My husband and I got to know each other shortly after 9/11. When we met, I had been officially divorced for about 4 months. My first husband had asked for a separation, late in 1999, when I was very early into the pregnancy with my eldest child. In the fall of 2001, I had been “single” for about one and a half years and was ready to play the dating game again…
I didn’t know many people in the county where I was living, with the exception of my neighbors and the few people I met through them. Having moved to the area in the spring of 1997, my job was a good 45 minute commute; there was no time for me to really meet anyone outside of work. When I decided to dip my toe back into the dating world again, online dating was the best way for me to meet someone. After exploring the few free sites there were at the time, I realized most of the men were just creepy and not looking for anything lasting. My friends said, “Sarah, if you pay for a dating site the men who are on there are also interested in a relationship”.
I joined match.com or “Match”, as it is now called. When stating the type of man I was looking for, I said “you must love children and cats” (as I had both). A man responded “I love children and will tolerate cats”; I appreciated this man’s honesty. Over a short period of months I communicated with four different men and went on dates with three of them. Greg, the man who “tolerated” cats, was the man that I was most interested in: we were close in age and both transplants to the area. His honest words touched me, as I felt there had been a lot of secrets in my first marriage.
My neighbor, who had become a good friend, helped me figure out what to wear on my first date with Greg: something understated as I knew he was fairly conservative. My friend and I made a plan as to how I could break off the date if it wasn’t going well; I can’t remember what it was. Most likely she was going to call me and give me an excuse to leave if I wasn’t enjoying myself.
Greg and I met at a bar which had an adjoining restaurant. I was five minutes late. He was five minutes early. We had a drink and good conversation, then decided to extend our date to dinner. At the end of dinner, Greg pulled out a box and handed it to me; it was a small box of chocolates.
By December of 2001, a few months after we met, Greg took the time to help me pick out a Christmas tree and put it up. I was in love with this kind, considerate, gentle man. He accepted me for who I was and all that came with me. We married in January of 2003.
We have both grown and changed over the years. Life’s path can be beautiful, fun, heartbreaking and hard, but we have taken those roads together. Greg has continued to be the man I fell in love with. Over the years, I have learned that he is the one with the romantic heart and giving nature. This year, for Valentine’s Day, Greg (knowing I love written words) tried his hand at poetry. He had a little help, but this didn’t matter to me; the gift melted my somewhat cold heart.
The Valentine’s Day poem Greg wrote me this year
My husband, with his heart on his sleeve, gave me this unexpected gift…and a box of chocolates.
Today I was reminded of a story I wrote almost 1 year ago for my “Professional Facebook Page”. For those of you who only follow my blog, you may not know I have a “professional page”; these words are in quotes because I am not a professional, nor do I make money from my blog. Tell Me Your Story was started because I like to write, tell my own stories (which my husband and kids were getting sick of hearing) and I am genuinely interested in what others have to say about their own lives. I wanted to make a space for people share something about themself- some have taken me up on this idea.
The story I wrote for my “Professional Facebook Page“ almost a year ago.
Yesterday, while I was swimming, the pool was crowded. There was a young lady waiting for a lane, so I offered to share my lane with her. Today, again swimming, I was in the lane beside this same young woman We introduced ourselves and started chatting. I asked a few questions and she started talking, then stopped and said “I don’t know why I am telling you my story”. In response I said “I have have a blog called Tell Me Your Story, I like hearing about other people. She talks for another minute or two and she stops again and says “Wait, what? Do you really have a blog”. I just laughed and said ‘yes’…. today I was reminded of my Facebook post from almost one year ago. Remember you are invited to share your story with me and, if you choose, with those who read this blog.
Imagine life is like a frozen lake. You decide to walk out on the ice because you think it is solid. Unfortunately, you hear a cracking sound and feel the ice breaking. The ice is not as solid as it seemed.
We felt those cracks the summer of 2018.
Bay, (our 14 year old) wrote us a five page letter entitled “I Am Still Here”, but in reading an email I wrote to a friend the actual title was “I Am Alive”. In that letter our child told us about his past year and how he was suicidal, depressed and had made plans to kill himself. We were fortunate; Bay took pen to paper, that summer night of 2018, and wrote us the letter rather than taking his life. I was at our family cottage with my husband, eldest daughter, son, and my mother. The morning we read the letter we were in a state of shock and sadness, not knowing how to proceed. A friend of my mother’s telephoned my mom while we were trying to process this. My mom was crying when she answered the call. Our neighbor took it upon herself to come right down to find out what happened. She did not come because she was a gossip and busy body; she was the opposite of that. She showed concern. When she found out what Bay told us, she said: “Take him to the emergency room”. An answer that was staring us in the face, but I never considered a mental condition would be looked at in the ER.
We went to the ER, and they were a great help, but it was determined that Bay was no longer in danger of killing himself and he could go home. We saw a social worker every week, for four weeks, while were at the cottage.
The ice held steady.
When we got home from our time in Canada, it took us a long time to actually find somebody who had any availability to see Bay. He started seeing a therapist in October. Bay seemed OK. However, he hid what he was thinking and feeling from his therapist and from us.
Bay’s friend group changed that fall. A few more cracks formed.
By December of 2018 Bay looked like he was closing in on himself. He would come home from school and go to bed. On the weekends, he barely got out of bed except to do routine things ( eat, shower, etc.). I guess the fact he still had a semblance of routine was good, right? He would eat very little and then had junk food late at night. At the dinner table Bay would make himself as small as he could. I was the only person in the house he would have a conversation with.
More cracks in the ice, with open water ahead.
One afternoon, I took him out after school and told him I could see how much he was struggling. I let him know we were trying to find a psychiatrist because therapy alone was not working. Bay agreed that he needed medicine.
I called around to find a psychiatrist that would take our insurance. In December of 2018, just before Christmas, I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist in April. There was no availability to see this psychiatrist for four months! Meanwhile, his therapist knew nothing of what was going on. WE only knew what we saw.
The ice continued to break. But I had not fallen through.
In early January we found Bay’s journal. We discovered many things that might be contributing to his extreme depression and suicidal ideation. He had been depressed for almost two years. Until then, we really didn’t understand how dark things were for him.
You might ask why we didn’t take Bay to the hospital. I wish I could put myself back in that time to answer this question. Why didn’t we? All I can remember is that we were in crises and “walking on eggshells”. Bay wasn’t truthful about how he was feeling and we didn’t want him to know we had been looking in his room for answers. I do know we wouldn’t have been able to get Bay in the car, unless he agreed. To be admitted to a hospital for mental health reasons the person has to be able to say they are in danger of hurting themself; at least that is what we understood at the time.
I ran, I swam, I practiced yoga….This allowed me to sleep at night. Every morning I held my breath not knowing if my child had made it through the night; when I heard him move in his bed I would let out a sigh of relief.
At this point, I felt like I was on a thick piece of ice floating in the middle of an open lake.
