The Lyngbakr, or, I should have known when she ordered the shark’s fin soup and chicken feet

Lyngbakr

 

The Lyngbakr, 

or,

I should have known when she ordered the shark’s fin soup and chicken feet      

By PenguinScott

From the airplane window, I looked out over France. There were towns and villages with roads meandering from one direction to another. It looked lush and inviting from 29,000 feet. I wished I were down there sitting in a café enjoying some wine with bread and cheese. Oh, and butter. I remember how delicious the butter is in France!

                For the past six days I had been in Barcelona and was flying back to America. Stress was heavy on me, which is odd, having been on vacation for three weeks. Barcelona was but the destination of an Atlantic crossing on a luxury cruise ship which left from New Orleans with stops in Miami and the Azores. I boarded with five friends and left Europe with over thirty new ones. We had all been through a lot, maybe not so much on the ship, but for the five of us in the apartment, Barcelona sure was trying. For me, the entire journey was epic.

                I fell in love with Spain. This was my first visit and long overdue, having resided in my bucket list for years. Was it possible that I enjoyed Barcelona more than other European cities I’ve been to? The architecture was exciting. The food was fresh and creative. The people were vibrant and easy going. We had complimentary weather and getting around the beautiful city was a breeze—even on bike. I choked up when viewing the steps upon which Columbus climbed to inform Queen Isabella that he had just returned from what wound up being America. And staring up at the spires of architect Antoni Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia was mesmerizing. 

               As France passed below I was of two minds of the past three weeks—such an epic vacation. I had truly seen both sides of the coin on this trip: the good and the bad. Sure, I had my camera and travel wallet stolen. Gone were all the photos from the cruise, my time in New Orleans and of Miami, Ponta Delgada in the Azores, and the first two days of sightseeing in Barcelona. That’s what I cared about most—not losing my travel wallet with two credit cards and about a hundred dollars cash. Not the feeling of being violated for having someone’s hand inside my front pocket without my knowledge…or enjoyment. Many of the adventure had been captured by my friends, but many—my artistic shots, selfies, and photos I took—cannot be replaced.

                When asked, it wasn’t having my pocket picked that was behind my answer, “I had a great time. I had a horrible time.” The real reason behind the stress weighing me down was that the date I shared a room with on the cruise, and then an apartment with in Barcelona, turned out to be a Lyngbakr. Others called her the Kraken, but Lyngbakr is more appropriate.

                You see, Lyngbakr is an Icelandic mythical sea monster known to bait seafarers by posing as a fantastic island, and when a crew lands on her back, she sinks into the sea, drowning them. This is a more appropriate illustration of my experience; as I was lured into a lovely relationship and then, once safely at sea, this woman turned into a monster, and sunk us into the darkness of a volatile sea of crazy. I’ve researched how the Lyngbakr was felled. I can find no such story. Lyngbakr is alive and well and I’m lucky to still be alive after bedding one.

                We met briefly six months prior on a camp out with a group of friends. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, mostly because I avoid smokers. She was easy to remember: walking with a cane after an illness left her partially paralyzed for a brief period of time. And she appeared to enjoy the attention of being surrounded by our caring group of friends. Her name is Beth.

Fast forward a few months, I organized a Sunday Dim Sum lunch on Christmas Day. She responded immediately and was so excited that I noticed her posting to encourage others to join us. In the end, maybe because it was Christmas, it wound up being just the two of us. This being the case, Beth suggested a Chinese place in Oakland near her apartment. Two things hit me when I walked into the restaurant: This was going to be a good meal. Everyone was speaking Mandarin. And finding Beth would be easy. We were the only two non-Chinese in the whole place.

                Beth was a fairly attractive woman. She was a few inches taller, with straight black hair, and was now off of the cane that had assisted her when we met. She moved slow and methodical, which is also the manner in which she spoke, pronouncing each syllable of every word; sometimes over-pronouncing them. I assumed this was related to her accident. She wore a sun dress with flat sandals. She was also all smiles.

                Our server handed me a sheet with the dim sum options for us to choose. I marked a few items of interest and handed it to Beth. She asked a few questions, marked a few things, and then paused. She regarded me intently, then asked if I’d ever had shark’s fin soup.

                I immediately protested, “Of course not. They cut the fin off and toss the shark back into the sea to die a horrible, painful death. I could never eat that.” My inside voice continued, “And how dare you even ask.”

                Silently, she looked back at the menu. Her gaze returned and she asked if I had ever had chicken feet. Now, I’m sure they don’t cut off their feet and toss them down to die a horrible, footless death. But the thought of eating animal feet... I don’t eat pig’s feet, ergo, I don’t eat chicken feet. I made my point, but not as strongly as that of shark’s fin soup. After all, someone might as well eat the feet; it just won’t be me.

                I watched her make two final marks on the menu order form and she explained that she likes to try new things. Beth was ordering both the fins and the feet. I was invited to try them as well. I assured her that as much as I love new things and the spirit of adventure, she was alone on this one.

                Beth didn’t like the soup and asked that it be taken off the bill. She said the chicken feet was disgusting and didn’t finish as much as an instep. Nice waste of animal appendages; she should have listened to me.

The rest of the meal was wonderful and with time to kill before a party of a mutual friend, we went to her place and talked. Our conversation meandered through our separate medical issues as well as our interesting lives and experiences. There was never an awkward silence or an acrimonious word. I soon forgot all about the shark fins and chicken feet.

                Several weeks pass and I found a great deal on a thirteen-night cruise to Spain and posted it on line. She replied immediately. Was she serious? I was leery about sharing a room with a smoker, but she assured me that she was quitting, and would not be smoking at all before setting sail in six weeks. She was OK with the time line, the expenses and being at sea for so many days. I warned her that once I put down a deposit, there was no backing out. Even though it was her first cruise, she assured me that I need not worry. She was in.

                I booked the cruise and we started making plans. We got together several times at her place over lunch or dinner. Hours flew by as we chatted in person and on-line, joking and flirting. It looked like this would be a grand voyage.

                Our exuberance attracted the attention of a few other friends. Beth invited Kit, a mutual friend of ours who I’d known for years, and Will, a guy she knew from Burning Man. Will was in his sixties and lived in Boston. I mentioned the cruise at a party and the host started asking questions. His name was Jerry, and after a recent separation from his wife, a cruise is just what he needed. The sixth member was a guy I met on line from a cruise critic forum I had joined. He had a lot in common with our gang and proved to be a lot of fun. He was the stage manager on the ship, but wanted to spend a few days in Barcelona with us. His name was Nathan and he lived in Vegas with his partner of nineteen years.

                Much time was spent on line making plans in the weeks leading up to the voyage. We discovered that the Jazz Festival was occurring the weekend we set sail from New Orleans, so we planned an extra night in The Big Easy to soak that in, as well. I adore New Orleans and Kit’s daughter was in school there. Beth and Jerry had never been. It was perfect.

                Jerry invited those of us living in the bay area to his place for a few planning parties, which included dinner and a soak in his hot tub. We were all getting along famously and we were so excited; it was better than Christmas—but this one would be an unusual one with shark fin soup and chicken feet.

Things changed the day we left San Francisco.

                Beth complained about the airport in New Orleans. There was construction, requiring us to go outside and back in to get our bags, then back outside for the hotel van. It was late. It was humid. Beth may not have been feeling well. I paid little attention to the complaining and tried to be accommodating. I know what it’s like to have pain cause a bad attitude.

