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  • Writer's pictureSarah Gibbs Underhill

Prodigals' Return: Manzanita in America Part 1/ Baltimore to Saugerties, Fall 1983/ Home to the Hudson

Updated: Apr 15




[ Dave and Sarah, the nautical nomads, have just returned from a three year sojourn of cruising around Europe in their sixteen foot open lifeboat. Their next goal: to meet up with the ore freighter which carried the lifeboat to Baltimore harbor, and then find a winter home for themselves and the boat, potentially in their old stomping grounds in the Hudson river valley.]


September 30

Camped on an island in the Chesapeake Bay


Emma Gibson, my pal from the Alaska wilderness kayaking adventure in Prince William Sound, arrived in Connecticut in time to drive David and I down to Baltimore to rendezvous with the cargo ship which was bringing our lifeboat from Norway. As we prepared to leave his parents' house, Davd's ex-wife Patricia called, very upset over money. She said she might be willing to let their daughter Mary live with us "for a year."

On arriving in Baltimore, the weather was muggy and hot. We found the quay where the container ship "Falcon", was to arrive carrying "Manzanita, and then went downtown to the fancy mall at the harbor, where we wandered around in a daze, had a cup of tea, and ate at an Italian restaurant. Then we went in search of a place to sleep. Ended up parking in a suburban neighborhood with David sleeping on someone's lawn and Emma and I in the car talking. Finally we drifted off to sleep. The alarm clock rang at 5:00 a.m. and we stumbled off to Mr. Donut to drink coffee. Then to the docks.

"Falcon" was there. The captain observed us arriving and called to us to come on board to speak with the customs agent. "You have kept your word", he told us solemnly. The sun was rising. The customs guy gave us no trouble. The boat was offloaded. Emma left. We went on board to thank the mate and captain and were offered breakfast in the Ship's Mess, which we accepted gladly.

Eventually we rowed off across the harbor. It was a calm, sunny morning. We ran around in town after charts, food, and water and then were able to sail out of the harbor, tooting our horn at the "Falcon" as she loomed above us, and so on out into the bay.

We came about ten or twelve miles and found a sandy island covered with shade trees. We expected the signs on the beach to say "Target Range- No Trespassing" but they said "Wildlife Sanctuary- Visitors Welcome". We swam in the clear water and camped on the sand. The wind is favorable again this morning. It's thirty miles from here to the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal.


Set. 21

Delaware City, Delaware.

We are perched at the northern end of the southern, or western, shore of the Delaware Bay. Yesterday we sped downwind all day, which was exhausting, covering the 30 miles to the canal entrance. The "Falcon" chugged past us, bound for the canal on the way to Quebec. We drifted into the canal, where a strong current was with us. Cooked dinner in the boat, tied up to a pier where guys were catching catfish. After dark we drifted further in to Chesapeake City, tied up to a government pier and set up the tent on a government lawn.

Up early, we rowed madly across the canal in a half awake state, only to find that all the good reasonable stores and coffee shops were back on the other side. We bought milk and tea at the exorbitant yacht basin ripoff store, and then just drifted on our way with the current rather than fight it to get to the coffee shop.

We had no chart of the canal and were uncertain about how long it was. But we managed to get through, alternately rowing and sailing in the fitful, squally weather. Fortunately the current was with us almost all the way through. Skies were overcast, with rumbles of thunder. It began to rain in earnest just as we started sailing out the final stretch. It was blowing from the southeast, and all we could do was run before it up to this little town. Here we will wait for it to go northwest, which it should do, we hope, after this mess of rain goes over. We found the first diner and are coffeeing up. It's about fifty miles to Cape May.


Sept 23

Bivalve, New Jersey. Had a very long involved dream last night of leaving Europe, parting from friends, trying to get "Manzanita" up a narrow impossible canal through city streets. Woken by a crash as "Manza" was banged into the hull of the boat we're sleeping on by a wake.

