Year Five: I Still at Sea

Safe to Port (9th Century requiem for the Abbess of Grandestine – author unknown)

Thou hast come safe to port,
I still at sea

Flying Colours tribute flag.

The light is on thy head,

Darkness in me.

Pluck thou in Heaven’s field

Violet and rose,

While I strew flowers

That will thy vigil keep.

Thou hast come safe to port,

I still at sea

The light is on thy head,

Darkness in me.

While I strew flowers

That will thy vigil keep,

Where thou doest sleep

Love, in thy last repose.

Today is the seventh of May. It snuck up on me this year. On Sunday, as I drove out to the Interpretive Center and saw "Rhiannon's" tree up on the hill, my chest constricted. Just like that I became hyper-aware of the date and the significanc the next day would bring. I couldn't breathe. Five years later and my heart still stops and my eyes still well up with tears. Time doesn't heal all wounds.

The poem above was brought into my life in November. Michael Hoppe, a local composer, came across it while on vacation and set it to music. A connection introduced him to our choir, Voices of Hope, and we plan to record it sometime in the next year. It is hauntingly beautiful and I can not sing it without seeing Rhi's parents laying white roses out in the Atlantic on what would have been her 23 birthday - two months after her boat was lost at sea. It has become a truly cathartic song for me.

Peace friend. We remember.

Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Got a Tattoo

At some point in my life, notably around age 13, I got a reputation for being judgmental and a goody-two-shoes. (Would someone please explain that term to me?) I'm not sure what spurred that or how it followed me into adulthood, but that is precisely what happened.

As best as I can tell, I am perceived as judgmental because I hold myself to a very high moral code. Please read that again. I hold myself to a very high moral code. I do not expect that others live by my standards. Where would be the fun in that?

The goody-two-shoes part I more easily understand. I don't drink (much). I don't swear (often). And I don't smoke. I don't have an aversion to any of those things, I just don't have any use for them in my life. Alcohol is not a social lubricant for me - it makes me sleepy and less fun to be around - so I limit my intake. I was profoundly influenced by a  For Better or For Worse comic strip about the beauty of language when I was a child and never had any use for swearing. (Sometimes nothing less than a good swear will do, but for the most part I sound ridiculous when I swear, so I don't.) Smoking is a nasty habit I never picked up. That's really all there is to it. I do enjoy a good "chick cigar" from time to time, but it's not really something I have occasion for often. 

Somewhere along the way I also got the reputation, mainly among my mother and siblings, that I am a horrific prude. Which I find hilarious and take advantage of often. We'll just leave it at that. 
 
So, all that said, I should not have been surprised by the reaction to my coming home with a tattoo. (Coming home used metaphorically, no one in my home was surprised.) I have talked about getting a tattoo for six years, but never knew what I wanted or where I wanted to put it. Tattoos became more mainstream my Junior year of high school and many girls went to Boise on their 18th birthdays to get what are now known as tramp stamps. So glad I didn't go through with that plan.   
 
Three years ago I decided I wanted a memorial tattoo for my friend, Rhiannon. I thought about getting something similar to the 4sailors.com logo, but was (appropriately) mocked for that idea. I still wanted some form of sailboat, though, but could never find the right design for the size I wanted (smallish). Sailboats get cheesy really fast. The second inhibitor to my getting a tattoo was I really didn't want to go by myself. 
 
During the hike to Lonesome Pine on Sunday I was carrying on with my whining about the girls going to get tattoos without me earlier in the week. (Ya'll have realized I don't let go of things easily, right?) Lynn, Rhiannon's mom, had asked me what I wanted to get and I told her a sailboat for Rhiannon and she said, "You could do that, but what about a compass rose?" I instantly loved the idea and knew that was what I should do. At that moment my friend said, "Actually, we found a tattoo parlor in Baker and were going to take you there this afternoon." (What she didn't say was, "So you'll quit your whining," but it was understood.)

Lynn, Nike, and artist Lindsay at Shifty's Tattoo.

Lynn helped me pick the design and colors at the tattoo parlor, which was conveniently open on Sunday because the owner's girlfriend was out of town, and she and my best friend sat with me while the work was done. Having them there made it that much more meaningful.

The work was painful. Some of it was more irritating than painful, but pain was involved (think having a needle drug over your skin and bee stings). The thing I can't explain is somehow going through that process and having a beautiful piece to remember my friend with released something in me. I went home to my parents that evening and cried, really cried, for the first time in three years. The pain of loss has always been there, but I've never acknowledged it. 

Part of me feels as though I've taken a step back because I am actually feeling the grief and hurt. Another part sees this as a huge stepping off point. During my counseling session yesterday I did some more crying and told my counselor about my weekend. As I was blabbering I realized there's a part of me that has been holding back from life because Rhiannon's gone. She experienced everything first - driving, boyfriends, moving away from home, etc - and in many ways paved the way for the rest of us. Her choices weren't always wise, but she set out to do whatever she set her mind to. 

Part of me feels guilty for living life and doing things she'll never experience. Turning 23 was really difficult for me cause all I could think was Rhiannon didn't come home for her 23rd birthday and for the first time I was older than she'll ever be.

From this point on I am taking steps to live life intentionally and with purpose. Being consumed by grief is not what she would want. Holding back from experiencing life to the fullest does not honor her memory. She is with me in memory and in spirit and the best way to acknowledge that is to chase after my dreams as fearlessly as she did.  

