 
Wild Shores

A Memoir

My dysfunctional dad, cancer, & the adventures of life

By Rebecca Burg

### Wild Shores

By Rebecca Burg

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Rebecca Burg

~

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Introduction

"I stole my grandma's antique vibrator," mom said. Red faced, she looked away, stifling laughter with her napkin. We were in a pizza joint, socializing and catching up on old times. Watching my brows hitch upwards in amusement, mom waved her hand. "I'm not kidding. A really old vibrator. You know I was a little bit of a trouble maker growing up."

Mom was sharing some early teenage memories of regular visits to her grandmother and styling the elderly woman's hair. During one visit, mom had blundered across a vintage vibrator in the closet and was compelled to take it. She had no idea why she pilfered the sex toy and never did anything with it. She just had to have it.

In 1970, at the age of seventeen, this self-described trouble maker had become pregnant with me. She was an unemployed teenaged hippie married to a boy from a seafaring family who'd just finished serving in the Army and worked nights at a donut shop. The young couple desperately wanted to escape city life and live closer to nature. Dad wanted to hunt game in the woods, grow his own food, and fish along wild shores. Uncertain what she wanted, mom focused on raising two kids while entertaining a distant dream of having a successful career. No matter what, life wasn't destined to be dull.

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This little book shares the trials of growing up with a physically abusive alcoholic parent, overcoming adversity, and learning how to take charge in life. It's also about the importance of having fun and finding meaning no matter the circumstances. Each life episode, positive or negative, is a learning opportunity. A chance to discover who we really are. These life stories are not in chronological order. Instead they mirror the convoluted river of human memory, a random flow along meaningful points in time. There are rapids and calms, depths and shallows. Each life moment matters. That's what we're here for.

For ease of reading, and entertainment value, dialogue and events have been written with the same style used in fiction. Despite this style, these stories are factual. With earlier memories during childhood years dialogue has been recreated as authentically as possible. In later years, I'd carry my writer's notebook and camera with me everywhere, recording anything of interest. As the saying goes, truth is stranger than fiction.
Chapter 1

Frozen Shores. 1978

"There's nowhere to pee," I said. I'd been crossing my legs for what felt like an eternity. We were outdoors on a frozen lake in a remote, rural location. There were no bathrooms and, as a seven-year-old, I had a tiny bladder.

"All right then," dad said, pointing. "Go over there behind that snowdrift."

"I'll freeze," I said with a whine, shuddering at the prospect of exposure to the icy air. Not unusual for Wisconsin in mid-winter, the temperature had plunged several degrees Fahrenheit below zero. Bladder pinched in distress, I scrambled over the lumpy piles of snow. The white mass had been shoveled from a small portion of the lake.

When we'd arrived earlier in the day, dad had cleared enough snow to expose a long and narrow section of ice. His strategy involved augering a few fishing holes along the strip. The lake's depth had been considered and at least one hole was over a shallow spot and another over deeper water. We'd fish the various holes and enjoy a little contest to see which depth yielded the largest fish.

The snow glittered silver in the approaching twilight. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. I hastily peeled the awkward one-piece snowsuit away from my upper body. Teeth chattering, I left the suit's bottom half over my lower legs and yanked my pants down. Shoving the loose portion of the suit aside, I crouched and did my business.

Scrambling away from the frozen toilet, I tugged the suit on and gasped, startled by a shock of chilled wetness. The realization slowly sinking in, I glanced behind me. No yellow snow. I'd pissed on the snow suit. Too young to fully grasp the dynamics of fluids under pressure, I'd naively expected the stream to fall straight down. Instead, it had emerged in an arc and coated the inside of my suit. Horrified, I stood in the cold and shivered, unwilling to zip up. Unfortunately, the wet fabric was still warmer than exposure to the bitter, below zero winter air. I slowly zipped up. My skin tensed, trying to shrink away from the disgusting dampness.

"Why're you walking funny?" Dad asked when I returned to the fishing hole. "Hmm, you slip on the ice again?"

"I went potty. On myself." Embarrassed as hell, I gazed at my rubber boots. Nose running from the cold, I sniffled, feeling pitiable and gross.

"Now why'd you do that for, eh?" Seated on an overturned bucket, Dad quizzically studied my hunched form. He grabbed the aluminum strainer and scooped chunks of ice from the fishing hole. It made a metallic clinking sound. "Ah well. It's getting dark anyways." He stood with a sigh and glanced toward a distant hole he'd drilled, which was covered with a tip-up. The contraption's little orange flag would spring up whenever a fish hit the line that dangled from it. "Let's get the gear from over there and call it a day."

Backside clammy and smelling like a public bathroom, I stacked our frozen catch, about two dozen bluegill and crappie, into a bag. Dad piled his gear in the bucket and set it near the ice auger on our old toboggan. We trudged through the snow over the lake, dad pulling the wooden sled. It wasn't late enough in the season to risk driving out on the ice.

When we reached dad's truck, I quickly settled inside but didn't remove my disgusting snow suit. The elderly Chevy pickup had holes rusted in the floor and its anemic heater was ineffective. Dad slowly turned the wheel, the truck crunching over icy ruts in the parking lot before settling onto the smooth main road. I gazed at the bleak and darkening landscape ahead. Mind set on clean clothes and home's warmth, I made a whining noise when dad pulled up to a tavern.

"Just a short visit, eh? Celebrate our catch," dad said, smacking his gloved hands together as if he were giving a pep talk. "You can warm up in here. They've got those funny pretzels you like."

"But dad..." My voice trailed off. Dad had no idea how awful I felt, and I was still too young to push my case or challenge his authority. Making a whining sound, I slithered out of the truck and angrily closed the door.

Miserable, marinating in my own urine, I sat in a corner and nursed a cranberry juice. Already on his second beer, dad swapped tall fishing tales with the other patrons. Most of them had been ice fishing on the lake. Their laughter and voices merged into an incoherent babble. Dazed, I watched an elderly man with a flyswatter slowly stalk behind each barstool. Anyone with a visible butt crack was given a swift smack.

A massive jar of dyed pickled eggs sat near the bar's cash register. I wondered if anyone actually ate those. The jar was full, so I guessed not. A box of blind robins, a kind of salted fish jerky, sat near the eggs. The webby haze of cigarette smoke hung overhead. Dad was smoking his pipe and the others were filling the ashtrays on the bar. I wrinkled my nose. Piss, stale beer, and cigarettes. Yuck.

Eyes blurring, I gazed into the remainder of my juice and fantasized about Hawaii. After an excruciatingly long time, we finally left. Dad drove home in silence, the pickup randomly weaving, speeding up and then slowing down. By the time we made it home, I raced to the bath and scrubbed my irritated skin. Dad promptly dragged mom into an argument. I had a suspicion this was the beginning of the end. The end of a naïve child's perception of a parent as an invincible, god-like being.
Chapter 2

Guilty as Charged. 1979

Before becoming too heavily involved in the art of drinking, dad was highly inventive. A fine diesel mechanic, he possessed an engineer's mind. The addition of his strong sense of frugality made for some amusing innovations.

"Have you seen my makeup case?" Mom asked one Saturday afternoon. "And stockings?" To demonstrate, she opened a plastic egg shaped object and popped out a crumpled pair of nylons. She wiggled the delicate wad in front of my nose as if I were a bloodhound ready to scent and track the missing underthings.

Scowling, mom sighed. "This is my last pair. There were three more just like this one. I'm not making this up."

"Uh ... hmmm," I managed, stalling. Lowered gaze guiltily flicking from side to side, I regained my composure and glanced up. "I think I know about the makeup. Maybe." I was eager to divert mom's attention from the nylons.

"You want to show me?" Mom lasered me with that official authoritative stare parents were so good at.

"Follow me." I led her to Krista's room. Five years younger, my only sibling hadn't yet caught on to the concept of private property. She was also going through a princess stage no thanks to Disney and the bizarre offerings on children's television. Krista wasn't in her room.

Also aware of the princess phase, mom gave Krista's room a cursory search. The case's whereabouts remained a mystery. "Where's your sister?"

Defeated, I thought hard. I couldn't allow mom's attention to refocus on those burgled panty hose. I led her through the rest of the house, but Krista was nowhere to be seen. It was late winter, icy and cold, and playing outside wasn't an attractive prospect. I hadn't checked the basement, but I knew Krista wouldn't go there alone. Not after I'd told her those ghost stories. I had one last hope to solve the mystery and raced for the guest room.

"Maybe here," I said, dashing toward the room's huge closet. That closet, a small room in itself, wasn't scary at all and served as a perfect kid headquarters. Depending on what we were doing and which one of our playmates was visiting, the space served as a fort, a cave, NASA's control room, and in Krista's case, a princess castle.

I shoved the closet's sliding door aside. Out tumbled a squeaking, child sized mass of white fabric. A flashlight lantern and a small folding tray stacked with mom's ransacked cosmetics followed. A rainbow of lipstick tubes, brow pencils, and eyeshadow compacts scattered over the carpet. The rustling fabric mass, still peeping in protest, struggled to stand. Eyes boggling, mom's mouth opened and closed like surprised guppy.

Krista had draped herself in an old wedding dress and appeared as if she'd tried on every tint in the makeup case. A construction paper crown topped her head. The five-year-old innocently looked up with a face resembling a cross between a Picasso and a Jackson Pollock masterpiece.

"What?" Krista said.

I grunted into my fist, cramming it over my twitching lips in an effort to suppress helpless laughter. The corners of her mouth quirking up, mom briefly glanced away and cleared her throat. Composure regained, she folded her arms and frowned. While mom lectured her tiny royal highness about burglarizing make up, not to mention the taboos of wearing it at her tender age, I tiptoed away.

Dad was in the garage, a gasoline scented man haven with a naughty calendar pinned to the inside door of a tool cabinet. He'd gained a local reputation for his mechanic's skills and he repaired small engines in his spare time. He was hunched over an oily arrangement of parts on a workbench. "Mom knows about the panty hose," I said, fidgeting in place.

Affecting a mock serious expression, dad wiped his hands on a stained rag. "I'll take the heat." He slid a crate of boating gear from under a storage rack and gazed at three small, homemade nets. "We just won't make any more of these for a while. Maybe after some time, your mom'll forget, eh?" Dad gave me a conspiratorial grin.

Mirroring dad's smile, I inspected our handiwork. We'd crafted the nets out of mom's nylons and wire coat hangers. We planned to use them as bait and minnow scoops, and for catching crawfish. I looked forward to the first warm ice-free day of fishing. Winter's ice fishing had been brutal and I'd been haunted by nightmares about peeing in my clothes.

Mom hadn't forgotten about her absent nylons. When cornered, dad and I pleaded guilty to the burglary of coat hangers and the destruction of delicate lady's underthings. Krista was on the naughty list for impersonating a princess and underage cosmetics abuse. All three of us mischief makers served time by way of extra household chores.

Chapter 3

Tame Wild Life. 1979

Long neck raised, the white goose stood as tall as I was. Fussing and honking, she gave her wings a single flap and swiftly waddled toward me. Neck hypnotically swaying, the goose emitted a frightful hiss. I could see the sandpapery teeth in her gaping beak.

"Gerty?" I said, stepping backwards. Gerty the goose was normally friendly and considered me to be a part of her flock. We were buds. I didn't understand her sudden change of heart. Oddly, Gerty's attention was focused on the top of my head. Neck rearing like a snake's, she struck out and lashed at my knit cap. The hat spun off my head. Gerty shook her tail and resumed her amiable behavior.

"What are you doing you crazy goose?" I patted the bird's soft back. "You don't like my hat?" Grabbing the cap, I brushed it off and took it in the house. I rummaged through a small pile of headwear, mostly yarn caps knit by grandma's skilled hands, and found one of a different color. I returned outside.

Gerty promptly pecked that hat off my head as well. "Crazy goose who hates hats," I said, balling the cap in my jacket pocket. Gerty shook her tail and lightly tapped my arm with her beak. She strutted across the lawn, randomly pecking at the grass. That bird knew she was boss and I was fine with that. It was unusual that she'd go so far as to dictate how I dressed. My hat had to be removed whenever I was in her presence, like a subject humbly deferring to her long-necked royal highness. Between Krista and Gerty, I was engulfed in royalty.

It was a crisp fall afternoon and the lawn had started to brown. Soon frost would form in the mornings and the brittle grass would crackle when walked on. The birds, including Gerty, would shelter in a warm barn like building. Four years had passed since we moved to this rural locale. Though we'd always be humorously referred to as 'slickers' by the area's farmers, they were thrilled to share their lifestyle. As a gosling Gerty had been given to us by a neighboring dairy farmer. We'd also ended up with a flock of mallard ducks, wild but friendly doves, chickens, and pet parrots.

I tugged a baggie full of wheat from my pocket. A treat for Gerty. While her blunt beak scooped the snack from my cupped hands, I distractedly watched a car roll past our property. The vehicle stopped about a half mile away and down into a shallow, forested valley. I strolled toward the yard's edge to get a better look. We were on a hill so I had a good view. I watched the car's door jerk open. A pair of arms reached out and tossed a small dark blob into the weedy ditch beyond the road's gravel shoulder. The strange vehicle drove away.

Eyes straining in the dying sunlight, I stared at the blob and frowned. "Stupid litterbug jerks," I said out loud. Gerty trumpeted behind me. The distant black shape started moving. "Woah ... hey, dad!" I shouted, racing toward the garage behind the house. "Daaaad!"

"What is it, you okay?" Dad tilted his head, sweeping me with a concerned gaze. "What's going on?" Realizing I was unhurt, he returned his attention to a dented utility trailer and picked up a grease gun.

I was bouncing up and down, breathless with excitement. "Someone threw garbage out below the hill and it's moving!"

"Moving?" Dad turned and wiped his hands on his jeans. "It's getting dark kiddo, you probably just saw shadows."

