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| Six fingered cats are the best cats. |
This wasn't our first time in KeyWest, but each time we check another item off the "Island Tourist To-Do List."
Last year it was Hemingway's House, whereupon I was nearly mauled to death (affectionately, I still firmly believe) by one of the many six-toed cats that roam the place with regal impunity.
The year before, it was parasailing over the barrier reef, clutching desperately to our harnesses as our asses dangled some 300 feet above the Gulf of Mexico. I lost a sandal, and as I watched it slowly tumble, end over end, into the great blue azure sea below, I had the distinct sense that my tether to the boat had broken, and that I was flying free. Holy shit, I thought, I'll be halfway to Cuba before anyone even notices!
I survived, but my sandal was lost forever.
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| I'll never see that sandal again. |
This year we went in for snorkeling off of an "adventure cruise" that had taken us to Somewhere Way Out There. It was a fairly sizable group on board, mostly youngs, but I was happy to see that we weren't the oldest geezers on board. After we had set anchor, the crew started shoving masks and snorkels at us, and these absurdly huge fins that made dignity impossible.
I spent the better part of an hour on the water, paddling over sponge coral and pockets of brightly covered fish. Visibility was limited to a few feet, but all in all I very much enjoyed splashing around in the middle of vast, blue nothingness.
Afterwards, we all loaded back onto the boat and cruised to another seemingly random spot and dropped anchor again. Here the water was very shallow, perhaps three feet where we dropped anchor. I should point out that by this time, most of the passengers had broken out the beer and wine, which was offered as part of the tour and supplied by the crew. I, being a stalwart Friend of Bill's, declined. Of course.
As it turned out, the second part of the cruise was also rather nice, but only because I missed it.
By some nautical sleight of hand, the crew had magically produced 7 or 8 enormous 2-person kayaks from below deck and thrown them overboard. Now, one by one, people began awkwardly flopping into them.
I spent the better part of an hour on the water, paddling over sponge coral and pockets of brightly covered fish. Visibility was limited to a few feet, but all in all I very much enjoyed splashing around in the middle of vast, blue nothingness.
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| I love snorkeling! |
As it turned out, the second part of the cruise was also rather nice, but only because I missed it.
By some nautical sleight of hand, the crew had magically produced 7 or 8 enormous 2-person kayaks from below deck and thrown them overboard. Now, one by one, people began awkwardly flopping into them.
Having lived on the intracoastal for our first years down here, and having kayaked until our arms nearly fell from their sockets, we opted out of this excursion. As the others began paddling off into the sunset, we stayed on the boat with another oldster who'd remained, and the captain who busied himself with the rigging. I hunkered down at the opposite end of the boat, and pondered my life choices as the sun began to set. It was quiet. Serene. Peaceful.
That was, until the screaming started. The Kayakers had fallen on bad luck. The tide was going out, you see, and by the time they'd gotten to the "shallows," they realized too late that they were actually resting on cold, rocky sand. We couldn't bring the big rig in any closer to them; we'd be grounded, too, and it was our only way back to civilization.
So, amidst much grumbling, most of them ended up dragging their kayaks behind them for much of the way back. They looked hot and flushed and boozy and I felt bad for them. But I had never been more relieved to miss out on the adventure -- or miss out on the booze.
Afterwards, again on dry land, we took the free "Loop" bus back to our guest house, got cleaned up and went to dinner at Mangia Mangia, a restaurant just a few blocks away from our digs. It's a busy place, but we got a table for two, tucked into a small space in the middle of the crowded room.
I'm completely deaf in my right ear, and conversation is hard for me in loud places like this. We sipped our ice water and fell into surreptitious people watching as we waited for our food.
At one point I turned to say something to Drew and found him already watching me. His mouth was moving and I realized he was saying something that I couldn't make out, the words lost in a sea of ambient sound.
"...even more than you know," he finished.
Wait, what? I had no idea what he'd just said. I almost shrugged it off. It's something I do more and more these days, when I can't differentiate sounds into words. I adopt an inscrutable expression and nod my head slowly. I see. I almost nodded at him, I see, and went back to my reverie.
But I didn't do that. Maybe there was something intriguing in that phrase, more than you know, that caught my attention. Whatever the case, I made him repeat it, half expecting him to roll his eyes and tell me to get a hearing aid, as he often does. But instead, he repeated it:
"I was saying that you've been a huge help and a comfort to me, not just on this trip but in my life. More than you even know."
This caught me off guard. It seemed so... random. So out of context. There was a time I might have been touched by this statement. I might have choked up a little, maybe fought back a tear. I looked at him, not without true affection, and. smiled.
"Thank you," I said. "I appreciate that.
It's possible we've called a truce.
One evening early into the trip, as we sat around the pool at the Guet House, I made the mistake of posting my location on Facebook. I'm privileged, by virtue of my career(s) to know (literally) hundreds of people from all over this fine country. I'm on friendly terms with almost all of my former colleagues. And I'm still in touch with "kids" from the way-way back, from grade school.
Such is the magic of Facebook that we really aren't allowed to say goodbye anymore. Within minutes of posting, a former colleague from a dozen years ago piped up to tell me she was staying just a few streets over, what a coincidence! Kismet! Serendipity!