The following morning we returned to the airport to meet Nathan. I know a place that serves great beignets, so I suggested we eat breakfast there, then from the airport, a bus could take us downtown for the jazz fest, saving money hiring a cab. Beth didn’t care for the beignets, which confounded the rest of us who nearly melted from the decadence. Nathan couldn’t join us downtown until dinner, because he had business with the ship’s entertainment group. Once downtown, Beth, Jerry and I entered Bourbon Street, which was full of festive people. Beth needed a restroom break and Jerry wanted a beer, so the first bar we came to, in they went. I would wait outside for them. After all, this was Bourbon Street and I wanted to soak it in.

                It was a beautiful day: clear, a few billowy clouds, and warm but not too hot. The people filling the street were having a great time. I stood in the shade and watched. After fifteen minutes, feeling a bit flustered, I wandered inside the bar. It was empty except for my two friends sitting at the bar drinking. When telling them they could leave the bar with their drinks to join in the festivities of New Orleans, they had no interest in such things.

                I was near crazy. Who goes to New Orleans—on Bourbon Street, no less—and sits in an empty bar? Apparently only those two. Everyone else was in the street. You can sit in a bar at home. Kit texted that he was at the Napoleon House. Unable to pry them away, I told Beth and Jerry that I’d meet them later, so off I went. Alone.

                By dinner time we were all together, except for Will, who was arriving later that night and would miss out on our jazz fest experience. Nathan brought along a guy he would be working with on the ship and Kit was with his daughter. The seven of us enjoyed a sumptuous dinner at a trendy eatery. The trip was getting off to an awkward start, but things were looking up.

Then the bill arrived. It was passed with each making their contribution. When it got to Beth, she pulled out a piece of paper and a calculator she carried with her. She began to query everyone on what they had ordered and began dissecting the bill with the skills of a hybrid mad surgeon/book keeper. It was the most thorough going over of a bill in history. If the dinner had us going at 90MPH, this brought us down to a school-zone twenty.

                Looks were shot from one to another. It was decided that we’d meet her later; we all had our phones, after all. Beth looked cross at me and probed whether I had left enough money. My reply? “Well, dear, I’ve put in $5 more than my meal including tax and tip. If you discover that I owe more, you know where to find me.” Motioning towards the large picture window, “Look at all that fun...I gotta get out there.” The entire group were all smiles as I led the way out the door, leaving our good doctor with the bill and a wad of cash.

                After the spectacular fireworks display later that evening. We found ourselves in yet another crowded restaurant—Italian. Seems we were eating our way across this fine city! Along with the bill came a loud exclamation from Beth, complete with expletives, about the price of her hurricane. Heads turned from all corners. I wanted to crawl under the table and hide. I might have met Nathan under there had he followed his impulse to do the same. Will explained that a hurricane is a large drink full of much alcohol, and was served in a discriminating restaurant during a festival. She slowly accepted this and began to calm down. At least she didn’t dissect the bill this time.

 

Past experiences have taught me to arrive at the cruise terminal early. It’s better to leisurely wait an hour in the lounge prior to boarding than arrive later to then stand in line for an hour. We arrived at 11AM and got our bags checked. Beth and Jerry needed to make a grocery store run. Will was now with us, and had a mission of beignets and coffee from Café du Monde, so he was off as well. I wondered why my plan to arrive early had met so much resistance if they were now running errands.

                An hour passed quickly and I received a text from Jerry and Beth—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They had decided to go into the city and explore a voodoo museum and have lunch. The plan had been to have lunch for free on board, but I reminded them to be on board by three. Jerry can be like a child and Beth had never been on a cruise. The people around me were a bit concerned. If they missed the ship, they could catch up to us in Miami in two days. The funny thing is, the ship left an hour early. A few people were left behind. Dee and Dum were not among them, but it was close.

                In Miami, Jerry’s parent’s and brother, who lived a few hours away, came to meet him. They invited Beth and I to come along to South Beach for a few hours. It seemed like 6 people in the small car would be crowded, but South Beach wasn’t very far, and with a laugh, I was ordered to get in.

                Jerry’s dad needed navigational assistance so Beth got on her phone to bark directions that I knew would take us on a longer route than necessary. She did not need my help, which left me little choice but silently submit to being in spectator mode. Despite her directions we wound up on the causeway to South Beach. Our ship was visible to the right, yet a confused Beth instructed Jerry’s dad to turn around, which he promptly did. South Beach was but a mile in front of us, and now we were headed back to downtown—our ship laughing at us to our left. I was unsuccessful in convincing anyone otherwise. This new route across the islands instead of the causeway would add another thirty minutes to our field trip. Beth realized that her phone was giving walking instructions instead of driving. I remained silent while enjoying the scenic route with impressive homes on the bay islands.

Beth commented on sighting a police officer we passed along the route, calling him a pig. Every time we saw a police officer, she called them pigs. I have friends and family in law enforcement and I found it quite demeaning. This being the hundredth time, I asked that she stop. She protested, stating she never called them pigs. Wait. What? Driving to Jerry’s house for our Bay Area planning parties, she called them pigs. Seeing a police boat as we arrived in the port of Miami that day she called it a pig boat. And just now, on our short, but detoured field trip, she called them pigs. In fact, I’ve never heard any other name come out of her mouth, when referring to the police. She apologized. Jerry’s mom turned and smile at me with approval.

Later, Beth asked that in the future, I not call her out in front of other people. She was upset about the whole pig thing. I had asked nicely. I used quiet tones. I even said please and thank you. I called less attention to it as than her protesting how she had not been doing so. I said I would do my best to not call attention to her shortcomings around others, but if I felt uncomfortable about anything she was saying, I would address it as discretely as possible without delay.

                As we walked along the pathway on South Beach, I heard mention of thirst from Dee and Dum. The first bar we saw happened to be the Ritz-Carlton Spa. A stop was ordered. I was beginning to see a pattern here, and regret in my selection of travel companions was growing. I so wanted to explore the Art Deco and actually see South Beach rather than a bar. Nathan, who was doing his own thing, texted to ask how things were going. We agreed that in Barcelona, these two would be left behind in a bar. I sit at a bar only when my body needs a rest from exploring.

                It was now crystal clear that Beth was...somehow different. The pleasant woman I had gotten to know the previous three months was gone. Good moments with her were few and far between. I’m not sure where that spirit of adventure was that roped her into fins and feet, but there was as much adventure in this woman as...well...in the fin of a shark.

                The next day we were at sea. With VIP status on board the NCL Spirit, I was invited to a small cocktail party hosted by the captain. Beth and I dressed up for the occasion to enjoy elegant canapés with caviar and shrimp as well as cream cheese on toast. The booze was flowing, while ship’s officers were dressed in dark uniform with gold trim. She lauded the rich experience numerous times. The sex that night was intoxicating, but in the morning, she was Lyngbakr waiting to drag me into the deep.

                Most days, Beth slept. One day she was only awake for five hours. Another night, I came in to go to bed around 2AM and she got up and went out. From what I could tell, time spent outside the room was to smoke in the lounge one deck up. She had not stopped as promised, so the room stunk to high heaven from her clothing.

                When she did come to dinner, she complained about the food. It was not as bad as the scene she made in the Italian place, but it was close. She’d take a bite and push her plate making the face of a child and exclaim, “Well, this is awful!,” letting all around understand her displeasure.

               My new friends asked what was wrong with her. Perhaps a drinking problem? Was she crazy? I know I was going insane. I explained that I had only known her for a few months. The general consensus was that she had to complain in order to feel alive. Before long, others complained about her as much as she complained about food.