"It moved, I swear. It was flopping in the ditch like a fish." I flicked a glance in the direction of the valley and then looked up at dad with pleading eyes. "Can you come with me to see?" Curiosity had taken hold, but I was afraid to be near the woods at night. An unidentified flopping black blob only raised the spookiness level.

Dad sighed and rubbed his stubbled chin. "All right, but we have to make it quick. If you're pulling my leg and there's nothing there, you're helping me clean the garage tomorrow."

I vigorously nodded. Dad grabbed a flashlight and we scurried down the road and into the valley. The forest's edge was dark and ominous. I stopped where the car had dumped its mystery cargo and promptly started to panic. The small black blob was nowhere in sight.

Dad skimmed the ditch with the light. "So where's this moving garbage?"

Gravel crunching under my sneakers, I dashed back and forth along the road's shoulder. "It was right-"

"Wait, shh!" Dad interrupted, "You hear that?" We froze, ears straining. Something rustled in the taller weeds closest to the woods. We watched the browned grass abruptly thrash in the flashlight's beam. Gasping, I clutched dad's jacket. Something unseen rushed toward us. I stiffened. Before we could react, a dark blur flung itself against dad's legs.

"Woah!" Dad crouched, a shivering puppy whimpering and licking his hands. "Huh, a black Labrador ... hey little guy. Look, he was born with a crooked leg. It's not hurting him though, he seems pretty healthy." He gently handed me the wriggling pup, all ears and paws. "We can't leave a little puppy here, he'll freeze or starve."

The pup calmed somewhat and I zipped him into my jacket for the walk home. Cradling him like a baby, I was captivated by the silken softness of his fur. Dad spoke, his words reflecting my own thoughts.

"Who the hell- uh, heck, would throw away a cute little innocent puppy like that? Because he's got a crooked leg? If I find the son of a bi- , uh, sicko who did this, I'll ...." Dad sucked air through clenched teeth and smacked his palm with a fist. He looked at me. "We can take care of him until we match him up with a good home. Like when the cat had her kittens. Alright?"

"Alright." I stroked the puppy's head and he licked my cheek. A crooked leg had not stopped that pup from doing normal dog things. It sure didn't reduce his capacity for affection. The bum leg gave him an almost comical wiggling fish-like motion when he walked, but that was it. Rejecting another being for having a different appearance was unfathomable from my child's perspective.

We'd frequently served as an unwitting foster home for an eclectic variety of animals. Dad had a thing for rescuing wildlife, from raising baby raccoons that lost their mother to saving fish from dying in a drained pond at a construction site. Dad also kept freshwater fish and crabs in a massive, homemade aquarium. Usually the animals were rehabilitated until they were strong enough to survive on their own or be adopted into loving families.

Being a hand of support and a voice for those who couldn't speak were some of the values dad had instilled. Through his love of the natural world he had engendered my own lifelong fascination with, and great respect for, the outdoors.
Chapter 4

The Nope River. 2015

There's something irresistible about threading a kayak through a stream in a remote, natural setting. Neil and I were exploring one of the many channels in the Ten Thousand Islands along Florida's southwest coast. Three weeks had passed since the last round of chemotherapy treatment for cancer and I longed to be more active in the outdoors. Exercise and movement seemed to aid in recovery after each infusion of powerful, rather toxic drugs. Bald head protected by a hat, dressed in a baggy fisherman's sun shirt, I was ready to go.

Too small for powered boats, the waterway we'd entered was narrow, but wide enough in most places to allow our kayaks some turn around space. The mangroves had created a tunnel, their crowns meeting over our heads while their chaotically woven roots covered the shores. Sunlight fanned through openings in the leafy canopy. In areas where the sun managed to spear the water's surface, I could see a mud bottom. The tea tinted water was transparent here.

Lazy ripples from my kayak's slow passage crumpled the mirrored surface. I heard Neil's paddle splash behind me. Mesmerized by the natural beauty, I failed to judge the irregular spacing of several dangling mangrove root runners alongside me. My kayak scraped to a sudden halt. Shortly after, there was a hollow plastic THUNK as Neil plowed into my stern. The jolt freed my boat, squirting it like a melon seed into an opening ahead.

"Hey!" Neil said, chuckling. "You just stopped in front of me. Let me lead."

"I got stuck wiseass." My kayak spun sideways. Neil's bow T-boned me just as he became wedged in the same trap.

"Oops, sorry," he said. "I didn't know. You doing okay so far?"

"Yeah. I'm just clumsy." I let him pass after he pulled his boat free. Neil had greater experience in a kayak and was able to glide along with little effort. I inexpertly splashed and snake waked behind him, stopping every few minutes to take photos with a waterproof camera. I was enthralled. The rich brine scent of a falling tide laced the humid air. Mangrove crabs scuttled at our approach. Minnows darted below. Occasionally we'd hear the honk of a heron and its flapping, twig snapping retreat. I removed my hat and took a swig from a water bottle. Chemo had reduced my stamina, but I paced myself with care.

Our route narrowed, the dense mangrove maze squeezing inward. Still entranced by the wild mystique, we continued creeping forward. It was like floating through a tunnel of deep greens and browns. Ahead, Neil slowed when his paddle hit an overhead branch and debris rained over his kayak.

"Oh!" He exclaimed, brushing the leaves and twigs from his boat. "Shit... they're everywhere!" Angular elbows jutting wildly, he hastily reversed.

Unable to understand why Neil would fret over a sprinkling of leaves, I shifted, allowing him to pull alongside. "Don't look up," He said with a distressed expression.

I looked up.

"Sonofa..." Voice fading, I exhaled in an unsteady whoosh.

Strung between the trees and directly overhead were nebulous masses of spider webs. Suspended on these great, hammock-like weavings were countless spiders. Fat bodies. Long bristly legs. All peaceably lounging inches above our heads. Hundreds of them. Gulping hard, I slowly replaced my hat.

Neil was craning his neck. "As long as you don't hit the branches above they won't fall on you."

"Uh-sure," I said with a thin squeak. My voice lowered to a whisper, as if speaking normally would somehow agitate the creatures overhead. "What's the shortest route out of here?"

"We should almost be through. Hold on-" Neil consulted the GPS feature on his smartphone, which locked onto a feeble signal of only one bar. "Shit. Still loading ... uhm ... okaaay, can see it ahead. We keep going. This dumps back out on the main channel. Turning around would be much longer." He resealed the phone's waterproof bag.

"Oh hell, alright. You still leading?"

"Yeah. Just be careful not to ram into me."

I nodded and Neil pulled ahead. The twisted roots and straggly runners seemed more sinister somehow. Our narrow tunnel grew dim, the leafy foliage thicker. In some places we had to grab the vine-like runners to pull our kayaks through the confined spaces. The current, which was opposing us, seemed stronger. At one point, it pushed my bow to the side, ramming it into a mass of roots.

Trying to shove away, I bounced my paddle against a low branch above. Twigs and a cluster of spiders rained onto the bow. Stifling a rising panic, I used the paddle in an attempt to brush them off. Two of the spiders and their sticky webbing adhered to its blade.

"Ah!" I squawked, kayak tipping precariously while I tried to shake the spiders free. Water splashed over my thighs. Clinging tightly, the long legged arachnids had shifted farther up the paddle. I squealed.

"You alright?" Neil slowed and turned his head.

"Uhh. Yes?" The spiders crawled toward my hands. "No!" I dropped the paddle. "I hate bugs!"

Neil edged closer. "I can help?"

"Just ... freaking spiders. Raining on stuff." Grabbing a mangrove root, I pushed backwards and, straining, reached for my paddle. It had spun in the current and wedged along a net of runners astern. "Okay, got it."

"I don't think they're poisonous," Neil assured me. "But like most any spider, they can bite." He resumed his forward progress.

Not reassured at all, I inspected the paddle. Its hitchhikers were gone. Paranoid now, I roughly swept the kayak with my hat. "You sure they're not poisonous?" I asked.

Neil shrugged. "I don't know."

"Gee, I feel better now," I said with a smirk. I shook the hat out and returned it to my head. Dangling under its brim, unfocused in front of my eyes, was a spider. Shrieking, I threw the hat into the water. "Dammit!" I tried to snag it with the paddle, but the hat slid past in the current.

"You sure you don't need a hand?"

"You'd have to squeeze behind me. Darn hat...." I said, breathless. Using a broken stick, I tried to hook my hat. The soggy cap was eventually recovered and we carefully pulled ourselves through the horror show tunnel without further complication. From then on, when entering a mangrove river in our kayaks, we checked to see what might lurk above us. Everything has its place along these wild shores. Spiders or not, any day on the water far surpassed a day in the chemo infusion room.

Video link, footage of the natural beauty in the kayak without the spiders or ensuing panic: https://youtu.be/_KBBpNx9JHs
Chapter 5

Bad Luck Lake. 1982

Dad's unstable behavior continued to increase. It was as if he'd become another person and we couldn't do a thing about it. Greater numbers of empty booze bottles would be found hidden around the house. Arguments and fights with mom behind closed doors increased in loudness and frequency. Krista and I pretended things were still ordinary, but they weren't. I grasped at the days where there was still a hint of normalcy.

Dad and I had roused before sunrise, whispering excitedly and tiptoeing around the house while we made lunches and gathered fishing gear. Trusty old jon boat in tow, dad drove us toward a new wild shore. The beat up, olive drab aluminum rowboat was excellent for accessing small bodies of water. We were headed to a forested nature preserve and lake. The use of motorized vessels had been banned but fishing was allowed.

We pulled up to a weed fringed boat ramp, the eastern horizon an expanding pastel glow. Tendrils of mist swirled over the lake's surface, the effects of cool air over warm water. Unseen birds whistled. I inhaled the earthy fragrance of wet trees and lake water. It was early fall and the leaves were already beginning to change color. Dad secured the jon boat to a crooked wooden pier while I pulled our gear from the pickup.

"Sure is nice out. Hey, you get the worm box?" He asked, assuring we had what we needed before he moved the truck. I nodded, grinning at the bounce in dad's step. His pleasure with the outdoors was contagious. I boarded the little boat and set the worm box near my feet. The box was full of loose dirt and live night crawlers that we'd hunted by flashlight the evening before. Panfish loved these large earthworms. Thermos pinched between his knees, dad pushed away from the pier and rowed toward the lake's center.

I fished using bobbers and the worms. Dad casted for bass and other elusive species, primed by the possibility of discovering what monsters lurked below. Soon, a few other people had arrived and were paddling canoes along the wooded shore in the distance. The rising sun warmed the air and I took off my jacket. So far, we'd accumulated several plump keepers.

Mid-morning, we lost our anchor, dad realizing he hadn't tied it to the boat. It was an unusual mistake for a normally meticulous individual. Annoyed with himself, dad set his pole down and we unwrapped our sandwiches for an early lunch. After eating, we fished the lake's blue depths with renewed vigor. The anchorless boat slowly drifted and dad would impatiently row it back to the lake's center.

"Holy sh-" Dad loudly cleared his throat. "I mean holy cow!" He was reeling in after a long cast when something had hit the plug. He tried setting the hook, but it didn't take. He stood and cast again.

"What do you think it is?" I asked, straightening.

"I dunno." Dad worked the plug, eyes focused on the spot where he'd felt the bite. "It was big for sure. Hit the lure hard but missed the hooks." Reeling in, he raised the rod and squinted at the plug. There was a slight slur in his voice. "Look at this, eh? Tooth marks!"

I fingered the gashes in the lure's iridescent surface. "Whoa...."

"Muskie probably. Glad I put a leader on." Eyes pinned to the water, dad wound up for another cast. He flung the plug as far as he could and promptly lost his balance. The jon boat tilted wildly. Gear slid. Water swirling over my feet, I dove toward the high end. Quick thinking, dad bodily launched himself into the lake to avoid overturning the boat. He belly flopped with a mighty splash. It happened within a mere second's time.

Dad surfaced, shaking his head while spluttering and cursing. Treading water, he roughly swiped a piece of seaweed from his hair. He reached for the jon boat's rear corner and glanced about to see if the canoers had noticed. They were too far away.

"You okay?" I asked, biting my lip.

He spat lake water and his expression darkened. "Yeah. I'm okay I guess, but I lost my rod."

"Is the water deep?"

Dad frowned, the groove between his brows deepening. "Yeah. Seaweed down there too. The hell if I'm gonna find ... I mean, the heck-" He ran a wet hand along the jon boat's back edges. "Hey, where's the live basket?"

"It should be hanging-" I peered at the spot where the basket had been clipped to the boat's stern. It was missing. "Oh...."

"Gawddammit! I knocked it off the boat." Nostrils flaring, he dog paddled backwards, frantically searching the water around him. "All those fish.... Jeezus, what's next for crying out loud!" He punched the lake's surface with a fist. "That's it. We're going home." Using his mechanic's upper body strength, he slid into the boat from the stern. Seething in silence, forearm muscles bulging, he rowed toward the ramp. I watched dad's empty thermos rolling near his feet and wondered what it had contained.
Chapter 6

Pervert Onboard. Key West, 2010

"Isn't that sexual harassment?" I said. "Like, officially, as in can we call the cops?" Dumfounded, I'd just watched a dumpy, potbellied man go out of his way to display his private parts to a recreational fishing boat. The boat had a family with kids onboard. Kids! I glared at the pervert's face as we passed by. He stood on his tiny sailboat with his pubes now thrust toward us, his new target. Gross. What the hell dude?

Focused on their mission, Captain Bill and his two friends merely shrugged and resumed organizing their snorkel gear. It was late summer and lobster season had begun in the Florida Keys. Bill and his friends were eager to hunt these clawless crustaceans, which were a type of crawfish. I was along for some fun in the sun and was a convenient guest who enjoyed the hunt but didn't eat the catch. My share would go to the fellows. It turned out to be an incredible day on the water, the remainder of it spent well away from the flasher.

