Recalculating

Eugene, OR
(music) “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot…” was playing from the Ford dealership loudspeaker as I walked across their expansive blacktop towards the service department and my truck. I laughed out loud. The morning had started with a visit from AAA to jump-start the battery and tell me that the alternator was shot and that I should get straight to a service station before my battery charge ran out. They wouldn’t tow my truck with kayaks on top.

I left the truck idling on a slight slope when I returned the Motel 6 key and returned to see fluid pouring out of the back end. Gasoline. I raced through early morning Eugene traffic to the Ford dealership watching the battery charge level wane and the gas gauge drop as I left a trail of damp highway in my wake.

It turns out the battery and the alternator were both worthy of replacement, and somebody had cut the filling hose to my gas tank in an attempt to siphon fuel during the night. The fuel hose cost over $300 and needed to be overnighted from Sacramento, another $50, and another night in Eugene. Total repair bill over $1000.

Recalculating. (in the longsuffering tone of the GPS navigator). It wouldn’t be a trip to Baja without some adventure. Breathe. Forgive.

I need forced stops like this to reconnect with the human side. To pause and breathe. Just be. There is no reason to hurry through to the other side of the moment; there is just more waiting over there. Life seems to make these stops happen when I don’t. They’re generally less expensive when I do it willingly, though. Someday I’ll learn!

It could be worse. I was near enough to a shop to drive myself there with the bad alternator, and didn’t have to leave 4 kayaks beside the road, or more likely stay with 4 kayaks while I watched my truck get hauled off.

Could be better. If I’d have driven further last night maybe nobody would have tried to siphon gas and cut the hose.

Could be worse. Nothing was stolen from the overloaded back of my truck, or from the roof. All that makes $350 look like pocket change.

Could be worse. At least I have money in the account to cover the Ford bill. Unsure about covering the $3,500 importation bill, the $900 in kayak parts waiting in San Diego, and the approximately $1000 in fuel, food and hotels between here and Loreto. But 2 more people are signing up for the Loreto to La Paz trip. Funds seem to trickle in just when needed! Sometimes I stress out a lot about money, but today I’ve decided not to.

I go for a walk to Delta Ponds where a nature trail winds through a park.

Yes, it could be much worse. The late morning sun feels good. Ground I’m sitting on is soft and dry. I sink through the levels of relaxation, breathing slows. Mind wanders, free from its short tether of focus. Sounds float down from the forest and from a distant construction project. Sunlight filters through the canopy. Ducks clear wakes through the lily pads.

A week before leaving home, I had another cancer scare. After a few follow-up tests, the docs decided there wasn’t enough evidence to go on, and that I should return in 6 months for more testing. I will. Meanwhile, with that clearance, I (over)loaded the truck, and headed south, taking it as a reminder to live well and be thankful.

I have this breath that I am breathing right now. It is a gift. As a bonus, I should still be able to get to the border in time to import the kayaks and get to Loreto before running my first course.

Migration

LoCo Roundup 2011 was a great success! (http://www.locoroundup.com) We put on 17 BCU courses, a Greenland paddle carving course, and several general courses ranging from an hour to 3 days each. The event actually made money for the first time in 5 years, something believed to be impossible for a strictly instructional symposium to do. Many, many thanks to all who were part of it! Still, it WAS the last LoCo. It’s time for new adventures!

October 1, Henrick and I loaded my new ’93 Ford F150 to the gills, kissed the farm goodbye, and made tracks towards the Mexican border.

The next morning we paused for a brief stop in Portland so I could Row for the Cure in a tandem kayak with Laura Jackson. Oh, it felt good to reach out and power that hull through the water with another likeminded gal! And to do it for a good cause. As a 5-year breast cancer survivor, I am thankful for the tremendous efforts of others in raising money and awareness towards a cure. For me, cancer was a small chapter whose pages turned long ago. That’s how it feels now, with much gratitude, and life rolls joyously onward. Even more joyously now with the perspective that chapter brings.

I am on my 15th annual migration to Baja to coach, guide, and just be, on a little strip of beach between the mountains and the sea. Sea Kayak Baja Mexico, LLC my humble venture, is the child of passion and ignorance, delivered without the midwife of business sense. That it ever got off the ground is a testament to luck, a few hardy clients, and my Mexican business partner Ivette Granados.

The fate of beach where I live outside of Loreto is in limbo—saved from luxury development more than once by fallen economies. My residence there is never guaranteed.

But I have no monopoly on uncertainty. Unplanned adventure seems to apply to all aspects of life. Relationship, family, career, financial investment, creativity, vacations, and particularly journeys. It is a truth that applies so well to journeys, in fact, that they are metaphors for all the rest.

A friend who was experienced in Baja travels once advised not to bring anything to Mexico that I wouldn’t mind parting with. Before my first Baja trip 15 years ago I read Cormac McCarthy’s The Crossing. It prepared me well for crossing with the expectation of losing everything, from possessions, to identity, to belief systems, in an almost religious purging. Still I went. Still, 15 years later, I return, more invested than ever.

