Dear Diary [#26]

It’s 0703 on April 1, 2020.

I’ve been up for an hour; everyone else is still asleep. I’ve made coffee — and finished drinking it.

The sun is shining in a near-cloudless morning sky — a scene I’ve come to expect.

A not-so-subtle reminder that today will, in fact, be just another day in paradise.

There's a song in there... Who was that? Phil Collins?

Without warning, a blurry vision of 1989-Molly stumbles across my mind’s stage. I chuckle out loud.

Am I wearing peach-colored Converse hi-tops? My glasses are huge. I'm pretty sure they're "decorated" with hot pink paint splatter.  

A bean pole with a perm… Is that what Clara called me?

One of the four other boats in our anchorage is leaving — he’s almost fallen off the horizon now. A single-hander on a monohull. He must’ve pulled anchor at first light.

Where is he going? Back to Canada? Certainly not to Panama. Their borders and ports are still closed. He knows that, right? Maybe he's just headed to Montego Bay? 

Does he know something we don’t?

I can’t imagine sailing all the way back to the States right now — at least not in one shot. What if we end up having to?

Don't start, Molly. That's not a problem worth solving. Not yet. Also, it's too early in the day to write a worry-post. 

Be cool. Stay present.

The sound of the ocean’s gentle and even swell slaps the shoreline and then slips back into the bay. Over and over again.

Crash. Slide. Repeat. A metronome set too slow.

It’s louder than it should be. The water looks so still this morning.

But that noise. 

Crash. Slide. Repeat. 

Bear is staring at me. I try to avoid it but she lures me into eye contact. She rests her head in the palm of my hand so I’ll scratch her chin. She hasn’t peed yet this morning.

Take me to the beach take me to the beach take me to the beach take me to the beach... 

Those doodle eyes are trying to woo me into submission.

Sorry, Bear. Not yet. Go outside. Go pee on the deck. You can do it.

I avert my eyes before she wears me down. Switch gears.

Our morning boat workout. I love it. I make the kids do it with me. John too.

Man, I miss RISE Boxing.

I swear, that place, those people, have a hold on me. Even from 2,499 miles away. (I Googled the as-the-crow-flies distance between us.)

I miss them. Like deep in my soul miss them.

Is that so weird? I think it must not be normal. 

Their quarantine-inspired online workouts are saving me. Later today, I'm gonna dig out my gloves and see if I can hit the mast, like I used to hit the bag. 

I wonder if that'd be bad for the mast? Maybe I can use the ball fender? Hmm...

After our workout, we’ll dive straight into the water. There’s a lot that sucks about trying to work out on a boat, but cooling off in the water immediately afterwards is not one of them. Eighty-three degrees of pure, core-cooling bliss.

Like a hot tub after skiing. But the opposite.

Then we’ll take saltwater “showers.” Wyatt’s finally on board with these, though it took long enough to convince him. Teenagers. Where’s the eyeroll emoji when I need it.

I hate that I can't use emojis on the website. Wait, could I? Probably.

I shouldn't though. Right? 

Definitely no. 

I swear I could write this entire post using only the hieroglyphics of emojis to communicate. #lifegoals

John’s awake.

Hudson’s quick to follow. Unresponsive to my hellos, he marches across the salon, straight to the forward head — his is broken. Again. Now directly back to his lair where he’ll wait until I tell him breakfast is ready.

I need those emojis.

What do you want, Hudson? I already know the answer.

Same as yesterday, he replies.

Which is the same as every day prior for the past week: one egg and a piece of homemade (though now stale) bread with butter and Bob’s honey. He’d much prefer two eggs, but — rationing. Sorry, Huds.

John gets oatmeal. Homemade yogurt for me.

Breakfast. Check.

A text from Ally. I’m smiling. It’s only 7 a.m. where she is. Amen for any-time-of-day-or-night-texting.

Now out-loud-laughter. Man, I miss her. I think everyone must miss their friends a little extra right now.

Don't they? 

Everyone back “home” is adhering to some form of social distancing or lockdown or quarantine.

Aren't they? 

Does that make me feel a little better?

Do I feel a less out of the loop knowing no one else can see their friends in the flesh? Knowing I’m not the only one reduced to Zoom happy hours?

That’s terrible. Switch thought-topics, Molly.

Hurry up. Don’t let yourself answer that.

What if the answer's yes? 

I don't think it is. 

Good lord, Molly -- move on.

I should clean. I should make a To Do List.

It should not include Drink Tequila as a line item. 

But it will.

Cleaning should be number one.

This place is a sty. I anti-COVID the surfaces with the same dedication as Bear licks clean her food bowl at every opportunity — obviously — but I should stop and put away all the crap.