Unfortunately, the lone, middle aged pervert living on a shabby sailboat that never sailed became a permanent fixture along a popular boating channel near Key West. It was an unpleasant stain in an otherwise peaceful, natural area. Whenever I passed through, I'd give the Creeper a wide berth. He'd still make a concerted effort to display his unsavory body bits, something he did to any passerby. Accessing prime snorkeling and boating spots always meant having to tiptoe past the naked guy while fervently hoping he wouldn't see us.

There was a vast difference between the handful of local nudists relaxing in the privacy of their anchored boats and the Creeper. If one of the nudists spied an approaching vessel, they'd conceal their personal effects with a strategically placed hand or object. The old nudist pirate, Portside Tom, was shy about his lack of tan lines and would duck out of sight completely. As most nudists are, these boaters were discreet and polite. None of them would ambush you as you neared, jumping out on deck to waggle their bits in your startled face. Only the Creeper did that. He really wanted you to get a long, painful look.
Chapter 7

Nudity is Contagious. Boca Grande, 2010

"Hide your face," Curtis said with a mischievous snort. "Donut shot."

Overly fond of donuts, I absently looked. The Creeper's pale, sagging buttocks looked back. He was bending over and pretending to adjust something on deck, one of his most common ploys. "Are you freaking kidding me?" Gagging, I turned my back from the disturbing scene and gaped at Curtis while he howled at my comical reaction.

"It's like seeing a gross dead thing on the side of the road," Curtis explained. "You can't help looking at it. Morbid curiosity, you know?"

"Gahhhh...I want to claw my eyes out!" Neil groaned and vigorously rubbed his face. "Shit Curtis, go faster!" Our good friend, who looked like a cross between Albert Einstein and Mark Twain, goosed the throttle on his little work boat. We shot past the Creeper's moldy butt crack and toward the shimmery, shallow waters of what mariners called the Lakes.

"A hole in one, ha ha!" Curtis shouted over the outboard's noise, shaking his head.

"Donuts will never be the same for me," I said, peevish. Screw morbid curiosity.

Surrounded by islets and tidal flats, the Lakes offered a sheltered shortcut for small vessels to access the uninhabited island of Boca Grande, or "mouth big" in Spanish. The islet is about fourteen miles west of Key West harbor. It was mid-week and late summer, an excellent opportunity to find this beautiful spot free of visitors. Seeking an escape for the day, we'd packed picnic and beach supplies. Our picnic fare included a jug of strong homemade Cuban sangria, a beverage concocted from fresh fruit, red wine, and coconut rum.

To our delight, we had the entire area to ourselves, and would for the entire visit. After securing Curtis's boat near the shore, we walked along Boca Grand's sandy stretch. I squinted at a few wispy clouds above. We carefully stepped around the translucent pink disks of moon jellyfish that had washed ashore.

The beach was an electric white crescent that sliced along turquoise water. Fragments of a smashed Cuban refugee boat and a diesel engine block melting with rust were scattered along the western shore. Neil played stump-the-mechanic and coaxed me into identifying the engine's barely recognizable components. We tried to explore the island's interior, which was a scratchy jumble of greenery comprised of shrub, sea grapes, mangroves, and one lone coconut palm.

The three of us fashioned a pit style barbecue in the sand with hot coals and foil pans. Earlier, I'd wrapped food and seasonings in aluminum foil. This was buried in the pit over the hot coals for a slow cooking on the beach. The area was marked with sticks and foil so no one would tread on it. Satisfied dinner was established, we declared an early happy hour. Sangria filled cups in hand, we resumed exploration of the island. We embraced the simple joy of an ocean escape and the opportunity to relax in the company of treasured friends. The exotic setting was the icing on the cake.

A few hours later, we checked our dinner and discovered that a rising tide had inundated the pit. The coals were extinguished, the food raw. We'd been oblivious of the season's unusually high tide, which occasionally occurred when the moon and seasonal factors were just right. Dinner was ruined. Chiding ourselves for our lack of foresight, we dug into the side dishes we'd brought. The simple fare of bakery bread, hummus, olives, and blue corn chips was surprisingly satisfying.

"What's in here?" Curtis asked, raising his cup of sangria and sniffing it. "It's really good, but seems kind of strong." We were sitting in his boat, enjoying our partial picnic.

Between bites of bread, I proudly recited the recipe given to me by a Cuban friend.

"There's coconut rum in it?" Neil asked, an olive slipping from his grip. It rolled past my foot. Brows scrunched, Neil peered into his cup. "I taste the coconut, but not rum. How much?"

"Recipe said to use the whole bottle."

"Oh! Well that explains it," Curtis said.

"Hmm?" I raised the jug of sangria and swished its contents around. Chunks of fruit swirled in the potent, red liquid.

"We were supposed to be mixing it with club soda," Curtis explained, one of his bushy brows lifting. "It's way stronger than we thought. Heh-heh, thought it was just made from wine..."

"Yeah, you can't tell there's rum in it and it sneaks up on you." Neil waved his cup in the air. "And I'm drunk."

Curtis started laughing. "Me too!"

I nodded, feeling giddy and mildly dizzy. "Yep." I glanced at Neil. "Hey, where's your pants?"

Nonplussed, Neil glanced at his bare legs. He looked up and shrugged. "I'm going swimming!" He yanked his shirt off and splashed into the translucent sea. Ducking carelessly thrown spray, Curtis and I watched Neil's sudden departure.

I coughed on my last sip of too-strong sangria. "That damned naked guy and his flashing rubbed off on Neil," I said.

"Yeah, but Neil's not flashing strangers." Rubbing his chin in mock deep thought, Curtis looked around. "There's been no one here at all...." We still had the entire area to ourselves.

"The water's warm!" Neil shouted, waving. We watched him swim toward the inlet that snaked into Boca Grand's wild interior.

"I haven't skinny dipped in ages," I said, slipping out of my shirt and shorts. Curtis's brows hitched upwards, eyes bouncing from my nipples to the wooly, dark triangle below. No, I didn't shave down there.

Reining in his eyeballs, Curtis reached for his shirt. "Wooh! I'm swimming too." His clothes were swiftly left on the pile in his boat and we splashed into the balmy sea to follow Neil.

The sangria had erased our inhibitions and dosed us with a high level of silliness. The moment of naked freedom between trusted friends was without pressure. There were plenty of glances, but no overt physical demands. No judgement. We were like kids, innocent and frivolous. There was a sweet freedom to lose ourselves, and our clothes, while completely out of sight of civilization. For the moment, schedules, taxes, and the mundane routine no longer existed.

After braving the mangrove snarled river, we returned to the inlet's mouth and took turns using an old swing that someone had tied there long ago.

"Uh, oh..." Curtis said after we'd left the swing and meandered into deeper water. "Ouch!" He recoiled with a splash.

"What is it?" Neil said.

"Those moon jellies." Curtis froze and sucked in his breath, eyes skipping along the water's surface. "I think one grazed my ... ahem-" He shuddered.

"I forgot about those," Neil said. "Shit, they're coming in on this tide."

Curtis gazed longingly at his distant boat. "Let's get out of here ... slowly." Watching the water ahead for the nearly invisible jellyfish, we picked our way toward safety. The stinging creatures had instantly sobered us.

Flopping onto the boat like distressed seals, we toweled dry and tallied our stings before getting dressed. Curtis and I had been grazed, mostly on our arms and legs. I had a red welt on my butt cheek and it hurt to sit down. Neil had been untouched, or wasn't as sensitive to the jellyfish's short tendrils. We'd been lucky though, our stings weren't serious. They manifested as rash-like streaks accompanied by a mild burning sensation. The effects were temporary and our skin would recover no worse for the wear.

Curtis endured the worst of the jellyfish's attention with an uncomfortable sting to his masculinity. With his characteristic sense of good humor, he lamented of the unfairness of it all; he gets into trouble for one secretive backcountry skinny dip, yet the Creeper freely gets away with daily public displays.

We never had the satisfaction of seeing the Creeper get arrested for flashing tourists and locals. He wasn't stung by jellyfish, nor plinked by a BB gun toting pirate. Sadly, the enigmatic stranger did meet his demise and it had nothing to do with the consequences of his flashing. Due to complications from copious alcohol consumption on a regular basis, the Creeper had died in a hospital. We never discovered what had compelled him to behave as he did. He'd perfected the art of repelling people, but not the delicate diplomacy of attracting and making friends.

Video from another trip to Boca Grande (and a bit beyond), includes the notorious Moon Jellyfish: https://youtu.be/YT7C_XM0ZEY
Chapter 8

Little Miss Homemaker Who? Mid 1990s

Before reclaiming my freedom and living aboard a seasonally nomadic sailboat, I felt lucky to experience life as a homeowner for a brief time. It took a sincere attempt at the domestic routine to learn that I was terrible at it. I wasn't even adept at faking it.

"Oh, wow ... you added more plants," my friend Lisa said when she came for a second visit to my little, new-to-me house. Her eyes drifted around the tangle of greenery as she quizzically scratched her head. Citrus trees in large pots lined one wall. "So many plants...."

"I love plants," I said, pouring a cup of water around one of the trees. "Oh, and I want to thank you for that tea housewarming gift." I didn't mention its tongue-shrinking bitter taste. "Is it medicinal?" The chunky loose tea Lisa had given me smelled wonderful and looked like a bouquet. Oddly, its poor flavor did not reflect its aesthetics.

Lisa's purple penciled brows wormed together. "What tea?"

I reached for the bag on the kitchen counter. "The gift ... this stuff you gave me. Medicinal right?"

Covering her mouth, Lisa muffled an unusually high pitched cough. "That's no tea!" Wide eyed, she snatched the bag from my hand and pointed at the label. "See this?" She looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or dial 911.

"Pot-poo-ree," I slowly said in a lame attempt to pronounce the label's title. I'd figured that was French for fancy tea.

"Really...." Lisa slowly exhaled. "It's a smelly decoration, you don't eat it. You didn't, um, really drink it did you?"

My voice was mousy. "A little." I took the bag of not-tea and examined the label. It didn't say anything about not being an herbal beverage, but what did I know. A smelly decoration?

"You feel okay?" Lisa looked me up and down, probably feeling guilty for giving me an innocent gift that I could get seriously sick on in my ignorance.

Shrugging, I patted my belly. "I feel great. It tasted like ass so I only drank half a mug."

Lisa held her sides and guffawed. "Potporri isn't drinkable. You just set it out and it makes the room smell nice."

I nodded, embarrassed and put in my place, the fantasy image of being a good homemaker evaporating. Savvy domestics did not consume the household decor.

After the inevitable jokes about floral poop and perfumed burps, Lisa and I resumed the reason for her visit. She emptied her bag of books and I retrieved a pile I'd been saving. We exchanged a diverse range of good reads over Chinese takeout while sharing horror stories about our nine to five working lives. The domestic stuff with its smelly decorations could wait.

I'd been so embarrassed by this event, when I dared to relay the story in later years, I'd tell it in the third person as if it had happened to someone else. You know, those stupid things that always happen to SWIM. (Someone who isn't me). Somehow, age has tempered my shame. The ability to laugh at ourselves and learning to embrace our flaws is a shortcut on the long path of self-acceptance.
Chapter 9

Health and Fear. 2015

"I believe the cancer had grown in underneath the scar tissue," the doctor told me. He leafed through the folder containing my biopsy results. It wasn't good.

After a boating injury several years ago, I'd lived with a tangle of inert scar tissue under the skin along the edge of my right breast. When something began to slowly grow around the old fibrous matter, concern sent me to the clinic for a biopsy. Because it was hidden by the scar tissue, the cancer had been developing for longer than I'd realized and spread deep in the nearby lymph nodes. It was an aggressive, hormone positive type of breast cancer.

My reaction was strangely calm. No crying, nor any overt emotional response. There was no point. There was nothing productive in feeling sorry for myself, shedding tears, or giving in to fear. I did feel anger however, an unproductive and impatient disgust with the frailties of my human form. Despite a healthy vegetarian diet since my teen years, exercise, fresh air and no deleterious vices, I still succumbed to a deadly disease. It was a random roll of the genetic dice. Tag, I'm it. The reality of physical death didn't bother me, but I did fear the pain that might accompany it. I also hated how cancer harmed the sensibilities of loved ones and close friends.

Before exiting the examination room, the doctor described how I would receive neoadjuvant chemotherapy, and probably radiation, to shrink the tumors before they were surgically removed. It would be a powerful mix of chemicals that caused baldness, stomach ailments, and a shattered immune system. Having little choice, I resigned to my fate. It was a shitty path to tread, but it was the only path. I would just have to walk tall and sneer defiantly into the face of fate. While I waited for the nurse to arrive and explain the chemotherapy in detail, a memory of a long ago museum trip surfaced.

I was seven years old and holding dad's callused hand as we followed mom and Krista into the section on Egypt. Dad and I strolled up to a large, transparent display. Pressing against the glass, I looked into the hollow eyes of a shriveled and skeletal face, its tortured black mouth gaping open in a silent scream. Squealing in return, I raced down the hall. Dad caught up in a few long strides and scooped me into his arms.

"That was just a mummy," dad explained. "It can't hurt you." He gently set me down.

Sniffling, I knuckled my eyes, which were blurred by tears. "It's a mommy?"

Dad snorted, chuckling. "No, it's called a muhh-mee. A kind of dead guy from Egypt."

"Oh." That made little sense, but I slowly nodded anyway.

He reached for my hand. "We have to go past the mummy to get to the next exhibit, okay?"

As we hastened past the shriveled, long dead human being, dad quizzed me on why I was so afraid of it.

"Scary mad dead skeleton," I said, whimpering. Why did its mouth have to be open like that?

"But why do you think it's so scary, eh?"

I shrugged and shook my head. Everything about it was scary.

