A friend recently suggested I may be a bit too obsessed with the weather. I won’t deny it. In fact, I’ll readily admit I am a lot obsessed with the weather. I’m one of those people who susbcribes to a personal weather forecast for my lat/long. I regularly check for impending showers on the Doppler radar.

My friend’s suggestion did set me to contemplating why I’m a weather addict though.  I believe there are several reasons:

1. I live (and have lived most of my life) in meteorologically dynamic Western Washington. This area is a weatherman’s dream or nightmare. Big forces (Pacific Ocean, continental shape) combine with smaller, more immediate, geographical forces (Cascade & Olympic Mountains; Strait of Juan de Fuca & Puget Sound) creating weather systems which are channeled in infinitely variable scenarios over the dramatic geography.  Even in spring and summer, stable air masses are short lived. The layered look in outdoor apparel may have been invented here – if you are an outdoor person, you need to be prepared for almost any weather, almost every day.

2. I crewed, lived aboard and cruised on small sailboats for about 20 years - primarily between Puget Sound and Alaska. Take this area’s dynamic weather, add a small boat on the large sea, and you up the ante on your weather obsession. Although I did crew on a couple of sailboats where the standard policy was “no-matter-what-the-weather,” I tried to avoid that Deadliest Catch weather whenever possible. You avoid deadly weather by giving yourself a flexible schedule, educating yourself and by staying in tune – not just listening to forecasts, though they become elemental; but also watching the clouds, sea conditions and barometric pressure. I believe weather awareness becomes innate to most long-time boaters – on sailboats it’s even more critical. Wind is your primary propulsion – to use it, you have to be out in it. Watching the weather becomes integral and habitual – a hard habit to kick.

3. And now – though Griz and I have a perfectly comfortable house and a large heated shop – we live in the forest. It is a rare day when we are not outside for projects or pure pleasure. Weather continues to be integral to our lives. Keeping an eye on the forecasts and the Doppler radar allows me to take best advantage of the day. I admit, weather is rarely as critical now as it was when we were living aboard. We hardly notice some big storms that set people talking – after all, how big can a storm be if it doesn’t move your home. But there are some weather risks associated with living among tall trees. We expect periodic power outages and it really isn’t very wise to go for a casual walk in a big wind. You also have to be cautious in moderate wind – one reason old evergreens get so old – they shed unnecessary branches to reduce their sail area for the big storms. Big limbs can be just as deadly as a whole tree if you aren’t alert. Unless it’s very calm out, I leave the iPod behind on longer walks. Listening for that distinctive crack (or unexpected rustle) is just part of being forest smart.

4. And the most recent development in my weather obsession comes from many years of a life outdoors and many years of life in general. Mid-life brings with it little reminders of every injury and repetitive stress in your history. Many of those little reminders seem accentuated by weather change. My body’s more sensitive to voluntary abuse than when I was younger:  I’m more uncomfortable in (and resist tackling the hardest jobs in) extreme heat or cold. Fortunately, I can still do most things I did when younger – but my body makes more noise in the process and with some activities, it’s wise to pace myself. Keeping an eye on the weather allows me to set that pace or if necessary, take a day off.  Wisdom of us ancients: “Nothing wrong with a snow day – even in the middle of summer.”

More often we celebrate our first date  – which was also the day Mount St. Helens erupted, May 18, 1980. We weren’t in the path of volcanic destruction, but you could see the ash plume from Seattle (150 miles north). There is great symbolism in having started our relationship on such an explosive day.

The reason we rarely celebrate our anniversary, is we actually “got married” for practical reasons, not romantic ones (no, I was not pregnant). We’d known each other for 21 months and lived together for 18; but we’d both been married before and were convinced the success and romance of our bond rested at least partially on our unmarriedness.

There was no entreaty on bended knee, no flowers, no diamond ring – there was simply a mutual discussion resulting from Griz’ acceptance of a job on the opposite coast. Would I go with him? Of, course.

Should we get married to salve the concerns of my parents and legitimize Griz’ image with the conservative organization he’d  joined? Perhaps.

Should we get married so I could receive health and flight benefits? Probably. [This pre-dates domestic partnerships qualifying for spousal benefits.]

