Frostbite Regatta

Posted on October 18, 2011 by shay

Imagine the deck of a 31′ sailboat, slick with spray and heaving over three-foot waves while heeling at a 45-degree angle. As she tacks, you duck out of the way of the boom and hang on, while keeping feet and legs away from the jib sheets, which can pull you overboard.

Then climb, climb her 10′ beam to the windward side, hang your legs and arms overboard and lean out between the lifelines. Wind in your hair, spray in your face, the boat speeding at 8.1 KT, the exhilaration is marvelous!

That is how I spent a few hours on Saturday, during the Frostbite Regatta off Quantico Yacht Club, aboard Te-Keel-La, a beautiful Catalina 310. Te-Keel-La already had more than enough crew, so I mostly served as rail meat/photographer. While these positions did not help me advance my racing knowledge much, they were highly enjoyable, and allowed me to catch some very good pictures of the action, both on board and in the scene.

Te-Keel-La competed in the first race, a challenge in winds of up to 28 KT, and waves about three feet. Two of her reef points tore before she crossed the finish mark in about an hour and a half. The Catalina 310 served as the committee boat in the second race. While bobbing on the anchored committee boat was not as exciting as racing, it put me in position for action shots at the start/finish line.

I was lucky enough to be able to sail again on Sunday, teaching basic sailing, then enjoying a pleasure sail with friends–for a total of five hours in a fresh breeze. These three sails brought me sore arms, legs and back, sunburn, windburn, chapped lips, two broken fingernails, three small cuts and several bruises, but I’m still smiling because I actually had enough sailing this weekend.

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Delicious night ride

Posted on October 11, 2011 by shay

This afternoon I felt irritation as I realized that, once again, I was not going to leave work on time. Minutes before “quitting time,” my boss had something important to discuss, and it could not wait. I was going to arrive home too close to dark to go on a much-needed bike ride–and that annoyed me.

I ended up leaving the office more than an hour late, with a commute of over an hour in front of me. Traffic was unusually thick, too, making the drive even longer, and contributing to my irritation. Bike riding is one of the ways I keep healthy, fit and relaxed, and I had not been able to ride in almost two weeks.

Arriving home, I quickly changed into my cycling clothes and dashed out the back door. Pulling my Fila hybrid out of the shed, I found the front tire, which had been leaking for some time, was beyond service. This meant I had to change the tire while using up what little precious daylight remained.

My irritation escalated to anger, which I turned into determination. I was going to finally change that tire, by golly! and then be able to ride without trouble. Tomorrow. When the forecast is for rain.

Grabbing tire levers, air pump and Vise Grips, I went at my task with a vengeance, changing the tire more effectively than ever before, even though I was quite rusty. Still, by the time I finished the job and put away the tools, twilight had fallen. It was too late to ride. Or was it? I needed to test the new tire a bit, just riding around the neighborhood for a few minutes. I donned my reflective wrist- and ankle bands, and the LED headlamp–the kind that is like a flashlight on an elastic headband. I was merely going to pedal around for a few minutes, but this turned into a delicious night ride.

My mouth broke into a grin as soon as I started pedaling down the street. I missed riding, and was enjoying the lovely feel of it. “Maybe I’ll just go to the railroad tracks and back,” I thought, “on the sidewalk, where it’s safe.” From there, I went on through the wealthy neighborhood along the river, and through a couple more neighborhoods in that area, stopping in front of the private waterfront park, looking at the river from behind the chain link fence. I paused for a few minutes, feeling the cool light air, watching the reflection of distant lights dancing on the black face of the river, recognizing how different it looks at night, and remembering splendid days of sailing, right out there.

Continuing on, I pedaled toward the public park, opposite a long line of vehicles driven by the soccer parents taking their kids home after the evening’s games. In the darkening night, the light from their headlamps broke harshly on my eyes. I turned my bicycle down a side road, into a quiet neighborhood near the river, with large lawns and an open field in the middle. Pedaling around the long oval road, I was aware of how, without normal ability to see, I was relying more on my other senses. Without seeing them, I felt the presence of several deer. Turning toward their direction, I saw only the green reflection of my headlamp in their eyes, and the white flags of their tails as they bounded across the meadow.