I found a little support group of sorts with some women I met in yoga, along with someone I had known for 19 years. One of these women was going through something similar, one was a psychiatric nurse, and the others had been touched by severe depression in one way or another. I also had made another friend, a single mom and pastor, who was easy to talk to.
By late February/early March, my husband found Bay’s journal again and told him so. Everything was out in the open…
With the way our son was treating us, our home had become increasingly unhappy. He would yell at his father, tell us he hated us and to “fuck off”. I knew Bay said these things because he was hurting; no matter what was said, we loved him unconditionally.
My youngest daughter, who has the biggest heart, was beginning to suffer. I was sad all the time and my husband was hurting too. Luckily my eldest child was in her second semester of college and away from home.
In early February we went to our lawyer to change our will and prepare for what the future might hold. Tears came to my eyes and I started crying because I didn’t know if my middle child had a life ahead of him. Our lawyer gave us the name of a fantastic psychologist who had saved her daughter. I called the psychologist and left a message using our lawyer’s name. I discovered, at the time, it is all about who you know to get anywhere. A week later I had heard nothing back. Then a friend, who was (and still is) a school counselor gave me the name of the same psychologist. I called, using the names of both the women who recommended us to this psychologist and was called back right away. Unfortunately, we had to wait at least a month for an appointment.
I continued to float on my piece of ice.
In February and March we told Bay’s therapist (the one he started with in October) all the things we had found out, they finally started to make some headway. Really, it was too little too late. The last time they met, she finally suggested medication.
The first day we saw the new psychologist, she suggested we take Bay to an inpatient clinic right away. She didn’t know how he was still alive. Bay would have been admitted to the clinic, however there were no beds. We went to the ER. In an emergency room, if it’s determined a person is a danger to themself, they have an obligation to find that person a bed. After 9 hours between the inpatient clinic and then the ER, Bay came home with us.
My heart was heavy, I was constantly afraid of what I might wake to. I was still floating, but my piece of ice was shrinking.
The following week (mid April), we saw the psychiatrist that we had been waiting months to see, only to be told: “Did you know March, April and May are the highest months for suicide? I fully believe that Bay will need medication, but it may take several appointments to reach that point”. We were looking at the end of May before our son MIGHT be given medication. When Bay told his new psychologist this (on his third visit) she was appalled and suggested we pay out of pocket for a private psychiatrist. She gave us two names. I called both of them. Simultaneously, she gave them the heads up that I would be calling. We were seen within a week.
We saw the psychiatrist and Bay was put on Zoloft; a medication that starts on a low dose and takes some time to take effect.
Not quite a week later, My eldest called us in the middle of the night and said she was really worried about Bay. She had been sent pictures of her brother’s side of a Snapchat conversation. What Bay had said was extremely ominous. My eldest thought her brother might take his life that night. After I hung up the phone, I went into see my son. He said the crisis had passed for the night. My eldest sent the pictures to me. I, in turn, sent them to both of his doctors.
In real life, the area of Muskoka, where our cottage is, was flooding and destroying property at this time. I was worrying about that along with what was happening here. My little piece of ice felt like it was being tossed in the flood.
We had an emergency visit with Bay’s psychiatrist the afternoon following the phone call from my eldest and an emergency visit with the psychologist the day after. When I say an “emergency visit”, it’s because there are certain times that are saved for a patient in crisis; he was in crisis. The psychiatrist put him on lithium, a medication that helps reduce the risk of suicide.
The lithium seemed to be working. However, there was still a long road ahead of us.
The ice started to freeze over again; I felt safer.
A few cracks were heard along the way:
I was called about a finding on my mammogram; I went in for further testing and was fine. Then my mother fell and broke three ribs. She probably would have died if her significant other hadn’t been with her.
During this emotional turmoil I ran so I could breathe; went to yoga so I could focus; swam to allow the water to hold me up; and went to therapy so I didn’t drown if I fell through frozen water. Sometimes you don’t realize the how fragile life can be. Four years ago we were a family standing on thin ice, every day thinking it might break. Even now that life is fairly solid, I hear distant echoes of the ice cracking.
Author’s notes:
In May of 2019 I wrote an email to a friend to explain what I had been going through since the summer of 2018. This story is taken from the “letter” I wrote, hoping to paint a picture of why my year had been so incredibly hard. For those of you who have not read The Beginning-An Unexpected Journey, this story summarized some of it. The name of my child has been changed.
If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health related crises, please call 988 or chat with somebody at https://988lifeline.org/ . Suicide is a leading cause of death in the United States; if you are reading this story from another country and have a help line to add, please share it in the comment section.
The greatest tragedy in the state of Texas, was the shooting of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, on the streets of Dallas. He was shot on the corner of Elm and Houston Streets, early one afternoon, just before Thanksgiving.
I was in Dallas at a private school called Saint Monica. The day JFK came was to fly into Dallas, we were told to go to the school’s lunchroom. We assembled in groups, by class, to see the Catholic president step off the plane. We were watching the news clip on a small TV set. As the flight began to land at Love Field, most of the kids in the lunch room then started to chant “crash, crash, crash!”. This is a true story.
That morning the Kennedy motorcade drove into town to an area where my folks ran a fine art print studio and frame shop. As part of a crowd, my parents stood near the intersection of Fairmount and Cedar Springs, where they saw the president, his wife (Jackie), and the governor drive-by. With this procession of motor vehicles was a large group of security people: Secret Service and motorcycle police from Dallas. However, the president took time to stop and shake hands with the spectators.
As the motorcade moved along Cedar Springs, it passed by C.F. Newtons Miramar Museum; it was a folk art kind of political statement with a neon sign that was to go against conservatives. Having been run out of Highland Park (an affluent area that is surrounded by the city of Dallas) in the late 1950s, the Newtons were exiled to this location. In 1964 the Newtons changed their sign to the John F. Kennedy Shrine and Museum. For years it remained with this sign, until the couple passed away in the mid 1970s.
Later that the day, in school, we were told the president had been shot! Hundreds of kids were crying, regretting what they had said earlier when the flight was landing at love Field.
That evening the capture of Lee Harvey Oswald in Oak Cliff was released to the public. He was apprehended at the Texas theater, and this was the beginning of the mystery that has become the 1963 Kennedy assassination.
Over the years there have been many JFK Memorials. Some museums that opened up were large and others were small, but most have disappeared. In 1968 six places memorializing JFK were open, now few locations exist. Today’s memorials are more for tourists than, for reflection and respect. The big question: Why did this happen?
Almost a decade after John F Kennedy took his drive on Cedar Springs, where the crowd shook hands with the popular president, a terribly sad event occurred….In July 1973, there was a shooting of a 14-year-old boy Mexican boy from the nearby barrio of little Mexico. The sad fate of the boy took place at Bookout and Cedar Springs, across the street from Mac’s Fina gas station, by the side of the Parisian strip club. The shooting was by the two Dallas policeman, who had arrested the youths, for the supposed break-in to a Dr. Pepper machine at the gas station.
