Lost & Found

Plop. Oh my god. The phone dropped in the water. I stare a moment in disbelief, then jump in after it. Straight down, I think. Look straight down. But I don’t see it among the rip-rap rocks below Dock 8, under the tied up kayak. My heart is pounding and my breathing shallow. I can’t stay down long and can’t see well in the marina murk. I hoist myself out and walk down the dock toward chatting men, one of whom lends me a mask.

Down twice more. No joy. And now I’m bleeding from barnacle bites. Fuck. 

I had recently re-engaged in conversation with an unsuitable man. Tall, dark, and handsome – my catnip. Well, I am tall and handsome, and strong to boot. I am the best communication device, not the damn phone, which made my stomach drop every time I didn’t see a message from him. Get off that rollercoaster, babe.

But still, its loss triggered the memory of other losses. Had to weep some. Grieve. Then, on Boat Project Day (not that every day isn’t Boat Project Day), I was fixing the hinge on the aft lazarette, the below-seat locker that holds diesel oil and boat-cleaning tools. I open this locker several times a week. But what do I see this time? The bit of wire and steel ring that locks the stern anchor in place – missing for 52 days! 

I do not like losing things (or people), but boy, when I find something I’ve given up on – happy days are here again! 

I know it’s just stuff. But it’s my stuff, and after losing almost everything twelve years ago… then I recall: the most important thing is not to lose my Self again. ”Keep your eyes on the prize,” said Psychiatrist Bloom years ago when I fell into a depression. When I was silent, she gently reminded me, “You are the prize.”

Right.