Visiting with a New Mexico friend before leaving the Land of Enchantment for parts north, and the sailing season on Kagán, she asked me how we decide where to go. The answer is that sometimes there are places we need to be on particular dates, and sometimes we have a general idea of a new place we’ve heard about or an old favorite we’d like to get back to, and then there are times we don’t have any agenda, except to go with the flow. Literally.
This summer, there were a few dates when we needed to be one place or another—like in Poulsbo for a friend’s daughter’s wedding or Bell Harbor in downtown Seattle to pick up other friends for a short cruise, and now, Port Townsend for a much needed haulout. But the rest of the season so far, we went with the flow. By checking tides and currents ahead of time, and planning for shorter trips, we could hoist our sails and ride the wind (and current), even if there was just a light breeze (which is often the case during the Salish Sea summers). Having a loose plan at bedtime, we might alter it over morning coffee if conditions differed from those forecast. Or we might be up at dawn to catch a favorable tide, and be rewarded with a stunning sunrise before casting off.
Sometimes going with the flow means going slow, like really slow—2 knots of speed through the water (which is sometimes what we get) translates to going 2.3 miles per hour. If we were to have a knot of current going in the same direction, at that water speed, we’d be moving at a whopping 3.5 miles per hour. Hence the planning for short distance days. But believe it or not, it’s fun! And relaxing. Wildlife, like the normally shy Harbor porpoises, come closer to Kagán since we’re gliding through the water so quietly. My first mate can take an afternoon nap in that same serene quiet, his snores from below louder than the sounds of sailing.
Other days, with more wind, we’ll get a brisker ride. Less relaxing, and more exciting. But no matter what, when the engine goes off, the magic begins. I have delighted in the magic of those days throughout this summer. Going with the wind and water, riding along with what nature provides rather than bucking it, is teaching me to live with less of an agenda and more patience.
As with so much of life aboard, there is a lesson about life in general, if I’m paying attention. If I could integrate more less-agenda/more-patience moments into my life, I might find another kind of magic—like savoring the satisfaction of a day well lived, even a mellow day. I tend to feel guilty about those—not embracing the value of restoring myself nearly as much as pushing myself to cross just one more thing off my overloaded ‘to do’ list.
I can imagine balancing life, like I’ve learned to balance Kagán with sail trim. Nancy Erley, my sailing mentor, taught me certain principles, then also encouraged me to experiment—pull a sail in or let it out a bit, to see what it gets Kagán in terms of speed or comfort. Sometimes both. It’s time for this sailor to experiment with going with the flow, both aboard and ashore. With that in mind—fair winds and following seas!
I have been writing for decades, but I have only been authoring (which I admit may not be a word, but let’s just say it is) a brief time. I am contemplating the contrast between writing and authoring this morning.
Writing is a process I felt a pull toward, like it was calling me. That call came years before I heeded it. And when I finally responded, it set me off on a journey that challenged me in ways I never would have imagined. I am a writer, just as I am a geologist—those are lenses through which I view the world, as well as how I view myself in it.
After walking the writing path for some time, I began to think about authoring and what that might mean. For me, it means my stories might touch another’s mind or heart. From exploring alone in my library, I stepped out, sending words forth for others to read, and hopefully to connect with. Along the way, they did—with readers. And later, a literary agent. Then later still, a publisher. And on April 9, 2024, I will be the author of the novel, No More Empty Spaces.
What I am learning now is that the skillsets—of writer and author—are quite different. As are the interiority versus exteriority of each. I plan to savor being an author as much as being a writer, without forgetting that writer comes first. In the coming months, I will be marching forward into the world, and out of my comfort zone, as an author. But before I do, I feel the need to retreat a bit, to reconnect with myself as a writer. So I’ll be going inside to find the words, then I’ll see you out there again in a month or two.
A natural event can become a disaster when humans are in its way—like the earthquakes in southeastern Turkey beginning during the early morning hours of February 6, when thousands upon thousands were asleep in buildings that could not withstand the shaking they were subjected to.
I see the images and hear the broadcasts. I send money to provide tents, food, and support to mobilize rescue workers and medical teams from around the globe. But it feels like so little in the face of such suffering .
