Cyclone

It feels unbelievably odd to watch with such detachment (physical and psychological) as Gustav bears down on the Gulf Coast. I'm not even at work - I'm visiting my dad in Southern California, going for long hikes, catching up with friends, playing piano & violin (fiddling while Rome burns?), taking naps in the middle of the afternoon just because...

I can't say I'm not following the storm's progress without some interest: with friends from Pensacola to Houston, and a house sitting snugly (on high ground and safely inland) in Mobile, I can scarce ignore it entirely. But this year I have no responsibilities: I'm not policing up loose gear and boarding up windows at home, not being recalled to the ship, not getting underway for storm moorings or hurricane avoidance...or as in my first assignment, not positioning logistical response teams like pieces on a gigantic chess board, safely out of the storm's predicted (and ever-changing) path, folks for damage assessment, repair and rebuilding, evacuation, food, water, fuel, claims, legal assistance, counseling, financial support, spare boat and aircraft parts, transportation, temporary lodging, command posts, generators and other disaster supplies, staging areas...even folks to handle the endless flow of personnel into and out of the affected areas, people carefully siphoned from units across the country. Not attending meetings. Not giving briefings or typing situation reports. Not butting heads with those well senior to me. Not waking from nightmares of the drowned and drowning, worrying for the hundredth time if I'd done enough to prepare or respond. Not surviving on a few hours of broken sleep, nourished only on a large daily Nalgene bottle of orange juice.

(Yeah, someday - when my career's no longer in the balance - I'll probably write a book about all I saw and heard and meddled in...)

My successor at that first assignment called me a couple days ago, sweating bullets over the storm. She's been lucky so far - the past two years were mercifully free of Ivans and Katrinas and Charleys. She wanted to pull me out to Virginia to help her, which normally I would have jumped at, but I'm not exactly free to cut my moorings right now. "You think they have a radiation table there?" I asked her. I tried to reassure her. She'll be fine. She's got a top-notch civilian working for her who was my right-hand man in Katrina. We put a lot of good policies in place after the storm. And this year, thank goodness, the residents and governments are taking the threat seriously and evacuating ahead of time.

So here I sit with this strange detachment, checking the NHC page now and then with mild curiosity, wondering idly if I'll need to alter my road trip to avoid washed-out causeways or if I'll have trouble picking up my car or if a tree might fall on my house. But this year, for once, there's nothing I can do about any of it.

Great simplifications

This summer I have savored a delicious taste, my first since I've been in the Coast Guard, of autonomy. It's been nice. While on paper I reported to three bosses, in practice, I ran my own little sideshow.

Power...when a man believes he knows what orders should be given, is a blessing....It is always a misfortune when number two or three has to initiate a dominant plan or policy. He has to consider not only the merits of the policy, but the mind of his chief; not only what to advise, but what it is proper in his station to advise; not only what to do, but how to get it agreed, and how to get it done.

Mercifully, I have eluded this burdensome yoke for the past few months.

Together with my rag-tag band of hardworking folks who didn't exist (people on medical hold, like me; people awaiting discharge; people sent back from the ships because they couldn't get underway; people awaiting assignment), we quadrupled the size of our "official" division, rescued our million-dollar security guard contract from the jaws of high-level defeat, negotiated an expensive and extensive equipment upgrade package gratis from HQ, re-wrote two landmark manuals for our unit, laid plans to remodel our offices, implemented solid disaster-preparedness steps, handled port services for two out-of-the-ordinary ships mooring in downtown SF, implemented a solid tracking procedure for over 200 people's security clearances, and - in addition to our "ordinary" workload of evaluations, awards, instructions, training, weapons qualification, key control, bomb threat response, traffic court, port services, and daily security - handled the outsized and highly visible security needs of a week's worth of high-level ceremonies, during which we hosted 2/3 of the Coast Guard's flag corps, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and around 2000 guests to celebrate the commissioning of the Coast Guard's newest class of cutter.

Whew.

So now, on the back end of this frantic slew of events and demands, while our haggard division is relievedly taking as much leave as duty allows, after we've written up the "lessons learned" and "hotwashed" and battened down to knock out our remaining responsibilities...ah yes, now arrives my new boss. Or replacement, call it what you will.