Then Kit came to see me. Having known her a few years, the real reason he was on this trip was his torch for Beth. Not that it was his intention to steal her away (you can have her, Kit—really) but within our social community polyamory was normal; he had hoped to join our relationship. Recognizing the duress felt among our group, he confronted her and she confided to him that she had gone off her meds our first day at sea.

                “Off her meds?” I asked. “What meds?”

She never mentioned her bi-polar problems and I had failed to recognize them. I guess they were working. Why she would chose her first time on a cruise with a small group of frirends is beyond me.

                One of my favorite things about a cruise is feeling like a rock star. I love returning to the cabin to find the bed made, bathroom cleaned, and mess organized. This was but a memory of cruises past since I couldn’t enter the cabin and not find her in bed. My status on the VIP list guaranteed daily treats left in the cabin prior to dinner each evening. Beth mostly stole this perk because she was in bed with the ‘do not disrupt’ sign on the door. One day, I found that a plate of chocolates had been left and eaten. My fancy delicate chocolates with the ship’s logo emblazoned across the top. She ate them—after having told me how her roommate ate her food in the fridge at home, so to get even, she contaminated her food with Beth-cooties for her roommate to eat.

                Things peaked a few nights prior to reaching Barcelona. I was in the disco with friends, enjoying late-night libations and dancing. When two uniformed security officers entered the club, I instinctively knew they were there for me. As their eyes landed on mine they approached; my heart sank. “Are you Mr. Penguin?” “Yes, that is me.” “Are you in a cabin with Miss Lyngbakr?” “Yes, I am that poor soul.” “We need you to come with us. It’s urgent.”

                They found Beth in a bar too intoxicated to function. Others stated that she had only ordered one drink. I explained that she was on medication for a health issue. While I thought she had taken too many, more likely was that she had started out drinking from the supply of vodka she snuck on board. Concerned about depositing an incoherent monster alone in our cabin, they asked that I check on her. Kit came along for support. Or perhaps it was in hopes that this would be his opportunity.

                I opened the door and was greeted by Beth’s bare ass. She was stuck, head-down and ass-up, between the bed and the wall. I grabbed the towel animal the steward had left on the bed and covered her up and asked for help. With Kit and the security lady, the three of us managed to get her back in bed. Beth had removed her clothes, and then fell, getting stuck, and passed out. Assessing the state of things helped me realize three things: The towel animal on the bed indicated that she had left the room long enough to have turn-down service earlier in the evening. The wetness of the bed indicated that after being brought back to the room, she had undressed and wet the bed. And for her to pass out stuck as she was, this was the smallest room on any ship I’ve sailed.

                I was over it. I was this close to asking for a new room. It was difficult having to ask the room steward to replenish all of our linens and bed coverings when possible. I made sure to leave a generous tip for doing so. But then, a hung-over Lyngbakr apologized for her behavior the night before. I apologized that I had given up on her so easily. Spending two weeks at sea on my first transatlantic voyage was a dream fulfilled. I wasn’t going to let her poor attitude bring me down; she had been warned. I assumed that she hated the cruise. This must be the reason she spent much of it in our cabin sleeping and why she stopped joining us for dinner after the first week. I was prepared to allow Beth to experience this cruise however she wanted. After making up, we spent time together, had dinner, went to a show, and gave the steward a more appropriate reason to change the sheets the next morning after making love half the night.

                The cruise was nearly over. My group of travel companions had formed a stronger bond after all that we had gone through (which included a suicide scare, but that’s a whole other story). And I had made so many new friends—many who would remain friends long after this cruise ended. I enjoyed the cruise part of this odyssey and was hopeful that things would change when we were on land. But Lyngbakrs make for terrible vacations and are hard beasts to

kill. So hard that a mere 24 hours later, things returned to what had become status quo. An agitated Beth had again over-indulged on the final night at sea, and before leaving the cabin, she relieved her stomach of its contents quite unexpectedly. The rest of the morning was hell, with her constant complaining.

We were now in Barcelona and eager to experience this wondrous city that none of us had been to. We easily found the neighborhood in which our apartment was located. While waiting for our host to arrive with the keys, Beth needed the immediate use of a restroom; only this time it wasn’t her stomach. In her sudden absence, I declared that effective immediately, I was breaking up with her. Nathan stated that the announcement was unnecessary. Everyone assumed that happened days ago.

The apartment could comfortably accommodate seven, with three beds in the one bedroom, two couches and a fold-away bed. The original plan was for me to share the larger bed with Beth, along with one person in each of the single beds, and then two could sleep on the couches in the living room. I stated that after the last two weeks, I was claiming the larger bed for myself and Beth could sleep in the living room. Nathan and Kit were quick to claim the two single beds in room with me. When entering the room, Kit called out that it was definitely appropriate that I take the room. There was a Picasso penguin hanging on the wall.

There were no arguments. Will was the only person Beth appeared to still be friendly with, and Jerry was her drinking buddy. I’m sure she was as over sleeping with me as I was of her. We got quickly settled in with enthusiasm and banter. Beth said nothing. She refused to join us on our initial outing that afternoon, instead, crawling under the covers of the fold away.

Beautiful Spain. We found a quaint restaurant off the beaten path and enjoyed tapas and sangria. We had prearranged to meet a few ship mates who were also staying in town on the main drag for more sangria. We strolled to the harbor, took the gondola ride across town, and after dinner returned to our apartment by bus. We ventured into a wine shop a few doors down and discovered that Barcelona has some of the best wines for under $4. When we returned, Beth was furious at us for not leaving her with bottled water or a key so she could venture out to buy some. Poor dear didn’t understand that the water in Barcelona is safe to drink. But in our defense, she she was present when we agreed to these plans and she did refuse our invitation to join or meet us later.

As on the ship, she continued to stay in bed for most of her stay in Barcelona. She only went out in the evenings and usually to go to a local bar. She never went sightseeing. She didn’t go on any tours. She never left the neighborhood. The most she ever saw of Barcelona was the ride to the apartment from the ship, and then leaving from the airport. There was a day she never spoke to any of us but Will; and we later found out from him that she was being a Lyngbakr to him as well. One evening, she and Jerry were getting into it, as they often did at this point. Will, who had the misfortune of sharing the room with them, turned over in his bed and asked that they turn out the light. She commented that she should simply die then, since she wouldn’t be able to see what medicine she needed to take. The drama was too rich. We would have flooded the apartment with light to help her take happy pills.

And so it was that Lyngbakr had not only plunged us deep under water, but she next took us down into the darkest depths of the cruel, cold sea. One morning she informed us that the night before she was attacked and nearly raped. She struggled and made it back upstairs but did not call the police. It was quite a tale and we were all concerned. Her plan might have worked if not that the physical proof—bruises on her arms—were the very same she obtained from the night we unwedged her in the cabin and put her to bed. After logging onto social media we discovered that her story was quite different from the one given to us.

The following night came a new story: she heard a woman screaming, and fearing the woman was about to be raped, she went downstairs to assist and was again attacked. But this time she kicked the shit out of him. From victim to hero in 24 hours.

She posted her miserable experiences on the internet. One of the six of us had nearly been mugged on our first night. This was news to us. Did we have a 7^th that we were unaware of? From this point, we could not trust anything she said. She was more ostracized than ever. While sightseeing, we created a new game: guess what had befallen ‘Drama Central’ that day. More arguments with Jerry? Another attack? Maybe aliens from outer space. It was scary.

