A great disturbance in the Force

Today, for many, is Star Wars Day (May the Fourth be with you). Around here, we also call it Quatro de Mayo, both ways in which we remember that it is our wedding anniversary. When we were married on 05/04/03 (the descending sequence being our mnemonic for the actual date), no one had yet coined the phrase Star Wars Day.


Angel on the aft deck, one of her favorite places to be.

Today we have been married 17 years, a day of celebration. But it is also the first day in three decades, for either of us, to wake up without a pet. So today, in addition to celebrating our marriage, we also celebrated the life of Angel, the cat, who left this world yesterday afternoon after a long and well-traveled life.

We are overwhelmed with grief. This is the fourth time we've been through the process of losing a pet together. Each of those other times, though, we still had a pet or pets to come home to. Those pets got extra love and affection as we processed our grief. The house was emptier, but not empty. Today is different.


Did someone order a cat?

All of this is amplified by the grief we are all carrying right now due to the pandemic. When our last two traveling pets passed, we were surrounded by friends, who were able to comfort us not just with words, but with their presence. Today we have just each other, and that will be enough. And we are mindful that, as devastating as this has been for us, so many others right now are losing loved ones -- parents, grandparents, spouses, children, friends -- without so much as the ability to touch their hand one last time, or say goodbye even in the same room.


The most interesting cat in the world.

Angel turned 19 just a little over five weeks ago. That's a good run for a small cat, and especially so considering she only ever had one good kidney. We adopted her when we still lived a land-bound life in the San Francisco Bay area, along with her adopted "sister," born a day apart, when they were just weeks old.

They were immediately welcomed into our home by Opal the dog, and all five of us moved soon afterward into a tiny condominium in downtown San Jose. All three became veteran travelers as we spent two years making monthly road trips to the Seattle area while our custom bus conversion, Odyssey, was being completed there.


Angel with her sister-from-a-different-mother George, shortly after adoption.

We moved into Odyssey full-time nearly 16 years ago, and have lived a nomadic life ever since. With most of her life spent traveling, it's really the only life she's ever known. She became blase about rumbling diesels and loud air horns, thunder claps and even lightning strikes, birds and fish and other wildlife, and the constant motion of the bus or the boat. Seas had to be big enough to send Louise for the meclizine before Angel complained, which she did by becoming pissed.


I prefer my own box now.

In nearly two decades of travel, Angel has been to all of the lower 48 states (and DC), and four other countries. Although I'm sure to her it was all divided up simply into "cold" and "warm." If we had left the route planning to her, we'd have spent all our time in the south and the tropics.

We often joked that the name Angel was a misnomer, at least until now, and, in fact, we never called her that, and she wouldn't recognize it if we did. We called her simply "kitty," and she would come when called by that name. True to her Russian Blue (as best we could determine) heritage, she was unfailingly polite. She never begged but was always appreciative, and she was mostly compliant, to a fault.


Politely choosing a toy.

What she was not, for most of her life, was demonstrative. She did not cuddle, or purr, or curl up next to us, or sit on our laps. For 13 years, it turned out, she lived in the shadow of her adopted sister, George (yes, sister). We did not understand it until very late in their lives, but George was something of a bully, and was sure to get her needs met to the exclusion of her sister. And George was a love bug; we were never lacking for cuddles or lap time when George was around.


Angel had a shoe fetish. She's rubbing her face on these.

George left us in 2014 (memorial post here), and only after her passing did we learn that Angel was really meant to be an "only cat." Over the succeeding years she began to open up and relax, and very slowly became more demonstrative. She never really became a lap cat, but she would give us what we came to call "proximity love," curling up close by, touching a leg or an arm in just one spot. Sometimes if you touched her throat you could tell she was purring, just below audible.

She never failed to come running to greet us at the door when we came home, unless she was sound asleep, and if either one of us left she would cry softly. She wanted little more than to just be with us, although she did perk up every morning when it was time for her tablespoon of wet food that Louise gave her more as a treat than nutrition (she ate a prescription dry diet as her normal food).


Bags are almost as good as boxes. But harder to get into.

