You probably didn’t see any news about my unorthodox and irregular kidnapping Thursday afternoon. Not only was it splendidly un-newsworthy, the saga didn’t resolve itself until late Friday afternoon, much too long for today’s short-fuse news cycles.
Thursday afternoon I left work having changed into uncommon garb for me: a suit and tie. (Yes, shoes, too.) I had happily agreed to spend my birthday evening attending an upscale dinner celebrating the accomplishments of ten noteworthy Atlantans, including the man responsible for the medical treatment and research facility at which my wife is employed.
But when I picked her up at the office, my wife handed me a “To Do” card which did not include a posh banquet. Instead, it had words like “sail,” “dinner for two,” “carafe of coffee,” “anchor overnight,” and “lose the suit.” I was uncharacteristically speechless.
In practically no time we were wrapping ourselves around a very nice dinner at the Third Coast, then frantically shoveling piles of our belongings into the cabin of a Catalina 250 as the sinking sun threatened to trap us in the middle of the lake. We would have been somewhat more organized, except that my clever spouse had sustained the surprise by packing the trunk over several days via random trips to the car while I was otherwise occupied.
The wind was favorable, and we anchored in a small cove just as the sun faded behind the overcast clouds. We sat on deck watching night fall. A few stars appeared and tried to compete with the half-moon until the clouds rolled in.
We retreated to the coziness of the cabin, and to sleep. I got up several times during the night to check that the boat was staying put, and once to close the overhead hatch when the rain started.
Friday morning we snacked on Cheetos, almonds, and Kashi bars, with the still-almost-hot coffee Third Coast had filled our carafe with.
After we had fully enjoyed the quiet solitude of the morning, I braved the light rain to raise the anchor, hoist the sail, and head back to the marina, while Jayne made sense of the pile of bedclothes, peopleclothes, cups and miscellaneous detritus.
The rest of the day was equally relaxing, and included Second Breakfast at Cracker Barrrrrel (that’s what pirates call it), a sightseeing trip up McEver road to Gainesville, and a return to our land-locked domicile, where guest cat O’Connor demanded to know where we had been and what we had been doing.
Which, of course, is why I wrote the story down. O’Connor always prefers the printed word to idle chatter.