Our final day, I left Barcelona on a flight earlier than the others. Nathan and I departed for the airport leaving the rest in the apartment with Lyngbakr. (She and Will were actually going to Madrid next, and we’re told she enjoyed her time there.) I boarded the plane for my triumphant return to San Francisco. After three tense weeks, I could finally breathe. I looked down on French wine country and imagined riding a bike along one of the narrow, winding roads, pulling into a little shop, and ordering a nice glass of wine to go with cheese and bread. A silent wine; not the annoying whine that followed me across the Atlantic. I couldn’t wait to get home.

When she returned to America, she told everyone what a horrid place Barcelona was. She shared stories of rape and muggings and of being abandoned in the apartment while we all went out and had a rip-roaring good time. Meanwhile, the five of us felt victimized by her; our time together once spent planning our vacation was now spent in wonder of how we survived. As her stories spread to our shared friends, I couldn’t remain silent. I responded that she didn’t know Barcelona because she never saw it. She had not been abandoned once. She chose not to go out with us—even if we secretly hoped she wouldn’t. And while my pocket was picked, none of us were mugged. One night she’s attacked but never called authorities, the next she’s kicking ass?

Decrying us as evildoers and spreading lies, she unfriended all of us. I survived the Lyngbakr. She mostly ruined a perfectly good vacation. Other than my experience being victim to a pick-pocket, nothing bad happened on that journey. I made numerous friends during the two weeks on board the Spirit, and a year later many of us had a reunion on a second transatlantic cruise. But that first cruise, the one when I shared a cabin with a Lyngbakr, it had something in common with the Titanic. We left New Orleans on the 100^th anniversary of that ship’s infamous sinking in the North Atlantic. Maybe it’s an unlucky date to depart for an ocean crossing. I’m not superstitious, but I would gladly sacrifice my wallet to never come across, and be taken down so deep, by a Lyngbakr.

My Syndrome

by Penguin Scott

I’m not used to feeling uneasy when coming home to visit my parents. It’s not a sensation I much enjoy. It’s sort of like being back at the scene of a crime, but no crime was committed here. This is where I got sick two years ago. But to say I got sick makes it sound like I got a minor cold. This wasn’t just any illness. It was the type of event that was life-changing, and being back here brings about so many memories- as if it happened just a few months ago.

I remember how it started very well. I was home for Thanksgiving with the family. The house was full and some had to stay in a hotel. I bunked at night on a foldout couch in the downstairs living room. We’re a loud group of people when in a house together, and it’s a lot of fun. We played games, shared photos, laughed and contemplated the manner in which we should deep fry our bird without burning the house down. It was like so many other holiday gatherings before, with my grandmother and her daughters in the kitchen, the men sitting around the living room and the cousins downstairs playing and gossiping almost as much as the adults.

Hiking on my parent's property in Colorado



My parents live in Colorado on mountainous acreage. On the first day of my visit, a group of us took a long hike on the property, which left me a bit winded. The next day I felt a pressure in my chest, very much like the one felt after a day of exertion, so I didn’t think much of it. The situation worsened to where I started feeling light headed, complete with a headache. I looked up the symptoms of altitude sickness on my laptop. I had them all except that I was not nauseous. So again, I didn’t do anything about it…this, too would pass. But for the moment, I was feeling badly enough that I stayed home while the family all went to a dinner outing, complete with live music.

Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Eve, I had developed red spots on my arms and legs- they didn’t itch, but were a little sore to the touch. I went to bed feeling ill. I’d felt worse in my life, but I’d never felt anything quite like this. It was such that as I fell asleep, I began thinking about how difficult it would be for someone to close out my life in my absence. Certainly, that person would be my mom, having to go through all my belongings back home. I started to think of all my passwords to the various sites I use on the internet; banking, work, social sites. I didn’t know how sick I was about to become…but somehow I did, and my mind seemed to be preparing me for the worst.

The next day my family drove me to the emergency room. I was short of breath, my head hurt and the pain in my chest was incredible. The spots on my legs hurt, making it very hard to walk. Tests were administered and my body was poked and prodded. I was told it was not altitude sickness, and honestly, two years later, I no longer recall what the initial diagnosis was, but in the end, I was sent home with instructions to drink a lot of liquids and get some rest. The family, who had been jammed in my parent’s home for a few days in close proximity, was terrified that I might be contagious. I felt badly, praying that I wasn’t, for their sake.

By the time I returned home, Thanksgiving dinner was about to be served. Because of how I felt, and possibly from fear of being near me, I wound up eating on a TV tray in the living by myself. I had no seconds that Thanksgiving. In fact, I didn’t finish what was on my plate. Nothing tasted good to me. Everyone else praised the green bean casserole, dressing, desserts and the fact that the house hadn’t burned down with the tasty deep fried turkey. I picked at my plate, not really tasting much of anything.

By the time I went to bed, the spots on my body had spread to my neck and chest. They were very sore and getting out of bed was quite difficult. This was very problematic for me, as with drinking the amount of liquids required by the doctor, I had to get up often to use the restroom. If I hadn’t understood what my body was telling me the night before, it was becoming much clearer at this point.

Sunset at my parent's ranch


On Friday, I felt worse than I had ever felt in my life. I couldn’t get out of bed without a great deal of pain and I was no longer interested in drinking anything. I needed to return to the emergency room. Once that happened, and another examination by the same doctor as the day before, they felt it imperative that I be transferred to a hospital in Colorado Springs. This was partly because the little mountain hospital was not equipped to handle my condition, but also to get me to a lower altitude, which the doctor thought was necessary.

I’m not sure how long I waited to be transferred while lying in that dark room. I was forced to listen to a woman have a total freak out (mostly likely drug-induced) in a room nearby. It was very dramatic, but I was happy to be left alone as everyone else’s attention was on her. I remember seeing the concerned faces of my aunt, uncle and Dad as I was eventually loaded into the ambulance. I also remember how smooth the ride in the ambulance was. That must have been a very expensive vehicle!

I spent the next five days in the hospital. Mom brought me a few magazines and puzzles, as people do. I had my own room with a nice TV on an arm that pivoted to whatever position I needed. I wished I wasn’t so far from my network of friends, who surely would have come to visit.

I never read the magazines. I watched about an hour of TV during my entire stay. I fell asleep when Mom came to visit, so any other visitors would have been a waste of effort. My time was spent sleeping and that was frequently disturbed for numerous reasons; the first of which was that any time I moved, the pain from the red spots all over my body was intense enough to wake me. I was also constantly disturbed by nurses coming in to take blood and administer meds. And it was creepy; I was isolated with an unknown disease, so anyone entering my room had to do so wearing a mask and gown. For the first few days, I didn’t know what anyone looked like.

Having never been in the hospital before, I quickly gained a new respect for nurses. I was well cared for and everyone I encountered had a really nice bedside manner. They were proactive in dealing with the pain I felt. My only issue was that many of the people who came into my room tended to leave without moving my table back to where I could reach it. The pain was such that reaching for it, something I would normally be able to do very easily, was out of the question. I found myself constantly asking people to move my table closer to me before they left the room. Mom thought I was being unreasonable. But being alone in a room and not able to reach for water to quench my dry mouth- well, it was the one thing I had that was normal.

The illness peaked on the third night of my stay in the hospital when my temperature reached 106. At first, I was so cold that they layered me in warm blankets. They felt very good, which was odd for me, since I normally don’t like warm things on me. But soon they removed my warm blankets and started covering me in ice. This upset me and I let them know about it. Up until this point, my attractive nurse with the Australian accent was my favorite nurse. At the point at which she started icing me down, however, I was less than thrilled with her.