Long-time readers will know that we've been through some crises with this cat. And I am not talking here about the time she ended up in the drink, but rather the several times she ended up in the hospital, fighting for her life. We discovered early on that she had but one good kidney, the other being diminutive in size from birth. As she aged, she came close to renal failure more than once.


Angel drinking from her fountain.

What gave her a new lease on life after the last crisis two years ago was, of all things, a water fountain. She never drank enough water when we just gave it to her in a bowl, no matter how many times we filled it or changed it, but she loved drinking from the fountain. In the first few weeks after we got it, I had quite the challenge keeping up with the resulting output.

She was already 17 then, and we knew she would be living on borrowed time. The stay at an emergency clinic in the Upper West Side of Manhattan drained not only our bank account, but, for a time, her will to live. After she fought her way back, we vowed not to put her through it again. If her renal system crashed again, we would let her go. It was hard to see her that scared and alone.


Art imitates life.

The two years since then have been our best years with her. She would occasionally deign to be on my lap, in an awkward sort of way. She curled up with us more. Her water intake stayed up and she was generally spry and healthy. And still as polite as always, and running to greet us whenever we returned.



Sooooo sleepy...

As she approached her 19th birthday we could tell she was slowing down. She slept more, and jumped less, and became needier than ever. Potty accidents became more routine, and she started pawing at her water again, a behavior which the drinking fountain had put a stop to. We knew her days were numbered, and, yet, there was no clear sign when the end might come.


Looking out the hawsepipes, another favorite activity.

When we left for the Bahamas in early March, we did so knowing that it might well come while we were there. We still had a full liter of lactated Ringers and an IV set, as well as numerous other meds, but had to face the grim reality that vets in the islands are few and far between, and if the end were to come, we might not be able to keep her comfortable until we could get her someplace.

If the Covid-19 pandemic had not come along, in fact we would still be in the Bahamas right now. Most likely we would have been in Georgetown or Eleuthera, where veterinary care is available, but we were thankful to be back in the US where it is a sure thing. Even better, our friends Jennifer and Mark on Starlet, who are in New Zealand right now, reached out to connect us with a local friend here who is a veterinarian and would come to the boat when the end came.


My chart has ears.

In her final weeks she became weaker and sometimes confused. But she never seemed to be in pain or even uncomfortable. And the cat who, for 19 years, did not want to be on anyone's lap, suddenly could not get enough lap time. As if she needed to get all the love she missed out on before she left.


Relaxed on my lap for the first time since kittenhood.

Saturday morning we knew it was a matter of days, and I called Allison, the vet our friends connected us with. She was leaving town that afternoon, and could stop by on her way out, but she would not be back for ten days. We weren't ready, and neither was Angel, or so we thought. But the crash came late in the afternoon, and we knew for sure that it was time. Too late for Allison, who was already gone.

We found an animal hospital three blocks from a bulkhead where we could land the dinghy, and they gave us an appointment for 2pm yesterday. We scrubbed our plans to leave the boat for dinner, and instead spent the rest of the evening holding her on our laps and giving her as much love as we could. She was alert and comfortable, but clearly in no shape to be left alone.


I'm actually very artistic, don't you think?

Fearing she might try to climb up on the precarious chart table, or even just fall over the edge of the steep ladder to belowdecks, I set up a litter box in the master shower, brought her water fountain and food bowl downstairs, and carried her down to bed with me when I turned in, closing her into the master suite with us. She seemed to have a good night.


These muster drills are starting to annoy me.

Yesterday morning was a bit like any other for her, sitting with us in the saloon as we had our coffee, and excited as always when it came time for her morning wet food treat. We, on the other hand, were total wrecks. Having a set time made everything seem like a prison execution; dead man walking. The tablespoon of wet food became everything left in the can.

In what can only be described as the ultimate gift, she crawled into her carrier a full half hour before it was time to leave, and curled up motionless in a heap at one end. We knew without doubt that it was time. She whimpered a little on the tender ride, but nothing like her usual going-to-the-vet yowl. Another whimper or two on the three block walk.


I always helped decorate at Christmas time.

The vet office had told me on the phone that due to the pandemic, they would take her curbside, and after an exam and insertion of the catheter, we could come inside to a treatment room for the end. We called from outside at the appointed time, and ended up waiting on the steps for 15 minutes until a tech could come out. Angel fell so deeply asleep we thought she had already passed.


