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            Being away from New Jersey for a week, cruising on the Atlantic (to St. John, New Brunswick, Bay of Fundy and Halifax, Nova Scotia) some nautical miles away from where that ‘Perfect Storm’ boat sank, was still soulful rejuvenation. I imagined that killer wave would’ve still reached my balcony on 8th level of ship; therefore I held tightly to the railing each late afternoon as I stared out, wondering how such vastness could be devoid of fish in 30 years. One afternoon, calm seas, fog lifting, I saw six small birds descend and rest weary wings, floating for a few minutes (Couldn’t tell where they were heading. Maybe New York City; due west. Summer in the city is always fun, quiet, with everybody at the Hamptons or even the nouveau chic Jersey Shore)

            Out of nowhere this morning, driving home from the dentist, who refuses to let it be, I saw an image of a girl, twelve years old and so was I. A long time ago (Eisenhower was President), there was a clothing store on Route 22 in New Jersey; shaped like a Flagship (it was called just that). So I became introspective. Why the hell an image of the girl and me? Perhaps easy; I just got off a ship a few days before. That girl has haunted. My mother kept nudging me to try on pants (I was in the follicular stage of a growth spurt). That blonde girl, my age, kept on smiling, staring, and disappearing behind racks of big people’s clothes. I wanted to run over and talk to her but that kind of nerve would take another ten years to develop. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen and she obviously liked me. But there was something else about her, which endures to this day; deeply seeded, dormant and every so often, surfaces with wonderment. It begins to define. All of a sudden, she was just a rack of men’s suits away; her face was glowing; the smile overwhelmed; perhaps a first love?  Before I could be sure, a woman wearing strange boot-like shoes; grabbed and pulled her right out of the store. The pit of my stomach reacted. I ran away from my mother, who was holding up a pair of pants to my waist and went for one last glimpse. She was gone but not forgotten. Maybe I know what she meant to me; a spiritual pathway to seek life’s platform. By the next traffic light, another image: A Conestoga wagon(my favorite way to get around if I’m wearing a Davy Crockett hat) a red setting sun, maybe a campfire, Frank Sinatra singing “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning” and an Ostrich sitting on a red rock nearby. The light was now green. I headed home to a warm bowl of oatmeal with dried blueberries.

            Now cruise thoughts. Our ship allowed smoking in a lot of places. Stop. The first few moments on the lunch buffet (key word) line, I heard a thunderous noise and ran to a deserted table by a window and saw a herd of hungry buffalo on the Serengeti Plain. Art forms emerged from observations; plate piling and designs; human hunger in exaggerated, convoluted expressions; notions of how high you can go; broccoli and cauliflower mixed with strange colored meats and macaroni and cheese. My goodness, everywhere you look; macaroni and cheese, some even laden with warm chocolate sauce. Food is everywhere; obsessed and compulsive. I think I shall never see a tree like that or eat from a buffet line again.

            But Canada’s Maritime Provinces are magnificent. First stop; St. John, New Brunswick. For so many years I dreamt about the Bay of Fundy (I wrote about it in my novel). I saw low tide(26 feet and six hours later the tide came in, quietly and efficiently, not like a herd of buffalo) and also saw rapids in a river that would completely reverse flow in those same six hours. Then in St. Martins, a dock( I love my dock sitting as you all know); the boats resting in mud; two wooden covered bridges over mud were in the background. In the same six hours water would touch the bottom of the covered bridges (I loved the movie about Madison County’s). Air was cool, seventy degrees. Life was pristine, simple and remarkable. I marveled. I thought back to New Jersey, with my eight million neighbors; most close enough to easily see into my kitchen at awkward times. Here in St. Martins there’s a thirty minute drive for a container of milk. Many settlers of the Maritime provinces came from America after the British lost. While at St. Martins I did walk across the bay floor to this vast cave which would be submerged in those six hours and thirteen minutes and found a magic rock, destined for Reckless Ostrich. The next day we docked in Halifax and promptly hiked to the first brewery (with free samples) we could find (that’s what happens when you travel with three 20 somethings).

            As the ship left the dock(for home), I sat on my balcony, a little less worried about perfect storm waves, and marveled at the peaceful waterscapes. In the distance I saw a whale come up and go down. It was a brief sighting, but thrilling. I inhaled the air hanging over Halifax harbor. I also knew that the last time CO2 levels in the atmosphere were this high was 15 million years ago. A plus to being at sea (I love saying that, almost feeling I’ve been impressed by Captain Bligh) was no cell phones. I felt cool all over, less radiated if you must know and still sitting on the balcony(not on my dock) wondered what San Francisco’s new cell phone radiation law means for all of us in twenty years. Then I gently slapped myself in the face; still on vacation. I dreamt of dancing at my high school senior prom with Margaret Hamilton(wearing really high heels)(good dream. bad dream), meaning I’m not in Kansas but still on vacation and knowing that tomorrow is another day(thanks Scarlet) and there’s really no place like home.

            And yes. Please  check novel website.  http://vichywater.net

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