Bit O' Lizzie

A big burly, if gentle, dog with a tagged ear roamed between people, flopping down comfortably every few minutes until he spotted a cat.

Of course I didn't get a picture of the little girl.

In my mind, that cat is its perpetual nemesis. They are locked in a roadrunner/coyote or Tom/Jerry scenario- the dog the perpetual loser. He stalked that cat, a fraction of his burly size, and the cat managed victory each time. Two paws perched comfortably on the basket under a stroller, no one shooed her away, instead the dog- lumbered low and barking loudly if not at all aggressively. The children that were gathered near, the parents positioning themselves between dog beast and child, paid no mind to the cat that seemed almost to taunt its furry foe.

This passes for entertainment at 6:45 am when fatigue plagues you, dog chasing cat and people watching. The line was already beginning to snake behind us. The chill surprised me. I wrapped my arms around myself, the fleece hoodie Lizzie had encouraged me to grab soft under my fingers, relieved to be warmer -or at least less cold than I would have been.

I didn’t hear much English from the other people huddled in familial knots along the line. French, to be expected because August is France’s holiday season; Dutch, or maybe Afrikaans – I heard a “futsaak a less than polite expression common in South African villages; maybe German. A comforting cornucopia of country distinctions and the people to match.

My head swiveled, following sounds and imagined dramas, settling for a moment on a small blond child. She was maybe eight years old. Her eyes were an ice blue framed by blond hair that ran beyond her shoulders...and she stared. She stared at me so intensely- no smile- no change in her stoic face. So I smiled. I might have waved a bit; something I do when children in other countries stare at me.

I know I'm often the most foreign of sights. It used to be my brown skin and grand crown of curly twisted locks- now I imagine it is the extreme opposite- still the brownness, now accompanied by shorn curls and big earrings (twine feathers brushing my shoulders on this day). So I smile and possibly wave and usually kids either grin sheepishly and return the wave or hide behind a parent or turn their heads away.

This girl. This young version of what I imagine Lizzie to have looked like in her younger days, instead stared coldly at me for another beat and then turned her head slowly away. It reminded me more of what I get from staring adults. They stare and when I make eye contact they keep it a moment, as if to show me they weren’t staring at me or they aren’t embarrassed, and then they turn away. She did just that – an odd reaction from someone so young but whatever.

A few minutes later I felt her eyes on me again and so I repeated the exercise: smile, possible wave – and she repeated hers: a moment longer staring with unsmiling eyes or lips and then a turned head.

She repeated this for 15 minutes – the staring. It unsettled me.

I turned to Lizzie to see if I was imagining the whole thing, making more out of it than what should have been made. Lizzie smiled sympathetically at me, she noticed too, she thought it strange, too.

Croatia is a whiter country than I had expected. Or rather, I hadn’t really expected anything in particular but it is rare that I have been in place so very white that I noticed the contrast of myself so intensely. The summer in Iowa comes to mind and not much else. I had anticipated this sense of racial distinction in Amsterdam, only to be foiled by my own ignorance of the place- flush with people of all hues and a myriad of languages singing in my ears. But Croatia, even standing in line at one of its most popular tourist attractions during its busy season, showcased a sea of whiteness without a second brown face in the mix.

I get that I might have been a strange sight to the little girl. An anomaly to what she sees in her daily life. Still, the piercing blue eyes seemed to bore into me. Her joyless face surprised me. No childish curiosity or mirth or even fear – simply the stare of...I'm not even sure what.

I dubbed her Bit-O-Lizzie because she resembled what I imagine lizzie looked like at her age. And soon the line moved and we made it inside the park. But I didn’t forget her, I couldn’t quite shake her stare.

The Sacred

Dalat, Vietnam 

Thien vien Truc Buddhist Temple

It is the quiet I find sacred. 

Not silence. 

Silence distracts me. My mind wanders to the absence of things and creates stories that prevent me from finding peace.

But the quiet -a mosque nestled against the ocean, a temple tucked into a hill- the quiet lulls me like a parent comforting a child.

Here, at this temple, I can hear the wind rustling trees. Leaves loosening from their branches and scratching softly on the ground.  Birds singing from different directions,  their sound carried on different breezes. Nature whispering reassurance that I am not alone. 

A bell sounds... deep throated and ancient sounding. 

I do not know what the bell means and yet it is comforting. 