If the shoebox fits...

The tech who came out for her seemed to think we would be dropping her off and leaving. I explained that, no, we had been told we could be with her at the end. The tech said she would check with the doctor, and she took Angel inside. It was another half hour before we got word that only one of us could go in, and we regretted not saying a more thorough goodbye before they took her.

It was painful to have to choose which of us would go in. In the end, we decided my presence would be more comforting to her. I know Louise was a wreck for the brief time I was gone. We had arrived at 2pm, but it was 4pm before they called me inside. Fortunately, we had found a bench in the shade in front of an office furnishing store across the street to wait.


Does this bus go to Hawaii?

When I came into the treatment room she was resting comfortably on her side. Not purring, but not complaining either. I knew she was ready, and the doctor confirmed it was her time. We had a short video chat with Louise for one last goodbye, and she went quickly and peacefully. I tried to be calm and stoic and supportive for her, but as soon as the sedative dose was in, I bawled my eyes out.


Who does your nails?

In the time of Covid there is no time or space for pleasantries or even thank-yous for the medical staff. I had to swiftly exit through the back door, my tears streaming down onto my face mask. I found Louise on the phone, being comforted by a close friend.

How can one tiny animal, weighing in at seven pounds soaking wet, leave such an enormous hole in a space this big? The house feels empty. Neither of us can stand to be alone here now -- we were never alone before. In time, the sharp edges of our grief will wear down. We'll stop looking for her underfoot or expecting her to come running to the door. But for now, the pain is deep, and all we can do is be present with it, and with each other.


Resting on one of her final days. She was not allowed on the table and never asked until the end. How could we say no?

When we left on this journey of a lifetime 16 years ago, the tag line of this blog, which appears at the top of the sidebar, read Life on the open road. In a bus. With three pets. Are we nuts? You decide.
That tag line has since changed three times, with a change of conveyance and the passing of Opal and George, to what it is today, Life on the move. In odd, one-of-a-kind steel conveyances. With a cat. Are we nuts? You decide. Even that tag line is now hard to read. It may be some time before we can bring ourselves to write a new one.

We miss you, kitty. You will always be in our hearts.

Requiescat in pace, amicus meus

Yesterday, Louise and I rented a car and drove the 120 miles or so to Arlington National Cemetery, to say our last goodbyes to our good friend and American Red Cross coworker, Jeff Clapper.

Jeff passed away suddenly and unexpectedly in March, leaving behind a wife, two adult daughters, and a large community of friends and associates who are reeling to this day. There has been an outpouring of condolences and remembrances on both official and unofficial Red Cross channels, which I will not repeat here.

We were in the Bahamas in March, and thus unable to attend his funeral services. However, for better or worse, interment at Arlington National Cemetery is currently running on about a three to five month backlog, and so his interment was scheduled for yesterday, July 10, 2015. We had put it in our calendar in hopes that we would be back in the country and able to attend.

We met Jeff in Louisiana, on our very first deployment with the Red Cross in the aftermath of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Jeff was on temporary assignment to the Disaster Relief organization from his day job, in the IT organization elsewhere within the Red Cross. We became good friends over the course of several weeks in the field.

Not long afterwards, Jeff took a permanent assignment on the leadership team for the field technology arm of Disaster Services, assuming responsibility for networking, network operations, and the Emergency Communications Response Vehicles. From that point forward we worked with Jeff on each and every operation to which we were deployed, albeit at some distance, as we were usually in the field whereas he was typically at HQ in Washington. We did get to spend some time together in person a few times each year at training events, and whenever we were in DC.

We had met Jeff well after his retirement from the armed services, which he talked about only occasionally. He put in 25 years of service in the US Army, retiring at the rank of Sergeant First Class. His interment ceremony at Arlington was befitting such a career, begun at a difficult time to be in the Army.

We've been to Arlington before, and done the usual "tourist" things there, in my case more than once. I can not watch the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier without weeping, and the whole experience of standing on this hallowed ground is extremely powerful. It is even more so when attending an interment in person.

If you go to Arlington you will almost certainly see one; they conduct some 30-40 each day. I noted a group of tourists, remaining at a respectful distance, observing the ceremony. Even at a distance it is hard not to be moved by it. Jeff was interred with standard military honors, including an Army casket team, an Honor Guard, and a bugler.