Sometimes the frustration of holding back outweighs the fear of going forward, and you just go for it. What do you have to lose but everything? And once you lose everything, you’re just left with you and your spirit. Which is all you ever started with. And so you can again. Not that I won’t fight tooth and nail to hold on, and complain a bit. In the end you can’t take it with you anyway. Life is then the sum of our experiences, not our possessions. And we are spirit, not a list of accomplishments.

Which leads us to the next phase. I have been trying to find the balance between running a kayaking venture in WA state, one in Mexico, an annual event, and a farm. Balancing too much is a great circus trick, but not how I want to keep living. Some things had to be trimmed back. Then I met Henrick, and added a relationship and a shared life of adventure travel. I often do things a bit backwards.

For the last 2 years, I’ve been working with business partners to develop our companies in a direction to run with less of me around. I’ve spent some time working with Henrick preparing his sailboat Misty for voyage.

In 2012, I hope to make a leap in priorities from scheduling myself primarily around my kayaking projects to building an “us” and creating some exciting history together.

I’ve never held down a real job, indoors with regular pay, for an entire year. Never in my life. Guiding and teaching has held my attention for 15 years, and been immensely rewarding. There are still aspects I treasure: Coaching people and watching them develop. The synergy of working with other coaches and business partners. Certain exhilarating and meditative paddle trips. The connection with the outdoors, the stars, the plants, the wind.

Now I have met someone with whom I feel a deep kinship, and it seems our lives could blend nicely. On we go, now seeking the balance between relationship, personal rewards of creative work projects, and financial responsibilities. First stop for me is the Second Annual Loreto Kayak Symposium, and for Henrick, the Joy of Boatwork.

Soundtrack of Life

On my way into Rattlesnake Beach late yesterday afternoon, I saw an owl perched on the top of a sturdy mesquite bush. At first I wondered it if was a plastic bag caught up there in the wind, then it turned. Its ear tufts blew a bit sideways and it wore a rather disheveled look on its face. Its head swiveled as it followed my slow progress along the bumpy dirt road.

I’ve been feeling a bit like that owl lately—a bit windblown and swivel-headed as events and milestones and old blue Ford pickups keep passing me by.

After a month and a half in Australia, I checked in with business partners in Washington, and stopped at the hospital for a routine post-cancer check-up while I was there. The 3-day Turbo Business Meeting was as productive as it was random and fortuitous. Mark, co-owner and manager for Columbia River Kayaking, and I often discuss things while driving errands, and one takes notes. This year’s meeting went a step further. On the way home from the airport, I bought a used truck, the kind I’ve been seeking for about a year. It was owned by a kayak club friend, and Mark alerted me to its existence just 7 hours before during my layover in the LA airport.

The doctor’s visit was historical. I sometimes don’t keep track of dates very well (just ask my family about birthdays!), so it was a surprise when I went to leave the post-MRI and mammogram consultation, and my doctor said that had been my 5-year checkup. Statistically, the chance of recurring breast cancer is so minimal if you’re still clear after 5 years, that follow-up care ceases, except for the routine mammogram that we should all get. I was clear!

My doctor said I am now just like any other normal 42-year-old woman, and turned me loose on the world. I felt a strange mix of thankfulness, awe, freedom, and denial, as I walked out the hospital doors for the last time. Denial that 5 years could have gone so fast! I’ve heard that the years start to do that at a certain point, so I must be getting to that accelerating age. I have some people to thank for the smoothness of those 5 years: in particular, my surgeon Dr Katterhagen who takes the time to listen to my concerns and explain how things are, Carmen the nurse who greets me with the biggest smile, and Kelly the most amazing arranger of schedules and insurance coverage. You gals have gone the extra mile and beyond! Thank you!!!

I don’t know what any “normal” 42-year old would do the next day, but I flew to my other home, a patch of sand under the Giganta mountains and the full moon just south of Loreto, Mexico. I moved back in, which consisted of setting up the dusty old Coleman stove and making 3 pieces of French toast for dinner by the light of my headlamp. Then I went for a paddle to nowhere in particular. Just for some perspective on the shadowy mountains and the bonfires of neighbors down the beach. I almost ran over a sea lion sleeping with his flipper in the air. Every few seconds he lifted his whiskered nose for a breath, then let it sink. He didn’t change at all as I glided by. Moments later a shadowy diamond shape passed under me, flapping gently. A ray. Close to shore, the moon shadow of my kayak followed along the bottom, and laughter of my neighbors carried out into the warm night. Amidst the swirling passage of events, it’s moments like this when time stops and one can hear the music of life’s soundtrack in the background.

Bus ride back to Loreto

The movie is in English, the radio in Spanish, and the bus driver, whose gas pedal is connected to his mouth, is chatting away at 50mph through the Baja California night. I’ve given up listening to my Swedish language CD, and look out the window.