I do not know the intricacies of this temple.  I do not not know how the monks - hair shorn to scalp, dressed in mustard colored robes - practice their devotion. 

But sitting in the quiet, eyes scanning the lake peeking out  from the hills coated in verdant green...I understand I am in the presence of the sacred.

The storm -The Agean Sea

I giggled to myself. I bounced a little in my bunk. The light suffused around me. It was no longer dark but hardly seemed like daylight. Phone buried in my bag at the foot of my bed, I didn’t want to look for my phone, unsure I wanted to know the time. I bumped around some more in the grayness and decided the bathroom wouldn’t wait. Resting my foot on the nightstand built into the wall, I scrambled down as noiselessly as possible so as not to wake Anne, sleeping peacefully (it seemed) in the bunk below.

My narrow perch was the result of my own selfishness. For a time I was certain we'd be adding a third person to our closet-sized room and the bottom bunk was a double bed. Not wanting to sleep with a stranger- in the literal, if not biblical sense - I volunteered for the skyward perch just shy of the low wood paneled ceiling.

Calmer waters

Finally down from my bunk, my biological needs met, I meandered to the bow of the ship to contemplate the late night or early morning...whichever I happened to be experiencing. A light rain fell onto the already saturated blue cushions, despite the canvas awning hoisted above. Not wishing to be wet or for the cold that follows wetness without sun, I walked quietly back to my room and nestled down in anticipation of sunup and breakfast and the general start of the day.

The next time I woke the waves, far from gentle, roused me from sleep. I lay listening to the wind and water outside the tiny window open by my head. The colored curtains flitted forward in brief intervals allowing more air in the room. The morning was warmer than it had been the previous night.

It was fun. A minor roller-coaster ride with expected twists and turns. And then there was a thump. The boat dipped low and I flew ceiling-ward, suspended in air for a long second before making contact with the mattress again. The fun was momentarily lost. Suddenly, Erik Larson's Isaac’s Storm, came to mind. Yesterday I'd been reading about the 1900 Galveston hurricane that killed more than 8000 people. True to Larson's style, there are vivid descriptions of boats creaking loudly as they strained against wind and water, much like the boat was now creaking.

Roller-coaster no longer, this was a motorcycle set free downhill, no railing.

Not usually prone to motion sickness, my stomach lurched a little and I was unsure if it was the raucous motion that stretched seemingly endless before me or if was simply hunger.

Anne continued to sleep below and the boat continued to lurch and skip across waves, dive into the bottom of the swells and then rise again on uncertain legs. I joined Anne in intermittent sleep, waking with a start with any bumps of heightened intensity, and then drifting back to sleep with hopes that the unsettled feeling that left my stomach considering the idea of releasing whatever contents lingered from the previous night’s meal, mulling it over but uncertain of where it seemed to land on the matter.

Hot, drops of rain or wave pelting my face startled me awake a final time. I checked the clock on my kindle, well past breakfast, I wondered if I had slept through it, wondered how they might have managed to serve it given the uncertain footing and listing.

Mary was perched in her bed with the door propped open, eager to discuss the morning’s travails: her vomiting, and “the bullshit of it all”. I reminded her that no one, not even a Turkish sailor can control the weather (she reluctantly agreed) and then I wandered to the front cabin.

We were a hodgepodge there. Some who'd been awake since 6am with hopes of seeing the sunrise (they didn't), others too sick to stay in their cabins and praying for calm or solid ground. When I asked about breakfast there were giggles at my predictability (one day at sail and everyone already knew my appetite) and assurances that in our current predicament no breakfast had presented itself.

I sat outside on the bow, the fresh air calming my stomach, and watched as the indigo waters swelled and sprayed salty mist at us with accurate aim. The lounge cushions secured to the front of the boat with red rope, ignored their moorings and flew backwards, arching for sea. The heavy wooden chairs used at meals, heaved occupants forward ad landed with a clatter on the deck.

Finally a city emerged in the distance, hugging the coast, climbing upward toward sky. We anchored in a little cove, the calm waters a welcome respite from the six hours we'd been tossed in all morning.

The crew, no English spoken among them, looked nonplussed. They scrambled to restore order but did so laughing. Most pressing needs met, they readied the ladder so we could swim while they prepared breakfast.

I jumped in the water, holding my nose, anticipating the shock of cold water hitting my skin, but after a few moments, my body temperature dropping to meet the turquoise water, it was pleasant. Salt saturation buoyed me to the surface and for a little while the morning's chaos was forgotten.

