National Novel Writing Month begins November 1. A friend of mine has accomplished this feat several times; writing a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. When I heard about this ... challenge, I knew I had to try it. So I signed up at nanowrimo.org.
50,000 words in 30 days is about 1,666 words a day. That's doable. They minds at nanowrimo suggest just writing ... and not worrying about the quality so much. Write it, then edit later. I can write it. It's just deciding which story line I want to tackle. I have several ... five maybe.
But the story I feel pulling at me to write is a story that needs a lot of research. I guess my genre is historical fiction and I want to get it right. I've done some research, but I'm nowhere near prepared. It's intimidating; writing while researching and knowing some of what I write will be merely guesswork. I don't want readers to think I'm careless.
Hmmm, maybe that other story then. It's still a tossup. I have three days to decide ... if you count today.
Seasickness ... it's a maddening, lowering thing. And I get dreadfully seasick. Salmon fishing outside the mouth of the Columbia River, I was fine crossing the bar. I was fine as we motored Southwest a mile or two. We shut off the main and turned on the kicker motor to troll in the calmest seas you'd ever want to find. I'll bet the swells were 6". That's right, six damn inches.
We dropped out of gear and I started to throw up.
Most of you who've been to sea can picture this. There went breakfast ... and I kept going, and kept going till I was limply slumped over the port-side rail. My fishing companions started calling me "Rose of the Titanic." You know, pale face, stringy hair and all. I didn't really care at the time.
My husband is one of those irritating people who gets seasick, hurls once or twice and is good for a couple hours. No big deal. I usually out-fish him. I out-hurl him too.
It made me so angry and so humiliated. For the life of me, I couldn't get my head off the rail. I kept telling myself, "Mind over matter, mind over matter." I saw my rod tip jerk; fish on. I raised up to reach for the rod and started throwing up all over again. "Just be tough and gut it out," I told myself. Whatever.
I suppose I did gut it out one way or another. The only thought that kept me sane was knowing we had to return over the bar at the next slack tide. We wouldn't be out there forever.When we finally switched on the main engine and we headed toward the bar, I lifted my head. No vomit. I sat up and didn't feel too bad.
What seasickness precautions did I take, you ask? Oh, you know, Dramamine, ginger tablets (my great-aunt swears by it), Seabands .. all of it. I now swear allegiance to the patch, though I hate how dopey it makes me feel, and I hate how it makes close-up things blurry for days. But I sure hate being seasick a lot more.
I've heard that most people get over being seasick after a few days at sea. I've never had the chance to find out. It's a pretty frightening proposition ... what if I didn't get over it? But I'd sure try it if I could. Hell yeah.
Sometimes, that dream is all I've got; at the helm, slipping down the backside of a swell, the deep blue-green wall of water all around me. Seabirds hold the air beside me and my boat, effortless in the air.
If only life were so effortless.
I earned a healthy respect for the ocean at an early age. On the beach in a storm, we would watch people climb to stand on giant driftwood logs as the surf began to dislodge them from the sand. The wrong move, the wrong sneaker wave, and people could easily fall and be crushed to death between the logs. It happened more than once.
"Stupid tourists," my Gramma would say.
One summer afternoon, my brother, cousins and I decided to body surf in a chain. There were five of us and I was in the middle. We were teenagers - immortal. We were safe. The tide was coming in. This part of the beach, near Road's End, was riptide free. We clasped hands and waded out. Knee deep, hip dip, waist deep, chest deep. Suddenly I couldn't touch bottom.
I'm the small one in the family. I carry the petite genes. At 14, I was about 4'9", a good six inches shorter than my brother and cousins.
A wave rushed in. We were lifted off our feet and that thrilling sensation of being carried along at the mercy of some greater power had us all yelling and cheering. Stupid teenagers. The wave receded and my feet left the ground. I hung tight to the hands I held. If my brother or cousin had let go, I knew ... I knew I would have been swept away; pulled out to sea. Gone in the blink of an eye.
Waves so big ... life so big. That stayed with me as a secret fear; not being able to see or touch bottom. What lurked down there? Even as an adult, I have to check my imagination when we leave the dock. Waves so big, water so cold and deep. If I let my imagination run, I'd never leave shore.
Funny, as landlocked as I am at the moment, it's dreaming of the sea that sets me free.
What are dreams worth anyway? I guess I use the word "dream" too loosely for some. In my life it seems, dreams are just something pleasing to think on; greener grass. They're more daydreams than goals; fantasy, says my husband. Well, if a daydream gets you through a crummy day, so what?
I dream about the sea; about going to sea. I have since I was little. My grandmother lived on the Oregon coast and much of my childhood was formed by life beside the sea. At five or six, I remember hanging over the railing of a dock in Newport, arms dangling, little blue sneakers keeping me steady on the bottom rail. I watched the fishing boats with endless fascination.
At five or six, I loved the purposeful busyness. Watching fishermen offload their catch had a Christmas morning quality for me. What would they pull from the hold? How much was down there?
Watching a boat load up for a trip was worse. As the last fisherman hopped aboard and the boat pulled away from the dock, I had the overwhelming desire to jump on too. Where were they going? What would they see? What would they catch? How could they leave without me?
The mystery of that open sea lit my imagination on fire. Standing at the edge of the Pacific, bare feet in the sand – bright red with cold from the never-warm water – I could see lights far out in the ocean winking away at me. At first (at five or six years-old), I thought the lights were blinking.
"Gramma, what are those blinking lights out there?" I asked, pointing out to sea.
She chuckled before answering. "They're not blinking, they're fishing boats going up and down with the waves. When they get to the top, we see them. Then they slide down in between waves and disappear."
It was a fascinating and terrifying thought; waves so big, boats would disappear behind them. I stared and stared. Waves so big ...
I'll admit, I'm a big Deadliest Catch fan. When I saw the first commercial for the first season, I picked up the phone and called my husband. "Oh, man, there's a show we're gonna have to watch!" I said. A whole television show of fishing in Alaska ... they had me at hello.
A handful of decades later, I still stare at the lights that wink offshore. The opportunity to slip down the back side of a swell and be surrounded only by water, land vanishing from sight; was a long time coming. And I'm not done yet. Daydreams they may be, but I'll have them just the same.