When the boys were arrested, my folks and I were in the fine art gallery making picture frames for a bank commission. We missed the noise of the events that took place. When we left the gallery, we didn’t see the flashing lights that were up the street. Here is what happened:
The boys were placed in the backseat of the police car at the time of the arrest. The officers then began to play Russian roulette, with their pistols, on one of the boys, to get him to confess the crime. A round went off by accident in the backseat of the police car, killing the youth and blinding his brother forever. My folks and I heard about the death of the youth (Santos) the next day. I had met Santos once, at the gas station, while getting the flat tire for my bike fixed. A truly traumatic event took place that day, one block from the John F Kennedy shrine museum.
Later in the summer, I recall the city courts in Dallas dismissed the charges; the two officers were only suspended, as it was considered an accident. Riots ensued. Bricks were thrown into the large plate glass windows of our fine art print studio. My folks were advised to move the business. The fine art print studio and frame shop, once on Cedar Springs Road, was moved; sadly the gallery never recovered and my folks lost the business.
Cedar Springs: a road in Dallas where John F. Kennedy shook hands with those along the route of his motorcade. A segment of the route that took the young President to his untimely death. Then, almost a decade later, Cedar Springs was the scene of a terrible tragedy….the memory and excitement of a bright day in 1963, in contrast to the dark event in 1973, but both ending in sadness and death…..why Dallas, Texas?
In December, my eldest daughter asked me if I wanted to try an Aerial yoga class with her. I thought it sounded like fun. Having not been in any type of in-person yoga class for at least three years, I was a little nervous. Arriving about 10 minutes early, I was given a tour; the studio was new to me. At the desk the receptionist asked me if I wanted to join the studio for 30 days; they run a fantastic special: “$30 for 30 days” of unlimited classes. I had already paid $22 for the Ariel class, so I thought, “Why not?”. The women in the class were welcoming and friendly to us. Many of the poses were fun, but some hurt my knees. My daughter asked “Are you going to go again?” I responded “I’ve paid for 30 days so I’ll go back and do some yoga- probably “heated”.
Flash forward two weeks…with all the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I hadn’t made it back to the yoga studio. As my fourteenth day of being a 30 day member approached, I thought, “I need to try more classes”. Mentioning this to my husband, I explained the “$30 for 30 days” membership. He said, “Sarah, you have been upsold”. Maybe I had been upsold, but I knew that I paid $8 more than the cost of one class, for a month of unlimited yoga.
I signed up for a “warm class” between 80-85 degrees and 75 minutes long. A heated yoga class hadn’t been part of my workout since the late fall of 2019. I had been part of a fantastic heated yoga class, starting in the fall of 2018. Connections were made with a small group of the women who attended “lightly heated yoga”, including Michelle, the instructor. Every week, after class, 4 or 5 us would sit outside the zen studio and talk about our lives. Sometimes we would cry. The group varied in number, as sometime stragglers would stay and chat. Michelle and I were going through similar issues with our children. Her son was older than my child and had just gone to a wilderness therapy program. Mine was suffering from severe suicidal ideation and depression. We would talk for quite a while after class. I considered it my therapy group of sorts. Early in 2019, one of the women (who was a psychiatric nurse), looked at me and said “You need to get your child into treatment; if there is no alcohol or drug use now, there will be.” I will never forget how direct and honest that statement was. Eventually our the little group of women started to go to coffee together. My time with heated yoga, ended in the fall of 2019 when my knee gave out from running. However, I would meet this handful of women, from lightly heated yoga class, for coffee as I did before; this continued until just before the pandemic locked the world down.
Wednesday, I went to heated vinyasa. Positioning myself at the back of the room, I lay down my mat. I was right near the doors where there was cooler air coming in. As the class started, all of us lying on our mats, the teacher started to talk; we were told: “put down whatever it is you are carrying within yourself”. As her voice went on, I thought “she is reading from a book”. I opened my eyes, and sure enough she was reading directly from a book. I couldn’t help comparing her to Michelle, who, even if she read from something, brought so much of herself to class. She shared who she was: cried when tears were close and laughed when she faltered. She allowed us to be present and truly let go of whatever our souls were holding on to.
As today’s heated yoga continued, the cool air coming through the door was sealed by a fabric draft guard across the bottom of the door. The air became stiflingly hot. For a few minutes I thought I was going throw up. Eventually I was fine. I will go back for the two weeks I have left on my pass. Sadly, I did not get the same spiritual, emotional and physical workout that I did with my old class. Michelle has moved and the class was never reinstated after things shut down due to COVID. Sometimes, when Michelle comes to town, three of us still meet; there is still the bond we formed when we were in so much pain.
At the end of Wednesday’s class, we were once again told to “put down whatever it is you are carrying”….what I was carrying was the memory of my lightly heated yoga class from before 2020, the camaraderie and connection some of us had. I chose not to put it down. We didn’t talk when class was over, but silently rolled our mats and left the studio.
Recently, a New York Times headline read: Libyan Operative Charged In 1988 Bombing is in F.B.I. Custody. A friend messaged me the article, saying “this must stir some emotions”. My response was, “…This time of year, every year since 1988, I feel it.” There is something in the cold, damp air, that comes in December that makes my body remember that time 34 years ago. You know the saying: I feel it in my bones….that is what it is like for me, but instead of a premonition, it is a remembrance of the past.
A day later, another friend sent me a text: “Thinking of you today as Pam Am bomber is in the news.” I am grateful that I have people who understand how that terrible incident still lingers somewhere inside me. Thinking back from the time that I first heard the news and the days following, the question comes to me: Did I share my pain and sorrow with the good friends who I spent the holidays with, or during the time we traveled together? The answer is most likely no, I tried to keep my emotions hidden back then. Some people called me stoic.
Shortly after I was told of the explosion of Pan Am Flight 103, I left my friend Deirdre (who I had been traveling with) and went to the airport in Brussels to fly back to London for the holidays. It was December 22, 1988, less than 24 hours after the fire in the sky. Getting close to my boarding gate, I went to a pay phone and called home; it was important to let my family know I was alive and well….both my mother and I were in tears as we spoke.
Still weeping, I bought a newspaper to try and understand everything that I had learned just a few hours before; that is when my uncontrollable crying started. A young woman came to me and asked me in heavily accented English what was wrong. I pointed to the paper, unable to talk. She said “Don’t worry, that won’t happen to us.” There was no way for me to explain, nor did I have the energy to try…
When I arrived in London, I must have gone to the house where my friends, Mike and John, and I were staying for Christmas. My memory fails me. We were staying in a house that my cousin, who was studying at the London School of Economics, and some others were renting for the year. Had everyone who lived there left the house for the holidays, or was my cousin still in town? I can’t imagine that I went to an empty house, in a strange part of London, and stayed all alone….