Dad gave me a thoughtful look. "To stop being afraid of something, you have to learn more about it. You have to be the boss of it, you know? Learning about it gives you power over it. Hah, power! That person lived long ago and was probably just a regular guy. Someone's uncle ... maybe he went fishing all the time. Naw, he's not scary."

Dad went on to explain how the skin and body tissues can look unpleasant after drying out and sitting for so long. The facial muscles relax and the mouth falls open as it dries. The body wasn't angry or screaming. It just looked that way to an uninformed kid. Death could be scary, yes, but only because it involved the unknown.

"The guy's long gone, and it's just meat now, like ... like beef jerky, but a little grosser," dad concluded, making a funny face. "You're not afraid of dried jerky, right?"

"No, that's not scary." I giggled, feeling better. My tears had evaporated. The beef jerky mummy who could've been someone's uncle wasn't as frightening anymore. Dad was right, knowing more about what made me afraid, and why, gave me more power over it.

Learning how to understand my fears, and being the boss of them, had been one of the most poignant and useful lessons dad had imparted. After experiencing both ends of the spectrum, dad's violent alcoholic episodes, as well as his gentler days as a loving father, I'd been taught a great deal about facing and defeating fear. Cancer had nothing on my dad. I could choose to have power over it, or I could play the role of a victim and helplessly allow fear to consume me. There is always a choice on how we decide to face something.
Chapter 10

Odiferous Orphan Friends. 2016

"I love this, it's foggy again," Neil said, stifling a yawn. We were walking to work at the marina store and it was O-dark-thirty before sunrise. The marina store was a small, remote place and usually required only one person to run it. Since it was a weekend, we were both manning the store today. Mid-way through radiation treatment and feeling more fatigue than normal, I was grateful for Neil's presence.

Our customers consisted of fishermen using the boat ramp, tourists who were staying at the small hotel adjacent to the marina, and locals from a modest residential area. Unusual for Florida, the wildlife outnumbered the human population here. We were nestled within the green confines of the Everglades National Park and further development was restricted.

Inhaling the damp air, I loved the peaceful wilderness mornings. Crickets and tree frogs played their symphony in the darkness. Sometimes we could hear the manatees snort air like snorkelers in the water along the seawall. As we neared the store, I heard the familiar subdued hum of the bait tank's filtration system. Condensation dribbled from the building's roof. Today would be another intensely humid spring day.

"Something stinks," Neil said, unlocking the front door. Two large Cuban tree frogs were clinging to the adjacent glass window. They suction cupped away from us, splayed feet squeaking on dew coated glass. We entered the shop and Neil flicked rows of light switches.

"The smell's probably the bait tanks," I said, shrugging. Chemotherapy had vandalized my sense of smell and it wasn't as perceptive. Besides, my groggy attention was absorbed with the task of making hot coffee and reaping its benefits.

After the store was ready for its first customers, usually a handful of early bird coffee loving locals, we investigated the bait tanks. According to Neil, the area around the tanks smelled like a zombie apocalypse. Even my impaired olfactory sense detected something amiss but it was too dark and buggy to search for the cause. We were relived to find that the bait, live shrimp, was fine and hadn't died off. That's what mattered. As the sun rose, the rotten odor outside thickened, its source a complete mystery.

It was a slow day. The shelves were dusted and neatly stocked with tackle, boating gear, and convenience food. Chores were completed and we sought for ways to kill time in between the trickle of customers. I found a plastic squirt gun and ambushed Neil with it. We watched the nesting mockingbirds dive bomb the crow and actually peck him in the rear. That big crow was our buddy and we'd secretly toss him dead, unsellable shrimp when the manager wasn't looking. He'd also steal bags of chips from unsuspecting tourists and liked to peck his way into unattended picnic lunches.

While searching for the odor's source late morning, Neil glimpsed a small shape darting under one of the bait tanks. We cornered the mystery critter, catching him with towels and a bait net. It was a baby opossum. The little one was wobbly, but appeared healthy. He wasn't the source of the terrible smell. I placed the helpless critter in a box lined with rags and set a shallow dish of water in one corner. Barely larger than a mouse, the furry baby cautiously placed a tiny, pink hand on the corner of the dish and lapped at the water.

I marveled at that perfect hand with its miniscule fingers and even tinier claws. After the baby finished drinking, he crouched in the corner and shook. Speaking softly, I gently stroked his furry back. The baby sniffed my finger and gave me an inaudible hiss. I backed off, and then a little while later tried stroking his fur again to imitate a parental grooming gesture. It worked and the opossum ceased quaking in fear. Calming, he no longer considered my hand a threat. Perked up by the water, he groomed his fur and began exploring the box. Neil called the local animal rescue volunteers.

"I have a feeling there's a mother 'possum here and she's probably the source of the smell," Neil said with a frown. The creature must've been injured by a predator and, babies in tow, had crawled under the bait tanks and died. We called the manager, explained the situation, and got her approval to dismantle the wooden enclosure around the tanks. While we searched for the appropriate tools in the utility room, the store's power failed. Dumbstruck, Neil and I stood in the darkness and squinted at the ceiling fans while they slowly wound to a halt.

"Uhhhh ... well, shit." Neil said.

Sunlight streamed through the plate glass windows and we could still see the main area of the store. I eyed the calendar. "It's not a full moon." Sighing, I tossed my hands in the air. "Let's check the breakers." Flashlight in hand, we sought a cause for the power loss. The problem wasn't local and everything was in place, all breakers on. We flipped them on and off anyways. During that time, only one customer drifted in. Freezing in place, he glanced about the darkened store and said, "Uhhhh...."

"If you have cash I can still ring you up," I said brightly, abhorring the idea of losing a sale.

"Yup, I got a bunch of change," he said, "Just gettin' a couple of sodas." Flashlight in hand, Neil helpfully illuminated the beverage selection in the cooler. "Hey, what's that smell outside?" The customer asked while I punched his sale into a dusty calculator.

"We think it's a dead 'possum."

"Bummer. There was a live one digging in my garbage can last night."

I showed him the baby opossum and he grinned. "Awww. They're so cute when they're little, but so ugly when they grow up."

I didn't think opossums were ugly, but that's just me. A short while later, a buzzing sound alerted us to the return of our precious electricity. The ceiling fans slowly revved up to speed, the lights humming and flickering to full brightness. The register awoke with a beep and I entered the previous customer's meager sale. We returned our attentions to the rank bait tank enclosure.

Help arrived to lend a hand and the panels around the tanks were carefully peeled away. The resulting cloud of noxious fumes was a physical blow. Even I could smell it. Neil backed away, gasping and swiping sweat from his forehead. The poor opossum mother had been dead for a few days and was decomposing in the Florida heat. A second live baby was found, clinging to his parent's bloated body and he was placed in a box with a dish of water. Dry heaving, Neil managed to bag the rotting carcass without touching it. A third baby was nearby, curled up and lifeless.

Thinking back, we'd been noticing a gradually increasing putrid odor for a few days but assumed it was shrimp that had somehow jumped the tanks. Neil washed and reassembled the area. The decaying animal stench was replaced with the reasonable odor of fresh bait shrimp. By day's end, the two orphan babies were safe in the hands of animal lovers at the local wildlife rehabilitation center. At least two small, furry lives were saved. A bizarre day at work turned out to be a good one after all.

Video from this zany day (shows one of the orphans): https://youtu.be/VuuG8PvaJAA
Chapter 15

The Man Child. 1983

Getting ready for school had become a challenge. I'd have to tiptoe past the kitchen because dad would usually be sitting at the table and cursing the early morning news casters on television. I feared him. If my dad spied me, I'd most likely be scolded for an imaginary misdeed. This was because dad drank the evening before, would often break something before he passed out, and then forget what he'd done. The next morning, he'd discover the broken thing and blame me. If I got away without being hit, it was a good day.

School books in hand, I rushed past the kitchen and toward the door.

I heard dad's coffee mug slamming on the wooden table. Dad's voice was a raspy growl. "Where you going?"

Fumbling, I pushed the door open. "Don't want to miss the bus."

"Well ... bye then," Dad said with a sniff. "You creep." He wasn't awake enough to draw me into an argument or slap me this time.

I rushed outside. 'Creep' was my nickname according to dad. Over time, after repeatedly being told I was a creep, I started believing it.

Krista was already at the end of the driveway. I joined my younger sister and we anxiously watched for the bus, hoping it would hurry up and take us away from the tension at home. A squirrel scrabbled around the shaggy trunk of the nearest cedar tree. The animal climbed past a gape mouthed fish, its unblinking eye staring down at me. I did a double take.

"Hey, Krista, what's that?" I pointed.

My sister glanced up and sidled away from the tree. "Oh yuck. Gross. Why?"

I stepped closer. It was a large and perfectly preserved dried fish nailed to the tree's trunk about six feet up. The fish mummy's gaze mocked my impotence and seemed to be gleefully advertising our family's weirdness to passerby. I shuddered. Another inexplicable drunk dad thing.

That evening after school, dad came home from work early and insisted on preparing dinner for us. Mom would be working late at her new job and dad wanted to have a meal ready when she arrived. When he cooked, it was typically fresh caught fish or seafood, so we looked forward to such dinners. One of the reasons dad enjoyed fishing and gardening was because he preferred real food over the insipid, overly processed selections found in stores. Cooking normally put him in a good mood, and a happy dad was a safe dad.

Krista and I had the table set by the time mom arrived. Drinking homemade wine, dad was leaning over the stove, frying pan sizzling and smoking. He cheerfully greeted mom with a wave of a greasy spatula, then turned back to cooking. Grimacing behind dad's back, mom reluctantly joined us at the table. Her lips thinned into a tight smile and she cocked a brow at me. My sister and I nodded in silent agreement. The cooking smelled like an outhouse mixed with something pungent and sour. It wasn't a fish dinner as we knew it. We weren't brave enough to say anything. The most innocuous query or spoken word had the potential to trigger dad's unpredictable rage.

"Here you go!" dad said, grinning maniacally. "It's steeped in a rich creamy wine sauce. You know, extra flavor." He set a pan of unrecognizable grey meat chunks swimming in a grey sauce on the table. Next to it was a bowl of Asian vegetables overcooked to a mush. The meat's odor was difficult to take. Whatever it was, it wasn't fish. After dad turned away, I cringed. Krista paled, vigorously shaking her head from side to side, ponytails flopping.

"Very nice, love! Thank you," mom said.

Eyes downcast, I glumly fingered my napkin. Dairy, eggs, poultry, and red meat had made me ill throughout childhood but it was a struggle to take charge of what I ingested. I was a powerless dependent in a strict household. Neither parent understood or sympathized with my interest in a fish inclusive vegetarian diet. Mom, however, was a champion about helping me with a serious dairy allergy.

Dad pulled out a chair, its legs stuttering over the floor. "Come on, eat before it gets cold." He sat down and passed the pan of stinking rubbery lumps around.

"Nice. It's, um, tender," mom said, chewing a tiny piece. "What is it?"

"Remember those pigeons I caught and kept out back?" Dad said. I watched Krista's eyes bulge as she stealthily secreted her bite into a folded napkin.

Mom rapidly blinked and she stopped chewing. "Pigeons?"

"The breast meat's best," dad said. "All dark meat. Those pieces on the side are gizzards and livers. Take some of those too. They're small, but good vitamins in there, eh?" He leaned over the table and moved the pan so it was in front of mom.

"Oh this is plenty. I'm getting full." Mom patted her belly. "Really good."

"No, take some gizzards," dad said, no longer smiling. Deflating, mom slowly spooned a few shriveled lumps onto her plate. My face twitched. Krista muffled a snort and kicked me under the table. I shoved her back.

"What, you guys think it's bad?" Dad's stony gaze jumped between the three of us. A vein stood out on his temple. The rainclouds had gathered.

He swiftly stood, chair screeching behind him. "So you guys don't like my cooking now? Is that it?"

Nobody dared to speak. Red faced, dad grabbed the pan of dead pigeon. He stalked over to the front door, yanked it open, and threw the entire pan outside. I heard a metallic thud as it bounced over the lawn. He grabbed the vegetable dish and whipped that outside for good measure.

"There." Dad's voice rose. "Now you don't have to put up with my shitty cooking!" He stomped through the door to the garage and slammed it with a wall-shuddering bang. A framed photograph fell off the wall.

Appetites defeated, Krista and I hid in our rooms and tried to concentrate on homework. I vowed to never behave like dad when he was drunk. I felt acute embarrassment for the futility of his childlike temper and lack of self-control. Dad had become a living example of what not to do as an adult and how not to treat others. I took those lessons to heart.
Chapter 16

Wild Shores Camping. 2016

The mysterious, iridescent glimmer briefly shone ahead. "I don't see anything," Bill said, sweeping his flashlight along the beach. Sea oats leapt into the narrow beam then faded in the night. Unseen crickets trilled. Behind us, we could hear the ocean surf swishing along the sand.

"Hey guys, over here," Neil gestured with his flashlight and I blinked in the brief glare. He focused his light on something in the weeds farther inland. "They reflect the light ... see?"

I leaned over to look. Eight long, hairy legs emerged from the shadows. "Uhg!" I jumped backwards, nearly colliding with my best friend, Captain Bill Robinson.

"You brought us all the way over here for a spider?" Bill said, voice rising in pitch. He hated spiders. "In the dark no less."

"But look, it's iridescent in the light," Neil explained, waving his hands. Bill groaned and stalked toward our distant campsite. I could hear him grumbling about alligators, snakes, panthers, spiders, and the possibility of some unknown monster leaping at us from the island's spooky black interior. The place we'd pitched our tent is known as Panther Key.

"Over a hundred years ago, someone actually lived here," I said, recalling the rough, pioneer history of the Ten Thousand Island area. "Their house was made out of wood from a shipwreck. Rugged like. This place is called Panther Key on account of all the Florida panthers that would eat the guy's livestock." That was a true, historical fact.