My head hurt so badly, I felt as if I were wearing a pain-hat that extended a foot further than my head in all directions. I kept the blinds closed during the day, ignoring what was a wonderful view. I picked at the food, even though I was able to select it from a menu. I’d not emptied my bowels in days. I faded in and out. One night, I woke up thinking it was morning and that I’d slept all night, a first, and thought I was over the worst of it. Turned out, it was only 10PM and I’d only been asleep for an hour. I began to cry. It was the worst I had ever felt in my life, and I suddenly had a thought…so this is how I die.

For four days I stayed in bed, not able to stand, and barely able to turn over. I slept. I moaned a lot. During my stay, I endured a spinal tap and a biopsy and had enough blood taken to fill a new human body, or so it seemed. I endured hell. At one point the pain was such that I asked the nurse to put me in a coma. But in the end I lived, and when I finally got home, I started thinking, well, that wasn’t as bad as I had made it out to be. Surely I had been nowhere near death. Maybe I had over reacted.

Not looking too happy in my hospital bed


That’s what I thought until a month later when seeing a specialist about some lingering effects of my viral syndrome, as they were now calling it. He looked over my notes and looked up at me and said, “You’re lucky to still be with us. Most people die with a temperature that high.” So it really was as bad as I had thought when lying in that hospital bed. And I think my body knew it as early as Thanksgiving Eve.

Many doctors and specialists were involved in my case. No answers were ever found. Every test came back negative. I was amazed to learn, that in our modern medical age, there are still thousands of viruses that afflict people and we have no idea of what they are. It was never discovered how I got sick or where I contracted the virus. It was indeed known that I had a virus. They did learn that my red spots were a separate disorder; normally brought on by a viral condition (my friends called it Penguin Pox). But they could only call what I had, a viral syndrome; a sort of catch-all term simply to give what I had a label of some sort.

A look at my "Penguin Pox"


And two years later I still have issues with being fatigued. It was a whole year before the symptoms of being light headed and dizzy went away. The cold of winter bothered me, where I normally love the cold, and my thinking has never been as clear as it was before the illness. I often forget what I’m saying. There are times I struggle with my health and feelings and wonder if I shouldn’t have died in that hospital.

So here I am, back in Colorado to visit my parents. I’ve been back a few times since then. The first time was very awkward for me; sleeping in the bed I went to right after the hospital and sitting on the couch I had slept on that night when going over computer passwords in my head. The living room has been rearranged, but the bedroom is the same and reminds me so much of the first few days being home after nearly dying.

I’m lucky to be alive and to have caring friends and family for support. As much as I never hope to endure such pain ever again, I feel richer for the experience of coming so close to death. In fact, only a few months after getting sick, it was discovered that I also had skin cancer. I thought it was odd that I was to survive the hospital only to face death again with melanoma. It was also interesting that after all the poking and prodding, no one ever noticed the black irregular-shaped mole on my stomach. No, the cancer didn’t affect the viral syndrome, but the virus is was what led to the discovery of the cancer.

In the end, the nearly fatal virus saved my life. I’m currently cancer-free, but my body is different now. I feel older. I used to enjoy perfect health. Now I have high blood pressure and cholesterol. The fatigue keeps me from being as active as I once was. It’s annoying that I make these complaints to my doctors, and often hear them reply that I’m getting older, but it’s got to be more than just my age that has brought all of this about. Something happened to me in that hospital-something that began to afflict me at home in Colorado. I may be uneasy about getting older and reliving these memories while visiting my parents, but it’s certainly good to be alive!

***************************************************************************

Want to read more? I wrote about some of the vivid images I had in my head while I was in hospital and poem about being on morphine. You can read that blog here:
http://penguinlust.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2009-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2010-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=9

Penguin's Cruise to Bermuda

Penguin cruises to Bermuda by Penguin Scott

The trip hadn’t started off as I had hoped, yet as I emerged from the underground tunnel of the East River into Manhattan, I smiled and knew things would be fine. It was a beautiful fall day in New York and Stevie Nicks was on the radio; this was a good sign. The buildings looked down on me and people moved about seemingly at a slower pace than normal for the city. It was still early in the morning on a Sunday and I was so very tired. Maybe everyone was.

Penguin on the Veendam sails down the Hudson



I’d flown in on the redeye from San Francisco and had been expecting to be in first class. The flight loads had been looking good for this to happen until an hour before the flight, when all of a sudden there were more people clamoring for seats than were open on the flight. So instead of a nice lie-flat seat where I could get a decent nap on the 6 hour flight, I had to ride in the one and only open flight attendant jump seat. As a flight attendant, I fly for free if there are open seats, which includes the jump seat. Open jump seats have saved my trips more times than I’d like to admit.

Another wonderful benefit of my job is access to inexpensive cruise vacations. Cruise lines do not like empty rooms on a cruise ship for some reason, so they often dump open rooms for really cheap on a few web sites I have access to. The prices are so attractive, they are often very difficult to refuse. And this time, I had the time off from work due to an injury and my travel account had money in it to cover the costs. All I needed was a travel companion.

When cruising, I never care where the ship goes; I cruise for the experience of being on a ship and not for the destination. I like the pampering and how rich I feel on a cruise. I like dressing up for 5-course dinners and taking in a show afterwards. I love meeting people at high tea and enjoy a glass of bubbly at the art auctions. Yes, cruising is a great way to pamper one’s self and for me, it’s quite affordable.

Of course, when trying to find a companion, everyone wants to know where it’s going. This one was to Bermuda. I’d never been, so that was alluring for me. I love putting another pin in the map of places I’ve gone. But I wasn’t overly excited about Bermuda; I’ve done islands so many times. No, this vacation was simply about being on a boat, clear and simple.

My problem with cruise deals, which are often very last minute, is that my friends can never seem to get the time from work. Or if they can, they don’t have the money. And even though my friends can’t fly for free, which makes the vacation a little more expensive for them, it’s still a deal that’s hard to pass up. But even as attractive as these cruise deals were, there were not enough and the ship sailed without me.

The following week, the web site again had the same deal for the same ship to the same destination. I tried again to find a companion. After a few more days, the deal was still there and I decided, screw it, I’d go by myself! I called on a Wednesday and booked it and started getting ready right away, I’d be leaving in only 3 days. I’d have to pay double for going alone, and that plus the taxes was still a good deal. So Saturday night, I was off to the airport for my little vacation.

And what a rocky start it was. Had that jump seat not been available, it would have been very hard to get to the boat in time, as the next flight in the morning wouldn’t allow me time enough to get to the pier. I could have flown overnight to Chicago or Boston, but those flights were also oversold. As upset as I was to be missing out on enjoying champagne in first class, I was just happy to be on the flight and headed for New York.

Everything else worked out great. The weather was wonderful; clear, blue skies, very comfortable temperatures, slight breeze. My plan was to take the subway, but the flight attendant advised me of a bus that, for just a few extra dollars, would be so much better. It was. It deposited me about a mile from the pier. I was going to take a taxi, but it was just so beautiful, I decided to walk; after all, my bags rolled just fine. And what a wonderful walk it was, taking me through part of Hell’s Kitchen.

I was one of the first to arrive at the port and was rewarded with a number one card for boarding. I checked in easily and after a slight wait for the ship to be ready, boarded Holland America’s MS Veendam, the smallest ship I’d been on yet. She was decked out in flags fluttering in the breeze and seemed even smaller against the wall of towering buildings from Manhattan.

After boarding, I first went to my stateroom and immediately met the two men who would be servicing it all week. They called me by name and I was quite impressed! After a quick look around the boat, I found my way to the Lido for lunch and took some photos on my phone so I could impress my friends back home with the fact that I was on a wonderful cruise vacation. Maybe next time I could drag a few with me!