I'm not angry or bitter - after all, his job exists and mine doesn't. And it provides perfect exit music as I head out for underway time on our local ships or other TAD opportunities this year. I'm confident I've squared away the division for a presentable handover, unlike the scattershot I inherited. And my new boss is a great guy (ironically, a watchstander I supervised in my first Coast Guard assignment). Still...the added imposition of bureaucracy, well, complicates matters. I've gotten used to handling thorny situations myself, dealing directly with key people, whether our own command cadre, at other units, or at HQ. Having to play politics and then sit impotent feels like a regression. It leaves me doing little more than - shudder - writing manuals all day. And it makes me utterly redundant (see above: a good thing) - my chiefs report to me, and I turn around and play Telephone with my boss. The ultimate in middle management.

At the top there are great simplifications. An accepted leader has only to be sure of what it is best to do, or at least to have made up his mind about it.

From whose bourn no traveler returns

Terminals. The word is so misleading. "Exchange" is so much more appropriate. Like a stock exchange or a mercantile exchange; except instead of securities or hogs, it's people coming and going, trading one city for another, constant motion, endless options.

I love to travel. And I love airports. Not, of course, for the endless sits in plastic molded chairs, or the hurried strip-search at the security checkpoint, or the overpriced pseudo-regional fast food smelling up the waiting areas, overcrowded with screaming toddlers and rumpled businessmen, folded over their laptops, too cheap to fly first class but angling endlessly for upgrades. I love to walk along and glance over at all the other destinations, all the places I'm not going, as I wander to my gate, envisioning myself in Paris, Ft. Lauderdale, or Butte, blaming the inscrutability of descriptionless numbers for assigning me to flight 1202 to Portland instead of 1203 to New York; gate A37 to Oregon instead of C37 to Toronto. Airports hum with possibilities.

It's not so easy to board the wrong aircraft (though I've done it), to "accidentally" arrive in unintended places, but cars are another matter entirely. The "next big city" destinations on freeway signs always tempt me terribly. Why exit here, at mile marker 28? Why not keep going into the Gorge, to the Dalles, to Idaho? It's not that far, right? If I just keep driving...Sunsets are especially alluring. Why not stay behind the wheel until sunrise, wherever the road takes me, wherever I end up? What if I'm not there on Monday morning? What if I just don't come home? What undiscovered country awaits me?

Perhaps the threat of truancy is so tempting because I'm so damn reliable. I certainly wasn't itching to come back to radiation today, though. Halfway done with the zappings, I escaped to Portland this weekend for a friend's wedding and to spend time with my mom. Beautiful weather, tasty (mostly vegan) food, refreshing walks outdoors, a massage, church, roller skating, and a very entertaining wedding...not to mention, somehow, a lot of relaxation...and despite its various protests, my body was very happy to avoid the zapper for a couple days. But radiation beckoned, this afternoon, inexorably.

What if I just stay here?...if I take a different flight?...if I stay at work too late?...if I miss my bus, or my train, or my shuttle?...if I just don't show up?

I've never been all that good at breaking the rules.

An Epic Journey

The Epic Journey approacheth.

Shortly after I finish radiation, I fly to Alabama to see some friends, pick up my car, and begin the long trek back West.

In my race to get out here for treatment in April, I (intentionally) left my car and just about everything else behind in Alabama. Driving a couple thousand miles across country in a mad rush wasn't so attractive. My stuff - that which I didn't rent out with my house or box up in long-term storage - rejoined me, for the most part, in early June, once I had an apartment here. But my car remains down South. I won't use her much, here, but the mobility will be nice. And besides, I miss her.

So in early September, I'm taking some time off work and setting out on a road trip for the ages, stopping to visit friends, places I like, and (mostly) places I've always wanted to see, viz.:

Mobile, AL
New Orleans, LA
Baton Rouge, LA
Shreveport, LA
Port Arthur, TX
Houston, TX
Austin, TX
San Antonio, TX
Roswell, NM
Albuquerque, NM
Canyon de Chelly, AZ
Mesa Verde/Durango, CO
Salt Lake City, UT
Lake Tahoe, NV
Yosemite, CA
San Francisco, CA

Altogether, about 3500 miles and 11 or 12 days. Most days, around 7 hours of driving, with plenty of time for sight-seeing both in and out of the car. I'm aiming to stop at the kitschiest motels along the way, pick up some unique and unusual souvenirs, and in general, indulge my Bad Girl of the Open Road.

