Chapter Two — Don’t Tell Ruby Vi [#43]

Before Chapter Two can really run wild and free, I feel a nagging responsibility to pin an afterword of sorts on the tail of Chapter One. The only trouble is, that sounds super hard. Writing any sort of postscript here seems like it’d take a big ol’ heap of self-reflection and explanations, which, as far as I can tell, are just sneaky euphemisms for feelings and excuses. Quite frankly, I’m not so much into either.

(Unless the feelings are referring to my new-found love of scones and the excuses are directly related to why it’s OK that I now eat them like it’s my dream job.)

Clearly, this serves as another not-so-subtle indication of my ineptitudes as even a pseudo-writer. But, since my mom and like 20 4 friends made me promise these stories would live to see the next page, here I am — staring into the more-words abyss and wondering if a scone would help dull the pain.

(The scone does actually seem to be helping, so afterword it is.)

On November 13, 2021, we — the beleaguered former crew of SV Ruby Vi — boarded a one-way flight from PVR to LAX. Saying goodbye to both friends we adored and to the life and the dream we gave up our whole world to chase.

To say it’s been difficult to reconcile the decision to sacrifice so much in pursuit of The Boat Dream with our decision to set it aside, unfinished and incomplete, would be a gross understatement.

For me, it’s been nearly impossible. Mostly because I don’t really think the outcomes of these two choices can be reconciled. Instead, in a thinly-veiled attempt at self-preservation, I’ve convinced myself they don’t have to be.

When we traded landlife for boatlife, we knew failure — in a thousand different forms — was a distinct possibility probability. We knew we might want to kill each other after a month. We knew the kids would miss out on “normal” teenager things. We knew our attempted circumnavigation might get cut short.

We knew the dream might fall apart at any given moment. But we did it anyway.

We did it believing that the many failures we’d inevitably face while in motion were more palatable than the one failure of standing still — of watching this opportunity drift by without at least casting a line to try to reel it in.

In hindsight, our stumbles seem almost blinding. Each is I-told-you-so fodder for sideline neigh-sayers.

What I can’t see though, is just how garish the failure of never trying might have been.

Of course, there’s a chance it would’ve existed simply as an indistinct blur in our periphery, nothing more than an irritating blindspot our brains would eventually teach our eyes to ignore.

But I think the one failure we didn’t choose would’ve weighed even heavier on us in the long run than the pile of those we did. That one defeat alone would’ve inevitably taken root and spread like a weed around us — out of place and unwanted, a noxious and debilitating reminder of the time we were too scared of getting lost to hike without a trail.

So I won’t be reconciling our choices, or wins, or losses. Chapter One’s pluses and minuses will not be consolidated into a PMI chart to make anyone (but mostly me) feel better about its outcome.

Instead, like the for-better-or-worse family journey we intended it to be, and the collection of subpar short stories it became, Chapter One will, in fact, just be.

It will be some of the things we did and some things we didn’t. It will be some of the choices we made and some of the lessons we learned (and re-learned). It will be the people we missed and the people we met. Chapter One will be sand and sweat and love and triumph; it will be cabbage and Catan and tequila and backgammon; it will also be tears and terror and loss and devastation.

Maybe one day, it will become something a whole lot less or maybe even a little bit more.

But we’ll leave that for One Day to figure out.

Sweet dreams, Chapter One. Until we meet again…

If by some small chance, the great mess of all this being and the threat of future becoming hasn’t already scared you away (and the paragraphs preceding this one haven’t already convinced you that cleaning your toilets would be a more enjoyable task than reading any more of these words),

please allow me to humbly welcome you to Chapter Two.

Today is March-something, 2022. John’s on a business call in the next room; the boys are deep in a conversation I can’t follow (despite absolutely zero effort) about a video game — something about the merits of an R301 vs an alternator; and beside them, two impossibly cute dogs are sharing an armchair with enviable contentment.

At present, home for us is the quaint little Irish town of Ballymore-Eustace, about 45-minutes south of Dublin.

One morning in early-February, while sipping coffee and Google-surfing from our flat in southwest London (I realize that makes us sound way fancier than we are), we stumbled upon the web-based pet- and house-sitting platform, TrustedHousesitters. And, since a write-our-story-as-we-go approach is our working M.O., we signed up.