Peace and a crescent moon in the sunset. We are the moments of our lives, and this journey is sweet. I am headed back to Loreto from San Diego after coming north to run a brief kayaking class.

First the driver talks with the relief driver, who rides in a jumpseat that folds down in the stairway. At a stop, the relief driver crawls underneath by the luggage to sleep before his shift. The chatty driver begins talking with the woman in the other front seat, and invites her to the jumpseat. This is a great bonus for me for 3 reasons. One, I do not feel like talking, and she is happy to. Two, she is keeping the driver awake and connected to the gas pedal, and three, I have even more space to stretch out.

We stop for dinner at a bus stop café. Eighteen overworked pots share one stovetop and two women lift lids, stir, shuffle pots around, and wait for the wall of hungry faces to voice their desires.

“?Que hay?” someone asks.
A rosary of options is mumbled back. Bistek, machaca, deshebrada…

Somebody calls out an order, and one woman pokes at a pot with more purpose.

“Bistek” I say, figuring I’d end up with some form of cow on a plate.
The other cook looks at me, and stirs another pot. “?Plato o burrito?”

“Burrito,” I reply.
“?Cuantos?”
I look around to spy a tortilla so I’d have a clue what size she is selling, but don’t see any. “Dos,” I guess. If they are little, at least with two I won’t starve, and if they are big, maybe one will make a good breakfast.

I take my plate of two humble burritos and sit down at a little plastic table. After a moment another woman asks if she can join me, and I agree.

Good food, I say in Spanish.
Hunger makes anything good, she replies with a smile.
An older woman joins us. We exchange our stories in tiny verbal snapshots.

Sometimes when strangers get together, the truest of things get said. I’m not sure how, but here we sit, sharing a bus stop table, the elderly 2-time cancer survivor, the accident survivor, and me. Expressing our thanks for the tragedy-blessings that made us more aware of what a gift life is.

We climb back on the bus for the long haul, me 20 hours from Tijuana to Loreto, the viajita 22 hours home to Insurgentes, and the younger woman 26 hours to La Paz for work. I sit in the front seat of the bus, just behind the driver, and am the beneficiary of many smiles as people step or hobble their ways on board.

The fourth movie ends and still the chatty driver keeps the pace. I am wearing every stitch of clothing I brought and am still freezing. The driver’s chatting assistant has a blanket that I think he loaned her. After finally accepting that covering myself with my computer bag isn’t going to make me any warmer, I lean down to ask the assistant if she could inquire if there were any more blankets. Shortly the driver pulls off the road, opens the luggage compartment, and brings me a blanket. We resume the road. Extremely thankful, I drift off to sleep.

At a military checkpoint somewhere in the dark, two calico soldiers board and look about this capsule of traveling strangers. Seeing nothing noteworthy, they let us go on. Drivers switch, and the background of conversation ceases. The assistant curls to sleep on her seat. Mellow ranchero ballads follow the new driver down the road.

Sunrise brings a procession of cacti in gentle lighting that makes the austere look romantic. Distant mountains rotate in a waltz of perspective. The long slow drive through the desert drip-feeds my soul.

Where beauty resides

I think the Dog Beach ebb current on Friday afternoon helped to pull of the stunt I’m trying to repeat now without success. I’m in the surf off Mission Beach, in a small gap between surfers. Mission Beach waves are much stronger than Dog Beach waves. I’m getting body blasted and side-surfed back to the beach instead of the graceful, dynamic, and perhaps lucky maneuver of two days ago. Mike stands behind a long camera lens on the beach hoping for some photogenic carnage.

Image: a green wall of water rises behind the kayak, about to break, completely obscuring the sky. At full velocity I try to punch through it and get surfed backwards and broached. Again. I wash up on the seaweed at Mike’s feet and suggest we try back at Dog Beach, which had looked too small earlier. I’m willing to take a little less manhandling by the surf.

On the drive over we pass clusters of red-clad walkers. Walking for MS.

“People are walking for everything these days,” says Mike. “The Walk for the Cure for breast cancer came through my neighborhood all dressed in pink. Some costumes. Guys with stuffed shirts that read Save the Boobs. It’s a 3-day event, huge! Survivors, people with family and friends affected, people who just care. There were literally thousands of walkers.”

We get on the topic of hope and post-surgery decisions. “A friend of mine had reconstruction and tattoos of Hawaiian flowers on hers,” I say. “Some reporter interviewed her for a recent article.” Tattoos are an appropriate topic when driving through Ocean Beach, where at the grocery co-op the other day I believe I was the only one of any age without body art.