What I do recall about the days and weeks following are fragments of memory:
Mike and I planning Christmas dinner: Going into the shops asking strangers how to cook a turkey Neither of us, at age 20, had cooked a holiday feast before. That was a good day
Spending Christmas Eve at my local pub: The Ashes. Talking all night to Kevin, the Scottish man I had a crush on, about Lockerbie. He understood the heaviness I felt. His family home was near the town where the plane came down
Leaving London and traveling with the Christmas group: Mike, John, Meredith (John’s girlfriend), and Amy (Meredith’s) friend.
Arriving in the wee hours of the morning to Strasbourg, most of us falling asleep on our backpacks, while we waited for dawn in the train station. Mike staying up while we slept to make sure the stranger near us didn’t steal anything .
New Year’s Eve near Munich: firecrackers going off in the crowd. Me feeling scared and upset…. all I could see was what the plane might have looked like in that darkest night in the sky
Saying goodbye to Meredith and Amy.
Venice in the winter with Mike and John The three of us off to Padua to see Grazia, a friend from high school. My Italian friend telling me not to go to Milan- it was dangerous for a young woman traveling alone.
Leaving Mike and John as they headed south and I west
Arriving in Milan to find the youth hostel closed. Getting back on the train, arriving in Zurich after dark, not knowing where to go. Thankful for once for “Loud Americans” as I tried to figure out what to do. A group of young women, all students abroad, took me to the private hostel where they were staying
Checking into the International Youth Hostel the following day bumping into Deirdre while she was brushing her teeth. Catching up on the last few weeks
Heading different directions over the next few days.
Solace in Interlaken, as I hiked by myself on the land between two lakes
A train to Innsbruck, Walking down the corridor, passing compartments to find a seat. I heard someone behind me: Sarah?!”, a voice called Looking over my shoulder, there was my friend, and roommate, once again
We traveled together the last days of our semester break. Munich: our last night on the European Continent. Running into a friend of Deirdre’s, The three of us spending the evening in the Hofbrau House. Late at night we boarded a train to take us to the ferry to England…. A 5:30 stop at a station, just long enough to purchase the best bratwurst ever!
Arriving back in London, without a place to live we headed to a hostel we knew A block away from the hostel, I stepped off the curb, twisted my ankle, and the full weight of my backpack came tumbling down…. My friend, laughing hard, asked if I was okay. No, not okay,I could barely walk Stumbling along beside Deirdre, as she carried both our packs to the hostel…
Had I gone home for Christmas 34 years ago, one of the students on Pan Am flight 103 might have been me. The young men and women on that plane, from Syracuse program in London, were the students on my flight to England earlier that year. Perhaps I would have been on the other plane that transported my fellow classmates home. I will never know; a different choice was made.
All these years later, the realization hits me with two scenarios of what could have happened if I went home for the holidays in 1988: I might no longer walk this earth or I would have sunk into a deep depression that would have been hard to climb out of. By deciding to stay in Europe, I lived. Traveling with old and new friends, helped me to focus most of my energy on something else. The trauma of that event lingers within me, however every Christmas Season I think of my friends and how they helped me make it through those awful days after Lockerbie.
The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London. I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small.
I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid of feeling homesick. I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.
I loved my time in London. Words can’t describe what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there. We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams.
34 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched. For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.
Pictures flow through my mind…
Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre
Leaving London
Traveling to Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels
Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:
She to a family she knew in Belgium,
I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.
Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”
Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”
Being told, “Everyone is dead.”
Darkness fell,
Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…
Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”
Slowly finding out who I had known:
Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…
Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.
The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan; the Cocker twins…
Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.
Lighting candles all over Europe, in remembrance for those that had died.
Moving through the dark. Finding light. Letting go of the guilt.
Authors note: I wrote this 4 years ago, on the 30th anniversary of this tragedy, and published it last year as the first story on this blog.
Last winter, the afternoon before my youngest child’s 16th birthday, my husband said: “I think your should make a cake, after all it is an important birthday and I think a homemade dessert would be appreciated”. I am not the cake baker in the family, my spouse is. I often buy cakes or make birthday sweets that are less traditional: one year there was a giant cookie cake with butter cream icing, earlier a flourless chocolate cake and another time a dark chocolate salted caramel pie. When presented with the thought that I was tasked to make a last minute cake (not a purchased one), my thoughts were these: what would my youngest want that I already had ingredients for? We had flour, brown sugar, raisins, butter, eggs…what could I make that was unusual, simple, yet celebratory? Then it dawned on me, I could make a pan version of our favorite summer pastry: butter tart squares.
Have you ever had a butter tart or for that matter heard of one? For those of you new to the idea of a butter tart, it is a classic Canadian treat. The traditional kind is a small pastry with a baked filling of brown sugar, butter, eggs and raisins. Everyone has their own spin on these little delicacies.
For many years, when staying at our cottage in Ontario, we have tried to find the baker that makes the best butter tarts. At the very beginning of the summer 2022, my 16 year old said to me, “when we are at the cottage we have to go to the Cornball Store, my teacher said they have the bestbutter tarts“. Having arrived three weeks before my daughter, I decided we would test the claim that this little store in Magnetawan, Ontario truly had the best tarte au beurre (as they are called in French) by taking road trips. Not unlike the birthday sweets I make, unusual locations appeal to me. Wherever we went this past summer, in addition trying the areas “best” gooey filled pastry, we would attemptto visit an obscure spot.
On The Road To Find The Best Butter Tart
In early August 2022 my youngest child and I set out on our first road trip of the summer. Both of us enjoy ingenuity and things a little off the beaten path, so we had a planned a visit to an art park after our main destination: The Cornball Store . The day was slightly dark and drizzly, I had called ahead and preordered the butter tarts so there was no worry the delicacies would be sold out when we arrived. After about 1.5 hours drive, the unassuming little convenience store/ bakery was in our sights. Our interaction with the owner was benign, we were thanked for ordering ahead as there was a staffing shortage. You might think we would leave the store and have the long anticipated treat, but we had already had a snack and didn’t want to ruin the experience. My 16 year old and I, after stashing our treats in the cooler bag, were on our way to the planned experience: The Screaming Heads sculpture garden.
When we arrived, there were no other cars in the lot. Peacocks were wandering around behind a fence, designed as a spiderweb, that was the artist’s private property. Both of us wanted to take pictures of the beautiful birds, so we went to the gate that shut off the property and started snapping photos.
There was a man on property, and he invited us in to take pictures up close. As the pictures were taken we chatted with this man. Names weren’t exchanged, but we learned he was the artist. He told us that growing up he lived in an undesirable part of Hamilton, Ontario. After university he moved north and taught art and science in a high school near Burks Falls, but has been retired for over a decade. We wandered around his private yard and talked about his birds and the monoliths he created and still makes. During COVID lockdown the Ontario Provincial Police told him to close the park, lest he be fined a lot of money. The gate was locked and the sculpture garden was closed, but people came anyway. I asked why he made such a unique space, his response was “It is my silent protest to the awful world we live in”. Truly, however, something uniquely beautiful was built! Come and take a tour with me.