Griz and I waxed philosophically at least several minutes after addressing the practical matters. Neither of us had fond memories of  being married, but in the end we concluded we should marry – at least legally. Our objective was to not allow marriage to change our relationship: there would be no big wedding, neither of us would wear rings, I would not change my name. We would try to limit the marriage part of our relationship to “just that piece of paper.” We would call each other partners, not husband and wife – we were driven to avoid the roles.

It was a very small wedding – Griz and me, my parents and my first cousin. It was a cold February day in south Seattle, but the sun was out – so we walked outside with Justice-of-the-Peace Rev. Zady Evans to her muddy garden. Her chapel, the AAA Vagabond Ministry, was in the basement of her home where she also ran an answering service consisting of a bank of phones that actually rang. It was quieter in the garden, even though the view overlooked a freeway.

We wrote our own vows. When a friend of mine read them later, she said they were more like “un-vows.” She’s a big wedding person – she’s had several more weddings since then. Here’s what Griz and I committed to (and what we didn’t):

“I commit to you my love, friendship and support, deeply and sincerely; and I value as highly the love, friendship and support which I receive from you.

“Your well-being, growth, fulfillment and happiness are as important to me as my own. My well-being, growth, fulfillment and happiness are enhanced by your presence in my life.

“I commit to always honestly confide in you my innermost feelings, desires, fears and ideas as they evolve through time and circumstance, that no barrier to our closeness may develop through lack of knowledge in one another.

“I commit my best understanding and consideration of your innermost feelings, desires, fears and ideas as you honestly and openly express them to me.

“I commit to share my life with you in love and respect, facing together the demands and rewards,  joys and frustrations of this lifetime; so long as our mutual and individual happiness is promoted by this union.”

Has it all been bliss?  Of course not. Put two “smarties” under one roof and sometimes “there will be blood“ - at least emotionally. Most of the dangerous explosions took place in the first 10 years.  We learned that “open and honest” communication is much harder than it sounds. We discovered we actually spoke quite different languages. Griz spoke precision male engineer, I spoke fuzzy female artist.

We learned the rhythms of each other’s language, but we also learned how to hurt each other – and ultimately how to choose not to.  I learned how to fight, and why sometimes it’s necessary. Griz learned how not to fight and why volume sometimes diminishes the effectiveness of your message. We both learned “winning” is always a shallow victory between lovers.

At one point during those first 10 years, while living aboard, with both of us working way too much and spending too little time together, we actually faced a cusp in which ”our mutual and individual happiness” was not being promoted by our union. It hurt to admit it; but rather than fleeing, we honestly addressed why and we got through it – individually and collectively better for the crisis.

I don’t believe there is any one formula for what works in a spousal relationship. But what works for Griz and me is love based on open communication, mutual respect, shared laughter – and especially critical early on - engaging sex to fall back on when all other forms of communication fail.

“A difference of tastes in jokes is a great strain on the affections.” -  George Eliot

For us, the shared laughter is critical. It continues to fortify our bond. You have to be able to get over yourselves and experience mutual joy – stimulate each other’s sense of humor – face together the ridiculousness of your common predicament. We fall back on laughter even in the worst of times.

Sometime after those first 10 years, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when, we wandered into “ the comfort zone.”  Anyone in a long-term, successful relationship understands this. (I know, it sounds like a horrible condition to the very young. When I was young, I too considered comfort a disastrous relationship outcome. “Comfortable as an old shoe?”)

But it’s not that kind of comfort.  It’s the point where hostilies end, competition is over. It’s the point where you start empowering each other -  stimulating each other’s creativity. When you get there, you also notice it’s happening without having to work at it.  There’s an ease between you – that’s the comfort part. The rough edges are gone. You are a well-oiled, spontaneously occurring, mutually supportive  team.

I’m sure it happens faster for some people, and never occurs for others.  It’s the point when the word “family” truly represents you and your spouse (and sometimes your children). You still value your extended family and friends, but you wake up one day and realize your primary bond is clearly the gestalt between you and your mate; and whatever is promoting this gestalt is relatively effortless. You truly “get” each other. You prefer each other’s company over that of others. When you see each other across a room, in or out of a crowd, you emotionally experience a reassuring, uplifting, positive “Ah!”

“Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer”  – Han Suyin

Our relationship gestalt also incorporates our mutual respect for each other’s alone time. Our common hermit natures require this. We lived on sailboats for half of our relationship, and we have also run several small businesses together. We have probably spent more time in proximity than many couples who’ve been together for 50 years. But we also know how to be in each other’s proximity without intruding on each other.  Our interdependence is strengthened by our independence.

We have many things in common, but we’re different enough to maintain a healthy and stimulating friction. Yes, we still argue over some things and even get angry with each other from time to time, but our recovery time from any disagreement is spontaneous and now almost instantaneous.

For me, this is the gravy of a healthy, long-term relationship. The simplest way I can think of to describe it is “loving peace.” It’s a relationship status I feel very fortunate to have reached. I hope everyone who desires it experiences it at least once in their lives.

I hope the world learns to desire it and experiences it someday.

The primary reason for our benign winters is, of course, that big, salty heat sink – the Pacific Ocean. The Alaskan Peninsula helps, too – it prevents the cold Arctic Ocean water from mingling much with the (relatively) warm Pacific water. Pacific marine climate is considered one of the best working climates in the world – benign winters and coolish summers mean there are very few days when you can’t be outside, working comfortably in the weather (although good rain gear sure helps).

One of the problems with this it-never-snows-much-and-always-goes-away-fast set-up is the natives don’t get very skilled at snow and ice driving; AND, snow removal dollars are very small line items on most government budgets. Traffic can be a nightmare when snow and ice arrive with zeal and stick around – which happens every once in awhile.

Forecasters are predicting our current Arctic blast (sub-freezing temps with no daytime thaw) will last through this entire week. (So far we only have about an inch of snow, though, so that might make it tolerable.) They say the last time this happened was 1990, although I think we came pretty close in 2006, which included record snowfall (30 inches here) and lengthy power outages (10 days for some people – 4 days for us).

In 1990, we were still living aboard s/v WaterBrother at Seattle’s Shilshole Bay Marina. I remember our on-the-boat Arctic blast.  Griz was in Phoenix on business for most of the week (the dog). I got to do arctic boat bunny by myself. Fortunately, my job was close  – a very short drive. I was also driving a dependable little 20-year-old Toyota beater at the time and it had vicious studded tires. There is great vehicular power and psychological freedom in driving a beater in ice and snow.

When you live aboard in a large marina, you get used to the sound of wind in the rigging as background noise.  But the 50 knot northerly that brought in that 1990 Arctic blast was an unusual, high-pitched howler – and it howled for days.  WaterBrother was moored with her bow facing north and we slept in the V-berth. Although WaterBrother had an insulated hull, insulation is pretty minimalist on a 37′ sailboat. Our Dickinson diesel heater - which generally kept us toasty through Seattle winters – did a fine job on most of the cabin, but that strong northerly wind cooling the bow made the V-berth frigid. Before Griz got home, I had rigged a cocoon for myself with extra sleeping bags and space blankets. I’d also revitalized my appreciation of polypropylene long underwear.

And Griz didn’t get off the hook completely. Although the cold wind had subsided by the time he got home, there was still ice and snow on the ground. He didn’t want me to pick him up at the airport (25 miles from the marina), so he took a cab from Sea-Tac. Considering the road conditions – that was probably the greatest danger to either of us all week.

And there was a gift in that chilly week aboard. Made me re-evaluate whether I was really interested in over-wintering aboard in Alaska. Glad we never did.

Our evergreens, many of them 50 and 60-year olds, are great for the year-round privacy we value; but they do deprive us of those unobstructed sunsets so everpresent in our sailing days. When you live aboard on the West Coast, you are often a part of the sunset. I do miss that.

Such is the nature of life – there are always trade-offs to be made.

I actually did quit my job (though I never did wear live [or dead] animals on my head).   Griz and I took off on one of our periodic sailing-into-the-wilderness adventures aboard S/V WaterBrother. By the time we returned, Griz had a new nickname and appeared to be wearing animals on his head.