In the darkness, sounds seemed louder, smells richer, and the touch of the wind felt greater. I pedaled back toward the park in front of the river, and rounding a corner, saw my headlamp reflecting in the eyes of a much smaller creature, a raccoon, which was looking at me nervously and trying to decide if it could squeeze its chubby body into the small drainage pipe at the end of a driveway. It did, just in time to duck out of sight of a fat black Labrador retriever laboring and huffing to keep up with its jogging owner.

I heard the blare of the train whistle before I turned back toward the railroad tracks. There, the traffic was stopped in front of the crossing gates as a long freight train rumbled loudly past. I pedaled along side the cars and trucks, wanting to be closer to the train, to feel it vibrate in my ears, my chest, my bones. The train went on into the darkness, but the gates remained down as the head light from another train moved closer. This train had a different rumble, one lighter, and it came with greater speed, so I knew it was a commuter train. I enjoyed looking at the people in the lighted interior as the train sped by, like I was looking into a model train set that was running top speed.

The gates lifted and I pedaled home, feeling satisfied by the exercise, the rhythm, the wind and air, the sensory stimulation. I also felt grateful for that experience, which I would not have enjoyed, had I not been kept late at work, had I not been slowed by the need to change a tire.

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The courage to turn the other cheek

Posted on August 30, 2011 by shay

One evening last week, I asked a friend to make plans to come through on a favor he had gladly offered me in exchange for a favor to him. I sent the request by text message, since I know that is his preferred means of quick communication. Being that this request was for something seemingly easy for him, but important to me, I was shocked to receive his text in response, which blasted me for thinking of myself instead of his situation, and ended with “[expletive deleted] off!”

As a human being, my first reaction was to take offense, the “How dare he?” defense. Had I allowed my knee-jerk response to dominate my actions, I would have immediately sent a nasty text in return, saying something like, “I’ll remember this next time you ask me for a favor, jerk!” But I bit my thumbs and put my cell phone away, giving myself time to calm down and choose my response, instead of merely reacting.

I thought about my friend’s reaction, and my own, and turned the interaction over in my mind. I considered what I know of this friend–that he can be touchy, and often lashes out when under stress–and that he was facing a special challenge in the projected path of hurricane Irene. My thought was that he could have just ignored my text, or answered, “not now,” instead of being offensive.

I also considered the truth in what my friend said. Though his wording was offensive, at the core he was asking me to be more considerate, and I realized he was right; I had been caught up in my own challenges and needs, enough that I did not think much about his.

The following morning, I chose how I wanted to respond to my angry and offensive friend. I did not seek “an eye for an eye,” but turned my cheek. I decided to give him the compassion and understanding he needed, and to acknowledge the nugget of truth in his words. “You were right,” I texted back. “I should have been more considerate of your situation. I am sorry, and sorry I could not help. Let me know if you still need help,” I concluded, and waited to see how my friend would respond.

Not long after I sent that text, my friend replied, saying he was sorry, that it was not my fault, he had been very stressed, and “I still love ya.”

Sometime later it occurred to me that it takes a certain courage to turn the other cheek. It means having the courage to self-examine, to see the level of truth in another’s offensive words, to see the flaws in one’s own behavior, and to be the first to say “hey, I value you more than my need to be right.”

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Keeping connection

Posted on August 23, 2011 by shay

The past two weeks have been difficult, as I have dealt with an injured wrist that has kept me from sailing, cycling and gardening. These favorite physical activities help me keep my life in balance, so when I cannot engage in them, I feel off kilter. Frustration follows, and maintaining a positive mindset and demeanor becomes a challenge.

Periods of difficulty have taught me the importance of holding connection to the things that sustain me, even if only by the thinnest thread. If I cannot sail, I can catch glimpses of the river when I ride my bike. If I cannot ride my bike, I can imagine I’m pedaling it over the hills and valleys during the last leg of my daily commute.