Mike has worked in newspapers and photography. He mentioned a photo essay a colleague did on survivors with tastefully done shots of scars and reconstruction. A celebration of life and deeper beauty. I related a comment my dad made when I announced 4 years ago that I did not want reconstruction after my mastectomy. My dad is one of the people I respect most on this planet for his faith and his constant search for deeper meaning. With uncharacteristic anxiety, he asked how I would still be beautiful for some guy. I was too surprised to really answer. No doubt he was just expressing his concern for my well-being. I stuck with my choice and am glad for it. Mobility and overall health were my priorities. I just wanted to be able to paddle, coach, and live as fully as possible. Besides, if some guy with whom I’m building a relationship is concerned about a big scar and the lack of one boob, I don’t want to be with that guy. As it turns out, my man isn’t phased at all. Deeper things hold us together, despite being on opposite sides of the planet most of the time.

My photographer for the morning, meanwhile, helps me carry my pale green kayak through swirls of happy dogs. I find another gap between the surfers off Dog Beach, and play in the gentler waves. The morning tide is flooding still, and the waves don’t have the right shape for my stunt, so I ride a couple frontwards just for fun. Finally I park myself in front of a bigger set and give it all I have left.

The green wall rises up before me. I paddle backwards, turning to check one more time for anyone behind me. Up comes the bow. I lean forward then forcefully come back to center and yes! The stern sticks, the bow swings around in the foam. I brace on the left and swing my hips, turning the brace into a forward stroke as I come out on top of the foam pile, far enough forward that a little push and a forward lean sends my boat down over it. Whoo-hooo the drop! I watch the bow puncture the green water just in front of the wave and go deep. Not part of the plan, but it’ll make some photogenic carnage, I think, as I tuck my head for the flip. I roll up grinning, and go back energized to try again.

On the next set wave, it feels right. All clear behind, green swell rising before. Timing, momentum in reverse, weight shift to stick the stern. Which way will she turn? I listen with my body… then brace on the left as my playful Romany spins on her tail. A little propulsion, and I ride down the foam pile to surf perfectly towards the beach. Big grin! Joy from deep inside. Satisfaction beyond reason for simply having pulled off a surf stunt, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face. We carry the kayak back to the car and Mike is grinning too.

The shots he got, my flip, his excitement. “Yeah, action, carnage, go!” As an afterthought, “I hope she’s ok.”
He continues, referring to our earlier conversation, “I have a response for your dad.”
“Yeah?”
“One Ginni Callahan smile is worth 2 boobs any day!”
I like it.

That’s a universal truth, really. Joy from deep inside is where real beauty resides. No matter what the turbulence around us, if we look deep enough, there is always something to be joyful for, even if it is mere breath, or a memory.

Last Islands Trip

Was it an omen when we discovered on the first night that we’d forgotten to pack the coffee? What could be worse to forget, except perhaps toilet paper? Or maybe the prevailing omen was one of resourcefulness and kindness when David paddled the coffee out to us the next morning through the rare Sea of Cortez fog.

I didn’t think about it until almost the end of the trip, but if plans hold their course, this was my last Sea of Cortez Islands trip that I will lead for my employers of 8 years, Sea Kayak Adventures. On this route I have spent most of my last 8 winters, on the beaches of Carmen and Danzante Islands. My next trip is the La Paz 10-day, and that’s it for the season. Next season I hope to be busy with my own trips in new areas, and gently close the book on an era of paddling giant double kayak/barges and making extravagant meals. A change to look forward to while still feeling nostalgic, and a little nervous about braving the new. But at the beginning of this trip, its significance had not yet dawned on me.

When my well-coffee’d group finally launched into the fog later that morning to skirt Danzante Island, we were accompanied by a pod of dolphins. They passed directly beneath some of the kayaks. Leisurely we cruised together along the rocky coastline while mystery clouds poured into the creases between hills. Fog played hide and seek with silhouettes of odd desert plants on the ridges. Dolphins stuck their noses in the air to look around. Slapped the water with their tails. Circled back with apparent curiosity. The white darkness of fog moved behind us on the water, and sun bathed our happy aquatic procession.

One afternoon on southern Carmen Island we all hiked inland from Playa Blanca to see if we could find the fabled Indian well. There is a shell midden at the beach being eroded by recent storms, and a guest on my trip years ago found an arrowhead on the beach. An Indian well would make sense here. Except for the flat marine shelf we were on, and the proximity of the sea. Curiosity had all of us in its grip, so we followed the south rim of the arroyo naming, photographing, fondling and sniffing plants along the way. The arroyo below us was thick with foliage. Mesquite trees and giant torote reached up to the level of the rim. Palo verde clung onto the sides tenaciously.

A little barrel cactus torn by some torrent or wind clung to the rim’s sharp soil by one filamentous root. One of our party wanted to pick it up and “save” it, though she didn’t know what she would do with it, exactly. That instinct to give suffering things a hug.

We were a group more experienced in administering hugs than kayaking. Eight women in or near their 60s, woven together by threads of friendship and friends of friends, though none knew everybody. Plus one young couple and a middle-aged pair of fun-loving best friends. Derek from the couple and our guide Mario were the only men, but they managed. The eight women were all fit and spirited. Well versed in rolling with the surprises of life. Motherhood, grandparenting for many, travels around the globe. At least two had fought breast cancer and won. Several owned their own businesses, one donating much to cancer research. Now they were tackling the new challenges of a kayak camping trip with grace and humor. For some it was their first time in a kayak, ever. And it was the first time for all of them on an archeological expedition to find an Indian well on a desert island.

