Cruising Musing #5One of the Many Joys of Cruising By Skip Randall
This month, my skipper/husband Skip is in story-telling mode, sharing one of the experiences that makes the cruising life so special for him. As a cruising sailor, the waterfront is my neighborhood, and I dearly love it. But at times it can seem confining and claustrophobic. One particular morning in Melbourne, Florida, while procrastinating in the cockpit over my third cup of coffee, I decided to stay put and have a lay day. My routine for the past eight days had been to cast off the lines after a quick breakfast, head out with the rising sun, and make another fifty miles southward on the ICW. For over a week my universe had been limited to the confines of my thirty-foot cutter and the adjacent marinas and shops. So after some necessary boat chores and a late lunch, I set out to explore Melbourne on foot. With the sea breeze at my back, I left the land of masts, dock planks and tiki bars, and headed westward. As I made my way downwind, I crossed some railroad tracks and noted the transition from things nautical and laid back to those typical of, let's say, normal town life. As I walked on I thought it odd that most shops were closed on this summer Sunday afternoon. A fragrant smelling deli was open, so I popped in for a look-see and left with a pound of nice jarlsberg cheese. I nibbled as I continued to wander and peer into shop windows. Then a plain little shop across the way caught my attention. Its weathered sign said "Used Books" and it was open. I can never pass up a used book store. I tucked the cheese into my backpack and crossed the street. As I opened the door, a bell gave a pleasant "ding". The next hour transformed my afternoon from an ordinary walkabout into a memorable adventure. The old woman behind the counter smiled a silent greeting as I entered, then returned her attention to the open book on the counter. The store appeared to be empty except for the two of us. It was quiet, unlike the annoying musak ambiance of the big chain bookstores. I browsed up and down the disorderly aisles of dusty books and eventually decoded the loose organization: romance novels here, hardbound serious literature there, and non-fiction over yonder. No nautical books. I browsed my way back toward the front, empty handed, and scanned a small section labeled "Florida". It had regional travel books, field guides, a few history books, and even some Carl Hiaasen paperbacks (I'd read them all). The old woman spoke so softly that it took a while to register that she was talking to me. "Can I help you find anything?" "Oh, I don't think so, just browsing," I mumbled. A few minutes later I reconsidered. "Well, perhaps you could help me. Can you recommend a book about Florida, you know, like an historical overview or something like that?" "You bet," she replied without hesitation. "That one over there on the top shelf in the case you were just looking at, it's called A Land Remembered, best book I ever read." I found the book and scanned the back cover and foreword. It was an historical novel, set in the mid 1800s to early 1900s involving three generations of a family of Florida settlers. Sort of a James Michener or John Jakes style historic epic. I returned to the counter with the book and halfway kidding said, "You mean the best book on Florida that you've ever read." "No," she said, "the best book...ever." I didn't argue the point. I said, "Well for $6.95 and on your glowing recommendation, I'll take a chance." I pulled out my wallet to pay. It was over an hour later before I was tucking my change into it. We got talking, and I studied her as we spoke. She looked the consummate grandma: short and frail looking, gray hair in a bun, oval spectacles. I guessed that this was around her seventieth summer. I noticed a couple of pictures on the far end of the counter, one of a fat cat and another of a middle aged couple on a cruise ship, smiling broadly. I asked about the cat. "Oh, that's Chipper, he's old now, half deaf and missing a lot of teeth, like me. And he saved my life once." She paused, and, not one to miss a cue, I raised my eyebrows in a "tell me more" invitation. So I heard the life saving cat story. It seems that some years ago she and old Chipper had stretched out for a short nap while a loaf of bread baked in the oven. She slumbered through the ding of the timer, to be awakened some time later with the odd sensation of a cat paw urgently rapping on her forehead, and immediately smelled the smoke. The bread was on fire, charred to a cinder. After tossing the smoldering black lump in the sink and opening up all the windows, she picked up Chipper and retreated to the porch. As if following a script, Chipper himself showed up as she finished the story and launched himself into her lap. As she sat there