Finally my spouse reached the ripe old age of fifty. I thought the day would never come, it is unsettling to be a year and a half older than your husband when the age of fifty draws nigh. Somehow my other half has a most unsettling way of looking the same as the day we married, some twenty-eight years ago. Almost like he has been preserved in bees wax at the ripe old age of twenty-one. What better place to celebrate than Amanpolo.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Miami, I mean think how much easier it would be to get to a tropical climate—like Bonaire. I’m just saying. . .

I recently returned from The National Society of Newspaper Columnist Conference, which was held in Ventura, California. My new writing group, BFF, Karen Rinehart, award-winning humorist and author, cajoled me into attending and I have to say I enjoyed every minute—except for that one time I waited in a long line for a drink, ordered a delicious beverage only to find I had no money, but I digress.
I’d like to say that I hung with all of my contemporaries at the Crown Plaza Hotel, but reality bit when I met Jeff Zaslow from The Wall Street Journal and co-author of “The Last Lecture.” I mean really, I write the humor column for the b-town blog (not that there is anything wrong with that) and I don’t recall winning any awards recently or for that matter have any other credentials that allowed me entrance to such an esteemed society. But times are hard and Karen said, “It doesn’t matter, they need people to fill the conference room, all the newspapers are shutting down or going Chapter 11, you could be a graffiti tagger and they’d let you in.” So I went.

We christened him, “Le Cork”, our Bora Bora scuba adventures continue . . .

Speeding out to the dive site, I struck up a conversation with one of my boat mates. Well, that’s not quite right, I talked and he nodded. I tried English and practiced my cave man French. No reply, only nods and grunts issued forth from my morose seatmate.

Two five-hour plane rides, one overnight in Tahiti, a commuter jump to Bora Bora, and finally a 15-minute boat ride to the Four seasons Bora Bora. Kind of Funny what a Seattle mossback will do to get out of the rain.

Echoes ring down the halls of the Serena Hotel, the three girls high-pitched voices on a ninety-degree decibel. The following morning we boarded a Cessna Caravan (the suburban of the skies) and arrived none the worse for the wear at a remote airstrip. At one point, a giraffe gracefully out-skirted us on the dirt runway making for an interesting landing. Bill Winters says that, landing on the dirt strip is one of the difficulties of running a safari operation because of the plethora of seemingly unaware four-legged creatures. Two Toyota Land-cruisers (custom modified chasse’s) await our landing, not only to make sure the runway is clear, but also to ferry us to our tented campsite.

It is New Year’s Eve, and all the island and staff are anticipating some fabulous festivities. Craig and I are very excited; perhaps we will finally make some friends. We have found that the other island guests are very inclusive. The kids express concern.

Every year my sister, Aunt, mother and I take a “sisters vacation”. Someone has to organize the trip; this job usually falls on my shoulders. I don’t mind being the travel agent; I can then unilaterally pick any spot that I like. However, a few us like to expend a bit more physical energy than others, and walking from art class to a spa activity does not count. With these thoughts in mind, I try to accommodate everyone.

Passing the time with no television, no cell phone, no radio, just my husband and I with our two college-age sons and fourteen-year old daughter . . . and their two lively teenage girl cousins and their father. Eight total, 5 teenagers and 3 adult’s; the odds are not with us. This Christmas finds us in Kenya with the Bill Winters Safari group.

After our Bequia fiasco, we are hoping for adventure on another
island. The kids have grown tired of the dilapidated water toys, and we are ready for some more exploring.