And here we are “gone native” after a few months – a status-report postcard we sent to friends from Vancouver Island’s west coast.

(Original photo of Nuu-Chah-Nulth couple:  ”Canoe in Boston Cove” by photographer Edward S. Curtis, The North American Indian, 1914.)

I’d been sailing for more than 10 years at that point. Harold laughed. He was also a boater.

What’s scary is always determined by life experience. Sailing on a small boat in a gale with big seas (especially overnight) is one of two pivotal experiences which have forever tempered my perception of “what’s scary.” (The other is years of riding as a passenger in motor vehicles driven by Griz – but I’ll save that for another post.)

You meet people who are rarely upset by external events – many of them middle-aged or older – but some younger ones, too. Those who have been through or seen a lot – soldiers, firefighters, cops – but also some “just ordinary” folk who have faced life-altering circumstances, grave injury or illness (or gone through it with a loved one.)

Experience is what makes the “small stuff” small.

Griz and I had a bronze plaque on S/V WaterBrother  which read:

“A superior sailor is best defined as one who uses his superior judgement to keep out of situations requiring the use of his superior skills.”

 (The plaque was actually given to us by my mother who worried a lot when we were sailing.) You try to heed those words; but it doesn’t matter how well you plan, experience comes along anyway. If you sail long enough, you get caught out in “weather.” Getting caught out is experience – on sea or on dry land.

Fred Roswold just posted a rewrite of a great storm story on his blog Wingssail including a comical explanation of why he and Judy wound up ”caught out.”  These are the sailing tales that are much more fun to talk about later, rather than experience first hand.

“It was a rough morning but we did knock off the miles on that trip: In twenty four hours we’d covered 175 miles even against the southward flowing East Coast Current. Did we like it? During the day it was simply a fast ride we’d rather not be taking. At night it was dark, loud, and scary but we carried on, and didn’t turn in until Yamba. And no, we didn’t like it.”

I’m glad Fred rewrote the story. Fear “in perspective” is so much more appealing and philosophical than the “real-time” exhaustion, fortitude and stifled, blood-curdling screams that get you out alive.

“But even after a thousand times, 10,000 times, each day on the water is a thing special, a day important, a day which restores life into a sailor.

We must have it. Or we die. We die anyway.

But at least this way when we eventually come to our end we will have followed a compass of our own devising; the only compass which we know how to follow.”

In the last post, I referred to my partner as “Griz.” To those of you who know me, don’t worry, there’s no new man in my life – it’s a nickname Steve likes and sometimes uses online and at poker.  In this blog, I’ve decided to use the nickname to make it easier for readers to distinguish him from my old friend, blogging coach, Steve Mays, who I will undoubtedly continue to reference, link to, harangue and punish for tormenting me into blogging. (That was an expression of gratitude, Mays.)

When Griz and I were living aboard our CT 37 sailboat, “WaterBrother,” we took a number of long cruises north from Seattle. Hermits even then, when we cruised, we usually “gunkholed” – seeking secluded, hard-to-get-into anchorages we could enjoy with no other boaters around. All of the land surrounding one such anchorage on Vancouver Island’s west coast was owned by a band of native Canadians, the Clayoquots.  As was typical when gunkholing, if we found a comfortable, private anchorage, we usually stayed for several days.  One afternoon, while Steve was sitting in the cockpit in his skivvies, a 15′ aluminum skiff carrying two Clayoquots circled the anchorage, cut the outboard motor and coasted up alongside us. In the bow of the skiff was a weathered, ancient native man with a smile on his face.

At the helm was another native man, young enough to be a grandson.  In perfectly articulated Oxford English, the ancient man greeted Steve with, “Grizzly Adams, I presume?”

“I guess so,” Steve replied, laughing and stroking his beard. A great hour of conversation ensued, full of valuable local cruising and fishing knowledge. Steve’s been a “Griz” ever since.

Eight months between trims is a long time. On that cruise, I left Seattle with Kenny Rogers and returned with ZZ Top - put that on the list of ways to keep monogamy interesting – shared laughter always comes out No. 1.

I rarely call Steve “Griz” in real life, but when he needs a trim, I do let him know by calling him “Fluffy.” Just one of my roles – the beard police.