Yesterday the skies were clear when we woke, after torrential rain all night. We packed up our soggy kit and sailed out into the Delaware. Speeding downwind against the tide through a chocolate colored chop, we skirted the Electric Island nuclear power plant, navigating by road map as we had no chart of the upper end of the bay. This was almost our undoing as we went barreling over a submerged jetty which seemed to spring out of nowhere, hitting it twice but getting by, shouting and crying hysterically. We then proceeded to get more lost than we have ever been that I can remember, even when we had located some buoys on the chart. The coast is low lying and featureless, the bay choppy enough and our speed great enough to cause much confusion. We didn't trust our compass, and at one point located ourselves as being in the middle of an oyster grounds by all the "numerous stakes and obstructions", as the chart called them, that we were having to avoid. By mid afternoon we were trying to find some "position approximate" buoys so we could decide whether to press on for Cape May all in one day, but we never found them and ended up reaching across a four foot deep bay and tacking up the Maurice River, the entrance to which was virtually invisible in the swamps.

Up the river we found some old oyster dredging boats, a forlorn looking bar, and beaches white with oyster shells. A friendly fisherman let us sleep on his boat, the "Anthony Cline". This morning I think we'll drift upstream to town and then head back down and to Cape May when the tide turns.


Sept. 24

Wildwood, New Jersey. Yesterday morning we drifted upstream to a dock where piles of putrid dredge siftings, mud and clam shells and dead crabs, rotted in the sun. A 77 year old man gave us a ride to the market. We walked back to the boat and then went to the Bivalve Packing Company and bought a half pint of raw shelled oysters for $1.50. Ate them with soy sauce and then were able to sail out the river mouth. The jib fell down just as we were close reaching away from the shoals at the entrance, so we had to row briefly, then repaired the halyard and set off again.

We reached out across the muddy chop. The wind was fluky, sometimes going light, then picking up again. Landmarks were few and we were worried about getting set down on to shore too fast, but in the end we spotted the entrance markers to the Cape May Canal, and were able to sail right through the canal to the harbor.

We got ashore, just before the marina closed up, to purchase our next chart. Ate a dinner of fried clams from a takeout place and set up the tent on the lawn of some big empty house. Slept well and late. We are ready to work our way up the Jersey coast, using the inland route when necessary.

This morning, the wind is still northwest. We have poked our way four miles up the New Jersey Intracoastal Waterway, tacking, rowing, reaching, against the current , beleaguered by many power boat wakes . We are surrounded by marsh lands: gulls, terns, egrets, fish jumping, New Jerseyites shouting wildly at us as they speed past. The weather is fair. We're in the perverse position of hoping for foul weather, which should bring southerly winds.


Sept. 25

Townshend Inlet . Waiting out a foul tide. We have progressed about one mile today so far. Slept on the boat last night anchored in the middle of a shallow bay , aground during the night. We have really got to start playing the tides , getting up at odd hours of the day and night, if we want to get anywhere in these weather conditions. The wind has veered a little and we hope it continues to do so. The sky is clear; there's almost too much sun.


Sept. 26

Ocean City. We actually got up at midnight to ride the tide. I'm sitting on someone's dilapidated dock with a view of a nuclear power plant. More intense and bizarre dreams last night of traveling through strange lands, as my subconscious processes being back in the States.


Sept. 27

Tacking with the current in Great Bay. Semi exhausted from another midnight session with the tide last night. We snuck through Atlantic City at midnight, dazzled by the neon even from a distance. Now we're out of the narrow inlet country and the going should get a little more reasonable.

Yesterday we spent most of the daylight hours tied up to someone's quay, waiting for the tide to change. When it did, we could drift a scant mile or two before being stopped by opposing current from the next inlet. Today we're able to sail a little, and can ride the tide longer distances.


Sept. 28

Beach Haven, New Jersey. The inner depths of New Jersey are revealed to us. A hurricane or "tropical disturbance" of some sort is brewing just south of us, in the Chesapeake, actually. We are sitting in a classic linoleum and chrome and mirrored diner, with little jukeboxes on each table and five kinds of pie.

Yesterday, after tacking, we rowed with the current through a narrow winding estuary. Anchored when we got down to Little Egg Inlet to wait for the flood, cooked dinner, and left at sunset. I fell asleep but David rowed and sailed down to Beach Haven, where we tied up around 11:00 pm.

This morning we awoke to strong northeast headwinds and didn't leave with the tide as usual, as had been our plan. The wind was unusually warm for a north wind. We spent the day in the library. The forecast is for more and stronger winds the next two days. We are halfway up the New Jersey coast, impatient for the journey to end and afraid of what will happen when it does.


