Dorian [#17]

I’ve always been a negotiator. Just ask my mother.

There have been more than a handful of events in my life that after (or sometimes before) surviving, I’ve offered to the Universe various tokens of appreciation in return. Some are bargains I’ve made in advance.

If you let me get through X, I'll give you Y in exchange.

Others, I’ve extended after-the-fact as penance.

I know I skated through that one on sheer luck, so I'm giving up candy for a week to show my gratitude.

For the entirety of my adulthood, I’ve operated under a loose assumption that my life’s stumbles (big and small) might be avoided — or at least the fall softened — if I could just steer clear of Twizzlers.

The vast majority of my trades with the Universe are temporary — after all, most of my fouls aren’t red-card-worthy (and no one should have to swear off Twizzlers for a lifetime).

In the 25-or-so years I’ve been participating in these one-sided-negotiations, only one of my If/Then promises was made without a self-imposed expiration date.

Then I became a mother and negotiating with the Universe became my full-time job.

If you let me sleep for more than 90 minutes at a time, I'll make not-from-a-box dinner every night twice this week. 

If my baby doesn't cry on this flight, I won't complain (loudly) about doing laundry until May.

If I don't have to pick up a barfing kid from school today, I'll give up ice cream for a month. 

It didn’t always work. I’ve eaten a LOT of ice cream over the years.

But, during the past decade and a half, the If This Then That verbal code I’ve written (and literally nothing else) should rank me among software’s elite.

Here’s the thing about Dorian — I didn’t know I should’ve been offering up bargains in advance. We’ve never lived in a hurricane zone, never been through a hurricane, never narrowly escaped a hurricane. We are were hurricane virgins.

We (the Pennells) were not in imminent danger of dying from Dorian.

Yes — there was a mandatory evacuation order issued for Charleston. No — we did not abide by it. But we didn’t blindly break the rules.

Like almost everything else since Ruby Vi joined our family, we asked the experts what they were doing — turning first to our mentors and friends at Charleston Sailing School — and then we did exactly the same thing.

When Will said, remove your headsails, we removed our headsails. When Kevin texted us a photo of how he wrapped his mainsail like his life depended on it, we did that too. We took down every possible square inch of extra windage outside. We duct taped, we stowed, we tightened, we removed, we sealed. We packed our important documents and passports and cash. We loaded wine and beer and water and food into the truck like we might never see civilization again.

We even Googled “What do you wish you’d brought to the hotel during a hurricane evacuation,” only to find, “more games” among the replies.

So guess what? We packed all the games. (And good thing, because we weren’t at the TownePlace Suites 11 hours before we were essentially indoor-camping — no power, rapidly fading hot water, no generator, no WiFi, no Netflix. Camping. Ish.)

Perhaps we were in danger of being bored — or running out of chips and salsa — but never of being truly harmed.

Ruby Vi on the other hand? Sweet Jesus. Had I fully understood the Hurricane Odds stacked against her, I would’ve offered, without hesitation, some spectacular in-advance trades to the Universe to keep her safe.

But I didn’t. So I didn’t.

Friday morning, following our sweaty, boozy, game-filled, mid-week, second floor, camping experience — and after Dorian finished tormenting South Carolina and moved on to see what terror it could inflict upon its northern sibling — we returned to the marina.

We’d become friends with the GM over the past several weeks and he texted that morning to tell us our boat “looked great.”

“What exactly does great mean?” we wondered.

At bare minimum, we were confident it meant afloat.

Not in our wildest dreams did we think great — at least not the post-hurricane definition of great — could, or would, mean without a scratch.

But it did mean that. She was spotless.

We found her almost where we left her. She looked tired. But also proud.

Eleven of the 12 docklines she started with were stretched to the nines. The twelfth, a bow line, had snapped in the storm. Ruby Vi floated in the slack water several feet off the dock, a bit extended from where we’d left her. She was short a ball fender. Her remaining fenders clung to each other, twisted in storm surge solidarity, and dangled haphazardly from her lifelines.

But she was flawless. No dock rash. No dings. No minor blemishes we’d ignore and later call her “Dorian Scars.”

Flawless. And she knew it.

So herein lies the what-do-I-offer-the-Universe-in-return conundrum… Ruby Vi was lucky. She was strong and she was well-prepared, but she was also impossibly lucky. We know this.

Two boats at our marina sank — literally sank below the surface of the water. Several others, including many of our neighbors on K Dock, suffered some sort of significant hull damage. Others, critically wounded, will have to wait and see if their damage is reparable.

Abaco and most of Grand Bahama have been decimated. Parts of the Carolinas’ coastlines saw intense destruction as well. Weeks after he began, Dorian is still bullying his way through the North Atlantic.

As I sit here typing, sipping prosecco and munching on dry Kix cereal — judge if you must — I can’t help but wonder, what sacrifice I might possibly make worthy of returning this gift of luck we’ve received?

Do I have to give up carbs? 

Or booze?!

It does seem like if ever there was ever a win worthy of such a sacrificial repayment plan, this would be it.

(But surely the Universe doesn’t want me to be miserable…)

So, here’s what I’ve decided. Kix and prosecco stay (also, crackers, chips, the occasional collection of noodles, tequila and, quite frankly, any red blend or cabernet (except the one that’s $2.99 at Trader Joe’s, because — gross).

In return, I am offering:

• A deep respect for Mother Nature, hurricane season in particular
• An understanding — not just blind obligation to follow, but an actual understanding — of the mantra Weather Rules All When You Live on a Boat
• Also, I will start running [insert 4,500 whiny face emojis]

If carbs and booze stay, I should probably give the Universe something slightly more grand than respect and understanding. (Even though they really do sound so solid when I say them out loud.)

The Dorian Moral of the story — as it pertains only to us — is as follows:

• Weather is for real
• Boat People shine even brighter under stormy skies
• Ruby Vi is a heavy weight champion
• Luck is something to be revered — like the miracle of an all-purple bag of Skittles
• I should really try harder to make preemptive offerings of sacrifice to the Universe the next time a significant weather event is on our radar
• Hurricane season is not invited to our birthday party

Our hearts are broken for those who lost everything in Dorian’s mayhem and they ache for those who have months of repairs and rebuilding ahead of them.

This time, we have the incredible good fortune of being able to count ourselves among the lucky unscathed.

A fact I will try hard to remember as I’m jogging toward Highway 17 in 90% humidity, wondering what’s so special about carbs anyway.