"Oh just great." Brows plunging downward, Bill stared at me through narrowed eyes and folded his arms.

"There are black bears and wild boars all over here too," I added helpfully. "And there were lots of murders and disappearances in this area in the early 1900s. Ghosts! We met a fisherman who recently found half of a human leg bone near this very island."

Giving the darkness behind him a hasty glance, Bill stepped closer to the campfire.

We'd arrived before sunset in Neil's dinghy. The boat had been pulled onto the soft white sand and a family sized tent pitched nearby. Panther Key is one of the places in the Ten Thousand Islands where the people are allowed to camp and enjoy a bonfire in the sand as long as it's extinguished before leaving the island. About five months had passed since surgery to remove my right breast and some lymph node tumors and I was still on a so-called "mild" form of chemotherapy. At least it was mild enough to allow me to go camping. I stubbornly refused to allow my illness to stop me from having fun.

Noticing the fading fire, Neil trotted off in search of wood. Recovering a semblance of bravery, Bill and I clicked our flashlights on and followed Neil. We had the entire island to ourselves and we couldn't help but feel out of place and vulnerable in the coastal wilderness at night. A stark half-moon hung overhead, lending little to our feeble light.

A short while later we were hunched around a restocked fire, absorbing its crackling heat. A wood smoke nebula with glowing stars of ash spiraled toward the sky. The November night held a brisk chill, even for Florida. Huddled together, we shared jokes and tall tales, the laughter of three old friends echoing over the empty beach.

It's one thing to sail or power along the maze that comprises the Everglades and Ten Thousand Island coastline, drop anchor, and sleep onboard. It's a uniquely different experience to stay on the beach in a thin tent and wonder about wild animals. Our glaring error was failure to pack enough warm bedding or snacks to share over the fire. Earlier, the day had been stifling hot and the possibility of being cold never crossed our minds. But after nightfall, the temperature had plummeted. Shivering under beach towels for blankets, we learned our lesson the hard way.

Under a chilly sunrise, we discovered animal tracks packed in the sand around the tent. These critters had also raided our garbage bag and scattered its contents. Raccoons will pay nightly visits to beachside campgrounds and paw through people's belongings in the quest for easy snacks. We were glad they hadn't wormed their way into the tent with us. As weary and grubby feeling as we were, we looked forward to our next wilderness adventure. It was on days like these, even when sore and suffering stomach upset, I would forget I was a cancer patient.

Video highlighting the natural beauty of this beach camping trip: https://youtu.be/dqeWYWkMhrQ

Chapter 17

Frog Prince. 2015

For many cultures, the frog symbolizes good luck or is a sign of friendship. They're also a valuable part of the ecosystem; they help control insects and are snacks for larger animals. There are a variety of species in the Everglades and during certain parts of the season, they are sure to make themselves known.

Stubbornly independent in spite of my illness, I lived on my boat through what would be over two years of cancer treatments. Home port was a tiny marina along Florida's southwest coast, which was near cancer clinics and a short drive from my mom and sister. After mom had left dad so many years ago, she and my sister had moved to Florida. This was fortuitous and allowed me to spend more time with them. Mom and Krista's support during my illness was above and beyond anything I could've hoped for.

Weary, joints sore, I crawled into bed after a long day working in the marina store. My boat was in her slip, water gently lapping against the hull near the bunk. Reading light overhead, I opened a book and lost myself in the story. Midway through the first chapter, a cool and sticky "thing" plopped onto my forearm with a wet smack. I twitched in surprise and dropped the book. Clinging to my forearm was a beady eyed tree frog. After muffling a yelp, I managed to remain still. These small tan and green frogs are completely harmless and their trilling song is pleasant to the ear. Slowly raising my arm, I studied the vivid splashes of metallic gold in its coloring. The tiny fellow truly was a living jewel.

The frog was slowly scooped into a towel and set outside in the grass. It must've ridden along on my bag. This surreal bed time episode was similar to one that had occurred a week earlier. Again, I had been reading in bed and watched what resembled two shiny, thick hairs slowly rise over the edge of my pillow. These wiggling "hairs" were followed by a giant black cricket. The brazen insect had crawled up the edge of my pillow and then stopped to stare at me. Eyes bugging, I stared back. The uninvited visitor was promptly scooped up and deposited in the grass outside.

Sometimes the frogs would be waiting near the companionway when I emerged from Angel before sunrise. Startled by my appearance, they'd jump and wetly smack into my head. One suction-fingered fellow ended up in my bag and went for a ride to work. The frogs didn't limit themselves to the marina. They'd appear in the most unusual places. One of the larger ones once tried making a home in the hollow of my mom's refrigerator door water dispenser. She was afraid to retrieve ice until my kindly stepdad, Jeff, saved the day.

My best friend Captain Bill had an apartment in Key West before his life as a live aboard cruising sailor. After a series of heavy rains one spring, Bill noticed there were an impressive mass of tiny tadpoles in the puddles along the side of his street. Each day, the puddles grew smaller as they evaporated in the subtropical sun. The helpless tadpoles were drying out before they could mature. Bill intervened and collected every last surviving tadpole on his street. The lucky amphibians enjoyed their new home in shallow water filled pans safe on the countertops in Bill's apartment.

Bill planned to locate a new home for the tadpoles after work the next day. It happened to be a long day and Bill ended up socializing with some friends until well after dark. When he returned late that night, the tadpoles were missing. Every single one. Alarmed, Bill searched the floor, thinking they'd somehow wriggled out of the pans. While he searched, he realized the cricket-like noises around his apartment were unusually loud, as if the chirping was inside. To his dismay, Bill realized what happened. The rescued tadpoles had matured. An uncountable number of miniscule, trilling tree frogs were climbing the walls and swinging from the curtains. With the help of his girlfriend, Bill rounded up his charges and released them outside.

I hope the belief that frogs are lucky carries some truth. If so, this entire area should be showered in good fortune.
Chapter 18

Wild Wild. 2015

"The coyotes are passing by again," said an early bird customer, a retired gent who appeared every morning for freshly brewed coffee.

"Coyotes?" I parroted. I adored the area's song dogs, but many of the locals regarded them as pests. We humans, incessantly paving over wildlife habitats and ruthlessly killing the inhabitants, were the real pests in my humble yet snarky opinion.

My customer explained how a few coyotes had recently taken a leisurely stroll down the only residential street past the store. This short, tree framed road is a dead end surrounded by a canal, so the wild canines would be returning our way. I kept an eye out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the scrappy song dogs. Instead, I got to inspect a desiccated batfish that Neil had found in the parking lot. The creature's leg-like limbs and pebbled leathery skin gave it an alien appearance.

The store's clock dragged toward noon and Neil stepped out to drop the garbage in the dumpster nearby. A few seconds later, he reappeared, still clutching the garbage. I gave him a questioning look.

"There are vultures," Neil said, pointing outside. "I'm not going over there."

"What, you chicken?" I smirked at him. "They won't eat you unless you're dead."

Neil shook his head. "These ones will make you dead. Like pecking you to give you botulism and then when you bloat and die they'll eat-."

"Botulism?" I interrupted, glancing through one of the picture windows. Over a dozen huge, dark birds with naked black heads were perched on the dumpster's enclosure. A cloud of flies spiraled above. Vultures poop on their own feet in hot weather, to cool them off, and will vomit on their enemies when they're upset. Mumbling something about not wanting his eyeballs pecked out while he was still alive, Neil left the garbage bags in the corner and hastened off to complete a less odious task.

In the afternoon, a store customer showed us a photo on his phone. It was one of the resident black bears and the normally shy animal was only about twenty feet away when the photo was snapped. This particular bear, not so shy anymore, had learned how to dumpster dive and dismantle trash cans. Unafraid of the area's human residents, he began paying frequent visits to the marina community at night to dig through the garbage. One evening, the bear took a crap in front of the men's room door by the hotel's pool. This was after upending every single garbage can in the marina and hotel area.

A week later the furry fellow had arrived during the day to see if he could check into the hotel. He casually pawed at the door, probably smelling the restaurant warming up for lunch. Luckily for hotel guests, the bear couldn't read the door handle's sign, which said "Turn me Please." He'd given up and wandered toward the woods across the road. Sadly, that road and a familiarity with the things of man would be the bear's undoing.

The next night, Neil and I strolled up the floating dock on our way to the marina showers. Neil's boat was just a few slips from Angel. Between us, along the seawall, sat a garbage receptacle, its lid carelessly tossed on the grass and its contents strewn about.

"Some asshat drunk made a mess," Neil said, making a face, bending to pick the garbage up.

"Why would a drunk do that?" I helped Neil. We resumed our stroll along a cobblestone path toward the showers, which were part of the hotel. The unlit trail wound through brush and tropical trees and we always had to take care not to step on giant snails, lizards, or frogs.

After our showers, we left the hotel and passed a few people lounging on the picnic table outside the restaurant. Diners and bar customers used this area as a smoking section.

"Watch out for the bear," one of them said.

"Hah hah, that's funny," I responded. Neil chuckled.

"No, really, the bear just went in the direction you're headed."

I uneasily eyed the path ahead, which vanished into the tree shrouded darkness.

"We should go slow." Neil raised his arm, preventing me from walking forward. "In case they're not joking." Heads swiveling all around, we cautiously made our way toward our boats. Just before the seawall, Neil saw a dark shape meandering away from us. He elbowed me and I grunted.

"The bear! Holy shit! Those guys weren't kidding," Neil's voice was an excited whisper. "So it wasn't a drunk that messed up our garbage can."

"He's going over there." I stepped backward. I'd feel safe once I was inside Angel. A bear is unlikely to climb from a floating dock and wobble over the water to access a rocking boat. At least I didn't think so.

"There! He's walking past your truck," Neil said, pointing toward the parking lot. The bear, his shoulder the height of my pickup truck's door handle, slowly wandered into the trees beyond the lot.

I wondered if there were more bears about. "I'm going into the boat."

The next night, we heard a single gunshot in the late evening. Flashing police lights reflected red and blue from the windows of the hotel. The bear had made his garbage collecting rounds and then entered the road. Unable to see a black shape in the black night until it was too late, a vehicle had hit him. Ironically, it was an ambulance.

The area's police officer had no choice but to shoot the mangled animal, which was suffering and too wounded to save. The horrified ambulance driver was in tears. The bear had been looking for easy snacks and never harmed anyone, but he'd become too accustomed to the dangerous things of man.

Chapter 19

Radiation Victim. 2016

Mid-February I reluctantly drove to the clinic for another day of a lengthy five-week course of daily radiation therapy. The purpose of this was to continue shrinking my breast tumor and sterilize the neighboring cancer infected lymph nodes. The chemo had significantly reduced tumor sizes, but there was still a mass. Because I was nearly flat chested, the medical team wanted the mass as small as possible before proceeding with a mastectomy. There simply wasn't enough skin for the breast surgeon to work with.

The radiation machine resembled a giant kitchen appliance or something out of a science fiction flick. I would lie on a platform, right arm raised and cradled in a support above my head. The technicians lined me up with lasers, and then would leave the room. I didn't blame them. The radiation machine would unfold and rotate around my body, buzzing as it scanned me. After the cursory scan, low dose beams of ionizing radiation were focused on the offending tumors.

To ease the stress of it all, I'd often joke with those who were understandably curious and would ask about the progress of my treatments. No, I will not set off a Geiger counter. Yes, my skin has been affected in that area. Near the end of my treatments, the skin was red and sore, like a blistered sunburn.

No, my boob doesn't glow in the dark. Yes, it's safe to hug people. Yes, that funny X-marks-the-spot sticker above my boob had to remain during treatment. Yes, the "dot" tattoos on my upper belly that served as centering marks for the lasers are permanent. I guess when people are sharing their tattoo stories and acting tough, I could tell them about my dots. These freckles of ink allowed lasers to center a linear accelerator as it directed high energy protons into my body while I stared Death in the face.

While undergoing treatment, I still worked as much as possible in the store, pushing myself because of the financial damage cancer had caused. I also had to drive to the clinic every single weekday for a fresh blast of radiation. Due to all that hectic running about, I was only working three quarter to part time. No longer able to have sun exposure, my golden brown skin paled to its default yellowish hue and looked sickly. The skin around the treated area turned a blotchy purple and was permanently discolored. I didn't care.

Early during treatment a tender, swollen area formed in my right armpit and the radiation oncologist believed it was a harmless pocket of fluid. A CAT scan revealed a textbook case seroma, an accumulation of fluid because the scar tissue in my breast area was preventing proper drainage. It was acutely painful, but a temporary condition.

Throughout radiation I also endured weekly IV administered targeted therapy to help prevent the cancer from spreading. Usually patients tolerate these medicines fairly well, which aren't as harsh as the first batch of chemo I was given before radiation treatment. During the infusion days of targeted therapy, I was dopey and slow, a nasty headache tightening my bristle covered scalp. My stomach would twist and I loathed the concept of eating. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I threw up for no reason. Usually, I'd feel better by the next day and proceeded as normally as someone could in such a situation.

One afternoon, while reeling from a targeted chemo treatment that morning, I was less aware of my actions. All that water I was drinking repeatedly sent me to the girl's room. Near the hotel, I walked in with Neil and dragged myself into the restroom. I did my usual paranoid thing of lining the seat with toilet paper. Fumbling, I exited and slowly meandered past the busy restaurant and through the hotel lobby. Neil met up with me and immediately started to laugh. I had a long white flag of flapping toilet paper trapped in the waistband of my pants. It was a flag of surrender.

Midway through radiation, the obnoxious seroma began to slowly resolve on its own. The tumor had also reduced in size.

Friend: "How are you doing?"

Me: (Wiggling right arm) "I still have my Senoma. And my skin itches."