Sept. 29

Still at a complete standstill due to the northeast gale caused by "Tropical Storm Dean". We are safely tucked away on the inland side and plan to remain "inside" the coast until just before Sandy Hook. We may be able to leave tomorrow as the wind is supposed to shift. It's nice to be forced to take it easy as we've been pushing pretty hard lately.


Sept. 30

The third day dawns in Beach Haven. The wind has not gone east yet, though it's supposed to today and maybe even southeast by tonight. Last night we started off sleeping out in the air rather than in the tent, in the lee of a building. The night before that we had used the tent but it had been like trying to sleep in the belly of a goat doing the fandango, with the wind flapping it around. It started to drizzle in the middle of the night and we, half asleep, tried to deny this, muttering "it's only a squall passing over". But in the end we were obliged to set the tent up to avoid a complete drenching.

All is damp this morning, and it looks like it'll rain on and off all day. It's back to the library for us until the wind shifts. The boat is full of water, and needs to be bailed out, but we've got bellies full of pork roll and hot tea. Wind still blowng a gale.


Oct. 2

Yesterday there was dense fog, and rain in the morning, but the wind was down. We spent the morning in various diners, reading the paper and bullshitting with the local boat nuts, Ken and Donna, who are fixing up a catamaran to go to the Bahamas.

Then we set out rowing in wind, rain, and fog. We had the current with us so just rowed buoy to buoy, navigating by compass. We went under the bridge at Surf City and finally were able to sail a little. As it got dark we discovered neither flashlight was working, but David got one to function while I stood by with a flare, craning my neck to try and locate the various outboard engines we could hear off in the gloom.

We sailed until we bumped into the shore, finding a marina by chance. We had eaten soup and sandwiches on the boat so didn't bother to cook a meal, just set up the tent on shore and slept. Torrents of rain during the night and a gray, still morning.

Crawled out of the tent this morning in a damp state. Ate our oatmeal and raisins and rowed away under glowering skies but no fog. Rowed until a breeze came up, west, now a bit north of west, and we are able to sail, close reaching up towards Manasquon. We won't be far from Manasquon tonight. Then we have to go out into the ocean for the first time, a five mile stretch to Shark River, then a twenty miler to Sandy Hook. Then New York Bay.

The wind is warm and the sky trying to clear a little, the boat gradually drying out. This journal is falling apart due to frequent soakings. Foul weather gear is spread out to dry.

It feels good to be moving again. Our impatience with the weather made us feel trapped. Not that we'll feel any less so when the trip is over. I predict we'll both find work in Ridgfield. David is hoping for some work on the "Clearwater" or in that clique in general. Today we're just delighted to be approaching the end of New Jersey.


Oct. 4

Continuing on our way. The wind died down around sunset so we rowed up to the Point Pleasant Canal. As we went by one of the big fancy houses, we were accosted and invited for a drink by what turned out to be some stock brokers. So we drank a beer with them on their dock and watched the sunset, contemplating each other's extremely different lifestyles.


Rowed the rest of the way to the canal and found the current against us, also a sign saying "Beware Dangerous Currents" so we tied to a quay and cooked dinner. Proceeded in the dark, drifting along the canal giving an occasional pull on the oars, or rather push, as we were sitting facing forward, as we do sometimes so we can see ahead of us. The current was indeed racing under the bridges so it was a fast ride. Out into the Manasquon River, tide still with us, down under one bridge until just before the railroad bridge with a three foot vertical clearance, which we couldn't see to tell whether it was open or shut until a train went over it. We rowed to get out of the current and ended up anchoring off to the side in front of a slip way, and slept on the boat.

Early in the morning we were awoken by a voice on shore saying that a boat was coming up on the slip so we'd have to move. The voice went on to invite us ashore for coffee, which we gladly accepted. Turned out a young couple run the slip, very nice and enthusiastic. We drank coffee and waited for the boat to appear to be slipped, took showers and ate eggs and toast. They took us to the store and gave us brillo pads and wished us good luck.