We both managed to keep ourselves together through most of it, including the eulogy delivered by a Navy Chaplain. I think we both lost it a bit when the Honor Guard delivered the three-volley salute. By the time of the presentation of the flag we were both pretty weepy.

After the ceremony we made our way to the Officers Club at Joint Base Myer-Henderson Hall, adjacent to the cemetery, for a brief reception. There we reconnected with several Red Cross friends, some of whom we have not seen for many years. It was nice to see everyone, even under such unfortunate circumstances.

Jeff was a good friend, a valued coworker, a fellow geek, and one of the kindest people we've ever known. We miss him terribly. Rest in peace, dear friend.

(Photo: Theresa Snow, with permission of the Clapper family)

Best. Cat. Ever.

.

Our sweetest girl, George, passed away today peacefully in our arms.  While we did opt to assist her passing, ultimately kidney disease is what took her from us.  The disease first manifested itself back in 2008, when she passed a painful kidney stone as we were deploying to the Hurricane Dolly relief operation with the Red Cross.  This disease inevitably worsens, notwithstanding tightly controlled diet, subcutaneous hydration, and careful monitoring and veterinary care.  Honestly, we are so thankful for all the years we've had with her, well in excess of what we were told to expect.


George and Angel on their first full day at home.  They'll grow into those enormous ears.

George came into our lives as a kitten, on the same day as her "sister" Angel, who is really from a different litter.  They both came from the shelter in the spring of 2001.  After a full day of hissing at each other, they became good friends, at least at the start, and we have many photos of them sleeping together.  In their later years, George would bully Angel, and probably the best way to describe their adult relationship is détente.


Intertwined.

Shelters learned long ago that pets, even kittens and puppies, are more adoptable if they have names, and when we got them, we liked "Angel" enough to just keep it.  (We later discovered that it was somewhat misleading, as "angelic" is not how we would describe her.)  George's shelter name was "Patch," and neither of us cared for that name at all.  We brought her home and ruminated about names for several days.


Come to the light.

We discovered in short order that she liked nothing better than to be held and loved and even squeezed tightly, and I could not help being inspired by a childhood memory of this scene from the Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck cartoon, The Abominable Snow Rabbit:



The first time I said "I'm going to hold her, and love her, and squeeze her, and call her 'George'" the name stuck, and thus we had a female cat with a male name.  To the very end she still loved to be held closely, although she was so frail that we dared not squeeze.


Sometimes I squeeze you back, daddy.

George loved confined spaces, and we'd often find her peeking out of boxes or bags.  When she was still a tiny kitten with big ears she crawled into Louise's motorcycle helmet through the visor area, and then was perfectly content when we closed the visor.


Can we go for a ride?


Take me shopping.

We still lived in a condo when we got her, moving to a different condo just a few weeks later. Shortly after her third birthday, she began her peripatetic life, starting with the car as we shuttled back and forth between San Jose, California and Sumner, Washington for monthly checks on the progress of the bus.


Antimacatsar.

Unlike her sister, who suffered from a bit of motion sickness at the start, George settled in comfortably to the traveling life.  Moving onto the bus was a big adventure for her, with many new spaces to explore, and transitioning to the boat was better still.  They have been indoor cats their whole lives, but on the boat she was allowed to roam the decks at anchor, which she loved.

Each of us has had many pets over the years, and for the last 13 years we've always said that George was the best cat ever.  She loved people, would purr just from proximity, and climbed into the bed between us for warmth and cuddles.  We will miss her terribly.

She spent her final day doing what she loved -- climbing onto our laps for morning love on the aft deck, and lying on the deck in the sun.  We gave her a final dose of subcutaneous ringers last night so she would be as comfortable as possible today.  I am very thankful we were able to find a vet to come to the boat, so she could spend her final moments in comfortable and familiar surroundings.

Goodbye, George.  You will always be the best cat ever.

Thanks, everyone, for the sympathies

I can not tell you all how much it meant to us to hear from so many people. In addition to all the comments here on the blog, there were another three dozen or so comments and messages on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and of course, direct emails. It was very heartwarming.