The artist’s home: Midlothian Castle
When my daughter and I were finished walking the land with mammoth sculptures, we stopped at the information booth and talked with the woman who was sitting inside. She told us the artist’s name is Peter Camani. He only asks for donations to keep the place running and his birds fed. Apparently there is a music festival every fall; this would be an incredible experience. I could imagine the beautiful landscape surrounded by the changing leaves in the forest that Mr. Camani planted himself! As we left, we made a donation and a wish.
We needed something to eat after our visit to the Screaming Heads sculpture garden, so we went to the Pulled Smokehouse & Welcome Center, next to the “falls”.
Burk’s Falls?
Once we finished eating, there was desire for something sweet. The butter tarts under the glass cake dish had looked good. I suggested we split one and leave the pastries in the car undisturbed. Walking to the counter, I enquired whether the butter tarts were good. The young man I asked said: “ Before I tasted these homemade ones, I never understood why people loved butter tarts- these are incredible!”. I immediately bought one of the last they had in the cake stand. When the tart was brought out, we cut it in half. The crust was buttery and flakey, the filling sweet and slightly gooey- had we found the best butter tart already?
Late in the afternoon we arrived back to our cottage. That evening, after dinner, my mother, sister, daughter and I each had the anticipated dessert from the Cornball Store. My mother asked, “Do you think this is the best butter tart?” I mumbled, “we may have had the best at lunch.” My sister said, “You will have to continue your search.”; so we did….
A week later, we were off again, this time to go rock hounding in Bancroft, Ontario. This area of the country is on the Canadian Shield and is considered the mineral capital of Ontario. The plan was to go to the Princess Sodalite Mine, however we stopped at the Town of Bancroft Municipal Office to find out if there were any other mines nearby. We were given a flier with a list of several places to look for gems. The morning was spent at the Princess Sodalite Mine: a rock farm with a fenced off rock dump. Chipping away at the rocks was a lot harder than I expected, but fun nonetheless. Now I know why the price of gems can be so high!
Cool picture near the CN Rock pile
We were ravenous after our morning adventure at the rock farm. Lunch had been purchased at a local restaurant in Bancroft before arriving at Princess Sodalite mine which was stowed in a cooler. I had chosen the restaurant ahead of time. Of course this restaurant, the Wattle and Daube Cafe, was a place that people claim had the best butter tarts in the area. We ate our yummy sandwiches in the car. The pastries were kept to share with my mother and her friend, Sue, who was visiting us. After lunch we continued hunting for rocks at the CN Rock pile: a free rock dump from the Golden-Keene Quarry. These rocks were mainly mica and quartz and had been put there for the construction of the town’s railway.
The CN Rock pile
The rocks we collected
As we didn’t have time to venture further west, the road led us back to the cottage with the butter tarts safely inside our cooler. The day was so much fun! Sadly, however the butter tarts were unmemorable. Our search for the perfect butter tart went on!
A few days after our rockhounding experience came the anticipated trip to an area on the Georgian Bay called Collingwood. My mom, who doesn’t drive the Canadian highways anymore, needed a ride to the area because she was presenting her memoir to a book club. I had offered to take her at the beginning of the summer, anxious to explore more of the province I spent my summers in. This was an overnight trip and a friend of mine had graciously offered us a place to stay. My daughter, mother, Sue and I traveled south and west on the highway and through country roads. First we dropped my mother off, then we took Sue home as she lives in Collingwood. The rest of the day, my youngest child and I explored the area. We bought no butter tarts.
Late in the afternoon we went off the beaten path to Creemore where we saw (what is reportedly) the smallest jail In North America. We ate no butter tarts.
Creemore
The smallest jail In North America
The next morning was beautiful! My youngest and I took advantage of the short amount of time we had left in the area: we went from Craigleith Provincial park, along the water, and then drove to the top of Blue Mountain to get the best view of the Georgian Bay.
Craigleith Provincial Park: a place to find fossils and relics, then give them back to nature.The view from Blue Mountain, overlooking Georgian Bay
My mother was picked up later in the morning, but there were two more places on the agenda to visit. The first stop was to the longest fresh water beach in the world: Wasaga Beach.
The second place was part of our butter tart tour and somewhere to stop for lunch: Midland, Ontario the home of Ontario’s Best Butter Tart Festival. This town has hosted the festival every year, in mid-June, since 2013; it was cancelled in both June of 2020 and 2021, due to COVID. Sadly, I am never north of the border at that time of the year, so I haven’t experienced this unique celebration. We were searching for the best butter tart, so it made sense to visit this town before heading back to the cottage.
After lunch, my daughter and I left my mother on a bench in the shade, while we walked up the street to buy pastries to take with us. There were two restaurants in Midland that were reported to have the best butter tarts in the area. Dino’s Fresh Food Deli And Midland Fish & Chips & Seafood. We purchased some tarts from each of these to take home. Apparently the way to eat the butter tart from the fish and chip place is deep fried with ice cream. Since we had just had and left my mother down the hill, we did not eat them deep fried. However, quite often, we do warm our pastries and top our treat with ice cream! Over the next few days we ate the newest butter tarts; they were good, but still didn’t compare to the one my daughter and I split at the Pulled Smokehouse & Welcome Center. After lunch, my daughter and I left my mother on a bench in the shade, while we walked up the street to buy pastries to take with us. There were two restaurants in Midland that were reported to have the best butter tarts in the area. Dino’s Fresh Food Deli And Midland Fish & Chips & Seafood. We purchased some tarts from each of these to take home. Apparently the way to eat the butter tart from the fish and chip place is deep fried with ice cream. Since we had just had and left my mother down the hill, we did not eat them deep fried. However, quite often, we do warm our pastries and top our treat with ice cream! Over the next few days we ate the newest butter tarts; they were good, but still didn’t compare to the one my daughter and I split at the Pulled Smokehouse & Welcome Center.
Over the next few weeks, the two of us took a few more road trips:
There was the trip to Gravenhurst, where we were to attend the Dockside Festival of the Arts; the event was canceled due to potential storms. We did however walk the shops at The Gravenhurst Muskoka Wharf.
The Gravenhurst Muskoka Warf
We bought some butter tarts that were scrumptious, at Wheelhouse Coffee in Gravenhurst; these tarts were baked at Paradise Tarts in Stirling, Ontario. Once we ate one of these butter tarts, we knew they were close to the best we had tasted, and inquired where the bakery was. The bakery is whole sale, not retail, therefor we couldn’t go to the store and purchase more. A few different flavors of butter tarts, purchased at the coffee shop, were brought back to share with my mother.
Then we had another adventure to the lookout tower in Dwight, Ontario. The voyage up and down the tower stairs was somewhat scary for me, as I am slightly afraid of heights. This excursion was well worth the climb; the scenery was breathtaking!