Even imagining myself engaged in favorite activities can serve to ease my mind and bring a smile to my face. This creates a positive start that sets the tone for the rest of my day. Then I can share my happy spirit with the people I encounter, and lift their spirits, as well. Keeping connection to what sustains me is a simple but powerful act.

© 2011 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved.

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How to recognize a pervert

Posted on August 16, 2011 by shay

Unfortunately, there is no simple way to determine who is a pervert.  I’m talking about the kind of perverts who sexually assault other people. They don’t come from any given ethnic or socioeconomic background and they rarely look like a creep. Indeed, the most successful perverts are masters at disguise.

These people are predators, who work hard to appear normal, and may be considered “pillars of the community.” They present such a façade that other people—potential victims and potential critics alike—cannot believe they would do this.

The pervert could look like a sweet old man with twinkly blue eyes, the kind one would expect to be a beloved grandfather. He is likely to be generally friendly, and extend courtesy or kindness to others—but that is a ruse, to throw off both the predator’s potential victim and those who might support the victim if she or he speaks up about the assault.

I know about this kind of evil person first-hand, through the sexual abuse I endured as a child. When I went into recovery almost 15 years ago, I learned that I was not alone, that it was not my fault, that these disgusting people molest anyone they can, and that they studiously position themselves for access to as many potential victims as possible. These perverts carefully scope out their prey and plan their assault with precision, so they can take advantage and strike when their target is most vulnerable.

Through years of recovery and reading, followed by being an active writer and speaker on the topic of childhood sexual abuse, I thought I had come to know the predator’s mind well enough to identify predatory behavior and avoid becoming a target again. But I was wrong.

I know that the common pedophile is skilled confusing his potential victim with kindness, in order to confuse his prey—and to deflect off any blowback with, “I was just being nice.”  I thought that, as an aware adult, I would be able to discern good touch from bad touch, friendly person from creep. But I was wrong.

A seemingly kind old man, whom I met on a weekend away, gave me advice, helped me learn some new things, and otherwise displayed friendly behavior—which turned out to be the key to his plan. His goal was to gain my trust so he could violate me.

After I sustained an injury, the kind old man helped me find the urgent care facility and said he would stay to make sure I was OK. How kind! When I was finished there, he offered to take me to dinner because it was after 9 p.m. and we had not eaten. How thoughtful! We had a nice dinner and interesting conversation. How refreshing! After that, he said he wanted to follow me home, to make sure I got home OK. Again, how thoughtful! Finally, arriving at my house around midnight, he offered to help bring in my bags, since my injury caused me difficulty with this. How helpful! This nice old man had been so kind to me that, as I hugged him good-bye, I was thoroughly taken aback when he touched me in an inappropriate manner, committing a sexual assault.

I was exhausted, in pain and my guard was down, so I did not react strongly. Just as he had planned and expected. I stepped back and gave him a serious warning look, which sent him on his way. Later, I told a friend that, “I wish I had slapped the hell out of him.”

In the following days, the old man perp kept trying to engage me by email, as if nothing had happened. I let days pass before I answered one of his emails, including the warning, “I assure you that, should you ever again touch me in any inappropriate manner, you will wish you had not.” As I expected, he has not attempted to contact me since. Sexual predators are often bullies, who, when confronted, scuttle back into their dark holes. Temporarily. Until they spot another potential target.

This predator’s method of operation is that of the classic child molester, so I am certain that this “kind old man” has assaulted many other women and girls—and perhaps boys and men, too—and likely in much, much worse ways. For their sake, and for that of his future targets, I do wish I had slapped the hell out of him.

© 2011 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved.

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Rejecting the summer reading program

Posted on July 26, 2011 by shay

Several years ago my older daughter, Caitlín, was “in 6th grade,” but reading mostly young adult books, as she had outgrown most in the youth section. Since she was reading “teen” books, she felt she should be able to participate in the teen level summer reading program sponsored by our public library. The teen program offers prizes for a much lower number of books than does the level for younger children, because the young adult (YA) books are longer reads. I think they offered a prize for every 5 books, and the “little kid’s” program did so for every 10, or maybe 20.