Sailing down the Hudson River alongside the tall buildings of Manhattan was quite impressive. Sailing past the Statue of Liberty was a thrill. Going under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was neat. And I even liked the high-rolling seas on our first night. I’m an odd bird; love turbulence in the air and feeling the boat move on the seas if fine with me. My room was at the very rear of the boat, so I feeling the seas would be certain!

I liked this ship. It was smaller than most these days, but very quaint and elegant. The show room had tables like an old cabaret might. There was only one pool which could be covered in inclement weather. And, fortunately for me, it was easy to meet people, as one was constantly running into the same people. It’s easy to get to know people on a smaller boat and I really liked that, especially since I was sailing solo.

On the very first day I started meeting others. By the second day I’d met more and by the third day I had found a group of friends to do things with. We had happy hour every night and there was never a worry for whom to dine with at dinner (I had been assigned open dining, which meant I didn’t have an assigned table with the same table mates all week). In port, I usually did my own thing, and actually, I never even left the boat at our first port stop in Bermuda. Days were always full with activities, lectures, shows, lessons and such. Of course, most days, I found a need to squeeze in a nap to keep up with my nocturnal activities. These included the after-dinner show in the theater and usually ended up with music and dancing in the Crow’s Nest, the club at the top and front of the vessel.

My new friends were really fun; mostly other flight attendants. They got to know some of the actors from the show, and before I knew it, we were having them dine with us at dinner. It was fun getting to hear about their time spent on the ship and how they rehearsed for the shows. I also enjoyed the attention from others, eyeing us as they recognized the performers.

Dinner with new friends and a few of the actors.



I had a wonderful week and found this to be the best cruise vacation I’ve had so far. The food was fantastic, best of the three ships I’ve been on. I gained about 7 pounds during the week, and that was even after avoiding the midnight buffets! I got to speak with the captain while he made pizza and went on a tour the main kitchen. I enjoyed exploring Bermuda and taking photos. The best part of the cruise was making so many new friends; from Ruth, who was celebrating her 100th birthday, to a group of American Airlines retirees I met at tea. And if I thought I was hooked on cruising before, well, I’m hopeless now. Let’s go!

This link takes you to highlight photos from my trip: https://picasaweb.google.com/107950777569456838804/BermudaCruiseHighlights?feat=email#

If you want to see more, see the videos or were on my cruise and want to see photos I may have taken of you, the rest of my photos are found at this link: https://picasaweb.google.com/107950777569456838804/BermudaCruise91811?feat=email#

 

 

My Stevie

By Penguin Scott
(photos not by PenguinScott)


The first time I noticed her, she was wearing a flowing red dress while lying on a settee on a sand dune in the desert. I couldn’t figure out why. It was one of the early summers of my teens. MTV was king. The song was catchy, but the blonde in the desert is what caught my attention; she was some sort of goddess to me. She was sexy, a feminine power that stirred feelings within me. I wasn’t so much confused as to why she was on a settee in the desert; music videos rarely made much sense. What had me was why she was in the video to begin with. She wasn’t singing in the “Hold Me” video and she seemed more than just a model. I didn’t know much about the band; I’d only heard the name.

Then there was “Gypsy”. This time, it was the voice which drew me in. Oh, that voice- that otherworldly voice; unique, strange, distinct and magical. I was captivated by her gypsy visage, the lace and by her smile. I was still confused about the two videos. In this one, she sang, and the other members were silent. Until then, the concept of multiple singers in one band was new to me. But I liked it. And I was hooked. The band was Fleetwood Mac. That’s fine and well. But I loved that sexy woman in the red dress from the desert. I’m a Stevie Nicks fan!

One morning at my home in Dallas, not long after the flurry of videos from their 1982 Mirage album with “Gypsy” and “Hold Me”, I saw an ad in the paper for an upcoming concert. I was a freshman in high school and a solo Stevie Nicks was touring in support of her Wild Heart album. I made a comment to my father and his girlfriend about wishing that I could go. He said that I should. It hadn’t occurred to me that going was an option. I wasn’t asking if I “could,” I was just wishing out loud.

At the concert, I was mesmerized. She was so twirly, so strong yet fragile. Her songs spoke to me. Her ballads made boats of my eyes as tears welled up. This was her second solo album, so I was able to get fully acquainted with Stevie through her first solo album, 1981’s Bella Donna, as well as The Wild Heart. I listened to them over and over again. And then at a backyard barbeque at a cousin’s house, I mentioned my concert experience and was introduced to Rumours, Fleetwood Mac’s album from 1977. He mentioned how much he loved “Rhiannon”. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he got the album and let me listen. It was like I’d never considered that there was more music from earlier than Mirage. Now I was able to start collecting all the older Fleetwood Mac albums as well.

I spent many hours during high school listening to Stevie, either in her solo endeavors, or with Fleetwood Mac. I’d sing along loudly in my car driving to school. I’d listen to her albums through headphones on my father’s fancy stereo system. And I’d sing her songs to myself walking from one class to the next. I always bought her albums the day they released. When The Other Side of the Mirror was released, I was visiting my maternal grandparents in a small town in the Texas panhandle. There was really only one store in town that sold CDs, so there I was, probably the only person in town buying it so early. I got home only to realize that my grandparents didn’t own a CD player. It was 1989, so I didn’t have one with me. All I could do was read the lyrics printed on the booklet. By the time I actually heard the songs I was very familiar with them.

In 1985, she released Rock a Little. I got the album the day it was released and rushed home. I put it on the turntable and grabbed the headphones and studied the lyrics as the songs came and went. By the time I went to bed that night, I’d heard it 4 times! Wanting to know as much as I could, I found out that some of the tracks may have been recorded in Dallas. In fact, it seemed that Stevie had quite a few Dallas connections. She supposedly owned part of a club near downtown. She had friends and working partners in the area. I searched for names and addresses and on weekends, I’d drive around town looking for the homes of these people. Not that I would have bothered them; I was simply thirsty for as much information as possible, and knowing where they lived was information. I stopped by the night club, which seemed as mysterious as she was, fronted by a huge grey curtain and red velvet ropes on the sweeping steps leading to the entry. It must have been magical inside, but it was closed on this early afternoon, and I was too young to be allowed inside.

I never met anyone at the homes I tried to scope out, if they actually were the homes of the people I thought might be connected to her. I was a silly high school boy and wound up exploring some of the nicer parts of Dallas for my efforts. But with my connections in the hotel world of the greater Dallas Metroplex, I would find out where she was staying when she was in town for concerts. I recall driving quite a distance to her hotel near DFW airport after a concert. I stalked the hotel from the parking lot searching for activity in any of the rooms that might indicate which was hers. It was after midnight, after all, so it was easy to pinpoint the rooms with their lights on. I’d heard stories that she stayed up all night and slept during the day, so I knew she’d be up there. Eventually, I ventured into the hotel, just to scope it out. I didn’t see my Stevie, but as the hotel bar closed down, I spied Waddy Wachtel, her band’s guitarist, heading up to his room. I said hi and great show. He thanked me. I was star struck and wasn’t able to get anything else out of my mouth.

Years later, while living in Houston, I earned money working for a concert security company. When Stevie came to town for her Other Side of the Mirror tour, I found out not only which hotel she was in, but which room as well. Armed with a yellow rose and note wishing her a great show, I nervously knocked on the door. A woman answered. I introduced myself as a huge fan and asked if she would procure my flower and note to Stevie. She said that she would, as the door closed and I looked inside the room, I could see a pair of women’s legs crossed, sitting in a chair just out of view. I just know they were hers.