And I should scrub the floors. No — wait.

The kids should scrub floors.

We’ll count it as time spent in our Real World class — like when they do laundry or fix the inverter or make dinner.

I’m relieved to have a plan to pawn that off. I really hate cleaning the floors. Like really-really.

Is Wyatt still sleeping? I've lost track of time. It's 0904. 

I holler outside to him to wake up. The open hatch in his cabin is only a few feet from the one above my head.

A thud. He heard me.

Now the noisy electric head is flushing; the water pump runs, but not long enough. Wash longer, I think to myself in true cliché mom-form.

Slow stomping down the companionway -- exaggerated, heavy -- every time.

Up four steps -- it's like he grows tree trunk feet in his sleep. 

Three to go and he's sitting. 

Bear’s excited. Then over it.

Like clockwork, his phone’s out. Scrolling.

Seriously. I need emojis. My words look undressed without them. 

Not sexy-undressed — more like at-a-party-without-pants-on undressed.

Undressed was a bad choice. Re-write that. 

I will not. 

Hard no.

It’s 0920 now. Time to motivate. Put on workout clothes. Warn the kids it’s almost time to exercise. Wait for the whining. Then the bargaining.

No, Mom! Not again! Can't we take one day off? Please, Mom. Not today. 

I'm too sore. I'm too tired. Let's do it later. I'll go swimming instead. Not yet. I'm doing school work. Please, Mom.

I am predictably undeterred by their predictable pleas.

I know them by heart, like the lyrics to Crash Test Dummies songs Clara and I listened to on cassette tapes in middle school. #sadbuttrue

Except, now those boys really are doing schoolwork. Wyatt’s deep in an online math assignment. Hudson’s engrossed in what he says will be “a multi-day origami project.” John’s on a conference call.

What is happening?

Bear has maybe passed out. At any rate, she’s given up her take-me-to-the-beach eye-wooing efforts.

Now there’s a police boat motoring decidedly towards us. Blue lights flashing. What the holy hell?

Please oh please don't kick us out of Jamaica. 

Eight uniformed police officers — all clad in face masks. They don’t board the Ruby Vi, but idle just off our stern. Two of them take turns hollering questions — muffled behind their face PPE and the rumble of their four outboards. It’s all coronavirus-related… Two others take notes.

Why are there eight of them?

Is anyone experiencing or has anyone experienced flu-like symptoms? 

When did you arrive in Jamaica? 

To which port? 

Spell the names of everyone on board. 

Where else have you been in Jamaica? 

How long are you permitted to stay? 

Did you go through quarantine when you checked into the country? 

Did you provide necessary paperwork for your dog? 

Where are you going when you leave Jamaica? 

Please follow the Jamaican government's guidelines for staying healthy. 

A curfew will go into effect this evening from the hours of 2000 to 0600; please observe them. 

This curfew will remain in place for seven nights.

Thank you, enjoy your stay in Jamaica.

This is the first time we’ve been approached by authorities and it’s nerve-wracking.

All I can think is, please don’t cough. Or sneeze. We don’t. We pass the test. We can remain here in our perfect little anchorage. At least for now.

Somehow it’s 1143. Boat Time is something else.

I'm starving. And it's so hot. Who shut off the breeze? 

Our friend, Steve, would call this pathetic mini-wind a hot fart.

The memory of that real-life exchange with him makes me giggle a little. Then a lot. From behind his computer screen, John gives me side-eye.

I remind myself to use hot fart as a go-to descriptor more often. 

It’s oddly quiet. The swell is gone. The beach is silent again — the waves have stopped harassing the shore; the lazy metronome finally stalled.

I am not a lazy metronome. I will work out. Wyatt will tire of math. Hudson's fingers will go numb from all the folding. John's call will end. 

Be patient, Molly. You literally have all day.

Lunchtime. I mentally prepare for the whining that accompanies ration-portions.

No worries, mon. I got this. 

It's like I'm Jamaican.

As we finish lunch, the remains of my day lays itself out in front of me like a half-starched school-uniform on a Sunday night:

LUNCH. SWEAT. SWIM. READ. TEQUILA. DINNER. NETFLIX.

Time to workout, Boys. 

Sorry, Bear -- still not time for the beach. 

Maybe tomorrow, Floors.

My sports bra is on. Sunglasses too. I march to the bridge deck toward my boat workout du jour, grumpy teenagers in tow.

Is it really 1323? 

The blazing heat of the sun is a campfire I’m suddenly too close to, but the water all around is a crystal clear emerald god-send.

Its promise of cool salvation plays in my ear like a familiar melody.

…it’s just another day for you and me in paradise.

Dammit, Phil. 

But he’s right and I hum along…