When my daughter asked a librarian if she could participate in the teen reading program, the woman told her “no,” because she was not yet “in high school.” So, Caitlín decided she would no longer participate in the reading program. “I read because I enjoy it,” she told me, “and I don’t need any prizes as incentives.”

The next time we went to the library, another librarian spoke to us about the summer reading program, expressing disgust at the kids who obviously signed on only for the prizes. She said it was easy to discern their motive, as they often chose books based on their brevity–such as poetry anthologies or books of jokes. The librarian was dismayed that these kids did not seem to want to read for the pleasure of it, but were only interested in jumping as low as possible through the hoops to get the goodies.

Then the same librarian asked my daughter if she had signed up for the summer reading program, and when Caitlín explained why she had not–that she thought it unfair that she was reading YA books and had to read so many of those to get a prize in the little kid’s program–the librarian told her she should “pick short, easy to read books, like poetry anthologies and joke books.” I hardly knew what to say. My daughter was thoroughly disgusted and simply walked away. I said something like, “Caitlín seems to think that is not a viable option,” and also walked away. We have not felt the need to revisit the summer reading program topic since.

Copyright 2007, 2011 by Shay Seaborne. All Rights Reserved.

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Bigger than me

Posted on July 19, 2011 by shay

A sweet friend is going through divorce, feeling overwhelmed with the tasks of re-entering the workforce, household and auto maintenance, finances, grocery shopping, meal planning, cooking, general parenting and dealing with the kids’ emotional fallout. Solo. I have a good idea of what life is like for her right now, because I was in the same situation not so long ago.

When we begin the process of divorce, we have no clue what we will go through. Divorce is a horribly arduous and painful process that tests us to the limit. It has been almost four years since I separated from my ex, and only recently do I feel like I have recovered from the havoc it wreaked.

Going through my divorce and struggling to build a whole new life, I had to admit that this was bigger than me; it was more than I could control or handle, that I needed to ask for- and accept all the help I could obtain. Though I have always been a caretaker, the one who does for others, I learned to let people help me however they could and would. They not only listened and offered sage advice, they also gave me furniture and flatware, brought trucks and helped me move, gave me grocery store gift cards, changed my flat tire and took me out to dinner.

The day that I became unemployed, a friend, with whom I’d been out of touch for a while, had invited me to meet for dinner. He wanted to catch up, and didn’t know what had happened. Over Mexican fare, I filled him in. In response, he posed a golden question, something I rarely heard: “How can I help?” prised, I asked what he meant. He said it meant whatever I wanted it to mean, so I told him about the thing that was most problematic for me. I needed to have my gutters cleaned. Given my situation, my answer seemed absurd. But it had weighed on me for weeks, and I felt I could not afford to pay someone. My friend said he would come over after work the next day and clean my gutters. He did not only that, but removed the old satellite dish and wires left by the prior owner, and even caulked the bolt holes the array had left in the roof. Then he went home to work on his taxes.

This couple of hours effort on my friend’s part meant a great deal to me, and his pure generosity helped me to let in and embrace further assistance.  I would greatly need this help in what would become more than a year of unemployment, with its attendant challenges and emotional impact–on top of a plumbing disaster that required a total home re-plumbing and replacement of half of my kitchen. Without allowing others to help, without clearly asking for help, I would not have made it through these difficult times.

The best divorce advice I received was from someone who was about four years ahead of me in the process. He reminded me to always strive to conduct myself in a manner that would allow me to look back and be proud of myself. There were times when that thought kept me from giving in to the urge to lash out at my then-husband, to do what some would say he deserved, but what would also make me into the kind of person I did not want to become. I pass along that idea to those I know who are going through divorce, and I add my own, which is: tell friends, acquaintances and strangers what you need, and let us give what we can.

© 2011 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved.

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The depth of her strength

Posted on June 28, 2011 by shay

Long ago a tender, loving and trusting fairy child was born into a spellbound family. Under an age-old curse, her parents could not love. In an attempt to break the spell, the girl gave up large portions of her Self: her ideas, dreams, opinions, and feelings. These she folded into a tiny square, a treasure packet, then tucked them deep in her pocket. So, even as her body grew, the fairy child became smaller inside.