Earth processes affect us every day. Geologists know this, but most people are not aware of it, until something happens—like a flood, a landslide, or an earthquake. Though it is difficult to find words in this moment, I feel compelled to try. Geologists, like me, study the earth, its structure, and the processes that shape it. And writers, like me, tell the stories of human hearts and the processes that shape them. How could I not try to put words to paper about what is unfolding half a world away? Understanding the science, and relating it to our very human stories, is what led me to the work I am doing.
I am fortunate to have traveled extensively in this part of Turkey, and have such vivid memories.
Exploring Gaziantep’s Castle, and looking over the city spread out below from its walls.
Strolling through, and shopping for scarves and sweets, in Şanliurfa’s market.
Seeing acres of apricots drying in the sun near Malatya on a hot summer day.
Savoring the ice cream particular only to Kahraman Maraș or the baklava in Gaziantep.
Sleeping in a caravansary-turned-hotel in Diyarbakır.
Marveling at the tumulus and statuary atop Nemrut Daǧı, some toppled in previous earthquakes.
Now, in newsreel after newsreel from these cities and beyond, I watch buildings collapse. I read of World Heritage sites damaged or destroyed in the intense shaking. I hold my breath watching miraculous rescues. And I dread to hear of the many who will only be recovered in the coming days, weeks, and months. I fear for the people, like the friendly çayji in Gaziantep who chuckled at my very broken Turkish as I stirred a sugar cube into my tea and we chatted. Is he hurt? Is he even alive as I write these words?
I have written a novel that takes place so near this earthquake’s epicenter that my characters would have been woken, perhaps even thrown from their beds, by the force of the temblor. Many of the characters in the story are geologists and engineers working to construct a fictional dam on the Euphrates River. But there are three very real dams—Atatürk, Karakaya, and Keban—on the Euphrates which almost certainly experienced moderate to severe shaking in these events (though I do not have specific data, I say this based on my understanding of the geology of the region and these structures’ proximity to the East Anatolian Fault Zone). I wonder how those structures have fared, because it is not earthquakes per se that kill people, but structures failing that do. The pictures we are seeing in the news show that all too well. If any of those dams were to fail, the level of human suffering, already almost too much to comprehend, would intensify.
I can only hope that the immense suffering will diminish soon, though for those who have lost loved ones or their homes or their livelihoods or have been injured, I know it will be a long, long road. I can also hope that scientists and engineers learn all they can from these earthquakes, and know that groups like the Geotechnical Extreme Events Reconnaissance (GEER) sponsored by the National Science Foundation and the Earthquake Engineering Research Institute (EERI) will do their utmost to do so. I can hope that politicians will listen to the scientists and engineers and fund needed programs, so when rebuilding does occur, structures will be stronger and safer.
Because we will always be affected by the ground beneath us, we must learn to live upon it, admiring its splendor while also respecting its power. My heart is with the people of this beautiful region in these devastating days.
If you want to support relief efforts in Turkey and Syria, here are links to articles in the Washington Post and New York Times that may help you choose how:
Small in size doesn’t necessarily mean small in spirit. Though our house no longer holds our little dog, Capi (who passed peacefully, here, with us by her side, on December 9, 2022), her spirit certainly lives on in it.
Capi was undeniably cute. But ask anyone who knew her, and that won’t be what they recall first—rather her fearlessness and enthusiasm for every adventure, every moment, really—might be what lives in their memory. Neither five-foot seas, nor snow deeper than she was tall fazed her. And guess who was the alpha of our dog pack—Capi or her 50+ pound mixed-breed older brother, Sandy?
Capi was, in a word, intrepid.
A year ago, Capi’s vet said that if all she had done was look at Capi’s test results and images, she would say that Capi had days, weeks at the outside, to live. But Capi didn’t believe it, and she proved it over and over. Months later, as we prepared to leave for Capi’s last summer of sailing, I worked with the vet to put together a medical kit for her, but the doc’s conclusion was that “Capi Magic” was her best medicine. That magic not only kept Capi going, it gave us a good dose of delight every day of her life.