Compass Rose for maritime direction.
As long as you know where North is you will always find your way home.

From Sea to Land: Rhiannon Remembered

The Borisoff's Broken Heart by Lone Pine Tree

This weekend had more packed into it than even I could imagine and I tend to fill up my weekends really well. I will attempt a coherent post, but even now I am overwhelmed by yesterday's emotions.

Every year, on or around May 7th, I write a post reflecting on Rhiannon. My heart still hurts and I am also stricken by guilt for not taking as good of care of Rhiannon's parents as she would have done for mine. They are wonderful people who lost their only child and we are their only link now. I'm trying to do better.

Yesterday, a couple of the girls and I picked up Rhiannon's mom, Lynn, to hike up to Lone Pine where she and Mike had set a broken, heart shaped rock in the ground, along with a time capsule of Rhiannon's mementos. Mike, Rhi's dad, had always wanted to take Rhiannon up there but it never worked out, so when they serendipitously found the rock they knew that was where it needed to go.

It is a hard climb up a steep hill with no path. There is a lot of sage brush, prairie dog holes, and rabbit brush. We had to take a few breaks, but with every step the tree came a little closer. The view from the top, mixed with the emotions of Rhiannon having  "a place" made it worth it. For the first time I feel like I can really grieve. This is both scary and relieving.

Lynn said this may be her last trip to the tree. Now that we know where it is, we will continue to visit it and keep remembering.

The tree complete with eagle's nest

Does the Heart Mend?

It's 10:00 pm on May 7th. It's been three years since the call. I still call it "the call" and feel silly about it - it's so dramatic and I don't really care for drama - but I don't know how else to name that moment when I learned your ship had been lost.



The scrapbook with the articles about the crew of Flying Colours sits to my left with the vigil flier on the cover. It's been haunting me all week and I still haven't opened it. What's the point? I've memorized the catch phrases that litter the various articles and there's still no answer as to what happened to you. Maybe that's why three years later I still can't say your name without crying.

I was thinking about when we met yesterday. I was talking to my little sister about Phillip's Park, where Outdoor School was held in sixth grade. We had different teachers and different recesses, but ended up in the same group. We spent a week together learning how to use compasses, purify water, identify plants and animals. You were already well ahead of me, and most of the boys, in survival skills and we hit it off.

The first time I came over to your house I was greeted by two yellow labs, one of whom is still with us and was of great comfort at the vigil. Funny how your dog colors my memories of high school as much as my own. One of my favorite memories is watching you paddle the canoe around the Lake with Buster sitting at the opposite end. I don't have a picture of that. I wish I did.

There are still moments when I want to call you. Today as I left my office for lunch I almost walked over a squirrel. I laughed like I always do when a squirrel catches me off guard and thought of you. Remember that summer squirrels kept attacking you? You told me squirrels are not to be trusted. I haven't forgotten.

Someday I hope to have closure. I want to remember you, not you marred by tragedy. It's you I miss. We're all growing up and it hurts that you are not with us figuring out life. The last pictures of us together are from Bobby's high school graduation in 2005. (He had the biggest crush on you, by the way, but who didn't, right?) I keep trying to force KodakGallery to show you in other albums, but it only relents by giving me a picture of you in a picture.

So, I'll light another candle in memory of you, toss back a shot of Bahama rum in your honor, and have a good cry. Know that you are still loved and so, so missed.

Taste of Lime and Tears

Coast Guard Rescues 9, Search for 4 More Continues.

Coast Guard Suspends Search for Flying Colours.

Newport sailors keep watch for Flying Colours.

Search ceases for boat carrying former Baker City Woman.

Two years ago today I received the chilling call that we all hope only happens in movies. My best friend called me during a mundane day at work, which was unusual since we regularly IMed or e-mailed, and said flatly, "Rhiannon's boat is missing."

That message gave birth to an obsession with Coast Guard news, the Boston Globe, and all things storm and Rhode Island oriented. There is a binder in my closet with every story that ran about the Flying Colours from May 7, 2007 to mid-July of the same year. The cover is the flier that was made for the "Keep the Faith Vigil" that was held in my hometown the day before many of my high school peers graduated from college.

When we lose someone, there comes an obsession with the relationship we had with them and all the could've, should've, would'ves that that entails. I have a lot of should'ves. I should have called and written more often.... I should have asked what was going on in her life.... I should've planned the trip to Rhode Island earlier... Had I known it was the last time, I would have had a less superficial conversation with her....

I feel enormously blessed that I was able to talk to Rhiannon a couple weeks before she left on the trip she wouldn't return from. At the time I was planning my wedding and was so excited that Rhi would be flying out for it. We hadn't seen each other in two years. The picture above is one of my favorites of Rhiannon (middle), Leslie (right) and myself. It has even more meaning to me now because the pictures from that day at the Lake are the last ones of us all together. Some of my best memories are of all of us at the Lake roasting hotdogs, make s'mores, laughing and being ridiculous.

Today I had a lime tortilla chip and burst into tears. Rhiannon loved lime tortilla chips. She brought them on one of our Lake trips and we thought they were the strangest things we'd ever heard of. She insisted they were the best and her favorite. They have since become one of my favorite chips as well and I can't eat them or see a bag without thinking of her. These are the little things I keep with me.


Until we meet again, my friend, fair winds and following seas.