In leaving, I passed one of her backup singers, Sharon Celani, in the hotel lobby. I stopped her and told her I was a huge fan. She was humble and quite nice. I went on- I’d recently decided to prove my love for the band by getting a tattoo. It only made sense that because I also loved penguins, that I would use the penguin logo from the Rumours album- the one wearing a top hat with cane and crystal ball in his flippers. I showed it to Sharon, who seemed quite impressed.

After the show, I ran into her again while stalking the hotel in hopes of a glimpse of Stevie. I mentioned that I was driving to Dallas the next day to see the show there, as well, something I did more than once. She asked for my name and said she’d leave a backstage pass for me at will call.

Years later I’d run into Sharon in a hotel lobby in Phoenix, this time after a fundraising concert I attended. I reminded her of my tattoo and she remembered me. I was living in Maryland and making good money. Stevie was helping the Arizona Heart Institute and I bought a ticket for $1000. It included a fancy dinner with one of the institute’s top heart surgeons at his large desert home north of Phoenix, great show seats, and an after show party where Stevie would appear for a special presentation. We were led to believe that we’d have the chance to meet her, but we were quite disappointed when she graciously accepted her award and then promptly got back in the limo and departed.

In the 29 years that I’ve been a Stevie Nicks fan, I’ve probably seen her live twenty times, maybe more. I’ve lost track. I could search my records, for I’ve kept every concert ticket stub. There’ve been some really great Stevie moments in my life. I’ve shaken her hand twice during shows when she came to the front of the stage during her song, “Edge of Seventeen”. I had a conversation with her father at the Arizona Heart Institute show and met her mom there as well. The next day I went to the store owned by her mother, who sold Stevie mementos.

At the Behind the Mask tour in 1990, I got backstage, where I was able to meet the male members of Fleetwood Mac. Stevie and Christine McVie were “busy putting on makeup,” and I didn’t get to have them sign my program. Then, in Dallas, when I showed up back stage with the pass given to me by Sharon, I was recognized by co-workers from concert security and it was thought that I had obtained my backstage pass illegally. They tried to take it from me as they escorted me out. But that was my precious souvenir. I grabbed it, not allowing them to take it from me and demanded that they could kick me out, but by gods, they weren’t taking my pass!

In 2000, I got a job that required six weeks of training. The expensive Arizona fundraiser was taking place 2 days following the conclusion of the class I expected to be in. When I found out that they were putting me in a class one week later, I protested, giving up the details of my plans to fly to Phoenix to see Stevie. Fortune was on my side, for the woman on the other end of the line was also a fan, and she personally moved me back into the first class so that I wouldn’t miss her show.

I’ve seen her all over America; Houston, Dallas, Baltimore, DC, Phoenix, San Francisco, San Jose and Oakland. Seeing her concerts in the San Francisco area is always special, because she attended high school and started her singing career with Lindsey Buckingham here. I love to hear her talk between songs about growing up here and how special this place is. It’s always nice to see a musician in concert where they got their start.

I remember finding out where she was staying after a show in Houston. I had joined a local Stevie Nicks fan club and become close friends with a few other fans. Together, four of us rushed to the hotel after the show to wait for our goddess’ arrival. When the limo pulled up, she got out and looked at us. We must have been quite a sight to her- a sad-looking group of fans, the women looking quite a bit like her, in lace and chiffon. We stood there in silence, completely deer in the headlights. We didn’t think to call out to her. We didn’t think to move closer to her. We simply stood there, about 20 yards away and watched in silence. She paused for a second while taking us in, put out a cigarette and walked inside. Only then could my brain begin to work and I approached the limo driver, a man I knew from working other concerts. He handed to us some flowers she had taken from the concert and a few cold sodas that had been placed there for her. While we kicked ourselves for not meeting her, we felt on top of the world to have her flowers and soda!

Some of my most fond memories of life involve my Stevie. I remember listening to her tape on my Walkman when visiting my paternal grandparents. After the tape finished, I’d take off my headphones and I could hear my grandparents saying their nightly prayers before going to bed. While pondering the universe on a star-lit dock over the Caribbean in Nassau, it was her that I played. Any road trip I ever took included her serenades. I’d go camping and my friends from the fan club and I would sing her songs around the camp fire. And recently, while visiting the pyramids in Cairo, it was Stevie who I listened to on my MP3 player.

And one stressful night while in college, I was walking around the campus with its huge oak trees with moss hanging from its branches. It was slightly foggy and I had Rumours playing through the headphones. Gold Dust Woman came on and I heard it in a way I had never before; perhaps because of the eerie surroundings I was in. It started so soft and gentle, but had this forewarning quality to it. And as the song closed, I listened intently to the wailing and crying; the pain and confusion. It moved me. I rewound it, covered with goose bumps. I listened to it again and again. It was what I needed that night.

And that’s the magic for me and my Stevie. She always seems to be what I need. Whether it’s to be tied back to the more carefree days of my youth or to find some inspiration, her music, her voice, her mystery and lace, her strength and beauty- it gets me. Rare is the time that I’ll let anyone within hearing distance get away with disparaging my goddess. You may say she sounds like a goat or that singing into a fan makes you sound like her, but you’d be treading on thin ice with me!

Last night I saw her again. It seems like it was just a few years ago that I was in Dallas seeing her for the first time. I remembered how hearing her sing Beauty and the Beast made me cry. I remembered another time in Houston, that as she took to the stage to start the show how I began to cry. It was then that I finally understood the girls who cried when seeing the Beatles. I felt so silly and tried to hide it. She was larger than life and yet actually real.

And now, 29 years later, I’m still getting choked up when she steps out onstage. Her ballads still wet my eyes a bit more than I’d care to admit. But she looks so good; present and in control. She sounds just as magic as she always has, and completely more mature. That doesn’t bother me; now that she’s 62, I expect her to take on that matronly image that warrants as much from someone her age. And as she sings in her song, “Landslide”, “I’m getting older, too.” No longer do I trail her after shows (given my age and today’s fear of stalkers, that’s probably a good thing) or send cards to the event facility. She doesn’t twirl as much as she used to. But she’s there, on stage, as usual, all these years later, still with her wardrobe changes of chiffon and lace and singing her standards from both her solo career and her time with Fleetwood Mac. And I may be in a large auditorium full of other fans, but she’s my Stevie, and she always will be!

Things Learned from my Father

Two ships in the Caribbean


For many years I've been giving credit to Mother for my better qualities. My parents split when I was a toddler, so I have no memories of the two of them being together. I no longer know my father, and even though my issues with him are mountainous, I do have to credit him for teaching me some valuable lessons in life.

My parents divorced when I was about two and my father moved away. He moved to Dallas when I was 13 and I moved in with him just before entering 8th grade. It must have been a huge inconvenience for Gary, who was a card-carrying bachelor and one of god's gifts to society, although no one else seemed to get that memo.

One day, in my sophomore year in high school, he comes to tell me that for Thanksgiving, he and I would be going on a vacation to the Bahamas. I was really excited about this. We flew in first class and stayed in a nice hotel with rich surroundings and a pink exterior. Our room looked out towards the ocean. I could see the pool and there, beyond, a little pier with a gazebo, jutting over the water.

It was here that I had my first experience with cruise ships. My step-father worked in the shipping industry, so he had taken me on tours of large ships in the Houston Ship Channel. But these huge, white palaces full of revelers and lights…for a young teen, they were whole worlds yet to be explored.

