Home Is The Sailor (Patricia Potter)

“I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
From The West Wind

I love John Masefield’s poetry. His poems are the few I remember almost word for word, perhaps because I have an abiding love for the sea and all vessels that ply it.

And so I had my moments of heaven this past week when I joined sister blogger Lynn Kerstan and friends for a week (almost) with the running tide and gypsy life.

There were many highlights, including a two night stay on a cottage situated on a wharf that reached out into the water. The cottage creaked and groaned with the running tide, and I woke to a pelican looking through the window. As an ocean lover, I was in sheer heaven.

And then off to a condo that overlooked the beach when Navy Seals trained. Every morning they ran down the beach. It was truly a lovely sight and a memorable one. I want to go back.

Lynn has already posted some photos for the great whale watch, and I’ll not belabor the point other than to say that whales must not like me. They disappear whenever I’m within sensing distance.

And then there was a visit to Julian, a lovely mining old mining town with lots of personality. We especially enjoyed the tasting room of a winery. The walls were decorated with photos of cats and dogs. Lynn headed toward the cat wall. I headed toward the dog wall, and we came together at the tasting counter. We departed with several bottles of wine for a most excellent spaghetti supper.

Alas, I had to leave San Diego early for a momentous event, my mother's 98th birthday in Memphis. She’s in a nearby (and excellent) nursing home because various parts don’t work well these days, but she’s mentally alert. Most of the time.

I had reserved the family room at the nursing home for Wednesday. I arrived in Memphis late Tuesday from San Diego, but had Wednesday a.m. for gathering ingredients, present hunting and packaging, and other last minute chores. By four in the afternoon, I was ready. Bunches of dishes, wine, plates, silverware, presents and balloons. About two car loads full of stuff.

Mom has good days and bad days and Wednesday was a very good day. Several weeks ago during some bad ones, she said she didn’t want to celebrate this birthday. She begged me to ignore it.

Not bloody likely.

She’d forgotten this week that she didn’t want a birthday celebration. She'd been honored several days earlier in a celebration at the nursing home. She's a mere child next to the feisty 103-year-old who also had a birthday, and she'd spent the week receiving cards. I dropped over for an early birthday hello on Wednesday morning and she was beaming about all the attention. She was especially beaming because she’d enjoyed the nursing home celebration without me. "See I can do something on my own."

And she had a lovely time at our family party. She’d had her hair done and made sure she wore her prettiest blouse and slacks. I fixed her favorite dish – crabmeat and wine and butter and cheese and Portabello mushrooms – and she devoured it all.

It was a very, very good day and there are too few of those for someone with painful arthritis and very little control of her legs and arms. But it’s a day I’ll remember and treasure. And it gives me such great pleasure to know she will, too.