We had a few rough patches in the cold wet days of the last Pacific Northwest spring, but mostly Capi decided that she’d embrace each day with joy and love. She took me for daily walks, rushed if it was rainy, longer on sunny days, often right to the shops where she knew she would to get a treat or two (thank you especially to The NW Dog in Poulsbo!).
Intrepid to the end, even during her last days, she ambled a bit every afternoon and rode to the mailbox, head out the window savoring the crisp December, desert air. This is all I can bear to write, as I am sorely missing my amazing furry friend. That big-hearted little dog will live forever in my heart. Always intrepid, and always reminding me that I can aspire to be intrepid too.
Someone says something, and you’re struck dumb. Perhaps dumbfounded is more like it. Would someone really say that? Too often it’s family—Uncle Aren’t-I-Funny? or Aunt No-Filter. Or maybe it’s Ms. or Mr. I-Don’t-Even-Know-You-And-Still-I’d-Say-That.
Haven’t we all been there?
At 2:06 the next morning, you bolt upright in bed, your voice restored, the perfect line drops from your lips with no one but the beloved four-legged curled up at your feet to hear it. Or maybe your partner rolls over and mumbles, “What?” then snuffles and falls back to sleep, heedless of your brilliant retort.
Even though that is so often the reality for me, as a writer I get to say that perfect line—on the page. Sometimes on a page in my journal, my snappy (if hours or days late) comeback for me alone, but sometimes on a page others will read.
The perfect line that sticks in my mind most came to me 25 years ago. Some of my readers know that my husband, Norm Tilford, died in November 1997. Some of you know he perished when his small plane went down in icing conditions in a remote part of the Texas hill country. And some of you may even know it was a month to the day that his plane, and his body, were found by a hunter who noticed that the top of a tall tree looked different, broken, since the last time he’d been out that way (and he’d read the ad I’d run in the Blanco County News, among many other rural newspapers, asking people to look for the plane).
During the month Norm was missing, hundreds helped with the search—Civil Air Patrol pilots, family, friends, professional colleagues, and even kind strangers. It was much publicized, a choice I made in the hope that the more who knew, the better the chances someone would find the plane, and Norm. Small planes are hard to spot in big country, and I dreaded being one of those stories in which it was located too late, a rescue turned to a recovery.
Upon arriving home after a day of searching lake shores for debris, the phone began ringing as I unlocked the door. I ran to pick it up and “someone” said that “something.”
It was decades before I could write about it. Here is an excerpt from the personal essay I titled Not the Real Estate (evoking Norm’s oft-spoken belief that “home is where we both are, not the real estate”):
I worked with the Bryan Police Department, depending on Zeta, the officer who worked on their missing person cases. She leveled with me from the start.
“More often than we like,” she said, “these cases have a negative outcome.”
She gently asked questions about our marriage, made helpful suggestions for the search, and provided perspective I didn’t want to hear but needed to. She conceded, reluctantly, her large brown eyes wide and caring, there was always a chance.
I fielded awkward phone calls from people projecting their private dramas onto my all-too-public one. One woman matter-of-factly informed me that my husband wasn’t missing at all.
“Your husband ran off with one of his students,” she said, “a new young honey, just like my husband did. He’ll call to dump you, dear. Don’t spend your time worrying. Get a lawyer.”
Stunned anyone would make that kind of call, I stammered, “Thank you for your concern?” before hanging up. Minutes later, I came up with what should have been my response, “No, ma’am, Norm hasn’t run off with a young honey. I am his young honey.”
That was my perfect line.
Just to be clear, I did not steal Norm from another woman, older or otherwise, though I was quite a bit younger than he. Any stealing that went on with us was of each other’s hearts—thefts of the best possible kind. Twenty-five years later, his fearless heart still inspires me to fulfill dreams—one he gave me, to sail, and one I had that Norm never failed to encourage, to write.
Note: Not the Real Estate was published in bosque 9 literary journal in November 2019. If you’d like to read the complete story, among many other fine essays, short stories, and poems, the issue is available for purchase here.
Geologists study the earth and the processes that shape it. Writers study the human heart and the processes that shape it. The GeologistWriter builds a bridge between the two. Come across it with me!
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