Within a few days, we booked two dreamy “sits.” The first — 18 days in Ireland through the end of March; the second — two weeks in the French Alps in mid/late-April.

Those of you who knew Bear, either in real life or through photos and stories, might see how we knew deep in our Bear-grieving hearts that we belonged in these places with these sweet pups.                      

We’re nearly a month into our stay in Ireland, and have just one week left caring for two fur babies who’ve stolen our hearts. They’re every bit as soul-filling as we thought they’d be and are reminding us daily about everything we loved and miss about “normal” life.

But before we were rediscovering the joys of “normal” here in County Kildare, we were whirlwind-roadtripping around this land of Guinness and green.

Ireland showed up dressed to impress.

Since the moment we touched down in Dublin, this country has proven herself to be everything I never dreamed she would be: utterly spectacular.

The Garth Brooks song that describes Ireland as, “rolling fields of green and fences made of stone,” pretty much nails it. Add in: “sheep forever, the skinniest roads, castle remains on every horizon, more pubs per square kilometer than people to fill them, colorful storefronts, the most delicious scones, and the kindest people,” and you’d really have yourself a spot-on Irish ditty.

So far, Ireland is the gift that keeps on giving.

A sampling of our highlights includes: watching glass become Waterford Crystal in Waterford, drinking Guinness on tap everywhere, hiking with a sheep farmer in County Kerry, watching Irish Working Sheepdogs work in County Kildare, driving the Ring of Kerry, riding out storms on the Dingle Peninsula, drooling over the Cliffs of Moher, exploring castle remains and 1000-year-old churches, strolling through streets and alleys of the most colorful towns, celebrating birthdays in Galway, betting (and winning) on horses in Naas, and falling madly in love with two four-legged three-year-old sisters.

And Ireland isn’t finished with us yet.

If I’d known just how rad Ireland would be, I might’ve been less sad to leave Amsterdam to get here.

Amsterdam is what happened when a week in mid-February offered, what we Wilcox girls like to call, A Christmas Sister Miracle. Our ragtag crew jumped at the chance to Chunnel our way under the English Channel, across the French countryside, through Belgium, and right into the heart of Amsterdam.

Lest you wonder what's so miracle-y about a London bullet train to Amsterdam — as of Thanksgiving, my sister and her family live in Amsterdam. 

Sisters Together in Random Places at Random Times equals Christmas Sister Miracle. Full stop.

(You'll just have to roll with the Christmas part and believe me when I assure you that Christmastime miracles are decidedly more miracle-y than miracles in, say, September. 

So obviously, if you really want to convey extreme miracle-y-ness, you'd best tack on Christmas as a choice adjective. 

(Plus, one time we just said it that way and it stuck, 'cause that’s what happens with sisters.)  

On Day Two, my practically-Dutch-already sister straight up drop-kicked me into the wilds of Amsterdam cycling — during rush hour — which, by some sorcery, did not lead to my untimely death (or even a flesh wound). Later, my bother-in-law introduced us to the thrill of mobile-ordering gigantic 20-dollar crêpes filled with Nutella and strawberries at 8:00 p.m. and then blew our minds when he sent us to the front door moments later to greet the rain-soaked warrior on a scooter faithfully delivering these three-pound sweet beasts to the palms of our hands.

(PSA — It’s best to slow-roll through a post-crêpe day wearing sweatpants and a loose-fitting top. #totallyworthit)

Once our jeans fit again, we walked to tiny markets and also to bigger markets. The boys found a Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner. We pedaled to and from my nephew’s preschool for drop-offs and pick-ups. We even hunkered down for a day and a night while Storm Eunice battered us (and the UK and most of Western Europe) with 70+ mph winds.

We gawked at 300-year-old canal-front homes and wandered in and out of upscale Rodeo Drive-esque boutiques on P.C. Hooftstraat, carefully not-touching the shirts (and wallets and belts and scarves) with price tags steeper than my first car.

We sipped coffees on the couch and drank champagne on the canal.

Christmas Sister Miracles are my favorite.