If you live along the route, I'd love to stop by and say hi; just let me know. If you have recommendations to enhance this Classic and Epic Road Trip, I'm open to those too.

The fun kicks off shortly.

With catlike tread

This radiation has made of me an idle and indolent feline.

On days I work, I: get up early and go to treatment, commute to work, work from 9:30 to 4:30, commute home, sleep, wake up for dinner, then go to bed and readily fall back asleep, until morning.

Still a thin crust of industriousness. But the days I don't work are much more indulgent: sleep in (on Tuesdays, at least), go to treatment, come home & snack, lounge in the hot tub, curl up in the sun (radiated area carefully covered), stretch out inside for a nice long nap, rouse myself for dinner, & then once more to bed for an early night's sleep.

I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable about all the snoozing, dozing, and otherwise quite restful hours of slumber. Shouldn't I be doing something?

I'm a little past 25% of the way through the radiation now. Other than the machine breaking 2 out of the 5 days, the mask being extraordinarily tight, and the receptionist rarely arriving early enough to check me in, I guess it's going okay. So far the only real symptom besides the inescapable urge for a good deal of quality REM is a lot of soreness and aching of my lower cheeks. At first, I couldn't move my jaw to chew, or turn my head at all. And anything involving saliva production - drinking water, chewing gum, even just trying to swallow - evinced incredible pain. Although that symptom's somewhat faded the past couple of days, it's been replaced by a constant thirst. The doctor said she'd be nuking my salivary glands - they still seem to be working, but I'm thirsty nonetheless.

yawnnnnnnn

Time for a little more shut-eye.

Childless in SF

There's no shortage of information out there about cancer treatment and fertility, particularly women's fertility (more potentially usable sperm can be generated, but more eggs can't; what you're born with is all you have, and when you run out you're done). In general, chemo fries your eggs, and anything left over, the radiation further scrambles. This generally causes your periods to stop, at least temporarily, and also often causes premature menopause. Note to self: hot flashes suck.

Most women who get cancer succumb later in life, so fertility is less of an issue. But for the under-30 crowd that gets treated, preserving fertility is apparently their primary concern. At least, according to most of the websites that address the topic, many of which bear titles resembling "How to have kids after cancer".

There are ways to dance around the issue, including freezing eggs (doesn't work very well) and freezing embryos (much more successful, but you have to fertilize them first). All of this entails the risky, expensive, and body-intensive world of fertility treatments down the road.

With my permission, my doctor opted for the more experimental (and unproven) method of shutting down ovary production during the chemo and radiation months. This is supposed to protect your eggs somehow.

But truth be told, I'm really not all that depressed about losing the chance to get pregnant. (Sorry, Mom.) Is that such a horrible, anti-woman thing to say? I'm relieved I don't have my period. I'm happy I don't have to worry about getting pregnant. (Plus, no body hair!) I've not worried much about timing my career to fit in kids, because I've haven't been that dead-set on having any.

Not that I hate kids or that I revel in a selfish career- or party-focused lifestyle. I loved being a camp counselor when I was younger. I did my share of babysitting as a teen. I've eagerly volunteered in some tough schools. I've helped fund kids' education. One of the most rewarding experiences of my adult life was helping to raise two amazing kids for a few years. I'm always glad to take care of (or take in) someone else's kids if they need it, no matter if it derails my career plans or my personal life. And foster parenting is extremely attractive to me, although for the kids' sake, I'm waiting until I'm out of the "military-operational-single-mom" category.

What I don't get is the assumption, whether by the media, by well-meaning friends and family, or by religion, that not wanting to pass along my personal genetic material somehow makes me unworthy of my estrogen. "It's such a shame," they whisper amongst themselves. "I'm so sorry," they say out loud.

I'm not. I'm relieved I got an easy out on this one. Now I can say the reason I'm not having kids is because my eggs were cooked. But should I have to have such a terrible excuse?

Fried

Early-morning radiation appointments mean getting up, well, early. I was up at 5:30 Monday morning to leave at 6 to walk down and catch the 6:35 shuttle to get to the hospital at 6:55 for my 7:15 appointment.

I arrived in the basement of Mt. Zion to find a dark and deserted reception area. Even the fish in the waiting room aquarium floated around bleakly in their unlit greyness. The roll-top shutters on the reception windows were closed and locked tightly, like concession stands in empty stadiums. No one was in sight.

