while the sun slowly sets on our last relaxed sail of the season. I lean into my husband's back with tears in my eyes and whisper in his ear, “We're not done yet.”

Don Quixote in Animas Slot
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

Spelling Test

Geology Notes
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

I start with the new words from the List of Frequently Misspelled Words found inexplicably at the back of the 5 materias cuaderno (5 subject notebook) we recently purchased. “Accumulate. The boat is going to sink from the sheer volume of crap we managed to accumulate this year. Accumulate.”

Mera nods agreement as she spells her word, “A C C U M U L A T E.”

“Excellent,” I reply. “Accommodate. I would like to accommodate your desire to fill the forward lockers with crap, but I must stand firm. Accommodate.”

A grin, “A C C O M M O D A T E.”

“Okay, next word.” I browse the list, “Achievement. It would be quite an achievement if we could dispose of nearly 2000 pounds of gear in the next 3 weeks. Achievement.”

“A C H E I V E M E N T.”

“Uh... wait. Um... no no. That's wrong.” I correct the word, Mera dutifully writes it out five times while I ponder the vagaries of the English language. The next one is going to knock her flat too. She's had it on her list for three weeks and for some reason it forever befuddles. “Criticize. I don't mean to criticize you, darling, but your feet were disgustingly filthy. Criticize.”

Mera looks serious as she writes out the word. She erases it once, chews her pencil, and then spells it without the S for the first time.

“Woot! Okay! That's great. Accidentally. I accidentally threw away all of Dad's extra wood yesterday.” I'm back on topic.

“You so did not,” Mera charges as she writes the word. “You did that on purpose. That's not an accident, a c c i d e n t a l l y.”

“Abundance. Your father has an abundance of alternatives to the wood pile he'd gathered under the bimini covers. He'll survive. Abundance.”

“A b u n d a n c e, he's still not going to like it. And it wasn't an accident.” Mera can be pretty stubborn too.

Hmm. “Destruction. The destruction of Daddy's wood is nothing compared to the devastation I plan to wreck on your sisters' shelves. Destruction.”

“D e s t r u c t i o n. Just don't destruction my cabin or I'll destruction you,” she warns.

“It's. It's not like you can stop me, small stuff. It's.” I challenge her.

“I t apostrophe s possible I'll sneak into your room and steal your icing if you do,” she warns.

I'm quick, “Hah! Its. That's assuming you know its location. Its.”

She's quicker, “I t s next to the bed hidden under your sewing work.”

“Premonition. I have a premonition that this argument is not going to end well. Premonition.”

“P r e m o n i t i o n.” Mera is all business now as we near the end of the list.

It's not as fun this way when Mera isn't arguing with me. “Produce. Are you going to produce a finished essay this afternoon? Produce.”

“Not unless you p r o d u c e a big lunch to fuel me,” she quips, smiling.

I nod in agreement. “Okay Mera. Will do. Counterfeit. I can't counterfeit my strong positive feelings for the idea of lunch right now. Counterfeit.”

“Oh Mom....” Mera complains. “E I or I E?”

“That's cheating,” I peer over the table at her paper, “Counter Fee It... remember what we talked about with the money thing?”

Mera's brow furrows and she ponders the word and then writes it out correctly when comprehension dawns, “Right! Fee It.”

Driver's Ed
Originally uploaded by toastfloats.

“Okay, schedule. Our schedule says you need to write the misspelled words five times and use them correctly in a sentence then we can blow this joint! Schedule.” I clap the notebook shut with an enthusiastic bang.

“S c h e d u l e !” Mera is equally enthusiastic as she challenges me, “Schedule! Does our schedule include ice cream this morning? Schedule.”

Laughing, I grin in agreement. “I have a premonition we can accidentally overrule your Dad's schedule and accumulate an abundance of ice cream. It's quite an achievement to accommodate helado AND produce in our afternoon destruction. School's out for the day!"