Stormy Weather

Days of damp overcast blew apart last night. Wind and rain lashed the house, the front door rattled as though someone was trying to break in, Rusty got up off our bed and came to the living room for reassurance as we watched TV. Sunday morning broke crisp and clear, with blue skies and the promise of sunshine. 

Thanksgiving is over and tomorrow was to have been the start of our drive west. The journey of no return, at least not for a while. Instead we are taking six more weeks to say goodbyes and circle the southeast before breaking loose from the gravitational pull of friends and family. 

Layne and I spent Saturday reorganizing our storage and pondering what supplies to take with us, and I am over it. We don’t know how long we will be gone and when asked I shrug. 18 months if we hate it or maybe three years if we enjoy it and we none of us break. 

It feels less like planning a journey and more like planning a voyage of exploration. Webb gave me an out of print copy of a novel about Magellan’s journey around the world, which Magellan himself did not survive but a few of his crew did, and they were the first Europeans to circumnavigate. We are hardly pioneers in anything we are planning to do but I felt some kinship. Late blooming circumnavigators perhaps, traveling with the kitchen sink. 

How many pairs of pants do you need for three years hard physical living? Should I pack a spare air filter as the van shares oil filters with Jeep engines serviced everywhere in the world but the air filter is particular? The longer we stay the longer grows the list of things to think about, a list that comes to life in the early hours of the morning when nightmares of disaster invade your serenity. 

We met friends for a fish boil lunch. We ate indoors, Laynes arthritis is in remission, she is vaccinated at last and we are stepping out a bit even as we make our goodbyes. 

Saying goodbye necessarily requires moochdocking a weirdly intimate sense of being neither here nor there. It feels ungrateful to sit on the porch and stare at your home, a tiny tin box half the size of your temporary bedroom, and long for the open road. Sometimes I hide aboard GANNET2 and make tea and sit at my desk, the driver’s seat swiveled to face backwards and think of roads covered so far. Yesterday I filled the water tank marveling at the ease of Therèse’s hose system compared to buying water in Mexico or pumping water in Michigan rest areas. 

Thanksgiving was a moment of oblivion. Pam came round with turkey in that holiday spirit too familiar and too evocative. In an inattentive moment I pondered where we might be next Thanksgiving. “Right here,” Therèse blurted. If we are, I said the journey will not have been to our taste. I think we may be in Peru if we aren’t home in Florida with our tail between our legs.  The idea is breathtaking, to be in the land of Paddington bear, and Incas and where Guinea pigs serve as turkeys on holidays. Layne and I looked at each other. 

Phil is trying to visit every country in the world before time runs out. He is a professional translator working in half a dozen languages with stories of places you’ve never heard of. You get that twinge, take a plane, immerse yourself, come home, stay familiar. But the call of the van is just simply too strong.  We want to take our home, our private space, a taste of where we live.

It makes no rational sense but emotionally the journey organized like a flight to the moon, in a life support system, or crossing oceans like Magellan or Webb Chiles, fulfills more than a need to see. In some way it challenges the ability to survive, to stay on the road, to take something of home with you, to say this is where I live wherever I am. My home. 

So you double check your supplies. You make memories. 

You envy your friend’s ability to deal with a sudden slight breakdown by calling triple A, having your trusted mechanic fit you into a holiday schedule and get you back on the road quickly and for little money and with a trusted repair. Hmm can we hope to be so lucky when it’s our turn somewhere mysterious and lost and unknown? 

I see intriguing things on the road and there is so much of it and so easy to see right here. 

Dog friendly beaches aren’t only in Mexico. 

The call of the wild. The open road. 

It’s time to get on with it. But first another round of protracted good byes. They don’t get easier. The big sacrifice of the explorer. Pay the price. 

Rusty in Biloxi. He and I spent a free night undisturbed on the waterfront. You don’t need to go far to live differently. 

For some reason I can’t explain I do need to go.

My wife is pulling so keen is she. My dog is willing because I am who he follows. The road brings us together. GANNET2 is as prepared as we could make her. 

Stormy weather..? I think we’re ready.