But in the end, I just couldn't do it. The reasons are long and complicated and layered, but it boiled down to the fact that I've been through some things, even if I can't yet seem to explain exactly what, or why, or how.
That was, until the screaming started. The Kayakers had fallen on bad luck. The tide was going out, you see, and by the time they'd gotten to the "shallows," they realized too late that they were actually resting on cold, rocky sand. We couldn't bring the big rig in any closer to them; we'd be grounded, too, and it was our only way back to civilization.
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| The water was deeper when we started. |
So, amidst much grumbling, most of them ended up dragging their kayaks behind them for much of the way back. They looked hot and flushed and boozy and I felt bad for them. But I had never been more relieved to miss out on the adventure -- or miss out on the booze.
* * *
Afterwards, again on dry land, we took the free "Loop" bus back to our guest house, got cleaned up and went to dinner at Mangia Mangia, a restaurant just a few blocks away from our digs. It's a busy place, but we got a table for two, tucked into a small space in the middle of the crowded room.
I'm completely deaf in my right ear, and conversation is hard for me in loud places like this. We sipped our ice water and fell into surreptitious people watching as we waited for our food.
At one point I turned to say something to Drew and found him already watching me. His mouth was moving and I realized he was saying something that I couldn't make out, the words lost in a sea of ambient sound.
"...even more than you know," he finished.
Wait, what? I had no idea what he'd just said. I almost shrugged it off. It's something I do more and more these days, when I can't differentiate sounds into words. I adopt an inscrutable expression and nod my head slowly. I see. I almost nodded at him, I see, and went back to my reverie.
But I didn't do that. Maybe there was something intriguing in that phrase, more than you know, that caught my attention. Whatever the case, I made him repeat it, half expecting him to roll his eyes and tell me to get a hearing aid, as he often does. But instead, he repeated it:
"I was saying that you've been a huge help and a comfort to me, not just on this trip but in my life. More than you even know."
This caught me off guard. It seemed so... random. So out of context. There was a time I might have been touched by this statement. I might have choked up a little, maybe fought back a tear. I looked at him, not without true affection, and. smiled.
"Thank you," I said. "I appreciate that.
It's possible we've called a truce.
* * *
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| Note to self: Never Do This. |
One evening early into the trip, as we sat around the pool at the Guet House, I made the mistake of posting my location on Facebook. I'm privileged, by virtue of my career(s) to know (literally) hundreds of people from all over this fine country. I'm on friendly terms with almost all of my former colleagues. And I'm still in touch with "kids" from the way-way back, from grade school.
Such is the magic of Facebook that we really aren't allowed to say goodbye anymore. Within minutes of posting, a former colleague from a dozen years ago piped up to tell me she was staying just a few streets over, what a coincidence! Kismet! Serendipity!
As I stared at this with something like horror, all of our Facebook mutuals started posting comments, How cool is that!? and OMG would be so much fun to bring the gang back together in Key West, can you imagine? Things like that.
Now, it happens that I'm quite fond of this person, both professionally and personally. I enjoyed working with her back in the day, she was one of my tribe, my crew, she was one of the good guys. And I must have started texting her back at least three times. That's geat! Let's get together for a drink by the pool!
But in the end, I just couldn't do it. The reasons are long and complicated and layered, but it boiled down to the fact that I've been through some things, even if I can't yet seem to explain exactly what, or why, or how.
I need this time away from Planet Earth. Away from my former life. And really, that's the only explanation coming for now; maybe forever.
* * *
There's something to be said for letting go of our illusions. For seeing people and things as they really are, and not as we expect or want or demand or need them to be. It's empowering to recognize the clear, unvarnished truth, no matter how frightening or painful it may be.
Because it's only there, in the harshest light, that you can see the picture clearly -- the damage to your defensive structures, yes, but also (hopefully) the strength of your foundations. Only here, with eyes wide open, do the entanglements become clear -- but also the path forward.
There's no denying that things have changed for me and Drew, starting years ago and finally coming to a head when I finally went into that fucking rehab, began the long, hard, grueling work of recovery, of getting better, of doing better.
And now, two-plus years sober, finally seeing things more clearly. Seeing the damage, but seeing too the strength. Understanding where things became entangled, but finding the thread and moving forward again.
"It's nice what you're doing with your Will," Drew said later. He meant my actual, official, Last Will and Testament. I'd been musing about death as we'd crossed the 7 Mile Bridge (because who doesn't?), and about my plans to leave everything to the kids.
"The kids" are the six grandkids of Drew's brother, who died of cancer a few years ago, and also my own flesh & blood nephew, son of my brother, who also died some years ago. Seven grandkids in all, and we're not expecting any more.
Since his brother's death, Drew has been a sort of defecto stand-in for "Papa." As Drew's lifelong partner, lover, roommate, POSSSLQ, special friend, and still-not-spouse -- whatever -- I've watched these kids grow up. I've been a part of their lives since they were born. I held the oldest son in my arms when he was a baby. I've become the other uncle, the cool one.