We drifted out of the inlet on the last of the ebb, into the Atlantic at last. A bit of swell from the east, almost no wind. But to our delight and amazement a fair breeze sprang up, west southwest, fitful at first but strong enough to get us up to Sandy Hook by night fall, with the help of the tide. It took a few hours of rowing to actually get around the hook, in the dark, against the tide and wind, and there was no lee so Sandy Hook Bay was choppy and awful. We anchored near the shore, cooked dinner in a haphazard fashion in the wildly pitching boat, and then rowed hopefully up to where some yachts were anchored. This spot was no better and we attempted to sleep for a few hours, watching the yacht crews rushing around changing their anchors or leaving altogether. Finally David frantically insisted we row to find some Coast Guard docks which were somewhere in the area .This we did, and were glad of it as they offered some protection from the wind and current, which had been so strong where we were anchored that we lay to the current , not the waves, and were consequently buffeted about more than usual.

So we slept, with a bow anchor out and our stern tied to a yacht's mooring buoy. This morning is fair, wind still westerly, flood tide around noon. New York Harbor looms ahead of us. We have no charts.


Oct 5

Drifting past Manhattan. Yesterday morning we had all morning to ebb out of Sandy Hook Bay. Concerned Coastguardsmen gave us a chart of New York harbor. At noon we were anchored in the lower bay, waiting for the flood in the afternoon calm under a blazing sky. We rowed and then a little miracle happened again: a fair breeze. It took us all day to get to the Narrows, where we lost the wind for a bit. Under the Verrazano Bridge we went, and up past Staten Island. As the sun was getting ready to set, we avoided the ferries, sailed again, rowed by the Statue of Liberty, and anchored behind Ellis Island as the skyline lit up in all its sinister glory. We cooked and slept. Up at various times in the night to see when the flood would begin again. At about 5:00 am the current changed, sending a parade of flotsam careening our way.

Still a fair breeze, still dark. We sailed away drinking our tea from our moldy old plastic thermos and avoiding the river traffic. Tugs slid silently out of their lairs, surprising us around the corner of some tumbledown pier. A strange landscape.

Sunrise. The flood is with us at the moment, and we hope to ride it out of the environs of the city. We saw the schooner "Pioneer" and the yacht"Petrel" sailing in the harbor last night. David wanted to shout to them, "We're here ! We're here!"


Oct. 6

Anthony's Nose in the Hudson Highlands. Yesterday morning we sailed and rowed and were tideswept up past the city. It was a fair and sunny day, hazy, south wind, getting hotter all the time. We drifted under the George Washington bridge, took off our clothes and sunbathed. The wind picked up enough so that we could sail a little against the ebb when it started up, but we soon ground to a halt and managed to sail over to the Palisades Boat Club just above Yonkers.

The members let us tie up to the wharf, fed us cokes and directed us to the nearest supermarket, in Hastings. We took a bus there. It was 80 degrees. We went down to the Anaconda Copper Company on the river and located the good ship "Sojourner Truth", one of "Clearwater"s smaller versions, tied up next to her clubhouse, painted canary yellow. No one was around, but it was good to see her in the water.

Back to the Palisades Club just as the flood started again. South wind was going strong and it felt like a thunderstorm. We talked to the guys at the club some more. They filled our thermos with coffee, gave us a 1964 chart of the next stretch of the river, which proved invaluable, and described the route up from the Hudson through various canals to the St. Lawrence.

We set off, being warned of imminent rain shower and 25 knots of south wind directly followed by same from the north. Sure enough, we had barely got our foul weather gear on when it commenced pouring with rain, with thunder and lightning marching from the west bank to the east.

We sailed along as darkness fell, trying various combinations of sail as the wind fluked and fluctuated: full sail , jib alone, main alone, jib and reefed main, reefed main alone. The chart notwithstanding, we were often confused going for buoys in the chop of Haverstraw Bay, trying to avoid the channel and keep out of the way of the Hudson River tug traffic. Somehow we made it to Indian Point , drinking coffee and frying up some pork with onions and tomatoes when the rain subsided.

Then the wind died, although the current was still strong with us. So we rowed for a short time; then the cold front made itself known with a blast of north wind coming out of the Highlands, and the sky suddenly cleared. We tightened up and were heading for the Bear Mountain Bridge when a southbound tug appeared. We panicked and fell way off, sailed over to the bank and out of his way. Tried a couple of feeble tacks as he went by, but blasted by puffs of wind we in the end turned tail and fled, waring ship, sailing to shore, and rowing a short way past Fish Island to the protection of a minuscule point of land sticking out by the railroad tacks. There we anchored in the mud in five feet of water and slept, as trains barreled by about fifteen yards from us.