Mario walked ahead, and called my name. I left the pitied barrel cactus and those who wanted to hug it and followed the sound of his voice. At the top of the pouroff, just above what would be the waterfall had there been water running, and overhung by trees, was a hole about 4 ft around with fine gravel at the bottom. Decades or centuries after its creation, after untold storms had carried debris into it, it was still deep enough to hold significant water after a storm. Mario lowered himself in, marking the depth, scientifically, at one Mario and a half.

On the fifth day we awoke after a full night of westerlies that had been preceded by southerlies, and both Mario & I suspected north wind within the next days. We changed plans. After a morning hike and early lunch, we crossed to the protection of Punta Coyote. Except Punta Coyote was occupied, so we continued to Rattlesnake Beach with a fun 10 knot following sea. The mesquite-bordered campsite at Rattlesnake where my friends Dan & Heather stayed two years ago was vacant, as was the entire south end of the popular RV beach. So we landed and made ourselves at home. So many layers of memory and experience there for me. Klaus & Parvin’s newly vacant site was the next one, where Derek and Michelle pitched their tent. Bunny put up her tent in the subtle arroyo mouth where David & I slept out on the beach together for the first time. Where the Giggle Girls pitched among the mangle dulce bushes, I used to park my truck when I left on short personal trips, except the year Paul and Alisa were camped there.

As we set up the kitchen in Dan & Heathers site, I wrapped myself happily in blankets of warm memory. Somebody requested for Happy Hour entertainment on our final evening together that Joan and I do some voice & flute duets. I put my flute together and was trying to remove enough popcorn from my teeth to play when I turned to see 3 people entering the edge of the campsite. I waved, then recognized them. Scott and Cara. And Hans! The one responsible for introducing me to kayaking and Baja ten years ago. The one whose fault I was here at all. The inspiration for this life I lead. This is the moment when the soundtrack should do something dramatic. These vortices of energy and time and people just don’t do this except in fiction.

I visited Hans and Scott and Cara that night after my crew had fallen asleep. We retold old stories and caught up on news till the southern cross and scorpius came up. A new memory to snuggle into and smile when the cold wind blows.

The next morning, as planned, and just after coffee was ready, Joan and I faced the Sea of Cortez where Danzante Island’s silhouette glowed pregnant with a sun about to rise, and we harmonized Morning Has Broken. She and I, both recent breast cancer survivors, shared that bond and a general affection for each other. We became one energy for a moment in the music and the first glow of morning. The sun peeked up, a reflection widened on the water, sparkled, and everything came together on this last morning, to the soundtrack of voice and flute.

Thus a magical ending of an era, and a fitting beginning of the next.

Amazon Pirate

Not much reliable history has survived about the Amazons, so it is not surprising that some fringe elements escaped till now.

It is said they were a race of warrior women, much feared and fantasized about. So tough and single-minded they were that they removed one breast to better shoot their deadly arrows. Most were right-handed and therefore removed the right obstacle, but now we find evidence of a left-shooting combatant, known to us now simply as L.

We’ve heard that L was as fearless as any, taking even to the seas to pursue enemies, and occasionally to pursue such mundane things as food and beautiful sunsets. First she started in a one-woman boat she made of driftwood, but soon her maritime escapades grew to inspire whole fleets of salty sheilas.

Somewhere along the way our paddling archer L seems to have also lost her right hand, and replaced it with a hook, resulting in a truly pirate appearance and attitude. She took to the sea in whatever craft she could, calling her crew to action with a “ChaRRRRRRge the RRRRRascals!” or “CaRRRRRY on! And look lively now!” or agreeing with a hearty “ARRRRRRmen to that, Lasses!”

Truly, L was a sight to behold in the wild tossing of sea and wind, brandishing the hook and wearing the only left-handed Amazon bikini in miles—that is with the right side covered. Beneficiaries of modern technology we are to have digital time-travel cameras now (even though they are a bit fuzzy) and photographers brave enough to operate them!

The images that came back to us from the ill-fated photographer’s transmissions were few—just one peaceful moment while the pirate flag was being hoisted before our man was pulled from hiding and hooked to oblivion. We honor his sacrifice. If we can find another adventurous soul, we may try to capture L in a more festive moment.

Because they may be disturbing, the surviving images are hidden deep in a cave on an uncharted island. Treasure seekers must negotiate the treacherous pirate’s maze, designed to discourage all but the most determined. Neither journey nor photos are for the faint of “aRRRRRRRt”.

Treasure seekers’ hint: the pirates treasure map lies embedded among the tales of a notorious kayaker’s website. The most infamous kayaker on all of Puget Island on the Columbia. (or it will in a couple days when the pirates get around to hiding it there!)