Amsterdam was everything wonderful (and then some) I knew it would be.

And it’s a good thing, too, because getting there required prying ourselves away from London, which, after 16 action-packed days and nights spent feasting on British Wow and Wonder, was admittedly a little bit rough.

On the evening of January 29th, we left the States on a redeye flight bound for London. Ten hours later, we touched down and soon provided our airport driver with a chance to set a new PR for most pieces of luggage crammed into his 8-passenger van. London went for the shutout from there and won at everything: decadent bakeries, vibrant flower stands, funky old pubs, Chelsea’s über-hip shops, insane talent in the West End, and over-the-top opulence at Harrods.

London wouldn’t quit.

We walked all the miles and loved all the things: the tube, the bridges, the museums, the Crown Jewels, the Cliffs of Dover, freaking Stonehenge…

Over and over again, London delivered.

As our first stop in Europe, London was merely a happy accident. Though it was always on our list of must-visits, it only became the starting point for our European travels after a search for direct flights from LAX to Literally Anywhere in Europe damn-near handed us Heathrow on a silver platter.

To be clear, by "handed us Heathrow,” I mean, for a total of four one-way tickets direct from LAX to LHR, we paid precisely 90,000 frequent flyer miles and $68 dollars in taxes and fees. Total. 

So, London First was a bit of a no-brainer.

London, it turns out, is also my favorite.

As an aside, if you happen to have a flat in the city that needs minding (or, for that matter, a castle in the countryside), I’m your huckleberry. 

But before we were awarding London every conceivable trophy, we were basking in friend and family bliss in the States. After parting ways with Ruby Vi in November, and for the two-and-a-half months that followed, we gorged ourselves on the overwhelming generosity of our family and friends.

Our heroes didn’t just show up for us when we called, they were waiting for us when we arrived — an emergency kit of humans we didn’t know we needed to heal what ailed us.

They loaned us their cars and condos, showered us with gifts and winter clothes. They invited us to dinners and hosted gatherings, reintroducing us to the life we pressed pause on three years ago. Without hesitation, they devoted enormous chunks of their time and resources to us — willingly placing their own lives on hold while they tended to the chaos of ours.

We devoured every bite of the love buffet they set out for us, until finally, fat and happy once more, we said goodbye. Again.

And off we went, searching for the next few pages of a story we weren’t sure we were ready to read, let alone write.

To date, it’s been four months since we pivoted from sea to shore.

Our tans have long since faded away; our bathing suits are buried deep in our luggage; I can’t remember the last time we happy hour’d with margaritas. Sunglasses no longer shade our eyes from the sun so much as shield them from the frosty European wind that turns my tear ducts into faucets each time I step outside. My toes are mostly resigned to wearing socks and boots now and, although my fingers are tolerating their new gloves-requirement with notable compliance, invariably, at least four of them turn to ice whenever I’m outside longer than seven minutes at a time.

But I’ll damned if 11 weeks of unfettered time with my mom in SoCal, and two weeks of friend-love in Park City, and watching Wyatt and Hudson belly-laugh/cry through The Book of Mormon in London, and sipping champagne on a canal boat with my sister in Amsterdam, and watching the sun set from atop the Cliffs of Moher with my family in Ireland isn’t making the first few pages of this tequila-less, eye-watering, frostbitten chapter worth the relative discomforts it seems keen on inflicting.

(Snuggling a three-day-old lamb is helping a wee bit as well.) 

It’s pissing rain today in our perfect little patch of Small-Town, Ireland, and, more often than seems necessary, ornery gusts of wind slam sheets of aforementioned rain-piss against the floor-to-ceiling panels of kitchen windows. I’m sitting on a swivel stool wearing socks and slippers, long pants, a scarf, and a puffy coat. A hot cup of tea and a half-eaten cherry scone on the counter beside me offer condolences I shamelessly accept.

Don’t get me wrong — I wouldn’t turn down the chance to drop anchor in a warm sunny cove off a white sandy beach again, but lately, the view from shore is downright impossible to complain about (at least for most of us).

And, it all has me thinking…

Maybe it’s not so bad to not be on a boat — I mean, at least for a chapter or two.

(Please don't tell Ruby Vi.)