It has been a difficult few days; living together in such a small space, there was really never a time when she was out of our sight, if not actually underfoot. So her absence is palpable at nearly every waking moment. Periodically one or the other of us will spontaneously burst into tears. We are very much still in the grieving phase and have not yet moved on to the inevitable healing.

I was able to keep myself very busy, which kept my mind off of it for the most part during most of the daytime. We are still parked in front of Star Equipment in North Las Vegas, and, with Ben gone to San Antonio for a seminar over the last couple days, I have been his proxy with the shop, and also helping Karen take care of business on their bus.

For anyone who has been following along with the saga of their generator, I will fill you in on the situation. While this particular problem is not with Odyssey, we have a very similar generator setup and it might just as easily have been us. The miscellaneous bus repair posts here have been enormously popular, some of our most-read, and so I am guessing that same set of folks would be interested in the outcome.

To refresh your memory, the generator had a variety of problems, many of which I was able to fix, but we could not stop it from overheating soon after startup. We traced the cause of the overheat to air in the system, and I could make the unit run by bleeding all the air out, but we could not find where it was getting in. A dark color to what ought to have been bright green coolant, though, gave me reason to suspect a leaking head gasket or a cracked head. Nevertheless, we had the cooling system checked and tested by a radiator shop, on the chance that the air was coming in elsewhere, and the off color to the coolant might be from using the wrong color to top off the system, or other contaminants.

After the radiator shop gave the system a clean bill of health, but the problem did not go away, we had to face the inevitable and we brought it here to Star Equipment to have the compression checked and/or the head pulled. We found coolant in the #2 cylinder as soon as the injectors were out, so no need to check the compression, and they went straight to pulling the head.



Sure enough, there was a pool of coolant sitting atop the #2 piston, but the other three cylinders were, thankfully, dry. The bad news, though, was that the head gasket, which would have been the least expensive problem, was intact. That meant a crack in the head or, worse, the block.



With the head up on the bench the crack was easy to spot, running between the injector port and the exhaust valve. It was just before 11am when we got the final diagnosis, and in another twenty minutes or so, Kevin the technician reported that he thought the block was good, albeit with a fairly rough surface on the #2 cylinder wall. He figured it might use a bit more oil but that the motor was serviceable if we replaced the head.



And thus I was off, along with BJ-the-parts-guy, to try to find a head. Now the Kubota V2203 is a very common engine -- it's used in Bobcats, semi-trailer refrigeration units, pumps, tractors, and a variety of other equipment, so finding parts should be fairly easy. Unfortunately, we could not find any heads in the Las Vegas area. I was certain there'd be a used takeoff from a reefer unit somewhere, but no luck.

By the end of the day we had identified three vendors around the country who could supply either a remanufactured head, complete with valves, or an aftermarket head either complete or bare. None was cheap, and to have it here by tomorrow will be another couple hundred. But we've got to leave Las Vegas by the end of tomorrow, and Ben and Karen will also be leaving for two weeks on Thursday, so it was either expedite the shipping, or wait two more weeks with the unit torn apart.

Ben and I had a quick meeting after he arrived back home last night, and he decided to bite the bullet and expedite a fully remanufactured Kubota head from North Dakota. The head should be here tomorrow morning, and they should have the whole thing back together by close of business. That may still be early enough for us to make our planned overnight stop in Pahrump.

Today I have agreed to help Ben put some new house batteries in the bus. To that end, we will leave shortly for Main Street Station Casino, downtown, which has an "RV park" (really just a parking lot with pedestals) that has 50-amp power for $17 per night. That will give them some power while we have the batteries out, and we'll be able to take advantage of the sewer hookup to rid ourselves of over 1,000 pounds of waste before climbing the big hills west of town.

Goodbye, old friend

With tears in my eyes, amid much sadness and grief, I must tell you that Opal passed away yesterday, peacefully in our arms.

The end came swiftly; just a week ago her health and stamina had declined to the point where she would not walk more than a few yards from the bus to do her business, and I had to either carry her or take her on the scooter when we were at B&B Coach. Nevertheless, she did not appear to be in any distress or pain, and she still wagged her tail every morning while Louise fixed breakfast. She was even climbing the stairs three times a day.

