The Long Months At Sea

I haven't told you about the crafty side of going to sea. 

The ship from the launch boat

What would you do if you were stuck in the middle of the great, big, giant, ominous, boring sea all day every day, day after day? For me, in my twenties it was a dilemma I faced routinely. I was one of those rare merchant seapersons who was on a ship in the middle of the ocean laying fiber optic submarine cable (so you all can make a phone call or peruse the internet, (no it isn't mainly via satellite)). We would set out from shore to spend 30-60-90 days (or more) at sea slowly laying cable the size of your garden hose on the bottom of the ocean. It is slow and boring 99% of the time. Most of the time you are traveling at about old lady jogging pace. All of the time there is no sign of life. No happy seagulls. No whales, or dolphins, or anything. Just you, the horizon of more nothingness, and the ocean churning around you. Most of the time it is gloomy, grey and chilly. The North Atlantic swallows ships for fun. It has done this for millenia. She is always hungry to remind you that you are but a speck of dust in her skirt.

That's the outside of your house. The house you live in is grey. An endless right angle of steel covered in steel grey. Grey is the color of failed red blood cells. The color that life leaves behind when everything around the being has bailed. Surrendered. Given up. Dead. You will hardly ever see me in two colors; grey and khaki. There has been too much of my life already in them. I can even assign a face to the particular color of khaki that is the plebe short and shirt of arrival at KP. That color is puke bile on canvas. That color is forbidden. The warm grey of cashmere is a completely different hue than steel grey. The shade of WW's and wartime. The 40's era of a nation setting itself to right the wrongs abroad. Yeah, I struggle to embrace that murky black meets white too.

Everything screams early 1990's in this one.
At the dock Baltimore, MD, full on 80's attire.

The world of going to sea is so bleek you find reasons to go on within it. For some it is the escape of being away. No family drama. No to-do lists to be done by a spouse overworked with family. You are away. So far away you get to be a whole other person. If you want to. (Many do). But, the 12 hour days of working stop. You have to fill the 12 remaining. That's where the hobbies come in.

There is a whole ship load of hobbies happening in staterooms, on bunkbeds, in common areas/rec rooms. Some use the gym. Others watch endless movies. A small few have side hustles. 

I collect old whale waste from sailors idle hands. A busk collection to rival the whaling museum in Massachusetts. The art of sailors is a whole topic onto itself. For me, at sea, I would carefully select a topic to fill my four months. One trip I learned all of the scientific names of the native flowers of North America. Another I read the entire volume of Internal Medicine, Mercks guide (not the one I should have read in prep for vet school). Another trip was watercolor 101. 

Some of the busks.

For the Captain and Medical Officer on one ship it was braided rugs. Now, when I talk about a hobby to bring to sea just think about the amount of stuff you need to carry aboard when you choose wool-braided-rugs. 

The material for these was carried aboard via an elevator in industrial sized garbage bags. The kind that resembled a prison reformed Santa. They would spend an afternoon in Maine, near the place where the cable factory was, picking out the fabric to make their rugs. They brought these huge, (so heavy), bolts of wool in every color (except a pastel). Once aboard and underway, they started by washing all of the material. Laid it out to dry in long runner.  They would lay it out full length in the Captains office, the unused staterooms. Hang them from the overheads in bathrooms. Banners of bullet proof hall runners streaming down the narrow passageways. We, for just a few days, looked like a runaway art exhibition, avant garde flair. After the fabric was cleaned, dry and shrunk to its workable size, they covered the floor like a fashion designer with healthy knees, and cut them all into strips about 2 inches wide. From there they rolled the strips up in coils and hold it with rubber bands. Piles of ribbon wool strips were then sorted to make the patterns of the rugs. Two weeks in they were ready to commence braiding.

The 8-12 am watch for the Captain was his bridge time. Breakfast was an all hands event for all of the officers. 7 am to 8 am, and then the work day began. He would climb up to the bridge, a 6 story trip of steel staircases with a cup of coffee and the morning paper from the radio officer. He stood his watch mostly chatting with other crew members, the cable engineers, the steward, radio officer, Chief Engineer, the Purser, Chief Mate, got all of his crew in order. Tasks set for the day, so he could braid and assemble in his office the rest of the afternoon. 

They would spend all day braiding the coils. Piling them like pet snakes. Weeks later the rugs would be started. Every size, shape, color, pattern. It was a marvel to behold. 

By the time we hit port, typically 4 months later, they had a stack of rugs to rival the Turks.

I bought a few of them for my mom. She was enamored with the idea. A romantic trip traveling the globe and the sailors art to show for the time that passed. 

When my mom passed away I took them all back to my house. 30 years has passed and although I still refuse to wear that particular color of khaki or grey I can  now feel the warmth of that wool under my L.L.Bean slippers and reminisce about a life and a time that only belongs in a story.

What's your sea-story? Your side hustle? The art you make along the way of life?

The Introduction. Old Grad Seeking New Grad for long term commitment.