Friend: "I thought you had a truck? A Tacoma?"

Me: "Huh?"

Friend gives me a funny look.

Me: "Sedona. I mean...in my armpit."

Friend: "Sedona? Arizona...oh! You mean seroma. A seroma. Does it hurt?"

Me: "Uh-huh, yeah, but the swelling's going down finally."

Friend slowly nods in sympathy.

Me: "I need a drink."

By the end of the radiation treatment cycles, my nuked skin had been painfully purpled and was peeling in places, but the seroma disappeared. I'd spent so much time at the clinic the Google Maps app on my smartphone was convinced I worked there. The breast surgeon was pleased by the tumor's shrinkage and scheduled the mastectomy and lymph node dissection about a month after.

Upbeat, positive cancer diary 'music' video. I'd made it during a fit of creativity as a form of therapy to help me cope and to share with friends: https://youtu.be/xlvMzEi1Vus

Chapter 20

Conform or be Punished. 2016

Cancer patients, before and after losing hair to chemotherapy, are well known for daring a new style. It's not surprising. When my frizzly, chemo wrecked hair finally starting growing back, mom thought it would be fun to bring some colorful cheer into an otherwise difficult state of being. The loss of my eyelashes, eyebrows and hair had taken its toll, despite a long held philosophy that appearance wasn't everything. The silky straight black hair I had as a young adult would never return and I grieved its demise.

It was just a week after I'd undergone surgery; a unilateral mastectomy with a lymph node dissection. Because of the nature of my tumors and miniscule bust size, I had heavy duty chemo and radiation treatment before surgery and would continue to have the targeted chemo after. I also had to endure a blood transfusion, which grossed me out to no end. Anemic and sick, I'd waited in the hospital for a proper match, learning I had a negative blood type that was apparently more difficult to come by. The time was past due for a pleasant distraction.

Sharing a good laugh, mom helped me tint the dull white inch long frizz on my head a color called mermaid blue. The comedic relief was enhanced by the fact that I looked more like a Smurf than a mermaid. Nevertheless, the color lifted me from a poor mood. Being cheered up this way distracted me from the surgical pain and the unnerving baseball stitch gash where one of my breasts used to be. The next day I went to the clinic for the weekly chemo infusion, and the nurses and fellow patients were delighted. My Smurf hair generated smiles and laughter. The grandmotherly lady seated near me had purple streaks in her hair. Giggling, we shared our bald stories and hair style tips.

A week later on a Sunday, which happened to be Mother's day, I drove to my mom's place. We were celebrating the special day and I was feeling well enough to go out with the family on mom's boat. Before hitting the water, my boss texted, insisting I call her ASAP. Scheduled to work the next day, I called. My boss informed me that my hair was "unprofessional" and from now on I must keep it covered when at work. Being told to hide my apparently offensive hair tint was initially met with an amused bewilderment that swiftly mutated into stifled outrage.

What puzzled me was the fact that my boss hadn't seen my blue hair in person. I suspected the overtly pious manager (who no longer works there), had complained. She'd seen my hair and, looking as if she'd just chewed a lemon, had photographed my head. By her habit of regularly ignoring customers of color, hippies, and anyone openly homosexual, I'd concluded that the manager distained anything or anyone who didn't meet a rather rigid interpretation of correctness.

Upon being hired I hadn't been informed of a dress code regarding hair color or style. Just two months ago I had no hair at all. I'd worn scarves or hats to keep my head warm, so my baldness wasn't noticed at the store. In spite of my illness and the treacheries of treatment, I thoroughly enjoyed working and thrived on its social aspects. Customers often remarked on my friendly cheer and had no idea I had cancer. This tiny, rural shop wasn't IBM or a fancy law firm, yet my self-expression had been deemed unacceptable.

Workplace rules and dress codes are respected, but something about this irked me to no end. At least it wasn't personal and my boss maintained a sincere concern for our customers. Apparently, an employee with blue hair color would cause offense. Suffering from an incurable cancer, and enduring the unfathomable pain of long-term treatment, was far more offensive.

I longed for the extinction of oblivious conformity and the shuttered fear of anything different. There will always be closed minded individuals who are intimidated by anything that falls beyond their perceived norm. Their concept of "normal" wasn't my concept of "normal." Having someone else's idea of what's acceptable overriding mine just because they possess the material advantage is appalling. I couldn't imagine a tourist family from Germany or Toronto, or where ever, going home after visiting the marina store and complaining about how their vacation was ruined because the lady who rung up their fishing tackle had tinted hair.

Just imagine if I showed them my mastectomy scar and radiation burns.

Chapter 21

Deep South: Wilderness, Top Hats, & Angry Queens. 2012

Dropping the sails before entering the channel, I hastily tied them off while Angel bobbed backwards, her forward momentum lost. The light breeze was on the nose and I didn't feel comfortable tacking into a narrow, unfamiliar area. Sliding into the cockpit, I throttled forward and Angel's clattering 20hp diesel settled into a steady purr. Angel scouted ahead while Neil, strictly sailing, angled in a cautious distance behind me. Astrid, Neil's engineless 25-foot Cape Dory was smaller and much more maneuverable under sail in tight quarters. He traveled without an engine not out of a strict purist sense but because he was still saving up for just the right electric outboard.

The sun melted over the ocean horizon and Angel searched for an anchoring spot. I radioed my depth findings to Neil and watched Astrid tack behind me. We'd entered Indian Key channel, the route to Everglades City. Chugging in behind us was an elderly commercial fishing vessel, its white paint chipped and rust stained in places. The wooden boat's diesel coughed small puffs of black smoke. A net dangled from its side and the stern cradled a jumble of square traps. It edged to the channel's far side and passed us, the weary and sun weathered crew onboard probably bringing the day's fresh catch home to Everglades City.

Angel found a favorable anchoring spot in a pocket a short ways into the channel where it curved and offered protection from potential ocean swell. Looking forward to some rest, we secured our vessels for the night under a darkening subtropical sky. The area's notorious mosquitos began their attack and I finished boat duties while engaged in a twitching dance that involved the random slapping of hands. I hated getting bit by bugs. We were prepared though and fine screens protected the interiors of our boats from these wining, obnoxious little horrors.

A pastel dawn revealed a scattered flock of puffy sheep-like clouds. Our boats sat in glass calm water. The dark mangrove shores were silent. I watched a white heron sidle across the arched roots along the channel's edge. It found a perch and stared at its reflection in the mirrored water. Over coffee, Neil and I organized Angel's dinghy and loaded it with basic supplies for a day of exploration. We were the only boats anchored here. Immersed in the wild serenity of the Ten Thousand Islands, we basked in our peaceful seclusion.

Armed with charts, water, bug repellant, and a handheld VHF radio, we meandered along the channel. The inflatable dinghy, sturdy with its fiberglass floor and keel, eased through an opposing tidal current. Despite being adorned with numerous patches and an irregular homemade paint job, the boat and its little outboard was a reliable rig. Taking care not to stray too far from the marked channel, we nosed around mangrove shores and admired the view. The water resembled coffee, tinted by the vegetation and creamed by silt.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said, steering toward a tiny stretch of beach along the far edge of the channel. The land appeared to consist entirely of small shells.

"Good idea." Neil arched his back and shifted on the inflatable's sagging tube. "I need to stretch my legs. And we should pump more air into this thing."

Unable to see the channel's bottom, I slowed. Neil poked a paddle in the water, gauging its depth. Moments later, he called out, "Sand bar!" I cut the outboard and tilted it up. We paddled the rest of the way and the boat's bow nudged over land, shells crunching. Sandals on, we stepped ashore and tied the dinghy to gnarled driftwood that was partially buried in the ground. Little grey crabs skittered out of sight.

While we were pushing away from the crunchy slip of a beach, a small powerboat nosed toward us. It had the distinct markings of a law enforcement vessel. "Uh-oh," I said, entertaining the absurd notion that I'd get into trouble for urinating on a deserted island. I hoped the visit was only a routine boat registration check. Being the anal sort that I am, Angel's dinghy was compliant with local rules, its safety gear in order.

Neil mumbled something under his breath. Looking glum, his shoulders sagged as the official boat crept toward us. We were accustomed to the heavy handed, unnecessarily cruel tactics of water based cops in the Florida Keys. I fervently hoped it was different here. I turned the dinghy sideways and shifted the outboard into neutral, allowing the officer an easy approach. Regardless of how we might be treated, I still believed in respect and courtesy. The uniformed gentleman raised a hand in greeting and grinned. This was not a Keys style encounter. Neil and I did a double take.

He was an Everglades ranger, his territory a broad expanse of protected coastline. Thrilled by his friendliness and professionalism, we learned why he'd approached us. He'd seen us arrive the other evening and wanted to ask about the old fishing vessel that had passed us on its way into the channel. The vessel allegedly had been taking certain protected species out of season. Regretfully, we hadn't seen anything unusual. It was dark and we'd been unable to see anything in its hanging nets. We promised to keep our eyes peeled and then asked a few questions about the area. Yes, it was okay to go ashore on the islands during the day. Yes, there were designated camp sites on some of the beaches.

After the friendly ranger had left, Neil and I speculated on what that old fishing boat had been doing the other night. Poaching? Its nets had been full, but hidden below the waterline. It didn't look like it had been smuggling drugs. Everglades City was founded on smuggling. In the 1980s, there were significant drug busts for the stealthy distribution of marijuana. I'll never understand the Western world's senseless concept of criminalizing a medicinal plant, which was no less natural than the legal tobacco leaf. No one had a right to dictate what type of edible plant matter that I could or couldn't smoke or ingest.

"I really wanna toke right now," I mumbled, disgusted by the absurdity of so-called civilization. Neil laughed.

The sheep-like clouds had joined a larger herd and isolated summer rain storms continuously formed and dissipated over the green coast. Puttering toward Everglades City, we kept our rain jackets in reach. The channel narrowed and wound through a vast oyster bed which had been dredged to allow safe passage of deeper drafts. Gawking at the scenery, I strayed beyond the channel's edge and the aluminum propeller clipped a submerged rock. The engine stalled and I tilted it up. Damn! I'd have to hammer the prop out later.

Everglades City's low profile hove into view as the channel curved and became the Barron River. There was a small airport to our starboard, a wrinkled orange wind sock fluttering in the gusty outflow of an isolated rainstorm nearby. Across a large bay and also to starboard rested the circular island of Chokoloskee. Created by the area's long gone indigenous people, the island is about 2000 years' worth of piled oyster shells, and was the site of ancient burial grounds. It's no wonder the place is famed for being haunted.

Everglades City is far from being an actual "city" and resembles a quiet fishing village. There are no high rises marring the rural landscape. It's literally an island, made so by canals on one side and the Barron River on the other. The north end is connected to Florida's mainland by a short bridge. The south end jutted into the shallow Chokoloskee Bay. In 2016, just over four hundred citizens resided on this remote 1.18 square mile chunk of land.

Following the concrete seawall enclosing the island's west side, we took in the sights. We slowed to admire the historic Rod and Gun Club, and then passed modest homes along the water's edge. Commercial fishing dockage and a few small crabbing vessels lined the seawall farther ahead. Near the seawall's end were a sprinkling of seafood restaurants and most were closed for summer's slow season. One rustic wooden shack partially built over the water advertised "FOOD" in large letters. There were a few people in its open air dining area. Following the scent of French fries, we puttered over.

After tying up to a floating dinghy dock, we entered the café. A young woman behind a chipped counter took our orders and we selected a couple of beers from an ice filled cooler near an empty bakery display. Seated on wooden benches along a narrow table, we faced the water and gazed at the scenery. The steep roof provided ample shade overhead. We watched a distant airboat, sounding like an angry, muffled airplane, maneuver up river.

The provincial food was perfect after a week of coastal cruising with limited boat fare. I ordered a fish sandwich and fries, the sizeable homemade lunch served on a stiff paper plate. Straight from one of the boats, the seafood was melt-in-your-mouth fresh and the hand cut fries crisp on the outside. Washed down with cold beer, the meal was sublime. Neil and I were lost in the moment, taken by the beautiful simplicity of savoring simple food on a languid summer's day in the middle of nowhere.

Yet we were somewhere. It was a fascinating, remote place rich with natural beauty and a unique history. I could see the water below us through gaps in the weathered planks of the floor. Avoiding our feet, small crabs crept out of these cracks to search for dropped crumbs. Squeaking black grackles hopped just out of arm's reach, their yellow eyes focused on our plates. Neil tossed a French fry and a feathery scuffle ensued. I elbowed him and pointed to a prominent "Do Not Feed the Birds" sign. Grinning mischievously, Neil shrugged.

Just as we were finishing up, a tall elderly man walked in with a woman and a shifty-eyed middle aged couple. The tall man wore a black top hat with a yellow duck pin, feathers, and an embroidered eye attached to the hat's front. Neil and I exchanged dubious glances. The man studied our lone dinghy that was tied up front, then walked up to us. With a smile and a cordial handshake, he introduced himself and asked if we were traveling cruising boaters. He'd enjoyed cruising too and harbored fond memories of it. We completed our meal while appreciating the eccentric gentleman's company and talking boats.

Later, we walked off our lunch by exploring the sparsely populated island. The sky had clouded overhead and a light mist fell. We strolled along the main road, Copeland Avenue, from one short end to the other. The small mom and pop grocery store we found carried only basic goods and happened to be nearly out of fresh produce. The main tourist attractions were the airboat tour docks clustered at the north end of Everglades City. On our walk back to the waiting dinghy we stopped at a gas station convenience store to stock up on snacks that were unavailable at the grocer.

Ahead of us in line, a plump woman started berating a sunburned man who wisely remained silent. When she turned to give him a more forceful scolding, I backed away a step. Tattooed in large, fancy lettering above her pasty cleavage were the words Aryan Queen. Neil's brows shot skyward and he turned his head, hiding his reaction. I glanced at my hand, suddenly self-conscious of its darker hue. I pulled my hat lower over my head. Nostrils flaring, Neil stood tall and folded his arms, most likely thinking about his black grandfather.