Woke up at 6:00 am expecting the flood. Rowed around the little point only to find wind and current still resolutely against us. It is a clear day, not too cold. We're anchored by the railroad embankment again, but in 35 feet of water, dropping off to 113 nearby, waiting for the flood. Maybe we'll get up to the town of Garrison today to see if our old friend and shipmate from the "Clearwater", Patrick Wadden, is at home.


Oct. 7

Full circle. We rowed, and even sailed a little, the few miles up to Garrison and anchored off the town park on a sunny morning. It's a small place, so we had no t trouble finding first Patrick's studio, all full of immense puppets, masks, swaths of bright colored material. Then we found Patrick himself, and his sweetheart Marlena, ensconced in apartment in part of a whole house rented by the Clearwater crew.

Apparently times are good for the river environmental movement. There is money for expansion of programs, even whispers of building a second big boat. And festivals, pumpkins, winter maintenance, double crews.

Then we saw the "Clearwater" motoring onto the pier across the river at West Point. We rowed over for a visit and were warmly welcomed by the crew, none of whom we knew or vice versa, and before long were invited to crew for the weekend while a bunch of them took time off.

So last night "Manza" was tied up behind Mama Duck "Clearwater" while we ate potato casserole with the crew in the main cabin and gazed about in wonder at the familiar, yet different boat, our old home. After three years away, we have come full circle.

Today we're in Poughkeepsie. We will go up to Kingston , a mere ten miles from Saugerties where the Lynches apparently have not forgotten us. We went out on an Education sail today and will do two tomorrow. It's so absurd, incredible to be back here, and with Manza. All we can do is accept it calmly. It's a beautiful bright October day.


Oct. 11

Saugerties, Esopus Creek, Lynch's Marina. We've sailed three days or so, with school programs, wind, cold weather, night transits, anchor raisings, Manza towing behind. The creek is green and peaceful. We've spoken to Connie Lynch and his sidekick Eddie O'Hara. Gray skies. Tomorrow "Clearwater" will leave and we'll remain here, or drift back down to Kingston to try to get the Maritime Museum to rent us some space. Limbo limbo time. Good music this morning down in the main cabin. Talk of doing winter maintenance here. Talk is cheap.


Ot. 16

Ridgefield. I'm here alone, that is without David. He elected to stay on the boat for the weekend, but I wanted to get about three years worth of laundry done so I came back here, to his parents' house. I'll go back in two days, alledgedly meet him, and then we will see about accompanying "Clearwater" in Manza for three days of the Pumpkin Sail festivities.

Sloop "Woody Guthrie" arrived in Saugerties this afternoon before "Clearwater" left. Now they should both be in Albany and the festival beginning.

Connie's sister Nell, who seems to make the decisions around Lynch's Marina, likes us well enough to offer us her husband Tike's empty boat shed to keep "Manzanita" in for the winter. In exchange, David fixed the skirt on her garage door, raked leaves , and we moved some radiators and will do other odd jobs.

David was looking for work around Kingston when I left, either something with Andy Mele at his boat repair woodshop, or anything he can find. We had slept two nights in one of the Lynch's warehouses, and that began to get nerve wracking for me. Why impose on them when we might be there all winter working, let alone storing Manza there.

Fall rains, chilly days. David resisted coming back to Ridgefield. His mother's reaction was "he's scared to get within telephone reach of Patricia "[his ex-wife and mother of his daughter, Mary.] I miss him but am also glad to be here. I feel welcome despite the odd circumstances.

Stayed up late last night watching an old Marlene Dietrich film. Today I went to church with David's parents . His brother Bob was here fixing one of his sports cars. I took a walk with Kay, and sit talking and watching TV with Nana, the Grandmother. Paying dues. Living here for more than a week is hard to face, but short term is fine. Roast leg of lamb , unlimited washing machine use, hanging my clothes up in a closet. I can return to the boat traveling light. There seems to be plenty of work around here for David, if he can bear to do it. And pessimism prevails as to whether Patricia will really let Mary live with us.

I'm tired and feel the onset of the annual chaos of locating ourselves for the winter. David wants to write. He's crazy. I bet the "Clearwater" hires us for the winter. They're crazy too. And I'm well aware that I'm no different.


Oct. 17

Tomorrow I'll go back to the river and my lurking river rat. Will he be there? Maybe he's been working, or just smoking dope with some sorceress from Woodstock. Or camping and sleeping in the reeds with the duck hunters shooting at him.