A look through one artistic telescope statueA look through the other artistic telescope statue
After our descent and a look through the artistic telescope statues, we headed to Henrietta’s Pine Bakery.
Although we had been to this bakery a few times in the past, we hadn’t been there since the summer of 2019. This bakery is wonderful and does have delicious baked goods, especially another Canadian treat: the Nanaimo Bar; their butter tart, in comparison with the other one’s we tried, still was not the best.
The last area we purchased very good butter tarts, at two different places, was in the town of Orillia. The tarts from Wilkie’s Bakery, although not super pretty, were delicious! Mariposa Market sold uniform, attractive looking tarts and were yummy! Although both bakeries sold really tasty treats, they were not the winners for the best tarte au beurre….frankly, I was actually getting tired of butter tarts!
The Day Of The Best Butter Tart
The day we ate the best butter tart of the summer was actually mid-August, between the trip to Collingwood and our excursion to Gravenhurst….my youngest daughter and I started our day with a hike at Huckleberry Rock Lookout Trail. This is supposed to be a short 1.8 mile walk out and back, with phenomenal views of Lake Muskoka. It was a clear morning and we set out early as the days were hot.
Growth and renewal 10 years after a devastating fire on Huckleberry Rock
Highway 118
My daughter looking over the highway 118 rock cut
We walked back down the rock face, veering left. Somehow my daughter and I had gotten off the trail. As this mistake was realized, I suggested we head right. Eventually, the two of us reached the head of the trail. Getting lost added a fun twist to our morning adventure!
For many years, with the exception of 2020, my youngest and I have a tradition of a mother-daughter day in Port Carling. This was the day! After our hike, we freshened up at our cottage and headed to what has become a posh little town. By the time we arrived and parked in the town between two lakes, there was a long line at our favorite lunch spot: Turtle Jacks. We put our name on the list and eventually were seated in a sunny spot. As we were hot and looking over the parking lot, not the river, we asked to be seated inside where there were plenty of seats. Like everywhere else these days there was a staffing shortage (not in the wait staff, but perhaps in the kitchen). The food took well over an hour to arrive. By then it was raining and we were thankful for our inside move. In past years we have wandered the stores and then had ice cream at the top of the hill. That day my 16 year old looked at the dessert menu during our long wait. There was a picture of a large butter tart served with ice cream. “We should have this”, my daughter said. We ordered the desert to split. When it came, we dug in. Both of us looked at each other and agreed wholeheartedly that this butter tart, at a place we go to at least once every year, was the best! Sadly, we couldn’t take any back, nor could we figure out if we could order them for takeout. My mother was sad that we couldn’t bring any back; later, in early September, she also tried the scrumptious dessert at Turtle Jacks and agreed that it was truly The Best Butter Tart.
Soon It Will Be Winter
As winter approaches, I reflect on our summer search to find the best butter tart. Realistically I am aware that there is no way to know who bakes the most delicious pastry. Everyone has their own recipe, and there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of bakeries all over Canada that we couldn’t try. What I realize is that special memories were created for me and my youngest. If you told me that our search for the best butter tart was in vain, I would disagree. The success wasn’t really about finding the best butter tart but it was having time together: laughing, exploring and enjoying new places; because of that I am fortunate.
One morning, in late August, the lake was shrouded in mist. Looking out on the water, the low clouds reminded me of a veil between the living and the dead. I thought about the children who died off the shores of this property….
The History Of A House And The Tragedy That Happened
In 1908 James Stroud had a “cottage” built at the end of an Island, on one of Muskoka’s 1,600 lakes. The house was grand: made partly of stone and steel, with gardens and paths surrounding the property. Fireplaces were in many of the rooms: four on the main floor and one in almost all 7 of the bedrooms. There was a grand staircase: a sweeping set of steps that split off into two smaller flights going in opposite directions.
At the back of the house were two more set of stairs: the first gave the servants easy access to the kitchen from their room upstairs; the second went down to a room in the basement. A dumb waiter moved things up and down from the ground level to the kitchen. The doors at the back of the house were those the domestic help used, as they gave easy access to the other side of the estate. There was an incinerator on the opposite bank of the property, down the hill, beside the lake, where trash was set afire. Things that could not burn were placed nearby.
The owner, James, had two grown children: James (Jimmy) and Martha. The son never had a family of his own. His sister, however, married and had two children: Anna and William. Three years after the cottage was built, while perhaps playing a game of hide and seek, the seven year old girl and her five year old brother ran away from their nanny: down the hill, toward the paths near the incinerator. Sadly, this playfulness ended in tragedy. Their little bodies were found in the water with their arms wrapped around one another, as if in an embrace. This is how I pictured them when I heard the story. An assumption was made that Anna who was older, went in to save her sibling and they both drowned.
How My Family Become Part Of This Story
In the late 1930’s, James died in his summer home, a place that he loved. The house was left to his son Jimmy, as Martha (although she still vacationed nearby) did not want to be reminded of the devastation from years before. 20 some years later the property was left to my grandfather because Jimmy had no heirs.My father’s family started spending summers in the Muskoka region.
In the 1960’s my grandparent’s built a small cottage on the other side of the island from the one built in the early 20th century. The two houses became known as the “big cottage” and “little cottage”. When I was young, my immediate family spent our summers in what we called the “little cottage”; it was all one level with three bedrooms. My father’s parents stayed in the “big cottage”. My uncle would come up for a while every summer. When I was 13 my grandparents decided that they would prefer to stay in the smaller house. The younger generations now had summer residence in the big cottage.
Strange Happenings
At the age of 14 some friends and I decided to play Ouija. None of us knew the rules…as I played, my fingers, and those of my friends, hovered above the planchette. Playing the game mostly “yes” and “no” question were asked. The little wooden plank flew across the board with no one touching it. We all assumed we had contacted Anna and William because one of them couldn’t spell. I don’t remember saying goodbye, we weren’t aware we should.
One night, the same summer, a good friend and I were sitting in one of the old wooden, luxurious, boats that Jimmy had owned. This was a comfortable place to sit and listen to the party on the island across from ours; an event that we were not quite old enough to attend. While we were waiting for the gathering to start, the two of us talked in the quiet night. All of the sudden, out of the dark night, we heard a young melodic voice way say “Moooooommy“.We looked at each other and realized the haunting sound was heard by us both. We were scared because there were no other children living near by. It wasn’t an echo we heard but what was it? As in a horror movie, we didn’t choose the smart thing to do by running up the lighted path to the cottage. Instead, the two of us agreed that sitting in the old boat was a bad plan…we moved to one which we could drive, waiting to hear the words again.
At the big cottage there were unexplained things that happened: screen doors that slammed, when I was at the house alone; the feeling that someone had walked into the room, but no one was there… At the age of 20, the cottage felt quiet. I said to my sister, “I don’t feel a presence here anymore.” That night, while lying in bed, my lamp fell over by itself: an entity telling us of its presence. Was it old Mr. Stroud who had died there or was it one of the children?
