Beaufort

This week's blog comes from our son David Singer.  He sent this letter to Muriel after our visit when he was living near Elizabeth City, North Carolina.  We had accompanied David to Beaufort to see him off as he led a crew sailing to a Caribbean island.

Dearest Muriel: 

What we think epitomizes your outlook on life was displayed by the event in Beaufort when you did the splits.  Once again, you quietly assumed control, as usual, gave specific instructions, and took no credit for your efforts, made the whole ordeal look as seamlessly smooth as a well rehearsed commercial.

It was May 10 of`1997.  Six of us -- Bert, you, Tiki, Tiffany, Trish, and I were disembarking from the 37 ft. sailboat “Stitches” after we had taken the obligatory photos. You know –the “These are the fine folks who saw David off on his voyage to the Caribbean” photos.

Bert had stepped ashore (actually onto the ladder float attached to the pier) with Tiki.  You handed Tiffany to him. He then stood awaiting your leaving the boat.

Then, with Trish at your port, and me, David, at your starboard, you put one foot onto the ladder float, straddling the life lines, to leave “Stitches.” The boat, not being a family member, decided independently to drift out toward Savannah.

As if in slow motion, your feet drifted apart, too, one trying to stay on the ladder float, the other glued to the boat.  Agile you are: a ballerina, not so much. So, you kept both feet planted. Tenaciously, you clung to the piling with your left hand, the boat railing with your right. It was a new version of “Twister,” except that you could go neither outboard nor inboard.  Release anything, and you'd be in the Gulf Stream.

Slowly, relentlessly, the boat inched away from the pier.

“Let me help,” offered Bert with both arms cradling dogs.

“Here, let me help,” added David, both arms now around your shoulders.

“Here, let me help,” cried Trish, both of her arms about your waist.

“No, Bert. You take care of the kids,” you told him. 

 

“No, David.  I think I can do better if you let go of my shoulders,” you advised me.

Then you leaned toward Trish, saying, “Thank you,” as you returned to the boat.

“Now,” you said. “Will somebody put this boat back so I can leave like a lady?”

       

Disaster had been one small misstep away; but you dealt with it with aplomb.  We were impressed, not surprised, though.  Of course you would leave the boat like a lady!         

                                       

Love, David