Luckily, racially mixed tourists were not on the Aryan queen's radar. Her gaze passed over our heads as she left the store with her unlucky consort. The red faced queen of Aryans, whatever that meant, resumed her tirade outside. Neil and I purchased our goods and hastened toward the dinghy. The tension melted as soon as we were on the water and heading toward the peaceful haven of our boats. On our way out Neil meandered along the crumbling seawall and we took in the sights we'd missed on our way in. There were more fishing vessels docked along the wall and crews were unloading their catches. Ahead, a few people were stacking wooden crab traps. Two of them were arguing, their voices rising in pitch.

"Is there going to be a full moon out or something?" I said. "What's with all the yelling?" Everglades City in the off season had been extremely peaceful otherwise. Giving me an exaggerated look of puzzlement, Neil half shrugged. As we passed the angry pair, I saw the tattoo over the spitting mad woman's cleavage. It was Aryan queen. Her face had gone from red to purple with rage. "Go faster," I urged Neil. The bony man was shouting back this time and it was the kind of discourse that made bystanders fear for their own safety.

Once out of sight of Everglades City, Neil slowed. He leaned toward me and said with a sinister whisper, "I think I hear banjos playing." I smacked his arm. He chuckled and glanced from one side of the shore to the other, pretending to spy banjo-wielding pursuers in the mangroves.

I dipped my hand in the channel and flicked water at Neil. "Ha ha, wise ass. My dad played the banjo." Lost in thought, I recalled how much I'd enjoyed dad's banjo music and regretted when he stopped playing.

It was a relief to be on Angel and near the open Gulf. That night, a slim crescent moon hung in the sky. Apparently some people, like the arguing Aryan queen and her consort, didn't need a full moon to go crazy.

Video, an Everglades City restaurant along Barron River and touristy highlights. Taken from a later visit: https://youtu.be/ghc4XTyTBKk
Chapter 22

Strangers. 2014

The slurred voice was speaking as soon I answered the phone. "—ello? Hellooo?"

"What the...." I said, rolling my eyes. They still make prank calls? Before I made a move to hang up, the voice spoke my name. It was my dad. I hadn't seen him in over a decade.

"So how're yah? Heh heh, eh?"

I had no idea what to say really. "Okay. Good. You?" Realistic, I held no magical thoughts that my dad had suddenly changed for the better and now wanted to be a sober, loving parent to his own offspring.

"Yeahhh, well, I lost my job again. But, hey Krista, yah wanna know what?"

"My name's Becky. Krista's the cute younger one, remember?" Short in syllables, Becky was my childhood nickname.

"Oh, heh heh. Becky. Well. Ya wanna know what?"

I sighed. "You're drunk dad." What's the point of engaging in a conversation when the other person wouldn't recall a thing the next day?

"Huh?" There was a pause. "Yeah, so those ash holes at duh plant, fuggin' Dale dat summabitch-"

"Dad, what?" I wanted to hang up, but there was something inherently mean and rude about doing that to a parent. But, would he even remember if I did?

"Well, yah know, Krista, thar in my phone. Ya know dat, eh?"

"What's wrong with your phone?"

"Tharrr IN MY PHONE! Lishtening. Yah hear me? Lishtening!"

Holding the cellphone away from my ear, I stared at it with suspicion. Whenever he surpassed a certain point in his inebriation level, dad's conversational skills crumbled. He stopped making sense. This conspiracy theory thing was new, but I wasn't surprised. From the phone's speaker, I could hear dad's slurring shouts regarding government spies and how rotten some guy named Dale was. Feeling like shit, I set the phone on the table and walked away.

That was the last time I heard my dad's voice. He was no longer coherent enough to hold a normal conversation. He never knew, at least by my own words, that I was fighting a tenacious illness, my days numbered by an unknown quantity of sand in the grim hourglass of terminal cancer.

Chapter 23

Conch Cruiser. Key West, 2011

"You know there's no emission control here in the keys, right? None. The old beater cars, and there's a lot of 'em, when they become decrepit enough we call them 'Conch Cruisers.' Some of us paint and decorate these cars since they're really no longer safe to drive out on the mainland."

\- 'Chico,' Key West resident and artist.

The faded green Nissan belonged to Claire, Neil's mom. An accomplished visual artist, Claire practiced a rare skill; weaving intricate fabrics on antique and wooden piano-sized looms. She's also a skilled printmaker and painter, and the van transported the necessities for participating in gallery shows and outdoor art events. Claire graciously allowed us to use her vehicle for activities that weren't practical on foot such as lugging groceries or reaching destinations too far to walk on the populous two by four-mile island.

One summer's day, the van stealthily initiated its rapid descent into the local reality of being a conch cruiser. Eyeing the gathering rain clouds, Neil and I drove from the downtown dinghy docks to a popular uptown grocer, Publix. For some reason, it always seemed to rain on a laundry or grocery shopping day. Inclement weather relished catching us and our vulnerable cargo while we were in the dinghy, traveling from the docks and to our live aboard cruising vessels anchored a few miles north of the island.

I pulled into Publix. The parking lot was half empty, a sure sign of summer season. A cackling pile of seagulls fought over a slice of pizza smeared on the asphalt nearby. Flicking a nervous glance toward the clouds overhead, I exited the van and waited for Neil. And waited.

"It won't open," said Neil's muffled voice. He thumped his hand on the inside of the window. Walking around the van, I tried his door from the outside. It opened and Neil spilled out. The door handle had ceased to function from the inside, but could still be opened from the outside. Inconvenient, but we could work around it.

A hot gust of wind ruffled my hair and thunder rumbled in the distance. Coconut palms rattled. One of the gulls took flight with the sagging pizza slice, struggled, and then dropped it with a splat on a silver Porsche. The squealing birds converged on it. "Let's hurry," I said, tugging Neil's shirt while he toyed with the faulty passenger door. "We can't fix it now."

Neil sighed and straightened his shirt. "I don't like that it broke when we were using it. We'll have to figure out how to fix it." He slowly closed the door. "I'm hungry for pizza all of a sudden," he said, following me into Publix.

Later, we returned to the docks, our groceries shielded in oversized plastic bags. Hunched under hooded rain gear, we didn't bother making haste when we loaded the dinghy and motored away. Riled by the gusty rainstorm overhead, the short, choppy waves splashed our faces. The unpredictable summer rains had beat us again.

A week later, the van's interior door handle failed on the driver's side. The local shop was unable to repair the handles and parts for this aging vehicle model were no longer available. We had to lower the windows, open our doors by reaching around to the outside handle, and then power the windows closed. This had to be done before shutting the engine off. This required some awkward coordination, but it was far better than walking. It took a while for us to realize this complicated door opening procedure was leaving black streaks on the backs of our arms. The black, rubbery plastic framing the van's windows had deteriorated in the tropical sun. The material left black streaks on anything that brushed against it. Waxing it made little difference.

The van's next trick was an attempt to prevent me from leaving the driver's seat altogether. I'd pulled into an uptown store's parking lot and Neil, remembering to open his door from the outside without getting black streaks on his clean shirt, stepped out. I opened the driver's side door, but was unable to leave the seat.

Neil stepped around to the driver's side and furrowed his brows at me. "Come on, silly, let's go. It's hot out here."

"I'm stuck," I said, jiggling the seatbelt latch. "The sucker won't open."

"Need a hand?" Smirking, Neil reached over and pushed the faded red button. Nothing happened. Brows scrunching together, he used both hands. The mechanism was broken and completely unresponsive.

Neil stepped back, hands on hips. "Well shit."

I squirmed, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. "Should we cut it?"

"Oh no! We can't cut a piece of my mom's van." Neil gave me a panicked look. "They don't make parts for it anymore, remember?"

"Then pull this up." I tugged on the strap across my lap. Grunting, Neil held it upwards while I struggled to slide under it like a circus contortionist. After some moments of knee banging, cussing, and getting some of my hair pulled out, I flopped over Neil's feet in an undignified heap on the sidewalk.

"I don't want to know what happens next," I said, working the kinks from my joints.

Neil swiped the sweat from his forehead. "It's officially a conch cruiser. All we have to do is get my mom to paint it."

A video tour capturing the spirit of Key West, includes Neil's famous mom and her beautiful artwork and weavings: https://youtu.be/J243iQvHCxI
Chapter 24

Parental Expectations VS Reality. 1984

"My soon to be teenaged daughter is looking at boys!" Mom enthused, giving me a sly smile. She straightened and appeared to inflate slightly. We were selecting our seats in the middle school auditorium for an early evening event. The building echoed with scraping chairs and the excited murmurs of parents and kids. Krista was involved in a play, part of a series presented by talented youth from the mid to upper grade levels. Lacking any stage talents, I had not signed up to be part of a performance and was glad to be in the audience.

"There's that nice neighbor boy over there," Mom said, pointing.

"I'm looking at boys?" I glanced at mom with some bewilderment.

"Uh-huh, I've noticed you looking at every boy who walked by." Mom was practically rubbing her hands together in glee. "You never talk about dating or crushes, but I figured you were just a late bloomer."

"Oh! Haha...." I shook my head and shrugged. "I'm looking at their hair styles." I envied their short haircuts and would fantasize about the convenience of having a similar look. Mom gave me some leeway on my hair, but I wasn't allowed to have it as short as my male peers.

"What ... hairstyles?" Mom giggled, her voice taking on a playful, dubious tone. "Umhm, sure. I didn't mean to embarrass you honey."

I smiled and nodded, unwilling to deflate a happy mother's idealized vision of her maturing daughter. Though I knew where I stood on the sexual spectrum since early childhood, I never shared it. Few would've understood anyways and even today, four and a half decades later, the public barely recognizes asexuality and is still getting used to the concept of genderqueer.

The asexual spectrum is usually scoffed at, even despised because it is misunderstood, so I kept silent. I was comfortable with my standing and what others knew or thought never mattered. It was not a choice, a fashion statement, or a moral judgement. It wasn't the result of my dysfunctional upbringing. It was how I was born and no more unusual than that splotchy birthmark on my scalp. I didn't choose that either. But it is what it is and approval or validation from others wasn't required. This personal fact is only being revealed because I've met too many young people in similar situations who felt utterly alone about it. There's nothing wrong with such a stance and we're not alone. No, we're not "defective."

Asexuality is basically a very low or nonexistent interest in sexual activity. It is not a voluntary repression of the sex drive and it certainly doesn't mean we're incapable of love or forming attachments. When we do form a bond, it's a very special one. The physical body and its appearance is merely a veneer and we focus on another's personality and soul. I don't view normal, healthy human sexuality with an immature or judgmental eye. I also think dirty jokes are just as funny as the next person. Genderqueer is a general term for people whose gender identity isn't exclusively male or female. In my case, it's a flexible combination of both. There may be a biological basis for this, at least in my case. When my breast cancer cells were tested in a lab, they were responsive to androgens; male hormones. (Female breast cancer cell lines with hormone receptors are typically fueled by estrogens.)

When I finally earned a driver's license, my parents, who were repeatedly separating and reuniting, allowed me limited use of their vehicles. Neither of them seemed to know what to do with their discordant relationship and dad's drinking had only increased. To me, driving a car was the first step in finding employment and escaping the chaotic atmosphere at home. In my free time, I hung out at the local health food and coffee shop in town. There I made some true and honest friends.

It was easier to associate with adults than with people my own age, whose pop culture priorities were uninteresting and puerile. The health food store was owned by a middle aged gay couple with an avid interest in spirituality and metaphysics. Through them I met a kind and gentle elderly man who was interested in UFOs and the concept of reincarnation. He was also asexual. I didn't ridicule him for his beliefs and for that he became a good friend. Baffled by experiences he couldn't explain, he just wanted to share his UFO stories and receive honest feedback. I saw no harm in listening and was equally as happy to share my thoughts on reincarnation.

Another friend was a Wiccan woman who grew produce for the grocer near the coffee shop. She firmly believed in nature spirits. Though scientifically centered, I harbored an open minded fascination with the paranormal for as long as I could remember. My maternal grandparents had shared some of the beliefs of their indigenous ancestry; astral travel, the belief in a spirit world, and using one's psychic senses. These were things I could never share with my high school friends. It was thrilling to finally be able freely exchange views with mature, like minded souls and be accepted without question.

When my parents discovered these unconventional friendships, they assumed the worst. In their eyes, seventeen-year-old girls weren't supposed to happily socialize with gay male couples, witches, or unmarried old men. My parents were convinced such friends were a "bad influence" despite utter lack of proof. Mom was fixated on the notion I might fall prey to pedophiles or cult leaders. The irony was that normal gay and asexual men were some of the safest people for a young girl to be around. Another irony was how these innocent people were presumed to be a "bad influence," yet my abusive, alcoholic father wasn't? My side of the argument didn't matter. Both parents refused to see beyond the clouded lens of intolerance. I was no longer allowed to visit or hang out with adult friends.

Though these associations had been brief, my friends had instilled the seeds of confidence. Having mentors whose primary focus was kindness, spiritual exploration, and healthy living had allowed me to recognize that I seriously needed to heal from my dysfunctional upbringing. I didn't belong in the dark place established by my dad. These friends encouraged me to begin the steps necessary for healing, such as taking advantage of the counseling resources at my high school. They not only helped me learn how to see my self-imposed cage, but they gave me the tools to open the door.

Healing from such an upbringing takes time and it doesn't happen overnight. I'd realized that we as human beings weren't meant to be victims, recklessly blown about by life, meekly accepting where it tossed us. No more excuses. We are to take charge, grab life by the horns, and make it our bitch.