Freedom Report

News the other day was good. No chemo, no radiation. Baja bound in 3-4 weeks! I’ve got an appointment Jan 9 with an oncologist to discuss “adjuvant” therapy, a word with too many harsh sounding consonants to actually sound therapeutic. I guess that is appropriate, though, as the most common prescription is a five-year course of hormone blocking Tamoxafin, which brings on artificial menopause and other fun things.

In a week the surgeon will remove the rest of my staples. At the last appointment she removed the drain tube (ahhh), but not before we got a good laugh out of it. The perforated drain tube runs internally for about 12 inches around the perimeter of the surgery site, then exits through a hole. From there a non-perforated tube hangs loose and ends in a fist-sized plastic collection pouch which safety pins to the attractive purple tube top I’ve been sporting for a week.

In the doctor’s office, I was instructed to undress and drape myself with some pastel shred of cloth. I had nowhere to pin the pouch… except for that one remaining nipple. Not wanting to be that drastic, I wedged the safety pin on there so it looked pierced, but wasn’t. Perfect fit. David agreed we should see what reaction we got out of my friendly surgeon. We were not disappointed.

Upon lifting back the cloth to inspect the healing process, she gasped and covered her eyes. I demonstrated that it wasn’t pierced by removing it. Still in shock, but laughing with the rest of us, she said, “My god! I knew you were tough but I didn’t know you were that tough!” I assured her that I’m not. We all giggled about it for some time. She was kind enough to remove the tube and some staples anyway.

As you can probably tell, I’m feeling quite good. Getting spunkier by the day. I went outside to do some light farm work yesterday when a scrap of sunshine broke through. Although we have some more doctor visits ahead, I feel the Baja momentum start to pull, and am drawn into its energy. Or maybe it’s Mom’s Christmas cookies that are bringing on the energy! If you’re around and want to come by for a sample, come quick!

As always, thank you for the prayers, healing thoughts, and good energy you’re sending my way. I don’t know how to prove or quantify it, but I am confident that it has been essential. Healing starts in the spirit!

Paddle on!
Ginni

PS I’m trying to sell one of the wooden kayaks I built, if anyone knows anyone interested.

Sales pitch--

“Well made Pygmy Arctic Tern 17’ with hatches and bulkheads, deck lines, and padded thigh braces. Seal Line rudder with solid, gas-pedal style foot pedals (operated with toes while the foot remains stationary). Custom touches such as mahogany tension rounds on hatch covers and matching, fiberglassed-on, pad eyes (the “inchworms” that hold on the bungees & deck line). Matching mahogany end toggles, too. Complete deck rigging for safety. $2,400. Parting with it because I could use the $$. Also available nice fiberglass Werner paddle $170 (230cm, big blade). Located on Puget Island, WA (between Longview WA & Astoria OR on the Columbia River). Ginni 360-849-4016”

Unwrapping

Dec 18 2006

I was an oversized Christmas present bound in a retro purple floral tube top, and it was time to unwrap. We waited till dark so I could see my reflection in the picture window since we don’t have a mirror in here. I turned up the heat, and David put on some sultry strip tease music. When faced with a lack of options, celebrate the one!

Off came the warm fleece with a shimmy of the shoulders. Around in a circle it twirled, and launched in a direction away from the propane heater. Then the long sleeved T-shirt. Ahh, there was the lovely tube top with drain tube and receptacle pinned to it. After repining the drain to my sweats, I seductively pulled open that luscious Velcro, slowly, slowly, with flirtatious glances at David, who ultimately helped me with the satiny shoulder straps and the gauze packing.

And there was our first full view of the work of that talented flesh artist, my surgeon. A line of gathered and stapled skin ran from just off my sternum to a few inches below my armpit in the subtlest of s-curves. A few inches down my side, the drain tube exited a tight hole in my body, secured there with one loop of thread through the skin next to it.

In this unveiling, we were the fortunate heirs of information from many who’d experienced it before. We’d heard how traumatic this first look can be, and we waited until we both felt ready. We’d talked in the days before, speculated, joked, peeked at the first few staples, and I’d run my hand over part of the new flatness to combat itchiness. We were as mentally ready as we could be.

We looked in the window-reflection, took close-up photos so I could see different angles, counted the 20 staples, tried my arm through a range of motion, studied the pattern of purple-yellow bruises, traced where the drain tube went under the skin, admired how smoothly the skin came together, and probed where the missing nerves interrupted the sensation of touch. Best of all, I got a thorough back scratch with the tube top gone.

“What do you think,” David asked about this marvel of modern medicine, my new body.

I grinned and said, “It’s pretty cool!”

…..

I am being sustained by the prayers and good energy of family and friends, and I thank you more than I can say with words.

Paddle on!