petting the cat, she told me how grateful she was to have such a wonderful feline friend. I watched these two old pals and felt an odd kinship. Looking for more conversation fodder to keep from leaving, I asked about the picture of the couple on the cruise ship. She got a wistful look in her eyes and said, "That's Jack and me on a cruise from New York to here, back in '62. We were supposed to fly back, but didn't. We just fell in love with Florida and this beautiful stretch of coast. So we found a place out on the island and had all our stuff delivered. We never did go back." After a pause she added softly, "Jack died nine years ago this October, cancer got him." Our eyes briefly met in a silent exchange of empathy and recognition. "I’m so sorry," I replied. She told me about their life together on Pelican Island in their early days, painting word pictures of riding out a hurricane and digging for clams in the soft sand at low tide. she talked how they both loved beachcombing and the afternoon sea breezes and about starting up the bookstore while her husband built up his medical practice. I listened attentively, enthralled by my opportunity to share her past for a few minutes. Finally she stopped and looked a little bewildered, as if she didn't know whether to go on. I told her that I was retired from medical practice myself, and that I had worked for a few years in hospice care. "Then you know about cancer," she said." I nodded. It was as if knowing this about me unlocked a drawer in her memory. She spoke poignantly of the chemo, of the rollercoaster of hope and despair, and of the final downhill slide. Another pause. "In hospice we called it a blessed release from suffering, when the end came," I said. The cloud over her features seemed to lift. She talked more, about rebuilding her life after Jack's death, how she kept the bookstore going, and coping with widowhood, living alone on the island with her cat. The conversation shifted to less emotional ground, and she spoke about the changes she's seen in the Melbourne area and on the island, with the influx of expensive condos and golf resorts. "But I still love my little house on the beach," she added. After a few seconds of silence, I looked at my watch. It had been over an hour since I first “dinged” my entrance into the store. Perhaps I should go. "I guess I'd better pay up and run along. It's been very interesting talking to you and a great pleasure meeting you." She smiled sweetly and said earnestly, "Likewise, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. Do come back." I smiled and explained how that was unlikely, that I was just passing through, cruising south on my sailboat, and that I'd be leaving in the morning. I promised, though, that if I ever made it back to Melbourne, I would pop in to say hello. The bell gave a good by "ding" as the door shut behind me. I looked back after I crossed the street, and saw her flip the sign in the window over from "open” to "closed." I walked back to the marina with my cheese and my new book, thinking about the time spent with the old woman and her cat. That night I curled up in my bunk and read the first few chapters of "the best book...ever." It did turned out to be really good, even though for me it wasn’t at the top of my best book list. I did learn a lot about the early settlers, cattle rustlers, Seminole Indians, gators, railroad barons, and land booms. And later, when I made the crossing from Stuart to Fort Meyers on the Okeechobee waterway, passing by cypress forests, swamps and meadows, I thought of those settlers and Seminoles, and the experience was richer for having read the book that would never have come my way if I hadn’t walked into that used book store. For me, the best aspect of cruising is exploring new places on land as well as on the water. I relish the prospect of fresh adventure around the next bend. What crosses my path can range from the mundane to the extraordinary and richly rewarding. One thing is certain: I will never experience the full range of possibilities out there unless I occasionally get off the boat, get away from the waterfront, and venture inland. My life is richer for having wandered into the old woman's shop that afternoon-- hearing her stories, getting to know her, and for a brief time, making a heartfelt connection with a fellow traveler in this adventure land of life. Of all the interesting experiences I had and of all the unique people I met on the trip down Florida's east coast, my hour in that sweet woman's book store stands out. And if I ever make it back to Melbourne, I will indeed pay her a visit, talk with her a bit, and perhaps buy another book. ---------------------------
Note: Check out Trish's Lists for 6 "non-nautical" books about cruising locales, including the one mentioned in Skip's story. Back to top | 