I took a seat in the waiting area and caught up on the Sunday paper, trying not to glance at my watch. Was the reception always closed in the early morning? Should I have taken a later shuttle bus? And eventually...Should I forego the check-in process of scanning my bar-coded card and proceed directly to the dressing room?

At last, at 7:12, the shutters rolled up and the lights flickered on. I asked the bleary-eyed receptionist eagerly, Can I scan in now? My appointment is in three minutes. I'm sorry, she said, I have to boot up my computer. It will take several minutes. Just go in and put your gown on and tell the doctors know you're here. (That's the function of the bar-coded scan card.)

After gowning, I realized there was no way from the waiting room to contact the doctors and techs, so, gowned from the waist up, I briefly snuck back out into the reception area to scan my card. A few minutes later, the tech poked her head into the waiting room, surprised to see me. Your receptionist only just arrived, I said. Really? said the tech. I had no idea. She said something about the carpets being replaced over the weekend, I answered, glancing around at workmen still moving furniture back into place.

After "assuming the position" on the radiation table, my neck torqued by the plastic neckrest, my face clamped down by the net "mask", I waited motionlessly and uncomfortably through some 10 minutes of whirring and buzzing until the tech reappeared to tell me I was done. Except she didn't. My computer crashed, she said. It will take a few minutes to reboot.

Luckily, the tech removed my mask and plastic neck-creaker and replaced them with a nice, hard pillow. After the computer got past its BSOD (blue screen of death...), I was put back in the vise and the process repeated. Now I was done, right? No.

I can't get the machine to work, said the tech. I'm calling an engineer in to fix it. You'll need to go back in the waiting room while I see if we can use the machine in the other room.

I made one too many turns trying to navigate through the maze of corridors en route to the waiting room, which ended up to be a good thing, because they were able to take me right away in the other radiation chamber. This time, the procedure went off as planned, although I staggered out with a serious crick in my neck.

My voyage to work also was not without adventure. I opted to forego waiting for the Muni bus from the hospital to the BART station, walking instead. It ended up being a pretty sketchy and colorful two miles of town. The train ride was without incident, but upon arrival at the East Bay station, I patiently read my book for about twenty minutes before remembering that the base shuttle only stopped at that station during the morning & afternoon rush hours. By the time I'd walked to the other station where the shuttle did stop, it had just come and gone...and it would be another hour before it reappeared. So it took a while to get to work, where inevitably I was greeted by all the work I haven't done lately.

Hopefully next time, the process will go a bit more smoothly.

Respite

This timely, but busy and all-too-brief, interlude between the onslaughts draws inevitably to its close: tomorrow I start radiation.

Appointments will be early each morning, freeing me to work afterwards on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays; Tuesdays my appointments are a bit later and followed by checkups with my radiation doctor. Friday afternoons are reserved for R&R.

The timing of this cease-fire was fortuitous, encompassing several ship movements (=Port Services), a multitude of special events with high-ranking, VIP guests (=Parking, Base Security), my predecessor's promotion ceremony, our base's change of command, and to cap it off, a unit celebration at Six Flags and a wetting down (at which, for the first time in quite a while, I could actually drink something more potent than water, now that water tastes like water again). Also in these busy days: a visit from my aunt, uncle, and cousins (coupled with a dual-birthday party) and a visit from my mom (carefully timed and coordinated).

Of course, amid the détente, I parleyed with the medical professionals more than once: three pre-radiation appointments, a PET/CT scan, bloodwork, and a shot of blood-cell-boosting Neulasta broke up my "lazy days" of summer. (I realized today that for the first time since I joined the Coast Guard, my May-through-November isn't being spent on some sort of alert status for Atlantic basin tropical storms, leave only stringently granted and always recallable, ready to deploy teams or get underway, my internet homepage set ominously to the National Hurricane Center.)

My body has been quick to shake off symptoms, though my hair's still too scared to grow and I could use a few good sessions at the gym. Most of all, I'm dreading breaking the news to my aggrieved bones, skin, and internal organs that twenty exciting days of rigidity and radiation await them. I'd much rather focus on work, deskbound as I am, where my increased presence over the past couple of weeks has only highlighted the areas under my responsibility where I so urgently need to focus. The attention I patch on the problems during my all-too-brief appearances only briefly buoys the issues, raising them to bob desperately above the surface, while the barnacles of a hundred daily shortfallings keep dragging them down, ever so slowly.