Chapter 25

Rebellion. 1986

No one was around. The concrete steps in the back of our old house were cracked anyways. So who cares, I thought. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the long-handled, ten pound sledge hammer. At fifteen, I'd become "thick" as my peers termed it due to a physically active nature and genetics that favored a stocky muscularity. Scenes of childhood bedlam flashed through my mind; helplessly watching dad slapping mom until she cried, dad locking my sister in her room, me being screamed at and hit by a shovel for no reason at all. I'd had enough.

Grunting, I raised the hammer and smashed it into the lowest step. The concrete cracked, small chips flying into my legs. The destructive act felt good. I slammed the step again. Its corner shattered and fell away in jagged pieces. Growing up with an alcoholic parent will often instill feelings of guilt along with the anger. It's such a stealthy effect that I didn't even realize I was blaming myself for dad's addiction and his crazy behavior.

The next day, dad confronted me. I gazed at the floor, something I'd always do whenever he shouted into my face. Normally he'd be blaming me for things I hadn't done, but this time I was truly guilty. However, in the back of his booze addled mind, dad seemed to suspect he'd broken the concrete step during one of his blackout periods. I could hear the waver of uncertainty in his bellowing voice.

"Did you break my steps you little creep? Eh?"

Silent, I gave my lowered head a barely perceptible shake, still staring at the floor.

Leaning closer, dad's face was inches from mine. "I'm speaking to you goddammit!" A drop of spittle hit my forehead.

Hands balling into fists, I slowly raised my head and looked into dad's purpled face, which was a twisted mask of hostility. He started to speak and then froze, his bloodshot eyes boring into mine. Reflected back was the quiet fury and enmity he'd fostered over the years. His brows snapped upwards, then furrowed. Expression hard, I curled my lip, silently daring him to strike me. Our eyes were locked. His right arm twitched and lifted, then fell loosely at his side. Gaze narrowing, he stepped back and walked away. The tables had turned. I was capable of fighting back.

He no longer tried to hit me and, losing himself deeper in the pits of alcoholism, he became reclusive. At this point, he was struggling with maintaining employment. Mom moved out for good about a year later. With immense relief, my sister and I joined her. Their divorce was finalized.

Recovering from such a dysfunctional childhood took a long time. The first step in healing is recognizing there's an issue in the first place. I knew it wasn't normal to have a rotten sense of self-worth and a lack of confidence in life. That was an awful place to be and I hated it. Near the end of high school, I'd taken my adult friends' advice and sought counseling to help heal the anger, guilt, and anxiety. Being able to sort through my confusion with a sympathetic ear was an effective tool to begin the process of releasing the pain of the past.
Chapter 26

Forgiveness

Mom, once a timid young adult who'd believed it was a great sin to get divorced no matter the circumstances, had reached a greater wisdom. After the divorce, her dreams were being realized and she was well into a successful sales career. Once a teen mom, and then a frustrated codependent lacking assertiveness, she'd gradually gained a sense of independence and the ability to stand on her own. She would also become a good friend to me.

Now, from the wider perspective of an adult, I understood my mom's sincere effort and the sacrifices she'd endured. She'd done the best she possibly could with the limited tools she had at the time. Mom had her hands full with Krista and me; a couple of oddballs as far as kids go.

She caught me licking a stray cat when I was five and had a panic attack about the possibility of parasites and fleas. About a year later, I'd enlarged and colored in my eyebrows with black permanent marker and mom was too embarrassed to go out into public with me until the ink wore away. I also had a naughty habit of removing the head from my sister's Barbie, hiding it, and then blaming it on the dog. I also remember telling Krista that aliens had landed in the woods and were looking for baby sisters to abduct. She was afraid to sleep in her room after that. Yep, we were goofy kids. Thank you, mom, for your seemingly infinite patience.

Later in life I realized the uphill path of healing wasn't complete until I was able to forgive. I would never be free until that happened. It wasn't an easy undertaking. Many people cling to the tight binds of resentment and take this ugly state of being to the grave, a foolish and terrible thing to do.

It was a struggle to learn how to release the last threads of negative feelings about my father. Forgiving him felt as if I were condoning or excusing his past behavior. How could I simply dismiss the years of pain he'd inflicted? Dismissing it felt like accepting it. How does one let go?

Understanding my dad and trying to see from his perspective was necessary in the challenging process of forgiveness. Dad's father had been an abusive alcoholic. With this faulty upbringing as his foundation, dad had raised us the only way he knew how. He struggled, he tried, and he was only human. We all make mistakes, we're not perfect. To understand my dad was not excusing or condoning his poor behavior, but it was to recognize him as a fallible human being who'd taken some wrong turns in this life.

Instead of resentment, I felt sorry for the missteps he'd taken. Dad deserved happiness as much as anybody, but didn't know how to proceed at the time. That's his life lesson and not mine to judge. His turbulent life path was his choice and not my fault. There was nothing I could've done. My new understanding didn't magically repair our estranged relationship, but it allowed me to release negativity and move on. I replaced anger and disappointment with compassion and wisdom. Reciprocity was not expected, but that didn't matter. What mattered was how I felt about it. What matters in the end is unconditional love.

~ ~ ~
Chapter 27

A Brief & Grisly History: Ten Thousand Islands

Kayaking, camping, and fishing along the wild shores of the Ten Thousand Islands area isn't complete without knowledge of its peculiar past.

"Edgar Watson was shot thirty three times right over here," the fisherman told me. "Turned into Swiss cheese!" He pointed toward the rocky shoreline of the Smallwood Store and Museum. It was built by Ted Smallwood on Chokoloskee Island in 1906 as a general store and post office. Shortly afterward, in 1910, a shady character named Edgar Watson was gunned down, Swiss cheese style, by an unnerved posse of locals. Today tourists can visit this tiny museum for a glimpse into a rugged, pioneer past.

In the late 1800s, neighbors had begun to notice that Watson's hired hands, mostly vagabonds and fugitives, would vanish before the season's payday. These employees would help with vegetable farming and sugar cane syrup production, goods Watson sold to the mere 2000 souls in Key West. Local suspicions increased when the bodies of two people were discovered on a piece of land Watson had purchased near Lost Man's River. The couple had been living there when Watson bought the property and refused to leave. A while later a woman known as Hannah Smith was found dead in the river near Watson's home. Her mutilated body had been gutted in a sloppy attempt to sink the corpse so the local alligators could finish off the evidence.

At the start of the 1900s, concerned locals discovered the skeletal remains of over fifty people haphazardly buried on the Watson property at Chatham Bend. The bones were too fresh and not relics from the indigenous people's historic burial grounds. Residents suspected the bones may've belonged to Watson's missing hired hands. The locals had enough and an armed posse took justice into their own hands in front of the Smallwood Store on Chokoloskee Island.

After Watson's death, his syrup works and homestead were abandoned. The human bones on the property had been exhumed and presumably laid to rest in a proper location. Sometime after, a woman moved into the vacant, creaky Watson house. She allegedly went crazy and burned all the trees in the area. Today only a cistern and some antique and disintegrating equipment remain on the weedy, overgrown property.

Today the store and museum on Chokoloskee is maintained by Ted Smallwood's descendants. After experiencing an unusual number of unexplained occurrences, the store's owners are convinced it's haunted. In the past, concerned neighbors frequently called the police department during the wee hours of the night to report burglars in the store. They'd see and hear people talking and stomping around in the shop. Every time, officers would confirm there had been no forced entry and no perpetrators were found. No physical perps anyways.

Though the shop has a convenient bedroom, family members refuse to sleep in there due to frightening experiences in the past. Over the years various groups of paranormal investigators attempted to gather evidence of the possible specters. The ghost hunters from National Geographic had suffered unexplained and complete equipment failure when the clock struck midnight. Before this, everything was functioning and the fault wasn't with the area's electrical supply. Multiple investigators corroborated the unnerving experience of hearing heavy footsteps from unseen boots creeping across the wooden floor. Also, a hazy figure was frequently seen fleeing past the antique mirror in the bedroom.

During Watson's time, a young bank robber named Rice was killed on the island, his body sprawled in the weeds overnight until it was discovered the next day. Another fugitive bank robber had drowned along Chokoloskee's shore and his body was dragged to the landing near the Smallwood store. There it festered all day, turning black in the Florida sun. Since no one seemed to be taking action, Ted Smallwood buried the body near the eastern shore. More recently, a Native American medicine man paid a visit to the store and worked some of his magic to appease any indigenous ghosts, whose nearby burial grounds had been disturbed by developers. After all that, I'd be surprised if the area wasn't haunted.

The original native inhabitants, the Calusa, were gone before the arrival of settlers during the late 1800s. Presumably disease and capture eliminated the Calusa society after Spanish contact in the late 16th century. The Barron River saw one of the earliest white settlements in the Ten Thousand Islands. In the 1870s, a pioneer named George Allen built a house in what would be Everglades City. (That house became the famous Rod and Gun Club and today it's a restaurant with overnight lodging.) Very few settlers lived here and the brave souls who did faced clouds of mosquitos, sandflies, and no-see-ums. Homesteads caught rainwater in cisterns. Travel from island to island was by wooden sailing vessel or canoe.

Settlers had the benefit of obtaining sustenance from both the land and sea. Fishing and clamming were common. With the favorable climate, small scale farming was highly successful in between hurricanes. Popular produce included tomatoes and avocado, and sugar cane to produce syrup. Various tropical fruits were grown. People hunted and ate sea turtles and their eggs. Deer and other animals, including whooping cranes, also supplemented the rather fresh pioneer diet. Before hunting laws were enforced, egrets, herons and other birds were killed off in vast numbers for their decorative plumes.

When a school house was built on Chokoloskee in 1898, the students were pleased to cease using a stinky old outhouse as a classroom. Finding a teacher who would stay was problematic. By 1905, the area's students, all thirteen of them, had seen a long succession of mosquito bitten, snake fearing teachers. Over time, improvements were made in the community as the tiny island's population increased. In 1948, a powerful hurricane destroyed the area's crops and fruit trees and wrecked commercial boats and homes. In 1956, a road was finally built to connect Chokoloskee to Everglades City and the Florida mainland.

Today, visitors can explore the historic settlement sites scattered within the Ten Thousand Islands. Nature has reclaimed these places, but the careful eye can still find the dented remnants of moonshine stills or the crumbling walls of cisterns. I found broken antique dinnerware and the tarnished half of a silver spoon on one island. Neil took photos of an old foundation, trees growing through the center of it.

The Everglades National Park was established in 1934. Much later, the Ten Thousand Islands National Wildlife Refuge was created in 1996. The rough and fascinating legacy of this area and its people are meant to be remembered. Florida's wild beauty, essential for the health of the land, must be preserved.

Video showing some historic remains and the beauty of the Ten Thousand Islands: https://youtu.be/7YaL2Zln-oc
Chapter 28

Advice from a Cancer Patient

If you can't control life's circumstances, you can absolutely control your reactions to those circumstances.

Never stop exploring or learning. Don't allow setbacks to get the best of you.

You only fail when you stop making the effort to try.

Change and challenge is required for personal growth.

Live each day to the fullest, live like you mean it.

In each negative life experience, there is a hidden positive. That hidden lesson is a gift.

Don't dream. Do! Procrastination is your worst enemy.

Time is a precious commodity, don't squander it.

Break up monotony. Don't be afraid to try something new, no matter how small.

Get to know your self-imposed limits and see how these imaginary ties are keeping you from spreading your wings.

Forgiveness is a difficult process. The unwillingness to forgive is a chain pinning you and the other person down. It's the same chain that keeps you away from true happiness and peace.

Genuine gratitude is a spiritual superpower.

Humor is your friend and helps you make more.

Ask yourself this: What am I doing to make a positive difference in the world?

Accept yourself for who you are, the flaws and the strengths. Once you can honestly accept yourself, you can accept others.

Forget forcing yourself to live up to society's or someone else's expectations. Your 'normal' isn't necessarily someone else's 'normal.' Be true to yourself.

If I'd had a perfect childhood, there would've been no challenges. No opportunities for serious, in depth self exploration or spiritual growth. Without some darkness, I would not have gained the wisdom to appreciate the light.

###

Other EBooks By the Author

Odd Jobs

From Chaos to Key West

More true, oft unusual stories. Part of life's adventure involves, at least for the majority of us, working for a living. This little read shares the memories of living and working on the zany island of Key West.

Sail With Me

True Sailing Adventures

Yet more crazy true stories. A fun and often funny adventure for boaters and non-boaters alike. Get swept into a journey through exotic, tropical islands. Hide from hurricanes, an outlaw ghost, and crazed squirrels. Sink your toes into powdery pink (yes, pink) sand, watch the full moon shimmer over the sea and forget about schedules for a while.

The Human and the Hunted

A Science Fiction Novel

Fiction. First contact standalone science fiction adventure with memorable characters. The intention was to write a series of books, but cancer put a halt to that endeavor. If you enjoy realistic science fiction, strange and truly "alien" aliens, and human Stone Age history, this is an entertaining read.

About the Author

After working to pay her way through college (mechanical design, electronics & a BA in communication), Burg purchased an antique 31-foot cruising sailboat. She relied on her mechanical and engineering training to restore the vessel, and then moved aboard. Singlehanding in the company of others, she seasonally sailed to tropical ports. Home port is currently a tiny marina surrounded by the Florida Everglades.

Her philosophy includes working hard, yet not waiting for retirement to have fun in life. Finding a balance between employment and play, Rebecca worked seasonal retail jobs and, year-round, worked as a marine mechanic and marine electrical technician. She also enjoys a hobby in the visual arts, sometimes selling her realistic paintings on the side.

In her late 40s, she was diagnosed with an aggressive stage III breast cancer and has so far endured two and a half years of treatment. This did not stop her from enjoying life as much as she realistically could. In 2017 she married Neil Braun and she treasures the new additions to her family.

Website: www.RebeccaBurgArt.com