As the years went by, my uncle married and started to bring his wife and three step children up to the little cottage. Eventually they had two girls of their own. In my early adult life, I wasn’t able to spend much time in Muskoka. Something odd happened to my uncle’s family This is what I was told: One night, as everyone slept, the babysitter who was up for the summer (to help with the 5 children) awoke. She saw two little “girls” in white dresses, roaming the house. Assuming they were my Aunt and Uncle’s youngest children, she followed them. Down the stairs they went, then out into the night and disappeared. These were not my cousins, but the children from so long ago. Apparently, the baby sitter was pale and shaking when she recounted what had happened.
By the mid-1990’s my grandparents stopped going up to Muskoka; it was decided to sever the property and sell the side that the big cottage was on. The upkeep was too much money and we hadn’t kept the house in the splendor it deserved. My uncle and his family bought another summer residence on the same lake. We continue to go up to the little cottage, which is now bigger because my sister, brother and I all have our own families. On our property strange events have still occurred. One night, several summers ago, my husband awoke to a light brushing across his cheek and a soft voice calling his name.
In May of 2020, my youngest daughter and I went to stay at my mother’s home. We hadn’t seen her and Paul (her significant other) since the world locked down. That evening, we had dinner with them, on their back deck. As the sun was setting we told stories about things that go bump in the night. I started to tell my Ouija story. As these words were spoken by me: “…we all assumed that the two children who had died along the shore, years before, had been contacted” Paul looked over in shock. He said, “Two children drowned just off your property? I’ve seen them, on the road, wearing white dresses.”
The paranormal activities at our cottage continue to take place. When the border into Canada reopened in the summer of 2021, we went to our beloved cottage. My eldest daughter drove up with two friends. Around 3 or 4 in the morning, one of the young ladies woke up screaming. At the same time in a bedroom over the boathouse, my youngest daughter was awakened by the clock radio turning on; there was no music, only the sound of gurgling.
Today we met my mother and Paul for lunch. They had arrived back from Canada two weeks ago. We were talking about this story. My mother said, “maybe you could say: perhaps they are happy here and don’t want to leave the property? ” Under his breath, Paul said “I saw them again.” Mom responded, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He answered, “I didn’t want to scare you. I saw them twice, they looked lost.”
Somewhere in Muskoka, two souls have wandered the land for over a century trying to figure out where they belong….
* Author’s note: All names have been changed. Permission to take and use the pictures of the 1908 cottage and property was granted from the present owner.. Last week I did a little research (which turned in to several hours) on the 1st owner of the cottage. I learned a a lot of history and interesting facts, however, the most relevant are these: 1) I did not know that anyone had died in the cottage. 2) I always presumed the children that died were both girls.
Preface: This is the harrowing story of one man trapped outside during Hurricane Ian. He is a friend of the family and many people I know. His will to live shows fortitude and strength. Although long, it is an amazing story!
STORM SURGE
Get your motor runnin’ Head out on the highway Lookin’ for adventure And whatever comes our way
I decided to commit my memories of September 28, 2022 to writing for two reasons. First, I was understandably and repeatedly asked what happened, and it grew time consuming to repeat the story. Secondly, I needed to exorcise my mind of the devils and the repeated visuals and decisions made that day.
Eliza and I live in Barefoot Beach, part of Bonita Springs, Florida. Our power went out around 9AM on Wednesday, September 28. We had heard that there was power in the clubhouse which was across the parking lot from us, and I could see lights on, so we thought we might try to go over there and charge phones and use hot water. We went down the stairwell from the sixth floor at 11:10 AM; the elevator was out. At the bottom it was hard to open the door as the water was already rushing in from the garage. We had seen from above that the waves had breached the beach, the mangrove and sea grape forests, and was flowing into the garage. We wanted to see if we could get across the parking lot, but Eliza decided to return and went upstairs.
I walked through our garage to the entrance, but I could tell that the waves were too high to cross the parking lot. So I returned to the stairway door, and it was locked. Eliza had gone back up. I had no key. The elevator was out. I was stuck. I thought Eliza would eventually realize I don’t have a key (because I had foolishly forgotten it before) and would come down, so I found a perch in the entrance way, sat 4 feet up from the floor and watched the waves come pounding across the beach, across the sand dunes, into and through the garage, past me and out the other side onto the road. The waves grew larger, and I watched a handrail as a marker for the amount of water in the building. Several times I left my perch and made my way around the back of the building where there was little wind to see if I could do a quick scoot across to the clubhouse, but I saw each time that this was impossible. So I returned to my perch, but eventually the water was up to my four foot perch, the waves were splashing me in the face, and I realized that if I stayed there, I would drown. I also assumed now that Eliza thought I had safely made it across the parking place to the clubhouse and was enjoying a hot tea.
So I followed the water rushing out the door, hung on to the gate, and considered my alternatives. Eventually the wind got me and blew me across the Barefoot Beach Boulevard into the mangrove forest. The force of it was incredible. I was lifted up and thrown like a ragdoll. As I got over to the other side, I clung to a tree and noticed that large projectiles, including tables, chairs, paddle boards, and kayaks were flying through the air hitting the trees and breaking in half; and I realized if one of them hit me, I would not survive the collision. So I let the water and the wind drive me further into the mangroves which protected me from the projectiles. As I got further in, I started to find assorted objects, including chairs, benches, paddle boards and finally a submerged red kayak that I could sit in. I thought I might stay there, but it kept tipping. I looked around and saw a large green object that appeared to be another strangely shaped kayak, so I abandoned the red kayak, and swam over to what turned out to be a capsized kayak belonging to one of my neighbors, Jon Fay on the 4th floor of our building. It had a large draft, so it was difficult to clamber up on top of it. One of my own paddles came flying by, and I grabbed it and was able to paddle.