Ginni

Self portrait 4 days after surgery

Dec 16 2006

If I were to do a glue-together sketch of myself with photos clipped out of National Geographic, I’d start with a big oxbow bend of the Mississippi for a smile. On the canvas of my chest, the right would get Mt. Saint Helens, that beautiful if stubby mountain. The left would be railroad tracks across Kansas, heading off over the flat horizon like a giant zipper.

I haven’t actually looked at the whole picture yet, just seen glimpses of the incision edges stapled together, peeked at the tight bruised skin above the staples, and felt where the drain tube comes out under my arm. Unless I suspect infection, which I don’t, I’m in no hurry to unwrap the new me.

More interestingly, there was 40’ swell forecast on the coast yesterday, and the stormy winds had passed. David and I drove to the mouth of the Columbia in the late afternoon, and walked the paved trail up to the visitor’s center and overlook. A better view would be had from the lighthouse .75 miles up a hiking trail. So we went. I was careful not to slip on the wet trail, descended with smooth bending of knees to avoid jarring, and it was fine. We watched a freighter surf in over the bar.

Surrounded by spruce and the sound of surf and the smells of damp forest, I knew the decisions had been the right ones. Three days after surgery I was back where I wanted to be—outside under my own power. Thus, the oxbow smile today!

releasing the storm

Dec 15 2006

The storm hit in early evening with enough ferocity to make a 1-story cinderblock building tremble. Winds picked up as night enveloped the farm. The breeze found its way in the cracks, and candles fluttered. I held my breath for the impending power outage, then laughed because the power was already out.

Dusk had seen cedar shingles flying off the barn. Imagination had beams sailing overhead in dark. David went out to check on things and was gone a long time.

My bandage was irritating. I tried to scratch lightly underneath it. Felt corrugated ribs. Found where the drain tube entered, then followed it as it slithered along under the skin. My hand headed towards the stapled incision and a gust picked up. The building trembled, tarp flapped on the stove outside. The roof rumbled. My insides tensed as if trying to hold the roof on with willpower.

Late in the darkness came tragic thumping on the roof. A single thump at first, vibrating the building. Organic, like perhaps the owl had gotten blown from her barn perch and splattered on the milk room lid. Then multiple thumps. My mind ran out of owls and pictured shingles from the barn roof. Or clumps of grass ripped from the earth itself and launched upon the roof in a great muddy impact.

Winds rent the night as I sat with flickering candlelight in an unknown body-machine, mysterious beneath an itchy bandage. Curious and not curious at the same time. The picture window showed, in place of the farm, a darkened, rain-streaked image of my own face.

I could use that window and watch my reflection unpackage itself. Part of the primal, unfathomed night. The shuddering room, the womb. Splitting cocoon to reveal metallic, foreign newness. I started to peel the bandage.

I could do it. I could peel back that bandage, and a crack of lightening might rip the darkness. Might reveal the hands of Dr Frankenstein on the other side of the glass, working at my reflection with rusty tools. Hacking, sewing. Hair mad in the storm. Then darkness again. And the wolves of wind.

They leapt and chewed ravenously. Block walls hummed like a wingless 747 preparing for takeoff. Preparing to break the binds of gravity, headlong and wild.

Arrows of rain rattletattled on the roof and windows.

In the end, I didn’t do it. I left the mystery and the drama. I left the bandage, and slept in the surrender of exhaustion. Whatever pieces were left, we’d gather them in the light of morning.

The new adventure

The adventure is not always what you anticipate. In a slight detour, our kayak guide is temporarily experimenting with breast cancer. Here are some updates:

December 7

Requiem for Lefty

We’re celebrating tonight, though it feels funny to celebrate an impending mastectomy. The pathology report from last week’s biopsy led two doctors from two separate facilities to recommend a simple mastectomy without radiation, with chances of needing chemotherapy extremely unlikely. Both said I should be able to head to Mexico to guide in a little over 6 weeks. No radiation, no chemo, and yes Baja, in my book, are great cause for celebration!

I was so happy when we got home that I dragged David on a frolicking sprint over our jogging course :) For the first time since biopsy surgery last week, I feel like myself—I have energy! Whether last week’s slog was the weight of the unknown or simply recovery time, I don’t know and don’t really care. It’s past.

I’ll be having a mastectomy on Dec 12, with first follow-up visit on Dec 20. I will be able to rule out the minute chance of chemo for sure Dec 20. I’ll probably have drain tubes in place for about 3 weeks the Doc says, which would end early January. Then more visits to determine if I should start hormone treatment, and how I take to it, if so. Early Feb I’ll get back in shape physically, and head down to Mexico!

David is staying here with me, helping and inspiring in so many ways. We’ll travel south together as soon as I’m ready. I’m very thankful to be such a lucky gal!

I know the road isn’t over; it’s just begun, but I want to thank everyone who’s sent a thought or prayer or informative, encouraging word, or offers to help in various ways. One thing I feel more than ever is the connection with loved ones, a strong community of family and friends.