One day an evil troll, disguised as a man, crossed her path. Seeing the fairy child was unprotected, he invited her into his home. Innocent of predators in the world, the girl took the trollman’s hand.

He gave her bread and cheese, compliments and laughter. Unfamiliar with real love, the girl mistook these for that craved sensation. “At last I’ll have what I need,” she thought.

That night, while she slept complacently, the trollman sealed shut the door. He bent down and kissed the child’s satin mouth, used her to satisfy his need to dominate and control. Having control over someone–even a defenseless child–made him feel powerful.

“I give you much,” he said, “and you have something I want. I must have just a little piece of your wing.”

Under the trollman’s trance, the fairy child could not know the value of her wings. She did not resist. Each day, he required a larger piece of wing. At the same time, he reduced the girl’s ration of bread and cheese.

As the fairy child lost her vitality, the trollman took advantage. He pinned her down and stole her treasure packet. The spell-dazed child barely realized what was happening. She did not understand the significance of her loss.

Still the poor girl thought it was love. The trollman’s meager crusts seemed more than her parents had given. “He loves me” she told herself. “I must love him, or I wouldn’t have given him my wings and treasure packet.”

Finally, the fairy child’s wings were mere nubs. Still, the trollman demanded more. Powerless under his spell, she did not protest. Soon, the girl was wingless and bald, her tresses consumed by the trollman’s insatiable appetite.

“You must give up more!” The trollman snarled, as he tied her down and bit off her toe. The pain of the loss startled the fairy child awake from her trance. She saw the man was an evil troll, and his home a dark cave, strewn with foul garbage. The child shuddered as she realized her danger. “If I stay here, he will eat me to my bones.”

The next day, when the troll went out, the fairy child noticed the door. Searching for her treasure packet, she sifted through dirt and disgust. She found it–torn and with two of the corners missing. The girl unfolded it, wrapping it around her. Instantly, her hair and wings grew back. With all her strength, she pushed on the door, breaking its seal.

Not knowing where else to go, the fairy child reluctantly returned to her father’s house. She knew the ancient curse would prevent her family from understanding and offering support and love. The fairy child hated the pretending game, but she had to play, to fit in with her spellbound family. Her father did not want to see his daughter’s wound–to face the truth–if it might cause him any discomfort.

The girl’s emotions were knotted, and she had no one to help her untangle them. “I LET that evil little troll take away my wings, my hair and my treasure packet. I must be as vile as he,” she mourned. The fairly child’s bright spirit dwindled, as a flame deprived of air. Her wings went limp, her hair turned matted. The girl feared that snuffing out her spirit was the only way to end her turmoil. Yet, her family was oblivious to her decline.

But in her dreams, a wise old fairy Queen urged, “You do not have to do this. You can save yourself. Save yourself; you are worth it.”

The child took small steps toward making herself feel better. Bandaging the weeping sore where her toe had been, the young fairy vowed to not look at it again. She brushed her hair, unfolded her wings, and started trying to reach out.

Before she knew it, the fairy child fell in love with a fairy boy. But he, too, was terribly wounded, and medicated himself with toadstool water. This numbed him, and made him mean. The fairy child clung to him, wishing she could help. “If only I love him enough, he will no longer need the toadstool water.”

For seven years, the fairy child stayed with the boy. Then the girl fell gravely ill, coughing blood; unable to rise from her bed. “Maybe now he will love me,” she thought, waiting for him to care for her. The boy did not come. He was busy gathering toadstools. Crying bitterly, the fairy child realized, “He will NEVER be here for me. I must take care of MYSELF, and create the life I want to live.”

As the girl regained some strength, she met other people, who shared their bread freely. Tasting the loaves of many bakers was nourishing. The fairy child learned to bake, and offered her bread in return. At last she knew true friendship, and she thrilled at its sustaining power. It was then she completed her transformation into a fairy woman.