Back on the boat, drying myself in the warmth of a slightly muted but delightfully strong sun, one of the passengers chuckled to himself. When pressed about the humor he pointed at the city in the distance, "that city is an hour and a half by bus from where we started this thing." All I could do is laugh with him.

Stranger in the Sand

We left her there. Sitting in the wet sand with strangers. Granted, we were barely more than strangers; we hadn’t come together even if we were there for the same event.

She was stubborn. Sitting on the ground being poked and prodded by the PA who happened to be passing by. The PA stayed there. She stayed and watched over our stranger, the PA waited for the paramedics to arrive. And once they arrived, she stayed and waited while they sent for transport with wheels. A new indignity. They would not carry her on the board they brought with them. She was too heavy.

I was torn. Part of me eager to explore the tide-pools on a stretch of beach I'd never seen… part of me wanting to linger, provide company if not comfort. But she kept shooing us. Sending us to the to the edge of the rocks where the tide was fighting its way back in.

We obeyed- maybe not reluctantly enough. We cast our eyes back in her direction periodically. Checking to see her progress. Was she still on the ground? Had the new transport arrived? Did she look like she needed us?

The tide slapped against the rocks. Funneled itself into the channels cut deep over months or years. Anemone crouched low- impatient ones already open- arms flung wide and basking gloriously in their otherworldly green petals- like negative-tinted sunflowers. The hesitant ones, unlike their kin, remained closed and guarded against the sinking sun, waning but bright.

The water splashed our ankles sporadically, then receded as if scolded. But the sporadic became more routine and so we headed back, our heads still turned to the sand, crouching occasionally to look into pools of water that still teemed with life. Starfish and crabs and fanning plants searched for a foothold to keep them safe in the oncoming currents.

We approached her again. Still seated on the sand, the PA talking to her patiently – if not a little condescendingly, almost as if she were speaking to a child. The same enunciated words and clipped phrases. The same false cheeriness. Still, she didn’t abandon her post- a post that wasn’t even her post- and so who am I to judge?

We lingered again. Trying to be respectful of the medical history being given, allowing a buffer of sand sand and idle chatter while she shared her information, we wandered back to her side when we thought they might be finished. We never crouched down next to her though- I don’t know why.

We asked about her camera. Big and expensive, we knew it was something she’d want safe. And it was safe. Another thing the PA had handled. And we asked about her car. Could we drive it to the hospital, make sure she didn't have to worry about that? She wouldn’t hear of it. Kept fussing in the same way that she fussed at us - insistent - that we continue the nature walk, shooing us as if we were a nuisance.

And I guess we were. Near strangers that were witness to her vulnerability, splayed out on the sand.

The paramedics looked up at us with disdain. I’m almost certain that is my own projection – my own feelings of helplessness with a stranger under duress. He asked which of us had driven with her. 

None of us had. We were veritable strangers. First names only. 40 minutes into a nature walk we’d all driven hours for.

“Would any of you drive her car?” an accusation in my mind. an indictment even though we would have been happy to drive her car. I would have been ecstatic to be less useless.

But she'd been adamant that would couldn't. So, all we could answer- the collective brown us- was that we’d asked and she’d declined. How could you blame her. We were strangers. And whether a lack of trust or the feeling of putting someone out, the result is the same. “I can handle it.” Even if the truth is that you can’t-or that it would be easier if you didn't have to.

I don’t know how she is doing now. No way to help, no duty to fulfill, the tide steady moving in, the paramedics and the PA flanking her on all sides, the collective us inched our way back the way we had come. Stopped periodically. Looked back. Stopped again.

Someone provided periodic updates for a little while. I’m not sure where she got them from. Was she walking slower than the rest of us- or maybe faster- walking back and forth between the distance we’d put between us? Maybe she had better hearing.

“They got her up on her leg and then had her sit back down.”

"It isn't broken but they were fearful of the damage too much weight on it would cause."

I wondered about the tide. Wondered how long they had before the waters claimed that spot she was sitting in. What was the protocol then?

We didn't find out. We found a starfish and crouched to get a better look. We talked about grabbing a bite to eat and began to plan the logistics of that. We were in cars, drying off, chatting idly about the day behind us, the traffic before us.

She was still sitting in the sand I imagine.

And we left her there.