Cancer treatment is a hell of a way to get out of meetings and paperwork.

They that go down to the sea in ships

One of the many hats I wear at work is that of Port Services Officer. This entails responding to LOGREQs (Logistics Requests) from ships mooring up or getting underway from our base, or from piers in San Francisco - the latter of which are a bit trickier to manage.

Recently, in addition to a few standard operations for locally homeported ships, we also handled EAGLE's presence at San Francisco's Festival of Sail and BERTHOLF's first arrival at her new homeport - our base.

The folks in my branch have been doing a terrific job with all of these standard and non-standard operations. Still, I aim to be present at all pier evolutions to observe/supervise the event. After all, I'm responsible for the shore-side of things, and it never hurts to add an extra person's situational awareness.

For BERTHOLF's maiden voyage into her new homeport, she stopped first in downtown San Francisco to onload passengers - high-dollar Navy League commissioning ceremony donors, Coast Guard Auxiliarists, and crewmembers' families. Our folks facilitated the parking and transportation from the base to downtown SF as well as security and linehandling at the pier. My friends who are stationed onboard the ship squeezed me onto to the guest list, so I had the privilege of riding BERTHOLF from SF into the base.

It was my first time "underway" since a short emergency ATON trip on CYPRESS back in early April, just after I was sent home from TAO school and shortly before the medical transfer orders finally came through. Even then I felt like a passenger. I stood watch, but with mid-watches, you sleep through half the day's work. Fully qualified, there was no need to train me further as a conning officer or Ops officer - I was going to drive a desk and manage medical appointments for the near future. Relieved of all collateral duties, I instead spent my time trying to ensure my knowledge and experience had been passed to the next crop of junior officers. For once then, I had the time to go sit on the bow and watch the waters of the steamy Gulf glide by us; to gaze up at the stars dropping brilliantly out of an inky sky; to observe a string of ship's evolutions without being called to some duty or other.

On BERTHOLF I was unmistakeably a passenger. It was an odd shift of perspective to focus so intently - from the ship's flight deck, no less - on the pierside linehandling. During the two-hour voyage up the bay, I roamed restlessly on the "visitors'" flight deck. After talking with my friends stationed onboard, I eventually gravitated to an ideal vantage point just aft of the bridge wings. The bridge, to my disappointment, was (of course) restricted to crew-only. As we approached the pier, I listened carefully to the conning officer's commands, feeling and timing the ship's various reactions beneath us, silently rehearsing (as always when I'm not driving) my own set of shipdriving commands.

BERTHOLF is an impressive ship, incredibly quiet in operation, and (from what crewmembers say) a very smooth and stable ride even in heavy seas. The brief taste - particularly as I had to head straight from disembarking the ship to my office, filled with unanswered emails, voice messages, stacks of paperwork, and endless meetings - was to remind me yet again how much I miss underway life.

Details, part 2

I'd heard the new afloat detailer was due to arrive in mid-July, so after an incredibly impatient waiting game, I dropped him an email at the precise mid-point of that seventh month.

I introduced myself, I explained my situation with what I hoped was just enough but not too much detail, I did a little requisite groveling, and I rather awkwardly tossed in the recommendation from the Ops Ashore detailer to "call me if you've got any questions". At last I unearthed my real questions, which I managed to predicate yet further on a matter of relatively current concern: my "medical support billet" was due to expire in October. While the "active phase" of my treatment - the chemo & radiation - would conclude in early September, and I would enter the 2-3 month "PET/CT scan checkup" phase after that, my UCSF doctors wanted to continue to see me for those scans at least until summer '09, for continuity of care. Then - and I'd checked with them - I could safely transfer elsewhere, and take up residence on a ship for periods of time, as long as I continued follow-up scans with some reputable doctor, somewhere, on a regular 3-6 month basis. (I'm sure it's not a typical response when the cancer doctor, upon dispensing details of your cancer treatment and asking if you have any questions, receives first: "How soon can I transfer to Hawaii and be stationed aboard a ship for months at a time?")

This put me, as I found out later, in an assignment Catch-22. Although orders aren't cut until spring, and actual rotations typically don't occur until the summer months, the "assignment season" technically starts with the submission of e-resumes in the previous fall. My criteria for afloat orders is being medically cleared for worldwide assignment. And to meet the assignment year '09 timeline, I'd need that clearance by this fall, 2008. But...if I were cleared medically by fall 2008, then there would be no grounds for extending my medical support billet through the summer.