As the fairy woman’s life began to blossom, she was introduced by a friend to a fairy man. He was about her age, handsome, humorous and intelligent. She felt attracted to him right away. The fear inside her warned, “Don’t get close; he will hurt you just like your father, the troll, and the toadstool boy.”

Although she tried to avoid it, the fairy woman fell in love with the fairy man, and they soon married. They built a life rich with love, trust, and sharing, and filled their home with warmth and comfort.

Into their lives they invited two fairy children, whom they loved dearly and raised with all the tender care they could offer. Around their home sprang a garden, which bore bountiful fruits and flowers, offering a haven for birds, rabbits, and butterflies.

The fairy woman was strengthened by her new life. She felt wrapped in warmth, love and safety. At last, she was able to examine the wound from her missing toe. Seeing it, she cried out in pain and fear. “WHY won’t this heal? It still hurts, after all these years.” For the first time, she allowed herself to experience the anguish of what happened to her.

The fairy woman began to cleanse the wound and mourn her loss. “He had no right! He tricked me into giving up my Self.” She realized the depth of her strength. “I’ve walked through life with a severe injury, and kept my ability to love and trust. I survived, and now I’m ready to heal.”

With help and guidance from the caring people around her, the fairy woman finished cleaning the toxic material from her wound, applied a soothing salve and a carefully wrapped bandage. She looked at it often, caring for the wound as it needed.

In time, the fairy woman healed. The scar from the lost toe became a reminder of the pain and danger she lived through, the strength she bore, and how far she had journeyed.

To her daughters she gave wings, helping them grow into strong and wise fairy women. And she lived the balance of her life happy to be her Self.

© 1998, 2007, 2011 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved.

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Mimosas on the wind

Posted on June 21, 2011 by shay

Not far into my morning bike ride, I encounter a significant hill just on the other side of a major intersection. If I manage to hit the intersection while in motion, the momentum allows me to shift into 12th gear before I reach the top of that rise.

Then I can fly down the other side, cranking as hard and fast as I can, wind whistling through my helmet straps. When I am riding hard like that, my lungs are working at full capacity, pumping in and out in rhythm. Breathing in that way, I take in great lungfuls of air, scented with whatever happens to be on the wind at the moment: creosote from the new railroad ties, flowers, exhaust, mud, solvent from the concrete factory.

This morning as I approached the top of the hill, I caught the sweet smell of mimosas on the wind. And the lemon scent of saucer magnolias. And the spiciness of wild roses. The flowers of late June. These smells are part of the succession of flower fragrances that my nose has witnessed since I began regularly riding my bike this spring, starting with the heavy sweet scent of honey locusts and wisteria. Soon, these start-of-summer will fade and fall, making way for the smells of mid summer, bringing forth forgotten memories, tying past and present together as I fly through the humid morning.

© 2011 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved.

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Here’s to dads!

Posted on June 19, 2011 by shay

Here’s to the dads who consciously and actively parent. To the ones who protect- and engage with their children, the ones who enjoy and adore their kids, the ones who practice patience, express love, and take pride in the young people they raise- or raised. A good dad is like gold.

And here’s to the men, who are not necessarily dads, who step forward to give some fathering to those whose dads are not present. Including those men who committed one small act to make a difference to a child.

Here’s to Duane, who was my mother’s boyfriend when I was 13. He welcomed me when I came to live with them without any notice. Tutored me in algebra, gave me back rubs, made me feel like I belonged there, and showed me a different model of a man–one who is warm, gentle and caring.

And here’s to Jay, who would hug me, just hug me, swaying megently and humming. And to two men named Pete, each of whom stood up for me and came to my aid when I needed help.

And mostly, here’s to Wally Shaw, who was my supervisor when I was a volunteer at the Lightship Chesapeake. Wally was playful and gregarious. Over the course of years, he sometimes took me to lunch at the greasy spoon across the street, invited me to see “Children of a Lesser God” at the theatre, loaned me his books and told me it was OK to lightly pencil my thoughts in the margins, talked with me about philosophy and life, valued my thoughts and opinions, and treated me like an equal. Here’s to you, Wally.

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