The journey is over and we are back in our homeland, I keep pedantically reminding myself. My native culture is unspeakably bizarre. I'm facing the close of my 25th year penniless, unemployed, unskilled, slightly in debt, and with no place to live. To top it off I'm determined to get pregnant within the next year.

I miss David and I still love him, but we live in such an extreme way that it's a wonder we're still on speaking terms at all. I'm pretty confident that I can hang on to him. Do I want to ?

Thinking about when we first left the US, hitchhiking on sailboats. The thrill of waking up inside the harbor at St. Georges, Bermuda after having such a struggle to get there. Seeing the palms, the pink and yellow stuccoed buildings, the glaring sun on the corrugated roofs. Asking the walleyed French Canadian sailor, "How do say 'laundromat' in French?". "You just say 'laundromat'" He didn't mention that I probably wouldn't see the inside of one for quite some time, as they were nonexistent outside of the United States. A few months later I was hitchhiking with my laundry to wash it in an abandoned cistern on St. Bart's.


When Madeline Lynch saw me she said ,"Sarah, you look like you've grown up," the nicest thing she could have said, though inaccurate. I've lost a little baby fat, is all. Dream not of traveling but of settling.

But if we do get settled, how long before severe insanity sets in?

One quick way to find out.

Here at the Hvals' I get a taste of the pressures that worked on David all his life. I enjoy spending time with his Grandmother, taking lessons in matriarchal order, ironing the pretty new dresses I found in the dumpster in Gibraltar and have never worn.

A year ago we were in France, nearly broke. Winter was coming on as it is now. My fingernails were falling off. The magic of the good luck that brought us through still astounds me: the power of coincidence, the flexibility we had to take advantage of it instantly.

Flexibility- hah! We were desperate . As we are now.

But as Danny, the young redneck expatriate Palma airbrush artist said, "Hell, if we can survive in Palma, working illegally, hustling our asses off, we can certainly make it in the States ."

[His other quotable quote: "If I want a sailboat, I'll charter one!"]

Dreams of being a placid tofu maker on East Valley Road after finishing the cabin my Dad had half constructed there. Or homesteading on David's ten acre plot, complete with tumbledown cabin, just over the Canadian border in New Brunswick, fifteen miles from an arm of the Bay of Fundy. There's a good well on the property, and fierce swarms of black flies in May and June.

Tomorrow I'll go back tot he creek wearing my Spanish boots of Spanish leather that Antonia gave me ["Jay doesn't like me to wear them, he says they're too masculine."], the denim skirt Cari gave me in, the denim jacket that Emma gave me. I have been clothed by women. In my pockets, two Gibson guitar picks , my knife, and a lucky rock that Nancy, y best friends from High School, brought me from a lake in Montana, polished smooth dark green with red veins running through it.

Kay is lying on the sofa, while Harold talks on the phone. We're watching color TV, an old movie with Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren, mingled with ads for Chevrolets, diapers, mouthwash, whitening detergent. Nana is in her apartment, refusing to "be a bother" and spend the evening with her daughter, and probably watching the same movie on her TV in the next room. Tomorrow night they're expecting the killing frost.

Here up in the north, we nordic types, home to roost, are thin blooded after the tropics.

Harold has now gone to a meeting and both Kay and Nana have gone to sleep in front of the tube. A friend of Dave's just called to tell us about more work for David: boat repair, restaurant repair. There's not so much of a recession here in Ridgefield. The cheapest rent going is $300 a month. On the screen, Spanish knights are jousting and Sophia's dressed in black.

Our "Clearwater" friend Karen Hinderstein, when she saw David and I again, asked, " are you still together? I mean, are you married, or something?" All I could do was reply that we were still on speaking terms. And although Emma's almost instantaneous verdict was thumbs down, I want to stay with David, although he 's always quick to claim that "we're getting sick of each other" as soon as anything goes wrong.

Optimism springs eternal. His family has accepted me, introducing me as "our daughter-in-law, well almost", feeding me, letting me stay here. Time invested, time spent. Years of knowing, exploring, tolerating, loving each other. Many times when we had nothing but each other.

Here we are surrounded, bombarded by the overstimulating miasma of our culture: objects, people, ideas, images familiar and new. I hope we don't lose sight of each other, don't lose each other here.





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