Catch-22 indeed.

There were other considerations, as well, other questions. Getting underway for a few weeks at a time on other, locally homeported, ships this winter, to get experience and qualifications. Attending schools that are pre-requisites for the Ops job I want. The chances of picking up an Ops job - and just maybe, picking up an Ops job on the other white-hull ship in Hawaii (there are two, and the rotations are offset by a year).

I was nervous. These were a lot of favors to ask of a detailer who knew me not at all, and was new to his job to boot.

But - the detailer was incredibly helpful, incredibly friendly, and incredibly eager to get me back out into the fleet. He confirmed that as soon as I was done with radiation, with my command's support and as long as my doctors didn't object, I could get underway with local ships to gain experience and qualifications. He said that as long as I had finished the "active" phase of my treatment (i.e., chemo & radiation) by the time the fall assignment season started (October), I would be eligible for reassignment this summer. He hinted that I'd have a very good chance of picking up orders for an Ops job again, and when I mentioned my top picks, he encouraged me to list those choices on my e-resume (Coast Guard's method for people to list their assignment requests and reasons). He was very excited that my initial post-chemo scan was negative. He extended my medical support billet through April '09. And his parting words were, "I've done my part in extending your billet; now you do your part and GET BETTER so I can get you back out into the fleet!"

I guess I needn't have worried quite as much after all.

Details, part 1

Back a month or so ago, the Officer Roadshow came to town. (Roadshow: presentation by a detailer consisting of 2/3 "demystifying the process by which personnel receive assignments" and 1/3 "ask me your questions and I'll give you a blurry and entirely noncommittal answer)

I went, not because I hoped I might learn the sleight-of-hand tricks behind the Penn-and-Teller assignment act, but on the longshot chance that I might ferret out some clues to my chances of picking up something this coming year at least faintly resembling the orders I received last February, a lifetime ago.

My chances weren't all that great, of gleaning any helpful information, that is: the assignment officer putting on this particular roadshow was the Operations Ashore detailer - in short, not mine (Operations Afloat). I subscribed to the convenient fiction that all the detailers up at HQ led very "siloed" or "stovepiped" lives, immersed in moving around their personal sets of color-coded chess pieces, only speaking to each other with message slips and runners when a single candidate was pulled (or fell through the cracks) between two detailers.

I sat patiently through a few dozen PowerPoint slides of accession rates, promotion points, assignment timelines, and Officer Personnel Management wire diagrams. From all that I learned only one important point: that there was a new afloat detailer. That was cause for worry - the previous detailer had taken a tremendous chance on me, gave me my top pick, then facilitated the process as those orders so despairingly vanished and new ones at last appeared in their place. I worried about explaining my situation to a newcomer. I worried he might not be so amenable to indulging my career hopes. And I worried that, like some detailers but thankfully not all, he might be of a rather imperialistic demeanor, flush with his power and uncaring toward his minions.

After the general Q-and-A subsided, personnel lined up to ask the Ops Ashore detailer one-on-one questions - questions specific to a personal situation and unsuitable for group discussion. I was third in line. The two people ahead of me introduced themselves formally to the detailer, one by one asking him their I'm-unbelievably-stressed-about-my-oh-so-unique-common-problem questions. Detailers are not all that high-ranking, but they hold a lot of power, so you better believe you're going to be polite and deferential to them. I didn't even know where to start with this detailer. I started silently rehearsing my story, editing here and there to fit someone who didn't know my background.

It was my turn. Before I could even get out a "Good morning, sir," the detailer smiled broadly and said, "Heather! How are you doing? Good to see you here!" I was quite taken aback, pausing for at least a few moments while I quickly chopped the first section of my speech (and recast the rest). Is it good or bad for a detailer who isn't even yours to recognize you so easily? "Nothing to worry about," he reassured me. "We all discussed your case quite a bit. Just give the new afloat detailer a call once he's arrived later this summer. If he has any questions he can always ask me for a passdown on you." Now I was really unnerved. All the detailers at HQ sat around and discussed my case?? Infamy is never cause for celebration. It's like the vice principal in grade school calling you in to say, Yes, I've been discussing your case with all the staff members; we're quite familiar with you...

I uneasily waited out the weeks for the new detailer to arrive. (to be continued)