We knew, however, that the end was near, and she ate her last meal sometime Thursday, a few bits of wet food. On Friday she made her last excursion down the stairs on her own, and I had to carry her down and up the next few trips. By Saturday morning she was mostly just sleeping, and we could not persuade her to eat or drink, but she was still moving around alright. But when we returned in the afternoon after a short errand in the Mini with Ben, she was too weak to make even the one step from the penthouse to the living room, and we knew she was out of time. We are very grateful to Ben and Karen for lending us the Mini for Opal's final journey.

We can't be sure how old Opal was -- she was a rescue, and was somewhere between one and three years old when Louise got her from the shelter nearly 15 years ago. As far as we could tell, she was a purebred American Eskimo, with all the right hallmarks. She had not been socialized either with people or other dogs as a puppy, which always made her first encounter with strangers of either species a dicey proposition.

Louise already had Opal when we met, and I think it was Opal who gave me the final seal of approval as a dating prospect. Usually, Opal was also right on the money in predicting who we would or would not get along with as a couple, too. I retired a bit before Louise, and Opal and I bonded when I became the primary dog-walker in the family; Louise would often tell people later that I stole her dog.

Our first few car trips with Opal, back and forth between San Jose, California and Sumner, Washington while Odyssey was being converted, did not bode well for her future life aboard. She was so carsick on the first trip that we had to get her "happy pills" at the vet to calm her nerves. By the time Odyssey was complete, however, she had grown completely accustomed to the road, and didn't need any pills at all. She adapted to the bus in just a day or two.

Opal has marked her territory in 54 states -- 48 in the U.S. and six in Mexico. She was a very well-traveled dog. Not only did she travel well in the bus, but she traversed Mexico by train



and loved to ride on Louise's scooter



Whenever I had to drive the bus without Louise aboard, Opal would take her place on the passenger seat, leading us to observe that "Dog is my copilot."

Opal had a long, full life, and while it was hard to watch her decline in her later years, we will always remember her younger, more vibrant days, playing with her favorite toy



Even as little as a year ago, Opal could still be excited by new discoveries, such as when Louise briefly became foster-mom to Rudy the kitten



Opal hated being photographed, and would often turn her head away if she saw a camera. She finally deigned to look at least in the right general direction for our friend and photographer Carol at Fire Lake:


Photo: Carol Dwyer Photography

While we've been reminiscing about the good times, and going through happy photos today, we already miss her terribly. For nearly 14 years I've started and ended each day walking with Opal; the emptiness was palpable when I came to bed and later got up without a dog to walk. No one was in the kitchen wagging as Louise fixed her breakfast, perking her ears up as the spoon clanked against the bowl -- one of the few sounds she could still hear toward the end.

There is a void in our lives now that will not soon shrink, nor ever disappear. But life goes on aboard Odyssey, and George and Angel have been good company in our grief these last 19 hours. In the morning, I have work to do, and it will be good to have my mind occupied.




Opening photo by Karen Nace

Rest in peace, my friend

I am blogging today from my old home town of Milpitas, California, where I am staying on Hilton points at the Hampton Inn.

Yesterday was a grueling day. Louise dropped me off at FLL at 5:30am. Thankfully, having arrived well in time for my 7am flight, I was able to swap my center seat for a window, albeit in the last row, which does not recline. But at least I was able to lean up against the window and get another hour or so of shut-eye. Other than being full to the last seat, the flight to Phoenix was uneventful.

Unfortunately, SFO was apparently socked in with fog all morning, and so my connection was held on the ground in Phoenix for another hour. I lucked out on a seat again, as the agent in FLL was able to swap my center on this flight for an aisle seat behind the first-class partition, which got me off the plane earlier. Still, by the time my mother-in-law got me to my friend Eric's house in the hills, where I picked up the car I am borrowing for the visit, and I made my way to Milpitas, it was past 3pm, a total of over 13 hours since I left Odyssey in the morning.

When I arrived at the house, my friend Joe was already past consciousness and nearly comatose. Still, I sat and talked to him for several minutes, and I think (perhaps wishfully so) that he at least knew I was in the room, as his breathing changed and his eyes moved somewhat. Mostly, I spent the next three or four hours talking with his family. It was his wife's birthday, and we had cake and ice cream and sang Happy Birthday as cheerfully as we could. I stopped back in his room for a few minutes before heading to my hotel to crash.