We, Jarrettsville Vet, sponsored the pre-expo meet and greet with the vet students at Virginia-Maryland Vet school, my alma mater, in Blacksburg Va. I was given the chance to deliver the opening message. This is what I started the weekend activities with. 

The introductory note was expected to be a chance to highlight the clinic. Use the podium as a pitch to attract the students. As I put it, be the bowerbird. The bird that flashes the pretty objects in front of potential partners. All razzle-dazzle "I'm so pretty you can't resist me."

But why would I make this about me.. this is about them. Isn't medicine always supposed to be about them?

Here it is; 

I want to start with a big thank you to everyone who made this possible. I'm not being specific to this event, (although of course I am grateful to be here with all of you), but, a bigger thank you+ to all of the clinicians, technicians, assistants, faculty, staff and benefactors who made this moment what it is. This is a celebration of a collective of dreams. I will be forever indebted and grateful to have been a part of this magical place. I always proclaim that I am the proudest and humblest of any graduate of the Virginia Maryland Regional College of Veterinary Medicine. So if you haven't heard me proclaim it before I am here again to say Thank You!

Let's take a moment to give a big round of applause to those of you who are living the dream and have guided those along the way in theirs. You all should hear a big congratulations!

There are soo many things that I want to say to you, the next generation of veterinarians.. A million pearls and minutias of advice. I want to imbibe a pep talk to last the decades you have ahead. Sprinkle snippets like; hold this excitement close to your heart. Remember the purpose you came to this place with. Summon the courage it took to come here. The determination of commitment wrapped in empathy. But, this isn't your starting place, that seed was germinating a long time ago. But, it is your launching pad. The magic this vet school holds, the power it bestows will carry you for decades.

For those of you who don't know I came here because the James Herriott books influenced me so compellingly I couldn't imagine being anything else. I loved those stories so much I read them over and over. I wanted to grow up to be that face of kindness, within a small hometown community and live the stories like he did. Such a noble profession centered around the most meaningful acts of compassion. That was who I set out to be some many years ago. 

You all are already writing your own stories. You too have already decided who you want to be. 

So I am going to start here. This time and place is a reflection of who you already are. The magic of this place is the heroine you are within your own story. The story that has its best chapters yet to be lived. Yet to be written.. For the first time in your life you get to write all of the rest of the chapters. You get to decide all of the characters. The plot. The endings. What could be more magical than that?

Let's remind ourselves that the most cherished part of this story is who you are within it. Not who you hope to be when they get to your next destination. But, who you are right now. You see this person, the one right here, right now, is the culmination of a dream. The manifestation of your hopes. The cure to your hard work and dedication. Medicine is just the scientific concoction that is a problem in search of an answer. The host, the being that medicine applies itself to improve starts with a soul. The rest is accoutrements to the singular being that was always perfect. The road of life just got in the way. How can each of us grow, learn, acquire, live without the influences trying to change us? Why would we willingly allow this?

Medicine is the recipe book for so much about life. Its the way we fabricate answers when life poses us problems we cannot intuitively insulate ourselves from. 

Medicine is the guidebook for self care. We learn to articulate a problem. Accept a challenge. Question every aspect of it. Acquiesce to a series of weighted treatment options knowing full well that the tried, true and tested options might be null, void, or, even detrimental. We acknowledge that a new, innovative option might blossom tomorrow. We accept without question that all efforts will fail at some point and death is a part of life.

50 years ago I knew I was meant to be here. My life had to include being a veterinarian. It took me 20 years and a whole other career to get here. Get my feet into that white coat ceremony. Bask in the barrels that is anatomy MDL (do they still call it that?). Sheer, utter, defiant determination built this expert within. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to those who believed in me enough to grant safe passage here. Graduation was a benchmark but never an end point. The days that came after, the ones so richly packed with cases and challenges only proved what I knew at 6 years old. This is the most noble of professions held in tightly clenched fists of humble pride. Medicine isnt ever about power it is about grace and generosity. It is about kindness wrapped in vulnerable empathy. There is magic in its power. There is a life of infinite bliss here if you can just keep one foot in front of the other, a pocket full of hope, and promises to yourself as a love letter to remind you that you are, always have been everything you ever needed.

Find your place based on what you want your lifes story to read as. Be protective and selective. Never let anyone define or constrain you. This magical story is yours live and you should hope that it includes all of the ups and downs of a tragedy, a mystery and a love story. All of the tears, fears, doubts, and miracles with all of the obligatory highs and lows. The puppies waggles and kisses and yes the euthanasia goodbyes that remind you that you too are living your own James Herriott story. There is a beginning and an end to everything this amazing life delivers. Be as excited, proud, tired and blissful at the last day of your white coat ceremony as you were when you first put it on. The first time they called you "doctor" should be, will be, as magical as the last time you say it to yourself.

Best of luck to all of you. 

Go write your stories. Live your dreams and cherish every beautiful, teary-eyed, peed on, pooped on, anal gland in your hair, fecal under your fingernails moment. No one could ever write this story better than you can!