Using binoculars, I watched with great interest as huge cruise ships would start out as a white speck on the horizon and slowly grow in size as they would near port. I soon noticed the tug boats leaving the dock to help bring them into port. Gary saw my interest in them, and one day asked if I wanted to go see one up close. I sure did! And as we approached the ship, he said, "Let's go on board and look around." But could we? With no time to debate, all I could do was follow.

One thing I learned from my father was that if there is something you want to do, do so with authority and like you are doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing. There may be questions of whether or not it is ethical, but if executed just right, one could get away with anything.

The next thing I know, he was talking with the people at the gang way, and we were soon going up the steps inside the ship. It was just that easy. We walked into the casino, now quite deserted, since gambling only took place in the open waters. We went high, onto the upper decks, and enjoyed the view out to sea. Then we crossed over to the port side and looked out onto the island, a view from such heights we had not enjoyed up to now.

I looked down to the ground and to the dock and saw ropes being undone and the gang way we'd come in on beginning to move on board. I punched my father for his attention to this detail and at the same moment, without either of us saying a word, we bolted towards the stairs and down them, post haste. I've never seen my father move so quickly in my life!



When we got to the door, after only being on board for 10 minutes, he had to explain that we were not passengers; they were very reluctant to let us off. He told them someone outside had let us come on, but earlier, I think he more or less made them think we belonged on board. The man in uniform muttered something about being lucky that we weren't arrested as stowaways. The gang way was returned to the dock and I followed Gary off the large ship, having to walk quickly to follow him, as his tail went between his legs.

He slowed down only after turning the corner, back on the street towards our hotel. We both had a laugh while catching our breath; glad to be back where we belonged. I asked him what would have happened had we become stuck on board. He supposed that we would just have fun as stowaways until the next port, where we'd have gotten off and found a flight back to Nassau! He said this like it was no big deal and I almost wished that had been reality. What an adventure to tell back home!

It was a huge lesson for me, watching him work his magic and seeing it blow up in his face. And the lesson learned wasn't so much how to make things work in my favor as it was that each action has a consequence. I know what he did was wrong; he didn't have to lecture on that. But I knew there was a power there, and if I were willing to use it, I had to be willing to accept the ramifications of doing so.

The following day was spent at the pool. It was the early '80s, so, as was the fashion with teens, I had my portable tape player, headphones and a collection of tapes of my favorite music. Gary spent a few hours with me and then disappeared; probably off to a bar to hit on women as usual (if they only knew).

I looked out towards the horizon where I could see a white speck. Reaching for the binoculars, I could see that it was another large cruise ship heading right for us. I looked over to where the docks were and could see a tug boat and its captain readying it for launch. I grabbed my things, dashed to the room and then to the dock. When I got to the tug, I looked up to the captain, a large, surly man with a beard and a hat and wearing yellow cover-alls, and asked if he was going to bring that ship in. And then I asked if I could come along. He welcomed me aboard, showed me upstairs and said that I had to stay there, out of the way. "I won't move," I assured him.

After reaching the balcony and looking down, I saw the last mooring line being pulled in and then we were off, just like that. Had I been a minute later, I would not be on board. And it suddenly dawned on me what I had just done. I didn't tell my father where I had gone. I asked a stranger if I could ride on his boat out to sea, while he was busy working to bring in a huge vessel. A smile graced my face as the wind blew my hair and I felt so alive. There was nothing I couldn't do. And I knew my father would be proud of me.

We reached the huge boat not too far out, took in some lines and pulled it back to Nassau. People lined the rails of the ship and waved down to me. The tug seemed so small next to that large boat and I felt as big as the ship in my success. I waved back like I was in charge of the whole operation.

The tug docked and the man who let me on motioned for me to come down, which I did. I thanked the crew and jumped on land and ran back to the hotel, where I found Gary. While not too concerned, he asked quite simply where I had been. Indeed, he was impressed.

My father was also successful at the bar, where he'd met a lady. He informed me that she was staying at a resort on the nearby island, and had offered for the two of us to join her for dinner.

The island was a short taxi ride. We reached a guard house and the man within seemed hesitant to let our cab go through. I paid little attention to what he said, but I recall feeling a little uncomfortable with the story Gary was making up. But the story did its job and the gate arm lifted to allow us to proceed. He looked over to me with this look on his face. It was like he'd just gotten past the palace guards. All that was left was to conquer the king. Or in this case- queen.

We left the cab at the main entrance to a luxurious all-inclusive resort. There were lush trees and bushes, sandy areas with bars and the beach could be heard nearby. Tables were being set with linens and nice, white china and all around were sexy, young couples, in varying degrees of intoxication. I've never seen such a collection of string bikinis, and so much cleavage!

Caribbean Sunset


Gary found his date, who greeted me with enthusiasm. They spoke briefly and then we walked to the dinner table. We dinned on steak and shrimp that night under a canopy of stars and palm trees. I had a virgin daiquiri, but Gary let me sip on some of his as well. It wasn’t so virgin. As dinner concluded, a man took the stage. Before I knew it, there was a call for volunteers from the audience to come and do a dance number. Gary prodded me into going up. I didn't want to, but finally gave in, not realizing at the time that it was a way for him to be alone with his lady friend. So there I am on stage, dancing like I was born to do so. One song blended into the next. Each time a song ended, a few people left the stage. But I remained, loving the attention of being in the spotlight. I'd look down to our table to see Gary and this girl. He'd look at me with a proud smile and give me the thumbs up and a wink. He had a look on his face like he wished I could stay on that stage all night.

Soon, my part in the show was over. There was a statue given out, but sadly, not to me, which sent me back to my table empty-handed and sweaty. "Let's go for a walk," Gary exclaimed. My father had also taught me good manners, and was big on chivalry. I folded my napkin and placed it along side my plate, as I had learned to do, pushed my seat in, and dutifully followed my father and this poor woman to the sandy beach. Before long, I lost them in the night air as I ventured off on my own to explore. It was a very nice resort, more secluded than our pink palace in town with its private beach and views of the harbor.

He later took me back to the hotel and then left again, saying he was going out for the night (meaning back to the resort to screw around with that lady). I walked out onto the pier, as seen from my room. It was a windy night and I loved to feel the breeze on my face. I put in a Stevie Nicks tape and reflected on our holiday weekend in the Caribbean. I thought about all that we had gotten away with. And thinking back on our flight from Dallas, he hadn't bought first class tickets. He had talked his way into those seats and then got a bag full of minis to boot! He talked his way onto the cruise ship, into the resort for dinner and had me feeling no fear in going out to sea on my own. Gary had taught me a lot on that trip, that you can get away with just about anything! He really was a smooth talker. I'd need a lot of practice to be as suave as him.

While in college, I got a job working concert security. I was good at what I did and saw in others a lot of my father. There were those who would try to get backstage with stories of how they were related to the producer, or friends of some big so and so. It didn't work, but I was greatly entertained. I knew their game because I'd learned from a pro.

I have used what he taught me from time to time. I went back stage at concerts more than once without proper credentials. I've eaten at places reserved for those I was not a part of. I even learned how to access my favorite theme park without paying. No one ever said a thing. I looked the part, just as I learned in Nassau. The odd thing about having been successful in these adventures is that I'm a horrible liar.

These days, I don’t find myself in such situations like I used to. And I suppose that I've gotten most of that kind of thing out of my system. As much as my father has disappointed me in my life, I am thankful for some of the more profound experiences in using that power, and rarely with negative ramifications. Only twice was I discovered backstage, and each time I was simply escorted out. Now if only I could figure out a way to fly on Air Force One!

Airforce one at SFO