Migration begins -- Dear Husband flies South
We got up at 2 am to drive to the airport. "Be there two hours ahead," it says on the airline's website, so we dutifully pulled up out in front of the terminal at exactly 3:45 am. Dear Husband pulled his bags out of the trunk, handed me the winter jacket he won't need in the tropics, hugged me goodby and trudged into the airport. Where, as I had predicted but been unable to verify ahead of time, the airline counter was actually not open yet.
I drove away and left him to it. Presumably they opened at 4:00 or 4:30, plenty of time to hassle process the passengers for the first flight of the day. I know he arrived in Guatemala City this afternoon. Tomorrow a long bus ride, and then he'll be at the boat.
I'm sticking around a couple more weeks, finishing the post Thanksgiving cleanup, weaving, spending a little bit more time with hospice and yoga, friends and family. Celebrating Yule with coven and CUUPS group.
Day by day I notice myself not yet going to the airline website to book my flight. Partly because I haven't finished choosing just which day I'd like to leave, of course. Partly because I know it will turn out to be appreciably cheaper to book round trip but I've no idea yet when I'll be flying back ... or even, if I'll be flying home from the same airport or from somewhere else altogether. Maybe even Miami?
But partly because, for really the first time, I'm afraid.
A couple of years ago a boater was murdered on the river. It was scary and upsetting, but there was at least a little bit of feeling that the boater's own decisions might have contributed to the situation. Something about getting too much cash at one time at the local bank, something about anchoring too far from shore, about raising a weapon when his boat was boarded. We were all upset at losing "one of us" -- especially the folks who had known him personally -- but mostly not frightened for our own safety.
Last week, though, another boater was murdered. Not on the river, but in one of the few coves where a sailboat can hide from bad weather along the coast of Honduras.
The man was someone we had sailed with, a calm and serene person whose philosophy included sharing whatever he had with whoever needed it. A man who made it a point of principal not to carry weapons, who lectured other boaters on the necessity of nonviolence, of offering no resistance. A man whose Spanish was fluent, whose compassion for the have-nots in the poorer countries of Central America was palpable. A man who habitually went out of his way to buy from the locals rather from the gringo middlemen, who conscientiously paid good prices.
The robbers boarded his boat in the dead of night. They shot him four times before raiding the boat of food, electronics, money.
I'm surprised at my fear. I've never thought of my life at home as especially safe, nor as immune from theft or assault. In my 30 years in NJ I've been burgled twice, had my car broken into at least twice. I've never thought of boating as especially safe or of the Pax Americana as especially compelling. Yes I knew that the national government in Guatemala wants our tourist dollars and that gringoes get a free pass on lots of things that the locals get hassled about, and also that the police presence is nearly non-existent and that the organized crime faction is much better organized and trained than the organized police groups.
But just now I feel that this is a wake-up call. Just now I'm feeling that I should know better than to disregard this evidence of danger. That I should give up any notion of Caribbean sailing. Maybe we should just head for home. Maybe I shouldn't go at all this year? Maybe I should encourage DH to hire a couple of knowledgeable buddies to bring the boat back to the states and I should go join him there instead? Why do I think he will be so much safer than I would be -- especially since the robbers seem to kill men but only injure women?
My dreams are vivid, powerful, full of signs and portents, hard to understand. Everything seems to say: You have lost your compass. You are not seeing clearly. Communication has broken down and meaning is missing. Pay attention!
Everything is murky and dark falls far too early just now.
I drove away and left him to it. Presumably they opened at 4:00 or 4:30, plenty of time to hassle process the passengers for the first flight of the day. I know he arrived in Guatemala City this afternoon. Tomorrow a long bus ride, and then he'll be at the boat.
I'm sticking around a couple more weeks, finishing the post Thanksgiving cleanup, weaving, spending a little bit more time with hospice and yoga, friends and family. Celebrating Yule with coven and CUUPS group.
Day by day I notice myself not yet going to the airline website to book my flight. Partly because I haven't finished choosing just which day I'd like to leave, of course. Partly because I know it will turn out to be appreciably cheaper to book round trip but I've no idea yet when I'll be flying back ... or even, if I'll be flying home from the same airport or from somewhere else altogether. Maybe even Miami?
But partly because, for really the first time, I'm afraid.
A couple of years ago a boater was murdered on the river. It was scary and upsetting, but there was at least a little bit of feeling that the boater's own decisions might have contributed to the situation. Something about getting too much cash at one time at the local bank, something about anchoring too far from shore, about raising a weapon when his boat was boarded. We were all upset at losing "one of us" -- especially the folks who had known him personally -- but mostly not frightened for our own safety.
Last week, though, another boater was murdered. Not on the river, but in one of the few coves where a sailboat can hide from bad weather along the coast of Honduras.
The man was someone we had sailed with, a calm and serene person whose philosophy included sharing whatever he had with whoever needed it. A man who made it a point of principal not to carry weapons, who lectured other boaters on the necessity of nonviolence, of offering no resistance. A man whose Spanish was fluent, whose compassion for the have-nots in the poorer countries of Central America was palpable. A man who habitually went out of his way to buy from the locals rather from the gringo middlemen, who conscientiously paid good prices.
The robbers boarded his boat in the dead of night. They shot him four times before raiding the boat of food, electronics, money.
I'm surprised at my fear. I've never thought of my life at home as especially safe, nor as immune from theft or assault. In my 30 years in NJ I've been burgled twice, had my car broken into at least twice. I've never thought of boating as especially safe or of the Pax Americana as especially compelling. Yes I knew that the national government in Guatemala wants our tourist dollars and that gringoes get a free pass on lots of things that the locals get hassled about, and also that the police presence is nearly non-existent and that the organized crime faction is much better organized and trained than the organized police groups.
But just now I feel that this is a wake-up call. Just now I'm feeling that I should know better than to disregard this evidence of danger. That I should give up any notion of Caribbean sailing. Maybe we should just head for home. Maybe I shouldn't go at all this year? Maybe I should encourage DH to hire a couple of knowledgeable buddies to bring the boat back to the states and I should go join him there instead? Why do I think he will be so much safer than I would be -- especially since the robbers seem to kill men but only injure women?
My dreams are vivid, powerful, full of signs and portents, hard to understand. Everything seems to say: You have lost your compass. You are not seeing clearly. Communication has broken down and meaning is missing. Pay attention!
Everything is murky and dark falls far too early just now.