I assumed that if I paddled through this mangrove forest I would come to the bay behind our building and then, with the wind coming from south to north, be driven over towards the Bonita Beach Road, and there might be people who would have telephones and help me. I was finally able to exit the mangrove forest into the bay mostly by pulling forward with trees on each side. But when I got there, I found it was a false bay and everything was piled up at the end. So I made my way across this short bay on my overturned kayak with my broken paddle and got into the next mangrove forest through which I believed I could go to get to the next bay. But once into the next mangrove forest my upside down kayak kept snagging on roots and branches and wouldn’t move forward. The kayak had a seat with a high seatback and a pedal mechanism which was down, and roots were getting stuck on it, and I could not move forward. To make any progress, I realized I had to get off the boat, which I did not want to do because it was hard to get on. And I certainly didn’t want to get into the water with alligators and snakes (I kept thinking water moccasins), but I decided I had to. So I got off and went under the boat, detached the snags, got back on, and made a little progress. Then same problem again. I got off the kayak, detached the snags, got back on again. I was getting exhausted doing this. I was making almost no progress, and I couldn’t quite break through to the bay on the other side. I realized I needed to overturn the kayak so the seat and paddle mechanism would no longer snag the kayak. So I got in the water and, of course, I had no purchase because the water was over 10 feet deep, (I dove down to investigate), and the kayak was a large one, 100 pounds Jon Fay later told me. I kept lifting, and I could get it up a little bit, but I couldn’t get it up much more than that. And then I found a branch not far from the boat, so I shoved the boat over and climbed on the branch. I tried 10 or 15 times without success. Then I noticed that if I moved the boat perpendicular to the wind, the wind could help me. And so I waited for a strong gust and heaved up the boat and turned it over. I thought my problems were now solved. I had a paddle, I had an upright kayak with no water in it, but then I had to get into to it, and it had very high gunnels, and it was very difficult to get in. Each time I threw a leg up and over, the boat would start to tip, and I was afraid the boat would tip over again on top of me. But eventually I was able to get up in it, and I had my paddle, so I paddled back into an open area and decided I would paddle against the wind around the mangrove forest, rather than through it, and then take the wind and current to the Bonita Beach Road. I hadn’t gone far before a harsh gust tipped me over, and I thought oh my gosh I’ve got to do the whole exercise all over again. This time the wind was stronger and it was easier to turn it over, but my paddle was blown away. I got the boat right-sided, clambered in, and retreated back into the mangroves. I was starting to shiver a lot, and I was afraid that I would get hypothermia, so I waited for a while. All the while I kept thinking this cannot be happening; it is simply a bad dream, wake up. This isn’t reality. And then I remembered my basic training where the DIs told us: This is reality, deal with it. It was just starting to get dark. It had been grey all day with heavy winds and biting rain, but now I sensed dusk, and I knew I would not survive a night out in the open.
I noticed that the wind was changing. It was no longer south to north but north to south. I thought that if I got out into the wind and current and got the pedal mechanism working, which I did to a minor extent, disappointingly, the wind would drive me down the bay to the Delnor Wiggins Pass, and there I could get out onto a beach and make my way into the state park and then out into an area where maybe there were some people. I forgot to mention I had lost my shoes early on, so I had no shoes but short pants, a shirt, an L.L. Bean rain jacket, and no hat. The rain was slanting hard and kept blinding me, so I had to maneuver with my eyes slanted.
I finally got the boat out into the bay, and the wind picked me up, taking me in the direction I hoped it would; and as I moved in that direction I noticed that I could see for the first time the outline of condominium buildings near us which I had not been able to see before because of the wind, rain, and darkness. These were condominium buildings further south from the one in which we live. And I remembered at Building 9 there was a kayak launch, and if I could get the boat over to the kayak launch, I could get out on dry land (I hadn’t felt dry land for seven hours), and go home. So I got as close as I could. The peddle mechanism worked somewhat but not enough, and the rudder was stuck in the wrong position. But I eventually maneuvered the boat into the first line of mangroves, abandoned ship, and swam over to the building. I remember the joy in suddenly seeing the building and the concrete foundation under the mangroves as I made my way through the mangroves. I clambered out into the garage, walked through the garage, came out from the building and got thrown over again by the wind. I made my way across their parking lot to the Barefoot Beach Boulevard, tripping on displaced concrete and bricks, and falling from wind gusts. I then swam, and walked up the boulevard from Building 9 to our Building 3. I could see there were lights flashing at our building, and I assumed it was the police and fire department who were out looking for me and they would have warm blankets and hot chocolate. But that was not the case. Something had triggered the fire alarm for the building. I got to our building and made my way over to the stairway. Fortunately, the stairway door which had locked me out in the first place had been blown away, so I could walk up the stairway. It was totally dark. I had no flashlight, but I made it up six floors counting, got to the door which leads to the corridor which leads to our apartment, and it was locked. I could not believe my bad luck. I walked down to the fourth floor where our neighbors, Jon and Elissa Fay, who had stayed through the hurricane, lived, and tried their door; but it was locked. I felt my way down to the bottom floor thinking that I’ll go over to the clubhouse and seek shelter there if I am able to get there. Then I heard a voice and saw a light. It was my friend, Jon Fay, whose kayak had saved me. He had come down to the bottom floor. I approached him, and he suggested we go over to the clubhouse as the waves had diminished. So I volunteered to go first as I now had experience in tripping through buried concrete remnants. I tried, but I kept tripping and getting blown over; and then I felt the storm surge had created a large chasm, and we couldn’t cross it. Jon had caught up to me, and we decided to go back. It suddenly occurred to my addled brain that if he was there, he must be able to get through the door to the corridor and then to his unit. So I said that if the doors were locked, how did you do this, and he said the stairwell doors were not locked, it’s air rushing up the stairwell and creating a wind tunnel effect; but if you push down the handle and push your shoulder into the door, you’ll be able to get in. We went up to his floor and he showed me. By then he could see that I was in shock, so he gently with a flash light guided me up to the next two floors to our floor. We opened the door and got to the corridor, went over to the door, and I saw a sign on the door; and I thought, oh my gosh Eliza has left a sign saying she’s abandoned the condo and gone somewhere, but it only said that she was in the bathroom because the fire alarm was making such a racket. We opened the door, and she looked at me in shock and astonishment and rushed forward and took me in a love embrace. I must have looked like an apparition. The nine hours of loss were written on her face.
She stripped me of my clothes and wrapped me up in warm blankets and put me in bed. I shivered uncontrollably for about an hour and a half. Elissa Fay from the fourth floor brought up some lemon sugar water. She said if you’re in shock, you need to sugar. It was only as I was getting undressed that I realized that I was cut all over my body, bleeding and badly bruised from all the collisions with trees and branches. I also had a scary something in my left eye that hurt. I couldn’t sleep that night because I kept dreaming of my trip and trying to re-think the decisions I made. But the next morning I felt better, but my muscles ached in a horrible way. I couldn’t sit up without help, and I couldn’t elevate my legs without help. Those muscles, which served me so well, were kaput. It was a miracle and God’s help that brought me home. The final miracle was that I came back at precisely the right time to meet Jon Fay on the ground floor with a flash light. He was a guardian angel. He told me I could open the stairway door to the 6th floor and led me there. If he comes out 10 minutes earlier or 10 minutes later, I had no more alternatives.
Storm Footage
This video was sent to my friend who has a place in Old Naples, which is down the shore from Barefoot Beach. My friend wasn’t in Florida at the time, however this video shows 5th Avenue in Old Naples after the water had receded some; it is normally a road. The video may help give you a sense of the storm Hugh had to endure.
Hugh saw this footage after I published his story; this is what he said: “The video is tame. The waves which swept me away were over 7 feet high, nothing flat and placid. The winds and waves were far more ferocious. This video looks like the aftermath of the storm.”
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