It's not lost on me that those early years are the years I missed with my own nephew, Zach. We'd been robbed of those years when I'd been pushed out of my small home town some 40+ years ago. We connected again later, long after I had moved away. He was in his late teens then.
Changing my will is to Zach's clear disadvantage, I have to acknowledge that. As things are, he stands to inherit a substantially higher share of my remaining debris. But if there is one thing I've learned in our complicated (but ongoing) relationship, it's that money is wasted on him. Worse, it becomes toxic for him, the way booze becomes toxic to me. He has no concept of money's actual value; he has a child's understanding of wealth.
It isn't my intent to deprive him, or cut him out, or hurt his feelings after the fact. The fact is, I care deeply about this 39-year-old teenager I've somehow inherited. He's the only flesh and blood family I have left. But dropping a sizable sum of money on him is not only futile -- in some ways, for Zach, it's a recipe for disaster. This is a good solution, for these and other reasons.
Because it's only there, in the harshest light, that you can see the picture clearly -- the damage to your defensive structures, yes, but also (hopefully) the strength of your foundations. Only here, with eyes wide open, do the entanglements become clear -- but also the path forward.
There's no denying that things have changed for me and Drew, starting years ago and finally coming to a head when I finally went into that fucking rehab, began the long, hard, grueling work of recovery, of getting better, of doing better.
And now, two-plus years sober, finally seeing things more clearly. Seeing the damage, but seeing too the strength. Understanding where things became entangled, but finding the thread and moving forward again.
* * *
"It's nice what you're doing with your Will," Drew said later. He meant my actual, official, Last Will and Testament. I'd been musing about death as we'd crossed the 7 Mile Bridge (because who doesn't?), and about my plans to leave everything to the kids.
"The kids" are the six grandkids of Drew's brother, who died of cancer a few years ago, and also my own flesh & blood nephew, son of my brother, who also died some years ago. Seven grandkids in all, and we're not expecting any more.
Since his brother's death, Drew has been a sort of defecto stand-in for "Papa." As Drew's lifelong partner, lover, roommate, POSSSLQ, special friend, and still-not-spouse -- whatever -- I've watched these kids grow up. I've been a part of their lives since they were born. I held the oldest son in my arms when he was a baby. I've become the other uncle, the cool one.
It's not lost on me that those early years are the years I missed with my own nephew, Zach. We'd been robbed of those years when I'd been pushed out of my small home town some 40+ years ago. We connected again later, long after I had moved away. He was in his late teens then.
Changing my will is to Zach's clear disadvantage, I have to acknowledge that. As things are, he stands to inherit a substantially higher share of my remaining debris. But if there is one thing I've learned in our complicated (but ongoing) relationship, it's that money is wasted on him. Worse, it becomes toxic for him, the way booze becomes toxic to me. He has no concept of money's actual value; he has a child's understanding of wealth.
It isn't my intent to deprive him, or cut him out, or hurt his feelings after the fact. The fact is, I care deeply about this 39-year-old teenager I've somehow inherited. He's the only flesh and blood family I have left. But dropping a sizable sum of money on him is not only futile -- in some ways, for Zach, it's a recipe for disaster. This is a good solution, for these and other reasons.
Drew has a will too, and a rather more substantial estate, and (despite everything) I'm still apparently named as one of his heirs. But here's the thing: I don't really want or need anything from his estate. I've already provided adequately for myself. Under my new plan, anything I should inherit from Drew would essentially return to his family. Any money I might spend from his estate would be used to keep his memory alive for the kids while I still walk the Earth. And, not to put too fine a point on it, to keep them interested in me, their cranky old Uncle Dumbblog. Hey, I've been around awhile, I know how the world works.
In the event I inherit nothing from Drew (entirely possible, given the ambiguous nature of our relationship, even after 40 years), it all becomes a moot point. There will be no further relationship with his family, and I will spend down my own resources until either they're gone or I'm dead, whichever comes first.
The only functional difference is that I wouldn't speak to any of them again, and wouldn't be leaving any spoils behind.
It might have been the first time, on that 7 Mile Bridge, that I made it clear to Drew to myself that my future no longer hinges on whether he finds me in good standing. I've moved on from his intentions, his opinions, or even his forgiveness. There is nothing left he can withhold. Not financial security; not love or affection; not validation or permission. I come in need of nothing.
And I've realized something: I'm not still in this relationship because I need him. I'm still with Drew because he needs me. I've no doubt he feels the same about me. For whatever reason, and despite our issues, he seems to be the only person I can tolerate for more than a few minutes these days.
And if that isn't love, what is?
In the event I inherit nothing from Drew (entirely possible, given the ambiguous nature of our relationship, even after 40 years), it all becomes a moot point. There will be no further relationship with his family, and I will spend down my own resources until either they're gone or I'm dead, whichever comes first.
The only functional difference is that I wouldn't speak to any of them again, and wouldn't be leaving any spoils behind.
* * *
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| It was a very long bridge. |
And I've realized something: I'm not still in this relationship because I need him. I'm still with Drew because he needs me. I've no doubt he feels the same about me. For whatever reason, and despite our issues, he seems to be the only person I can tolerate for more than a few minutes these days.
And if that isn't love, what is?
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