In case you’re interested, the pathology details are as follows: Ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS, a non-invasive cancer limited to duct tissue) extending beyond the limits of the biopsy sample in all directions. Because they don’t know the extent to which the cancer has followed the ductal system, they recommend mastectomy over a kind of blind lumpectomy. I’m comfortable with that.

In a way I’m lucky because this kind of cancer rarely makes a detectable lump or anything visible on mammogram or ultrasound, but I happened to have a cyst in that area which the doctors investigated sufficiently to discover this. They were surprised at the report because the two are not necessarily related. Being an aggressive DCIS, the doctor believes it was a matter of time before it managed to metastasize to other places. We will monitor the other half of my early warning system, Righty, over the years.

Because my personal goals are long term health and high level of function achieved as soon as possible and as simply as possible, I am opting not to pursue reconstructive surgery at this time, possibly never. It is most important to me to be active and strong, and if I look a little lopsided, well, that’s just character, isn’t it? I wonder if I could get away with wearing half a bikini top like a pirate’s eye patch?

Thanks for all your care and support.

Paddle on!
Ginni

Dec 12

The Pirate Emerges from Battle!

Back from surgery, a little lighter. Good spirits and ability to get around. Ran into paddling buddy Dan Haghighi as we were entering the hospital this morning. Just happens that he’s chair of surgical dept there. He told my docs to take extra good care, and checked in on me throughout the day, which was a wonderful reassurance and pick-me-up!

There had been some miscommunication in advance about pre-surgery time and procedure so that I missed having a radioactive tracer injected to aid in locating my sentinel lymph nodes for biopsy, but after consultation with my surgeon, whom I’ve come to know and trust throughout this whole journey, we decided to proceed as planned. The nodes were located with blue dye and all went fine. Blue urine afterwards was a little surprising until I remembered why!

I remember two things as I was waking up, but can’t recall which was first. One was Dr Dan touching my left hand and talking to me in a reassuring way. The other was waking up with a realization of what had just happened and feeling tremendous grief whereupon a nurse placed a tissue in my right hand. In a few moments I noticed a giant poster of what looked like a lush version of Baja on the wall with palm trees and a white beach, then surprisingly I noticed it again a few moments later, and realized my mind wasn’t as sharp as I thought it was.

Within moments I was in Recovery 2, the second stage, with David by my side. The surgery and recovery took about an hour 30, less than expected. Recovery 2 took about an hour as I battled nausea and a shaking of the legs when I’d let my body tense, which it wanted to do. If I consciously relaxed the shaking stopped. David read to me from the newspaper then from the book Five Acres and Independence. After I accepted some anti-nausea meds, I could actually engage in conversation and move my head and eyes. Shortly after that I refused a wheelchair ride, tapping out a little jig to prove I could stand ok, and walked slowly out to the car.

We’re home now, in the milk room of the old barn, with heaters and bolero music and warm soup and cornbread from my neighbors the Stockhouses. I’m very thankful for them and all the wonderful friends, neighbors, and family who have all been generous in so many ways!

Thanks so much for all your care and encouragement!

Paddle on!

Ginni

Goodbye party at the office

Dec 13 2006

A banner hung over the doorway. “Goodbye Lefty” All the body parts milled about the refreshment table. Lefty’s partner and best friend Righty had just finished making the farewell speech.

“Lefty, my bosom buddy, I’ll miss you terribly! I’ll have to keep abreast of matters by myself.”

Applause followed, and cries of “Goodbye Lefty, we’ll miss you, see you in the great by-and-by!”

But at the refreshment table the mustard heard other mutterings. Right Knee asked Left Knee, “Did you know Lefty very well?”

“No, just an occasional visit when the old boob stooped to say hello.”

Left Foot, who was prone to grumbling about his job as well as making odd rhymes, said, “That’s a little less weight I’ll have to freight, not that Lefty was ever too hefty.”

The Eyes, twins who never did anything independently, rolled together upon overhearing Left Foot. They agreed that the view would be different without Lefty in the picture, and would take some getting used to.

Gall Bladder was experimenting heavily with intoxicating concoctions and grew loose in the tongue. “Never met her, they keep me in the dark, you know. Maybe I’ll put in a bid for her window office. Still, it’s a shame the old gal’s going tits up.”

At a table, Lefty chatted with Spine, whom she’d never known very well since they worked on opposite sides of the complex. “Still,” said Lefty, “I’ve appreciated your support over the years.”

Skin had a big job, including contact with just about everybody at the office, except the Internal Special Forces. As a result of his constant protective duties, he was quite extended, but stopped in quickly to bid farewell. “Lefty, it sure has been great hanging out with you. Bon Voyage. I’ve got you covered!”

A chorus of Ribs twittered by. “We’ll be facing the world without you, Lefty. We’ll miss you!”

Al and his wife Viola wheezed out from behind the Ribs, “So long, Lefty. We’ve weathered the rise and fall of every breath together. All the best to you!” The rest of the lungs sighed in agreement.