Early this morning Joe passed away peacefully in his sleep. I am unspeakably sad right now, and it has been a rough morning. His family wanted to be left undisturbed for the day, although I offered whatever help I could provide. We will get together this evening over dinner. In the meantime, I have been staying in my hotel room, trying to catch up on the rest of my life.

The Hampton has free WiFi, and I took advantage of the connectivity to book some shore excursions for our cruise next week; on-line booking is only open another day or so, and it took my mind away from Milpitas. I booked a two-tank dive off Turneffe Atoll in Belize, and another two-tank dive on Palancar Reef off Cozumel. In between we are in Costa Maya, and I wanted to book the zip-line tour, but it is sold out. We'll probably just chill.

The Hampton also has a hot breakfast, and I went down twice, since I am still on east coast time. So I got breakfast and lunch out of it, if you will. It's actually quite a pleasant hotel. There is also a free internet workstation in the lobby with a printer attached, so I was able to print boarding passes for tomorrow, although, oddly, this blog is blocked on the lobby computer by Windows Parental Controls. I guess I need to quit with the colorful language...

The latest checkout I could get was 2pm, which is coming up in just a few minutes. I'll head out to run a few errands to bide my time until dinner; the car I am borrowing needs washer fluid, and I could use a couple of things at Fry's. If I have time, I will swing by our rental condo just to check on things. After dinner, I will head up to Woodside to return Eric's car (thanks, Eric!); he's schlepping me to the airport in the morning, so I will just spend tonight at his place. Tomorrow will be another full day of travel, I don't get back to Fort Lauderdale until after dinner time.

I am very thankful that I was able to get here in time to say goodbye to Joe. I wish I had been able to be here a day sooner, when he was still conscious. And as hard as it is to sit here in my hotel and just be with myself and my feelings, it brought closure for me to be with the family last night. I am actually looking forward to dinner, where I think pleasant memories will emerge through the grief.

Super Sunday: Sorrow

Every Sunday I write about one of the joys of full-timing

We have met some wonderful people in our travels, and especially enjoy getting to know other full-timers. Those relationships are a joy to us.

This week we learned with great sadness of the death of one of our full-timing friends. We met Judie and her husband about two years ago. They had been reading our blog and saw that we were passing nearby. They emailed us and arranged to meet us for dinner, and a friendship was born. We didn't see them often, but always enjoyed their company and their stories of life on the road.

Judie and her husband had been full-timers for many years and clearly were living their dream. When she was diagnosed with cancer, they were able to make one last long trip in their rig to visit friends and family all over the U.S. In her final months they parked in one place near her family and we were able to visit a few times.

Judie was only in her mid-60s when she passed away, which is "traditional" retirement age. I hope that memories of their time together traveling the country will give her husband some comfort. I'm so glad we had a chance to meet Judie and get to know her a little bit. Rest in Peace, my friend.

Louise and I were extremely saddened to learn this evening of the passing of one of our dear friends, Clarke Stanley. We met Clarke and his wife, Leslie, through motorcyling, and shared a special kinship with them, as we were often the only two couples at a rally who arrived on four separate motorcycles. We enjoyed many spirited rides with them, and almost as many meals.

Clarke and Leslie have, for many years, served as the consumate hosts of our very favorite annual rally in their home town of San Luis Obispo, California. Universally loved by everyone in the group, Clarke will be sorely missed. A brief memorial is on the California HSTA web page here.

We had hoped to see Clarke last week at the WeStar rally in Diamond Lake, but we got tied up at the paint shop. We were only 120 miles away, though, and, in hindsight, we could have made more of an effort to be there. Clarke died on his way home from that rally. We are reminded that our friends and family are the most valuable things in our lives, and every opportunity to spend time together is precious.

Clarke was almost exactly my father's age. Interestingly, they both served in Occupation Forces Japan at about the same time. Watching Clarke and Leslie ride together and interact with each other and their friends has always inspired me, and I saw in them a model for what our lives could be like in another thirty years -- still riding, still enjoying life to the fullest, and still very much in love.

Goodbye, Clarke. We miss you.