Sailing – My Corner

My First and Only Sailing Adventure #It’sSix-Sentence-StoryThursdayLinkUp

In the summer of 1984, my dad, brother, and two uncles and I set sail in a rented thirty-foot sloop with a skipper for a three-hour cruise. Does this sound familiar? No, it’s not the story of Gilligan’s Island.

It’s our family’s story about how I spent three hours on the high seas, huddled over a white bucket. I was so intent on being sick that I forgot to put on sun screen. Needless to say, I was badly burned when we docked, but at least we didn’t end up on a deserted island with no way to get home or make a television show about it.

Thanks to Girlie on the Edge for inspiring the above true story with her six-sentence prompt word for this week. I wrote a poem about that sailing experience, which you can read here. It was recently published in The Weekly Avocet. To participate in this week’s blog hop and read what others have to say, click here.

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For those of you who use the National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled, The Red Dress is available for download from their site here. No matter how you read it, please be sure to review it wherever you can. That goes for all my books. Thank you for stopping by. Stay safe, happy, and healthy.

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New! The Red Dress

When Eve went to her high school senior prom, she wore a red dress that her mother had made for her. That night, after dancing with the boy of her dreams, she caught him in the act with her best friend. Months later, Eve, a freshman in college, is bullied into giving the dress to her roommate. After her mother finds out, their relationship is never the same again.

Twenty-five years later, Eve, a bestselling author, is happily married with three children. Although her mother suffers from dementia, she still remembers, and Eve still harbors the guilt for giving the dress away. When she receives a Facebook friend request from her old college roommate and an invitation to her twenty-five-year high school class reunion, then meets her former best friend by chance, she must confront the past in order to face the future.

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On a Thirty-Foot Sloop #TuesdayTidbit #Poetry

June, 1984, in my mid-twenties,
I set sale with my family under a cloudless sky
from a marina at Redondo Beach, California.
The rented boat glides through smooth port waters.
Like the passengers on Gilligan’s Island,
we anticipate a pleasant three-hour cruise.

Once we hit the waves, my stomach revolts.
Moments later, holding the leaking sack
containing what was once my lunch, Uncle Tony asks,
“Will the EPA mind if I throw this overboard?”

“No problem,” says the skipper.
He hands me a bucket,
places a hand on my shoulder
while I let it all out.

A helicopter whirrs overhead.
“They’re making a movie,” Uncle Jon speculates.
Oh boy, I always wanted to be in a movie,
Barfing on the High Seas.

Later, the skipper reminisces about man overboard drills.
Still nauseated, I glance at the water, the shore.
If I jumped in, tried to swim,
would I make it?

After three of the worst hours of my life,
I stumble onto the dock,
exhausted, sunburned—it could be worse.

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The above poem appears in the August 29^th issue of The Weekly Avocet, a nature poetry journal to which I contribute regularly. To hear me read it, click below.

On a Thirty-Foot Sloop

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New! The Red Dress

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Poem Depicts Florida Wildlife Adventure

Last week when I posted “Thirty-Foot Sloop,” a poem about my Pacific Ocean misadventure, someone asked me if I ever tried sailing again after that. Well, I have, but not on the high seas. When I visited my brother and his family in Florida, we often took trips down the Loxahatchee River, which is a lot smoother. Last year, we rented a canoe, and I wrote a poem about what happened. Click on the title below the picture to hear me read it.

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My sister-in-law snapped a photo of this creature with her iPhone before she and my brother back-paddled the canoe away from it as fast as they could.

THE ALLIGATOR

A warm March afternoon under a cloudless Florida sky,

floating down the Loxahatchee River,

I sit on the canoe bottom, cramped,

while others paddle.

In a narrow section,

where we hope to spot wildlife, it appears.

Not a snake, but still a deadly creature,

it stands among plants on the bank,

gazes at its reflection in the gleaming water.

I don’t see it–they do.

After snapping a picture,

we sail far, far away

while icy fingers of fear massage my spine.

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Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

We Shall Overcome

How to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

My Ideal Partner: How I Met, Married, and Cared for the Man I Loved Despite Debilitating Odds

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Barfing on the High Seas

One morning years ago at the Sportsman’s Lodge in Los Angeles, while most of my extended family was gathered for my uncle’s wedding, we were sitting around the pool, discussing what we would do that day. The men wanted to go sailing, and the women wanted to see some sights. At the age of twenty-three, I’d never been on a sailboat but had done my fair share of sightseeing, and being young and visually impaired, I didn’t find that at all appealing.

When I invited myself to go sailing with my brother, dad, and two uncles, they readily agreed, and we set off. At a marina, we found a captain willing to take us on a three-hour cruse for a fee, which would increase if we made a mess. Before heading out, we ate lunch at a nearby establishment where I had a cheeseburger with French fries and a Coke. Once we hit the high seas, I wished more than ever that I’d gone to look at museums and other attractions with my grandmother and aunts.

I wrote a poem about this experience several years ago. Kathy Waller’s 100-word short story inspired me to post it. Click on the title to hear me read it.

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THIRTY-FOOT SLOOP

In the summer of 1984, my family sets sail

from a marina at Redondo Beach, California.

The rented boat glides through smooth port waters.

A college kid, the only woman on board,

once we hit rough waters,

my stomach revolts.

Moments later, while holding the leaking sack

containing what was once my lunch, Uncle Tony asks,

“Will the EPA mind if I throw this overboard?”

“No problem,” says Shawn, the captain.

He hands me a bucket,

places a hand on my shoulder

while I let it all out.

A helicopter whirrs overhead.

“They’re making a movie,” Uncle Jon speculates.

Oh boy, I always wanted to be in a movie,

I think, huddled over my white bucket,

Barfing on the High Seas.

Later, Shawn reminisces about man overboard drills.

Still nauseated, I glance at the water, the shore.

If I jump in, try to swim,

will I make it?

After three hours, back in calm waters,

I step onto the dock,

exhausted, sunburned—it could be worse.

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Afterward, I learned that the women not only saw some sights but also went to an ice cream parlor where they encountered a celebrity from Hill Street Blues. Oh well, some choices we make in life aren’t always good ones.

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